Beit House: A Collection of Arab American History and Art Compiled by Allie Elkhadem
Contributors I want to thank everyone who assisted in the creation of this book. Thank you to all of the artists and writers featured: •
Salsabeel Abdelhamid
•
Tabarek Abdullah
•
Lamia Abukhadra
•
Hayan Charara
•
Razan Elbaba
•
Adam Elkhadem
•
Joseph Elkhadem
•
Shereen Masoud
•
Karmel Sabri
•
Isra Wahdan
•
Helen Zughaib
Special thanks to those that juried the pieces: •
Olivia Elmers
•
Abby Evans
And a huge thank you to IQ Total Source for generously donating the printing of this book!
All pieces are printed with the permission of the artist or writer
TABLE OF CONTENTS Introduction
Definition of Arab Americans
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2-3
(I am Fire) by Abukhadra
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Early History and Waves of Immigration
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The Evil Eye by Elkhadem
6-10
American Role Models by Elbaba
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Occupations and Famous Arab Americans
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Arab Spring by Zughaib
13
Mary’s Hand by Abdullah
14
Religion and Culture
15
Untitled by Wahadan
16
Jackalope by Elkhadem
17-19
Tupac by Masoud
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Palestinian Flag by Abdelhamid
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Marwa by Abdelhamid
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Stereotypes and Current Events
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Grenade by Sabri
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Usage by Charara
25-33
Bibliography I am So Much More than Land by Abukhadra
34-35 36
Introduction The PowerPoint in my government class flashed the words “most feared minority.” As the entire class glanced at the words that accompanied the slide about Arab Americans, I was bombarded with a wave of emotions that only days later would begin to make sense.
I realized that what I had experienced-shock, excitement, fear, joy-came from the fact that it had taken until my senior year of high school to hear the words Arab American at school. I was saddened knowing that this one slide was all most of my classmates may ever hear about Arab Americans despite there being almost 4 million Americans that trace their roots back to an Arab country. Some of my classmates may not even know that one of those 4 million Arab Americans was seated next to them. Growing up in a diverse city like Houston and being apart of a multicultural family taught me to value who I am and my family history. My Arab American identity is important to me—I create poems recalling my visits to Egypt and I cook kushari for special occasions. However, I also realized that there is basis for the idea that Arabs are the “most feared minority” seen in microaggressions and hate crimes across the country. With this book, I hope to begin a necessary dialogue about Arab American history and art with a broader audience in the hopes that a greater understanding can be gained. The book contains curated pieces of visual art and creative writing and carefully researched elements about Arab American history and culture. I hope you enjoy! Allie Elkhadem
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Definition of Arab Americans
The term Arab is one commonly used, however, often incorrectly. The word Arab is used to describe a group of people united by linguistic, religious, and cultural ties. Most Arab people live in the nations that make up the Arab League as shown in the map to the left. The Arab League consists of 22 different countries which leads to great diversity within the Arab community. Arab Americans are group of people living in the United States with ancestry tracing back to one (or more) of the Arab nations with most Arab Americans having ties to Lebanon, Syria, Palestine, Egypt, and Iraq. Most Arab Americans live in urban areas in California, Michigan, New York, and Texas. Since the US census does not collect demographic information on Arab ancestry, it is hard to pinpoint an exact number of Arab Americans; however, the Arab American Institute estimates that there are roughly 3.6 million Americans of Arab origin. The Arab community is growing in the United States with an increase of 72% from 2000 to 2010 alone.
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( انا حرI am Fire) by Lamia Abukhadra
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Early History and Waves of Immigrants The first documented Arabic speaker to come to the Americas was known as Zammouri who was sold into slavery in 1511. He was captured by Native Americans, and he learned six languages making him a skilled translator. It is hard to define exactly how many Arabs came to the United States early on as many were brought as slaves. However, in the late 1700s South Carolina made laws clarifying that Arabs were to be treated as whites in courts. The first major wave of Arab immigration to the United States occurred from 1800 to 1924. At this time about 20 million Arabs came to America mostly from Syria and Lebanon, and most were Christian men. These immigrants came mainly to large cities like New York City and Detroit in response to political and economic instability. Following WWI, a large number of Palestinian immigrants came to the United States as a result of British occupation of the region and the creation of Israel.
The second major wave of Arab immigration occurred during the 1950s and 1960s. This migration was much more diverse than the first one included more women and children and coming from a larger number of Arab countries. Similarly, there was also a greater mix of Muslims and Christians. Another characteristic of the movement is that many of the immigrants were young students seeking degrees or highly trained workers. The abolishment of the racial quota system in 1965 also increased the number of Arabs from certain countries like Yemen. In recent history there has been an increase in the number of Arab immigrants as a result of wars in the region. The Muslim Arab population is the fastest growing with a greater diversity of nationalities coming to the United States.
