Mina Qadir
Une histoire
I was a year old when my parents and I left Afghanistan in 1980, fleeing the Russian invasion. We flew to New Delhi where we stayed for two years waiting for a visa to basically anywhere. Finally France opened up its doors to us. As soon as my parents settled down in the small town of Alençon (Normandie), I was sent to Kindergarten. I was four years old and my mom on the way to my first day of school had promised that it would be a wonderful experience. Twenty years later I still have not fully shared with her the terrifying experience of those first months of school.
The neighborhood in which my school and our austere two bedroom apartment were located was called Z.U.P (Zone à urbaniser en priorité), which is a fancy French acronym for areas that the government had created around 1957, to purposely concentrate poor immigrants. Because of the location of my new home most of my schoolmates were Arabic speakers from various North African countries such as Algeria, Tunisia, and Morocco. Even though my school consisted of various ethnicities, my classmates would still hit me during the “récréation,” for I could not speak French. They would ask me a question and I would stare at them, knowing that they would harass me until the day I learned to respond. That is why the teacher would isolate me in the back of the classroom and make me write my first name over and over, almost endlessly, while other kids already knew how to write both their first and last name.
At age seven, I finished second grade, and my status of scapegoat had vanished; I was myself becoming a leader. I participated in the school life and even became the president of my class three years in a row. Unfortunately, from my young perspective, my dad earned a promotion as a programmer, and we moved across our small town, to a much more affluent neighborhood. And it is in our new county of St. Germain du Corbéis that I first faced my own racial differences. Indeed my school was 99% white. I remember understanding why language was a barrier, but I had never suspected that my complexion could be such an obstacle. Not only I was a source of curiosity to my teacher, who would ask me questions about my “exotic” background such as, the geography of Afghanistan or the situation of my parents, but I also became a source of fear to my fellow classmates who had no idea (I like to think) how to interact with me. As a common reaction that humans have to anything that is unfamiliar, some rejected me by for example avoiding sitting next to me, while others simply ignored me.
The mirror had opened up and I was finally self-conscious of my racial differences. Differences I could read one by one in the eyes of my “pale” schoolmates. Even though it might have been innocent or unintentional, they would stare at my parents or at me and make stereotypical remarks. My “angry” period, as I call it, started at that point. I would come home and forbid my mom to speak Farsi to me in front of my friends. The denial process was on, and I started to lie about everything that was “different” in my life. I even lied to my fifth grade teacher when he asked me what I had had for lunch, for I had traditional Afghan food. Still speaking Farsi at home to please my mom, I was creating for myself a new identity that I could use outside my house.
Since elementary school I knew that to succeed in my plan of becoming “colorless,” or even better, becoming a model for my schoolmates, I would have to earn the best grades. I, therefore, started to work harder and saw the results happening in high school. Even though I still was considered a minority in my high school, for it comprised less than ten foreigners out of a population of 800, I had accomplished my mission. Indeed I was a minority who had made it into general high school and not professional high school. There are two different levels in French high schools; one is called general and the other professional. Students that do not fulfill the grade requirements for general high school end up in technological sections. I was therefore in general high school, besides I was a minority who had good grades; teachers would use me as an example.
It is therefore in high school that my French identity took over my Afghan identity. It is because teachers approved of me, that I thought I had to do my best to blend in even more, as a mean to vanish into this crowd that I was finally a member of. And it is only when I started college in the great city of Rennes that I realized that during all those years of building up this armour against prejudice and racism, I had failed to look into my genuine identity.
Then I secretly started to read and learn information on my native land. And I surprisingly discovered many similarities between the culture of my country and my own lifestyle and principles. I therefore began to understand and accept my racial and ethnic differences, not anymore being ashamed to tell people what I had for lunch. I described myself as French-Afghan, like some of my friends would describe themselves as French from Normandie, Provence, or Bretagne. The confusion about my racial identity disappeared, for I understood that as long as I could unify both my Afghan and French characteristics I would be “me.” After all, I was unique and that was for the best. My teachers would always remember my name and my face, or my resume would be put aside for a second look, for I always was an interesting case. It is however when I moved to California at the age of 20 that I become confused about my developing French-Afghan identity. Indeed, California as the home of cultural and ethnic diversity left me perplexed. In other words I was once again filled with uncertainty, for I had to deal with so many different racial groups, including my own. This would be my second and last turning point in the process of my developing identity. I simply observed, astonished by all these people speaking their native languages loudly in the supermarkets. They probably did not realize that in other parts of the world or even the country, foreigners are very aware of their “otherness,” to the point that they make efforts to hide it.
Even though this atmosphere made it easier to adapt myself; for I knew I would not be the only one in Fremont who speaks English with an accent; the development of my racial identity was once again disturbed. Indeed I was at the same time losing my former identity due to my environment and finally identifying myself with a group. Time, however, proved me wrong. In fact when a customer at work asked me about my racial-ethnic group, I told him that my ethnicity was Afghan, but I was a French citizen, who happened to move to California and speak English. He replied: “You’re pretty messed up.” I smiled uncomfortably at his comment, but when I realized the significance of his words I felt hurt inside and confused about where I really belonged.
Today I know what my racial and cultural identity is. The blood that circulates in me, my complexion, my name is Afghan, but my heart, the way I think, and the basic foundations of my beliefs are French. I learned through those years of denial and struggle, that it is not being comfortable with your environment that matters so much, but being comfortable with yourself. Indeed, after spending a year in the U.S, I started to understand that it is merely impossible to adapt oneself to such a cosmopolitan world and keep everyone happy. It is only by being in a state of tranquility and harmony within, that human beings can balance the cultures that have molded them and come to a healthy resolution about their identity.
Introduction
Carlos Navarro, Professor of Ethnic Studies
Mina Qadir is a recent immigrant to the United States (2000). She enrolled in my Racism in America class during Spring Quarter 2003. Mina was required to write a narrative about her own experiences with prejudice and discrimination. I believe that this essay is a powerful testimony to not only the refugee experience, but to the intelligence and personal drive of our Hayward students. After three years in a new country, we all could wish to be this eloquent in the dominant language.