Something is wrong at school.

It’s Tuesday morning, and you’re supposed to be in the middle of art class. Ginger, the art teacher and your close friend’s Claire’s mom, often runs late, but never like this. You’re still adjusting to fourth grade, but you’re looking forward to class with Ginger, who knows what she’s doing and disregards rules.

Claire is at school, so Ginger can’t be absent because her daughter is sick. In the words of Madeline’s Miss Clavel, something is not right.

The following series of events seems simultaneous. Ginger walks into the small room where your Montessori school’s Upper Elementary class keeps its math supplies and language material. The main teachers, Ms. Tethel and Mr. Josh, tell the entire class to sit in a circle on the floor. Someone pushes a TV on wheels inside.

You learn new words that day: The first is hijack.

Somebody hijacked two planes and crashed them into a tall building in New York City — another plane is aiming for the Pentagon, which until this day you only know as a shape.

The second is terrorist — the people who did this are terrorists.

Why will be impossible to grasp, but right now you’re concerned with the what. You don’t know much about war or attacks — years ago, when your dad tells you about Iraq, the enemy in a war, you picture lines of people shooting muskets, alternating like some twisted version of Red Rover. At Montessori school, you’ve only learned peace.

You aren’t sad yet, because you still don’t understand. What if someone calls from the airplane toilet, Akangbe, a sixth grader, jokes to sound clever in a situation the group doesn’t understand. You don’t say anything, but you know people can’t use electronics on a landing plane from all the times an attendant has told you to shut off your GameBoy. And crashing is like landing, right?

When your mom picks you and your sister up from school that day, which rarely happens, she says that Jodi, her boyfriend, and the soccer team are coming over. They need somewhere to react.

A bunch of blonde girls, teenagers, cry in your family room. They need something to eat, and you need a minute away from them. You walk to the snack drawer — next to the freezer, bottom drawer. There’s a bag of tortilla chips that’s stale, but they don’t seem to care.

You never paid much attention to Afghanistan before, but now you feel pressed, awkward. Afghanistan is right next to Iran. Does that make you complicit? There is going to be a war and people are sending anthrax around in envelopes. Even opening the mail can kill somebody now. You write “no” next to Taliban, terrorism, and war in your diary. If that’s in there with your most personal thoughts, people won’t think you’re lying, right? Don’t people know you want the world to be better?

Things change at school. It reminds you of the divide you felt last year during the election, one of the first times you realized people don’t get along. Is your dad going to fight in World War III? you wonder. Then you remind yourself that he is almost 40, safe because he’s too old. You draw words — elementary protest signs — opposing the war. Years later you learn about radicals and you want to become one. Maybe even for Iran.

High school is emotionally excruciating, but at least nobody seems to care about you being Iranian. It takes you years for you to realize it’s because you look just like your white American mother. You lucked out: People like your grandmother’s rice and call you exotic. Your friends never assume you’re Muslim (of course, as an arty kid, most of your friends are freshly declared atheists), or associate you with the threat of nuclear weapons. Instead, they thank you for bringing them headscarves back from Iran.

Barack Obama takes office, and over time the battles overseas and in your mind subside. Even in the summer of 2009, when the election is rigged and a quasi-rebellion hangs in the air, people side with the Iranian populace, especially after seeing a militiaman shoot Neda Agha-Soltan in the heart, the one death that overshadows Michael Jackson’s. Your worries subside a little, because it looks like Americans finally understand that Iranians are people.

You move to another city for college, opening up a new world — a world that, to your surprise, teaches Farsi. Obviously, you take it — you’re obligated. Maybe within a few years you’ll be less embarrassed, able to communicate with great aunts and uncles who never fully mastered English.

Introductory Persian is challenging, but manageable. There’s a good mix of students in your class: international affairs and political science majors, a handful of Iranians and halfies. You take every available class for your degree, and as you advance you feel further behind. Class sizes dwindle and your handicap sticks out more: your accent, your cruddy compositions you can barely read, your inability to roll your tongue or sound out unfamiliar letters.

At home, you felt Iranian. Your grandparents practically lived with you — for a few years they did live with you. Your father, the patriarch, decides everything. You eat rice and eggplant stew for dinner at least once a week. You dance with your hands at loud parties. But here, among real Iranians, you are different. You don’t look like them or speak like them. You realize you are not very Iranian at all. Something is wrong, and it’s you.

You are 24 on Election Day when you pull into a church parking lot to cast your vote for the country’s first potential female president. Today feels symbolic. The system of buildings connected to the church used to be your school. The swings and slide are still there in the front playground where the older kids spent recess. You smile at the porch outside the room where you learned about September 11th, but right now your mind’s set on the future.

You’re on a friend’s couch, eyes rapt on the television, cracking open a beer because you’re starting to worry. You tell yourself it can’t happen, but at the same time you’re not surprised about certain states. You know a state that won’t let people use the bathroom is going to vote red. Perhaps you see more evil in the world — by this point, you know damn well that not everyone is considered a person. And you’re right. Another red state, another beer. You seek comfort in addition, calculating the electoral vote. You try to think about the FiveThirtyEight projection that turns out to be horribly wrong. Michigan’s results come in and you know numbers can’t help anymore.

You only worry about yourself a little, because in the second debate he approached the “Iran issue” like a business deal. Iran has oil, saffron, caviar. Messing with Iran when all you care about is money is moronic. You’re fretting over everyone else you care about: those who really have something to lose. You can’t believe that voters would put so many people in danger to keep their sense of superiority and enjoy slashed taxes — never mind, you can.

“I’ll be okay, but I’m afraid for everyone else,” becomes your new motto.

You aren’t Muslim — hell, you can pass for one hundred percent white girl, or at least Jewish — but you are a dual citizen. Your existence is tied to a place news commentators think is bad. At this point, you don’t want to believe he’ll take charge. That denial won’t fade.

Your existence is tied to a place news commentators think is bad.
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And you’re angry with everyone who voted for him, everyone who thought they were more important than all those people who have something at stake — like your stepmother, whose child shares your Iranian blood. As a pacifist, you understand where she comes from to a degree, but you’re still angry, because that language didn’t spark a shred of hesitation or concern.

And you know they ignored him because they thought they had nothing at risk, even though you know they did.

All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.

