“Al-lah, Al-lah!” Go home, you filthy terrorist!”

At least, those were the words I think I heard. To be honest, I sort of shut off when he threw them at me, so there may have been more words there or in a different order; I can’t recall. I don’t want to recall.

When he threw them at me, driving away in his black sedan with his angular white face contorted in anger, I froze. Al-lah, Al-lah! Go home, you filthy terrorist! I had been crossing the street a few minutes from home to get food; it was near 1 pm, and like every other college student, it meant I had just rolled out of bed, hungry for brunch. I was wearing grey sweatpants, my favorite baggie hoodie with my high school logo emblazoned on it, and a bright blue headscarf with vibrant yellow flowers tied loosely around my head. Whether or not Marletto’s would have waffles was practically the only thing on my mind that moment; the street was deserted except a few cars turning at the intersection, and nothing called my attention away from impending golden syrupy Saturday afternoon brunch. Except him. Al-lah, Al-lah! Go home, you filthy terrorist!

I haven’t managed to erase his face or the intonation of his voice from my memory yet. Or the way it filled with rage. He meant what he said. What would have happened if I wasn’t crossing the street opposite him? If I was closer? If the words hadn’t been thrown over his shoulder at a distance as he sped away, but right next to me? Al-lah, Al-lah! Go home, you filthy terrorist!

It was only robotically that I finished crossing the street and walked up the steps to the dining hall. All the words of strength and indignant messages about being more than other people’s hate flew out my head, replaced with his. I shriveled into myself. My mind was still swirling around where I had been standing when he shouted. Al-lah, Al-lah! Go home, you filthy terrorist! I was a little numb, a little shell-shocked and confused, a little distressed, and a lot frightened.

It must have shown, because the one woman who had crossed the street across from me– on his side– looked at me in concern when I got to the top of the stairs. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” she said. It popped me back to reality for a moment, so I did what I do best, smiled and said “thank you” because I know that kindness and sympathy in the face of hatred is far more rare than the hatred itself.

Al-lah, Al-lah! Go home, you filthy terrorist!

I thank God I kept walking into the dining hall where people were everywhere. I might have cried otherwise. I don’t cry. And I refuse to shed a tear for him now. But at that moment, I just didn’t want anyone to see me.

I was inside. I was safe. He couldn’t see me. Al-lah, Al-lah! Go home, you filthy terrorist!

I wandered aimlessly around where they were serving food, seeing it but not seeing it. I didn’t reach for any food, my plate remained empty. My appetite was gone. His words were still echoing in my ears. Al-lah, Al-lah! Go home, you filthy terrorist! I didn’t know that actually happened except in stories. It does.

I smiled at the people around me. The woman from earlier realized I was a student here and asked for directions to Stage 3; I showed her where to go with a smile. She seemed a little confused that I had gone from that troubled mask of emotions to such a wide smile, but accepted it, thanking me for the directions.

And then I realized I had to walk back home. Alone. On the same street. He was gone. He had sped away. But I was afraid.

Rationally, I knew there was no reason to be, but rationality wasn’t loud in that moment. The fear was louder. Al-lah, Al-lah! Go home, you filthy terrorist!

My heart was pounding. I clenched my fists in my hoodie, pulled in my arms close to me, hunched my shoulders, and took small, sharp steps quickly. I was afraid to take up too much room as I went. If I took up less space, I was a smaller target.

I walked far from the curb, far from the street, on the sidewalk. I wanted to get away from the view of the street as far and as fast as possible. If I was between buildings, he– they– couldn’t see me. Every black sedan was a new rush of panic that pushed me further from the curb. Al-lah, Al-lah! Go home, you filthy terrorist!

I didn’t look up at anyone. Didn’t see anyone’s face. I kept my head down and marched back to my building as quickly as I could, reciting Ayatul-Kursi from the Qur’an as I went and praying nothing would happen.

Nothing did, but I was still trembling some from the adrenaline– and from fear– when I got back to my building. I smiled at a few of my residents, the mask of okay-ness sliding back on, but it fell off when I got into my room, and I sat on my bed, dazed. Al-lah, Al-lah! Go home, you filthy terrorist!

It was the first time someone had actually taken time from their day to hate me openly. Other people looking away in fear, disgust, or anger when I passed them on the street was nothing new. Strangers on the street unwilling to look me in the face was nothing new. Passerby aggressively pushing me out of the way if I was too slow to move out of their way was nothing new. Not feeling safe to go to a particular place was nothing new. Avoiding certain people/places/things was nothing new. Online virulence was nothing new. Reading Facebook comments to go back to my country was nothing new. Hearing ignorant remarks about Muslims was nothing new. Listening to people go on about how Muslims don’t belong in this country was nothing new. Being expected to not belong in this country was nothing new. Being othered as brown skin and a headscarf was nothing new.

But this. This was new. This was different. This was worse.

Al-lah, Al-lah! Go home, you filthy terrorist!

In many ways, it was a moment I had been expecting since I first put on my hijab a year and a half ago. But when it had never come, I hoped it never would. I knew it happened, but I hoped it wouldn’t happen to me.

