It’s been 10 years since 9/11. The players in this act of terror claimed to be Muslim. I’m a Muslim-American — and I am a victim of the Sept. 11 attacks.
I came home from my school in Detroit’s neighboring city, Dearborn, Mich. I crossed the bridge above Ford Road as usual that day, and finished my trek home. It was silent, the television was on with no shortage of on-screen smoke. My mother told me that I probably wouldn’t be going to school the next day. She was visibly worried.
I thought a family member had died, that regardless of what the news was, I needed to brace myself. I came to learn that the deaths of nearly 3,000 people I had never heard of and would never meet would change my life forever.
I was in the fifth grade at William Ford Elementary school, and I remember Sept. 11 because it was the day my grade was scheduled to go on a camping trip. Most of our elementary graduating class wound up going. I was one of the few who stayed behind.
Early that morning, the school principal walked into a class of about eight or so fifth-graders with as much composure as she could muster given the circumstances. Teary-eyed, she told us about coming together and tried to teach us as much about strength as could be taught in 15 minutes.
I want to say I was hurt by the attacks, but that’s not true. I understood the magnitude of the situation and could sympathize, but I had never dealt with the loss of a loved one to truly empathize with everyone whose life was altered that day. The fact that thousands of lives weren’t just lost but so ruthlessly taken wasn’t something I could truly wrap my head around at age 10. I don’t think any of us could.
At first, I didn’t believe it was possible for a single human being — let alone a group — to harbor hatred like that. I’d read about wars in textbooks that had long lost their luster to students whose concerns were limited to playgrounds. When it was revealed who had been behind the attacks, all I could think was that everyone was going to hate me for something I couldn’t have been held responsible for.
Historically, these defining moments — whether good or bad — serve as a rallying point for generations, unifying a collection of individuals by tying us to a tangible event in a flux of indescribable emotions. The week following the attacks, we plugged red and blue plastic cups into the cross-bridge fencing spelling out “USA.” It was for everyone to see on one of the most traveled roads in Michigan. It felt right.
Luckily for me, I grew up in a place with a strong Muslim population ingrained within the community. Muslims and non-Muslims had been close, so my fears of being outcast were tapered. But I eventually moved farther from the Detroit area, losing the safety net I was so accustomed to. As I got older, prejudicial jokes became common. It was funny to us middle-schoolers. Even I took part in them — it’s a lot easier to manage when you’re the one controlling the laughter, even if it’s at your own expense.
