British | Pakistani/Indian

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I’m Pakistani, British, Indian & culturally Muslim. My identity is indiscrete; 'other', Liverpudlian, Brown-ish, Northern (and often contested).

My Dad grew up just outside of Liverpool, UK. Grandad was from Tuebrook and Grandma grew up in Norris Green. After my Grandad was demobbed from the glider pilot regiment, the shortage of men post-war allowed him to study at St. Andrew’s. He worked at the electricity board, the old Hartley’s factory, as a teacher. Grandma won a scholarship to study at an art college but ‘it wasn’t for the likes’ of her family. She worked as a governess in Saffron Walden before becoming a teacher, too.

My Mum grew up in Liverpool, too, but my Naana (Mum’s Dad) was from Larkana in Sindh, Pakistan; my Naani (Mum’s Mum), grew up in Aligarh in Uttar Pradesh, India, and later in Lucknow. Naani 's Father was an academic and she was well-educated, but when she was seven or eight her Father died and her Mother abandoned the children.

Along with other Muhajir, she walked across the border after the Partition of India, settling in the new state of Pakistan. Naani was married off as a child bride and had two sons by the time she was 18. Her husband left the picture, leaving her a single Mother. Eventually, she met my Naana, they married, and had Mum.

In 1963, when Mum was a year old, they all moved to Liverpool where Naana worked at Garston docks, Kodak, and other factories. Despite having matriculated, Naani had to start afresh and get her O Levels. She eventually studied at the University of Liverpool and worked among other things, as a probation officer.

My parents met at work but never divulged much. I guess they were friends, they cracked each other up, and fell in love. Dad was a lapsed Catholic when he met Mum. They’d both had difficulties growing up so they both shared similar values about family; so reverting to Islam wasn’t the radical leap many may think it was.

My Grandparents (on both sides) struggled with their relationship initially. Though it seems pretty inconsequential now, I know my Dad’s parents worried about him reverting. I think my Grandparents weren’t against interracial relationships as much as they were worried about ‘suitability’ or ‘cultural dilution’. There was a period of great strain between Naani and Mum. But I know Grandma, Grandad, and Naani loved my parents and all of us. Both my parents made an effort to keep us as connected to our ‘Desi’ and Muslim roots. Mum and Naani tried to teach me Urdu. I used to watch Umrao Jaan, singing and dancing along to Rekha, lots of Hindi films. My Urdu’s abysmal but I understand bits.

Mum cooked me daal chawal, kitchari, and sooji as a baby. We ate all sorts at home but Dad knows how to cook saalan, chaval, and roti, too. My roti’s still aren’t round but Mum and Naani taught me enough.

We’d celebrate Eid like you would Christmas; lights and decor, gifts and clothes, games, both sides of the family. The slight differences were clothes, food and mehndi (henna). Equally, Dad wanted for his parents to be able to share Christmas, Easter, and Halloween with us; so we had ‘the best of both’.

My Dad doesn’t recite Arabic but can pray; he whispered the Shahāda into my ear when I was born. He’s better than all of us at fasting in Ramadan. Mum wasn’t fussed on us going to mosque; she taught me Salat and Qur’an at home. I haven’t kept either up but do see merit in contemplation.

I’m not sure my parents were prepared for me as a mixed-race first-born but I know it was hard. I have love and respect for how they bring together our whole family. Relationships are a minefield for any teen but I think being mixed, Brown, Muslim, and feeling lost certainly complicated things. Race and culture shaped my self-worth, my body image, and my approach to relationships in ways I’m still unpicking.

Being racially desexualised, defeminised, and exoticised was hard. My school was mainly White and Whiteness was a yardstick for beauty. I recall flippant comments from peers (and staff), mocking South Asian women for being hairy, having silly accents, or big noses. I believed not being White made me inferior and undesirable and internalised a lot of racism.

Having Muslim roots in irreligious spaces prompted sideways glances and I felt I couldn’t make a 'first move'. I was asked out at 16 and kept the relationship secret. When my parents discovered, it was catastrophic.

My last relationship lasted four years. He was from a more conservative part of Merseyside. It was burdensome explaining 'not being White' but fending for myself was more painful: on introducing myself, a relative commented that my parents were ‘sadistic’ for choosing my name. Another gave me a 30-minute lecture on why Trump’s Muslim ban proposal was great; another said Pakistani’s couldn’t be trusted. There was gaslighting, others weren’t racist. I was emotional.

