02 Aug Insaan

Immigrating has never been an easy journey. As an immigrant from Pakistan, in the fall of 1979, where my family was comfortable in their surroundings to the harsh, bleak winter of Chicago was an extreme change. Besides the weather, there was the language, environment, norms, holidays, and so much more to adjust to. But the most fascinating were all the different people. In Pakistan we lived in a homogenous neighborhood, but in Chicago my six-year-old self delighted in the variety of human variations.

There was an Italian family a few houses down the street who gave me my first taste of McDonald’s, there was the Caucasian, single mom raising two children next door who my Ammi (Mom) helped with daycare while she worked her shift as a nurse, the elderly African-American woman on the other side of us who we would share food with because she “liked her spices”, and the Lees, an African-American family of three, who lived two doors up the street, whose daughter Tanessa would befriend me.

“This country where broken souls go to heal, and where people from all over make a better life for themselves, their children and grandchildren; hope is alive because all you have to do is work hard, be honest, and be kind.”

Once my paternal grandparents settled in, knowing my Daadi (Grandma), after a mere two days, they wanted to start a business, so they purchased a gas station. It was located in Bellwood on a fairly busy corner of town. The police station, fire station, and city hall were across the street, and my family could walk to and from our house at 516 Eastern Avenue, a half-block away.

We didn’t know a thing about gas stations, but that didn’t stop my Daadi and Daada (Grandpa). They would learn. “We’re in Umrica. We can do anything!” Having had a variety of businesses in India and Pakistan, my Daadi was determined, in her 60’s, speaking broken English (understanding a lot more), to make a better life in the greatest country- America! This country where broken souls go to heal, and where people from all over make a better life for themselves, their children and grandchildren; hope is alive because all you have to do is work hard, be honest, and be kind.

Being kind. My Daada was the kindest person in our family. He waved to everyone who walked in the door of our gas station (probably at the guy who walked in and held him up at gun point as well). On the weekends and holidays, I would walk to the gas station with him, holding his one hand, while he waved to every neighbor, car driver, walker by, and human within view.

“You know a lot of people Daada!” I proudly exclaimed thinking that he knew everyone in Pakistan and in Umrica as well.

“No, Samita. I don’t know them.”

“Why are you waving at them, then?” I inquired. We had just been taught about stranger-danger at school and maybe I needed to protect my Daada from danger from all these strangers.

“Why not? They’re insaan (human). We are all one.”

My grandparents named their gas station after their only granddaughter up until then, “Samita’s Service Station”. I greeted customers, stacked cigarettes and soda pop, and worked inside while my uncles and aunt filled tanks, cleaned windows, checked tire pressure and oil levels. It was hard work especially during the winter where someone from our family would greet the driver at the car so he or she didn’t have to get out in the cold because my grandparents did not want to inconvenience their guests, not customers, but guests.

During the nicer months, the guests would file in, greeting my grandparents and me. My Daadi was a hard-worker but five times a day, she would stop whatever she was doing, grab her Ja-namaz (prayer rug) and duppata (prayer shawl), face East and pray. Our guests were still greeted by my Daada and I while she prayed. Sometimes, her prayers would put her in a deep trance where she would openly weep and audibly give thanks. Our guests would smile, quietly ask for cigs and soda, and nod their gratitude. They were respectful to her moment of prayer. 

“Being a Muslim-American should I now feel scared, feel ashamed, and feel threatened because of one ignorant individual who fuels hate, xenophobia, and threatens the very liberties of this land?”

She never felt scared. She never felt ashamed. She never felt threatened. She felt respected. She felt accepted. She felt American. She went on to become a US Citizen, as did all six of her children and their spouses, and 15 grandchildren. Her son and her grandson served in the Navy and she was proud to be an American.

Being a Muslim-American should I now feel scared, feel ashamed, and feel threatened because of one ignorant individual who fuels hate, xenophobia, and threatens the very liberties of this land? Should I feel that I have to plead my case because a very small minority of Muslims are terrorists and there are over a billion of us who are not radical, zealots? Both ISIS and the presumptive Republican nominee have much in common: they rely on fear, they use terror filled propaganda, in this age of internet information neither side gives you all the perspective (only what you need to hear to advance their agenda), they use scapegoats as opposed to taking any responsibility for their actions, and have no one’s best interest in mind but their own.

America, for all her faults, is what makes me love her more than I did when I landed in Chicago almost 37 years ago. America is always shifting, moving and evolving. She realizes when she makes a mistake and adjusts the laws of this great land to free slaves, give all men the right to vote, give all women the right to vote, abolish alcohol, bring alcohol back, and realize she is not perfect. She is not great. She was never great nor will she ever be because she is humble, kind, forgiving, and loving. She is “insaan” (human) and imperfectly, perfect.

-Samita Syed-Needelman