“Let me guess – you’re Spanish right? Or Greek? You’ve got that kind of Mediterranean look about you.”
That’s pretty much the most common guess when people ask me where I’m from, and then try to answer their own question before I can respond to it myself.
But one of my favourite things to do when I get asked this question, is to survey the person’s facial expression as the words “and I’m Syrian,” tumble out of my mouth.
Picture this: you’re an eighteen-year-old living in London – arguably one of the most culturally diverse cities in the world. It’s 2015, and the crisis in Syria is still ongoing and worse than it has ever been before. Syrian refugees are being shown on tiny boats clambering onto what little of a life they have left – desperately hoping to be accepted and given the chance to start again in a new country after losing everything (and in some cases, everyone) they’ve ever known. You’re at a bar in West London (one of those ones where girls go for free in order to lure in desperate men to spend their money), and you’re casually talking to a guy. He’s being friendly, asking you about university as he had just moved to London for the same reason. He seems nice and quite funny. You both head to the bar to grab a drink. You order your drink, and as the bartender shakes your overpriced Pina Colada, the guy turns to you and asks:
“So, where are you from then? You don’t look entirely British. You’ve got the dark hair, the dark eyes, the olive skin.” He smiles at me.
I decide to make him guess.
“Hm. Spanish?”
I shake my head.
“Greek?” He cocks his head.
“Nope.”
He jokingly sighs, acting exasperated, giving up and asking me to tell him.
“I was born in London, but I’m technically half English, quarter Irish, and a quarter Syrian.” I exclaim proudly, thanking the bartender while he passed me my too expensive drink.
Once the word “Syrian” left my lips, the guy’s expression changed from a kind and relaxed one to an expression that resembled an amalgamation of a deer caught in a headlight, being violently sick, and slightly terrified.
“Ah, right. Erm, I think I’m going to head back to my friends.” And with that, he scurried off with his drink, leaving me at the bar attempting to digest what had just happened.
Sadly, I can’t say this is the first time I’ve experienced prejudice against my background – but it was the first time a boy had become uninterested in me because of it. In my early childhood, I spent most of it roaming around the Middle East – from Egypt to Damascus to Saudi Arabia (all in the space of seven years), before making my way back to the United Kingdom, and moving to a small town in Devon called Torquay. Torquay was beautiful, right by the sea with incredible cliffs and forests, and a damn good cream tea. Sadly, the people weren’t as nice as the town. I was bullied for being different, for having a name that didn’t roll off the tongue as easily as English names, and for simply not being from a place that any of my peers (and even some teachers) had heard of. Someone once asked me if Syria was somewhere up north. So, at nine years old, I started to slowly try and shed any ounce of my Syrian identity that could be seen. I stopped speaking Arabic anymore, refusing to keep it up while my mother persistently tried to get me to practice it (at this stage, my Arabic was just as good as my English), tried to pick up British slang and popular culture. My mother watched me sadly as I tried to hide and erase a huge part of not only my identity and culture, but half of hers.
Twelve years later, my heart feels heavy with sadness and regret about the fact that I was so ashamed to be different, so embarrassed to be from somewhere that wasn’t known to these people who had lived in this town their whole lives. I can no longer speak Arabic fluently, nor can I read it or write it. I can understand it proficiently but can only respond in extremely broken and limited Arabic if someone asks me a question. However, I can say that I’m surrounded by open minded and good people, who have never made assumptions about by Syrian identity by using mainstream media as a tool to understand the country and culture. In my last relationship, my ex-boyfriend and I went to a “Don’t Bomb Syria” protest in Parliament square back in April, and due to both of our mixed backgrounds, we found that we were able to talk about the prejudices we had experienced throughout our lives – something I hadn’t been able to do before with anyone else. The only prejudice I hadn’t experienced that he had, was comments about skin colour. This was due to my Syrian grandfather having almost paper white skin, and my Irish grandmother (who was actually darker than my grandfather), that I hadn’t ended up being the skin colour most people assume Arab people to be. So, because of this, the discrimination and bias that people with mixed backgrounds who don’t pass as white encounter, had never personally happened to me.
Today, I ensure that I surround myself with people who are interested in learning about the world and the all the people in it. Aside from that one experience back in 2015, my uncommon mixture has been accepted and welcomed with open arms in London. From teaching my friends Arabic swear words to making Syrian food, I ensure that every inch of my Syrian identity is shown in whatever I may do. When asked where I’m from, I no longer say that I’m from Syria last, and I have my grandfather’s Syrian last name inked on my skin, as a reminder to myself and everyone around me, that my Syrian identity is a part of me. I am not just a Syrian, English, or Irish woman. I am the sarcastic English, the dark humoured Irish, and the witty Syrian woman.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.