I'm writing this more to clear my own heart and mind than to share a cogent thought, so please bear with me if I lose focus.

I have an Uncle who worked at the World Trade Center. He is one of my closest family members. His name is Japhet Aryee. He and his wife are the only people my Mom would leave my sister and me with when we were little. He is my Dad's best friend. As of 9 am today, [September 13], he is unaccounted for. If you hear any word of him, please email me at dnashong@asafo.com . Please feel free to forward this to anyone who might be of assistance or themselves need support.

I feel very hurt by what has happened this week on a number of different levels. First my heart goes out to all of the families who have lost loved ones and who fear for the safety of those who are missing. I also pray for all who have friends, co-workers, acquaintances et al. who are today stricken with fear, foreboding, uncertainty or loss regarding the status and whereabouts of those for whom they care. To call this a tragedy would be to say too little when words cannot say enough. Perhaps it’s better not to call it anything at all. Then again, sometimes sorrow needs a name in order to be drawn from the hearts of a people.

I want to share with you my feelings about our current situation. My perspective is a bit peculiar, so I hope it will offer others cause for thought. I was born in Accra, Ghana and grew up in Brooklyn and the Middle East. I spent my formative years (8-16) in Saudi Arabia and Qatar, a small peninsula in the Arabian Gulf. My family returned to the US in the summer of  '91 and I have not been back to the region since.

In the summer of 1990 when Iraq invaded Kuwait, my family was vacationing in New Jersey. At the time we received word of the Iraqi incursion my father, who is a physician, had returned to work in Qatar, while my mom, sister and I hung out in South Jersey. Hearing of what was happening back "home," as I would have referred to Qatar then, we were all very frightened. In weighing the choices available to us, my par nts decided that the most important thing was for our family to remain together. And so, during Desert Shield we flew home to be with my Dad and face whatever the future held in store for us, together.

It was far from a video game

When most Americans think of Desert Storm, I imagine they must envision a "video-game" conflict. We went in there with computer-guided weaponry, laid waste to the incompetent Iraqi military, achieved our stated goals and got out from under the shadow of Vietnam-era humiliation. It was a bang-up job with relatively few casualties, and it proved the might and technological superiority of American military power. I will not get into the validity or degrees of verity of these previous statements, because it is not my present intention to argue about the Gulf War. I would, however, like to state that for many, Desert Storm was far from a video game. 

When we returned to Qatar in the summer of 1990, the desert air was rife with speculation. Why did this happen? Whose fault is it? What's going to happen next? Questions we are all currently quite familiar with. I remember hosting American soldiers who were barely older than myself at the time. I remember their courage, I remember the fear beneath it, I remember their youth. I remember the primary concern at the time, being the potential use of chemical or biological agents by the Iraqi military. Various nations were evacuating their citizens from a country populated primarily by expatriates. Many of those who stayed were being issued gas masks by their respective governments. I remember thinking: "There's no way the Ghanaian government is going to send the four of us some gas masks." Fortunately, there turned out to be more than four of us in the country and as members of the British Commonwealth, we got the hook up anyway. Unfortunately this was not the case for everyone.

At the instruction of authorities we turned one room in my parents' house into a "safe" haven in case of chemical or biological attack. We sealed all of the doors, windows and vents with electrical tape. Once the conflict began, my family would sleep in that supposedly secure room. My father would carefully seal the main door and check the tape on each window and vent before settling down next to me on the air mattress we shared. We would put our gas masks by our pillows, gather by the bedside and the four of us would pray together before turning in for the night.

As the imminence of US/International intervention grew, I saw many of my friends evacuated by their respective governments. I wondered if I would see them again. The halls of my High School did not pulse with the same vigor, nor bubble with the ready laughter I had grown accustomed to. I recall one day in particular, sitting in my Biology class when we heard a loud BANG. Immediately I reached beneath the broad wooden table at which I sat, and grabbed the plastic bag housing my gas mask. In moments I had removed it, and as practiced countless times before, secured it to my face, being careful to ensure that it was properly sealed. 

I believe it was then that I got my first glimpse at the alien face of war. As I sat there behind a mask of thin security, praying for clean air, I saw it reflected in the eyes of my classmates whose governments had not been able to provide them with even that modicum of protection. Many of them were Palestinian. For a moment we sat in silence, lips sealed by fear, hearts rent by epiphany. If at that moment the gas hit the fan, some of us would watch our friends die.

