This blog is part of a five-part series looking at interfaith and intercultural relationships and the factors behind their success and longevity (or lack of). The series is based on my personal experience as a Muslim woman in her 20s and 30s.
In part 1, I look at marriage and love across cultures and borders, examining the role of shared values and knowing oneself.
In part 2, I share my experience of faith and religious divides in an intercultural/interfaith relationship.
In this blog, I share the impact of trauma on stereotyping others in the context of mixed relationships.
In part 4, I look at emotional factors (in particular attachment styles) and their relation to culture, as opposed to cultural or religious difference as a standalone.
In part 5, I conclude by sharing insight into the factors and dynamics involved in mixed relationships in maintaining a healthy long-lasting interfaith/intercultural relationship.
Trauma stereotypes others: being aware of norms yet treating each person as an individual
“To know the true reality of yourself, you must be aware not only of your conscious thoughts, but also of your unconscious prejudices, bias and habits.”
(Unknown)
“I wish I’d met you first” he uttered disappointingly yet calmly, acceptingly and peacefully.
“But then it wouldn’t be me…” I exclaimed. He understood. “It” being me: the person speaking to him. The person sat next to him. The person he wanted.
That person would have been another Liz.
For the person he desired, that he sought after and who outrightly rejected him wouldn’t have been the woman he’d not long met for the first time (in person).
This Liz would have been someone similar yet quite different. A younger, trauma-free Liz.
A Liz trauma-free from divorce and similar cultural-religious triggers (and conversely a Liz who until recently had also not yet recognised, understood and starting healing prior unrelated childhood trauma).
This Liz, she’d have undoubtedly been a woman more open to the experiences he longed for than the Liz he was speaking to at the time.
But, and here’s the crux: that Liz would have been poorer in lived experience, less mature and well… less me (no matter how much I’d lost myself as a conservative Muslim who was now embracing a more progressive path).
She’d have been a Liz who he’d have never met. And never will.
And so, this was a decision that I made clear to him; a man I shall name “Rami” – another significant male figure in my life journey.
For Rami and I, well, we met at a particularly poignant time of my life.
During this period, I was in my early 30s, and I was attempting to get over the heartbreak of “Farhad” – my first relationship since my divorce.
Farhad was a man of a different culture and religion to my own – and also those of my former husband Haroun. Rami outwardly was much more similar (more on that to follow).
At the time I met Rami, I was once again single and twice hurt by love within this stage of my adult life. And I’d met Rami unexpectedly.
Now sat next to me, he’d very openly declared his intentions.
He wanted me and he was dating for marriage. I wasn’t ready at that moment.
I didn’t want it (him). And I didn’t believe it (him, his intentions and the idea that he’d want to potentially marry me).
Why? Because – whether he was ever destined to be my husband or not, whether we were fully compatible or not, whether it was worth a shot or not – he was a rather large trigger of much trauma and heartbreak for myself.
What’s more, he also contradicted many things relating to those triggers and stereotypes I’d been taught from within those cultures by myself and individuals born into those cultures (overseas – not into a diaspora community).
For the reality was this: Rami shared the same religion as I and both the faith and geographical region of origin of my ex-husband Haroun.
He was Sunni Muslim, North African and marriage-minded. He appeared confident, yet shy. Talkative, yet not particularly communicative.
He was looking for marriage, romantically in-experienced but not overtly reserved.
To my mind, he was the conservative carbon copy of myself and my ex-husband when we’d first met. Except he wasn’t.
This time, I was dealing with a 30-something-year-old Egyptian man named “Rami”, not the 20-something year-old Maghrebi man called Haroun who I’d previously met and married.
Rami’s confident persona, coupled with his inexperienced, assumed seemingly conservative shyness was a combination that I found immensely triggering.
His cultural origin, his faith, his country – the names, the words, the titles reminded me of pain, of suffering, of trauma.
His words, his actions, his behaviours delivered a combination of déja-vu recollections and confusing contradictions to the biggest love of my life at the time (my former marriage) and the norms my husband had taught, mirrored and explained to me.
Haroun and mine’s love story was one of a pure innocent, well-intentioned love that brought immense happiness, joy and hardship all at once.
And so, to the Liz at the time: I just couldn’t do it all over again. Then, I wouldn’t.
I didn’t want the overseas challenges of long-distances and paperwork. That was the biggest trigger.
An alarm went off in my head. It screamed: oh no, I’ve been here before. I know how this will work out. It signalled pain, incompatibility, conflict and heartache.
And so, I wrote off the whole scenario.
Then, more contact later, I observed the different way in which Rami behaved, spoke and expressed himself to my former husband and the stereotypical view of an “Arab” he’d taught me.
And so, my mind shook at the déja-vu persona of a man with the same approach to marriage (or so I thought), the same culture (similar with overlaps but not quite though really…) and the same faith (more complex and less conservative than I’d thought, at least in terms of diversity of belief, personality and lived experience).
In summary: it was confusing, alarming and made me panic, doubt and reject.
So, to cut a long story short, after rejecting his profession of love, after struggling with a friendship and being caught between views of friends (some who worried for me and my wellbeing – some given my past – and some due to negative stereotypes they held of Egyptian men), I was caught between my heart and head and my anxiety and my feelings.
Fuelled by stereotypical discourses around Egyptian men but fond for Rami, I retained contact.
And… I fell. I fell in love.
I fell in love with Rami. And I told him too (he’d previously expressed his love for me).
But, it wasn’t smooth sailing.
Various pressures arose. Cultural and non-cultural most likely (we both had different personalities of course).
One theme however remained: I didn’t believe in his intentions, his love and his views of me (and I’m not sure he understood the real effect of my trauma either – although this changed slightly over time).
