Never Quite There
photo from Unsplash
“I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me, too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it’s true I’m here, and I’m just as strange as you.” - Frida Khalo
These are words I haven’t shared, as I felt maybe it wasn’t my place to do so. I never imagined I would be sharing them, much less on the internet for the whole world to see. Over the years, I’ve realized that North Africans are often denied their identity as Africans, because, for a lot of people (generally outside of Africa), our continent is only painted by the narrow stroke of blackness. Africa is a diaspora of cultures and people, spanning more than 11 million square miles. Yet, through the lens of the media and politics, North Africans are put under the vague umbrella of Arabs. One instance that has particularly stuck with me was an article from The Guardian that had presented Chigozie Obioma as the sole African writer to get on the Man Booker longlist, overlooking Moroccan writer Laila Lalalami (it was later rectified).
Identifying as African, for me, was always met with questions and the need for an explanation. However, no matter how many times I explain that Amazighs are native to the continent, inhabiting it from at least 10000 BC, spread across North and Western Africa, my explanations were met with dubious looks. It has always felt like I was appropriating something that many deemed wasn’t mine to begin with.
It felt even more unfair when darker-complected relatives weren’t questioned about that part of their identity and I wasn’t dealt the same leniency. I was always so envious of my aunt speaking Tachelhit or my grandparents speaking some dialect of Amazigh; I was never taught the language and it made me feel like some part of me was missing. So here I was, stuffed in a box that didn’t quite fit right, yearning to be acknowledged by a part of my heritage, in fact, something that connected me to the woman I loved the most, my paternal grandmother.
Pushing the non-identification of being African aside for a while and trying to solely identify as Arabic for the sake of other people felt like a betrayal to my own people. I remember vividly as a child asking my father or my grandma if we were Arabs and them proudly retorting in Darija, “We’re not Arabs, we’re M’zab! Never forget that!” M’zabs were Arabised as our culture added elements of the Arab culture to its own; it evolved but it wasn't wiped out or replaced. Our beliefs were alive — my grandma and I kept our old gods, we were part of Africa, so that should be enough to be considered African, shouldn’t it?
Unfortunately, it isn’t; my African heritage is always being tested and questioned. I’m reminded that I’m the color of the Sahara’s sand as the sun is going down, and not a beautiful black. Sometimes, I would naively wish that I was at least as dark as my uncles so I could claim this simple label as mine. Obviously, I know that it would come with strings attached: the prevalent colorism in my country. I guess the quote is right; the grass really does look greener on the other side.
“…personally, an acknowledgment of North Africans as being adherent to Africa comes from pan-African unity and from seeing all our shared culture, and similarities.”
I know politics played heavily into African disunity. Arab colonization in the North gave us an orientalist vision of the continent, and the South principally became a legacy and motivator for the mistreatment of darker-complected people. In the South, stereotypes and biases are also enforced by culture. A Ugandan blogger, Prudence Nyamishana, spoke of her preconceptions about North Africa on her trip to Cairo, in a Global Voices article:
“I dressed like a clown in a big dress and jeans underneath. I had a scarf ready to cover myself. I was told that women were supposed to be all covered because it is a Muslim country and all this stuff I had read on the Internet. When I boarded the Emirates flight from Dubai to Cairo, there were many Egyptian women dressed in fancy jeans with beautiful uncovered hair. I wanted to go to the bathroom to change my dress because I had got it all wrong… I understood that my prejudices and fears were all hidden in the disconnection between North Africa and the rest of Africa. The history of Arabs and slave trade, the news we get fed is from western media houses. At first being asked whether I was from Africa was irritating. But then I realised that the Egyptians that were asking me if I was African had never traveled outside their own country. Maybe if it was easy to travel within Africa these barriers would be broken down brick by brick.”
Recently I started dealing with my issues concerning my identity after discussing ethnicity and identity with an Ivorian classmate of mine. He could see I was struggling to express it, so he put his hand on my shoulder and just said, “Who cares, we’re both as equally African.” Hearing that felt comforting, the acknowledgment of somebody fitting the image of the quintessential African.
On a final note, personally, an acknowledgment of North Africans as being adherent to Africa comes from pan-African unity and from seeing all our shared culture, and similarities. For example, Algeria played a big role in liberating former colonies in Africa. Nelson Mandela even said: “the Algerian army made me a man.” In his book Long Walk to Freedom, he revealed that training in Morocco with the Algerian National Liberation Front inspired him greatly in his struggle against apartheid. The British colonial troops used Egyptians, Nigerians, and Kenyans fighting side by side in the Second World War, in fact. Pan-African unity comes from our shared values, our commonalities, and will give us a shared destiny to shine a light on the diversity and beauty of our continent. To me, only from Pan African unity would feeling like the “other” come to an end. I wouldn't have to justify my identity anymore, always feeling like I'm appropriating my own heritage or going through my lineage to prove that despite being a different shade, I am in fact “African enough". Unifying the shades of people our beautiful continent holds would allow us to stand tall and reverse the divide colorism has caused in our societies.
