Fariba Nawa – AUTHOR AND JOURNALIST

Blog

  • Why I value my wrinkles

    As I was packing for our long-awaited move to Istanbul, one of my college friends paid a visit to bid me farewell. I was on the floor surrounded by boxes and suitcases, and my college albums spread open. I smiled at her and shared our photos from 20 years ago. We were a group of attractive Afghan-American men and women full of dreams. She smiled as she eyed each picture with careful scrutiny. Then she closed the album and said:

    “Fariba, out of all of us, you’ve aged the most.” Then she opened the album again as if the observation should be a known fact with no room for emotional comebacks.

    It was a painful truth I already knew. I was so hurt, I let it go.

    “Well, I guess so,” I simply said and continued to pack.

    A month later, I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered what I would change. The answer came quickly: nothing.

    I wish I had told her that I was proud of how I had aged. My aging was the physical manifestation of many tales in my life. I probably began to see the changes after I had my firstborn at 35.

    The roundness of my stomach told the story of my two pregnancies, both little girls with sincere brown eyes. They light up my days as they exhaust me.

    The gray strands in my blonde hair are highlights of my worries as I watched my father wither from Alzheimer’s. Each strand was a night in the hospital, holding his hand.

    The skin gathering under my chin was the echo of my voice calling for justice on stages across America. I spent eight years public speaking about women’s rights.

    The wrinkles on my forehead are hereditary from my father’s side – the lines belong to a family of storytellers and poets. They were etched in my body at birth.

    The laugh lines around my eyes are testament of treasured moments filled with giggles and cackles in the bosom of family and friends.

    My once round face has elongated, an affirmation of a lengthy journey, a full life with little fear and endless roller coaster rides of emotions and incidents.

    So my dear friend, thank you for the compliment that I look like I have aged. My spirit lives within me. I don’t need botox, plastic surgery, hair dye so you or others can tell me I’m young. Pretentions erase memories, they take away the rich stories our aging body can tell. And I prefer those stories to be transparent than a flat stomach and wrinkle-free face.

     

  • Your tomorrow is my today

    On November 3, my little family of four packed eight years into five suitcases and flew from San Francisco to Istanbul.

    Our temporary apartment was just right with a panoramic view of the city. We enrolled our two girls in an international school, walked the hilly streets and avoided traffic by taking the metro. We had to tackle Turkish bureaucracy for our immigrant visas and on the way to the migration office, I forgot to watch my step and fell hard on a cracked sidewalk fracturing my foot. This was a sign that I needed to rest after a hectic year in California.

    It didn’t dampen my spirit because coming to Istanbul had been my plan for the last five years. But plans are cloudy dreams. Too many obstacles prevented its realization until now.

    My father suffered from Alzheimer’s and kidney failure for 10 years, my husband had to finish his education, and I had to conquer my own fears of moving my children to another country. But after my father’s death in July, I was determined to come despite all the warnings from friends and family that security was worsening, that the environment was unfriendly to journalists and life was becoming harder.

    These were all challenges I was willing to take on, and as soon as I arrived – this is my fourth time visiting and first time living here – I fell for all of Istanbul’s imperfections, a city that has enraptured so many writers before me. There’s a story in every corner, and I want to hear it. Turkey is in the midst of all the transformations and wars, and Istanbul, one of the most resilient places in history, is the personification of the changes to come. I have so much to witness.

    But before I’m ready to tackle Constantinople, I have to heal an aching foot. So I will look at the view through our window and count my blessings.

  • Rock the Kasbah co-opts stereotypes to reveal truths

    This blog was first published in my HuffingtonPost blogspot.

    I was 9 years old when my family fled Afghanistan and sought asylum as refugees in the U.S. during the Soviet invasion. It was surreal to watch Rock the Kasbah, a movie about Afghanistan — a country I later visited as an adult and reported from for seven years during the Taliban era and after the American-led intervention.

    At first glance, Rock the Kasbah (premiering October 23) seems like the typical Hollywood movie depicting Muslims: turbaned men with kohl-rimmed eyes on horseback, a girl who needs an American’s help to succeed, and bombs blowing up when the plot slows in the movie. However, you would be ill-advised to pass quick judgment.

