Dangers of the American Identity Conflict

Originally published here: Cook Ross Inc.

It is difficult to forget the first time you are called a “terrorist”. At first, it comes as a shock but then you feel more emotionally rattled than you do insulted. Muslims, Arabs, South Asians, or anyone who could be mistaken as Muslim, have possibly experienced this in routine after the September 11 World Trade Center attacks. But after your first, the insults start to meld into just another aspect of life in America.

So when Shaima Alawadi first found a note pinned to her door that stated, “This is my country. Go back to yours, terrorist”, she dismissed it as a mere prank. This instinct to dismiss a threat has become routine for many Muslim-Americans in the past decade. Reporting harassment incidences to the police is perceived as foolish and futile.

Shaima, a sweet-smiled California mom of four, chose to wear the hijab. The tradition of hijab for many Muslim women, beyond modesty, is to identify and distinguish Muslim women from other women. Every Muslim woman who chooses to take up the veil, particularly in America, does so knowing that she will be identifiably Muslim from afar. Now, in Muslim countries, this is hardly a dangerous move. However, the brutal murder of Shaima Alawadi, hijab-wearing Muslim mother of five, proves that in America, identifying yourself as Muslim is tantamount to putting yourself at risk.

The issue at hand holds ramifications far beyond an isolated incident. What this murder reinforces is what many Muslims have feared since 9/11- to wear a hijab or grow a beard is to place yourself in the line of fire for hatred, harassment, even murder, in Shaima’s case. What this spells for Muslims today is that they are forced to choose. Do they hide their Muslim identity and live free of suspicion, hate and harassment?

America can never be the free country that it was founded to be, so long as minority populations within its borders feel pressured to suppress their identity, in return for an increased measure of security. Since the murder of Shaima, Muslims have again arrived at a crossroads to wonder: is it safer if to shed the scarf and shave the beard? Why must Muslims sacrifice tradition, religious freedom and personal liberty for safety and freedom from persecution?

Undoubtedly, countless Muslims have chosen to fight against the suppression of their religious identity. They have, in turn, become increasingly vocal advocates of their religion, in more ways than wearing a headscarf or sporting a beard. However, one cannot deny the fear that rippled through the Muslim-American community- that Shaima could have been any one of us.

The first time I was assaulted for wearing hijab, I was twelve years old, testing out my new bike in my neighborhood park. I faintly heard yells from an approaching SUV, but paid them no mind. As the vehicle approached, I noticed three teenage boys hanging out the window and sunroof, making rude gestures in my direction. Innocently, I glanced around to see who they were yelling at, but saw no one. I realized an instant too late that their hate was directed at me, when the first egg hit me hard on my thigh, followed closely by three more as I biked as hard as I could for home. The trembling stopped eventually, but I could never shake the fear that one day, I could get hit with worse than eggs.

It is horrifying that we live in a country where minorities have to suppress their identity in order to feel safe. This kind of exclusionary behavior threatens the ideals that America was founded upon. America’s founding fathers came here in search of a nation where they could practice their religion openly, and free from discrimination. We are a nation that, despite our Pledge of Allegiance, continually struggles to provide liberty and justice for all. We are a nation where a man who shoots an African-American youth for “looking suspicious” can go days uninvestigated, and where Muslim-Americans dismiss threats because of their lack of faith in the police force.

More than a decade has passed since September 11, 2001, when the vilification of Muslims became prevalent in America. Yet 2010 saw the highest number of hate crimes against Muslims since 2001. These assumptions — specifically, that a headscarf-wearing mom from California must be a radical Muslim or that a hooded African-American teenager is a criminal — are fed to us by media, government policies and the recent wars that have ravaged the American psyche. In order to move past tolerance towards inclusion, we have to discover within ourselves the hidden prejudices we hold and courageously address them, not suppress them.

Blasphemy, Death and a Lesson

 

Originally published by the Express Tribune here.

 

International newspapers were ruthlessly generous to Pakistan this past year: granting Pakistan front page features time and time again. Coverage included the Raymond Davis incident, the Memogate Scandal, a “bold” Veena Malik, devastating floods and, everyone’s favorite: Osama Bin Laden in Abbottabad. However, exactly one year ago, Pakistan stole headlines for a reason that has largely been buried. Salmaan Taseer’s assassination over the criticism of the blasphemy law. On January 4, 2011, Malik Mumtaz Qadri, one of Taseer’s security guards, emptied 26 bullets into the body of the man he was meant to protect. Taseer’s death was both mourned and celebrated; his assassin both deplored and decorated.

