Between Two Worlds: BY NABEEL CHOLLAMPAT, SENIOR ARTS EDITOR Muslim Students’ Association Carves its Place on Campus Wednesday, February 8, 2017 // The Statement 4B Wednesday, February 8, 2017 // The Statement 5B T here is no mosque or designated prayer room. A reminder must be sent out each week specify- ing when and where to meet on Fridays so that the prayers can be held. Efforts have been made, I’m told, to secure a stable location, but to no avail. Jumuah — the mandatory ritual prescribed by the faith — on the University of Michigan’s campus is an unknown quantity. I’ve been a handful of times — more than five, probably less than 10. I know this isn’t what my parents want to hear. I am still a practicing Muslim, a product of exasperating weekly Sunday school and interminable Qur’an reading les- sons. The faith is ingrained in me, even if I’m not particularly devout. Save for a blatantly Arabic first name, I am not out- wardly Muslim, nor do I go out of my way to identify as such. Rather, it’s an internal flame. Shame throbbing in my mind, I sit on the floor of the Anderson Room in the Michigan Union for the Muslim Stu- dents’ Association’s — the largest Mus- lim student organization on campus — weekly jumuah, cross-legged, my left foot gradually falling asleep, listening to the imam. He is the Chaplain, Shaykh Mohammed Ishtiaq, and he’s a jolly, fully bearded man, like a dark-skinned Eric Wareheim. The ceiling is higher than most actual mosques I’ve been in, and the guys around me are impressively invest- ed in the sermon. Unlike my childhood memories of jumuah, there are no whis- pered conversations about basketball or the conspicuous phone usage under- neath crossed legs; the brothers are rapt. Far behind me and separated by a wide chasm of carpet, the sisters sit, identical. In this post-election climate, the role of the Muslim student activist is in flux. There is an urgent immediacy to, well, do something. A few days after the election, the Islamic Center of Ann Arbor received an anonymous letter proclaiming that our then President-elect will “do to you Muslims what Hitler did to the Jews.” Earlier this week, the prayer rugs in a reflection room in the Union were found desecrated by urine. And in the past two weeks, President Donald Trump enacted a ban on refugees, citizens, green-card holders, and more from seven Muslim- majority countries — it is, for all intents and purposes, a ban on Muslims. Estimated at about 150 active mem- bers, the MSA functions primarily as a social group for its patrons, but in the past few months, its hand has been almost forced: activism and outreach is now a necessity. To be sure, the feeling of hostility is not a newfound development: hate crimes against American Muslims rose by 78 percent in 2015, the most since 9/11. This environment is not some abrupt occurrence, but instead a gradual reality that has been gestating for quite some time. Ashamed of my own reluctance to participate in activism, I began to recon- sider my relationship with my identity. I wondered about my own insecurities and considered the possible identity crisis of the MSA, the struggle between function- ing as a social group and a space of activ- ism and outreach. Where, then, does the MSA situate itself on campus? Is it as a space for soli- darity among Muslims, or a vehicle for more evocative activism? What is the current state of Muslim student leader- ship in the face of a politically legitimized hatred and bigotry? For people like me — people who have, for some reason or another, shunned an integral part of their identity — these questions present a more pressing issue: the identity politics of activism, both public and personal. In its current iteration, the MSA is structured like a genealogy tree of sorts. At its head sits the president, a member of its seven-person executive board. These are the ones who make group decisions, plan initiatives, and represent the orga- nization. Each board member is assigned two “directors,” who manage day-to-day operations. The directors, too, are sub- tended by lesser organization members, and so on. The weekly operations of MSA are fairly standardized. On Monday nights, the group holds a small event called “Mini-Qiyam.” A qiyam is a student-led lecture that ranges from religious educa- tion to application. Tuesday nights hosts a monthly “Sisters’ Book Club.” MSA meetings are on Wednesday nights, in which the board discuss make organi- zational decisions. Thursday nights are weekly lectures from guests or the Chap- lains, and Friday afternoons are jumuah prayers. Informal socials happen fre- quently. Mohammad Shaikh, a business sopho- more and member of the board, says he joined the MSA for a sense of community. He’s a good-looking, articulate kid from Ann Arbor and Jackson, Michigan. I can’t help but ask: how has this easy structure been disrupted — if at all — by the election and the subsequent events? Shaikh admits that, while day-to-day operations haven’t changed, the MSA has recently revved up its focus on initiatives and outreach. Less than a week after the election, the MSA hosted an out- door prayer on the Diag, planned as an impromptu act of solidarity for the Mus- lim women who were allegedly attacked and harassed earlier that week. More than 200 students and faculty members across campus. Non-Muslim attend- ees