September/October 2002

Bridgebuilder: Birth of an Activist

By Debbie Almontaser

I remember sitting in my study on the night of September 11th watching the horrid news clips of the World Trade Center disaster and wondering what my students would think about me now. It was only the third day of school. My students barely knew me as an Arab-American. How would they and their families perceive me? Would they trust me enough to get to know that I am a caring, loving human being?

That afternoon my students and many others had already come to the conclusion that it was "those dumb Arabs" who had attacked. It was only then I had told my students my background. I let them know that my feelings were hurt to hear such a characterization when no one in the government actually knew anything yet.

It had been the sort of "teachable moment" no teacher can let pass by. Of course my students felt bad after I acknowledged my ethnicity. That led us to have a conversation about generalizing blame. By working with examples such as "all youth are lazy" and "all Spanish people only eat rice and beans," they started to understand what I meant. One student said, "Can we say, ‘We have reason to believe that those who are involved in the attacks are terrorists who may be of Arab descent?’"

"What do you all think?" I asked.

Their response was, "When you say it that way, you are not blaming all Arabs or saying that this is a proven fact."

I mentioned how Arabs were also blamed for the Oklahoma bombing, when that crime was done by a native-born American. Some students had then wanted to change the statement to "We have reason to believe that those who are involved in the attacks are terrorists."

Besides blame and speculation, we had also discussed fears. Questions like "Is our school safe? Will this happen again in a few hours? Is our country under attack? What is the government going to do about this?" left me speechless, but God gave me the energy and wisdom to answer them in a way that made my students feel safe.

Toward the end of the conversation one student had asked me if I was scared. "Why do you ask?" I inquired.

His response was, "I would be scared if I was Arabic, because everyone will be angry with me for what has happened if those who did it are Arab. I am scared for you."

I was touched by his comment. "What should I do?" I asked.

His response was, "Don’t go home alone."

Ten- and eleven-year-old children knew exactly what I was going to face as an Arab-American Muslim woman who wears the head covering called hijab.

This child’s comment had assured me that my students cared about me. Would they continue to do so after watching the nonstop news broadcasts?

On September 13^th, my fears of not being liked or respected by my students dissolved when they ran to me in the schoolyard to hug me. They were so relieved to see that I had come to work despite the backlash already taking place in the community. Their parents also greeted me with warm smiles and appreciated my dedication at such a time of fear and uncertainty. So did other people in the school community. Everyone came over and hugged and kissed me. They were able to see me as an individual. A group of parents even offered to escort the Arab and Muslim children to school for as long as needed.

Driven by their encouragement, I ended up going out into the community to reassure Arab and Muslim parents that they needed to send their children to school—that they didn’t have to worry about their safety there. It was a necessary mission. Many Arab-American, South Asian, and Muslim students were out of school for days and some even for weeks because they and their families did not feel it was safe to be out in public.

As an independent woman, I didn’t feel safe either. After September 11th, Arab-American and Muslim women became very limited in their daily routines. I for one became a self-imposed prisoner in my own home. For a whole month I was afraid to go out in public alone: wearing the hijab made me too visible. My husband became my bodyguard. He drove me to work and drove me home. He did everything that I needed to get done outside the house because we feared for the safety of my life. We were afraid of physical or verbal attacks on me. It had happened on several occasions to other Muslim women.

I have been wearing the hijab in New York City for almost two decades without any problems. I have loved New York as a place that accepts many races, colors, and creeds. Here I have I felt comfortable; here I have felt at home. Wearing the hijab has empowered me to reach my personal and professional goals. It has given me a sense of high stature. People have recognized and respected me for what I know, not for my physical appearance. Being a modern woman in traditional garb has made me a role model for young women across the city. I symbolize the coexistence of two worlds at a time that is complex and competitive.

But since September 11^th, wherever I go, I get looks and stares that make me wish I could disappear from sight. I often wonder whether these people see me as a radical, or an extremist Muslim terrorist lurking among them, or perhaps a poster girl for the oppressed women of Afghanistan. Throughout my subway travels my heart is always beating a mile a minute. I always wonder, Will anyone come to my rescue if I am attacked, or just stand by and watch?

My daughter Shifa is fourteen years old now and she can never imagine not wearing a hijab. She is your typical American girl whose two passions are music and being on the phone with her friends. Her favorite pastime is being with her best friend Katie Cohen, who lives down the block. My daughter is dealing with the same struggles I deal with every day. She’s conscious of who’s staring at her and wondering what they are thinking.

Since September 11th, Shifa has not left the house alone. She is afraid someone will harass her. To get her to school safely, I had to arrange for a private bus to takes her back and forth with some of her friends. As a mother who fears for her child, I told her to think about not wearing the hijab in public until things calmed down. Her response to this idea was, "Absolutely not, I’m not going to let anyone strip me of my religious right." Her courage and devotion made me very proud, and reminded me of how much we are alike.

My older son Yousif decided to join the US Army three years ago. I was torn, because I'm a person who loves peace—but this is what he wanted to do, and so we supported his decision. Now I say to myself I wish I had not supported him then.

