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 part 3, I share the impact of trauma on stereotyping others in the context of mixed relationships.
In this blog 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.
Love is selfless: caring for others through emotional (not simply cultural) difference
“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”
(1 Corinthians 13:4-8)
They say that love – true love – is selfless. And it’s right.
One of the hardest (yet most beautiful) lessons of my life has been the selflessness of love.
Of my love – a love I never planned, never expected and never renounced. A love for a man I shall refer to as “Mustafa”.
This was the only love that I shared without every truly receiving. Unrequited love? Not quite.
I think he loved me. I believe he did. I felt he did – in his reserved, scared, tender, yet very real way.
I knew I did at least. I’d told him so. I couldn’t wait any longer.
“Mustafa, I love you” I texted him one night in Arabic (his native language). He seemed surprised and said we’d talk about it that night during our usual evening call.
I was shocked, surprised and embarrassed. Was he surprised to hear it or to actually know it?
Well, it wasn’t love at first sight – not for me at least. We’d got off to a rough start and I wasn’t sure if it’d go anywhere after an awkward end to our first date (one with highs and lows!).
Was it cultural difference? Not much I don’t think. He was Middle Eastern (Iraqi to be precise), and I was European. But that wasn’t really the issue.
From our very first calls, we’d established a connection and discussed our different backgrounds. I had a fondness for his culture and was very much familiar with it.
Mustafa, on the other hand, had struggled with ex-partners who didn’t understand his culture. He liked the idea of a mixed family, and I did too.
I seemed to fit the bill, and he seemed to fit mine.
I loved and understood his culture. And he loved mine. We were both living in the UK and experiencing life here.
Next: religion. Well, we were both Muslim. In more ways than one. Half Kurdish and half Arab, his parents were a mix of Sunni and Shia. Yet he identified simply as Muslim – just like me, and (as I later discovered) we both loved Sufi mysticism.
We were both spiritual, progressive and cosmopolitan – and had lived overseas amid different cultures and faiths.
It was him in fact that encouraged me to “be myself” as I explained how I was constantly weaving between different cultural/religious norms and settings.
He was right. And I was myself – a Muslim woman in his eyes. Yet also a very British-Italian one too.
There was no pressure. I could be me, in his words at least.
In all honesty though, I once again did battle slightly with previous conceptions of cultural/religious norms.
There was once again a clash between what I’d been taught by other people from Arab (yet more conservative) backgrounds (which seemed an oil and water mix combined with my personal trauma) and Mustafa’s rather more open self.
Mustafa had grown up in an Arab, Muslim majority country. His home country was the seemingly conservative Iraq. But there was more to it.
As a young professional and polyglot, he appeared to be proud of his heritage and likewise non-traditional, liberal and very open minded. He had also grown up in diverse country, a very culturally rich nation and resided in the urban big cities/capitals.
Similarly, I was also still on my path of rediscovery post-Orthodox Islam. I was trying to fully embrace the European “me” (again a big part of my journey a the time – and still to date really).
In fact, despite him having come from a much more conservative society, it was with me appearing, modelling and behaving as the relatively more “conservative” one the more we knew each other.
None the less, it was refreshing. We were both culturally open, both loved learning about other people and both very similarly progressive in our faith.
Religion wasn’t an issue. And culture not so much either – not on a grand or overtly obvious scale in terms of practices, traditions and views.
So, what was the problem? Well, to put it simply: emotional factors.
This boiled down to emotional unavailability on his side and differing communication (or lack of) as a result (regarding emotional intelligibility and his inability to openly communicate his feelings – and quite possibly unhealed previous and more recent trauma).
We had quite clearly had opposing attachment styles (the later generally forming in relation to childhood upbringing and personal trauma).
These three were in hindsight all related – very related. Of course, some of this can be cultural – and it mostly likely was.
Communication styles, norms and practices vary amongst cultures. They relate to one’s reality as an adult and through our upbringing as a child.
And it’s our childhood that has a particular impact on our lives.
In this context, undoubtedly collective trauma affects cultures/societies and how we’re taught to communicate, behave and relate to others.
Growing up in a country of multiple conflicts, I think this is entirely relevant. I cannot begin to imagine what Mustafa must have gone through.
I of course hold sympathy for (yet basic insight into) this.
Back in 2011, my MA final thesis comprised a translation project based on a text by the Italian-Iraqi writer named Younis Tawfiq entitled “L’Iraq di Saddam” (Saddam’s Iraq).
This text covered the Iraq war, the journey of migration and longing for one’s homeland. I’d poured my heart and soul into this work (and got a distinction as a result).
But, I’d had little communication with Iraqis prior to meeting Mustafa.
