Rethinking “the Middle East”
Identity, Colonial Legacies and Resisting Erasure
When we speak about the region so often called the “Middle East,” we are immediately stepping into a language shaped by empire. The very term was invented through a European gaze that placed itself at the centre of the world, labelling everything else in relation to its own geography. The “Middle East” was named not for what it was, but for where it lay between Europe’s imagined “Near” and “Far” East. It is a reminder that even the words we use to describe this part of the world carry the weight of foreign rule and foreign priorities.
At the same time, what we call this region is not just a semantic question. It is a political act. Today many prefer SWANA, short for Southwest Asia and North Africa, as a way to move beyond colonial cartography and reframe our place on the map. Others argue for reclaiming “Middle East,” turning a label once imposed on us into something we define on our own terms. And then there is the simpler catchall — “Arab” — which is often used to describe people from this vast area. But that too demands scrutiny, because it risks flattening a landscape rich with Amazigh, Kurdish, Armenian, Assyrian, Nubian and countless other histories.
This platform exists precisely to grapple with these complexities. It is about exploring who we are, how we came to be called what we are, and how we might retell these stories ourselves. It is about holding space for nuance, refusing neat categories and letting messy truths breathe.
The concept of Arab identity itself is a layered thing. For many, it is tied to language, to a shared cultural inheritance and to the rhythms of Arabic poetry, music and storytelling. For others, it is rooted in twentieth century political movements like Pan Arabism, which rose out of the ashes of colonial mandates as a rallying cry for unity against foreign dominance. But Arab identity has also been wielded as a tool of state building, sometimes at the expense of other indigenous identities. Policies of Arabisation in places like North Africa and Sudan sought to homogenise diverse populations, sidelining local languages and traditions in the name of national unity.
The drawing of borders in this region tells another chapter of the same colonial playbook. The Sykes Picot Agreement of 1916 between Britain and France quite literally carved up Ottoman territories with a ruler on a map, paying little regard to the tribes, families and ecosystems that spanned these new lines. What emerged were artificial states designed to serve imperial interests, locking people into national boxes that often ran counter to centuries of shared belonging.
Even today, these borders continue to shape conflicts, migrations and the struggles of stateless communities. They are lines drawn in sand, yet they have become hardened by decades of bureaucracy and violence. To understand why the region looks as it does is to trace back to these early deals struck in European drawing rooms, far removed from the lives they would ultimately disrupt.
Colonialism did not just redraw maps, it reshaped how people related to their own cultures. It altered educational systems, legal frameworks and even daily speech. Across many parts of North Africa and the Levant, local identities were systematically undermined in favour of European languages and institutions. What was taught in schools, printed in newspapers or spoken in courtrooms became a way of enforcing power. Entire generations grew up seeing their mother tongues pushed into private spaces, while public life was conducted in the language of the coloniser.
Yet despite these incursions, the deeper roots of culture proved remarkably difficult to uproot. Arabic poetry and folk songs continued to circulate, telling stories that outlasted regimes. The language lived on in kitchens, in markets and in whispered blessings, defying attempts to erase it. Writers, scholars and activists took up the cause of preserving and reviving what colonial policies tried to suppress, seeing in language not just a tool for communication but a means of safeguarding memory and reclaiming history.
Engaging with this region through an anti colonial lens means asking hard questions. It means interrogating the very terms we use and whose interests they serve. It means amplifying the voices of those communities that have long been silenced or subsumed under broader labels. It also requires recognising how colonial legacies continue to shape everything from our passports to our parliaments, from the languages taught in our schools to the stories prioritised in our films and novels.
There is no simple replacement for “Middle East,” just as there is no single definition of who counts as Arab. What matters is the work of paying attention, of being precise, of naming power, of letting people speak for themselves. It is about refusing to allow old imperial blueprints to keep drawing our lives for us. In that refusal is a kind of freedom. It is a small act of reclaiming the right to tell our own stories, in our own words, on our own terms.
