In a world eager to define us before we can define ourselves, embracing your identity is the boldest statement you can make. It isn’t just self-acceptance—it’s resistance. For years, I ran away from my Syrian identity, burdened by the weight of displacement and the world’s misperceptions. I was convinced that distancing myself from my roots was the only way forward. But no matter how much I tried to escape it, my identity was not something to be erased—it was something to be reclaimed. This is my journey of shame, resilience and finally embracing where I come from not as a burden, but as a source of strength.
“I didn’t choose to be Syrian!”
I said out loud to my friend group. Nervous laughter barely concealed my unease in the middle of Kerckhoff Court.
Immediate regret flushed my cheeks as I wondered why such a self-effacing statement had slipped from my lips. Perhaps it was because everyone was laughing about the Syrian refugee crisis, making me the target of the joke…yet again. The feeling of shame and disappointment in myself suffocated me. I sat there in silence with the weight of betrayal muting my presence while my friends’ conversations rang in the background.
This wasn’t the first time I was ashamed of where I came from.
My outward expression of identity denial transported me from UCLA’s iconic courtyard back to my sixth-grade classroom, the first time I experienced an internal conflict over my identity. At the time, I was living in France, which was the only place my family and I could find refuge as my dad’s medical degree was only recognized there outside of Syria.
Unfortunately, I have had a love-hate relationship with my ethnicity, especially as a Syrian girl who moved to the Western world where my ethnicity was, and still is, paired with Western society’s harmful prejudices. Escaping the war in Syria as a child and having my torn roots be forcibly shoved in a place so drastically different augmented the challenge of embracing where I came from.
My history teacher had assigned us to present a brief overview of our background to the class. At first, my 11-year-old self was filled with excitement—I was finally given the opportunity to express where I came from in a positive light to my peers. Yet, as my turn arrived, that excitement quickly morphed into fear and shame. Suddenly, all I could feel was the rapid, heavy pounding of my heart, threatening to tear its way out of my chest.
I stood up, yet I remained silent. I felt every pair of eyes on me, dissecting me, judging my every inch. I could hear the unspoken, racist thoughts whispering in my ears. I tried to say “Aleppo,” my birthplace in Syria, but the word refused to leave my mouth. Instead, tears welled up and streamed down my cheeks. Before I knew it, I had sprinted out of the classroom.
For the longest time, I struggled to claim my Syrian identity, avoiding any mention of it at all costs. When we immigrated to France, I vividly remember my mother warning me not to tell anyone I was from Syria.
“Everyone hates us here. Just tell them you’re American,” she said, her voice carrying a seriousness I had never heard from her before. Technically, she wasn’t wrong since we were blessed with American passports, but I despised her reluctance to embrace our true identity and the way she felt compelled to erase a part of who we were. I had always asked myself what was so wrong with being Syrian.
At the time, I didn’t realize this was her way of protecting me. I had always blamed her for instilling in me this paralyzing fear over my Syrian identity, but in reality, my mother had been the target of dehumanizing discrimination from the moment she stepped off Syrian soil. She was simply trying her best to shield me from the same traumatic Western misperceptions.
Baby Celia Kebbeh sits on her mother, Lizette Dekrmanjian's lap. This picture was taken in 2006, located at their house in Syria. Photo courtesy of Celia Kebbeh.
According to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, or UNHCR, over 14 million Syrians have been displaced from their homes in pursuit of safety since the 2011 civil war, making it the world’s largest displacement crisis witnessed to this date. Although Syria was finally freed from dictatorship in December 2024, no amount of liberation could fully heal the aftermath of coerced exodus and what Syrians as a whole have been through within this past decade.
Unfortunately, the world did not meet the Syrian humanitarian crisis with the moral standards it deserved to be met with, leaving it outside the scope of media coverage. This resulted in the kind of neglect that left Syrians questioning their worth and their entitlement to basic human rights. When the media did cover the crisis, however, there was a strong tendency to dehumanize Syrians—especially Syrian refugees.
One study showed how coverage of the Syrian refugee crisis was disproportionately negative, frequently portraying Syrian refugees as threats to national security, cultural identity and the economy. Meanwhile, when Russia launched its full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, Ukrainian refugees were deemed “civilized” in contrast, reinforcing the narrative that Middle Easterners are less deserving and normalizing the idea that they are inherently affected by conflict. ABC News correspondent Kelly Cobiella exemplified this racialized framing when she stated, “These are not refugees from Syria…These are Christians. They’re White. They’re very similar to people who live in Poland.” This rhetoric suggests that race-based perception of who counts as civilized shapes who is granted a successful and welcoming integration into society.
How do I explain to my sixth-grade self the problem with being Syrian was never about us, but about the dominating narrative imposed on us? A narrative that painted us as uncivilized, criminals and unworthy of stability and belonging. How can I look into her innocent eyes and tell her she was uncivilized, a criminal and simply unworthy? I realize now that my mother’s short and direct warning was the kindest way to tell me what the world had already decided about me.