formed a symbolic ring of protec- tion around the Muslim attendees, who prayed Isha, the final daily prayer, on the grass in front of the campus’ American flag. I look down as he mentions the num- ber of non-Muslim students who attend- ed, hoping he won’t ask if I was there. “We were very happy and pleasantly surprised by how many people showed up,” Shaikh said. “We did not think it was going to blow up that much. From the MSA side, we felt very blessed.” Other recent initiatives include Wol- verine Guard, a buddy system meant to aid people who are uncomfortable walk- ing home at night. An internally controversial develop- ment began as another well-intentioned act of solidarity. A female MSA member from Wayne State University suggested to board members a “Kufis in Solidar- ity” movement. Kufis are small hats that Muslim men often wear to the mosque (similar to a yarmulke), and in a show of support, men would wear them to stand with women who wore the hijab. But among MSA — particularly within the sisters — this idea wasn’t received warmly. Many claimed this was either unsustainable, or simply tokenism; men had the luxury of doing this for a week or two, while hjiabi women carried this burden for life. Mariam Doudi, a Business sophomore and MSA director, was indifferent. She’s short and wears a hijab. Within the MSA sisters’ group chat, there was a considerable amount of back- lash according to Doudi. Along with the men wearing kufis in solidarity, there was a parallel idea being floated of non- hijab-wearing sisters also donning the headscarf for some time. This sugges- tion, Doudi says, was possibly even more inflammatory. “I feel like it was sweet, but I don’t know how effective it would have been,” Doudi says. “You’re not really going to feel how we feel if you wear it for like a week or whatever. In the end, we’re still going to be a minority again.” In the wake of attacks on “visibly Mus- lim” people, the idea of others being able to categorize them as such on first sight — caused consternation in the MSA. For former MSA member Mishaal Khan, the burden of the hijab is one of always having to “be on;” it’s a stripped-down, granular version of respectability politics, and represent- ing the entirety of one’s faith is a tire- some weight. “If I mess up, it’s not going to be, ‘Oh, that girl messed up,’” she says. “It’s going to be, ‘Oh, that Muslim messed up.’” On a cold evening, I find myself once again in the embrace of Allah. Each Thursday, the MSA holds weekly halaqa, talks or meetings meant to dis- cuss aspects of the faith that pertain to campus life. I hadn’t been to one in years. I pass a Bible reading group in the room next door on the way in. The room, filled with rows of chairs, is sparsely populated: one forlorn-look- ing guy in a beard and a beanie scroll- ing through his phone, and six or seven women chatting in the front row. I take a seat in the back, alone, and pull out my notebook. “Assalamu-Alaikum, man. Humza.” I look up to see the kid in the beanie extending his hand in the standard Islamic greeting. I respond instinc- tively. “Walaikum-Assalam. Nabeel,” I say, smiling and shaking his hand. “Mind if I sit next to you? Not many other guys here.” “No, of course, go for it.” He sits down next to me, and I become aware, not for the last time, of the barely perceptible disconnect between men and women in this room. More people file in and I’m still one of the few guys, while many girls in hijab, some not, keep filling out the rows. Once the speaker arrives and is introduced, I realize there might be a reason. Melanie Elturk is the CEO of Haute Hijab, the country’s largest ven- dor of fashionable hijabs and clothes designed for Muslim women. She delivers today’s talk: “The Next Gen- eration of American Muslims: Defining Our Role and Reclaiming Our Faith.” A Midwestern native, she was a for- mer civil rights lawyer in both Chicago and Dubai before building the compa- ny with her husband. She’s energetic, bright and exceedingly well-spoken, with a disarmingly cheerful smile. Her head is, of course, covered. “Our parents, we owe them a great deal of credit,” she says. “It’s some- thing fantastic that we, as their chil- dren, in this generation, are now taking the torch from them. We’re in this beautifully set-up circumstance where we can compound on the foundation they’ve laid for us.” I find this an odd place to begin. Indeed, for the rest of the halaqa, Elturk repeatedly references her father and family relationships. I get the sense that the brand of Muslim activism she’s prescribing is one that’s still tethered to an overtone of traditionalism. I take a break to survey the room. In front of me is a kid registering for courses on his laptop. To my left, I can’t help but notice Humza Shaukat frantically sending out WhatsApp mes- sages asking fellow brothers to show up. Each carefully worded text begins with a courteous “Salam.” On the other side of the room, where the chairs are separated by a row of space in the middle, the sisters in hijab are rapt. Their faces are adorned with visible admiration and respect: the dearth of hjiabi role models. I hear Elturk ask the crowd, “You need to ask yourself: what can I contribute to soci- ety — in order to make it better, in order to change it for the better, and bring the light and the beauty of our faith into this