“Can’t Take the Country Out of Me!”: Chaldean Place-Identity Projects in Motor City

Abstract

After decades of decline, Detroit has begun advocating for immigrant inclusion as a regional revitalization strategy. Yet, some migrants do not share the city’s enthusiasm. Chaldean Iraqis, for instance, tend to underscore their distinctiveness from the city and its residents. Nevertheless, their insistence on difference seems spatially specific. Drawing on ethnographic observations in and around Chaldean community organizations in metro Detroit, as well as a sociological discourse analysis of urban policy documents, this paper traces newcomers and the city’s mutually constitutive nature of identity formation. Moreover, I show how community members strategically link their collective memories from Iraq to those of Southeast Michigan, resulting in highly complex place-identity projects. The carefully curated public narrative, in turn, has real consequences for Detroit’s social fabric, reproducing, and challenging Detroit’s own regional identity. Theoretically, the findings point to the limitations of a one-dimensional, spatially bounded, and temporally delimited notion of identity formation. Empirically, Chaldeans’ identity formation highlights the heterogeneity in newcomers’ identity construction, one that differs from that of other co-nationals.

1. Introduction

After decades of depopulation, disinvestment, and decline, organizations in Southeast Michigan such as Global Detroit enthusiastically began to advocate for the inclusion of migrants to “create sustained prosperity. For everyone” (Gerber et al. 2017; emphasis in text). Immigration, they contend, has the power to change Detroit’s destiny. These revitalization narratives partially draw on a nostalgic place memory, attributing the region’s past economic boom to migrants, downplaying the legacy of racial discrimination (Kinney 2016).

Remarkably, during my conversations with a much-courted subset of migrants, Chaldean refugees, a similar enthusiasm for a mutually beneficial relationship between city and migrants was lacking. Having fled centuries of persecution in the 1900s, rising ethnosectarian violence in the 1980s and early 2000s, as well as genocidal attacks by the Islamic State of Iraq (ISIS) in 2014 (European Parliament 2016), Chaldean Iraqis did not arrive in Detroit to contribute economically. For them, the prospect of steady employment was primarily linked to a desire to freely practice their faith and rejuvenate their community.

And yet, while individuals insisted that Detroit merely provided them with a backdrop for continuing their cultural practices, my interactions with several Chaldean organizations in Detroit left me puzzled. The city had become part and parcel of Chaldeans’ collective identity: In an economically disempowered region Chaldeans depicted themselves as entrepreneurial. In a metropolitan area with one of the largest Muslim populations in the U.S. Chaldeans emphasized their Christianity. In a locality that had become the symbol of Black poverty, Chaldeans pointed to their tight knit community. More than responding to Detroit’s past and present, Chaldeans’ collective identity appeared to be just as deeply intertwined with their cultural memory of Iraq.

Scholars of place have long argued that identity formation is a spatial process (Brown-Saracino 2017; Stiman 2024). Similarly, immigration literature suggests that reception contexts have the power to shape newcomers’ self-understanding (Jensen 2021; Watson 2024). Nevertheless, much of the classical research has treated this self-understandings as spatially bounded (Çaglar and Glick Schiller 2018). Drawing on ethnographic observations in and around Chaldean community organizations in metro Detroit, as well as a sociological discourse analysis of urban policy documents, this paper expands notions of transnationalism (Foner 2005; Vertovec 2001) to trace newcomers and the city’s mutually constitutive nature of identity formation and the emergence of Chaldeans’ place-identity projects. Following Meaghan Stiman (2024, p. 18), I understand place-identity projects as individuals’ conscious efforts to inscribe or redefine their felt identity through investments in their surroundings. By centering the voices of forcibly displaced individuals, I show how community members strategically foster continuity by selectively linking their collective memories from Iraq to those of Southeast Michigan. The carefully curated public narrative, in turn, has had real consequences for Detroit’s social fabric, reproducing and challenging Detroit’s own regional identity.

Taken together, the findings offer a counter-narrative to that of the struggling, majority-Black rustbelt city in the white Midwest, highlighting the role of newcomers in molding and contesting long-standing place narratives. By foregrounding migrants’ agency in crafting and presenting their collective identity, this paper moves beyond an intrinsic understanding of ethnoreligiosity. Instead, it underscores the multifaceted, malleable nature of place-identity projects that emerges from continuous political contestations. Moreover, by emphasizing the importance of collective memory for self-understanding, the paper outlines an alternative approach to flat, spatially fixed conceptions of identity. As such, it advocates for the centrality of investigating the strategic and selective connection of community-specific memory to place-specific memory, as well as approaching the Midwest as a nodal point embedded in a global web of temporal and spatial relationships (Massey 2002).

2. The Politics of Collective Identities

Discerning Chaldeans’ self-understanding in Southeast Michigan requires assessing internal and external forces shaping identity formation. Inspired by classical sociological theories—Durkheim’s (2014) concept of collective consciousness, Marx’s (1990) class consciousness, and Tönnies’ (2007) distinction between Gemeinschaft and Gesellschaft—recent scholarship posits that collective identity is more than an accumulation of personal identities (Owens et al. 2010). A forcibly displaced Chaldean shop owner, for example, may draw their self-understanding from their previous life in Iraq, their role as an entrepreneur, their categorization as a refugee and humanitarian subject, or their group membership to the Chaldean community (Rosenberg 1979). However, these descriptors only become a collective identity when people agree to emphasize their similarities while downplaying their differences for a particular purpose (Polletta and Jasper 2001). The intentionality of identity formation, then, underscores that collective identities are the product of dynamic, relational boundary work between an in-group and an out-group (Taylor and Whittier 1999). On the one hand, lived experiences and communal narratives may inspire a sense of self-identification. On the other hand, self-identification is bounded by existing social scripts that reaffirm or challenge elements of the collective (Goffman 1959).

