Navigating identities

Raise your hand if the pandemic made you question the image you had of yourself for the last 15 years.

The Habibi sweater from Foo & Doo, my Tita’s necklace and my weird identity in one picture.

My doctor asked me what was wrong. I tried to explain how it was going in a timely matter : It first began with a pandemic, followed by dating someone toxic, continued by my industry falling to the current crisis as I saw the world crumbling down and fighting injustices. I couldn’t get out of bed anymore. I felt crushed by the weight of the year, by the weight of confinement and loneliness. My body wanted to give in. Her answer was an easy one, one that I knew would come up during this call.

Let’s increase your dosage. 112.5 to 150mg. How do you feel about that?

I thanked her knowing that it was just a temporary relief. Once I’d get adjusted to the new dosage, I would fall again to my constant questioning, my fears and this constant feeling of not fitting in ; a feeling I’ve been accustomed to since 2005, when I turned 14 years old. The same feeling that had been at the center of all my therapies, of my relationships — romantic, family and friendships — , of my personal projets and of my work. I never felt like I belonged. My personality was play-doh sculpted to fit the narratives people would project onto me. If someone wanted me to fit in the box they wanted me in, I would squeeze my play-doh self just to please them.

This is how I ended up in a relationship that lasted too long for my greater good. This is how I ended up in friendships that were sucking all the energy out of me. This is how I finally ended up more of a body than a person.

Recently, I thought that I had finally found myself. 2019 was a year to remember. I had decided to give up on trying to please people and instead, tried to please myself. I finally started identifying as an anarchist, a feminist, a punk, a queer woman. I gained the title of honorary anglophone from my friends. I dated people I wanted to date. I built a following around my carefully curated persona. I was the woman my 16 years old self wanted to be. I had achieved it. Everything was fine. How could it go bad?

I had forgotten that I had buried deeper feelings about who I was. Even if I was supplying my brain with 150mg of antidepressants everyday, it wasn’t enough to forget about them. I knew they would come back haunting me and they did. On a rainy August day, I was in the metro and received a notification saying that a serious and dire explosion had occurred in Beirut, in my home country. Despair and anxiety came crawling, holding me tight.

For the first time in a long time, I felt as I had to acknowledge who I really was.

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I always begin my story the same way : I was born on a very cold winter day at Hôpital Sacré-Coeur in Ahuntsic, Montréal. My mom and dad were very young immigrants from Lebanon who had gotten to Canada 4 years before. I was a surprise baby, one they decided to name for their country, for their identity that was built during a civil war.

My parents are great. They raised me within progressive values, ones of acceptance and openness. I was taught to always be curious to learn about the others, always be open to change and always explore. As a young child, I was calm, but curious. I learned how to read at 4 years old, obsessed by words and mostly, by my mom who used to read all the time to us — my sister and I. As I grew up, reading and writing became my outlet, my way of traveling to other worlds. Worlds where I would maybe fit in.

I’m not blonde, I don’t have fair skin and clear eyes. My hair is dense, curly and dark. My eyes are pitch black. My skin is golden, reminiscent of brown sugar. My paternal grandfather used to say I was milk chocolate in contrast to my cousin’s white chocolate — green eyes, light curly hair, fair skin. My physical features made me the black sheep in every place I’d go to, every class my mom would enroll me in. I’d feel different from day one. Little blonde girls wouldn’t want me on their teams. I’d often be alone, on the side, wishing to be them. I would pull on my hair to make it straight. I would beg my mom to buy me the same clothes as them. By 10 years old, I’d request to go to the beautician so I could get my body hair removed. I wanted to be as fitting as I could while knowing that I would never be one of them. I started hating everything that made me remember I was from Arabic descent. I became my own nemesis.

My hatred of myself became the reason behind everything I rejected. I showed faint interest in Lebanon or anything Arabic. I put distance between my name and myself, asking my parents why did they name my siblings with French names. As I was growing up, I hated my community and didn’t feel like I belonged. I was a feminist, a punk, I was already showing left-wing tendencies and my friends weren’t Lebanese. Why would I even want to be a part of a community that believed in staying a virgin until marriage, that was against abortion, that was sometimes low-key racist and that never really did an effort to integrate? If they were rejecting me, I would reject them even more strongly.

When I moved out from my family’s home to be with my abusive ex-boyfriend, what brought me comfort were things associated with the roots that I was rejecting. In moments of sorrow, I would put classic Lebanese music on and listen while crying. When I felt like I was becoming sick, I’d eat labneh with grilled pita bread and drink a cup of warm aniseed tea. I’d listen to people speak Arabic in restaurants, cafés or in parks just to feel a sense of home. As if, I belonged to a place I went to once and never returned ever again. The thought of this scared me more than what I expected. I pushed it even further down, not wanting to even explore the question. I was born and raised here. I didn’t believe in anything my home country stands for.

I broke up from my ex as I was questioning my identity again. This time around, it was time for me to explore my place as a single person in this world. I had been referred to as X’s girlfriend for our whole relationship and never as Yara. I had let myself disappear. I had allowed myself to become a pale version of the ambitious, funny, feisty, troublemaker of a teenager I was. As I became single, I started experimenting dangerously with myself.

Who was I?

