My Name
It’s funny how we don’t pay much attention to how it makes us feel when someone calls our name. Excited, scared, nervous, afraid- those are some of the mixed feelings I have had. When I was a little [mischievous] girl I would often get that guilty/nervous feeling in my stomach when my name was called at home or outside the home. Today, it gives me hope, confidence, and comfort- it gives me comfort to know that someone wants to talk. It’s as if my voice has a place. It’s as if someone will believe in what I say. It’s as if someone cares to know. It’s as if I do not need to hide anymore or be afraid.
In Arabic Sahiba means “lady” or “madame” and was used for many generations to respectfully address a woman before taking her actual name. In Punjabi/Hindi it means “Master” or “Leader” or “Beloved” and is used as a reference to God- much as “Lord” is used to refer to God. In the 1430 page Sikh Holy text, the Gurbani, “Sahiba” is mentioned in many of the hymns to praise God. There have also been Sufi and Hindi songs about “Sahiba”. My mother says she heard the name from the Gurbani scripture and it struck her right away. She knew immediately that is what she would name me. My grandfather warned her about naming me Sahiba because in the legendary Punjabi folklore Mirza Sahiba (the Romeo & Juliet of Punjab), Sahiba ends up betraying Mirza and causing his death by her brothers. My mother frequently reminds me of that story and I’ve got to say…that makes me feel pretty bad.
As a young woman raised in a conservative Sikh family, it is challenging to maintain respect. I was born in Johnstown, Pennsylvania. That’s my birth state, and America is my birth country. As much as I would hope for it to be untrue, it has been been a struggle for me to have a voice and be respected. In conservative Indian culture it is considered rude or obnoxious for a female to laugh at home even after a joke told; so if I ever laughed and spoke at the dining table, I was told by my father I was mannerless and my future in- laws would not accept me. If I ever expressed my opinion about what’s going on around the globe such as affairs in the middle- east, Trump’s horrifying decisions, or how women are treated in other parts of the world, I would often get the angry looks from my father and be told condescending statements before a “shut up”. That’s because I did not have the right to speak. It was far ingrained into me that I was less than my brothers, who were hardly judged for anything they did or said. Over time, my self- confidence withered. I felt like a caged bird.
When I had finished high school as a top, honor student, I started school at a university several hours from home. The decision to go far away from home was the most life- changing experience. I had realized how much the culture surrounding me for 17 years had been affecting my ability to adapt to American culture I was fully exposed to in college. I had learned so many life lessons in such short time and it was a beautiful experience. There were times my emotions got the best of me. I had been singing Indian classical vocals since I was a kid; I guess expression was in my nature. Yet, when circumstance required me to express myself when most critical, I could not do so in my own household. Outside the home, the world can be a vicious place. Expressing myself for the first time in my life felt so liberating yet so scary; sometimes it did not end well. Just like anyone, I had to fight my own battles. Sometimes I won, and sometimes I did not. Whatever the result, at least I was no longer a caged bird.
Growing up with two opposing cultures is not easy. What may be morally wrong in one culture may be morally permissible in the other. What may be a sign of strength and honor in one culture may be a sign of downright disrespect and dishonor in the other. When this battle goes on in my head, I find myself staring up at the blank wall straight above my bed in the dark nights. I find myself struggling to contemplate my name. It’s my identity. But I’m no “master” or “leader”. I couldn’t possibly be. Was I supposed to be that “betrayer”? Was I supposed to be a “leader”? Oh, and a “lady”? Then why wasn’t I treated like one? Yet when such thoughts strike me, I turn my pain into gratefulness. I remember that my name is Sahiba and I am born in America. So when I hear my name today, I know I have a voice. I feel freedom, hope, empowerment, and faith.