"This is what I love about America"

This past weekend I went to my college roommate's wedding in Montvale, NJ. I helped herd folk from Boston down to New Jersey, then shuttle them around the villages of North Jersey and in and out of the city, all the while referencing, yet taking for granted, the awesome New York City skyline. Upon returning to our hotel after one such excursion, my car was hailed in front of the hotel lobby by a group of orthodox Jews. They wanted to know if I could sing. I told them I do it for a living. They asked me to join them. I told them I had to park my car. They said, "Screw the car, it will be there when we're done."

At this point, it's about 1:30am, and I have been approached by a group of guys I don't know in a town I'm unfamiliar with. But they want to sing, and I am a musician. Besides, other than Palestinians, who’s afraid of a conservative Jew? I hopped out of the ride and walked over to them. They wanted me to teach them a tune. I taught them a traditional West African song, which translated means "peace, be still, all is well." They taught me a traditional Hebrew song about friendship. We traded tunes and they marveled at my pronunciation. I told them I had grown up in the Middle East, and used to speak a little Arabic. We sang and danced and made a lot of noise. Eventually, two of my roommates came down to the lobby to look for me and saw me outside laughing with a group of strangers. They joined us, and within minutes we were again singing, dancing and making even more noise. Imagine the scene: three Blacks (an African, an African-American, and a Trinidadian) raising hell at 3 in the morning with a gang of Orthodox Jews. I remember thinking "this is what I love about America."

That night as we parted ways, I was visited by a growing sadness. How would I feel if I was to learn that Abraham, Gershi and the others had been blown up by a terrorist bomb while dancing at a party? Could I imagine the joy they had shared with me, stifled by a political vendetta? Then I thought, how would I feel if Hesham or Rami or Nadia or any of the other kids I grew up with were cut down by bullets while protesting for their freedom. Freedom. What is more American than that?

"I pledge allegiance to the world"

There is so much more I could say. My high school sweetheart is half-Palestinian. My freshman roommate is half-crazy but all Jewish. I love them both, and before I see their ethnicity I see their humanity. But in my life I also see the pain of people who have been near mortally wounded. People who have been stripped of their dignity, their livelihoods, indeed their very lives by forces with great power but little value for "the other." These people are Black, they are Jewish, they are Palestinian, they are Irish, Croatian, Rwandan, Indonesian, South African, Nigerian, Chinese, Japanese, Sierra Leonian, they are the world. Today my heart bleeds with fear for my own family and my eyes burn with tears of acrimony, vengeance and sorrow. But as I look beyond my own grief, I wonder how many others also grieve? Around the world, how many have known the never-ending twilight of suffering? How many have looked into the eyes of those they love and seen their own shame? How many have cried to the same God for retribution?

It is time for we as a nation to wake up. The struggles of human beings around the world are indeed our own. We are not exempt from the asphyxiating roots of hatred and intolerance; indeed, we sit in the highest branches of the tree they built. And today we see that though we live above the clouds, we cannot ignore the turmoil that threatens to uproot the foundations of our global society.

At a time like this, I can feel myself moving into "Patriotic Mode." I think "God Bless America." I pray for all those who may risk their lives in defense of our nation, I ponder the ways in which I can contribute and I even pay attention when Dubya speaks. I believe we must stand together as a people. But I also believe we must look at where we're standing, and be sure that we are truly grounded in what we say we believe in. Liberty and justice for ALL. Not just for some Americans, not even all Americans, not just for our allies but for ALL. I pledge allegiance to the World. 

I wasn't born an American. I chose to become one, and I thought long and hard before doing so. I made the choice I did because despite her faults, I believe in what America STANDS for. And so I stand prepared to defend the nation to whom I am promised. Still I pray that she recognize, that the only way to truly fight "evil," is with truth. If we stand for justice, we must hear the cries of all her people, even if they don't speak English. My mother taught me as a child that "charity begins at home." I pray for my family. I pray for yours. I pray for our nation, our leaders and those around the world. I pray for peace. God bless us all.


Where do you turn, when you reach the battle zone, and the face behind the enemy is your own?