**Belonging, Borders, and the Power of Stories: Reflections on Building Bridges Across Cultures**
“I suppose I live on a bridge—never on just one side. Neither Canadian nor Afghan in the singular sense, but someone who sees, and tries to weave, the threads between.” This idea stays with me, whenever I reflect on my journey—across continents, cultures, and spheres of belonging. It’s much more than nostalgia; it’s about wrestling with multiplicity and making connection itself the cornerstone of my identity.
When Joanne Lockwood invited me to join her on the Inclusion Bites Podcast—an unapologetically bold space where conversation doesn’t skirt around discomfort, but knuckles down into it—I sensed a kindred spirit. We share an understanding that real transformation (for individuals, for teams, for entire societies) rarely comes from comfort; it comes from the friction and grace of curiosity and shared narrative.
This dialogue mattered to me profoundly. The question of belonging isn’t academic—it's intimately bound into the arc of my family, the shape of my life, and the daily reality of countless people forced to uproot and rebuild after war, political upheaval, or simple seeking. With Afghanistan—and Afghan people—so often reduced to war headlines or one-dimensional victim narratives, I find it imperative to use whatever platform I have to render something truer, richer, and fundamentally more human.
Let me tell you why this conversation still echoes for me, and what I continue to carry onward.
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### The Inclusion Bites Podcast: Disruption as a Practice
First, a word about the space Joanne has built. The Inclusion Bites Podcast, founded and hosted by Joanne Lockwood, is a crucible for ideas at the fore of inclusion and belonging. Joanne herself leads with both lived experience and professional credibility, moving fluidly between innovation consultancy and candid dialogue as a transgender woman. She is not afraid to probe the status quo—her questions are incisive, compassionate, and underpinned by decades of advocating for truly transformative inclusion in both the UK and globally.
More than [INSERT_VIEW_COUNT] people have already watched our interview on YouTube, with many more tuning in via Spotify and Apple Podcasts.
If our conversation stirs something for you—be it unease, recognition, or a sudden urge to share your own story—please do leave a comment below. I read every one carefully and value the ripple effect of shared dialogue.
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## Between Worlds: Rethinking Identity and the Myth of ‘Completeness’
I’ve lost count of how often I’ve been asked, “Do you feel more Canadian or Afghan?” as if belonging is a zero-sum game. The reality is, growing up in Canada as the child of Afghan refugees, I never once questioned who I was—until life called me back in 2005. What began as a short-term volunteer trip stretched into 15 years working, living, and building bridges in Afghanistan—a country largely constructed, in my childhood, from the patchwork of headlines, parent’s stories, music, food, and the echoes of loss.
What surprised me was that, after so many years abroad, my connection was not to a single, static homeland, but to the tension between two worlds. Canada shaped my lens; Afghanistan reshaped my sense of purpose. Yet, returning never collapsed the gap between the cultures. “I realised I kind of live now between both worlds, neither fully in the Canadian sort of childhood I’d been brought up with, nor fully connected in the way people had been born and raised in Afghanistan might feel.” The bridge wasn’t a consolation—it became my superpower. It allowed me to “see the unseen and amplify voices caught between worlds”, something Joanne immediately zeroed in on: “So you’re enriching the environment you’re now in, with all of the heritage and family and culture you bring.”
Recognising the impossibility of the “total belonging” that our parents’ generation might have known is challenging. But I believe, if we relinquish the illusion of wholeness, we can embrace our hybrid existences as blessings rather than deficits. “Maybe we have an opportunity to really be a bridge between two worlds, because we are part of two worlds.” This is a newborn category—there’s power in carrying the dialectics, and not defaulting to victimhood or anger.
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## The Landscapes We Carry: Challenging Media Myths and Creating Compassion
Afghanistan for me, as for many outsiders, was sketched in the hues of war, guns, and rocky landscapes peopled almost exclusively by men. Joanne was honest about the image the UK media had branded on the public imagination, recalling how “if I had to picture Afghanistan with my eyes closed, I would see a very rocky, mountainous, desert-type place with men with Kalashnikov rifles...I’m sure I’m completely missing the real, day-to-day Afghanistan.”
No-one chooses the narratives they are given. This is where compassion matters—not just for others, but for ourselves as well. “It’s the responsibility of those of us who want you to see Afghanistan more broadly to understand, with some compassion, that that’s the image that you were given and that’s not a decision you made.” My own family, exiled by conflict, bore the scars and silences of forced displacement. For their part, most in the Afghan diaspora are as cut off from their motherland as any external observer—piecing together an identity from fragments, longing, or even anger.
Yet even amidst relentless hardship, the fundamentals of Afghan day-to-day life—resilience, laughter, family bonds, women’s agency—persistently break the surface. I am careful not to idealise “resilience,” but in our context, it means the ongoing creation of meaning, dignity, and cultural life despite the impositions of violence and loss.
The work, I believe, lies in humanising. “No-one’s denying those headlines,” I argue, “we’re just saying that’s just a speck of the truth.” We have an obligation to multiply the stories, not to erase tragedy, but to balance it—so a new, living picture can emerge.
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## The Limits of Systems: What Inclusion Really Requires
Joanne’s curiosity rightly turned to the question of systems. Canada, as a “mosaic” rather than a “melting pot”, espouses a model where distinct cultural identities are preserved and celebrated. But formal acknowledgement—Prime Ministerial greetings on holidays or “representation” on television—is one layer; meaningful grassroots connection is quite another.
I know first-hand that there’s still a gulf between being seen and being truly understood. Policy may be inclusive, but everyday life is textured not by legislation but by the small acts of curiosity, allyship, and willingness to ask better questions. “We’re not ever going to be able to have the same connection as maybe our parents had,” I found myself offering, “Nor are we going to have a fully belonging feeling that a lot of times people in our host country have. What I'd like to see is that we... recognise that it’s almost a new category” of identity, where multivalence is an asset.
