Who am I? Our Sense of Belonging

I came up with this piece while I was wide awake, trying to force myself to sleep. I tossed and turned for a couple of hours. We've all been there. Thoughts about myself, others, and society keep me up. Major life changes have made me ask myself, “Do I belong?” I've been told numerous times that I have an old soul. I agree. Most days, I embrace it. Other days, and certainly in my early teenage years, I struggled with the questions, "Who am I?" and, "Who do I want to become?” I think we should keep asking ourselves this, as the answer to the first molds itself through the inner work we do when we take the second question seriously.

Remember puberty? Ah, I don’t miss those years. My acne was SO bad, you could easily play connect-the-dots on my forehead. The hormones showed up, and it kinda felt like everything came crashing down and fell apart at the same time. My first identity crisis began when I became the new kid in the neighborhood, and in school with a completely different socioeconomic demographic in a heavily Caucasian school pyramid.

Navigating this while going through puberty certainly did not help, as it certainly amplified a variety of emotions. I went from living in a very diverse neighborhood and trying my best to make sure other kids felt a sense of belonging… to suddenly not belonging. 6th grade Sarya felt pretty lonely. She went through culture shock; after all, you make friends by relating to someone, right? Well, I couldn't relate to the other kids. Sometimes, I also felt like I didn’t belong, fearing that others might reject me. Sometimes, the fear was right. It’s a tough pill to swallow. I eventually made friends throughout the year, although unfortunately almost all of them were zoned to a different middle school. The last day of school is usually happy for most, but for me, the last day of 6th grade ended in tears.

Then, when I began 7th grade, I met new people and made new friends. I'm still friends with a couple of them today, and we've been there for each other during some really difficult times. I am genuinely grateful for them. They believed in me when I didn't believe in myself, and vice versa. We currently work in the same industry; I secretly hope the day will come when we can reunite in the same building, and former classmates can become coworkers. However, work Sarya shows up differently, and it would be difficult to compartmentalize the engineer identity I hold in an office building; being around each other would magnify the goofiness, and I might struggle to take myself seriously.

It's funny how your sense of belonging shifts with time. Sarya, the little kid, felt like she had a good grasp of who she was and who she was becoming. A true extrovert and daddy's little girl. Some childhood traits stuck, while others shifted drastically, for better or worse: I’d like to think mostly better, I hope? I hope middle school me would think mid-20s Sarya is a cool, corny adult.

On the other hand, she’d be confused about how Islamic Studies has become not just a hobby, but a passion and source of grounding. Once upon a time, in the days of driving my uncle’s 2006 Beige Metallic RAV4, I looked forward to being old enough not to have to drive it to attend Saturday and Sunday Islamic school. I do miss the RAV4; it was my first car, and my uncle was kind enough to let me drive it while he spent the next year and a half in Sudan. The radio didn’t work, so I bought a Bose portable speaker and kept it on the center console to blast my music. The car got me from point A to point B, and that’s all that mattered. That includes a road trip that I took behind my parents’ back (Mama and Baba, if you’re reading this, I’m just kidding…)

The majority of us are familiar with the story of Sayyidna Ibrahim (Prophet Abraham). These past few years have reminded me to go back to basics; you might gain a new perspective or realize something you hadn’t connected before. I realized his story isn't just a story of faith; it’s also a story of identity. He was born into a society where belief systems were inherited, which is a mindset called التفكير أباي.

You simply did what your father did, and his father, and so on. You followed your people's customs, unquestioningly continuing and believing what your ancestors had always done. Sayyidna Ibrahim challenged his own father and community, asking,

“What are these statues to which you are devoted?”:
إِذْ قَالَ لِأَبِيهِ وَقَوْمِهِۦ مَا هَـٰذِهِ ٱلتَّمَاثِيلُ ٱلَّتِىٓ أَنتُمْ لَهَا عَـٰكِفُونَ
They defended themselves by saying:
قَالُوا وَجَدْنَا آبَاءَنَا لَهَا عَابِدِينَ
“They said, We found our fathers worshippers of them”
(Quran 21:52-53)  

Sayyidna Ibrahim shows us we don't have to accept “This is what our people do.” People in our cultures often use عادات و تقاليد (customs and traditions) as enough reason to believe something or live a certain way. I admire how he questioned the customs he was supposed to inherit, held them against the truth, and courageously rejected what couldn’t withstand deeper examination. I think about this often as a first-generation Sudanese-American Muslim. I love so much of what I inherited, such as the language, hospitality, humor, and family ties. It’s given me privilege and exposure that lets me see the world across several generations, but belonging to a culture doesn't require us to inherit every part of it unquestioningly. Sayyidna Ibrahim’s story reminds me how to find a cultural balance.

