<p>At a certain point in our lives, we lose control of whats happening to us, and our lives become controlled by fate. That is the worlds biggest lie.</p>
<pre><code> Shes not Arab. Shes American, a student remarked in Arabic as my converse-laden feet dragged across the foreign floors of Naseem International School. I was no longer in the sweet home of the brave. People with similar cultures as my own surrounded me. I finally lived in a country with people who believed in the same God I did, had the same native tongue as I had, and yet: I had never felt so alone in all my life.
My freshman year of high school was tough. Spent in two entirely opposite environments, my first semester at Heritage High School ended by leaving the school with my friends hugs and tears, and my second semester began at a private school in the Middle East with few to welcome me. Moving from Leesburg, Virginia to a developing third-world country in the Arab Gulf was planted seed that soon became what I momentarily thought to be a blossoming tree of tragedies. I felt extremely insecure and self conscious as I realized how different I was from those who surrounded me, those who I would be forced to interact with until college. I found myself battling against a culture shock as I realized I wouldnt be permitted to properly express myself I formerly did: makeup, dyed hair and bracelets were not permitted in my new school.
Aateeniyaah, my math teacher scowled. Hand it over. I sulkily surrendered my bracelets to Mr. Zahi. Boys in the class chuckled as they witnessed the scene. What a girl, one snickered. Another gazed at his imaginary reflection on his palm. Does, like, my hair look okay?
My mind soon started to wander, and my soul began to sink. I had very little hope of fitting in here, let alone having friends. I felt more imprisoned in my own culture than ever as I realized how I was never considered American enough back home, yet not even remotely considered to be the slightest bit Arab in Bahrain. Being a Sudanese student in the international school" crammed with native Bahrainis in the Arab gulf was difficult, let alone being a Sudani-American female one.
My siblings and I were picked on quite a lot. Bullying was an endless cycle: a day without a fight would be incredible, and a week with no confrontations a miracle. An especially common occurrence was fights being formed out of sheer boredom. One afternoon after school ended, my sister came up to me, whimpering: "Those kids...they're making fun of my hair and won't leave me alone...make them stop." Each and everyone of the kids who mocked her ended up crying on the ground a few minutes later. It replicated a pitiful graveyard. A teacher confronted me about a week later about the incident. I escaped unpunished only because there were, thankfully, no witnesses. Or at least no reliable ones.
With what few opportunities and friends I had, my social life soon revolved around meaningful literature and analysis of the world we have all been brought up in. Thinking, reading and playing piano made up my refuge. Regardless of how low my spirit was at the time, I worked hard enough to earn a 4.2 gpa for the sophomore year spent at the same school. My independence led me to realize who and what I am an indestructible human being who is capable of anything. The barriers of my mind were soon broken down, and I still treasure the endless capabilities of my mind. As Socrates said, "An unexamined life is not worth living". Moving a million miles away into an alien world enabled me to expand my thinking horizons. The Kingdom of Bahrain provided me the opportunity to reinvent myself.
Often times when I think of how life would be different were it not for my 1.5 year stay in Bahrain, I am amazaed at how much more ahead I am of those in my age group in identity. Although I have lost an ample amount of friends and personality traits I was in possession of before I moved, I am more confident in where I am going now more than ever. As other kids my age scramble frantically around, attempting to discover who they are and what their purpose is, I am in an utter comprehension and acceptance of myself. I know Ive been brought into this world for a reason, which doesnt involve spending every cent I earn on makeup or designer shoes, or obsessing over the slightest flaw in my appearance, but instead: devoting myself to the highest way I could commit myself possible. By becoming a surgeon, my mission is to save other people.
Eventually, I allowed the former shackles of my past religion to be lifted as I learned to embrace my culture. What I once was embarasssed of, and what I thought weighed me down is currently the driving force of my essence. I am a proud Muslim, and forever will be.
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