Huma Abedin - Both/And: A Life in Many Worlds

Both/And

A Life in Many Worlds

Huma Abedin

The opinions and characterizations in this piece are those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of the U.S. Government.

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Copyright 2021 by Huma Abedin

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First Scribner hardcover edition November 2021

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Jacket design by Jaya Miceli

Jacket photographs Brigitte Lacombe

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021944137

ISBN 978-1-5011-9480-1

ISBN 978-1-5011-9482-5 (ebook)

For my parentsSaleha and Zainwho taught me what it means to live fully.

For my sonJordan Zainwho taught me what it means to love unconditionally.

We tell ourselves stories in order to live.

Joan Didion

I grew up surrounded by stories. The shelves in my childhood home were filled with books of every genre, every period in history, by every kind of author. Hardcovers, softcovers, brand-new, secondhand, spines split from wear and tear. Every bedside table held piles more. By our couch, baskets brimmed with stacks of newspapers and magazines.

Then there were the stories passed down by various relatives, as I sat on shag carpets or in family backyards, about generations of my ancestors. The women in my family who defied the norms of their day and pushed against the constraints within which they lived. The men who refused to accept the concept of otherness and explored coexistence during a time when sectarian and nationalistic fervor overtook their worlds.

Before me, there came generations of public servants, orators, healers, educators. Their motivations, actions, and choices created the moment I would step into. They blazed trails which allowed me to walk right on past the barriers they had faced and build a life of my choosing. A life shaped by their pursuit of knowledge, their love of literature, their curiosity about the world, and their commitment to their family, their country, and their faith.

When I was a little girl, I believed that my life would somehow be different from the lives of everyone around me. I carried that sense of certitude until a combination of fate, luck, and hard work placed me at the center of an epic adventure.

I embarked on a career in public service inspired by and working alongside an American icon because I wanted to live the values I was raised with, and do justice to the examples set by my parents. I was proud to serve a country that gave my family the freedoms and opportunities they couldnt possibly have had anywhere else.

The pages that follow track the migration of a family over the course of generations: from the Middle East, through Central Asia, into the subcontinent of India, over the Atlantic to the United States, back to the Middle East, and then returning again to America. This is not intended to be a treatise on religion, but a personal reflection on the meaning of faith in my own life. It is not a sweeping record of womens rights, but follows the choices, opportunities, and obstacles I encountered and witnessed. It is not an encyclopedic dissection of immigration in America, but just one familys experience of the American Dream. It is not a dissertation on American policy in the Middle East or vice versa, but the view of one young woman raised simultaneously in both worlds, loving both, questioning both, and, more than anything, appreciating both. It is not meant to be a set of political analyses on any particular campaign or candidate or party, but the chronicle of a singular life in American politics. It is not a romance novel but there is love toodeep and true and heartbreaking.

My journey has taken me to more than 100 countries. From the desert of Saudi Arabia to the White House in Washington, DC. From erupting war zones to the shrinking Arctic Circle. From refugee camps to Buckingham Palace. From flying on Air Force One to hiding in car trunks. It is the tale of one persons walk alongside history. Honored to witness. Proud to serve. Humbled to be recognized. Shocked to be dissected. Grateful to have been loved. Hopeful for the future.

This is my story.

Happy is the man who avoids hardship, but how fine is the man who is afflicted and shows endurance.

Prophet Muhammad (PBUH)

I was a newly arrived American in Saudi Arabia when I got lost in a sea of abayas. It was 1978. I was three. It was hot that night. Actually, it was always hot. My parents had taken us shopping to Balad, to look for curtain rods. Balad is Jeddahs old citya labyrinth of winding streets leading to a myriad of alleyways where an explosion of sights and sounds meets your senses, emanating from small shops packed closely together. Brightly colored childrens clothing, tight bolts of fabric in black and white, endless displays of lamps and dates and perfume, electronics galore with every gadget turned to maximum volume, gleaming jewelry shops with twenty-four-karat-gold necklace sets seeming to float in air-conditioned windows. Overhead, fluorescent tube lights made it seem like perpetual, garish daytime. The air carried layered scents of baby formula, musky incense, grilled meat from the shawarma stands, and shisha smoke.

Men wore long white thobes with pantaloons peeking out from below, and either white or checkered headdresses. All the women, including my mother, were covered in black abayas. Back then, abayas were loose robes made from black silk or polyester with small armholes on either side, and open down the front so one hand was constantly clutching it closed. Draped over the womens heads were black scarves. Some covered their faces entirely, so their world was always a muffled gray. Others had slits cut in the fabric across the eyes to allow them to see more clearly.

My mother only settled after haggling on a reasonable price with the salesman, mandatory for shopping in Balad. My older brother Hassan was helping my mother carry one end of the curtain rods, and my big sister Hadeel and I were holding on to her abaya as she led us through the confusing, crowded streets toward the car where my father was waiting. We stopped at a shop that sold dates. Before me, at eye level, lay massive round copper trays heaped with different varieties of the dried fruit, all stacked taller than me. Dark syrupy sweet dates, honey-colored dates that were tougher and chewier, dates dipped in nuts or chocolate.