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Lin Fu Zhen (???).
That's the Chinese name picked by my parents from a list my grandfather had created for his grandchildren before he died.
He had chosen more than 10 names, hoping his children would give them to their newborns, to carry his legacy throughout their lives.
These names were supposed to be special, filled with his hope and good wishes.
I was happy to be called Zhen-Zhen, my Chinese nickname, until I turned five.
Then I started refusing to acknowledge it.
That's because I realised how it sounded different from most names I heard among my friends in primary school.
I was born in Indonesia, where my grandfather from my dad's side had moved from Fujian in China more than 60 years earlier.
My family said he escaped economic tension, and sought a better life overseas.
My mum and aunties tried to convince me to continue using Zhen-Zhen.
They said it meant beautiful — which is a lie by the way — but that didn't work.
I never saw that kind of name in Indonesian movies, soap operas, or our textbooks at school.
Often, our school exercises sounded something like this:
"BUDI went to the market and bought five oranges. He gave two to SITI and one to EKA. How many has he got now?"
Budi, Eka, Siti — all Indonesian names.
There was no such thing as Lin Fu Zhen or Zhen-Zhen, at least throughout the time I was at school.
I think I had encountered more Johns and Marys than anyone with Chinese names.
Natasya sounds more familiar, I thought.
So I insisted on being called that.
Somehow, I didn't want to be associated with being a Chinese-Indonesian.
I didn't grow up speaking Mandarin, since my dad had lost touch with the language.
Mum spoke the Khek local Chinese dialect, but she didn't pass that down to me either.
Sometimes I would hear relatives singing Tian Mi Mi, a popular Mandarin song, or the famous Yuèliang Dàibiao Wo de Xin.
But did I understand what these songs were about? Nope.
My parents thought there was no point teaching these languages to us, despite still sending us to Mandarin lessons to get good scores in school.
They thought English was a more important language — so we could speak to Westerners, my mum said.
Society turns on Chinese-Indonesians
I understand where they are coming from.
Historically, Chinese-Indonesians have been rejected from mainstream society.
In 1966, they were asked to legally change their "Chinese individual or family names", as suspicions grew that Chinese-Indonesians still had a strong connection with the Chinese mainland and communism.
The name change certificate became necessary for obtaining formal documents, like an ID card or passport.
In the following year, Chinese language was banned from most newspapers.
It couldn't even be used as the name for a shop.
Chinese schools were shut, and the language wasn't taught anymore.
Under Suharto's presidency, Chinese-Indonesians were pressured to assimilate with the wider population of Indonesia.
For more than three decades, Chinese-Indonesians could only celebrate Chinese New Year and religious activities behind closed doors.
The assimilation policies were in force for years, and played a part in violence being directed at Chinese-Indonesians during a brief period of intense national unrest.
Massive student protests and riots broke out across Indonesia on May 13, 1998.
Anger at Suharto's authoritarian government over issues like corruption, food shortages and mass unemployment was focused on shops and homes mostly owned by Chinese Indonesians.
Ethnic Chinese communities were targeted because they were stereotyped as rich, and were blamed in part for the economic collapse following the Asian financial crisis.
At least 1,000 people were killed and 400 women of Chinese ethnic background reported being raped in a brutal two days in Jakarta.
When all of these events unfolded, I was a clueless one-year-old, hanging around in my parents' shop and house in Sumatra.
Later in life, I heard things were tense outside the capital, too.
My dad said security guards tried to protect the areas where Chinese-Indonesians lived.
But we considered ourselves luckier than our relatives in Jakarta, who lived closer to the hotspot.
My cousin Jessica Salim lived in an area where roughly 90 per cent of the population was Chinese-Indonesians.
When she was seven, she witnessed her parents in high-alert mode.
"We stayed home for days and when we got out, I saw a burnt car frame on the street," she said.
"I felt scared as a kid, and it took me years to feel safe living in Jakarta."
In Sumatra, we were fortunate the violence didn't touch us, but subconsciously we were traumatised.
I remember our community being on alert again when protesters demanded Basuki Tjahaja Purnama (Ahok), the first ethnic Chinese governor of Jakarta, leave office over blasphemy allegations.
I learnt from Udaya Halim, a leader of the Chinese-Indonesian community in Perth and a historian, that we can't deny the fact that my ancestors might have been traumatised from the treatment they received.
The anti-Chinese policies were stopped in 2000.
As someone who experienced systemic discrimination himself, Udaya said my grandparents might not have discussed what happened in the past because of a fear that the experience could have scarred their children — or themselves.
There is even a possibility they might've wanted to erase painful memories by cutting ties to their culture.
Udaya said despite the tragic events of the past, Chinese-Indonesians "shouldn't be against those who had discriminated against us".
He said everyone must learn from the conflict to ensure it won't happen again.
A happy place
Sometimes, I think it's funny how my identity becomes ambiguous due to my appearance.
I look Chinese, but my nationality is Indonesian.
It's common for me to be approached on the street or public transport by a random elderly Chinese person who starts the conversation with "ni hao?"
They yap away until I say: "Sorry, I don't speak Chinese."
Months ago, a stranger who came to my share house to inspect a room asked which Chinese restaurant I was working at.
I answered: "Oh, I work in media and I'm Indonesian."
He was a bit taken aback, but tried to keep cool and asked about my work.
Then there's the classic one.
Someone will ask me where I'm from.
When I answer "Indonesia", they become silent and look confused until I say: "Yes, I have Chinese blood."
Then they look relieved.
I used to struggle with my identity as a Chinese-Indonesian.
Udaya said denying that part of me was not the right thing to do.
He said I'm not the only one who feels lost for not knowing how to speak my ancestors' language.
My circumstances and my past have shaped who I am now.
"We didn't ask to be born a certain way and to what ethnicity," Udaya said.
"You have to know the past to understand your present, and design your future."
That's what I'm doing now.
While writing this piece, I learnt from my ABC Chinese colleagues the meaning of my Chinese name Lin Fu Zhen (???): "a happy place".
I can say it's where I am now, after learning more about my identity and having more reasons to accept it.
One step at a time.