On September 11th, Yousif was activated to report to his unit. Then he was sent to Ground Zero. He was there until January 31,2002. In the beginning, he was part of the rescue mission: I waited anxiously by the phone every night, hoping he would call. He was only able to call every three or four days. They felt like months. The worst was when he called during the day, when we were away at work. His messages on our answering machine were: "Mom, Dad! It's Yousif. I'm okay. Don't worry about me. I'm eating better now and sleeping a little longer. I'll call you soon. I love you." A few weeks later, his job was switched to patrolling the area. From December through January his duty was to assemble telecommunications equipment.

I remember the night when Yousif came home for the first time since the tragedy. His presence at the front door was a relief, but I almost did not recognize him. I thought, "O my God, he could pass for his father's brother." What he had seen and experienced made him look ten years older. When I asked him "How is it there?" he couldn't talk about it. God only knows when he will be ready to talk about it. They say it takes months and sometimes years before someone is ready to talk about such an experience. Months have passed. Yousif is now home and he still can’t talk about it. His struggle for a normal life is haunted by nightmares and hair loss—due to mental stress and anxiety, the doctors say. The evildoing of others has stripped my child's innocence on many levels. My only prayer for him as a mother is, "God, please replace the sights and sounds of destruction and uncertainty with visions of peace and harmony."

On September 10 I was a mother, a wife, and a teacher who worked from eight to three. After September 11 I was also a community activist from four to ten or eleven every night. I was involved in so many projects to safeguard my Arab, Muslim, and South Asian neighbors in Brooklyn that between September and November I lost twenty pounds from overwork.

This all evolved from my membership in the Brooklyn Dialogue Project. The Project is a group of Jews, Palestinians, Muslims, Christians and others who meet on a monthly basis, just to talk about the issues of the world and give each other a sense of hope and support. Immediately after September 11th, some members of the dialogue called to check up on how my family and I were doing. Based on the concerns and issues I raised, they invited me to go to their churches and synagogues to speak on behalf of the Arab-American and Muslim communities in Brooklyn.

After several visits, I realized that many people within the community did not know their Arab and Muslim neighbors on a social basis. So I decided to open my home to neighbors, friends, and people I met at the churches and synagogues. I wanted them to get to know who we are and how much we have in common. I had over a hundred and thirty guests. They have now become good friends and allies.

That open house opened the doors for me to help my community on many levels. Many of my guests were very eager to help. Among them were people from the Christian Children's Fund. With their facilitation and moral support, members from Park Slope and myself were able to develop the Brooklyn Bridges Project, which offered to escort people who were afraid, made legal and mental health referrals, and worked to educate people of other backgrounds about Arabs, Muslims, and South Asians. Another project I co-founded with others shortly after September 11th is The September 11th Curriculum Project: Developing Bridges of Understanding. This project has brought together expert educators from across the city to develop a curriculum that will aid teachers in teaching about Arabs, Muslims, and their position in the world. The curriculum will be distributed to all New York City schools.

All this volunteer work literally took all my time and energy until I became ill from overexertion. My husband and friends made me realize that I had to make a choice between teaching and my community work. I was torn, because I loved being with my students, but I knew deep down in my heart that I wasn’t giving them my all. I also loved serving my community—and if I didn’t do it, no one else would or could. I made my decision after a conversation I had with Judi Aronson, the principal of my school. She appreciated everything I offered to the school, but she also wanted me to be happy. Her words were, "If you continue as a teacher, you will impact a group of children. If you choose the community work, you will be impacting communities. Follow your heart." Her guidance and blessings steered me to do the work that was desperately needed.

I will never forget the day I broke the news to my students. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. After I told them I was leaving, my heart was filled with joy. They understood. They knew how involved I was in the community, they knew I couldn’t do everything, and they were very proud. Precious (who is as precious as her name) said, "We could never forgive ourselves if something happened to someone because you were with us instead of being out there helping people in other schools and in the community. You’re everyone’s hero."

Every now and then my old students call me, and whenever I’m in the neighborhood I stop by to say hello. But our official reunion day will be their graduation.

What’s important now is that all of us need to come together as a community to be educated, and educate others, as we would educate children: there are some people who do bad things, but there are many people who do good things. We must get to know each other by speaking to one another. We need to make sure that everyone’s voice is heard, rather than silenced, in order to overcome our fears. We need to take this unfortunate event as a way to build bridges with the communities that are affected. We need to develop relationships with our Arab-American, Muslim, and South Asian neighbors and merchants to develop understanding and insight. We need to show our solidarity by morally and ethically supporting their existence as Americans. American forefathers come from many lands.

And we need to do build those bridges by our own example. Many will respond. As one of the Israeli guests at my open house said to me, "I have always wished to get to know an Arab on a personal basis but had no idea how to go about it. Thank you for opening your home, your life, and heart."

Dhabah Almontaseer does interfaith outreach, community planning with children, youth and adults for the Christian Children’s Fund.

©2002 Fellowship of Reconciliation