If crafting a collective identity requires the conscious downplaying of individual differences, then collective narratives are also a product of identity politics. The term “identity politics” not only refers to collective recognition claims which can form the foundation for redistribution (Cerulo 1997); the concept describes the process by which actors embedded in various intersecting power hierarchies continuously negotiate the boundaries of group membership (Gould 1998). The power differentials, in turn, affect both the content of a group’s identity, as well as the strategies available for pursuing their demands (Polletta and Jasper 2001). While communities with a direct connection to political leaders may attempt to expand identity boundaries through legal channels, marginalized communities may choose more radical, even illegal means instead (Hooker 2016).

Implicitly or explicitly, much of the immigration literature has focused on newcomers’ ethnoracial identity formation. Migrants’ identificational assimilation to the “mainstream” are a central element of classical assimilation theory (Gordon 1964). Segmented assimilation theory, in contrast, traces migrants’ strategies to maintain old or forge new ethnoracial ties. Those with high social and human capital may aspire to become a model minority, those facing rigid racial barriers may more readily develop reactive identities (Portes and Zhou 2005). More recently, scholars have complicated these theories by chronicling variations across class, gender, and generations. For some individuals, model minority aspirations are so deeply rooted that working-class individuals who do not live up to their community’s expectations may reject their ethnoracial identity altogether (Lee 2004; Lee and Zhou 2015). Similarly, the reconfigurations of gender roles in response to immigration may in some cases alter newcomers’ collective identity (Gowayed 2019; Hondagneu-Sotelo 1992). Moreover, in the face of continued discrimination, second generation migrants have forged previously unimaginable pan-ethnic alliance to more forcefully advocate for political change. One such alliance has recently achieved the inclusion of a Middle Eastern or North African (MENA) category in the 2030 U.S. census (Maghbouleh et al. 2022). And yet, although most of these studies do not perceive migrants’ collective identities to be fixed, many still perpetuate a predominantly flat notion of ethnoracial identities (Hall 1994).

2.1. The Geographies of Imagined Communities

Collective identities, however, can be multifaceted and may vary across context. Urban scholarship has long recognized this intertwining of place and identity. Japonica Brown-Saracino’s (2017) work on lesbian, bisexual, and queer (LBQ) individuals in small college towns, for example, shows how the relative size of the local LBQ community, as well as individuals’ experiences of homophobia shape the personal and collective identity of LBQ members. Similarly, Stiman (2024) maps suburbanites’ diverging allegiances to urban or rural identities, which they subsequently express through spatial investments that align with their respective place-identity projects. Even more so, places themselves are crafting tales to appeal to investors and potential residents (Kinney 2016; Peck 2009). While attempting to reposition the city within contested urban hierarchies (Harvey 2013), these branding narratives are often selective and exclusionary, offering a sanitized place-identity (Kinney 2016; Zukin 1995).

Immigration scholars have identified similar place-specific discourse on the national level (R. Alba and Foner 2015; Sainsbury 2006). Since each nation state has its own collective identity, what Benedict Anderson (1983) calls “imagined communities”, nations use language, rituals, and symbols (Cerulo 1997), as well as a strategic refashioning of history to demarcate bright or permeable boundaries (Bertossi et al. 2020; Verovšek 2016). These same place-making practices can also be used by nations without a state (Bengio 2012). Whenever imagined communities become institutionalized, they form distinctive policy regimes. Before this backdrop, the U.S. is characterized by an increasingly punitive border regime (FitzGerald 2019), a quasi-multicultural birthright citizenship (Bloemraad 2006), and a liberal welfare state that values economic self-sufficiency (Grace et al. 2017). Middle Easterners occupy a uniquely contradictory position within this framework, leading them to develop a double-consciousness akin to African Americans (Yazdiha 2021): Although they are legally categorized as white and family sponsorship or a humanitarian status has provided many with pathways to citizenship, many Middle Easterners are continuously racialized and discriminated against (Gowayed 2022; Maghbouleh 2017).

Even though localities cannot alter federal citizen and immigration laws, they can develop unique place narratives (Brettell 2003). Sanctuary cities may, for instance, extend social rights and benefits to people regardless of legal status (de Graauw 2021). Conversely, places with a fraud relationship to immigration may choose to police migrants by employing local ordinances (Varsanyi 2008). The degree of local inclusivity, in turn, can affect newcomers’ claims to recognition (Galli 2020; Varsanyi 2008). In contexts that stress the importance of legality, forcibly displaced individuals may elevate their humanitarian status to underscore their deservingness (Fassin and Rechtman 2009; Galli 2020). In contexts that are more welcoming, but do not have a robust immigrant community, migrants may downplay their ethnic identity in favor of a pan-ethnic or role-related presentation of self (Çaglar and Glick Schiller 2018). Identity formation may be further complicated by globalized institutions such as churches that locally embed individuals in a transnational web (Massey 2002; Çaglar and Glick Schiller 2018). And yet, while these studies recognize the reciprocity between specific contexts and individuals’ experiences, many of these classical texts fail to move beyond a spatially bounded notion of place (notable exceptions are Çaglar and Glick Schiller 2018; Erickson 2020).

2.2. The Construction of Collective Memory

Nevertheless, as a second strand of immigration research, transnationalism, has shown, sending societies and migrants’ individual or collective pasts can have a lasting impact on newcomers’ self-understanding. While much attention has been paid to migrants’ continued economic, political, cultural, and social ties with their homeland (Levitt 2001; Vertovec 2001), some scholars have taken to explore the role of affective place memories in identity formation (Chaney and Olson 2025; Viruell-Fuentes 2006). Often-times community members will go to great lengths to craft their own version of historically grounded place narratives that rationalize their collective identity in a new locality (Kyriakides et al. 2018). These expressions of agency regularly define what a specific community is and what it is not (Cerulo 1997). In this way, boundaries become representations of morality, allowing newcomers to present themselves in a positive light (Lamont 2000; Lamont and Molnár 2002). Underlying many of the boundaries established along cultural and ethnoracial lines are collective memories. In contrast to history, collective memory is overtly subjective, sometimes in an explicit attempt to rectify a community’s omission from allegedly objective historical records (LaCapra 2016). Whereas some communities may draw on collective memories of oppression to emplace themselves in their new imagined homeland (Chaney and Olson 2025; Wayessa 2024), others may construct their countries of origin in a nostalgic light, as a place of eventual return (Foner 2005).

