There isn’t a question that really grinds my gears more than “where are you really from?”. I’m one of the lucky ones, in the sense that I didn’t have to endure it much growing up in London, if at all. I didn’t expect my year abroad to be the turning point. Having travelled extensively throughout the Middle East and North Africa as a child with my family, I was never subjected to such line of questioning. Maybe my parents being present gave the impression that we were a British Asian family and as such there was no need for questions such as من  أصلك؟  (min aslik or “what are your origins?”) or من أين أنت؟ (min ayna enta which translates to “where are you from?”)

When I arrived in Tunisia for Michaelmas, alongside a group of St Andrews students, I didn’t expect to be stopped and interrogated by immigration officials. When questioned about my nationality I quite confidently said أنا بريطاني  (Ana britaniy or “I’m British”). Yet the multiple times I entered Tunisia via Tunis Carthage, this never satisfied officials. If they didn’t ask me about my origins, they would ask me where my father was from. In the end, I would cave every single time and I would say that we were of Bangladeshi origins out of fear of the situation escalating. Eventually I’d be let through.

There’s a specific example that sticks with me to this day. In my first week in Tunisia I was living in an area called Bab el Bhar which translates to “the gate of the sea”. It’s not a particularly safe area by anyone’s standards; my fellow Arabists later got warned by officials not to go into the medina without an escort. As you can imagine, there were always police in front of the arc and on a particularly warm day after class I was walking home from where my cab would usually drop me off in front of Bab el Bhar when I got stopped by the police. 

We had a short conversation where they asked me where I was from and what I was doing in Tunisia. In a mix of French and Arabic I explained that I was studying Arabic in Tunisia and I was yet again met with “min aslik?”. After having lived in the region for the past couple months I can confidently say, despite the literal translation being “what are your origins”, this has the same connotations as if someone were to ask me “where are you really from?” in English. 

Before I could muster a response, they asked whether I was Libyan because geopolitical tensions over migration are currently at an all time high. I responded in French saying that I was British and they asked to see my passport which I had left in my apartment. After some further questioning, I was finally allowed to walk home. Within the space of ten minutes, I was then asked about my origins in a takeaway. The lady working behind the counter couldn’t fathom that I was English and upon hearing me say that I was from the UK, she concocted a story about how she had a boyfriend in London, making a joke at my expense which I found to be quite strange. 
Since Michaelmas, I’ve moved to Jordan for a myriad of reasons, with racism being one of them. In my opinion the question ‘where are you really from?’ is a slippery slope. I wouldn’t necessarily say that I get angry when asked this question but I do feel a pang of sadness every time I hear it. It’s not because I’m not proud of my roots. On my year abroad, I have been cooking more than I ever did during my time at Oxford. From the moment I add my spices into my curries up until I ladle the finished product, I think of how my grandma used to cook everything from scratch every time I visited her; I think of when my mum cooks my favourite dishes on special occasions, and I feel myself with them. It may sound cliche but I feel the Sylhetian blood coursing through my veins every time I send baba pictures of my curries knowing he will probably validate my culinary skills. So whilst I am proud to be a British Bengali, there isn’t a question that can be uttered that irritates me more than ‘where are you really from?’. In spite of this, I am still proud because at the end of the day, why can’t I be both?