On culture versus country

For many years, one thing I have reckoned with was the difference between my culture and country; where was the line drawn? In my formative years, it was without second thought that I was Middle Eastern, I was born into a Muslim family, I went to Muslim schools, I learnt Arabic, I abstained from sin (but is it really possible for a child to commit sins in the first place?). Over time these rituals changed and eventually I integrated with the rest of Australia; attending Christian and Catholic schools in good faith, drinking less tea in the evening, learning about the Bible and stumbling my words when speaking Arabic to my grandparents. I put the Middle Eastern side of me inside a box, but I couldn’t ignore it wholly, I was reminded of my difference every time a teacher mispronounced my name or a kid called me a terrorist. It’s four letters! Is it really that hard? I’m not violent, so why do you call me that? We are from the same place, I thought. But we aren’t. My motherland doesn’t reside here, but I try to keep it alive. In drinking more tea with sugar cubes, in remembering the house I was born into, in watching films of the language, in listening to music with foreign words that feel like home. I dutifully keep two Quran’s with me; a pocket sized one on my shelf, and the other given by my Baba for safe travels. Can I really keep it alive? I feel torn whenever I look at my passport and see ‘AUSTRALIAN’ plastered all over it. I cannot deny my country, but I seldom feel connection to it. A common question I am asked is, ‘where are you from?'. Oh, I was born here, but my parents are Middle Eastern. I say it with a hint of resentment for the first half, and desperation and defence in the second.

I am back again today with yet another realisation. I came to this conclusion not today, but weeks ago, more specifically on the 22nd of July (2025). On this day, I went to a 24 hour vigil in support of Palestine. I stood in front of Australia’s Parliament, and I stood there with my hand raised to the sky, claiming my solidarity. As I did, it dawned on me. The thought of being ‘Australian’ repulsed me because in that moment, the ‘Australian’s’ were the ones opposite to me - guns holstered, cannon to cannon against the walls of the Australian Parliament that chooses not to help countries experiencing genocide. In recent weeks, Australia’s quiet, casual racism has grown through the voice of a loud minority; Anti-immigration protests and the rise of Pro-Nazi nationalism has brought an impeccable amount of shame to this country. This country, which was colonised by these same anti immigrant protestors. Colonised, meaning taken over, meaning migrated to a pre existing population… How can Australia not support those coming for better lives on land that is stolen?