I could see it in his eyes. He was desperate to ask but wasn’t quite sure how.

“So ... where are you from?”

Mark shifted slightly, fighting against the uncomfortable realisation that it was a question best left alone but one he’d decided to ask anyway.

“Uh ... from Greenacre”.

I half-smiled back, relishing this small act of resistance. We both knew that wasn’t what he was asking. Mark paused, mentally rehearsing his next move.

Do I ask her where her parents are from? Mmm ... too direct. Where were you born? Wait, her accent … she was probably born here. But where are you *really* from? Yeah nah. Why is she making this so hard? She knows what I mean.

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Like a tired script, left tattered by all those who’ve read through it before him, his mind ticked along, searching for words that would make his question seem a little less ... wrong, somehow. Words that wouldn’t come because there was no way to ask his question without turning me into Them. He was an Us. His blonde hair, blue eyes, and surname made sure of it.

Yet we shared a lot, Mark and I.

I was born in Sydney, just like he was. I went to a school that showered me with mufti days and 1-minute silences. I woke up to Play School and spent weekday arvos gripped by Round the Twist. My grandfather owned a little milk bar in Newcastle in the ’60s, selling Bubble O’Bills to kids on their way home from school. Mark and I both mourned Christchurch, both seethed the day Martin Place was held hostage, and both woke up every morning wondering whether we had a new prime minister.

We shared so much, yet we lived in a world of Us and Them. A world where names and pigment mattered.

Mark’s eyes flickered and I knew that his searching had come to an end. He’d finally found the words.

Don’t jostle past the answer I give you in search of one that fits your idea of me

“Oh haha, Greenacre. That Al Aseel place makes amazing hummus. Speaking of, do you know how to make it? I mean, you’re ... Arab, right?”

Ten points for creativity.

My mind flashed back to year 10 when I’d just had surgery on a broken ankle. That year, I watched the fireworks from a hospital bed. When they gave me breakfast the next morning, I wasn’t particularly hungry. But they had toast. And I never said no to toast.

“Happy new year, sweetheart. They’re bringing breakfast now.”

The nurse was one of those sweet old ladies that you’d want to have tea and scones with. She reminded me a little of my gran. “There’s some baked beans and jam for ya too,” the nurse exclaimed, dropping my tray onto the table. “There’s also some Vegemite but I suppose you don’t like that. I’ll take it away”.

Us and Them. Even our food choices aren’t immune.

She reached into my tray, getting ready to drop the little yellow packet back into the condiments basket. My hand shot out to stop her.

“I love Vegemite actually.”

Taken aback, the nurse dropped it into my palm. She was clearly embarrassed but laughed it off.

“Oh sorry honey. I just assumed because …”, she trailed off. Because I look Arab. Yes. I know.

Now I stared back at Mark, trying to come up with something witty. But I couldn’t. Because he was right. My blood is Arab. My name, my complexion, the foreign words swirling through my mind. They’re all Arab.

And yet, I was born and raised in Australia. I visited Lebanon for the first time when I was 12. The second time was two years ago. It’s a great place to visit. But is it home? No. Am I from there? Depends on who you ask.

Until the glittering lights of Europe beckoned, Australia was the only home I’d ever known. To me, I’m as Australian as all the Smiths and Williams that wonder why this Elkhodr can’t just answer their darn question the way they want her to. Truth is, most of the time I do. It’s easier than trying to explain why their question robs me of my right to be an Australian without the fine print. Why asking me where I’m from assumes that I could never be from here. That I don’t belong. That Australia could never truly be home.

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I wanted to tell Mark that it’s OK to be curious and wanting to know why he can trace almonds around my eyes, hear his own accent in mine and see skin that’s cloaked in a darker shade of cream. All at the same time. I wanted to scream that I wasn’t trying to dodge his question. Ask me about my cultural background. Ask me whether I speak another language. Ask me whether my parents were born in Australia. Just don’t assume that I’m not from here. Don’t jostle past the answer I give you in search of one that fits your idea of me. I may have links to another desert land far away but that doesn’t make me any less Australian. And I won’t let Mark – or anyone else – tell me otherwise.

So I don’t.

Today, as I go about my life in London, people often ask me where I’m from. But it doesn’t hurt. Because the truth is, I’m a foreigner here. My accent gives it away. So I reply the way I responded to Mark that day and for the first time in my life, I’m accepted without question.

“Ahh yes. I figured you were. You must be loving the sunshine here, then?” they respond, with a wink and a chuckle.

And I chuckle back. Because when they ask me, I respond the only way that feels right to me.

“I’m Australian”.

• Sabrine Elkhodr is a pharmacist and director of the medical communications agency Docfluencer