The saying “Never forget your roots” is often reiterated as one embarks on a global journey, serving as a perpetual reminder to uphold one’s inherited values while navigating the world authentically. Growing up as a half-Italian, half-Indian Muslim girl in the diverse island of Madagascar has profoundly shaped the lens through which I perceive the world.
With the ability to speak six languages, my upbringing has provided a unique and enriching perspective. This unique background has not only enriched my global knowledge and understanding of various cultures and customs but has also highlighted the beauty of globalization and the interconnectedness among individuals. However, being part of three distinct cultures, each with its own set of values, beliefs, and norms, has led me on a journey to unravel and embrace my true identity amidst these wonderfully multifaceted yet sometimes contradictory ways of living, as each one perceives the world differently. The “roots” one so often refers to are at times unclear, as they take on so many different meanings.
The saying “Never forget your roots” is often reiterated as one embarks on a global journey, serving as a perpetual reminder to uphold one’s inherited values while navigating the world authentically. Growing up as a half-Italian, half-Indian Muslim girl in the diverse island of Madagascar has profoundly shaped the lens through which I perceive the world.
With the ability to speak six languages, my upbringing has provided a unique and enriching perspective. This unique background has not only enriched my global knowledge and understanding of various cultures and customs but has also highlighted the beauty of globalization and the interconnectedness among individuals. However, being part of three distinct cultures, each with its own set of values, beliefs, and norms, has led me on a journey to unravel and embrace my true identity amidst these wonderfully multifaceted yet sometimes contradictory ways of living, as each one perceives the world differently. The “roots” one so often refers to are at times unclear, as they take on so many different meanings.
When I was younger, I remember waking up to the enticing aroma of spices wafting from the kitchen; from cumin to coriander, all the way to basil and oregano. My mouth watered as I envisioned the dhal and arrabbiata sauce slow-cooked side-by-side for our Saturday lunch (dhal sauce is a South Asian cuisine sauce made from lentils, and arrabbiata sauce is an Italian tomato sauce known for its spiciness). The unmistakable scent of coconut would reach my nose, signaling the delightful presence of my favorite “poulet au coco” (“Chicken with coconut”, in English), one of the many local dishes of Madagascar. When the aroma of lunch filled our home, my mother’s voice would ring out, calling us with the familiar Italian words, “Bambini è pronto in tavola” (“Children, it’s ready on the table,” in English), a delightful signal that our meal was ready.
Gathered around the table were my siblings and I—two boys and two girls—each claiming a seat we had chosen years ago, a spot each one of us was fiercely loyal to. Before the feast began, there was a shared moment of connection as we uttered “Bismillah” (“In the name of God,” in English; a common Islamic practice), a heartfelt reminder that we were starting our meal in the name of God. We’d eagerly fill our plates, each portion of food representing a different corner of the world.
The vibrant colors on our plates mirrored the lively conversations that unfolded around the table. Our family’s linguistic dance was as diverse as the continents represented on our plates. In this intimate setting, my parents conversed in French, my siblings and I effortlessly switched between French or Gujarati with my father, Italian with my mother, English among ourselves, and Malagasy with the household staff. It was a beautiful symphony of languages, reflecting the rich cultural tapestry that defined our daily lives. As I write this reflection, during the Christmas season, a cascade of memories floods my mind.
Our family has always embraced Christmas festivities, but different from traditional customs, our celebrations unfolded beneath the palm trees in the heart of the southern hemisphere’s summer. Interestingly, in December 2007, a decision was made to embrace the holiday in its “original” essence. The excitement was palpable among my siblings and me as we aimed to replicate the Christmas magic portrayed on Disney Channel. Our destination was St. Moritz, Switzerland, where we immersed ourselves in the enchantment of snow-laden landscapes and indulged in cups of hot chocolate.
Back home in Madagascar, our “summer” Christmases were characterized by a grand feast on the evening of December 24th. Adults gathered around the table, while the children perched on large pieces of cloth meant to cover and protect the Indian carpets that covered the hardwood floor; this was to safeguard them from the inevitable spills of pizza sauce and samosa fillings (a popular Indian snack consisting of a triangular pastry filled with a variety of savoury ingredients such as spiced potatoes, peas, and sometimes minced meat).