A year has gone by. Taseer’s son has been abducted, whose whereabouts remain yet unknown; his murderer has been sentenced to death amidst violent opposition; and the Christian woman that Taseer died defending is wasting away in jail. True, the public has expressed outrage at the abduction and many an opinion leader has nodded his head at the death sentence. The blasphemy law, however, remains unscathed. It was the center of debate last January- What is its place in Pakistan? How has it been abused? Should such laws even exist? Should Pakistan be a secular state? It brought to light the plight of minorities in Pakistan for a brief moment, and educated Pakistanis the world over shook their heads at the regrettable situation Pakistan was in.

But nothing has changed. Where is that discourse now? What is the point of a people if they do not demand justice of their government? What purpose do debates, talk shows and articles serve if those who are watching, listening and reading all concur but refuse to take action? Our memory is truly too short. Pakistanis worldwide were lamenting Taseer’s death just last year, yet that tragic event, too, has passed from our attention just as quickly as Veena Malik’s topless photoshoot has. Pakistan, as a nation, cannot afford such a short attention span. Events such as Taseer’s death should be omnipresent on our minds in times like these. Not to remind us of the pitiful state of our nation, but to remind us of the important political issues Pakistan faces.

Issues such as the Blasphemy Laws and the Hudood Ordinances- more broadly, minority rights and women’s rights- are issues that we should be pressing our political candidates on. Rather than harping on about Pakistan’s age old problems of India or America, we should turn our sights inward and demand resolutions for the flaws that exist within our country. Election time is undoubtedly the singular most important period for every democracy- the power that the public holds during this period is unquestionable. Tyrants can be overturned and heros can be championed. It is a time when we can ask anything of our politicians. It is a time for us to demand the answers we seek and the solutions Pakistan needs. That is exactly what the public should be doing right now.

Demand that whomever your favored candidate is, he should address the black laws of Pakistan. For in order for Pakistan to prosper, we must first remedy the maladies within the nation before attacking the pests outside. The reality is that it is far easier to criticize other nations than it is to criticize our own. Few candidates possess the courage to do so, but this kind of courage is absolutely vital for a stable Pakistan. Salmaan Taseer had this courage. And Pakistan needs many more men and women willing to take a stand like he did for what is morally right. Let not Salmaan Taseer’s sacrifice be for nothing. He died fighting for the integrity of this nation. Rather than just remember him, remember his final cause and fight for it, too.

Veena Malik, the feminist?

Originally published by the Express Tribune…

Veena Malik has captured our attention once again. FHM, a men’s magazine, has run a cover featuring a nude Veena Malik, dexterously covering herself with her arms and legs. Malik, in turn, has claimed that the cover is morphed and is suing for damages. She has, however, admitted to shooting “bold” photos with FHM, one of which included a bikini/thong. So even if Malik readily posed naked, or nearly naked, for a men’s magazine whose profit lies in objectifying women, we ask…

So what?

There is a laundry list of complaints and insults we are prepared to throw at Miss Malik. For one:

“Mulk ko badnaam kiya hai!”

(She has tarnished the country’s name!)

Really? As if Veena Malik’s naked body is really the most controversial aspect of Pakistan’s image abroad. Last I checked, it was the corrupt government, the oversized military and oh, bin Laden’s hideout that made Pakistan look bad, not Veena Malik’s curves. She is not an ambassador of Pakistan, despite the philosophy that every Pakistani is an ambassador of Pakistan. While she is clearly a Pakistani woman in Indian territory, she is not the only one who has caused a stir there within the past year. India, and the rest of the world, knows that she is not representative of all Pakistani women. In fact, the West will experience this first-hand soon enough, with Sherry Rehman as Pakistan’s new ambassador to the US.

And then Islam comes in.

“She can’t be Muslim! She’s naked!”

Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t. But the fact of the matter remains that her religion is her personal concern, not ours. If she is to be eternally damned to hell for baring all, then it is she that must pay for her actions. Not you, not I. Perhaps we should forget about her religious transgressions and focus on our own – tall order for a country with a blasphemy law, I know.

The real point of contention is this: There has been an overwhelming response from “liberals” and feminists, both in Pakistan and abroad, praising Veena Malik’s courage and claiming her act is liberating for the women of Pakistan. Malik has been labelled a “feminist” and a “women’s rights activist” since her public lambasting of Mufti Abdul Qawi on Pakistani television. (The Daily Mail claims she is a voice for women’s rights in Pakistan!)

However, what Malik has done by allegedly posing (scantily clad or naked) for a men’s “lifestyle” magazine is completely antithetical to the idea of feminism and the fight for women’s rights. Feminism aims to fight against the ancient patriarchal belief that women are purely sexual objects, created for the carnal pleasure of their male counterparts. Generations of women, American, British, Egyptian, Pakistani, have fought to be recognized as more than just their sexual organs. Miss Malik’s choice to bare her body for the sexual arousal of men is not feminism. In fact, her “bold” choices potentially set back the fight for women’s rights in Pakistan, with the right-wing itching to point fingers and self-righteously claim that “this is what happens when you give a woman freedom!” I, for one, do not want her associated with Pakistani feminism in any way, shape or form (especially not in nude form).

We cannot neglect the fact that Malik’s scandal comes only weeks after activist Aliaa Elmahdy posted a nude photo of herself online, causing similar outrage in Egypt. Her photo, however, was aimed at forcing society to grapple with the age-old exploitation of the female body. Whether or not you support her, it is undeniable that the mentality that she attacks is prevalent around the globe; the mentality that the female body is a tool to be exploited by men, whether to satiate their lust or to assert their dominance.

Elmahdy’s choice to pose naked was to confront this outdated mentality, while Malik’s choice to pose naked was to conform to it.

Don’t Excommunicate the Expatriate

Last month, I met with a prominent lawyer, one who supposedly fights for human rights and women’s activism in Pakistan. Before I met her, she served as a source of inspiration for me. Not as a role model, but as a symbol that women can make change in Pakistan. However, when I confessed to her my desire to live in Pakistan and engage actively in civil society, I was snapped at and told crudely that my “misplaced sense of patriotism” was unwelcome here. Unfortunately, her crass “holier than thou” attitude is not unique to her. In fact, there are hordes of Lahoris, Karachiites and more, itching to tell me that I, an American born Pakistani, am not a “real” Pakistani.

I was born and raised in the United States of America; but I am as Pakistani as you are. This is not your stereotypical first gen immigrant identity crisis nor is it a romantic declaration of patriotism from an estranged citizen. I know perfectly well who I am; I am American and I am Pakistani, and nobody can tell me otherwise. And before you tell me I don’t “know” Pakistan, let me tell you…

I follow Pakistani news before I read the NYT or CNN. I read Ghalib in my spare time, sometimes Faiz Ahmed Faiz. I can name at least six different types of mango that grow in Multan. I have travelled by rickshaw, Pakistan Railways, Daewoo, PIA, ghadda tonga and shabby Karachi yellow taxi too. I have endured loadshedding in the Cholistan desert, volunteered for the 2010 floods and been trapped in the crossfire in Karachi when MQM members were assassinated. I have been run over by a speeding motorcycle on Shahrah e Faisal, and have been in at least five different hospitals for five different reasons. I have spent my hardest summers in Pakistan, but that didn’t change anything between my nation and me.

In a time when Pakistan’s best and brightest are fleeing for the West, Pakistan needs all the honest patriots and sincere nationalists it can get. I am willing and able to devote my life to this nation, when many who have drank from her wells, eaten from her crop and lived under her sun their entire lives, race to abandon her without so much as a backwards glance at the chance of a foreign visa. It is those few people left in Pakistan who are here to drive her forward, with love and compassion, whose ranks I yearn to join. This is not altruistic, this is not self-sacrificial, so, please, spare me your contempt. This is simple. I love Pakistan, Pakistan needs its people, I am here to serve.