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“The Evil Eye” by Joseph Elkhadem Being born in the states to immigrant parents is not an easy thing for a child to have to go through. Why? The reasons are too many to write about in any story or maybe even book for that matter, but one reason is that immigrant parents have a collection of “superstitions” that they live by. These superstitions do not coincide with what is taught in schools in the U.S. The fact that they are viewed as superstitions: “fictional beliefs that are not grounded in science,” illustrates immediately that they are to be viewed as something ancient and laughable. These so called superstitions are thought of as being factual by the cultures that believe in them. One such belief found throughout the Arab world is that of the “evil eye.” To give some one the evil eye is probably just what you think it means. It means to wish harm or evil on someone that you, in most cases, are jealous or envious of. There is also a more literal meaning that deals directly with the actual eyes of a person. The eyes are the most valued body part of any human being. It is with the eyes that God allows us to bear witness to all the beauty that he has created for us. The eyes, themselves, are the most beautiful feature on the face and therefore the entire person. My mother is a big believer in both the miracle of the eyes and the idea that there are those among us that want their evil intentions to become reality. When I was 10 years old my brother was only 3, and we lived with my mother in an apartment complex in Houston, Texas. My father was working for a company overseas, and would come stay with us for two weeks once every six months. During this time period, the three of us had all kinds of fun because my mother was not one to shy away from an adventure; nevertheless, she was guided by her strict belief system, which was made up of a combination of her religious beliefs, parental upbringing, and her superstitions (sorry, I mean common sense information). One day we were heading out to the complex courtyard where there was a jungle gym and a large sandbox when we ran into a neighbor, Sherry, that lived a few units down from us. She was a tall woman with red hair and was carrying a laundry basket packed with dirty clothes, a box of soap, and another box of softener sheets. The lady had two boys that also happened to be close in age to my brother and me. After a chat about the weather and how the building manager is slow in fixing things, Sherry asked my mom if we all wanted to get together the following day at approximately the same time outside. Sherry said, “I’ll bring some drinks and snacks, and we can talk for a while as the kids play. They seem to get along so well with each other.” My mother said, “I don’t know. I have so much to do. Perhaps another time when…” By this time I was tugging at my mother’s skirt and about to burst. My brother and I hardly ever got to play with other kids, and I couldn’t believe that my mother was about to pass up this opportunity. I knew that the boys had a large collection of toys, and I wanted to show off my recent acquisitions as 6 well.
My mother seeing the eagerness in my face went ahead and said yes, but it was clear to see that I was the one that made her agree to the next day’s arrangement. After walking a few more feet, Sherry and her kids said their good-byes and turned towards the laundry room; we, on the other hand, continued on towards the play area. Once at our destination, my mother sat on a bench, took out her softback novel, and proceeded to read. My brother and I played for a while but quickly got tired of the limitations of the small play area and each other’s company. We were eventually called by our mother, collected our belongings, and were on our way back to the apartment. On the walk back, all I could think about was how tomorrow was going to be so much more exciting than today. “Mom, don’t forget tomorrow we have to meet Brian and Paul (Sherry’s children) out here at 11:30.” My mother said, “I won’t forget, but you know that I don’t feel good about this at all. You know how I feel about that lady. I don’t like the way she talks and especially the way she looks at you and your brother.” All I said was, “Why?” but I knew the answer that was coming. My mother said, “She uses bad language (the lady occasionally cursed) and the last time I saw her she talked for about 10 minutes about how beautiful your brother’s eyes were. She went on forever about the color, the lashes, and the shape. I could tell by the way she spoke that her words were not coming from a good place. I just hope that nothing that bad happens from this get together tomorrow.” My mother’s suspicions had little affect on me. All I could think about was how much fun I was going to have and how nice it would be to play with someone other than my brother. The next day finally came, and I couldn’t wait to start going out towards the playground. My mother wore a pair of flip-flops, a long skirt, colorful blouse, and a large, circular, blue glass eye amulet around her neck. My brother also had a bracelet with one small glass eye bead in the center. These amulets were to be used to ward of “al ‘ayn al-hasud” (the envious eye). When we got to the playground, Sherry and her children were already waiting. My mother took her place alongside Sherry on the bench while my brother and I started playing immediately. We created construction sites with our big trucks, played tag, climbed all over the jungle gym, and saw who could go the highest on the swings. My mother and Sherry had brought snacks and drinks with them, and every once in a while we would take a break over by them and then return back to playing. Every time I glanced over by the two adults, I would see my mother engaging in civil conversation, but she constantly had one eye looking at us. There was a nervousness about her that was not characteristic of her usual demeanor. Eventually, the fun came to an end, and the mothers called us back for good. We walked alongside Sherry, Brian, and Paul until it was time to
