11 Years Later- How Living in a Primarily Muslim Country Has Changed My Views of the World
Everyone in the older generation can say that
they clearly remember where they were, what they were doing and who they were
with when JFK was assassinated, when Neil Armstrong took his first steps on the
moon, and when the Berlin wall came down. But as for the younger generation, my
generation, we do not have any of those memories. To many of us, JFK is just an
airport, Neil Armstrong is confused with the bicyclist, and the Berlin wall is
no more than a piece of history we file away in the back of our minds, left to
settle with other dates that we mindlessly spit out onto paper when exam time
arrives, no thought to the impact it had on our world.
But we have our own memories.
Events that shape our world. On September 11, 2001, I was 4 years old. Parts of
that morning are startlingly memorable for me, spots of clarity in a
pre-schooler’s world of sandboxes, play-dates, and stuffed animals. That day
started as so many others had before it. I was sitting in our blue recliner in
my pajamas, watching the Today Show. My mom had gone to do something or other
upstairs, leaving me to watch the morning news report. I remember seeing flames
on the TV screen, my New York City on fire. At 4 years old, the 5 boroughs were
no stranger to me, my father working in Manhattan and various friends and
family scattered around the rest of the island.
“Mama!” I yelled up the staircase,
“Mommy, come quick!” Her footsteps followed with little haste. 4 year-old me
was notorious for making an empty sippy-cup seem like the end of the world. She
walked towards me, and stopped dead in her tracks.
“Hannah, honey, what are you
watching? Did you change the channel and find a scary movie?” Although her
voice was soothing, there was a tone to it that told me she was trying to tell
herself that the horrific scene on the screen before us was only a movie, just
Hollywood’s special effects showcased in
the latest film. Her eyes took in the headlines, the raw footage, the camera’s
shakiness as the city she once called home filled with smoke. She sank slowly
into the chair beside me, as she took in the scene. “Your father…” she
whispered, “His office building... Right there…”
And that’s when the panic set in.
2001 was in that disconnected time
when cell phones were rare and exotic, much like a tropical bird or Venezuelan
restaurant. After seeing the scenes on the tv that she’ll never be able to
unsee, my mom perched herself at the kitchen table. She wrapped the curly phone
cord around her fingers and dialed. Again and again. At first, busy signals.
Then nothing. The plane crash had knocked out power in my father’s office
building, the building directly next to the World Trade Center. My mom tried to
stay calm for me, but also for herself. Despite her attempts, her smiles and
reassuring words were all transparent and I could tell that this morning would
not be like all the others, no morning spent watching Sesame Street, no walking
down the street to get pizza and go to the park. After a good hour of
unanswered calls, my mom told me to get dressed. Like every other Tuesday, we
were going to Bible Study.
At the church, the elder ladies
smothered my mom with hugs and promises that things would be okay. Though their
children were long past grown, motherly instincts have a way of sticking around
and surfacing when people need them most. In times of tragedy, we turn to
routine, cling to the things that remind us that life was once normal. In that
room, filled with blue-haired ladies and Bibles, I remember thinking that maybe
things would be okay. Maybe. A word filled with hope, but also some fear and
always uncertainty.
After Bible study, my mother and I
returned to our tiny condo. We tried to act natural, drinking cocoa and
watching the news, but the house seemed missing something, father’s things
serving as a reminder of all the unanswered questions and unknowns. The phone
finally rang. I don’t know what my dad said or discussed in that call. The only
thing was that he was safe. It’s strange how things work out sometimes. The day
my dad had jury duty was the day all the windows in his office were blown
apart, such a bothersome thing may just have saved his life. Others have these
stories too, these miracles. My friend Tom’s dad called in sick that day, the
day where everyone else in his fire department died. So many have these
stories, but so many don’t.
In the days that passed, life went
on. The tv was always tuned to NBC, the latest story of bravery, or of tragedy,
or of unrequited human cruelty streaming across the bottom of the screen. In
those days, our country united. We were the United States of America; we were
one people, one eye weeping for all the victims of 9-11, one jumbled nation
trying to pick itself on the ground and decide how and if to rebuild.
At 4 years old, my number one asked
question was, “Why?” It was as easy for me to ask “Why did they blow up New
York?” as it was to ask why the sky was blue. At 4 years old, I’m not sure if
my parents knew how to put it. They tried to put it into words I would
understand, bad men doing bad things, but at 4 years old, I struggled to still
find the why.
