"Baba": Daddy [Part Five]

There was one problem on the whole job hunt in Greece; my father could only speak Chaldean!

So he was summoned to the factory.

My father’s first job was at a can factory. Not like canned corn or anything but just a factory to make cans. I guess I never really thought of a factory to make cans only; I mean someone has to make them. I remember my father telling me that it was the loudest place he has ever been. Just imagine, thousands of empty cans clanging together in a huge factory. He told me he can still hear the noise today.

After his job at the can factory, he decided to look for a better job that would at least let him keep his hearing for the rest of his life. So he picked up a job at yet another factory, but this time would be a sliding glass door factory.

Less noise this time but it was not very safe. I remember my dad was always given third shift and worked at the part of the factory floor that caught the sliding doors as they would come off the belt. This didn’t seem like an exciting job to me at all. However, the way my father told the stories of his shift shenanigans it seemed like the ideal job.

Maybe it seemed ideal because of the one man who shared his shift all the time. This man’s name was Mike and he was also an immigrant from Iraq. Mike was from a village near Bagdad so in a way my father and mike were from two different worlds. But in other ways they felt at home when they would be working. My father learned that Mike was also on his way to America and had been on the American Red Cross waiting list for almost a year.

They became the best of friends during their factory days and only God knew where their friendship would lead them.

"Baba": Daddy [Part Four]

When my father and his brother finally got everything situated they were off. They began by buying a round trip plane ticket to Turkey. Turkey was a safer and a more convenient country to get to America.

There they met up with a man that knew someone who knew someone from their village. Now this part got a bit fuzzy when my father told me the story, but he help my father and his brother get into Greece.

Greece was beautiful my dad said. This was the waiting ground between them and America.

In Greece there were at lot of other Chaldean immigrants waiting for their green card to be able to come to America. He said you could just smell the freedom.

To get on the American Red Cross waiting list to be eligible for a green card, you had to be interviewed. So my father and Peter walked in and were both interviewed separately on their life story; why they wanted to go to America, why they left Iraq and so on and so forth.

The average waiting list time was said to be five years. That’s five years! In the meantime, my father and his brother decided to get a job and try to make money.

"Baba": Daddy [Part Three]

After my father was discharged, he knew that’s when he had to leave the country. Since one of his brothers (who was a little older than my father) was enrolled in college, he was not drafted. That night my father and his older brother, Peter, decided that they were going to start their journey to America.

It wasn’t as easy as just buying a plane ticket to New York. It was much more difficult. Since Saddam Hussein was in power, he did not want people leaving his country for good. To even get out of the country, you had to prove to Saddam and his people that you would come back. That meant not taking a significant amount of money or belongings as well as purchasing a round trip plane ticket.

This is how they kept the Iraqi people coming back, because without money it’s that much harder.

Coming to America was a big step for my father and his brother. Not only were they poor but they were the first ones from their family to journey out here. That means that if they did get here that they would have to start from the ground up.

"Baba": Daddy [Part Two]

I couldn’t believe that my dad was training to be on the front line. Why? Mostly because he clearly could have died and that I never thought my dad could even do that.

 I was thinking to myself during his story time, as impatience as I am, Well how did you get here?!

This was the kick off to it all. If my dad could be awarded anything it would probably be “The Luckiest Man Award”.

During his time in the army, he came home for a couple days to see his family. During this time an old man (who was looked up to as the wise man of the village) told my dad with such urgency and happiness that there was a way out of the army.

Now let me tell you this, no one, I mean no one, could ever get out of this army. He was clearly drafted and was putting in his time. There were men in there that had been serving for over five years and had yet to find a loop hole in the system.  

But for my dad there was a loop hole.

Because my father’s village was so far north in Iraq it was legally considered too close to be drafted. So there was a way out but he had a lot to do in such a short time.

Go to the village “lawyer”. Get the proper paper work. Take a taxi into the city. Sleep on the roof of a hotel. Wait until the he place opened where he could check get his paper worked check out. Wake up on time (without an alarm clock!). Get himself checked off. Then take a taxi back, all this just in time before he was sent back to base to get the official ay okay.

My father had it, The Golden Ticket, the ticket that everyone wanted.

Just like that, after not even a full year, my father was discharged.

Did I tell you my father was lucky? Make that blessed.

“Baba”: Daddy [Part One]

This is a story that I would like to take up a couple posts on.

