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IN CONVERSATION
WITH MARIAM

Alina El Assadi is an artist born in Kyiv, Ukraine, to a Ukrainian-Palestinian family. In our conversation, Alina reflects on her experiences living in different countries, the process of identity formation, and the influence of both Ukrainian and Arabic cultures on her life. As an artist, she channels these reflections into her work, and sheds light on the shared challenges faced by Ukraine and Palestine, using her work to foster solidarity and raise awareness.
 

15 July, 2024

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Picture by Teo Jajanashvili

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Mariam in childhood. From the archive.

Tozhsamist: Can you tell us a bit about your background and where your parents are from?

Alina: My mother is from Ukraine, specifically Beregovo in the Zakarpattya region, near the Hungarian border. Her family moved to Kyiv when she was around 2-3 years old, and she lived there until she met my father.

My father is Palestinian, born in Qatar to Palestinian parents. His mother is from Hittin in Tiberias, and his father is from Dar Al Assad, both in northern Palestine. After the events of 1948, they became Palestinian-Lebanese refugees and eventually migrated to Qatar.

T: What led to your father being in Ukraine?

A: My father moved to Ukraine for his studies. After my sister and I were born, my parents tried to settle in Qatar, but it didn't work out. So, my mother returned to Ukraine with us until my father found a job in the United Arab Emirates. When I was about 7 or 8, we relocated to Sharjah, where we've lived ever since, with summer visits to Ukraine almost every year.​

T: I'd love to hear more about your Palestinian heritage and family background. Could you share some insights?

A: My grandmother was born in Hittin, Palestine, 8 km northwest of Tiberias, and my grandfather is from Dar Al Assad,

18 km from Acre. During Al Nakba in 1948, my father's grandfather, his brother, and their families took refuge in a cave for four days amidst the invasion. Afterward, my great-grandfather suggested temporarily moving to Lebanon until it was safe to return, while his brother chose to go back to the city.

Those who went to Lebanon, including my great-grandfather and half of the family, were unable to return like many other Palestinians denied the right to return when Israel was established. They settled in refugee camps in Lebanon, living in tents with limited job opportunities, gradually realizing their displacement would be long-term.

In 1978 and 1982, Israeli attacks on Lebanon further displaced my family, prompting them to move to Qatar in search of stability. My father was born and raised in Qatar.

Today, my father’s family is scattered across the globe, with relatives in Palestine, Lebanon, Saudi Arabia, Libya, America, and elsewhere.

T: What about your childhood? How was it? ​

A: I was born in Kyiv and spent my early childhood there before we moved to Mykolaiv, where my father began working with my maternal grandfather in agriculture. My kindergarten and first year of school were in Mykolaiv, a time when I never questioned my identity or felt different from other children. Everything changed when we relocated to Qatar during my second year of primary school to live with my dad's family. Back then, Qatar lacked diversity, and I was the only child in my class who didn’t speak Arabic.

In year three, we returned to Ukraine, settling back in Kyiv, where I continued my education. I am immensely grateful for this experience, as it ensured my Ukrainian language skills developed and remained strong. My sister, who didn't attend Ukrainian school or spend as much time there during childhood, has a lower proficiency in Ukrainian as a result.

T: How these relocations have impacted your life?

A: After returning to Ukraine from Qatar, I discovered that some saw me as a foreigner. In third grade, a close friend expressed excitement about meeting a new foreign student who had come from abroad, which struck me as odd since I had only lived outside Ukraine for a year. However, in fourth grade, my family relocated to the United Arab Emirates, and I enrolled in a British school in Sharjah. Thanks to my previous experience in Qatar, studying in English was familiar, and both the school and the country offered a much more diverse environment than my previous experiences. I was no longer the sole foreign student.

Interestingly, the sense of being seen as foreign in Ukraine differed from my experience in Sharjah. In Ukraine, it was more about not being perceived as fully White, whereas in Sharjah, I was viewed as a 'White' foreigner. During middle school, there were moments when I wished I were fully Arab to blend in more and be like everyone else. However, as I matured, I began to embrace my Whiteness and the unique qualities that distinguished me from my peers. Growing up in Ukraine also reinforced my sense of being Ukrainian rather than Palestinian for much of my life. Additionally, my lack of fluent Arabic prevented me from fully connecting with an Arab identity, further shaping my self-perception.

T: Did grandmother speak to you Ukrainian?

Mariam: Unfortunately, no. I don’t know Ukrainian because it wasn’t spoken in the family, and I never learned it. I studied during the Soviet times in Georgia, and back then, schools and universities only taught Russian. 

T:  Have you visited Ukraine often?

Mariam: I didn’t go to Ukraine as a child, unfortunately. But my dad would visit our relatives there—his cousins and aunts. I first went to Kyiv as an adult. I remember when I arrived, it felt like I had been there before like I had lived in the city at some point. It was a strange feeling but I loved it. When I left, I even cried. Sometimes, I have dreams about this city.

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Mariam in childhood. Picture from the archive

T:  What lasting memories do your school years hold for you?

A: I consider myself fortunate due to my adaptable identity: I never felt completely out of place; I could almost blend in while still being the intriguingly different child at school. Perhaps this was because I wasn’t too foreign, which may explain why I never encountered any negativity from any school in any country I have lived in; I was familiar enough.

The school experience in Arab countries differs significantly from that in Ukrainian schools. For instance, in Ukraine, most of us walked to school and had considerable freedom to come and go as we pleased. In contrast, in Sharjah, this was not an option; strict security measures at the gates allowed students to leave only after classes ended and only with a parent or with special permission signed by them. I believe this strictness from school, society, and family contributed to my feeling young for a long time. It slowed down the process of growing up, which can be viewed as both positive and negative, but for me, it was positive as it extended my childhood, which I see as a good thing.

