…And Where Are You From?

Note: This article was originally published on my previous blog on January 23, 2024.

The question I always dreaded having to answer. Not at all because I felt ashamed of where I came from, but because I knew that no matter where I came from, my answer would always change my relationship to the person asking it. And often, in a substantial way. I never found the right way to navigate being a foreigner, mainly because my idea of home is distorted; the country on my passport, Syria, was a place I’d only visit in the summer. And I am indeed very proud to be Syrian, and I still tell people that I am from Syria.

However, I was never offered citizenship in the country I was born in and lived in for 20 years, the United Arab Emirates, even though I can relate more to growing up there than I can to Syria, my “home country” (a point that even my parents, who did grow up there, brought up recently). And I know that if I ever moved back there, my time there would be limited, someday I’d have to retire, my work visa would then expire, and I’d have to head back to Syria. I now live in the Netherlands, however, and I want to work there after my graduation. Moving to Europe and integrating myself further within the West has had many advantages, such as the freedom to be myself and speak my mind, as a queer Arab, however, it has also highlighted this divide and feeling of alienation – both within myself, in my Arab versus Western upbringings, and between myself and Europeans – arguably more than I had ever experienced while growing up in the UAE.

As of 2022, according to the CBS (Centraal Bureau voor de Statistiek), almost 75% of the population of the Netherlands is of Dutch origin; 25% comes from outside of the Netherlands. So, living in the Netherlands, when I do get asked where I’m from, while it is just an innocuous icebreaker, it feels like I’m permanently placing myself within the 25% who is “foreign” to the country. While I am foreign, of course, it often seems as if the moment I start to be seen as a foreigner, the conversation shifts towards feeling the need to prove how much I’ve acquainted myself with the culture; if I’ve been here for a long time (3 and a half years as of writing this), then I certainly ought to have started learning the language. And even though I’m on track to reaching a level of B2 in Dutch this year, somehow, we still end up continuing in English anyway. So, it often feels like these efforts to place myself within Dutch culture and familiarizing myself with it and learning the language all go to waste once I start to be seen as the “other”. And that’s not even beginning to get into the European stereotypes associated with Syrians (plenty of time to talk about this later here).

In the UAE, most people are expats and immigrants; the population of Emiratis to foreigners is weighted heavily towards foreigners. While everyone living in the UAE asks that question too, there’s a lot less judgement in my experience; we all know that most of us aren’t Emirati, and we all know that the UAE is a very diverse place in terms of nationality. That’s not to say that discrimination and stereotyping doesn’t exist there, it certainly does. However, the overall culture of the UAE, at least on paper, places a high value on mutual respect and building strong, diverse, and multicultural communities.

Being part of the local writers’ club in Abu Dhabi has shown me just that. I often meet new people in each of our get-togethers from a wide variety of nationalities. And often, it is their unique experiences that help bring unique perspectives to the writers’ club, making it a multicultural scene that I love being a part of. It’s one of the very few places where I felt like there truly was no judgement on anyone’s part. My perspective is valued just as anyone else’s, and I never felt like I had to be The One to dispel stereotypes and prove that I’m “one of the good ones”. I could just “Be”, and that is enough.

And I’m sure that people of most other nationalities have the same experience of feeling othered too, even if their answer to the question “where are you from?” is a lot simpler – just their country’s name – I’m sure they also don’t feel the same awkwardness about being asked that question. But to me, given Syria's highly publicized decade-long civil war and the ensuing refugee crisis in Europe which bolstered Arab xenophobia and Islamophobia among a quickly growing European far-right and infiltrated the minds of the liberal center-right and center-left, my answer, and by proxy, my existence and being is immediately politicized. I cannot simply “be” Syrian – I must be someone who’s grown up there my entire life and either immigrated or sought refuge in the Netherlands – and in either case that leads to that feeling of otherness; the conversation shifts towards my integration into Dutch society even before I mention any plans for staying here in the future, something I doubt is asked to the same degree towards Europeans. With this blatant fascism on the rise once again in Europe, and with the recent Dutch elections showing that around a quarter of the population was responsible for electing a far-right populist party that is fundamentally opposed to my existence here as an immigrant, I would be remiss if I did not have some fears about my future here. So, even before I am fully “integrated” here I still have to think about backup plans in case shit hits the fan.

