Culture and Identity: concepts that captivate and confound. A double dose of displacement, Expatlog follows our experiences as a mixed-race, expat family, through the tinted lens of Asperger’s and Bipolar. That’s about as ‘outsider’ as you can get…
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“I am in between. Trying to write to be understood by those who matter to me, yet also trying to push my mind with ideas beyond the everyday. It is another borderland I inhabit. Not quite here nor there. On good days I feel I am a bridge. On bad days I just feel alone.”
I weighed just 91lbs but the burden of anorexia was incalculable.
Always anticipating the call for last orders expats tend to neck Life’s opportunities like it’s Happy Hour.
Let’s just say my husband’s decision to marry a ‘ghori’ wasn’t a cause for celebration among his relatives.
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Instead of building intercultural bridges as I imagined, I was adding my bricks to the prisons so many are walled up in by their own communities…
They said on the radio today this was the coldest February since eighteen-something. After a certain point cold is cold is cold.
I don’t need to take on the responsibility for changing other people’s misconceptions. Learning to be honest and authentic – standing in my own truth – is more important right now.
These days when I relax in shavasana at the end of yoga the tears flowing into my ears are from an ecstasy of joy not sorrow…
There’s no room for questions or variance in expression of belief in Islam – to be true to myself I must step out.
Previously I owned up to the deep disquiet I’ve been feeling about my faith; how I suppressed it, and how I tried to reignite my conviction.
But my quest only unearthed more reasons to hold it in question. This wasn’t a dip in devotion – it was a derailment.
Zealous muslim converts strike out for Syria in droves answering the Islamist call to jihad, but this one’s eyeing the back door…
The Monarch butterfly’s migration is one of the most amazing in the insect world – which makes for a fascinating school science project.
How much of my father’s behaviour was a result of his illness, and how much was his real personality?
…and you stand there vacant as a sixties flowerchild – mind scrabbling for a trace, a scrap, a glistening nugget of memory that will bring the two-day void back into focus.
‘What DID we do?’
The weather has steadily grown more humid in the past week, as if to taunt us. The first day of school dawned a sticky 30 degrees on the humidex…
Next week I’ll walk my children to school and, instead of having S’s incomparable company for the return journey, I’ll be walking back alone…
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