grandfather into a ghost.”

Growing up, I've seen my mother twist her entire being to reconcile her Muslim identity and her career in public education, where she was not allowed to wear a hijab. She could not practice her religion anywhere that was not at home and had to live through officials debating whether or not she could have pork-free options at lunch or shelves of halal meat in stores. She was expected to cut ties with her country of origin to remain neutral. In order to be considered truly French, these are among the many things that are expected of citizens of North African heritage.

“Keep quiet,” my grandmother always tells me. “Don't talk too much about your Algerian heritage, say you're French.”

French assimilation started during colonial times, when Algerians were called “French Muslims” and constantly held up to the standards of European settlers. To be granted French citizenship, they were asked to give up “Islamic law” and adhere to a “French Islam”, which forced Imams to sign a charter of rules to abide by. As subjects of the French empire, “French Muslims” were granted visas to work in mainland France, but it stopped there — they were never legally French, almost never allowed French nationality and the rights that came with it.

This ambivalent identity and legal status continued when Algerian men of my grandfather’s generation first arrived in Paris where they were called “French workers of Algerian origin”. The borders these men managed to cross turned out to be thin blades that sought to cut the threads of their Algerian identity. They were expected to come out barren on the other side, virgin slates on which they were asked to retrace the formal outlines of their beings in the hexagonal shape of France.

Through this erasure, France has turned my grandfather into a ghost, failing to recognize that a ghost’s purpose is to haunt the home that has been ripped away from them. Between Barbès and Place de Clichy, my “jedo’s” (grandpa’s) ghost scurries the Parisian streets he has helped garnish and shape, forever the pariah of a culture that erases his involvement.

Today, France has fallen into the clutches of a rising far-right party that has gained popularity by painting the portrait of children of immigrants refusing to “integrate”, and as scapegoats responsible for any and every criminal or economic distress. Politicians like Marine Le Pen and Éric Zemmour claim that the North African heritage of millions of French citizens should come second, or better yet, be kept in the shadows.

Bridging France and Algeria

As much as France’s physical and cultural borders have tried to sever the tie between French-North Africans and their countries of origin, they have failed. Today, many children of North African immigrants consider themselves both French and Maghrébins (Moroccan, Algerian, or Tunisian). It was a collective experience shared by the North African diaspora which helped strengthen those ties, one we call “l’été au bled” (summer in the homeland).

As dual citizens — most of the time — many children of north African immigrants have spent their formative summers in their ancestral lands. Every year, the school break marked the return to the homeland and the only time our parents could visit their family back home. For two months, many families lived in Algeria as if they had never left — not as tourists but as residents, reuniting with cousins and grandparents.

In these moments of union, stories of European Algeria and Algerian France were finally passed down to me. They are stories my grandmother still has a hard time sharing, stories my grandfather has taken to his grave. Summers spent in the homeland were a way for me to fill in the gaps of a French history that had forgotten Algeria and my family. But most importantly, these trips were what made me realize that the hyphen in “French-Algerian” was not a border but a thread, one that stitched the two identities together so tightly that it created one single entity.

Written by Tony Silberfeld

Is the Melting Pot Boiling Over?

There are many myths about America, but one of the most enduring seems to be the concept of the nation as a melting pot. This unfaltering idea that all people regardless of origin, faith, color, creed, or political beliefs come together into a single American community that pulls together for the betterment of all. Whether we look at the treatment of Native Americans, the discrimination against the Irish and Italian immigrants who populated American cities in the 19th century, antisemitism against Jews who fled the Holocaust and its aftermath in the 20th century, or the long history of systemic racism against African American and other minority groups, it should be easy to debunk this myth. Yet, through it all, immigrants continue to come to American shores to realize a “dream” and often find it, overcoming waves of xenophobia and exclusion along the way. The most optimistic, or even Pollyannish view, might suggest that the United States is indeed a melting pot, although one that takes an eternity to cook.

No matter one’s take on the integration of new arrivals and minority groups into the American family, it is indisputable that Americans are living through a volatile time in the political and societal history of this country. It is something we all experience every day. Political divisions between red and blue are as perceptible as the racial differences between black and white, and the gulf between them is only widening. From the halls of Congress to policing on the streets, something is fundamentally broken. Though historically unifying in times of crisis, American identity has always been difficult to define, but today, our inability to do so has exacerbated political and social polarization.

