Having travelled extensively throughout the Middle East and North Africa as a child with my family, I was never subjected to such line of questioning. Yet the multiple times I entered Tunisia via Tunis Carthage, this never satisfied officials. In the end, I would cave every single time and I would say that we were of Bangladeshi origins out of fear of the situation escalating. As you can imagine, there were always police in front of the arc and on a particularly warm day after class I was walking home from where my cab would usually drop me off in front of Bab el Bhar when I got stopped by the police.
We had a short conversation where they asked me where I was from and what I was doing in Tunisia. Before I could muster a response, they asked whether I was Libyan because geopolitical tensions over migration are currently at an all time high. I responded in French saying that I was British and they asked to see my passport which I had left in my apartment. After some further questioning, I was finally allowed to walk home. Within the space of ten minutes, I was then asked about my origins in a takeaway.
On my year abroad, I have been cooking more than I ever did during my time at Oxford. From the moment I add my spices into my curries up until I ladle the finished product, I think of how my grandma used to cook everything from scratch every time I visited her; I think of when my mum cooks my favourite dishes on special occasions, and I feel myself with them. It may sound cliche but I feel the Sylhetian blood coursing through my veins every time I send baba pictures of my curries knowing he will probably validate my culinary skills.
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