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From adoption to immigration, mental health challenges in the Asian community
When you're Asian, talking about mental health can be difficult. Misunderstandings and taboos surround this subject. However, the racism that the community has experienced throughout the pandemic has highlighted this issue. Asian mental health is affected by a variety of realities, such as adoption, immigration, and adjustment to the host society.
Breakups in adoption
India Deblois and Kimura Byol are two people of Asian origin who have been adopted. Even though they grew up on two different continents and are decades apart, both have experienced situations of abandonment, internal conflicts and a sense of alienation from the Asian community.
“I had a lot of difficulty with the abandonment. I often asked myself why I was alive,” India Deblois tells us. Adopted with her sister by a white family from Beauce, she felt out of place and was confused about her identity. “I could not relate to a Chinese identity, because I knew nothing about this culture,” explains the student. And it is a conflict that she is still experiencing today. When she hears her colleagues discuss their Asian traditions at the Korean restaurant where she works, she feels left out. “You're not Asian enough to be understood by other Asians, and you're not white enough for white people,” she summarizes. Before moving to Montreal, in the midst of the pandemic, Ms. Deblois was studying at Laval University.
She was struggling at school because she felt alone, without an Asian community. It was this painful experience that prompted her to see a psychologist for two years. “During my consultations, I told him that I did not feel comfortable, that my friends did not understand my interests, that I did not have a role model in life,” she explains. The prospect of moving to the city, where there is a large Asian community, seems to him as a solution to fill this void. As soon as she arrives, the young woman starts looking for people who look like her. She enrolled in the Korean Language and Asian Studies program at the University of Montreal and found a job in a Korean restaurant.
“Getting involved in activities related to Asian cultures, meeting people, taking part in the march against anti-Asian racism — all of these things helped me heal,” she says. For her part, Kimura Byol uses her artistic work as a balm. “When I receive an insult, I turn it into art. Working artistically allows me to calm myself and deconstruct this attack,” says the artist in a confident tone. I realize that it is not my fault, it is the fault of others and of a society that accepts these types of negative actions.”
To come up with this kind of detachment, Kimura had to put in a lot of effort. Born in Korea and raised in a white family in Belgium in the 1970s, the artist often heard hurtful remarks from his own adoptive parents. “They said they weren't racist toward Asians, but they openly said they were racist toward others. They insulted Asians but said we weren't because we were adopted,” Kimura said. The artist lived under the pressure of having to adopt the same cultural norms as his parents. Kimura was also worried about his future. During his youth, there were not many Asian models in Belgium.
As far as she remembers, the only ones there were were limited to “the actress in the music video for the song” China Girl by David Bowie and the hypersexualized images of Asian women”. During his adolescence, the lack of political power of adopted persons and the fact of having to depend on his parents outraged him. Kimura even thought about taking her own life. “As an adopted person, I didn't have any Asian adults around me. So adult life was such an abstract concept for me,” reports the artist. Today, Kimura is fighting to make the voices of adopted people heard. His creations, which deal with his diverse identities and life experiences, have been exhibited across Canada as well as in Europe and Asia.
The insecurity of immigration
For some, it is difficult immigration that is at the origin of their suffering. Every day, Jin Xing, a mortgage advisor at CIBC, waits patiently for permanent residence. And every night after a day of no news, she goes to bed, depressed and unable to fall asleep. “All my days are gray. Seeing the members of my circle — my friends, my colleagues, the people on my social networks — in possession of the status hurts me enormously,” she confides in a knotted voice. Things haven't always been this dark.
Five years ago, Ms. Xing and her husband arrived from China full of hope. The latter, then in his fifties, hoped to return to school and change his life after a military career of more than 20 years in the Chinese Army. Ms. Xing, who had just returned from a three-year stay in Ghana where she had worked, was already fluent in French and was eager to start a new career. For two years, she received training to prepare for her current job and passed her French exam with flying colors. This couple's dreams quickly turned into nightmares under the pressure of the immigration process. After submitting their application for permanent residence, the couple only received a response from the silence of the Canadian government. “We received nothing, no letters, no results. We are still waiting,” she said in despair. Despite sustained efforts, her spouse has still not been able to obtain a work permit. The stress of having to provide for her family on her only salary and the endless wait got the better of the mortgage counselor.