Al-lah, Al-lah! Go home, you filthy terrorist! I guess it’s just a rite of passage.

Have I earned my American-Muslim badge yet? Am I an adult now? Is this what they mean when they say it’s the beginning of the rest of your life?

Maybe next time I won’t shut down to autopilot. Maybe next time I can respond with logic and reason and love and compassion and change his mind. Ask him why his heart is so full of hate. Convince him with caring that I’m not bad. I’m not a terrorist. This is my home. This is my home.

I’m not telling you this story because I want your sympathy. I don’t want your pity. I don’t want your feigned empathy. I don’t want you to comment “sorry” below. I know I’m not skilled enough with words to make you truly understand what happened. I still don’t understand what happened. But this is my home.

In the grand scheme of hateful things that happen every day, this wasn’t even that bad. No one was followed or stalked, no one was assaulted, no one was hurt, no one’s life was threatened.

I will do my best to forget this ever happened. I want to wipe it from my memory, erase his words, and keep going. I will pretend it didn’t happen to me. It’s just a story I read. But I will not forget the lesson. I will not forget that. This is my home.

And I want you to know it. Know this is my home. I belong here. I will stay here. He cannot stop me. You cannot stop me. You cannot take that away from me. This is my home.

And I want you to know that this– this right here– is what happens when we institutionalize xenophobia.

I want you to watch the news and think that right now there is another teenager, another child, another adult, another person listening to the same hatred because the Donald Trump-s, the Ted Cruz-s, the Ben Carson-s, the Mike Huckabee-s, the Newt Gingrich-s, the Rick Santorum-s of the world have been given a political platform to stand on, a primetime spot on national television 24/7, and all the legitimacy high poll numbers can conceed.

I want you to think about this when you cast your vote, and then think harder if this is what you’re supporting with that ballot.

This is my home.

The post When hate hits home: A Muslim-American’s story appeared first on Occasional Planet.

Standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial before a throng of civil-rights activists in August of 1963, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered his “I have a dream” speech, one of the most powerful and enduring calls for equality and tolerance ever uttered on a public stage.

Dr. King proclaimed, “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” With those words, Dr. King captured the most fundamental hope of every parent: that their children be allowed to follow their dreams without limit, free from presumptions about who they are or what they may achieve simply because of the color of their skin, their gender, their ethnic heritage, their religious affiliation, or their sexual preference.

For the sake of the children, Dr. King pleaded that day, America must live up to the most fundamental of its democratic ideals.

The questions raised by Dr. King’s speech fifty-three years ago are still as powerful and relevant today as they were then. They are questions worth considering on this holiday that honors the man and the legacy. Here are a few: Will we follow the path Dr. King and others forged and celebrate rather than denigrate the rich tapestry of our diversity? Or will we allow our differences to be cynically exploited to divide us? Can we overcome our fears and open ourselves up to the underlying content of a person’s character, no matter how different or foreign they seem to us? Or will we continue to believe falsely that the entirety of individuals can be summed up by the hoodies they wear on the street, or by the scarves wrapped around their heads, or by the manner in which they celebrate the dictates of their beliefs?

Below is a video of Muslim women from around the world speaking out about why they choose to wear hijab, what their choice does or does not say about them, and the challenges they face living as Muslims in Western societies.

I imagine Dr. King would have seen in these brave women echoes of the struggle he dedicated his life to. He certainly would have invited them to stand shoulder to shoulder with him on that stage because he would have understood that they too “have a dream.”

The post Dr. King’s dream, and the hijabi women who dream it, too appeared first on Occasional Planet.

I decided I wanted to don the hijab last summer. It’s been almost a year now since I became a hijabi (someone who wears the hijab), and I’ve learned some fascinating things since then; I thought perhaps you might be interested in my experiences.

But first, let’s talk a little bit about what the hijab actually is and why I made the decision I made. The most basic definition of hijab is simply that it is a headscarf worn by Muslim women (not to say that other women of other faiths don’t wear headscarves of some form, because it’s actually quite common in many religions).

Obviously, though, it means a lot more– and that is not the oppression/subjugation/dehumanization of women in the name of Islam, as too many people would tell you, because Islam is actually an advocate of women’s rights, and hijab is actually a form of female empowerment. For a lot of people to whom I tell this, it’s a radical notion– it’s the first time they’ve ever heard anything other than the facile, fallacious “Islam is misogyny.” But it’s not. Aminah Assilmi does a fantastic job of explaining:

For me, hijab started out as a purely religious thing. I wanted to do something I felt was asked for in my religion and I wanted people to know I was Muslim, rather than just guesstimating by the color of my skin or my family’s country of origin (not kidding about the skin color thing, by the way). But it quickly became a very political statement, too, that went hand-in-hand with my strong feminist identity. Because the purpose of the hijab in Islam is multifold; yes, it identifies you as Muslim, but it also identifies you as human. It demonstrates to the world that I am a person whose worth, respect, and dignity are not founded upon her appearance; I will be judged not by the way that I dress or the way that I look, but what I say, do, and think; my value as an individual does not come from my appearance, but from my actions.