This story is about my hero, my father.  My father never told me his journey about how/ why he came to America. He never told me, until two weeks before I left for my freshman year of college.

Why he picked this time to tell me? I don’t know. But he did and I am glad.

My father and I always get in deep conversations when he comes home from work that will go on for hours and hours into the night. We would talk about politics, religion, the current world, anything and everything in-between.

This night was special. This is the night that I started to look at my father in a different light, where he just wasn’t my dad, but my hero.

He started at the very beginning where he was just a boy, not more than 17. He was small and frail and wasn’t in college (not most northern village boys attended college). But he was considered for the Iraqi army and was drafted not much after his birthday.

He told me that for months they would just  dig holes in what seemed like 1,000 degree weather and there only source of water would be from there snack break; watermelon.

He also told me he was training to be one the brave men on the front line…this right fact shocked me.

“Leethan dooktha”: Country-less

Because Chaldeans are so few and so old, not many people have heard of us. It is hard enough to go day by day to having people ask my sister and I if we’re twins (even though we’re over two years apart) but it is even harder when people ask me what nationality I am.

I always get the question, “Are you Hispanic?” or I get an “HHHhHHHHHHola!” once in a while.

But when I say that I am not Hispanic, I get the look of well what are you then?

It’s really hard to explain the Chaldean culture in those short few seconds a stranger would think it would take to explain it.

Chaldeans are country-less because back in B.C. the Persians conquered the Chaldeans and that is why Chaldean’s old country is known as Iraq today.  

What I mean by that is, that it’s not as easy as saying “Oh, I’m Lebanese for Lebanon.” Or “I’m Australian.”

It’s way more difficult. Mostly because I do not consider myself Iraqi, so I don’t really say that I am Chaldean from Iraq. This is something struggle that I tend to go through daily (especially if I am around new people) and it gets old real fast. . I really have the urge to just yell “WHY DON’T YOU LOOK IT UP!” This is something that I am trying to perfect, where I could explain who I am in less than ten seconds and try not to be rude at the same time.

Arab: Arab

Every since I could remember, my mom would always be defensive and correct me when I would call myself Arab.

I never knew why she would get so defensive; I just went with it to not offend her.

It was hard coming to a predominantly white college and always being referred to as Arab when that was always a negative connotation in my life. I would tell people to I’m not considered Arab when they would call me that, but when they asked why I had nothing to say.

I decided to look it up (yes again, I had to look up my culture).

The same website that I referred to in my pervious blog post, http://www.everyculture.com/, also mentioned how Chaldeans do not like to be called Arab or it is politically incorrect.

In the Middle East, Arab tends to refer to the Islamic population. Since Chaldeans are known for their strong love and passion as Catholics, being associated with a different religion is simply heartbreaking.

There are many differences between Arabs and Chaldeans.

For example, in the Chaldean community women are held on a higher pedestal, and are encouraged to receive a better education by attending a college or university. Just like my generation. My parents specifically came to America so that their children (my sister and I) would receive the best education possible. This is different in very traditional Arab families where the females are not considered as high up in the social structure.

This simple difference that I pointed out might not seem like a big deal to you, but in my culture it is just another thing that defines the Chaldean culture.

Beaeh: Eggs

On Easter my family decorates eggs, like most other homes in America. However, ours are slightly different.

Since I can remember, egg decorating has been a huge tradition. My mother would go out and by the average egg dying kit for me and my sister. However, my grandmother always would decorate her eggs the way she was taught by her mother.

She would take the outside layer of white onions, the orange outside peel, and place them into hot water on a stove with a handful of eggs. She would let them boil for a long as she could and when they came out they could come out looking like this...

They were nice, bright, and an orange-reddish color. They would always standout compared to my sister and I’s colorful, vibrant, and sticker covered Easter eggs.  

Not until this Easter did I realize how much these eggs are most then just eggs, they’re tradition. my grandmother passed away almost 11 years ago. Since she has passed away, my grandfather would make the traditional onion eggs. But this year my mom made them.

This small gesture made me smile. It was like my grandmother had never left. I know I will pass this tradition onto my children so she will always be remembered.

"Leyth Kabera Minen": There is Not Many of Us

I like to think that I know anything and everything about my culture…that’s not always the case though.

Recently, I was writing a speech for my public speaking class about my Chaldean heritage. I was looking up the places that are highly populated by Chaldeans. I mean I knew where we were located and whatever by the places that my cousins are in and random family members, but I never knew why or how many were in the states they were in.

