Berkley Center

I am American. Well, I am half-American based on citizenship or number of passports. However, I look like a typical white American girl. Most people who see me and hear me speak guess that I am an American. After all, I listen almost exclusively to country music and say “y’all” on a constant basis. But, is that all I am? Do I let the assumptions of others, notably as I fumble through Arabic and speak French with a heavy accent, determine who I am and where I come from?

Middle Eastern and North African roots course through my blood. These roots were passed down from my father. This blood quickens when the Uber driver in France, street vendor in Venice, or policeman in Morocco asks me where I am from, pressing me until I respond with “Well, my dad’s family is from Tunisia.” This final response, met with “I knew it!” or “That makes so much sense!” causes my heart to race and a smile to press against my lips. I feel happy that someone with the right to call himself North African views me as North African as well.

Studying in Rabat, I am constantly asked questions such as “How is your experience in Morocco different from the stereotypes you've seen or heard about the region?” or “What have you found most shocking about living in Rabat?” As I have never previously lived in Morocco, I have learned and continue to learn a lot about the North African and, specifically, the Moroccan culture and way-of-life. However, certain aspects of this lifestyle are just as familiar to me as they are to North Africans who have remained in their country.

For example, the most poignant memories of my time in France, where I was born and where I periodically visit, are sitting around the table on Friday nights with my entire family and sharing a large bowl of couscous. Furthermore, my memories in Las Vegas include sitting in a restaurant with Arab music playing and listening to my father translate the words from songs he recognized from his childhood. In addition, I cherish celebrating every Jewish high holiday with other North African Jews that ended up in Las Vegas. I love hearing the older individuals tell stories of what life was like growing up in North Africa.

A few weeks ago, another student wrote a blog post about issues with “white feminism” in our study abroad program. He expressed his belief that many of the critiques expressed by women in the program are related to their discomfort at being the outcast and minority for the first time in their lives. As I read his post, his words resounding in my ears, I questioned, “Am I included in this group? Am I just another American disrespecting a local culture, coming to an ‘underdeveloped’ country for the Instagram pictures and cool captions?” At first, I answered with a decisive yes and thought that this critique of white feminism also applied to me.

But as the weeks rolled by, I began to recognize that my identity is not based on how others perceive me. I came to this realization after having more conversations with my Moroccan host family, speaking more Arabic with my father, and learning more words in the Tunisian dialect that my father remembers from his childhood. Initially, I needed the approval of others to consider myself truly North African. However, I do not need this approval anymore. My family has a history: a history of colonization, a history of religious persecution, and a history that intertwines and extends deep into the roots of the Middle East and North Africa. Living in Morocco, improving my knowledge of Arabic, and learning more about North African culture and politics, I realized that I am not just studying for school and for a grade. I am studying for myself, for my own identity, and on behalf of my family and our entire history.

I am American. I still use “ya’ll” pretty constantly, and I listen to Jason Aldean while studying. But I am also Tunisian. Whether others choose to accept that piece of my identity has no affect on me. My Tunisian identity is mine to hold and to cherish.