To begin this story, first I need to explain a shafra blend.

Shafra is the Arabic word for razor. And a blend is a style of haircut where the hair is blended in from the bottom to the top. This stops it from looking like you have two levels of hair on your head. So a shafra blend is the kind of haircut where you razor the bottom, and blend it up the top.

I spent most of my teenage and adult years getting this haircut. It was odd in most communities I visited around Australia, but very common in the western suburbs of Sydney – especially among young men of Lebanese-Australian background. Our parents hated it. Our leaders hated it. Our teachers hated it. Other communities hated it. They just didn’t have the courage to tell us.

One time, I went to get a haircut in Bankstown. I waited for half an hour before I was seated, and watched three young men of similar background to me all get similar haircuts – a step, an undercut, a blend, a Mohawk. Once I was finally seated, I asked for my usual haircut – you guessed it, a shafra blend.

Five minutes before the haircut was over, the hairdresser finally started speaking to me. He too was a young man of Arab background, but unlike me, he’d migrated to Australia just a few years ago. He’s the kind of Arab that proves I’m actually an Australian. He’d laugh if I declared I was an Arab, struggling to communicate with him in Arabic and resorting to hybridised English. He asked me, in Arabic, "what do you do?"

Before I answered the question I stared at myself in the mirror: my dark eyes, thick black eyebrows and eyelashes, my olive skin, and my frown. Most importantly, I stared at my haircut. Then I said, "I’m a writer."

"Shu?" he asked. "What?"

"Writer," I said. "Writer."

He laughed, accepted my money and said he hoped to see me again. I knew, as soon as the word came out of my mouth, that he’d think I was making fun. A writer doesn’t get this haircut.

That’s why getting a shafra blend has always been so important to me. I could get a smarter, more polite haircut, one that is more acceptable to both a conservative Muslim and Arab community and one that is more acceptable to a middle class Anglo writers’ community. I’ve always known that it would make a lot of people happier, and more comfortable – especially my parents. But if I did, then it keeps the myth going: that people like me are not writers.

Western Sydney is my community. To me, the region has always represented both the heart of where I live, and the heart of Australia. It is the country's most densely populated region, and specifically, the most diverse region, with the largest populations of people from Aboriginal, migrant and refugee backgrounds.

It represents the kind of Australia that we all imagine and hear about, and that we constantly say is worth celebrating, but one that is heavily underrepresented when I watch television, read books, go to theatres, or attend arts festivals.

Sadly, the community of western Sydney not only suffers from underrepresentation; it also suffers from limited representation and misrepresentation. There is a picture that hangs in the office of my previous employer titled "Tintin in Bankstown". He keeps it up because he says it’s funny. It features the famous European adventurer walking down a street with Bankstown train station directly behind him. There is also a dead body, bloodstains and bird poo behind him. This perception of Bankstown as a violent, dirty place is a common one.

There are always news reports of shootings and stabbings in the western suburbs, and often these are connected to the perpetrator’s cultural backgrounds and religions. I have heard the words "Asian", "Vietnamese", "Lebanese", "Pacific Islander", "Middle Eastern" and "Muslim" come up way too many times. Try to imagine, in contrast, reading news reports where the headlines are:

"Aussies stealing all of our businesses". "Anglo man stabs a bystander". "Protestant leads gang rape".

When Jill Meagher was murdered last year, the country went into mourning. I have not yet seen one reference to Adrian Bailey’s cultural background or religious beliefs in relation to the crime. Instead, the blame has seemed to be heavily connected to his general history of violence against women. In contrast to this, I still remember during the 2000 Sydney Olympics reading articles in The Daily Telegraph and The Australian about the gang rapes that took place in Sydney’s western suburbs. One article in The Telegraph opened with, "The gang rapists, Australian-born Lebanese Muslims roamed Sydney hunting for non-Muslim teenage girls they regarded as 'Aussie sluts'".

The majority of film and literature that has been released about my community has also been negative and limited. Films like The Combination, Cedar Boys; TV shows like East West 101, Underbelly; and books like Evil in the Suburbs, give us an extreme overrepresentation of young men of Middle Eastern background from Western Sydney who are involved in drugs, gangs, guns and sexual assaults. We haven’t seen the end of them either. There are more of these kinds of stories on their way, including George Basha and David Field’s next film, Convict, a new prison story that will showcase a very multicultural cast.

This kind of representation of my community has required an active response – a resistance that is both critical and assertive.

First as Westside Publications, and now as Sweatshop Western Sydney Literacy Movement, we developed a program that would engage thousands of people from western Sydney in literacy and literature. We generate employment and skills development; we run workshops and residencies; and we produce anthologies, performances, launches, documentaries, films, readings and festivals. Our primary goal is to produce literature from Western Sydney and about Western Sydney.

So why is our work important?

This was the question presented to me by African-Canadian cultural theorist Handel Wright at the beginning of 2012. He pointed out that I was very good at talking about what we did, but not very good at explaining the importance of why we did it. Wright’s question led me to the work of bell hooks, the African-American feminist scholar. In her book, Talking Back, hooks uses the term "coming to voice" – an act of moving from silence to speech as revolutionary gesture. This is why our work is important: we are coming to voice.

The stories of people from backgrounds and communities that in the past were negatively represented, or not represented at all, are finally being heard, almost by force, as a way of changing people’s attitudes and beliefs about us. Our beliefs and attitudes are changing also: "I too can be a writer, just the way I am."

This agenda has inspired much of my own work. I have been fascinated by the experience of being from both western Sydney and being of a Lebanese-Australian Muslim-Alawite background. My fascination has not been in the stereotypical, limited and often demonising way that we’ve seen it done so far, but rather in the honest and complex way that it unfolds in my life.

Like the time, for example, when my mother and I argued about whether my cousin Leila was happy she married a white man. "Of course she’s not happy," my mother said. "Her sons aren’t circumcised!"

• This is an edited extract from an article that appeared in The Emerging Writer, The Emerging Writers’ Festival book written for writers, by writers