The Doe’s Latest Stories

From the outside, I appear to have it all: A successful career, a stable, loving relationship, close family and friends—all the things that many people aspire to have. I seem to be a well-adjusted individual who leads a happy life with nothing serious to worry about. But that is far from reality. The truth is, I keep a huge part of my life firmly beneath the surface. In September 2004, when I was ten years old, my life changed forever. Along with my two younger siblings, we went into foster care. My parents had separated, and my mom was unable to cope with looking after us as a single mother due to poverty and ill-health. At first, we lived in different foster homes that were traumatic—far from where we grew up—before settling into one placement that lasted a year. As I navigated the harsh new reality away from my parents, friends, school and everything that I previously thought was my life, I went from being a carefree, happy child to feeling detached and afraid to speak to strangers. The only creative outlet I had to help express my innermost thoughts was through writing. It became a haven for me. I kept diaries confessing how I felt, how much I missed my mom and dad and how excited I was to see them next. But what also kept me going was having my siblings by my side, going through a shared trauma. Despite our young ages, we knew we had to stick together to survive.

The truth is, I keep a huge part of my life firmly beneath the surface.

My Friends Never Judged My Situation

In November 2005, we were fostered by a kind family that didn’t make us feel like typical “foster kids,” and I began to feel somewhat normal. A long-term placement, unlike our last, it was an environment we felt safe in. We were well-cared for, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I could finally laugh, smile, ease up. The protective shell that I built, allowing me to safely retreat into myself, had started to slowly become undone. I no longer felt terrified of my surroundings.When I started high school, I thrived—I made new friends and I enjoyed my studies. My school and home were far from where I grew up, so this allowed me to repackage who I was. Like a superhero, I hid my true identity, passing my foster family off as my own, projecting a different life against the one I was actually living. I didn’t tell anyone about my background for fear of being bullied and negatively stereotyped as a problematic teenager living in foster care. This constant worry led me to call my foster mother and father “mom” and “dad” whenever I mentioned my family or when I'd invite friends over for sleepovers. I continued this façade, repressing what I’d gone through for a while until I finally told my two best friends about everything. Instead of judging me, they reassured me that not everyone would react badly to my real life. As I progressed through school, I kept in contact with my biological parents. Education was important to them and they encouraged me to go to college. I always wanted to go, leave where I lived, explore somewhere different and take on a new challenge. I thought college would improve my life. I didn’t want to let what I’d gone through define my life and stop me from aiming high, so I decided to apply for degrees in English, with aspirations of becoming a journalist one day. I ended up being accepted into every university I had applied for; I knew many people in my position were not quite as lucky.

I finally feel like my authentic self and it feels liberating.

I Want to Help Other Foster Kids With Shedding Stigmas

After graduation, as I grew older, I continued to withhold so much of my past from people I met and became close with. I struggled with relationships for fear others would run from me, thinking I was damaged goods. But things changed in 2015 when I met my current boyfriend. At first, I worried about telling him everything about me. But I needn’t have worried. He was caring, understanding and someone who I could let into my life, flaws and all. In January 2020, at the age of 25, I finally sought therapy for the first time. Up until that point, for several years, I had experienced anxiety and depression due to repressing trauma and aspects of my life, without realizing how detrimental it was to my health. I felt exhausted living a double life and knew I needed help. As I began to open up to my therapist, it felt like a huge weight was lifted from my shoulders. At long last, I was able to work through the traumatic experiences that occurred in my life. Those sessions every Tuesday afternoon helped me more than I could ever imagine. Today, I continue to have a close relationship with both my biological and foster parents. I'm slowly starting to talk more about my past and no longer feel ashamed of it. If anything, I’m proud of my resilience and everything I’ve gone through. I finally feel like my authentic self and it feels liberating. In the future, I have plans to work with children and young people living in foster care who are going through the things I did and help them realize they're not a negative, outdated stereotype. Foster kids are so much more than that. We are human beings who are smart, loving and who can lead fulfilled, happy lives, just like everyone else.

The first day of any semester is always exciting. That’s when I get to begin telling the big stories of U.S. history to a new cadre of students. Not just any stories of U.S. history, either—I focus on African-American stories of U.S. history, especially the early parts, up to the end of Reconstruction.And I’m white.

Does that mean I’m incapable of telling the stories of other people in a historically accurate and empathetic way?

It’s Fair to Question White Teachers Teaching Students of Color

When I enter the room on that first day of class, I look out at the faces of my students, scanning them for looks of shock, surprise or dismay. I always assume my Black students will be skeptical of me, and I don’t blame them. We’re so accustomed to thinking of “ethnic studies” as the particular place of “those” people who are of “that” ethnicity that people’s surprise makes sense. My students whose lived experience has made them skeptical of a white man teaching African-American history aren’t wrong. I grapple with my place in telling stories that I find to be incredible, inspirational and definitional for our country. I am not Black, despite a smidgeon of African DNA, according to the National Geographic Genographic project, and I don’t live life as an African-American person. But does that mean I’m incapable of telling the stories of other people in a historically accurate and empathetic way? I know my students wonder that, at least sometimes.Since I continue to teach African-American history semester after semester, I clearly believe the answer is yes, although I’m always cognizant of how careful I must be in my role, and how I honor the stories I tell. I know my white skin gives me certain advantages and disadvantages when telling Black stories.A chance encounter with a former student gave me at least one validating answer to the question. And in that one answer, in that one conversation, I unpacked levels of something meaningful and beautiful, a sense that I can make a difference for my students of color by teaching how I teach, and also by consciously embracing who I am. This conversation also illuminated a sad reality for, potentially, many students of color.

My students know that I will work as hard for them as they work for me.

Running Into a Former Student Is Always Nice, but This Time Was Different

It was the first day of the fall semester at the community college where I teach. I had had to find parking in the student lot because the faculty lot was full, and I ended up—of course—having to park at the back of the lot. I got out of my car, slung my bag on my back and began striding across the parking lot. I cultivate that rumpled professor look, and by cultivate I mean that I wear linen pants, sandals in warm weather and comfortable t-shirts. Irons have not touched my clothes in years. I know that clothes can say a lot about a person, but I prefer to say it myself, to shout over my clothes. As I strode across the lot, I caught sight of a former student of mine. For the sake of this story, let’s call her Rhonda. It had been about a year since she was in my class, but I remembered her well. She was a student-athlete, so I had had to fill out several progress reports over the course of the semester in which she was my student. She’d also been a good student, which any teacher will tell you makes one stand out. Rhonda caught sight of me and approached. We exchanged greetings, and I asked how she was doing. I asked the regular professor questions: What classes are you taking? How’s the team doing this year? How close are you to graduation? She answered them all, and had, obviously, continued to do well.She asked me about the courses I was teaching that semester. Only two, I replied, because that’s all this school allows me to teach per semester (while packing 40 students into each course and underpaying me terribly, I might add). I let my students know about the low rate of pay because I want them to understand the reality of the situation of adjunct professors in academia. She expressed sympathy for my position, but I then explained that they have me stuck, because they know that I love teaching the courses I teach, so I’m going to keep doing it, as long as I can keep my bills paid well enough. There was a lull in conversation at that point. I assumed she was just contemplating the challenges of my adjunct life, but what was on her mind was more personal and more important.

Validation Is One of the Greatest Rewards of Teaching

Rhonda looked down for a second and then up at me and said, “Thank you. I really loved your class. As an African-American woman, I had never learned about myself. I never felt pride in who I am, but I learned so many things in your class that make me feel proud of who I am, proud to be Black.” I was stunned. Rhonda has always been an intelligent and thoughtful woman, but her words hit me with force. I felt proud, of course, but also sad. I couldn’t respond right away, but when I finally processed all that she had said, I answered. “This is why I do it,” I replied. “It really sucks that you have to wait until you come into my class to learn so much about your history and who you are, but better late than never. I love being able to teach people things they don’t know, and if those things let them see the reality of our country, then I’m doing my job. If I’m able to fill in a place that stood empty before, then I’m glad to do so. I just wish you had learned these things earlier. I wish that our school system taught us more, and helped more of us to see ourselves in our history.” I had to run to class, so I told her that she made my day, thanked her and reminded her that if she ever needed a recommendation, she could contact me. My students know that I will work as hard for them as they work for me. And that's why I do it.

“Dad, which box do I tick?” my brother asked when he reached the ethnic monitoring section of his first job application.“Which category best describes your ethnicity?” It’s an easy question for many people, but one that’s never sat comfortably with me, because I tick a different box from my twin brother. My brother and I were born in 1984 in Northern England and grew up knowing little of the Caribbean and Indian ancestry on our father’s side. I have blonde hair, green eyes and white skin. My brother has black hair, brown eyes and brown skin. It’s not something I ever remember noticing when we were young. My parents don’t recall any instances where we were treated differently. My mum said that if anyone commented on our appearance, it would only be to notice how much I looked like her and how much my brother looked like my dad.As we got older, we began to notice the evident surprise when people found out we were twins. It became a conversation starter, an interesting introduction when we met someone new. It was fun seeing peoples’ reactions. “Twins?! But you look nothing alike!”

I have blonde hair, green eyes and white skin. My brother has black hair, brown eyes and brown skin.

Growing Up, Being Mixed Twins Didn’t Seem Like a Big Deal

There were a few occasions over the years when, to our horror, we were mistaken for boyfriend and girlfriend. The only time things ever got truly uncomfortable was on a family holiday to Egypt in our late teens. My brother was so immediately perceived to be Egyptian that children spoke Arabic to him. Some teenage boys joked that we couldn’t be twins, and that my mother must have had an affair with a dark-skinned man. (My brother has darker skin than our dad, and when Dad’s hair turned grey, the boys were oblivious to their similarities.)We laughed off the comments, but it was an uncomfortable experience, particularly for my brother. It’s the only time he’s ever been singled out as different from his family. To me, that he should so readily have been identified as Egyptian demonstrates the problems of dividing people into categories based on perceived racial traits. While we never experienced racism growing up, we did at times encounter curiosity about our heritage. We were curious too. It wasn’t something our dad openly talked about when we were children. His parents divorced when he was three, and he never saw his father again. We knew our grandfather emigrated from Trinidad to serve in the Second World War. Our mum showed us photos of him in his Royal Air Force uniform, and of him and our grandma on their wedding day. Dad once met his grandmother, whose own mother was Indian and had traveled as a baby by boat from India to Trinidad with her parents, who tragically did not survive the journey, to work in indentured servitude. Our great-grandmother married a Trinidadian man, whose own father emigrated from Barbuda to Trinidad following the abolition of slavery, and they had several children, including our grandfather.

Our Dad’s Racial Identity Made More Sense Once We Met Our Grandfather

Our dad made contact with his father ten years ago after a friend researched our family tree and found him. He’d remarried and had more children. The reunion was no big drama, no tears or recriminations. His response to not seeing Dad for over 50 years was a shrug of the shoulders and a comment, “Well, I left you my telephone number.” The past didn’t really seem to matter. We were just one family meeting another family, curious to get to know each other.We got together with my grandfather a few more times over the years until he died. It was interesting to see the traits he shared with my dad. Both are charismatic, motivated and sometimes stubborn men. (Though, unfortunately, Dad hadn’t retained all his own teeth, which at age 90 my grandfather was very proud of.) My grandfather also identified very much as British and was adamant he’d never experienced any racism, a narrative that seems to echo my dad’s experience. Growing up in 1950s and ‘60s working-class Northern England, my dad has no recollection of ever feeling “other.” Much loved by the family around him, his mixed-race heritage was never a marker of identity for him. In his day there were no ethnic monitoring boxes to tick—he was just British.Both my dad and grandfather’s experiences may seem unbelievable from the outside looking in. There could be cases made for how their perception ignores the microaggressions perpetrated against them or the racism inherent in the systems in which they were raised. It could be argued my dad benefitted from the white privilege of his white family (though I don’t think anyone raised in 1950s working-class Northern England would describe themselves as privileged). Or you could say that my brother, our dad and his father before him succeeded in life despite their skin color. But they don’t feel that skin color has played a prominent role in their lives, and I don’t think their personal truths can be disregarded, or replaced by macro-level narratives that leave no room for their lived experiences.

I Hadn’t Really Thought About the Importance of Racial Identity Until Recently

So there are the “categories” of our ancestry: English and Scottish on our mum’s side and Caribbean, Indian and English on our dad’s side, yet a decidedly British identity for me and my brother. Our multihued family continues down the generations. My brother’s wife has fair skin and blonde hair and their son resembles her, whilst their daughter takes after my brother, with brown skin and black hair, though both children share the same beautiful brown eyes.Our identity has always felt tied to our family culture, rather than our ancestry. We didn’t pay much attention to our differences in skin color until the recent Black Lives Matter protests prompted discussions between us. Most importantly for me, I wanted to know if my twin felt he’d been treated differently to me on the basis of his skin color. He doesn’t. This is not to deny the existence of racism. I feel lucky that our family exists in a time and place where skin color hasn’t been at the forefront of our lives. I know this isn’t the case for everyone, and I welcome the recent resurgence of a commitment to eradicating racism in Western society.

Our ancestry has taught me never to judge a book by its cover.

Twins Born With Different Skin Colors Contradict Skin Color as a Determinant of Race

Where the current antiracist rhetoric fails me is in its divisiveness in its insistence that we set ourselves apart from each other on the basis of the color of our skin. For a family like mine, such reductionist narratives don’t fit. My twin and I are of the same “race”—all that differs is the appearance of our skin color. Yet current rhetoric would have us set ourselves apart from each other on this basis. I find it hard to understand why, in a progressive society where so many people clearly have a strong desire to eliminate racism, we continue to focus on the differences between us. People are complex, the world is complex and I can’t see how dividing ourselves into ever more definitive tribes on the basis of restrictive narratives will help our society reach a place where discrimination doesn’t exist. If you were here with me now, I would ask you to please look at me, then look at my twin. You may notice the differences in our skin color, but spend enough time with us and you’ll also notice our similarities: how we yawn the same way, stretch the same way, sneeze with the same annoyingly loud abandon (we get that from our dad). Whatever ethnic category box we do or don’t tick, it doesn’t really matter to us. They’re just labels. What matters is that we are a close-knit, loving family, aware of our rich and varied heritage, but not defined by it. Our ancestors’ indentured labor and slavery was barbaric, but it is also an immutable part of our history. Our family would not exist had the past not played out as it did.

