Finding the Right Words, Reflections on the heartbreak of 9/11

It’s after midnight on September 11th.  In just a few hours, the clocks will strike 8:46 a.m. marking a decade’s passing of the unimaginable.  For the last month, I have been thinking of this very night… wondering what I would be doing, how I would be remembering, and maybe more importantly, what I would be writing.

A blog post, an article, or even a journal entry seemed in order.  Over the past few weeks, I struggled to find words that would articulate what I had to say.  Strange as it may seem, the usual rambling writer in me stayed stubbornly silent.  My poised fingers refused to cooperate in creating a stellar account worthy of commemorating the lives lost and the radical changes that our nation underwent that day.

Now, in the eleventh hour, as I sit staring at my blank laptop screen lamenting the lack of words for such a critical occasion, it suddenly dawns on me as to why I cannot write.  For the past few months… no, for the past few years… I have written about 9/11 and its aftermath out of a sense of obligation. Whether writing about the tragedy, or about being Muslim in America post 9/11, or about the painful loss of lives, my writing often felt like a duty, both required and expected.  I developed a weighted sense of responsibility that urged me to write statements staunchly opposing terrorism, denouncing the hijackers, and lamenting the slaughter mainly from the point of view of a Muslim Arab-American.

In all these writings, though, I always felt like there was a missing element.  Something in my words just didn’t feel right.  I couldn’t bring myself to write about my own experiences or my own reflections of 9/11.  I never wrote about how years before that fateful day, I travelled daily through the World Trade Center on the Path train during my commute to my first internship in the city. I never mentioned how giddy I felt gawking at the majesty of the buildings the first time I laid eyes on them.  I never shared the sense of pride I had of working in a city that I had fallen in love with.

 I couldn’t bring myself to write about the sickness in my stomach as I watched the towers collapse on the news while holding my newborn safely at home several miles away from the scene.  I never shared the inexplicable worry that shot through me as I wondered if the friendly pizza man in the WTC Sbarro’s ever got out okay.  I never wrote about my own sense of sadness after learning that friends I’d worked with had lost lives that day.

And then it clicked.  I couldn’t write about 9/11 today because for so long I had set up a clear distinction… a barrier between emotion and obligation.  My writing on the topic embodied this separation.  As explanation usurped emotion, I never articulated my own feelings of humanity or my shared sense of loss.  I bought into the mediated distinction of the Muslim “other” and neglected to focus on the communal sentiment of a human being sharing the desolation of unbelievable tragedy.  In trying so hard to avoid being viewed as an outsider, my defensive mode of writing did just the opposite. 

As the clock creeps closer and closer towards marking the ten years that passed since the tragedy of 9/11, I can finally write.  I can let go of the need to find the “perfect” words because there are no words that can erase such deep wounds.  I can focus less on what to write and more on what to do. 

My nation is in mourning today for the loss of lives here and abroad after the senseless heartbreak of 9/11.  As an American… no, as a human… I know what I should do today.  Writing empty words in an attempt to honor the memories of so many is not enough.  Breaking down self-imposed barriers through actions is a much more potent reminder of the beauty of our country, our communities, and the people we lost.  Strengthening the bonds of humanity by helping others today shows respect and compassion borne of the deep sympathy that was shared on the day that changed our world ten years ago.  For me, the best form of commemoration on 9/11 is a day spent helping others-- hand-in-hand, un-alienated from my country, my people, and my world. 

How will you remember?

May the lives we lost on 9/11 serve as a memory to strengthen our human bonds.  May the souls all rest in peace.  And may the families and friends of loved ones find comfort and consolation in the hearts of their communities.

          --Post by Suzy Ismail

A Muslim American Mom's thoughts on OBL

I remember that day-- the day the world stood still for a few seconds nearly a decade ago.  September 11, 2001—a day marked significant on my calendar as far back as nine months before the devastating tragedy even took place.  9/11/01 was the expected due date for my oldest daughter—just three days before my own birthday.  For nine months, I looked forward to that day, knowing that my life would change completely thereafter.  Little did I know that my life was not the only one that would change so completely… and not nearly for the reasons I expected.

My oldest daughter came a few weeks early and so I found myself uncharacteristically tuned to a morning talk show on 9/11 while cradling my new infant and concentrating on testing out an innovative baby burping technique.  Feeling triumphant within minutes of hearing a hearty belch emerge from my newborn, I recall glancing up at the breaking news on the screen and wondering why a familiar image of the World Trade Center that I used to pass through to get to work years before was flashing behind a myriad of reporters waving away plumes of smoke.  It’s hard to describe the emotions of fear, anger, and consummate sadness that passed through me that day as the towers, so familiar and so symbolic, came crashing down.
 
