Fall 2023. It was my first day of classes at UMass Amherst, and we were doing the inevitable beginning-of-semester introductions.
“What’s your name? What’s your major? Where are you from?”
“Dubai,” I answered.
“Oh, cool. But where are you actually from? Like, where’s home?”
“Um…”
Suddenly, I didn’t know how to answer.
The strange thing was that I had answered the question. I was born in Dubai. I grew up there. My childhood, my friends, my memories, and the life I knew before moving to college were all there. Dubai was — and still is — home.
But within seconds, a question that had seemed so straightforward became something much bigger. Was I being asked where I grew up? Where my parents were from? About my ethnicity? My culture? My nationality?
For most people, “Where are you from?” might be simple small talk. For me, it can feel like a multiple-choice exam where several answers are technically correct, but none of them tells the entire story.
there’s a name for this
I eventually found a term for this experience: a third culture kid, or TCK.
Sociologist Ruth Hill Useem coined the term in the 1960s to describe people who spend a significant portion of their childhood outside their parents’ home culture. Rather than identifying exclusively with either their parents’ culture or the culture in which they grow up, TCKs can develop an identity influenced by both, essentially forming a “third culture.”
Learning that definition felt oddly familiar.
Dubai is unquestionably home to me, but it is not the only culture that shaped me. My family has Indian roots, and being Parsi also connects me to Persian ancestry and traditions. Growing up, I was surrounded by different faiths and cultures, celebrating everything from Muslim celebrations and Christian holidays to Indian festivals.
Growing up in Dubai also meant being surrounded by people with different nationalities, languages, cultures and perspectives. At the same time, there was a strange sameness in all that difference. Many people around me were also TCKs. Their mix of identities looked nothing like mine, but we understood what it meant to have more than one culture shaping who we were.
I was reminded of this feeling while watching Anuka Sethi’s short film Hide & Seek, which explores the in-between spaces of multicultural identity. Sethi, who was born in India and raised in Dubai, based the film on her own experiences growing up between cultures. What struck me was how familiar that feeling of being “in between” was. Our identities and experiences are not identical, but there was something recognizable in seeing someone else try to make sense of belonging to several cultures at once. Growing up in Dubai, that kind of complexity felt ordinary to me. It was only after leaving that I began to realize how difficult it could be to explain.
In a way, being a “global citizen” became part of my identity without my consciously choosing it. I know how lucky I was to grow up that way. It feels a little like geographic luck: being born somewhere where exposure to many cultures was part of everyday life.
Still, calling Dubai home has another layer: I am not Emirati, and my family’s roots are elsewhere. So when someone local asked where I was from, even “Dubai” could feel incomplete in a different way.
When One answer isn’t enough
The problem is not that I don’t know where I am from. I do.
The problem is that “Where are you from?” often seems to be asking several questions at once.
If I say Dubai, that tells you where I was born and raised and where I call home, but it does not explain my family’s heritage. If I say India, I leave out the place where I have actually spent my life. If I explain every cultural influence that shaped me, a simple introduction turns into my entire life story.
And then there is the infamous follow-up: “But where are you really from?”
Usually, I know people are simply curious. Still, the question can make my first answer feel temporary, as though “Dubai” was not quite the answer they were looking for.
I never thought much about this growing up. In Dubai, layered cultural identities felt normal. Even through high school, I rarely questioned how I identified in terms of my background.
College changed that.
At UMass, I was suddenly introducing myself constantly, in dorms, classrooms, clubs, new friend groups, and seemingly every icebreaker imaginable. Again and again came the same question: “Where are you from?”
For the first time, I became hyperaware of my answer.
I started deciding how much of the story to share. Sometimes “Dubai” was enough. Sometimes I added that my family has Indian roots. Sometimes I explained more. My answer changed depending on the person, the situation, and, frankly, how much explaining I felt like doing that day.
maybe home doesn’t need an answer
Being a third culture kid has made me realize that geography and identity do not always fit neatly into the same box.
I can call Dubai home while recognizing how deeply my family’s cultures shaped me. I can feel connected to the traditions I grew up with while recognizing that being raised in an international city changed the way I see the world.
None of those things cancel out the others.
So when someone asks me “Where are you from?” I still sometimes hesitate. Not because I don’t know the answer, but because I know how much can hide behind such a simple question.
Where am I from?
Dubai.
Who am I?
That answer might take a little longer.
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