So, to me, hijab is also a way of reclaiming my body as mine– that it is not for public consumption– and reiterating that I will not support a culture that sexualizes, objectifies, or commodifies women. And this is a fundamental value of feminism.

Which brings me to lesson #1 I’ve learned since I became a hijabi: When you become a representative of Islam (or of any group), people will not perceive you as a representative of Islam, but of what is perceived as Islam. I mean that if people think Islam is misogynistic or violent or hateful, etc., then they automatically assume that I condone such behavior and that my hijab is demonstrative of that support. Which means I have a lot of the same conversations over and over and over again about what Islam is and what the popular news media makes it out to be, oftentimes two very different things. So when people weirdly assume that as a Muslim, I can’t be a feminist or a woman’s rights activist, you can be sure I’ll set them straight.

And one of the things I reiterate again and again is that I can still do the things that I want, and I’m still the same person as before. If I wanted to be athletic (I don’t, but if I did), I could be. If I wanted to take art lessons, I could. If I wanted to pursue higher education (as I am), I can. Putting a scarf over my head and wearing longer sleeves doesn’t inhibit me from being my usual, obnoxiously stubborn, sassy, sarcastic me. At all. Does your personality or capability change with your attire? Didn’t think so.

All that being said, I still love getting questions from people about my hijab. It means that person is going to get information from a Muslim who knows, y’know, a little more about Islam than say… FOX news? Bill Maher? Don Lemon? Which is exciting for me.

Let me just collectively address some of the most popular questions I get.

No, I don’t shower with it on. I also don’t sleep with it on. In fact, I only wear hijab in front of men to whom I’m not directly related; so if I’m in a women-only setting or with my family, I don’t wear it.

Yes, it does get hot wearing it in the summer, but I can deal with it. Plus, it’s not like I have to wear a thick wool scarf, I can wear a thin cotton one tied loosely and still enjoy every breeze and every breath of fresh air.
Also, it’s not the scarf itself that is of significance; it’s what it represents. So, my scarves aren’t fancy religious things; most of them are from Charming Charlie’s or Target or Walmart. The cloth itself is not an object of any religious reverence.

Yes, when I’m in new situations or places, I do sometimes get uncomfortable. I feel like everybody is staring at me sometimes and I wonder how people will react. Am I near any Islamophobes? Is anyone going to say/do something stupid or hateful? Am I safe? If someone did say/do something would anyone come to my defense? Would anyone even sympathize with me? But I try not to let self- doubt dictate how I live my life.

There are also a lot of implicit assumptions people make, but never quite vocalize. As I previously mentioned, I haven’t always worn it. It hasn’t even been a year, but everyone assumes I was, like, born with a hijab. Yeah, didn’t pop out of the womb with a scarf on my head.

Also, everybody assumes I’m Arab. That doesn’t surprise me about people not from Asia/Middle East who aren’t familiar with racial/ethnic politics in that area (here, my race is intimately tied with my religion and so all Muslims, no matter their actual ethnicity, are automatically Arab), but even people from there make the same mistake. There are tons of South Asians at Webster University right now, and not a single one of them guesses I’m from that area. Every single one of them initially assumes I’m Arab, and it’s not until they hear me casually muttering to myself in Urdu (to them, Hindi), that they realize I’m Pakistani-American not Saudi Arabian.

Sorry, guys, but it takes a hijabi no less time to get ready than a non-hijabi. No time is saved. The time we previously spent doing our hair is not spent perfecting the wrap and setting of the scarf.

As for as the effects the hijab has had on my daily life, they’re mixed. On one hand, there’s the delightful fact that I automatically have a bond with any other hijabi I meet. I have an immediate connection to her, or to any other Muslim, and it’s easily the way to a friendship because the hijab makes the introduction for me. And that means I get random salaams from people I don’t know, but who recognize me as Muslim because of my hijab. And it makes me smile every time– strangers wishing peace upon me.

Also, almost everyone on campus knows me– if not by name, then by face. There aren’t too many other hijabis on campus for them to confuse me with. So we can build a working rapport a lot faster when they remember me after just one meeting.

On the other hand, I have become hyper-aware of my race and religion as a defining factor of how people regard me, with all the baggage those labels may hold. I am always aware that people perceive me first and foremost as a Muslim woman when meeting me for the first time and later as a student, American citizen, daughter, friend, employee, etc. Most people get over that shock pretty quickly and can see me as a person independent of what I’m wearing on my head (success!)… but there are plenty of people who don’t. So while many of my closest friends tell me all the time that I could do great things in politics (because I’m a very blunt, no-BS, dedicated, and passionate person), I know I’ll probably never get that opportunity. My opportunities as an elected political official are slim because many people will judge me by overt otherness before anything else. But it comes with the territory, and I’ve learned to accept it. There are certain public employment opportunities I may or may not ever have now that I showcase my otherness, but I can deal with it. And I can work to make change so that others after me aren’t faced with that challenge, and I can use my experiences to motivate me on a path to that change.

Maybe it won’t happen in my lifetime, but one day, inshAllah (God willing), it will.

The post Since I became a “hijabi:” What it means to wear a Muslim headscarf appeared first on Occasional Planet.