Race Matters, but Skin Color Doesn’t Have to Be Part of the Conversation

Our ancestry has taught me never to judge a book by its cover. You can never really know someone unless you talk to them, but finding out about people is becoming increasingly precarious in a world where it’s so easy to offend.I will raise my children to be the change in the world that I want to see. I will teach them to recognize the privilege of their position in life, to equip them with a sense of justice and the courage to stand up to discrimination when they see it, but not to feel guilt for the whiteness of their skin—after all, their ancestors were slaves, too. To raise them to believe they are different from their uncle, their grandad or their cousin on the basis of skin color seems as ludicrous as ticking a different ethnic category box from my twin. It’s my goal to equip my children with an openness and curiosity about the world and everyone in it, to introduce them to a wide variety of cultures, people and experiences so that they don’t feel threatened by differences. I will encourage them to have compassion and empathy in their hearts, to have respect for their fellow humans and to listen to the stories of those they meet throughout their lives with curiosity and openness. It’s my hope that this will be a small step towards healing our increasingly fractured society.

My grandpa wasn’t ever just my grandpa. He was my mentor, my advisor, my friend and at times my jester. He taught me what unconditional love looked and felt like. He loved being around people and used each chapter of his life to help them in different ways, from building housing, temples and community centers to providing scholarships. A lot of what he did was about uplifting and building the community where he lived, whether it was in Fiji, New Zealand or Australia. Grandpa was the youngest of 12 kids in his family, raised with his nieces and nephews who eventually moved to different parts of America, Canada, New Zealand and the U.K. He was the superglue of our family, pulling us all together even when we didn’t get along. He passed away on Nov 22, 2020, after not seeing some members of the family for 12 months or more. COVID restrictions had prevented us all from traveling to him as we usually do. The death of someone like my grandpa shouldn’t be a reason for sorrow—he lived too amazing and colorful a life for that. But it was sad that he passed at a time when family and friends couldn’t be together, and when I couldn’t travel to Australia to be with them. So now we’re faced with the question, how do you celebrate an amazing man's life during a global pandemic? Our very 21st-century family found a bunch of ways to grieve and celebrate him, but I, his oldest granddaughter, can’t figure out how.

Saying Goodbye to a Loved One During COVID Is Hard for Everyone

My aunts and mum, who were able to gather in Adelaide, Australia during lockdown all got to spend time with him before he passed. They worked through 14-day hotel quarantine, hospital visit restrictions, police escorts and state border closures just to be there. My lovely aunts and mum would pass along all his characteristic one-liners to the nurses and grandma, as a way to assure the rest of us that he was okay. They mediated FaceTime calls for me so I could see him and talk to him and help him crack a joke or two. The rest of the extended family that wasn’t in Adelaide were stuck biding time until lockdown was over and we were able to travel there. This was harder than expected. Some of us distracted ourselves with alcohol, others with work, others by “socializing within limitations.” Those who weren’t in Australia called grandma incessantly for updates, sometimes a call a minute during waking hours, and she was completely unable to get downtime at home between hospital visits. The funeral that was organized was delayed a week while everyone in Australia waited for state border closures to lift so all the aunts, uncles, cousins, grandchildren and great-grandchildren could be together to mourn and celebrate my grandpa’s amazing life, albeit in a smaller way than we imagined.

How do you celebrate an amazing man's life during a global pandemic?

I’ve Tried to Grieve on My Own, but Can’t

Meanwhile, I was in San Francisco at home with my partner, who struggled to understand my connection to a man he’d never met and a relationship he didn’t share with his own grandfather. As you can probably tell, I was very close to my grandpa, as all his grandchildren were. To put it briefly, I have struggled. Traveling to Australia would have meant two to four weeks of quarantine, with no guarantee that I could come back into the U.S. for work, as I am on a visa. Moreover, I had started a new job supporting COVID-19 research as a lab-based scientist, and with COVID-19 cases in the U.S. spiking, time off was impossible. I had to put work before family, which meant missing my grandpa’s funeral. Two months on, I still miss the opportunity of being able to sit around and share stories about the glorious life my grandpa lived and how much love and goodness he shared with the world, and to simply exist in the same space that he recently existed in, something I will now never be able to do. I dream that every night I could smell his smells, feel his presence, watch his movies, eat his food, be in his garden and listen to his music. (He saved a list of songs on his YouTube account for me—the youth are not the only tech-friendly folks in my family). I wanted to join my mum, aunties and sister in carrying his coffin on its journey. My mum, grandma, aunties and sister still have not hugged me; I haven't hugged them. I cannot put into words how much I crave being in the presence of someone who really knew him, who knew his whole life like I did, if not more. Instead, I sit with my journal and try to channel my inner Jane Austen to work through what I miss about him in deep and entertaining detail. But I can’t even put my emotions into words, let alone deep or entertaining ones. Who do I talk to about this? My family in Australia have done their form of grieving. The family in the rest of the world was not as close to him as I am. I ran out of energy to navigate COVID-19, a new job and missing him, so two months on I’m writing this article, searching for advice, knowing there is no perfect answer. In the words of a close friend, “This is just how life happens. Fairness is not part of the equation.”

Not Getting to Say Goodbye to a Loved One Has Also Put Things in Perspective

COVID-19 has robbed me of precious time with loved ones, of my ability to grieve and celebrate their lives. Although it’s pushed me into valuable COVID-19-related research, it has also prevented me from doing the work I love, which is researching a cure for HIV. I have had to cancel numerous trips, both domestic and abroad. On the other hand, lockdown has brought many aspects of my life into clearer view. I lost my grandpa and had to prioritize work instead, but this is exactly what my grandpa would have wanted, had we all been thinking objectively: me supporting the wider community. I’ve connected deeper with family (and my weekly screen time has skyrocketed as a consequence). I couldn’t interact with friends, but I found a wonderfully compassionate man to share my life with. I couldn’t travel (and oh, how I miss it), but I found peace in my meditation and yoga practice, something my grandpa has been trying to instill in me since I was a teenager. My aunts, mum and sister carrying my grandpa’s coffin made me realize that my grandpa and grandma have raised two generations of strong women of color with diverse cultural backgrounds. What if I make this his legacy? A family of women who can share their strengths, weaknesses, love and kindness with other people, men and women alike. How do you teach people to be kind, share love and support each other when they haven’t had that modeled in their lives like I’ve been privileged to? Do we ask our leaders to step up? Do we create safe spaces for each other? Do we try to inspire each other so the strength of within is awakened?

He taught me what unconditional love looked and felt like.

The State of the World Right Now Is a Lot of Taking, and Little Giving

Grandpa would have said you can only share love and kindness, that there should never be any expectations of receiving anything back. What does that mean for our world’s healthcare workers, social workers, essential workers and research staff, who have spent the last 12 months inundated with COVID-19 and its effects at work and home? Many of us have had limited time off. (What’s a weekend again?) We’re consumed by the new information and the state of global politics, healthcare and travel. I’d like to say that I can turn off the news and have boundaries to how much COVID-19 information enters my personal life, but this is not true. After all, I missed the opportunity to say goodbye to my grandpa and support my family because of the effects of COVID-19. With the guidance of my grandpa, I’ve devoted my life to the service of others in different ways. Today I would like to ask you, the reader, how can you model love, kindness and community for yourself, your loved ones and the next generation?

I remember my first visit to Oxford University. I was only 16 and participating in an educational program at school. It was more than just a school trip to me though—it was a chance to finally be away from prying eyes, even if it was for a few hours. I could peel the layers of black fabric off my head, the black gown that isolated me so much from my peers. I could be me. I peered out from my seat at the middle-aged white man standing in the lecture hall. He was going to be talking about the Enlightenment in Europe. As he began speaking, I became enraptured. He discussed the ways that Western society shifted from religious ways of thinking to a more scientific approach to life. Religion, he told us, was a way to justify and understand the unknown in life. But science gave us real answers. Science and religion could never be compatible.For a split second, I wanted to put my hand up. I wanted to tell him that he was wrong. That there was a religion that corresponded with scientific principles. I wanted to show him that Islam was different. I almost had my hand in the air ready for a debate, and then it hit me. I was sitting in one of the most prestigious institutions in the world, and being taught by a lecturer who knew an infinite amount more about religion than I did. Maybe Islam wasn’t everything I had been taught. What if everything I knew was wrong? What if it all had been a lie?

My belief in Islam was damaged to the core.

I Was Isolated From the World

Coming from the highly religious background that I did, Islam was never a path I got to choose. It was thrust upon me in such a way that I never knew that I had a choice. Having grown up in London, one of the most diverse cities in the world, people find it hard to believe that I was ever isolated or removed from the bustling multiculturalism that characterized the city. I grew up somewhere in the middle of East and North London, where a small Muslim community exists. For 16 years, I spent my life gated in this little community. It was like a bubble. Muslim primary schools, Muslim secondary schools, mosques, halal shops and restaurants, women in niqaabs and men in thawbs everywhere. But between the hijabs and the topis (Muslim mens’ hats), I often caught glimpses of a world that existed outside these walls. Women who wore their hair out, state schools that were mixed, boys and girls walking hand in hand, mini skirts and jeans. Most of this I had seen already, on TV especially, but I couldn’t help feel a twinge of envy. I couldn’t help feeling, at 14 years old, that the scarf and abaya that I wore was weighing me down. Freedom was all around me, except in my own body. Everything was off limits. My dreams and ambitions were not befitting for a Muslim girl as my parents told me. Who wanted to see a lawyer in a hijab? Or a journalist? Or a presenter? I could never belong. Ever.I started to slip off the hijab whenever I could as I got older and started to venture out into the world more. I would leave the house, and in alleyways, libraries, public toilets, the back of the bus, I’d change into jeans, tops, dresses, skirts. I was a different person. It was exhilarating. Suddenly, I didn’t have to see the world behind slits. I could feel the breeze in my hair, the warmth of the sun on my face. I felt more in tune with the world in those moments than I ever had with the layers of black cloth that imprisoned my body. I was no longer a woman whose opinions could be assumed. I was a blank canvas, and I could be whoever I wanted to be. My words started to hold more meaning. People would listen to me more. I felt like I’d grown wings and was ready to fly. But as soon as I put the scarf back on, things would revert back. It was like being chained up. Wearing the hijab and abaya made me feel so visible but invisible at the same time. I was visibly different, but nobody wanted to hear my voice.

The Alt-Right Influenced My Thinking

So, when that professor at Oxford University explained the debate between religion and science, I was suddenly open to the possibilities. I had lived my life believing in the harmonious relationship between Islam and science. It confused me that this professor didn’t know it. If it’s so true that the Quran solved scientific conundrums that scientists were only discovering, why didn’t more people believe? Why weren’t the most intelligent people in the world Muslim? All of these questions, but nobody to ask. It was unheard of. I never knew it was possible to leave Islam. I didn’t know that there were other paths. That there were other possibilities. Even in the media, hearing about ex-Muslims just wasn’t something that I had ever been exposed to. So, I started to do a little bit of research and suddenly I found myself fascinated with talks by Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens, Sam Harris, Neil deGrasse Tyson. People who rejected the notion of Islam. I felt so trapped in my home life that their words resonated with me. People like Harris and Hitchens were open to Muslims being profiled, stereotyped and treated differently. Why not? I thought, here I am in my own home, trapped by my family’s misogynistic views. Maybe they deserve that. My belief in Islam was damaged to the core. I can’t remember the moment that I left Islam, but I remember the feeling. It was like a weight on my shoulder had been lifted. I didn’t have to worry about provoking the wrath of the most unforgiving God. I didn’t care about going to hell anymore. I could go anywhere, be anything, be anyone. Except I couldn’t, because I was 16, underage and had an impossibly religious family.I started edging dangerously into alt-right territory, enthralled by the hatred spewed by Gavin McInnes, Lauren Southern, Milo Yiannopoulos, Rebel Media and so many others. These were the people who were exposing Islam for what it really was. My own brother had strangled me in my bed because I dared to disrespect him. I once wore a dress outside that my mother thought was inappropriate as it had slits on the side. Although I wore leggings, when she saw me walk through the front door, she grabbed the material and tore it off me as I was wearing it. My sister had called me a slut when she found out that I had engaged sexually with a guy. Amidst self-harm and self-hatred, I only found peace through channeling my pain into my anger towards Islam. It was the only way. I was trying so hard to escape Islam. The thing that I had grown up with. The very essence of it was so deeply entrenched in my identity, and it was exactly that I had to fight. I needed to sever its head before it ruined me. Being Muslim made me unpalatable to the Western eye so it had to be shed. It wasn’t until I started university that my views began to soften.

I ache at the thought that I’ll never truly belong with my family.

I Am Stuck Between Two Worlds

Studying English meant learning about colonialism, post-colonial literature, apartheid. Add that to being part of an extremely multicultural environment and I started to realize that my anger towards Islam was misdirected. The idea that being Muslim was unpalatable to the West didn’t come from my parents or Islam, but instead, it was a notion created by the West to “other” those like me. I started to appreciate my identity and the little quirks of having grown up in a Muslim household. I could no longer be the religious girl I was as a child, but I was starting to accept that I could never escape my Islamic identity because it’s an important part of what makes me “me.” Although I identified as an ex-Muslim for a long time, the rhetoric of people like Harris, Dawkins, McInnes and others is dangerous. If I hadn’t had my epiphany, my hatred of Islam could have boiled into the real world and who knows what kind of consequences that could have had. I’m more of a liberal, non-practicing Muslim now. It isn’t all sunshine and rainbows though. I ache at the thought that I’ll never truly belong with my family. I don’t wear a scarf or pray, or even believe in God. But I can’t express all of these things to my family. Somehow being in the middle, I can’t really be at home anywhere. In society, I can’t escape the remnants of my Islamic identity, and at home, I can’t be truly Muslim. I guess I’m destined to be stuck in this limbo. Not quite here, but not quite there.

