Danger

It never occurred to me how much we live with fear and worries—ones that we may never verbalize to others—until I was asked to write this column and began thinking about how much danger is a part of life. My family left an oppressive regime in Libya in 1980 because of the dangerous circumstances they came to experience. They had grown up with an almost idyllic childhood of peace and opportunity, and they knew people from other cultures, traditions and faiths. But when my parents, who earned their master's degrees in the U.S., returned to Tripoli, they quickly realized that their homeland was a foreign place. We came back to the U.S. seeking political asylum from the place that was our home.

Within six months came another blow. My father, at 35 years old, was diagnosed with leukemia. From political danger we now were thrown into a life-and-death medical diagnosis for the head of our household. And after his trying experience with the disease, it was my turn, at age 16, to discover that I had two tumors and a diagnosis of Hodgkin's disease. I kept thinking, where is this cancer coming from?

Less than a year after my treatment, my father had a vengeful recurrence of leukemia, and despite a bone-marrow transplant, he died my senior year of high school. We had no financial support from the Libyan government and were left without any foreseeable means to take care of ourselves. Those months after his death were some of the most isolating and scary times that I can remember, as I watched my mother try to figure out how she was going to make things work. Although she had just earned her Ph.D., she had no job, no savings, and felt trapped. My father's family in Libya proclaimed that they had to "return their granddaughter home no matter what." I recall going into hiding with the family of a high-school friend, for fear of being kidnapped. Thankfully, the plan to forcibly take me back to Libya did not pan out.

As an adult, living in danger took a different form. As a Libyan-American and Muslim woman, I never dared in my professional life to profess where I was born or my religious affiliation. Whenever I shared with people that I was from Libya, I would immediately be labeled a terrorist or a member of the Gadhafi family—sometimes in jest, but usually with that "look." I vividly recall one year, while working a temp job during a college winter break, my supervisors talking about the Gulf War. One man said, "You know, we just need to bomb the hell out of all those Arabs." A little later, the same man asked me, "Fayruz, where did you say you are from?" I felt a stabbing pain in my stomach and knew I had to lie. I was used to deflecting this question and saying either "North Africa" or "Where do you think I'm from?" This time, I said, "I'm from Hawaii." Most of the time people are not clued in enough to know the source of my name, so they would nod their head and say, "Oh, that's cool."

Since the Feb. 17, 2011, revolution in Libya and the Arab Spring last year, I at last no longer feel that my identity puts me in danger. It's as if a veil has been removed from my soul. Still, somewhere in the back of my mind I worry and fear for myself and family. Whether it's the possibility of a cancer relapse or even being the target of a hate crime, those "what ifs" are just part of life.

Despite the concerns that come and go at odd times of my day, it's my firm belief that, ultimately, we are not in control of that which happens to us. It is how we react to and handle life's challenges that dictates the kind of life we can have. Despite the hardships of serious illnesses and a life away from "home," there have always been people at my side providing gracious support and love.