The scene was similar to our celebrations during Eid (short for Eid al-Fitr, refers to the Islamic festival observed by Muslims worldwide), marking the conclusion of the fasting month of Ramadan (Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic lunar calendar, is a sacred time for Muslims, marked by fasting, prayer, and reflection. It’s one of the Five Pillars of Islam, requiring abstention from food, drink, and other physical needs from sunrise to sunset). In 2016, Ramadan coincided with my birthday. This meant that instead of waking up to the delights of a birthday cake and gifts, we rose at 4 am to partake in a pre-sunrise meal, initiating the fasting period as the sun ascended. Over the next month, come sunset, we would convene in our prayer room, breaking our fast with salt, hot water, and Medjool dates—a beautiful interlude fostering connection, serenity, and introspection.
This interplay of diverse traditions continued during the dry seasons of June to September (the Malagasy wintertime), when I was exposed to different local customs and traditions. My ethnically Malagasy friends at the American school would share stories with me about Famadihana (Famadihana, also known as the Turning of the Bones, is a funerary practice observed by the Malagasy people involving exhuming the bodies of deceased ancestors from family crypts, rewrapping them in fresh cloth, and conducting rituals to celebrate and honour their lives).
Although I had grown accustomed to such complete juxtapositions, at times, I found it challenging to steer these differences occurring simultaneously. As a young girl, I struggled to comprehend why we couldn’t listen to music on Christmas Eve, during the sacred month of Muharram (Muharram, the first month of the Islamic lunar calendar, holds significant religious importance for Muslims. It is observed with solemnity, particularly by Shia Muslims, to commemorate historical events, marking a time of reflection, mourning, and religious gatherings to honour the sacrifices and principles exemplified during this period), or why my family didn’t often indulge in traditional French cuisine at home—especially considering Madagascar’s history as a French colony, whereas many of my friends adhered to such traditions in their households.
When we spent summer holidays in Italy, people would often ask my name, and I would yearn to respond with “Chiara.” Chiara, a common Italian name, resonated with my own, Yara.
Always feeling like an outsider, I, as a young girl trying to find my place in the world, longed to fit in. In Madagascar, I belonged to the Khoja community (The Khoja community refers to a diverse group of Shia Imami Ismaili Muslims, originally from the Indian subcontinent, who later migrated to various parts of the world), yet only half of me felt truly connected. I was raised in Madagascar but didn’t feel entirely Malagasy, leaning more towards an Italian identity.
In Italy, I wasn’t authentically Italian due to distinct physical features, and thus, I identified as Indian and Malagasy. It seemed like a perpetual puzzle, requiring constant readjustment whenever I changed my environment. The elusive sense of belonging never fully manifested. In a way, this experience equipped me with the skills to adapt and be flexible, enabling me to shapeshift and clarify “what I was” in order to accommodate my ever-changing surroundings.
As I grew up and entered my teenage years, these cultural differences began to reveal themselves not just through birthday celebrations and cooking styles but also in family dynamics, communication, and the way I perceived the world.
My father, hailing from an oriental background and a collectivist culture, communicated differently from my mother, who came from a western background and an individualistic culture. My father’s upbringing occurred in a world where success required perseverance without dwelling too much on feelings but rather on actions. This was understandable for a man who grew up in a community considered a minority in one of the poorest countries, Madagascar.
As a child of Indian immigrants, he transformed his father’s soap business, which at the time had around 12 workers, into an international conglomerate. Gritting his teeth and moving forward became the only way to survive. That is not to say, though, that behind the commitment to success was a deep sense of dedication and care for the well-being of our family, shaping a character that blended strength with a quiet and enduring warmth. He embodied a mix of rigor, kindness, positivity, remarkable generosity, and an unwavering devotion to our needs. On the other hand, my mother, a Milanese who converted to Islam when they got married and moved to Madagascar for love, embodied a stark contrast to the mentality ingrained within my father’s culture. She was a passionate writer, philanthropist, and a firm believer that love could solve anything. It would be an understatement to say that she experienced a cultural shock when she realized that the world she had just entered operated very differently, especially in its varied interpretations and expressions of love.
Both of my parents maintained an open-minded approach to their children’s future aspirations—except for my older brother. From the moment he was born, he was destined to take over from my father when the timing was right, as he had done from his – a common occurrence in his family business. Although we were all encouraged to follow our passions, my dad would advise me, “Do what you enjoy, but remember, there is always the family business if you want,” while my mom would respond with, “Do what you love and follow your heart.” Being raised by two role models with different visions in life posed a challenge in embodying both ways of living while trying to understand which one was right for me. As a child, both were true.
