A ghost between

living in the diaspora

There’s something to be said for being so connected, and yet so disconnected, from one’s culture.

I grew up Syrian American, in an area that is, for all purposes, “Little Syria": Allentown, Pa. With several thousand of us in the city, it’s easy to be immersed in the culture, the language, the staples of any society that make that people, them.

In growing up and moving away, it’s been so clear to me that what I had was unique and not something I am likely to ever have again.

But something I’ve been thinking about lately, as I feel lonelier being isolated from my language and culture, is what it means to be “connected." I speak the language, I read a tiny bit of it, I can listen to an Arabic song and feel it. I can watch a masalsal (drama) and understand the nuances of tone, of gesture, of expression. And yet: I cannot seem to connect with people in the same, semi-effortless way.

Recently, someone I know got married. She is part Syrian, does not speak the language, is not immersed in the community, and yet, she had a Syrian wedding with her white husband. I didn’t even have a Syrian wedding (for various reasons).

These days, I take Arabic classes to have someone to speak to in Arabic as, twelve years out of Little Syria, I am losing one of my mother tongues. I listen to Arabic summer hits on Spotify. I get ready in the morning with Fairuz and a cup of strong tea made in a rakweh.

I know people in Allentown who did not grow up in the language the way I did, and yet, they live a life more connected with other Syrians than I do.

This may seem small, but it is a tearing of the soul, the burning of it, in a deeply painful way. Because it seems to be, that having a connection with your culture is all about community. Not just eating the food, speaking the language, enjoying its media. It’s about being with others of the same heritage, without having to explain yourself.

And even so, when I lived back home, I felt somewhat out of step. Not quite Syrian, not quite American, and nothing like the other Syrians in the diaspora around me. It was as if I was a ghost between both lands, haunting a plundered line that disconnected both soul and self from others.

It’s hard to explain, just what it feels like, to be torn in pieces, to be neither this nor that, here nor there, then or now. As if you are half a person, no matter where you are, existing in a split state.

I know others feel the same, those of us in the diaspora, but for some reason, I can’t seem to overcome it.