In the past few months, I witnessed a reinvigoration of discussions regarding microaggressions– whether that’s a societal phenomenon, or just something I have personally witnessed, I can’t say, but I’ve learned something valuable from it: most people have no idea what microaggressions are.

But never fear, your diverse friend Hafsa is here to help explain them.

Microaggressions describe that language and behavior which, although not necessarily intended to be hurtful, has a negative impact on the recipient which– in much the same way as overt acts– serves to reinforce, exacerbate, and ultimately perpetuate the hatefulness which underlines it, however covertly. Because that’s a lot to talk about, here are a few things to know about racial and ethnically-based microaggressions.

And, exhibit #1? Me as someone’s “diverse friend.”

Because suddenly it’s reducing a human being of many facets, interests, passions, and qualities to… her diversity.

Now, honestly, not that many people would outwardly come out and introduce someone as their “diverse friend,” but people have no issues calling someone their “Black friend” or their “Jewish friend.” Maybe their “gay roommate” or their “Latino cabdriver.”

Contextualized in what I’ve already said about microaggressions, it’s rather obvious that I am not a fan of that language, but I need to unpack that. Why? Well because all you’re doing is labeling someone based on this one aspect of their life. And that reduces someone to a token to be pulled out as demonstration of a “diverse environment.”

I mean it’s great that you have diverse friends, really it is. But not if you’re only friends with them for their diversity. And just like the “I have Black friends” card is cliche, racist, and prejudiced, so too is telling me about your Muslim friends or telling your gay colleague that it’s okay, you can’t be prejudiced because you have gay friends, too.
At one point, when having a discussion about microaggressions, someone asked, “Is what you’re saying that we just shouldn’t label people?” And I gave a vehement no, followed by a really muddled explanation, but I think I can do a better job now that I’ve had time to think about it and can backspace the confusing stuff.

There’s nothing inherently wrong, in my opinion, with labels; to some extent, they serve a vital purpose in our day-to-day life to help us identify individuals and navigate interpersonal relationships. “My wife” or “her father” are labels, as are “history teacher” or even “middle-class,” and in and of themselves, they’re not problematic. The problem comes when there is a simultaneous failure to acknowledge the plentiful other facets of someone’s identity and reduce their entire existence down to their relationship to another individual, their occupation, their socioeconomic status, their sex, their gender identity, their race, their religion, etc.

So, yeah, call me Muslim; I have zero objection to that. But also recognize that I am a daughter, a college student, a writer, an RA, a woman, Pakistani-American, etc.

And the other thing about labels is that we have to remember the person wearing them isn’t the end-all-be-all representative of that label; they’re not the mouthpiece for their entire identity.

 Exhibit #1-b:

Don’t assume that your “diverse friend” has the complete, authoritative, perfectly cited answer to every question about diversity because WHY WOULD THEY? Just because someone has experienced a certain type of discrimination, doesn’t mean that they (a) can explain it to you with dictionary-perfect definitions and scholarly references and have every answer to every possible question you ask (I don’t know is a perfectly valid answer, thank you very much) or, more importantly, that they (b) even want to explain it you.

To the first point, the best example I can give is asking an international student about their “professional” opinion on something occurring in their home country. Like asking a Frenchmen to compare the French constitution to that of the American. Would you be able to do that? Then why are we assuming they can? Or asking a Syrian why their country is at war and what they recommend as a solution to the refugee crisis. Can you spout foreign policy recommendations off the top of your head with statistics and historical evidence? Or asking a Kenyan why Africa is so poor. (1) Africa is a continent, not a country; (2) it’s pretty doubtful that individual is a scholar on such a difficult, oft-asked, and well-studied question, and if scholars who spend their entire lives studying a tiny aspect of this global issue don’t have an answer yet, why would the random dark-skinned person you found on the street?

To the second point, it strips you of your dignity a little bit at a time to have to explain it over and over again. Really. Speaking purely for myself, I usually don’t mind answering people’s questions, whatever they are. I typically encourage people to speak frankly and ask questions without fearing they’re being rude because I would rather they be honest if a bit insensitive, than dance around a question unnecessarily or, worse, resort to a random Google search or FOX or CNN to try to answer the question. The integrity of asking an actual person with actual experience can’t be matched through a media response, but faced with the possibility of being ashamed for their ignorance or the anonymity of a screen, people often choose the latter.

That being said, there are days I really just can’t handle it. Maybe I’ve just dealt with too many microaggressions for the day, or maybe I plain and simple just had a bad day. And every person has the right to just not answer the question. Asking the question isn’t necessarily a microaggression, but insisting that a person answer the question when they don’t know the answer or just don’t want to almost inevitably is. Try this cartoon on why microaggressions hurt.

Don’t make assumptions about someone based on their appearance.

It sounds super-obvious, right? I mean that’s literally the definition of prejudice. But it happens all the time.
A few that come to mind immediately?

