In the corner of my parent’s room, high on a wooden shelf above a stack of old Qur’ans was the jambiyah, it’s dark wooden handle shining. Though unused in battle its blade still speaks of history. Every time I see it reminds me of our story a journey from Yemen to America.

I was born in Sana’a in 2012, but we left soon after. My parents tried to find a better life as Yemen’s future grew uncertain. My father worked in my grandpa’s corner store and my mother had no job experience. With little more than some photos and the jambiya, we left everything behind.

To my father the jambiya wasn’t just a weapon, it was identity. Passed down from his father, it was worn with pride during weddings and market days. “It’s part of who we are,” he told me.

New York was loud and new. My parents struggled, my father struggled my father opened a deli and my mother stayed home caring for us and cooking Yemeni food. Even with little, our home stayed full of Yemeni traditions. My father hummed old songs from Yemen in our Brooklyn apartment. Over time, I saw the jambiya not just as an old object, but as part of our story. It reminds me that no matter how far we are, we’re still Yemeni. It shows our strength and helps me remember where we come from.

 

– AM

Relationship:  Child of im/migrant Child of im/migrant