Whilst I was very much against the war in Iraq on behalf of the US and UK, it wasn’t something I was an expert on or that had become part of my world since my degree.
Nonetheless, my heart went out to him. And it always will. But it wasn’t as simple as that.
Whilst we both loved and knew each other’s cultures to varying degrees, that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was his emotional state at the time when he’d put himself on the dating scene of marriage (and I say this without judgment and with full compassion and care).
When looking to date/marry, we’re putting ourselves out there to become part of a union. And that union is comprised of individuals who will impact on each other.
Everyone deserves love. No one should be a prisoner to their past. And yet, how we live as fully grown adults is our own responsibility.
So too is how we relate, communicate, engage and interact with others – including what we project onto them, how we treat them and how they feel as a result (consciously or consciously, intentionally or unintentionally).
I know that from my story with Rami. And well, this is how my story with Mustafa unfolded…
After keeping in touch via video and text (he was living in London and myself in the Midlands – including with a trip to Poland in between for a training I was undertaking), we met.
The first date started well… But ended badly (and confusingly). Yet, we stayed in touch.
Mustafa had reached out. But, I didn’t find him to be as communicatively open as I was (and felt I needed and deserved).
And so, over time, a culmination of distance, life pressures and emotional baggage got in the way. I didn’t hold out hope.
And then it happened. Text after text, video call after video call over the Christmas break. I felt it.
“I think I’m in love with Mustafa” I texted a friend. Well, it was early days. Very early days. But I felt it – and it grew, more and more.
I tried to doubt it, but I was right: I loved him. It was a love that had crept up on me so innocently, so softly, so beautifully.
But, I didn’t say anything. I wanted him to say it first and I definitely didn’t want to scare him off.
This heart-on-her-sleeve romantic had sensed he was the emotionally introverted take-it-slow type. So, I waited and hid it – in words at least.
Valentine’s Day then came round. We decided to mark the occasion but were in different areas of the country on the day itself.
So, I sent a package (a few days early) – full of love but inner silence.
Inside I’d placed a card that I’d very carefully chosen to be as low-key as possible, with a few selected gifts. Cute, thoughtful, personalised. But not OTT.
Not knowing how he’d respond, we spoke later that day, and he shared how he’d loved it.
The following evening (on Valentine’s Day itself) the door ball rang, and I opened the door to an Amazon driver.
I’d received a box, with a note and two gifts inside: a wooden music box to the tune of Can’t Help Falling in Love and a flashing standing musical card with the words “I love you” printed on the front.
This was a much more romantic response to the one I’d so carefully but very un-typically ended with “from Liz” in Arabic.
I texted my friends a video and a few photos. My British friends thought it was uber cheesy (and so said nothing!). I loved it.
For the old school romantic that I am (and my friends know very well), hardly anything could be (too) cheesy.
It was a very typically (stereotypically) Middle Eastern display of affection. And a sweet, tender, subtle declaration of affection by Mustafa.
I was moved, beaming and smiling from ear to ear. I was touched. In particular by those three little (yet big) words.
Mustafa had not uttered them himself, but when we spoke that night, he confirmed that he’d chosen everything purposely.
So, it was mutual, I thought. Like every other love I’d ever felt – mutual, real, beautiful.
Give him time I told myself. This was him. And it was a beautiful first display of affection.
We were so compatible – or so I thought. In my mind, we were seemingly perfect for each other. I’d have married him (in time) if he’d have asked.
Yet, this was a beautiful, but sadly impedingly tragic tale.
A tale that became written by feelings of painful half measures, emotional withdrawal and immense frustration. Hurt, rejection and longing – on my side at least.
I’d told him I loved him. And I discovered that we had totally different attachment styles: anxious attachment (me) and avoidant attachment (him).
(@mustang_rranjan)I was already working on healing this pattern, acknowledging this and sharing my newfound knowledge with him. But it didn’t go very far.
We broke down and resolved a few miscommunications, but the real work behind the scenes didn’t seem to be happening on his end.
At the end of my tether, he finally opened up: he hadn’t been happy but thought a relationship would make him happier. It wasn’t about me.
I explained that he needed to make himself happy first. To not dive into a relationship. Because his misery (a word he used himself) was making me miserable too.
And here came the lesson. One of the hardest lessons in my life to-date: I loved him, I truly loved him.
And it was because I loved him that I wanted him to be happy: with or without me.
“But I don’t want to lose you” – he uttered. He wanted me, he just needed time.
And so, I gave him time. But, week after week, the wounds grew deeper. As did his distance and my sense of hurt, rejection and being pushed away by the man I loved.
I couldn’t hang on. I couldn’t cling to half measures. I deserved better. I deserved more.
And so, disappointment after disappointment, I ended it. And it hit me. Like a knife. A deep searing knife right in my chest. Aching, paining, digging.
