The first time I came to America, I was a student, filled with excitement about living in a place I knew through my favorite television shows. The second time, I was a refugee, fleeing my home country of Iraq after the rise of ISIS.

These two experiences could not be more different: When I was a student a decade ago, people asked me questions born out of ignorance — it was clear that my new friends knew very little about what it was like to be Muslim or Arab, and they wanted to learn more. But now the innocent ignorance I observed in my classmates has evolved into menacing attitudes that present physical danger to Arabs and Muslims, refugees and Americans alike. What was once curiosity has turned into hatred and fear.

Life as a student: Slurpees, new friends, and silly questions

In 2005, two years after the US invasion of Iraq, I faced the possibility of not being able continue my education due to the deteriorating security in Baghdad. New groups surfaced that claimed religiosity and perpetuated sectarianism. My uncovered hair and outspoken and opinionated disposition made me a target. A note, along with a bloody bullet, was thrown into my yard threatening my family and me to leave, or else. We fled to Jordan.

My family could not afford to send me to school in Jordan, so I enlisted one of our American family friends to guide me through the process of applying to American schools. I wanted to be in the land of possibility. I wanted to have a locker like the kids in Saved by the Bell and make new friends like Will in The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.

When a private school in Maine offered me a full scholarship, I finally got my own locker, made friends, spoke English, and slurped Slurpees. I lived with an American host family and only interacted with American students and adults. While most of the people in my school were open-minded and knew a lot about the Middle East, I was still asked questions that, at the time, I found laughable. Questions like, "Do you ride a camel to school?" and, "Are you related to Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussein?"

"Do you ride a camel to school?" "Are you related to Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussein?"

I didn't realize that those questions signified my otherness and made that very otherness my identity. I wasn't aware of the divide between American and Arab when I first arrived to the US or even during my first year of high school. I thought those questions were normal and it was my duty to educate these students on all things Arab. When the questions kept coming, I realized that the meaning behind them ran much deeper than superficial ignorance.

No one at the school bluntly told me that I was different. Every single adult at my school was very helpful, aware, and accommodating. Instead, I felt my otherness through small nuances in the way the other students treated me and the way they treated the South American exchange students.

I left the United States not fully understanding the depth of my experience. I still had the impression that America was the dream, that it was what I wished Iraq could be.

Why I fled Iraq

Upon graduating high school I traveled and lived in many places in both Europe and the Middle East. Years later I ended up back in Baghdad, in the comfort of home and family. However, that comfort was threatened once again.

The second time I came to the United States was in 2014. I was fleeing ISIS. They had taken over parts of northern Iraq and Syria and were becoming a terrifying global phenomenon. I could not live in Iraq anymore. ISIS had not reached Baghdad at that time, but their presence manifested itself in escalated violence and increasing sectarianism.

I was once again ridiculed for my uncovered hair. When I went on job interviews, I faced harassment.

I was personally in the vicinity of three suicide bombs within two weeks, and I was once again ridiculed for my uncovered hair. When I went on job interviews, I faced harassment for the way I carried myself. I felt like I was in constant danger between the widespread random violence and being a target.

My options were limited — either stay in Baghdad and confront the dangers of every-day bombs and shootings or ask for help. The place that was once my home was tarnished. When faced with the decision of choosing my own safety or this tainted version of my home, I chose safety.

I packed my clothes, pocketed my passport, and folded my love for Iraq into a box and tucked it in the very back of my mind. I knew that if I had any hope at a life I would not be able to go back.