By Romina Afghan
About the Author:
Romina is a slightly wacky wife, mum to four, and grandmother to one. She is the founder of Connected Muslimah Coaching, where she is a coach and mentor for sisters, and is passionate about helping sisters to connect with Allah, with themselves, and with others so they can show up as their best selves. You can find her on Instagram @connected.muslimah.coaching and catch some of her Quranic reflections mini podcasts at Grounded In Guidance at https://open.spotify.com/show/7m0VvBQHsvOxfPxrlMWdi0?si=73f6aa4549384fd9.
I’m a cultural nomad, with a nomadic family history.
I come from a country that I’ve never identified as home, that I’ve never lived in and whose tongue is as foreign to me as Mars.
My skin bears its colour, my height carries its tag, but I am not really “made in Afghanistan” in a conscious way that you can read from my clothing or the South London speak I will meet you with.
Yes, my family are originally Afghan, but grandparents and great grandparents ago, those ancestors moved, and moved again, and moved again, to India (before a Pakistan even existed) to Kenya and Ethiopia, to Zimbabwe, to Malawi, to the UK. And with each move, the ties to the rugged and mountainous land of our ancestors grew weaker As the land slipped away, so did the language – the lifeblood of memory, the vessel of culture.
Language carries more than words; it holds the shape of thought, the rhythm of values, the unique and untranslatable essence of a people. When it’s lost, a whole way of seeing the world fades. And without it, much of our Afghan identity slipped away.
Speaking the language of your roots is a powerful part of your cultural identity, and for many Muslims, no matter their background, Arabic becomes that anchor—a sacred link to a shared faith and cultural inheritance, carried in every verse of the Qur’an and even through the smallest Arabic expressions we use in daily life. Arabic becomes the cultural currency for the Muslim, even if we don’t speak it.
What that means for me is that home and belonging have never been identified with a geographical space, a specific culture, or an ethnic identity.
As a teenager, this was problematic – at a time when you are replacing your parents and immediate family as your main attachment bond, you need to find your “tribe”, your “people”, the place where you belong and where you have found a space that not only accepts you, but that aligns with who you think you are. There was no one quite like me, who had my “roots” in a vague south-Asian Muslim culture, but who was shaped by living in Africa, then came here.
Like many teenagers and young people, I wanted to find the fabric that the threads of my existence were interwoven with, but none of the patterns seemed to match. I didn’t even know the nature of the “thread” that I was carrying, let alone match it up to anything else! The truth is, it’s hard to find a tribe to belong to if you don’t know who you are and what you even “should” belong to. I wanted to come home, but I had no idea what or where home was. I think that experience is something that so many others share, reverts and born Muslims, even if their stories don’t mirror mine exactly- We are all looking for belonging, and acceptance, but until we know for certain what it is we want to belong to, and what we are not willing to compromise on order to gain it, that belonging and acceptance is going to prove elusive and costly for our soul.
And yet all of that really planted the seeds for me to rediscover who I truly am, at my core, the purpose of my life, and the tribe that I really do want to belong to. This cultural nomadism that felt like a void at one point became a gateway to escape the tribalism and even racism that is often present in South Asian culture. I went from wanting to have a specific culture, and feeling like I was missing out on something, to the liberation of realising that while each culture does have it’s own beauty, the part of me that truly matters most is the part of me, of my identity that belongs to Allaah.
And that part is the part that grounds me, that anchors me and provides the lens through which I view all of the other cultural aspects of myself. And it’s the most important part of me, of my individual culture, because I have chosen it – it wasn’t something I inherited naturally, or just came by upon. I had to work hard to find it, to submit to it, to choose it and follow it.
Yours and my choices are always going to be more important than our inheritance.
The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “Verily, Allah does not look at your appearance or wealth, but rather He looks at your hearts and actions.” (Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim 2564)
“Allah does not look to your appearance… but to your hearts”- we can think of our faces and bodies as part of that inheritance, and our hearts as what we chose to follow and align ourselves with.
The choices are what we are accountable for, and what we have inherited culturally must always be put through the lens of the values of what Allah has sent and is pleased with.