No one chooses to be here. I didn’t choose my race, ethnicity, family or my circumstances. What we do choose, however, is what to make of ourselves and how we’re known in this world. What I was taught is very different from what I believe is “America.” What I grew up living is very different from what many know. Living in the United States my whole life, I was told all I needed to do was dream and I could achieve anything. I am a half-Arab and half-Hispanic Muslim. As a young girl growing up, some people saw my multicultural background as a privilege, but throughout my years, my perspective has changed. I was taught early in life to be loyal to my country, believing we all had the same opportunity and hearing things like, “You can be the president one day.” How could I believe otherwise? The system I was taught states this country was built on “freedom of speech” and was created because others want to live freely and practice what they believe in. What if I told you that the same people that take pride in that belief, are the same ones who decide what is considered acceptable and what is not?I was also taught that you always speak out for the oppressed. It’s hard to know that there are people around you that would side with the oppressors. On the outside, people used to see America as a big melting pot, blossoming with different cultures, and considered it a blessing to be here. I, on the other hand, don’t see it that way. When I was younger, I took pride in being “American.” Now, it’s an embarrassment, a label I don’t associate with anymore. What I was told to believe and take pride in gives me nothing but utter shame. I saw the good, the bad and the ugly; the America I know is one many others never see.

Living in the United States my whole life, I was told all I needed to do was dream and I could achieve anything.

How My Muslim Identity Crisis Began

My nightmare began when I was five years old. I grew up blessed with a mother and father who worked hard to be here and gave me and my siblings their best—from living in a safe area to going to the best schools. Most kids my age were all just trying to fit in. It was hard to believe that I went from hiding my ability to speak three languages to now solely speaking in Arabic daily. One day, I was awakened by bangs on our door and the screams of my mother begging FBI agents not to take my father away. Many people see the FBI as an organization that protects the United States, but I saw its agents as nothing but monsters who use citizen protection as a pretense. How can you enforce a law that you don’t follow?My father was asked about his opinion by a local newspaper regarding a recent scandal at a local mosque. In expressing support for a ruthless dictator to be overthrown, he unknowingly turned his and his family’s world upside down. The organization that prides itself in defending its country does more terrorizing than protecting. Targeting people based on their race and religion with nothing but stereotypes as justification is despicable. The beauty I used to see in this country left in front of me that same morning. Using someone’s religion against them in a country that prides itself on its “freedom of religion” is hypocritical. That my father’s religion makes him suspected of being a terrorist sympathizer shows the bigotry that is very much alive in this country.

I began to see this country for how it treated people like me.

America Wants Muslims to Suppress Their Cultural Identity

Growing up post-9/11 was hard on me. My father being attacked because of his religion, which is mine, too, was the most painful experience. Being dragged in a legal battle for 13 years to plead why a father shouldn’t be deported and taken away from his children is indescribable. Going to a primarily all-white school, as great as it might’ve been seen opportunity-wise, was torture. The news constantly changed the people around me, and it hurt me more than ever. Once taught to embrace religion, I felt as if I was embarrassed to be Muslim. I was called a terrorist, a towelhead, Osama bin Laden’s daughter. I didn’t let it break me, and I had to keep it together. They constantly told me I didn’t belong here, as if I didn’t know that already. They destroyed our countries, and when we seek a better life, they ask us why we’re in “their country,” which their own ancestors fled to.I began to see when people became heartless. I began to see that the place in which I grew up was not the place that I currently saw. I began to see this country for how it treated people like me.When did we let hate flaw our judgment? I don’t belong where I was born. I don’t belong where I am from. The place where I grew up, my home, has criminalized my race and my religion. Everything that I identify as is a threat. Americans claim to uphold “land of the free” values, but I feel like I am in shackles, afraid to be judged and lose out on opportunities just for being different.Years later, I have grown past the embarrassment and embrace what I am. No one is going to put me in a box. I was taught to embrace being an “American,” but what does that mean?

After a decade of working my way up the Madison Avenue ladder of success, I told myself that it was time for me to vacate my comfy corner of corporate America and enter the "real world" to make a difference in people's lives. The summer of 2015, I found myself in a small dejected city in New York’s Mid-Hudson Valley. A city often referred to as a war zone. As I laid in bed, I could hear the sound of bullets echoing through the night. This city was a hidden gem that had deteriorated due to decades of neglect and crime. I witnessed firsthand the despair that imbued every corner of the city. I learned from speaking with people in the area that this place I now called home was a dumping ground. People there had come to believe themselves to be trash, and over time, began to adopt ways of treating themselves and each other as such.After a couple of years of living there and participating in some neighborhood cleanups and revitalizations, I decided to create my own initiative. I endeavored in building a community green space with the intention to bring hope and joy to this dying place. My plan was to clean-up and establish this new space on the abandoned lot my siblings and I inherited from my mother after she passed away.

I was filled with doubt.

I Witnessed a Cycle of Brokenness

This decision and process ignited an inner struggle and many questions. I found myself wondering why people piled unwanted things here and how the habit begins. It seems to start with little things—broken fences, cracked windows, overgrown grass and one or two scattered discarded items carelessly thrust on the grounds. When people walk by they slowly start adding to the brokenness and the cycle goes on and on. As more and more people dump their trash in the space, the space becomes the place where all the unwanted things go, it's a graveyard for everything broken. No one considers it their “responsibility.” This becomes an endless cycle. Rumi states, “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right doing there is a field. I'll meet you there.” The once abandoned lot became a special space beyond judgments and ideas of what was right or wrong about our community. I had moved beyond my own judgments and prejudice about this place and the one thing that pulled me away from these distractions was my pure intention to surrender to the need of my community for a safe place to gather and heal. At first, I was reserved and sometimes even resentful of all the work and degree of time I was dedicating to the vision. I saw that even though I was committed to doing what needed to be done, my heart was not yet completely in it. I was filled with doubt and regret. Flashbacks of the comfy life I left behind filled my mind and, suddenly, I would return to the reality of what seemed like a never-ending mess. I eventually realized that the only way to make this dream a reality was to completely dive into the mess. At this point, there was no turning back.

Our Work Helped Mend the Community

When one person decides to surrender themselves to the greater good of the community, others eventually join in to help. What was built, I could never have done it alone. It took a diverse group of ever-changing faces with a shared commitment to make good things happen.The more committed I became, the more we grew in numbers of committed dreamers. Over time, magic began to happen. Our community began to forge a new relationship with the earth, and along with it, a growing sense of responsibility for it. Collectively, we began to break a cycle that felt like a generational curse. Little by little, the work of one was made light by the hands of many.Those days filled me with joy. Some of our greatest moments came from getting the youth involved and teaching them how to use garden tools. Many kids had never used them because they lived in buildings and had no access to green spaces. The work we were doing was impacting the people in the community. When one of the kids broke the lawnmower we were using for the cleanup, a good Samaritan who had learned about the work we were doing sent us a check so we could replace the broken machine. It was happening: People from the greater community began to show that the work we were doing mattered to them.The cleanups continued for two summers and paved the way to a community festival. This proved to be an important and much-needed opportunity for people to come together and demonstrate collective care.

Each one of us has a role to play in making the world a better place.

I Felt Closer to My Grandfather By Cleaning Up My Community

These experiences taught me that people have a deep need to be recognized as worthy of being invested in. I didn't have much, but what I had I gave. I believe that this is the way that our world will change. We benefit from acknowledging that we all are living on the same soil, and every community is sacred ground. Cleaning up began with heaps of garbage and ended with a healing green space and a community festival that united our community and inspired them to imagine new possibilities. This journey helped me weave a new ancestral narrative. Although I have no kids of my own, in ways, I adopted the kids of Heartbrooke Street as my own. I especially connected with a bright young boy who showed much promise. I found great joy in listening to Jay’s dreams for the future and his enthusiasm to help build a community labyrinth. It was inspiring to witness his commitment to teaching other kids how to appreciate and participate in this newfound sense of a united community. That summer, he became the son I did not have.Perhaps the desire to make a difference was deeply embedded in my DNA. I had grown up hearing about my maternal grandfather, Papa Louis. At a time of great need in Nigeria, he played the pivotal role of supplying essential resources and infrastructure to the Igbo community, before, after and during the Nigerian-Biafran War.It was as if through service to the land, I answered my ancestral calling, my role and contribution toward the great healing and wholing of planet earth. It was said that anyone who showed up at Grandpa Louis’s doorstep requesting support would receive a place to sleep, a job and food for a year so they could move forward. He played his part to help his community move forward, and I feel grateful that I played mine in my own village in Upstate New York.Each one of us has a role to play in making the world a better place. I hope that we all find a patch of forgotten soil, a space that challenges us to dig deep, grow and remember.

How do you define love? I define it by the example my parents set. My brothers and I grew up in a home where we were witness to two people who prioritized each other’s well being above their own and continually demonstrated affection and respect for each other. That kind of love is not as ubiquitous today as it should be. The world we live in can be overly stimulating and leave many with little time and/or motivation to cultivate and nurture profound and epic love for their partners.My parents' love developed and deepened through the written letter, a form of communication that is practically non-existent today. Letter-writing offers a way to express our sincere emotions and our real vulnerabilities. For many, it is easier to write down their thoughts than to say them out loud.

How My Parents’ Relationship Began

My parents met in 1945, when my dad, Abe, and my Uncle Hal were Coast Guard buddies stationed in Greenland. Hal had married my mom’s sister, Rae, during his service in WWII, and they traveled together until she became pregnant, prompting Rae to live with my mother, Dotty. Hal got to know my mother when he visited Rae on his leaves and eventually decided to bring my dad with him on a subsequent visit. Abe and Dotty had an instant attraction to each other and went on several dates whenever dad had leave. Though Dad lived in Philadelphia and Mom lived in the Bronx, they continued pursuing their courtship. I sometimes wonder if they considered the ramifications of the “geographically undesirable” aspect of their relationship, or if they were living in the moment, simply enjoying each other when they were fortunate enough to be together.Eventually, Dad completed his service and he and Mom began the next stage of their courtship. In Mom’s autobiography, which she wrote for her children, she remembers, “Abe was clean-cut, on the quiet side, and a perfect gentleman. After his discharge, he made every effort to visit me as often as he could. He would take the train from Philly to Manhattan, and then out to the Bronx, where I lived.”

My father wrote letters to her every single day.

Long-Distance Love Letters Is How They Stayed Connected When They Were Apart

This became a challenging routine and they needed to stay connected in between visits. In 1946, there was obviously no email, texting, Facetime or Zoom. Even a long-distance phone call was considered a luxurious indulgence. Their best and only option was snail mail. My father wrote letters to her every single day that they weren’t together. My mother wrote daily as well.“He wrote such nice, loving letters with cute little drawings around the margins,” she remembered. “He courted me for a while in this way; that is, in person and by mail, and we ultimately became engaged.”Mom saved all of dad’s letters in a floral cardboard, octagonal box. Tragically, he passed away at the too-young age of 43. My mother remarried a few years later, and when she did, she gifted me dad’s collection of love letters. I never opened the box. Well, in truth, I did just once to look at the letters and touch them. They were all in their original envelopes but I didn’t open them. I considered them sacred documents that didn’t belong to me.

I Made Sure the Legacy of My Parents’ Love Letters Lived On

My stepfather passed away 25 years after marrying my mother, and I tried to return the letters to her then. Dad was always the love of her life, and I thought they should be in her possession. She told me to keep them, so I did. I realized these letters were a treasure for our family and years later, she allowed me to publish a book from these letters, and I printed a copy for each member of our family. Of course, I made a copy for her as well. Each of their three children and four grandchildren received copies as well.I felt privileged to peek into the lives of my parents as they developed their romance. My dad had a fabulous sense of humor and it showed in his letters. For example, one of his early letters closed this way:As ever,Sincerely,Yours trulyRegardsLove (ahem!)Aw skip itAbeAs I mentioned earlier, they corresponded daily, so my dad’s letters were filled with the details of his daily life, one that looked very different from ours today.

Their legacy is with me.

What I Learned About My Parents Through Their Letters

I also got a taste of how they spent their time together. He wrote about wanting to sketch her profile on his next visit but wondered if she’d be able to sit still for 30 minutes. He expressed his doubts. “But if we keep the rhumbas and the sambas off the radio, you might be able,” he wrote. No date night Netflix or video games; instead, Latin dancing for Dotty and Abe!My father was a percussionist and loved music. Many of his letters revealed his musical interests. “My sister bought a phonograph last week and we’ve been buying records galore,” he wrote. “I looked high and low and finally got my favorite two records and keep playing them whenever I’m home. One is ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’ by Benny Goodman. The other is by Bunny Berrigan called, ‘I Can’t Get Started With You.’ Both terrific. Did you ever hear them?”Although there is a renewed interest in vinyl records today, generally speaking, phonographs and vinyl have not quite replaced the more convenient and universal musical services such as Spotify. There was also a huge disparity in the postal service then and the postal service today. In one of the letters, my dad expressed his disappointment in not receiving my mom’s letter that morning. But he didn’t despair because “maybe it will be in the mail this afternoon” he wrote. Imagine that—two mail deliveries a day.