It’s even harder to describe the air of apology and constant explanation I felt I had to assume for many weeks, months, and even years afterwards to exonerate myself.  As a Muslim woman I consistently found myself in the position of having to explain away any link, sympathy for, or association with the attackers.  By label, the attackers shared the same ethnicity and religious affiliation as I do; but by action they defied the very ideals they claimed to kill for.  A basic tenet of Islam, as in most spiritual teachings, is that evil is unacceptable and that goodness is encompassed in those who exercise patience and self-restraint—not in those who kill indiscriminately.  (Qur’an 41 34-35)

While normally I wouldn’t care what associations or assumptions others make of me, in the years that followed, I found myself again and again facing questions and a pressing need to prove that I was not connected with nor related to the terrorists in any way, shape, or form.

Fast forward to today… almost ten years later and somehow that heavy feeling of a requisite apology seems to have crept back into the expectations of many.  As the news of Osama Bin Laden’s death swept the world this week, a sudden piercing of old wounds and new hurt came pouring forth at once. 

This past Monday, walking through the supermarket, I got “the look” all over again.  Shaking off my self-consciousness, I leaned over to compare brands of fruit snacks.  An older gentleman leaned in close to me—I assumed he wanted the sticky snacks and wondered momentarily how his sparse set of teeth would allow him to chew the candies disguised as fruit.

He leaned in closer and asked me in barely a whisper “So, we killed Osama… what d’ya think of that?”

Puzzled, I looked over my shoulder; sure his familiar and conspiratorial tone must be intended for someone else.  But, the tween behind me was busy fiddling with her iPod and the flustered mom a few products down looked completely absorbed in calming her screaming child.  I realized he must have been talking to me.  Unsure what to say, I shrugged, but stayed silent in response.

“No English… hunh?  It figures.”  Disgruntled and even more annoyed at me for reasons I couldn’t really fathom, he huffed and puffed and walked away, muttering under his breath.

Finally shaking off my surprise, I stood up, needing to call out after him—wanting to stop him.  Feeling like I should shout, “Hey, I do speak English.  I am an American and if you really want to hear what I have to say about current events, then just ask me nicely and I’d love to chat for awhile.”

Of course the lines sounded great in my head, but never made it onto my lips.  I stopped myself from speaking, sure that he didn’t really want to hear what I had to say.  It’s much more comfortable for him to continue believing his own assumptions rather than challenging his preconceived notions by listening to me speak my mind and possibly say something that would surprise him.

And I…well… I play right into his preconceptions.  My silence confirms his suspicions and implicates me just as much as if I had stood up and said I was a terrorist sympathizer.  I am as much a perpetrator of negative stereotypes as the old man at the supermarket.  Through my silence, I’ve done myself as much a disservice as the man’s accusatory words.
 
So, what I couldn’t say in the supermarket, I feel determined to say now.  Not an apology for who I am or for my beliefs.  Not an explanation of how or why or what or a dissection of the news reports that would be neither helpful nor satisfactory.  But, instead, I feel like I need to issue a condemnation of negativity, a denunciation of fear and terror, a pronunciation of what I think and who I am.

On vitriolic comment threads, people often ask why Muslims don’t stand strong and criticize terrorism, murder, and senseless death.   The answer is simple… we do.  Sometimes people just need to listen.  The Qur’an is often misquoted and taken out of context to “prove” that Islam teaches and promotes terrorism, which could not be further from the truth.  The overall message of the Qur’an is that humans together can maintain hope, faith, and peace through the strength of community and an unshakeable belief in the power and goodness of God.   Taking any line of the Qur’an out of context to justify murder is completely misguided and manipulative in the worst way.
 
Thinking back to that day earlier this week, I realize that shrugging might not have been such a bad thing.  My shrug at the supermarket said so much more than the silence it was taken for.  My shrug encompassed respect for the elderly gentleman, it encompassed pride for my Muslim-American-Arab identity, it encompassed an absolute condemnation of all that is inhumane and a resolute rejection of the murder of innocents in all its forms.  What it didn’t include was an apology or my usual over-wrought explanation.  The shrug said what my words probably couldn’t have.

Things left unsaid are often stronger and more powerful than empty statements.  I might be a proud Muslim, but I am also a proud American.  I want the best for my children, my community, and my country.   We are a Muslim family and we love to help at soup kitchens, march in walk-a-thons, and immerse ourselves in the usual girl scouts, gymnastics, soccer, football and baseball activities.

And so, for us at least, our everyday actions are our way of denouncing terrorism.  Simply being who we are is the best way of shrugging to the world and saying more with actions than with blank expressions.
          --Suzy Ismail