"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.