What’s the definition of a “normal” life? For me, a normal life is living close to your parents and siblings, who are only an inch away from you all the time. That was my life. I grew up near my extended family and constantly hung out with my cousins. My parents, siblings and I all lived under the same roof in Riyadh, the capital of Saudi Arabia. Then, a big change came, and unbeknownst to me, everything would slip away. My mom announced that she’d been accepted at UNC-Chapel Hill for her master’s degree. We were all so excited, because that meant living in America! From my family’s eyes, the USA was this shiny, glittery place. The promise of the American Dream and a land filled with endless opportunities for success.
Little did I know, other things would have to be sacrificed for that dream. I didn’t fully understand what I’d be letting go, until it was gone.
A few weeks before moving, my family took the regular roadtrip to the small town where my grandparents and cousins lived. They didn’t know we’d be leaving. They didn’t know it would be our last time together…at least for a while. I remember when my eight year old cousin asked me when we’d come to visit again; I felt a sick feeling in my stomach, but forced myself to smile and say, “I don’t know.” It was technically true, because I didn’t know. I hugged my grandmother goodbye before we drove back to Riyadh. Then finally, December arrived.
We set out to the airport and boarded our plane at around 4 A.M. From that point, it was a 15 hour trip to Washington DC, which for me was a dream. I loved long plane rides! Though the planes here weren’t as much fun as the ones in Saudi Arabia. Even for long trips, all you’d get is a cup of juice and pretzels. I remember arriving in Washington D.C., where everything was novel. I soon found out that my time in America would be very different in comparison to my old life. The majority of the population here wasn’t Muslim and I had no extended family here, and my parents had to find specific Muslim markets that sold halal food.
We had to seek out local mosques and a Muslim community here. When I arrived at my new middle school, I was the only Muslim in my grade. In my old school, everyone was Muslim. Everyone. The scarcity of Muslims proved to be a shock to me. In Saudi Arabia, wherever you go you’d see Muslims in large numbers. I knew it wasn’t like that in America, but I was still taken aback. It was only after I moved here did I find myself searching for other Muslims. My eyes were suddenly looking for something I had never thought to look for before.
Life in America has definitely proved challenging, but it’s grown to become home. It also provided me with a wider perspective on life. It allowed me to see two different cultures and societies and their respective pros and cons. My heart was torn between two different homes, not knowing which one I wanted more. On one hand there’s America, a country that would give my siblings and I better schools with such a wide variety of classes. There’s my mom, who’s loving her time at UNC. There’s me, suddenly becoming attached with everything around me. The beautiful green trees, my friends, my apartment, and the local mosques that I’ve spent so much time in. Then there’s the cons. In America, I’m an outsider. I stand out from everyone else, no longer blending in the sea of Muslims. Now I have a label on my back as a “Middle Eastern immigrant,” a title I’d never experienced before. Though it didn’t cross my mind often, I’d think of myself as Arab. Yes I am Middle Eastern, but I always narrowed it down to just “Arab”. I had never even heard the term “Middle Eastern” before, it was all so new to me.
I also soon found out that in the US Census forms, people who are Middle Eastern (think UAE, Qatar, Saudi Arabia) or North African (think Morocco, Egypt, Libya) are classified as “white”. That was like a slap in the face. I was, and still am, deeply offended that America thinks someone from Saudi Arabia is white. Whenever I fill out school forms that ask what my race/ethnicity is, I put “Middle Eastern,” but when it’s not an option, the closest thing I can get is “Asian.”
Then on the other hand there’s my home country, the place I was born in and the place my heart longs for. The culture, the environment, the sand dunes I loved to walk in, my house, the road trips to the small town where my extended family lived, it’s all there. My heart truly was torn, wanting to be in two places at the same time.
Moving here has definitely posed difficulties, but it allowed me to meet so many new people and go to a better school with better classes. I hope I continue to work hard in school and stay true to myself and my identity as a Muslim in the Western world.
Image courtesy of Nouran Alyousif. Alyousif visiting Washington D.C. shortly after moving to the US.