January comes and everyone starts quoting Orwell. 1984 becomes a bestseller again, but you think the country’s become like Animal Farm. People who wanted to keep their power are about to lose it. You have to be more than white to have power these days — you have to be the one percent of the one percent. A hundredth.

It’s kind of funny, actually, because this “dystopia” people say America is becoming is based on real historical events, as all dystopia is. Government corruption is inevitable. People just don’t care unless, or until, it’s personal.

His name is inescapable. You can’t stand to use it, to acknowledge that the “freest country in the world” was that easy to con, so you call him The Government. The guy you used to make fun of in middle school is the President, and now there are thousands of rich white males who want to annihilate people you care about from this hypocritical conglomeration called democracy.

Less than a week before you’re supposed to leave the country, the government tries to enforce a travel ban. No Muslims. By this point, you know that “Muslim” just means brown, or white but not white enough. Iran is on that list of seven countries. The fear that haunted you a decade ago rushes back because he’s trying to start a war. Iran isn’t the same as it was 30 years ago, but you know most people here don’t know that. No, they don’t care to know. For the first time in your life, you are afraid to exist.

There’s a protest at the airport tomorrow. You have to go. You have to. You spend hours assembling an Iranian flag from nine pieces of construction paper, exacerbating the tendinitis in your elbow, to draw the four crescents to scale. The next morning, you become inspired to write “TRUMP IS THE NEW SHAH” on your masterpiece, but first you need a silver Sharpie. If you aren’t going to mince words, then people need to be able to see them clearly.

You talk to your dad about it. The government is horrible, you say, but seeing so many people come together gives you hope. Movements are afoot. “You didn’t grow up in a totalitarian government,” he responds. He doesn’t have to say anything else to assert that you don’t understand.

If you aren’t going to mince words, then people need to be able to see them clearly.
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Your parents don’t want you to drive to the airport — they don’t want you there at all. They’re worried about you getting stuck in traffic, detained, harassed, hurt. “People are crazy,” they say, and emotionally exhausted, you pass out. You don’t think Atlanta will become Tehran, but you also don’t want to argue.

You realize you’ve taken your luxuries for granted far too long. That others have dealt with far worse for far longer.

At work the next morning, your boss cracks a joke about a coworker not being able to come back from France. He’s unambiguously white — they all are.

“Sarra, you’re not a dual citizen, are you?” But you are, and you’re terrified. You’ll probably never get to see certain relatives again — your great aunt will die and you won’t even get to say goodbye. And you make sure to say it in a dry, distraught tone. It must have not worked, though, because those jokes keep coming back.

You’re still mad, three days later, at the airport. Of course, you actually have a reason to be scared. While your group works out a check-in mishap, you flip through family passports. First, you admire yours, and catch the place of birth: CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, USA. Then you thumb through your dad’s. It doesn’t bear a city, just IRAN. It might as well say THREAT. You start breaking down in TSA because your father’s passport bears a word that shouldn’t be heavy. He tells you not to cry, but you’re convinced the law will capsize in a few days and you won’t be able to come back, that he’ll get taken away. The pressure weighs you down like a wrecked car, compacting panic and pushing out tears.

You dad’s passport doesn’t bear a city, just IRAN. It might as well say THREAT.
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You learned early on that being Iranian means you’re always on the defensive. That people will avoid your family and struggle to understand that Middle Easterners share their humanity. Maybe it doesn’t even matter who’s in charge of either country. People learned to hate the country that both is and isn’t yours long before you were born; they’ve just been invited to openly embrace that prejudice once more.

At least, you think, the government can’t take your tears away. So you just keep crying.

By the time the waiter came to take our drink orders, K had asked if I’d ever been married and if I wanted kids. I admit there was something exhilarating about the directness, like a game of truth or dare.

K’s pupils were a little too black—too fixed somehow—making me wonder if he were on drugs, but perhaps it was just the contrast against his pale, grey irises. Other than the intensity of his stare, K looked just like his profile picture — tall, square-jawed, boasting a buzz cut and a tan.

By the time the waiter came back with our drinks, K had ascertained the length of my last relationship and whether I rented or owned.

“What about politics?” he asked. “Do you lean left or right?”

“Left.”

K held up his forearms like goal posts, in case he wasn’t being clear.

“Hillary or Trump?” I looked him dead between the goalposts and laughed.

“Bernie!”

K lowered his voice and leaned in closer. “You don’t know about the socialist plans he has for our country?”

“Socialist plans?” I repeated loudly. “You mean like equal access to healthcare and education? Hell yeah!”

K had no comeback. He must have though the s-bomb would resolve the conflict swiftly and decisively in his favor, and now he was stuck without exit strategy.

I looked down the barrel of his black pupils. “Are you a Trump supporter?” I asked.

He blinked. “I’m a Conservative Republican.”

“That’s not the same thing. Not all conservative Republicans support Trump.”

“I support a lot of what Trump’s trying to do,” he said, “but I get frustrated with all the red tape.”

“I know,” I said sweetly. “You can’t just tweet and make it so — thank God!”Just then the poor waiter returned in hopes of a dinner order.

“I’m ready,” K said.

“Cheater, you must’ve read the menu online before we got here.” I’d barely glanced at the thing.

“No, I’m just good at making decisions. I know what I want.”

I felt him watching smugly as I perused the menu, which had suddenly come to signify my every life choice. My exes flashed before my eyes:

Pasture-raised New England beefcake, roasted over spent uranium fuel rods from the decommissioned nuclear power plant, then smothered in Grade A maple syrup and topped with organic jealous greens.

Free-range Coque au Mexique, raised on a diet of GMO-free corn, Saturday morning cartoons, and ‘90s sitcoms, with just a savory hint of macho seasoning.

Wild-caught south shore man-child, marinated in academia until soft and flaky, served over a cannabis and Adderall comfit.

After the waiter finally made off with my order of Gorgonzola and sweet potato ravioli (analyze that) I tried to steer the conversation back to safer waters. I asked about K’s travels: Zion National Park, I’ve been there too! Bryce Canyon, beautiful, isn’t it? Colorado, great hiking! Afghanistan, Syria, umm…

His OkCupid profile hadn’t mentioned military service. Unfortunately, the subject of Syria lead us to the subject of refugees, which led us to the subject of immigration, the political issue with which I’m most personally involved.

“You think ICE is actually separating families?” K asked. “Or you’re just afraid of that happening?” (This was a few weeks before we awoke to images of ICE agents ripping children from their parents’ arms.)