I slowly started to understand why my mother was so quick to erase her Syrian identity. Rebuilding a life shattered by conflict is one thing. But doing so while battling degrading and demonizing prejudices in a society you’re desperately trying to integrate into is another. So, suppressing our origins seemed like the ideal and safest way to move forward.
When I moved to the United States in 2018 to pursue my higher education, my identity crisis took a backseat to a more immediate battle as I fought to secure a future beyond the instability that had shaped my past. Getting accepted into UCLA, the No. 1 public university in the nation, as a Syrian girl who once couldn’t speak English and had never fully grasped her worth felt like a rejection of the false narrative I had once internalized. For the first time, I understood that where I came from was not a barrier but a testament to the resilience that defines being Syrian. I had proven to the world that Syrians are more than people affected by conflict and the dehumanizing image imposed upon them. I was finally proud of who I was and the country that had shaped my values, perseverance and ambitions.
I told myself that at UCLA, I would, at last, have the space to embrace being Syrian. After all, UCLA is known for its diversity and inclusive student organizations.
Yet, 11 years later, I found myself back in the shoes of my sixth-grade self haunted by the rejection of my roots. I couldn’t believe how many steps back I had taken when I screamed “I didn’t choose to be Syrian!” I echoed the same self-rejection I swore I had left behind. At that moment, years of effort to take pride in my Syrian identity shattered in an instant.
Ironically, these dehumanizing stereotypes persisted even within the Middle Eastern community I call my own. I realized that the demeaning Western prejudices had lingered in some people from my region. I felt betrayed because it was a community I was supposed to feel safe in.
Mark Mouawad, a second-year political science student, understands the struggle of feeling disconnected from both Western and Middle Eastern communities. As a Lebanese who grew up in Egypt, he once saw this as a challenge, but over time, he realized that true belonging isn’t limited to ethnicity or nationality—it’s about shared values and principles. Rejecting the prejudices that often divide Middle Easterners, he now embraces his identity with pride, recognizing that the way he was raised is not something to hide but to celebrate.
“As Middle Easterners, we struggle with acceptance and often judge each other through the same Western biases that have been imposed on us,” he said. “But Middle Eastern values [and values in general] aren’t exclusive to people of the same ethnicity. They exist in those who think, act and embrace others in the same way. That’s what truly brings people together, shared principles and values that transcend borders. Be proud of where you come from, and brandish your identity, values and virtues with pride. Show them to the world.”
Witnessing Mouawad passionately explain how he embraces his Lebanese identity in the midst of such division within Western society left me in awe of the resilience that comes with being from a marginalized community. I realize that I can only prove Syria’s beauty and richness, as well as the true colors of its people, by remaining rooted in my identity—even if I have to do it alone. I also understand that we, as a society, have been subject to a relentless media agenda-setting that continuously controls the public’s perception, no matter the community. The only way to fracture the widespread, harmful narrative is to start standing in our truth despite the biased stereotypes.
A motorcyclist rides through traffic while pedestrians walk along the sidewalk on a vibrant street in Syria in July 2022. The photo was taken by Celia during her first visit in 12 years since the start of the civil war in 2011. Photo courtesy of Celia Kebbeh.
At UCLA, students have powerfully created spaces where everyone feels safe to embrace their identity. Just as I express my voice through writing at BruinLife, Nora Tayara, a fourth-year Syrian student majoring in microbiology, immunology and molecular genetics, expresses hers through the Students Organize for Syria, or SOS, club. As President of SOS, she strives to provide a space where Syrian culture is celebrated, heritage is honored and refugees are supported through tutoring and resources without reducing their identities to just their refugee status.
“Being a refugee can shape your identity but to say that a person is only defined by their refugee status is dehumanizing. The first thing that SOS does is help the students academically while fostering an appreciation of the Syrian culture and heritage without diminishing their identities to just being refugees,” Tayara said.
For her, embracing her identity means holding her head high and remembering the richness and beauty of Syrian culture. UCLA has cultivated an environment that encourages students to celebrate their heritage, and she believes that by taking advantage of the club’s events and stepping out of their comfort zones, students can fully engage with their identity, find a sense of belonging and navigate their way through UCLA with confidence.
For the longest time, I did not want to identify myself as a Syrian girl, nor as someone who escaped war, lost everything and had to work relentlessly just to grasp a sense of normalcy. I yearned to be a normal girl living a normal life.
But as I steer through the intricacies of claiming my identity, I recognize the beauty that comes with embracing who you are. I wouldn’t be the person that I am today without my Syrian identity and that brings me to tears. My dreams, opinions and pursuits are all based on the complexities that come with being Syrian—both the good and the painful. We are a nation that has suffered, yet time and time again, we have prevailed. It is an honor to be Syrian, to carry the resilience of my people and share it with the world.
Embracing every part of yourself is undoubtedly challenging but it’s also an act of unapologetic defiance in a world that often tries to define you before you can define yourself. And how beautiful is that?
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Featured Illustration via Adobe Stock
