May is Asian Heritage Month. And yet, every time the calendar reminds me, I pause—not from pride, but from complexity.
I wasn’t born in India, not even East Africa. I was born in Calgary, after my parents had already made their way here—and before my grandparents joined us. And yet, when I speak of Nairobi and Dar, of the streets of Una and the alleys of Gimhae and Seoul, people often assume I must have lived there most of my life. Recently, someone told me they thought I was born in East Africa. That’s happened in India and Morocco too. At first, it always surprises me—but only for a moment. Because in truth, I carry it deeply.
My parents were born in East Africa. My grandparents later joined us in Canada. My great-grandmother once made their way to England. My childhood was shaped by that legacy—not just of migration, but of adaptation, of holding on and letting go.
I am a third-generation Canadian, multilingual before I lost any baby teeth. By the age of six, I spoke Gujarati, Kutchi, Hindi, Urdu, English, and French fluently, with native accents. Not Swahili—my parents wanted a language of their own—but still, my every day is laced with its cadence. And Korean. And Italian, thanks to my best friend’s nonna and nonno. My identity was never a straight line. Is to sit in that mosaic without trying to smooth it out. To name the joy in learning a childhood lullaby in one tongue, and telling a bedtime story in another. To understand what it means to live in a multiracial (My husband is also third generation Canadian, influenced by Hungarian and English histories), multifaith household shaped by both migration and memory.
This is why a DNA test could never explain who I am. I am not just Gujarati, or East African, or Canadian. I am not just the languages I speak or the passport I hold. I am shaped by story, by prayer, by recipes and rituals and friendships and chosen family.
And that’s why I wrote . My Ismaili Adventure (will be available soon on Amazon and locally- (Link will be added once published.)). Because our children deserve stories that reflect the fullness of who they are—even when their heritage crosses oceans and their questions don’t have simple answers. The book isn’t about one place or tradition. It’s about the in-between. The remembering. The joy. The wondering. The home we carry inside us.
I think of the Halls of Ottawa U, where I began to give language to what I’d always known. I think of prayer halls where I felt at home—and yet, sometimes, a little apart. I think of my son, being raised in a world that is learning, slowly, to make space for layered identities.
Asian Heritage Month is not just about celebration. It’s about carrying complexity with reverence. About asking hard questions of ourselves and each other. And about keeping alive the stories that shape us, even when they don’t fit neatly into heritage boxes.
This is mine. Or part of it. The rest is still unwritten.