When adequate explanations are out of reach, it can be useful to reset the narrative and remind ourselves of who we are and how we got here. It’s in that spirit that we present the stories below, both firsthand and third-person accounts of journeys to the United States. These are deeply personal and candid stories. They aim to help redefine what American identity can be, so we can grow together, and to give insight into the people and motivations behind our work at the Bertelsmann Foundation.

(HIS)Story

When the German army invaded Poland in 1939, Markus (also known as Max) Silberfeld was a small business owner with a wife and three children. As the Nazis rounded up Jewish families and sent them to concentration camps, Max and his family were among them. Over the course of the war, Max’s wife and children were murdered by the Nazis. Max, now alone, was put to work and moved multiple times in response to German victories and defeats on the battlefield. Along with nearly 90,000 other souls, he ended up in the Flossenburg concentration camp near the German-Czechoslovakian border. In April 1945, the United States Army liberated Flossenburg, but Max was nowhere to be found.

Just two days earlier, he had been moved to the Dachau concentration camp on the outskirts of Munich. Salvation finally came for Max a week later when the Americans opened the gates of Dachau.

In the years following the war, Max rebuilt his life in Munich. He opened a new business, married the nurse who treated him during his recovery, and had two children. Always fearful of a resurgence of antisemitism in Germany, Max decided it was time to follow the path that so many European Jews had taken before him and set sail for the United States.

The Silberfelds arrived in the United States, passing through Ellis Island, on New Year’s Day 1956. After a brief stay in the Empire State, Max, who had limited options since he didn’t speak English, found a job at a Pontiac auto factory and began a new migration west to Detroit. But the working conditions and cold Michigan winters sent the Silberfelds packing. This time they headed to a city they were told was paved with gold.

The final chapter of this transatlantic immigrant story begins in West Hollywood, California, but doesn’t end there. Max and his wife Anna settled into a small apartment near the supermarket where Max would bag groceries. Their children Karin and Roman dug into their studies at school, seeing education as the best opportunity to attain the American dream. Max saved every penny to be able to buy the apartment building in which he lived, and subsequently purchased other buildings in this up-and-coming corner of Los Angeles. His daughter left home to marry and start a family of her own, while his son worked his way through college and law school to become an attorney.

Throughout the remainder of their lives, Max and Anna never forgot their shared European identity, but they were proudly American. Having lived through tragedy and hardship, the Silberfelds found solace in the United States knowing that one’s identity could be an asset, rather than a curse, and that each person can define for themselves who they wanted to be.

Coda

Max’s grandson, Tony Silberfeld, has returned to his German roots as the Director of Transatlantic Relations at the Bertelsmann Foundation, the U.S. branch of the Germany-based Bertelsmann Stiftung.

Reflections on Identity – By Tony Silberfeld

Being part of the first generation of my family born in the United States, I always felt like I belonged and didn’t belong simultaneously. I don’t think I felt particularly German beyond our frequent schnitzel meals with my grandparents, but I subconsciously gravitated toward other immigrant communities in search of shared experiences. I could be as Irish as anyone on St. Patrick’s Day and more Greek than an Athenian at Greek independence celebrations. In those days — back in the 1980s — that was the beauty of America. Despite its many problems, it was a melting pot in which the world came together, even if just for brief moments. Today, I fear that identity is used to separate, rather than to celebrate. It is used to distinguish “us” from “them”. The rise in hate crimes against immigrants and minority groups today is a disturbing sign of a society in decline. It’s one my grandfather Max wouldn’t recognize and would be ashamed of. He, like so many others, left their homelands for the aspirational idea of America. It’s time to reach for that goal again, before it’s too late.

(HER)Story

This story of life in the Americas begins in 1911 with the birth of Amador Indalecio Medina Alvarez in Venezuela, followed two decades later by Edilia Rosa Alvarado Villanueva. The pair went on to raise 13 children on a small farm near the town of Carora. In the summer of 1971, they welcomed their eleventh child to the world, a daughter they would name Lilisbed, or Lily.

