The Stories We Tell Ourselves by Rahaf Almabaid

They say the shortest distance between two people is a story. I say the greatest distance
you can travel in the least amount of time is by asking people about their names. When
curious people ask me What’s your name? I try to make it worth their while. My name is
Rahaf. It means ‘kindness’ in Arabic. Most days my name is “the future doctor” at home,
“the family’s dream” as my dad said the other day. But I’m actually a refugee, a
schoolgirl who kept moving from one school to another because of the war in her
country. My name is “I’ve passed all of my exams with the highest grades I could get,
understanding three different education systems in three different countries.”
You can call me an “unacclimated person,” “unapologetic Muslim girl,” “Syrian,”
“former refugee,” “headscarf girl.” But at the borders my name is “random search.” At the
borders, I might get questions about groups I never want to hear about. In public places,
it’s “dangerous” or “oppressed.” And on the TV evening news, who knows? My name is
“isn’t it dangerous to teach our language to these people?”
I think it does not take more than a few questions to figure out who we are. But how
would people know without asking?
If we allow people to name themselves then we can easily answer our curiosity or
allay our fears. In the world of mass media and rampant incorrect news, we tend to listen
to stories as interviewers tell them, without listening to them from the mouth of the
storyteller. Suddenly, everyone who was desperate to leave his country is called
“dangerous,” or everyone with white skin is called “racist,” or everybody who works as
hard as my Syrian brothers and sisters is “going to steal your job opportunities in the
future.”
The US president banned people from eleven countries from entering the States.
Changed the view of people, demoting them from “human.” Americans, and some
Europeans, still have the impression that outsiders are crowding their countries every
day.
Refugee camps are temporary population centres. But why are we not thinking of
these places as centres of excellence where refugees can triumph over their trauma and
train for the day they can go home? Why are we not thinking of them as agents of
positive change and social transformation? The refugees themselves, or maybe their
children, are supposed to be the ones who will shape the future of our world. There is a
missed opportunity in rejecting these people.
I came to New Zealand as part of a ‘resettlement’ programme. I live in Dunedin. I
know former refugees who are doctors, engineers, teachers, fashion designers, workers
and university students. The experiences these people have lived has made them
stronger, unbeaten, unbreakable. I talk with them. They tell me their resilience comes
from not letting the nightmare of their past define the hope in their future.
I am one of them. I might be called “unacclimated person,” “unapologetic Muslim girl,”
“Syrian,” “former refugee,” “headscarf girl,” “random search.”
My name is Rahaf. I live in New Zealand.
 The Stories We Tell Ourselves by Rahaf Almabaid

They say the shortest distance between two people is a story. I say the greatest distance
you can travel in the least amount of time is by asking people about their names. When
curious people ask me What’s your name? I try to make it worth their while. My name is
Rahaf. It means ‘kindness’ in Arabic. Most days my name is “the future doctor” at home,
“the family’s dream” as my dad said the other day. But I’m actually a refugee, a
schoolgirl who kept moving from one school to another because of the war in her
country. My name is “I’ve passed all of my exams with the highest grades I could get,
understanding three different education systems in three different countries.”
You can call me an “unacclimated person,” “unapologetic Muslim girl,” “Syrian,”
“former refugee,” “headscarf girl.” But at the borders my name is “random search.” At the
borders, I might get questions about groups I never want to hear about. In public places,
it’s “dangerous” or “oppressed.” And on the TV evening news, who knows? My name is
“isn’t it dangerous to teach our language to these people?”
I think it does not take more than a few questions to figure out who we are. But how
would people know without asking?
If we allow people to name themselves then we can easily answer our curiosity or
allay our fears. In the world of mass media and rampant incorrect news, we tend to listen
to stories as interviewers tell them, without listening to them from the mouth of the
storyteller. Suddenly, everyone who was desperate to leave his country is called
“dangerous,” or everyone with white skin is called “racist,” or everybody who works as
hard as my Syrian brothers and sisters is “going to steal your job opportunities in the
future.”
The US president banned people from eleven countries from entering the States.
Changed the view of people, demoting them from “human.” Americans, and some
Europeans, still have the impression that outsiders are crowding their countries every
day.
Refugee camps are temporary population centres. But why are we not thinking of
these places as centres of excellence where refugees can triumph over their trauma and
train for the day they can go home? Why are we not thinking of them as agents of
positive change and social transformation? The refugees themselves, or maybe their
children, are supposed to be the ones who will shape the future of our world. There is a
missed opportunity in rejecting these people.
I came to New Zealand as part of a ‘resettlement’ programme. I live in Dunedin. I
know former refugees who are doctors, engineers, teachers, fashion designers, workers
and university students. The experiences these people have lived has made them
stronger, unbeaten, unbreakable. I talk with them. They tell me their resilience comes
from not letting the nightmare of their past define the hope in their future.
I am one of them. I might be called “unacclimated person,” “unapologetic Muslim girl,”
“Syrian,” “former refugee,” “headscarf girl,” “random search.”
My name is Rahaf. I live in New Zealand.