يَـٰٓأَيُّهَا ٱلنَّاسُ إِنَّا خَلَقْنَـٰكُم مِّن ذَكَرٍۢ وَأُنثَىٰ وَجَعَلْنَـٰكُمْ شُعُوبًۭا وَقَبَآئِلَ لِتَعَارَفُوٓا۟ ۚ إِنَّ أَكْرَمَكُمْ عِندَ ٱللَّهِ أَتْقَىٰكُمْ ۚ إِنَّ ٱللَّهَ عَلِيمٌ خَبِيرٌۭ ١٣
“O humanity! Indeed, We created you from a male and a female, and made you into peoples and tribes so that you may ˹get to˺ know one another. Surely the most noble of you in the sight of Allah is the most righteous among you. Allah is truly All-Knowing, All-Aware.” The Quran (49:13)
We are tribes and nations so that we may come to know one another, to appreciate each other’s differences, to support one another, and to reflect the wisdom of Allah: His Perfect Ability to create, sustain, and guide, no matter who or where we are.
Within every nation, there are cultures — beautiful, diverse, and often deeply rooted. These are part of Allah’s blessings too. But they’re not the highest part of who we are. For Muslims, culture should always sit beneath the greater identity that binds us all: Islam. There is space for every culture within this deen, as long as it aligns with its values. Islam didn’t come to erase cultures, but to refine them — to remove what’s harmful, while preserving what is good and meaningful. So there’s room for an Italian Muslim culture as much as an Indian one; a Polish Muslim culture just as much as a Persian one. The variety of languages, foods, customs, and expressions we carry adds to the beauty of our Ummah — a colourful mosaic of colours, sounds, and stories.
For me, not having a fixed or strong cultural inheritance hasn’t been a loss — it’s actually been life-saving. Soul-saving. It gave me the push to ask: Who am I? Who do I want to be? And most importantly: Who do I want to belong to? My answer? I want to belong to Allah — and to the people He loves. That is my tribe. That is my home. And truly, that is every Muslim’s deepest and most lasting cultural inheritance.
That’s not to say I never feel the absence. Sometimes I see other families with strong traditions and distinct celebrations, and there’s a slight twinge of something tender: I wish I had that. I allow myself to feel it — it’s a very human feeling. But I try not to let shayṭān turn that feeling into something bitter. Because in many ways, not having those strong cultural ties has been a gift. It gave me the freedom to search for my own spiritual home. It meant I could embrace Islamic practices and values without the cultural constraints that make change feel like betrayal -“that’s not how our people do things.” That is the test for many Muslims — how to hold onto what’s beautiful in their culture without letting it override what’s true in our Deen.
For me, the absence of that weight has meant freedom — a freedom to fall in love with Islam, on its own terms. And it has meant I can appreciate the cultures of my Muslim sisters with joy, openness — and maybe even a little too much enthusiasm (much to the embarssment of my kids!).
Yes, parts of me are still shaped by cultures I’ve inherited unconsciously—fragments from different lands and people. And yes, there are days I long to know exactly which piece of that global mosaic is mine. But I can hold that question alongside the appreciation I have for the richness of our collective heritage. I know my DNA carries the fire of my indomitable Afghan ancestors. And I also know that in this chapter of my life in this world, I’ve been given the freedom to choose—to sip from the cups of culture that nourish my soul, while being rooted in something far deeper. Whether I’m Romina, Romokè, or just Rom, I belong to the Ummah, and ultimately, to Allah.
I’m a cultural nomad, and my home, my belonging and my identity have never been tied to a geographical place or people. I belong to Allaah, His people are my people, what He loves is what I aim to make my (dominant) culture. And you, my sisters, are part of my culture, my inheritance, my ummah and my tribe. Maybe you’re a revert, or maybe you’ve never felt fully at home in any Muslim culture you’ve encountered. Maybe you sometimes wonder if you’re missing something — a shared history, a set of traditions, a “right” way to be. If so, know this: you still belong. Deeply. Fully. The culture of Islam isn’t owned by any one people — it’s a living, breathing way of being that’s open to all who seek it. Your sincerity, your striving, your love for Allah — that is your inheritance. That is your tribe. And there’s space for you and me and every cultural nomad to come home here in Islam.
You might also be interested in this post about creating sacred cultural anchors: https://www.solaceuk.org/2021/07/18/sacred-times-sacred-connections-creating-your-connection-to-the-10-days-of-thul-hijjah/
