One day, you can picture the cedar trees and running rivers of the small village town, dreaming vicariously through the stories of your father’s childhood. And the next, you are bearing witness to horrific scenes of rubble and fire and fear on your Instagram feed.
Second-generation migrants exist in the trifling paradox of ‘East’ and ‘West’. Born in a diaspora where one’s entire life occurs outside the homeland, you are disconnected by geography but entwined by blood – a zone that is neither here nor there. As children, you are taught to call “home” in a language foreign to your parents’ tongue before being left to navigate a hazed sense of belonging and endurance.
As the daughter of Lebanese migrants, I have never felt more connected to my Arabic roots than I do today. It is a curious paradox, given that I have yet to visit Lebanon. And so, it can take a little longer to become in touch with my roots.
Growing up, Arabic was not my first language, so my parents ensured my siblings and I learned it well. I began attending Arabic school at four years old in a small madrasah and continued my studies through primary and high school. However, I always treated Arabic as a secondary priority — English and Mathematics were my primary focus, and so I would only speak Arabic with my grandparents or when reading the Quran.
About a year ago, it occurred to me I was losing touch with my mother tongue, and so I took it upon myself to challenge my speaking ability. During a casual family dinner, my parents began to reminisce about the popular Arabic music they played in the ‘90s and early 2000s. What was fascinating was the instant connection I felt with the songs they played; a switch had immediately flipped, illuminating the abandoned memories of summer drives around the neighbourhood, and family weddings of my childhood. The lyrics became as clear as poetry, and the familiar melodies struck a sense of nostalgia so joyful I can hardly put it into words.
Today, I am struck with the same nostalgia whenever an Arabic song comes on shuffle, captured by my cheesy grin and fluttering fingers. In these interactions with the Arabic language, I find myself more in command of my native tongue. By appreciating the richness of Arabic culture for myself, I have grown a stronger connection with my roots. I see it in how I now speak with my grandparents and observe the mannerisms of my parents. Beyond their immense knowledge and wisdom, the migrant generation holds the utmost respect for their culture – their traditions are sacred rather than rigid. I hope to display this to my children one day.
For many of us, we live in a time of immense tribulation, where we are all witnesses to the immense pain and suffering of our home countries. It is a harrowing experience from afar; having to contend with the all-consuming fear of never living in your homeland, let alone the prolonged destruction of that homeland and your people.
I recently found myself closely observing Arab elders within my community — each with a story of endurance and diligence as migrants, most of whom fled the Civil War in Lebanon in the 1970s. Despite the pressures of assimilation into the Australian lifestyle, they carried the traditions of home to a new land — not only through values and cultural recipes but the physical manifestation of their home country. The way my grandmothers took pride in the jewelry they chose at the local Arab jeweler, seeing it as an investment rather than a trinket, changed the way I viewed my fashion choices and its direct link to my identity.
Like my grandmothers, I choose to project my Lebanese roots in my appearance, specifically through the mixing and matching of jewelry. In Westernised spaces, including university, my bangles and ornament earrings are subtle reminders of my Lebanese heritage. When I am asked about the Arabic pendant I wear on a necklace, it almost always strikes a meaningful conversation about my culture.
It saddens me to think I have yet to visit Lebanon. With the current war imposed on my home country, it is easy to feel disheartened and numb. And so, I write to assure second-generation migrants that while there is truly no place like home, we will always carry our homeland within us wherever we go. It is in our numbers and community that we can sustain the narrative of our ancestors in the ‘West’.
For the diaspora, there is no place like home. Yet, it is also in living in the diaspora that we can create a home for ourselves. A home where descendants of immigrants can exist within the paradox between their cultural roots and their current home. After all, that is the only way that the homeland feels less distant. It can and will live on for us, and within us, for generations to come.
