- A Different Kind of Humidity -
by Naz Hussein
Naz leading an anti-war, peaceful protest at her university. Photo Credit: Nushrat Nur
I remember my last night in Beirut like it was yesterday.
I was fourteen at the time and a true daydreamer, with a vast imagination acquired through long nights of reading. My creativity blossomed into full fruition: I was always writing some stories or crafting narratives within my head.
Yet, whenever I thought of the future ahead of me, where I would be standing in two days, my mind drew a blank. I had no idea what America looked like, let alone south Florida. I didn’t know what my surroundings would entail, what color my bedroom walls would be, what shape the bathroom faucet would curve into, what the scenery outside held, or the scent of the sky.
But what I knew were my friends’ familiar faces, how we walked around Hamra chatting the day away, and the local bakery across my home with fresh bread. I loved Beirut and its winding roads, chaotic traffic, and historic buildings. I liked strolling by the Corniche and watching my hair stick up from the humidity, a love-hate relationship I had with the Mediterranean sea.
I was born and raised in Kirkuk, Iraq until 2006, when the sectarian violence erupted. The situation became more precarious by the day: children of doctors disappeared frequently while the kidnappers demanded ransom. Mama was a well-respected pharmacist, but she was a single mother, deeming her a possible target. She had already witnessed several car combings near her pharmacy, and after we survived a bombing that occurred across our house that same year, we decided to obtain a residency elsewhere. We hopped back and forth between Egypt, Syria, and Iraq, seeking a new home, until finally landing in Lebanon. Although Lebanon was only an hour flight away, it felt like a one-eighty degree change. Adjusting to the new dialect, as well as the other languages spoken there, was a huge challenge. After eight years, I was finally beginning to fit in, but the moment I found a stable ground, I became uprooted again. Constant displacement seemed to lurk in my shadow, two-steps ahead.
Fast forward thirty hours at various airports and the longest flight I had ever taken, I arrived in Miami with a dizzy head and a low spirit.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped outside was the humidity. Unlike Beirut’s, the Florida air suffocated me. It shrunk me down and made me tinier than 5”3. Once inside the taxi, I stuck my head out the window and inhaled the foreign oxygen.
This place was going to be my new home. I repeated that to myself again and again, but a cinder block descended onto my chest. My heart constricted, and the weight of my sadness enveloped my throat. It felt like a cry was stranded there and I couldn’t swallow it away.
The taxi made a turn into the compound we were staying in.
New home.
It looked like a tiny apartment with one bedroom and a bathroom that somehow leaked cockroaches.
We had to sleep on military, foldable beds with inexpensive mattresses that collapsed in the middle of the night. The living room was composed of a worn-out loveseat and a scratched circular dinner table. The kitchen was tiny and infested with flying bugs. The next day, my older sister was admitted into the ER. She had fainted and Mama didn’t know where else to take her. The bill afterward was a big blow: nobody had told us about emergency prices.
The truth is, nobody should live like that.
But I internalized it for a while, sluggishly accepting the situation, deeming it necessary to move on. Yet, the person responsible for us, our assigned UNHCR case leader, had stolen our “welcome money”. He bought old, thrifted furniture and took the rest of the $1,000 that the United Nations gifts each refugee family. One time he brought his daughter along, who was my age, and she glared at us with disgust. Another time he raised his voice on Mama and thought he could get away with it, but Mama fearlessly retaliated.
“Just because I’m a woman and alone, doesn’t mean you can disrespect me,” she said.
Life afterward was a new reality combined with extensive escapism. I heavily indulged in books, TV series, and films, anything I could get my eyes on. They helped me cope with my jarringly different world, where the buildings were no more than two stories high. The roads felt never-ending and relentless, stretched out widely across several miles. Of course, I had to get accustomed to a new metric system, to new laws, and to a new landscape cloaked by consumerism. For example, Walmart contained a million aisles and had everything you ever wanted, restaurants belonged to chain companies, and plazas scattered nearby the streets carrying a muted, detached energy. It was as if I had entered a vacuum void of emotions and authenticity.
But one place helped me preserve my sanity: the park. I loved going on walks and treading the smooth trails; I loved running on the grass and watching the sunset. It gave me hope, and back then that’s all I needed.
Mama, on the other hand, was dealing with entirely different dilemmas of paperwork, public offices, and legality issues. We were unable to function within society until we received our social security card, which enabled us to lease a car. Even so, my family was itching to leave that shabby apartment. I could tell my brother, underneath his positive demeanor, was growing restless. My sister retreated into her shell, unwilling to leave her old life behind. We blamed Mama for ripping us away from Lebanon, but we didn’t fathom how the country trapped us. It wouldn’t grant us Lebanese citizenship, or open up job prospects, or allow us to work within any sector. We had no future in Lebanon. Even if we graduated from university, we were doomed. At the end of the day, we were Iraqis with Iraqi passports, and to international eyes, that was the lowest of statuses.
My experience, however, has made me prouder to be an Iraqi woman. I am most thankful for Mama and her sacrifices. She remained incredibly resilient and strong, risking her safety as a single mother and moving across the globe with broken English. She understood that we had to leave and take refuge elsewhere because the Middle East no longer protected us.
Now, six years later, I have grown to love Florida.
I have found stability in its fruitful opportunities and comforting sun. Within its lively streets, I truly understood my identity, creative passions, and the meaning of unconditional love. This has shaped my vision of what I always want to embody as I pave my own path forward: open-minded, empathetic, and committed to justice.