By Anonymous

In the early morning hours of August 17, 2017, Michigan State police busted into a quaint, corner walk-in pharmacy on the corner of Warren and Yinger in Dearborn, Michigan, a suburb south-west of Detroit, interrupting the daily deluge of transactions regularly accruing round-the-clock lines out the door at the infamous local “pill mill.”

Dr. Mohammad Derani was arraigned and had his medical licence suspended from the Department of Regulatory Affairs. Derani, who had written over 500,000 prescriptions since January 2017, averaging 43 every work day between 2015 and 2017, ranked among the most prolific distributors of controlled substances in 2015 and 2016, according to sources.

The national epidemic abuse of opioids, which include heroin or prescription pills, is often considered a white rural or suburban issue. Though Arabs and Muslims have not be spared from the epidemic, their ability to surmount the challenges of diaspora and tackle a nationwide drug epidemic shows a success, rather than deficiency, at the intersections of culture and community.

Like millions of Americans, Dearborn’s residents battle a nationwide drug epidemic that claims the lives of an estimated 100 Americans a day. In the city, drug-related arrests have jumped from 500 in 2011 to 1,000 in 2016. Opioid deaths more than doubled across the country as drugs of choice among users transitioned from prescription opioids to hard street drugs like fentanyl and heroin — a transition that coincided with the skyrocketing price of drugs following a period of overprescription.

My Family Members Struggle With Addiction — Why Don’t I?
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Dr. Derani was one high profile case, but many doctors have been involved in fraud, overprescription, or other opioid scams. In June 2017, six southeast Michigan doctors were found guilty of pocketing illegal kickbacks amounting to $132 million in a nationwide insurance fraud scheme.

“Easily 8 out of 10 of our calls and cases were due to overdoses,” Ed, a 22 year-old emergency medical technician and second generation Arab-American, estimates. “Heroin, opioid, drug overdoses are an overwhelming problem, regardless of age, background, or nationality.”

Arab American communities face the tribulations of war at home compounded with the complications of adjusting to what is regarded within the community as a uniquely American problem of addiction. Both professionals and community members note the relative silence their issues are met with in mainstream America, and how that silence is internalized by Arab Americans, discouraging them further from seeking help.

Numerous community professionals and leaders, for years, noted the stigma surrounding mental health and substance abuse in the Arab American community. Silence and denial hamper any discussion around addiction. At funerals for the victims of a disease that claimed no one demographic, at times, deaths became reported by family and community members as heart attacks or as other natural causes. No one wanted to admit the actual cause.

At funerals for the victims of a disease that claimed no one demographic, at times, deaths became reported by family and community members as heart attacks or as other natural causes.
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“People wanted to say these youth had heart attacks, at 18, 19 years old,” said Mona Hijazi, public health lead at ACCESS. “Back in 2016 [when we started these programs] we couldn’t find anyone to talk to regarding these experiences.” Now, the program ACCESS pioneered, the ACCESS Substance Abuse Program (ASAP), boasts frequent community conversations, addiction counseling coaches, and informational resources that have been translated into Arabic.

Hijazi, also ASAP coordinator, is no stranger to the effects of addiction. Having grown up alongside a family member who spent two decades battling prescription drug abuse and addiction, she understands the challenges that many of her clients face. But she also draws upon her experiences in her role as part of the community coalition. “I never talked about [addiction] until I started my work because I felt that I was holding back from people that I was talking to. I actually had to go and talk to my mom and asked her if she would be okay if I said something — and not say who or even go into details — and she said, if you save one mom a heartache, why not.”

Since 2016, Hijazi recognizes that there had been tremendous change. ACCESS and the ICA began to partner up on ASAP, holding frequent talks and informational sessions and seeking community based help. The community outreach has been effective in raising awareness and breaking stigma. “The good thing about this partnership [with the mosque] is the Imam talks about how he can’t save somebody’s child with religion; that this is a medical issue and addiction should be treated as a disease.”