The Letters Helped Me Understand What a Healthy Marriage Looks Like

Sadly, the letters my mother sent my dad are long gone. Nonetheless, I was able to learn much of what she wrote through my dad’s responses. It is with great privilege that I had the opportunity to discover, and share with my family, the history of the love affair between my parents, who I miss deeply each and every day.But their legacy is with me. They showed me and my brothers what a loving marriage looks like—not by words but by comportment. Theirs was a union of great love, devotion and mutual respect. Today, I am blessed to be in a loving marriage, and I thank Mom and Dad for their example.

When I was young, my father used to thunder up the stairs towards my room, chanting a variation on the famous refrain from “Jack and the Beanstalk”: Fi, fie, fo, fum, I smell the blood of English, Irish, French, Finnish woman. That usually meant I was about to be tickled or, less fun, made to put on shoes and go somewhere I didn’t want to go. It also meant that I knew from a pretty young age who my grandparents were: I was a quarter English, a quarter Irish, a quarter French, and quarter Finnish. That was pretty cool because I liked Ireland a lot. I never thought too hard about the rest of it.There are some things you learn about your family as a child that you just accept: My uncle was killed by a car at 19. My grandfather was an alcoholic. I have a large extended family in Finland, but we’ve been estranged since the latter half of the 1910s. You know, normal things.My relationship with my dad’s family has always been patchy to begin with. Of his four living siblings, I’ve only seen two of them since I was old enough to form coherent memories. My grandmother was the child of two Finnish immigrants to the United States who met at a Midsummer dance in Kaleva, Michigan, in the early 1900s. Her mother’s name was Helmi. Her father died of black lung. That’s all I know.

Like every other person on the planet with too much time to kill, I’ve picked up a language during quarantine.

Exploring Your Roots as a White Person Is Complicated

So, full disclosure: I’m a white American “reclaiming my heritage.” If that makes you roll your eyes, don’t worry—it makes me roll my eyes, too. That’s the quintessential white American thing to do, right? Tear millions of people away from their culture and heritage for hundreds of years, then turn around and gush to all of your friends about how your Ancestry.com results came back 15 percent German?(On an unrelated note, Ancestry.com tells me I’m related to Emporer Nicholas II through my great aunt.)When you grow up with no culture but the dominant one, there’s something seductive about The Other, about a shared identity based on shared history, and not just the fact that I watched the same obscure early-2000s PBS Kids cartoons as the rest of my white American age cohort. It’s almost trendy.So, like every other person on the planet with too much time to kill, I’ve picked up a language during quarantine.You might think that’s admirable; you might think it’s self-serving. Mostly, the Finnish people I’ve talked to think it’s flattering, if a little confusing. Why would I want to learn Finnish? It’s hard, hardly anyone speaks it, and all the people who do speak English anyway.

What I Get Out of Learning Finnish (Besides Speaking Finnish)

Miksi kielemme? Älä ymmärrä meitä väärin, mielestämme on hienoa opiskelevasi sitä, mutta…miksi? Why Finnish?Well, I could say—in English, because I’ve only been doing this for nine months and I still trip over my words—that I think it’s a cool language. It’s not even part of the Indo-European language family, so it’s totally outside my comfort zone, linguistically. I think the country is beautiful and I’d love to visit someday; and of course, I have some family there.And that’s all true. Finland is beautiful. In October, when all the leaves lining the streets of Helsinki are brilliant yellow and the sun sets at 5 p.m., it reminds me of my own home. It reminds me of myself, quiet and introspective, with its five million citizens and two million saunas.Finnish is a cool language. It’s like a puzzle, and I love puzzles. It’s not as hard as people say it is, either. Just like English speakers, Finns are quick to say their language is the hardest in the world to learn, even if there are parts of it that make perfect sense to me.And I do have family there. I met a second cousin once who spread a massive family tree out on the table of a pizza place in Helsinki to show me dozens of distant relations with names I couldn’t pronounce at the time. I can pronounce them now, and surely that’s a good reason to learn a language, right?But those probably all sound like excuses. Even to my ears, they ring false. We white American liberals have all spent the past four years idly daydreaming a way out of this, some social democracy fantasyland to welcome us with open arms in our righteously privileged flight. Wouldn’t it be nice if there was a country that wanted us, who saw us not as Americans but as members of the family who have just been estranged for a little while?

Finnish is a cool language. It’s like a puzzle, and I love puzzles.

Learning a Language Helped Heal Old Family Wounds

My great-grandmother left Finland for a better life in America, while her sister stayed behind and never spoke of her again. It feels a bit backwards to say that I have any legacy, any connection to the country at all, when she gave it up and her sister renounced all ties.I feel silly saying this to people who look at me and see no connection to themselves, to whom I’m just another American playing at being something else. But the truth is that I own a small baby doll wrapped in a reindeer-pelt parka that my grandmother bought for me in Lappi the one and only time she visited Finland, when I was too young to know what “Finland” was, long before I learned to recite “English, Irish, French, Finnish woman,” and even longer before I knew what it meant. Just before she died, she told me that she’d memorized “Silent Night” in Finnish and always tried to remember, but that lately she couldn’t.Or there’s the truth that my father, who I have only seen cry one other time in my entire life, wept when he heard my high school choir sing Sibelius’ Finlandia, because he had lain on the living room floor and listened to that record on repeat as a boy, the single piece of his grandmother that he had. In a perfect, pandemic-free world we would spend his 70th birthday in Helsinki next year and walk beneath the yellow trees. He can’t speak a word of Finnish beyond “thank you.” (Correction: He would like me to say that he can also say sisu.)I have no connection to Finland. In the end, I’m American through and through, and no language I could learn is going to change that. But to my father, who grew up yearning for a culture and a history he could never have, or to my grandmother, who gave up hers to please an abusive husband, I was and am the link they were missing.Why Finnish? What’s so special about Finland?That is.

I’d been staring at the yellow Post-It the entire evening, trying to get my head around what I’d just scribbled down. Considering how agonized I’d been about making the phone call for the last couple days, the conversation with the polite yet detached woman at the Polish consulate seemed a bit too straightforward, almost clinical, as if she doled out the same advice 100 times a day. All I’d done was “press 2 for the citizenship department.” Suddenly, the door to Europe had creaked open just enough to get my hopes up.The list of emigration requirements on the Post-It was indeed daunting, though there was also something mildly reassuring that the task had some scope around it now. But even the first requirement on the list—“original birth certificates”—might as well have said “learn how to walk on the moon.” Simply put, they both seemed equally impossible, and I was going to need a lot of help figuring out where to even begin. So I walked into the kitchen where my parents were enjoying their customary pre-bedtime snack, took a deep breath and let the words spill out. “Hey Dad, you know the whole thing where your parents went through unspeakable horror and tragedy at the hands of the Nazis? And then they met each other in a displaced person’s camp in Germany after the war where they had you, and then came to America to give a better life to their children but were completely shattered by what they’d lived through and never really healed? Yep, that thing. Well, how would you feel about me taking advantage of their hardships by reclaiming their Polish citizenship in order to realize a lifelong dream of moving to Europe?” Needless to say, my dad turned his attention away from his bowl of Honey Nut Clusters. He wasn’t offended by this pipe dream (which had been my primary concern), but actually appeared intrigued at the opportunity to learn about his own past while helping me in the process. After all, they must have known I was going to make a push to get across the ocean at some point. Ever since falling in love with a Swiss-French girl (and her language) at the tender age of 11 while on an exchange program in Newcastle upon Tyne, there was a strange magnetic force pulling me toward that part of the world. There’s no way Bernadette could have known how her thick accent and blonde curls had changed the trajectory of my life, but I suppose we never really know who we’ve impacted along the way. For all I know, I’m somebody else’s “Bernadette.”

Thus began a four-year journey.

Obtaining an International Passport Is a Long Process

And thus began a four-year journey to fulfill all the requirements on that little yellow Post-It. Quite the journey it was, too, full of byzantine processes, linguistic minefields, countless dead-ends and invaluable assistance from unexpected sources. Here are a handful of highlights:

There's a lot of talk about how to be a good ancestor, about the choices we should make that might one day benefit those who come after us.

I Wonder How My Grandparents Feel About Me Claiming Their Citizenship

I gave up a number of times over the four years, but the dream of getting to Europe proved too strong and I was always lured back into the application madness. It even became a bit of a joke among my friends: “So, are you Polish yet?” Eventually, I got my big break thanks to some documents unearthed in an obscure Jewish historical database in Warsaw, definitively proving my grandparents’ Polish citizenship. I finally got my hands on that spectacular dark red passport at the end of 2015, which I used to move to London in April of 2016. And while I absolutely miss my family and friends back in the States (as well as easy access to slices of New York pizza), London has been extremely good to me. I met my wife here, have made some wonderful new friends and have been able to continue my career in the “Big Smoke” without interruption. I often wonder what my parental grandparents would think of all this. I should note that I never really knew them. My grandfather, Leizer, passed away shortly before I was born, and while we visited my grandmother Minna in her retirement home growing up, her mental health had suffered so greatly from her life experience that she only spoke a few words of Yiddish and didn’t even recognize my father toward the end. But beyond lacking any substantive relations, I also don't speak their language and don't practice their religion. So, would Bubby Minna and Pop-Pop Leizer be upset that I've essentially taken advantage of their trauma to chase after my own desires? Or, would they approve (or even understand) that I've had a life well and fully lived, that their son was a wonderful father who gave me plenty of advantages and that I fought through all those hurdles to get my hands on the passport which would open up an entire continent thanks to Schengen?

This Experience Has Brought Me Closer to My Polish Ancestors

There's a lot of talk about how to be a good ancestor, about the choices we should make that might one day benefit those who come after us. But what does it mean to be a good descendant? Keeping certain traditions alive? Which ones? If I peeled back another layer of my own emotional onion, I suppose the scarier but more pointed question is this: If I knew my ancestors were disappointed because of what I’d taken without giving back (in their eyes), would I care enough to change? I hate to admit it to myself, but I honestly don’t know the answer to that.The distance I’ve placed between myself and my family’s cultural and spiritual history has been a common and often tense topic of discussion with my parents over the years. And it’s not something I necessarily hide either. Case in point: My wife just asked me the other day, completely unsolicited, why I appear to be so interested in cultures, languages and customs other than my own? I have my thoughts on what has contributed to this, but the likeliest answer is that it’s just the way I was made. Interestingly enough, the whole Polish identity experience has actually brought me closer to my grandparents. I think about them and what they went through quite a bit, and how it helped me get to where I am. And even after almost five years in London, I often find myself smiling while walking down a high street or into a pub, almost like I’m walking on air, as if the force of gravity isn’t quite as severe on this side of the ocean. Maybe I learned how to walk on the moon after all. And I still have that yellow Post-It. I take it out every so often just to remember what it was like to write that list of impossibilities.

"Nearly all Americans have ancestors who braved the oceans—liberty-loving risk takers in search of an ideal—the largest voluntary migrations in recorded history…Immigration is not just a link to America’s past; it’s also a bridge to America’s future.” – President George H.W. BushAs I sit here with my COVID-19 mask collection, I am thinking about my dad’s parents. They are long gone now, but they shared critical stories about their past lives in Eastern Europe. After the horror and suffering they faced in the infamous “pogroms” in Russia and Ukraine in the early 1900s, it was no wonder they were so happy, relieved and proud to arrive in the U.S. to become citizens. A Google search informs us that a pogrom was “an organized massacre of a particular ethnic group, in particular that of Jewish people in Russia or Eastern Europe.” My grandmother had nightmares about these organized attacks for her entire adult life. Hiding in a haystack as a teenage girl so as not to be raped or have a hand chopped off is not something anyone born today in the U.S. can identify with. My grandfather had scars up and down his body, sides and forehead from the Cossacks, who used the blades of their swords to slice him up. His four-foot, 11-inch sister dragged him home and saved his life. Another time, he was visiting a nearby town to get supplies and was advised not to return home that day. He slept that night in a shed with cattle. The next day, when he arrived at his home on the Ukraine-Russian border, he found a few dozen dead folks from his village, including their rabbi. He and a few others dug graves and said their prayers.So, it shouldn’t be a surprise that they eventually left their homes, and somehow, around 1918, were fortunate to be included with a large group of refugees on a voyage across the Atlantic riding in third class to Ellis Island. Thankful to arrive in America, they had no food stamps, no welfare checks, just Brooklyn and Lower East Side tenement walkup railroad apartments with no air conditioning and no refrigerators. Every man for himself to find a job and stay alive. They worked their asses off for the next generation. My grandfather became a baker on the night shift—he worked for the union for almost 50 years, and with his small income as a baker, he could afford to send my dad to medical school in Europe.

Those bullies never bothered me again.

Racism Against Immigrants in America

When my dad was growing up in the 1940s and 1950s in the Northeast, there weren’t any pogroms, but there was still racism by so-called "original whites” against the newer immigrants. These newer white immigrants—Italians, Jews, Irish—were also excluded, along with Black, Chinese and Hispanic people. These “lesser” whites could not buy a home in “originally white” neighborhoods, had no access to loans, were excluded from clubs and life was confined to the parameters of their own neighborhoods.In my dad’s Class of 1948 high school yearbook, there were photos of all races and religions at that time. They shared the same classrooms and teachers—a living example of Martin Luther King Jr’s "I Have a Dream" speech many years later. Yet when school ended, they all headed to their ethnically-separated neighborhoods. For the most part, their social lives rarely overlapped, although my dad did have a few friends from various ethnic backgrounds. Twenty-five years later, I was growing up in a nice suburb of Manhattan with a fine public school. The racism I experienced—occasional name-calling from a select group of bullies or perhaps getting punched while walking to school—was so very mild compared to what my grandparents faced. I knew what my grandparents had endured so I brushed it off. In seventh grade, at the advice of my grandfather, who heard my story about being bullied, I carried a baseball bat with me to school. The bat moved with me from class to class. I took a few swings in the air to send the bullies a signal when I spotted them down the hall. Surprise, surprise—I was called to the principal's office and questioned. I told them my situation, and they said, “Okay, just, please don’t bring it tomorrow!” Those bullies never bothered me again.

