The American in the ‘Muslim American’

The hysteria, ignorance, and insensitivity surrounding the New York City ‘Ground Zero Mosque’ has been appalling. While intensifying anti-Muslim rhetoric in this nation alone is cause for concern, on Wednesday came news of a Muslim cab driver in New York City stabbed by a 21-year-old film student. Meanwhile, a drunk man entered a mosque in Queens, shouting at worshippers while urinating on prayer rugs. Clearly, the mosque debate has stirred up emotions on both sides, but it is increasingly driving those who may hold prejudiced views towards our community to commit hate crimes that will leave the collective Muslim conscience scarred and fearful for the future. In times like these, we can’t help but feel threatened. We can’t help but ask, are we even seen as being American in this nation, or are we seen as a foreign threat or, worse, an enemy?

When I was growing up in pre Sept. 11 America, I know that I was at constant conflict with the idea that I am just as American as any other kid. To begin with, my parents came from a country most of my fellow classmates didn’t even know existed. I spoke a language at home completely different from English, and being Muslim, I was taught that dating or going to school dances was something I shouldn’t be doing. Somehow I associated these things with being American, and because I didn’t engage in these ‘American’ things, my adolescent mind came to the conclusion that I wasn’t American.

To add to this feeling of being foreign, my exposure to ‘American Islam’, besides my interaction with other children at the local masjid who also felt the same as I did, was limited to learning about Muslim athletes in America, some who weren’t even originally from this country, and some who acted in what many considered to be an ‘Un-American’ way at least at one point in their lives. I remember being immensely proud when I would be asked by friends at school about Ramadan and fasting after they had learned that Hakeem Olajuwon would fast even during playoff games. Yet back then, I didn’t consider him as a genuine example of American Islam, because the back of his trading card said he was born in Nigeria. Yes, he was Muslim, but he, too, was foreign. Then there were the accounts of the great Muhammad Ali that I read in textbooks. Here was a born and raised American who came to Islam after reaching prominence as the best boxer to have ever lived. Yet when he consciously objected to fighting for an unpopular war in Vietnam and defended his views based on his new found faith in Islam, he was imprisoned for failing to serve in the armed forces. In 1996, a Muslim basketball player by the name of Mahmoud Abdur-Rauf stirred controversy by refusing to stand for the national anthem before games, stating that the American flag symbolized oppression and that his Islamic faith did not allow him to stand during the national anthem. Back then and to this day, I’ve disagreed with Abdur-Rauf’s act, but it’s easy to understand why I began to feel that perhaps being Muslim was at odds with being American.

Sept. 11 brought with it more feelings of confusion and conflict. American Muslims (and the vast of majority of Muslims worldwide) had nothing to do with the attacks leveled on this country that day, yet at school I was told a group of oddball kids who knew I was Muslim were ‘looking’ for me. My parents had forced me to stay home on that day in 2001, and who knows what may have otherwise happened. Even more appalling was the reaction of my French teacher the next day. After asking why I had been absent the day before and thereby placing me in an uncomfortable position, he proceeded to tell me how he wished he could “kick me back to Kabul”. I was shocked, but not silenced. I responded and told him my family was from Karachi. Friends who observed what went on in the classroom expressed their disappointment. I stayed silent, afraid to speak out to school administration.

Yet even in the face of such a blatant act of discrimination and ignorance, some how my faith in America was strengthened further after Sept. 11. Somehow I knew that the acts and words of a few did not reflect the sentiments of the nation. I knew that America was better than that. Several teachers approached me in the days after the attacks, insisting that I come to them if I found myself in a situation where I felt the target of discriminatory slurs. My neighbor brought me an American flag, and my friends made me feel like I wasn’t any different from them. I came to trust them, and they stood up to others and defended me against those who intentionally said hurtful things regarding my ethnic background and religious beliefs.

Encouragingly, though, it seems like I was in the minority of American Muslims to have suffered some form of discrimination here at home. According to a 2007 Pew Research Center survey, 73% of Muslim Americans said they had “never experienced discrimination while living in this country”. And since the early days after Sept. 11, when emotions were still raw and discriminatory comments perhaps excusable, I, too, can’t recount a time when I felt uncomfortable in my own skin as a Muslim. I’ve prayed with fellow Muslims on college campuses out in the open and at rest areas and monuments while on road trips. I’ve spoken out in classrooms about my Muslim American experience and more often than not been thanked for sharing my words by other classmates.

As I’ve matured, I’ve realized that the strength of this country lies in its openness and willingness to accept anyone and everyone. America doesn’t just make empty promises, and those famous words inscribed on the Statue of Liberty ring true for so many of us, including us Muslim Americans: “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free”. We do breathe freer here than we would anywhere else, and for that, we are thankful.

But I’m afraid those same feelings of confusion from my childhood are creeping in again. I do not doubt mine or the loyalty of other Muslim Americans. I know that every one of us knows of no other nation we would rather call ‘home’ than this nation. But while I and those of my generation may have an unbreakable bond with this country, I am afraid for those Muslim children born and raised here and now growing up in an environment in which they must surely feel they are unwanted. In New York City, an Islamic Cultural Center blocks away from Ground Zero is being vehemently protested. Those who are behind the idea hope for it to become a symbol of peace, reconciliation, and understanding between communities. Others, however, just don’t see it that way. To them, Islam was behind Sept. 11, and having a Muslim place of worship near Ground Zero is “tantamount to a Japanese war memorial at Pearl Harbor”.

Then comes the news of a new poll conducted by the Pew Research Center, citing that the number of Americans who believe President Obama is a Muslim is growing. According to the poll’s findings, 18% of Americans believe Obama is a Muslim. The Pew poll, however, was taken in July of this year, before the New York City ‘Ground Zero Mosque’ began attracting national attention. Time magazine, also posing the same question but doing so just earlier last week, found that the number increased to 24% in their poll. The White House, in response, felt it necessary to make a statement, reiterating that the President is a “committed Christian” and that “He prays every day”. Clearly, what’s being insinuated is that being Muslim is somehow wrong. It’s Un-American.

The constant barrage of anti-Muslim sentiment we hear in the media is disconcerting to say the least. It’s deeply disturbing. Yes, the majority of Muslim Americans may not have suffered any individual acts of discrimination, but we are now suffering from blatant and obvious discrimination as a group. Growing up, I thought it unthinkable for a Muslim to even serve in Congress let alone be President. I also thought I would not see a black man become President in my life time. Yet when Barack Obama was elected, a small and perhaps overly optimistic part of me took faith in the words of Colin Powell, who, in response to pre-election assertions that Obama was a Muslim, asked the question of whether there was “something wrong with being a Muslim in this country” and whether there “was something wrong with some 7-year-old Muslim American kid believing he or she could be President?” The answer, said Mr. Powell, was no. I teemed with pride and emotion when I heard those words.

Source: AssociatedPress via YouTube

And yet today, when I stand for nightly Ramadan prayers at my local masjid, and I see a small boy standing next to his father, mimicking his every move while trying so hard to stand straight and still, I can’t help but think what type of America he will inherit. While a Muslim President may not ever be reality, will it even be ok for him to dream that he can become one? If not, then prejudice, bigotry, and ignorance are winning. And for me, that is not what America is. I remain faithful that this country will continue being ours just as much as it is anyone else’s. I only ask that our fellow Americans think so, too.