Lebanese Actress Mya Allawi on Taking Her Mother Back Home to Sri Lanka After 25 Years

Known in Lebanon simply as Gina, Sriyani Fernando left her homeland years ago, but her heart never truly did. Under the weight of daily obligations, my mother’s yearning for Sri Lanka deepened with every passing season. For the past five years, I kept promising her we would return together. Yet life inevitably intervened – the relentless pull of work, financial obligations and the demanding rhythm of my master’s studies in Spain kept putting our journey on hold.

As 2026 turned its first leaf, I was walking alongside my mother, a quiet anchor in our sacred weekly ritual. It was then that I noticed a subtle limp in her step. In that fleeting second, the weight of time settled over me – my mother was ageing and her lifelong dreams remained largely unfulfilled. Determined to change that, I asked her, “What are your five wishes for the year ahead?” I vowed to bring each to life. Her second one was to see Sri Lanka. Then, conflict flared in Lebanon, rendering travel nearly unthinkable. Yet, through absolute resolve and seamless coordination with my sister in Sweden, we turned the impossible into an itinerary.

Growing up in Lebanon, Sri Lanka felt less like a lesson in heritage and more of a sensory memory rooted in my mother's cooking. She didn't actively pass down traditions, though the vibrant presence of her Sri Lankan friends in our living room anchored the connection. My true awakening happened years later in Spain. Fresh off completing my master’s degree in a multicultural melting pot, I returned home with a newfound itch to explore my lineage. Connecting with fellow mixed-race individuals in Lebanon opened the door to an identity I am fully embracing only now.

When our plane landed in the South Asian country, words failed to describe the emotions that welled up inside me. Everything around me felt entirely strange, yet unbelievably familiar – paradoxical and enchanting feelings all at once. Even the language surprised me. After just three days, I found myself picking up words and understanding conversations with ease. It was as if my ancestors’ dialect had been dormant in my cells, waiting to be awakened. For the very first time, I felt that a part of me truly belonged to this land.

The real shock of the trip was discovering a whole new side to my mother – the woman I had always known as my pillar of strength and greatest ally in life. As we travelled across the country, I suddenly felt as though I was not with my mother, but with a little girl utterly captivated by everything around her. Only then did the painful truth hit me: she never had the chance to explore her own country growing up because poverty and financial hardships never allowed her family to do so. What brought me to tears and left me speechless was discovering a secret she had never shared with us: When she was just seven years old, she had worked as a domestic help during summer breaks to support her family and cover her school fees. All our lives she told us about the "adventures of her childhood", keeping the immense hardships and pain behind her strength hidden. Yet, she never once regretted her decision to leave Sri Lanka because that choice was rooted in love and responsibility. She often says that if she could speak to her 20-year-old self today, she would tell her how proud she is of her courage, but also advise her to not stay away from her homeland for so many years. She always used to tell me: “No matter how far life takes you, you never stop longing for the place where you belong.”

I was just 10 years old when I started realising the sheer depth of my mother’s sacrifices. I asked to help her with house cleaning and she agreed. Working alongside her planted a firm conviction in me that together we were invincible, bound by a bond far stronger than any circumstance. She spent decades building a life in Lebanon while carrying the heavy burden of supporting both her immediate and extended families, often in the absence of a strong male figure. This shaped me to grow up with the unshakeable belief that I would never need a man in my life, a mindset I am still actively dismantling in my romantic relationships today as I learn how to accept support from my partner.

In Sri Lanka I watched my mother finally let her guard down. She no longer had to be the iron woman carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. She surrendered to the realisation that her daughters had grown up and were ready to protect and care for her, allowing the child inside her to come back to life. This legacy of resilience, however, had a darker side, instilling in us the belief that we had to handle everything alone. It was a heavy burden we carried until we eventually learnt that asking for help is not a sign of weakness, but a vital human necessity.

As my mother stepped back on her native land’s soil after a 25-year-long absence, I could feel the heavy weight every year of that separation carried. Throughout those lonely years, her deepest fear had been that she might only return when it was too late to see her family or say a final goodbye. The moment we reached, a profound sense of safety and peace was visible on her face. Watching her embrace her family members while they were all still alive made me emotional. Beneath that joyful reunion lay a touching sense of regret for all the years she lost to life’s harsh circumstances, which kept her away and robbed her children of growing up wrapped in the warmth of their extended family.

During our nearly two-week journey searching for my maternal aunt and uncle, I realised the true depth of migration and the toll it takes on our minds, witnessing firsthand how time and distance can erode even the tightest family bonds until separation becomes a chronic reality. This experience finally unlocked the deeper meaning behind my mother’s lifelong wisdom; she would always remind us, "Your brothers and sisters are your truest friends. Never turn your backs on each other." Only through this journey did I understand that her words were not just advice, but what she realised through years defined by absence, longing and sacrifice.

It was evident that my instinctive connection to our roots filled her heart with pride beyond words. She would often say that she drew her strength and resilience – in the face of the challenges and discriminatory gazes that dogged her as a foreigner in Lebanon – from her love for her children and her belief in human equality. Today, as I stand with my mother in her homeland, I can almost hear her speaking to that 20-year-old woman who left Sri Lanka with a heavy heart, telling her how incredibly proud she is of the courage she showed in venturing abroad to build a better life.

Meeting my maternal family was the most emotional and profound part of the entire trip. Although these relatives had only ever known me through stories and photographs, they welcomed me with overwhelming warmth and an outpouring of unconditional love. They expressed their affection through the simplest gestures, preparing fresh meals for me everyday, taking me on long walks through the places where my mother used to play as a child and even dressing me in my aunt’s traditional outfit. These small acts meant the world to me. In those moments, I truly started to understand my genes. I realised why my hair curls in humidity, why I crave spicy food and why my fashion sense always felt distinct from everyone around me. I finally found clarity, embracing the full picture of my blended identity with pride.

This experience brings me to what I call the "forgotten soldiers" – migrant domestic workers who leave their native lands at a young age out of sheer necessity, pausing their own lives and dreams so that others can move forward, yet rarely receiving the recognition they deserve. From a young age, I saw firsthand how people treated my mother with condescension and discrimination because of her background. At first, I reacted to this injustice with anger and defiance, but I later realised that using my platform as an actress and public speaker to share her story could create a far deeper and greater impact. My message is not just for my mother, but for every child who has ever felt powerless in defending their parents against bullying and oppression. That is why I say loudly and with full respect for the institutions of my country Lebanon: the first essential step towards recognising the humanity of these women and restoring their dignity begins with abolishing the Kafala system.

Reflecting on this extraordinary experience, I feel finally reuniting with her family brought my mother deep peace, inner healing and fulfilment. It even gave me a true sense of belonging. We left Lebanon during a period of conflict, and I remember thinking it might be time to discover my other homeland. Now I can proudly say that I belong to two beautiful countries. I even hope to own a home in Sri Lanka one day so that I can return to it whenever I wish.

The life of my mother, who views me as fiercely loyal and steadfastly devoted to our family, boils down to three words – warrior, courageous and unconquerable. Her greatest lesson wasn’t delivered through advice, but the quiet rhythm of her existence: never disown your roots. That is the legacy I carry forward, a philosophy grounded in pride, resilience and empathy. It’s a testament that a dual identity isn’t a fracture, but a profound strength. Our origins remain an anchor and a sanctuary, no matter how many years of sacrifice and distance lie between us.