• Black individuals who, when in a store, are followed. Black individuals not being served, period, or treated dismissively. A store clerk assuming that the individual from a minority group cannot afford the higher-end items in the store and therefore directing them immediately to cheaper goods. Crossing the street when you see a Black/Latino/minority man approaching you on the sidewalk.
• Self-identifying as a feminist, and people constantly being skeptical of that and arguing you “can’t be” because you’re Muslim/hijabi (and then having to “defend your religion” against claims of inherent misogyny).
• Asking a white mother “what her husband does for a living” and asking a black mother “if the father is still in the picture.”
• Automatically turning to the student of Asian descent for math help.
• “Merry Christmas” turning into “Merr– happy holidays” because the person on the other side of the counter looks different. Because you “look different,” people constantly asking if you’re an international student or doubting your citizenship in the United States (BTW look different from what?)

Some of these examples border on the overtly racist/hateful, but most of them are the subtle everyday things that we don’t even necessarily recognize doing. The absolute best thing I’ve seen that explains this is this phenomenal photo series that exposes our own biases and this set of Google searches about cultural stereotypes.

The person being microaggressive/prejudiced, doesn’t get to decide what’s hurtful.

Remember what I said earlier about the difference between intent versus impact? The individual most likely doesn’t intend to say/do something prejudiced, but the impact on the recipient is hurtful and reinforces the oppression of prejudices and stereotypes.

Allow me to illustrate with an example: as an RA, I moved onto campus before most of the student body in order to help prep the residential halls. So for a few weeks, only professional staff, RAs, and a few straggler conference attendees (including some international students) were on campus. One of my first interactions with university staff as an RA was when I said good morning to a member of our maintenance crew, and he, smiling, responded with “Are you a guest here?” I said, “No, sir, I’m an RA on the second floor.” Not at all abashed, he says,” Oh, I just thought you weren’t from here because of your” *gestures to headscarf repeatedly*. I smiled and kept walking, but it bothered me the rest of the day that people kept doubting my citizenship or right to be here. He obviously didn’t intend to be microaggressive. But he doesn’t get to dictate how I was impacted by what he said.

Or, in the words of Britni de la Cretaz on EverydayFeminism:

“We [White People] Don’t Get to Determine What’s Racist
How often do we see something posted about racism, only to then see a bunch of white people jump into the comments to argue about why that thing isn’t actually racist? For example, maybe someone calls out Kylie Jenner for appropriating black culture with her braided hair. Or maybe they’re pointing out why white people wearing bindis as a fashion statement isn’t cool. And then a white person comments, “Um, it’s just hair” or “Bindis have nothing to do with skin color.”

Or perhaps someone is venting about a racial microaggression they experienced when they were out to dinner, where they felt like they were treated differently by their server because they’re black. And the next thing you know, a white person swoops in to say something like, “Wait, how do you know it was because you were black? I think you’re being paranoid. It was probably just because the server was having a bad night.” But here’s the thing, fellow white people – it’s not on us to decide what is or isn’t racist because we don’t actually experience racism.”

The most important thing, though is what you can do about it.

First and foremost, acknowledge the validity of other people’s experiences.

So if you’re coming from a position of privilege– and it’s 99.9999% likely that we are in some position of privilege, because discrimination in one area does not negate privilege in another– all you need to do is acknowledge that other people’s experiences are valid. That’s literally it. That’s the first step.

It sounds really simple in writing, but it can be rough in real life. I mean, it’s so bad, that it’s honestly revolutionary for administration or any other people in power to say ‘You know what, your experiences are valid.’ That’s it. That’s all I’m asking for. That you acknowledge my experiences are valid. That they happened. That I have legitimate concerns. That it matters to someone.

And the reason this can be so difficult is that we have to swallow our instinct to defend ourselves or to feel guilty, and, instead, try to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes. This is not a conversation about blame or guilt. No one is saying that you are the reason for this system or that it is your fault that you benefit from it. That’s stupid. No one is saying that you didn’t work hard to get where you are in life or that you should feel bad because you maybe didn’t have to work as hard as the person next to you. You don’t have to feel guilty for the body into which you were born any more or less than someone who was born into a different body. You just have to accept that as a result of your body (in comparison to someone else’s) you have been indoctrinated and socialized in a different manner and that as a result, the set of privileges, challenges, and experiences in your life are drastically different from someone else’s. And when someone else is talking about their life experiences, you have to respect that, rather than trying to compare it to your life story in order to minimize their challenges or aggrandize yours.

And that is a lesson for all of us.

The post Microaggressions appeared first on Occasional Planet.

A short primer on countering some of the anti-Muslim myths and misinformation politicians and the media are feeding us following the terrorist attacks in Paris:
Fiction
America is a shining example of religious tolerance for all.

Fact
There are 784 known hate groups in the U.S. In 2014 Muslims were the targets of 154 hate crimes. In 2015 there have been 63 recorded attacks on mosques in the U.S. Since the horrific attacks in Paris and Saint-Denis on November 13, 2015, there have been 71 documented Islamophobic attacks in the U.S., many of them involving women wearing hijab.