So don’t scoff at me, don’t doubt me, don’t deride my “misplaced sense of patriotism”. I have heard enough of the trials and tribulations I shall face ahead. I am aware of them, but not fearful. It is supremely more important to me that I do my part, as a Pakistani, to fight for my nation when the rest of the world is trying to flatten her to the ground. And I hope, and I wish, that you will, too.

Beautiful Balochistan

For the longest time, my mental image of Pakistan was one of a wide expanse of desert, with the occasional green shrub, now brown, shriveled up and not a leaf stirring in the absence of wind, the scorching heat so unbearable that even the palm trees seem to have given up, shrugging their branches in resignation, their large leaves wilted. Last year, my trip to the north, Islamabad and Murree, drastically altered my “geoclimatic” opinion. This Pakistan had mountains, rivers and waterfalls. My trip earlier this summer to Balochistan again changed my image, and added yet another dimension of endless beauty to the rich and diverse Pakistan.

I had only heard of Balochistan in snippets… “Pakistan has provinces- Punjab, NWFP (now Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa), Sindh and… umm… oh yes, Balochistan” or in headlines, “Four men kidnapped and held for ransom in Balochistan”. Rest assured, nothing enlightening. Balochistan is a mountainous region that shares a vast border with both Iran and Afghanistan. It is home to the port of Gwadar. And along its southern border runs the Arabian Sea. Online research would only reveal how little was actually known about Balochistan- its inaccessibility and the government’s lack of control there.

With these images in mind, I, my cousin’s family and my nani (maternal grandma), set off on a long drive to Sonmiani and Gadani, along the southern coast of Balochistan. The only thoroughfare comprised of colorful trucks and the occasional motorcycle. Highway robbery and kidnapping was common in Balochistan, and thus even traveling on the main, open roads is a risk. Within a few hours, the expanse of Sindhi desert transformed into a horizon of high and mighty mountains- seemingly connecting with the heavens at their summit. The mountains I had seen in Murree were impressive- green and white, unwittingly representing the flag of our country. In Balochistan, however, the mountains were dry and vast, akin to the terrain in Arizona or Nevada, rather than the green mountains of Vermont or New Hampshire.

We finally arrived at Sonmiani Beach some long hours later.

The beach. The water was a clear and crisp sky blue, the clearest I have seen in Pakistan. It became one with the sky at the far horizon, making you wonder where Earth ended and where the heavens began- and whether, if you tried hard enough, you could sail to the heavens themselves. The sky was dotted with white clouds, intermittently shielding us from the brazen rays of the South Asian summer sun, and teasing our exposed skin towards the golden brown of the sand.

In both the East and West, rose colossal, treacherous mountains, surrounding us in a rocky embrace. They stretched onward far into the ocean, eventually becoming rocky peninsulas sporadically drowned by crashing waves. The waves were not merciful; regularly picking us up and tossing us back onto shore, they saltily reminded us of how small and insignificant we really are. The blue, sparkling expanse of sea and the encompassing perilous mountains made for a beach the likes of which I have never seen before nor may ever glimpse again.

Next we stopped at Gadani beach and ship-breaking yard. Surrounded by mountains on all sides, we parked the car and immediately began climbing the rocks to reach the peak. On our right lay a long and flat promontory, lined with high rocks, over which massive waves would crash from either side, connecting in the middle and creating a sort of tunnel underneath. The sound of the waves crashing murderously onto the rocks sounded like the furious clap of thunder before a torrential downpour- as though Zeus himself commanded it. It was magnificent. After scaling hastily carved stairs, etched into the side of the mountain and crumbling into nothingness beneath our feet, we reached the tip. Ahead of us was a sheer drop straight into the ocean, the mountain itself seemed to plunge to its death. My arms stinging from the icy spray of the ocean and the turbulent wind at this altitude, I stood perched at the edge, nothing but the angry ocean below me and before me. The mountainsides were pockmarked with caves and hollows, where the waves rammed into them, eroding the massif, pebble by pebble.

In the middle of the flat surface upon which we stood, there was a deep gaping hole straight into the center of the mountain. It seemed to stretch into nothingness, and we stared at it curiously for a few minutes until a rush of water surprised us and burst through the hole, creating a tall column of water and steam- a geyser of sorts. After admiring the multitude of natural wonders in this one area, we climbed back down the mountain, still in awe of all that we had discovered.

