The Immigrants’ Daughter
Loading ...“Where do you come from?” asks the teacher of the adult class in Leopoldville, where I am registered for a course in Lingala. I hesitate.
It is a simple query that puts me in a quandary. Should I state my origins, nationality or citizenship?
“From my mother’s womb,” I want to tell him in short, but resist the urge.
Nobody asked me that kind of question in Cairo where I grew up. We were a known minority. The usual question was, “Are you Greek?” “Italian?” “Armenian?” or “What nationality are you?” if my name had not given it away already.
Now in Leopoldville, on an expatriate assignment with the United Nations, I stand out with my foreign accent, wavy hair, and possibly body language, gestures and all.
“From Egypt,” I mutter, to keep the conversation short. I wonder why he doesn’t ask the same question of the other students in class - half a dozen from the United Nations, five from the Swiss Red Cross and two businessmen.
“Egypt! C’est vrai?” he exclaims in French. “I thought they were all black!”
I feel uncomfortable in my skin but remain silent.
“Is your husband Egyptian too?”
“I don’t have a husband,” I blurt out, embarrassed to my core. At the ripe old age of thirty I am shelved as an old maid, all hopes gone.
“I want to show you to my friend. He has never seen an Egyptian.”
My cheeks burn. Am I the first Egyptian in town, the discovery of the century, or an antique from Pharaoh’s tombs? Should I be put on display with a distinct label slapped at my feet, “Imported African. Rare species. Handle with care”? How can I explain to my Congolese teacher that I am not a real specimen?
More than three thousand years of history define me as an Armenian, a descendant from the people living at the foot of Mount Ararat where Noah’s Ark settled. The mountain was in Armenian territory for centuries. Politics moved it beyond the national boundaries and we became immigrants. How shall I explain that the DNA in my Armenian blood will survive forever, irrespective of the citizenship I have?
“I’m . . . not a real Egyptian,” I mumble, trying to avert a misconception.
Fourteen pairs of eyes stare at me as if I have just come out of ghost town.
. . . (Excerpted from the Prologue of The Immigrant’s Daughter.)
Mary Terzian
website: www.maryterzian.com
Author: The Immigrants’ Daughter
Winner: Best Books 2006 Award
Finalist: National Indie Excellence 2007 Book Award
both in multicultural, non-fiction category
The The Immigrants’ Daughter by Mary Terzian, unless otherwise expressly stated, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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