Fall 2015 Edition of Inspired Magazine.pdf

FEATURE
Perception:
Changing
Foreboding to
Serendipitous
Yassmine, 18
Graduate of North Central
Freshman Ball State
Muncie, IN
I awoke to the sound of young boys
banging their pots and pans with sticks
and yelling as they tried to wake up
the people in the village. It was about
five in the morning and time to eat or
better yet drink water because the day
ahead was long and Ramadan had
just begun and there was no food. This
was the first time I had visited Darfur
since my father sought political refuge
in America. He was an activist who
co-authored an anonymous book that
exposed the injustice in Sudan and
eventually catalyzed the development of
the Justice and Equality movement. He
was brought to the United States by the
United Nations after he lost his position
as Secretary General to the Genocide.
My parents didn’t know English and
struggled to find anyone to connect with.
Working three jobs in the months after,
we took a bus from Phoenix to Indiana
to find a relative. He wanted the best for
me, to achieve my dreams, and to have
an education. In Indianapolis, I spoke
English, ate pizza, and tried my best to
fit in at school. At home I spoke Arabic,
read the Quran and prepared falafel
with my mother. I was raised in such a
fashion that it was very easy for me to
code-switch. As I grew older I began to
find this transition difficult. I would speak
in Arabic when frustrated at school and
I would forget to wear my Hijab when
family members would come over. It
is for that reason that I began to carry
around an emergency scarf that could be crafted into a Hijab.
$36.45 said the cashier. My mother gave me the Food Stamps card
to pay for the groceries. A classmate was waiting in the line behind
me. I pulled out the card and proceeded to pay. I was embarrassed
because I allowed that student to understand my financial state. My
mother works 12 hours a day earning minimum wage. My father works
as a taxi driver in downtown Indianapolis. Almost half of our income is
sent to Africa so that our family members are able to eat; I don’t see
my parents often. I had to take care of my younger siblings, cook, and
make sure that they did their homework .Sometimes I would miss the
bus and my dad would have to take me to school in his taxi. I would
tell him to drop me off at the opposite end of the school so that I could
avoid being seen. Woe is me. It wasn’t until I went to Darfur that I
realized that wasn’t the case.
In Sudan people would always ask “What’s the difference between
America and Darfur?” I wasn’t honest with them. I told them that
the weather was different but not much else because I did not want
them to see how little they had. I went to visit my grandmother at a
refugee camp. Sitting at her bedside I began to read The Interpreter
of Maladies, a story of assimilation. I spotted children outside the tent.
I walked outside and they began asking me to talk in English, just
so they could hear it. I said a few words and they asked me to keep
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