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We were so culturally different. We were so much alike.
How could we see beyond our cultural differences and learn to appreciate each other?
Her name was Rabia. She was just like me. Rabia had four kids. She was just like me. Rabia was displaced from her homeland. She was just like me. Rabia was far from her family. She was just like me.
Her name was Rabia. She seemed so different from me. Her children couldn’t speak French. She seemed so different from me. Her home country was Syria. She seemed so different from me. Her family back home was in danger. She seemed so different from me.
The Community Gathering
I first met Rabia at a Sunday community event for new refugees in France, hosted by a non-profit organization. They had discovered 200 Syrians squatting in a run-down apartment complex that was slated for demolition.
The organization was desperate for Arabic-speaking volunteers because they couldn’t get past the language barriers. Beyond supplying their obvious felt-needs of food, water, clothes, toys, etc., they couldn’t understand these strangers.
Children ran around the square, eating candy, playing games, and getting their faces painted. Teenagers gathered on the stage, dancing joyfully together, hand-in-hand, to traditional Syrian music roaring from the rhythmic beat of drums.
They were happy together. All they had was each other.
The women gathered in small groups, sharing stories, drinking strong, bitter, dark tea, and enjoying sweet pastries. I wanted so badly to talk to them, to integrate into their world. But how could I? I felt so different from them.
Would they welcome me into their circle? Would I welcome them into my country? Would they be afraid of me? Would I be afraid of them? Would they understand me? Would I understand them?
Could We Get Past the Cultural Differences and Language Barriers?
The Arabic dialect that I spoke was different than theirs. I prayed for courage to approach them, to enter their circle, to open my mouth and say, “Salaam” (“Peace”).
The courage came, and I hurried over to a group of ladies, afraid that my courage might fade. I greeted the veiled women and asked them if they understood me. With timid grins and eyes glancing down, they nodded their heads. I continued to talk to them, asking them questions about their lives, their families, their journey . . . their very long, hard journey from Syria to France.
Rabia wasn’t in that first circle of women, but she saw me that day from afar.
She longed to talk to me. Rabia had something to say, something to ask.
Rabia called me over and introduced herself. She was dark, with dark skin and dark eyes. Of all the women I met that day, she was the only one who invited me to come back to her home for tea another day. She was so happy that I could speak her heart language. Although the dialects differed slightly, it didn’t matter.
The Request
I asked Rabia if there were things that she needed from the organization.
She smiled uncomfortably, leaned over to me, and whispered in my ear. “We need bras and, you know, feminine products.”
I didn’t know that specific Arabic word, but I clearly understood.
She proceeded to tell me that the volunteers of the organization always spoke with the men in the community about their needs. However, the men didn’t realize that there were feminine needs around them that were not being met.
She went on to explain that I was the first female volunteer she had met who could speak Arabic and with whom she felt comfortable sharing the women’s “secret” and “shameful” needs.
I smiled back and said, “I’ll take care of it and get you what you need.” Of course, Rabia needed these things.
She was just like me. Of course, these women needed these things. They were just like us.
With the help of the organization, we rounded up the needed supplies from generous donors. I returned to visit Rabia the following week with bags in hand. Anxiety and fear gripped my heart and mind as I entered the creepy, dilapidated building. I quickly understood why this neglected structure was on the list for immediate destruction.
Rabia greeted me with a beaming smile. The apartment was large but simple. Rugs covered the ground, and long, thin mattresses lined the walls.
I removed my shoes at the door and entered her world.
She gathered the other girls and ladies from the bedrooms, and they scrambled through the bags. They only took what they needed, and then one of them left to take the bags to the other women in the apartment building. The blessing would be shared among them all. They could have kept them all for themselves, but they didn’t.
Their community was beautiful.
Rabia went back into the kitchen—a very small, separate room with broken windows. They had taped up the cracks to keep the cold wind from creeping in. Rabia was making dark, thick, Syrian coffee with cardamom, an Indian spice made from the seeds of several plants.
So Much Alike—Despite Our Cultural Differences
I sat on the floor mattresses, playing with Rabia’s youngest son, Jacob, who was two. As I played with Jacob, it dawned on me that I also had a two-year-old son. He wasn’t with me. Another woman was caring for him in the daycare.
Rabia and I were so much alike. Rabia and I seemed so different.
Rabia’s two middle children walked in the door from school. Asking them about their day, I tried to teach them some basic French expressions, “Bonjour” and “Ça va?”
I tried to imagine my two middle children arriving in a foreign country, not knowing the language, not knowing the culture, and not having any friends. It suddenly occurred to me that my children had done that before when we first arrived in North Africa.
Rabia and I were so much alike. Rabia and I seemed so different.
Rabia served me coffee, and then her oldest son, Mohammed, walked through the door. It was his first day of school, and he couldn’t speak a word of French. My heart ached for him.
I stood up, shook his hand, and asked him his age. When he told me that he was seventeen, I quickly realized that my oldest son was seventeen. He wasn’t with me. My son was studying in a boarding school in another country.
Rabia and I were so much alike. Rabia and I seemed so different.
I looked around at Rabia’s family. Rabia had the same needs as I did, as a woman, as a wife, as a mother. Her four children and her husband had the same needs, wants, desires, and dreams as my four children and my husband.
Why was Rabia living in this ruined apartment building while I was living in my comfortable home with a yard?
I could be in Rabia’s shoes.
She was just like me.
The language and cultural barriers between us were still real, but they didn’t seem to matter anymore. When I discovered that Rabia was just like me, her life and world didn’t seem so scary and so unknown. The distance and divide between us disappeared. If I could just remember . . . she was just like me.
If we could just remember . . . they are just like us.
—The Cultural Story-Weaver
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Let’s Weave Cultures!
When people look different from you, how do you move past the cultural barriers? What has helped you to see that “they are just like you, just like me?” What can you do to bridge these cultural barriers and to approach someone who looks completely different from you?
We invite you to tell us your own cultural stories and global adventures . . . as you engage with the world, breaking down barriers, building bridges, and “weaving cultures!” Write about them in the comment box below.
Your story is so, so true. We all want and need the same things in life. Being able to break the barriers is a wonderful and fulfilling accomplishment.
Yes! May we all be a part of “weaving cultures”! The world will be a much more beautiful place!