For service providers working with newcomers or refugees, this means a deeper kind of compassion. Welcoming someone fleeing from a war zone is not the same as welcoming someone relocating from Switzerland. Both deserve respect, but the former carries layers of trauma and loss that systems often gloss over. The urgency is not for empty charity, but for spaces where those newly arrived can “feel powerful”—and where integration does not necessitate erasure.
The most dangerous pitfall is benevolent condescension—reducing people to passive recipients of help. The skills, careers, and dreams of displaced people deserve to be recognised, connected, and given scope to thrive. Joanne and I agreed that true inclusion starts with asking people directly about themselves, refusing the temptation to flatten them into mere representatives of an entire country or narrative.
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## Healing, Loss, and the Right to Grieve
Much is said about resilience, but little about the quiet, persistent pain of exile. I know this too well. Even for those, like me, who return as adults, the act of rebuilding a life from scratch is overwhelming. The language, the familiar foods, the professions—the lives built “over there”—don’t simply transfer. “It's actually worse than nothing because you haven’t got all the things you were used to. You're almost negative.” To adapt, we must wholeheartedly honour loss, not rush prematurely to gratitude or performance for our new society.
This is a wound rarely acknowledged, whether in youth or adult newcomers. I believe we short-circuit true integration if we don’t give newcomers time and space to grieve both the rupture and the future that’s been lost. In my workshops, I press for this recognition—not as an indulgence, but as a necessity for healing and eventual belonging. “We rarely take the moment or that time to say we had it bad, too... Not getting caught up in that victimhood and finding a place where we feel powerful, that’s where I want to sort of be part of that narrative.” Only through honest mourning can we find the capacity to integrate new joy.
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## Agency, Curiosity, and the Art of Asking
Something Joanne modelled throughout the conversation was a willingness to interrogate her own biases without shame and to lead humbly with curiosity. After all, none of us arrives knowing the scripts for every culture or context—we have only questions, sometimes well-formed, sometimes clumsy. I sense that many are paralysed by fear of offending, saying the wrong thing, or being cast as ignorant.
“People are often scared of getting things wrong,” Joanne said, “they worry about their conversation and putting their foot in it. So they say what they think is a nice thing. But the nice thing is actually more patronising by trying to be helpful.” This danger—the slide into well-intentioned but condescending “saviourism”—is endemic.
I advocate for bravery—ask with an open mind, posture your questions as invitations rather than assumptions, and allow your counterpart to surprise you. Look for small, tangible avenues—watch a cooking video, read a short story, try learning a greeting. We have so much access now; why not use it to humanise, rather than stereotype, the other?
Yet, responsibility travels both ways. As someone frequently asked to ‘represent’ Afghanistan or Afghan women, I feel most at ease when I can anchor the answer in my own lived reality, not as a "spokesperson" for millions. “If we could just approach people in general conversation, even outside of this Afghanistan conversation... and ask people about their personal experience rather than these broad, all-encompassing, ‘hey, tell me all about your country and how everyone thinks and feels and experiences life’... It will enlighten you.”
If we each take up this agency—both to risk the awkward question and to receive it with care—dialogue becomes possible.
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## The Burden and Gift of Representation
There were moments in our conversation where the emotional fatigue of being a perpetual advocate surfaced. Joanne recognised this well: “Sometimes don’t you just want to take your shoes off and go, I just want to be Meena?” I laughed—and admitted that over time, I’ve had to put down the impossible weight of “fixing” all perceptions, or singlehandedly shifting global systems.
“I can’t get the Taliban out of there. I can’t change everyone’s mind about Afghanistan. I just go with what’s in front of me, what I can do, what I have the energy to do.” When the expectation arises to “speak for Afghan women” in the way no-one expects someone to speak “for all Canadian women,” it becomes clear how much external gaze shapes the conversation.
Media, in particular, cycles through “what’s the narrative today?” Victimhood, resistance, defiance, tragedy—without ever lingering in the texture of day-to-day living. That is why my deeper passion is fostering connection, not debate. “I don’t always want to talk about how did we get to this terrible state. I want to talk about just between us, leave the systems out of it. How are we connecting to each other?” That, to me, is real inclusion.
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## Stories as Healing, Writing as Bridge-Building
The truest joy, for me, lies at the intersection of storytelling and healing—a place where the multiplicity of Afghan life can be rendered in its full, nuanced humanity. Through writing—short stories, a forthcoming young adult novel, and visual storytelling via Instagram—I aim to open windows, for both the Afghan diaspora and curious outsiders.
I want those who read, or listen, to see more than war or spectacle; to find themselves reflected, or at least welcomed, into an unfamiliar but resonant space. The dog running through Kabul’s streets, the girl’s first day at school, the kitchen humming on Eid. These threads are ordinary and extraordinary, and together, they compose a narrative far truer than headlines make room for.
When someone tells me, after reading one of my stories or engaging in a workshop, that their perception has softened or their sense of connection feels possible, I know true inclusion has begun. It’s never about erasing the differences that make us who we are; it’s about loving our own stories enough to hold space for others.
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### A Closing Reflection: Expedition, Not Destination
Growing up—and now, living—in the liminal, the “in-between” is both burden and gift. It means knowing that “us and them” are often illusions; that real safety and belonging are co-created anew, every time we choose curiosity over assumption, dialogue over silence.
To connect, first, you must be brave enough to ask (and listen). Then, perhaps, you find that holding complexity becomes easier; that borders fade, if only in intimate conversation.
I’ll always carry the landscapes of my history, alongside the landscapes of my heart. The stories we exchange, and the roads we cross to meet each other on the bridge—that’s where belonging is built, step by honest step.