Call Me By My Name

Khadra.

The name sounds foreign as it falls off my tongue

I’ve never liked it and never wanted it. In 39 years of life, I have yet to resonate with it. The story goes that my father’s mother was in the room, and well - what she says goes. Khadra. My parents don’t even like it.

Khadra.

A popular Somali name that is quite lovely on its own. I was born on Laylat Al Qadr, the holiest day of the Muslim calendar—a summer night filled with blessings, ripe with forgiveness and acceptance. And there I was, far too big, that my poor mother had to have me cut out - her firstborn baby girl.  While asleep under anaesthetics, Grandma went off with Dad and it was a done deal. My name was sealed.

Khadra.

Growing up between Canada and the UAE meant hearing your name said in a multitude of manners. From the white folk who tried to call me Cassandra to the Arab kids laughing at the irony - ‘Why is the black girl called the colour green?’ they would scream.  I will not bore you with the cultural stigma I lived through, for that is another story, and quite frankly, my feelings were spared compared to most. But my god, how it irritated me. How it made me mad to have to explain, enunciate, defend, and cry over. This was pre-9/11, mind you. Post? Well, carrying the name Khadra Mohamed was certainly no piece of cake.

Khadra became Kiwi at exactly I am not sure when.

I had drawn little kiwi birds on my silver Chuck Taylors, and it struck. Withdrawn and socially awkward, that was Khadra. Kiwi, she sounded fun. She sounded cute and quirky. It was different, and most importantly, it was mine. A name that was of my choosing, and like an actor, I took on this Kiwi character. This quirky, chatty and fun persona. Kiwi had fabulous taste in music. Kiwi kind of graduated from university with a slew of friends and moved to the big city. Kiwi unlocked Toronto and tripped the light fantastic. Those were the years of the fluorescent adolescents, of accidental influencers and yet. And yet, I left. I needed a second act.

Abu Khadra is how my dad’s friends refer to him.

Father of Khadra. After nearly fifteen years away from home, I found myself back in Abu Dhabi on my parents’ couch and contemplating my life choices. Hearing my parents use my name felt strange at first; then I simply didn’t notice. I kept Kiwi hidden from them as I didn’t want to insult them. You try telling African parents you changed your name because it doesn’t ‘feel right’. But Kiwi didn’t feel right either. Then came new jobs, new friends and countless meetings. My name is Kiwi, I would repeat. I’d get the same odd smile and ‘Oh, how cute!’ and ‘No, but seriously?’ or ‘What’s your real name though?’. I didn’t have an answer to give.

Kiwi, the more I said it aloud. The less I wanted to hear it. The Kiwi character held fast. But things were beginning to shift. Parts of me were beginning to crack. I wanted out of my skin and this shell in which I had enclosed myself. Much like an ill-fitting suit that I was desperate to shrug off. I wasn’t her, not anymore.

With patience, I waited still. I took time to fix, to heal, to learn to grow. To accept. The name Kiwi felt like the last piece of a broken, empty vessel that I needed to just chuck out with the rest of my emotional garbage. But if I was not Kiwi, then who the hell was I? I was not Khadra either. So, I waited some more. Until it occurred to me it was so simple that it seemed painfully obvious. Of the many names my mother called me, there was one left on the table.

Um Iman. Mother of Iman. “That is what everyone calls me at work.” Mom had said proudly. Iman is what she always called me, sweetly, as if cooing to a child. Iman is the name she had wanted to give me.

 Iman is to believe in something.
This is what I needed most. Faith. In something greater than myself and the possibilities that I possess. Iman, here was my anchor.

With this name there is weight. It rolls of my tongue with ease. I sing it to myself; I mutter it under my breath. This was, no is, significant. It feels right. Is this what peace feels like? So, unsettled I have been. Is this what peace with one’s self really feels like? I will keep asking the question, but this answer seems right. The need for a name, I’ve longed for it. To now have my answer, I’ve fallen to my knees to receive it.

I am Iman.

Both loud and quiet. Joyful and sorrowful. Sweet and silly, charming and chaotic.
I am my mother’s daughter, father’s first born and sister to three tigers.
So, call me by my name.

Call me by Iman.