What objects tell the story of your life?

Parts of an incomplete whole.

One’s identity is deeply interconnected with their nationality. The latter represents the soil they were born on and the expectations it brings. It has big impacts on the setting of your life, which in turn triggers a chain reaction of countless other experiences changing or occurring.

My entire family is from Libya, with the vast majority of them born and raised there. There are minimal exceptions where family has stayed abroad for some time, however my immediate family and I are the only ones who’ve moved to the US. Still, when they first moved everyone in the family at the time had been born in Libya, which includes my older sister. I am one of two in my family who was born here.

From the debate of moving to Libya and leaving where I was raised to the constant mix up of my nationality it’s quite difficult to fully identify with one country or culture. My blood and roots are almost purely Libyan, yet living there feels strange and unfamiliar. I know the language and speak it daily, yet it sounds like a foreign tongue overseas. Any Libyan would say I act like a foreigner, however I ritually call myself Libyan in the states. While I hold both the blue US passport and green Libyan passport, I wonder whether I more heavily identify with the blue, green or both. 

Heritage and how you were raised have such a huge influence on a person, but each only affects certain specific parts of you. Being raised in America my whole life definitely makes my behavior and attitude more American (for better or worse), and that’s something blood can’t change. But when the 15 minute ride home is over and those garage doors we don’t have much of in Libya close, my roots take over. I speak fluent Arabic, eat North African dishes and spices, and crack less jokes. This double life has never really bothered me as it’s all I’ve ever known.

That changed when I went to Libya for a year. My parents wanted to be closer to family so they decided we would go to an International english school there for my whole sophomore year. I didn’t really understand the motive since I was content visiting family every summer. Younger cousins are cool and all but breaks are nice. For the three months of the summer everything went as usual. The social environment on the streets and in households were different as usual however it was still in the range of familiarity. The same foods, the same slang, the same language. After the three months school started and I took a shorter 5 minute drive to the new building that would host my third life. Just looking at Libyan kids from afar for the first time, I could tell this would be a totally new and different experience. 

I left my life behind in America, however I survived and made a life in Libya. I met some guys at my school, got to know the teachers, and had some really good memories. Yet still I wasn’t home as I was the American who didn’t get certain jokes and had to learn all the slang that wasn’t fit to be used at home. It was a surreal experience that taught me many life lessons, however I doubt I could bear spending another year there. I had to come back to the US and rebuild my life here, and another separation would break too much. Starting a third identity in Libya was exciting, however splitting yourself into one more part takes away from the other two. Getting split in the first place makes you lose some sense of identity, and I doubt an immigrant with a similar situation as mine can ever be fully complete. We just need to learn and accept that.