The Difference Between My Third Culture Kids and Myself

How different am I from my kids who were born and raised in the UAE while I was born and raised in England and moved later as an adult to the UAE? Exploring the third culture aspects of my kids. 

If you were meeting me for the first time, here in Dubai, what are the first few things that you would ask me about myself? My name for sure. That would be number one. Maybe where I work, or where I live. If I’m married, or if I have kids. But you would definitely ask me ‘where are you from?’ and I would tell you ‘England’ or ‘just outside of London.’ Because that’s where I was born. It’s where I grew up and it’s where I went to school. It’s where my parents are from, and their parents, and their parents before them. In fact, as far back as you or I can easily go, my family are 100 percent, undeniably and irrefutably, English.

When I declared in 2013 that I was moving to Dubai, my family were excited for me. But they also had lots of questions – one, in particular, stood out which was ‘but how long are you going for?’ ‘Oh, not long’ I repeatedly responded. ‘Maybe a year or two.’

Seven years later, my year or two seems like a distant memory. I am still in Dubai with a few add-ons, a husband (who is also English), a career, a house, and two beautiful children. Our children are mirror copies of my husband and me, sporting pale skin and blue eyes. And if that doesn’t spell British, then the red British passports that my children also hold do; except theirs say ‘Place of Birth: Dubai.’

So that leads me to several questions: what’s the difference between an expat and their third culture children? How are my children’s lives here, different to mine or my husband’s having grown up in good old’ England? And is it better or is it worse?

As an adult moving halfway across the world to the mysterious Middle East, it was – and please excuse the clichéd phrase – a culture shock. I don’t just mean the obvious –ladies in their abayas and the language that sounded so strange; it was about being so abruptly exposed to the less visible social norms and traditions of different cultures.

When my eldest son was invited to the birthday party of a colleague’s child, I was blown away by the Emirati spirit of hospitality. And when my Syrian friend’s mother died, I visited her home and experienced first-hand the soothing traditions that accompany such a sad occasion. For me, someone who had grown up knowing no different to small birthday celebrations limited to close family and rowdy funeral wakes held in restaurants; this was completely new territory. In both occasions, I stood on the sidelines, desperate not to commit any awkward or offensive social faux pas.

But for my children, these things are normal. They take them in their stride. They won’t Google ‘do I take a gift to an Egyptian wedding’ or think it’s weird that their friend Ali speaks both Arabic and German at home. They won’t stumble over foreign-sounding names or be afraid to try an unfamiliar dish. This is the beauty of being a third culture kid. My children know they are English. They say ‘nappy’ not ‘diaper’ and they watch far too much of the BBC kids’ channel. But they also know much more than that. Their perception of ‘normal’ is so much broader, so much richer and more colorful than that of their father or me. And for that, I am sincerely grateful to have had the longest 1 or 2 years away home away from home.