By Yasmine Koenig as told to Liz Welch
I was six years old when my two older sisters went to Palestine to "visit family." At least, that's what my mom told me.
I was born in Chicago, like my sisters, but our parents are Palestinian, born in Jerusalem. I was four months old when our father died—he worked at a gas station and was shot during a robbery. After that, the four of us moved into the basement apartment of my mom's mother's house, where my sisters and I shared a room.
I worshipped my oldest sister growing up. She was rebellious and loved pop music and makeup, which my grandmother and mother couldn't stand. We were raised Muslim, and while my mom didn't make us wear hijabs—headscarves—to school, we did when we went to mosque on the high holidays. Every other day, we wore long-sleeve shirts and pants or knee-length skirts.
I don't have too many memories of my sisters, but I do remember how much my oldest sister loved Usher. She was 13 and she'd sing along to his music on the radio in our room. She bought a poster of him, shirtless, and pinned it to the wall next to our bed.
He didn't last long. My grandmother saw the poster one day and ripped it off the wall. She was screaming at my sister, and my sister yelled right back—she was feisty! But it didn't matter; Usher was gone. And a year later, so were my sisters.
My mom said they were "going on a trip" to Palestine, but even as a six-year-old I'd heard rumors about a diary entry. Something about my sister kissing a boy behind a tree, or writing that she wanted to. I remember large suitcases and both of my sisters weeping as we said good-bye. I cried too, but I was more mad at them for leaving me. Who would I listen to the radio with late at night?
Still, I assumed they were coming back. So when my mother told me that they wanted to stay in Palestine, I got really upset. I missed them so much.
The only time I got to see my friends was at school.
In eighth grade, our class took a field trip to tour the high school. No one wore uniforms, like we did in middle school! I could even wear my skinny jeans there. Yep, as strict as my mom was, she did buy me skinny jeans that were super popular then. I remember being in the store and pointing them out and being stunned when she nodded yes, then paid for three pairs at the register. They were the only things I owned that made me feel like a normal kid.
But right before middle school graduation, I came home from school one afternoon to find my mother and grandmother rummaging through my closet.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
My mother was holding a garbage bag and my grandmother had scissors. They were cutting my skinny jeans into pieces and throwing them away.
I was so confused—she'd bought them for me! When I asked my mom why, she said, "They're inappropriate and revealing. You're too old to dress like this now!"
I was furious. All I had left were one pair of baggy jeans, which I hated. For the first time in middle school, I was relieved to have a uniform.
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