Four fingers grip an empty cup. “Go back to your country, terrorist!” a stranger spits, tossing his beer on me as his eyes survey my Middle Eastern features in disgust.
Budweiser drips down my cheeks and onto my American flag T-shirt as cars race the Indy 500 track in circles on a hot summer day in 2013.
I blink. Four fingers settle on a dime edge of limestone. A crisp Wyoming breeze envelops me as I flex my hand toward a razor-thin crimp on Ministry of Magic (5.13a/b). I inhale, grounding myself in the moment. It’s September 11, 2023. Chalk floats in the air as my feet dance across limestone smears. The cool breeze brushes my face, and my focus sharpens on the powerful, delicate crux of my first 5.13.
Words by Shara Zaia, published in Volume 24 of The Climbing Zine, now available
You can also hear Shara read the story on our Dirtbag State of Mind podcast: https://climbingzine.com/sharp-edges-holding-on-by-letting-go-by-shara-zaia/
Banner photo of the author by Zoe Rayor
I didn’t grow up climbing. My ancestors come from the ancient Assyrian Empire, which existed between 900 and 600 BCE. Located in the northern part of Mesopotamia, Assyria made up modern-day Syria, Iraq, Iran, and Turkey. During World War I, the Ottoman Empire began an ethnic cleansing of the Assyrian population. The genocide of my people resulted in a diaspora, a mass exodus of my ancestors from their homes. Born in Habbaniyah, Iraq, my parents escaped this persecution through education. Their extensive studies in pharmacy and neonatology brought them to Chicago, Illinois, where, in 1981, they joined a growing Assyrian population. After my oldest sister entered Team Zaia, my parents found jobs at the Cleveland Clinic, having my older brother and me in Ohio. My siblings and I grew up in the liminal space between two cultures: American and Assyrian.
Currently, the federal government categorizes Assyrians and other folks from the Middle East and North African (MENA) communities as “white.” However, “white” does not reflect my experience. Growing up as an Iraqi-American in Ohio, people asked me, “What are you? Where are you really from?”
After 9/11, things became sharp and derogatory. “Terrorist.” “Towelhead.” And then came the warning: “Go back to your country.”
To avoid Middle Eastern racism in a post-9/11 society, I fought to fit the Eurocentric mold and became vigilant about blending in. Avoiding assimilation felt like trying to stay dry while living in the ocean. I straightened my hair. I wore trendy clothes. I implored my parents to stop speaking to me in Surid, adding to the endangerment of my first language. I avoided anything that would highlight my difference. I tried to be “American.”
In early 2019, two friends invited me to a rock climbing gym in Denver, Colorado. In spring, they took me to Clear Creek Canyon in Golden, Colorado, for my first time on real rock. “You should lead it!”
They encouraged me. As I clipped each bolt, I channeled my father’s tribe, the Tyari, who are warriors known for bravery. That day, I flashed Steve’s Wild Turkey Day (5.7) at East Colfax. My mother’s tribe, the Qudshanis, are known to be stubborn, so I returned to the crag determined. The following day, I onsighted Mineral Museum (5.9) on the Crystal Tower.
As the pandemic tightened its grip in 2020, the climbing community pulled me in even closer, offering the connection I was craving. In September of that year, Menesha Mannapperuma and I created Cruxing in Color, a meetup for Denver-area climbers of color. Our first meetup in Mestizo-Curtis Park hosted seven folks in masks. Today, CIC is a 501(c)(3) that supports 5,000 members with gym membership scholarships, monthly meetups, access to free gear, and educational clinics.
“I’ve been climbing in Colorado for six years, but it wasn’t until Cruxing in Color that I actually felt like a real climber,” shared CIC attendee Sushia Rahimizadeh.
“The energy was completely different—no stares, just smiles, good conversation—and my blackness was never the center of attention. I’d never seen so many climbers of color in one space,” Sheyan Clark reflected after a meetup at Movement Climbing + Fitness.
The climbing community has historically been pretty homogenous. When you walk into the gym or show up at a crag, you quickly internalize what it means to look like and sound like a climber. Cruxing in Color challenges that norm.
Sade agreed, “I don’t fit the demographic of a typical Colorado climber at all. CIC meetups are an opportunity for me to boldly take up space in a traditionally white space, connect with some of the most supportive and encouraging people I’ve met, and feel a sense of belonging in a like-minded community.”
Through Cruxing in Color, I learned early on that there was much more to climbing than physical performance. Still, in a sport where grades are centered so strongly, it would be challenging to avoid.
That same year, climbing brought me to Ten Sleep, Wyoming. My last name, Zaia, is the name of the Assyrian patron saint of travel. I channeled the saint as I set off for Wyoming in my little red van, Habibi, the Arabic word for “my love.” I had planned a five-day climbing trip over summer break from my job as a preschool teacher in Green Valley Ranch, Colorado.
