Taking a sip of my drink, a friend of a friend smiled at me.
‘So you moved to London a few years ago,’ she said. ‘Where are you from?’
‘I’m from the West Midlands,’ I explained in my thick Black Country accent. ‘Born and bred in a town next to Wolverhampton.’
I crossed my fingers that this would be the end of that particular line of conversation, but sadly not. She gave me a look of curiosity, opened her mouth again and there it was, the response I always get.
‘But where are you really from?’
It’s a question I’ve grown to dislike, dread even.
It implies that perhaps I don’t belong here, and that my appearance somehow negates my Britishness.
It’s currently South Asian Heritage Month, a time to celebrate and acknowledge the rich, varied cultures from the subcontinent. The region consists of eight countries; Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Bhutan, India, Maldives, Nepal, Sri Lanka and Pakistan – and the communities within these countries and their diaspora are widely disparate.
It is also a time when I find myself reflecting on my own journey as a South Asian.
My mum came to England from Pakistan nearly 40 years ago as an immigrant, and my dad, who is of Scottish-Pakistani origin, grew up here, just like me.
Their different backgrounds and experiences add layers to my identity that are rich with complexities and nuances.
All my life, I have heard the ‘where are you really from’ question, and I’ve finally figured it’s usually because of two reasons.
The first is because people are curious; it is ok to be curious, as long as you respect my initial answer.
The second is because I look ‘different’.
My brown skin, thick black curly hair and ethnic features give away that I’m not entirely ‘English’, yet people can’t pinpoint my exact origins because nor do I fit neatly into their preconceived notions of different ethnic groups, such as Pakistanis.
And growing up, I always felt different. In fact, I was often embarrassed and ashamed to be Pakistani.
Secondary school was particularly challenging, especially whenever certain news stories circulated about terrorism, rape or immigration, which led to negative preconceptions about Pakistanis.
When my schoolmates found out I was Pakistani, I became a target. They asked insensitive and offensive questions, such as whether my mum was a letterbox or if my brother was a suicide bomber.
They created a false narrative about my life that was far from reality.
It took me many years to become proud of my heritage – and even now it’s something I feel uncomfortable being questioned about.
Because, even when I do explain that I am Pakistani to friends of friends or Uber drivers or new colleagues, they will still often openly express their confusion.
Some will tell me that I don’t look Pakistani, while others go so far as to ask, ‘Are you sure you’re not mixed with anything?’
It’s really not a compliment – and I’m far from alone in this experience.
There was outrage when it was reported that Black London-born charity leader Ngozi Fulani was repeatedly asked ‘where do your people come from?’ at a Buckingham Palace function.
Research company Wunderman Thompson UK has also undertaken new social media analysis that has revealed the question ‘where are you really from?’ has had over 13,000 mentions and 623million impressions in the last 12 months.
East and South Asians account for 22% of the conversations, while Black people make up 30%, revealing this is a shared experience primarily among people of colour – and it’s mostly a negative one.
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People need to realise it is unacceptable to question someone’s ethnicity based on appearances.
Such questioning perpetuates the idea that there is a specific look associated with coming from a particular country – whether that be Pakistan, the UK or anywhere else.
Especially when the South Asian experience is a rich tapestry woven with intersectionality – each of our unique journeys are shaped by the interplay of various social identities, such as gender, race, religion and socioeconomic status.
So the question, ‘Where are you really from?’ is very reductive considering the diversity of our backgrounds and experiences.
Now, to those who ask where I’m ‘really’ from, I’ve learnt to ask them a specific, more thought-provoking, question of my own. ‘What do you think a Pakistani looks like?’
Hopefully, this will make them pause, and examine the stereotypes they might unconsciously hold.
And maybe, make them as uncomfortable as their question makes me feel.
In our interconnected world, cultural diversity is a beautiful aspect that enriches our society, but it can also be met with ignorance and insensitivity, even when unintentional.
This South Asian Heritage Month, and beyond, let’s break this cycle.
So, next time you’re curious about someone’s origins, take a moment to consider the implications of your questions and how they might make someone feel – and please respect their initial answer.
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