Dear America, from a Muslim Girl: My Story of Activism (part 2)

Last time we talked, I described my journey to activism as a young preteen and into my teenage years. One thing I forgot to mention, however, was the little moments that shaped me into who I am today.

When I was in sixth grade, I was forced to confront bigotry for the first time ever. I had started wearing hijab the summer between fifth and sixth grade, and I was not completely confident in walking around visibly Muslim yet. As a matter of fact, I would not be one hundred per cent unapologetically Muslim until maybe late 2016 as Donald Trump was about to win the election. But I digress. In sixth grade, I was taking a science class. On the first day of class, we had to introduce ourselves to the class. I was Fatima, eleven years old, and Egyptian-American. No one in the class chose to comment on what I said. However, one of the kids in my class was named Ali. I remember him as someone who would joke around a lot. He was always laughing. Another kid in my class was named Jack. He had never talked much. However, on the first day of class, Ali introduced himself, saying, "My name is Ali and I am Palestinian."

Jack rose from his seat, pointing an accusing finger at Ali. "Palestinians are terrorists." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ali look at Jack in shock, unable to respond. Without thinking about what I was doing, I immediately stood up and confronted Jack. I began to explain to him about the Arab-Israeli conflict and what was really going on in Palestine. I explained to him how Palestinian children were dying in the streets and how their only line of defense was to throw rocks at the giant Israeli tanks occupying their towns. I told him how that was the definition of bravery and how the real terrorists was the military occupation of Palestine. Jack responded to me by dismissing everything I had said and replying with his own opinions about how Palestinians were terrorists. Heated, I began to reply to him, but the teacher silenced both of us, explaining to me how everyone has different opinions and that I should learn to expect other people's opinions.

Looking back, I am grateful for that moment. Maybe it would prepare me for moving to Frederick right around that time. I was a MoCo girl. I had grown up jumping between Gaithersburg, Clarksburg, and Rockville. Then my parents decided to move to Frederick County, thirty minutes north and in the heart of redneck country. As a homeschooler, luckily, I did not have to go to public school. But when I grew older and started college, I realized that Frederick needed change. And it needed change now.

The summer leading up to the election of Donald Trump and the hateful rhetoric he spewed on the campaign trail had made me realize that America was not all I thought it had been. And starting with my own little town, I was determined to change American attitudes not only towards me and my community, but also towards all marginalized communities. The MAS-ICNA convention in 2016 was a moving experience for me. I had heard of Linda Sarsour several times, but I had never actually heard her speak. And I really wanted to. So on the first day we arrived, I took my sister and went to one of her lectures. And it takes a lot to make me speechless. But that day, I was speechless and in awe. Her words struck me. She spoke truth to power. She spoke about how there was no such thing as a "Muslim issue" and about how as humans Muslims were supposed to stand for justice. I took videos of her speeches and I really wanted to share them with everybody I knew. I remember texting my mom, "You NEED to come see Linda Sarsour speak." She never came down, but I went to every single Linda Sarsour session at the convention.

After I heard Linda Sarsour speak at the MAS-ICNA convention, I began thinking about what it meant to be unapologetically Muslim. She had talked about being proud of who you are no matter what and having convictions and speaking truth to power without thinking of consequences. And it made me resolve to do just that. The next time I walked into Frederick Community College, where I went to school, I would walk in with my head held high and my back straight, more unapologetically Muslim than ever. And walking in with my newfound confidence, I did just that.

The next time I was moved and inspired was at the Women's March on Washington. I had made the intention to march in the nation's capital the moment the march was announced, in late November. I went with a group of college students from FCC. What I saw at the Women's March was inspiring and beautiful. I saw so many people from so many backgrounds and experiences marching on our nation's capital for humanity. I saw intersectional solidarity between so many communities. And at the Women's March, for the first time in my life, I laid down my protest sign and prayed on it without being worried that anyone would try to do anything to me as I lay my head down on the ground in worship of my Lord. I was inspired by the Women's March and I resolved once again to do more for my community.

That spring, I started the Muslim Student Association at my community college. I also spoke on a panel about Islamophobia and how it affects my community. I had to answer questions from the audience about my religion and my experience as a Muslim woman in the United States during a time of heightened Islamophobia. The MSA took a lot of work to get going. I had so many setbacks. And because my Frederick Muslims weren't showing up to meetings, after the last week of the semester, my advisor and I decided to proceed forward with writing a constitution and a budget, hoping that more people would join once the club got momentum.

Breaking out of my shell did not come until last summer, when I was confronted with having to stand up for myself. During Ramadan, my community was confronted with the death of Nabra Hassanen, a beautiful seventeen year old girl who was beaten and murdered while walking to her mosque from McDonald's with her friends. Nabra's death hit me harder than Deah, Yusor, and Razan's deaths did, because instead of being in faraway North Carolina, Nabra was killed in Northern Virginia, a mere hour away from my community. Our illusion that these types of hate crimes did not happen in our tolerant DMV was shattered. And I will never forget the apprehensive air during the first Ramadan iftar we had after Nabra's death.

Maybe I should also talk about having to give the khatera during taraweeh, because that was one of the ways in which I found my voice. The only time I had ever had experience public speaking before the khatera was on a panel discussion held about Islamophobia right before Ramadan. And I had let my fellow panelist answer most of the questions posed. However, the khatera was going to be me, by myself. And the most terrifying part was that everyone who I was giving it to were my lifelong friends and sisters and brothers in Islam. I decided to do it about modesty. The first few times I practiced it, I spoke like I usually do: extremely fast. It took me less than five minutes, which was the minimum amount of minutes I was supposed to speak. After practicing it several times, I finally got myself to speak at a normal pace. The day of the khatera, I tried not to think about what I was doing. And if I say so myself, I think I did pretty well. (In keeping with true Fatima style over here, I'm also going to point out that some people told me that I said "um" and "uh" too many times during the khatera, but I didn't care and I still don't care. I was in full confidence mode that day. Lord have mercy. I just have that effect on haters, you know?)

Going into Eid with the heavy weight of Nabra's brutal death, I was stressed out and weighed down. I was done with everything. After a few comments that one of my friends made about me, I broke down crying, in front of all my friends and everyone at the Eid picnic. I was so mad at myself that day. I went home and thought about why I couldn't speak up for myself when I needed to. And I resolved what I had resolved earlier that year; I was going to be more confident abo

ut who I was. I was going to use my voice to stand up for myself and others. And that day when I finally broke down was transforming. It made me confront my own fragility and respond to it with strength and conviction. I walked away from that Eid with an unwavering confidence that I still have with me today. Nobody's words have gotten to me since that day.

Before I continue on to what happened this fall, which comes in part 3, this is the end of the (very long) story of my life. I'm in no way special, because my story is the story of so many people out there. And I hope that someone who is not that confident in themselves reads my words and thinks about my journey from being an anxious person to an unapologetic Muslim and a confident teenager. This part was definitely more personal than the last, but I think that it is a good precursor to the story I will tell in the next part. Until then, take care.

From,

A Muslim-American girl.

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