    The Barry Levinson comedy has a twist. The main character Richie Lanz masterfully played by Bill Murray is no action hero — he’s a deadbeat Hollywood talent scout who travels to Afghanistan with his last client (Zooey Deschanel) to tour with the USO. She steals his passport and money and Lanz’s left to survive a journey in post 9/11 Afghanistan. The filmmakers capture the tragedies of my homeland through comical idiosyncrasies. The movie switches from stereotype to kitsch, and it’s the absurdities that reflect the truth.

    Lanz represents the clueless American. Even the name of the movie is a pun on Lanz’s ignorance, which his daughter points out when he tells her he’s going to Afghanistan “to rock the Kasbah.” “The Kasbah’s in North Africa, dad,” she chides him, a nod to Americans’ often tragically simple view of the breadth and diversity of the Muslim world.

    Most of the Afghan characters are the good guys, and the Americans are anti-heroes. Compared to patriotic blockbusters like American Sniper, the movie is critical of American military actions. The profiteers, former American military personnel, represent a truth that I can attest to after writing an investigative report Afghanistan Inc. exposing companies like DynCorp, Blackwater and Halliburton. The film illustrates the reality that the violence in Afghanistan is a messy multi-sided catastrophe, not just the Taliban versus the Afghan government and NATO mission. While American Sniper was supposedly a true story based on the Iraq war, I found that the comedy and fiction of Rock the Kasbah provided a more truthful depiction of America’s role in Afghanistan.

    For all of the film’s merits, there are also some liberties taken with reality. For instance, the sex workers in Kabul serving the American and Afghan militaries are mainly women trafficked from China. In the movie, however, Kate Hudson plays a charming and empowered American prostitute. But I could relate to the movie’s depiction of the seemingly unbelievable but all too real wild parties thrown in Kabul’s large underground restaurants, the drunken expats in seedy hotels, and the random explosions that at times become an almost regular part of daily life in Kabul.

    Mostly, I appreciated seeing Afghanistan through the humanity and smiles of the film’s Afghan characters. I’m used to documentaries about my homeland that depict constant war and relentless death. The street scenes of children playing and the popularity of the show Afghan Star resonated with me. Families still gather to watch the weekly show, voting for their favorite vocalist. To date, winners have all been men, but a few women have risen to notoriety through their participation on the program.

    The film is dedicated to one of them, Setara Hussainzada, an Afghan female vocalist who received death threats for shimmying on stage as her headscarf slipped during her performance on Afghan Star in Kabul. The exiled Hussainzada, now living in Germany, has produced some popular songs on Youtube.

    The reality of today’s Afghanistan is hard to laugh at even with Afghans’ morbid sense of humor and resilience, which once had my father thanking God for my grandmother’s five foot height when a stray bullet barely missed her head in our yard in Herat, where I was born.

    After 14 years of American involvement, the Afghan government is corrupt and inept. With the help of Pakistan and Saudi Arabia, the Taliban have regained power and women are losing the gains they made under the Americans. Security is at its worst in two decades with warlords returning to civil war and terrorizing civilian populations. The drug trade is booming and so is addiction to heroin. Through its comedy, Rock the Kasbah grasps some of these realities.

    American combat may be over, but America’s longest war must not be forgotten. Movies like Rock the Kasbah are important. They force Americans to remember what has taken place and that Afghans are not their enemy, but allies. I hope that such positive portrayals of Afghans can deepen personal interactions between my two countries. Afghanistan is fading in the news, but it is up to the arts to remind us that, just like Vietnam, the country, in all of its complexities, must remain etched in the consciousness of Americans.

  • Muslims donate without doubt

    Amal, a Syrian in Fremont, said her cousins, uncles and aunts had all died in Raqqa, Syria. The elderly woman sighed repeatedly and spoke in quick Arabic without pause, squeezing her prayer rug between Farida, an Iranian refugee, and me.

    It was Friday prayers at Fremont’s Islamic Society of East Bay, and Amal was one of 50 women in a segregated room at the mosque. Farida was a Shiite in a Sunni space – she walked an hour to reach the mosque, the closest Muslim prayer hall to her home. She didn’t own a car or know English. She asked me in Farsi if she’s welcome to pray here.