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say good-bye. The mothers exchanged parting salutations and the children were made to say “good-bye” and “thank you” to each other. As soon as the large party had divided into two separate groups, I started sharing my happiness with my mother and letting her know that all the worrying she had been doing had not been necessary. “I had a really good time. I like playing with Brian. I hope we can do it again.” My mother said, forcing a smile, “We’ll see. Maybe sometime.” I could tell right away that something was bothering her. “Nothing happened to Mohammed or me. Why are you upset?” I said. “I am not upset,” she said, “I am happy that you and your brother had fun.” She was happy that we had had a good time, but I really doubted that she had anything that came close to resembling a pleasurable time herself. The event at the playground had happened during the middle of the week and now the weekend was here. During the days in between, we had not mentioned Sherry, her kids, or any future plans to see them again. We were now occupied with something different anyway. My uncle (my father’s brother) and his wife had called my mom and invited us over to their house on Saturday night. This was not a common occurrence, but when it did happen it was always a good time. My aunt was an excellent cook and my uncle always spoiled us by letting us do whatever we wanted while we were at his house. His wife and him did not have children of their own, and he treated us as if we were his own ill-behaved children, and we could basically go wild there. When the night finally arrived to go to my uncle’s house, we all got dressed up, and went to the lobby of the apartments to wait for his car to pull up. He soon arrived, and we were quickly on the way to his house laughing as he joked with us and told us exaggerated stories about things that had happened to him since the last time we had seen him. His house was not more than 15 minutes away from our apartment, and the ride seemed to go by quickly. Maryam, his wife, almost immediately brought out a tray with some cookies and mixed nuts while she put the finishing touches on the dinner that she was preparing. My mother and uncle chatted on the sofa, and my brother and I had found a way to occupy our selves because the idea of just sitting still until dinner was really out of the question. We had created a game that was a more chaotic version of tag where we insanely ran around the glass coffee table taking turns slapping each other on the backs. This gave us the opportunity to get dizzy and the satisfaction of knowing we were the last one to touch the other. The adults were not more than a few feet away as they watched on and continued their conversations simultaneously. We had created a sort of theatretype effect, with stage and all, that welcome spectators. The coffee table was rectangular with a glass top and it was centered in the middle of an oriental rug 8 that occupied much of the living room. My uncle and mom sat in the good
seats with their couch looking directly at us because they sat front-center on the perimeter of the rug. My aunt, on the other hand, was destined for the bad seats as she watched the action from the window that separated the kitchen from the living room. The rug that we ran on had been in the family for a long time because it used to be my grandmother’s back in Egypt. My uncle had paid to have it shipped here to the states when his mom had passed on because it meant a great deal to him. This glorious rug, however, had one big fault. It would always bunch up in certain areas because it was old and was in the wrong size room for a rug of its size. This imperfection would end up being more than just an annoyance tonight. On turn number 400, when we were so dizzy, our hearts were about to pump out of our chests, and our coordination was lacking, my brother’s shoe got stuck in a snag in the rug and he came down with no sense of balance whatsoever, his face leading the way into one of the corners of the glass coffee table. Within seconds a miniature fountain of blood was spurting from right above his left eye, somewhere in between his eyebrow and actual eye. From the amount of blood and its continuous stream it soon became evident that he would have to be taken to the hospital. My uncle and aunt rushed my brother to the kitchen where they ran cold water over his face, and quickly tied a kitchen towel around the wound. By the time my mother had collected her purse and my uncle grabbed his keys the beige towel was already starting to get stained a deep red. My aunt and I did not go to the hospital that night because it was silently agreed upon by the adults that I didn’t need to see anything more and the last thing that they needed were extra people in the car. Approximately three hours later, everyone returned from the hospital. My brother was still sulking, but it was more out of just being tired than anything else. He had received three stiches above his eye, and the earlier display of blood was obviously more gruesome than it was dangerous. He had just had the bad luck of hitting himself in an area that can really spurt out some blood. The night came to a depressing and quick end after that point, and before I knew it I was back at our apartment feeling miserable. The incident was not mentioned again during my entire childhood years except in the form of a news report when my mom had to explain to someone why my brother now had a scar above one of his eyes. I knew better than to bring up the topic because I didn’t want to hear an “I told you so-type lecture,” but there was one thing that really bothered me: Why didn’t the protective eye work? Decades had passed by, and one day I found myself alone with my mother. By this time I had a family of my own, people we had known had died and others had been born, and successes and failures had come and gone. We were sitting there in a rare moment when it was just she and I, and somehow the event that had happened so long ago came up. Our memories of my brother’s accident were nearly identical, and I found my opportunity to ask the question that had weighed on me all these years. 9
“Mom, if you and Mohammed both had the protective eyes on, how come he fell and had to get stiches?” She did not waiver in her answer for even a second, “He still has his eye doesn’t he.”