One of the benefits of attending an international school in Sharjah was its diversity, contrasting sharply with the Ukrainian school experience due to the UAE's predominantly migrant society. I am immensely grateful for the opportunity to have studied in multiple countries, as it exposed me to different cultures, educational systems, and environments.

 

T:  But which culture has shaped you as a person the most? 

A: I believe that Ukrainian culture has profoundly influenced the majority of my life. Born in Ukraine, I spent every summer visiting and had close contact with my Ukrainian grandparents, thanks to the absence of a language barrier. My mother played a significant role in shaping who I am, spending countless hours with me during my formative years. Consequently, Ukrainian culture permeated my life more deeply than Arabic, despite my residence in the United Arab Emirates.

However, my move to London to pursue an MFA in Fine Arts at Kingston University marked my first experience living independently, far from my family. The homesickness and nostalgia hit hard, and I found myself longing for a sense of "Arabic-ness" to feel at home. Encountering many Ukrainians in London reminded me that I am more than just Ukrainian. Years of living in an Arab country have also left their mark, influencing my cultural, ethical, and moral perspectives, often intertwined with religious beliefs.

Interestingly, during my summer visits to Ukraine, I would miss the "Arabic vibes," illustrating the proverbial grass being greener on the other side. This sentiment resonates with many from dual cultures; in a Ukrainian setting, I yearn for Arabic influences, and in an Arabic setting, I crave Ukrainian elements. I feel that until I can freely speak Arabic, I may not fully feel Arab enough, as language remains a significant barrier. Despite everyone around me speaking English, it feels unfamiliar, leading me to consider myself only half-Arab. This, perhaps, is the reality of growing up in the diaspora. Therefore, I prefer to identify as Ukrainian-Palestinian rather than Palestinian-Ukrainian.

​T: How did you come to embrace this identity?

A: I have consistently described myself as Ukrainian-Palestinian, except for a period in middle school when it seemed simpler to identify solely as Ukrainian to avoid explaining my lack of Arabic proficiency. Upon moving to London, I encountered a cultural contrast that took me by surprise. In Arab countries, self-identity is often deeply rooted in familial background, whereas in London, identity appears to be determined more by citizenship or place of residence.

This cultural shift prompted me to reflect on my own identity. If I identify purely by citizenship, am I solely Ukrainian? If by paternal ethnicity, am I exclusively Palestinian? And if by residence, would I be considered Emirati? The notion seems amusing because I am in the UAE on a residency visa, not as a citizen. In England, I often found myself clarifying that despite living in the UAE for 16 years and being born there (as some friends assumed), I am not Emirati by origin.

In the UAE, people typically identify first by their parental origins, then by their passport, and finally acknowledge their residence status. This is largely due to the rarity of obtaining Emirati citizenship, as residency visas are more common. This layered approach to identity in the UAE contrasts sharply with the more straightforward identity perceptions I encountered in London, where personal and national identities are often seen through different lenses.


 

T:  What inspired you to start the journey into art world? 

A: I never set out with a clear intention to pursue a career in art. My interests were scattered across journalism, fashion design, psychology, and sociology, yet none garnered support from my parents. Eventually, I settled on marketing and asked my father for his card details to submit my application to the University of Sharjah. However, my father disapproved of marketing and architecture, the latter being my impromptu alternative. Within five minutes, we decided I would study interior design.

Once university started, I discovered the University of Sharjah had a well-structured system, requiring a compulsory foundation year divided into three semesters. The first semester covered art basics, the second rotated through classes in graphic design, fashion design, fine arts, and interior design, and the third focused on one major to determine its suitability for the next three years. Upon entering the interior design program, I quickly realised it was not for me. After much deliberation, I chose fine arts, reasoning that it would provide the flexibility to apply for any arts-related master's program in the future. Now, here I am, pursuing a Master's in Fine Arts.

Art, it seems, has always been in my blood. My great-grandmother on my mother’s side was a talented self-taught artist, and my mother took up painting during the COVID-19 pandemic, despite having no prior experience. My great-grandmother specialised in various mediums, from oil painting and pastels to gobelins. She often tried to teach me to draw with pastels when I was young, but I preferred playing outside. Now, I wish I had spent more time learning from her. Her dream was for me to become an artist, and a year before her passing, I enrolled in fine arts.
 

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MACHABELI Spring Summer Show in Kyiv. Picture by Oleg Garbar 

T: You’ve participated in Kyiv Fashion Week several times. Do you plan to continue in the future?

Mariam: After I made many friends in the creative industry in Kyiv it became not only my favorite city to live in but also for work. I enjoyed collaborating with various models and photographers, and they loved working with me too. I participated in Kyiv Fashion Week for a few years, but I had to stop due to COVID-19 and the Russian invasion of Ukraine. Of course, I would love to continue once it's possible and relevant again. Designing clothes inspires me, and Kyiv inspires me — the show must go on!

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MACHABELI. Fall/Winter 2025 

T:  Tell us about collaboration with the Warsaw Museum of Modern Art.

A: For the Warsaw Museum of Modern Art, I organized a workshop inspired by a video I previously created called "Outsider." In the video, I repeatedly write the word "outsider" using watermelon juice and watermelon skin in three languages: Ukrainian, Arabic, and English. This project prompted me to reflect on how Ukrainian and Arabic should have been my first languages, but I instead fell into the linguistic colonization of English and Russian.

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Picture by Teo Jajanashvili

By Alice Zhuravel

 

 

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