Misunderstandings, conversations and arguments alike (he made mistakes of his own and I was very hurt as a result), during one mediation with a friend, he uttered the words “I’m not Algerian”.
I heard his pain. I heard his pain, and I cried. Yes, I was hurting. But no, he wasn’t Algerian.
He wasn’t my ex-husband, and he wasn’t a carbon copy Muslim man, or of anything or anyone.
There were of course shared norms, behaviours and mannerisms with my ex-husband, including that sweet, reserved shyness coupled with an open romantic expression of emotions.
But I still had to see Rami as an individual, to consider his culture, his approach to faith and his individual personality. He was a human too, with feelings and fears of his own no doubt.
Compatible or not, there were cultural and religious differences. There were some major communication issues – stemming most likely from a combination of culture, trauma and personality differences.
But what I also learnt with Rami (amongst many things!) is that I did judge him, I did assume, and I did stereotype him.
I knew at this stage of my life that love wasn’t enough. I knew of the challenges involved in mixed relationships and in particular, based on my past, with being with a Muslim man from a North-African Arab-majority culture.
But what I didn’t really know is that you really can do it all over again – just a little differently. With a different person, with a different knowledge (as well as the lived experience), with different compatibilities – and potential incompatibilities.
What I learnt is that my trauma did not allow me to communicate in the way we needed. And his culture, his response and his self, did not allow him to communicate in the way that I needed. It was a clash.
A clash of culture and religion alone? A clash marred by the trauma and personality difference amongst two people who met at the wrong time and in the wrong place?
Or simply a tale of two incompatible individuals who were never destined to make it down the aisle?
Well…. each story is different.
And any potential hope of a future together later died one evening, when after a period of prolonged conflict, recurring misunderstandings and a lack of space for dialogue, Rami responded.
Feeling likely frustrated, unheard and hurt, Rami’s anger exploded in a release of pent-up rage.
It was tragic. I finally realised that Rami had truly wanted me all along. That there’d been a series of massive misunderstandings. And later, that we couldn’t be together.
Why? Well, Rami, had finally reached the end of his tether. And he blew his lid.
Throwing a plastic bottle on the floor next to me, he exploded in a way I’d never seen before.
He began to shout, to yell, to let it all out. And as his raging words rolled from his tongue, so too did the tears down my cheeks.
I was traumatised. And Rami? Likely regretful, hurt and disappointed in himself.
Nope, we weren’t destined to share a life together. What we had shared had been real – and very, very difficult.
And again, what I learnt was a reminder to heal on a deeper personal level, from both the past and the present – and to remember my worth as a woman.
Quite a while later, I wrote to Rami. I apologised for stereotyping him and shared my story.
He responded. He didn’t open up much. but he allowed me to.
And in time, he showed increasing understanding and compassion for my emotions, experiences and feelings.
But, he never really spoke really his (not at first or in any great explicit depth).
As a woman, I knew that he’d retained his feelings for me. I saw that glow in his eyes, his smile and that very sweet shyness on his face.
But as a woman, I could also never forget or accept the way he’d treated me that night.
And I told him exactly that when he later shared his continued feelings for me, and his desire for a future together.
As a man I loved, cared for and shared part of my life with, the memories will forever remain with me. As will the lessons.
Rami chose me (in his own way) when I rejected my unhealed self, when I rejected a belief of being worthy of love, and when; I rejected him.
He taught me a lot. I hope I taught him something too. I really do.
Thank you Rami.
Looking back: what I learnt
Trauma can be a big barrier towards forming and sustaining loving relationships
Emotional trauma can be bigger obstacle than any cultural/religious difference as it creates barriers to effective communication, trust-building and emotional availability and connection.
This of course, can be overcome through healing, dialogue and time (individually and collectively) but is a process and starts with acknowledgement, compassion and understanding within, by and for oneself.
What’s more, we must also acknowledge the role of trauma in collective social, cultural and religious contexts which can cement as socio-cultural norms within a community and or/national context. This can be both conscious and unconscious and affect both the “insider and “outsider” in a relationship.
Learn from experiences but don’t cut off possibilities and heal (ideally before)
Trauma is a warning-system response to negative experiences that requires insight, healing, understanding, self-care, reflection and balance. Trauma reminds us of the past – from which we can learn.
Trauma must not be allowed to restrict our future, to cut off opportunities, to narrow our openness to lived experience. It’s not fair on the person living with that trauma or on (potential) partners. We are not to be blamed for our trauma, but we are responsible for our own healing.
We are of course not obligated to make decisions that make us uncomfortable. We must be free to make our own safe happy choices. Personal and shared respect, trust and wellbeing are critical. As is ideally healing – but this cannot be forced.
Do not categorise people based on their culture and religion as a monolith
There can be vast diversity (e.g. socially, culturally, spiritually) both within cultural and religious groups. There is also vast diversity regarding each person as an individual, in simply the life, personality and lived experiences of each and every person.
Again: we are all products of our own environments. We are individuals in our own right with our own varied individual experiences – some which may overlap within national, cultural and religious contexts, some which can transcend borders into co-cultural/religious contexts and some which will always remain unique amongst people (for the mixed experience they are).
Take each person as an individual, do not discard their background but do not paint them with a homogenous stereotypical brush either! Get to know them for who they are – their individual quirks, the pride of their culture and how their soul speaks (whatever their faith, spirituality or none).
Coming up:
Keep an eye out for part 4 of this series, where I share my experience of varying emotional factors (in particular attachment styles) and their relation to culture and being in a mixed relationship, as opposed to cultural or religious difference as a standalone.
This post was originally published on Voice of Salam.