Fiction
Only “real” Americans belong in America.

Fact
Out of a total population of 308.7 million Americans, 305.8 million of us are either immigrants or refugees or the descendants of immigrants, refugees, or slaves brought to these shores involuntarily. Only 2.9 million of us can claim historically to be “real” Americans.

Fiction
Muslims and Islamic organizations are failing to speak out against terrorists and terrorist organizations.

Fact 1
Brave and determined Muslim journalists are risking their lives to expose the crimes of ISIS—journalists like Syrian Ibrahim Abdul Qader of the journalist alliance Raqqa Is Being Slaughtered Silently, who along with his friend Fares Hamadi were brutally murdered in Turkey after smuggling news of ISIS crimes out of the Islamic State.

Muslim academics, politicians, and ordinary citizens of all ages in countries around the world, sickened by the crimes perpetrated against innocent Muslims and non-Muslims, are risking—and sometimes losing—their lives to speak out and reject the violence and those committing it.

Fact 2
Following the attacks at Le Bataclan, the list of Muslim organizations issuing unequivocal condemnations of terrorist tactics and attacks has grown ever larger

Here is just a partial list culled from various online sources:

United States
American Muslims for Palestine
Council on American-Islamic Relations
Islamic Circle of America
Muslim American Society
Muslim Alliance in North America
Muslim Umman of North America
Muslim Legal Fund of America
Mosque Cares
The Council on American-Islamic Relations
Republican Muslim Coalition

Germany
Muslim Coordination Council of Germany
Milli Gorus Organization
Ahmadiyya Muslim Jamaat

Netherlands
Council of Moroccan Mosques
Liaisons to Muslims and Government

France
Etudiants Musulmans de France
French Muslim Council
The Grand Mosque
Islamic Centre in Courcouronnes

Great Britain
Muslim Council of Britain
Representing 500 affiliated Muslim organizations and communities

India
Ahmadiyya Muslim Community

Ireland
Al-Mustafa Islamic Center
Irish Muslim Peace and Integration Council

The post Anti-Muslim myths and misinformation in post-Paris America 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.

Perhaps you know now that on December 16, Taliban massacred more than 130 schoolchildren in Peshawar, Pakistan; death tolls are greater than that, and injuries even higher.

I grieve for Pakistan. I grieve for the hope we temporarily shared when Malala overcame the Taliban’s cruelty, and we prayed they had learned their lesson, but know now that they will never, as we watched that hope die with the children. I grieve for the children and the families brutalized by this tragedy. I grieve for those who have died and for those who must continue living without them. And I am overcome by loss.

But more so than that, I am angry.

I am angry that Pakistan has been damaged again and splashed across the headlines as this heinous, primitive country.

I am angry that Islam has been slandered again and splashed across the headlines as this violent, heinous, primitive religion.

I am angry that these extremist groups who pervert my faith and destroy lives in the name of Islam are seen as representative of all Muslims within the media.

I am angry that people continue to call upon Muslims to speak up, to apologize for these atrocities, and condemn the perpetrators; I grieve like you and I roundly condemn them, but I was not responsible and I will not admit complicity or guilt by apologizing, because this is not my fault.

I am angry that I have to defend my faith and my choices at every turn because of lunatics like these. I am angry that I have to constantly guard my actions and be aware of what people could generalize to being a “Muslim” thing, just because a Muslim did it, because let me just tell you it is exhausting to constantly think that.
I am angry that I have to be a constant advertisement to what a Muslim is; I am one imperfect human being. I am angry that people think I do not belong in this country because I am a Muslim.

I am angry that when I see the news and “Pakistan,” “Muslim,” or “Islam” are written there, neither my country nor my faith will be accurately represented.

I am angry that when I grieve for the loss of life and I pray for healing, I am seen as insincere or hypocritical, because the murderers also labelled themselves Muslim.

I am angry that these attacks keep happening and I feel useless to stop them. I am angry that I have to feel personally responsible for ending them, even if they were not my fault, because everyone keeps calling on the Muslim community to stop the brutality.

I am angry that the Taliban and other extremist groups so easily get away with saying whatever they want and labelling it Islam, and the popular news media does not question it; they say they murder little girls because they dared to get an education, but the Qur’an says every child, regardless of gender, should be educated and that mothers should be educated; they murder “Westerners” because they see them as infidels, but again they disregard the scripture and mercilessly destroy lives.

I am angry that this keeps happening. I am angry because I know this will feed into the justification of the recently-released CIA Torture Report; “see, they deserve no less than torture, this bloodbath is what we tried to stop with our ‘enhanced interrogation techniques.’”

I am angry because I can practically see the hatred and fear that these attacks will incite against Muslims.

I am angry. So angry. And I don’t know what to do.

The post Grieving for Pakistan, and very angry, too appeared first on Occasional Planet.