I slapped my hand on the table. “It’s happening alright! Three blocks from here, there is a woman living in a church basement to avoid being deported and separated from her American-born children. She’s afraid of being sent back to Russia where she faces persecution because of her sexual orientation.”

“Wait, she’s a lesbian and she has children? I’m still confused how that works…”

I sighed. Loudly. “It works, okay?” Now was not the time to educate a 38-year-old man about the birds, the bees, and the butterflies.

I plowed on with the story of Irida Kakhtiranova and launched into that of Lucio Perez, the heteronormative father of four from Guatemala, who has sought sanctuary in another local church since October. I’ve gotten to know the Perez family personally through my volunteer work with immigrants’ rights groups. K nodded sympathetically as I described the emotional and financial toll on the family.

Now was not the time to educate a 38-year-old man about the birds, the bees, and the butterflies.
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“I still don’t think Muslims should be allowed in this country.”

“Excuse me?”

He said it so casually I thought I’d misheard.

I hadn’t.

“In my experience, all Muslims want to kill us.”

Suddenly the waiter swooped in with our plates. I stared at the little pile of limp gluten before me. My mind raced. Should I just walk out? Throw my food in his face? My shoe? Could I even get it off in time? Why didn’t I wear slip-ons instead of lace-up boots?

Here was my big chance to stand in solidarity with my Muslim friends and neighbors, but something deep inside me resisted making a scene.

Partly it had to do with being an introvert. It’s also not easy to go against generations of social conditioning that make accommodating men and their opinions, no matter how unacceptable, almost second nature. And if I did call K what he was — a bigoted Islamophobe — I could be labeled hysterical, or a snowflake. A hysterical snowflake.

I took a deep breath. I was too upset to muster my most logical arguments (more crimes are committed against Muslim immigrants than by Muslim immigrants; high-skilled tech workers will go to China instead). But why should I need data and statistics to justify the basic humanity of 1.8 billion people?

“All Muslims?” I said. “Every single man, woman, and child? You can’t say that. You just can’t.”

“When I was over there, even the kids wanted to kill us.”

“That was war. You were occupying their land. Of course they wanted to kill you.”

“I’ve read the Quran,” he said. (And yet he obviously didn’t make it all the way through my OkCupid profile). “Mohamed was not a peaceful guy.”

K calmly munched his steak tips and scallops, while I ranted about religious interpretation.

“You just can’t make blanket statements about an entire of religious or ethnic group. You just can’t. How do you like it when people make sweeping generalizations about Christians? About people in the military?”

To my surprise he set down his fork.

“You’re right,” he said. “You can’t.” A couple of mouthfuls later, “You’ve given me a new perspective.”

I paused and met his eyes. Was he just saying this to shut me up? I’ll never know why he uttered those five words, but it allowed us to get through the rest of dinner quickly and peacefully and part with a firm handshake.

Just how did I end up here? Nothing in K’s online profile hinted at such extreme views. He was the right age, fit, attractive, enjoyed travel and the outdoors; he loved dogs and children.

He did mention that he had “high standards”— “too high,” according to friends — but haven’t we all heard that if we are still single over 30, let alone 35?

And if K had such high standards, why did he offer to drive a hundred miles from northwest Connecticut, to Northampton, Massachusetts of all places—the western outpost of the liberal elite empire—to meet a woman whose only qualifying characteristics were age, availability, and attractiveness?

Nothing in K’s online profile hinted at such extreme views.
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If he had dug just a little into my profile he would have more-than-discovered my political leanings, or at least inferred it based on other information. I’m sure they’re out there, but I have yet to meet an MFA in Creative Writing, or a human service worker, who is a Trump supporter.

But in truth, if K pegged me based on education, profession, and place of residence, he would have been engaging in the same kind of gross generalizations I’d just called him out for.

Recent, compelling—but not shocking—research by Yale Professor Gregory Huber and Neil Malhotra of Stanford show that shared political beliefs factor significantly in our choice of romantic partners. And according to the authors of a 2013 study entitled,“The Dating Preferences of Liberals and Conservatives,” online dating contributes to America’s polarization by making it easier to sort partners by political affiliation.

If I remember correctly, earlier versions of OkCupid listed members’ political affiliation in a sidebar with other basic stats like age, height, education, and astrological sign. Maybe now you have to pay $29.99 a month to find out if you match a Scorpio or a xenophobe?

Malhotra and Stanford colleague Robert Willer argue—check out the TED talk—that the danger of this kind of unnatural selection breeds “ideological silos.” Without exposure to dissenting viewpoints, both sides become more extreme in their ideology.

This perspective makes me feel better about having stuck it out and attempting civil conversation with K. However, I also refuse to accept that religious pluralism is an extremist view. It’s one thing to debate democratic socialism over the dinner table, but it’s quite another to call into question respect for basic human rights.

I noticed that K ordered steak tip and scallop salad—the first item on the menu. Maybe the problem wasn’t high standards, but a failure to appreciate the full range of options, in life and in love.

I’ve been an actor in Los Angeles for over 15 years, and have over 100 credits to my name. I moved here in 2012 — and one of the first parts I played was literally a 9/11 terrorist.

When I started acting, I auditioned for and would have accepted any role Hollywood would give me the chance at. Not only was I desperate for credits (and a paycheck), but I felt that stereotypical or one-dimensional roles would pave the way to a larger cultural tapestry in which I and other Middle Eastern actors could play more complex and interesting characters. My thinking on this has changed as the world has changed. I now believe that when actors have the privilege to be able to refuse a job, as I am fortunate enough to have now, there are instances in which we should vocally exercise that privilege.

If you ever say “it’s just TV” or “it’s just a movie,” you are wrong. Every story shapes the person who watches that story. Three-quarters of white Americans have ZERO non-white friends, which means that their entire understanding of people of color comes from the media. So, until all those white people get some friends with more melanin, actors have a very important responsibility: For better or for worse, we will be teaching them, via the stories we tell, what people of color are like.

Three-quarters of white Americans have ZERO non-white friends.
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But there’s more. The stories we tell, and the lessons we teach, are not limited to ones of representation. It’s not just about simple questions like “Are all Muslims terrorists?” or “Are all Black people gang members?” We are also teaching larger cultural lessons, helping people answer complicated questions like “Are police trustworthy?” and “Is not-taking-no-for-an-answer a cool way to meet women?” These are questions that all actors can help answer, brown, black, and white alike.

