This column is part of a series written by seniors from the pilot senior seminar on American citizenship. The class is led by its students, whose interests and experiences are as diverse as their areas of study. These columns are their lessons.
Americans love talking in dualisms: “Yankees or Red Sox?” “Spiritual or religious?” “Adele or Florence?” For us, these choices mean something about who you are.
I’m guilty of thinking in the same kind of binaries. After 9/11, my identity as an American Muslim came to a head. I was acutely aware of my differences, and I felt that I had to pick just one identity: Muslim or American?
Even now, I often find myself the only minority voice in all-white classrooms. It can be a burden, especially since my headscarf is such a visible symbol of my Islam.
And especially now, when my loyalty to my country and compatriots is being questioned. The “us vs. them” mentality is very much alive in Muslim communities, whose members find it difficult to trust in government and law enforcement.
This isn’t surprising, given that economic misfortune and a two-front war have been put on the backburner so politicians can instead highlight the “threat” of Islam: a (wholly imagined) agenda to impose Shariah law in the U.S.
Increasingly, anti-Muslim policies have been imposed to keep this so-called threat away. Muslim communities are now surveilled, phones wiretapped and informants planted in mosques.
Is this scrutiny warranted? Perhaps. Muslims themselves are increasingly concerned about radicalization of Muslim youth. It’s a real problem; it should be taken seriously.
My fear is that this scrutiny will only further alienate Muslim youth and cause more polarity in an already polarized atmosphere. Now more than ever, we must bridge the understanding gap between Muslims and non-Muslims.