Today is the one year anniversary of my mothers passing. Crying - does not suffice, remembering her doesn't take conscious effort. Hearing her voice, and feeling her presence I am used to. Her memory is soaked in my soul. Her words I remember daily. An angel on earth, there are no words to describe what she looks like, or to describe her life. No words are enough for an angel. Yet- even after one year, she is still so alive. Inside of me, I feel her presence. I only wish I could ask her questions about the life she lived. The struggles I face, I wonder if she had the same questions...The curiosity, and the pain.
Iraq is such a huge, yet small part of my identity. I never knew how to answer 'where are you from?' The same patriotism I feel for America, I feel more passionately for Iraq. The human emotion I experience when I think about the place my mother and father spent their younger years releases itself in tears when I hear an Iraqis words in poetry, the writings of both my mother and father. Both of them were poets, writers. The love letters that they shared their entire life, I now hold sacred in a small black box. Bundles of letters and pictures of my parents are spread between my four siblings and I. The adventures across Europe and The United States, Disney Land and the Eiffel Tower. The genuine, bright smile of my glowing mother and her two small children in 1975. Clad in a fur coat, ever so stylish in her kitten heel and perfectly styled hair- I wonder what was she thinking. I inherently sense the immense love she had for my father.
My roots as an Iraqi, I was born with.
I was bred with the intensity and courage to speak for myself as an American.
The two loves I have for America and Iraq seem so separate, yet so alike...
I ran back to the United States after living in the Middle east for reasons which I could not pronounce in the Middle East. In my appearance- it didn't matter. I look like an Arab girl and sound like an American. So who was I to be. I confused others constantly. In turn I confused myself. With Arab social expectations placed upon me because of the superficiality placed on how I look,compared with the standards and rights I knew I was meant to have and be able to practice as a Muslim and an American - I felt with rage in my heart - with the need to express them, the two just could not coincide. How was I to balance both world view points? Lifestyles?
Was I to behave in a manner that I was used to growing up as an American? Or alter my behavior according to how I was 'supposed' to be only because that is how I was projected outwardly? Factually, If I had blonde hair and blue eyes I didn't have to behave the way Arab society expected of me because I would automatically be considered European or American. In respect to my father and to honor my heritage - I chose to embrace it all.
I made some discoveries. I never understood why my mother or father would tell me that I am too harsh, or stubborn. Since the age of 18, I learned to be independent. Before then, I was very dependent on the people around me. I made my own way as I experienced more in life. I learned that I had to speak up, ask questions when I didnt understand and acknowledged that the world wasn't as peachy as I had imagined it to be in my younger and more sheltered days. I created defenses and became more and more jaded towards the emotions that I had once thought would be special and unique. In a traditional Arabs eyes and mind, I maybe was too outspoken. I felt it inwardly and expressed it outwardly- I always thought that was okay, until I went to the middle east and realized that compared to others. I truly was that way- but only as a manifestation of the environment I was bred into.
I was once at the airport in Muscat Oman. I was bitter to come back. I was there for my father only. An old man tried to help me carry my bags that I was completely capable of doing myself. And at his attempt, I immediately assumed that he had ulterior motives. Did it occur to me that he was just trying to be kind? As if I am pre-programmed to think that he is thinking I must be helped because he sees me as attractive, or just simply as a woman. I was reactive and defensive. Looking back, I realize I was unquestionably insensitive and resentful.
These qualms I wished I could have pondered over with my mother... What would she tell me? What would she say or think about the person I have become, and am becoming? Would I be different?
It was meant. And those questions don't matter. Because who I am meant to be has already been decided. I only have the choice to live my best life. She knew this. She would tell me to take it one day at a time, to have faith.
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