After separating, I processed a lot of experiences and started dating. My parents don’t mind now. Cultural 'dilution' is sometimes in the back of my mind but dating was mostly hysterical. It’s demoralising to think racism could legitimately make it harder to find an anti-racist partner but I never invested in dating enough to feel too bad about it.

As a teen, I didn’t hide my identity; I rejected it. I'd internalised a lot of racism. I wasn’t White, I was too Muslim, I wore 'ethnic' clothes, my family were regressive for being theistic.

As well as witnessing my Mum experience discrimination, we inherited intergenerational trauma. I wish there’d been more respite in non-White spaces but horizontal hostility let me to feel inauthentic and excluded: I didn’t speak Urdu, hadn’t been to Pakistan, didn’t pray, didn’t dress modestly, dated, drank. I was never 'one of' any collective.

Pakistani and Muslim identity left me feeling alienated and ashamed in White spaces; I felt rejected in Brown spaces, so I copped out. I bastardised my name, stopped correcting people who mistook me for being Mediterranean, wouldn’t wear Pakistani clothes. Caving into Whiteness was a huge betrayal to my Mum. It hurt our whole family. I devalued my culture a lot but I’m grateful I outgrew it: I can enjoy making saalan for friends and wearing shalwar kameez now.

Historically, I’ve questioned interracial relationships: I was the only mixed-race Muslim Pakistani person I knew of. Being caught between racism and horizontal hostility on top of life’s ups and downs, I acted up a lot. The knock-on impacts of race-based traumatic stress caused our whole family a lot of despair. It still impacts our physical wellbeing as well as our mental health. I dread to think the damage is irreparable.

I used to wonder if I’d go back and warn my parents if I could: insidious racism has had tragic outcomes for us. I don’t question interracial relationships anymore, though; our society is just too hands-off in weeding out injustices that don’t personally impact us.

Racism was easier to identify. But in Brown ‘monoracial’ settings, I was also ‘other’; assimilated, individualistic, disloyal, irreligious, inauthentic. Having White privilege, the power dynamics of horizontal hostility were different to those of racism. My identity was rejected in ‘monoracial’ spaces both Brown and White. Choosing between absolute binaries of British, White, Indian, Pakistani, Muslim, and Brown only to repeatedly land in a no-win situation pushed my sense of ownership over my ‘self’ to a precarious precipice. I was ‘inadequate’ and silenced, misheard, or dismissed. I felt resentful that others didn’t have to question their existence: while I was trying to claim ownership over my ‘self’, others could invest time and resources in themselves, cultivate hobbies, practise self-care.

It was demoralising, then agonising, then enraging. I ‘acted out’. Being caught between racism and horizontal hostility caused knock-on conflict for years. With younger siblings in the picture, I couldn’t stay in the family home. I ended up estranged, in abusive relationships, in financial instability, and at no fixed address.

Though my life and my family’s would be different if I hadn’t felt alone in being mixed, it’s too easy to feel bitter about what should have been. I’ve also found empathy, gratitude, compassion, and patience. I’ve had a rounded, unique richness, and wonderful memories. I am not ‘exiled’ to a no-man’s land; I have free reign over a unique space that’s all mine.

I now recognise how my ‘atypical’ cultural background has shaped my strengths, my tastes, and my values, it just doesn’t define them.

I’ve never seen Pakistan and my background will make a VISA to India hard. My Mum wanted to take us as kids but it never happened. It’s a chip on my shoulder, considering many friends have spent time in my ‘homeland’. My cousins always came back from visits and weddings in Pakistan with stories of food, clothes, shops, weddings, moped rides, pet monkeys. Everything I’ve experienced; from cooking saalan and wearing kapri to looking bemused when addressed in Urdu or knowing what a lota’s for. It’s part of me but it’s second-hand. I hope to go eventually.

Being considered ‘inauthentic’ and invalidated through horizontal hostility felt tiring just as ‘not being White’ was in White spaces. Internalised racism led me to want to be 'raceless'. Sometimes, I wanted to be Brown and ‘monoracial’. I felt excluded from ‘monoracial’ spaces, both White and Brown. I just wanted to belong somewhere. Things would have been better if I hadn’t felt alone. I ended up feeling like a failure as a daughter and sister for years and spiralled.

