By When the Paris attacks happened in November, 2015, my first thought was “Wow.”
My second thought was, “Oh no, Hira.”
Hira was not in Paris. In fact, she lived quite close to me in Mesa, Arizona, USA.
She’s also Muslim and, like her mother and sister, wears a hijab.
In other words, they are visible targets for any potential retaliatory attacks that might occur when a terrorist who claims motivation from Islam attacks the Western world.
In other words, they are visible targets for any potential retaliatory attacks that might occur when a terrorist who claims motivation from Islam attacks the Western world.
“Are you guys all okay?” Anxious minutes passed before Hira texted me back. She didn’t ask what I meant, only replied that they were fine, if a little nervous about going outside. Scrolling through the news it wasn’t hard to understand why: In the wake of the attacks, there was an outpouring of support on social media for Paris and its people, but also an outpouring of anti-Muslim rhetoric.
I fretted all day, and watched the news to make sure there were no reports of Muslims being attacked. I tried to quell the urge to insist on chaperoning my friend–a very white, lapsed-Lutheran buffer against the myriad of foes I imagined might leap from their cars with assault rifles. Or even just their fists. A mouthful of poisoned words. I wonder, is this how Muslim-American families felt all the time, always wondering if their sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, mothers, fathers will show up on the evening news?
I tried to quell the urge to insist on chaperoning my friend–a very white, lapsed-Lutheran buffer against the myriad of foes I imagined might leap from their cars with assault rifles. Or even just their fists. A mouthful of poisoned words. I wonder, is this how Muslim-American families felt all the time, always wondering if their sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, mothers, fathers will show up on the evening news?
The answer is no, not exactly. I’m anxious with the fear of something that will likely never touch me unless I purposefully jump directly into its path. Even then it might not. It’s a reflected fear, a manifestation of watching someone else standing in the middle of that path while both of you know there’s no easy way to get off it.
It’s an uncomfortable feeling, mixed with both anger and helplessness.
Months have passed since then. In that time there has been a frightening increase in Islamophobic rhetoric not only from angry social media users, but from powerful politicians and even candidates for the U.S. Presidency. Donald Trump, now the Republican nominee, has called to ban Muslims from entering the country. Ted Cruz said Muslim neighborhoods should be patrolled.
Throughout, Hira and I have been collecting interviews from members of the Tempe, Arizona Muslim community: How has Islamophobia affected you?
She wants to tell the story of her community, about American mosques, and American Muslims, and the various injustices they have faced for much of our life (neither one of us can remember much about “Before 9/11”). I want to help her. We are both looking for a true story, for a bit of justice, and a new way to be American.
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Since long before I attended Arizona State University as a student, I have been a patron of the Phoenicia, a restaurant where my father often took me for lunch outings and which I now frequent as an adult. The place sells various Middle-Eastern and Middle-Eastern inspired foods, and everyday items. By the door when you walk in is a shelf of Qurans, some with plain covers, some in Spanish, and some inscribed with beautiful, gilded calligraphy. In a glass case by the counter there are trays of freshly made pastries and dessert; a glass-covered plate of Turkish delight sits by the register. Among other things the store sells brands that used to be, and to some extent still are, hard to find in most U.S. grocery stores, but that I sometimes recognized from my trips to Spain. When I was a child, it delighted me to find this particular brand of packaged cookie or that little chocolate in my home country, and I enjoyed coming to the restaurant for that reason as much as for the food.
Next door to the Phoenicia is the Tempe mosque. It’s painted white with blue tile work that reminds me of the Mediterranean; the arched windows on the second floor are covered with delicate lattice screens, and lacey white curtains. A golden dome crowns the building tapering into a minaret tipped with a slender crescent moon. The whole structures shines under clear skies, seemingly made for the brilliance of Arizona’s sun.
It used to be that the only reason I went near the mosque was to go to the Phoenicia, an infrequent enough occurrence that I rarely heard the call to prayer echo out across the streets just north of the university. I rarely saw the congregants gathering, and I didn’t think much about the place other than to appreciate its architecture, and the haunting sounds of the prayer call when I happened to catch it. Like church bells ringing, there is something lovely about the sound.
I didn’t think much about the place other than to appreciate its architecture, and the haunting sounds of the prayer call when I happened to catch it. Like church bells ringing, there is something lovely about the sound.
After I became a student, and started seeing the mosque more frequently, I began to notice that the little mosque was not always peaceful. In the last two years I’ve seen protesters outside of it, and on more than one occasion. The main culprit is a man called “Brother Dean,” several of the congregants tell us, including Samer Naseredden, the youth minister of the Tempe mosque, officially known as the Islamic Community Center of Tempe (ICC). The ICC board has spoken to the police, says Naseredden, but there’s little they can do since the hecklers are not on private property.
“It’s a problem of freedom of speech versus hate speech,” he says. Mostly, he and other ICC leaders ask congregants not to engage the protesters or to react. “[The protesters’] goal is to stir up anger and we don’t want that.”
