As an Arab-American, the struggle against prejudice has been a constant in my life. Not all experiences of discrimination are monumental; some are subtle yet impactful, shaping our adult lives in profound ways. My journey reflects the latter.
I am an American citizen, raised primarily in the heart of the Midwest, born to a Kuwaiti father and an American mother. While I don’t recall much from my early childhood, certain memories remain vivid. Playing with friends was often a joyful experience, but it could also be painful. I was the brown-eyed, dark-haired girl among a sea of blonde-haired, blue-eyed children. During our imaginative games, I often found myself relegated to the role of the maid rather than the sister or mother, simply because of my appearance.
I vividly remember the moments when Iraq invaded Kuwait, my father’s homeland. Those days were filled with tension as my father, glued to the news, made frantic calls overseas in search of information about his family. I watched him grapple with the fear of losing his brother, who had been taken prisoner. I recall the “Free Kuwait” campaign, with my father’s voice resonating on the radio and appearing on local news. The shadows of danger loomed over our family, and as a child, I had nightmares about being taken away by Saddam Hussein, unaware of the geographical implications of my fears.
Eight months after Kuwait was liberated, we moved there. I remember flying over the country and seeing the aftermath of war. The advice not to pick up anything from the ground because it could be remnants of conflict still echoes in my mind. I experienced a country in the process of healing. Although I never directly witnessed war, the constant threat felt all too real.
Despite the turmoil, I cherished my life there. Many of my classmates were like me, children of mixed backgrounds, all with darker complexions. Fitting in was crucial, and I often faced the question: “Are you Christian or Muslim?” This question made me feel as though I was choosing between my mother and father. I studied Islam for five years, and while I now identify as Catholic, those teachings instilled in me a sense of love and understanding. I was taught to embrace America, the nation that helped liberate Kuwait.
When we returned to the United States at the age of 13, I entered a phase of awkwardness. My teeth were crooked, my hair wild, and I was engulfed in shyness and insecurity. I faced comments about my appearance and was even mistaken for being Jewish. Then came 9/11. The fear that enveloped my family was suffocating. I found myself subjected to intense scrutiny at airports, treated differently than my lighter-skinned peers. The fear of terrorism did nothing to change the way I was perceived. A toothbrush could be seen as a weapon, and questions about my last name often led to uncomfortable conversations. I often wish I could travel under my married name, which is Irish, to simplify things.
My father became an American citizen after fighting in the war on terror for four years, sacrificing more than many born here, including myself. It was disheartening to hear individuals jokingly tell my husband that he was “with the enemy.” I was expected to brush it off with a laugh, but it stung.
As I navigate the present, I ponder where the line will ultimately be drawn in the fight against prejudice. I may be American, but my Arab heritage and Muslim connections (family and friends) are undeniable. My children share this legacy, as does my father. Our country has a history of reacting to fear with confinement, reminiscent of World War II internment camps. Have we learned anything from our past?
I want to be optimistic about our leadership. I hope to believe that efforts to “Make America Great Again” are sincere. However, with each passing day, that hope diminishes. I can often blend into the background; people might mistake me for Italian or Hispanic. Without an accent, when asked where I’m from, I simply say, “Here.” They accept it, but many immigrants and people of color don’t have that privilege.
For those who cannot comprehend this fear, I envy you, but I urge you to empathize with those who face prejudice in this political climate. If you know me, this is very personal. It is real, and it is happening. While I currently enjoy freedom, there’s always a lingering thought that it may not last.
Nevertheless, I remain hopeful. The crowd that gathered for the #riseup movement inspired me. Yet, I am disheartened by the pervasive lack of empathy and understanding. Many view Muslims through a lens of terrorism, ignoring the reality that radicalism exists across all backgrounds. It’s essential to recognize the prejudices we may unknowingly endorse.
I am uncertain about the narratives pushed by the media versus reality. I’m still figuring out how to use my voice effectively, but I know that speaking up is crucial. Hatred is never justified, and freedom is never truly free.
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In summary, my journey as an Arab-American has been fraught with challenges, shaped by prejudice and fear. Yet, I continue to seek understanding and hope for a future where empathy prevails over ignorance.
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