This article is a part of the HPR Arab American Heritage Month Collection and represents the independent perspective of the author.
What comes to mind when you think “Arab?” Do you think of falafel? Do you imagine two Middle Eastern men arguing over the check at a restaurant? Do countries like Egypt cross your thoughts?
Well, falafel happens to be my favorite food, I prefer to pay for my own food at restaurants, and although I’m not from Egypt, my country, Sudan, borders it. Still, despite my culturally Arab background, my claim to Arabness has always been questioned. In the Arab world, to be both Black and Arab is a contradiction.
When I was younger, I reconciled this debate in my mind by rejecting my Black identity. I clung to my Arab identity like a lifeline, using it to deny the Black parts of me that I had been taught to hate. As I grew older, however, I slowly found myself less insecure — in both my Arab and Black identities. By my senior year of high school, I had even learned to take pride in my two contradicting backgrounds. Going into college, I was ready to embrace both sides of my identity. Unfortunately, I would soon learn that those around me weren’t ready to do the same.
The first week, I remember walking with a group of Arab girls to the first Harvard Arab event. In what I considered to be a harmless act, I joined in on their conversation, speaking Arabic. One of the girl’s heads snapped around to look at me in shock.
“You speak Arabic?” Her shock felt like a slap in the face. For a brief moment, I thought her reaction was my fault because of how I looked. In particular, I blamed my box-braids. I had debated wearing them to college, because, while they were good for my hair, I knew that it would detract from the little claim to “Arabness” that I had — my looser hair curl pattern, a perceived characteristic of those of Arab heritage. Ultimately, I decided to prioritize the health of my hair over the microaggressions that I would face. However, at that moment, I wished that I hadn’t worn my hair in braids — as if I was the problem. As if her ignorance regarding Black Arabs from Sudan — a country with a population of 44 million people — was somehow a burden that I should have to bear.
This would be the first of many isolating interactions with Arabs that I would have on campus. Despite these interactions, I still held onto hope that I’d find my place among the Arabs, and that I would learn how to say the words “I am Arab” self-assuredly.
This optimism would soon be deflated. A few months ago, I attended a non-Harvard Arab event. I felt uneasy about attending at first, but I eventually drew hope from the idea that maybe the Harvard Arab community was the issue; maybe this event would finally be the place where I’d feel welcome.
I hadn’t even walked into the event before I was met with my first microaggression: I thanked someone in Arabic and was met with laughter. Evidently, it was shocking that I knew any Arabic at all. After I made it clear that I was from Sudan, she apologized, but the damage was already done — I already felt like an imposter. I continued to face microaggressions throughout the event — more than I can count and more than I feel like thinking about. Two things became clear to me that night. Firstly, the Harvard Arab community was a small part of a bigger issue. Second, nothing was ever going to change. The root of my struggles wasn’t others’ malintention. The kindest Arab, with only the best intentions at heart, will still make me feel like an outsider.
In so many ways, the Arab events that I attend still feel like home. They smell like the food that my mom makes at home; they sound like the music that my siblings and I listen to in the car. And yet, oftentimes I find myself bitter. I think of my lighter-skinned friends that I often bring with me — from Turkey, India, and so many other places — with their wavy dark hair, and how they have more of a claim to Arabness than my cultural background ever will. It has become clear that there is no home for me in the Arab world. Your identity is supposed to be your home, and so how can I continue to label myself with an identity that has, time and time again, made me feel like a foreigner? Reflecting on my experiences as I write this article has brought my lifelong debate about my identity to a close: I relinquish my claim to Arabness.
It’s not easy for me to let go of an identity that I’ve held close to my heart for so long. All I’ve wanted, my whole life, is to feel like I belong. I wanted so badly to believe that I would find that comfort in the Arab community. However, my interactions on campus have stranded me on the outskirts. Once upon a time, the mere thought would have been unbearable. Now, I recognize that my relentless self-vilification of my dark skin and curly hair — all in pursuit of belonging — was far more heartbreaking.
To be Arab is to strip myself of my Blackness, and I am no longer willing to reduce myself for the acceptance of others. I am not Arab, and I am not just Black. I am Sudani — a descendant from the land of the Blacks. My experiences in Arab spaces have demonstrated that the two identities cannot co-exist for me. I’m finally learning to be okay with that.
When I was asked to write this article, I was wary. I wasn’t even sure that I identified as Arab, so who was I to write about being a Black Arab? In the end, I agreed to write this and put my experiences out there in the hopes that a future Black Arab at Harvard is met with the love and compassion for which I’ve always yearned. Even though my journey with Arabness has ended, I will gladly take incoming Sudani first-years under my wing and nurture their dreams of finding solidarity among the non-Black Arabs. Maybe someday, the Arab community will be a place that Sudani students, and other Black Arabs, can call home.
The original artwork for this article was created by Harvard College student, Maddy Shirazi, for the exclusive use of the HPR