As we drove off, I couldn’t help but wonder how the majority of the Pakistani people could be ignorant to such splendors of our country. Truly, Pakistan is a rich country, with mountains, oceans, deserts and forests. If only we appreciated it for what it is worth. If only this were the Pakistan that people knew, for they would come from far and wide to see these wonders. I realized that I had held the same prejudices about Balochistan that many held about Pakistan- that it was a barren wasteland inhabited by an anarchic and corrupt society. I wish that I could open others’ eyes the way that mine were opened, to see beyond the Pakistan in the headlines, and to see the Pakistan that I love and cherish, the Pakistan that will one day prosper.

(This is an excellent virtual tour of Gaddani beach Click it, you might be surprised.)

Lahori Sehri

First of all, Ramadan Kareem! I am extremely excited to be spending this holy month of Ramadan in my favorite city in Pakistan, Lahore. Last year, I spent most of Ramadan in Karachi, and a few days and Eid in Bahawalpur- also quite fun, but there is no place like Lahore.

Last night, I was informed by my cousin (whose actually my second cousin’s daughter and thus my niece but she’s older than me, so lets stick to cousin) of a sehri plan in andhroon shehr (inner city) Lahore. Sehri/suhoor basically means breakfast before the fast begins at dawn, although the term breakfast is quite deceiving since this is the meal which begins the fast… Anyway. Since I’ve arrived in Lahore, I’ve barely touched the Old City, spending most of my days in the office, LUMS, and Defence (sprawling housing complex)- which any Lahori will tell you is not the “real Lahore”. Especially because Defence’s streets are more accommodating to Benzes and beemers, rather than rickshaws and redis (street vendors).

However, this fine morning, at 2:15 am, we ventured out into the tight alleyways and pockmarked lanes of the old city. It was beautiful. The old city has maintained its grace and charm from the days of the British, despite the dilapidated state of most buildings and roads. The crumbling minarets and hollow domes were bedecked with festive lights, like an elegant bride donning garlands for her wedding. But for the cars, you might have been in pre-partition British India. Although swathed in the dark of the night, the city was abuzz with ramshackle rickshaws, jam-packed taxis and the occasional out of place Land Cruiser. And amidst the pollution, wafted in the smell of fresh chicken karahi and nihari cooking on the roadside. (If you don’t know what karahi and nihari are, get yourself to a Pakistani restaurant, pronto,)

We finally found a satisfactory breakfast joint in Lakshmi chowk, a place teeming with men in dirty shalwars and loose dhotis (man-skirts, think of them as desi kilts). Acutely aware that my cousin and I were the only females in the area, probably on the entire street, we climbed down into the basement and settled on some rickety chairs. She pointed to her friends and explained our ironic situation, “this one’s an atheist, and this one’s a Christian”- the absurdity was not lost on me.

We ordered quickly- one plate of chicken karahi, one of brain (yes, brain) and one of takatak- mixed brain, liver, kidney, lungs and tongue (organ meal)… You can imagine how much I ate. When the bottled water arrived, we speculated over whether it was actually Nestle or whether they had filled it up with tap water and glued the bottle cap back on. To be safe, I drank a Pepsi.

After surveying the yoghurt and joking about getting cholera, I opted out and instead feasted on the mouth-watering karahi. After wiping the bowl of brain clean, we paid the equivalent of $8 total (for 6 people) and emerged back onto the sidewalk. Over the faint thunder in the distance, reminding us that monsoon season was not yet gone, we could hear the crisp and clear sound of the Fajr athaan from a nearby masjid- a salve for sore ears. The athaan signaling that the mealtime was over and the fast was begun, those still feasting dropped their food and wiped clean their hands- welcoming the fifth day of Ramadan.

Ramadan Kareem!

So I have been terribly negligent of my blog, despite the fact that I have been exploring Lahore for a good month and a half now… but! My sister, Umaima Ahmad Sial, has been faithful to her tumblr. In the spirit of Ramadan, here is her guest post:

Alhumdulillah, once again here we are. Think about saying “Mubarak” at the beginning of Ramadan, congratulating ourselves on making it into Ramadan one more time, one more chance to better ourselves and truly understand the things we forget most of the year. The Month of Mercy, and the time of guidance.