Dr. Hoda Amine is a Dearborn-based psychotherapist and social worker treating those suffering from addiction in the city’s east neighborhood. She pinpoints self-esteem issues as the factors predisposing her patients towards addiction. These factors, she identifies, are the result of the liminal status second generation Arab Americans find themselves in as “not quite” one or the other. “They don’t know how to be Arab and don’t know how to be American,” she says. “There’s a lot of pressure from the family and the society. They want to fit in — but they also want to disassociate.”

Want To Reduce Drug Use? Listen To Women Drug Users
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The opioid epidemic saw its transition from its prescription drug phase in the 1990s to a heroin and street drug crisis as the influence from the legacy of over-prescription manifested itself in the production and proliferation of street drugs. As drugs became more expensive, many that had become addicted to pain medication, finding their supply running out, turned to street drugs or more potent — and more dangerous — opiates.

While the grassroots efforts in the Arab American community have helped discussion and dialogue proliferate, institutions such as mosques and even law enforcement are also highly involved in community education and emergency treatment around addiction.

Local police nationwide are known for their participation in some of the most invasive, anti-black and Islamophobic policies and practices, including military and intelligence trainings with Israel, widespread surveillance of Muslim and Arab communities, and impunity for police murders of black people. Dearborn PD is the only police department in the state accepting Countering Violent Extremism (CVE) funds, supported by a highly controversial DHS grant issued to sponsor surveillance of mainly Muslim American communities, resulting in more names on the watch list than any city in the U.S. behind New York. However, they are also lauded for their perceived contribution in local addiction recovery efforts. Police partner with groups like the Dearborn-based SAFE substance abuse coalition group, mosques, and local schools to promote substance abuse awareness, and to provide resources such as naloxone, an anti-opioid agent.

This also highlights a complicated relationship between local law enforcement and minority communities, especially considering the deeply embedded role law enforcement has in opioid recovery. Yet despite the police’s public image as the front line in the war on opioids, it is women and progressive youth that have, as those most acutely impacted, made true efforts in changing the culture and breaking the stigma.

Safaa is one example of many who suffered in silence due to the stigma of coming out with an addiction. Like many others, her use started with doctor’s prescriptions, worsening once her tolerance level matched her prescribed supply. In recovery, Safaa realized that there was a need for a confidential support group for women in her community facing addiction. “It’s embarrassing for women to talk about these issues [around men] because there’s a stigma, there’s shame,” she says.

Thankfully, according to studies, women are more likely to seek treatment — however, counselors who work with Arab and Muslim American clients note that these women will seek care only outside of the community gaze.

It’s embarrassing for women to talk about these issues (around men) because there’s a stigma, there’s shame.
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Assembling the first Arab women’s addiction recovery support group, Safaa opened up a space where local women not only have access to confidentiality and support, but where, two years in, informational resources translated into Arabic have been made accessible, and honest dialogue on the issue in private spaces is facilitated. “[We are] the first Arab women’s (addiction’s anonymous) coalition,” she adds. “We do outreach, get together, talk about [drug] abuse.”

Zeinab, a freelancer who wrote for a local paper during the summer of 2016, recalls the response local outlets faced to publishing news on the sudden deaths of young community members, mostly young men, that had overdosed. These platforms received backlash that at times amounted to threats.

However, Zeinab says things are changing. “Yes, there was a backlash after the reported deaths in 2016, but I think our generation kind of shushed the angry voices,” she says. “They paved a way for discussion through organizations like SAFE and even youth programs at religious and academic institutions.” She credits new mediums and voices, as well as existing grassroots spaces, for helping move the conversation forward.

An Arab Trans Woman, Struggling To Find Myself In Language
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As these initiatives show, Arabs and Muslims have leveraged social and cultural dynamics to help combat a nationwide epidemic. It is because of — rather than in spite of — cultural tenants in religion, community, and service that they have been so effective at finding and creating solutions for recovery.

And for many of them, the very women, who, while less likely to die of painkiller abuse, are still more at risk, their bearance of the greater share of emotional and social burden in the home and in the community also render them the leaders in this effort.

