An Arab: Living in the West

A New Born

What could it be?

An Arab was born. Congratulations. January 1996, in the Middle East. A few millions were born before and more millions after around the universe. Due to a lack of technology in a third world country, the baby could not be identified in terms of gender. Well until it was born. The family were excited and happy, but weren't sure if it was a boy or a girl. The majority wanted a baby boy except for the father and mother. Instead, they wanted a princess. An Arab one too. A daughter is her fathers' first love.

The idea that a girl is a disgrace to the family is confronting and fake. It is a rumour made about Arabs, a big lie. In reality, the prophet of Islam, Muhammad's (PBUH) daughter, Fatimah, was given the reward that whoever hurts her has disobeyed God. Lady Fatimah (PBUH) was given the title of 'The mother of her father'. This is how Arabs in general should look at their daughters. This is how everybody around the world should look at their daughters; if they don't already.

What should we name it? Not knowing the gender of a baby before hand makes it difficult to name the baby. Especially an Arab baby. When naming an Arab baby the following must be kept on mind:

1) The baby should be named after someone brave, or a religious idol

2) The name should not be already used more than twice within the extended family (including cousins)

3) The name must be agreed on, which is almost impossible.

4) The name must be Arabic

Once the two parents choose the name for the baby, a type of voting is undertaken. Just to make sure that the grandparents, aunties, uncles and friends have agreed on that name. The process is similar to a Bill in the first and second readings. However, in today's society it is a bit different. The name is chosen and decided upon before the child is even born. A middle name is also given to that newborn baby. Once the child is born, a nickname is used more than their actual name.

Pure and white. I was pulled out from a small pocket. There were no marks on me. I was fresh. I was so smooth. I was placed in a small basket. Sitting still in a small cot, but it was very large compared to me. I was on one side of the cot, and could see strangers walking by. They looked at me once, twice and even thrice. But I did not move or make a noise. Nothing caused me to move, therefore I couldn't move. It felt as if I was wrapped with something. They were not impressed, but it wasn't my fault. Maybe they didn't like the way I looked, or the way I was shaped. I can see their lips moving, humming something, but I couldn't hear them. Some of them smiled and nodded before moving away. While others used a camera to take a photo. I sat still. Just like a small puppy.

I was a name. My own name. Craved on a small white paper, the letters K-A-W-T-H-A-R. Stuck on the side of the cot, with tape, clearly I couldn't have moved. 'Kawthar' I thought to myself, what an interesting one. What could it possibly mean? It can't be only a bunch of letters put together to form part of my identity. I was many. Many of everything. Wealth, well being, peace, handsome and beautiful. I was even written in the Holy Quran. Chapter 108 was named 'Al-Kawthar', which in that context means 'The Abundance'.

I was small. A tiny human being. Much smaller than my full name. An inch smaller than my twin brother, Muntathar. I had light brown skin, dark brown eyes and black hair. I wore pink and white throughout my first weeks of life. I was placed in a cot and wrapped up in white material. I could barely move. In the other cot was Muntathar. He was a bit darker than me, but we had the same eyes and hair colour. He was the expected, the awaited one. I was everything.