Fifteen
years ago, in the morning before school, the TV was on, set to a news channel.
Smoke billowing from towers, fire protruding from gaps that should not be.
Being 8, such an event was confusing – but I knew that it was important, and
distressing. Now, I hardly remember the immediate reaction to 9/11. But looking
back, it marked the next milestone in my life: first, at age five, my diagnosis
with Becker’s Muscular Dystrophy and second, my learning about 9/11 at age 8.
A diagnosis bears a more obvious impact than an event I never witnessed personally. But, to me, 9/11 carries great importance to me. Growing up as a Muslim in the U.S. changed dramatically, as a largely ignored minority saw increased attention. Much of it, in my perspective, is negative.
A diagnosis bears a more obvious impact than an event I never witnessed personally. But, to me, 9/11 carries great importance to me. Growing up as a Muslim in the U.S. changed dramatically, as a largely ignored minority saw increased attention. Much of it, in my perspective, is negative.
This
can be best explained by example. One day, two FBI agents, clad in black,
appeared in front of our house – my dad was summoned outside. Apparently, my
family had been reported as a snooping Middle Eastern family. The offending
incident? My younger sister, having put off her HW until the evening before,
had to photograph key local buildings, such as the fire station. Having seen
the cheerful chalk drawings made by my sister, the agents must have decided
that we are good people. But why all that? Shouldn’t that be assumed?
Rather the assumptions flowed the wrong way – like water flowing uphill, following some perverse pressure gradient. Instead of pristine blue water, it’s sludgy green and toxic. Okay, metaphors aside, a cliché in our society is “innocent until proven guilty” but we were not treated as an innocent party. A chance that something would be amiss was hidden in the air.
Rather the assumptions flowed the wrong way – like water flowing uphill, following some perverse pressure gradient. Instead of pristine blue water, it’s sludgy green and toxic. Okay, metaphors aside, a cliché in our society is “innocent until proven guilty” but we were not treated as an innocent party. A chance that something would be amiss was hidden in the air.
There
feels like a burden of suspicion placed upon all Muslims in America – being Muslim
itself warrants suspicion, borrowing Ta-Nehisi Coates’ framework for discussing
black people in America, even in the absence of “un-American” behaviors. For
years, I, and my family, have been tagged at the airport, seemingly for little
reason other than our last name. However, many examples of Islamophobia are not
overt like the ones all over television news. The Chapel Hill killings are
ruthlessly terrible but they also do not highlight all forms of bigotry
levelled against Muslims. More subtle: Sikhs being mistaken for Muslims, on
account of their turbans, and being violently attacked. Subtler still: being
tagged at an airport, despite doing nothing wrong.
Since using a mobility scooter (or a wheelchair) to traverse airports, I have seen the frequency of these events go down. Contacting my representative in Congress definitely helped me in this regard, but it took far too long.
Since using a mobility scooter (or a wheelchair) to traverse airports, I have seen the frequency of these events go down. Contacting my representative in Congress definitely helped me in this regard, but it took far too long.
However,
an experience a couple years ago that should have been simple enough was almost
a point of abject terror -- Fall 2014,
the season of Amagi Brilliant Park, I
was headed to Atlanta for an academic conference. The time was 6 A.M., and
airport security was investigating my luggage in detail, in a room outside of public
view. A swab used to check my person initiated an alarm from the device – it had
detected something potentially explosive. As a Muslim American after 9/11, my
first response is to feel panicked as increased security is “our” fault.
Because I would be placed under great scrutiny. Thankfully, and due to the aid
of the security personnel, I was able to calm down: it was likely a mistake,
and the people with me thought so as well. Reviewing, thoroughly, all objects
on my person revealed that the device had been mistakenly set off. Still, this
experience left me feeling cold sweat, complementing my half-asleep brain’s “meh”ness,
as my heart pounded. If the officials had been bigoted in an overt sense, I
would have faced far worse issues than potentially being late. Thirteen years
after 9/11, and I still felt this way.
My Muslim identity has become a sticking point, in that it makes me proud but also scared. One’s identity should never be a point of fear, and especially here society seems to promote this fear to control Muslims. I am often told by my parents: don’t mention Islam. And, not mentioning it dulls my identity, but it is a preventative measure. In Between the World and Me, Coates describes an analogous process pursued by black parents: when talking to the cops, take every measure to ensure you live by following their every order. And even that may not be enough. Including many of African descent, Islam in America tends to have doubly suspicion.
