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

