September 11,
2001.
I was not
intending to go there, but here I am. Let me provide you with some background
to better understand this opinion piece. I was born and raised in the United
States to immigrant parents from Irbid, Jordan.
اضافة اعلان
I was taught
to take pride in my culture, heritage, and everything that surrounded it.
However, like every immigrant child from a Muslim background, September 11,
2001, became a constant reminder of hoping that those responsible were not
Muslim every time an atrocity occurred.
The number of
times, I hear in the U.S. “sharia law, jihadi, oppression of women, and burqa”
make me want to scream. I think, now living in Amman, I had a reversed cultural
and religious shock coming here.
Any
opportunity to proudly boast about being Jordanian
Just like
everyone who lived in the U.S., we all have our stories about where we were
when the Twin Towers were hit. I was at school, and my brother was at home with
my dad, who at the time worked as a Skycap for United Airlines at the Santa
Barbara Airport in Santa Barbara, California. Everyone knew my father,
Abdelaziz Ali Shabbar, the proud Jordanian immigrant who would seize every
opportunity to talk proudly about his background and offer you a piece of
cardamom from his pocket (don't ask me why; he always carried them around) or
invite you to his home to enjoy a Jordanian meal.
In 2022, Al Jazeera reported on the lasting impact of Islamophobia in the U.S., nearly decades later. According to Zahra Jamal, the associate director of Rice University's Boniuk Institute for Religious Tolerance in Houston, 62 percent of Muslims reported feeling hostility based on their religion, and 65 percent felt disrespected by others.
I was at
school, and we were all glued to the televisions. During that time, they were
either mounted on the wall with a bulky backing or brought in on a rollaway
cart. My teachers were crying, students were crying, and when my father came to
pick me up from school, he was in tears.
At that time,
I didn't understand what was happening. I was just 7 years old, and my
5-year-old brother thought it was a game on TV. Suddenly, we became "the
others." My friends from the neighborhood did not want to play anymore,
and one day, I even got rocks thrown at me, from the same kids, who were my
friends, just a day before. It became an overnight event that changed the lives
of so many, and changed the history of U.S. foreign policy.
A mouthpiece
for all Muslims
My father
became the spokesperson for every Muslim on TV, justifying what was happening,
and the questioning began and never stopped. We had arrived in the U.S. from
Jordan about ten days before 9/11, and we were met with questions about why we
were there and what we knew. It became a new reality for many Muslim Americans,
and even many non-Muslims were targeted as a result of a tragedy that ignited
wars throughout our region.
As the bells
rang in lower Manhattan, marking 22 years after the collapse of the World Trade
Center's Twin Towers in the deadliest attack on U.S. soil, killing 3,000
people, the ever-present reminder of Islamophobia in the U.S. continues.
Islamophobia,
is it still relevant today?
In 2022, Al
Jazeera reported on the lasting impact of Islamophobia in the U.S., nearly
decades later. According to Zahra Jamal, the associate director of Rice
University's Boniuk Institute for Religious Tolerance in Houston, 62 percent of
Muslims reported feeling hostility based on their religion, and 65 percent felt
disrespected by others.
The study also found that Americans are less likely to personally know a Muslim, about 50 percent. The irony of it all is that Islam is the second-largest religion in the world after Christianity, with over 1.8 billion people practicing it. To me, the survey still suggests that it might not be that surveyors don't know a Muslim; rather, American Muslims, 22 years later, still make efforts not to be known,
Trump did not
help
These numbers
are not the only concern. Today in the U.S., being a Muslim is still viewed as
an enemy by some, and figures like Trump did not help normalize anti-Muslim
rhetoric. More than 40,000 visa applications were denied under the so-called
Muslim ban, which President Joe Biden reversed on January 20. However, the
consequences still persist. Those who were denied entry during the Muslim ban
must reapply for the program, despite slim chances of being reselected.
Even after 22
years, these consequences have not been eradicated; they continue to affect
people's lives. In my immediate circle, I felt the need to become more
Westernized. My brother, out of fear, let go of his language and was attacked
in 2017 at a gas station simply for being brown. They hurled unspeakable
insults at him, to say the least, starting with a derogatory term.
According to
a recent Pew Research Center survey on religious group sentiment, Americans
hold favorable views of Jews, mainline Protestants, and Catholics, but they
have more negative attitudes toward atheists, Muslims, and Mormons. In the same
study, 59 percent of U.S. adults hold neither favorable nor unfavorable views
of Muslims, while 22 percent express very or somewhat unfavorable views of the
group.
The study
also found that Americans are less likely to personally know a Muslim, about 50
percent. The irony of it all is that Islam is the second-largest religion in
the world after Christianity, with over 1.8 billion people practicing it. To
me, the survey still suggests that it might not be that surveyors don't know a
Muslim; rather, American Muslims, 22 years later, still make efforts not to be
known, masking their Americanness or whiteness to be seen, accepted, and heard,
rather than being misidentified.
Sarah Shabbar holds a Master of Arts in Mass Communications/Media Studies and a Bachelor of Arts in Journalism, with a minor in Communication Studies, from California State University, Northridge in Los Angeles. Her thesis focused on homeless women and gender-based violence.
Read more Opinion and Analysis
Jordan News
.jpg)
.jpg)