In recent years, mainly 2015 and on, I have taken greater pride in Islam, and publicly showing it. The beautiful mosques of Istanbul, calligraphy, the aims of Islam – all of it became points of appreciation for me, inspiring me to engage outreach on Islam. Even references in art to Islam, such as the mosques in Mobile Suit Gundam 00 and Cowboy Bebop, or the characters Dunya and Mariam in Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic, make me quite grateful. The relevance of mosques to Islam is self-evident. Mariam is the Islamic name for Mary, mother of Jesus (Isa in Islam); Dunya refers to the temporal world that precedes afterlife, where anyone reading this is.
My Muslim identity has become a sticking point, in that it makes me proud but also scared. One’s identity should never be a point of fear, and especially here society seems to promote this fear to control Muslims. I am often told by my parents: don’t mention Islam. And, not mentioning it dulls my identity, but it is a preventative measure. In Between the World and Me, Coates describes an analogous process pursued by black parents: when talking to the cops, take every measure to ensure you live by following their every order. And even that may not be enough. Including many of African descent, Islam in America tends to have doubly suspicion.
In recent years, mainly 2015 and on, I have taken greater pride in Islam, and publicly showing it. The beautiful mosques of Istanbul, calligraphy, the aims of Islam – all of it became points of appreciation for me, inspiring me to engage outreach on Islam. Even references in art to Islam, such as the mosques in Mobile Suit Gundam 00 and Cowboy Bebop, or the characters Dunya and Mariam in Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic, make me quite grateful. The relevance of mosques to Islam is self-evident. Mariam is the Islamic name for Mary, mother of Jesus (Isa in Islam); Dunya refers to the temporal world that precedes afterlife, where anyone reading this is.
During
a Toastmasters meeting, I set the word of the day as ‘Dunya’ and explained the
word’s meaning outside of its Quranic context, against the wishes of my
parents. However, I found that by sharing some of my knowledge of Islam, the
other members took that to heart. Many other Americans would like to learn more
about Islam, and accept Muslims, making such outreach critical. Too many
Americans do not personally know a Muslim, and are likely acting out of fear,
rather than a genuine hatred of Muslims. There is an Islamophobia industry that
pushes against the journey towards full acceptance – but that just means we
should resist these forces, both personally and in our experiences with others.
This could include having Islamic terms as word of the day for Toastmasters, or
explaining to people Islam’s rich artistic history, or the goals of Islam. Teaching
people that jihad refers to an internal struggle to conquer the evil within one’s
soul, not physical violence – it is divorced from terrorist goals. Besides,
white people are simply not advanced to have an excellent name such as Dunya.
9/11
has polarized the U.S., even years after its passing, to a significant degree.
Donald Trump claims that Muslims should be restricted from immigrating to the
U.S., but this is hardly the extent. Islamophobic activities have gone on the
rise in the past few years, especially thanks to its bustling industry and the
words of Donald Trump and other demagogues. Having lived with my experiences,
and having seen this bigotry, I view 9/11 as a matter far beyond national
security. It is a chance for humanity to come together, but as a whole the
response has been disappointing at a societal level. A sincere effort would
include passing legislation to support the courageous first responders who died
to save others – the casualties count could have been 6000, rather than 3000,
if not for such people. Beyond that, politicians cannot stop at “never forget”
and must play a role in bringing U.S. society together and helping defeat
bigotry.
If
I do not finish this post soon my editor will get mad – I mean me. So, allow me
to draw attention to an impeccable scene from Eden of the East, a 2009 series by studio Production I.G. Saki, the
girl on the right (played by Saori Hayami), reminisces exuberantly about
visiting New York, of seeing Broadway plays and the Times Square. But she looks
down when Ground Zero comes up (right), Hayami’s voice taking on a morose
quality as Saki’s monologue drifts into distressing territory. Wanting to see it for herself, Saki reflects that
there is nothing left from ten years ago. A New York Times article parses out
stories from people who lost loved ones in 9/11, loved ones who cannot be
buried and will not have a concrete memorial to their existence. 