Queens Is the Standard the Rest of the Country Should Strive for

I recall finding the original 1950s deed for our home from the previous seller. It included a covenant barring the sale or rental of the house to non-whites and people of Jewish descent. (A U.S. Supreme Court ruling held such covenants unenforceable in 1948.) Despite the clause, my parents purchased the house, and over the years our village became more ethnically diverse. There are now many places in the U.S. where the minority population now has a majority. The phenomenon of an ethnically-clustered community is not necessarily a reaction to racism or intolerance. Instead, it’s a natural desire to live with like-minded people that share a common language, culture and tradition. Birds of a feather flock together.Although many of these ethnic communities remain, Queens, New York, continues to break this pattern. In 2018, the borough’s 2.29 million population held the world record for the most diverse human population on the planet, representing more than 138 nationalities and languages. All these unique individuals live together in peace 99.99 percent of the time. As you explore the streets you notice that every few blocks, the languages on the storefronts change along with the variety of produce and foods. Unlike the 1900s to 1980s, it’s normal to witness biracial couples walking hand in hand in the streets—a real example of America as a “melting pot.” It’s a place where people are valued by the “content of their character,” unjudged because of the color of their skin.

The call of the time is to connect to ancestors.

What We Can Learn From Immigrants Today

As a child, I grew to love Martin Luther King Jr.’s speeches, and by the age of six, I had entire portions memorized. Perhaps these speeches informed my decision to become an immigration attorney. Or perhaps it was my Swiss grandfather who unknowingly piqued my interest. I was 13 years young when I visited Geneva, Switzerland, to spend time with family. One afternoon, my grandfather (who had fled the pogroms in Poland) explained he had once sponsored refugees for “visas'' to be temporarily housed in refugee camps in Switzerland—they were Jews from Poland who escaped Hitler and the death camps. I asked him about visas, and today they’re how I make a living. It is sometimes funny how synchronicity works. Years later, I told my Swiss grandfather about a man from Geneva living in my Manhattan building. I told him the name and seconds later replied. “I sponsored his grandfather.”For the past 25 years, I have assisted many people from all over the world to achieve their own "American Dream.” Despite the hate-filled narrative— propagated by the news outlets, social media and colleges—that half of Americans are racist and sexist, the truth is, most people living in the United States are peaceful and open-minded. They remain ready to help a neighbor in times of need. As we move through the present challenges in the country and around the world, we can benefit from calling upon the spirit of the immigrant, part of us that is forever open, ever ready, unwavering, willing, courageous, determined, resourceful, humble, ambitious, hardworking, expansive and brave. The call of the time is to connect to our ancestors who helped build this nation so that we, too, can build a better future for ourselves and our communities, one united in trust and respect.

“Statistically insignificant.” That was my sister’s response when I told her that my DNA test revealed that I was three percent West African. I thought she’d be surprised or shocked. I didn’t expect sangfroid. Being a person who’s always been interested in genealogy, I was anxious to research my roots and find out if there was any evidence of this “insignificant” drop of African blood in my family’s history. Before climbing every branch of my family tree, I thought I’d ask family members if they knew anything about any rumors or stories of Black ancestors. That was a mistake.My father died several years ago and his sister is his only surviving family member. Let’s just say she didn’t rejoice at the news of our expanded ethnicity. “There’s no way we had slaves in our family!” my aunt barked.“I didn’t say they were slaves,” I replied too meekly.“Well, they were Black, so what do you expect they were?” she said, obviously finished with the conversation.

That was a mistake.

My Ancestors Saw People as Property

Hanging up, I thought about what she said. I knew that on both sides of my family there were slave owners. I don’t like writing those words, but I don’t like running from it, either. I have a copy of my tenth great-grandfather’s last will and testament wherein he bequeathed a “negress named Diana” to his daughter and her husband. When I found that will and read that clause, I winced. I didn’t want to think that someone known for having fled England for the purpose of freely practicing his concept of Christianity would not only presume to own another child of God, but to hand them down like property to his posterity. But there it was in black and white. I dealt with it by focusing my genealogical endeavors on my numerous indigent ancestors, most of whom were treated by landowners as little more than chattel themselves. That didn’t make them slaves, though, and I was determined to find out if the West African component in my DNA came from enslaved people.It does.

I Discovered the Roots of My Family’s Names

The last name of tenth great-grandfather and -grandmother was Yoconohawckon. To me, that surname sounded Native American, and I found out it was, but it was used by a married couple held as slaves in Virginia. What follows is a summary of my research written by a distant relative who has spent decades studying this remarkable couple.In the United States, the name seems to have been derived from a couple who were freed from slavery in Lancaster County, Virginia, in 1690. The slaves were identified only as Black Dick and Chriss in the will of John Carter, Jr., a wealthy and influential figure in early Virginia history, and they were to be set free along with three children.After being freed, Dick was found on the Lancaster County tithables lists for the next several years as Black Dick, Free Dick and Free Richard. In 1704, 14 years after he was freed, he was identified as Richard Yoconohawcon. The name Yoconohawcon, with various spellings, was found in Lancaster County records until 1727, even as some family members began to use the name Nickon or Nicken.Information collected by my distant cousin reveals that my tenth-great-grandmother was very light-skinned (perhaps owing to being Native American) and her children (including my ninth-great-grandfather and his descendants) were so light-skinned that they were described as “mulatto” or “white.”That last racial designation explains how no one in the family knew that we had enslaved ancestors. Exacerbating the ignorance was the fact that by the time of the Civil War and slavery’s ascendance as an issue of national notoriety, the Nickens had lived as free men for over 170 years.

I am a man who descends from people who owned other people—and from people who were owned by other people.

I Can’t Change My Past, but It Informs My Life

Remarkably, the notorious document which allowed a human being as an inheritance was probated in the same year that two members of my family, through another line, were being granted their liberty in another man’s last will and testament. The moral polarity is enough to give me psychological whiplash.Scientifically speaking, I guess my sister is right: a three percent portion of someone’s genetic code is statistically insignificant. What isn’t insignificant is that I am a man who descends from people who owned other people—and from people who were owned by other people. Some of my ancestors had the key to their chains passed down to a child in a will, while some had those chains permanently removed in a similar manner.So, what difference does this discovery make? Does it change how I identify racially? No. But it does make me realize that I am the product of people who were treated as God’s own chosen rulers and other people who weren’t even treated as humans. I can’t change any of that, but I can change how I treat people whose principles and perceptions I don’t understand, realizing that all of us have strange, shameful and significant stories written in the books of our family histories.

Until the age of 22, I had never so much as kissed a boy, let alone had a boyfriend. I’m Muslim and grew up in a very conservative and religious household where dating was very much frowned upon. As a teen I fancied boys and watched friends go through boyfriends, knowing that would never happen for me. And I accepted it. I accepted that dating would come later in life for me, and would be focused on religion and marriage.Then I met Joe. He was a mutual friend at university I met at a party. I liked him instantly. He was attractive, funny, smart and kind. He had a girlfriend at the time, so we began as just friends. That friendship blossomed into more, a whirlwind of a romance that pulled me into something at odds with my beliefs and family background.Early on Joe and I made a running joke about how “doomed” we were as a couple, and how the odds were stacked against us. There was my religion, my family. And we were graduating that summer, so the relationship would have to go long-distance. The joke took the place of real discussion. Avoiding the hard subjects became central to our relationship, and eventually to our demise.

I knew my parents would disapprove of him.

Even When He Said He’d Convert for Me, I Couldn’t Bring Him Home to Meet My Parents

As graduation came and went, Joe and I were still together. We decided we’d give it a proper go, maybe even be that couple who would make it. We moved back to our respective hometowns and became a long-distance couple. We discussed what our future would hold, and how we’d tackle the issue of my family.We’d been together around six months, and even though I’d gotten to know many of his family members, Joe still hadn’t met my family. I knew my parents would disapprove of him. It didn’t matter that he was intelligent and polite, or that I loved him; they would only see him as someone outside of our religion. And that was an instant rule-breaker. I had to keep him a secret. For three years.Maintaining a secret relationship involved a lot of lies. I made up names of friends when my parents asked what I was doing on weekends when I saw Joe. I went along with blind dates my mother arranged, just so she wouldn’t get suspicious. Joe had to live these lies too. When he came to visit, he parked his car at the bottom of the road, so that my parents wouldn’t see if they looked out the window. If my parents called me up and I was with him, I’d make him leave the room, in case they heard his voice in the background.We couldn’t go on holiday together. We couldn’t move in together. Yet we were serious about each other. Joe even considered converting to Islam, so that we would have a future. We talked about conversion and marriage. Through it all, I really believed that we’d make it.Meanwhile, we once again were avoiding a hard topic. We didn’t talk about the huge strain the secrecy imposed on him and our relationship. It was difficult for me too, don’t get me wrong. But I’ve had a lot longer to get used to living this kind of double life. Over the years it’s how I went to parties, hung out with male friends and drank alcohol. Keeping Joe a secret was easier for me than it was for him.

Maintaining a relationship away from my family is untenable.

He Never Met My Family, but They Were Still Too Much for Him

This wasn’t normal for him. He was used to openness and having bonds with his partner’s family. Towards the end, this became quite an issue. I was frustrated that our relationship wasn’t moving forward, especially once Joe expressed reluctance to convert. He was frustrated that I had a huge side to my life that he simply couldn’t access.Joe became distant, less affectionate and less communicative. We still spoke on the phone every day and met up once a week, but something was different. It felt like he was physically present and mentally detached. This lasted for months until we both needed a break. The break became a breakup.It turns out keeping a secret is not a healthy base for a relationship. It leads to emotional strain and barriers. I really did think Joe was the one. I thought we’d work it out. In hindsight, this was blind optimism. Deep down, I knew our relationship had a time limit. I just didn’t know when it would arrive.I don’t regret my time with Joe. We made many happy memories, and he taught me a lot. But maintaining a relationship away from my family is untenable. The problems creep in early and grow over time. When I’m looking for a future partner, I’m going to make sure he’s from a similar religious and cultural background as me. I don’t want to get my heart broken. And I don’t want to break anyone else’s heart again.

I got to the square a few minutes early and stood around awkwardly holding my sign. I had scrawled “Black and Palestinian Lives Matter” on a piece of cardboard in thick black ink a few minutes before I left my apartment for the rally, which was to take place in central Tel Aviv.It was just a few weeks after the death of George Floyd.Eventually other people showed up, about 50 of them, mostly Americans with an Israeli parent who ended up back in Tel Aviv. The kind of white liberal who talks big about social justice back in the U.S. but blindly shows unwavering support for Israel—the kind of white liberal I was until a couple months ago.It wasn’t long before I was approached by a white Israeli man and his friends, who wanted to know why I’d added “Palestinian” to the slogan on my sign. After all, this was a show of solidarity for George Floyd, the latest victim of racist police brutality in America. I was taken aback. As an American new to Israel, I felt that I couldn’t ignore the parallel problem of occupation, and the police and military violence against innocent Palestinians. Just a week before this event, Eyad Hallaq was shot dead by Israeli police in East Jerusalem. He was 32 years old and autistic, walking home from his special-needs school. Were these issues not related? Was it wrong to demand that another persecuted group’s lives matter too? The man raised his voice and declared that if he knew I’d be there with that sign, he wouldn’t have come to the rally at all.To him and many others, America has problems with racist violence but Israel can do no wrong.

I allowed myself to be bought.

I Came to Israel Because I Was Lost; I Didn’t Like What I Found

I moved to Israel about a year ago as a lost Jewish-American post-grad, with no career opportunities in the States and a burgeoning romance with an open-minded Israeli I met while traveling. Israel literally pays Jews to move here and claims to offer career help and other services in English. So, I fell for the ruse.I allowed myself—and my alliances—to be bought. At the time, I wasn’t even aware that, while I could get citizenship with just a letter from a Rabbi stating that I’m Jewish, a Palestinian with proof that their parents were born there could not.As soon as I set foot in the country, I felt a wicked push and pull. I was bombarded at every step with people welcoming me to my “homeland,” or asking me why on earth I would dare move there. Nothing about the place felt like home and every time I had to assert that I belonged there because of my Jewishness, my family has, in a very literal sense, never been from that part of the world. The same goes for most, if not all, of the Ashkenazi inhabitants of Israel today.Israeli culture is fiercely exclusive in a way that feels wholly intentional, and yet conflicts with the practice of bending over backwards to entice Jews to move there. It’s an exclusive club that keeps people who were born in Israel feeling like a part of something larger than themselves, and inspires them to fight in the army, despite the fact that they have no choice in the matter. The underlying psychology reminds me of a high school clique, where repelling outsiders gives the insiders something to bond over. This extreme nationalism has gone beyond the point of being merely frightening—not to mention hypocritical—as a nation that was founded in part as a response to the horrors of ethnocentric zealotry gone unchecked now weaponizes Holocaust Remembrance Day for its own political benefit.

Israel Has Adopted One of the Worst Things About American Life

Furthermore, Israelis love to co-opt American culture, most of which is Black culture to begin with. At the same time, they relish nothing more than to complain about all of America’s problems—its president, its crumbling healthcare system, its addiction to fast food. This obsession with plundering America for all it has to offer, and then turning around and acting utterly superior, mirrors America’s relationship with its Black citizens.Israelis treat Americans like a necessary nuisance and a political pawn, sweetly luring them out to the Middle East to help them displace more Palestinians, while Americans often treat their Black peers like criminals, turning a blind eye as they are relegated to the fringes of society, provided with systems of housing, healthcare and “justice” that are riddled with often-deadly racism.The country of Israel is overflowing with hypocrisy—so much so that if you tried to cut it all out, there’d be nothing left. While America, the land of the free that locks kids in cages, is undoubtedly as hypocritical, I’m beginning to understand what makes the Israeli experiment so particularly toxic—and perhaps worse. I think about the liberal college friends who shamed me for moving there in the first place, and how I wrote them off for engaging in an issue far away when America has so many human rights crises underway that could be a higher priority—or at least easier to work on from there.I finally understand where they’re coming from when I remember the rally I went to, where a proud Israeli man told me he believes that Black lives matter but Palestinian lives don’t.