    “Will people stop me?”

    “I don’t think so. You should be able to pray where you wish,” I replied.

    I had no idea what mosque policy was but this was the U.S., and discrimination should not be allowed.

    I’m a Farsi-speaking Afghan from a Sunni background, but I was there doing a story about mosque members dragging each other to court using donor money for the Center for Investigative Reporting.

    Amal, Farida and I had just met, yet the two women clung to me. Amal needed an interpreter and a sympathetic listener. Farida needed guidance and encouragement. I wasn’t sure I could help them.

    A brazen Amal demanded I translate the English sermon. In my rusty Arabic, I told her the mosque was looking for volunteers to donate blood and for money to improve the mosque. She pointed to her arm willing to be a blood donor and fished out $20 from her purse for donations. She asked no questions when she dropped the money in the donation box being passed around.

    The money was from her social security check. “We have to help the mosque,” she said. “It’s a good deed.”

    The invisible man with the voice asking for donations seemed as passionate and determined as Christian evangelicals on TV. We heard him on a loudspeaker. Some Muslims believe men and women must pray in different rooms.

    “You will be rewarded by God with the money you give the mosque,” he said.

    I remembered an earlier interview with Atif Mahmud, the filmmaker of Unmosqued, a critical documentary about America’s mosques.

    “The leaders are guilting people to pay donations, and selling pieces of heaven to convince them,” Mahmud said.

    Farida looked in her wallet. She only had $2. She decided to keep it for bus money. “I can barely pay my rent,” she said, her face was flushed.

    Neither of the women knew the money might go to more court battles between board members to pay for legal fees.

    Then we stood to pray, facing north, all in one line, staring at a wall. The men were privy to the bigger room with the pulpit and an imam who lead prayers.

    Farida watched me fold my arms across my chest but Shiites pray with their arms hanging to their side. She stood still, wavering, afraid that if she left her arms to her side, Sunni worshipers would judge. The sectarian battles in the Middle East where millions have been slaughtered had instilled a fear among Muslims. Crossing boundaries even in America was a risk. But I wanted to reassure her that it was safe.

    I put one hand on my chest and left one arm to the side, then smiled in her direction. She stopped fidgeting, dropped her arms as we both began the prayer in unison.

    After six months of research, many Friday prayers and dozens of interviews, my story was published. You can read it here:

    Internal struggles at US mosques seep into secular courts

     

  • Grief Walking

    Dad at 41
    Fazul Nawa Ahrary (1930 to 2015)

    Dear Agha,

    You left me 40 days ago

    I haven’t mourned yet

    What is that anyway?

    You loved to walk and that’s what I’m doing

    Walking in the simmering sun, oblivious to the heat

    Walking during the black night, oblivious to the moon

    Walking against the wind, trying to breathe

    Feeling that dream

    That dream in which you scream

    But only silence ensues

    You walked in search of familiarity,

    I walk wishing for the unfamiliar

    In search of strangers I can forget

    Street names that fade

    Memories I can erase

    Instead, I see a pomegranate tree

    The neighbor’s boy flashing his toddler teeth

    The park where your grandchildren play

    I see you with your arms folded across your back

    Your feet parted like a duck

    You let out that famous laugh

    And you disappear

    But I remain walking

     

     

     

     

     

  • The trouble with Mother’s Day

    Few harp on Mother’s Day. I have yet to hear holiday critics deconstruct the celebration as a consumerist ploy to further capitalism. But it is, and marketers will exploit every American holiday to boost sales. The question is why isn’t it critiqued in our national narrative like Valentine’s Day?

    I have an international group of social media friends and I saw the rants on Valentine’s Day. “Why is there one day to celebrate love,” one male friend from New York wrote. “Love should be celebrated every day.” Then on International Women’s Day, which has particular importance in countries with a high rate of domestic violence, like Afghanistan, it was my male Afghan friends who scoffed at the idea of celebrating one day for women. “What’s the point? It’s just a reason to use women for political agendas,” wrote one male acquaintance who grew up in the U.S. and lives in Afghanistan. I don’t disagree with those critiques but I have yet to read the same men comment on Mother’s Day. Why not celebrate motherhood daily?

