The story of my family’s immigration narrative starts in a small farming village of about 9,000 people. The name of this beautiful little town full of white houses and some of the best olives in the world: Asira al Shamaliya, Palestine. Asira means “to squeeze” and al Shamaliya means “the north.” The name comes from the fact that Asira is famous in Palestine for its olive oil which is squeezed out of the olives. My family still get fresh tank loads of Asira olive oil exported to us every year because we can’t believe how awful and overpriced the olive oil in America is. “al Shamaliya” comes from the fact that the village is to the north of the much larger city of Nablus. It also differentiates it from the other town similarly called “Asira al Qibiliya”, Qibiliya meaning “the south” because of it southern position to Nablus.
Asira al Shamalaya
Both my parents were born in this small village. My father in 1955 and my mother in 1961. Their lives diverged drastically however. During the 1967 Arab-Israeli War, Israel invaded and occupied the West Bank, which Asira al Shimalaya is located in. Forced out of their homes, my mom and her family became refugees and fled on foot, literally traversing over the Jordan River, to the neighboring country of Jordan where my mom lived the rest of her childhood and teenage life. My father and his family however remained in Asira.
This war had large consequences on my life today. Half of my family now resides in Jordan and the other half still resides in Palestine. As you can imagine, that means a lot of traveling when we visit. And given the tense nature of the region, many difficulties arise. My father’s family and mother’s family were still in touch as everyone from Asira is tightknit and in constant contact. My father visited Jordan often and would many times visit my mother’s family. They then fell in love and married each other. The wedding took place in Asira, Palestine. My father eventually got a job in Saudi Arabian airlines as a flight attendant and his work gave him the option of being stationed in either London, Paris, Athens, Manila, Bangkok, Bombay, Karachi, Cairo or New York City. When my father told me about this choice, I always found it extremely fascinating. My life was completely formed and shaped by this decision. I could have had a very different life and experience depending on what he chose. I could have been British, French, Greek, Filipino, Thai, Indian, Pakistani, or Egyptian, but my father obviously chose New York City. In my father’s mind, it was the land of opportunity and because American culture is so well permeated around the world, (even in the small village of Asira, American films were everywhere) it seemed the obvious choice. I love to think about what my life would have been had he chosen a different city, but ultimately I’m glad he chose this amazing city.
Parents Wedding
The journey to America is where the item I brought with me to class came into play. The item is is called a misbaha in Arabic. In English it would be synonymous to prayer beads or rosary beads. I brought it because it really is representative of the immigration journey of my family, specifically my mother. The beads belonged to my grandfather and were made in Palestine. When my mother married my father, she subsequently followed him where his work took him and together they moved to New York City. My grandfather gave my mother the prayer beads when she left to America as a token of safe travel and remembrance. She used it on the plane ride to calm her nerves with prayers. She was very nervous to move to a country where she knew no one. My mother has kept the beads ever since her move to America decades ago. The prayer beads itself are used in Islam as an assistance for short prayers, or saying the 99 names of God. There are 33 beads on the misbaha and when used in three cycles, adds up to the 99 names needed. It’s important to me because it’s one of the oldest objects my mother brought with her from Palestine.
Misbaha (Prayer Beads)
When she told me about the story of how she used them to calm herself, its significance automatically became stuck with me. I didn’t appreciate how hard it is to move to a new country that is totally different from your own, so when I heard about her nerves on the plane ride, it finally hit me.
New York City is where my life begins. I was born in Lutheran Hospital, Brooklyn on August 14, 1997. Like many 2nd generation immigrants, I was raised in a blend of Arab Muslim and American culture. Being an Arab-Muslim in post 9/11 America has been a very difficult experience. In fact, few people know that my birth name was originally Osama, but after 9/11 my parents changed it to Adam, fearing that I would be bullied for sharing the name of the terrorist who brought down the Twin Towers. My name change was a difficult adjustment, but ultimately one I came to accept.
I really do live two lives in a way. At home, my Arabic lifestyle is apparent and my family still refers to me as Osama. Once I leave my house, my name changes and I am Adam in the eyes of the world. It may seem weird, but I respond to both names just as quickly and without any confusion, as if one of my names is just a nickname. Typically, I am well adapted to the blend of cultures I experience, mainly because it’s just so in the norm for New Yorkers to experience and identify as “Something-American.” Because of the open and diverse nature of NYC the feeling of being judged because of my background is less prominent. But there still is undeniable pressures. Racism and xenophobia being one, as the story of my name illustrates, but also trying to fulfill the expectations of both my American and Arab cultures. For example, major life decisions like my career is a constant balance. Arab culture in my experiences loves to propel that the best and only jobs are in medicine, engineering, or law. Trying to balance that with my own interests, which generally lie in history and politics, is a point of contention but one that I am working my way through. Right now I am on the Pre-med track but I do plan on majoring in my interests which either might be Political Science or History, while taking the necessary pre requisites for something in the medical field. It will be tough to balance two very different fields, but ultimately I think it will be rewarding. My older brother faced a similar situation in which my parents pushed him to be a doctor, but after many of passionate, late night arguments, they came to accept his life decisions and now he is getting a P.H.D in Anthropology at Brown University. Ultimately, that is the theme of the story for many immigrants: assimilation and balance. I am no different to that reality than even the earliest of immigrants to New York City.