For some, drawing on their collective memory has successfully blurred boundaries in the receiving society (R. Alba 2005). Irish migrants, for example, were not originally considered white. Favorable economic conditions (Bertossi et al. 2020), their strategic inclusion in the civil service (Dunbar-Ortiz 2021), and their tendency to “assert the reality of Irish colonial history through depictions of unreal American Indians” (Mullen in Dunbar-Ortiz 2021, p. 145), however, ultimately cemented their settler colonial identity. As part of an expanded white mainstream, community members can now celebrate their “symbolic ethnicity” without fear of negative repercussions (R. D. Alba 1990). In contrast, many recent arrivals, as a result of geopolitical contestations and legacies of imperial and colonial racialization systems, have not been afforded the same privilege (Sadeghi 2023; Waters 1990). For those forcibly displaced by war, disasters, or persecution, collective trauma is frequently depicted as the most defining form of memory (Kizilhan and Noll-Hussong 2017; Kyriakides et al. 2018). In fact, refugees are legally rewarded for a credible re-telling of their traumatic experiences, even if doing so exposes them to the risk of re-traumatization (Fassin and Rechtman 2009; J. C. Morris 2023). Depending on the broader importance that community members attribute to the trauma these collective narratives of suffering can be passed on to subsequent generations (Kizilhan and Noll-Hussong 2017).

Passing on collective memories requires these memories to be embodied in speech and commemorative rituals, as well as inscribed in space (Alexander et al. 2004; LaCapra 2016). By establishing ethnic enclaves and transnational institutions migrants can work to preserve their cultural heritage. While some immigrant organizations may promote a relatively static, nostalgic understanding of culture and history (Hondagneu-Sotelo 1994), others explicitly foster a continued exchange with the sending country (Faist et al. 2021). Over time migrants’ increased incorporation tends to lead to a gradual reorientation of these transnational organizations to meet more immediate community needs (Waters and Kasinitz 2013; Zeltzer-Zubida 2004). Communities that continue receiving a steady stream of newcomers, on the other hand, may witness a revival of their cultural practices—what Tomás Jiménez calls “replenished ethnicity” (Jiménez 2008). And yet, despite its recognition of multi-sited identity formation, transnational scholarship has traditionally primarily foregrounded the social and cultural reproduction of ethnoracial identities. Rarely do studies engage with migrants’ own choices in emphasizing certain historical narratives over others (Kyriakides et al. 2018). Neither do they explore how globalization’s reconfiguration of local political economies shapes transnational social fields (Massey 2002; Miraftab 2016). To investigate Chaldeans’ collective identity construction in Southeast Michigan, this paper will, thus, bring together the literature on place-identity projects, collective identity, and collective memory.

3. Case Selection

Chaldean Iraqis in Detroit offer a theoretically interesting case study: Although many Chaldeans arrived in the aftermath of the 2003 U.S. invasion, the city and its newcomers share a long history. What is more, Chaldeans’ actual and Detroit’s symbolic displacement are rooted in some of the same global forces, especially colonialism, imperialism, and neoliberalism. Yet, the Midwest continues to be imagined as a place of localness (Miraftab 2016). Precisely because of their dislocation, efforts to autonomously define their communal and place identities are much more pronounced. Tracing these efforts provides important insights into the mechanisms through which Chaldeans change not just the social, but the cultural fabric of Southeast Michigan.

Founded as a fur trading post by French colonizers on Iroquoian land, Detroit successfully exploited its geographic location and its labor force at the turn of the 20th century (Miles 2017). Having lured international migrants and internally displaced African Americans from the South with the promise of ample employment opportunities in one of the city’s automobile plants, Detroit began its ascent to one of the fastest growing urban centers in the U.S. (Sugrue 2010). Working conditions in the factories were harsh and employers frequently capitalized on racial antipathies, using migrants as strike breakers and relegating Black workers to low-paid, low-skilled jobs (Thompson 2001). As the economic boom of the 1940s and 1950s subsided and international competition increased, companies sought to cut unnecessary expenses. Ultimately, many manufacturing plants moved to the suburbs where land was more affordable.

Supported by the New Deal Federal Housing Authority housing loan program, many white employees followed. After decades of redlining, block busting, and restrictive covenants had confined them to some of the worst neighborhoods in town, most Black workers, together with immigrants and lower-class whites were left behind (Sugrue 2010). Frustrated with high unemployment rates, violent policing practices, and a decaying infrastructure, some of these residents joined a series of urban uprisings during the summer of 1967. By 1980, Detroit had become the epitome of Black poverty. Exacerbated by media narratives proclaiming the “tragedy of Detroit” (Chafets 1990), the city’s mismanagement and its failure to combat corruption were depicted as signs that Detroit had turned into wasteland (Kinney 2016).

When Detroit’s eventual bankruptcy in 2013 appeared to finally seal its fate, Chaldean Iraqis had long since inscribed their presence into the physical and social fabric of the city. Fleeing British quasi-colonial rule in the 1920s, many Chaldeans, Eastern Rite Catholics, hoped to find work in Detroit booming automobile industry (Bacall 2014). As the city’s economic and social structure changed, the Chaldean community adapted, opening stores in predominantly Black neighborhoods. Accusations of discriminatory behavior towards Black residents by Chaldean store owners, as well as allegations of selling substandard goods at inflated prices culminated in several violent exchanges (Alyass and Cohen 2003; Chafets 1990). Tensions were further fanned when Chaldeans followed earlier patterns of white flight to the Detroit suburbs, especially to Sterling Heights. The arrival of Chaldeans escaping the rising ethnosectarian violence in the 1980s and 90s further cemented their presence, turning the Chaldean Chamber of Commerce, the Arab American Chaldean Council, the Chaldean Community Foundation, and the Chaldean Cultural Center (CCC) into important political stakeholders.

