As an Arab-American, the struggle against prejudice has been a constant in my life. While some experiences of discrimination make headlines, others quietly shape our everyday existence. My story falls into the latter category.
I am an American citizen, primarily raised in the heart of the Midwest, born to an American mother and a Kuwaiti father. My early years are a blur, but a few vivid memories remain. Growing up amidst my friends was joyful, yet occasionally painful. I was the dark-haired girl with brown eyes and an olive complexion surrounded by blonde, blue-eyed children. It often felt like I was cast in the role of the maid during our make-believe games, simply because of my appearance.
I recall the moment I learned about Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait, my father’s homeland. I watched him glued to the TV, desperately trying to connect with family overseas, all while dealing with the emotional toll of his brother being taken as a prisoner of war. I remember his “Free Kuwait” campaign, hearing his voice on the radio, and seeing him on local news. The fear and uncertainty surrounding our family’s safety were palpable, and I had nightmares that Saddam Hussein would come for me at school. As a child, I couldn’t grasp the complexities of geography; I just felt the fear.
Eight months after Kuwait was liberated, we moved there. I vividly remember flying into the country and seeing smoke rising from the ground, a stark reminder of the war’s aftermath. “Never pick up anything from the ground,” we were warned, as the remnants of conflict lay scattered around. Though I never experienced the war firsthand, the atmosphere of anxiety was ever-present.
Life in Kuwait felt fulfilling. Many of my classmates shared a similar background: an American parent and a Middle-Eastern parent. We all sought belonging and acceptance, which is crucial during childhood. However, I dreaded the question, “Are you Christian or Muslim?” It felt like I was being forced to choose between my parents. I studied Islam for five years, and even as a Catholic today, those teachings of love and understanding shaped my worldview.
When we returned to the U.S. at 13, I was an awkward teenager, struggling with insecurities about my appearance. I faced comments about my nose, with some even mistaking me for Jewish. And then came September 11. The anxiety for my family surged, as did the scrutiny I faced in public spaces. I was subjected to more intense airport inspections than my lighter-skinned peers. It didn’t matter that I despised terrorism; my identity overshadowed my intentions. I remember the irony of traveling under my married name, which simplified things considerably.
With time, I witnessed my father proudly embrace his American identity after serving four years in the fight against terror. His sacrifices surpassed those of many who were born here. Yet, comments directed at my husband, suggesting he was “with the enemy,” stung deeply, even if I was told to laugh it off.
Today, I reflect on how far we’ve come and how much further we must go. The fear of prejudice looms large, as my Arab heritage and Muslim connections remain a part of my family’s identity. Our nation has a history of reacting to fear with confinement—just look at World War II internment camps. What lessons have we learned?
I want to extend a chance for understanding to our leaders. I hope for intelligent discourse, but each passing day makes that seem less likely. I can blend in; people often mistake me for Italian or Hispanic. However, not everyone has that privilege.
If you cannot relate to this fear, I genuinely envy you. But I implore you to empathize with those facing prejudice in today’s political climate. This is personal; it’s real. I am free to express myself, but the thought of that freedom not being permanent weighs heavily on my mind.
Hope has not abandoned me. The solidarity shown during movements like #riseup has encouraged me. But I remain dismayed by the lack of empathy among many, who mistakenly associate all Muslims with terrorism. It’s crucial to recognize that radicalism exists in every group, and to support fair immigration reform without prejudice.
I may be unsure about what’s sensationalized by the media versus reality, and I’m still learning how to use my voice effectively. However, I know one thing: silence is not an option. Hatred has no place in society. Freedom is never free, and we must stand together against injustice.
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In summary, my journey as an Arab-American has been filled with challenges shaped by prejudice and misunderstanding. Yet, I remain hopeful, advocating for compassion and empathy in a world increasingly fraught with division.