I am mentally transported back to the days when my uncle told stories. As I grew older, I began to fill in the gaps he had deliberately left to make them “age-appropriate.” Sometimes, it was not easy for him to interpret the truth for us—especially when that truth was too explicit in its horrors. Yet, while he never lied in his chosen interpretation, his countenance, his shift in composure, gave him away. Or perhaps I simply absorbed it. I learned to read between his expressions, recognizing the truths he left unsaid to protect me.

I never judged him nor blamed him. Instead, I was grateful. He planted seeds—hints of what happened before my time. Not everything, but enough to speak of how our people were treated by our oppressors. We knew of the horror, of the light-skinned men and their guns. I was no artist, but I carried a vivid picture of them in my mind. Sometimes I saw them in photographs. I often wondered if we would learn about them in school.

“Never fear them,” he would tell me when my mother was not around. “But always respect them. Respect has no boundaries but never trust them. Learn the difference and never forget it.”

In the end, as it was in the beginning, we are all human beings. Among our people, you shall find enemies, and among theirs, friends.

I found consolation in books and movies that depicted white people standing up for dark-skinned people. But my mind was chuffed by portrayals of how our people were treated: mothers beaten while their children watched—or with babies strapped to their backs—or shot dead before their eyes; fathers dragged away and beaten to a pulp for failing to produce their dom-pass; children shot because they refused to stop running to save a sibling; wives raped while their husbands were forced to watch, then shot in their presence, left to see him burn in what was once their home; grown men punished for telling a young white boy they were not a boy themselves; men laughing in jubilation after killing the neger, the kafir.

And still, there is fear of being ostracized for speaking out when a white person who has never met me hurls slurs and slander. No—that is a reflection of his character, not mine. But it is out there, and so is he.

“The Black one cannot possibly be a city mother. Send her home. She doesn’t belong here.”

These words landed like a bombshell on my heart. I found myself secretly wondering what set me apart. There was the knowledge my father instilled in me, the humility my mother embedded in me—she was a humble woman, yet strong, and knew where she stood. And there was what society taught me through my experiences and endurance, coupled with those who have supported me as a person—those who love and respect me, who know that an asshole is an asshole, whether dark-skinned or light-skinned. Those who have never truly traveled to find enlightenment are sadly blinded by their own artificial intelligence—or outright foolishness—to think every dark-skinned person they see is less than any white person.

I have helped more white people in this nation than I have my own kind. But I do not count them by numbers.

Go on, invest in hating me or my kind.

Mr. Pigg Maha, you had problems and issues in your life so many years ago. The colors red, green, and yellow existed when your problems started. When you were walking facing forward, walking in silence, but behind you, you knew exactly what you left. You had problems—so sad they began to change at the hands of the very people you now praise. You had problems when you could not stand the sound of a baby crying in Gaza, you who yourself had a baby that would not let your parents sleep through the night. You had problems when the sound of children playing in the park—the one with the sign that says “Kids Play”—disturbed you. You had problems when your nation and all nations declared war on nations that did not want war because they had their own problems. You had problems once homes were destroyed and people started flocking to yours to see what kind of patches you had—and you believed yours were always green, without any blood being shared to obtain them.

You have problems now. You see me—a person not of green, yellow, or red—walking the streets of a country on this earth that you did not make but found yourself a legal citizen of, and you have a problem. I came here in good faith, but you look only at the color of my skin and think I am your problem. You cannot believe the value I carry as a person—the amount of talent, knowledge, capabilities, and skills I possess. You have a problem. Surely a person of my color cannot be a human being? If a human being is valued, and has value, that cannot be more than yours. You have a problem.

Whether you believe in God or not, you do not believe there is a God who can make a person like me not a person like you—and still be proud and worthy. You have a problem.

It is not my duty to sympathize with your ignorance or to sit with you in your hatred. I pity people who run around with tons of weight on their hearts, hating people they do not know. If I show up dressed in the right color you prefer, that is nothing to vouch for me. You think you have a solution. Look at yourself before you die. Before you kill me for something you think can only be a lie—forgive yourself. I would not want to see you or hear about you. Perhaps not even hear of you at all. Because I truly do not care that you died with so much hatred and blindness so deep that even if you killed me and my kind down to the last person, you would still have a problem.

Fellow human being, it is not my skin color that defies your joy, your happiness, your peace—whether physical or peace of mind. It is your own foolishness. And I say this with respect, because we are not perfected, and that is not my problem.