In a city like Abu Dhabi, you grow up surrounded by many voices. English, Arabic, Urdu, Tagalog, Hindi – they blend into daily life like the sound of traffic or the call to prayer. At first, you don’t think much of it. But over time, you begin to realise something: you’re always translating.
You translate between languages, yes – but also between expectations, between ways of thinking, and between who you are and who people expect you to be.
Growing up in the UAE means you’re often learning how to carry tradition and openness at the same time. You’re taught to hold on to who you are, but also to listen, adapt, and build bridges. That, I’ve come to realise, is a kind of quiet strength of its own.
I remember a moment in school when a teacher asked us to describe ourselves in one sentence. My classmates gave confident answers “I’m Indian,” “I’m Egyptian,” “I’m British.” I hesitated. My instinct was to say, “I’m Emirati,” but I knew that wouldn’t capture everything I felt. I was shaped by Friday prayers and American cartoons, by majlis conversations and international classmates, by Arabic poetry and English novels. Even then, I sensed that identity wasn’t singular. It was layered.
In university, that complexity grew louder. Group projects required me to balance direct communication with cultural nuance. In one setting, confidence was expected; in another, humility was prized.
I often found myself adjusting my tone depending on who I was with – not out of insincerity, but out of instinct. I wasn’t pretending. I was bridging. And that taught me a valuable lesson: translation isn’t about erasing yourself. It’s about expanding your range without losing your core.
For many of us, especially in my generation, belonging isn’t a single, solid thing. It’s not one flag, one language, or one version of ourselves. It’s more flexible than that. We live in families with mixed influences, work in offices where people come from everywhere, and learn in classrooms where our ideas are shaped by more than just our own background.
My own family is a good example. I grew up hearing stories of my grandparents’ values – discipline, faith, hospitality – but also watching my parents interact with a changing world. They carried old-world ethics into a new-world rhythm. I learned that respect doesn’t mean rigidity, and that change doesn’t mean loss.
This tension between preservation and progress runs through our national story, too. The UAE is young, yet proud. Rooted, yet curious. Every day, we witness what happens when tradition walks alongside ambition. It’s not always easy, but it’s something rare: a society that is trying to grow without forgetting.
And while this can be a gift, it can also be confusing. Sometimes, you feel like you’re floating between identities – Arab, Emirati, Muslim, modern, traditional, ambitious, humble. You’re all these things, but not just one. The world wants simple answers. But real life, especially here, isn’t always that simple.
I used to think that belonging meant having one clear definition of who I am. Now, I believe it’s something we grow into – not through certainty, but through self-awareness. It’s not about being just one thing, but about knowing how to live with your full self, even when parts of you feel like they’re in translation.
Living in the UAE has taught me that living with diversity also means learning how to belong – not by blending in, but by understanding who you are, while still holding space for others. That takes emotional maturity and grace.
How do we stay rooted, while still growing? How do we hold onto identity, while learning from others? And how do we speak to different people without losing our own voice?
I've come to believe that belonging isn’t about geography. It’s about presence. It’s about showing up fully, even if parts of you are still finding their place.
I’ve also come to believe that cultural fluency is a form of leadership. Those who can speak across difference – without losing their integrity – can help build more cohesive communities.
Sometimes, I wonder what our future will look like. Will the next generation feel more certain about who they are, or will they inherit the same beautiful complexity? I hope they’ll feel permission to be themselves. To carry their heritage without burden, and their curiosity without shame.
In the end, I’ve come to believe that belonging doesn’t always feel loud or obvious. Sometimes, it’s quiet. It’s found in the way we speak to colleagues, how we carry our values into our work, how we honour our culture while still being open to others. It’s found in how we make peace with complexity.
And maybe, especially in a place like the UAE, that’s the point. We don’t need to choose between our identities. We just need to live them – fully, honestly and without apology.