At the end of 2009, and through last year, I saw a magnificent change in one of my best friends (we shall call her S) from Harvard. I did not really know her very well, but she was always at the Iftars hosted by the Harvard Islamic Society, and over time, I was able to see her genuine and deep interest in it. I thought it was a very admirable decision for her to fast the entire month, and the thing that always struck me most was how much guidance she asked for, from her Muslim friends, if she was unsure about something. Always, S sought the correct way of doing things, she sought the spiritual aspect of Islam and Ramadan that a lot of those who grew up on it (like me) lack. Fairly soon after that, she reverted to Islam from a fairly religious Christian family, and while there was some initially negative reactions, she was so strong in faith, mashaAllah, that I learned a lesson or two about what mercy there is to have been born into this religion. Last year, S took on hijab – the head covering – and though we had spoken about the possibility of it beforehand, and what it would mean for either of us, being able to take the step considering her struggle is truly an act of hidaya.

The hidayat – guidance – is that is offered to each and every person during Ramadan is not limited to those who actively practise the Islamic faith. There is still so much to learn, for those of us who have fasted for years, about what it truly means to be guided from the very nafs – spirit – of our being. There are those of us whose families would be ecstatic to see us reading Quran every day, to see us don hijab and become more involved in our Muslim communities. There are those of us who reject mercy and reject hidaya though we know – we have been told, and we see it in people like S – that it is being given to us every day. There are those of us who forget.

Ramadan is a month in which the doors to Jahannum – Hell – are closed, and the doors to Jannah – Heaven – are flung wide. And the devils are chained, their waswasa – whispers – should be far from our ears. This is the time, and subhanallah, you and I are here to see it another year, in which we must try to be strong in what we know and remember the guidance that has always been there for us. To take note of it, pick it up in the manner in which it is so easy to pick up other things, and reject the things that keep us from becoming people we admire. This year, another of my friends has chosen to fast during Ramadan (let’s call her A). A is not a Muslim – she is a Catholic, raised in a Catholic home, and her interest in Ramadan is one of the simplest, clearest, loveliest things that I saw in S, too: she sees it as a chance for spiritual development, for understanding, and for hidaya. It’s difficult for those who have never fasted before to forgo the most basic of human necessities – water – but there is a keen strength in determination for a goal that cannot be seen, touched, merely felt.

I came to Ramadan this year with no special intentions, no grand gestures or desires of self-improvement. In fact, I disparaged the thought that I would be able to gather myself into a state that I should’ve been in a long time ago. In short, I had forsaken the greatest of mercies, the memory that hidaya is not too far. Sometimes I fear for myself in Islam, because it is too simple, and I need to make things complicated sometimes to make sure they make sense. But knowing oneself spiritually requires no great feat of complexity, no convolutions or contortions. Accepting hidaya in the Month of Mercy is a form of mercy for the soul, and alhumdulillah, alhumdulillah, alhumdulillah, Allah does not give up on those who truly desire hidaya. That is His mercy, and this is our lesson.

You can find the original post here.

Death of a Symbol: an American-Muslim take on the death ofBin Laden

Early this morning in Pakistan, Osama Bin Laden was killed. Finally. My heart is being tugged in multiple directions. Worry not, none of these emotions are pity for the vile terrorist. However, there is fear, of backlash. Anxiety, for the future. Uncertainty, of the consequences. Thus, partially to clear my own head, here are my thoughts as an American-Muslim. September 11, 2001 is hardly a blur. I remember clearly the confusion and the chaos that ensued.

The subsequent days were among the most trying of our lives. The pain of losing a dear friend of our family, our “Uncle” Tariq Amanullah (Allah Yarhamhu), in the World Trade Center attacks was harrowing for the community. Little did we know the following years would only mount the pressure even higher. 10 years old, I didn’t comprehend why my private Islamic school shut down for days. I didn’t understand why people were attacking my neighborhood mosque. I didn’t know why people slandered my hijab-clad mother on the street, why a gang of teenage boys egged me or why a strange girl tried to tear my headscarf off. The smiling neighbor that once waved at us from her driveway now peeked through her curtains, wondering if our house party was really an underground Taliban operation. All I could glean was that because of this man, this furry Osama bin Laden fellow, nothing was the same.

