The silence in between

BY MOHAMMED ABBA-AJI

Living in the diaspora as an immigrant comes with an unspoken tension—a feeling of existing between two worlds but fully belonging to neither. It is a strange and isolating space where even my own voice feels uncertain, as though I am constantly questioning what I have the right to say, what opinions I am allowed to hold, and where I truly fit in the conversations around me.

When I speak about Nigeria, there is an underlying fear that I no longer have the right to do so. I have left, after all. I am no longer on the ground, living the daily realities of the country I once called home. Who am I to talk about its struggles, its politics, its culture, when I am viewing it from a distance? Does my absence disqualify me from having a valid perspective? I worry that any critique might come across as condescension, as though I am looking down on a place that shaped me. And at the same time, any praise I offer might feel hollow—like the words of someone who no longer truly understands what it means to live there.

Yet, in the United States, I also exist as an outsider. I observe, I experience, I learn, but I am not a citizen, and that knowledge keeps me cautious. I do not have the same authority to speak on American society, its politics, or its struggles in the way that its citizens do. Even when I feel strongly about certain issues, I hesitate. Will my opinion be dismissed because I am “not from here”? Will speaking up come across as overstepping my place? I exist in this liminal space where I am neither fully of my home country nor fully of the country I now live in.

This tension extends beyond just words—it lives in my relationships, stretching across borders and time zones. Here in the U.S., I have my wife and children, a life we are building together. This is our present, our day-to-day reality. And yet, back home, my parents, siblings, extended family, and friends remain deeply connected to me. I exist in two places at once—physically here, but emotionally stretched across an ocean. There is guilt in missing milestones back home, in watching my parents age from a distance, in feeling like a guest when I visit. At the same time, there is an undeniable pull toward my family here, the life we are shaping, the future we are working toward. Balancing these two worlds is a constant, unspoken weight.

And yet, despite this feeling of in-betweenness, I have found something unexpected: people’s curiosity. When I travel across the U.S. and meet new people, I see how genuinely interested they are in my Nigerian identity. They ask thoughtful questions, wanting to understand my culture, my experiences, and my perspective. It reminds me that even though I sometimes feel unsure of my voice, others find value in hearing my story. And when I talk to family and friends back home, I find the reverse happening—they want to hear about my life in the U.S., what I have seen, what I have learned. They are fascinated by the details of a country that, for them, exists mostly in movies, news reports, and secondhand accounts.

These conversations remind me that I am not voiceless—I am a bridge. I carry stories across borders, sharing perspectives that others may never experience firsthand. My existence in both worlds is not a limitation but a unique position, one that allows me to connect people, to build understanding, to add to the ever-evolving dialogue of what it means to be from one place while living in another.

What I have come to realise is this: my experience as an immigrant is its own valid perspective. I may not be living in Nigeria, but it still lives in me—in my memories, my values, my sense of self. My view may be shaped by distance, but that does not make it any less real. And while I may not be American, I am still here. I am still affected by the policies, the culture, and the society around me. My observations, my struggles, and my perspectives as someone living in the U.S. still matter.

Perhaps the problem is not that I lack the right to speak but that I have been measuring my voice against standards that do not define me. I do not have to be fully “of” one place to have something meaningful to say about it. My in-between existence is not a weakness—it is a unique vantage point. And rather than silencing myself, I need to embrace that perspective, knowing that there are many others who feel the same way.

To those who share this experience, who feel caught between identities, questioning the legitimacy of their own voices—I see you. Our stories matter, even if they do not fit neatly into the narratives of either our home countries or our host nations. We are part of something bigger, a growing conversation about what it means to belong in a world that is constantly shifting. And the more we speak, the more we claim space—not just for ourselves, but for all those who are learning to navigate this delicate balance of identity, memory, and place.

Mohammed Abba-Aji is a physician and research fellow at the Boston University School of Public Health. He previously served as commanding officer in multiple Nigerian Air Force medical units.