A Letter for My Little Brother (And Other Arab and Muslim Boys Around the World)


My beloved little brother, my habibi, 

I love you so much.

But I can’t protect you from what’s to come, not any more than Baba or Mama or Layan or Razan could. The only way to protect you would be to cover you with myself and my whiteness.

Yes, it’s there. It hides under an olive tone at times, but it comes out the moment I end my name with “Davis,” and one day with “Cowett.”

I can hide myself. You don’t have that luxury.

And I couldn’t do that to you, and even if I could, I wouldn’t change your beautiful olive skin, your big brown eyes, or your nose that may one day hook like mine and Baba’s. If I took away your body, and made it what it wasn’t meant to be, I’d take away the history we share.

I’d have to take away the story of our Baba, who came here on scholarship, confusion, hope, and fear in his heart, who was mocked and derided by those studying at the same institution as him. I’d take away the story of this man, who worked at great risk to himself instead of going home, because doing so could have meant going home in more shame and in more trouble.

If he had done that, my life never would have begun, and neither, perhaps, would yours.

I can’t take away the story of our grandparents, refugees oppressed by those who have a long history of oppression. Nor can I take away the story of our great grandparents, including one who left Russia before having to leave Palestine.

No, habibi, I won’t take away our history from you, not even to protect you.



That being said, I can’t promise that you won’t be accused of being any number of things that you obviously aren’t.

I can’t promise that you won’t be judged by your name, your skin, your nose, your eyes, and all the physical traits we love about you instead of by your character, your skills, your wisdom, your story, your life, or anything else that makes you amazing.

I can’t promise that you won’t be hurt, antagonized, discriminated against, spit upon, demonized, or lumped in with a group you oppose as vehemently as the rest of us who value freedom and human dignity.

I can’t promise this will be an easy life. Baba can’t promise it, because it wasn’t easy for him, not when he was young, when he became a citizen, when he met my family, when he had me, when he lost me, when he got married, when he had our sisters, when he got and lost his cushy job, when he had you, or when he sees headline after headline demonizing our people, even when they are at their most vulnerable.

But I can promise that you will need to live this life, and you can count on Allah to be with you as much as I can count on Jesus to be with me.

And no matter what, I promise you that I will not let those different names divide us.

And I would remind you, as Baba might, that our family lived in the village of Imwas, or what the Christians call Emmaus. And we tell the story of Emmaus every year.

In that story, two men travel the road. They had lost all hope of being dignified, of having their divine humanity recognized, of living freely as the people of God and not the people of Caesar. As they walked in hopelessness, a man they didn’t recognize walked with them, talked with them, and ignited their hearts.

And when they finished walking, he broke bread with them, and they saw, staring into their faces, the hope they thought had died.

People will tell you, “You are not my people,” and unfortunately, some, if not most of, those people will claim the same Christian title I do. While it will be impossible for it not to get to you, I want you to know this: Their words are lies.

You are my people.

Your God is my God.

Your family is my family.

Your blood is my blood.

There is no half in this.





Different mothers and different skin complexions don’t change that. You are my brother.

And while our upbringings, skin tones, and lives will be different, we share eyes and a nose and a kindred spirit and an inherently divine humanity.

We also share a family, for better or worse.

And I will keep the promise I made to you before you were born: I will always be with you, and I always be for you.

All my love,

Lindsay (Your Favorite Big Sister 🙂 )



Dreams Deferred and Reborn


Elegant Bridal Hair Accessories

Several weeks ago, Mom and I went to Hobby Lobby searching for wedding bouquet ideas. We walked through aisle after aisle of multi-colored flowers, trying to find the ones which most matched the scheme we had planned (burgundy and gold).

We walked. We browsed. We talked about my financial struggles and whether they would get better.

And as we talked and shopped, I thought about Mom and her life.

As a young adult, she worked a difficult night shift job she didn’t like to make ends meet and afford things she wanted, like her very first car. Around age 30, she moved home with her new baby and a loaded moving van to finish her college degree. As I grew up, she took up extra jobs to ensure I could own a horse, play my own saxophone in the middle and high school bands, and go to college.

As I reflected on all of her hard work and sacrifices, I thought about her dreams, the ones she didn’t see come true, like becoming a vet or a P.E. teacher or a star athlete.

But she became a teacher to ensure she had a steady income and the same vacations and days off I had. She educated multitudes of children, and some of them still visit her, letting her know how they’re doing and how important she was to them.

And she did all she could to make sure I had the opportunity to have my own dreams and maybe see them come true.

