It is still surreal to try and remember the events of Sept. 11, 2001, even 10 years later. I remember myself as an awkward and nerdy 11-year-old boy with extra thick-lensed glasses and unmanageably curly hair. I remember having just moved to a town in rural South Carolina and beginning middle school. I remember being aware that being an immigrant from an Arab, Muslim family made me different, but not realizing just how significant those differences would come to be.
I remember urgent and confusing announcements over the intercom. The principal announced a school-wide assembly, and we all crowded around a small tube television to watch the news. I remember a mix of emotions beginning to settle in. Confusion. Fear. Pain. Distress. More confusion. And slowly... alienation. Before anyone was sure of what was going on, news anchors, students and teachers were already speculating that those responsible were people who looked like me, whose names sounded like mine, who professed the same religion that I professed, who spoke the same language that I spoke at home. And then those speculations turned out to be true.
I remember my mother picking me up that afternoon without her hijab, the first time I had ever seen her leave home without it. In the following weeks at school, some of my peers approached me, asking if I knew Osama bin Laden. I answered yes, confused and wondering who in the world hadn’t heard of his name in the news by that point. They looked at me in shock, their line of questioning continuing to “When’s the last time you saw him?”
It wasn’t the last time that I was asked questions regarding personal ties to terrorism because of my appearance, my religion, my ethnicity or my political views: directly, indirectly, in jest and as “just a part of standard procedure.” Being dealt with as an outsider and with suspicion became an ordinary part of my life.
Soon after 9/11, I remember the United States flag cropping up everywhere. I was confused why taking pride in a flag would be the natural reaction to such a tragedy. I wasn’t a citizen yet. I didn’t even have the privilege of being called a resident alien until I received my green card five years later. The country that I had moved to as a toddler, the only country that I had ever known, seemed not to want me. Palestine, the other country that I called home, was impossible to return to. I couldn’t even find it on a map. While I felt lost, everyone around me was mourning by taking pride in their national identity.
How was I supposed to mourn? How was I supposed to show solidarity? What did it mean that people were blaming my religion or my culture for the attacks? Was I allowed to be angry at American foreign policy? Was I allowed to understand the discontent that so many around the world had for the United States while simultaneously abhorring the actions that had been perpetrated against Americans?
The whole experience was more alienating than I realized for a long time. I didn’t recognize the subtle and not-so-subtle effects the events of that day had on my ability to successfully socialize with others, to feel like I belonged. Suddenly world events began to contribute very directly to my everyday struggles.
I eventually learned that the best way to make sense of the world and my place in it was to share with others.
I heard similar stories of alienation and marginalization; these only got worse as the political climate of fear developed afterwards. I heard stories of constant bullying, physical violence and unwarranted government surveillance.
I met individuals whose pain and grief I couldn’t even imagine. People whose parents worked in downtown Manhattan and who were left in doubt and fear regarding their safety. People who risked their lives trying to save the lives of others. People who lost loved ones on that day. As dramatic an effect that day had on my life, I am reminded that so many others were also affected. I am reminded of just how traumatic 9/11 was for all of us, collectively.
So I use this day to always remember. To remember that we are not alone. We are not alone in our suffering, in our pain, in our loss and in our moving on. I am reminded that our fears and vulnerabilities don’t have to paralyze us. We can learn from them by sharing with others. The effects of that day are larger than any person could ever handle alone. It requires us to rely on each other and be willing to listen and to learn from experiences different from our own. We have others to help us heal. We have others to love and make us feel loved and feel that we belong. And we should never forget that.
Ahmad Jitan is a Trinity junior. His column runs every other Thursday.
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