Absent real life experience, people form opinions about the world based in part on what they see on TV and in movies. And when what they see is inaccurate, their opinions can lead to pernicious and harmful belief systems. Consider these connections, among many:

*A study by non-profit civil rights advocacy group Color of Change and Family Story found that “the media overwhelmingly depicted black families as poor and dependent on welfare, black fathers as absent, and consistently overhyped the link between black families and criminality. However, when it comes to white families, the picture painted is often of social stability.”

White Americans, including our president, overestimate the percentage of Black people that are on public assistance, and end up being more likely to oppose it. Further, most Americans think black people are dangerous (in turn making black people more likely to be shot, including by police).

*Shows and movies such as 24, Scandal, Person of Interest, and Taken “ use torture as a plot point in episodes designed to entertain,” as the International Business Times put it.

Many Americans, including our president, believe that torture is an effective and productive method of obtaining information, despite there being no conclusive evidence to support this.

*A meta-study published by researchers from UC Davis and the University of Vienna found that in the media, “Muslims tend to be negatively framed, while Islam is dominantly portrayed as a violent religion.”

In a December 2016 Pew survey, 41% of Americans said Islam is more likely to encourage violence than other religions, despite the fact that Muslim societies are among the least violent in the world.

When people hear “Islamic,” I’d venture to guess that a large number of Americans, including our president, immediately think “terrorist.” Heck, it’s one of the first things I think, and my grandmother is Muslim. How twisted is that?

White Filmmakers Must Ask: Do We Need More Movies About White People?

Our elected leaders, from Trump on down — and with the support of millions of Americans — are making fewer decisions based on evidence, and more decisions based on ignorance and (literally) what they see in the media. There is a straight line connecting the one-dimensional, ignorant stories we tell, to a host of threats against human rights, including Muslim bans, mass deportations, mass incarceration, and suspending the rights of women and members of the LGBTQ community.

Actors, this means our job as storytellers is more important than ever. Our choices as storytellers are having real-world effects, so we need to be smarter and more discriminating about the types of stories we help to tell. One of the very few things actors can control in this industry is the decision to participate in a project or not. So before you accept your next job, ask yourself what kind of lessons are taught by the story you’re going to be telling.

Our job as storytellers is more important than ever.
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To help you, here are some sample questions:

Are all the Muslims in this story terrorists? No? Oh, good. Are all the non-terrorist Muslims fighting the terrorists? Like, are there two types of Muslims — the terrorists, and the terrorist-fighters? Yes? Well, what story do you think that tells? Does it tell the story that every Muslim is engaged in terrorism somehow? Do you think that’s accurate? It’s not. Imagine if almost every time you saw a white guy in a movie, he was either a school shooter or a member of a SWAT team. Wouldn’t you naturally be scared of any white guy not wearing a SWAT vest?

In fact, contrary to the prevailing narrative in the media, relative to the billions of Muslims and other Middle Eastern people, the number of actual terrorists is miniscule. Most Muslims, most Middle Easterners, are just regular people going about their day, in a variety of jobs, from doctor to garbage collector to cabdriver to drug dealer to actor. But when this is not reflected in our media, and when people don’t know any real life Muslims, they form an inextricable link in their head between Islam and terrorism. And that is how you get a president who campaigns on, and then attempts to institute, a Muslim Ban.

Making Room For Diverse Voices With The Duplass Brothers
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Look, I have no idea if The 15:17 to Paris or 12 Strong are good movies. There are a slew of talented people involved with both, so I suspect they are. But does our country need more stories about terrorists right now? Do these stories ultimately engender understanding and compassion, or will they just lead us to hate and fear the Muslim guy across the street?

That was an easy one to figure out. Here’s a harder one:

Let’s say the story takes place in the world of politics or the military. Who is the president in this story? Is it Trump? If so, does the fact that Trump is trash have any effect on the story? If it’s not Trump, what does the story tell the viewer about the President? About the presidency? If the president is never mentioned, is it implied that the story takes place in a world where the president is honorable, or corrupt? I once auditioned for a TV show about a counter-terrorism unit. The president was never mentioned, except for once late in the first episode, when someone says “we got the OK directly from the president.” They wrote the script while Obama was in office, likely expected Hillary to win, but now we have Trump. That line of dialogue does not exist in a vacuum, and neither can our choice to work on that show. Had I been offered that role, we’d have had to discuss just what it means to the characters to “get an OK from the president.”

Does our country need more stories about terrorists right now?
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Or how about this:

Are any of the cops or prosecutors in this story aware that the justice system is, to put it mildly, less just to people of color than it is to white people? Would it be realistic for them to not deal with this in any way? Do you feel like that is a fact that is being ignored or at the very least under-discussed in our society?

The point is, every project you participate in becomes a part of our national conversation. Of course, it’s impractical to only participate in stories that are completely realistic, and in which every single demographic group is represented in appropriate proportions. Every story has people who are good and bad, and to different degrees. And a story in which every character is honorable and infallible would likely be very boring. But before you accept your next job, if you can, place it in the context of our national dialogue. And ask yourself if participating in it will do more harm than good. And if it will do harm, think about using one of the very few powers you have in this town — say no. And better yet, tell them why.

Of course, your decision to not participate in a project will rarely result in the project not getting made. That story will likely still get told, with or without you. But if you turn down the part, the producers will have to go with their second or third or eighth choice for the part, which might force them to reexamine — if only for a moment — the story they are telling.

You may lose a job, but at the very least, you will know you refused to be a part of the problem, and tried to be part of the solution.

More than half of all female homicide victims in the United States are killed by their intimate partner. On June 8, 2013, my mother became a part of this statistic.

In one defining moment, my father, with full consciousness, shot multiple bullets into my mother’s chest. Even as she lay there dead, he kept shooting. As is the case for so many, the murder followed years of abuse.

As someone working in the domestic violence advocacy field, I want to be able to share my experience, to educate people and push for crucial change. But as the daughter of Libyan Muslim immigrants to the United States, I have often felt the need to show caution.

I want to prevent, to as great of an extent as possible, perpetuating damning stereotypes about Muslim men and women.

