Not every experience of discrimination is monumental; some merely shape our perspectives and remind us of the persistent presence of bias. My journey falls into this latter category.
I am a U.S. citizen, predominantly raised in the heart of America. With an American mother and a Kuwaiti father, my early memories are a tapestry of joy and subtle hurt. As a child, I was the brown-eyed, olive-skinned girl amidst a sea of fair-haired, blue-eyed peers. It often felt like I was living in a scene from a movie, reminiscent of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, where fitting in was a constant struggle.
I recall the day I learned about Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait, my father’s homeland. The tension in our household was palpable as my father became glued to the news, desperately trying to connect with relatives abroad. I watched him grapple with worry when his brother was taken prisoner, and I heard him fervently advocate for Kuwait’s liberation on local radio. The fear of threats to our family loomed large, and as a child, I had nightmares of being taken from school by Saddam Hussein, unable to comprehend the geography of my fears.
Eight months post-liberation, we moved to Kuwait. Arriving from above, I was struck by the sight of smoldering fires and warned to avoid picking anything from the ground, remnants of a war-torn nation. Despite the looming threat of more conflict, I found joy in my new surroundings, where many classmates shared my mixed heritage. Acceptance was crucial, especially in those formative years.
Questions about my faith—“Are you Christian or Muslim?”—were a source of discomfort. To me, they felt like an impossible choice between my parents’ backgrounds. I studied Islam for years, and though I now identify as Catholic, those teachings resonate with me. I was never taught to harbor hate; instead, I felt gratitude for America’s role in liberating Kuwait.
When we returned to the U.S. at age 13, I struggled with typical adolescent awkwardness. My physical features drew unwelcome comments, and my identity felt under constant scrutiny. Then came September 11, a day that shifted everything. The fear of repercussions for my family intensified. I faced increased scrutiny at airports, where I was treated differently than my lighter-skinned peers. Even innocuous objects became suspicious, and inquiries about my heritage felt like interrogations. Traveling with my married name made things simpler, but not for everyone.
I watched my father embrace his American identity as he served in the war on terror for four years, sacrificing more than many. It was disheartening to hear people joke with my husband about being “with the enemy.” I was expected to brush it off, but it stung.
Years later, I find myself questioning how far society will go in its response to fear. Although I identify as American, my Arab roots and familial ties to Islam place me in a precarious position. The historical context of fear-fueled actions, such as the internment camps of World War II, looms large. What lessons have we learned from such events?
Despite my desire to give our leaders the benefit of the doubt, I find it increasingly difficult. I can pass as Italian or Hispanic, as I lack an accent. When asked where I’m from, I simply respond, “Here.” It’s a privilege not all immigrants enjoy.
For those who cannot comprehend this fear, I envy you. Yet, I urge you to cultivate empathy for those facing prejudice in our current political climate. My experiences are personal and real. I cherish my freedom but hold the unsettling awareness that it may not always last.
I remain hopeful, buoyed by those who rallied at the #riseup events. Still, it’s disheartening to see a lack of empathy from many who equate Muslims with terrorism, failing to recognize that extremism exists across all demographics. The challenge lies in confronting the prejudices that many refuse to see.
I’m uncertain about the media’s role in shaping perceptions versus reality, and I struggle to find my voice. However, I know I must begin by breaking the silence and declaring that hatred is never acceptable. Freedom comes at a cost, but it is vital to stand against discrimination.
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In summary, my journey as an Arab-American has been filled with challenges stemming from identity, prejudice, and the longing for acceptance. Despite the hurdles, I remain hopeful for a future where empathy prevails over bias.