Around the same time that U.S. troops were withdrawing from Iraq, media narratives about Detroit began to change. To rid itself of its territorial stigma (Wacquant 2008) and regain some control over its reputation, Detroit launched a branding campaign to position the city as a blank slate for new investment. Whereas prior media narratives had fixated on the hypervisibility of Black residents, this new discourse rendered Black Detroiters almost invisible (Kinney 2016). While the approach did result in larger infrastructure developments, it was soon joined by a second proposal: Having lost over half of its population within a span of 70 years, Detroit sought to expand its tax base, boost consumption, and revitalize the city by attracting migrants and refugees (Gerber et al. 2017). With the rise of ISIS in 2006, the city’s lobbying efforts on the state level eventually began to pay off. Detroit is now home to the largest Chaldean diasporic community worldwide (Chaldean Community Foundation 2025). After centuries of persecution, the community is ready to take back control over its identity narrative.

4. Methodology

Data collection for this paper began in the fall of 2021. As part of a larger project, I interviewed 12 forcibly displaced Chaldean Iraqis who settled in Detroit between 1980 and 2020 and 10 urban stakeholders, conducted participant observation in downtown Detroit, Sterling Heights, and several Chaldean institutions, and carried out a sociological discourse analysis (Ruiz 2009) of urban policy documents. Interviews ranged from 30 min to 2 h and participants were recruited through a variety of community organizations, government offices, and snowball sampling. All names have been replaced with pseudonyms. The following analysis primarily draws on data from the ethnographic observations and discourse analysis.1

Amongst the many pages of ethnographic notes, my visit to the CCC in the spring of 2022 forms the foundation for this paper. It was behind the walls of the Shenandoah Country Club that the Chaldean community had full authority over how to present themselves. Moreover, while interviews revealed that their personal self-understandings were far from homogenous, many of my Chaldean respondents echoed the exhibit almost verbatim. During my visit, I took detailed notes of the 5 exhibit rooms to capture the presentation of information and the ways in which Chaldean identity was described. Informed by my interviews, I complemented these observations with several visits to Sterling Heights, where I frequented Chaldean institutions, restaurants, and grocery stores. To more systematically record Chaldeans’ presence, I also drove through the entire area, visually recording homes and visible décor.

To put the observations into broader perspective, I compared the data with my sociological discourse analysis of policy documents. Documents included websites and reports by Chaldean organizations, social service and resettlement agencies, as well as city and state records on urban revitalization and immigrant incorporation. Employing what Deterding and Waters (2018) have called “flexible coding”, I abductively created a subset of codes that mapped Chaldeans’ collective identity construction, as well as the city’s economic, social, and cultural expectations for newcomers. Just like my interviews, Chaldean organizations further reinforced the collective identity constructed at the CCC. At the same time, in line with the premise of sociological discourse analysis (Ruiz 2009), I took note not just of the documents’ content, but of their form. Using analytical memo writing, I sought to unpack potentially coded language and imagery, while reflecting on the meaningful absence of certain facts and interpretations. Taken together, this multi-method approach allowed me to investigate the relationships between Chaldeans’ and the city’s collective identity construction. In the following, I show how different facets of Chaldeans’ self-understanding—as immigrant entrepreneurs, a collectivist community, ancient Christians, and indigenous Iraqis—collectively create the basis for multifaceted, spatially and temporally fluid place-identity projects.

5. Chaldean and Midwestern Place-Identity Projects

When I ask Adorina, an 82-year-old former bus driver, for her favorite places in Motor City, she responds without hesitation. Gesturing towards the nearest Chaldean church, she explains that given her frailty, living near a place of worship is indispensable. It is here that she can pray and participate in century-old rituals that connect her with Iraq. It is also where she meets up with her children and other community members. These individuals, Adorina revels, make life in the city almost feel like home. Most Chaldeans who I met during my fieldwork mirrored her sentiments. To them, Detroit seemed but a backdrop for continuing their old life.

On a crisp spring morning, as I drive towards the Shenandoah Country Club, the largest Chaldean country club in the U.S. and the home to the CCC, I wonder whether I will find my conversations with community members reflected there. Afterall, individual identities can differ from collective ones, but they can also serve as their foundation (Owens et al. 2010). More than allowing for personal self-determination, the CCC’s mission is to preserve and educate: “By forging relationships with other educational and cultural institutions, the CCC not only nurtures pride within the Chaldean community, but also promotes greater understanding among communities as part of cultural diversity” (Chaldean Cultural Center 2025). Forging relationships can take the form of hosting cultural events at local schools and private organizations, as well as building a media archive with related talks and oral histories. And yet, as I pull into the parking lot, I am struck that for an educational institution, the CCC is quite removed from the rest of Detroit.

The museum that I have registered to visit this morning is located in West Bloomfield, a predominantly white suburb, half an hour drive from downtown Detroit. Public transportation in the area is scarce and a car necessary. Despite a sizable Chaldean presence, mostly in Sterling Heights and Southfield, the Shenandoah Country Club feels more like a citadel than an ethnic enclave. Following Peter Marcuse, “a citadel is a spatially concentrated area in which members of a particular population group, defined by its position of superiority in power, wealth, or status, in relation to its neighbors, congregate as a means of protecting or enhancing that position” (Marcuse 1997, p. 9). Judging by the extravagant mansions nestled into the mounds of neatly manicured, lush meadows, the area’s residents do not hide their wealth. In 2023, the median household income in West Bloomfield was USD 127,162, more than three times that of Detroit (United States Census Bureau 2025).

When I enter the country club, I try not to gasp for air as I am greeted by exquisitely tiled floors, marbled walls, and ornate chandeliers. The superlatives do not stop there. Past the entrance hall is one of Michigan’s largest grand ballrooms, as well as a dining hall for savoring a multiple-course Iraqi meal. Out the back, is where one can find the PGA-style golf course and the Olympic-size pool for an annual fee of around USD 6000 and an initiation fee of roughly USD 10,000 (Country Club Magazine 2025). Wearing just jeans and a sweatshirt, I suddenly feel horribly underdressed. If I am, the employee who guides me to the exhibit galleries does not let it show. As she unlocks the doors to the CCC’s treasures, I am immediately transported back in time. Wandering through the exhibit, learning about ancient Mesopotamia, Chaldeans’ faith, their village life, their journey to America, and their present experiences, I begin to observe two seemingly opposing tendencies: While the historic accounts establish Chaldeans as a distinctive ethnoreligious group, the historical narratives appear conspicuously tailored to Detroit’s own collective memory.

