I Am Not a Terrorist.

FORT WAYNE, INDIANA 

"American Ship Bombed in Yemen." The headline blazed across the morning newspapers of October 13. When I saw it, I immediately knew they would be looking for the Arab responsible. Although there was no direct evidence yet, the newscasters were already assuming it was the work of Islamic terrorist groups. Of course I felt terrible for the loss of American lives and, like most people, detest the violence that caused it. But I knew that once again I would have to defend my heritage and the Arab name.

All too often when there is some kind of terrorist attack, Americans automatically assume it is an Arab. When the Oklahoma federal building was bombed in 1995, the authorities interrogated a Jordanian-American for nine hours before finding out that an American was responsible.

As a Jordanian-American, I have often felt the effects of these stereotypes. Most teenagers I know, when asked about Arabs, say: "Arabs? Oh, you mean like that Saddam Hussein guy? Don't they all bomb planes and buildings? Don't all the women have to be covered from head to toe?"

Not only do I still hear this in my senior year of high school--you'd think by this age, people would be better educated --but I even heard a teacher say, "All Arabic culture is is just riding camels." Not only is this hurtful, but it's untrue. Arab culture has given the world algebra, science, and astronomy. Without all the "camel riding" we do, people like my teacher would not have math or science to teach.

Also, not all Arabs are Muslims. Being Arab is an ethnic thing, not religious. In fact, about 16 percent of Arabs in the Middle East are Christian, and do not wear head scarves. And even if Muslims do, so what? It is part of their culture and religion. A friend of mine who does wear a hijjab (the Arabic word for the head covering) told me it's part of her Muslim identity, and she's proud of it.

Growing up in Indiana, I always knew I wasn't like the other girls. When it was my turn to invite friends over, they saw just how different I was, especially when they heard my parents talk in a foreign language. Once, a girl down the street made fun of the food we ate, and my parents' heavy accents. I just laughed it off at the time, but later went directly to my mom and told her I no longer wanted to be Jordanian. I would have nothing to do with it anymore.

But as I grew older, I began to realize that this difference I hated so much as a child would turn into something I am proud of. I cannot wait for the day when it won't matter that my parents are from a different country. Or when every Arab won't be suspected of bombing a building.

Inshallah (God willing), one day we will all be the same. But until this day comes, I, along with hundreds of thousands of other Arabs, will sit and be scrutinized by our fellow Americans.