My go-to joke when it’s cold outside is that cold weather is a hate crime. I joke that white people were right and we should bring back the pyramids and the Sahara Desert and camel jokes. As an Egyptian woman, I am built for the sun and do not deserve to tolerate this cold. People find this take so absurd that it becomes humorous. 

But like most jokes, there’s some truth to it.

People in the diaspora are forced to live in conditions they weren’t supposed to. I am not supposed to be trekking to class in minus 30 degree weather. I am not supposed to be spending way too much money on winter gear. I am not supposed to be shoveling snow. I am supposed to be sweating in the burning sun and tanning.

Although these complaints are what make my joke so absurd, they express a more serious sentiment of struggle, of loss. Loss of where home was supposed to be. Loss of how fluent my Arabic should have been. Loss of the annual Coptic celebrations in Egypt. Loss of seeing my grandparents and cousins daily. Loss of the version of myself that would exist if everything were fair and equal in this world.

And that loss cannot be measured. All I can tell you is that it is enough loss that you start feeling like a stranger in your home.

On top of that, you’ll always be a stranger in your new home. People know you’re different. Tan skin. Curly hair. Different food. Different language. All indicators that you don’t belong here.

And it’s extraordinarily strange to always be a stranger. It is not only strange but an immense privilege.

What a privilege it is to freeze. What a privilege it is to be an outsider. What a privilege it is to observe a new culture. What a privilege it is to be given the opportunity that millions of people would die to get a glimpse of. What a privilege it is to create more than one home.

People in the diaspora get the privilege of living in more than one space. That space exists because we exist. Because we are shaped by where we are now and where we were in the past. We are the product of our ancestors and our descendants. A product of our past stories, present stories and future stories. And that is the story we keep writing.

We write that story for our ancestors. For our families. For our people. We advocate for them because we created a space here. We advocate for them through our success. We advocate for them constantly because our people need your attention. The people in the Middle East need your attention.

Isn’t it strange how a stranger demands attention so easily? Just because they are strange? And although that attention can be both a great blessing and a great burden, it is our duty to choose joy. To smile when we freeze.

And so the next time I claim that the Chicago weather is a hate crime, just know that deep down I am grateful to freeze. Kind of.