As a Syrian girl, people do not look at me the same way before. There is always this sense of pitiness towards me for no matter who I tell about my nationality, as if I have lived in Syria and fleed from there. Other Syrians? Let’s face it. There is enviness. There is always enviness. I am receiving the very best education while many have not seen a pencil or a paper for years. I do not blame them. As an Arab, going broader now, I’m also categorized into a larger clichéd compartment: a radicalist, a fundamentalist, a terrorist. I am a terrorist. It’s weird, you see, when in a small scale, being a Syrian pours sympathy from the world; however, on a larger scale, being a Muslim Arab showers fear and hatred. Sympathy, or fear? They are two opposites. Make up your mind people, this is not a calculus problem.

Sherman Alexie talks about  being "an Indian boy living on the reservation and is simply an oddity. If he'd been anything but an Indian boy living on the reservation, he might have been called a prodigy"(Alexie,2). Sherman Alexie was held back from continuing his education and prospering because of his ethnicity. People expected him to fail, the same way people expect me to be seeking asylum, to be uneducated, or to be a terrorist. It's not simply how Sherman Alexie and I are labeled, it's how we overcome those labels.

Struggling Against Stereotypes

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Whenever my family and I land in the United States, we know that the next few hours will be torture. Although we all are American citizens, coming from Saudi Arabia, and speaking Arabic in the airport immediately sends the signal that we are Arabs. Be careful airport staff, the Arabs are coming! It’s very funny. My brother has a trimmed beard, 2 mm in length. It doesn’t bother me, but now I feel envious when my brother is considered such a famous person to the security. First destination, passport control. This is where we have to tell them about what we were doing in Saudi, why do we live there, what do our parents work as, where they met, where they threw their wedding, when did we last enter the restroom, what is our great uncle’s wife’s middle name, and if her sister-in-law got married, proof that I blink when I talk to him, proof that I am alive, proof that I exist, proof that I am a legal human being. Next destination, the sensor. It is like saying the death chamber. Everything starts beeping, everything. My brother is taken aside, and is questioned whether he has anything on his body.

It’s funny. It’s like watching a comedy show on repeat. It’s funny watching the ignorance of the many.

All I want is one message to the world: I, a Syrian girl, come in peace with education.