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American Role Models by Razan Elbaba
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Occupations and Famous Arab Americans During the first wave of immigration, some Arab Americans, mostly Syrian and Lebanese, were homesteaders. Homesteaders were subsistence farmers who owned plots of land in the West. Other early immigrants owned grocery stores which allowed them, their family, and friends to make an income. Peddling was another early occupation. During the second wave of immigration, most Arabs that came to America were highly skilled and trained workers like doctors and engineers. Today, like any ethnic group, Arab Americans hold a variety of jobs from writers to teachers and entertainers to dentists. Some Famous Arab Americans include: •
Ralph Nader—presidential candidate and politician
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Hoda Kotb—news anchor
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Edward Said—professor and academic
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Kahlil Gibran—poet
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Naomi Shahib Nye—author
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Alia Shawkat—actress
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Casey Kasem—actor and radio announcer
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Arab Spring by Helen Zughaib © 13
Mary’s Hand by Tabarek Abdullah
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Religion and Culture One of the most common misconceptions is that all Arab Americans are Muslim. Arab Americans practice a variety of religions; however, the two most prominent are Christianity and Islam. In fact most Arab Americans identify as Christians from a variety of sects. Today the Muslim Arab American population is the fastest growing. While there is no definitive “Arab� culture since each country in the Arab world has its own distinct culture like Egypt is different from Morocco. However, some unifying elements of Arab culture include an emphasis on family and religion. In order to better assimilate and in order to avoid discrimination, some early Arab Americans hid their Arab ancestry. Today there is a large movement to reclaim and celebrate our heritage. Early examples of celebrating Arab culture include the popular mahrajanat, festivals in predominately Arab community to share cultural elements like food and dance. These were popular from the 1930s to 1960s. Today many second and third generation Arab Americans are blending traditional Arab and American culture together.
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Untitled by Isra Wahadan
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Jackalope by Adam J. Elkhadem I. Or even a person like myself, in a stranger land than ever was crossed by foot, The son of a such and such from a desert beneath a blue sky, Even I am here, and while scraping and raking and combing up the bottom rung; Strings lie uselessly here, but I’m afraid of being maybe half as one. And in the end days, it was declared that babies would be born with grey hair. Water-walkers abound here, wells deep and dry in desert afternoons, Complete with gods representing planets and bodies and pieces of grain: But am I one of them? Am I of them? Or… Am I left out lying on the tiles, with broken teeth and hands that look like claws? Have I the red hair, the yellow smile, the green hands that point and direct, And rising up five times a day to genuflect? Or is it only a coincidence or two that leaves me here in the southern states Shivering in the hot weather that only matriculates the time we’ve spent together. We are two halves, one and the same whole The nose dive fruit fly launched another straight scrolling heap of changing and becoming While white minds across the nation finally rise to rise for the occasion Nowhere nations and nations nowhere go, when brothers are made from streetlights, Hand grenades of play-doh And well you know, knowest thou me? And riddles are woven into my insipid ancestry— Carved out in a lab by billionaire magicians who wished that Alexander would do the dishes, But he broke the plates. Hey, everybody makes mistakes…these days, but daisy drains will do Ya, turn on the news, see the true, blue-eyed middle schoolers. Parades (for that’s what they see us walking as today) are gay, but to lay a hand on another? Hey, that’s pyramid house witchcraft for you. II. I sailed the seas with Morgan la Fey, but today my ship has sunken; And though my child’s beard is grey… Well, what’s the point of thinking? 17
Scene 4, Act 1: “Dost mine face appeal to thee?” Thee? “Thy false accents of triviality!” Of course; say more! “See more and see: for the values of our valuation…” Let me guess: Half Arab, half black/white affiliations? “My word! You slay me at even a half glance!” Well, with a puzzle like yours, I’d have to take a chance on the scissors given to me by desert dogs. “Do you know who wrote that story?” Yes, the hand of God! Ye fools that worry while togas tear the tears, and (while clouds rain down fists upon their blackbeards), I find myself worried, not about my own reflection, our how mirrors see them. “What then?” Well, these things have ways of being revealing. You see, With my own mind’s eye of Horus (lol) I see, a hovering, worried, Dare I say it? “Aegean Sea?” I see a sea, a trench of misattribution, of gross domestication and fatal Foreign variations on a theme, ‘pronounced in sad internet slang.’ Well, the worst joke they could say is that at least I went out with a bang. The cymbals fall short, sharp upon a mountainside I’ve never seen, While…where was I? Ah yes! My misery! I understand the fears that my brothers face today, but concerning race: let’s Just say there’s cards that I have chosen not to play. And with good reason! Because I am no cleaner than that there: me or not, there is a thing I sadly share With that werewolf-mother who’s no brother of mine, employed by the state that hates The jewels of the Nile. “And what, prithee, is on your mind?” It’s just that, sometimes I scare myself sometimes With what I’m unconsciously capable of doing, underwriting progress unfortunately, And choosing to blend Rather than fix the mixed up protestants. Which I could do, mind you! “Why, this means war!” And what is mine, and what have I been looking for? 18
III. An identity! “Ay, there’s the rub!” And let me mention Swift’s “Tale of a Tub,” For glitter’s sake, and for the lipstick thrills And the phony glowing spray paint tan lotion rhythm overkills. And for the girl mutant scene stealing whisper on the wall: I got this to say: here’s the message. Rise! [Act Five, Scene One] “Oh, yes, I see it in his eyes!” He thinks I think it’s a thinking delicious stew, but in actuality it’s a world, or maybe two Or three, depending on how you draw Venn diagrams, and how you pronounce a prayer. But when it comes down to hands up in the air, Where were you, and where was I? Was I you, a jackal, or in Prague? And was I you, and were you the underdog? What about the man I’ve set out to kill, Or how even writing that word can scare a cop On paper; but what about the guilt, that when I’m stopped I become the white me, and drop a smile and a half? [Implicitly: that is not how I am: that’s what makes it funny-sometimes you have to cover And sometimes be a straw man Joe; and other times you just leave sleeping dogs alone].
