I always rejected the East versus West rhetoric, knowing the dangers that come from aligning ourselves on opposite sides: us and them. I regularly debunk conspiracies, always concluding that this colonial complex is only “in our heads.”

I gullibly chose to believe that an objective, fair, and just narrative will always prevail, and that our voices do matter, they’re just not loud enough. While I’m still aware of the dangers that come with polarization, recent events have affirmed this great divide.

Over the past three months, we held our breath, guts twisted in knots, helplessly watching our people’s genocide unfold before us in broad daylight. Frustrated, we poke, tug, kick and scream for the world to look, to come in and save us. 

Instead of a helping hand, we found one that muffled our screams. Three months in and a call to end a gruesome genocide is still being debated. The situation is beyond conspiracy theorizing, it is outright dehumanization. But why are we still looking to be saved? 

If you’re born in the region, like me, then you’ll come to realize that our feelings about our identity hang in the balance of a tipping scale. On one end, the overly-sung nationalist notions of belonging no matter how dated always hit home. We’re all prepared to proudly, genuinely -and dramatically- lift the weight of the motherland on our shoulders. 

We are the pyramids of Giza, the vibrant markets of Marrakech, the gardens of Babylon, and the dunes of the Arabian desert. We are the promise of Palestine’s return, the dome, the rock and the olive trees. We are most definitely the home to hummus, ful and falafel. We are the palm wreaths in spring, temples from all ages, and the call to prayer rising from a thousand minarets. We are perfectly lined eyes, soft oud strings, bedouin nights around a fire and fresh mint tea. And we’re proud. 

But ever so often, we get tipped off balance when our massive, undeniable, monster of a colonial complex rears its ugly head: when any organization boasts about the foreign nationality of its hires rather than their pedigree or experience, when Auntie Olfat describes the potential suitor as “half-American” like it’s a selling point, when well-made is synonymous with Western-made, when you can only trust the German doctor with that operation or need to ship out your reports for a better reading, when you know that if you carry a foreign passport like a lucky charm you’ll be taken more seriously. 

How do we fiercely fight with all our might to safeguard our heritage, our hummus, and our identity but at the same time skeptically poke at anything homegrown? How do we perpetuate an East versus West rhetoric, almost vilifying the ‘opponent’ in the process, yet maintain an undertone of unrelenting conviction in Western superiority? When and how did we arrive at this complex? 

I did drink from the Nile, but I also grew up in a world where all my valid sources of information came in a foreign language. My schooling, my textbooks, the best universities, the people who grade me, certify me, and validate my intellectual existence were all not from here. That can work wonders for one’s subconscious. 

“We used to be great,” seems to be the prevailing lesson in social studies; our voice missing in action from recent world history topics, while the forces on the Western front directed the course of future generations. When our kids look for their place in the world, they can only find their grandeur in the past while their future seems to be in foreign hands. 

From the start, as seedlings, we’re given two sets of conflicting instructions. One direct and definitive: stand firm and hold on to your roots, your family, your land, your heritage. The other is equally strong, ever-present but less direct. Subtly but consistently, we’re taught to reach for the West. Through our school systems, our accreditation entities, our dissipating language and borrowed media, we’ve been taught to look to the West for direction and a stamp of approval. 

The glass ceiling can apply to more than just gender issues, and in the context of this self-inflicted East versus West dilemma, the ceiling is an internal construct in desperate need of our attention. In our recent history, we’ve been playing catch up constantly looking up to mimic the models we see in a faster, more advanced, parallel universe. We hold up this self-proclaimed developed world as a scale or a goal and measure our developing efforts as lacking because our world is always trailing behind theirs. We use their world to define our own. 

At school, an eighth-grade national social studies exam listed a question on the Egyptian nuclear scientist Samira Moussa, and after her name between brackets for clarification was: (Marie Curie of the Middle East). Sometimes it feels like our world is merely a translated copy of the ‘real deal’, void of any originality. What would happen if we choose to see beyond that? If we choose to do more than follow what’s already been tried and tested? What would that look like? 

Today, while we’re reviving our sense of identity, we have to be aware of how we arrived at this crisis. Before this wake-up call, consciously or not, we’ve been hyper-aware of how we are perceived. We had learned to see ourselves through our ex-colonizer’s eyes, eyes we used to label as superior. We were hypersensitive to all the ways we can be criticized and banded together with an unspoken agreement between us: “Don’t you dare make us look bad in front of them.” 

Maybe it’s the lack of representation, but throughout our region, there is a palpable need to feel seen, understood, and voiced. Something inside us is screaming for attention, that we’re not terrorists, that we’re more than just camel silhouettes against a blazing sun inching their way across the desert, we’re relevant and capable too. But who do we need to say this to? 

Like any self-help book will tell you, validation and a sense of worth can’t be outsourced. I find that often what’s true for one, is also true for the many: it needs to come from within. Like Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton, ‘I’m just like my country, I’m young, scrappy and hungry,’ I’m also not a stranger to struggles with self-worth and the need for validation. My years in therapy can be distilled into two key cliches: self-awareness and self-love. 

We first have to be aware of all the ways we betray ourselves and our sense of identity. Not just by jokingly shrugging it off as the familiar “3o2det el khawaga” (meaning the foreigner complex) we all know and love to hate, but to really stop and consider our motives whenever it comes up. 

Before any change begins to take place we first have to create space for it. We need to initiate constructive conversations that acknowledge the problem, confront its reality, and get a feel for its deep roots within us. An honest dialogue can prompt thoughtful reflection, challenge limiting thoughts and make us question old patterns. Conversations can create change. 

Throughout the region, there is a subtle but alarming undertone of self-deprecation when it comes to talking about our national identity. For some of us, it has become so heartbreakingly casual to negatively adjectivize our nationalities that it even became synonymous with falling short in some way. We have to be careful with the stories we choose to tell: we might have problems but we are not problems.

While constructing a new narrative, instead of looking Westward, for both audience and purpose, we can focus our attention on ourselves. Sometimes mainstream media can be hyper-focused on presenting ourselves to the world in a certain light. What would happen if we focus our attention instead on our need for our own stories, choose to amplify our own voices, and grow faith in our own potential? 

With the ongoing boycott movement, we all shifted our attention Eastward and discovered a wealth of homegrown resources that can flourish with our support. We found journalists and storytellers who speak our truth, new heroes to look up to, projects and brands we’re proud of, art and culture that resonate. More importantly, we found a growing sense of responsibility to support each other and a hunger for voices that represent us. Maybe it’s in our banding together, in our rooting down, that we finally find our saviors. 

We can find empowerment in the stories we tell ourselves. Stories that start from where we also stand can reframe what it means to belong to this part of the world. No matter how big or small, far or scattered, the stories I hear that come from this region act like lanterns, shedding light on what’s important to us and forging paths of possibilities ahead. It’s in our shared experiences and relatable narratives, in our own special way of seeing the world, in each other’s voices, that we can stand a little taller and find a renewed sense of belonging.