Our family endured a lot through what happened to me as the eldest. I question if it was inevitable. Whether it could have been averted if I’d never been, whether my existence as a firstborn with my heritage was a mistake. It's distressing to consider the all-consuming havoc racism wreaked across my family; with my Mum; us, her kids; my wider family. And my Dad, too. Being mixed has had repercussions for our health and wellbeing. It is hard to question whether you should exist.

While I wish I hadn't had to be strong, I acknowledge that negative experiences can sometimes bring out positive attributes. And, if we weren't mixed, our family would have missed out on memories and experiences none of us would trade for anything.

Learning to read the Qur’ān arguably forged my career as a translator. The way world events and my background shaped me propelled me to work in the media, which I'm grateful for. I’ve attended indulgent weddings, been painted in henna, grown up on dishes people pay for, been taught to cook meals people take courses to learn to make. I’ve been dressed in the most stunning clothes sewn by my Mum and my Naani.

I’m sure the joy and novelty of having mixed, Pakistani, and Muslim roots will grow as I age. I only really started meeting people like me when I moved to London. I don’t know many like me at all, let alone in the industry. Representation of my own ethnic background in the media industry matters, I suppose, but I’m more concerned about the disproportionate representation of Black people in our field.

Moreover, you can be represented and unseen, dismissed, excluded. You can miss out on affirmative support, career progression, and experience burnout. I care about representation and belonging. I ponder what life would have been if I’d been ‘raceless’ or considered ‘monoracial’ and ‘authentically’ Brown. I wonder where my family would be if they’d been spared the anguish of racism but we’ve also had unique joy.

If I were reborn, I’d come back as me. I’d forego some of the experiences I’ve had but not all of them. Our racist society is what should always have been different; not me or my family.

Managing my wellbeing is usually food and drink with friends, losing my inhibitions, being stupid, laughing. When lockdown started, I’d been living in London since 2018. I went to my family home in Liverpool for six months, the longest I’ve been there in years. Challenges at home from my teens made it hard to responsibly stay with my family. I went from conflict in my adolescence to phases of estrangement, abusive relationships, financial instability, and homelessness; London gave me space for solitude, respite, and recovery. I was able to recentre my identity around something other than constant crisis.

There was much to be grateful for when I went to Liverpool in March but, ultimately, the situation continued to impact my wellbeing: I had to leave again. Being back in London, I’ve remembered what to be grateful for: friends, sleep, food. I’ve stopped trying to be productive. It’s been freeing to wander, to listen to music, the trees, to be outdoors, to have solitude again.

Insidious racism has torn so much from so many who fall unseen through the cracks. Just looking at my family, as Commonwealth citizens, Pakistanis who came to fill labour shortages were eligible for British civic rights. It’s laughable that racism robbed them of their human rights. My relatives were made to jump through inexplicable hoops, pulled over, patted down, given the side-eye; slurred, Nazi-saluted; suffocated, institutionalised, beaten to the point of requiring life-saving surgery; some miscarried, endured cancer, died of broken heart syndrome. A friend my age died of lupus last year. It sometimes feels unbearable.

I feel frustrated that we still indulge self-appointed pundits in echo chambers, baiting and gaslighting about racial health inequity, all while those with real power distract and dodge accountability.

Ultimately, we’re individuals but we’re families, friendship circles, workplaces, neighbourhoods, and nations. We need to shift from unilateral individualism to collective action. I find 'allies' who won’t stick their necks out because flipping the status quo is 'too radical' demoralising. I have relative social power but it takes more than a few to rock the boat: those who feel 'raceless' must, even where it’s counterintuitive, unpick a system that has disproportionately benefited them."

I’m working with a publisher to produce a cookbook-memoir:

“My grandmother and her siblings were originally from Uttar Pradesh but lived in other parts of India and, eventually, Pakistan. I have aunts who’ve lived everywhere from Punjab to Uganda. My cousins have all spent at least some of their adolescence in parts of the North and Northwest of England. My siblings and I have, too, however none of my siblings have visited Pakistan.

Through recipes and anecdotes from different family members, the collection will hopefully convey a fuller, more whole, and more representative account of my family members’ mixed-heritage experiences, living and coming of age across various parts of England after they, their parents, or grandparents migrated from different parts of India and Pakistan.”

The account (@qayyahcooks) is where I'm teasing some of the recipes I'll possibly be including in the cookbook