Customs, traditions & migration Notes

Solution

When Cultures Meet in One City

Walking down my street on weekends, I hear three languages and smell food from every continent. Migration has turned my city into a patchwork of traditions. Neighbours light lanterns in autumn, prepare special bread at Christmas, and share street food from faraway countries. These customs don’t cancel each other out. They layer together and create a richer community.

The most obvious change is food. Restaurants that once served only local dishes now offer Indian curries, Middle Eastern kebabs, and West African stews. Eating them is not only about taste but about learning how people carry their homes with them. Every recipe is a story.

School reflects this diversity too. In my class, students celebrate different festivals. At first this caused awkwardness — some people felt left out or misunderstood. Over time, though, teachers encouraged us to share traditions openly. A classmate once brought sweets for Eid, another explained the meaning of Lunar New Year. Those small moments taught me more about identity than any textbook.

Still, living between cultures is not simple. Some young people feel caught: at home they follow one set of rules, at school another. A friend once admitted she felt embarrassed about her family’s customs until she saw others appreciate them. That recognition gave her confidence.

Migration shows us that culture is not fixed; it travels and evolves. If we value this process, we learn to value each other. That is why traditions in motion are not losses, but new beginnings.

Solution

Dear Maya,

I wanted to write to you about last weekend, because it left such a strong impression on me. Our city held its annual Diwali festival, and this year it seemed bigger than ever. Streets that usually feel ordinary were transformed with rows of lanterns, stalls spilling over with food and jewellery, and music echoing into every corner.

What struck me first was the sound. From one end of the street came the steady beat of traditional drumming. At the other, a local youth band mixed Bollywood songs with western pop, and for a moment both rhythms clashed in the air. Instead of feeling chaotic it felt layered, like two voices speaking at once but somehow harmonising.

The food was even more memorable. I queued for samosas at a small stall run by a family who have been part of the festival for years. The daughter, about our age, told me her grandmother used to make them with spices that aren’t always available here, so they adjusted the recipe. She laughed as she explained that while the taste is slightly different, the memory is intact. Later, I tried sweets made with ingredients from local farms. They weren’t identical to the versions I’ve had before, but hearing the vendor tell the story behind them made them feel just as authentic.

Not everything was perfect. At times the crowd was overwhelming, and some people seemed more interested in taking photos than in joining the rituals. A few stalls sold mass-produced souvenirs that could have been bought anywhere, and those moments pulled me out of the atmosphere. But then I’d turn a corner and see something grounding, a father guiding his child’s hands to light a clay lamp, a group of friends singing along to songs they grew up with, or strangers stopping to listen to an elder recount the story of Rama and Sita.

What I realised was that this festival doesn’t feel like a side-show anymore. It isn’t just “their” event but part of the city’s calendar, something people from every background look forward to. I think that’s what made it so powerful. The rituals had travelled, changed, and adapted, yet they still carried meaning, and now they belong to more than one community.

If you ever come here in November, I’ll take you. You’ll see lanterns and taste sweets, yes, but more than that you’ll feel the way a street can turn into a place of belonging for everyone who steps into it.

Take care,
Manu