As an Arab-American, confronting prejudice is a continuous challenge that shapes my identity. My experiences are not the grand tales of discrimination often highlighted; rather, they are the subtle reminders that biases persist in our society.
I am an American citizen, predominantly raised in the heart of the United States, born to a Kuwaiti father and an American mother. My early years are somewhat of a blur, but certain memories are etched in my mind. Playing with friends was often joyful, yet at times, it was laced with pain. I was the brown-eyed, dark-haired girl amidst a sea of blonde, blue-eyed peers. During games of pretend, I was never cast as the sister or mother; instead, I was relegated to the role of the maid, a nod to my appearance.
I recall the day I learned about Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait, my father’s homeland. The image of my dad glued to the television, desperately trying to connect with family overseas, is vivid. I remember the anguish as my uncle was captured as a prisoner of war and the impact it had on my father. I watched him rally support through his “Free Kuwait” campaign, frequently appearing on local news. The discussions about our family’s safety and the looming threats are still fresh in my mind. As a child, I had nightmares of being taken from school by Saddam Hussein, not fully grasping the geographic implications of my fears.
Eight months after Kuwait’s liberation, we relocated there. I vividly recall the sight of fires as we flew in and the warnings to avoid picking up anything from the ground—remnants of a war-torn landscape. Though I didn’t experience combat directly, the threat of violence was ever-present, influencing family conversations about our safety.
In Kuwait, life was filled with a sense of belonging. Many of my classmates shared similar backgrounds, with one American and one Middle-Eastern parent. Acceptance was crucial, especially for a child. The question of whether I was Christian or Muslim was a constant annoyance; it felt like I was being asked to choose between my parents. Though I studied Islam for five years and may identify as Catholic now, the teachings of love and acceptance have stayed with me.
At thirteen, we returned to the United States, and I found myself navigating the awkwardness of adolescence. With braces and frizzy hair, I faced comments about my appearance and misguided assumptions about my religion. Then came 9/11. The fear of its implications for my family was overwhelming. I faced heightened scrutiny at airports and was often questioned about my last name and origins. Traveling with my married name, which is Irish, sometimes simplified things, but it highlighted the disparities in how people are treated based on appearance.
My father, a veteran of the war on terror, had given so much for this country. Yet, I witnessed people joking with my husband about him being “with the enemy.” It was disheartening, and I was expected to brush it off and not take it to heart.
Fast forward to today, and I ponder where the line will be drawn in society’s response to fear. Although I identify as American, my Arab heritage and Muslim connections are undeniable. Our country has a history of reacting to fear with confinement, reminiscent of World War II internment camps. Have we learned from our past mistakes?
I want to believe in the intentions of our leaders and hope for a future where empathy prevails. Yet, the current political climate often seems to stoke division rather than understanding. While I can sometimes pass as Italian or Hispanic due to my appearance, not everyone has that privilege.
If you cannot relate to this fear, I genuinely envy you. However, I urge you to empathize with those facing prejudice in our society. This is not just a personal narrative; it is a reality for many of us. Although I cherish my freedom today, the anxiety that it may not always last lingers.
I remain hopeful, especially after witnessing the solidarity at events like #riseup. However, I am disheartened by the lack of empathy from those who fail to understand that radicals exist in every community. It is crucial to recognize that hatred is never justified, regardless of its source.
I am still figuring out how to work my voice into the discourse, but I will start by speaking out against silence. Freedom requires vigilance, and we must confront hatred wherever it appears.
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Summary
The author shares her personal journey as an Arab-American, reflecting on the subtle and overt prejudices she has faced throughout her life. From childhood experiences to the impact of 9/11, she navigates her identity amid societal fears and misconceptions. Ultimately, she emphasizes the need for empathy and understanding in a divided world.