The taxi mobile application displays the faces of potential drivers before eventually connecting me with Stephen, who will arrive in one minute. Stephen is friendly and chatty and insists on talking about the rainy weather despite my short answers and the sound of the flipping pages from my notebook, which I’m pretending to read enthusiastically.
Stephen exhausts the conversation about the weather before he moves to ask if I have just finished work.
“No, I’m jumping to another kind of work.”
“Good woman.”
First group of migrants deported from US arrive in Costa Rica
I let chatty Stephen the taxi driver rant about ‘those people’ as if they are not my people
Explainer: What is the purpose of deportation flights out of Ireland?
Thirty-two people, including child, deported to Georgia as charter-flight deportations recommence
I leave it there. I don’t tell Stephen that I’m taking my lunch break from my full-time tech job to give a talk to college students. It doesn’t take Stephen long before reaching for the blunt question.
“So, where are you ‘originally’ from?”
I smile. Since December 8th, this has been my favourite question to answer, and it doesn’t make my stomach tighten or my heart race any more. I answer all Stephen’s questions one after the other like a ping-pong match:
“Syria.”
“Ten years.”
“Yes, Ireland is home, sometimes.”
“The new Syrian regime is promising.”
“No, they are not terrorists.”
“Yes, I want to go back home.”
“One day at a time.”
Stephen then takes a right turn with his car and with the conversation. He tells me he doesn’t mind refugees here as long as they work and give back.
“But, Stephen, many are not allowed to work.”
“Well, they are not bringing paperwork with them! The Government is putting them in hotels instead of looking after our own on the streets. Did you know the Garda is on the lookout for an Isisi attack on Paddy’s Day? Oh, yes, I tell you! They just announced it on the news! And that attack in Stoneybatter, have you seen that?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And the school stabbing last year?”
“I did. Tragic.”
At this stage, I’m unsure if Stephen wants me to speak for the migrant population in Ireland or to agree with him as an Irish person. I nod quietly, but he keeps pushing for more.
“If that’s not a terrorist attack, then what is? Jesus, this is not the Ireland I grew up in. It’s gone so far now! They are just letting everyone in.”
“What about all the young gangs, Stephen?”
“Of course, they are on the streets because the Government is not looking after them. All resources are going to those people.”
I sigh and let chatty Stephen rant about “those people” as if they were not my people. Like I’m one of his people. I’ve never been confused about my identity as much as this moment.
I stare at Stephen’s face from the rear-view mirror while his eyes are on the road. I’ve heard these rants before. I’ve read them on Twitter, X or the dark web, as my friend likes to refer to that platform, warning me not to read the comments section under my name.
When The Irish Times announced my name as the winner of the Rooney Prize for Irish Literature, there was a Stephen in the comments on social media.
“Prize for Irish Literature given to a non-Irish person. Bizarre.”
Could that be the same Stephen driving right now, talking about “those people”? Under the online Stephen’s account was an angry, proud commenter named “Ireland”.
“Another woke shite decision from the arse council type. Giving the prize to a foreigner is Judas to Irish writers.”
The Rooney Prize was established in 1976. All 47 former winners listed on the website have traditional Irish last names. Mine would be the first non-traditional one up there. I’m proud, but I can’t help but wonder how many more are upset with my Syrian last name listed there.
My mother also found it bizarre that I had been shortlisted for the Irish Book Awards 2022.
“But you’re not Irish!” That was the first thought she shared spontaneously over the phone.
I understood where she was coming from because, when I was growing up in Saudi Arabia, I wasn’t allowed to participate in national competitions, which were exclusive to Saudis. Still, it was disheartening to receive questions instead of congratulations whenever something remarkable happened to me as a result of my hard work.
A month after the Rooney Prize, I am on the “dark web” again in an interview for RTÉ, speaking about the fall of the Syrian regime. I’m beaming with happiness as my homeland is freed. A title appears near my face: Suad Aldarra, a Syrian-Irish writer. The collapse of the Syrian dictatorship regime was a significant event in the history of the world. Yet, the comments are all fixated on understanding why I’m being labelled as Irish, even after a dash. Someone explained that Irish nationality is precious and not everyone should have it. Having an Irish passport doesn’t make me Irish. I can’t call myself Irish and walk away with that. The audacity.
[ Ireland’s Syrian community: ‘We are no longer refugees, we are free Syrians’Opens in new window ]
And again, I understand. I used to think the same about my precious Syrian nationality. It took a war for me to change that prejudiced view. I’ve been living in Ireland now more than I’ve lived in Syria, while the rest of my early life was in Saudi Arabia, where my Syrian parents migrated. For some Irish, I’m not Irish because I wasn’t born in Ireland or to an Irish parent. For some Saudis, I’m not Saudi, even though I was born and raised there. For some Syrians, I’m not Syrian because I haven’t lived enough there.
[ Immigration during 2024: The year in numbersOpens in new window ]
I blame myself for taking a taxi, but then I remember Patrick, the lovely Irish driver who worked as a peacekeeper. For the 30 minutes between Dublin Airport and my house, Patrick told me about his best times between Syria and Lebanon. “If there were heaven on Earth, it would be Damascus.”
Patrick left me with those words from his memory and promised to come for tea sometime. I hold Patrick’s warm memory during this cold day, and I let Stephen go as I make my way to give a talk about Irish immigration.
Suad Aldarra’s memoir, I Don’t Want to Talk About Home, was published in 2022
