BERKELEY'S NEWS • OCTOBER 01, 2022

Sarah Dadouch

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While the significance of the year 2000 as the beginning of a new millenium was lost on young 8-year-old me, that year was still a landmark year in the life of little Sarah Dadouch. Until that year, I had mainly read Arabic books that were easily accessible in the bookstores of Damascus, Syria, and I was content with my book collection. But then, my father, who frequently took trips to the States, purchased a small book somewhere in America — a book that had been described to him by the pushy salesperson as the new obsession of this nation.
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While the significance of the year 2000 as the beginning of a new millenium was lost on young 8-year-old me, that year was still a landmark year in the life of little Sarah Dadouch. Until that year, I had mainly read Arabic books that were easily accessible in the bookstores of Damascus, Syria, and I was content with my book collection. But then, my father, who frequently took trips to the States, purchased a small book somewhere in America — a book that had been described to him by the pushy salesperson as the new obsession of this nation.
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One especially snowy winter, my dad decided that it was the perfect time for a road trip. He, along with my three siblings and I, bundled up and piled into his beat-up powder-blue Ford pickup, inviting along our longtime friend Adventure to drive along with us into central Syria.
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One especially snowy winter, my dad decided that it was the perfect time for a road trip. He, along with my three siblings and I, bundled up and piled into his beat-up powder-blue Ford pickup, inviting along our longtime friend Adventure to drive along with us into central Syria.
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For as long as I remember, every summer, my maternal aunts and all of my cousins would travel from wherever they were living at the time to settle in my grandma’s secluded, bright-yellow house in Al-Zabadani, a small town about half an hour outside Damascus, Syria.
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For as long as I remember, every summer, my maternal aunts and all of my cousins would travel from wherever they were living at the time to settle in my grandma’s secluded, bright-yellow house in Al-Zabadani, a small town about half an hour outside Damascus, Syria.
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Last week, while my Facebook was exploding with friends’ posts about getting into Stanford’s and Harvard’s graduate programs, I faced a dilemma: Do I change out of my 5-year-old sweatpants and oversized sweater when getting my SpoonRocket order? Not that I cared how I looked — I was just worried the guy who delivered my mac and cheese at 3:21 p.m. would be the same one who delivered second one at 3:42 p.m. I decided I didn’t care and kept my comfortable clothes on.
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Last week, while my Facebook was exploding with friends’ posts about getting into Stanford’s and Harvard’s graduate programs, I faced a dilemma: Do I change out of my 5-year-old sweatpants and oversized sweater when getting my SpoonRocket order? Not that I cared how I looked — I was just worried the guy who delivered my mac and cheese at 3:21 p.m. would be the same one who delivered second one at 3:42 p.m. I decided I didn’t care and kept my comfortable clothes on.
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