Don’t ask me (or most TCKs) where I’m from unless you want a very long-winded answer in English or Arabic. I have managed to get my answer down to “I’m Lebanese American, but I grew up in Jordan.” If the person looks surprised or confused, I add, “My dad is from Lebanon, my mom is from America, but I lived most of my life in Jordan.” Nowadays I must remember to add, “My family recently moved to Spain” somewhere in there.
This is the script I think many TCKs are used to developing for themselves, no matter the details. “My parents are from X, my nationality is X, but I grew up in X.” Notice how we tend to evade the actual word “from” to describe ourselves. We use other descriptors, but to truly answer where I’m from would be much more complex.
How do I explain that I am from Arabizi conversations and the smell of za’atar? That I am from a first-generation immigrant family but also a ninth-generation American one; that I am from dabke and Arab weddings and stories of Palestinian resistance? But I’m also from a strong, largely American, kingdom community that was like family, and that I still hesitate to use any covertly “Christian” or “mission” language. How do I explain I don’t know where I’m from, and that I’ve struggled my whole life to lean too strongly into one identity out of fear of diminishing
the other ones? Does “my dad is from Lebanon, my mom is from America, but I lived most of my life in Jordan” encompass all of that? You tell me.
One aspect of being a TCK I have been reflecting on is the notion of paradox. One definition of paradox describes it as “one (such as a person, situation, or action) having seemingly contradictory qualities or phases.”1 Based on stories from my own life, I hope to show you three aspects of the TCK identity that feel paradoxical, and how
they have challenged, blessed, and grown me along the way. Hopefully, as you journey with me, you too will be challenged, blessed, and grown in some small way. Welcome to the TCK paradox.
The only question worse than asking where I’m from, is asking me where I call home. Is America, Lebanon, Jordan, or Spain my home? Maybe I use the cliché “home is where my family is,” which is true in some ways, but my family lives all over the globe. Over the past year and a half, I have lived in six countries across four different continents, and in some sense, I have made a home in all of them. But I also feel like I don’t really have a home in the way that it’s most often described. A safe resting place, a foundation, or a base one can always go back to. I can’t ever go back to when my family was living in Jordan together. I can’t ever go back to living in Malaysia with other international interns who have become my dearest friends. I can’t ever go back to my study abroad semester in Croatia with the same people who became family. Those homes that I made while I was in those places with those people no longer exist in a physical way, though they will always hold a sense of “home” and nostalgia in my memories.
This is what I mean by paradox. I have learned to carry the contradiction of having many homes and having none. There is a kind of sacrifice of the traditional sense of home I’ve had to actively understand, process, and properly grieve. Only once I’ve done that am I able to be grateful for the unique homebuilding I experience and participate in.
Similarly, TCKs are known for our ability to adapt and fit in pretty much anywhere, which has been my experience.
Under the surface though, I struggle with imposter’s syndrome, never really feeling like I belong anywhere. My mixed ethnic identity adds a layer of complexity, which is true for some TCKs, but not all. I can relate to others in whatever context I’m in, but it is rare that I feel fully understood and accepted. It is especially difficult when I
“look” outwardly like I should belong. At no other time was this paradox as obvious for me as my time in the USA for university.
“I think you wearing an Arabic necklace is probably cultural appropriation,” some passerby mentioned to me on my way to class. I was already running late, so I didn’t have the time to reply that I am Arab, so it’s definitely not appropriation. I will never forget all the times I was told “You’re too white to be Arab; you can’t really be Arab,” or the perplexed looks on people’s faces when I didn’t know what Sheetz was. The fear and confusion that briefly crossed people’s faces when I responded with an Arabic saying out of habit. Or the times I was asked what it’s like to be Christian in a Muslim family, followed by questions about what it was like for my dad to convert once I mentioned that my family is actually Christian. I’ve always wanted to reply with, “My dad’s family has been Christian longer than this country has existed,” but thus far I’ve held my tongue. I’ve been asked if I ride a camel
to school. My name has been called “exotic,” but in the same breath I’m told I don’t look or sound “Arab,” or that I talk about Jordan too much. My faith has been formed differently because of my upbringing as a TCK in a Muslim- majority country, which I’m very grateful for, but it does often put some distance between me and local church communities. The complexities of my identity, particularly those which did not fit into people’s preconceived norms, were too much for people to understand, so very few really tried.