Five days turned into five weeks as the community at Valarie and Louie Anderson’s Rock Ranch drew me in. Over the summer in 2020, I sent my first 5.12—Wutang’s Wild Shinto Ride, a delicate vertical crimp route on streaks of blue rock. The next year, after finishing the 5.12s on the Shinto Wall, I moved over to the Grasshopper Wall, a similarly streaked section of blue stone next door. My friend Lena had just sent Dances with Cows (5.13a) and encouraged me to try it. It felt comical to imagine myself, a fairly new climber, on this wall. Still, I trusted Lena because she saw me in a way that I wasn’t able to see myself in quite yet. So I approached as experienced sport climbers cramped the small space under the ten 5.13 to 5.14 routes of the Grasshopper Wall. The air felt tense as everyone waited their turn to test their strength on small, sharp edges.
I felt self-conscious as I pulled through the crux and worked out the moves piece by piece, fitting myself in between “the real 5.13 climbers.” Having only ever sent a few low 5.12s, Dances would be a long-term project. Still, working the choreography excited me. I loved the precision of the beta through ballet-like movements. I didn’t expect to get to the top, let alone send. I merely wanted to push the limits of my perceived capabilities.
A few weeks passed and I one-hung the route after falling at the crux. “I can’t believe you got so close!” my internal voice encouraged me. As I continued to fall in the same place, my one-hang heaven turned into a one-hang hell. “What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you send?” my internal voice would jab.
Projecting switched from being physical to mental and emotional. I started to place my worth and belonging in my performance. My fists tightened as I blamed myself for being unable to perform. Tears of frustration speckled my face as I watched others progress while I remained in the same place. Once again, I found myself on the outside of perceived belonging and capability. Maybe if I could climb 5.13, that would change.
I spent the summers of 2021 and 2022 one-hanging Dances with Cows. My body moved effortlessly through the tough intro boulder before finding a decent rest in two deep pockets at bolt four. Deep breath. I barely felt the pain as I wrapped the edges of my fingers around the sharp chert and moved deeper into the crux. Left hand crossed over right with ease as I placed my feet on tiny chips of limestone, eyeing my next bolt. Clip. Exhale. Left foot stepped high and settled by my hip as the shallow left-facing side-pull forced its way deeper into the raw skin on my fingertips. My right leg flagged behind the left, and I extended toward the small pocket above me. Once again, I felt the air whizzing by me before the end of my rope caught me.
Falling at the crux move became my choreographed beta. Fall, pull on, go to the top, and clip the chains. I hiked to the crag with friends, shared my beta, and watched them all send. Helping others achieve success has always been a meaningful purpose for me. It’s what drew me into my decade-long career as a teacher. It’s what propelled my work with Cruxing in Color.
Still, I felt left behind. When you focus on supporting others, you can easily find yourself sacrificing your own goals. As summer 2023 approached, I wanted to push past my mental barrier and send. Unfortunately, life did its thing, and I wasn’t able to climb much in the six months before my Ten Sleep season.
When I showed up in Wyoming this summer, I had a strict no-projecting rule. I focused on time with friends, new movement, and finding a love of climbing again. I spent all of July toproping whatever my friends were climbing. Moving my body on rock felt lovely, but my mental space remained heavy after unexplained seizures, COVID, loss, weight gain, and depression. Leading felt unsafe emotionally. In past seasons, I had tightened my grip on my goal of sending Dances and watched it drift further away. This year, I let go and things started happening. In August, I nearly onsighted my first 5.12c, Walk the Dog. I sent it in a quick second session and felt ready to take on something harder.
My 5.13 goal kept reemerging, but I wasn’t ready to visit my old friend, Dances with Cows. Instead, in late August, I approached Ministry of Magic (5.13a/b), another painfully thin, crimpy route that Lena recommended. The climb sits in a quiet area between Valhalla and the Superratic Pillar, offering more solitude than the chaotic energy of the Grasshopper Wall. Eventually, I one-hung it. This time, instead of feeling thrilled, fear bubbled in my chest. Again, the climb became less physical and more mental. My negative internal voice boomed: “You’re not a 5.13 climber. You are not enough. You will never belong.”
In early September, I threw myself at the climb, trying until my fingers bled. A series of ticktacky moves on razor crimps and smeary edges from the second to fifth bolt marks the crux of Ministry. I struggled, deadpointing off two sharp crimps to a small edge, and I kept taking a long, sideways fall. I watched my friends and tried their beta, frustrated when it wouldn’t work for me. After a week, I found my own beta, my own way, and the movement finally clicked. I balanced with my right foot on a smear and my left on a pocket that barely fit my shoe’s edge. I flexed up to a two-finger pocket and clipped off a mono. I stopped forcing myself to do what I had seen others doing and allowed my body to flow naturally. I knew that I could send—my way.
