A Homeland is a state of mind, not a place

Talajeh Livani Common Ground News Service -- Partners in Humanity Washington, DC

In the late 1980s, my family and I left our homeland of Iran and made a new home for ourselves in Sweden. Our knowledge of this northern European country was limited. Like most people, we had heard old stories about Vikings and we had been warned about the cold climate but we didn't know much more than that. All we knew was that we would start a new life, hopefully a better one, in this country.

When we arrived, the concept of immigration was still fairly new to Scandinavia. There were clear lines between the Swedes and non-Swedes. Either one was ethnically Swedish or one was an immigrant -- and if you had immigrant parents, you were placed in the "immigrant" category.

Sweden was as foreign and unfamiliar to us as we and our culture were to them. Questions such as "do you have cars in Iran?" or "do you have universities?" were common. Swedes of my parents' generation viewed Iran only through the lens of the Iranian revolution, but there was and is more to Iran than the Ayatollah.

Yet they also assumed all immigrants came only because of financial hardship at home, and thought it was their duty to help. The enormous generosity the government and people of Sweden showed us helped us feel at home. Native Swedes were often surprised to hear that we already had what they thought we had come to their country to gain.

People of my generation were very different from those of my parents. Sweden was slowly becoming multi-cultural, and barriers were beginning to come down. My Swedish friends increased in number with the passing of each year.

Still, there were occasions when cultural differences made it challenging to establish deep friendships. Middle Eastern parents were stricter with their children, and did not like the fact that Swedish parents allowed young Swedes to stay out as late as they liked at night, drink alcohol, and date freely.

This attitude extended into adulthood -- Swedish children were independent and were expected to separate from their families at the age of 18. They could then live as they liked while we had to continue taking our families into consideration for many personal decisions.

As a teenager, it was a struggle to reconcile identities that were so often in conflict. I loved certain aspects of Iranian culture but found other aspects to be illogical and impossible to accept. Like myself, many Middle Eastern-Swedish children were also trying to find a balance between their two nationalities.

With the start of the new millennium, I moved to the United States to pursue higher education. Like most people, I wanted to see the "melting pot" and experience the "land of opportunity." I was amazed at how people of all colors were integrated into American society. I would meet people from the Middle East and ask them where they were from, expecting to hear the name of a Middle Eastern country, and was always surprised to hear the name of an American city. For the first time, I started using the term "Iranian-Swedish" to describe myself.

In Sweden, I had always and only been an Iranian so I was excited about being able to use a term that described exactly what I was, that is Iranian and Swedish. It was fascinating to have come to a place where my appearance alone didn't prove that I was a "foreigner."

But then came the Sept. 11 tragedy and everything changed. Once again, I found myself to be one of "them." This time, the stakes were much more serious. It was no longer a question of curfew times or other family matters -- now thousands were dead, and Americans were stupefied. American friends from school approached me with a million questions. They wanted to know more about Islam, the Middle East, and the "terrorists" and their ideology.

I wanted to explain, not justify, the attacks but when the pattern had become obvious. In the U.S., I was perceived to be Iranian and European. In Europe, I was Iranian and American, and with the Persian crowd, I was considered somewhat "Western."

I am living proof that cultural barriers can be transcended and that bridges to other cultures can be built. And I am not alone. Millions of children in Europe and America come from backgrounds similar to mine -- criss-crossing between cultures, sometimes easily, sometimes with difficulty, but always with the knowledge that there are many worlds on this earth, worlds that can be brought together when there is enough will and desire to do so.

The writer is a recent graduate of the School of International Relations at George Washington University.