I’ve had the privilege of interviewing Jinaan, who’s had a unique upbringing that’s resulted in her picking up different identities and ways of life, an “eclectic mosaic of hopefully good things.” She tries to understand people and the ways they think. She describes herself as first and foremost Sudanese, a global nomad, and a third-culture kid. Over the years, across the seas, Jinaan has navigated not just different countries but different identities and ways of life, and has learned to sit down with herself to discover who she is and its intersectionality. I commend her for her aspirations, ideas, and depth. Jinaan is many worlds trapped in one soul. Many folks' aspirations tend to focus on checkboxes, especially career-wise. I was pleasantly surprised to hear that hers has to do with making a difference in people's lives, wanting to leave behind a legacy of knowledge, a smile, to be remembered in a way that reminds people of her benevolence. Like all of us, she’s faced disappointments that could've shifted that narrative; I’m glad to hear those trials and tribulations have made her hold tight to her philosophy.

Jinaan was born in the US. Her father was a diplomat posted to a different country every four to five years, and she eventually returned to the US in the early 2000s. She’s lived in countries like Algeria, Malaysia, Japan, and Sudan (1996-98). Her father wanted her to learn more about Sudanese culture and learn everything in Arabic, so they lived in Khartoum, Nimra 2. Sudan pushed her limits and raised questions about who she is and her identity. When the Clinton Administration struck the pharmaceutical factory Shifa, due to incorrect intel, her classmates blamed her since she’s the “American girl.” Living in Sudan pushed her limits and shifted her consciousness of who she is, especially since she was “there during [her] formative years. It shifted [her] identity. [Living in] Japan between ‘98-’01 was a break from all that chaos. [Jinaan] went to an international school, [where] everyone did their own thing.” Understandably so, she felt like she needed that break and a way to reset after going through so much.

I asked her what she misses about living in Sudan, and she misses the unembellished rawness of things. She misses “how spontaneous people are, the Friday gatherings, the sense of attachment [she] started to develop that [she] feels is unfinished that was kind of in the works.” Jinaan misses the feeling of saying, "This is where I'm from." Unfortunately, like many others, she does not have the liberty to go back because of the ongoing war. Much of her infatuation and her memories center on the Nile. To her, the Nile means love, community, despair sometimes, life, and coming back anew after disappointment and heartbreak. “It’s a sense of renewal that creates that ripple effect that reminds us this is okay; everything will be okay. It has seen and witnessed so many stories I wish it could speak and tell.”

Like many in the diaspora, Jinaan realized she didn’t quite belong in the culture or society of the countries she lived in. When she came back to the US as a teen, she had to renew her identity. She had to learn what it means to be a hyphenated American. “I've learned to make peace with it; there's beauty within it as well. There's inner work to do, of course. I’ve been a newcomer all my life. You’re made up of different fragments, and that’s totally fine.”

I asked Jinaan if she associates home with a particular country, a group of people, or a feeling. She informed me that at “this point in [her] life, [she tries] to make peace with the environment [she’s] settled in.” For Jinaan, home is the Nile, the association of the Nile, and the memories of the Nile. We relate to each other through attachment and grief, the memories you’ve had in a country. Home is where your soul is at peace. It’s the freedom to be who you are. For her, a fragment of that land lives in the countries she’s grown up in, and she’s carried it in her soul. Because Jinaan constantly adapted to different cultures and environments, her sense of identity has always felt like an unedited draft. With all her travels, her identity has always been adjusting, learning, unlearning, and realizing there are still things she has yet to learn. But hey guys, that’s what life’s about, right? Because of all this, Jinaan has a better sense of self, more self-awareness, and a clearer sense of who she is.

Thankfully, she's grown to appreciate parts of her upbringing she once felt embarrassed about or tried to hide. She used to fear her faith and be afraid to talk about it. When I asked her to clarify, she said, “When I would share who I am, I wouldn't share the whole storm. Having witnessed 9/11 as a high schooler, I went through a lot of negative experiences. My hijab was a burden. It got so bad that I felt like I didn't belong and I shouldn't be here in this environment. I grew up to learn and appreciate my faith a lot more and my muslim identity.” With our current administration, Jinaan proudly clings more to her faith, as it is now her anchor, alhamdulillah. Life’s experiences have helped her reframe things in ways that have deepened her appreciation for the essence of her Sudanese identity.

Finally, I asked Jinaan, “If you could sit down with your younger self during one of those transitions between countries, what would you tell her about identity, belonging, and finding her place in the world?”

She told me, “I would say things might be chaotic right now. You might have a lot of questions, a lot of resentment. I want you to know that you are a masterpiece in the making. You will reach a point where you are at peace with yourself and proud of yourself. All these challenges will make you a better person. Be patient. Navigate. Explore the world. Stay connected to your soul and Allah. Things will be okay eventually.”

One of my favorite instruments is the drums, and I’ve mentioned in the past how I love seyra music, particularly older songs that goes back generations. When we think about our identities, I want you to remember how far you’ve come through the inner work you’ve done over the years. When you translate the song ظهر ظهر الجميل ظهر, it starts with “Look, the beautiful one is here. Let’s all sing and clap, the beautiful one is here. Tonight, we are celebrating you.” I want you to remember to take time to celebrate how beautiful these journeys of self-development can be, and how far you've come.