An American Muslim
Dear Attacker,
People say it’s 2019 and that we’ve gotten to a point in society where anyone should be comfortable expressing who they are. So why is it that being Muslim, something that I was once so proud of and valued so much, scares me more than anything?
People say that America is the land of the free. Then why do some make it scary for people of my religion to express themselves through head coverings or modest clothing?
Why did you tell me to “go back to where I came from,” when this nation claims to be the land that welcomes all with open arms?
Why did you tell me to “go back to hell,” when we are both from the same city? A city that is known around the world to be a melting pot of cultures, a symbol of diversity.
On October 31, 2017, Sayfullo Habibullaevic Saipov, a Muslim immigrant from Uzbekistan, drove down a bike path in downtown Manhattan, killing eight innocent people. On that Tuesday afternoon, I was sitting in a classroom on the 9th floor of Stuyvesant High School, located near the site of the terrorist attack.
From the window, I saw people get run over, a truck running into the back of a school bus, someone getting shot, and then dead bodies lying on the sidewalk. It is safe to say that I, as well as hundreds of others in the school, were traumatized.
It was that night after all my friends had already gotten off our train to Brooklyn, once we were finally allowed to leave school, that you shoved your phone in my face, showing me the updated reports of the attack. You, a stranger, accosted me, yelling, “These are your people! You’re probably Muslim too, planning something in that evil little head of yours. Go back to where you came from! Go back to hell!”
Here’s the thing: This is where I came from. I was born in the U.S. and grew up in New York City. I grew up watching my mom and her sisters walk down streets with their heads covered, dressed in long, modest clothing. I never noticed weird stares or crude remarks, but things have changed. As the years have gone by, I’ve become too afraid to put on the covering that my parents saw as a symbol of modesty. The saddest thing is that at the age of 14, my parents stopped asking me to wear it when they heard the stories of girls who did.
When you approached me, I was stunned, too scared to move. I stared at you as you yelled at me, waving your hands furiously until other passengers on the train pulled you away. I got up silently, turned, and got off somewhere in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, 14 stops early, even though I was meant to ride the train all the way to Coney Island, the last stop.
For days after the attack, I was unable to go to school. I felt as though the sight of the exact road where I had seen dead bodies just days before would be too much for me to bear. Although my parents knew of the terrorist attack, when I got home I did not tell them about the incident on the train. Part of me was too shocked to even accept that it had happened and saying it aloud would make it a harsh reality. When, on the fourth day after the attack, I still refused to get out of bed, my mother finally began to question what exactly it was that had impacted me on such a large scale. Of course seeing the terrorist attack was part of it, but she knew something else was bothering me. I broke into sobs, hugging her tightly and telling her that I was scared. I told her that I was so extremely scared because someone had put me into a category with a group of people who dedicated their lives to killing people. I told her that I, for once, was questioning my own religion and beliefs because I was told that it was my religion’s fault that people were dying. My mother just held me close and sobbed, telling me that all of this was just nonsense that the world was trying to accuse us for. She said that only my God and I know how good of a person I am and how true my intentions are and that I did not need to prove it to anyone else.
I went to therapy for months. Not only because I could not close my eyes without seeing the bloody scene of the attack every night, but also because that encounter on the train had shaken me up so much. It took so much out of me to go to my therapy sessions twice a week and try to explain that I was not a bad person. I was not the enemy. I am also American and I also want the people of my country, and the general population of the world to be safe. That incident on the train left me in a haze, constantly questioning my purpose and what it was that I could do to help clear the name of my religion from the accusations that have been out on it.
Being a Pakistani Muslim, this was, of course, not my first encounter with racism, but this time something was different. You probably didn’t know that I had witnessed the terrorist attack firsthand. But I bet even if you had known, you wouldn’t care. The reason why this racist encounter meant more than any other was because I was one of the thousands of people who were kept inside a building waiting for the nightmare to be over. I saw the dead bodies, the blood, the ambulances. I was more traumatized than you could have possibly known.
But because I looked different, because my skin was a little darker, you assumed that I was an extremist. It didn’t matter that I was a New Yorker going through the tragic events of the day. None of it mattered because I was Muslim.
To you, and all of the people who would have said or thought the same in this situation, I just want to say one thing: Being Muslim does not make me, or anyone else, any less human or any less American than you. Islam is a religion of peace, though many refuse to believe that. Some are scared of the phrase “Allahu Akbar,” yet all it means is “God is greater.” Why is it that in any other religion centered on a divine spirit, it is acceptable to have an almighty power but Muslims cannot? We are taught from the moment we are born to do good, to spread love, because in the words of our God himself, it’s important to “make not your own hands contribute to destruction, but do good, for Allah loveth those who do good.” So why is it that a religion of peace, of good nature and good intentions, faces so much hatred?
Maybe you’d say that most terrorists claim to be “Muslim.” The truth of the matter is that these are just a few radicals from an enormous group of followers of the religion of Islam. Ask any real follower of Islam and they will tell you that these “Muslims” are really not considered Muslim at all. They have broken one of the biggest laws of Islam, to always keep peace and to never kill innocent people. So before you blame a group of 1.6 billion people, consider the fact that these select few are not accepted as part of the larger community anyway.
For a long time, I was afraid to speak about my religion. I thought it was better to stay quiet so as to not place a target on my back, but the truth of the matter is that I’m done being afraid of people like you. While you were successful in making me question myself and my religion for a while, after much self-indulgence, many therapy sessions, and lots of time studying the Quran, I came to the conclusion that the only way to prove to people like you that you are wrong is to speak up. I stayed quiet in front of you on the train that day, but now I wish I could go back to that moment and not only speak up for myself, but for the millions of Muslims that face this discrimination and Islamophobia on a daily basis. I learned that the only way to help educate people like you is to speak up, not to stay quiet and let you believe that what you are accusing Islam of is correct. The experience of being yelled at by you on the train impacted me negatively at first. I was unable to understand the situation, and was left traumatized. Now, however, I have made it into a positive for myself. I have learned from it, and my faith in my religion and my beliefs has become stronger. Even though I did not know it before, my confidence in my religion was lacking before and that made me unable to speak up to you. Now, however, thanks to the rude awakening you gave me, I have studied my religion and its beliefs thoroughly and can say so much more confidently that I am Muslim and that Islam is my religion.
No matter what you accuse me of, I am Muslim. Islam means peace. It is not wrong of me to practice my religion, just as millions of others have the right to. Your accusations change none of that.
Despite your hateful words toward me, I pray that something good comes out of this for you. I hope that you learn something that my religion has taught me since the day I was born: that all of mankind is equal.
Nothing makes you above me, or anyone else, because mankind is one nation.
Sincerely,
Sehrish Ali, an American Muslim