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Tupac by Shereen Masoud
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Palestinian Flag by Salsabeel Abdelhamid This flag is my grandfather pressing his olives for oil and drizzling it over hand-made hummus his wife prepared; it is fig, sweet and tender, and the aroma of fresh mint leaves; it is my aunt cross -stitching traditional designs on dresses and pillows and picture frames scattered along the wall of her winning competitions for these designs. It is the call to prayer at before an ounce of light stretches across the horizon. It is children asking their parents for a shakel to get ice-cream from a corner shop during the peak of summer. It is life, joy, pride - a feast to celebrate a newborn and a melody of horns honking and people dancing for newlyweds. Is death, fear, exhaustion - images of men, women, children plastered on concrete walls to serve as a reminder to how short life can be, my uncle’s scars, physical and mental, from being tortured. This flag is the past, present, and future of the Palestinian people. It is my mother and father, their childhood and their family history. It is me. Ban the flag, don’t ban the flag - Palestine will live on.
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Marwa by Salsabeel Abdelhamid
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Stereotypes and Current Events One major challenge the Arab American community faces is the prevalence of stereotypes in media. Over time the Arab stereotype has changed in Hollywood to the current depiction of Arabs as terrorists. This narrative is reiterated by news. The Palestinian-American comedian Amer Zahr makes light of this by saying that “Arab Americans have a magical power: we are in news stories even when it has nothing to do with us.” Likewise, negative perceptions of Arab Americans can also be attributed to the lack of representation of Arab Americans in both the acting and creation of films. These negative stereotypes lead to hate crimes. For example, in August 2016 Khalid Jabara was killed by his neighbor who had previously assaulted the family by hitting Khalid’s mother with his car. Prior to the incidents, the neighbor had hurled insults at the family calling them “dirty Arabs” and “filthy Lebanese.” Additionally, President Trump recently issued a travel ban barring residents from several countries in the Arab world (Syria, Libya, Yemen, and originally Iraq.) This executive order caused many Arab Americans to fear for their safety and the safety of their family. Similarly, the ban has caused many to fear the idea of a MENA (Middle Eastern and North African) category on a census that many were fighting to have on the 2020 census.
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24 Grenade by Karmel Sabri
USAGE by Hayan Charara An assumption, a pejorative, an honest language, an honorable death. In grade school, I refused to accept the mayor’s handshake; he smiled at everyone except people with names like mine. I was born here. I didn’t have to adopt America, but I adapted to it. You understand: a man must be averse to opinions that have adverse impacts on whether he lives or dies. “Before taking any advice, know the language of those who seek to advise you.” Certain words affected me. Sand nigger, I was called. Camel jockey. What was the effect? While I already muttered under my breath, I did so even more. I am not altogether sure we can all together come. Everything was not all right. Everything is not all right. Imagine poetry without allusions to Shakespeare, Greek mythology, the Bible; or allusions without the adjectives “fanatical,” “extremist,” “Islamic,” “right,” “left,” “Christian,” “conservative,” “liberal.” Language written or translated into a single tongue gives the illusion of tradition. A lot of people murder language—a lot fully aware. Among all the dead, choose between “us” and “them.” Among all the names for the dead—mother, father, brother, sister, husband, wife, child, friend, colleague, neighbor, teacher, student, stranger—choose between “citizen” and “terrorist.” And poet? Immoral, yes, but never amoral? Large amounts, the number between 75 and 90 percent of the estimated 150 million to 1 billion—civilians—killed during wars, over all of recorded human history. Anxious is “worried” or “apprehensive.” American poetry, Americans. 25
