By Nasser Eid ’25
“No, ma’am. He’s a decent family man [and] citizen that I just happen to have disagreements with on fundamental issues and that’s what this campaign’s all about. He’s not [an Arab].”
John McCain, 2008
“And still I see no changes, can’t a brother get a little peace? / There’s war in the streets and war in the Middle East / Instead of war on poverty, they got a war on drugs / So the police can bother me” Tupac Shakur, “Changes”
The beginning of first year of high school began with a terrible anxiety about being in the company of other students. The summer had ended, and everyone was busy catching each other up on the places they traveled to, the enduring labor of sports training in the blistering heat, and the dread of having to study again. I never really felt like I could fit into such conversations, particularly because of how small they were. Circles were closed tightly enough to prevent anyone from the outside into the friendships they believed were rightly theirs. My own group of friends at the time was made up of people who I felt had no real connection to me. We walked the same hallways, but most of them had a confidence in their steps that I felt like I could never be allowed to exercise myself. I resolved to walk behind the groups of young boys I became acquainted with in middle school in the hopes of being able to emulate their footsteps.
The first-afternoon class I had was global history. After clearing the logistics of grading and exam expectations, my teacher began the class by teaching the class a lesson on the aftermath of September 11th: “You are living in the age of terror.” Although she did not sound entirely convinced that what she was saying was completely true, she did make it clear by the high-brow expression on her face that she was still grappling with her own anxiety about becoming the target of some sort of sudden and deadly invasion on American soil. When the attack occurred, my teacher explained how she was in the same seat that we were sitting in that very moment. A silence broke her speech for several seconds as students around the room looked at each other. A few turned their eyes in my direction and then back to the teacher. What had I done? By this time, I was so haunted that I could not accurately remember the words that spilled from her mouth afterward. I spent the remainder of class scribbling dark pencil lines in the margins.
In the classroom, a laminated poster of the Twin Towers was visible on the back wall. The American flag faded in the background, pushing the Towers’ outline off the page. The patriotic investment into the symbol of the Towers before they were attacked is what has the potential to be manipulated into a rallying cry for decades of bombings, surveillance, and murder against Muslims abroad and at home.
My high school teacher was communicating to the class there was a time when the Towers existed, and that compared to the calmness of the image of those Towers erected proudly in the blue sky, the violence and terror of that day and who caused it is something that must never be forgotten because it might happen again. In my situation, at least, the just project of honoring and mourning the lives of precious victims, families, and communities impacted quickly turned into a witch-hunt to identify, suspect, and punish me for what I was perceived to be: a monster. The stares I received from my peers in the class let me know that I was not welcome in their country, even though we had grown up within the same geographic boundaries, attended the same schools, and played alongside each other on the school field.
I hated the idea of going back to class the next day, and for the rest of the week, for that matter. I felt a combination of embarrassment, confusion, and rage at my teacher’s comment and the stares it encouraged. Who was she scared of, and why? Who was being terrorized? Who was under threat?
At the time, I did not identify as Muslim. I grew up in a split-religious household. I celebrated Christmas and Easter with my mother’s side of the family my whole life, and only celebrated Eid al-Fitr with my dad and sister when I begged us to towards the end of junior year in high school. Until then, I had never performed a ritual act of Islamic prayer a day in my life and did not know what it even looked like. I lacked knowledge of the 99 Infinite Names of Allah and the Divine Message of the Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings upon him). I hated being assumed to be a Muslim because of the harmful treatment it entailed. When asked if I was a Muslim, I openly rejected the label. I would say things such as, “I have no religion,” or “my mom is Catholic, and my dad is Muslim.” I had not realized it then, but God had been guiding me, protecting me, nurturing me, and providing for me at a time when I did not have faith. As Professor Robin D.G. Kelley highlights in the conclusion of Freedom Dreams, the creation of life, inclusivity, and recognition can be possible in post-9/11 America. The spirit of creating parks of liberation where neighbors get to know one another to pierce through the confusion can potentially bring us closer to reconciliation and healing as a country. However, hate can only be driven out by love once my peers and others make the moral self-evaluation to consider the harm they have caused themselves by believing the lies perpetuated about the supposedly violent nature of Islam.
