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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
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Read more online at
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