society?” Elturk’s speech is peppered with Arabic phrases and snippets of the Qur’an. (I suffer the occasional PTSD- flashback to my Sunday school night- mares each time I hear it.) Her talk ranges from the trials and tribulations of scarf design to pleas for increased Muslim representation in creative fields, to the particulars of finding a spouse. “This is the age when you’re going to find the person you marry.” If my mom didn’t hold that same ludi- crous notion, I would have laughed out loud. When Elturk opens the floor for questions, I observe the nagging issues plaguing the MSA members. One girl gets right to the obvious question: In the context of feminist discourse, how do we respond to people who say ask if the hijab is reinforcing patriarchal standards? “Just know that our deen [faith] is an asset, not a burden,” Elturk answers. “You should never apologize for it, and take ownership of your hijab.” She recounts a college anecdote of walking to class: there are two guys catcalling every woman passing by, but they abruptly fall silent as she walks past. She says this was a sign of empowerment, that these boys real- ized from her hijab she was a person of faith. I recognize the conviction of her story, and, more importantly, she — as do all women — know more than I. While the girls ask questions regard- ing faith and social activism, the guys that raise their hands seem interested more in Elturk’s business. Elturk was not didactic, like the Islamic lectures of my youth or the sermons at Friday jumuah, but more conversational. Her message is one of liberation through both Islam and American entrepre- neurship — two concepts so often per- ceived as societally incompatible. As I put my jacket on to leave, Elturk is talking to a group of sisters. I am sit- uated in an odd place. Here is a commu- nity that is not mine, one that I actively rejected, but is nonetheless one I’m sup- posed to be a part of. Once I step outside of the League, into the frigid air and light snow, I will have returned and retreat- ed, to the comfort of basketball and The Michigan Daily and meat that isn’t halal and my “real” friends. I am both an out- sider and member, strangely connected to and longing for this world I’m supposed to be part of. Tina Al-khersan, an LSA senior, is not a hjiabi and no longer an MSA board mem- ber. She is, however, Muslim, and her per- sonal brand of activism has now extended beyond the MSA. She now serves on the LSA Campus Climate Committee and is an Executive Board member for the Michigan Refugee Assistance Program. Al-khersan is well-versed in activism outside of the MSA. Growing up in North- ville, Michigan, she says she wasn’t proud of her identity and fought to hide it from others. In addition to joining MSA her freshman year, she also became a member of Muslims and Jews, an interfaith group between Muslims and Jews on campus. “You don’t necessarily have to be part of a ‘Muslim’ organization or ‘activist’ orga- nization to be a Muslim activist,” she says. “Some of my proudest moments being a ‘Muslim activist’ have been talking about my faith one-on-one with friends or even strangers. To me, the best type of educa- tion occurs when we open up and talk about what our faith means to us.” Activism is not in the foundational DNA of the MSA. It has historically been a social organization, and only recently have advocacy and outreach reemerged as an integral part of its mission. For some, Islam itself provides a moral foundation and path toward social jus- tice. Shaikh and Al-khersan both say the Prophet Muhammad was the world’s greatest social activist, and the Qur’an itself calls for standing up to injustice. As with all groups, there are the draw- backs of social pressures and envies. Shaikh admits the MSA has a history of members looking down on those who may be less observant, or being unforgiving to religious missteps. It’s one of the reasons people are hesitant to join, Shaikh says, and that’s something I can attest to. But the election has galvanized the organization. The members are unified in their desires to support Muslim women, both hijabi and not, and want to destig- matize their faith as an un-American “other.” When you begin to tell people that not all Muslims are terrorists, you run the risk of becoming a cliché. This isn’t the most complex line of analysis, and it’s been a thudding, repeated refrain in any Muslim’s life, to the point of genu- ine irritation. But it’s necessary. I find myself questioning the point of it all. My natural reflex to casual bigotry is self-deprecation and sarcasm. I tend to make a joke out of everything. I’d like to ask them: What’s the point of becoming a student activist when activism is sim- ply a social yoke? When you’re already an “other,” when you’re already the per- son who’s always described in the sec- ondhand as “some [insert ethnicity here] guy,” when, in the eyes of the majority, your identity has already been whittled down from a complex, dynamic entity to the checkbox on an employment applica- tion — aren’t you just playing into their hands? I can’t count the number of times I’ve run through this in my head — especial- ly at college, where everything is pro- nounced, heightened, politicized. I’ve always come down (smugly) on the side of the identity organization holdout (read: See TWO WORLDS, Page 7B PHOTOS BY CLAIRE ABDO