Cultural Crossroads
Illustration: Keira Sainsbury
When you’re caught between two worlds, home becomes less of a place and more of a question you’re always trying to answer. Being raised as a Syrian in Canada feels like growing roots in two different soils—one rich with history and tradition, the other promising growth and opportunity. The tug between them often leaves you split in two, unsure where you truly belong.
At home, you are the ideal Syrian Christian daughter, navigating a life guided by tradition and unspoken expectations. You dress modestly, careful not to bring unintended attention, because appearances reflect on the whole family. At church, you sit composed—no crossed legs, no restless movements—knowing that every action reflects how well you were raised. You decline food the first few times it’s offered, not out of disinterest, but because it’s customary. You insist on paying the bill, because generosity is as much a part of your identity as respect. You never challenge your teachers, even when frustration burns inside, and you approach your homework with precision because anything less than top marks feels unacceptable. If you go out one day, you stay home the next—not because it’s explained, but because it’s simply understood.
But that’s only one side of your life. The other emerges when you step into the world, where everything feels startlingly different. Your friends speak to their parents with a casual ease, as if they were equals or even friends. Sleepovers are a regular occurrence, not a privilege to be negotiated. A B average is met with pride because “trying your best” is what truly matters. Male friends come and go without scrutiny because here, platonic friendships are natural and unquestioned. The rules are looser, the expectations lighter, and yet this world feels as unfamiliar as it is enticing.
Living this double life has its consequences. On Monday, you sit in class as the girls recount the sleepover you weren’t allowed to attend. You laugh along, nodding at their stories, but inside, your jealousy is all consuming. That night, your friends head to the park to play Manhunt, but you stay home—because you went to the park yesterday, and your parents see no reason to repeat. At Tim Hortons, you end up paying for everyone’s meal. You were taught it’s polite to offer, expecting the other person to insist, but your Canadian friends don’t know this ritual. Each moment piles on top of another, a reminder of how the cultural divide shapes even the smallest interactions.
Eventually, it stopped being about specific moments and started becoming a constant feeling—a heavy weight you carry everywhere you go. You love your parents deeply and know they sacrificed everything—their home, their comfort, their sense of belonging—so that you could have a better future. You would do anything to make them proud. But somehow, it always feels like you’re falling short. You’re not just disappointing them; you’re disappointing yourself for not living up to the contrasting expectations of your family and your friends. No matter what you do, you can’t win.
Despite all of this, you love your culture. You love the food, the music, and the deep, unshakable bond of community—knowing that if you needed help, anyone would give their right arm for you. You appreciate the lessons your mom taught you, like how to cook and clean at a young age, skills that made moving out feel seamless. This was never about rejecting where you came from, but about the confusion of trying to fit in, the feeling that you had to choose one path or the other. If you didn’t do everything exactly how your parents wanted, you felt like a bad Syrian. If you didn’t follow your friends, you felt like you were disappointing yourself. The weight of living between these two worlds was exhausting, and high school brought more new challenges: boys, drugs, alcohol. How do you turn down weed without sounding like a judgmental goody-goody? How do you reject a boy’s advances without risking your friendship? How do you explain to the girls that borrowing a crop top isn’t an option—not because you don’t appreciate the gesture, but because you’d never be allowed to wear it? And how do you make them understand that you can’t go to a party starting at 9:30 when you have to be home by 9:00?
Looking back, I realized there’s no magical solution to navigating two worlds that often feel miles apart. I did not have anyone to teach me how to balance the expectations of being a good Syrian daughter with the pressures of fitting into Canadian society. I just keep going, one day at a time. The truth is, it’s hard, but it’s doable. And the most important lesson I learned was not to place blame—on my parents, on myself, or even on my friends.
My parents raised me with love and the best intentions. Every rule and expectation came from a place of wanting to protect me, to see me succeed. They gave up so much to give me a life they could only dream of, so I can’t fault them for wanting me to hold onto the culture that shaped them. They’ve never raised a child in a foreign country, in a society so different from their own, with values that often clash with everything they hold dear. The reality of the situation is that I will never fully understand the fear they must have felt, of losing a child to a culture they didn’t grow up in, of not being able to guide my brothers and I through experiences they never had.
And at the same time, it’s not my fault for feeling lost. How could it be? I was expected to live by two different sets of rules, to be one person at home and another in society. It’s exhausting, constantly shapeshifting to make everyone happy while never feeling completely at home in either world. But my parents will never fully understand what that feels like—just as I’ll never fully understand the sacrifices they made or the pain they felt leaving everything behind to start over here.
There’s no perfect way to reconcile it all—it’s messy and hard. But their love is constant, carrying me through the moments I feel completely lost. Being Syrian is a part of who I am, and I am proud to carry that with me wherever I go.