Not every tale of hardship and discrimination is a headline-grabber. Some shape our adulthood, reminding us of the biases that linger in society. Mine 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 bit of a blur, but certain memories stand out vividly.
Playing with my childhood pals was generally a blast but occasionally painful. I was the brown-eyed, dark-haired kid among a sea of blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauties. (If you’ve seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding, you know exactly what I mean.) If we decided to play house, I was typically cast as the maid, simply because my appearance didn’t fit the “ideal.”
I vividly recall the day I learned that Iraq had invaded Kuwait, my father’s homeland. I saw my dad glued to the TV, frantically calling overseas, desperate for news about his family. His brother became a prisoner of war, and I witnessed the toll that took on my father. I remember his passionate “Free Kuwait” campaign, hearing his voice on the radio and seeing him on local news. The threats against our family loomed large, filling my young mind with nightmares that Saddam Hussein might snatch me from school. (As a kid, fear is universal, regardless of your grasp on geography.)
Eight months after Kuwait’s liberation, we moved there, and I still remember the sight of fires as we flew in. I was instructed never to pick up anything from the ground — remnants of war were everywhere. The country was in the throes of rebuilding. I recall the tension of Saddam’s threats lingering nearby and my parents debating whether we should stay or leave. I never lived through war directly, but the shadow of it was ever-present.
Despite everything, I loved life in Kuwait. Most of my classmates shared a similar background: an American parent and a Middle-Eastern parent, all of us with darker skin tones. Fitting in was crucial for us as kids.
People often asked, “Are you Christian or Muslim?” That question irked me. It felt like a forced choice between my mom and my dad. I studied Islam for five years and, while I may identify as Catholic now, those teachings of compassion remain with me. The love for America was palpable; they came to Kuwait’s rescue.
When I returned to the States at 13, I was a classic awkward teen with wild hair and braces. I faced comments about my appearance, including the absurd suggestion that I must be Jewish. Then came 9/11, and the fear for my family intensified. Suddenly, I was subjected to extra scrutiny at airports, and my name became a focal point of suspicion. Traveling with my married name, which sounds Irish, definitely simplified things.
I watched my father embrace his American identity, serving in the war on terror for four years, sacrificing a lot more than most. It was disheartening to hear people joke with my husband about him being “with the enemy.” I was expected to laugh it off and “not take it personally.”
Fast-forward to today, and I’m left wondering where the lines are drawn. How far will fear push people? While I may be American, I have Arab heritage and Muslim connections through my family and friends. The history of our country reacting to fear — think WWII internment camps — looms large. What lessons have we truly learned?
I want to believe in our leaders, to think they are genuinely trying to “Make America Great Again.” But day by day, that hope feels more distant. I can blend in; many assume I’m Italian or Hispanic. I answer “Here” when asked where I’m from, and that usually suffices, but not everyone enjoys that privilege.
If you can’t understand this fear, I envy you. But I urge you to empathize with those facing prejudice in today’s climate. This is personal for me. It’s real. While I am free now, I can’t shake the nagging thought that this might change.
Hope still flickers within me, kindled by those who rallied at #riseup. Yet, I’m disheartened by the number of people lacking empathy, who see Muslims only as terrorists, ignoring that extremism exists in every corner of life. I’m uncertain about the media’s role versus reality, but I know I must start by breaking the silence. Hatred is never right, and freedom isn’t free.
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In summary, my journey as an Arab-American has been filled with challenges and triumphs, shaped by a mix of cultural identities. I strive for empathy and understanding, hoping to inspire others to combat prejudice and embrace our shared humanity.