    Instead, they’ll post photos of themselves with their mothers glorifying the women’s sacrifices for their children.

    Sacrifice is the key word that gives Mother’s Day the stamp of approval from the majority. Good women are supposed to sacrifice and give without asking anything for return. For sexists, feminism and motherhood are an oxymoron. One man in the Fremont, California gym I exercise at told me his dream wife must believe in male superiority. She would have to stay home with her kids. He didn’t understand how mothers could be feminists because feminists are selfish, and mothers are selfless.

    Mother’s Day is the epitome of womanhood for many communities. The underlying message in our approval of the holiday is if you haven’t given birth and survived sleepless nights breastfeeding, you’re not worthy of a celebration. Motherhood is seen as the beacon of selflessness.

    But it isn’t. It’s one of the most selfish acts we commit.

    We’re contributing little to society by having kids, especially in overpopulated communities. We turn inward and focus on one family instead of community. We’re producing offspring for ourselves, to spread our genes to the next generation, to find meaning in life. I’m not dismissing the selfless skills parenting teaches, but becoming a parent has nothing to do with a good deed.

    I have two daughters, ages 4 and 7, and my choice to have children was selfish. If I wasn’t a mother, I could be a more active journalist revealing corporate and government corruption. I could be a more effective activist fighting for women’s rights. I would have more time to care for my elderly parents. I wouldn’t have added statistics to overpopulation and environmental degradation.

    But I became a mother regardless for the sheer reason that I yearned to have children, and I enjoy them immensely despite the sleep deprivation and so called sacrifices women make as mothers. My celebration of motherhood occurs daily when my 4-year-old wakes me up with kisses on my cheeks, and my 7-year-old hugs me before she goes to school. I don’t need anything else.

    My intention for writing this is not to be a Scrooge on Mother’s Day but to shed light on why other holidays aren’t as accepted and celebrated, like International Women’s Day, which is more inclusive and less patriarchal.

    I’ll spend Mother’s Day with my 79-year-old mom like I do every one day of the weekend, and I’ll celebrate all my women friends who aren’t parents yet because they’re working hard to fight misogyny in Kenya, researching a cure for cancer in the U.S., housing the homeless in Nepal and feeding the hungry in Afghanistan.

    This article first appeared on May 9, 2015 in International Women’s Perspective at http://thewip.net/2015/05/09/the-trouble-with-mothers-day/

  • Justice for Farkhunda doesn’t stop here

    Today, Afghans who cried for justice across the globe after Farkhunda’s March killing in Kabul were thrown a bone.

    Farkhunda, a student of Islam, was beaten and burned to death by a young mob in Afghanistan’s capital after she was wrongly accused of burning the Quran. The attack was captured on video and posted on social media, shocking Afghans in Afghanistan and abroad. Demonstrations from Hamburg to Australia calling for justice and vigils in honor of Farkhunda transformed her into a female icon and martyr. The irony that she studied with the Muslim Brotherhood in Kabul is another story.

    The Afghan court sentenced four men to death, including Zainuddin, the mullah who incited the beating, and Sharaf Baghlany, who bragged about it on Facebook; eight were convicted to 16 years in prison, and 18 were freed. Three suspects are on the run and the derelict police officers will hear their verdict on Sunday. It was a trial so speedy, so messy that it was explicitly symbolic. Yes, it’s better than nothing but it’s not enough.

    What happened to the killer who ran over her body with a car?, Farkhunda’s father asked. What happened to the dozens of others who gave her a kick, including the woman who confessed on TV? What about the men who condoned the killing, like Mullah Ayaz Niazi and the rep from the Ministry of Hajj? What was their punishment?

    In an attempt to silence the activists and sympathizers who have been demanding justice, this was the answer from the Afghan government: Here’s your quick justice, now move on.

    Comprehensive justice would look like this: All those who took part in killing her should be sentenced to prison. The police should be convicted for dereliction of duty. More importantly, officials and mullahs who condoned the attack should be demoted from their positions and their speeches and sermons monitored. Only a woman official was fired for her approval of the murder; the men received a cold shoulder. Women’s rights and religious education infused with tolerance and equality need to become top priorities, not to be brushed off as “we’re not ready for such Western concepts yet.”