Comments and confusion about my identity follow me wherever I go. Just as I can build relationships and adapt to the cultural context I’m found in, my own cultural identity creates a somewhat isolating barrier around me that puts some distance between me and others. No matter where I go, even to my passport country, I can adapt well, and that’s a blessing, but there are parts of me that will not “fit” or “belong” there.
Part of adapting and building a home wherever I go is the ability to make friends from everywhere. I grew up in an international school in Jordan, so I was always friends with people who were different from me in many
ways, particularly in religious or philosophical backgrounds. I didn’t realize all the ways this was a major blessing until I went to a small Christian university in the USA. Throughout my time there, I realized how little exposure most of my peers had to people who had different beliefs, even within the Christian umbrella. The Christianity they were taught had little tolerance for diversity, and they rarely ventured to make friends outside of their small communities, which deeply saddened me. I am more thankful than ever for my comfortability with and love for people who do not share my beliefs, convictions, or religion. I am thankful that I have deep, close friendships with people from all over the world who live all over the world. It is a blessing to have such diverse relationships and to be grown and challenged in unique ways by all of them. I do not regret a single friend I’ve made from anywhere I’ve lived. And I believe I am much closer to Christ because of all the different friends I have and the ways we sharpen and support each other.
But it gets lonely. It gets tiring to make new friends every couple of months. It’s just as painful to say goodbye to close friends now as it was in the beginning. Keeping in touch with friends from about six different time zones, none of them my own, and seeing my closest friends only through a phone screen is difficult. We are always catching up; I don’t get to do life with them. I don’t get to be a part of my closest friends’ big moments as they get new jobs, tie the knot, or move. Sometimes, missing the little moments is even harder. I don’t get to be in my closest friends’ kitchen, dancing to music while doing something that resembles cooking. I don’t get to comfort them when they’ve had a bad day or go on spontaneous shopping runs. I miss out on the small changes, on experiencing things with them. Sure, I’ll probably hear about some of them, but I’m not making memories with most of my friends. There’s something profoundly lonely and sad about that to me.
That’s the paradoxical part. The very friendship I’m so thankful for building becomes something that isolates or saddens me. It’s bittersweet, to be cliché. My ability to fit in everywhere comes from a complex identity that ensures I’ll never fully belong anywhere. It’s a blessing and a curse. To build a home wherever I go, I must also confront
the fact that I have no stable or simple home to call my own. I have many homes, and I have none. I have become comfortable with paradox.
Jesus was comfortable with paradox and showed us we must also be in order to follow him. This shows up all throughout his teachings and the way he lived his life, but it is most profound in his death. His shameful death and suffering are the pathway to defeating the grave, the pathway to life. We cannot look away from the cross on the way to the garden. We cannot shy away from suffering on the path to life. A devotional on creativity I read once said, “It is near impossible to be in tune with beauty and not take in suffering alongside it; our suffering must be placed in the refining progression of God’s work in our lives,” and it’s stuck with me since. It continues, “We must resist the temptation to bury our pain and hide it from our life with God. Jesus wants to lay his wounded hands on our wounds, and from that place, create. To follow Jesus is to be comfortable with paradox.”2
This is not to equate the paradoxes of a TCK with the death and resurrection of Jesus, but to demonstrate how they have allowed me a deeper understanding of it. I cannot appreciate the beauty of my life and identity until I am honest about the sacrifices and suffering it has also brought me. I cannot follow Jesus’ command to make disciples of all nations until I have been made one myself. Jesus does not look away from the difficulties in my life. He places his wounds on my wounds, lifts my gaze, and guides me onward. When I realize that, I am less tempted to look away as he is whipped, beaten, and mocked. When I realize that, I am less likely to look away from the suffering
I witness around me. I can place my wounds on their wounds, as Jesus does for me, and direct their gaze to meet his own. I can enter the pain and suffering in this world to build his kingdom, knowing there is healing to come, because I have entered my own paradoxes, and he has built his kingdom in me.
I hope that this encourages you to dig into your own personal paradoxes, find yourself walking closer with Jesus through the journey, and gain the courage to continue to build his kingdom of life in a suffering world.
1 Merriam-Webster Dictionary. “Paradox.” (Merriam-Webster).
2 Alabaster Co. “We Create from the Wellspring of Peace” from Your Creativity, a Gift to the Body of Christ. (YouVersion Bible App).
Abigail Eid is 22 years old and currently living in Morocco, getting her master's in Humanitarian Action and Crisis Management. She is a TCK from Jordan. She is passionate about following Jesus’ model for seeking justice and bringing societal change.
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