In the 1970s, the children lived on Amador’s cattle farm and moved closer to public school in Carora when they reached schooling age. Lily thrived in Carora, splitting her time between her studies and the farm. But by her 15th birthday, she had faced a series of unexpected family tragedies. First, her father Amador passed away, followed by the death of two of her brothers just a few years later. With three of her closest relatives gone, Lily was compelled to fill the massive gap they left behind for the welfare of the family. She dropped out of school for several years, only to return to night school and earn the equivalent of her GED at the age of 20.

In 1996, Lily walked across the stage to receive her associate’s degree in Barquisimeto with her newborn daughter in her arms. With a degree and family in hand, she returned to her hometown of Carora to make a new life for herself and her daughter, Daniela. Three years later, Lily fell in love with Ivan Barrantes Limon, the son of Peruvian immigrants who had come to Venezuela years earlier to work in the agricultural sector. Though Ivan and Lily began their life together in Carora, it wasn’t long before they sought out opportunities in the capital city of Caracas. Success in the capital led to other career prospects for Ivan that would send the family to Switzerland for several years — where the couple welcomed two more children. In 2011, they returned to Venezuela to find their homeland in turmoil.

Back home in Caracas, a collapse in oil prices and mismanagement at the highest levels of government left the country almost destitute. Lily and her family returned to long lines outside supermarkets, physical altercations over basic goods, and pervasive violence. There were many cases of people getting killed over petty robberies and kidnappings for ransom, to the extent it was no longer safe for the family to be outside after sunset. Hardly an ideal homecoming for a mother with two infants and a teenager in tow. There were signs that a crisis was looming, but no one could have predicted the downward spiral the country would experience.

Hope for relief finally came in 2012 with a presidential campaign that promised to reverse the damage done by President Hugo Chavez. Venezuelans pinned their hopes on opposition leader Henrique Capriles, to no avail. Chavez won reelection and died in office just two months into his new term. A special election followed, where Capriles was defeated a second time amid allegations of electoral fraud. As a result, government and opposition supporters took to the streets in a cycle of violence and intimidation that has left a lasting scar on the people of Caracas. That summer, Ivan and Lily decided that they could no longer remain in Venezuela and, like many others fleeing violence and political unrest, set off for the United States.

With the family settling into a new home in Rockville, Maryland, Ivan returned to Latin America to continue working. In the meantime, Lily navigated the complicated terrain of raising three children in an unfamiliar place without a family support system to help start their new life. But she made friends and the transition was made easier by the strong Hispanic community in their part of Montgomery County. Lily found work with a cleaning service and she and Ivan worked tirelessly to be able to send her oldest daughter, Daniela, off to college.

When Lily and Ivan were first married, they discussed the possibility of emigrating to the United States in search of the American dream. Today, she is an American citizen — but her heart remains in Carora.

Reflections on Identity – By

Daniela Rojas Medina

After growing up on three continents, I am sometimes conflicted about the question of identity. When asked whether I feel American or Venezuelan, my gut reaction is to say both but it really depends on the day. Having been in the U.S. for nearly my entire adult life, there are moments in which I feel more culturally American, but still like an outsider. There remain gaps in language and humor that native-born Americans pick up along the way which add to the feeling of “otherness”, without it being one of exclusion. When I chat with Latinos or people from other ethnicities, especially if they grew up in predominantly white neighborhoods, they often exhibit a sadness that comes with feeling ostracized as a minority in that community during one’s formative years. Fortunately I never felt that sensation firsthand since I moved to the U.S. when I was older, avoiding this predicament of identity that is all too common in the United States today.

For native-born Americans and new arrivals alike, the idea of one American identity is confounding. For me, it is ill-defined beyond the process of becoming a citizen. Speaking English and memorizing key points in civics and U.S. history is a must, but there’s nothing about cultural integration or what responsibilities one has as a citizen. Instead, I see it as many different identities that, together, build what it means to be American. I see more of a melting pot than one that’s boiling over.

In the Dutch town of Valkenburg aan de Geul, Irene Braam observed the daily comings and goings in this tightly-knit community from the top of the spiral staircase above her family’s bicycle shop. She would watch the locals who came in for repairs or to chat with her parents, the many foreign visitors who visited the picturesque town, and the refugees who came from around the world. The variety of languages, food, music and scents captured the imagination of this child who sat perched above the action below. But this story doesn’t begin in the family shop, it starts across the border in Belgium.

