Standing Out and Fitting In: Growing Up Arab and Muslim in a Majority White City
By Saja Altamimi
I grew up in a ghost town – a Muslim, Arab girl in a majority white country.
I’ve been surrounded by white people my whole life: school, work, friends and even new family members. My accent and mispronunciations were always heard, but never listened to. I was always stared at, but never seen.
I desired nothing more than to leave, to go somewhere where I wasn’t a confusing creature. Somewhere central, a hub of culture, a web made up of unapologetic voices. Enter: London.
Hard work and good grades would get me comfortably to the capital. Until then, I resided in Britain’s Ocean City, more commonly known as Plymouth. It was busy in the summer and hauntingly quiet in the winter. During those warm days, you’d find me laid out on a beach. People would stare at my foreign skin and unusual hair. I’d work hard to ignore their gaze. I’d work hard to never come back.
When their inquisitive looks weren’t wandering around my body, their ears were listening in. Whenever Mama talked on the phone in her mother tongue, often loudly in true Arabic fashion, their ears would perk up. I’ve seen people shake their heads, roll their eyes. I’ve heard tuts and laughs. And then I’d wonder: how many languages are spoken in London?
Still, if I had to choose between these underhanded reactions or verbal, physical objections to my existence, I’d pick the former. I can ignore a sly reaction. A look. I can pretend they’re staring at something else. I can pretend I’m vanishing like the next wave coming in. When your existence is openly questioned, mocked, crucified, how can you ignore what you are?
When I was fourteen, someone spread a rumour that I was going to blow up the school. At the bus stop I laughed it off; I knew I had to wait till I got home to cry. My head in her lap, Mama said, ‘Go to London Saja. Everyone looks like you there. You’ll understand each other. The girls will make you feel safe. The boys will respect you.’ I’d find my identity under the bright lights, a city that wouldn’t drown me out or wash away my colour.
First year of university. I live on the central line. No one in my flat was white. Almost everyone was brown. It felt good to blend.
On a kitchen table in East London, 200 miles from Plymouth, 4000 miles from Iraq, I was so close to feeling at home. Then someone asked, ‘Oh, you’re Iraqi. Why do you act so white then?’ I’d never been asked that before – I was so used to being brown that I didn’t realise I was being white.
In London, I was no longer the standout. I became part of a pack. I had to be interrogated in order to be understood, categorised, defined. The girls asked because they wondered whether they could trust me with their haram secrets. The boys asked because how else could they pursue a halal relationship? These interactions were new and difficult. I was unprepared for this wave of questioning of the woman I thought I was becoming, the Muslim I had grown to be, and the person that I am.
Just like that I was back on the playground being asked questions about my identity, colour, birthplace. Prayer beads and scripture replaced bookbags and lunchboxes. Their eyes had the same inquisitive look, but the questions were more intrusive than before.
The big smoke clouded everything I used to say about myself. I’d spent my entire adolescence answering other people’s questions that I forgot to ask any myself.
These past few years, I’ve been hopping back and forth from City to Sea. It’s been exhaustingly rewarding. I’m all over the place, but most importantly, I am here. After constantly answering questions about my background, religion and gender from a number of different angles, I’ve learnt that the most important person listening in to those conversations is myself.
The first question I ask myself is: am I happy sharing this with you? If I am, then I can’t promise you my answer won’t change as I do. I’ll answer with integrity, or I’ll respectfully overlook you. I won’t hide away. Sometimes, there is power in silence.