In Between Two Worlds
Home has never been a place I could claim without a question mark
Lately, I’ve been missing the art of writing for leisure. So rather than my usual pieces where I dissect some existential aspect of my life, I thought it might be nice to write about something that comes a bit more easily to me.
The semester is coming to an end, and summer is right around the corner. It’s always hard leaving this home to visit another, only to find my heart yearning for a common ground where I could experience both at once.
Going home has always been a complicated subject. I once wrote a sentence to describe it:
"The burden of carrying an unrequited love with the soil of your land; perhaps there is no fate more lonely."
I’ve always known that my existence deviated from what was expected of me. But after living abroad, I encountered a familiar feeling many abroad students know too well: you’re not good enough for either home.
Even calling myself an “abroad student” feels like a contradiction. It implies I have a home elsewhere, even though it doesn’t feel that way.
This realization made me tougher. I built a strong exterior, one that seemed to burn anyone who tried to tear down the walls I had so carefully constructed. But who was I really protecting myself from? Was it the comments from family, echoing the fear: “I’m afraid of how this change might reshape our illusion of who you are”? Or was it the quiet plea to be accepted by my peers abroad—“I swear I’m a good Arab”?
Whoever it was for, that armor didn’t serve me in any meaningful way.
That truth frustrates me. I am proud of my heritage, proud to be an Arab woman but sometimes, I wish I could simply be a woman, with no added connotations. Just taken and accepted as I am.
Recently, I’ve been trying to understand what my emotions are trying to tell me. When they arrive, I try to listen. And in the context of this inner conflict, here’s what they seem to say:
Fear would say it came to protect me, not to stop me from living my life.
Anger would remind me that it exists to defend my boundaries and honor my limits.
Shame would tell me that I’m not broken, I simply want to be seen and accepted as I am.
Guilt would confess that its voice was meant to realign me with what truly matters.
Sadness would just ask to flow through me, to lighten the weight on my heart.
Grief would gently remind me that it only exists because of love.
“Our hearts and bodies are given to us only once. We should honor them”