“As women, we take on so much and we don’t say anything…we approach that especially when it came to substance abuse,” adds Hijazi. “Yet it’s possible to get through this [together], that you’re not alone as a mom, as a sister, as a friend.”

The Est. collected open letters on Sessions, the recently upheld Muslim Ban, familial separation and the current administration’s response to asylum seekers and immigrants — good grief our collective heart! — to publish on a dedicated landing page as a kind of evolving pastiche of opinions and concerns, anger and empathy. Resistance is vital.

The Est. collected open letters on Sessions, familial separation and the current administration’s response to asylum seekers and immigrants — good grief our collective heart! — to publish on a dedicated landing page as a kind of evolving pastiche of opinions and concerns, anger and empathy. Resistance is vital.

Dear Mothers,

Not mine.

My mother was allowed in the country without questions — an infant in her arms. My mother was given a green card and told to go forth and prosper in the American Dream. She knew only elementary English.

My mother got a job quickly. She stayed with the same company for decades and rose through the ranks. Bootstraps. My mother had a salary; not extravagant, but enough to take care of me.

My mother became a citizen 17 years after she stepped onto American soil — never once afraid of deportation in the interim. My mother was naturalized and no one was excited but us. A quiet assumption: She was American. Like them.

A “good” immigrant with auburn hair and seafoam eyes. A model immigrant for posters hanging in U.S. Customs and Border Protection offices.

My mother is white.

I am brown.

Dear Anyone Who Is Listening
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Brown like the mothers who are seized at U.S. borders. Mothers who cannot move so freely through the world for fear of having their children ripped from their arms as they await trial for crimes they did not commit. Brown like the mothers seeking asylum. Mothers who want the same safety for their children my mother provided me. The same chance afforded to my mother as she arrived in a new country. I am brown like the mothers in holding cells, wondering if their children will survive in internment camps.

My mother’s whiteness afforded me the safety to grow up in her arms, not a cage. My mother’s whiteness afforded me protection from a system that criminalizes mothers who look like me. I am often plagued by the idea that if I were my mother, trying to do what is best for my child, my story would not be so kind.

So, Dear Mothers:

You deserve safety.
You deserve respect.
You deserve humanity.

You deserve to live a life like my immigrant mother.

Mothers, I love you.

By July Westhale

The Est. collected open letters on Sessions, familial separation and the current administration’s response to asylum seekers and immigrants — good grief our collective heart! — to publish on a dedicated landing page as a kind of evolving pastiche of opinions and concerns, anger and empathy. Resistance is vital.

Dear you,

When I was 4, my mom drew me a bath.

“Watch the water,” she said, “and come get me when it’s full.”

I’ve replayed this scene thousands of times — her piano fingers on the rusted faucet, the bathmat an inky-gray, like a fingerprinting. I remember the water filling, filling, the plastic toy boat rising victorious in the swells. I remember calling for her, and hearing only silence. I remember the water overflowing, soaking the mat, leaking down the hallway linoleum, past my sick and sleeping mother.

I don’t remember the moment the water reached our neighbor’s apartment next door, but I do remember that when Child Protective Services was called, I put my body between them and my mom.

“She was sleeping,” I said. “It’s my fault.”

I was taken to a children’s home and, screaming, dunked into a bathtub of ice water.

No one gave me information about what was happening. No one offered comfort. It seemed to me, even at the time, that those in charge thought that silence and isolation was a better solution than explanation and solace.

I had it so so so much better than any of these children in the news.

I’m so proud of my community for standing up and staying compassionate and tender. Of the radical empathy you’re showing to each other and yourselves. I’m so proud of your hand-lettered signs and your fundraising and your yelling and your insistence on better behavior, a better world.

And your stories. I’m most proud of your stories.

For those of you scared to act, or feeling dissociated, or overwhelmed —

hear my story. Take it as a place that helps creates space for whatever you’re going through. That’s what narrative can do in times like these. Take it moment by moment. In this moment, you’re listening, and that’s massive.

