As a third culture kid, growing up in Oman as an Indian, I always lived between cultures, never entirely from one place, yet somehow connected to many. This experience made me curious about countries that people often spoke of with caution or avoided altogether. One of the earliest stories that left a mark on me came from my cousin, a journalist who travelled to Syria long before the war. She spoke of Palmyra with reverence, as if it had left an imprint on her.
That story stayed with me for years—until one day, I found myself making plans to visit Syria. It wasn’t impulsive. I spent months researching, speaking to others who had been there, and mapping every step carefully. Every decision—how to enter, who to travel with, where to stay—was carefully considered. These trips aren't spontaneous getaways. These were journeys that required intention, care, and deep respect for the place and its people.
In Syria, I met an elderly man who welcomed me into his shop with tea and stories. He proudly showed me artefacts from his past travels to India, speaking about a time when movement across borders felt simpler. Then, almost in passing, he shared how his family had to flee their home at dawn during the early days of the war. No bitterness, just quiet reflection. That moment reminded me that history doesn’t just live in monuments; it lives in moments like these.
My trip to Iran came just weeks before the protests began. I travelled with a local guide—a smart, confident woman who spoke about her life as an Iranian woman with grace and honesty. We spoke about life, work, and the layered realities of being a woman in Iran. When I asked about the hijab, she said simply, “It’s not a choice for us. But we find other ways to live fully.” There was no drama, she just shared her truth. Through her, I saw a tiny part of a country often reduced to headlines as it really is: complex, but still deeply human.
Uzbekistan was a different kind of adventure—one I shared with my mother. The moment we arrived, we were greeted with huge smiles and immense warmth. Locals would call out “Hind! Hind!” and smile widely. At the markets, women were fascinated by my mother’s red bindi. They’d touch her cheeks, ask for photos, and treat us like distant family. It was one of those rare trips where the connection was instant, easy, and sincere.
Before visiting each of these countries, I read extensively, reached out to travellers who had gone before me, and connected with local guides who could offer insight beyond what any itinerary could provide. These weren’t reckless decisions; they were informed, intentional, and driven by a desire to see places for what they are, not just how they’re portrayed.
We often talk about countries like Syria, Iran, or even Uzbekistan in terms of what’s wrong with them. But people live there, raise families, dream, create art, build communities, and find joy in little moments despite the odds. It’s unfair to define them only by their struggles. What I found in each of these places was people who were proud of where they came from and eager to share their stories with someone willing to listen; someone who is willing to give them a chance.
I didn’t travel to make any statement. I travelled because I wanted to understand. Because I believe every country deserves more than a single narrative. Their stories deserve to be heard. So when people ask, “Why would you go there?” My answer is simple: “Because they’re worth knowing.”
As destiny would have it, later in life, working in Dubai, a city shaped by migration and multiculturalism, I learned about people from these very places. Syrians, Iranians, and Uzbeks...they are my colleagues and friends. Our conversations often drifted to memories of home. Their stories of celebrations, traditions, and a life they had left behind due to various circumstances, were nothing like the flashy, sensational, jaded headlines. That contrast fascinated me even more. I couldn’t think of a better reason to go than to return and say, “Your country is amazing!” That, to me, is what travel is meant to do: bridge gaps, challenge preconceived notions, challenge your unconscious bias, fear, and assumptions, and create space for mutual respect, understanding, and connection.