As a Muslim woman, I am often faced with overt Islamophobic aggressions — and these often come from my fellow domestic violence advocates. In my first month working at a shelter in the Bay Area, an advocate remarked that a young Egyptian Muslim mother’s suicidal tendencies reminded her of ISIS suicide bombers. Another time, when the shelter hosted a faith conference on domestic violence, I inquired whether any Muslim faith leaders would be a part of the conversation — and one of the facilitators of the event stated that she had not thought to invite any. She then asked me whether Muslim women are even allowed to talk.

The Fear And Guilt Of Being A Muslim After A Terror Attack

Lila Abu-Lughod, an Arab-American anthropologist who has written extensively on Orientalism as it pertains to Muslim women, expresses how the West has been obsessed with Muslim women and their perceived oppression since 9/11. In her exploration of the Western image of Muslim women and Islam, Abu-Lughod cites a “moral crusade” that has successfully positioned Muslim women as submissive and in need of saving, and Muslim men as spectacularly violent and patriarchal. I remained silent about my father’s actions out of a fear of lending legitimacy to these racist tropes.

In the wake of my mother’s death, I became enraged — at my community, at my father, and at myself. My experiences with racism and Islamophobia as a North African Muslim girl growing up in post-9/11 America, amplified by my mother’s visibly Muslim identity, reinforced in me the need to protect my community.

For a considerable part of my life, Islamophobia informed my mother’s silence, and mine.

About those stereotypes.

It’s true that Muslim women experience abuse at the hands of their intimate partners — however, the same holds true for women in the West. Nordic countries, for instance — despite being some of the most gender-equal countries in the world — still suffer disproportionately high rates of intimate partner violence. In the European Union, the average rate of the lifetime prevalence of intimate partner violence is 22%. In Sweden, the rate is 28%; in Finland, 30%; and in Denmark, 32%. In the United States, one in four women will suffer severe violence at the hands of their intimate partners in their lifetime. (These numbers closely mirror a survey of Muslims in the U.S. that found that 31% reported having experienced intimate partner abuse.)

I remained silent about my father’s actions out of a fear of lending legitimacy to racist tropes.
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What is unique is the presence of distinct cultural norms that make it especially difficult for Muslim women in the U.S. to report abuse or seek help. Ruksana Ayyub, a researcher on domestic violence, conducted a survey within the South Asian Muslim community and found that at least one in four women were dealing with domestic violence. Ayyub notes, however, that the numbers are probably much higher.

What the American populace is most often impervious to is the ways in which Islamophobia — through surveillance programs, incessant negative portrayals of Arabs and Muslims in mainstream media, and excessive news coverage of crimes committed by Muslims — has acted to reinforce and proliferate the abuse that is suffered by Muslim women at the hands of their intimate partners. Because of Islamophobia, Muslim women are encouraged to be silent about their abuse so as to not contribute to the further demonization of their faith and communities.

My community’s subsequent response to my mother’s death, or lack thereof, revealed how this can manifest. My mother Nadia, like most other Muslim immigrants to the United States, had her strongest roots at the mosque. She was beloved in our community, known for her exceptional cooking and shrewdness. But though her funeral brought together people that I had not seen in over a decade, celebrating her and her life, not once did anyone blame my father for what he did. Everyone wrote off his choice to kill my mother as a psychological illness, as a whisper from the devil, ignoring a reality that had been building up for years prior. Denial made the reality a bit easier to bear on each side — as a community, and as a targeted group in the United States.

Similarly, my mother, strong as she was, harbored reservations about disclosing her abuse to those within the Muslim community and outside it. I have inherited these same reservations from her, as there is a very real fear that my mother’s murder will be blamed on our culture and faith rather than on a culture of patriarchy and violence — a culture which America is hardly exempt from.

There is a very real fear that my mother’s murder will be blamed on our culture and faith rather than on a culture of patriarchy and violence .
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This silence is further compounded by the fact that Muslim women who are victims of abuse in America lack options when it comes to seeking help. As our places of worship continue to be surveilled, and racial profiling remains widespread in airports, law enforcement is deeply mistrusted. In New York, for example, the Police Department’s Intelligence Division has overseen a surveillance program since at least 2002 that involves mapping predominantly Muslim communities throughout New York City, providing photo and video surveillance of mosques, and keeping an intelligence database on thousands of innocent New York Muslims.

Even domestic violence centers specifically designed to help those in need often fail to adequately serve Muslim women, thanks to a lack of cultural education and training among advocates. In a study published in Journal of Social Work Research and Evaluation, an overwhelming 46.7% of Arab women who were victims of intimate partner violence agreed or strongly agreed that there were not any domestic violence programs or services that were established to cater to the particular needs of Arab immigrant women.

Asra Milani, a Canadian researcher on Muslim women domestic violence victims, expressed how Muslim clients seeking help from shelters may harbor feelings of suspicion or uncertainty in the presence of domestic violence advocates. Furthermore, Milani states that Muslims who are in need of mental health services “may be reluctant not only to seek services, but to express fears and problems in their lives created by Islamophobia.”

If Muslim women facing intimate partner violence cannot be comfortable in places established explicitly to assist abused women, then there is little faith that there is any place else for them.

Muslim women are constantly othered and dehumanized, their narratives fabricated in ways that intend to rob them of sympathy and needed actions to create change.

Perhaps what has infuriated me most since my mother was killed is the fact that no one calls what claimed her life by its name. No one says that it was patriarchy that killed her. No one talks about domestic violence as a public health epidemic. No one cares to break the silence around domestic violence in the Muslim community, even in the face of such a personal loss. No one seeks to draw connections between patriarchal indoctrination and my mother being brutally murdered by her husband.

No one talks about domestic violence as a public health epidemic.
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Though it is true that all Muslims in the U.S. are deeply affected by Islamophobia, Muslim women continue to suffer the greatest loss: loss of agency, loss of power, and loss of life. There is also a grave cost to Muslim communities when voicing issues is discouraged. If Muslim women are to be vocal about their abuse, the inimical culture of Islamophobia cannot exist. Islamophobia informs the silence of abused Muslim women; that silence, in turn, is killing us.

There is a price to pay if we speak out. There is a price to pay if we do not. But if there is any prospect of saving our lives, we must know that our silence will not save us. Central to our livelihoods is that the culture of Islamophobia be dismantled. Without this, Muslim women lose access to the services that exist for abused women. Without this, Muslim women will, unjustly, continue to choose between protecting their faith and communities, or protecting themselves.

