Friday, September 23, 2016

My journey of self-discovery through DNA tests, among other means...


I recently decided to do a DNA test. I'll talk about the reason at some point. I  will blog about this experience as I wait for the results, and after I get them. But this blog post is not only about my DNA results. It is one of my attempts to explore the aspects that make up my identity, believes, soul, thoughts, and sense of being. It is about what makes me Ozaz, Uzaz, or Azaz; depending on how you got to know me and what language you speak. The deferent spellings of my name is a whole nuther story!


PART 1

The short answer to “Who are you?” “ Where are you from?” And all other sorts of similar questions is: I am Nubian. An answer I’ve learnt to say since I learnt to make words and comprehend the world. Would that change now that I am waiting for my DNA results? I don’t know.

I was born in a small village called Gunnies. Yes. You read that right. Like the beer as my friends would say to tease me. My mom gave birth to me after several years of marrying my father. She wasn’t worried about her fertility as she had a daughter from another marriage and my dad had other four children from his first wife, too. So my arrival to this world was a matter of time. That’s all. 

My mom was washing cloths when I decided to announce my enthusiasm to come and join you all. My dad was visiting his first wife – don’t judge, please – when I finally made my first cry into the world. He came by in his way to catch his train back to Saudi Arabia where he was working at the time. Family and neighbors, who are family as well, gathered to celebrate my coming.

My parents didn’t know what to name me. A fact they don't mind sharing whenever they are asked why I was named Ozaz. You'd think they would be more prepared for me joining them. What should we name her, a question many expectant parents would ask. But mine didn't.  Apparently, they didn't care much about the name that would stick to me for the rest of my life. Thank you, mom and dad. So, to solve their indecision, they decided to write down names suggested by nieces and relatives in small pieces of papers, fold them, and pick that name that would my official name. I had no name until the 7th day of my birthdate, which is the day a newborn's official name is announced. Since I had no name, my nameless ass was called NuNu or Kononna, means babe, by everyone, including my mom.  

My naming ceremony was more like a raffle drawing. How inclusive and participatory! Zainab, Hajer, Ghada, Ivana, Dara, and Ozaz were among the suggested names. I am not sure who choose the folded piece that had Ozaz on it, but I thank her/him for that. This name is one of the pillars of my identity.

I really don’t know what name I would want if I was not Ozaz. It is a rare name. I only met a few girls/women named Ozaz and I didn’t like them for sharing my name! I was 6 years old visiting a relative whose daughter was named Ozaz. I cried when they called her twice and felt she’s taken something that belongs to me. I still feel the same in the very few occasions I met an Ozaz. I hope they’d considered finding another name and let me have it exclusively. Please.Thank you.

So, here was a little fuzzy Ozaz growing up in a remote and carefree village in Nubian land. I spoke Nubian language, played with goats, and ran around barefoot. The house where my dad was born was 500 feet away from my house. It was the same house that witnessed the birth of his father, too. My dad was born in 1909. I'd say that house and land around it belong to us for more than 200 hundreds years. You do the math. 

Growing up, I didn’t have games or TV to watch. The sky and nature were my entertainment source. I played house in the woods and raced with tin toy cars. My Barbie doll version was a bald stick doll dressed in rags. I went to bed with the backdrop of elders’ voices reciting Quran and drifted to sleep as I counted meteors falling in the sky above me. We didn’t sleep in rooms. We slept in the front yards. I didn’t sleep in a room until I was three. I still prefer sleeping under the sky more than 5 starts hotel room. I think my dreams then were more colorful and creative. I don’t know how I’d prove that though.

My staple of conception of fear, wrong, right, proper, and indecent were very much shaped by patrimonial anecdotes: a donkey's braying indicates it has seen the Devil, so I'd stick my fingers into my ears as I ran to find my mother to seek refugee behind her. Girls herd the cattle and men man the farms. Girls must be coy and polite in presence of men or even boys, a rule for which I never cared since an early age. Cover your moth when you laugh or smile. Dust swirls are dancing jinis. Good always triumphs over evil.  Sex is shameful. Children are sown in their mothers wombs by angels. Nomadic Arab tribes transiting though our stagnant villages in the Fall are thieves and not trustworthy. Twins turn into cats at night. God is called Nur and he is a touchable being that I can touch and hold on to; we actually have a phrase that translates to "I'm holding on to God." 

End of PART 1