Last August, when Imam Mahdi al Jumeili of the small Hudheifa Mosque in Baghdad\’s Shurti neighborhood met three American officers to resolve a dispute over soldiers entering the grounds of his mosque, his first question was: "Are any of you Jews?"
I\’m 11-years-old, my world a patchwork of mixed identities and conflicting beliefs, my eyes searching for a horizon I cannot yet see but that I follow almost by instinct. It\’s August in New York — a long and gray stretch of humidity and noise, people speaking to me in an accent I cannot understand, streets choked with traffic, shops overflowing with merchandise, buildings that block out the sun and cast permanent shadows upon the city. It\’s the first of many visits I\’ll make with my family to America, a small and tentative step along a journey that has begun long ago in my parents\’ hearts.
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