So I hate to say it, but I did research.

I found out that there are no accurate numbers on how many Chaldeans are in the United States. And the reason behind that was because that the US Census doesn’t represent my culture.

So, second best would be estimation.

According to http://www.everyculture.com/, Chaldeans first major migration to the US was in 1910 and the state they chose was Michigan. At that time Michigan was booming because of the auto industry. So most Chaldeans just followed one another and that’s why today most Chaldeans are located in the Metro- Detroit area.

There is said to be only about 70,000 to 80,000 Chaldeans in the Metro-Detroit area. Other states like California, Arizona and Illinois have less than 2,000 to 3,000 Chaldeans at all.

I knew I was a dying race, (hence my blog title) but I never knew the exact number of Chaldeans in America. I would have at least guessed 500,000. I just never took the time to look my culture up.

No matter how much I know, I should always want to know more.

I never knew that I was so rare and special to this world. And yet I think back to elementary school where all I wanted to be was of European decent to just have blond hair and blue eyes.

It makes me thank God that I am different and have such a profound voice. I want to share my culture with everyone and just show a whole new world through my eyes. Maybe others of rare cultures can do the same to open up their eyes to how beautiful each and every one of us is beautiful.

"Eatha": Easter

One of my favorite times of year is Easter. It's an extra loud time and such a great excuse to have every family member, eat unless amounts of great food and just to enjoy each other’s company.

I always like over hearing my friends and classmates talking about how excited they are for Easter and especially Easter dinner. Easter dinner is one of the most important or my favorite part of Easter. My family does not get to eat dinner together every night, nor do we get to see each other all at the same time. So this time of year is truly cherished to me and my family specifically because we get to spend a much needed dinner all together.

Besides my family, what really makes Easter dinner special is the food. We never have had turkey, ham, mashed potatoes kind of meal or all the traditional foods that American’s feast on during the holiday seasons.

We eat something entirely different. We eat cow- not the beef part, but the stomach. Yup that’s right; we eat the cow’s stomach lining.

First reaction?
“Eww.”
 I’m sure. Mine would be too if I wasn’t raised to like it.

It sounds strange and even though I know fully understand what I am eating, I love it. I honestly cannot tell you why, but I love it.

It’s called pacha.
It is extremely difficult to make; it nearly takes 8 hours just to boil in a pot. My mother starts off   by cleaning each individual stomach lining and afterwards sewing up the two sides together to make a pocket.

The inside of the pocket is stuffed with seasoned rice and sewed completely shut. Then the pacha is cooked for 8 hours like I said before in this broth made out of chick peas and other spices.

It is one of the most memorable smells and actually puts a smile on my face just thinking about it. Think of it let the smell of your mom’s homemade cookies. Well pacha is my homemade cookies.

"Salata": Salad

A couple weeks ago, I got in one of those healthy moods at my dining hall and I brought back some pita bread and a side of hummus. I was really excited to try the hummus at my college since I was very hesitant because I had only eaten homemade hummus before.

When I sat down, in the middle of the table, I took some of the hummus and spread it onto the pita and took a huge bite. I was completely surprised that it was actually really good.

Me: “Guys, this hummous is great!”

Girls: “What did you say?”

Me: “This hummous is great.” As I was pointing at the bread before I took another bite.

Girls: giggling. “What did you say…Homeless?”

I was shocked at their reaction. I did not expect to be made fun for the “right” way of saying on how to say this Arabic spread. Granted they are all my close friends and were just poking fun at me like most friends do. Expect when it comes to my culture, it is different.

I am constantly defending my culture and even explaining my culture to those who have not heard the Chaldean culture. When friends made fun of me, I was just frustrated. After arguing with them, I just dropped it because I knew in this battle I was outnumbered.

This got me thinking. I could have just said it the American way and no one would have questioned it. But, I cannot do that. It hurts me every time I say an Arabic word the English way.

You are probably wondering, “Well why? It’s just a word.” But to me it is more than that; it is who I am.

If I decided to lose that battle, what would stop me from losing every other battle? Coming to a predominately Caucasian college, I have never felt the push to conform (by my peers especially) as strong as I do now. I was born in America and am fully in love with the millions of opportunities that this amazing country has to offer me. However, I was not raised as most Americans are raised. I was born and raised in a full-blooded, full blown Chaldean family and culture. To make that even stronger, I attend a Lebanese populated, speaking, and eating Catholic Church. So the Middle Eastern culture is logically imbedded into my head.