I cried with my heart and soul. Day in day out for a week – without contact.
Mustafa later returned and we met in person, with more disappointments, more misery and more hurt. My heart broke all over again. I cried rivers, streams, oasis of tears.
He needed time to figure out what he wanted, although declaring once again when he finally opened up that it wasn’t about me and that he valued our bond. That he needed time.
But I wouldn’t hang around for answers. I could be patient and support him, but only if he chose me.
And so, I chose myself. I chose self-love. I chose me. Because I wasn’t going to wait on the sidelines in a limbo for a man who didn’t know what he wanted – or wasn’t going to say it if he did.
I was also going to take space and time to heal before looking to (see if we could) be friends.
So, we no longer spoke. Then, a few weeks later, he texted me – with a photo of him in a hospital bed.
It was a surprise and shock. Totally out of the blue. He was ill.
He’d undergone a major operation and had been in hospital for two weeks.
We spoke. I packed my bags and rushed to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital (London) when discharge day came.
As I entered the building, I paused, took a deep breath and gathered myself for what I knew was going to be a very difficult few days ahead. And it was.
It was four days of caring, four days of raw wounds and four days of arguments, fatigue, unspoken words and many, many tears. Beautiful, intense and tragic.
During one disagreement, he said we were incompatible. I replied that he didn’t deserve me.
There we were, like two very close strangers. He didn’t understand me, and I didn’t understand him.
We were on two different emotional planets (and no, this wasn’t just a “cultural thing”).
Looking back, it required a lot of effort (on his part) and healing and dialogue (for us both).
Several days in, the night before I left, we told each other how we’d miss each other – of course I initiated:
“You annoy the hell out of me but I’m going to miss you” I told him.
“I’ll miss you too” he replied. Then, early next morning, I left.
I boarded a coach back to the Midlands. And as the coach left Victoria coach station, I burst into deep tears. Streaming, hot tears.
A few hours later, back “up north”, I arrived at work and opened my phone: “I’m missing you this morning” he’d written. So he was. And so was I.
But, I’d returned without expectations – just like when I’d travelled down to London to be with him. I couldn’t expect anything.
My love was there to care and look after a friend who needed practical and emotional support. And I’m glad I went.
I’m glad I remained true to myself. And I’m glad I listened to myself.
I took it for what it was. For the beauty that we’d shared; for the care I’d given, for the support he’d received, and for the moments we’d shared.
And: I moved forward – with a lot of hurt, tears and memories behind me and my self-respect in tact, my friends by my side and my future ahead of me.
Looking back: what I learnt
True love is selfless – it does not falter, it does not demand, it simply gives
Any relationship should be a mutual exchange – a selfless exchange, without discounting one’s needs. Sharing, giving and caring should be done for the sake of the other, for the sake of love. And true love is selfless.
True love is about wanting the other person to feel happy, secure and fulfilled. Both partners should expect respect, love, trust and appreciation.
However, love cannot force a person to heal. Love cannot heal another person who is not ready or willing to heal.
Love on its own is not enough. But it is selfless in its truest form. This however does not mean discounting oneself.
Self-love is not selfish – it’s a priority
Self-love must come first. This is not being selfish. It’s about being responsible, about looking after yourself and about respecting yourself.
Self-love, self-care and self-respect translate to communicating your needs, setting boundaries and loving for others what we love for ourselves (the Golden Rule).
Therefore, self-love in the purest, kindest and purest sense translates to selfless love for others too.
Compatibility is about more than outward religious or cultural difference
Mutual long-term compatibility is about sharing commonality, navigating difference and communicating deeply. Without communication, no relationship can flourish.
Just as values are about more than simply about culture or religion (to not be viewed as a homogonous monolith on their own, nor as part of a split binary and in any over-simplified view), compatibility requires emotional availability.
This requires deeper communication, regardless of one’s culture – whilst acknowledging the effect of socio-cultural norms on religious and cultural practice and one’s emotional wellbeing (e.g. collective societal trauma and how this shapes socio-cultural norms).
Emotional needs are an important element of who we are and how we relate to others. Different love languages exist, different attachment styles exist and different perceptions of what a happy relationship exist.
These can vary, but this doesn’t mean they’re incompatible or present unsurmountable barriers.
However, they do require reflection, communication, and the will, trust and understanding to move forward together to break down, navigate and manage these differences into compromise (or forming new behaviours individually and together – for example through healing trauma).
Coming up:
Look out for part 5 of this series (the final segment), where I conclude by sharing insight into the factors and dynamics involved in mixed relationships in maintaining a healthy long-lasting interfaith/intercultural relationship.
This post was originally published on Voice of Salam.