The beauty of cultures lies within the intricate differences they hold. But when comparing them, one can’t help but notice the way humans interact with each other, even if it’s not in the best light.

Basrah, Iraq. 2015, Eleven years old 

I sat in my usual spot of my Bibi’s* Arabian cushion floor set,  occasionally smiling and gesturing to the plate of date cookies in front of me. Bibi’s overly zealously decorated living room beamed with the laughter and chatter of the town’s Ashyar* women. Delicate teaspoons clinged against golden rimmed Arabian Fingan* cups and the sun’s ever so radiant beams illuminated each one of the women’s carefully chosen bangles and Khaleegi necklaces. The women’s children’s liveliness rang out across Bibi’s courtyard; their childhood delight befitting the warm summer air.

“Did you hear?” One auntie said as she leaned forward towards the huddled women and pursed her lips waiting for their responses. Auntie Rania, one of Mama’s distant cousins, and seemingly obsessed with the status of each individual in the town, commented in an instant, “Is it about the Sheik’s daughter?” 

Tsk tsk tsk, Bibi’s room boomed with the dissatisfaction of disapproving tongues. My ears perked as I instinctively took small sips of chia to overhear their hushed whispers.

“Poor woman, her father’s soul departed right after she remarried,” Autie Farah mused with a sigh. 

A stunned silence engulfed Bibi’s living room as all heads whipped in her direction. The once causal light-hearted atmosphere evaporating into an uncomfortable awkwardness. Clearly irritated, Autie Salma’s nose flared and she placed her hands on her hips. “Poor woman? She’s anything but that! How could a Sheik’s daughter, of all people, not even attend her father’s funeral and frolic with her new husband so freely?” 

A few murmurs of agreement could be heard as the women averted their gaze. Some nodded in agreement, while others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. But it was too obvious to not notice the gleam in each one of the women’s eyes. Ah yes, they finally had something new to work their tongues about. 

Bibi’s room was lively once again but this time with the wagging of these women’s tongues. Each morsel of the truth, or what could even be considered as such, was dissected into nothing more than meaningless gossip. 

Why wouldn’t she contribute to her father’s funeral funds? Why didn’t she attend it? Did her father treat her unwell or was she just insolent? And my oh my, who could be her new husband? 

The judgments were swift yet fierce. There was no helping it now. This piece of information was far more scandalous than the typical family squabbles Ashyar women enjoyed conversing about. Perhaps Auntie Farah laid a trap, but I wasn’t going to take the bait of naivety, so I just sat and watched the scene unfold.

America, 2021, seventeen years old.

The afternoon sun hung low across the sky, casting its last rays over the pristinely mowed grass of my neighbor’s yard. The wind sent tantalizing wafts of sizzling meat and spices in the air. My younger siblings and the neighboring children’s laughter echoed across the vast land while adults in floppy hats and expensive sunglasses lounged on canopy chairs. 

I rolled out a picnic cloth under the shade of an elderberry tree waiting patiently for my hamburger to finish cooking on the grill. But waiting was never my strong suit so I resolved to listen in on the adult’s chatter. 

 “Thank goodness Chritsie isn’t here,” Paige fanned herself while scanning the neighbors for any of Christie’s relatives. “I know, who would’ve expected her sudden pregnancy announcement,” Anya declared in a hushed tone. Her husband followed right behind her nodding in agreement. 

“We’ve decided that our kids won’t be hanging out with her son at her house anymore. We don’t want to normalize anything to the kids,” Nick furrowed his brows as he chanced a glance at his rowdy children. 

Mama and Baba shot each other puzzled looks. It was a subtle exchange but I knew exactly what their confusion was about. Hadn’t she always been single? 

Yet despite their confusion, they didn’t utter a word. The revelation would just play out on its own; something I’ve learned a while ago as well. Sure enough, it did. 

“It’s so unfortunate her son won’t have a father,” Tanya remarked, with a hint of ironic worry wrinkling her face. The neighbors all murmured an agreement as I stared expectantly at my parents’ still composition, my stomach rumbling with unease.

From there, a casual vitriol engulfed the adults’ conversation and I shared a look at my parents. It was clear that my they hadn’t expected Iraq’s social dynamics to play out so similarly in America.  But it was simply something they would eventually accept. It’s human nature to establish hierarchy regardless of culture. And it’s only human to sit and listen and not be the odd one out.

Bibi: Iraqi dialect endearment for Grandma  
Ashyr: Somatic people that reside in the marshes of Iraq
Finjan: Arabic word for coffee

Process

For a long time, I struggled with coming to terms with what I wanted to write about in my pieces. Especially with the opportunity to write about whatever my heart desired, it was a challenge pin-pointing all the ideas that rushed to my head whenever I had the slightest inclination to put something down on paper. Luckily, my mentor was able to work with me on that and I was able to write all my ideas down in a much more organized manner.

But perhaps, my greatest struggle when it came to writing this piece had been choosing to speak about my experiences with my Iraqi and American backgrounds. I thought of whether I had the authority to speak on behalf of an entire culture or not but quickly came to the notion that my experiences were unique to me just as it is for anyone else. So I thought, what better way to show that than to write about it! And I did, making sure to not only display the things I found beautiful about each of the cultures I experienced but also display the negative side that nobody would’ve realized unless they’d seen it first-hand.