TV reports and documentaries and
newspapers and magazines about that day fall into a blur in my head. Pictures of bearded men in turbans and the
word “Muslim” stuck out to me. This Muslim thing was foreign to me then, a
mysterious religion where women hid their hair and prayed a lot and didn’t eat
bacon. I connected these pictures, these people with bad. With fear. At 4 years
old, I was more than content to package up 9-11 as an entire religion that was
against our country. I associated hijab with hate, and Muslim with murder.
Those answers were simple, and I held on to them as life gravitated towards a
new normal..
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| It is our job to realize not only the importance of how we view others, but how others view us |
In April 2012, my world flipped
upside down again. I won 3 full scholarships to study abroad in countries all
over the world. Suddenly, Venezuela, Germany, and Malaysia became possible
future homes. I’ve always wanted to study abroad, but deciding where to go was
incredibly difficult. Germany promised bratwurst and Oktoberfest, Venezuela was
an invitation for tamales and tango, and Malaysia? Malaysia was the one country
I never thought I’d end up in. I never expected to get that scholarship and
especially not to that country. Wikipedia searches introduced me to a land that
is known for its unique blend of culture, a land rich with history and heat. A
land where Islam is the official religion, though others can practice their own
religion freely. I’m half proud to say that my view on Muslims has changed as
I’ve reached my teen years. But only half, because at the back of my mind there
was still that lingering what if, that part of my childhood that stuck in my
brain. Nevertheless, I chose Malaysia. I knew it would be different, really
different. And the differences would teach me more than a book, or a movie, or
even a vacation there ever could. So 35 hours of orientations, 4 conference
calls, one Department of State visit, and 3 long flights later, there I was in
Malaysia. Actually, here I am.
I’ve been in Malaysia for a little
over 2 months now, and I have 9 months left here. I attend a local high school
and live with a Malaysian family. The culture shock I experienced here was
crazy. Everything here is louder, more colorful and so alive. Walk down the
street and you can see a mosque, Hindu temple, Buddhist temple, and church all
within a couple blocks of each other. Malaysia is a country where different
races exist together in peace, where being of a different ethnicity doesn’t
determine your friends or dreams. I hear the call to prayer forming a harmony
with the Buddhist chants, mixing with the smell of Hindu incense, forming a
sort of magic in the humid air. Each day here is a learning experience, and my
favorite teachers are my host family.
My host family consists of some of
the most amazing people I have ever met. I have a host mother and father, a
younger and older sister, and a younger brother. We live in a decent-sized
house; have three cats and a pet monkey. Both of my host parents work a lot and
are very dedicated to their jobs. My host family is Muslim.
I wasn’t sure how to feel when I
got that news. Part of me was nervous that my very American views and ways
would be seen as immodest, immoral or even wrong, but another part of me was
filled with excitement at the chance to learn about a life that I would’ve
never experience had I remained in the US this year.
The first few days with this family
were surprisingly free of the typical glaring awkwardness that exchange
students feel in a new family. Being with a new family is not only forming
relationships with new people; it is also having to adapt to a new routine. It
is a different shower, kitchen, bedroom, it’s not being able to sleep because
you can’t figure out how to turn on the air conditioning, it’s staying up until
your host parents come home because not only is the TV in a different language,
but there doesn’t seem to be a power
button anywhere on the screen or remote. It’s putting 100% faith in complete
strangers that they will care for you, accept you, and deal with the times
where homesickness hits and it hurts so bad you can’t move.
They hug me and tell me everything’s
okay as if I’m they’re daughter. As if we were natural family. They opened
their hearts to me and I love what I have found. Just because they’re Muslim
doesn’t make them automatically one hundred percent different than me. I’ve
learned a lot. Not only about what being Muslim means to my family, but what
being in a Muslim family means to me.
I’ve shared so many unique
experiences with them. I fasted 5 days for Ramadhan, which made me appreciate
the consequent holiday of Eid-Al Fitri (known as Hari Raya in Malaysia) so much
more. I’ve seen my family pray and although I haven’t been in a mosque yet, I
plan on going to one. I’ve worn the hijab and have been told I look Bosnian
when doing so. But I’ve also learned how we’re the same. About how much they
remind me of my own family. I’ve been to the movies, gone to the mall, been
swimming, eaten pizza, KFC, and McDonald’s (all halal!), attended school, had
sleepovers, shared clothes, sung karaoke, danced and watched all sorts of TV
shows with my host family. In school, I talk to Muslim girls about which band
member they think is the cutest or which Olympic swimmer looks the best
shirtless.