“It’s a problem of freedom of speech versus hate speech,” he says. Mostly, he and other ICC leaders ask congregants not to engage the protesters or to react. “[The protesters’] goal is to stir up anger and we don’t want that.”
The shouting and heckling was unnerving to me, in part because it was so direct and so unbalanced. Similar protesters stand around outside the university’s student union all the time shouting at the masses, telling us — the collection of unspecified, sinful, students — that we will go to Hell. Plenty of students engage them, both seriously and simply for the sake of arguing. I generally feel a vague, devilish urge to ask some girl to very publically teach me the art of “making out,” but otherwise suffer no consequence from the presence of these preachers.
But the protesters outside the mosque were not shouting at an indeterminate “us,” they were shouting directly at children and families and people who were not doing anything at all other than trying to go to their religious service. And more importantly, they were shouting at people who could not respond. Who didn’t dare.
Ridhwaan, a young Muslim man involved in the student-led campaign Islam Awareness Week, told us he has to carry himself in a way that’s different because he doesn’t want to be seen as suspicious. “You always have to pay attention,” he says. The implication is that if you don’t pay attention, aren’t careful, you will be read as a threat. Hira sums up the feeling easily: “You can’t get angry.”
Ridhwaan, a young Muslim man involved in the student-led campaign Islam Awareness Week, told us he has to carry himself in a way that’s different because he doesn’t want to be seen as suspicious. “You always have to pay attention,” he says. The implication is that if you don’t pay attention, aren’t careful, you will be read as a threat. Hira sums up the feeling easily: “You can’t get angry.”
She tells me this as we’re sitting at the Phoenicia after spending the afternoon talking to people at the mosque about their experiences with Islamophobia. Hira is about ten times more talkative than myself, and her food gets cold as she relates her own experiences; not quite angrily but with passionate indignation. She is thinking, I imagine, of how she wanted to tell off the man who yanked her hijab, and the woman who asked her sister where the bomb was. The person who screamed at her mother in a grocery store. The kids who heckle her brother at school.
Later, after writing up our notes, we walk over to the ice cream parlor. Sitting at the counter, we pretend we’re hardened reporters hanging out at the bar after chasing down leads and decide that, in the future, shot glasses of fudge sauce can be substituted for alcohol while still making us feel cool. Hira’s ice cream melts into sugary puddles as she talks and waves her spoon; I threaten to eat it if she doesn’t. Before she can reply, I nearly scare her off her stool by screaming “Trump!” She really is scared of him, but in this case, it’s funny and we nearly die laughing.
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On our first visit to the Tempe Mosque, we discovered that the man-on-the-street interview takes a bit more chutzpah than either of us had prepared for the day. We spent nearly half an hour hiding behind the jungle gym in the mosque’s courtyard trying to work up the courage to start randomly talking to someone. Specifically a group of men hanging about the men’s entrance. We eventually admit cowardice, justify it by claiming inexperience, and decide to start with a woman. We’re women, they’re women, there’s one sure connecting point already. By this time, though, it’s almost time for the two o’clock call to prayer. We quickly made our way to the women’s entrance so that Hira could pray; we hoped to find some women to speak to once the service concluded, and everyone started milling about, as people tend to do at the end of an event.
In mosques, it’s necessary to remove your shoes before entering whether you’re Muslim or not. Hira, being sensible, wore easy slip-on sorts of shoes. I, being less sensible, had on my heavy leather lace-up boots. They fit nicely once on, but were not so nice in the transition between on and off, resulting in an awkward and rushed, “taking off my shoes” dance in the entrance lobby. Hira waited for me, and managed not to laugh, but I’m sure a few of the women passing me by had raised eyebrows. The only other pair of boots in the shoe cubby were zip-ups.
After I’d achieved stocking-feet, we went up the narrow staircase to a curving, white hall with soft blue carpet. Women sat and stood all along it, dressed in everything from T-shirts and jeans to full-length dresses to the tunic-and-pants combo Hira wore. Most of them wore headscarves of some sort, although more than a few only put them on as they came into the hall. Hira and I padded softly through the gathered women, looking for a free space to sit for a minute, and figure out a game plan. We ended up sitting next to a lattice-covered window that looked out onto the courtyard where last-minute stragglers were still hurrying about. Whispering quietly, we decided that I would wait for Hira here as she participated in the service, and once it was over we would see if anyone wanted to talk to us. As she walked over to a chair a little ways away so she could pray without hurting her knees, the women gathered in the hall began to move into lines that stretched out into the main prayer area where the men were gathered. The service began shortly.