Nour Naas is at the beginning of a project which seeks to lend a platform to marginalized women, with a particular focus on Muslim women, who have experienced intimate partner violence. If you are interested in learning more about it or becoming a participant, you can contact Nour directly at dvpinquiries@gmail.com.

Something is wrong at school.

It’s Tuesday morning, and you’re supposed to be in the middle of art class. Ginger, the art teacher and your close friend’s Claire’s mom, often runs late, but never like this. You’re still adjusting to fourth grade, but you’re looking forward to class with Ginger, who knows what she’s doing and disregards rules.

Claire is at school, so Ginger can’t be absent because her daughter is sick. In the words of Madeline’s Miss Clavel, something is not right.

The following series of events seems simultaneous. Ginger walks into the small room where your Montessori school’s Upper Elementary class keeps its math supplies and language material. The main teachers, Ms. Tethel and Mr. Josh, tell the entire class to sit in a circle on the floor. Someone pushes a TV on wheels inside.

You learn new words that day: The first is hijack.

Somebody hijacked two planes and crashed them into a tall building in New York City — another plane is aiming for the Pentagon, which until this day you only know as a shape.

The second is terrorist — the people who did this are terrorists.

Why will be impossible to grasp, but right now you’re concerned with the what. You don’t know much about war or attacks — years ago, when your dad tells you about Iraq, the enemy in a war, you picture lines of people shooting muskets, alternating like some twisted version of Red Rover. At Montessori school, you’ve only learned peace.

You aren’t sad yet, because you still don’t understand. What if someone calls from the airplane toilet, Akangbe, a sixth grader, jokes to sound clever in a situation the group doesn’t understand. You don’t say anything, but you know people can’t use electronics on a landing plane from all the times an attendant has told you to shut off your GameBoy. And crashing is like landing, right?

When your mom picks you and your sister up from school that day, which rarely happens, she says that Jodi, her boyfriend, and the soccer team are coming over. They need somewhere to react.

A bunch of blonde girls, teenagers, cry in your family room. They need something to eat, and you need a minute away from them. You walk to the snack drawer — next to the freezer, bottom drawer. There’s a bag of tortilla chips that’s stale, but they don’t seem to care.

You never paid much attention to Afghanistan before, but now you feel pressed, awkward. Afghanistan is right next to Iran. Does that make you complicit? There is going to be a war and people are sending anthrax around in envelopes. Even opening the mail can kill somebody now. You write “no” next to Taliban, terrorism, and war in your diary. If that’s in there with your most personal thoughts, people won’t think you’re lying, right? Don’t people know you want the world to be better?

Things change at school. It reminds you of the divide you felt last year during the election, one of the first times you realized people don’t get along. Is your dad going to fight in World War III? you wonder. Then you remind yourself that he is almost 40, safe because he’s too old. You draw words — elementary protest signs — opposing the war. Years later you learn about radicals and you want to become one. Maybe even for Iran.

High school is emotionally excruciating, but at least nobody seems to care about you being Iranian. It takes you years for you to realize it’s because you look just like your white American mother. You lucked out: People like your grandmother’s rice and call you exotic. Your friends never assume you’re Muslim (of course, as an arty kid, most of your friends are freshly declared atheists), or associate you with the threat of nuclear weapons. Instead, they thank you for bringing them headscarves back from Iran.

Barack Obama takes office, and over time the battles overseas and in your mind subside. Even in the summer of 2009, when the election is rigged and a quasi-rebellion hangs in the air, people side with the Iranian populace, especially after seeing a militiaman shoot Neda Agha-Soltan in the heart, the one death that overshadows Michael Jackson’s. Your worries subside a little, because it looks like Americans finally understand that Iranians are people.

You move to another city for college, opening up a new world — a world that, to your surprise, teaches Farsi. Obviously, you take it — you’re obligated. Maybe within a few years you’ll be less embarrassed, able to communicate with great aunts and uncles who never fully mastered English.

Introductory Persian is challenging, but manageable. There’s a good mix of students in your class: international affairs and political science majors, a handful of Iranians and halfies. You take every available class for your degree, and as you advance you feel further behind. Class sizes dwindle and your handicap sticks out more: your accent, your cruddy compositions you can barely read, your inability to roll your tongue or sound out unfamiliar letters.

At home, you felt Iranian. Your grandparents practically lived with you — for a few years they did live with you. Your father, the patriarch, decides everything. You eat rice and eggplant stew for dinner at least once a week. You dance with your hands at loud parties. But here, among real Iranians, you are different. You don’t look like them or speak like them. You realize you are not very Iranian at all. Something is wrong, and it’s you.

You are 24 on Election Day when you pull into a church parking lot to cast your vote for the country’s first potential female president. Today feels symbolic. The system of buildings connected to the church used to be your school. The swings and slide are still there in the front playground where the older kids spent recess. You smile at the porch outside the room where you learned about September 11th, but right now your mind’s set on the future.

You’re on a friend’s couch, eyes rapt on the television, cracking open a beer because you’re starting to worry. You tell yourself it can’t happen, but at the same time you’re not surprised about certain states. You know a state that won’t let people use the bathroom is going to vote red. Perhaps you see more evil in the world — by this point, you know damn well that not everyone is considered a person. And you’re right. Another red state, another beer. You seek comfort in addition, calculating the electoral vote. You try to think about the FiveThirtyEight projection that turns out to be horribly wrong. Michigan’s results come in and you know numbers can’t help anymore.

You only worry about yourself a little, because in the second debate he approached the “Iran issue” like a business deal. Iran has oil, saffron, caviar. Messing with Iran when all you care about is money is moronic. You’re fretting over everyone else you care about: those who really have something to lose. You can’t believe that voters would put so many people in danger to keep their sense of superiority and enjoy slashed taxes — never mind, you can.

“I’ll be okay, but I’m afraid for everyone else,” becomes your new motto.

You aren’t Muslim — hell, you can pass for one hundred percent white girl, or at least Jewish — but you are a dual citizen. Your existence is tied to a place news commentators think is bad. At this point, you don’t want to believe he’ll take charge. That denial won’t fade.