As a young adult I have had much practice fighting these narrow-minded battles. I hate to admit it but I struggle, I struggle to keep a firm grip on my culture. There isn’t many people that I know who are in the same spot that I am in, especially at my college. It is a never ending battle. I am the army of this battle, the lone solider.

The times that I do retreat in “battle,” I cannot stand myself. I do not, by any means, try to shove my culture down anyone’s throat, but I do not like to act like it is not there like that it is not me. I try to imagine if my parents did that when they first immigrated to America and how they must have felt the need to conform. What if they had conform? Who would I be today? Where would my mindset be?

The answers are unknown and I would like to keep it that way. My parents are my everything. I am blessed because of them, I am culturally aware because they raised me to be this way. I love who I am. I am different and I would love the rest of the world to accept that fact. I wonder about how people like me acted in my position and what their respond to a group of their friends was.

Did they fall into the hidden trap of conformity?

Imagine an America where everyone was the same. Everyone spoke the same way, dressed the same, acted the same and thought the same. Where would we be? The answer is nowhere.

America should not be a melting pot; where every culture is forced to conform, just like every ingredient blends into the taste of the soup. America needs to be a tossed salad; where every culture is represented respectively in one country, just like every ingredient is shown individually but works well together all in one salad.

"Shareea": War

Being of Middle Eastern decent, I have many opinions about this war that has been taken over the news stations and the hearts of friends and family.

Because my parents are Iraqi, the moment I heard that the USA will be searching Iraq for Weapons of Mass Destruction I had ever emotion running through my head.

“When were we threatened by these weapons?” “How did they have proof of this?” “What would they do to Saddam?”

I was very young to understand most of what was going on, but one moment does stand out to me;

When the statue of Saddam was taken down by the "Iraqi" people.

My jaw dropped on the floor of my living room and I could remember my parents had the same reaction.

“Was it over?” “Is Saddam gone forever?”

My parents did not seem as thrilled as I was. I thought that they would have been ecstatic and be put at such ease because the evil, torture driven dictator was stripped of his power and that he could never do what he did to any other person any longer.

But they weren't happy, excited or overjoyed. They such sat there and watched what was happening. I think two main questions arouse in their heads that day.

1.) “Is this really the end of him?”

My parents left the warmth of their home village, their family and closest friends, and risked their own safety to leave Iraq because of this immoral man...I think it was too good for them to believe that he was that easy to conquer. They do not always believe in what the news media was showing them or telling them because they knew there are always two sides to every story.

2.) “What business did the US have to enter Iraq?”

You have to understand that this war did take down a wicked leader but it also tore a country to shreds. Families were split, thousands of people killed or severely inquired, and the citizens' safety was nowhere to be found. My parents knew this was a triumph for the US and in a way for Iraq but what next?

My parents looked at the big picture that I never even thought of, they were worried about their family and friends there, their churches, and where their once called home would go without leadership and mass chaos.

“Pthoukhla eynoukh”: Open your eyes

One of my favorite classes I have taken at my college was called Encounter with Cultures. This class was divided into 3 sections that covered Native American, African American, and Mexican culture and stereotypes.

Over the course of the semester I learned so much about these three cultures and I was beyond fascinated. During one of the sections, my professor had an activity planned that I will never forget.

In the beginning of class he made us move all of the desks and chairs aside and had the whole class stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder, while he read off statements. If you felt like you were comfortable with the statement, he had you take a step forward. If you disagreed with the statement, you would just stand where you were.

The statements would sound like this: “I do not feel held back by the color of my skin” or “I am comfortable at the college I am at” or “When I am being loud or obnoxious, I know people will not associate it to my racial background”.

I began stepping forward with most of the other students in my class for quite a while. However, half way through I realized that I could not step any further, while the majority of the group was still stepping forward without hesitation. I looked behind me and there were only two other classmates that were left behind with me.

Sadness overcame my emotions.

When my professor was finished reading the 20 or so questions, he had everyone take a seat where they were standing.  Mostly every student, who was Caucasian, was on the other side of the classroom. For me and two other students it was a different story.

You see I like to think that my culture does not affect me in a negative way but only positive things happen to me because of my racial background. However, this isn’t true most of the time. I am effect by these stereotypes and preconceived notices. It’s probably the worst feeling you can ever have; the feeling that someone doesn’t like you because of your skin color or because of your racial background.

