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.