The answer didn’t come easily. I dated a lot with disappointing results that sometimes ended in abuse — hard to break a pattern. I started drinking a lot which led to concern from my friends. I stopped eating to lose weight. But, I also made new friends, got tattooed and pierced my nose. My style evolved and reflected my inner process. I cut my hair short, got a fringe, and finally, acknowledged that my mental health wasn’t doing good. I started taking antidepressants to help with my BPD — borderline personality disorder — , my clinical depression and anxiety, and finally thought I had an answer to everything. Until the pandemic.

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It comes back running, right? The pandemic confronted me to several things about myself. I had been alone for 2 years, telling everyone I was doing just fine being alone until I was confined inside without seeing anyone. The pills I had been taking for the past few months seemed to stop working anymore. As depression and loneliness made their way in my apartment, I sinked even more. I hated myself like never before because of who I was, what I looked like. I was a woman of color, not desired and liked by anyone. I was merely a fantasy and I was reminded of such by things I would be told.

You are exotic.

You are beautiful for an Arab.

Can you speak Arabic? Tell me something in Arabic...

You are so not what I thought an Arab girl would be like.

You are different.

Seeking validation and attention, I went on dating apps as an answer to my loneliness. I would work and then sleep. I’d cook without any motivation. I started ordering books, but didn’t read them all. By the end of May, I was dating someone who proved himself to be toxic again, I was close to fall off the edge, the world seemed ready to explode and I was exhausted that I couldn’t do a thing. I called my doctor, increased the dosage of my medication and decided to take a break. I had had enough of struggling to find myself through others and through situations that didn’t bring anything good.

As time was passing by, I delved into who I was. I did something I hadn’t done in a while : I wrote. I wrote to allieviate the pain, to understand myself more. Through research and writing, I found myself going back to things that comforted my being: classic lebanese music, manaa’ishs, labneh with pita bread, aniseed tea, arabic poetry. These elements mixed well with the folk music I listened to, to the food I already ate, to my love of Ireland and the Irish literature I was reading, to my franglophone identity. I’d catch myself singing lullabies I thought I had forgotten. I took the time to think about my maternal grandparents in Lebanon while wearing the 70 years old charm necklace of my Tita, grandmother in Arabic, playing with the trinket with my fingers, trying to sense her presence through it. I’d make an effort and try to add broken Arabic to my colorful Frenglish.

Acknowledging what I was trying to erase for nearly 15 years felt hard. As I was trying to navigate this shift in who I am, the Beirut Explosion happened, as if I had to reckon that I was a part of these people. My heart stopped for a week. I wanted to be there with them instead of here. I started asking myself why I was here, why I had the chance to be born in Montréal. I started seeing other Yara, little girls, adult woman, who were struggling in my home country, trying to build something for themselves. Their pain became mine. When news of the family home being maybe destroyed came in, I sinked. I had refused to visit, I didn’t want to be regarded as an outsider. Yet, here I was, longing to be with my sisters, my brothers.

The Beirut explosion helped me understand why I found solace in anything that reminded me of home. Home is what my parents had brought here. Home is the sound of Fairouz voice. Home is the manaa’ish for the week-end brunch. Home is my parents calling each other habibi — my love — , rouh’ ayné — the soul of my eyes — , rouhi — my soul. Home is also eating bagels on Saturday. Home is listening to Québécois artists on June 24. Home is also talking Frenglish all the time. Home is eating a turkey for Christmas and ham for Easter.

As I finally understood how much I couldn’t ignore what was Arabic about me, my grandmother died. I didn’t get the chance to tell her I loved her one more time and I truly regret the distance I’ve put trying to figure out who I am. When I hear my mom telling me stories about her parents who are now both deceased, I understand that my identity is rooted in something stronger. I have the traits and looks of a generation of powerful women and men that came before me. My progressive values and my will to fight are encrypted in my DNA. Being a troublemaker, being too curious, fighting for what is right comes from my grandfather. My parents have always been fighters, ambitious people, implicated in their communities as I am. Through this, they never tried to stop me discovering myself. Even when we fought, I still had their support and I was allowed to grow up and become the woman I am today.

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I still haven’t totally figured out my identity, but I’m understanding it better, enjoying it. I love my dark curls, my pitch black almond eyes, my rosey lips, my golden skin. I love my curves, my voluptuous body, my hourglass shape. I’m still a honorary anglophone, a Mile End hipster, a punk. I describe myself as a Montréalaise, first and foremost, my city being at the core of who I am. I’m reading about Lebanon and its rich history and falling in love with my home country, as much as I am in love with Ireland. I tell stories to my friends while playing with the trinket of the necklace my grandmother had around her neck for so long, hoping that maybe she hears them. I now have Lebanese friends, some that actually are like me, stuck between two cultures, never fully belonging in either one. I use words like habibi, rouhi to sweet talk my friends. I get excited when a Lebanese inspired coffeeshop opens in the city or when I see a cool brand founded by one of my fellow diaspora brothers or sisters.

I’ve finally accepted that my identity is constantly moving through the experiences I live and in the end, I’ve navigated the dark and stormy sea of my identities to establish myself as a bridge. A bridge between two lands, never fully belonging to anything and anywhere. A bridge that brings the most beautiful landscape : one of sea and land brought together.