The next day, I left my climbing shoes behind and hiked up to the Ministry Wall, winding through the switchbacks, brushing past wild raspberries, and letting the sun warm my shoulders. At the base, I stared at the eighty feet of limestone as doubt bubbled in my throat. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I blinked. I felt beer dripping down my young face as shame burned my red cheeks back in Indiana. I blinked again. My eyes settled on a heart-shaped rock at my feet. I squeezed it to my chest and placed it under the route. “I’ll be back,” I said gently.
On September 11, I returned to Ministry. I touched the heart-shaped rock beneath the climb and felt a sense of ease. I tied in, and my dear friend, Zoë, put me on belay for my warm-up burn. As I climbed past the second bolt, I placed four finger pads on a dime-edge foothold. My mind relaxed. My foot found a pocket, and I leaned to a crimp. After bumping my right hand to a side pull, I reached to a crimp rail. “You can do this,” I whispered.
I exhaled, placed my foot in the narrow pocket, and deadpointed. Determined, I moved my right hand into a two-finger pocket before finding the hidden mono and clipping. The crux was over. “Holy shit.”
After two more bolts, I shook out, trying to avoid the flash pump. I reminded myself to stay focused because I knew I could still fall off the small holds. I kept moving, calmly, until suddenly, I was at the anchors. I felt the smile lines deepening around my glistening eyes as I noticed the leaves of the canyon had begun changing from green to yellow. A new season was coming, and I would leave my summer home soon. I felt overwhelming peace as I let out a long breath, ready to close this chapter.
I thought this achievement would lessen the need I felt to constantly prove myself within a patriarchal society. I had hoped it would take away the trauma of being a Middle Eastern woman in an Islamaphobic world. I wished it could protect me from the bullies who only stand taller by standing on the backs of those they push to the ground. Sadly, the peace I felt while hanging at the chains felt short lived once I was back on the ground. Only a few close friends knew I was projecting the route. Still, the following day, a woman in the community saw I had sent. She had been bullying me for several years and was keeping close tabs on my Mountain Project ticks. When she sent Ministry, she publicly rated the route 5.13 but shared that once she saw my friends and I were able to climb it, she knew it couldn’t be more than 12d. She had been climbing for so much longer than me, so there was no way we could be at the same level.
Threatened by my success, she downgraded it immediately and accused me of not sending the climb “correctly.” I had been practicing the route with a stick clip to avoid decking as I worked out the crux beta. “Clip all the bolts for the full glory. It is certainly not unsafe, especially if you climb at the grade,” she sprayed on Mountain Project, insinuating again that I had no business climbing 5.13.
Another September 11th had passed, and White America was still trying to dictate how I should exist. My head was spinning as I read on: “Don’t be a toprope hero.”
The bitter words were a cold slap against my face—an admitted attempt to hurt me. I blinked back to the Indy 500. I wanted to feel safe in my country, but I wasn’t a real American. Even now, I wanted to feel safe on the wall, but I wasn’t a real climber. “See? You will never be enough,” my internal voice jabbed.
I took a deep breath as the pain threatened to take root inside of me. In stillness, I felt the unmistakable support of my community behind me. I felt my own strength. Suddenly, I was back in the sweltering summer heat of Indiana in 2013. I stand with the younger version of myself, beer dripping down her face. The words “Go back to your country” hang heavy in the air. I take her hand, look that racist stranger in the eye, and together we tell him: My people don’t have a country. They belong to the cradle of civilization, long before his people even had the thought to colonize the land he now gatekeeps. Ancient gods sculpted my body, but men like him taught me to hate it. My people are in diaspora, existing as a minority on their native land, and disappearing into history books. The Middle East isn’t made of terrorists. It’s filled with people like my mom and dad who would have fed him, clothed him, and called him family.
My eyes opened and my peace returned. I recognized that sending 5.13 could never validate my worth. It was never about that. In the end, being a good climber in the community is less about your performance on the wall and more about the way you show up on the ground. Still, clipping the chains on Ministry of Magic marked a huge accomplishment. In my first few years of climbing, I’d set an audacious goal for myself. I’d failed. I’d returned. I’d struggled. I’d succeeded. More than that, the process was illuminating. It didn’t magically alleviate all my trauma or protect me from harm. But as a Tyari-Qudshanis, I faced my fears and overcame them. The chapter was finally closed.
I hope sharing this will support those who have ever felt marginalized or underestimated. This is for the folks who have been targeted, torn down, or bullied for simply existing in their own bodies.
You are strong. You can overcome limiting beliefs and achieve things you never thought possible.
You are worthy. You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone.
You belong. You always have.
Shara found climbing in 2019 and has continuously challenged the community to move past outdated beliefs and ethics. Shara is based in Denver, Colorado, but you can find her traveling all over the country covered in dog hair and chalk. When she’s not levitating on delicate, techy rock, Shara works full time in the outdoor industry as Co-President of Cruxing in Color and as Programs Manager at American Alpine Club. Follow her on IG at @sharazaia or read more about her work at sharazaia.com.