Irene’s father, Pierre Braam, was born in Belgium to Dutch parents. His mother’s side of the family was from Maastricht, and his father’s was from Valkenburg, where Pierre would grow up. He learnt the family business alongside his father in their bicycle shop. Irene’s mother, Mia Pisters, grew up as one of six children on a fruit farm in Geulle. Mia and Pierre met at a tango dance, though perhaps they were drawn to each other by the fact that neither was a particularly skilled dancer.

By 1971, the couple had built a family that numbered one boy and three girls, with Irene being the third of the four children. At that point, Irene’s father had taken over the family business. Valkenburg at that time was the kind of small European city one often imagines from that era. The neighbors were photographers, bakers, pharmacists and other shopkeepers. There were no locks on doors, and children ran around the neighborhood without a second thought.

In primary school, Irene noticed that groups of immigrants from Suriname were arriving in Valkenburg. Since the town drew so many tourists throughout the year, housing for the new residents was never a problem. In the offseason, local hotels would provide housing for the families, so their kids could be integrated into the same schools as Irene and the other children of Valkenburg. The community came together to provide what they could, and Irene’s father even chipped in by giving away free bikes to the children. One of the families who returned to Suriname years later took the gifted bike with them, and every year Irene’s family would receive a photo of that bike being passed from one child to the next as time went on.

When she was growing up, Irene recalls the very first television set they bought. It was black and white, but they’d always watch dreamy Hollywood movies there and in the local cinema. From “Snow White” to “Singing in the Rain” to “Grease”, the prospect of what else lay beyond the town limits of Valkenburg was nothing short of magical.

With this spark of creativity ignited, Irene pursued a career in the creative sector. From her job in 1998 at a Paris-based music company called Naïve, it was clear that it would take a combination of grit and luck to find success. After her stint at Naïve, a string of serendipitous opportunities sent her to Brussels. First to an Israeli software firm, then to Universal Music and finally to the Bertelsmann media conglomerate. Irene had spent most of her adult life on the move. This became her identity as much as being Dutch or anything else.

Irene was attracted to the speed of working with American colleagues during business trips to New York, but the interest in life in the United States began in Valkenburg with the movies she watched and the conversations she had around the family dinner table. Her parents always credited the Americans with saving the Netherlands from German occupation, so there had always been a favorable view of America. The opportunity to move there finally came in 2016, when she moved to Washington, DC to lead the Bertelsmann Foundation.

Once she settled into life in DC, however, she noticed a pronounced difference between reality and the depiction of America in film, books, and music. She observed a much more socially conservative country than she had imagined, one that lacked the unity that people abroad often assume is inherent. Irene’s story is ongoing, but she is a long way from sitting atop the spiral staircase in her parents’ shop. To this day, her identity is defined by the experiences that shaped her, rather than where she is.

Coda

Reflections on Identity – By Irene Braam

Despite the road that has taken me far from Valkenburg, I continue to embrace my Dutch identity. And when I don’t identify as being Dutch, my default position is to proudly claim that I am European. To me, identity is a fluid concept. The characteristics that I learned in my youth, such as humility, directness, and diligence, are as important in a tiny corner of Europe as they are in Washington.

Though the prospect of becoming an American may be on the horizon, I am culturally much farther away. This is partly due to the fact that the concept of identity in the U.S. is so ill-defined. How many Americans are culturally American? What does that mean? People talk about their Polish, French or German roots, but don’t speak the language and have very little connection to the country of their ancestors. That’s perhaps the most puzzling aspect of American identity, but this ambiguity creates the space to allow everyone to feel like they're part of this great experiment, no matter where they’re from. And being part of the experiment fundamentally implies that the responsibility to succeed lies with the individual. It means dedication to a duty, work, community, and family. These are not exclusively American values, but they are certainly at its core. In my view, despite a particularly volatile moment in its history, this country is still a melting pot, but I suppose it largely depends on where the pot is sitting. In DC, at least on the surface, it remains a melting pot. Elsewhere it is clearly coming to a boil. When people come here, they really want to be American. I often say that the United States has the best marketing on Earth. America excels at making people dream.