I have not forgiven him. I cannot forgive him. He killed a beloved and respected member of our family. He condoned the murder of thousands. He maligned the name of Islam. He damned every Muslim in America to a life of suspicion… a routine of ‘random’ checks at the airport, wire-tapping in our phones, sneers in the mall,bigotry in the workplace, violence in schools, crimes against our mosques, FBI interrogations in our homes, and regular slurs of raghead, terrorist and ninja. In his death, there is closure for many. I am glad for them. I wish I could attain that closure. I wish that this one man’s death could provide that for me. Just as it did for many Americans who had been wanting to hear these words for 9 and a half years.

However, as an American-Muslim, Osama bin Laden’s legacy will haunt me forever. I will forever be labelled an outcast by my own people, I will eternally be perceived as a suspect by my own government. If only what Osama bin Laden started could also end with his life. It has, however, only begun. Islamophobia is on the rise and hate speech at its peak; anti-Muslim prejudice has not diminished. Forget not that we, American-Muslims, have to deal daily with the vilification. We have not been vindicated. Osama bin Laden’s death is not the conclusion of this chapter of our lives. Nay, it is but a reminder that although the man is dead, Islamophobia is still very much alive.

Islamophobia is as much a product of Osama bin Laden as is anti-Western terrorism. The only difference is that American-Muslims are the victims of both. All Americans, including American-Muslims, hung flags on their doors and sang the national anthem after 9/11, not just the families of victims. All other
identities were abandoned amidst the stampede towards patriotism.

We were united in this War on Terror. But what about the War on Islamophobia? No. Rather, hordes of people thronged to clamber upon the Islamophobia bandwagon. Where was our unity then? We were American, too. We are American, too. So I beg of you, once more… While the hot blood of American nationalism may be coursing through our veins, let not your guard slip. To champion Islamophobia would only be a victory for Osama bin Laden. And let us not, in his death, award him that conquest.

Country Hopping

I have arrived in Alexandria, Egypt!! I have a lot of posts to catch up on, concerning leaving London, traveling through Paris, exploring Rome, hopping back to the US of A and my stay so far in Alexandria. Will update soon!

Update, Feb 2:

I was evacuated from Alexandria, Egypt on January 31, 2011. I had been studying abroad in Alexandria University with the Middlebury College Program for three weeks, but could not complete my term there because of the domestic unrest… Much to write about, our last few nights in Egypt were fraught with riots, bombings and fear. I will write soon.. Meanwhile, my heart is in Egypt, though, and with those revolutionaries!

al-Andalus.

I never did get around to finishing and/or posting this, but why not now?
–
I had the good- no, great- fortune of visiting Andalucía (Andalusia), Spain, this past week with my parents as my 20th birthday present. And although I have two essays (on Int’l Security and the Palestinian Intifadas) awaiting me, I feel compelled to share what I experienced in Spain.

Málaga

We flew into Málaga on Saturday morning; we immediately drove to the ancient Alcazaba (after shedding our coats and boots!), the city’s archaeological trophy. It was breathtaking. And only a glimpse of what was to come. The Alcazaba sat atop a hill, in the middle of a wide open plaza busy with cars and little cafes. We then toured the streets of Málaga for a bit, ducking into small heladerias and catching the sun in hidden plazas. I had the most delicious ice cream (flavor: tiramisu!!) of my life from a tiny artisan ice cream shoppe. Málaga was astounding, with its colorful apartment buildings and fresh flowers in every window. Christmas decorations sparkled in the sunlight (weird, for those of us used to a white Christmas) and women walked around in flowy dresses- we even saw a troupe of flamenco dancers bedecked in red and white polka dots and embellished flowery hats!! The city had an energy so unlike that of London’s, one concentrated in the now. People seemed content to sit in cafes and chat, or lazily bask in the sunlight. I nearly fainted from the amount of people who actually smiled! And behold! laughter on the streets!! What a change from London. My mouth hurt from smiling back at everyone, but I felt so refreshed after just an hour in Málaga.