    Yes, Afghans are ready for women to be counted as human beings and for religion to become a source of compassion, not hate. We’ve been ready for decades. We just need our state and religious leaders to step up to the plate.

     

  • Reflections from the Gulf

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    I spent August 2014 in Sharjah and Dubai in the United Arab Emirates visiting my in-laws but also getting to know the migrant women and men who live in the Gulf. As I toured malls and hotels — that’s almost all there is to do in the summer with kids when the heat outside is unbearable — I struck up random conversations with families. I didn’t ask them what country they had come from or what religion they believed in but many volunteered to tell me they were Muslims and foreigners to the UAE.

    Dubai is one of the most liberal cities in the Middle East where most can wear and do as they wish as long as they don’t flaunt it. The freedom includes human trafficking, including one of the biggest migrant slave trades in the world and prostitution. After two hours in a mall, four business cards with promises of “free massage” from “girls of any Indian origin” laid on our car’s windshield. The city’s clean and peaceful, and you can buy anything you want for double the price available in the U.S. They have one of the most effective crime prevention tactics: deportation for most foreigners who break the law.

    Just south of Dubai is Sharjah, another Emirate, with a much more conservative vibe. In the early 1980s, Sharjah was socially wild when Dubai was tame but the former fell into debt only to be saved with Saudi funds. We all know Saudi money comes with strings attached and soon bars in Sharjah closed and alcohol was banned in public. Men and women who are not related cannot mingle in public. And the random tourist rarely sees women in shorts unlike Dubai. The conservatism stuck until today. Many migrant families live in Sharjah because it’s cheaper and for the menfolk afraid of their women seeing too much skin and partying, Sharjah provides a safe haven. It seemed that some of these families had more freedoms in their home countries, especially the women. Living in Sharjah forced them to practice a stricter, more Wahabbi version of Islam. They adopt the black abayas and headscarves, some choose the niqab, and begin to judge everyone and everything through the eyes of Wahabbi clerics.

    The following are snippets of the random conversations I had in these two Emirates. The subject I was interested in was gender equality, and I posted the dialogues on my personal Facebook account almost daily in August.  The feedback from friends convinced me to share these talks publicly here. It’s important to emphasize that these snapshots do not represent the entire UAE population. Women are in a far better place compared to their sisters in other countries.

     

    Child Bride

    August 18, 2014

    I know where I stand on most human rights issues, but here’s one I may pull out the cultural relativity card. I met a 16-year-old bride who’s happily married to a man 10 years older. She was 13 when they got engaged. No one was forced or persuaded. She has absolutely no interest in education or work outside the house. Her sole purpose in life is to be a wife and mother. The legal age for marriage in the UAE is 18 so under the law, their marriage should be illegal. But under Islamic law, it’s legal. Never mind the local legality — are the rights of this child bride being taken away? Should a 13-year-old have the right to marry if she/he wants? Most of the girls I have met in the Muslim world were forced and so the answer was clear, but I’m on the fence on this one. Thoughts?

     

    Grandma’s Resistance

    August 16, 2014

    Today I had the pleasure of speaking to my elderly woman friend in Dubai. She’s the comical warrior among the brainwashed, submissive, sexist lot I’ve been meeting. She told me her husband beat her numerous times when she was young. and her only solace was her sense of humor. It wouldn’t be funny to translate her jokes because they make me blush, and they lose their meaning in English. Older women gain a special status and have the leeway others don’t. This is how she stands up for herself now:

    Me: What would you do if your husband beats you now?
    Woman: He couldn’t now. He’s too old now. I’m probably stronger than him now so I might just hit back.
    Me: You’ve had so many kids and grandkids together. Do you love him?
    Woman: I love those green plants more.(She points to a fern in the house). At least, they’re going to grow and blossom. He’s just going to shrivel up and get older. It’s hard to forget the pain he put me through. If I could write, I’d write a book with endless tears. And maybe add a few jokes. Have you heard the one about the boy who goes to the public bathhouse?
    Me: Yes, you told me that one. But you still care for him. Why?
    Woman: Because I feel sorry for him now. It’s more from pity. I have the compassion he didn’t. Where we come from, you stick it out. We don’t have the options you do.
    Me: What would you do if one of your sons hit your daughters-in-laws?
    Woman: I’d pick up my shoe and beat him black and blue.

