Being recognized for who you really are

12 Feb, 2025

For more than half of my life, I looked in the mirror and saw no one. Until I eventually searched and successfully found some of my biological relatives.

My heart aches to go back to Russia, the homeland that I lost when I was adopted to the United States in my early life. For perhaps obvious reasons, I have not returned—arguably the most important step in reclaiming my origins—since I finally renewed my Russian passport only months before the war broke out.

It's something difficult to describe to people who were, for lack of a better term, kept. If you're reading this, you most likely benefited from genetic mirroring, or the reflections of your own physical or emotional traits in those biologically related to you, at some point in your life. When you look at your reflection in the mirror, maybe you see your mother's eyes or your father's nose. At family gatherings, people might tell you that your laugh is just like your aunt's.

Growing up without genetic mirroring is alienating. Your sense of self is shaky at best: how can you know yourself without knowing where you come from? This leads to a phenomenon called genealogical bewilderment¹, which is amplified in cases where ties to a birth country and language are severed. Or even shunned, like in my case.

Only in recent years have I actively explored this other part of myself.

As part of this coming home to self that may never feel complete, I was adamant in the meantime about trying to explore some other place that would feel like Russia. While still acknowledging that now is not the best time to flaunt oneself as Russian, of course. I wanted to engage with cultures similar to the ones I lost.

I have always been interested in other post-Soviet (yes, I know the term is not so beloved) countries and decided to explore some of them last year. While I debated between the Baltics, Central Asia, and the Caucasus, I had no choice but to pick the latter after discovering a somewhat personal connection to Azerbaijan. In addition, I have helped some local Armenian women through some volunteer work over the past two years. It was clear: I was going to the Caucasus. By myself.

I already knew a bit about the history and cultures of the Caucasus. To further prepare myself, I immersed myself in media that cover the region including the beloved Ali and Nino² as well as history books on Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Georgia. I think this was the right thing to do, as I not only learned more of the nuances behind a complicated history but also could focus less on my personal losses and more on what makes these places so interesting.

All of this still overwhelmed me though, so much that I kept the trip a secret from even my closest friends for weeks until I worked up the courage to share the news with them. Sure, I wasn't going to Russia, but it's not every day that your friend tells you that you're going to Azerbaijan out of all places in the world. Azerbaijan is not Japan or Italy.

Needless to say, this trip changed my life. I went on it ten months ago and still feel compelled to write about it.

I fell in love with the people and places I visited. If you want to experience true hospitality, go to the Caucasus. If you love mountains, go to the Caucasus. If you love tasty food, go to the Caucasus.

It wasn't long before things one way or another became personal again, though. In fact, I started to thank myself for making this choice. Maybe it was better for things to turn out this way, for me to have still not returned to Russia.

You see, I've worked so hard to reclaim my lost identity and master the Russian language. But like many adoptees, I still feel like my efforts are not enough. That I am not enough. Even if not for what's going on in the world right now, I'm not sure if I could handle feeling like an outsider in my own birth country. An imposter. I was rejected by it once: Could I bear to feel that again? Maybe I needed more time.

In Russia, I would have passed as an everyday citizen who should not only speak the language natively but also know the ins and outs of how things work there. I will never have that level of know-how. And no one in Russia will ever see that just by looking at me. It would require me admitting out loud that I am not actually one of them. That my lost identity will always be at least a little bit lost.

It is not enough to read every detail about a place. Being there is totally different. I didn't want to go there and feel crushed knowing I can never live up to that expectation, though I will someday hopefully see an ideal opportunity to go and overcome that as well as other fears associated with such a visit.

At the same time, a big reason why I decided to go to the Caucasus was to have the chance to speak Russian more organically, in real life. Mind you, I did not walk around assuming or expecting people to speak it; I don't think that's the right attitude. I used Russian, English, and a few phrases in local languages as tools and adapted as I saw fit.

Really, I didn't have to be so worried. I was seen as someone familiar to locals but still not entirely like them. My other identity that had been swept under the rug for decades was finally acknowledged.

Almost everyone I encountered defaulted to Russian with me based on my appearance alone, and I delighted in it. Granted, this wasn't something entirely new to me, being recognized as Russian; I have heard a "privyet" or "khorosho" uttered toward me while walking through streets of Germany. But those were not the most pleasant experiences.

Here, it was different.

I loved when a Russian woman in Baku approached me and asked if I lived there.

I loved when hosts asked if I could speak Russian and lit up when I said yes because they knew they could connect with me on a deeper level without having to rely on their broken English.

I loved when an older couple saw me with my camera and asked me to take their picture in front of the Armenian Genocide Memorial where we and thousands of others congregated on Armenian Genocide Remembrance Day.

As much as I hated to leave, I loved when the immigration officer who stamped my passport at the Zvartnots International Airport tried to piece together my story from only my birthplace and surname — asking if my mother is Russian and if I speak any, and then praising me and my efforts after I explained my situation.

Some people made mistakes when speaking Russian, which helped alleviate any self-induced pressure to sound perfectly authentic. If I received any feedback, it was incredibly positive. Only one person, a border guard, noticed my accent was not exactly Russian but still could not pinpoint my origins. One of my hosts told me that I speak the language better than even some Russians do. I think that is a bit of stretch, but I was still relieved to know my efforts are worthwhile after all despite my self-doubts.

It wasn't all about the language though. While I hope every day that I can see my own biological relatives in person someday, I relished moments when I worked up the courage to show photos of them to people I met in the Caucasus and they told me we indeed look alike. When they smiled and noticed that my half-brother's haircut looked like an Azerbaijani's. When I could name where I am from and finally talk face-to-face with people who knew exactly what I was talking about, maybe had even been there before. That never happens in the United States.

These were all affirmations. That I was on the right track somehow. That I was related to other people on this planet in some way. That I exist.

But I must admit I still felt ashamed on parts of the trip, maybe even more than I usually do. Especially when I was in Tbilisi, which is plastered with anti-Russian graffiti. I know deep down I am not responsible for anything going on right now, but I know some Georgians must have looked at me and shaken their heads. They couldn't see that I have both absolutely nothing and something to do with the country that traumatized them in 2008.

At the end of the day, I can't lie and say that it doesn't hurt at all anymore after this. It stings, and sometimes I do wish I never even got a taste of what this was like, being recognized for who I really am. Sometimes it feels like more of a reminder of what I've lost, and at other times it is a source of comfort that encourages me to keep going. Sometimes it's both simultaneously.