Sevilla

After exploring Málaga, we set out for Sevilla (Seville)! Sevilla was significantly busier than Málaga, bustling with a younger and “hipper” life. I noticed a few Spanish skater boys loitering around the corner of the ancient cathedral in the city center, and groups of loud American backpackers at bars down the street. We stayed at the Hotel Alfonso XIII, a beautiful and splendidly situated hotel. The hotel itself made me feel like we had taken a trip through time, with its upholstered walls, Baroque ceilings and antique-style furniture. Unlike Málaga, Sevilla had a more modern and posh air to it. With sleek trams running through the plazas and bridges that double as contemporary art (la Puente de Alamillo), this city had an air of business, with just enough sunshine mixed in. Sevilla was curious. It had the most up-to-date technology, new tram system, and a Barclays bike system, but simultaneously, it housed a 16th century Cathedral in the middle of the city, with ancient plazas and palaces dispersed throughout the city. The Plaza de España had me reeling. Literally. The art historian in me had a mental breakdown trying to place it in context while also trying to soak in the sheer magnificence of its architecture. We tested some exquisite Andalucían coffee, which was heavenly after months of instant Nescafe and/or Starbucks (I know. Oh, how the mighty have fallen…!) and had traditional Andalucían food for dinner and breakfast .
I was also very suddenly thrust back into the world of Spanish after a two year hiatus. I thought I fared pretty well, for not having a dictionary or any reference at all! My main problem was constantly slipping back into Arabic. I kept accidentally saying “نعم” instead of “sí” or “في” instead of “en”, etc etc. I also completely ignored all the ‘to be’ verbs in Spanish, seeing as how they are nonexistent in Arabic present tense. Surprisingly few people spoke English in Málaga, Sevilla or Granada, and it wasn’t about to get any easier. So I resigned to speaking Spa-rabic, instead. (Actually, more like Spa-rab-du, since I had to translate from Spanish to Urdu for my parents).

 

Granada

Granada was my favorite by far, for a plethora of reasons. Our first night in Granada, we got lost. Terribly, utterly lost. The TomTom attempted to deceive us into taking an illegal route and, in avoiding it, we ended up far from our desired destination. I, however, began directing a trek towards where I imagined Albayzin was, the Arab part of town. As we turned into dark, dingy alleys and my parents became more and more skeptical, we stumbled past a brightly lit sign yelling “PAKISTANI-ARAB FOOD” and underneath “biryani and shawarma”. My mother, desperate for Pakistani food, announced this is where we’d eat tonight.

The woman behind the counter was Arab and after a failed attempt at speaking English, I suddenly remembered my two years of Arabic education. After explaining that I was not, in fact, Moroccan, but Pakistani- we had an excellent 20 minute conversation in a mix of fusHa, 3ammiyah Masriya and Spanish! She called in her restaurant partner, the Pakistani half. After he joined us with his worse than broken English, but impeccable Urdu, there was an intense Middlebury moment, where 4 different languages were being spoken at high speed in the same room. ‘Twas beautiful.

Afzal, the 20some year old Pakistani, explained that there was a small migrant population of Pakistanis in Granada, and a larger one near Barcelona. After finishing our excellent shawarmas, biryani, daal and samosas, Afzal led us to Albayzin and the closest masjid. We turned out of the dark alley in the midnight rain onto an even narrower, darker alley leading away from the main street- the sound of cars dying out as the sound of rain grew steadier. It was a steep climb up tiny, dingy cobblestone pathways, with many turns here and there. The apartments became visibly poorer and the wandering starved cats more frequent.

Eventually, we found this masjid- part of a preexisting apartment structure. After salah, we took one turn out of the deserted alleyway, and were met with brightly lit stalls and the pungent smell of incense with faint orientalist Arabic music playing in the background- we had obviously reached Albayzin. Imagine Chinatown, but Arab. It was lovely! After bartering in my rusty Arabic, and allowing the odor of incense and sheesha to permeate our clothing, we headed out for the night, very much appreciating the unexpected turn of events that took us down another side of Granada we may otherwise never have seen.

The next morning, we headed out for Alhambra. Alhambra and the surrounding archaeological sites and ruins were by far the most intriguing aspect of Spain. The sites, an intense amalgamation of Spanish and Arab artistic styles. The art historian in me, again, went haywire. The honeycomb structures of the ceilings in Alhambra! It was ridiculously gorgeous and awe-inspiring.
Cordoba

Well, Cordoba merited its own blog post, as you see…