In honor of May being National Arab American Heritage Month, I thought I’d use this opportunity to share a little bit about my heritage:  

I am half Syrian. My mom’s side of the family is from a city in Syria called Homs that has now been destroyed by war. When they were younger, both sets of my great-grandparents moved to America. They desired better education and work opportunities and more abilities to provide for their future children. After marrying young in an arranged marriage, my great-grandmother and grandfather, Marie and Shukri, passed through Ellis Island in 1930 before making their way to Brooklyn, New York. Marie became a seamstress and opened up her own shop, and Shukri opened a small but inviting bed and breakfast near their home. 

Shukri and Marie ended up having a few kids, one of whom became my Jido (grandpa in Arabic). My Jido grew up speaking Arabic at home as his family didn’t speak English. Eventually, he and my grandma met each other through the Middle Eastern grapevine. They got married and when they had kids (my mom and her brother), they didn’t teach them Arabic. Perhaps this was to help them blend in more, or perhaps my grandparents believed that my mom and uncle just didn’t need the language since their parents spoke English. When I called up my Jido to ask him a few days ago, he simply replied: “That’s a good question… I’m not really sure”. Because of this, my mom never learned to speak Arabic and, in turn, neither did I. 

My Jido is partially deaf due to a long service in the Air Force, and although he is still fluent (which he proclaimed proudly on our phone call) he now has trouble speaking Arabic like he used to. My grandma’s Arabic has been out of use for years, perhaps collecting dust in the back of her mind. Every once in a while, she’ll mutter “majnooni” at me if I misbehave, but other than that, her language is dormant. 

So now you see the ways in which my family has lost touch with our heritage over the years. Oftentimes, I struggle to find my own connections to my heritage because of how diluted it has become to me. I know in my heart that Middle Eastern American Heritage month applies to me; however, if I don’t speak Arabic, have never been to Syria and had to call my Jido to learn even the most surface-level details of my family’s history, does it really? 

I have been told that I “don’t look Middle Eastern,” but what does that even mean? How can we define someone’s heritage by how they look? When people say that, I imagine my ancestors frowning as their journey from Syria to New York is diminished by their great-granddaughter not looking the part. 

Although I have learned to accept the fact that my family may not be as integrated with our culture as we once were, I have also learned that this fact should not stop me from appreciating, celebrating and representing my culture as much as I can. I am lucky to have a best friend who is Syrian and Lebanese and whose family has helped me to learn more about my own culture for as long as I have known them. I have vivid memories of sitting at her kitchen table as her Middle Eastern father lectures me on the happenings in the Middle East. I have also found a connection to my culture through food as, whenever my grandma or Jido come to visit us, we sit together at the table and roll grape leaves or make kibbeh. It has become one of my favorite traditions. 

While yes, I may not be as connected to my culture as other Syrian people that you may know, I am proud of where my family came from and how they established themselves in America. Especially this month, I try to think of how their hard work and dedication is the reason that I am here today.