Photo: Dina Mohamed via Pexels
In the early 80’s, my parents made their initial migration to Sydney in search of a better life. Whilst the land down under provided material comforts and opportunities not available in their home country, it was not able to breathe life into their social worlds owing to language and other barriers of accessibility.
My mother yearned for her family and childhood friends and both parents wanted my siblings and I to have a decent grasp of the Arabic language and Lebanese culture. With this, my parents made the trip from Australia to Lebanon in the early 90’s, carting behind them five children on the cusp of puberty—some willingly, others begrudgingly and still others too young to grasp the implications of the move.
Lebanon was not completely without its charm. However, for those amongst us old enough to remember our own country of origin, we yearned to return to what was familiar and to be among peers. In Lebanon, we were not considered Lebanese enough even when we began dressing, speaking and behaving like the locals. Some quality, not always obvious to us, seemed to give us away. And so, to other children, we were the ‘Australians’.
At first chance, my brother and I made our way back home all to repeat the same cycle of negotiating identity and belonging. Only now, we were not truly ‘Aussies’ but a ‘minority’, ‘culturally and linguistically diverse’, ‘brown’ or some variation of a term that focused on what was different rather than what we had in common with other teenagers and young adults.
The transition was not without challenges but I believe I was better for having spent my formative years learning more about my Lebanese heritage firsthand. Regardless of the positive framing, I never really considered making the same hijrah my parents had made two decades ago especially with the ramifications still being felt to this day.
On a recent vacation to Egypt and on a whim that could only be considered divinely inspired (or so I hope), I decided to stay. For some time, I had been struggling with the idea that my children—despite academic and other extracurricular learning activities—could not speak Arabic and that they may never learn. To me, this lack of language proficiency posed a spiritual issue.
The inability to access the Qur’an, hadith or any other primary reference in Arabic could potentially limit their religious development and growth as Muslim men and women; a risk I felt was too great to carry. Therefore, having the tools necessary should they need or desire to make use of them in future was non-negotiable.
As a third culture kid and someone who has learned to navigate different cultural landscapes with ease, I am not specifically committed to my children growing up in one culture versus another. I believe all worldviews and people have a unique beauty and intrinsic strengths should one be willing to meet them with an open mind and a charitable heart—the Egyptian culture with its flare and drama included.
Notwithstanding, there are moments when I whisper ‘sabr’ to myself as I patiently wait for appointments that are perpetually delayed, traffic that does not seem to have an off-peak window and sand that is wiped down only to be replaced with more dust and the remanents of a city alive. I remind myself that I am in a desert after all whilst simultaneously questioning whether the price of Arabic and religious literacy has come at too high a personal cost.
I may not know how this experiment pans out but I am at least certain that any roads taken for God’s pleasure are bound to be the correct ones. And so, a mindful attention to my intentions has become an act of will returned to several times a day as I forge ahead in laying down the foundations for a new life. For now, I bid you salams from Cairo and will keep you posted!
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