Humans are all born free, soaring in whatever direction pleases them, enjoying moments of life as they come. And, perhaps, Muslims are anything but human, caged birds, born on the grave of dreams, bound by metal rods. Your silence will inevitably be your death, and if you speak for justice, for the equality that all humans deserve, you are isolated to death. So, speak, unleash your thoughts into this enigma of a world that we live in, and die at ease.
The night before school started, after Isha prayer, my rambunctious family had gathered around the television screen, my brothers lounging on the sofa, immersed in their usual cartoons, while my dad and I had chosen to sit on the ground, cross-legged. My mum distributed our plates to us, full of spicy and tender chicken tikkas, with toasted naan bread, as my mouth had watered just at the sight and the aroma that filled the lounge. As she handed my dad his chai, and in the midst of a leisurely conversation, my mother had smoothly changed topics, “Khadija, have you called your Aunt Komal yet?” she casually asked, and then hastily added, “You should call her soon. She called, I think, three times just this week.” I should have been ready to escape the situation, or at least say something that would get her off my back, but I was always a little flustered. A relative would get bored, call my mother and ask about me. It was all in formality, but my mum would persistently bother me to talk to those from our community. Those who understood me because we were the same skin color, the same religion. She would always tell me to talk to all the Muslim girls at school, and even invite them to our house, but to stay clear of the others, because they didn’t like us. They were better than us. I was utterly confused and terrified of this new idea that my mum had presented to me, just before high school started. Had I done something wrong? What made them better?
At this childish age, I was clueless that I was a mere pawn in a game, the game of a life, so ruthless and uncompassionate. In time of need, even the king, and all the players becomes suspicious of their queen for moving out of position, for speaking out against the false accusations. In all this absurdity, those closest to me would begin to label me as a terrorist, and their reasoning? I had decided to wear a hijab. A Muslim in Sajdaa, on her knees and face rested on the mat ahead has more strength than all the players in the game of life, and all their discriminatory, hypocritical inconsistencies.
When the mention of ISIS had shown up on television that night, with towns shown as piles of bodies and blood, my mum had hurriedly shut off the television, scrambling to find the remote in the clatter of things around us. Her once bold character was gone, disappearing into thin air, as if it never existed. I was used to her screaming at me, telling me to stay clear of boys, and those Christians, but this was an entirely different side to her. She was scared, that much was obvious by her knitted brows and diverting eyes, scared that even watching such things on television would get us deported, that because we were Muslim, there was always something to be scared of. I pulled the remote out of her grasp, and turned on the television, despite her cries to turn it off. Why should I be afraid? I had done nothing wrong, I had thought to myself, as the light on the television blinked rapidly to indicate that it was indeed turning on. “A mother of two has been caught trying to flee the United States to join ISIS, the Muslim-based organization in Syria,” the stony-eyed, white man had warned, his lips curving down in distaste, almost as if he was cautioning everyone watching to beware of all Muslims. My frown went unnoticed as my entire family was consumed in their own thoughts, with eyebrows drawn in and up, the skin between their brows in triangulated wrinkles, and their noses scrunched. They were all so worried, but for what reason? My mum had told my brothers to leave, go upstairs to their rooms, and study. She said that they were too innocent, that they weren’t ready for all of this yet. My dad had stopped drinking his chai, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, shaking his head, he had stated my exact thoughts in his somewhat understandable enunciation, “ISIS is not Muslim. With this propaganda… women should be least likely to join ISIS. Stories of women being used as slaves, raped, they -” His lips had tensed, firmly pressed together and drawn back as if controlling himself from releasing profanities of all sorts.
Was that woman crazy? Insane, brainwashed, senseless? How on earth can someone thinking of leaving the United States for a region where electricity arbitrarily disappears, and freedom ceases to exist? All the possible causes were roaming through my head. I had wanted to snatch the hair out of my scalp; the feeling was inexpressible, one that I never want to experience again. There was just too much going on in my head. While I was used to breezing through questions in tests of all sorts, this problem was too complex for me to solve. Maybe, the western world and all of its judgmental people had labeled her as a terrorist, when she was only a Muslim. Even, she, an innocent woman, soon enough, had become what they were most scared of. Maybe, the greater evil, rather than these upcoming Muslim terrorist organizations is western hypocrisy. If a solely white terrorist organization were to be created, they would never say it was because of their religion, right?
We were all humans, until religion divided us, and a straight, sturdy line was drawn with permanent sharpie, with the phrase “Muslims Stay Out” bolded, capitalized, and italicized on top of the line. It determined who was better, who was worse, and who was labeled as a terrorist. Being Muslim had me labeled as a terrorist throughout my high school years, but did I blame anyone? Hardly, it was all about the situation of the world at that time, with all the terrorism and mass murders. Everyone was bound to be scared but, fear was supposed to unite us against the evil, not have us turn on each other, or so the world had always said in flowery, meaningless and overly exaggerated phrases.
Throughout my sixteen years of life, with piercing eyes, my mum had always simply stated in her brusque authoritative voice, nothing more and nothing less, as if were the most obvious of things, “We have a reputation to maintain. Opinions matter.” She would often roll her eyes, or raise her hands to her head in a dramatic fashion, if I ever dared to wear leggings, without a shirt ending precisely below my knees. When my auburn matted hair would fall limply on my shoulders, my mother would approach me with squinted eyes, pulling my hair into a tight bun, and then snatching a hijab from the collection scattered about the house. Then, she would firmly pass it to me. Even when no words were spoken, I understood that my dressing style would have people gossiping about us, calling my mother shameless, for failing to teach her daughter how to dress of all things. I never protested against her efforts to control me, however extreme. Being a Muslim was important to me too, and so, I had decided to wear a hijab.
The first day of grade eleven, a throng of girls had surrounded me, not to praise me and see which glamorous accessories I had worn, but to mock my religious attire, associating it with terrorism, oppression, and submission, as they had turned their lips upwards in a sneer.
“Terrorist, freak!”
“Stop bombing our cities! ISIS! What the hell is on your head you bomber?”
“You Muslim…how did a terrorist like you get here?”
I had shrunk into a crinkled ball of paper, cowering in the corner of my seat, surprised by the scene in front of me. They were supposed to be my friends. When I had finally mustered up the courage and spoken up, defending myself and arguing with all intention of clearing the name of Muslims that are innocent, they had yelled vulgarities at me. All Muslims weren’t bad; I had wanted to scream at them, to show them that I could yell too, but I knew that wouldn’t solve anything. It was hopeless to argue with parochial people who knew nothing, who failed to understand. Just because I was Muslim, it didn’t mean that I was a terrorist. Reaching out for my headphones from my printed back-pack beside me, I had speedily plugged them into my phone, impatient for bliss to overtake me, to escape this world. A beautiful Islamic poem had echoed in my ears. But, within mere moments, my phone had been snatched away from me, as they had gazed at the screen of my phone and began judging me for listening to an Islamic poem, for following what I believed in. Once again, their vulgar phrases had pierced my ears, as tears had welled up in my eyes, threatening to fall with a single blink. I was just me, Khadija.
“We all bleed red.”
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