Dictators rob you of your identity.

A couple of weeks ago, I was finalizing a new housing lease and met the house's owner. “Where are you from,” I asked him as I was about to leave. I am usually careful with this question as it can appear subtly insensitive in some situations. Some people are not that enthusiastic about talking about their roots or immigration story. I was curious, however. The guy had an accent; his looks suggested he was from the Middle East.

He was. That’s exactly what he replied — “the Middle East.” He said he immigrated when he was young. He’s now in his fifties.

My guess was correct, but “the Middle East” is a broad concept. It’s like answering, “I’m from Europe.” I expected a more precise answer but wasn’t getting it. I sensed I had made him uncomfortable with my question, exactly like I feared (but asked nonetheless).

A couple of weeks later I discovered where the owner was from. In one of the closets, I found this bill with Saddam Hussein:

Maybe I’m overanalyzing and playing Sherlock Holmes too much, but my take is that the guy was embarrassed to say that he’s from Iraq.

Last night I was speaking to my Mom. She left Russia shortly after Putin started the war in Ukraine. She is still very emotional following the news about Russia’s atrocities both against Ukraine and domestically. We have…