Young, I learned anyone born here could become President. Older, I can point to any one of a hundred reasons why this is a lie. Anyway, I don’t want to be President, not of a country, or club, not here or there, not anywhere. He said, “I turned the car around because it began raining bombs.” There’s no chance of ambiguity— an as here could mean “because” or “when”; it makes no difference—he saw the sky, felt the ground, knew what would come next; it matters little when the heart rate in less than a second jumps from 70 to 200 beats per minute. What they did to my grandfather was awful—its wretchedness, awe-inspiring; its cruelty, terrible; it was awfully hard to forget. Just after 8:46AM, I wondered awhile what would happen next. At 9:03AM, I knew there was going to be trouble for a while to come. When in her grief the woman said, “We’re going to hurt them bad,” she meant to say, “We’re going to hurt them badly.” For seventeen days, during air strikes, my grandfather slept on a cot beside a kerosene lamp in the basement of his house. Besides a few days worth of pills, and a gallon of water, he had nothing else to eat or drink. Given these conditions, none of us were surprised that on the eighteenth day, he died. Besides, he was eighty-two years old. I can write what I please. I don’t need to ask, May I? Like a song: men with capital meet in the Capitol in the nation’s capital. Any disagreements, censored; those making them—poets, dissenters, activists— censured. The aftermath, approximately 655,000 people killed. “The Human Cost of War in Iraq: A Mortality Study, 2002-2006,” Bloomsburg School of Public Health, Johns Hopkins University (Baltimore, Maryland); School of Medicine, Al Mustansiriya University 26
(Baghdad, Iraq); in cooperation with the Center for International Studies, Massachusetts Institute of Technology (Cambridge, Massachusetts). The figure just cited—655,000 dead—resulted from a household survey conducted at actual sites, in Iraq, not the Pentagon, or White House, or a newsroom, or someone’s imagination. Of course, language has been corrupted. Look, the President, who speaks coarsely, says, “We must stay the course.” The problem with “Let your conscience be your guide” is you must first be aware, conscious, of the fact that a moral principle is a subjective thing. I wonder: when one “smokes ‘em out of a hole,” if the person doing the smoking is conscious of his conscience at work. Am I fully conscious of how I arrived at this? The continual dissemination of similar images and ideas. The continual aired footage of planes striking the towers, the towers crumbling to the streets, dust, screams, a continuous reel of destruction, fear, as if the attacks were happening twenty-four hours a day, every day, any time. For a while, I couldn’t care less about war. Then I saw corpses, of boys, who looked just like me. This was 1982, at age ten. Ever since, I couldn’t care less why anyone would want it. In 1982, any one of those boys could have been me. Now, it’s any one of those dead men could be me. The Secretary of State offered such counsel to the ambassadors of the world that the United Nations Security Council nodded in favor of war. Criterion easily becomes criteria. Even easier: to no longer require either. The data turned out false. The doctrine of preemption ultimately negated its need. While we both speak English, our languages are so different from each other, yours might as well be Greek to me. When the black man in the park asked, “Are you 27
Mexican, Puerto Rican, or are you Pakistani?” and I said, “I’m Arab,” and he replied, “Damn. Someone don’t like you very much,” I understood perfectly what he meant. The President alluded to the Crusades because of (not due to) a lack of knowledge. Later, he retracted the statement, worried it might offend the Middle East; it never occurred to him the offense taken was due to the bombs shredding them to bits and pieces. “You are either with us or with the terrorists” (September 20, 2001). “You’re either with us or against us” (November 6, 2001). The day after, the disc jockey advocated, on air, a thirty-three cent solution (the cost of a bullet) to the problem of terrorists in our midst—he meant in New York; also, by terrorists, I wonder, did he know he meant cab drivers, hot dog vendors, students, bankers, neighbors, passers-by, New Yorkers, Americans; did he know he also meant Sikhs, Hindus, Iranians, Africans, Asians; did he know, too, he meant Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Atheists; did he realize he was eliciting a violent response, on the radio, in the afternoon? Among those who did not find the remark at all illicit: the owners of the radio station, the FCC, the mayor, the governor, members of the House, the Senate, the President of the United States. Emigrate is better than immigrate. Proof: no such thing as illegal emigration. Further proof: emigration is never an election issue. I heard enthusiastic speeches. They hate our freedoms, our way of life, our this, that, and the other, and so on (not etc). Not everyone agreed every one not “with us” was “against us.” Detroit was farther from home than my father ever imagined. He convinced himself soon after arriving here he had ventured further than he should have. Fewer people live in his hometown 28
