I am an investigative reporter. A title that I have dreamt of holding for as long as I can remember, and today it is mine. For over half a decade, I have made America my home. Each brick of that home is a testament to the trials I have endured by myself in hopes that it will all pay off one day. Writing has forever been my refuge, my sanctuary, and my companion – it is my canvas upon which I paint the hues of my existence. 

I have spent the last six years of my life trying to understand my life as an immigrant. It is an ache that has driven me to articulate the resonance of my emotions. From learning about authors who have experienced what I have, and meeting strangers on campus who have stories similar to mine, I learned that there are so many like me who share my fears and concerns. We all go to sleep at night counting the days we have left here, wondering if we’ll make it in the end.

I was born and raised on a tiny island called Bahrain, which means “two seas” in Arabic. I have one sister and one brother. We all look different, but when I cry, I have my sister’s eyes. I last saw them when I was 20. I am turning 25 this year, and I only remember them as how I last saw them at the airport. Even though we Facetime, my heart refuses to accept that they too have grown. I go to bed each night like a oneironaut. I curate my dreams like the lucid dreamer I am, thinking of how it will be when I see them again. I hug my father like I have never hugged him before in my dreams. Until then, I will stay here with their gifts, patiently waiting for that day to come. 

Life in Bahrain was nothing like life in America, certainly not Los Angeles. It is not fast-paced, and I did have a sense of not belonging there throughout my high school years because while I fluently speak Arabic, I also fluently speak my mother’s tongue, which is Urdu – originated from Pakistan – so my accent and my upbringing was a mixed blend of two completely different worlds. I have always been confused when people ask me about my origins. I was born in the Middle East, but my parents are South Asian, and today I reside in the United States. 

When I speak English, people say I have no accent. When I speak Arabic, it is as if I never left Bahrain, and when I speak Urdu, it is like I speak at home every day, even though it’s been years since my feet touched home. That is where my admiration for my politics began. I was fascinated by how the country I lived in had kings and queens, and the county my parents migrated from had prime ministers, yet they all ruled very differently. So, while kids my age were going to school listening to morning jams, I was listening to Christiane Amanpour on the radio with my dad. 

While life in Bahrain was very settling and family-oriented, I knew that if I stayed, I would never grow the way I have today. The life-changing things I have learned here I would never be able to even grasp had I stayed. For that, I am forever indebted to my parents because, at some point, we each knew that I was not coming back. If you live by yourself and have had days where you asked yourself if you uttered a word out of your mouth today, I hope that you find solace in my words. 

The greatest lesson that I will pass on to my siblings is mastering the art of being alone. I hated it at first, the first four years were so challenging for me that I went back and forth between packing up and going home, and changing my mind mid-way – But had I gone, I would not have had my story to share. 

What will my fate be? I am not where I was last year. I am not where I thought I would be this year either. When I utter these words out loud, people assume I am complaining, and that I am ungrateful. But they don’t know me. They don’t know about the efforts I put in when they’re not there. They don’t know my relationship with my maker. It’s so easy to paint it black and white. It’s even easier to give advice when you have not been through it. 

I’ve built homes in so many places that I no longer know which is permanent. Which one do I run to when the world is screaming at me? I am hurting again, but this time it is not because of grief, anguish, or anger. Rather, it is because the world does not want to accept me. Sometimes I fear there is no longer space left for people like me. I am a girl built from immigrant trauma, mixed with personalities I carefully crafted from the blessings of being exposed to a diverse cross-section of people. Suddenly, I am 13 again yearning for the warmth of my grandmother. I am yearning for her immigrant hands that curated love in so many forms like her hugs and food. I wish I could go back in time for just five more minutes, where everyone I love so profoundly is in the same room as me. Then, the snooze button will go off, and my tired eyes will wake up, and I will understand more and more about my mother. 

