HanaHuaWa


HanaHuaWa explores dual identities and the tension between cultural heritage and present surroundings. Each curated article reflects the experience of balancing different worlds—whether it's being split between two cultures, places, or identities. 

From navigating immigrant life, racial or cultural differences, to appreciating the richness of both worlds, these stories emphasize the importance of community, identity, and belonging while embracing the complexities of living between two or more realities.

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Being Da Musalman: Faith, Strength, and Dignity

Issue 02 Article 03


Being Da Musalman: Faith, Strength, and Dignity
Ghamay Wazir
The first time I felt racism was a shock. It happened in a grocery store when a stranger looked at me and said, “Go back to your country.” I was frozen for a moment, unsure how to respond. In that instant, I realized that I wasn’t just an individual anymore—I represented da musalman [1] in the eyes of many Americans. It wasn’t about who I was as a person but what I symbolized to them: someone foreign, someone different.

This experience was painful. In Afghanistan, I never questioned where I belonged—da khpal kor [2] was clear to me. Here in America, I began to feel like an outsider, constantly reminded of my differences by people who didn’t understand me or my culture. Da dee nafrat [3] made me question my place in this new country. How could I be part of a society that saw me as “other,” simply because of the color of my skin, my accent, or the fact that I am Muslim?

Beyond outright racism, there are everyday moments of khafa [4] that Afghani immigrants like me experience. In school and at work, I’ve encountered subtle remarks or microaggressions, comments that seem innocent but carry deep misunderstandings about my identity. “Do you speak English?” someone would ask, despite hearing me speak fluently moments earlier. Or, “You don’t look like a terrorist,” said as if it were a compliment. These words may not be as harsh as outright insults, but they sting nonetheless, constantly reminding me that I’m different.

[1] the Muslim
[2] my home
[3] This hatred
[4] frustration
I’ve also faced assumptions about my religion. As an Afghan Muslim, my deen [5] is a central part of my life, yet it’s often misunderstood here. After praying during a break at work, I’ve been met with strange looks or asked questions like, “Are you really allowed to pray here?” There’s a sense of mujburiyat [6] to constantly explain myself, to educate people about Islam and Afghanistan. It’s exhausting, having to prove that I’m not a threat or a stereotype, but rather just a person trying to live my life with dignity and respect.

Despite these challenges, I have learned to find strength in my Afghaniyat [7]. Growing up in Afghanistan, zan zan [8] and izzat [9] were deeply instilled in me by my family. Even in the face of racism, I hold onto these values. It’s not always easy—there are moments when I feel taaqat de kamaye [10] from the constant pressure of being judged for who I am. But remembering where I come from and the strength of my ancestors keeps me grounded.

[5] faith
[6] obligation
[7] Afghan identity
[8] self-respect
[9] honor
[10] weakness

My faith plays an essential role in how I navigate racism in America. In Islam, sabar [11] is a key principle, and I try to embody it whenever I face discrimination. It’s not easy to remain calm when someone insults your background or questions your humanity, but I remind myself that my dignity is my own to protect. Sabar da izzat dey [12], my father used to say, and I try to live by those words. I don’t let the ignorance of others define my worth or the richness of my culture. I also respond to hatred with mehrabani [13]. When someone makes a hurtful comment, I take a deep breath and remind myself that their words come from a place of misunderstanding, not truth. Da haqiqatan [14] is that many people don’t know what it means to be Afghani or Muslim, so instead of responding with anger, I try to show them that we are all human, deserving of respect.

As I continue this journey, I hold my head high, proud of my heritage and my faith. I know that being an Afghani in America means facing challenges, but it also means carrying with me the strength of my people, the beauty of my culture, and the resilience of khpal watan [15] that has survived for centuries. Inshallah [16], one day, people will see us not for our differences, but for the shared humanity that binds us all. 
[11] patience
[12] Patience brings honor
[13] mehrabani
[14] the reality
[15] my homeland
[16] If Allah wills it

Akino, F. (1972).
Landscape in Afghanistan. Color on paper, framed.
Hassani, S. (2013). 
Dreaming Graffiti [Sketch]. Created at 2nd Street of Dehmazang, Kabul, Afghanistan.
George Bellows, 
Dempsey and Firpo, 1924, Whitney Museum of American Art
Vogue Horst, H. P. (1971, March 15). 
Wedding Tent in the Home of Angelo Donghia, Vogue. Photograph. New York, NY, United States.
Grant Wood
American Gothic (1930), Art Institute of Chicago
Frederic Remington, 
Aiding a Comrade, 1890, Museum of Fine Arts, Houston



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A Word from the Founder

Hello,
My name is Tina Cho, a Senior at Phillips Academy Andover with an academic interest in language and identity. As a Korean American student whose first language is Korean, I grappled with suppressing my accented English when I first arrived. However, after embracing my unique tongue, including the unintended mixing of Korean and English while speaking, I saw that my accent and mixed-use language embody the different parts of who I am as a person. I started this magazine to showcase the unique beauty of mixed-English language and the identities they represent, so that readers and potential contributors can do the same. I hope you enjoy each of the individual works and the stories they hold, as they express small, nuanced slices of our immensely rich world.

- Tina Cho, Andover ‘25