Not every experience with discrimination is monumental, yet some shape our lives significantly. My journey falls into the latter category. As an Arab-American, I have faced prejudice that feels both personal and pervasive throughout my life.
I am an American citizen, primarily raised in the heart of the Midwest by an American mother and a Kuwaiti father. My early years are somewhat hazy, but certain incidents are etched in my memory. Growing up, playing with friends was often joyful, yet sometimes painful. I was the dark-haired, brown-eyed girl alongside my blonde, blue-eyed peers. During games of make-believe, I was relegated to the role of the maid, a reflection of how my appearance influenced the perceptions of those around me.
I vividly recall the news of Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait, my father’s homeland. I watched as my dad became glued to the television, desperately attempting to contact relatives overseas. There were moments of deep concern as his brother was taken as a prisoner of war, and I witnessed the emotional toll it took on my father. His efforts to advocate for Kuwait, including public appearances and radio announcements, were constant reminders of the looming threats our family faced. As a child, I had nightmares about being taken from school, not fully understanding the geography or politics at play—only the fear.
After eight months following the liberation of Kuwait, we relocated there. I remember the sight of flames as we descended into the country, the remnants of war still evident. I was warned never to touch anything on the ground, as it could be dangerous debris. Kuwait was in the throes of reconstruction, and the threats of further conflict were ever-present in our conversations at home. Though I didn’t experience war directly, its shadow loomed large.
Despite the tension, I cherished my life in Kuwait. Most of my classmates had similar backgrounds—an American parent and a Middle-Eastern parent, all sharing darker complexions. Fitting in was crucial, especially at that age. Yet, I often found myself confronted by a question I loathed: “Are you Christian or Muslim?” To me, it felt like a choice between my mother and father. I studied Islam for five years, and while I may identify as Catholic today, I carry those teachings with me. The overarching sentiment was one of love for America, which had played a role in freeing Kuwait.
When we returned to the United States at age 13, my awkwardness was palpable. I faced insecurities about my appearance and was often subjected to ignorant comments regarding my ethnic background. Then came 9/11, a turning point that intensified my family’s fears. The scrutiny at airports became relentless, and despite sharing the same disdain for terrorism as my peers, I was still viewed differently. A toothbrush could be seen as a weapon, and my name often led to unwarranted questions about my origins. Traveling with my married name, which is Irish, has simplified things.
I remember my father’s transformation into a naturalized American citizen. He served in the war on terror for four years, contributing significantly to our country. However, comments made to my husband about him being “with the enemy” were frustrating. I was expected to dismiss such remarks as jokes.
Fast forward to today, and I find myself reflecting on where society draws the line concerning fear and prejudice. Although I am American, my Arab heritage and Muslim connections (family and friends) remain a part of my identity. The historical tendency of our country to react to fear with confinement is troubling—especially when considering past injustices like World War II internment camps. What lessons have we truly learned?
I want to believe in our leadership’s intentions, hoping for a commitment to making America a better place. Yet, daily, that hope seems to wane. I find some comfort in the fact that people often mistake me for being Italian or Hispanic, allowing me to navigate life somewhat under the radar. However, not all immigrants or people of color enjoy that privilege.
To those who do not comprehend this fear, I envy you. Yet I urge you to extend compassion to those facing prejudice amid the current political climate. This is deeply personal and very real. Today, I feel free, but the reality is that this status may change.
Despite feeling discouraged, I have not lost hope. The solidarity displayed at events like #riseup inspires me. Yet, it’s disheartening to see a lack of empathy from many who view Muslims solely as terrorists, ignoring the fact that radicalism exists in various forms across all cultures.
I’m uncertain about the narratives propagated by the media versus reality. Nevertheless, I am committed to breaking the silence surrounding these issues. Freedom is not free, and hatred should never be accepted.
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In summary, my journey as an Arab-American has been fraught with challenges and prejudice, yet I remain hopeful for a future where empathy prevails over fear.
Keyphrase: Arab-American identity and prejudice
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