than when he left, in 1966. The number, even less, following thirty-four straight days of aerial bombardment. First (not firstly) my father spoke Arabic; second (not secondly) he spoke broken English; third (not thirdly) he spoke Arabic at home and English at work; fourth (not fourthly) he refused to speak English anymore. Not every poem is good. Not every poem does well. Not every poem is well, either. Nor does every poem do good. “To grow the economy” is more than jargon. Can a democracy grow without violence? Ours didn’t. They still plan to grow tomatoes this year, despite what was done. Several men, civilian workers, identified as enemies, were hanged on a bridge, bodies torched, corpses swaying in the breeze. Photographs of the dead were hung with care. I can hardly describe what is going on. Day after day, he told himself, “I am an American. I eat apple pie. I watch baseball. I speak American English. I read American poetry. I was born in Detroit, a city as American as it gets. I vote. I work. I pay taxes, too many taxes. I own a car. I make mortgage payments. I am not hungry. I worry less than the rest of the world. I could stand to lose a few pounds. I eat several types of cuisine on a regular basis. I flush toilets. I let the faucet drip. I have central air-conditioning. I will never starve to death or experience famine. I will never die of malaria. I can say whatever the fuck I please.” Even words succumbed; hopefully turned into a kind of joke; hopeful, a slur. However, I use the words, but less, with more care. The President implied compassion; but inferred otherwise. This is not meant to be ingenious. Nor is it ingenuous. The more he got into it, the more he saw poetry, 29
like language, was in a constant state of becoming. Regardless, or because of this, he welcomed the misuse of language. Language is its own worst enemy— it’s the snake devouring its own tail. They thought of us not kind of or sort of but as somewhat American. Lie: “To recline or rest on a surface?” No. “To put or place something?” No. Depleted uranium, heavy like lead; its use—uranium shells—led to birth defects. When in his anger the man said, “We’re going to teach them a lesson,” I wonder what he thought they would learn. In a war, a soldier is less likely to die than a civilian. He looks like he hates our freedoms. You don’t know them like I do. He looks as if he hates our freedoms. You don’t know them as I do. When in his sorrow my father said, “Everybody loose in war,” I knew exactly what he meant. It may be poets should fight wars. Maybe then, metaphors— not bodies, not hillsides, not hospitals, not schools— will explode. I might have watched the popular sitcom if not for my family-—they were under attack, they might have died. Others may have been laughing at jokes while bodies were being torn apart. I could not risk that kind of laughter. Of all the media covering war, which medium best abolishes the truth? I deceive myself. I will deceive you myself. In the Bronx, I passed as Puerto Rican. I passed as Greek in Queens, also Brazilian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, even a famous, good-looking American movie actor. As Iranian in Manhattan. At the mall in New Jersey, the sales clerk guessed Italian. Where Henry Ford was born, my hometown, I always pass as Arab. I may look like the men in the great paintings of the Near East but their lives, their ways, I assure you, are in the past. Plus, except in those paintings, 30
or at the movies, I never saw Arabs with multiple wives, or who rode camels, lived in silk tents, drank from desert wells; moreover, it’s time to move past that. Did language precede violence? Can violence proceed without language? It broke my father’s heart to talk about the principle of equal justice. The news aired several quotations from the airline passengers, one of whom was a middle-aged man with children, who said, “I didn’t feel safe with them on board.” He used the word “them” though only one, an Arab, was on the plane. Being from Detroit, I couldn’t help but think of Rosa Parks. Then I got angry. I said to the TV, to no one in particular, “If you don’t feel safe, then you get off the goddamn plane.” You can quote me on that. I was really angry-—not real angry, but really angry. The reason? A poet asked me why I didn’t write poems about Muslim and Arab violence against others, and I said I did. And then he said he meant violence against Americans and Israelis, respectively, and I said I did, and before I could go on he interrupted to ask why I didn’t write poems about mothers who sent their sons and daughters on suicide missions. As if, as if, as if. I respectfully decline to answer any more questions. Write your own goddamn poem! Does this poem gratify the physical senses? Does it use sensuous language? It certainly does not attempt to gratify those senses associated with sexual pleasure. In this way, it may not be a sensual poem. However, men have been known to experience sexual gratification in situations involving power, especially over women, other men, life, and language. My father said, “No matter how angry they make you, invite the agents in the house, offer them coffee, 31
