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Thursday June 28, 2018
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com MICHIGAN IN COLOR

A nostalgic piece from a disaporic Syrian

 Mental illness is something 
hardly talked about in our 
country. 
Though 
mental 
illnesses 
like 
depression, 
anxiety, and bipolar disorder 
are extremely common, and 
are extremely pressing issues, 
for some reason, discussion 
of them always seems to get 
swept under the rug. Mental 
illness plays a role in as high as 
90 percent of suicides amongst 
some professionals, though 
this statistic is often times 
debated, there is no denying 
that mental health directly 
correlates to mortality rates. 
These studies are extremely 
concerning, considering the 
increasing suicide rates in our 
nation. Mental health should 
be something we are always 
talking about — we shouldn’t 
have to wait until the latest 
suicide, whether it be someone 
you know or a celebrity.
 As little as mental health is 
talked about in America, it’s 
discussed even less among 
people of color. Having a 
mental illness is stigmatized 
in 
communities 
of 
color, 
something that makes you 
weak, something you should be 
ashamed of and should not talk 
about. Even though the reality 
of the world is that a lot of 
times, people of color are more 
likely to have mental health 
issues, probably because the 
discrimination and oppression 
they face on a daily basis 
have adverse effects on their 

mentality. For example, African 
American adults are 20 percent 
more likely to experience 
mental health issues than the 
rest of the population.
 One reason why mental 
illnesses are so prevalent in 
communities of color is that self-
care, something that can really 
help to prevent mental issues, 
is seen as a luxury and not a 
necessity. In one of my classes 
during the school year that was 
made up solely of students of 
color, we discussed the stigmas 
associated 
with 
self-care 
options such as therapy or yoga. 
Many students recounted how 
in their communities, things 
like those were described as 
“things for white people,” or 
luxuries versus necessities to 
help your mental health. We 
also discussed how in all of 
our respective communities, 
things like therapy were seen 
as taboo and something not to 
be discussed and to be swept 
under the rug, that it was 
embarrassing to have an issue 
requiring professional help and 
if you did you just should not 
talk about it.
 The lack of discussion about 
mental health leads to multiple 
issues, as it seriously invalidates 
the experiences of those who do 
have mental health problems. 
This is because it makes them 
feel as if there’s something 
seriously wrong with them 
or that they’re inferior to the 
rest of their community. In 
reality, multiple people in their 
community 
are 
struggling 
with the same issues but are 

uncomfortable with bringing it 
up because of the stigma. This 
adds to the stigma because no 
one talks about it, creating a 
cycle.
 I know one of the 
subconscious reasons I have felt 
othered as a Nigerian woman 
and a Black woman is due to 
the fact that I have depression 
and anxiety. Having a mental 
illness is never discussed in the 
circles and communities I’m 
in, both of Black people, and 
of Nigerian people. People just 
always talked about how when 
you face struggles and have 
problems, you were supposed 
to toughen up and work 
through it, making it seem so 
simple. Like all of my problems 
could be solved with easy fixes 
and if I was having issues, 
I must be doing something 
wrong.
 I know from talking to my 
parents and cousins that 
mental illnesses “aren’t really 
a thing” in Nigeria. There, 
nobody talks about them and 
they’re never diagnosed. I can 
only imagine what it would 
be like to live with a mental 
illness there. Someone who 
has depression would just be 
considered prone to periods 
of sad moods and someone 
who has anxiety would just be 
considered a big worrier. Your 
illness would stop being just 
an illness and would begin to 
define who you are.
 

On Dec. 18, 2010, the Arab 
world was reborn. A series of 
peaceful uprisings flourished 
all around the area, starting 
in 
Tunisia 
and 
rippling 
across the region, spreading, 
extending, expanding, creating 
a movement of angry people 
with thundering voices, calling 
on their governments to step 
down.
 I have lived my entire 
life 5,959 miles away from 
the country that harbors my 
lineage. My memory of the 
birthplace of my parents and 
my parents’ parents is a mere 
postcard in the back of my 
mind. I am a Syrian American 
who has not touched Syrian 
land in so long that even my 
most 
prominent 
memories 
are starting to fade. The scars 
from the scabs I pulled from 
the elbows which I scraped on 
my grandma’s sidewalk have 
faded. The ink on the back of 
dated pictures my mom took 
of my brothers and me in our 
early youth has faded. My 
conceptual understanding of 
a land far away from where I 
stand is fading. Like forgetting 
the lyrics to your favorite song 
you swore you would never 
forget, I am forgetting what 
Syria is like.
 Having been removed from 
Syria for eight years, it is easy 
to romanticize the clouds of 
smoke from the hookah pipes, 
circling with the resonating 
echo of laughter, sweetened 
tea on the mosaic table on the 
veranda, looking out across 
the beautiful city lights of 
Damascus. It is easy for me to 
romanticize the marks of my 
ancestors’ great civilizations 
before me, the lullabies of the 
slowly churning water wheels 
that brand the city of Hama. It 
is easy for me to romanticize 
the 
sweet 
pheromone 
of 
jasmine flowers, like being 
surrounded by a cloud of floral 
perfume, blending effortlessly 
with the scent of car exhaust 
and carbon monoxide, creating 
a smooth and completely 
satisfying aroma that floods 
the mind with childhood 
memories; a unique scent that 
takes me back to a time when 

