Tread Lightly, Speak Carefully

My father’s birthday last week brought us to Fudrucker’s for a celebratory dinner and eventually to the most trending topic of conversation: the Boston _______. That is exactly how we alluded to the tragic events that transpired at the marathon. Living in a not so colourful suburb of Massachusetts, our brownness tends to stick out. Add our distinctly non-English, non-Spanish conversation into the equation, and we illicit wary sidelong glances from the Caucasian diners over to the right (though to be fair, they may have just been appalled by my dreadful table manners). Imagine their horror if in the middle of this foreign babble, they were to hear the word “bombing.”

Many Muslims, myself included, have dealt with the repercussions of that horror. It leads to unjustified suspicion. It leads to interrogation, detention, and expulsion. It leads to ruined lives.

Enough stories have been told among the members of the community to warrant such hushed conversations over dinner at a restaurant or any other public arena. We tried, unsuccessfully, to discuss the event by eliminating words that may be flagged: bombing, explosion, terrorist, Muslim, and Islam. Our hypersensitivity even made us hesitant about saying “Boston” or “marathon,” clear giveaways to what we were talking about. Eventually, my father said, “Bas kerro.” That’s enough.

However, worse than our heightened awareness or how restrictedly we express ourselves is the mental re-wiring we’ve undergone.

When I heard about the explosion, my first thought, like anyone else’s, was “How awful!” My second thought, which happened in quick succession, in sync with many other Muslims, was “Please don’t let the criminal be a Muslim.”

As a Muslim in this country, that is all I am allowed. A fleeting moment of undiluted sadness over the tragedy, and then apprehension over how soon my people, as a whole, will be put on the defensive.

They have robbed us of the dignity to collectively mourn for humanity.

I watched the man on the news talking about his father, who had to be put on a wheelchair to be taken in an ambulance, whose wife was frantic over his injuries and wanted to accompany him. I thought about how easily that could have been my mother, who had been volunteering at the marathon, and how narrowly my family avoided destruction. I ached for the poor man speaking about his parents.

Then he said, “I’m so upset, I’ll probably end up saying something I shouldn’t.”

The guards come up, perhaps unnecessarily so, I admit, but that is what years of trained hypersensitivity will accomplish. What did he mean? Does he think that terrorists are behind it? He must be thinking that Muslims did it since terrorist is synonymous with Muslim nowadays.

The rift was created. I was no longer a child, like him, worried about the fate of parents. I was the perpetrator.

I feel as if I’ve been corrupted. I should have the right to feel uncontaminated sadness and solidarity when I see humanity suffering. I should not feel like a culprit.

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