I moved to Michigan from Santa Barbara during Operation Desert Storm. In those days, people called me “the wacky Iraqi.” I’m Iranian, not Iraqi, but needless to say, that’s was how I was perceived.
Until recently.
I never thought I’d wake up after 44 years on this planet to the news saying we were attacking Iran, that the country of my birth would attack the country of my father’s family — of my family.
Regardless of all the racism I’ve experienced being both Black and Persian (I’ve been called the enemy of America since I was a child), the way people asked me if I was safe when I traveled to visit family, not to mention all the propaganda about Iran, I still never thought it would happen. This is the place where the most famous movie about it is “Not Without my Daughter,” in which an American wife, played by Sally Field, makes a harrowing escape from her violent Iranian husband after he lures her into the country. My ex-wife’s family once asked me if Iran was really like that. (For the record, the answer is no.)
Once the initial shock of the news settled and I heard from family members in Iran that they were safe, something hit me like a ton of bricks. It was guilt. It wasn’t the guilt of living over here safely while the rest of my Iranian family is in the crossfire. It was the guilt of never acknowledging what my Arab friends, with family still living throughout the Middle East, were feeling.
For years, I was around those people from Palestine, Iraq, Jordan, Lebanon and Afghanistan without understanding what they’d been going through for decades. I don’t remember saying to any of my friends, “Sorry for what you are going through. I hope your families are safe.”
One of my close friends growing up was Palestinian. After wrestling practice we’d go to his house and his pops would cook the best khafta I ever had and tell us stories about growing up over there. Hell, we called each other cousin. It didn’t matter that we were from different countries. All that mattered was we were from “over there.” The only thing to argue about was who’s kabob is better. (It’s Koobideh by the way.)
Now I sit here thinking about all the friends I made from the region growing up and what they were going through over all these years we hung out. I can’t sleep thinking about that.
How oblivious I was to their feelings — until it happened to me. I was sad as an 11-year-old about people making fun of me because we were at war with a completely different country. But there were other 11-year-old kids who were sad because they didn’t know if their families were killed in a war.
Most of the time I feel like I have a good grasp on what’s going on, an open eye to other people’s struggles. There’s a part of me that stays open and empathetic to my surroundings and the people in it. In this instance, I was completely caught off guard by my own blind spot. I still have a hard time believing it. It’s a punch in the stomach to realize how close you are to something that I would bet so many families across America cope with. Actually, there’s no bet needed. I can tell you now that, for me, it is daily. And I’ll know this feeling forever.
I don’t know if other Iranians in the diaspora feel this way. Maybe I’m the odd man out on this, but I live with this guilt daily now.
As I write this, we are now months into the conflict with Iran. The end of Ramadan and Nowruz fell on the same day this year, meaning Persians and Arabs celebrated holidays at the same time. For me this was a tough holiday. I felt off celebrating when my family over there, potentially, was not. Then immediately I thought of how many Ramadans my friends had to endure with wars and conflict in their homelands, wondering if their families could celebrate. The not knowing is gut wrenching.
The internet and social media in Iran are back at the moment, and hearing from family members has been relieving, a small weight lifted if even for a brief moment. I’ll take it.
I have such a respect for my fellow Americans who have dealt with this feeling for so long. My Arab, Afghan, Armenian, Yemeni, Lebanese and Syrian friends for decades have lived with a fear I’ve only now just tasted. And still they go on build wonderful lives and businesses in the nation potentially bombing their families.
All I can ask is, after reading this, please try to have empathy for neighbors whose families are in conflict zones.
Brian Reza Aghamoali is a suburbia-raised techno and jiu-jitsu lover from Clarkston, Mich.
This article originally appeared on The Holland Sentinel: The war with Iran made me see what others felt for years | Opinion
Reporting by Brian Reza Aghamoali, Holland Sentinel / The Holland Sentinel
USA TODAY Network via Reuters Connect
By Brian Reza Aghamoali, Holland Sentinel | USA TODAY Network