But let’s say it doesn’t and the far-right party is ousted by the next election after people realize most of their campaign promises are unconstitutional and Nothing Fundamentally Changes. Even after I am able to fully master Dutch and become fluent in it and in all aspects of Dutch society, navigating it as an immigrant does not become any easier; my roots remain the same. I do not wish to relinquish my Arab identity, but I know that acknowledging it means I will never be viewed as “truly” Dutch by any but the most progressive people here; to the rest, there will always be something that I do not know that they do which separates me from them (and there probably will be). And maybe that’s fine and is to be expected, but for me, as someone who struggles with finding this idea of home and community, I wonder if that is ever going to feel like anything but a fever dream.

Even within the UAE, my parents very frequently moved around and every few years or so we’d find ourselves packed up and ready to move to the next apartment. And being the sort of outcast within the Arab sphere of my upbringing, too westernized, too queer, too irreligious, yet prized as long as I hid those aspects – and too Arab for westerners, prized as long as I relinquish my identity fully.

So, if I do not wish to relinquish my identity, then I must disavow all the “bad” parts associated with it and prove that I’m one of the Good Ones. But again, why should I have to? How many other countries must do this? Do British people have to apologize for their centuries-long practice of violent and genocidal colonialism when introducing themselves as British? At what point do we acknowledge that the only countries which actually need to do so are those from non-Western countries – nothing but partaking in a xenophobic charade? With disavowal of Arab societies’ failings comes acceptance from the West, but are we not reinforcing the stereotypes ourselves by doing this? Through disavowal, one inadvertently acknowledges these failings as sufficiently frequent and deeply rooted so as to require disavowal in the first place.

And often I do not ever need to verbally disavow it, merely showing it suffices. When I present myself in a way that is incompatible with traditional Muslim culture, and thus, different from the image Westerners have of Arabs (despite the religious diversity of the Middle East, ultimately, the West’s image of us is primarily based on Islam) – that is just a form of nonverbal disavowal – as if to say: “I’m very westernized,” or something similar. What if I truly felt aligned with the standards and culture of modesty, presenting myself in that way, even wearing our traditional clothes, and never drank or anything of the sort yet did not identify with any religion? Would my Arab identity still be a problem? Would people simply assume that I was Muslim and thus immediately exclude me? What ideas would they have of me, then?

And that’s not to say anything about how difficult it is to find community amongst Arabs, because of the way I choose to present myself. At times it feels hopeless; by trying to blend into one community I stand out too much in another. Why does it need to be this way? If I cannot help but stand out and inadvertently be one of the Good Ones – becoming the cultural ambassador and sole representative of my country in the process – why does it feel like the moment that happens, I can no longer participate in my own culture, instead becoming the object of an orientalist fantasy? And why – once I do get that approval – do I feel ashamed of it? Is it that I’m still trying to somehow fit into both without being alienated from either?

While I am very proud of my identity as a Syrian, I never truly realized how alone I’d feel once I started standing out too much. It certainly doesn’t help that those who are ostracized from our society often end up wanting nothing to do with our culture at all anymore, even towards people who want to help offer comfort and community to those like them who are excluded and vilified for their identity. And their fears are not unfounded – to those who don’t have supportive families or communities, paranoia lingers across every thread of one’s existence as a queer Arab. And in the far reaches of the West, where these accepting communities can be found – this pride for being Arab despite being queer immediately places one in a box of stereotypes, ones full of a deeply painful recent history – to us, our very existence is politicized – even when we are trying to find accepting and supportive communities. I just wish it didn’t have to be this way; the loneliness, more than anything else, stings the most.