The power of Detroit to shape Chaldeans’ collective identity in and of itself is not overly surprising. The subtlety of references to the city, much like Chaldeans’ personal aversion to identifying with the locality, is. Typically, identity claims which respond to a specific reception context are overt, underscoring one’s collective deservingness and membership (Watson 2024). Within the halls of the CCC, however, Chaldeans’ rootedness in Detroit crystalizes over time—by manner of how Chaldean culture is or is not presented. What is more, Chaldeans appear to strategically respond to not just the city’s present, but its past. What emerges is a multifaceted, multi-sited place-identity project (Stiman 2024), grounded in interwoven collective memories of Iraq and Detroit. Following my gradual uncovering of Chaldeans’ spatially specific collective identity, the proceeding sections will retrace my steps from present-day Chaldean life all the way back to its origins in Mesopotamia.

5.1. Immigrant Entrepreneurs

Mesmerized by their eerie appearance in front of a dark backdrop, I watch Chaldeans of all ages share their dreams. As the undisputed highlight of the exhibit, the interview montage provides a visual representation of Chaldeans’ life beyond their journey to America. In fact, the screen directly faces the panels detailing the arrival of Chaldean Iraqis in the U.S. at the turn of the 20th century. As if in conversation with present-day community members, black and white photographs illustrate Chaldeans’ search for freedom and opportunity in Detroit’s manufacturing plants. Those less familiar with the grueling working conditions of the time can listen to a Chaldean shop owner recount the endless hours spent in his store, working hard to provide his children with a better future. In passing, the accompanying text mentions the tensions that arose between the Black and Chaldean community. To the side of the exhibition space is a short historical account of Chaldeans’ religious persecution.

For a cultural center with the goal of educating and preserving, anchoring present day experiences in historical accounts is predictable. Yet, the immersive, feel-good video montage masks the carefully curated temporal and spatial references that by this point in the exhibit have established an invisible connection between Chaldeans’ past and Detroit’s future. Importantly, neither the celebration of Chaldeans’ entrepreneurialism, nor of their communal dreams refers to the collective trauma of forced displacement. Instead, Chaldeans’ long history of persecution appears to have been physically sidelined in the exhibit. For a community that has historically been demonized for their faith (Bacall 2014), and whose members continue to be racialized as helpless humanitarian subjects (Kyriakides et al. 2018), potential security threats (Gowayed 2022), and alleged freeloaders (Fee 2025), insisting on their productivity may offer a much-needed path toward self-expression. By underscoring their tangible contributions, Chaldeans can transform their collective consciousness from that of a traumatized victim into that of an agentic survivor. And yet, the relative omission of Chaldeans’ persecution is striking, considering the gut-wrenching stories of threats, violence, and expulsion that my respondents had shared.

At second glance, Chaldeans’ emerging identity is surprisingly attuned to the local context. More than mirroring victim-to-survivor narratives propagated by a neoliberal racialized refugee regime (Kyriakides et al. 2019), immigrant entrepreneurialism is also highly compatible with local adaptations of the American bootstrap mentality (Dunbar-Ortiz 2021). Recall Global Detroit’s enthusiastic embracing of immigrant inclusion for the creation of sustained prosperity for everyone from the introduction. Brushing aside the details of their involuntary journey to America, a 2017 report by the same organization estimated refugees’ economic contributions to Southeast Michigan over the previous decade to fall between USD 229.6 and USD 295.3 million (Gerber et al. 2017). Showing that newcomers’ hard work and long hours ultimately pay off not only strengthens the region’s branding narrative but is essential for a city with few resources and a precarious pro-immigrant consensus. Afterall, un- or underemployment and welfare dependency are local symbols of the city’s economic decline (Kinney 2016). Thus, Heather, a Chaldean American social service provider saw it as part of her job to counter negative stereotypes by pointing to the strength and resilience of her community. Chaldeans sanitized engagement with their past and present may, hence, primarily seek to further pacify skeptics and keep anti-immigrant activists at bay.

In fact, Chaldeans’ spatially conscious self-presentation as immigrant entrepreneurs in present-day Detroit is grounded in the collective memory of past rituals and cultural practices. Chaldeans’ work ethic and economic success, the exhibit argues, is culturally rooted. The Chaldean News, in a story published to shine light on the origins of the CCC, echoes this claim, explaining that

When Chaldeans first came to Detroit, […] [they] had their own unique culture, one that was different from that of other Americans and most immigrants. At first, this was a point of pride for Chaldeans. Their faith, family values, tight-knit community, and work ethic ultimately led to success in a foreign land.

(Abbo 2024)

Although, over time Chaldeans were forced to partially “acculturate”, the piece continues, their inclination to work hard is worthy of preservation. In the absence of Detroit’s public recognition that migrants’ entrepreneurialism is a partial result of structural barriers on the labor market (Wilson and Portes 1980), Chaldean organizations seemingly dispute members’ participation in the well-documented immigrant bargain.2 Yet, it is no coincidence that many liquor stores in metro Detroit are owned and run by Chaldeans. Since Muslims cannot sell alcohol in Iraq, Chaldeans frequently filled the void (Bacall 2014). When, upon their arrival in Detroit, their credentials did not translate, many Chaldeans begrudgingly turned to this legacy as a means of survival. Ultimately, by further downplaying government resources available to more recent refugee arrivals, Chaldeans, like the Irish before them, ground their own economic success in the unrealness of an economically successful Other. In their insistence on cultural distinctiveness, however, public expressions of Chaldeans’ collective identity reveal the community’s remarkable knowledge on the intricacies of Detroit’s place narrative.