We can’t debate whether George Floyd, Rayshard Brooks, Breonna Taylor and the expanding list of black U.S. citizens were murdered.They were.We can’t argue about whether white supremacy is alive and well in the country.It is.How about Silicon Valley?Did Silicon Valley escape an American white supremacist past as it espouses a meritocracy—a meritocracy where all are welcome to make a fortune based on their capabilities and not on their lineage (as was often the case back East)?No.

I Was Raised in a Different World Than My Black Friends

I came from Washington, D.C., which had been overwhelmingly black during my youth, and, as a kid, felt the twin pangs of privilege and guilt. As the lone white 13-year-olds at the Carter Barron Amphitheatre, my buddy Eddie and I never felt threatened in a sea of black people crooning along to the Temptations, the Four Tops or the Impressions.However, my buddy, Sam, who grew up black in the Pennsylvania suburbs, knew a different world. He taught me the expression “hoopie” for the rednecks who threw the N-word at him as a kid there.What Sam didn’t expect coming West in the 1980s as a computer scientist was that he would run into the same mentality in Silicon Valley. The Valley in 1985 was in its middle stage of expansion, and Sam found comfort working with other black men at Fairchild Semiconductor and Lockheed. They, like him, had gotten the computer skills to jump the digital divide. Unlike Sam, they had gotten their skills in the military.Sam has never worked with a group of black people in the Valley since he left Lockheed in 1994. “None of them stuck around, I imagine,” Sam says. “Maybe they didn’t feel comfortable. The Valley has only gotten whiter over the decades.”

Evidently Silicon Valley can rip off Indians just as well as black and brown U.S. citizens.

The Whites in Silicon Valley Turned to International Labor

For 70 years, Silicon Valley merely reinforced East Coast establishment order, granted with nicer weather, surfboards, dress jeans and Arcteryx vests. The rich (whites) got richer (whiter). And when the rich could not find the talent for their tech jobs here with failed U.S. science and math education programs, it turned to bringing in educated Indian and Chinese workers in enormous numbers using H-1B visas. This gave the new immigrants opportunity and a chance to live the American Dream.The spirit of the Apollo missions which had filled the space program with qualified Americans in math and engineering has been dissipated among youth with the allure of Wall Street finance, commercial real estate and Kardashian make-up-your-own-celebrity-status nonsense.When I would work out in the company gym of the networking giant where I spent over a decade, I was often the lone white guy. Unlike in the large East Coast city where I was a minority to the historically 80 percent black population, I was the minority to all the wonderful Indians who also worked at the company. As was fitting to the white order, many of them were employed as contract workers, not deemed worthy of a full benefits package.Evidently Silicon Valley can rip off Indians just as well as black and brown U.S. citizens.

Tech Companies Ignore the Locals

Sam found the Valley’s institutional racism an assault on his person. At the company where we worked together, Sam found very few other blacks. The company made a big deal about supporting local education nonprofits, but they never tried to recruit any of the local brown and black residents.“For the company to say that they only had to reflect the racial demographics of the local population was an insult. There were not many blacks in Silicon Valley, and the ones who were there were poor folks in East Palo Alto. I was never in the ‘in’ group at the company and never able to break through the glass ceiling. What really smelled weird was that I got excellent reviews but was never encouraged to seek a promotion or become a manager. It was as if my solid work history never mattered.”For the people of color born in the Valley’s disadvantaged communities, little has been left to them. In bringing in our Indian brothers, we have outsourced local black and brown people’s potential to a more educated immigrant group. Believe me, this is not a knock on our Indian compatriots. It’s one thing to fill engineering jobs with smart immigrants in the short or medium term. It’s another thing to make it your long-term policy, ignoring improving opportunities for the less fortunate already here and in need of a hand up.

This Is White Supremacy

White supremacy is not just the belief that whites are superior to brown, yellow and black people. It can disguise itself in a white dominance of society where others are not treated as equals economically, politically—societally. You don’t need to think like George Floyd’s killer to be a white supremacist. The established order can offer up little opportunity for others in their community to move up in the pecking order.That is a strain of white supremacy.Just as there were Africans who helped capture Africans for Arab slave traders, just as there were blacks who served as enforcers with slaves on the plantation, Silicon Valley did what colonialists have always done. It turned to “safe brown talents” to bring in the crops: Sundar Pichai and Satya Nadella were hired as the CEOs of Google and Microsoft respectively.On that note, Cisco was sued in late June by the State of California for discriminating against certain Indians. An engineer who is a Dalit—formally called “untouchables”—alleges that he was discriminated against by Indians on his Cisco team who happen to be Brahmins, the highest caste of the Indian social hierarchy.Inequities and violence against Dalits have persisted for a long time after India banned the caste discrimination in 1950, just after independence. Cisco investigated the allegations and took no action. Now the engineer claims that his Indian manager retaliated against him afterward. Cisco took no further action on the discrimination claim.

Maybe everyone gets rich except the local disadvantaged communities.

Nothing Substantial Has Changed

I remember that Facebook was embarrassed a few years ago when it was revealed that only seven percent of its workforce was black. Not to be accused of a similar disparity, Google reported a higher number. However, in a cynical move to cover their asses, it was discovered that they had converted every janitor, security guard and cafeteria worker to full-time status so they could post a better number.Here in the Valley, a group of white Sand Hill VCs has historically funded white men, and investors and founders get the spoils of a good deal. Yes, thankfully, there are some great Indian entrepreneurs.Maybe everyone gets rich except the local disadvantaged communities.Is that racism against brown and black populations here? Or white supremacy in the form of a callous disregard for raising the incomes of local disadvantaged populations who clean the toilets and serve Mexican food in sparkling corporate cafeterias?Yes, many companies invest more than others through their corporate philanthropy. Cisco, VMware and Salesforce stand out among others. After the Black Lives Matter nationwide embrace of what we hope will be long-term change, Google finally ponied up $175 million for racial justice and equality efforts. Another cynical Google move to be engaged late in the game? After that move, Apple and Amazon made similar substantial commitments.Sam has never found promotion opportunities in the Valley since he left our company almost a decade ago. After leaving his last company, “a white boys club,” Sam is four months into what he hopes will be his last job before he retires. He just hopes the job will last long enough. A couple of weeks ago, he was surprised when his new boss gave him Martin Luther King Jr. Day off.“Was it a change in the established order?” I asked him. “I doubt it,” he replied. “This was just one nice guy who had probably been woken up by Black Lives Matter and the national chaos. The Valley pretends it’s so progressive. It’s blue through and through, which makes it suspect when you realize that it’s always been a white man’s game. As long as these companies don’t recruit blacks from back East or change the system for blacks and Latinos here, nothing will change.”

Only Silicon Valley, Itself, Can Make the Change

There’s little argument that tech culture (white) is driving out historical culture (brown and black) in San Francisco. As well as in East Palo Alto (EPA). Once dubbed “the murder capital of the U.S.,” EPA still houses a significant number of poor blacks and Latinos with few opportunities but to be the housekeepers and restaurant workers across the highway in Palo Alto, the global epicenter of technology innovation.Despite lip service and STEM funding from giant Valley leaders, EPA remains the neglected stepchild of the Valley. When Facebook moved in as a neighbor, many thought the social network would revolutionize EPA with projects that would develop opportunities for local residents. That has not even been tried. Instead, its employees— young techies with big paychecks and stock options—are moving into the neighborhood, causing a drastic rise in rents.Companies that haven’t paid taxes and are often run by privileged white men, many born privileged, are targets of reformers like Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren. But real tax reform would never happen in today’s Washington paralysis. Government cannot do it. Republicans would not allow it.That’s why Silicon Valley needs to stand up and call out its own white supremacy by transforming local communities. Keep the tax breaks and use those savings to make Silicon Valley a real leader for equality in our racist society.How?Save East Palo Alto and surrounding black communities before they are annihilated.We can’t tech our way out of this. No technology can GPS us out of the societal corner the protests and riots have put us in.

In the summer of 2020, in the midst of a pandemic which has wiped out jobs and lives disproportionately among brown and black people, I submit that we can resuscitate hope among the most defeated in our Valley.

How the Valley Can Begin to Unravel Its Racism

It’s time for Silicon Valley to show some cojones if it ever had them. If not, grow some.Here is a beginning list of actions that the Valley can take with their tax savings for low-income local families in East Palo Alto and San Jose:Mandatory Pre-K: STEM education in middle or high school doesn’t count when you can’t spell, write or type. You can’t compete if you can’t compute! It all starts in those first few precious years.Affordable childcare and after school care allows mothers and couples to go to jobs while their young scholars are in school and not on the streets until their parents get off work.Drastically reduce housing prices for high-density homes to be built on office park space relinquished by corporations. Due to a new lasting tide of remote work which some Valley developers believe will result in companies giving up 40 percent of their office space, this is a great target objective for a public-private partnership in the Valley. The housing could be first offered to the families of corporate service workers.Mentoring of young students by current and retired tech workers so that they get positive learning experiences as well as middle and high school internships from greatly expanded corporate programs. This is particularly important as children grow from fifth grade until graduation. This is a necessary step for bridging local disadvantaged youth into a world where STEM, coding, engineering and the embrace of a six-figure tech salary can become a reality.In the summer of 2020, in the midst of a pandemic which has wiped out jobs and lives disproportionately among brown and black people, I submit that we can resuscitate hope among the most defeated in our Valley.To say that this is also in the interest of the privileged is an understatement. It could only take one more police murder to bring back broken curfews and rioters at the doorstep of your elegant Palo Alto home.

I was raised into a Christian home, and my upbringing ticked off just about every Christian-culture, woman-of-God cliché in the book. I was the daughter of a church elder and sang in the worship band. I ran Sunday schools and led church socials in my “house group.” I went to church camp every summer with my friends until I was 19, then spent my gap year traveling around the Solomon Islands as a missionary. I shared the gospel with strangers and prayed with people on the street. My faith was genuine and strong, and integral to every decision I made in life.My relationship with God wasn't just one part of me—it determined the whole of me. Religion always made me switch off, but faith made me feel alive.But like any relationship, ours has had its ups and downs: not on God's part, but mine.There have been times where I haven't made the effort to listen to him, spend quality time with him or even simply check in. Our relationship isn’t too different from a human one. Unlike any other relationship though, God has never let me down. He’s always been there with unfailing love, wisdom and strength to lean into—something I've learned even more about during the course of this pandemic.

But like any relationship, ours has had its ups and downs: not on God's part, but mine.

Distracted, I Lost Track of My Faith

Over the past year, my prayer life dwindled. I got consumed in days of work and allowed many things—things that in the big picture really don’t matter—to take up my attention. That's the funny thing about our most cherished, important things in life: We think they’ll always be there, so we often put them to aside to prioritize things that simply aren’t as valuable.My faith was always there, I was just distracted. It’s easy when we feel that way to call it a momentary lapse in concentration, but then the moment stretches into a week, a month, six months, a year. As I drifted away from prayer and God, I'd tell myself, I'll come back to those important things in a second.That time where I wasn’t putting God first was lonely, unfulfilling, confusing and frustrating. Materially, I was getting on fine, but life didn’t feel like it had much life in it at all. When we feel that way we often know instinctively what the best things are for us—exercise, good sleep, eating well, calling a friend, meditating—but that doesn’t always mean we do them. I knew for sure that the best thing for my soul would be to simply talk to God again, but just like relationships in life, the longer you go without talking to someone, the more awkward you think it’ll be when you finally do. So you put it off more, until so much time has gone by that you feel embarrassed, and wind up just putting it off for even longer.Before quarantine, my life was on a treadmill, between starting up my own business, moving back to my hometown after switching jobs and all the stresses those transitions brought. When lockdown happened, it forced me to stop and reflect in a way I hadn’t in a long time. The pandemic wasn’t just coming for our health, but our well-being, livelihoods and families. I felt seriously afraid of what the future held.

The Quarantine Became Sacred

The past months have turned out to be a sacred time of real closeness with God for me. I have never needed him or leaned on him so much. God was faithful, even when I wasn’t, and since being locked down my faith has had a growth spurt. I’ve not only spoken to God on my bad days, but also on the good and exciting ones. I’ve shared with him all the joy in my life, as well as my woes. I once thought my life would be fuller and richer if I kept on adding things to it, but I’ve learnt during quarantine that the key is actually subtraction. I’ve stripped things back to simplify them. I’ve put God at the center again, and in the course of doing so I’ve come to realize that the things I was chasing were only a distraction from the pure joy that my relationship with him gives me.As Zoom-ed out as we all feel by this point, watching church online has revolutionized my faith, and become far more special to me than I first expected. My focus is different over video. I’m no longer going to church so much for the social aspect, or to bump into my crush in row three. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.) Now I'm tuning into church on Sunday because I want to put that time aside for space to read the Bible, pray and meditate on God’s word. It's been said that during quarantine, one in 20 adults have started to pray for the first time in their lives. I would guess that there are many more of us who’ve simply rediscovered how powerful it is.In times like this you come to realize which things in your life you really care about and which ones you don't. The noise of petty desires starts to fade into the background. I’ve started witnessing things within my spirit that I hadn't experienced before. New feelings, and a new fire in my heart. New thoughts bubbling up in my mind. New desires I needed to prioritize.In this dark time of heartache and hardship, positive, amazing and loving things are still happening.

