Wednesday, February 8, 2017 // The Statement
6B

TWO WORLDS
From Page 5B

myself), that the true rebellion, rath-

er, is in forcing them to accept you. They 
want you to join the Indian American 
Students Association, I tell myself; of 
course he’s part of the Muslim Student 
Association, they’ll say about me.

Of course now I’m second-guessing 

myself.

I make the journey to North Quad 

on a Sunday, when the MSA is hosting 
a brunch for people to “de-stress” and 
I figure this would be a useful exercise 
in familiarization: I haven’t seen the 
MSA function in a strictly social setting 
yet. Unfortunately, it’s a goddamn bliz-
zard out there, and as I trudge through 
blistering winds my hair is ruined and 
I begin to worry about how I’m going 
to appear, I feel a burgeoning sense of 
regret.

But once I’m there I begin to feel a 

sense of comfort. I greet a friend from 
the newspaper upon arrival and accept 
ed a generous plate of food and coffee 
upon arrival. 

Within the looming modernity of 

North Quad, at the top floor of its tall-
est tower, sits the Bowman Room (nick-
named the “Tower Room”). It’s a large 
yet cozy space, complete with a small 
kitchen, a working piano, and an assort-
ment of plush furniture. 

There’s a considerable turnout, prob-

ably because of the free brunch. The sis-
ters are setting up the table full of food 
as the brothers pack themselves into 
the kitchen and cook. It’s a spread of 

pancakes, scrambled eggs, donuts, and 
other assorted treats — I spot a plate 
stacked with za’atar-filled pita bread, 
so I can safely report to my parents that 
our friends at the MSA have not entire-
ly lost their roots. My friend from the 
Daily is painstakingly setting up a “hot 
chocolate station,” replete with candy 
canes and whipped cream. The guys in 
the kitchen shout Future lyrics while 
weirdly specific Arabic music plays 
from some kid’s speakers. They look like 
they’re having fun.

I’m introduced to Mazen Oweiss. 

He’s a director, a junior like me, and 
this year he’s become significantly more 
involved in the MSA. He’s also of Egyp-
tian background, and he has a distinctly 
Egyptian-American way of speaking — 
along with a quintessentially Egyptian 
thicket of dense, curly hair — that viv-
idly evokes the kids I grew up with, the 
friends I used to spend my weekends 
cutting Sunday school with to go to 
Walgreens, the people whom I have all 
but lost my once-robust connection to.

Mazen and I talk for a while as a 

steady stream of MSA members file in 
and I’m introduced to each one with a 
hearty “Assalam-u-Alaikum” and shake 
hands. As we sit among the brothers on 
couches, and the sisters mill about the 
table of food, Mazen talks about how 
this year’s cohort of the MSA is much 
closer, increasingly relaxed and heart-
eningly unified.

My sister, who was an active mem-

ber of her university’s MSA, always told 
me about the troubles that plagued her 
organization: religious condescension, 
jealousy, pettiness, people actually getting 
married, and other hurdles that prevented 
the group from getting things done. But as 
I’ve learned — and as Mazen points out — 
this MSA has accomplished a lot. They’ve 
done countless outreach programs, hosted 
successful events, and fully embraced 
their role as campus activists. Their big-
gest issue now continuing the trend into 
next year.

I’m surprised at how forthcoming 

Mazen is; he knows I’m here to write a 
story, and that I’m not really a part of 
MSA. But at this point, I’m a bit confused, 
too: What am I doing here? I’m an outsid-
er: A journalist and on top of that a Mus-
lim who isn’t in the MSA. At some point 
during this whole endeavor, they looked 
past that double whammy of alien remove, 
and let me in.

The food is a welcome treat, the atmo-

sphere is warm, the people are friendly. 
But I’m shook. As I have done for years, as I 
always do, I tell them I have to get going (I 
don’t). I quickly throw on my jacket while 
Mazen tells me to come out more often, 
while another kid smiles at me, while the 
rest of this organization is enjoying the 
company of each other’s presence. I see 
them in their social setting, and I realize, 
then, how difficult the past month must 
have been. For the sisters, for Muslims, for 
anyone feeling without a community — I 
understand, finally, the burden that has 

been placed on these people who didn’t 
ask for it. It is not the politics of activism 
I’m searching for, and I guess it never was.

I grab my stuff and head out the door, 

but not before my old friend Humza grabs 
me by the arm and asks for my number. I 
hesitate, imagining the nightmare barrage 
of texts I’m bound to receive (“Salaam 
brother! We’re all going to fast today just 
for fun, care to join us?”; “Salaam broth-
er! The brothers and I are going to Pin-
ball Pete’s tonight. You should come!”; 
“Salaam brother! Why weren’t you at 
jumuah today?”)

But then, the word jihad crosses my 

mind. I had been taught, years ago on a 
Sunday, that this word does not mean 
what the news tells us it means, that it is 
a term not to be co-opted by the terror-
ists who seek to ruin us, that we all have 
our personal jihad: it means “struggle.” I 
see a family, proud and brave, boarding 
a plane to seek refuge. I see the physical 
manifestation of bigotry and hatred, a 
padlocked gate at the entry of acceptance, 
forcing them back. I see love, acceptance, 
humanity and a profound, aching empa-
thy denied their chances to shine; instead, 
I see a people humiliated in the streets 
they had hoped would accept them with 
open arms. I see, now, why those before us 
struggled, why we must struggle — and, if 
only I struggled — why those to come may 
not have to.

I grab Humza’s phone and tap “Create 

Contact.”

PHOTOS BY CLAIRE ABDO