I was young. A time when I 
chased butterflies with my 
cousins and traced ants back 
to their anthills. A time when I 
would come home with dirt in 
my hair, on my face and in my 
pockets. A time where I piled 
into taxis made for five with 
eight other people. My Syria 
consists of Kodak moments. 
Moments of birthdays, first 
steps, 
first 
words, 
family 
reunions, good food and late 
night “SpaceToons” TV. My 
Syria is a happy Syria, a Syria of 
innocence, a Syria of sleeping in 
my grandfather’s lap, a Syria of 
comfort.
 I remember the nights 
being hot and the days being 
hotter. I remember the water 
coming and going, I remember 
not being able to drink from 
the tap and I remember 
having working electricity for 
only select hours at a time. I 
remember these things and 
I remember them only ever 
being temporary for me. These 
disturbances 
were 
minor 
setbacks, they were funny 
in the first weeks of every 
visit, and my grandma would 
always joke about how Syria’s 
lack of efficient electricity, 
inconsistent running water 
and other low-quality literal 
necessities for life was a way of 
building character. Maybe she’s 
right; maybe they did build my 
character, maybe they gave 
me thicker skin, maybe I have 
been elevated by the dragging 
weights of inconvenience, but 
how much has being Syrian 
actually shaped me?
 I have only merely 
tasted Syria. I bared the 
inconvenience of not having 
central air conditioning and 
experienced showering in the 
cold, but I am still a fraud. As 
part of an earlier diaspora, I 
will never be in a position of a 
Syrian fleeing a war or a Syrian 
who grew up there. I will never 
know the extent of a true Syria, 
of both the pure and the ugly. 
If “justice too long delayed is 
justice denied,” then I have 
been denied the privilege 
of experiencing my culture 
firsthand.
 All my longing for Syria comes 
from a love I only experienced 
during my vacations. I have 
witnessed Syria firsthand but 
that is not the reason my heart 

aches for it. Like a visitor in a 
familiar home or finding home 
in unfamiliar lands, my feelings 
for a place far beyond are 
comprised of contradictions. If 
I were to be put on a spectrum, I 
would lie somewhere between 
informed tourist and distant 
citizen. I do not know of a 
Syria that I can call truly mine. 
When I am there my broken 
Arabic, my fluctuation between 
native and taught tongue, my 
relatively heavy accent make 
me outstanding. The type of 
outstanding that catches your 
eye, the plastered caution sign, 
“drive slow,” “no lifeguard on 
duty” kind of outstanding. The 
“tread carefully” and “parental 
discretion is advised” kind of 
outstanding. The “handle with 
care” and the “enter at your 
own risk” kind of outstanding. 
An outstanding that is enough 
to make you realize the very 
essence of who you are is scary 
to people who are not family.
 I am oil-hungry, I exploit 
others, I am here to make a 
mess of things, pick up none of 
my pieces and leave as though I 
was never there. I can afford my 
taxi fare and a tip to feed three 
families. I am there to reap the 
benefits of good food, nice tans 
and an annual dental checkup 
for the same price of a mediocre 
American-made, medium-well 
steak with fries on the side. 
Despite these preconceived, 
somewhat-accurate judgments 
and this underlying fear that 
turns me and all my red, white 
and blue apparel into a warning 
sign, I have never come back 
from Syria without a whole 
new group of friends I shared 
shawarma with on the side of 
the road.
 I have memories of strangers 
who became my teammates 
in afternoon soccer matches 
and kids I jumped rope with 
using 
a 
fallen 
abandoned 
powerline. I remember the 
owners of the corner stores I 
would walk to daily with my 
cousins not just by their names 
but by the freckle on their right 
cheek, or the dated spectacles 
they bear on their head, or 
the light-washed, thick, off-
brand Levi’s suspended by the 
tight grip of a bland black... 

By LOUMA KAAKARLI

MiC CONTRIBUTOR

PHOTO COURTESY OF AUTHOR

 Mental health in communities of color

By EFE OSAGIE

MiC EDITOR

Read more online at 
michigandaily.com

Read more online at 
michigandaily.com

