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I was always intrigued by the origins of my name. Samara. The Hebrew and Arabic-derived name meaning "protected by God." I never felt deserving of my name because God would never want to protect someone like me. Someone who comes from a devout Muslim family, yet doesn't know a thing about Islam. Someone whose family stays in to pray together during the nights of Ramadan while she goes out drinking with her best friend. Someone who would gossip with her grandmother about other girls' sins while waiting for her boyfriend to text her back. I felt lost, torn between the Western culture and the Afghan culture of my own household.

I blamed my estranged mother for giving up on me when I turned away from the path she had paved for me even before I was born. I yearned for a father that I barely knew because he passed away from a heart attack before I started Kindergarten. I could also blame my first love, Miles for everything that he did; for everything that he made me do. I could choose to spend the rest of my life blaming others for the person I am today. I can throw in the towel and even blame myself for my careless actions. Nonetheless, I can't take nor place the blame if I don't even know the person I have become. I can't be angry at someone I do not know 

No One Else (Asa Butterfield)Where stories live. Discover now