Not every instance of hardship and bias is headline-worthy, yet all of them shape our lives in profound ways. My experience is a testament to the subtler, yet persistent, forms of prejudice.
As an American citizen primarily raised in the Midwest, I am the daughter of an American mother and a Kuwaiti father. While my early years are fuzzy, a few vivid memories stand out.
Childhood playdates were often a mix of joy and pain. I was the dark-haired, brown-eyed girl among my blonde, blue-eyed peers. During games of make-believe, I was often cast in the role of the maid, a reflection of how my appearance dictated my place in the narrative.
The day Iraq invaded Kuwait, my father’s homeland, remains etched in my memory. I watched as he became glued to the television, desperately trying to connect with his family overseas. I recall the anxiety when his brother was captured as a prisoner of war and the toll it took on my father. His “Free Kuwait” campaign had him on local radio and television, raising awareness while our family faced threats that loomed over us. As a child, I was tormented by nightmares of being taken from school, not fully grasping the geographical realities but understanding the profound fear.
Eight months after Kuwait’s liberation, we relocated there. I remember flying into the country and seeing smoke rising from fires, remnants of conflict. My parents warned me not to touch anything on the ground; it could be a remnant of war. While I never witnessed combat firsthand, the specter of violence was a constant.
Life in Kuwait was vibrant. My school was filled with kids like me—children of American and Middle Eastern parents, all sporting darker features. The quest for acceptance is crucial for any child, and I felt that sense of belonging there.
A question often posed to me was, “Are you Christian or Muslim?” This inquiry always made me uncomfortable, as it felt like I was being asked to choose between my parents. I studied Islam for five years, and though I identify as Catholic today, those teachings instilled in me a sense of love and understanding. America had liberated Kuwait; that fact resonated deeply within me.
Returning to the U.S. at age 13, I was an awkward teen, grappling with insecurities and self-image issues. Comments about my appearance and assumptions about my ethnicity became a part of my reality. Then came 9/11. The anxiety about my family’s safety intensified. I faced increased scrutiny at airports, and despite sharing their disdain for terrorism, my identity did not afford me the same privileges as others. A toothbrush was seen as a weapon, and questions about my heritage felt intrusive. Traveling with my married name, which is Irish, certainly simplifies things.
My father became a naturalized American citizen after serving in the war on terror, sacrificing much more than many Americans born here, including myself. It was disheartening when people would joke with my husband about being “with the enemy,” expecting me to dismiss it.
Years later, I find myself reflecting on society’s response to fear. My Arab heritage and Muslim connections continue to be perceived with suspicion, both for me and my children. History has taught us that fear can lead to confinement, as seen during World War II. What lessons have we truly learned from our past?
I aspire to believe in the intentions of our leadership, hoping for genuine efforts to “Make America Great Again.” However, daily developments leave me doubting that possibility.
While I can often pass for Italian or Hispanic without an accent, not everyone enjoys that privilege. To those who cannot comprehend this fear, I both envy and urge you to develop empathy for those facing prejudice in today’s climate. This is personal; it is real. I cherish my freedom today, but the uncertainty of its permanence lingers.
Hope is not lost. The individuals who joined the #riseup movement inspire me. However, I remain disheartened by the pervasive lack of empathy and understanding towards Muslims, often unfairly stereotyped as terrorists. We must recognize that radicalism exists across all communities and that the immigration process requires understanding, not hostility.
I find myself torn between media portrayals and reality, uncertain of how to leverage my voice effectively. But I recognize the importance of speaking out against injustice. Freedom is never free, and hatred is never acceptable.
In summary, my journey as an Arab-American is marked by a continuous struggle against prejudice, shaped by personal experiences of discrimination and a desire for understanding and acceptance. My hope remains in fostering empathy and challenging the narrative surrounding my identity.