I was always a dreamer. Every time I had to write an “All About Me” essay in school, I got giddy with excitement when I got to the “What are your dreams and goals?” section. I wanted to be everything: a marine biologist, a vet, a farmer, a writer, a teacher, a member of the Navy, a jazz musician, a pro skater, a jockey, and then some. I filled those pages with dreams upon dreams, and I had my ways to get to them, even if they seemed impossible.

And here I am, working multiple part-time jobs, still struggling to eke out a living and begin a new life with my fiance, and I wonder if I’ve let my mom down. She worked so hard for me, after all, and what do I have to show for it?

I wonder if I’ve let myself down, because I don’t always know what my dreams are, and I don’t feel like I’m on the fast-track to reach any of them. They seem so numerous and sporadic, disjointed and unrelated, and I don’t know which ones to pursue.

But as Mom and I went about our day, picking out my bouquet, eating lunch and dinner together, looking at bridesmaids dresses and arguing about where the reception should be and if the bridesmaids all needed to have the same style dress, I realized something.

Not many people accomplish the dreams they initially set out to do. And that’s OK.

Mom didn’t accomplish all of hers, and while I’m sure she feels the sting of those losses from time to time, I know she doesn’t regret having me in her life, even if the paths she took weren’t the smoothest. I haven’t accomplished all of my goals and dreams, because they change so often and the world isn’t always kind to dreamers, but I know I will always have the love of my mother, fiance, and others to give me reason, purpose, passion, and joy in this life.

For most of my young, life, I used to think not accomplishing your greatest dreams was the worst tragedy to someone could experience. I used to think it would result in regret and despair, the shriveling up of a soul like a raisin in the sun, as Langston Hughes described in “Harlem.” I told myself I had to accomplish at least one of my big dreams to find true satisfaction in life, or else I’d doom myself to a life of apathy, of going through motions and putting one foot in front of the other with no idea of where the steps would take me.

Now, I see this whole deferment of dreams as a mostly inevitable part of life.

Dreams come in and out like waves in a tide. As life happens, so do our dreams and plans. The flexible and willing among us adjust. They let their passion remain even when the dreams depart, and they fuel their new dreams with that same passion and joy.

Dreams can be for ourselves. They can be for the ones who come after us. They can be put on hold and then reactivated.

But as long as we keep the fire within us alive, as long as we continue to be surrounded and powered by love, we will remain alive, even when our biggest dreams die.

Palestinian-Pennsylvanian: Reflections on My Heritage


I am the daughter of a Pennsylvanian woman and a Jordanian-Palestinian man.

On one side, I’ve been in America for several generations. On the other, I’m a first-generation American.

Mom and her family raised me. I didn’t even have my proper introduction to my father and his heritage until age 19, already fully developed and ingrained into my Pennsylvanian culture, preparing to navigate a culture foreign to my experience but natural to my bloodline.

Both sides lived lives of struggle and celebration, of keeping and losing land, of raising many children and living in close kinship with family.

Both sides lost the places they called “home,” one due to lack of proper funds and increasing age, the other as the result of colonialism and war.

Both have born the difficulties of maintaining peace of mind, body, and soul, for themselves and for their descendants. Both have sought “better” for themselves and their children, and both have discovered this road and these goals are not as precise as they had been told.

My mother and father left their own homes to seek their fortunes in Orlando, Florida. Mom returned to her family soon after my birth and stayed until she received her degree and found a job teaching in Virginia. Baba returns to his home sporadically due to distance and increased prices of airfare, sending money and visiting when he can, longing for the community he left and which I take for granted.

I know what it means to be Pennsylvanian. It’s eating corn on the cob with every meal in August, rooting for all the Pittsburgh teams no matter how the season fares, riding “quads” instead of ATVs, and drinking “pop” but never “soda.” It’s familiar. I can fall into its rhythms and norms easily.

Being Arabic is a different story, mainly because I don’t really know what it means to be Arabic, not culturally or even ethnically.

As a child, I knew my father came from Jordan, but I had no idea what their customs were, how different or similar they were to mine or my mom’s family. I found out Baba was a Muslim in Middle School when I found a Mecca necklace while snooping through Mom’s jewelry box. I did not know Mustafa was part of my name until I found it on the back of my baby picture hidden inside a “Baby’s 1st Christmas” ornament.

Being Pennsylvanian came laid out and ready for me to claim. It’s my upbringing and my inheritance. I know its stories like the back of my hand. I can recite several from memory without hesitation, with great joy and sorrow when necessary.

