My parents are my refuge

“My parents’ resilience, strength and faith have become integral pillars instilled in the woman I am today.”

A story by Amer Saleh, it reflects on her personal journey as the child of immigrant parents from Iraq and Syria, highlighting their resilience, strength, and faith.

Amer Saleh is a 23-year-old international student from London studying a Master of Arts at Curtin University, majoring in Professional Writing and Publishing. Writing has always been a passion of hers; one that came naturally. She wants to write about things that matter to her, as well as the world. Collectively, we can raise awareness and make change, one publication at a time.”

I was born in Baghdad, Iraq. My parents and I came to London when I were two. My mother is Syrian, and my father is Palestinian. Before Iraq, they lived in Syria.

I have never seen any pictures of the places my parents grew up. I have only heard of its beauty; its acceptance; its peace. But when Bashar al-Assad became president, succeeding his father Hafez, Syria was no longer a home we could ever visit again.

My parents’ resilience, strength and faith have become integral pillars instilled in the woman I am today.

I grew up knowing my family was different. My mother’s beauty was always prompting;

‘Where are you from?’,

‘How long have you been here?’,

‘How do you pronounce your name?’

My father’s accent meant that he repeated himself a lot.

But my parents were smart. The had lives, degrees, and skills before them. They were running for their lives, not from their lives.

My father worked two jobs for most of my childhood and adolescence. He would work at a laundromat during the day and then would drive to Knightsbridge where he was a waiter. He was up early hours in the morning and came back at early hours of the following day.

He had Sundays off and would religiously take my brother and I into town.

He never had a sick day, and he never slept in. Sundays were my favourite days.

My mother was the brains of the house. She knew the answer to everything. While that quickly became annoying, she never got tired of saying ‘I told you so’. She was the epitome of wisdom. It was like she had lived many lives before. I suppose she had.

There was never anything I couldn’t go to her for. Maths, fashion, friends. No one knew how to solve algebra better than she did, no one had a better collection of never-before-seen-in-the-western-world-of-fashion than her, and no one knew people better than she did.

My parents are my refuge.

As I got older, I found I had a much more belligerent attitude towards strangers. People rolled their eyes often, shook their heads, over-pronounced words, muttered rotten things under their breath.

But my parents always reminded me that we were deserving of everything we had. That we had rights; to a home, to a country, to a future.

They never failed to stand up for themselves, and my mother in particular always had the last word. Those ignorant racists never stood a chance.

At times it often felt like it was us against the world. But my parents were my refuge, so the rest of the world didn’t matter.

My father taught me work ethic. He taught me that its OK to start from scratch. Back home my father was a respected man. He was the boss. My mum likes to re-tell this tale often. Almost as evidence of who my father used to be. As if I didn’t see my father as anything other than superman. But he was better. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to put your ego to the side and start again. To have all those years of investing in becoming the man you’ve always dreamt of, simply ceasing to exist. To spend the next couple years proving to everyone who you are; reminding yourself who you used to be. I’m not sure as a father you have a choice, you have to provide. And my father never let me feel like there wasn’t anything I couldn’t have. He spoilt me. But duty is hard. My father made it look so easy.

My mother taught me to be self-sufficient, self-soothing and selfish. She always remined me that I couldn’t trust anyone. I know that for her this was true. She reminded me family was above everything. That it was all we had; each other. My mother’s love is the closest thing I have to God. There is something magical about our bond. In every moment, dark or light, difficult or easy, my mother has shown me the meaning of unconditional love.

She lost her home, her father, survived cervical cancer, endured two open-heart surgeries.

My mother is the strongest person I know. I’m not sure angels are meant to roam through the trenches down here with the rest of us. She certainly does not. But it’s a miracle to know her, and a privilege to have her as my mom.

My parents are my refuge.

I am proud of who we are, where we come from, our story. I am proud of our scars, our battles, our bloodline. Our perseverance, our integrity and our hardships. In the midst of burning flames, my parents have walked out unscathed, undefeated and most importantly, undivided.

This story has been licensed to the Centre for Stories by the Storyteller. For reproduction and distribution of this story/image please contact the Centre for Stories.

This story was published on 20 June 2020.