Y'all from Yemen?

He looked like one of my cousins—skin somewhere between red clay and mahogany, dark eyes with an easy warmth, and a neatly kept beard that framed his face with the kind of care that wasn’t fussy...just intentional. He wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t short either; he stood just around my height, with a quiet, steady presence that made you notice. There was a calmness about him, like he’d seen enough to be confident...without effort. I guess, he too, felt like he was looking in the mirror.

It was dinner time in Qatar, and I had just wrapped up my last meeting of the day. I was hungry, and shamelessly craving shisha. As I stepped into the elevator, I caught a faint whiff of oud, smoky and earthy, lingering in the air. The screen inside played an ad for a Brazilian steakhouse, Ipanema, showing steaks that looked real enough to make you hungry. For a moment, I forgot where I was. “What up, dude,” I said automatically, like I was back home.

“Walekem Salam,” he replied smoothly, without missing a beat. There was a pause as he looked at me again, this time with that slight squint people get when they’re working something out.

“Where are you from, brother?” he asked, tone friendly, but with the focus of someone who likes puzzles.

I get this question a lot in the Middle East. Maybe I don’t look like the...version of American people expect. I grinned, “The US.”

He let out a quick, knowing laugh. “Brother, I know you maybe study there… but seriously, where are your parents from?”

I laughed too, recognizing that familiar moment just before you’re about to make a new friend. “The US, too,” I said, smiling. “We are the slave descendents."

“Oh, really?” His eyebrows shot up, and he laughed again, as if I’d just thrown him a plot twist. “Tell me now, what is your name!” His tone was playful, like he was waiting to catch me off guard.

“Glenn,” I replied.

“Ah, okay! Now I believe you,” he said, grinning but still clearly amused. “Had you told me an Arabic name, we’d be here all night, brother.” He gave me one more look, as if testing his own assumptions. “If you learned Arabic, no one would know the difference. You’re definitely Yemeni-looking, and at the very, very least, Sudanese. Never in a million years would I have guessed American.”

I laughed because, honestly, this wasn’t the first time someone had “revealed” my identity to me.

Ahmed and I kept talking, sharing laughs and small details about our lives. He mentioned he was on his way to catch the Barcelona match and his eyes lit up, the way they do when someone’s talking about something they love. I’m still not sure he fully believed I was American, but there was a connection that felt real, a kind of “welcome home” feeling even miles from where I grew up. I’ve always seen people as long-lost cousins, no matter where I am. It’s rare to meet someone who sees the same.

I’m still wrestling with that feeling of belonging, wondering if maybe the Ahmeds—the lost cousins in unexpected places—hold the truest sense of it. They’re the ones who see you without needing proof, who look at you and find a reflection of themselves, almost like discovering a part of yourself you didn’t know was there.

And maybe Ahmed was right; perhaps it’s time I take his advice and learn Arabic. But where to start? There are so many dialects, each a world of its own, each with its own story and rhythm. It’s a strange, thrilling question, and maybe that’s the beauty of it—knowing there’s more than one way to belong. The smell of oud still lingers in my nose, a calling card of the worlds waiting to be uncovered.