Your existence is tied to a place news commentators think is bad.
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And you’re angry with everyone who voted for him, everyone who thought they were more important than all those people who have something at stake — like your stepmother, whose child shares your Iranian blood. As a pacifist, you understand where she comes from to a degree, but you’re still angry, because that language didn’t spark a shred of hesitation or concern.

And you know they ignored him because they thought they had nothing at risk, even though you know they did.

All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.

January comes and everyone starts quoting Orwell. 1984 becomes a bestseller again, but you think the country’s become like Animal Farm. People who wanted to keep their power are about to lose it. You have to be more than white to have power these days — you have to be the one percent of the one percent. A hundredth.

It’s kind of funny, actually, because this “dystopia” people say America is becoming is based on real historical events, as all dystopia is. Government corruption is inevitable. People just don’t care unless, or until, it’s personal.

His name is inescapable. You can’t stand to use it, to acknowledge that the “freest country in the world” was that easy to con, so you call him The Government. The guy you used to make fun of in middle school is the President, and now there are thousands of rich white males who want to annihilate people you care about from this hypocritical conglomeration called democracy.

Less than a week before you’re supposed to leave the country, the government tries to enforce a travel ban. No Muslims. By this point, you know that “Muslim” just means brown, or white but not white enough. Iran is on that list of seven countries. The fear that haunted you a decade ago rushes back because he’s trying to start a war. Iran isn’t the same as it was 30 years ago, but you know most people here don’t know that. No, they don’t care to know. For the first time in your life, you are afraid to exist.

There’s a protest at the airport tomorrow. You have to go. You have to. You spend hours assembling an Iranian flag from nine pieces of construction paper, exacerbating the tendinitis in your elbow, to draw the four crescents to scale. The next morning, you become inspired to write “TRUMP IS THE NEW SHAH” on your masterpiece, but first you need a silver Sharpie. If you aren’t going to mince words, then people need to be able to see them clearly.

You talk to your dad about it. The government is horrible, you say, but seeing so many people come together gives you hope. Movements are afoot. “You didn’t grow up in a totalitarian government,” he responds. He doesn’t have to say anything else to assert that you don’t understand.

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If you aren’t going to mince words, then people need to be able to see them clearly.
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Your parents don’t want you to drive to the airport — they don’t want you there at all. They’re worried about you getting stuck in traffic, detained, harassed, hurt. “People are crazy,” they say, and emotionally exhausted, you pass out. You don’t think Atlanta will become Tehran, but you also don’t want to argue.

You realize you’ve taken your luxuries for granted far too long. That others have dealt with far worse for far longer.

At work the next morning, your boss cracks a joke about a coworker not being able to come back from France. He’s unambiguously white — they all are.

“Sarra, you’re not a dual citizen, are you?” But you are, and you’re terrified. You’ll probably never get to see certain relatives again — your great aunt will die and you won’t even get to say goodbye. And you make sure to say it in a dry, distraught tone. It must have not worked, though, because those jokes keep coming back.

You’re still mad, three days later, at the airport. Of course, you actually have a reason to be scared. While your group works out a check-in mishap, you flip through family passports. First, you admire yours, and catch the place of birth: CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, USA. Then you thumb through your dad’s. It doesn’t bear a city, just IRAN. It might as well say THREAT. You start breaking down in TSA because your father’s passport bears a word that shouldn’t be heavy. He tells you not to cry, but you’re convinced the law will capsize in a few days and you won’t be able to come back, that he’ll get taken away. The pressure weighs you down like a wrecked car, compacting panic and pushing out tears.

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You dad’s passport doesn’t bear a city, just IRAN. It might as well say THREAT.
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You learned early on that being Iranian means you’re always on the defensive. That people will avoid your family and struggle to understand that Middle Easterners share their humanity. Maybe it doesn’t even matter who’s in charge of either country. People learned to hate the country that both is and isn’t yours long before you were born; they’ve just been invited to openly embrace that prejudice once more.

At least, you think, the government can’t take your tears away. So you just keep crying.

Sikh Americans are turning to community as they face mounting bigotry in the wake of Trump.

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When Guvinder Singh and his family immigrated to the U.S. from India in the 1980s, they found an ideal home in Texas. The “Southern Hospitality” that the region was known for fit their open, friendly personalities. Outside of a few questions about whether or not he was related to Ayatollah Khomeini (this was during the Iran-Contra scandal), Singh found that he got along well with his neighbors. “People might have looked at you a little strange, but if you smiled and nodded, they usually would smile and nod back,” he explained with a chuckle.

Singh’s family was not alone in finding home and community in the U.S. Sikhs have been a part of U.S. society for over 130 years, arriving first as laborers to California. But when former Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was assassinated in 1984 by her Sikh bodyguards in New Delhi, the resulting decade of violent backlash left 30,000 Sikhs dead, many burned alive. In the wake of this violence, many more Sikhs fled India for the United States and Canada. Discrimination and violence against Sikhs has also prompted many to flee from Pakistan and Afghanistan.

Today there are approximately 500,000–700,000 Sikhs living in the U.S. Sikhs have, as an immigrant group, fared well in the U.S. both economically and socially, with higher employment, income, and educational outcomes than many other immigrant groups. And while Sikhs have never been spared anti-immigration sentiment and bigotry, they were for a long time grateful to be in a country where discrimination could at least be challenged.

Today there are approximately 500,000–700,000 Sikhs living in the U.S.

“Here there is a structure in place to try to fight discrimination and violence. It is a blessing of God,” Singh tells me with a voice full of love and appreciation for the freedom and justice that his family traveled so far to find.

But for many American Sikhs, that peace and prosperity was shattered with the September 11, 2001 terror attacks at the hands of Islamic terrorists. In the 30 days following the attacks on the World Trade Center, over 300 cases of violence and discrimination against Sikh Americans were reported. Sikh students were singled out with bullying and harassment at school, with 69% of California Sikh students reporting such abuse. The abuse was not only harsh words or denied services; Sikhs found themselves on the receiving end of physical violence, sometimes even deadly violence. Four days after the 9/11 attacks, Balbir Singh Sodhi was shot and killed by a white man claiming revenge for the attacks. The post 9/11 violence against Sikhs was punctuated in 2012 with the shocking murder of six Sikhs during prayer in a gurdwara in Wisconsin by a white supremacist.