In this dark time of heartache and hardship, positive, amazing and loving things are still happening.

Unfortunately, the Government Has Shied Away From Engaging Faith

At times, this pandemic has shown the best of humanity. I’ve been struck, though, by the fact the word “prayer” hasn’t been mentioned once by the Queen or the British government this entire pandemic—in any of their speeches, daily briefings or live talks to the public. I find that to be a huge oversight. For so many people in this nation and around the world, the power of prayer to bring hope and uplift has been game changing. Many of us have relied on our relationships with God to be their rock and help get us through. It would be so bold and wonderful if the Prime Minister and Queen encouraged us to pray in their speeches, along with advice on washing your hands, distancing yourself and being kind to others.A lot of people have been talking online about their “quarantine glow-up.” I think I've had one of my own—not in terms of new abs, glowy skin or a smaller waistline, but in my faith. My God is the God who restores, and I feel my faith has been to the Glow Bar for a much-needed shake up. This time has changed my relationship with God for the better. When self-isolation is over in the U.K., I’ll emerge with a renewed relationship with him, a more grounded faith—with faith muscles that are stronger than ever.

Where there is smoke, there is usually fire.The government and mainstream media, for the most part, don't want you to notice the smoke. And if you do, they'd have you believe that there is never fire. But smoke always rises. And there is fire. As a kid, I was taught to listen to authority. And to trust it. And to obey it. There were correct answers in class, and incorrect answers. There was rarely room for debate or differing opinions. And this is true to an extent. And helps to a degree.But I remember asking questions that frustrated teachers. I remember having thoughts and opinions that I couldn't write down on exams if I wanted a good grade. So, over time, I started to suppress what I thought and started to adopt what I was told—unquestioningly.It was easier that way.The problem is that I took these habits into my early adulthood. I even took them into college. It took a while for me to grow out of it and start thinking for myself.

This distrust should be encouraged.

I Wasn’t Always a Conspiracy Theorist

In high school, I campaigned for over 100 hours for the first Obama presidential campaign. Perhaps I was influenced by mainstream media coverage, perhaps not. But I know my support and admiration of him was largely superficial. “Hope and Change,” right?I wasn't asking questions. I wasn't challenging what I was told. I didn't understand the one-sidedness of the mainstream media. Or the financial interests that backed the main networks. I just believed what I heard. Four years later, I was in college. And my views had started to shift. I was studying political science and philosophy, and began fostering critical thinking skills and inductive reasoning abilities. With the exception of a particularly liberal professor, I was being encouraged to share my opinions, ask any questions and debate with my classmates. And so I enjoyed college for the most part. It was useful. I learned a lot. My positions began to change on many issues, and I floated to somewhere in the center of the political spectrum. I was no longer enamored with Obama, although I supported many of his foreign policy measures. And I was no fan of Mitt Romney. So I became disillusioned for the most part and didn't even end up voting for either one. But those years in college had had a profound effect on me. I realized for once that the mainstream media all seemed to tell the same story. And there were topics that were important to me but were never discussed. So I began doing more of my own research. I sought sources that examined issues I found interesting.A year later, I took a semester off to be a campaign manager for a Democratic political candidate in Virginia—a family member, in fact. Someone who had known me forever and respected my political mind, despite some of our disagreements. He was running in a very red district, one where the last Democrat had lost by 12 points.Election night came and we felt great. We had been out-campaigning the opponent and making inroads in the community. It felt like we were making progress. But our opponent refused to debate us and it was tough to really tell where we stood. We knew the odds were against us. We had done a few internal polls but they were all over the map. We lost by five points. I honestly haven't looked back at the results since that night. We had done well but were disappointed. He and I had poured everything into that campaign.In the next few months, I had little to do at home until my next semester at college. I worked a part-time job and read a lot. And I found myself getting interested in issues that I had never really looked into before.

The JFK Assassination and 9/11 Showed Me the True Nature of Government

The Kennedy assassination was when everything really changed for me. I had never learned much about it, and the little about it that was presented in high school and college was about the Warren Commission's report and how Lee Harvey Oswald was the sole killer. There was never any education or discussion about alternative theories for who killed him and why. There was little discussion about the CIA, their motivations and possible role. And even less about LBJ. All one needs to do is read the many witness reports of that day to began doubting the official narrative. Many heard multiple shooters. Evidence of multiple shooters is truly abundant. Read about the Garrison investigation. And the many other independent ones. Read their respective conclusions. It seems the only people who concluded it was a lone shooter named Oswald were on the Warren Commission. I came away concluding that the assassination of JFK was nothing other than a coup. And one that LBJ and the CIA not only got away with, but covered up so much that the annals of history barely even accuse them of involvement. Because at the time, many in the public did. But history is written by the victors…After researching the JFK assassination, I started looking into other issues, as well, and came across many prominent people who doubted the official story of 9/11. There is a reason why there is so much smoke around these two still-burning fires. This one was personal for me. My dad was in New York City when 9/11 happened. And my grandfather had lost a leg in Vietnam. So the attackers not only maddened me for endangering my father, but the subsequent justification for the War in Iraq maddened me because I know personally the toll that war takes on our citizens. And now we know conclusively of Saudi Arabia's involvement and the likelihood that the towers were brought down deliberately through controlled demolition. This attack was used to go into Iraq, which was all about oil and their independence from the Federal Reserve. But I don't want to get lost in the details of JFK or 9/11. I'm not interested in convincing anyone of what happened there. Check out the Mother Jones timeline on how we get into Iraq if you want details.

Asking Questions Is Our Right as Humans

My discovery of the preponderance of contradictory evidence against the official narrative for these two massively important historical events had seeded a deep foundation of distrust in the government for me. One that I'm glad I have formed. And proudly have fostered.This distrust should be encouraged. We don't need more people who defend the official narrative that the government and mainstream media put out.We need more people to question it. Just research Operation Northwoods, Project Mockingbird, Gulf of Tonkin, the Nayirah testimony and so on. The government lies repeatedly, and the media obediently repeats them. You won't hear about most of these lies from the mainstream media, though. They rarely admit error, unless clearly caught. They focus attention elsewhere, and they do so effectively. As a result, most people won't believe something that isn't on CNN or Fox News. Mainstream validation of a story comforts one to know he's not alone. It makes one think that even if he's wrong, many will be wrong with him. Most fear believing something that is the minority opinion. Most fear going against the grain. So I will go against it for you…COVID-19. What is your initial reaction?My guess: fear.Maybe you started thinking about washing your hands. Maybe you started thinking about social distancing. Maybe you thought about isolation and staying at home. If I'm right then the government is doing well. It's all about narrative control. They work hard to program these reactions to this topic.

Consider This Coronavirus Conspiracy Theory

The mainstream media has promoted fear and anxiety about this for months now. They have a running death count on the screen. Did we have this type of coverage for the flu two years ago when tens of thousands died? Or for the swine flu outbreak during Obama's first term that killed up to 575,000 around the world (according to the World Health Organization)?At the time of writing, COVID has killed 200,000 fewer people and that's assuming the death count isn't wildly inflated (there are many reasons to think that it is). The answer is no: We didn't have the same coverage. The media has reported on the flu, but exponentially less than the nonstop total coverage of COVID-19. And they sure as hell didn't whip everyone into mass hysteria about it.

The Coronavirus Is Being Exploited to Get Donald Trump Out

This is a manufactured crisis. One without basis. The death rate of COVID is likely the same as the seasonal flu. Read Dr. Fauci's own words in the New England Journal of Medicine. He says the death rate could be considerably less than one percent. The goals here are to take away freedom, increase surveillance and normalize mandatory medicine. Another coincidental effect is the taking down of Donald Trump, who, love him or hate him, has gone against the powers that be in many situations. Opting out of the World Health Organization was a recent, relevant and noteworthy example. The mainstream media and "The Deep State" would love to get rid of him. Just read recent declassified info about the FBI and the Russia investigation. There has been an effort to get Trump out of office since before he was even inaugurated. I loved Obama for years, but he clearly was spying on the Trump campaign. Read newly declassified info about Carter Page. And then we had the impeachment. That all started with a member of the intelligence community. This has been going on since the beginning.

We need more people to question it.

The Significance of Event 201

I don't think this is just about Trump, though. I think this is a distraction from other news stories, especially Jeffrey Epstein and people connected to him—a story that has been hidden and downplayed even before Epstein's death. Check out Amy Robach's leaked footage about that. And this brings us to Bill Gates. This man is at the forefront of the COVID-19 fearmongering. Convenient that, despite his connections to Epstein, he has gotten no media questions on their relationship and meetings. Nobody is asking why he was friends with Epstein. In fact, after The New York Times published its article about Gates and Epstein, the timeline in regards to Gates and COVID gets very interesting.Six days after the article, Event 201 happened. If you don't know about this, then the mainstream media is doing a good job. Event 201 was a "pandemic exercise" that was put on by Johns Hopkins, the World Economic Forum and the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. It was attended by none other than Dr. Fauci.This exercise was to develop public-private partnerships in the event of a severe pandemic. What did they choose to hypothetically prepare for? A novel coronavirus.A couple quick notes: The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation has donated over 60 million dollars to Johns Hopkins. They gave $20 million in 2000 to create the Bill & Melinda Gates Institute for Population and Reproductive Health. Then they gave another $40 million in 2003. So when you see any numbers out of JHU on COVID-19, just keep that in mind. (Also, Bill Gates is an agenda contributor to the World Economic Forum.) And, important to know, Bill Gates has repeatedly discussed population control, most notably in his TED Talk.And now he has been caught sterilizing foreign populations in vaccine programs that he's funded and supported. He's worked with the United Nations on this as well. His foundation gave the United Nations Population Fund a whopping 2.2 billion dollars in 1999. So he founded an Institute for Population at Johns Hopkins, and funded the United Nations Population Fund with billions. All the while, he has worked on and funded hundreds of vaccines. Please check out Robert Kennedy Jr.'s articles on this. The evidence that Bill Gates has already successfully slowed population growth is indisputable.

The Link Between Bill Gates’ Foundation and Vaccines

But now we have a manufactured crisis that is leading to a big push for a mandatory vaccine for COVID-19. This is from someone who not only wants fewer people in the world, but from someone who wants digital identification to be intertwined with vaccines. The program ID2020 was launched in September of 2019, a month before Event 201. The pilot program was in Bangladesh and is designed to create a digit identity for everyone. This has recently been promoted by Bill Gates, who has advocated for this digital certification process to record who's been vaccinated so we can "safely" return to work and society. A month later, two days before Event 201, the Gates Foundation pledged $5 million to support a trial to evaluate pregnancy deferral and reduce adverse first pregnancy outcomes (like birth) in rural Bangladesh. This ties in perfectly with ID2020. Two months after that, Gates tweeted, "I'm particularly excited about what 2020 could mean for one of the best buys in global health: vaccines."And a month after that, the World Health Organization announced a public emergency over the outbreak of COVID-19. Guess what? Bill Gates funds the W.H.O. too.

This is a manufactured crisis.

Question the Dominant Narratives

I write this all out of concern and love for my fellow humans. I write this because I want everyone to have all the information. I want people to research all of these topics, and to begin distrusting the government and mainstream media as much as I do. Because they don't have your best interest at heart. They couldn't care less. This is all about control. After 9/11, the expansion of surveillance took off with the Patriot Act. Because of COVID-19, surveillance is only increasing. Freedoms are being stripped away. People are being forced to stay in their homes. They're not being allowed to assemble and worship. A precedent for lockdowns and shutdowns is being created. We need to respond. Keep an open mind moving forward. Pay attention to what policies are being pushed in response to this pandemic. Follow the money. Don't believe the narrative that the government and mainstream media are repeating. And don't listen to Bill Gates about COVID-19.

One of my earliest memories of knowing that there was something awfully wrong with me was on a Friday.For as long as I can remember, my dad took me to the special weekly prayer service, Jummah, where I absent-mindedly sat through a half-hour lecture followed by the actual supplication. Attending these prayers was just a normal part of life and I never paid them that much thought. However, on this particular Friday, the words of the imam changed things for me.Finishing off his list of everything that was wrong with the world, he decided to target homosexuals with a tone of disgust at the end of his sermon. His words describing people like me as being “mentally ill,” and a sign that Judgment Day was near, are words that have stayed with me for a long time.

Can I Be Muslim and Gay?

Sitting cross-legged amongst a sea of muscular, bearded men who silently nodded their heads in agreement with the words being spoken, I had never felt more ashamed of who I was than I did on that particular day. I tried to avoid eye contact with everyone around me as I hung my head low, pretending to be distracted again. My cheeks burned in embarrassment.About to start high school, I was already at the age where I was beginning to question my sexuality. Growing up, I had always known that something about me was a bit special. A desire, in my younger years, to be like the sporty boys with the spiky, gelled-up hair had slowly grown into a longing to simply be with them instead.Accepting one’s queerness is a difficult process for anyone. But understanding that not only are you queer but that your fellow Muslims also believe that your identity is a sin worthy of hellfire is a much more complex reality to grapple with as an adolescent.The Muslim community around me was not helping me come to terms with this reality.

I had never felt more ashamed of who I was than I did on that particular day.