The Est. collected open letters on Sessions, familial separation and the current administration’s response to asylum seekers and immigrants — good grief our collective heart! — to publish on a dedicated landing page as a kind of evolving pastiche of opinions and concerns, anger and empathy. Resistance is vital.

On the thread of a truly good friend of mine—who supports the policy of Trump and Sessions—I referred to the sadism of the immigration policy.

I was responding to someone, I think a mutual friend, who claimed that the policy was for the purpose of upholding the law. The mutual friend objected, saying I was emotional and name-calling. I posted the following response to her. It is a simple fact that people I love support these horrors. I want to speak to a larger audience about this. Almost all the people who agree with me have friends who are Trump supporters.

This horror needs to be explored, I think, because I believe breaking through to the people we love who are sleepwalking to fascism is our last best hope.

Every single one of us is descended from oppressors and the oppressed. The arguments justifying cruelty circulating now were going around in Europe during Hitler’s rise to power.

Sometimes the truth comes across as an insult. In part because enough nice people were too polite to be frank with their friends who supported the nazis, it ended up with my grandparents and many, many of my family being murdered in the Holocaust. Of course my family was just one of an ocean of families comprised of gypsies, jews, homosexuals, leftists, and decent people who objected to atrocities.

I am thinking, friend of my friend, that you are highly educated and have had every opportunity to understand that the people who come to our borders are in desperate situations, and that our country is largely responsible for creating those conditions.

The sadism and callousness exhibited by a large minority of our citizens must be named. I feel solidarity with those persons whose torture you approve. Patriotism — especially in this country — requires that your feelings of solidarity with other humans be greater than your allegiance to your government, when your government turns to torture.

Sometimes the truth comes across as an insult.
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Because money plays such a big role in our elections, the significant minority of Trump supporters may continue to gain power. Clearly Trump and Sessions have no more compassion than Hitler. They have both shown it for years. This isn’t name calling, this is truth. (Name calling is that stupid stuff that Kathy Griffin and Samantha Bee do.)

We are coming to a crisis. Either good people who have been sleepwalking toward fascism will come to their senses, or all our liberties and our national decency will be gone. Then it will end very badly for all of us, you and me and all of us. But until our tenuous democracy is snuffed out, you will be hearing the truth from all sides, from the too-small majority who knows sadism when they see it.

The conditions that we have had a large hand in creating in Central America are so terrible that humans will follow the biological imperative — let’s call it God’s law — and try to save their children. The Sessions policy will not be effective in significantly deterring immigration. It will be effective in making us poorer, in many ways. Resources are being diverted from serious crime because of this policy that can’t work.

You will be confronted with this truth every day, and you won’t like it. We are connected by our mutual friend, whom I love, and who thinks I am a murderer because I don’t believe abortion is murder. Yet my family and her family have a strong affinity for each other. It does not stop me from loving her, and I don’t think it stops her from loving me. As far as I can tell, she and you have the same opinions on the immigration issues. Perhaps my family would love your family as we do her.

Until our tenuous democracy is snuffed out, you will hear the truth from the too-small majority who knows sadism when they see it.
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But that doesn’t stop this from being true: Ripping babies from their mothers is perverse and evil. Read Memory of Fire, by Eduardo Galeano, Books 1, 2 and 3. This tells the history of all the Americas from the Europeans’ first landing, in vignettes of one, two or three pages. I think that if you actually read them your heart could not remain as hard. I am sorry to have to say that your heart is hard but it is an unfortunate truth that must be said, for our present, our future, and the people referenced earlier who suffered torture and death because people were too enamored of a false civility to say these things that must be said.

If you don’t want to hear this, you are going to have to restrict yourself to the company of those who agree with you, until such time as the fascist takeover is further advanced.

I myself deal with everybody, and am open to friendships with people who think I am a murderer for believing that women have a right to safe and legal abortion. I have to, because people I love are supporting evil, and that mystery is for me a central question in understanding the world.