If you've followed my posts, you should be aware that I am, culturally, Muslim. Today I no longer adhere to this faith, but previously I was a strict Muslim; I used to fast during Ramadan, go to Eid prayer, and find the time to pray five times a day. My family is still strongly Muslim, however, and I still consider myself Muslim by culture, if not by faith.
But how did this Muslim end up in Utah, of all places? It's a weird series of events that led me to Utah, and I'm always telling this story. Both my parents were born in Syria, however, my dad was raised in Canada -- we'll get to why later. My parents met in Syria through an arrangement by my grandparents and their families. They were married and moved to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, where they had their first child: me. We lived with stability for a couple years, then in 1991, the Gulf War (the first one, not this fiasco) ignited. We fled to Winnipeg to wait out the war for what we thought would be a couple weeks. While weeks turned to months, my sister was born. In our household, she is the only one who is Canadian via birth. I am Canadian via my parents, my mother is Canadian via my father, and my father and his parents are Canadian through naturalization. I am not Saudi Arabian; their citizenship is only accomplished through royal decree or birthright.
When the storm of war finally passed, we returned to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia to find that everything has changed. Although I didn't know it at the time, I'd have to say that in retrospect the attitudes of Saudis changed after the Gulf War. People became more nationalistic and started to collect together on religion and fear. Later, my father would tell me the many incidents where he was threatened for flogging if he didn't pray, amongst other incidents. That, on top of legal embezzlement of his wages by his Saudi boss and the constant harassment of the culture led to us moving to the United States.
Right now I'm on a bus back to my school in Vancouver. I said my good-byes to my friends in Utah, and it got me thinking, could I ever have imagined myself here? Did my parents know, 20 years ago, that they'd be living in Utah 20 years from then? So I asked my Dad, and he offered a sage question, "Do you know what the next 20 years will bring?"
So we ended up in Portland. Still not Utah, but we're getting to that. Portland didn't last for many reasons. Firstly, my homesick mother couldn't stand the weather, and coming from the constant sun of Saudi and Syria, I could see why. Secondly, my Dad couldn't find a stable job. He's a software engineer, but he had some pretty bad clients and was let go for not playing with office politics. We lived in a low-income apartment, which was a pretty stark contrast to the luxury enjoyed by Saudi citizens today. When the jobs didn't come through, we ended up going to, of all places, Brigham City, Utah.
Why Utah? Why Brigham City? Brigham City's primary employer is Thiokol / ATK a rocket manufacturing plant in the middle of nowhere, Utah. My Grandfather was employed there as a consultant. When things got bad in Portland, my family ended up living with him temporarily, while my Dad found a job. For a few months we lived at my grandparent's house, but soon my Dad found the job he still works at to this day in Logan, Utah. After the steady job, we moved to a house in Brigham City, in order to stay close to our grandparents.
All this moving about leads to the Canadian aspect of things. And as I write this, I am passing by beautiful Everett, Washington, on my way to my Canadian university: SFU. Canada is the place where I've claimed citizenship for the last 20 years, but only now do I live there. Vancouver is my new home now, but I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for events that happened years before I was born, and barely after my father was born. Mind you, I still haven't been able to get all the details, as this is still a tender subject for some of my family members, so the dates may be off. This is a tough story, and I only tell it with the absolute respect and pride I have for my grandfather and grandmother.
In the 1950s, two events changed my family completely. The first was the Syrian-Israeli war in 1948. My grandfather and his family lived in Syria for hundreds of years; in August, at a family reunion in Montreal, we traced back our family roots to places all across the Middle East to many nomadic and Bedouin tribes. In the months leading up to the war, my grandfather would receive accounts of Jewish people settling in the neighbouring villages. This was greeted with apprehension, but not outright protest; people were more optimistic about what this meant for Syria. Unfortunately, in the villages next to my grandfather's, families started disappearing. Not the disappearing that comes from fleeing town, but the kind that comes from mob-lynching and home invasions. Houses would be found empty, but with belongings bashed around and looted. Soon after, a family who had escaped the disappearances gave warning to my grandfather's village. They fled to Damascus.
I won't go into the gruesome details of the autocracies commited in those days. I do not admire sensationalism and honestly want to put all this behind us. I will say this, however, people in fear, whether it be settlers or refugees, are cruel. Fear-based decision-making never leads to anything positive in society.
The event that pushed my family into North America, however, was an execution. In Damascus, my grandfather's father's brother participated in and later failed to overthrow the Syrian government. He was publicly shot as an example to the Syrian people. The rest of my family, fearing their lives, fled, one by one to America. My father ended up in Winnipeg, where he was raised. He was naturalized soon afterwards.
This is a personal and difficult story, but I bring it up because today the Israeli government continues this oppression and slaughter, while I enjoy my life in North America. I do not fault the Israeli people, nor the members of the Jewish faith. I don't even fault the Zionists. I fault those who gain any money from this ongoing war, and those who seek to mislead others. The American media never covers this, but Israel treats the Muslim population with the worst aspects of second-class citizenry. And while the rest of the world acknowledges a conflict, the United States (including Obama) still pegs the blame on militant parties such as Hamas. Let's get something clear, Hamas, even if they truly represented the people, are not the civilians who are dying. The United States must stop writing a blank-check of destruction to Israel.
Even with all the issues and conflicts, I still believe that the Middle East will see peace. Maybe even in my generation. One of my greatest dreams is to travel back to the places my family was raised without the constant threats of violence and instability.
It may seem hopeless now, and it may seem complicated, but today has changed my mind. Today, on my flight from Salt Lake City to Seattle I spoke with a young woman named Laura. Laura is a Jewish Zionist currently dating a Muslim in Africa. Perhaps I'm being too romantic, but I believe that love can surpass all conflicts and place everything in perspective. On top of that, think of all the advancements we've made and use today: today I am writing this on a laptop, a Turing machine with electricity; posting this on the Internet, a series of Turning machines in communication; while in transit from one country to another. I'm travelling to a border between two countries that share a few differences, but still maintain peace with one another, to a point where a conflict between the two would be laughable.
And in a sea of blog entries and news stories with despair, I hope I can set up a raft of optimism, because I, the Canadian Muslim from Utah, remain quite hopeful for peace in the Middle East, even if I never live to see it.
Thanks for reading this, and I hope it puts perspective in my life story.
Until next time,
Peace,
~Siraf