5.2. A Collectivist Community

As I travel back in time, I suddenly find myself on wholly unfamiliar territory. The gallery, with its soft yellow glow, immerses the visitors in Chaldean village life. As I marvel at the replica of a traditional Chaldean mud hut, I can almost smell the freshly baked bread mixed with the dusty air. It feels a little intrusive to peak through the hut’s window to watch translucent holograms of Chaldeans carry out their daily tasks: a mother showing her daughter how to dress, a father demonstrating a slingshot to his son. Chaldean village life, these displays make clear, was simultaneously simple and harsh. Tight-knit family and community networks, the text tells us, were and continue to be the cornerstones of Chaldean society.

Exploring a geographic region thousands of miles away, the display makes no explicit reference to Detroit. Instead, Middle Eastern collectivism is implicitly contrasted with Western individualism. Moreover, in watching individuals perform the duties of their assigned roles, the connection between Chaldeans’ historical labor in Iraq and their current entrepreneurialism in Detroit is almost palpable. Bread baking, it appears, is a manifestation of Chaldeans’ inherently productive culture and a nod to the collective ritual of bread breaking. It is also a vivid reminder that even those who come to Detroit with a humanitarian status lived relatively tranquil lives before their displacement—a reality often ignored by the resettlement process (Kyriakides et al. 2018). Rather than merely being a sign of symbolic ethnicity (R. D. Alba 1990) or a nostalgic memory of home (Foner 2005), however, the gallery’s presentation of village life uses collective memory to define Chaldeans’ identity, not just in economic, but racial terms.

As Diane Harris (2013) argues, the portrayal of home life is full of racial undertones that reveal themselves in opposition to culturally unacceptable, and racially coded practices. Whether consciously or unconsciously, the evocation of Chaldeans’ bucolic village life sets up a contrast to Detroit’s urban decline. While Chaldeans are shown to embrace a quiet, orderly village life, media narratives historically constructed Detroit as a place of race riots, crime, and disorder (Kinney 2016). Whereas in Iraq Chaldeans carried out a clearly defined job for the collective, the Black urban experience is often depicted as riddled with single-headed households and unemployment (Cooper 2017). Hence, even without mentioning Black Detroiters, within the context of a majority-Black city, the gallery’s celebration of cultural collectivism makes Chaldeans appear more deserving of economic success than its Black residents.

Studies investigating how migrants come to understand their ethnoracial identities typically focus on their racialization in the receiving society (Bozorgmehr and Kasinitz 2018; Sadeghi 2023). Although some scholars have explored tensions between individuals’ past and present self-understandings, few analyze how communities’ racialization in the sending society may carry over to the receiving context (Maghbouleh 2017).3 Yet, a closer look at Iraqi state formation under British quasi-colonial rule in the 1920s reveals a structurally fabricated ethnoreligious hierarchy not dissimilar to that of the U.S. While ethnoreligious divisions predated colonialism, the British—and subsequent leaders—strategically pitted groups against each other to undermine political resistance (Dawisha 2009). To shield themselves from further deadly persecution, many Chaldean Iraqis first aligned themselves with the British, before siding with Sadam Hussein in 1979. When this strategy did not sufficiently protect them from rising ethnosectarian violence at the turn of the century, and some Chaldeans fluent in English offered their support to the U.S. military. Having left behind their villages to pursue their education in cities, a disproportionate number of Chaldeans was able to serve as interpreters (Namou 2015). Thus, in underscoring their similarities with economically successful, unstigmatized residents, the CCC may first and foremost be drawing on the memory of a long-standing cultural script from Iraq.

Upon their arrival in Southeast Michigan this memory was reinforced by employers who strategically valorized migrants relative to Black residents to further depress wages (Thompson 2001). Although this strategy, what Claire Jean Kim (1999) calls “racial triangulation”, has become more veiled, the racially coded devaluing of “welfare queens” and “female-headed households” continues to fuel competition between marginalized communities, upholding white supremacy (Cooper 2017). In this light, foregrounding collectivism is more than an adaptation to structural racism. Chaldeans’ communal and Detroit’s place narratives mutually reinforce each other. Mirroring the CCC’s downplaying of past conflict, Roberto Torres, the Director of Immigrant Affairs and Economic Inclusion, for example, has publicly argued that: “Detroit has always been an international, welcoming city. This rich history positions Detroit to harness that historical background and move it forward” (Welcoming America 2025). Not only is this statement a misrepresentation of Detroit’s past, but the city’s hopes for renewed economic contributions by migrants implicitly valorizes them relative to allegedly unproductive old-time, majority-Black residents.

Passing this racially coded framing on to a broader audience, a “Getting to know your…Chaldean-American Neighbors” flyer posted on the Sterling Heights website reproduces many of the narratives showcased by the CCC and other Chaldean organizations. After their employment at the automobile plants ended, the leaflet suggests, “Chaldeans in Michigan […] stayed in the City of Detroit to serve neighborhoods in the grocery/produce business” before moving to the suburbs (City of Sterling Heights Community Relations Department 2002). While their decision to stay signifies their past benevolence for Black residents, their presence in the suburbs makes Chaldeans’ current physical and symbolic distance from those residents legible to their mostly white neighbors, further cementing racial triangulation.

5.3. Ancient Christians

Rewinding my visit further, I find myself in a gallery that, despite being a passageway, feels oddly peaceful. Maybe it is because the ceiling, which is relatively low, has been modeled to resemble an ancient church. Maybe it is because a replica of a stoup graces the center of the space. Maybe it is because texts and images, each one illustrating a facet of Chaldean faith and spiritual life, are presented like wall decor. The room’s flaking blue paint adds an illusion of antiquity and sacredness. I read about the origins of Christianity in the Middle East that date back to Mesopotamia. I learn about the secession of Eastern Right Catholics from the Assyrian church and Chaldeans’ communion with the Roman Catholic church in 1830. I listen to a Chaldean liturgy in Aramaic.