On my first day of college at Cal State Northridge, it was a journalism photography class that I had taken every Monday at 9:00 a.m. Since it was the first day, introductions were mandatory. This introduction is one I will remember forever because I was asked to account for the absence of my hijab. “Why aren’t you wearing a hijab if you come from the Middle East?” I remember getting up from my seat, explaining myself which now I know I had no need to. I simply said, “Well, my name is Noor, and I moved from a country that was not willing to offer me freedom of speech, and I am here today in hopes of getting the freedom that I am searching for, and as for my hijab – it symbolizes a choice made freely.” I told my professor that the hijab signifies permanence and readiness because once you wear it, it is wrong to change your mind and take it off. I don’t think much of that question anymore because I now realize that some people are just not aware and that it is not their intention to be rude. 

After erasing and rewriting some of my greatest work, I decided to give this one more shot. I don’t know what this is, but I can promise you that this is me. I’ve been attempting to write a novel for the last five years. Every time I get myself to finish a chapter, the inner critic in me comes out, and let me tell you – she’s brutal.  

Oftentimes I find myself feeling like I’m stuck in the middle of the ocean. It’s peaceful. The daunting feeling of what’s inside the water slowly starts to slip away. The only problem is – I can’t seem to find any land for me to reach. Where am I going? If you feel it too, well – it’s comforting to know that I am not the only one. 

I wrote this not hoping to gain sympathy, but out of a desire to inspire those who silently feel what I feel. My story is an ode to the immigrants who attempt to get their voices heard by those who do not understand it. I see you, I hear you, and I too feel what you feel, and we will be okay. 

Every job interview that I have had has always ended in the brutal reminder that Americans will always be prioritized first. “We want to help, but if there is an American who is just like you, they will come first, then you.” I know that I am a second-class citizen, I came to terms with that harsh understanding years ago, but it is still gut-wrenching to hear. Why do I come second when I qualify to be the first? 

I got a phone call a few weeks ago. A reminder that I was not prepared to hear, but already knew. It was from immigration. They wanted to remind me of the time I had left here in the U.S. I knew this day was going to come eventually, and I held my tears back and told them that I was aware. If only they knew that it is my only thought in the morning, at work, and before bed. I catch myself zoning out at work sometimes debating if all of this is worth it or not. Why am I striving so hard if they are going to kick me out eventually? 

Like anyone else, my aspiration rests in making my parents proud. I feel as if there is this fervent desire that courses through me to ensure that their hard work has paid off. I want them to know that their sacrifice has not gone to waste and that I will fulfill the purpose that brought me here in the first place. However, the fear of returning to my first home without accomplishing what I came here to do looms large, and I’m unsure how I could ever recover from that. Parting ways with the home I’ve poured my heart into for half a decade is like tearing a piece of my soul. The ache of leaving behind every memory I’ve created, every whispered dream, and every battle I have fought silently that only my walls have heard is like a shredding piece of myself. 

On days when I feel like this world and its citizens are unbearable again, I listen to the last recording I made of my father before I left Bahrain for good. When the world makes me feel like I am a failure, my father’s voice note reminds me that I am not. Had I known that the last time would be the last time, I would have done things much differently. But today, I know things I did not know before, so why am I so hard on myself? If you were to ask me today what my biggest lesson was after all these years of being away from my roots – I would tell you right now – stop looking for your parents in other people. It is only because I miss my parents so much, that I see their faces in those who show me an ounce of kindness that is not even half what my parents showed me. Is this what homesickness is? We were all created weak anyway. I lived a pure life of privilege before I moved here. I was not spoonfed, but my parents showed me more than a glimpse of love and happiness. 

Today, I am 24, confused, yet starting to ask why the world is the way it is. How is it so big yet so small? How on Earth is this world home to such big-hearted people as my parents only to also possess people that have shown me the harshness I have endured?  Amidst all this dirty chaos, I wonder to myself every day – Am I the predator or the prey?

The photo is a selfie of the author.