Eden of the West: Reflections on September 11, 2001

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

 

The entirety of Ground Zero was laid to rest without a true burial, without any signs of its existence – that is what makes Saki sad. Looking away, Saki makes a melancholy note about never forgetting 9/11 (right). When I saw this show in February, I thought she simply meant the event itself. But looking back, I see that Saki meant that its consequences and place in the world must never be forgotten, and that’s what I feel many politicians and many people are doing. Of course, it’s easy to point fingers, and I personally would like to better appreciate what 9/11 set in motion. Its legacy should be spurring people to come together, fighting against bigotry, especially Islamophobia, and not simply a challenge to national security; viewing the event as a reason to dislike Muslims, and other foreigners, or to fight terrorists in sprawling, eternal conflicts is a complete mistake. Here Saki is right: we should feel that 9/11 should be remembered, rather than simply rehashing the line “Never Forget.”