Reader’s Note: The purpose of this project is to help people realize what really makes strong relations between people, how do humans create a community and if it’s fully determines on free will. There are three key examples I used, two of them being from books I read in English class. One of the things that people should keep in mind is that the purpose of this essay is to break down the major factor that contributes to creating communities, acknowledging there are other things that play a role. I hope readers finish reading this paper learning something they didn’t realize before.

Between two rows of temporary tents, about a couple hundred feet apart, are a group of children, they are all spread out, some of them are talking and playing with their friends, others are staring into space. The ground is light gray with gray pebbles and rocks spread throughout it. Every two tents have a satellite next to it. Towards the left side of tents, near the middle tents, stand 3 women monitoring the kids. 5 tents down are men that seem to be fixing a tent. These refugees are living though conditions due to how expensive it would be to move and live in Europe. They had to flee their country and leave most of their belongings. They don’t have a strong, sturdy shelter as a permanent home. There is no certainty of an actual home, and it starts to look like the camp is becoming their new home. They worked together to migrate, supporting each other by creating a system in which other refugees can also cross the water. Securing people with life vests, having people safely arrive onto the land. With these refugees going through a similar struggle, a sense of community and unity starts to emerge due to their common struggles.

This pattern could be found in many different communities, people unite because of a common struggle. One example is the black community, specifically in America. Society creates a stereotype of black people. According to “[An African American is] born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in this American world —- a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world.” - W E B DuBois. DuBois points out that black people have to view everything in two lenses, their point of view and how the rest of the world would view the same thing. Due to these two points of view, they have to watch what they do because the rest of the world already have a negative perception towards them. The only people who understand this struggle are other black people because they also go through the same thing. They find some level of comfort within each other, which creates a unique bond within each other.

In the book “The Namesake”, narrates the life of a 1st generation Bengali-American named Gogol. While he was growing up in America, he started to hate his name more and more because it was an unusual name and it made him stand out and not in a good way. The name was given to him by his dad because when his dad was in Bangladesh he almost died in a train accident. And the book he was reading on the train was written by and author whose name was Gogol. It was a major event that happened in Gogol’s father, Ashoke. It was special to him. When Gogol turned 18 he told his parents that he was changing his name to Nikhil, still preserving his Bengali heritage but a more common name. Further in the book, Ashoke dies in an accident which gathers everyone to their house (Gogol was living on his own in New York). Years later, Ashima moves out of the house and she has a party. Gogol goes in his room and finds the book with the author which he was named after, he starts reading the book that majorly impacted his life and he realizes no one will call him Gogol anymore.“The givers and keepers of Gogol’s name are far from him now. One dead. Another, a widow, on the verge of a different sort of departure, in order to dwell, as his father does in a separate world” pg 289”. At this moment, Gogol is having a moment of realization. Nobody will call him Gogol anymore, since he’s not going to see his mom as much and his father is dead. It wasn’t just a name, it was something that connected him to his parents. The difficulties and struggles that they faced adjusting to a new country, but still found ways to stay in touch with their roots. And the way they passed it on to their children was giving them special names that not only connect to their culture and traditions but to their personal lives too.

Gogol wasn’t close to many Bengali-Americans in the book, I think that’s one of the reasons he had trouble finding himself. He didn’t have people in his life that were balancing both American and Bengali culture. One of the only things he had that connected to his family roots was his name Gogol, which nobody was going to call him anymore.

The point that is being made is that even though we value the role communities in our society and specifically in our daily lives but fail to realize and appreciate two huge factors in forming bonds with others, the same struggles they face and connections to the same roots. Whether it’s having familiar yet unique names that originate from the same place, or extreme cases like going through the same humanitarian crisis. People find comfort with people they could relate to.

Introduction

My goal for this project was to communicate how important it is to have a connection with Sudan and my family through stories I felt the closest to my culture. I am proud of the way I wrapped up my points at the end. I clarified my points and drew a bigger conclusion. Some things I could’ve improved in my essay was the amount of description I gave. If there were more details it would be easier for the reader to imagine the scene in their minds.

“Sorry if I butcher this name…”

I already know that my name is about to be mispronounced. And since my last name starts with an A, it’s usually going to be a struggle within the first 5 seconds of taking attendance. I’ve heard it all, Imon, Amon, Imani… I-M-A-N, the Arabic word for faith and belief, that’s how you spell my name and it’s pronounced exactly how it’s spelled but it seems to always get people’s tongue-tied. Which I don’t get but everyone has different lenses they look through…right.

As a kid, I hated my name. It might have been because of the way it differentiates me from the other kids at school. Asking my parents for a Dora backpack and matching Dora shoes, I felt I had to find another way to connect with the kids at school.

I was 5 years old the first time I went to Sudan and I went with my dad. We stayed in my Aunt’s (my dad’s 1st cousin) house. She had the same name as me which I thought was cool because I barely knew anyone that shared a name with me. I walked into a house that didn’t resemble the houses in America. One house was the size of ¼ of a block in Philadelphia, the outside walls were mint green with a tall white door that didn’t have a door frame, just a door that was connected to the walls, above those walls were barbed wires just like the ones in jails but it was to keep any robbers from entering. She immediately hugged me after opening the door, she seemed so excited to see me even though I just met her. We all went inside and sat down on the perfectly laid sheets. There was this familiar smell that I smelt, it was the smell of burning scented wood hips that mom would burn every time guests were coming over. My grandma’s sister came and greeted my dad and I. I noticed this connection between them when they were talking, picking up where they left off when they last saw each other, laughing while they shared the memories they had together. I just stared at them, chuckling with them even though I didn’t understand most of the things they were saying. I felt the joy in their voices, the smile on their faces soothed my heart. When we were about to go to sleep, my aunt slept with me. She told me that when she heard my dad named me after her how happy she was. How she loudly started proudly cheering, then going around the neighborhood passing out cookies. Her dear friend and cousin moved to America but he never forgot about her. I soon realized that I wasn’t named Iman for no reason, but it was a way for my parents and me to still be connected to my family that lived halfway across the world. It was a way for my parents to remember all the people who they loved that they left behind.

As I grew up, I discovered that I wasn’t alone. Almost all 1st generation Americans go through a similar experience. There was this one time I connected with my Sudanese friends. We were all on Facetime having our usual conversations about news in our lives and sharing inside jokes. We were all on pause when I heard a laugh coming from my phone. I asked what happened and she told us to go look at what she sent us, I thought it was a regular funny meme she just sent. But when I saw the post was from an unfamiliar account. It was called “growingup.sudanese”. Underneath was a meme that read “When mama doesn’t agree with something and she makes it rhyme.” We all started laughing like crazy, talking about how our parents are so weird but funny at the same time. Then we continued to go through their page, connecting even more with every meme we read. I could feel this warm, comforting feeling that made me feel like I can finally relate to people and know exactly what it’s like. Our experiences created these strong bonds.

My name and experiences are apart of my identity. Behind those 4 letters held a history of culture and religion. My parents came to this country taking only what they could from their country, their traditions. It was important for them to share their culture and traditions with their child in this country in which culture can be easily diluted by the American culture. This was something many immigrants experience with their children and as of 1st generations, we have to adapt to where we live in while holding on to our story.