Being Arabic did not come for me. I had to seek and find this birthright of mine, and now I’m not even sure it’s mine to have anymore.

I only have an idea of the foods we eat and an even more limited knowledge of the language we speak, the clothes we wear, and the music we listen to. I have yet to set foot on the land taken from my family and the land we settled in our displacement.

Am I not Arabic? Am I only Pennsylvanian? Do I have claim to the inheritances of my mother and father, or only to my mother’s?

And what does it mean to even claim an inheritance you can’t touch but can only experience?

Mom Didn’t Raise Me to Be Like This


Mom didn’t mean to raise me to be like this.

She didn’t raise me to be a bleeding heart liberal, someone who takes to the streets in protest of a President’s administration. She never dreamed I’d one day aspire to be a leader in the Church. She couldn’t have imagined I would be as idealistic as she is practical, or as fretful as she is reasonable.

I don’t know what my conservative, pragmatic mother expected me to become, but it definitely wasn’t this.

She even said so herself.

The other day, in the car on the way to look at wedding dresses, Mom looked at me and said, “I’m proud of the woman you are, but sometimes I look at you and wonder, ‘How did you turn out this way?’ You didn’t get any of this from me.”

On the surface, she’s right. We have different hobbies and interests. She was an athlete, and I’m an artist. She’s upfront, and I’m more meek. Most of her favorite shoes are black, and my favorite pair are my bright pink Chuck Taylors. Appearances, physical and otherwise, would suggest I got nothing from my mama.

But in reality, I got so much from her.

As a child, when she and Dad split up, and she found herself dealing with circumstances she never dreamed she’d have to confront, she did not cave in but pushed forward. She raised me on her own and gave me a household as stable and loving, if not moreso, as most two-parent families.

She taught me the world could not easily defeat me.

As a teenager, when I came home from school worried I was too quirky and different from my peers to fit in with them, she looked at me and asked, “Do you want to change for them?”

I thought about it, and I said, “No. I want to be myself and have them like me for it.”

Even though, as a teenager and even as an adult, this has been hard to live into, I do my best to be as true to my odd and sometimes awkward self as possible, and funny enough, I continue to find myself surrounded by lots of love.

She helped me realize who I am, and she taught me to be myself, unabashedly and unashamedly.

All through my life, Mom fostered in me a love for reading and learning. I read with feverish abandon, and the stories left their imprints on me. They helped me identify with people I’d never known, and they caused me to put myself into situations I hadn’t imagined. As a teacher’s daughter, I knew the importance of paying attention and participating in my education, so I talked with and listened to my own teachers to gain new insight about the world around me.

She taught me to value, uphold, and defend a variety of people and perspectives, even ones different from mine.

Those virtues and lessons, along with the multitude of others she has given me, made me into the passionate, bookish, vibrant, wannabe-troublemaker I am today.

So even though I answered her question with a typical, “I don’t know, Mama,” I accidentally told her a lie.

In the everyday actions of mothering, due to the very fact that she, Elizabeth Davis, is my mother, she shaped me into the woman I am today.

I am who I am because of her.

And I am forever thankful to her for the gift of helping me discover myself.


Bloodshed in Sacred Space



The Hollywood International Airport in Fort Lauderdale is a sacred place for me.

It’s where I felt my father’s embrace for the first time in 16 years.

It’s where I met my sisters and stepmother for the first time ever.

It’s where I first discovered and felt the love and joy of this new family of mine.

And, like many other beautiful, sacred places, this airport has become a place of innocent bloodshed.

This past Friday, January 6th, a man opened fire and killed 5 travelers and injured 6 more.

They all had their own stories, too. The travelers had their own joyous reasons to be in this sacred place. They had their own families and loved ones to meet and spend time with. Even the man who pulled the trigger has his own stories, of joy and sorrow and pain that culminated into this violent moment.

This post does not serve the purpose of facilitating discussion around guns and mental illness.

This is me mourning the further loss of life at a place that holds so much meaning for me and so many others who see this airport as a sacred place of reunion, love, and joy.

I, like the families and loved ones of these victims, cannot walk across the terminals and pick up my luggage without remembering that innocent blood has been spilled there.

When I go to hug my father, stepmother, and siblings again, I will know there are people who will never again hold some of their loved ones in this same embrace.

When I walk with my family to the parking garage to make the drive home, I will remember that for 5 people, the baggage claim, not the homes of loved ones or resorts of joy and memories, was their unintended final destination.

And that is heartbreaking. And it is worth mourning.

It is a sacred duty to remember, mourn, and prevent the loss of sacred lives wherever we go.