be polite. If they stay long, ask them to sit. Otherwise, they will try to set you straight.” When in his frustration he said, “Should of, could of, would of,” he meant, “Stop, leave me alone, I refuse to examine the problem further.” Because (not since) the terrorists attacked us, we became more like the rest of the world than ever before. This is supposed to be a poem; it is supposed to be in a conversation with you. Be sure and participate. “No language is more violent than another,” he said. Then he laughed, and said, “Except the one you use.” Do conflicts of interest exist when governments award wartime contracts to companies that have close ties to government officials? From 1995 to 2000, Dick Cheney, Vice President of the United States, was CEO of Halliburton, which is headquartered in Houston, Texas, near Bush International Airport. Would they benefit themselves by declaring war? Please send those men back home. My grandfather lay there unconscious. For days, there was no water, no medicine, nothing to eat. The soldiers left their footprints at the doorstep. His sons and daughters, they’re now grieving him. “Try not to make too much of it” was the advice given after two Homeland Security agents visited my house, not once, not twice, but three times. I’m waiting for my right mind. The language is a long ways from here. After the bombs fell, I called every night to find out whether my father was alive or dead. He always asked, “How’s the weather there?” Soon enough, he assured me, things would return to normal, that (not where) a ceasefire was on the way. Although (not while) I spoke English with my father, he replied in Arabic. Then I wondered, who’s to decide whose language it is anyway—you, me? your mother, father, books, 32
perspective, sky, earth, ground, dirt, dearly departed, customs, energy, sadness, fear, spirit, poetry, God, dog, cat, sister, brother, daughter, family, you, poems, nights, thoughts, secrets, habits, lines, grievances, breaks, memories, nightmares, mornings, faith, desire, sex, funerals, metaphors, histories, names, tongues, syntax, coffee, smoke, eyes, addiction, witness, paper, fingers, skin, you, your, you’re here, there, the sky, the rain, the past, sleep, rest, live, stop, go, breathe
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Bibliography Allen, Robert. "Arabic Anti-Trump Billboard Posted at Dearborn Border." Detroit Free Press. USA Today, 17 Oct. 2016. Web. 17 Oct. 2016. <http://www.freep.com/ story/news/local/michigan/wayne/2016/10/17/trump-billboard-dearbornarabic/92286422/>. "Arts and Culture." Arab American Institute. Web. 13 June 2016. <http://www.aaiusa.org/ arts-and-culture>. Clarke, Sean. "Shooting the Arabs." Movies. The Guardian, 17 Apr. 2003. Web. 17 Aug. 2016. <https://www.theguardian.com/film/2003/apr/17/iraq.film>. "Coming to America Interactive Exhibit." Coming to America. Arab American National Museum. Web. 5 Aug. 2016. <http://www.arabamericanmuseum.org/client/ virtualtour.asp?p1=CTAgallery>. "Demographics." Arab American Institute. Web. 13 June 2016. <http://www.aaiusa.org/ demographics>. "Facts about Arabs and the Arab World." Adc.org. American-Arab Anti-Discrimination Committee, 29 Nov. 2009. Web. 25 Feb. 2017. <http://www.adc.org/2009/11/ facts-about-arabs-and-the-arab-world/>. Gonyea, Don. "Michigan's Arab-Americans Respond To Donald Trump's Anti-Muslim Rhetoric." Npr. National Public Radio, 11 Dec. 2015. Web. 25 Feb. 2017. <http://www.npr.org/2015/12/11/459392683/michigans-arab-americans-respond -to-donald-trumps-anti-muslim-rhetoric>. I Love America. Perf. Amer Zahr. TEDx Talks. Youtube, 13 Nov. 2015. Web. 1 Aug. 2016. <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJK7XvOsrxI>. Kaffer, Nancy. "How the GOP Lost Arab-American Voters." POLITICO Magazine. N.p., 3 Aug. 2016. Web. 17 Oct. 2016. <http://www.politico.com/magazine/ story/2016/08/arab-american-muslim-vote-2016-trump-bush-dearborn-detroitmichigan-214134>. Layman, Thomas, and Paul B. Murry, eds. "Arab-Berber." The Volume Library. Nashville: Southwestern, 1977. 769. Print. "Living in America Interactive Exhibit." Living in America. Arab American National Museum. Web. 5 Aug. 2016. <http://www.arabamericanmuseum.org/client/ virtualtour.asp?p1=LIAgallery>. "Making an Impact Interactive Exhibit." Making an Impact. Arab American National Museum. Web. 6 Aug. 2016. <http://www.arabamericanmuseum.org/client/ 34
virtualtour.asp?p1=MAIgallery>. Orfalea, Gregory. The Arab Americans: A History. Northampton,MA: Olive Branch, 2005. Print. Stapleton, AnneClaire, and Brynn Gingras. "Family: Son Killed by Neighbor Who Called Him 'dirty Arab'" CNN. Cable News Network, 17 Aug. 2016. Web. 17 Aug. 2016. <http://www.cnn.com/2016/08/16/us/tulsa-arab-american-shooting -trnd/>. Whitaker, Brian. "Why the 'Rules' of Racism Are Different for Arabs." Movies. The Guardian, 18 Aug. 2000. Web. 17 Aug. 2016. <https://www.theguardian.com/ film/2000/aug/18/comment.features>.
"Who Are Arab Americans?" Arab American Institute. Web. 13 June 2016. <http://www.aaiusa.org/who-are-arab-americans>. Wiltz, Teresa. "Lobbying for a 'MENA' Category on U.S. Census." News. USA Today, 07 Oct. 2014. Web. 13 June 2016. <http://www.usatoday.com/ story/news/nation/2014/08/13/stateline-census-mena-africamideast/13999239/>.
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I am So Much More than Land by Lamia Abukhadra
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