The more I try to absorb, the more their claim to Christianity appears as another form of moral boundary work for which Chaldeans draw on the history of ancient Christianity, as well as their spatial ties to Iraq. The CCC and other Chaldean institutions, for example, frequently point to Chaldeans’ geographic roots in a region that carries immense symbolic value to Christians around the world. Abraham himself is said to have stemmed from Ur (now southern Iraq) and Babylon was dubbed the arch nemesis of God. In the gallery, a picture of a Chaldean church in Baghdad illustrates the city’s continued importance as the home of the Chaldean Catholic archeparchy and the Chaldean patriarch. The omnipresent reminders that Chaldeans can “trace their lineage back to the apostle Thomas and many still can speak Aramaic, the language of Jesus” (Boggs 2021), then, serves to demarcate a community privilege unavailable to most Christians in Detroit. This, as highlighted by the CCC’s mission, has bestowed the Chaldean diaspora with a duty to preserve their traditional form of Catholicism.

It is this mission that motivated Chaldeans, not unlike the upper middle-class residents in Stiman’s (2024) book, to make several investments in the metro Detroit area, helping them spatially anchor their felt place-identity projects. Fearing the community’s waning collectivism, for example, the CCC has begun offering Aramaic classes. Additionally, Chaldeans have become visibly present in the region—Michigan is home to 10 Chaldean churches—and have built a similar parallel institutional structure that includes their own eparchy. What is more, resembling elements of the Black church (A. D. Morris 1984), Chaldean places of worship are the social centers of Chaldean life. Given Michigan’s decentralized social service infrastructure, churches became places where many of my interviewees first went to obtain advice about paperwork and to learn about local support. To garner further structural backing for their place-identity projects, Chaldean churches also promote the political mobilization of their constituents. Before the 2024 presidential election for example, Bishop Kalabat published a letter, urging Chaldean voters to support the candidate who will “promote the common good and a goal of the pro-life movement.” He subsequently advocated for a president who will “create border protections to stop illegal immigration […]” but will “[…] accept refugees” (Chaldean Diocese of St. Thomas the Apostle USA 2025).

In some cases, the endorsement of ultra conservative politics by certain Chaldean community leaders has paved the way for identity-based coalitions with other white, Christian residents. Initially, the predominantly white population of Sterling Heights, nicknamed “Sterling Whites”, was not welcoming to new arrivals, including Chaldeans (Selwski 2017). Over time, their shared faith with Italian and Polish Catholics and their mutual distrust of Muslims established some common ground. As a result, Detroit’s local politics have become a frequent site of Islamophobic rhetoric (ibid.). Although neither the CCC, nor other Chaldean community organizations typically mention Islam, Christianity, much like Chaldeans’ collectivism, signals distinction. In 2015, antipathies came to a head when several Chaldean community leaders joined a protest against the erection of a mosque in Sterling Heights. In an unusual reference to their persecution by Muslims, leaders repeated unsubstantiated claims that the mosque would entertain ties with terrorist organizations. Arguing that the realization of the project would offend Chaldeans, Mayor Michael Taylor ultimately opposed the project (Abbas 2020). Even though a fierce court battle has since cleared the way for the construction, the conflict illustrates that when transformed into place-identity projects, Chaldeans’ and Detroit’s mutually constitutive community and place narratives have the power to reshape the region.

5.4. Indigenous Iraqis

As I take a final step back, I feel myself being transported to what I am told are the origins of Chaldean life—ancient Mesopotamia. Towering over my head is a partial replica of the infamous Babylonian Ishtar Gate. An animated image of the larger architectural structure graces the entire back wall of the gallery. As I take a closer look at the intricate tilework that includes various animals, I recognize the lion guarding the portal to the exhibit. In the texts accompanying the illustrations, I learn about Babylon’s most powerful ruler, king Nebuchadnezzar II who, between 605 and 662 BC, supervised the construction of the Ishtar Gate and the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, as well as the reconstruction of the Tower of Babel. To further exemplify the flourishing culture of the time, several replicas of objects are showcased. Many of them are held by museums of former colonial powers in the region, the British Museum in London and the Louvre in Paris.

Something about the architectural savviness of ancient Mesopotamians transports visitors far away from the occasionally power struggles in present-day Detroit. Here, on an imagined stroll through the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the almost vicious opposition of another community’s construction project by people who pride themselves in being builders seems almost absurd. At the peak of their political power in the Middle East, Chaldeans’ century-long persecution does not yet demand to be carefully concealed, only to be suddenly brought back into the spotlight during a public protest. While trying to make sense of these more recent developments, I stumble across a final identity that makes all the other facets fall into place: Chaldeans understand themselves to be the indigenous people of Iraq. It is their claim to indigeneity that allows for a multifaceted, even fluid identity reconstruction in Detroit. By tracing their roots back to the “cradle of civilization” (Chaldean Cultural Center 2025), Chaldeans can underscore their entrepreneurial innovativeness, their long collectivist tradition, and their Christianity—all while emphasizing their indigeneity and, thus, their continued vulnerability.

Moreover, by helping them embed themselves in various places and times all at once, their indigenous roots in the cradle of civilization can be easily tied to Detroit’s aspirations of becoming a phoenix rising from the ashes. Their celebration of hard work as a cultural attribute mirrors Detroit’s neoliberal culture of hard work. Their past entrepreneurialism and innovativeness allow them to provide Detroit with a state-of-the art cultural center. The omnipresence of Mesopotamia in Chaldeans’ self-understanding, in turn, is evident all over Detroit. Chaldeans do their weekly grocery shopping at the Babylon Fruit Market in Sterling Heights, enjoy dinner at the Ishtar restaurant, and marvel at more replicas of the Ishtar Gate in several Chaldean institutions.

And yet, various historians have disputed present-day Chaldeans’ alleged indigenous ancestry and their genealogical link to southern Mesopotamia. The descriptor “Chaldean” was originally used to refer to an ethnic group residing in Chaldea (Kasha 2021). Historical records suggest that by 539 BC, ethnic Chaldeans had acculturated to a degree that their cultural distinctiveness had been erased. During the establishing of the Chaldean church in northern Mesopotamia, the old label was revived to linguistically tie the religious community to the history of the region (ibid.). Since collective memories tend to serve a particular purpose, Chaldeans’ dedication to their embellished collective memory is much more than a nostalgic longing for an imagined homeland (Foner 2005; Wayessa 2024). It first and foremost points to the (political) promise that such a framing holds in the present (Polletta and Jasper 2001). Especially when threatened by their own racialization, their claim to indigeneity allows Chaldeans to strategically foreground their vulnerability to advance their place-identity project without having to surrender their agency. Embracing a multifaceted, potentially contradictory collective identity, thus, goes well beyond traumatic memories and symbolic ethnicity (R. D. Alba 1990; Fassin and Rechtman 2009).

