During O-Week, there was no question I heard more than Where are you from? Actually, I’m lying—What’s your major? easily took the crown. But that “where are you from” question still threw me every time. Most people at Rice had an answer ready to go—Michigan, Kansas, Beijing—, quick and easy. But for me, it’s never that simple. I could say Pakistan. I could say Saudi Arabia. I could even say the U.S. All true, but none of them quite feels like it tells the whole story, so then what does?

I grew up in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia, in the Aramco compound—a place that felt like a unique blend of the world. Everyone’s parents worked for the same company, which made it easy to find common ground, but the diversity was what really set it apart. My school was a melting pot—kids from all over the world, different backgrounds, cultures, and languages, all thrown together in this tight-knit community. It didn’t matter where your parents were from—India, the U.S., Lebanon—making friends was easy when we were all part of this little world that revolved around Aramco. It was like growing up in a global village where, somehow, we all shared the same values and experiences.

From kindergarten to graduation, I was with the same group of kids. I can still picture us in the sandbox, me making sand balls and launching them at my friends, who were laughing just as much as I was. Fast forward to high school graduation, and those same friends were sitting beside me, as if no time had passed. We grew up in this bubble, a bubble where it was easy to belong, and even though we were surrounded by Saudi Arabia, life inside the compound had its own distinct rhythm. We weren’t disconnected from Saudi; we were just a little different—part of the country, but living in our own kind of microcosm.

High school was when Saudi itself started to change, and we felt that shift. Skyscrapers were shooting up across the skyline, and whole cities were transforming around us. At the same time, I began to connect more with the Arab culture outside the compound. By then, I’d picked up a Nissan Patrol Super Safari—a rite of passage for anyone serious about desert bashing. My friends and I would pile in, crank up the music, and head out into the dunes beyond the city. We’d get stuck, dig ourselves out, race the sunset, and when the day was done, we’d sit under the stars, drinking karak chai and talking late into the night. Those moments, out in the open desert, made me feel more connected to Saudi Arabia—the raw beauty, the endless stretch of sand. It wasn’t just a backdrop; it felt like part of who I was becoming.

But twice a year, like clockwork, I’d leave behind the evolving skyline of Dhahran and head to Peshawar, Pakistan. Stepping off the plane in Peshawar felt like entering a different world entirely. The streets were wild—louder, more chaotic, but deeply comforting. My family was there, and I spoke Pashto fluently, which helped me navigate the colorful chaos of the bazaars without missing a beat. I felt at home, but also, I didn’t. I was always the kid from Saudi, the one who showed up twice a year and then disappeared again.

Still, Peshawar is where my roots are. It’s where I learned the stories of my family, where tradition and history run deep. But I’ve always felt like I’m a visitor there, tied to it by blood but not completely shaped by it.

And then there’s the U.S. I hold an American passport, a golden ticket that I didn’t fully understand the privilege of until I started applying to universities. While my friends navigated the maze of visas and international paperwork, I breezed through, passport in hand. That was when I realized how much that little blue booklet shaped my future without me even knowing it.

So, where am I from? Honestly, it’s complicated. I’m from the compound gates and sandboxes of Dhahran, where I grew up with the same kids who would one day sit next to me at graduation. I’m from the wide, noisy streets of Peshawar, where family means everything, even if I sometimes feel like I’m just visiting. And, on paper at least, I’m from the U.S., though that connection has always felt more like an idea than a place I know.

Maybe that’s the real answer: I’m from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Each place has left its mark, and I’m still figuring out where I truly belong. But before any of you ask, no—it’s definitely not the toaster. And yes, I’ve picked a major. Please stop asking.