I can only understand Arabic. I cannot read it, I cannot
write it, I like to say I can speak it but what I really mean is I
know how to say "hello" "how are you" and the names of
certain fruits. I do not pray or wear a hijab, I wouldn't even
know how to pray. Sometimes, it is impossible not to feel like
an imposter when I proudly announce I am a Syrian-American
woman. Yes, I am the daughter of another. My ancestry is a
predictable and sturdy line leading to only one place so why
does it feel so wrong to call myself Middle Eastern? I have
grown up on an endless list of Mediterranean dishes that I do
not know the name of, but their smells are imprinted in my
memory. Every corner in my house is littered with evidence of
my heritage, I know the look of an evil eye from a mile away
but I could not tell you what it means.
I am surrounded by family named Wail, Omar,
Khadija, and it reminds me I will not know what it is like to be
branded with your culture, something so permanent as your
name to announce where your ancestors came from. Instead, I
am left with the bump on the bridge of my nose, the curls in
my hair, the brown in my eyes that are so easily mistaken as
Brazilian or another ethnicity in the mixing pot that is not
well-known enough to be named, so instead, people lighter
than me will take guesses then ask "is that a country?" when
I tell them the name of my mother's home.
Being a second-generation immigrant is being asked
what Syria is like, and replying "I do not know". It is eating
Middle Eastern food and not tasting the inauthenticity. It is
praying to a god you're not sure you believe in because you
might, for just a moment, feel as though at least some part of
you is truly Syrian.
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