Motivation

Motivation

By Dawood Saleh

I have always wondered what keeps me motivated. From early childhood until this moment of writing, I have had big dreams. Sometimes I told myself I would be successful and wealthy. I would have a big house and nice cars. I would travel everywhere and be famous. People would recognize me as a celebrity. But, somewhere on the road to maturity, I realized that the only reason I keep going and never ever give up is quite different. My hope is that one day I will be able to help my family and to build a future for my children which is better than the life experienced by myself and my family.

I grew up in a small village in northern Iraq. The first 19 years of my life my family and I wandered from one mud house to another. Finally we built a house of our own and called it home. In 2014, ISIS destroyed our home in their quest to annihilate my people. Once again my family and I were left to wander and subsist as best we could. Eventually we were gathered into a camp for internally displaced persons. My parents still live in that camp.

I always had big dreams, but childhood circumstances forced me to consider adult issues. Doctors seemed to be making the most money, so I wanted to be a doctor when I grew up. I thought as a doctor I would be able to make a lot of money to help my family. Physical maladies perpetually plagued my mom, and I would be able to treat her for free. War-torn Iraq offered no refuge for my people, so I wanted to leave. Perhaps I could help my family to emigrate as well.?

I just realized that every goal or dream I have or had is related to the same thing: I want to help my family. Even when I save some money, I do so thinking that I may help my family.?

Tears sometimes flood my eyes when I think of the times my sisters, brothers, and I were separated from our parents. Dad and Mom had to travel hundreds of miles away for agricultural work. Every year they regretfully left us kids behind for several months to attend school. I would count the days and hours for the school year to end in summer so we could join our parents. It was the biggest joy of my young life. We all squeezed into a vehicle for the trek that would reunite our family. As soon as the vehicle stopped, I would jump from my seat and run to my dad. I hugged and kissed him as I displayed my score certificate letting him know I had passed. For me, passing with a good grade was a bigger hope for my parents. I could see how my dad’s eyes glowed when he saw good scores on my certificate.

At the end of each day, my dad would come from farming, tired, exhausted, supporting his lower back with both his hands. But he would keep his pain inside and still play with us. Sometimes Mom and Dad would work on the farm until dark. When they returned home, we would all eat potatoes from the small frying pan. Most of the time, what we had was not enough for all of us; but we shared and at the end we would eat plain naan. After the good dinner, we would enjoy our black tea and my dad would either narrate stories or teach us English words or math.?

I’ve always wondered what my dad would have been if he had grown up in a different place or country. He could be a mathematician or a scientist or an astronaut. He could be anything because for me he was the smartest person I had ever known. He just happened to be a despised Yazidi in Iraq. Poor, he needed to spend all his life farming to provide the necessities of life for his nine children. He worked so hard on us, making sure we kept studying. He wanted to see us achieving the dreams he never had the chance to accomplish.

Today, I am no longer a child with grand dreams of giving my family a better life. Now I have confronted the stark realities of ethno-religious discrimination and seemingly insurmountable bureaucratic barriers. But I will never stop trying to help my family.

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