What Must Be Done In The Wake Of Escalating Hate Crimes

But outside of high-profile murders, little attention in the mainstream press has been paid to such incidents. This is likely due in part to the fact that — while nobody should have to face bigotry, discrimination, and violence because of their faith or ethnicity — it is particularly challenging to talk about people who are facing threats for a faith and ethnicity that they don’t actually belong to.

Though Sikhism, an independent faith centered around unity and public service, is the fifth largest religion in the world, the majority of Americans know little about the faith or its adherents. This ignorance has laid the groundwork for abuse; despite the fact that Sikhs are mostly of Indian rather than Middle Eastern descent and Sikhism is entirely separate from Islam, uneducated bigots have targeted the group as part of their violent campaign against Muslims.

Muslim and Arab Americans are in no way more deserving of anti-Islamic and anti-Arab bigotry and hatred than Sikhs are, and it is difficult to talk about the unintended victims of discrimination without making it seem like one group is less deserving of such abuse than the other. Vile hatred is of course completely inexcusable against any group. But in the complexity of this conversation, the story of what many Sikhs have suffered is often pushed aside.

The story of what many Sikhs have suffered is often pushed aside.

There are no firm numbers on how many Sikhs have been subject to violence after 9/11 (even the FBI has tracked violence against Sikhs and Muslims together), but tallies from Sikh advocacy groups show the likelihood that Sikhs have suffered a large proportion of the face to face violence, verbal assault, and discrimination aimed at Muslim Americans. While the headscarf has made many Muslim women the target of insult and abuse for many angry Islamophobes over the last 16 years, the same has been true for the turban that Sikh men wear. Mandated by their faith, the turban makes Sikh men (who, again, are neither Muslim nor Arab) a target for those whose knowledge of Muslim culture consists of Fox News, a few poorly drawn caricatures of Osama bin Laden, and the Disney movie Aladdin. “Sometimes I feel like we suffer more violence,” Singh observes, “because we are so easily identifiable.”

Over the last 16 years, Sikhs have banded together to push back against discrimination in the workplace, schools, and government offices. Singh proudly tells me of the work that he and many others at United Sikhs have been doing over the years to help protect and empower the Sikh community. They have been monitoring anti-Sikh discrimination and violence, and have provided outreach, education, and legal support in the battle to protect their community against bigotry, all while maintaining their relief work with marginalized populations all over the world.

Mandated by their faith, the turban makes Sikh men a target for countless ignorant bigots.

These efforts have been successful; though discrimination has hardly gone away entirely, the immediate violence that many Sikhs faced after 9/11 has waned over the last 16 years. But now, in response to our current political landscape, bigotry is escalating yet again.

When we talk about the outlook for the near future, Singh’s voice loses some of the optimism that had infused his voice throughout our conversation. The election of Donald Trump has rekindled anti-Islamic bigotry in a way that we haven’t seen since 9/11, and with that, both Muslims and Sikhs are finding themselves face to face with the same hatred and fear that had terrorized their lives a decade ago. The legal structure that had provided Singh with a measure of comfort and security against discrimination and violence is now at risk — it is of note that Trump has appointed Jeff Sessions, a man who has repeatedly voiced fear of Muslim immigrants, to the cabinet office in charge of enforcing many of these legal protections.

The election of Donald Trump has rekindled anti-Islamic bigotry in a way that we haven’t seen since 9/11.

The Islamophobic rhetoric and reasoning behind Trump’s travel ban has made travel even more difficult for Sikhs. Sikhs have widely reported extra searches at airports, have had their turbans searched and even forcibly removed, and have been detained for hours when trying to travel both domestically and internationally.

Singh is not opposed to airport security checks, so long as they are actually providing security: “I don’t mind being searched. But I’m always the only one searched. If you are only searching one person, how is that safe? I want to be safe too.”

The high levels of profiling and discrimination that Sikhs have faced at airports since 9/11 now have a brazenness that they did not have before Trump took office. “Now, if you want to pat down a Sikh — it’s patriotic,” laments Singh. He says that he is already receiving increased reports of profiling and discrimination against Sikhs at airports.

“At the top levels, if we have hatred, misogyny, and bigotry — there’s a veil of acceptance provided for [discrimination]. When you have a message from the top giving credence to that hatred, it is very hard to counter,” Singh says. “We saw that in India, that climate of fear and hatred.”

‘Now, if you want to pat down a Sikh — it’s patriotic.’

We are speaking just weeks after two Sikh men were shot and killed in a bar in Kansas by a white man saying “get out of my country,” and just days after a Sikh man was shot and wounded in his own driveway in Washington state by a man saying “go back to your own country.” Shockwaves from the recent violence have been felt all the way in India. Singh bitterly remarks on the concern voiced by India’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, Sushma Siraj:

“She reaches out to a Sikh man shot in Kent, and voices outrage at his attack, but at the same time countless Sikhs are being tortured and killed in India. None of the perpetrators are in jail. Some of them are even in her government.”

For Singh, there is little comfort to be found in the concern from a government that he and many other Sikhs had to flee, over violence they now face in the country they had to flee to.

I ask Singh if he is angry at seeing a resurgence of this hatred and bigotry after so many years of fighting. “Internally, I’m pissed off,” he responds. “America is filled with immigrants. How can someone forget that only three generations in and then tell us that we don’t belong?” Singh sighs and the edge leaves his voice; “Rather than being angry, I’m disappointed.” After 16 years of being seen as a threat because of his appearance and the ignorance of bigots, he is tired.

‘America is filled with immigrants. How can someone forget that only three generations in and then tell us that we don’t belong?’

But this is still Singh’s home, and he and many other Sikhs are gathering strength from their love for their communities and families, and from the massive post-election protests that have taken place in solidarity against bigotry. Singh says that he hopes that people across the country will come together to fight the rise in hatred emboldened by the presidential election, which threatens more than just his community. “We have to call out injustice whenever it occurs,” he states emphatically. “When we minimize any injustice, we minimize justice.”

Despite everything, Singh is confident that Sikh Americans can weather this storm. When I ask Singh how he discusses recent events with his children and how he prepares them for the bigotry they will likely face, his answer is filled with love and determination: “We’ve been blessed with our history of sacrifice and valor. We had a wonderful empire. We have undergone extreme sacrifices for our faith. And so we tell our children to be outspoken, to not be fearful, to not shy away. To be confident in our history and know that they have value they can give to the United States. We tell them that the turban is a crown.”

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