     

    Mentally Impaired

    August 14, 2014

    While my daughters were yet at another mall in Dubai having ice-cream, I started talking to an older gentleman who seemed to have a dozen grandchildren around him.
    Me: What would you like your grandkids to do when they’re older?
    Man: The boys should become engineers and doctors. The girls of course will become mothers and wives, the greatest gift God gave them.
    Me: God also gave them a brain to become engineers and doctors.
    Man: They can try but women are “naqis ul-aql” (mentally impaired).
    Me: You know that there are women who are finding cures for diseases and others who are going to space.
    Man: Men are stronger physically and have built the pyramids. Women can never do such things.
    Me: How do you know women didn’t help in building the pyramids?
    Then his grandkids and my girls screamed so loud, we could no longer hear ourselves speak. That was probably a good thing because it’s too late for him to change and pointless for me to keep trying to change his mind.

     

    Boy Misogynist

    August 10, 2014

    It’s very hard for me to watch little boys learning to control and hate women. I’m still in Dubai observing.
    Six-year-old boy: If my mom ever took off her headscarf, I would tell my dad, and he should punish her. Women are required to wear the scarf in our religion.
    Me: Shouldn’t they have a choice?
    Little Boy: No, that’s God’s choice. Women have to listen to men who are their “raiis.”
    Me: Don’t you think men and women are equal?
    Boy: No, my dad is my mom’s boss and whatever he says, my mom has to listen to him.
    Me: Does your dad ever listen to your mom?
    Boy: He doesn’t have to because he’s her husband.

    I hope he’s not the future generation of UAE but he’s definitely representative of many households here.

     

    No University for Girls

    August 4, 2014

    Me to 15-year-old girl in Dubai: Do you want to go to school?
    Girl: Only to finish high school. In university, boys and girls are mixed here and that’s not right.
    Me: Why not?
    Girl: I’m not comfortable. Besides, women are not meant to know more than men. We should allow men to know more so they can guide us. I feel blessed when my brothers tell me what to do.

    Is this what they call colonization of the mind?

     

    Dirty jokes

    August 3, 2014

    When the men are away, the women sure know how to play. Dirty jokes and dancing are the favorite pastimes. Yet it only takes the sound of the doorbell to put the fear of men in them. They scurry to grab their headscarves, sit cross legged and quietly drink their tea. Life among women in the Gulf.

     

    I was getting letters in my email criticizing the dialogues as I posted them on Facebook, and this was my response to the critiques. I’m not posting the feedback from friends because the comments were posted on my private account.

    August 11, 2014

    I’m not on vacation in Dubai. I came here so that my children could see their paternal grandparents and cousins. The best part of our trip is watching my girls enjoy the family. Meanwhile, I’m taking the opportunity to talk to people I meet in their building and around town. Then I record it on FB. Some of you have written me letters complaining that I’m pandering to the anti Muslim stereotype. The ugly truth is that these ideas exist, and I’m not going to hide them because they fit the stereotype. We need to face the reality that our society is obsessed with women’s bodies and how to control them. And don’t tell me the West has a problem too. This is not about the West, although I realize the historical connections and implications. This is about Muslim countries where people must confront the sexism, the violence and misogyny. If I come across an example of that confrontation and change, I will share it here. Peace.

  • Backstory to Newsweek piece

    I went on vacation to Europe this summer to see my relatives and came out with a story. That’s what happens when journos go on vacation. Even our families can’t rest. But the story I came across had to be written from a personal perspective because several of my younger relatives were turning to extremist ideology and they happen to call it Islamism.

    People make religion peaceful or violent and so I began to investigate my own family through that lens rather than asking the typical question of “Is Islam inherently violent?” Islam is what Muslims make of it. The same goes for any religion.