My point here is that besides
religion, what is the difference between Muslims and everyone else in the
world? Why did we foot the blame on them when most of them have never thought
even for a second about hurting another person, let alone bringing our entire
country to its knees? Maybe they were an easy target. A lot of people, myself
included before my time abroad, have little to no exposure to Muslim culture.
They see a woman wearing the headscarf, but they don’t see the personal choice
she is making to honor and respect her God. They see people fasting from dawn
until dusk, but have no idea what that’s like. They don’t know the dry feeling
of not drinking for 12 hours, or the hunger pains, but above that they don’t
realize that these feelings let people experience what those who lack
experience on a daily basis.
This lack of exposure leads to
misunderstandings, ignorance and a false sense of insecurity. People’s hearts
may beat faster when they see a man in a turban at their boarding gate. What
people’s hearts fail to see is the man that may be a brother or a father.
Perhaps he too just finished drinking overpriced airport coffee and just wants
to have a smooth flight. More than likely, he is just as uncomfortable with
being stared at as a person is staring at him. He is a human being like the
rest of us, 46 chromosomes, 2 eyes, one mouth and one heart. Imagining someone
looking at my host father like that makes me feel ill. How could they possibly
judge and decide this wonderful man is to be feared based on his religion? Do
we judge Christians for praying or singing hymns? For wearing cross necklaces
or hanging rosary beads in their cars? Probably not. So why are we so quick to
challenge or fear something, simply because it’s different?
When people ask me if Americans
hate Muslims, I’m never sure what to say. The textbook is of course not, we
accept them for who they are. The real answer is that some Americans do.
Harbored feelings of anger and resentment have turned some away from a people
and religion that deserve no such blame to carry. With all the shootings and
violence in media, I’m sure some of the perpetrators must have been religious.
Yet there are no headlines about the ways of Christianity being questioned, or
the entire Protestant community being called out for what one of their members
has done. A religion may define a person, but it is wrong for one person to define
an entire religion.
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| So thankful for these amazing people! (Can you tell which one is me?) |
The scholarship I’m on is the
Kennedy-Lugar YES Abroad scholarship. It was created after 9-11 to send
students from countries with a significant Muslim population to live in the US
for up to one year. Funded by the State Department (your taxes at work), the
YES Program sent 850 students into the US this year. When the program was first
starting, many students asked why not send Americans abroad? In 2009, their
questions were recognized, the first class of 35 YES Abroad students spent
years or semesters in countries all around the world. I am a member of the
third YES Abroad class. This year 53 of us went to 9 different countries for
one year. Morocco, Oman, Malaysia, Thailand, Bosnia and Herzegovina, India,
Ghana, Turkey and Indonesia. These are not the countries of a typical high
school exchange, but then again we are not your typical exchange students. Our
applications included essays, pictures, academic information and an In-Person
Selection Event in Denver. We are all in our respective countries because we
strongly believe in the mission of YES, to increase cultural awareness and
sharing through youth ambassadors. We are giving up our year for the future.
Many of us are missing prom, sweet sixteens, weddings, graduations in order to
be where we are. We’ve flown halfway around the world, leaving a familiar life,
family and friends behind in order to change the way we see the world and the
way the world sees the United States. As teenagers, we believe in an America
that understands and appreciates its different religions and races.
Writing this was the first time
I’ve come face to face with the stereotypes I didn’t realize I was making when
I was younger. I am forever grateful to my natural family, to the State
Department, and to my host family for supporting me in this year. Exchange is
often referred to as a catalyst for change in someone’s character and opinions,
and that has proven absolutely true. It’s hard to measure the effectiveness of
programs like this in statistics, but sitting here writing this next to my
Muslim family, I am at home; I am happy. And that shows more than any
percentage or pie chart could ever say.
The 11th anniversary of
9-11 is today. 9-11 will be an event that will forever define our generation,
but it is up to us how so. We can be considered the age group that hates
Muslims, or we can be the group that learned to love in the midst of tragedy.
