By Eaman Zayed
So this is how it all unfolded. I am a Muslim-American. I was born into Islam, and I am also a Palestinian. Before your emotions get the best of you read this. I have been living in the US my entire life, yet in my passport I am labeled "Palestinian" before American. I have never known any other place to be home, for as long as I can remember I always felt out of place. I always asked myself "Why am I being treated differently than everyone else? What is it about me that makes me so different from all of the other girls? Why do I always get these different looks from people? Why does every one look at my mom differently? Then, out of the blue: it hit me like a freight train, at the age of 12. My mom was considered an alien of some sort because of her hijab.
Growing up in the eighties in East Chicago was a blur in some ways. However, I will always remember the looks people gave my mom. She was one of the first Arab-Muslim women in the community to start wearing hijab. My parents came to Puerto Rico in the 70's when they were only 17 and 27. They learned the language and picked up on the culture in no time. They lived there with no serious altercations. But, after two years there, they decided to move to Indiana and lived there for a couple of years, they didn't seem to have any problems there either. My father would move whenever he was given the opportunity to expand his business. That's when he was given a chance to own his own business. That chance required him to move his family to across the state line into Illinois.
It was when they moved to Illinois and the family began expanding, when they felt the indifference. While the area my parents chose to live in was upper middle class, there were a few families that were rude to my mom. By the time I was born, I am number four in line of siblings, that my father was able to have a stable business and home. Everything was going along smoothly, until one day my mom went to the shop to drop off lunch for my dad and his employees. I remember the day crystal clear; I have just turned four and my mom took me with her because I wanted to see my daddy at work. As my mom parked the car and unloaded the food, I was already jumping into my daddy's arms. My mom walked in the front door and the shop was busy. No problem: right? Well, one of the customers gave my mom a dirty look and called her a filthy "Camel Jockey." My mom just stood there in shock. It was my dad that ran over to know what was going on: and he was livid. He asked the gentleman to leave quietly, yet he choose to spew more hate towards my mom. Why you may ask: she was wearing her hijab. My father tried more than once to ask him to leave, and with every request to do so the gentleman would only rise in anger and disgust. He kept calling my mom these names I had never hear of. It was when the gentleman raised his hand to slap my mother that my father reached out and punched him directly in the face; splitting his eye. By then the cops had been called and arrived only to see my dad hit the belligerent man.
To be continued....
So this is how it all unfolded. I am a Muslim-American. I was born into Islam, and I am also a Palestinian. Before your emotions get the best of you read this. I have been living in the US my entire life, yet in my passport I am labeled "Palestinian" before American. I have never known any other place to be home, for as long as I can remember I always felt out of place. I always asked myself "Why am I being treated differently than everyone else? What is it about me that makes me so different from all of the other girls? Why do I always get these different looks from people? Why does every one look at my mom differently? Then, out of the blue: it hit me like a freight train, at the age of 12. My mom was considered an alien of some sort because of her hijab.
Growing up in the eighties in East Chicago was a blur in some ways. However, I will always remember the looks people gave my mom. She was one of the first Arab-Muslim women in the community to start wearing hijab. My parents came to Puerto Rico in the 70's when they were only 17 and 27. They learned the language and picked up on the culture in no time. They lived there with no serious altercations. But, after two years there, they decided to move to Indiana and lived there for a couple of years, they didn't seem to have any problems there either. My father would move whenever he was given the opportunity to expand his business. That's when he was given a chance to own his own business. That chance required him to move his family to across the state line into Illinois.
It was when they moved to Illinois and the family began expanding, when they felt the indifference. While the area my parents chose to live in was upper middle class, there were a few families that were rude to my mom. By the time I was born, I am number four in line of siblings, that my father was able to have a stable business and home. Everything was going along smoothly, until one day my mom went to the shop to drop off lunch for my dad and his employees. I remember the day crystal clear; I have just turned four and my mom took me with her because I wanted to see my daddy at work. As my mom parked the car and unloaded the food, I was already jumping into my daddy's arms. My mom walked in the front door and the shop was busy. No problem: right? Well, one of the customers gave my mom a dirty look and called her a filthy "Camel Jockey." My mom just stood there in shock. It was my dad that ran over to know what was going on: and he was livid. He asked the gentleman to leave quietly, yet he choose to spew more hate towards my mom. Why you may ask: she was wearing her hijab. My father tried more than once to ask him to leave, and with every request to do so the gentleman would only rise in anger and disgust. He kept calling my mom these names I had never hear of. It was when the gentleman raised his hand to slap my mother that my father reached out and punched him directly in the face; splitting his eye. By then the cops had been called and arrived only to see my dad hit the belligerent man.
To be continued....