    Yet there is a violent Islamic movement rampaging through the Middle East. ISIS is the latest horrifying group and the West is partly to blame for arming them as they have done so in the past with groups like the Mujahideen in Afghanistan.

    I had done many stories about Islam and war but throwing my own family into the mix made it tricky. How could I write this story honestly but without hurting relatives who were already in pain? It proved to be difficult.

    One distant cousin was in jail for aiding al Qaeda and his parents refused to speak and so did he. His parents begged me not to name him but he was already a public convict. I only had news reports and distant family members of his to quote. I kept his story short. The most difficult case was Hakim’s family. The 22-year-old had traveled from Germany to fight in Syria only to die in a skirmish. His mother never saw a body and found out about his death through a text. She asked me to help her find out whether he was really dead. I’m still trying to find a list with his name on it. That’s the only way the distraught mother will accept her son’s death. But throughout my hours of talking to Fatima, Hakim’s mother, I had panic attacks as she described how her older son, Daud, had thought about joining the rebels in Syria. I contemplated whether I should report him and stepped away from that decision. As journalists, our job is to write what we know, so I did just that.

    My first cousin Karim’s story scared me the most because he’s a member of a banned Islamist party in Germany and I didn’t want him to get into trouble. The group should not be banned because banned groups just do more harm when they go underground.

    I made sure that most names were changed to protect identities but I kept my own name. I have only changed my name once on a story and I regret that. If journalists hide from their own stories, who will have the courage to come forward? Good journalism begins with exposing yourself and those around you.

    When the story was published under the compromised headline My Family and Other Extremists — my original idea was Strangers in the Midst but that wasn’t newsy enough for Newsweek — I was nervous. How would my relatives react?

    My cousin Karim shared it on his Facebook so that meant he didn’t have a problem with it, or if he did, he didn’t tell me. But a week later, his father, my uncle, called and had a 15-minute outburst on the phone. His main gripe: “You should’ve sent me the story and changed your name before publication!”

    I guess I had not been clear enough about how journalists only read back quotes. We don’t send entire stories, even to our uncles, because every character in the story wants to shape it to their own agenda. So I tried to tell him that he was getting positive feedback from parents like himself who were struggling with extremist children. Most of the comments praised my uncle for being tolerant and open to other religions and cultures. Then I sent him all the feedback comments on email. I hope he understands why I did the story through my family’s perspective. The personal has more impact and readers will judge a family, not all the followers of one religion. Maybe one of these parents will find solace or one young man or woman will turn away from this ideology if they read this piece. For me, that’s the reward in sharing my family’s struggles.

    Link to Newsweek story:

    My Family and Other Extremists 

     

  • The Last Breath

    I’ve seen violent death and I was able to go on scarred but functional. But the death looming before me these days is the hardest to bear.

    It’s a family picture with the patriarch slowly fading. The head, the arms, the body. You try to stop the eraser with your memories but there’s no stopping it. It only hurts more when you remember the days when he walked with you, had coffee and cracked jokes you had heard a hundred times. He even jokes now, but his voice falters. He can walk but only with a cane. One thing he hasn’t given up is his appetite. Give him a piece of candy and the smile will reappear. 

    The docs say if you don’t hook him up to a machine, he has limited time.  You want the machine but he doesn’t. Please, just once. He hates needles, blood and hospitals. But you’re okay with all that. You’re okay sitting at his bedside until the morning hours holding his hand. He says he’ll rip out the the machine if you hook him up. So you have no choice. It’s not about you. All you can think about is his last breath. He’s the one dying but you feel dead already. 

    When will the last breath occur? How much pain has to be endured? What will you have left of him? You don’t want the memories. You want him just the way he was, a brooding, intellectual with no aim. He doesn’t know it’s coming or maybe he does.

    But I know. And I wish I didn’t. I wish I could be far away again to see the quick, violent death of those I do not know. It’s easier. 

    I have already begun to grieve and it’s so selfish. I grieve not for him but for my loss. Humans are narcissistic even in death. He is happy to leave this hell he has endured barely alive for the last 31 years — three decades of life in exile. He wanted to be gone 20 years ago but he lived on. I’m not sure why. Maybe  for the family. So God help me in letting go of him because I do not know how.