I learned that there isn’t much you can do about it but fully love and embrace who you are.

My professor asked us why we were sitting where we were. At this point, I had traveled to the middle of the classroom with another student of Hispanic descent.  What hurt me the most was to see my other classmate who couldn’t have taken more than one step during this whole activity. She was African American and she was at a loss for words as well as mostly everyone in the classroom.

Since my college is predominately white, like I mentioned before, it’s hard to find where you belong if you are a minority. I had to explain to her and the rest of the class that it’s hard to be the minority constantly. You always wish for that moment to be with people that are like you, that share your same race and background to just relax and breathe a sigh of relief knowing in their eyes no matter what you do, you will not be judged.  

Open your eyes.

Stereotypes can have such a vast impact on people.  I just hope that the results of this activity will forever be imbedded into the heads of these students and that these students will learn to love people for who they are on the inside not the outside.

"Ina ewhen Sueretha": I am Christian

All throughout high school and in the beginning of my college career I would constantly be asked the most closed-minded question;

         "Why don't you wear that 'thing' on your head?"

That "thing" is actually called a Hijab which is a head dress that is worn by Islamic women after they have started their menstrual cycle to symbolize their womanhood and modesty. Most women can decide to wear it and others it is dependent on the country they live in.

The reason this question is so hurtful is because of my religious standing. I was born and raised into a Catholic family. My parents were part of the 2% of Christianity that was left in Iraq. Chaldeans were slowly leaving Iraq due to the disrespect that their dictator had on their religious views and churches. I remember the sorrowful stories that my parents would tell me about how their family and friends' churches were bombed. Recently, my mother lost her childhood church and the priests of that church because of a vicious bombing.

You see, another reason my parents came to this country was for religious freedom. Being Catholic is one of traits that I hold so strongly and couldn't imagine my life without my religious views. They define me as a person and the way I act in everyday life.

When people would ask this question without even thinking twice, it confuses me. I understand I have dark skin, eyes and hair but that doesn't need to stamp my religious views on my forehead. Imagine if someone assumed you were Jewish or Atheist without even getting a chance to understand who you are or where you come from.

I wish that people would think twice before they speak and also not assumed that all stereotypes are correct. This is where my culture has its downs but I also think it’s because of the culture America has supported. I love America and I hope that in generations to come, citizens can become more aware of others and the great, culture-rich tossed salad that we, American citizens, are together.

"Meehe?": What?

The uprisings in the Middle East have taken my breath away. Of course, I despise the fact that people are being killed and injured. However, I am in love with the idea that the people simply will not take one more second of their dictator's leadership. My heart goes out to everyone that has been involved within these rebellions. I am so proud to see the people taking their beliefs into action and proving that they are powerful, that they have a will as well.

These current uprisings remind me of the very reason my parents left their country of Iraq. I feel connected to the people in these uprisings because I can understand their frustration. My parents would tell me stories of times where Iraqis were killed just because of what they had written about their dictator, Saddam Hussein. Anything that was written that undermined him in any way was basically a death sentence for the reporter and even their family. Ones under a dictatorship are not granted such freedoms as Americans; like me. That is why I rejoice in what is happening in the Middle East. Freedom is important, not just to Americans, but to everyone.

I challenge you to imagine life without the freedom of religion or freedom of the press or any ounce of freedom. It’s impossible. To me that life would simply be unbearable.

These uprisings have a reason, a purpose. I hope all could be proud for what these people have taken into their own hands and appreciate their bravery.

"Ina": Me

My life has been anything but normal to most. I always feel like I am different and being judged for my appearance or what I say. It is not easy being the odd man out most of the time. I am a twenty year old Chaldean-American. My parents were born and raised in Iraq and immigrated to America in their early twenties on the hopes of freedom.

They finally had their freedom and have never turned back since. My parents are my role-models, heroes and reasons for living the way I do. Always being different does have its tolls on you (especially when I am going to a predominately white college where they’re barely any students of Middle Eastern descent) but I unbelievably wouldn't have it any other way. My culture has given me an amazing outlook on life and such an open mind to others and their culture where I have grown and am still thriving today. This blog is going to show you the ups and downs of my culture-rich life while being a college student and trying to understand everything that is happening around me.

So buckle up and enjoy the ride.