It’s Not Just Islam That Makes Coming Out Difficult

Whether it be my dad calling me up moments after the Australian marriage equality vote was announced to tell me how disappointed he was in the country’s decision to vote “yes,” or my mum physically shuddering when my dad bought up how “unnatural” he thought gay people are—I have always hidden how I truly felt when around them. I never told them that the “mentally-ill, unnatural” people they were speaking of with such hatred was someone they birthed and raised. Someone they were speaking to at that moment.I have always been too scared to tell them my truth. They still don’t know.However, this feeling of alienation was not something that I felt exclusively from the Muslim community. The LGBTQ+ scene in Sydney has always made me feel just as out of place.Whenever the annual Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras parade was shown on TV, my parents hastily changed the channel, believing something comparable to pornography was being broadcast. Those nights, once my family was asleep, I watched the highlights of the parade on incognito mode on my laptop. Instead of feeling pride in who I was, I felt more alien than ever watching those images. I still feel the same sometimes.Handsome, six-foot, muscular white men with glittered six-packs and tight briefs parade down Sydney’s Oxford Street, promoting a society with more diversity and acceptance. As a young, brown gay man with a very average body, I still can’t relate to the feeling nor experiences of these men who have essentially become the face of the LGBT community.They remind me of the men who turn me down on Grindr because brown guys “aren’t their type” or harass me on apps to find out “where I’m really from” before the conversation can go anywhere. They remind me of the men who tell me they fantasize about having sex with a brown boy, who objectify me and see nothing in me beyond the color of my skin. The men who make me feel so sick of being me.I am not the palatable, attractive, white gay man that this country has grown to accept. With my color and faith, I am too foreign and too divisive to be celebrated. The world simply isn’t ready.The nights I stay up Googling the words “gay and Muslim” in a desperate bid to find some commonality online are some of the nights when I experience the most self-loathing. Comment after comment under news articles or YouTube videos focused on queer Muslims add to my negative self-perception. We are called “oxymorons” who “deserve to be thrown off buildings” according to some strangers online.Sometimes it makes me crave validation from all the wrong places, and from all the wrong people. My desire to feel accepted has been so strong recently that I feel I am throwing away my values to finally feel normal and accepted—particularly during this past year.

I have always been too scared to tell them my truth.

What It’s Taken to Embrace My Queerness

I found a random 31-year-old man online, ten years my senior, who I traveled over an hour to meet. He didn’t treat me the best, but I still chased the feeling I had when he gave me attention. For two nights, I let him do whatever he wanted. He was my first kiss and the first man I slept with. As someone who had never even held a boy’s hand before, I lost my innocence that night I met him.Despite being with an older stranger who I met online, the simple act of holding this man’s hand made me feel safer and more like myself than I have ever felt before. It wasn’t the most perfect experience but for the first time in my life, something felt very right. It felt real.As a young, gay Muslim guy, things certainly are not perfect for me. But they are getting better. When events like Imaan Fest (the world’s first Muslim pride festival) are popping up on my Facebook feed, I have hope for the future.I have hope that my identity is not something that will always be anxiety-inducing but, instead, will be a source of pride for me one day. I have hope to be the queer Muslim role model for kids that I never had growing up.I dream of the day I will walk towards my future husband on our wedding day as a saxophone cover of Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect” plays in the background. My parents, seated in the front row, proud of the man their son grew up to be. My friends, seated alongside them, being there for me one more time. The day I can finally celebrate my identity and my love.I pray that day comes.

“You know what I mean, Gloria, because you be having sex, right?” was the question asked to me by the brown-skinned, round-afroed boy sitting to the right of me in computer class. Now, any other day, if he spoke to me, it would elicit a smile spanning across my face (accompanied by butterflies in my stomach). He was my eighth-grade crush. However, on that day, after that question was asked, there was no smile, no butterflies. Instead, they had been replaced with a furrowed brow and a sassy response of: “No, I don’t know what you mean. I am waiting until marriage to have sex.” I was 13 years old. I was 13 years old and had made the decision to save myself until marriage—and there I was in my seventh-grade computer class proclaiming it, doing so with great confidence.I was confident—well, somewhat so. At that age, I couldn’t tell you what being a husband truly entailed or explain the nuances of sex. I wasn’t confident in those things, at all. However, what I did know was that I would love him. “Him” being the man I would stand at the altar with, professing my love to before God, our friends and family. I was confident that I would love him in a way that I would never love anyone else.I was 13, but I had heard it enough in movies and from real-life married couples. You know, the whole “I didn’t know love until I met you,” referring to a spouse as she gazed into his eyes. Taking these cues, I couldn’t imagine—and didn’t see the point in—giving away something that I deemed so precious, so special. I couldn’t offer it to anyone besides the man that I would vow to love through sickness and health, richer or poorer, until the only thing that would separate us was death itself. This kind of love would be one of the three types that would keep me committed to the proclamation I had made so confidently in my seventh-grade computer class.

I was 13 and had made the decision to save myself until marriage.

Why Is Your Virginity Worth Saving?

Years later, I was introduced to the second love: self-love. I had been the friend who witnessed the worry on my friend’s face as she shared that she had contracted an STD. The friend who sat on the phone listening as my friend cried after having had her second abortion. The friend who heard the hurt in her friend’s voice as she said, “He told me to make sure I go get a Plan B pill,” after having had unprotected sex with a guy she really liked.After being that friend, and experiencing consequences secondhand, I decided I wouldn’t allow myself to experience them firsthand. That protection was rooted in self-love: a love reflective of a mother’s love that protects her child from foreseeable harm. Like that maternal instinct, I loved myself so that I would keep myself from the hurt of a guy ordering me to take a pill ensuring no lasting evidence would result from our encounter. I loved myself enough to spare the shame of testing positive for an STD. I loved myself enough to avoid years of unanswered curiosity, living with a hurt so deep from an abortion. I loved myself enough to stay committed to the decision that would bring that very protection: saving my virginity.

Love has served me well.

I’m Saving Myself Because I Love God

The third type of love I embrace is for God. I have always loved God and, because of that, I never really questioned what God commanded of me—I ignorantly obeyed. Some would say that is how it’s supposed to be, but I did eventually develop a curiosity in one of God’s commandments. As I began to gain an understanding as to why God gave commands and guidelines regarding sexuality, it was like God was giving me a heads up. I realized that the commandments that God gave, the guidelines God set, were given in love. God wanted to protect me and, with that understanding, I gained a deeper love for God: a love full of gratitude. It was a love that would allow me to trust God’s will and God’s way—knowing it was for my best.Love. Love has always had the power of influence. The influence doesn’t always work out in one’s favor. But love has served me well. Love was what influenced me to make the decision to save my virginity. And it was love, presented in different forms, that influenced me to stay committed. It has been 19 years since making the decision to wait until marriage to have sex. At 32, each type of love still shows up in my life when their service is needed. Sometimes it’s the 13-year-old’s love for her future husband; sometimes it’s the self-preservation derived from self-love; sometimes—oftentimes—it is God’s love and will that keep me rooted in my decision. They all assure me that the decision that I made in a seventh-grade computer class is one of the best decisions I’ve made in my life.

In China, entering any enclosed area requires a temperature check. Hand-held thermometer guns are ubiquitous—from convenience stores and cafes to supermarkets and shopping malls. Employees at the doorways of buildings point these devices at your wrist or forehead and take a reading. If the screen blinks green, you may pass go.I live in Beijing, China’s capital city of 22 million. During my time here, I’ve rarely had a sense of “being monitored”—despite the fact that the city, and China as a whole, has an extensive surveillance system. Perhaps it’s partially because cameras can be discreet: Indoors, they are ensconced in the ceiling, tucked in corners; outside, they hang above eye-level.Also, despite the fact that my face has likely been scanned millions of times, I’ve never had such data used against me. I suspect most Beijing residents feel the same way—the cameras haven’t exerted any impact on their life, so the hardware becomes invisible, ignored.COVID-19, however, has made me more aware of the cameras that dot Beijing’s cityscape.

Fever Monitoring Devices Aren’t 100 Percent Reliable

According to the World Health Organization, one of the most common symptoms of COVID-19 is a high fever. It is also the only indicator that can be measured on an absolute scale, unlike fatigue or difficulty breathing. Since China has moved past the quarantine phase of virus control and people populate the public sphere, temperature checks have become the most visible measure deployed by the government to ensure that the country’s number of COVID-19 cases do not increase.However, it is not clear whether temperature checks have helped to rein in the epidemic. After all, high fever is not a foolproof indicator of COVID-19 status. Many coronavirus carriers are asymptomatic, it can take up to two weeks to present symptoms; people can conceal high temperatures with medication.Conducting temperature checks seems to be more about fostering a sense of security while collective anxiety runs high.The system is fallible in other ways. Sometimes the thermo guns short out and fail to get a reading. Then there’s human error. With long lines of people waiting to have their temperatures taken all over the country, it is inevitable that those doing the testing make mistakes. Ultimately, it is hard to compete with the efficiency of automated machines.Enter the thermal camera.

COVID-19 has made me more aware of the cameras that dot Beijing’s cityscape.

Thermal Imaging Camera Uses Go Beyond Health Safety

Over the past few weeks, these devices, which can cost around $140,000, have sprung up throughout Beijing. (The price points hints that they are unlikely to go away after the virus subsides). They appear mostly in high-footfall spaces, such as subway stations and grocery stores. The benefit of this technology is that people don’t have to wait in line to be checked; they simply stream past it. The cameras use the same technology as the thermometer guns—an electrical beam that measures the surface temperature of objects and bodies—just much more of it. Accordingly, they can take temperatures from farther away and read multiple people at once, which allows them to test up to 15 individuals per second.For some of the cameras, you may not even realize you have been scanned. There’s one model where a large screen is monitored by a human, and the device just looks like a large television. Entering a venue, you just see what appears to be the backside of a TV; you might not even notice the small camera facing you. The size of a deck of cards, it sits perched on top of the screen.One time I chatted with the young kid monitoring the screen, we watched the screen as streams of people filed past. Beyond reading the temperature, it snapped a photo of their face, recording their time of entry. I saw my own face recorded in the system, and gradually bumped off the screen as more people came, their snapshots forming a continuous record of their comings and goings.Where does this data go?I thought about whether there is a photo album of me on some database, an extensive collection of images of me going about my day, recording and remembering my movements long after I’ve forgotten. Would this information be used against me someday? I have no way of knowing, and no recourse to push back, to regain anonymity.Most Chinese tech companies, faced with a sudden spike in demand for temperature-reading devices, scrambled to assemble a solution. The quickest route was to simply incorporate thermal capabilities into products they had developed prior to the outbreak. The Beijing-based artificial intelligence company, Megvii, for instance, reported that its 100-person research and development staff took ten days of nonstop work to repurpose a pre-existing surveillance camera, taking a facial recognition-enabled device and adding the thermal imaging capability. This model was then deployed in the Haidian district of Beijing in early February.Perhaps because of this repurposing, new thermal imaging hardware that is now seen in Beijing—and across China—has the additional built-in function of facial recognition. However, this feature is not necessary to conduct temperature checks. So, while tech companies are promoting the public health benefits of these new products, they also double as surveillance tools.

Where does this data go?

The Coronavirus Pandemic Is an Opportunity to Implement Surveillance Systems

In China, closed-circuit TV cameras have been commonplace for over a decade. An estimated 200 million already dot the country, and that figure is only expected to grow. Previously, the Chinese government said it hoped to have 600 million in place by 2020; it’s uncertain if that figure has been reached—but the ambition is there. With more CCTV cameras, the usage of facial recognition technology has also become more pervasive.Last year, the government rolled out a law that all cellphone users registering a new SIM card must submit to a facial recognition scan. With each technological advance and every regulation, the state’s ability to monitor and track its citizens becomes more refined, more thorough. Some, like myself, would argue more invasive.The author and digital rights activist Rebecca MacKinnon first referred to this model as “networked authoritarianism” in a 2011 article in the Journal of Democracy. In this kind of system, a government leverages technology to extend and strengthen its rule. In an authoritarian state, individual freedoms, such as the right to privacy, are subordinate to state interests—controlling a pandemic, for instance.For me, it’s been an interesting contrast to see protests across the U.S., led by people who disagree with government-imposed quarantine and business closures. I never heard anything about anti-quarantine protests here in China.Kai Strittmatter, a longtime foreign correspondent in Beijing, wrote extensively on China’s burgeoning surveillance system. (He later distilled his insights in the book, We Have Been Harmonised: Life in China’s Surveillance State). In an interview with The Doe, Strittmatter pointed out that COVID-19 may serve to expand surveillance technology globally: “Crises—like pandemics—have always accelerated the disciplining of society and the expansion of bureaucratic powers.”At the same time, once such technology is in place, it is “nearly impossible” to remove. Strittmatter also suggested that, once a nation adopts surveillance technology, it develops an insatiable appetite for more. “The greed of the system, for new means of surveillance and especially high tech methods, will never end, will never stop.” In short, surveillance technology breeds a want for continual expansion and deeper saturation.

I write this article anonymously because of concerns for censorship.

Mass Surveillance in China May Be a Model for Other Authoritarian Governments

There are no independent entities in China to ensure government accountability; there are no privacy advocacy organizations. When I use Baidu, China’s search engine, terms such as “privacy rights” yield few results, and none of those results are critical of the state’s usage of surveillance technology. Chinese media coverage of surveillance technology, including facial recognition, is uniformly positive (as one would suspect in a censored media landscape). Reporting highlights how surveillance tech led to the capture of a suspected murderer in Chongqing; a rapist in Shanghai is brought to justice.I write this article anonymously for The Doe because of concerns for censorship.Previously, many people took the utopian view that digital networks such as the worldwide web would empower citizens and keep leaders in check. However, it has become clear that technology is inherently neutral; it is up to governments and societies to determine how it functions and whose interests it serves. The coronavirus pandemic has brought surveillance-capable technology into new spaces and further saturated those that were already monitored.It’s made me more aware of the surveillance infrastructure in Beijing. It grates on you if you consider there is no way to opt out of surveillance.Artificial intelligence (AI) technology, including facial recognition, is already globally ubiquitous. According to a 2019 report by the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, China is the major driver of AI surveillance tech worldwide, exporting to over 60 countries worldwide. Some importing countries, such as Iran, Myanmar, Venezuela and Zimbabwe, do not have developed privacy laws. The global spread of coronavirus may provide the ideal opportunity for a mushrooming of surveillance technology in China and beyond—yet another good reason I’ll be wearing a mask.