So when I return to Hollywood International Airport again, I will mourn. I will pray. I will love my family fiercely.

I will do what I can, where I am now, to make sure there are fewer victims of senseless violence, and I will do what I can to make sure those perpetrators are prevented from doing this damage in the first place. This involves caring for them, too, and that will be hard, difficult work, and it needs to be done.

I don’t know how I will, but I hope that the act of being with my family and walking across those holy, devastating spaces will both remind me of what has been lost and give me the courage to do something that will bring more love and less hate into this world.

May we all do the same.


The Farm

Another blast from the past about family and land.


About two weeks ago, Bryce and I were walking down Davis Road (my family’s road) in Slippery Rock, PA. As we walked hand in hand, talking about my past memories in PA and future ones we both dreamed of having together, we stopped by an old farm. We watched the cows peacefully graze, filled our lungs with fresh country air, and enjoyed the wide expanse of scenery before us. Then I noticed a young calf had somehow broken free of the pasture fence and was hanging out in the middle of the driveway a couple dozen yards away.

I was worried at first and wondered aloud if the owners needed to be told of this little one’s escape. But when Bryce suggested I walk up the long rocky driveway, knock on the red home’s door, and tell the current owners about the situation, all I could was say, “I can’t do that,” pushing the statement past the hard lump that had suddenly formed in my throat.

To so many other passerbys, it’s just another house, another plot of farm land with some old farm buildings. But it’s more than that to me and my family. And for that, I can never again go back inside that house.

Not because I’m forbidden or because I’d be arrested if I tried. I can never go back inside that house, because I need to keep my memories of my own time within it perfectly intact. It’s my family’s farm, you see, and even though we haven’t owned the property for almost 10 years now, we still call it ours. And since it’s still ours, I cannot allow in any new memories that confirm to me forever that this beloved farm no longer belongs to me or my family.


I cannot go into the first home I knew as a baby, the roof under which my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and older cousins would care for me while my mom was at school or work. I cannot walk into the rooms where my cousins and I spent countless hours playing, nor can I enter the kitchen or dining room where we shared so many delicious meals together. I cannot see new furniture or decorations in those rooms my grandparents made their own, and more than anything, I cannot see people who are not my family making their own home within those walls.

How can I even begin to describe what this farm is to me, to my family? How do I begin to describe all the memories this place has held for my grandparents, my mother and her 5 siblings, and all of my cousins? How do I explain to you how this was more my home than any other roof I lived under or address I occupied? How do I describe how its gold and green fields gave my mind and heart ample room to dream and ponder? How do I explain the unity of family I first felt within those walls? And beyond all that, how can I explain the great hole that remains in my heart when my refuge, sanctuary, and one true home was taken from me and my family?


The last time I ever entered any of those farm buildings was after my Poppy’s funeral. It was a time of great grief in our family, laying our great patriarch to rest too soon. It was a time when, as painful as it was, Mom and I just had to get down to the farm and see the place where Poppy and the family had spent many hours throughout the years. Things were a bit different, obviously, but the smells of hay, sheep, and even manure brought me back to a much simpler and happier time, when the barn was my own and my cousin’s playground. Mom and I went to the attic, which had always been a forbidden place for me and my cousins. Of course, we didn’t care about restrictions; we still walked across the ceiling rafters, searched for litters of kittens, and tried to dig holes in the hay for the others to fall in.

Mom and I took in the scene. We shared memories. We wept. Then, we went back to VA, and for 8 years, that was the closest I ever went to the farm.

The truth is, I’m scared to go back, because I’m scared to move forward from a past that held so much beauty in it. How do I hold onto my past and still move on to make new memories? How do I learn to cherish my memories of the farm for what they were while still making room for new, beautiful memories for this younger generation of my family to hold, cherish, and remember?


Some days I do this whole moving forward thing better, but that’s what my family does, even when I don’t have the strength to do it. We persevere. We move on. And through it all, we remember the past. We remember that we are family forever. We hold each other together, we mourn together and travel together (hence our name, The Herd). As I continue to celebrate and mourn my past and look forward to the future, their wisdom and love will guide me.

So I guess you could say we never really lost the farm. Wherever our family gathers, our memories gather with us. And these memories cannot be bought or sold for any price.

My Mama: The Icon


This Throwback Tuesday is in honor of my mother, Elizabeth, who celebrated her birthday on Monday. Read ahead to see why I love and revere her so much!


