Language, Identity, and Belonging: Reclaiming an Arab Identity in Diaspora

“I was born in Dubai, but I was deaf for those [first] five years,” says Yahya Abdulghani roughly 42 seconds into our conversation.

Born to an Iraqi father and Palestinian mother, the 23-year-old Canadian citizen is pursuing a post-graduate law degree at King’s College London.

Despite spending the first five years of his life in an Arab country, he first heard Arabic from his mother in Mississauga, Canada, where his family immigrated following his hearing-restoration surgery .

“I’m bouncing around the whole world,” he jokes, reflecting on his international upbringing. After gaining citizenship on Canada’s east coast, his family moved to Dubai for his father's work when he was 10, where he completed his schooling. He then returned to Canada, this time to the West Coast, earning a Bachelor’s in political science from the University of British Columbia. Now, his journey has brought him to London, far from his ancestral homelands in Iraq’s Basra and Baghdad, and the small Palestinian village of 'Arura—places he has never had the chance to visit and only known through family stories and textbooks.

“The move to Mississauga made picking up Arabic even more difficult because my first foundational experiences speaking and interacting with the world were during the aftermath of the War on Terror,” he says. With a media backdrop riddled with islamophobia and racism, young Yahya had “internalised a lot of anti-arab” sentiment.

He rejected learning Arabic until he was 17.

Attending an International school in Dubai, taught entirely in English, let him thrive academically and socially without needing Arabic.

High school was the first time he remembers deconstructing the implicit racism he’d experienced since childhood. A moment of clarity emerged from understanding the history behind two words: Yahya and Abdulghani…his name.

His father explained that he was named after his great-uncle and great-grandfather, who raised his dad as a child orphan during the Iran-Iraq war but passed away by his young adulthood

“No matter what I do, I am forever tied to that context…I can’t change my name,” he says. This realisation encouraged him to start actively learning Arabic beyond simple phrases. “It was خرا [pronounced: khara],” he cringes while using the Arabic word for ‘shit’ to describe his language skills as a teenager, noting it’s better now, though he’s always improving.

He’s casually weaving many Arabic words and sayings into our conversation, switching back and forth between the two languages and subconsciously preferring his mother tongue to its English counterpart on many occasions.

However, despite mending his own relationship with his linguistic heritage, he still faced the judgement of others, especially at university in Canada.

“When I didn’t have facial hair, people would presume that I’m Canadian. But then I’d tell them my name, and they look at you differently,” he adds while stroking the light stubble on his chin. Yahya’s name includes the distinctive Arabic letter ح, pronounced with a raspy sound from the middle of the throat, which has no direct equivalent in English. He cites many awkward interactions that followed people’s realisations that he was Arab, ranging from blatant racism and aggression to unprompted declarations of support for Israel or pitying apologies about conflict in Iraq and Palestine.

“I don’t want to debate my existence, so I’m very fine [with] wearing a mask,” he says, explaining that he doesn’t disclose his full background to strangers if he suspects their reaction will be problematic. Instead, he opts to be perceived as vaguely Arab, protecting himself from unwanted interactions, until deciding he wants “more than a completely superficial relationship with them”, - at which point he candidly shares his Iraqi-Palestinian identity.

During his first university degree, he chose “Yaya” as a nickname, conveniently removing the identifiably Arab aspect of his name. But by his third year, he couldn’t bear hearing the once friendly endearment. “I have so much pride in my name,” he says, referencing the stories of who he was named after. He adds: So why would I make people call me ‘Yaya’? That's so gross.”

He now makes it a point to correct mispronunciations of his name, trying not to enable an erasure of those parts of his identity.

After a quiet pause, he says, “I see it as a duty,” reflecting on how understanding his heritage has shaped his goals. “It's the thing that puts pressure on me and also motivates me. I find it as a great source of strength.”

Yahya recently completed training to volunteer at the University of London’s Refugee Law Clinic, where he will provide free legal advice to refugee clients. He describes this as “a good first step to further [his] quest to make the world a better place”. Part of that quest is becoming a multi-jurisdiction lawyer at an international law firm, where he’ll represent clients from all around the world.

Despite his deep connection to his international identity, Yahya longs for a sense of belonging, admitting, “I would want roots…no human being wants to be a stranger everywhere they go.”