The Muslim experience following 9/11

Today is a sad day in the history of America. Today marks fourteen years since a group of nineteen men affiliated with Al-Qaeda — fifteen from Saudi Arabia, two from the United Arab Emirates, one from Lebanon and one from Egypt — hijacked four U.S. airliners and flew two of them into the World Trade Center towers, another into the Pentagon while the fourth crashed in rural Pennsylvania when the passengers attempted to retake the cockpit. Today also invokes and embodies a myriad of emotions — fear, apprehension, frustration and depression — each of which has characterized my experience as a Muslim American today.

I was a five-year-old girl at that time of the 9/11 attacks. I don’t remember much about my experiences as a five-year-old other than perhaps going outside with my bike, reading a lot of children’s books and having a largely stress-free life. Yet, unfortunately, one of the most powerful vignettes in my memories is the anguishing smoke, the ravaging fire and the tragic deaths surrounding the collapse of the twin towers — an emblem of everything America embodied: democracy, freedom and prestige.

I remember my mother’s horrified expression as she watched the television broadcast. I remember my neighbor coming down, rushing to our house, worried about her son who was living in New York City at the time. I remember her shock and her sigh of relief upon hearing that her son was safe. I remember the disbelief in my mother’s eyes as she continued watching the news replaying the 9/11 attack broadcast. I was a five-year-old at the time, but upon realizing that Muslims were responsible for the attacks, I understood that something terribly bad was happening. I wasn’t sure why, I wasn’t sure how, but I knew that something was awfully wrong.

At the time, I was too young to understand the scope of the Muslim struggle post 9/11 — a struggle that is not given significant attention within the United States — but now, in retrospect, I have realized the atmosphere of fear and stigma that envelops the Muslim American community today. Growing up in America post 9/11, we, as Muslims, have become accustomed to the arduous airport security measures, the constant apologies we make because of our faith, the racial profiling as well as the discrimination and bullying that we often experience. You see, the number of times I have been called a terrorist, a dirty violent Paki and a towelhead has only been a small portion of my struggle as a Muslim in America. It is the pervasiveness of the struggle across the realm of the Muslim world and in post 9/11 America and Europe that has comprised the larger portion of my struggles as a Muslim. The derisive attacks on social media, Yahoo news and in every possible realm of life are a reminder of the struggles Muslims experience in the post 9/11 world. And it isn’t just the terrible and inhumane people who call themselves Al Qaeda that are a victim of these attacks, it is all Muslims from all backgrounds that are targeted on the basis of their faith.

Today, I have come to realize that, as a Muslim, I am an outsider. My attire attracts a lot of attention. My faith, perhaps, attracts even more. It isn’t attention that I particularly enjoy, but it is attention that I have come to accept. Sometimes, when I go outside, people look at me strangely; kids stare and many people approach to ask me why I support the oppression of women, as my attire often incorporates the Muslim headscarf, commonly referred to as the hijaab. These experiences are, however, not wholesomely inclusive of my American Muslim identity. While I have been targeted because of my faith, I have also met a countless number of people at Duke and beyond who perceive me with an open eye and remind me of the optimism that I have for people of this country to revive their beliefs in a more positive and non-judgmental fashion.

The cancellation of the Adhan this past year was an embodiment of the experience I have had as a Muslim in America today — one that is surrounded by both fear and hope. Initially, the news that the Adhan will be delivered from the Duke Chapel was met with a lot of enthusiasm across the Muslim community. The Muslim Students Association, upon hearing that the Adhan will be given from the Chapel, was jubilant and proud of the Duke University decision to support a more inclusive an accepting environment for Muslims. The jubilance, however, was interrupted by a profound sense of threat, particularly death threats, which made the Adhan from the Chapel impossible. Yet, the event, for me was also a mark of hope — hope that was reinforced by the constant support the Muslim community received from across Duke and hope that was revived from the supportive words of many Duke students, faculty members and individuals across the triangle community.

Currently, I am not entirely optimistic about the milieu surrounding the Muslim community in America and the Western world. I am not optimistic of the crises prevalent in the Middle Eastern world and their ability to be resolved either. There has been too much rife, too much hatred and too much ignorance perpetuated both from extremist Muslims and retaliation against Muslims that has left deep scars, which I believe will take years to truly erase. However, I am hopeful. I am hopeful that one day people will strive to work against the stereotypes perpetuated about Muslims in the media. I am hopeful that today, as a Duke community, we will reflect upon the changes that we can intrinsically make to remove the hatred from our hearts in order to develop a better future. I am hopeful that one day more people will see me in a positive light — as someone who likes to have fun, to debate, to read and to achieve within the realm of the Duke community — and not as someone who is unapproachable on the basis of faith. I am hopeful that one day my children will be in an environment that has a better landscape of tolerance and acceptance than the one that I have experienced and experience to this day.

Maryam Ali is a Trinity sophomore. Her column runs on alternate Fridays.