I don’t know Arabic, so I couldn’t say what the service was about. I imagine it was much the same content as appeared in the services of the Lutheran church I attended on occasion as a child. God is good. God is great. Thanks be to God. Praise God. Amen. The imam’s words were delivered in a chanting tone that reminded me of the way the pastor’s voice would drop into a certain cadence when he was reading from scripture; the bowing of the congregants was synchronized in the same way everyone in church stood together to sing or pray or listen. At the end the imam thanked everyone for coming, made some public service announcements, and everyone broke up to chat and go on their way. All in all it was like most other religious services I’ve attended in my life. As usual, in the face of devout faith I felt a little out of place, and I wondered if my vague agnosticism, bordering on atheism, showed. If it did, no one seemed to care and I spent the time relaxing into the warmth of the hall, the softness of the carpet, and the lyrical sounds of the prayers.
I don’t know Arabic, so I couldn’t say what the service was about. I imagine it was much the same content as appeared in the services of the Lutheran church I attended on occasion as a child. God is good. God is great. Thanks be to God. Praise God. Amen. The imam’s words were delivered in a chanting tone that reminded me of the way the pastor’s voice would drop into a certain cadence when he was reading from scripture; the bowing of the congregants was synchronized in the same way everyone in church stood together to sing or pray or listen. At the end the imam thanked everyone for coming, made some public service announcements, and everyone broke up to chat and go on their way. All in all it was like most other religious services I’ve attended in my life.
Once the service concluded, Hira and I got back together, and began scouting around for potential interviewees. Everyone looked busy. Finally Hira took the reigns of the situation and marched up to a young woman in a flower-covered hijab and cat’s-eye makeup. With a quick, “Excuse me,” she let loose with our opening spiel: We’re doing an article on how Islamophobia is affecting the community; could you speak to us about some of your thoughts or experiences on the matter?
The woman’s name was Dalal, and she cheerfully responded that she wasn’t from here, but she’d talk to us for a minute. She was Canadian and she said she could always tell when she came to the U.S. The atmosphere was different, she said, and not in a good way. She would step off the plane and start wondering, “Is there something on my face?” It feels like people stare at you here, she said, and there seems to be more hate-mongering.
She was Canadian and she said she could always tell when she came to the U.S. The atmosphere was different, she said, and not in a good way. She would step off the plane and start wondering, “Is there something on my face?” It feels like people stare at you here, she said, and there seems to be more hate-mongering.
The next woman we spoke to was dressed somberly in a dark hijab and long, dark jacket, thick black glasses framing serious eyes. She was a bit more reticent, but after telling me that she liked my boots (what joy! I like them too), she said she would talk to us for a short while if she could remain anonymous. She had been been avoiding the light rail for the last several months, ever since Donald Trump started making comments about banning Muslims from entering the country. Those comments, she said, were “extremely frightening,” and her family was worried about her taking public transportation. On the other hand, she said her co-workers had been supportive with a few even offering to carpool with her. Despite the frustrations of feeling like she had to always defend her faith and make PSA announcements every time the news began to run reels on the War on Terror, it was little things that really got to her. The newscasters, she said, “don’t know how to address us with the proper title. They mispronounce ‘Muslim’ all the time.”
“[It] sounds petty, but it shuts me down,” she said. “It’s hard to open myself up for communication when everyone is telling me what my faith is, but they don’t even know how to pronounce it.”
“[It] sounds petty, but it shuts me down,” she said. “It’s hard to open myself up for communication when everyone is telling me what my faith is, but they don’t know even know how to pronounce it.”
Others who we interviewed mentioned similar feelings and experiences. One young woman, Mariam, and her friend had obscenities yelled at them in a parking lot shortly after the Paris Attacks. She had to weather passive-aggressive puns in a photography class, as well, when a classmate told her, “You should be the shooter…you know behind the camera.” Mariam didn’t laugh.
– –
As Hira and I went through our collected interviews, and she related them to her own experiences, we found that the most prominent theme running through the narratives and comments was not overt violence. Instead, it was the little things all building up that really made things hard. The casual comment about terrorism, the constant questions about nationality, the invasive tug on a hijab, the uncomfortable feeling of being the only Muslim in the waiting room when the TV news starts showing terrorism coverage.
We found that the most prominent theme running through the narratives and comments was not overt violence. Instead, it was the little things all building up that really made things hard. The casual comment about terrorism, the constant questions about nationality, the invasive tug on a hijab, the uncomfortable feeling of being the only Muslim in the waiting room when the TV news starts showing terrorism coverage.
There is an at-times almost imperceptible environment of fear that is never completely escapable. It’s a similar fear to the one I feel as I hear about terrorist attacks on Western cities and worry about Hira’s safety. But it’s not the same. My fear is once-removed from the source — it is not my life that is being affected, not my family. I can exit that atmosphere of tension if I so choose.
But Hira, and all of those in her faith community, cannot. Their ability to pursue their happiness, their lives and liberty, to worship unaccosted, is under steady threat; sometimes subtle, sometimes as loud and clear as a scream. And that is as an injustice unworthy of America, and all we claim to stand for.
Contributed by Erin Barton
But wait, there’s more!
Read Hira’s story here.