The Modern Plight of Muslim Americans
Approximately six blocks. A walking distance of 11 minutes. A few wide roads home to sprinting New Yorkers in business attire. That is all that separates my school and the 9/11 Memorial. And despite this short distance, it took me two years to muster the courage to venture there myself.
The 9/11 Memorial is a source of anguish and fear for me, and every day I wish it weren’t. My brown skin and long hijab have exposed me to the worst verbal attacks, whether in a traffic jam on the Queensboro Bridge or on the A train home. My parents only compounded that fear, and always told me to never go there until I could defend myself. Years of watching TV, scrolling on YouTube, reading contemporary books, and living in New York City made me feel not just unsafe, but also guilty about my connection to terrorists. That day, I felt compelled to go to the 9/11 Memorial alone, to reconcile my guilt and challenge the universe. I hate to admit it, but I wanted to be attacked that day, and I wanted to be attacked there. I wanted to give visitors a chance to relinquish decades of fear and sorrow, and I wanted them to do it to me.
Perhaps it was years of friends, family, teachers, and strangers telling me I was the oppressed and the oppressor. But as raindrops merged with the waterfalls, and dim lanterns backlit the walls of a depth no one can enter, I felt an innate calmness wash over me. No one said anything, though people did openly stare. Then, I spent twenty minutes staring at a white rose protruding from the marble slab: Barbara G. Edwards. When a middle-aged white man began taking pictures of me, I thought about Barbara. And when he got close to me and hissed, “Why are you here? Get the f*** out,” I prayed that Barbara kept me safe. I pray for her even now.
Riding on the subway home, I thought about my position and rights as a Muslim in that situation. It is easy to point fingers, and even easier to let people point fingers at you. “Stay low, keep your head down. Let them project their anger onto you—they aren’t in their right mind, their grief blinds them.” But what they don’t know is that Muslims are victims as well; we feel the same heartache, the same pain when we watch extremists kill women and children on TV. My father was driving his taxi when he saw both planes crash into the Twin Towers. My childhood friend’s father was brutally attacked and left to suffer on the curb outside his corner store. He was wearing an Islamic flat cap and long robes, which made him a target for violence.
Right now, there is an ethical question regarding the U.S. treatment of Muslims, particularly that of Muslim refugees. Anti-Islamic hate crimes made up 9.6% of all reported religious hate crimes in 2021, according to a 2023 update by the Department of Justice. Former President Trump’s “Muslim ban” barred travelers from Muslim-majority countries like Syria and Iraq. And President Biden’s messy withdrawal from Afghanistan left their people under Taliban control. Wounds from 9/11 and wars in the Middle East have people wondering: should we be responsible for the protection of Muslims? Even after what they’ve “done” to us? I understand the apprehension. However, we cannot excuse racism and Islamophobia in such blatant forms. It goes against the very freedoms that Americans always stood for. As a nation, the best action we can take is to spread awareness and enact protective measures against misinformation. We can’t eliminate racism through policy, but protests, educational seminars, open conversation, and stricter laws against hate crimes are all ways that we can combat Islamophobia right now. We must reteach people the truth about religious minorities–we’re not a danger, but we are IN constant danger. We must help build a world where anyone can openly express their beliefs without fear of violence. And I’d like to visit Barbara again; this time, I’ll bring her a rose.
Gulam Monawarah is a high school Junior from New York City.