“I'm not motivated because I don't feel like I have a future. Every time I listen to the news and hear that the Canadian government is welcoming more newcomers, I get depressed, she says. I have been here for five years, I am worried, I am not getting any results.” Ms. Xing ran into several obstacles trying to get psychological help. When there is a lack of time and money, it is extremely difficult to access care. She is also worried about her husband, who also needs care and who still does not have his health insurance card. “I just got it this year. Before, I had to pay for all my health care out of pocket. Finding a professional who speaks Mandarin is also difficult — my husband needs one, he doesn't speak French or English,” she says. It is also difficult to get an appointment with a psychologist. Ms. Xing had been waiting for several months for a seat to become available, but finally gave up the idea.
These experiences made her extremely cynical. Arriving in Canada with big plans, she no longer even knows if it is worth staying there. She wants reforms in the immigration and health systems to be put in place. “I want the government to tell us the precise waiting times for obtaining status or work permits,” she says. I also want mental health services that are culturally appropriate and accessible for people without status. But I have little hope that it will ever happen.”
Healing from wounds in community
Faced with the trauma and isolation of several seniors, an isolation that was exacerbated by the lockdown, the community felt the need to gather. It met on October 2 in Montreal to discuss mental health. The room showed the spirit of camaraderie of a community coming together after a long year marked by the pandemic and anti-Asian racism. During the press conference organized by the Asian Coalition for Emerging Leaders (CARE), the organization launched four video clips on mental health and the Asian community.
The daily life of Julie Tran, one of the three administrators of the Group for Support Against Asian Racism, is punctuated by stories that tell of the discrimination, difficulties, and challenges experienced by members of the group. “When Asian people have these experiences, they tend to deny them in terms of mental health. When people started sharing their experiences, many said it was the first time they felt a sense of solidarity. It allows them to experience relief in terms of mental health,” she explains. Ms. Tran believes that community can be used as a healing tool. “Young people have started to sit down with their parents and grandparents to talk about mental health and racism,” reports the social work graduate from the University of Ottawa.
“It allows previous generations to understand that activism is not dangerous. Often, our parents live with their own traumas, and it's hard for them to talk about these topics,” she says. Ms. Tran wants these efforts to improve the mental health of community members to continue in the future. She highlights the importance of funding community organizations and the need for an institution to counter anti-Asian racism. “I often arrived in activist spaces where there were no other Asian people. In these spaces, we are just racialized people who are mixed up with other realities, she says, expressing her frustration. Our realities are made invisible.
You need an Asian person at the decision-making tables.” Making Asian realities visible in the public sphere is Viet Tran's mission. This is the mandate that this psychiatrist by training gave himself as the editor-in-chief of Sticky Rice. Launched last year, the magazine focuses on the realities of Asian Canadians. “Being able to recognize yourself in the words, in the images, in the creations of the publication can be restorative in terms of mental health,” he says, adding that it can help continue the healing process and encourage new thoughts. During his professional consultations, Dr. Tran noticed that his Asian patients had distinct mental health experiences.
“The closer we feel to our Asian country of origin, the more our mental health depends on our interpersonal relationships,” he tells us. According to him, in rather collectivist Asian societies, the well-being of an individual depends on his role in his family or colleagues. “When Asians come to see me, they tell me about their failures in their roles as parents, brothers or professionals, reports the psychiatrist. Instead, my non-Asian patients who have more individualistic values will talk about their individual failures, such as the fact that they did not have the job of their dreams.” The psychiatrist is optimistic about the growing number of Asian mental health professionals who understand the realities of their community. However, he is aware of the enormous obstacle that language poses. For first-generation immigrants who only speak their original language, access to care is still very limited.
Dr. Tran also knows that receiving mental health services is still taboo in the Asian community. It offers other options for those looking for alternatives, including cultural community centers and spiritual places. As an example, he cites the Chùa Quan Âm pagoda, which his family frequents. “These places can be beneficial for recharging your batteries. Many of us find that community relationships are a source of support and that they are not found in individual therapies,” he concludes.