In honor of Mother’s Day, I wanted to share this post I wrote about my amazing Mommy back in February. We had just returned from a weekend at her hometown of Slippery Rock, PA, where she had been inducted into her high school’s hall of fame for athletics. Just to brag, she has a 33 year old track record! But that’s not all that makes her amazing. Keep reading for more!

This weekend, I couldn’t help but think: My mother is an icon.

In the Eastern Orthodox Church, members look at icons for hope, deep spiritual experience, love, light, and guidance. They’re beautiful, glitzy pieces of artwork that are made by expert hands to evoke a sense of wonder and divinity, as if by gazing into these portraits, we become closer to the divine and the saints who have gone before us.

And while this ideology struck me as odd when I first learned about it, this weekend it all made a little bit more sense. Although my icon isn’t a 2-D painting composed of oils with a canvas backdrop. This icon is the beautiful embodiment of grace, wisdom, love, and perseverance that is my mother.

I draw guidance from her stories of raising me on her own, of the nights she couldn’t sleep because she was worried that her last cashed check might bounce her whole account, of the days she went hours without seeing me because she was working and going to school to earn her degree, of the nights she woke up at 3 AM to study while I slept soundly. 

I draw hope from her resilience, her stubbornness, her work ethic, her trailblazing ways. I draw inspiration from the fact that she was one of the prominent athletes, male or female, at her high school, during a time when female athletics were in their infancy. I draw love from her undying devotion to me, all of the concerts and games and martial arts belt testings and plays and school trips and fundraising events  and horseback riding lessons she attended because she wanted to be involved in my life.

When I snapped this picture of my mom on Saturday night (as she made an acceptance speech that she did not expect to give for an honor that she never sought to receive), I captured an icon that even my iPhone 4 cannot fathom. The speech my mother wrote up in thirty minutes, which was more like a quick list of bullet points that she still presented better than the other people who had prepared their speeches days in advance, couldn’t even capture everything about her, her story, and who she is. Neither did the man who introduced her. 

But when I look at this picture, and the comments and likes and congratulations it generated on my Facebook account, I see my icon. I see her determination, resilience, grit, love, and all the good and bad times she went through to get where she is today. And I know that living through a lot of those days with her have been the food that has sustained my soul in my darkest hours. For all the differences we have today, for all the pain we’ve caused each other, my mother is one of the greatest icons from which I draw immense amounts of love, support, guidance, and strength.

I study her, and her life is the icon to which I often look to know what to do next. I wasn’t awake with her while she studied for classes. I didn’t wait tables by her side. I didn’t stay awake at night worrying about bills with her. I didn’t train my body to break track records and become an All-American athlete with her. I didn’t cry with her at her oldest sister’s first wedding when she realized the sister she loved so dearly was staying with a man who treated her awfully. I wasn’t in the car with her when she hit a deer as she was moving stuff from the house she shared with my stepfather to her new one in Inwood. I wasn’t there with her when she broke down after receiving the phone call that because my stepdad hadn’t been paying for their insurance, the damage from the aforementioned accident wouldn’t be covered by her policy.

But I was awake to hear her sing “Silent Night” to me so I would fall asleep. I have fond memories of books we read together at night that fostered my love of words and stories. I still have a photo booth picture of us at Jammin’ Jim, the Winchester version of Chuck E Cheese, that still makes me smile to this day. I remember squealing with delight as a four year old when we rode the Dumbo ride at Disney World, and I have fond memories of all of the Christmases and birthdays that she made so special. I saw her videotape all of my concerts and take pictures at all of my horse shows. I was in the car with her when she raced home from school and took me to Burger King on her way to tutor a student, and I was there when the person on the intercom told us that we were late for our regular dinner time. 

She was the first person I called after my dad contacted me. She was the one whose arms I fell into after my first serious relationship went to hell. She was the one who didn’t always understand my angst and anxiety, but always did what she could to make sure I got the support I needed.

I saw her cry when I tried to run away, when my Poppy died. I heard her cry over the phone when the insurance fiasco occurred, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I was the one who needed to support her. I received her concerned questions and thoughts when I decided to study Philosophy and Religion, and I received her help a few months later when I was looking at seminaries to apply to.

Together, we have gone through transformation. We have pushed each other to become the people we are today. We have made each other grow and stretch and live lives we never thought we’d have to live, overcome obstacles we never dreamed would be thrown our way. It’s never been easy, but there’s been so much good in it. There’s a lot of beauty and love in our stories. And there’s always hope. Mom made sure to include hope for me, even if it wasn’t hope in its most cliché form.

The fact that she kept getting up and choosing to live and learn each day was hope enough.