However, the quest to discover which one truly and authentically represented me felt like an ongoing inquiry that I would later come to the realisation that I was both.
When exposed to a multitude of diverse customs, traditions, languages, and values from a young age, the question of identity becomes a nuanced maze for me. What shapes my communication style? What defines my norms, and how do I perceive the purpose of life?
Straddling two distinct cultures felt like a division within me—a duality of identities. The additional influence from my home country only intensified this internal conflict. The “labels” assigned to each sibling early on seemed to cast a long shadow over our lives, predetermining who we would be for the rest of our days. My designated “label” was that of the disciplined, logical, and resilient one. Consequently, I carried the weight of maintaining this facade regardless of the context. It felt imperative to embody the strength exhibited by my father, whose success in his professional life required pushing through the vulnerability of emotions. Yet, my mother’s emotions were an integral part of her being, contributing to the radiant aura she diffused. The dichotomy emerged— did the traits celebrated in one culture become stigmatized in another?
In the cultural landscape of Madagascar, my father’s emotional demeanour, characterized by a sense of stoicism, aligned with the prevailing local influences. Spending a significant portion of my formative years there, these cultural norms deeply shaped my understanding of emotional expression. Acting more reserved and composed was normal convention. However, returning to Milan during the summers revealed a different facet of affection – one that was emotionally expressive, as demonstrated by my maternal grandparents. This constant oscillation between cultural influences prompted me to reflect on the different ways emotions were expressed and whether these aspects of identity were products of nature or nurture. Is one’s identity an inherent trait, or is it a gradual construction, shaped and moulded through the journey of growing up? The conundrum of nature versus nurture echoed in the corridors of my self-discovery, adding layers to the intricate tapestry of my evolving identity.
As I reflect on my journey, the “roots” I often refer to remain elusive, taking different meanings with each passing experience. Yet, within this ambiguity lies the beauty of my multicultural existence—a mosaic woven from the threads of three distinct worlds.
Navigating the labyrinth of my identity, I discover not only the richness of my roots but also the vastness of the world’s collective heritage. We go through life as spiritual beings having a human experience. Thus, I believe the purpose of life is to peel all the layers one has coated themselves with due to societal expectations, insecurities, and coping mechanisms. Yes, being exposed to a multitude of cultures, values, and perspectives on life was a gift, but it was also challenging and continues to be so to this day. However, it enabled me to ask myself some questions early on during my life that some only begin to reflect upon during their late adulthood. This opportunity, which feels like a weight on my shoulders at times, required me to always question myself, my intentions, my beliefs, and my idea of what authenticity truly means.
Growing up in this multicultural milieu has not only encouraged me to understand my identity, but – by blurring the lines that might separate one culture from another – I have come to the realisation that I am not just Italian, Indian, or Malagasy – I am a harmonious blend, a living testament to the interconnectedness of the world. I do not need to be “just like my father” or “just like my mother”. With the deep values and the richness of traditions ingrained within me, thanks to my upbringing and education, I can choose what resonates most and aligns with the person I want to become and the individual I am. My father instilled within me the values of resilience, ambition, and the importance of always looking at the glass half full. My mother taught me the power of self-expression, selflessness, strength, and understanding oneself.
Physically, I may not resemble a single nationality, but in the era of globalisation, we are all more diverse than ever. The blending of race and culture has crafted a beautiful melting pot, enabling individuals to forge connections that transcend labels and boxes. It goes without saying that, despite these expanding connections, it is crucial to preserve aspects of one’s cultural heritage — to uphold the wealth of knowledge and skills passed down through generations and shared with those around us. The openness to diversity within my family has been a guiding light, fostering understanding and empathy towards those around me. My interpersonal relationships are based on mutual respect and a never-ending stream of curiosity and growth. The journey of unravelling my identity within this cultural trinity has been a profound lesson in acceptance, adaptability, and appreciation. It serves as a reminder that identity is not fixed but ever-evolving, reflecting the continuous dance between heritage and individuality. The search for my true self is a journey, and always will be.
Article by Yara Akbaraly. Contact Yara via yaraakbaraly@gmail.com. Sign up to our newsletter here.