Ultimately, it is this factually incorrect retelling of history which demonstrates that the physical separation of an educational center can at once be a sign of cultural distinctiveness and spatial awareness. Chaldeans’ apparent self-segregation in an upscale Detroit suburb does not prove their privilege as much as it proves their desire for agency after centuries of persecution (Fee 2025). In the context of the U.S., and especially in Detroit, money and economic self-sufficiency are the most legible symbols of agency (Grace et al. 2017). At the same time, in a city in which economic resources have historically been unequally distributed along racial lines (Thompson 2001), newcomers’ place-identity projects can quickly become intertwined with local racial projects. According to Omi and Winant (2014) racial projects inscribe racial ideology into the respective social structures.

While Chaldeans’ have attempted to counter their occasional racialization as security threats or freeloaders by referencing their Christianity and entrepreneurialism, their official categorization as “white” has ironically been the most detrimental for Chaldean institutions like the CCC. Djamila, a 51-year-old cultural creator, for instance, was frustrated by a grant reviewer who had outlined why Chaldean cultural organizations do not qualify for many grants:

He was basically saying that because we fall under the census category of white, which we are not, but that’s the category we fall in. And then there is another thing, the identity thing. We are white and we are Christian. Automatically white privilege, which we are not! We have gone through genocides and oppression from every angle. In Iraq we were oppressed as minorities. We came here and again we were minorities.

Djamila’s reference to Chaldeans’ recurring experiences of “genocide and oppression” suggest that the absence of a more prominent trauma narrative at the CCC is likely a strategic omission, not a sign for Chaldeans’ triumph of their victimization. By labeling Chaldeans as “white” and, thus, “privileged”, Detroit’s one-dimensional understanding of identity within the city’s economic revitalization framework once again fuels competition between various marginalized communities. Not only does this make Chaldeans feel misunderstood; the city’s invalidation of Chaldeans’ complex experiences discourages them from recognizing their exposure to racism similar to that of Black or Muslim residents. The mutually constitutive nature of Chaldeans’ communal and Detroit’s place narratives, hence, emerges from the regions’ own factually incorrect retelling of its colonial history.

6. Conclusions

In this light, Adorina’s insistence on the relative unimportance of Detroit for her life, much like the CCC’s spatial distance from the city, becomes emblematic of the opposite: Chaldeans’ physical and symbolic self-segregation requires a deep understanding of the local place narrative. Their public commitment to their separateness, in combination with their strategic investments in their urban surroundings, subsequently reinforces Detroit’s place narrative. Nevertheless, in carrying out their place-identity projects Chaldeans have less power than Stiman’s (2024) mostly white, upper middle-class respondents. To leverage the power they do have, Chaldean institutions have taken to craft a fluid, multifaceted collective identity, enabling them to strategically foreground certain elements, while concealing others. Whenever these place-identity projects have left an imprint on the region, it has been due to the community’s claim to indigeneity which enabled Chaldeans to agentically weave together Mesopotamia and Southeast Michigan, transcending time and space.

The findings in this paper, thus, offer insights into migrants’ broader collective identity formation. Rather than developing an identity based on their legal status, their persecution, or their ethnoreligious roots in any straightforward manner (Bozorgmehr and Kasinitz 2018; Chaney and Olson 2025), newcomers’ identity appears highly malleable across contexts. As suggested by scholars like Patricia Hill Collins (2000), to avoid reproducing essentialist notions of identity, future research should, therefore, take identity politics, not identity, as a starting point. Doing so raises a variety of new questions: Under what circumstances do groups invoke parts of their identity? To what extent are marginalized communities equipped to strategically advocate for themselves? And how can social movements capture the multifaceted nature of collective self-understandings?

Additionally, in contrast to the traditional immigration literature (Galli 2020; Watson 2024), the receiving context is not the sole or even the most important source of influence when it comes to migrants’ identity formation. Their continued ties to their home country cannot be reduced to a form of transnationalism that is mostly concerned with social and cultural reproduction. Place-identity projects are fundamentally multi-sited and global (Massey 2002; Stiman 2024). Future research should, hence, conceptualize places, including the Midwest, not as spatially bounded, but as a nodal point in a web of temporal and spatial relations. What additional place-identity projects exist in the region? To what extent do these projects compete? Moreover, rather than treating place-identity projects as a new development in a rapidly globalizing world, research should explore the connections between colonial and imperial place-identity projects and current identity narratives.

Finally, this paper shows that besides spatial and internal relationality, temporality, is a key feature of identity construction that deserves more scholarly attention. As migrants tie their own collective memories to those of the receiving locality, local place narratives are granted a substantial amount of power. To this day, Southeast Michigan perceives itself as a product of national, not global, forces (Miraftab 2016). Neither has the region adequately reckoned with its history of settler colonialism and chattel slavery, factors that continue to shape social relations and institutions (Miles 2017). Current efforts by the U.S. administration to erase nuanced engagement with America’s racial history further exacerbate the issue (Office for Civil Rights 2025). If left unchallenged, newcomers’ collective identity formation is likely to further reinforce racial triangulation, upholding white supremacy (Kim 1999). But places and its residents have the power to counter these exclusionary narratives through a more equitable distribution of resources (Omi and Winant 2014). While identity politics are inherently exclusionary, in their interaction with place narratives, they can be discursively and practically anti-racist. Instead of using their indigeneity to distinguish themselves from others, for example, Chaldeans could advocate for their recognition as colonial subjects, plagued by much of the same structural inequalities as the area’s marginalized communities. Put differently, a more critical engagement by Detroit with its past could allow Chaldeans to expand their self-understanding.