politics we face every twenty-four hours. Neither was I, and not until I was called a Terrorist.
It sounded nasty, regardless of what it meant. I asked my mom, Mommy, are we terrorists? The question huffy her, and her smile turned quite depressed. I knew I should not have asked her, alone that word was starting to follow me wheresoever I went, even when I attempt shunning it. No dear, of course not. Terrorists are the extremists who kill people, to horrify the entire world. She tried regaining her smile, still it did not fit well on her face anymore. I wondered why I was being called one, but I found no answer what so ever.
I started reading the newspaper. I persuasion it might keep me committed and updated with the issue. Innocent American Slaughtered by a Violent Muslim. It was passing disturbing. I was also beginning to understand that if it was the other route around, it would be something like, Brave American Eliminated another Terrorist. I knew I was terrified of terrorism, even though it was not the terrorism itself. It was the care of being a part of it.
My neighbor Ali had to change his touch on because he was being threatened, and even got beaten up on the way back from school. It could not get any worse. Was my hijaab (head scarf) discharge to be the next target?
It was morning of the first day of sixth grade when my mom said, Dont wear your hijaab sweetie, its really vitriolic outside. These words felt worse than getting touch by lightning. I knew it was not hot at all, but I knew why it should be. I lost my identity. I could not be who I am anymore. It was sad. My friends, and even my younger siblings, asked me, why dont you have your cover on you anymore? I thought it was part of your religion. Its...If you want to get a full essay, rig it on our website: Ordercustompaper.com
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