I have been sickened and ashamed to read so many horrible stories this past week (not here) denigrating Muslims.
I wish that all of those saying and writing these shameful things could meet my friend, Z.
I have a handful of friends of forty or more years — my posse. They are the women I can depend on — no matter how long it has been between calls or letters; the sort of friends I can start a conversation with at any time and pick up where it left off before. They have been my rock and my mainstay and I treasure them.
Then there is Z., who walked into my life under circumstances not relevant here, just eight or so years ago, and enlarged my heart. She will always have a special place there.
Z. was born in Baghdad in the 1980s. When she was a teenager, her father and older brother were kidnapped by Saddam Hussein’s minions. One day they were home; the next day they were gone. She never saw them again.
When she was in her 20s, Z. mastered English and decided to serve as a translator. She worked for the coalition government during the trials of those who had served under Saddam Hussein: the people who likely had murdered her father and brother.
A few years ago, at Z.’s wedding reception, I sat next to a retired Army Colonel who told me about her bravery. He said: “When the questions were tough, most of the other translators would refuse to ask them; she stood up and walked up and asked the questions directly.”
She is just over five feet tall, and she stood up and walked up and asked the questions directly.
After the trials, Z. applied for asylum in the United States. She also applied for a Fulbright Scholarship, which she received. She has since earned a college degree and two masters degrees at American schools. She speaks three languages fluently: Arabic, English and Spanish.
A few years ago, I saw her walking a little bit hunched over and in a moment of misguided mentoring, said, “Z., you need to stand up straight and tall.” She said, “It’s left over from ditching bombs.” I don't think I can ever forgive myself for that. I grew up in New York, and she grew up in Baghdad, during the Iran-Iraq War. Fortunately, she laughed and forgave me.
Z. is married now. She left the United States for the South American country that is home to her husband. I cried when she left. She has since sent a photo of her beautiful new son, Mohamed.
I hope she returns to the United States, because we need people like her here.
I hope that neither Z. nor her son ever has to wear a badge of any sort.
I am so sickened and ashamed that anyone in this country thinks that they should.