Somewhere in China, a little 

girl talks to her father on the 
phone. He is in the United 
States. She tells him he is a bad 
person and that the Chinese 
police are good people. That’s 
the last he hears from her for six 
months. His wife soon divorces 
him, because being married to 
him puts a “target on her back.” 
He is left hopeless, posting 
on social media in hopes of 
finding his wife and daughter. 
Unfortunately, the reason for 
this separation is this man, 
Tahir Imin, and his family have 
been diagnosed with a deadly 
disease. It’s very contagious, 
a “virus of the mind” the 
government calls it, and it has 
infected over a billion people 
worldwide. The disease is called 
Islam.

What’s happening in China is 

rarely talked about, but it’s real 
and it’s terrifying. China has 
deemed the religion of Islam 
a “contagious disease” and an 
“ideological illness” and has 
sent about one million Uighurs 
(a 
predominately 
Muslim 

ethnic minority in northwest 
China) to internment camps to 
be brainwashed and forced to 
denounce their own thinking. 
According to The Atlantic, 
when parents are sent to these 
camps, “younger children are 
sent to de facto orphanages 
known 
as 
child 
welfare 

guidance centers and older 
children are sometimes sent to 
state-run vocational schools.” 
The conditions in these camps 
are horrible, described by a 
worker in Xinjiang — a name, 
which means “Muslim Frontier 
Land,” the Han Chinese gave 
to the Uyghur Autonomous 
Region — as a place where 
children are “locked up like 
farm animals in a shed.” The 
little girl, Imin’s daughter, has 
been trained to despise her 
religion and express loyalty to 
the Chinese Communist party. 

Families are being ripped apart 
as the Chinese government 
attempts to erase generations 
of traditions, beliefs and ideals. 
The government is so strict 
about this surveillance that 
citizens are afraid to even say 
Islam-related words on the 
phone. The party has even 
gone to the disturbing extent 
of initiating “home stays,” in 
which “officials temporarily 
move 
in 
with 
families 
in 

Xinjiang to surveil and report 
on them.” Muslims detained 
in these camps are also forced 
to eat pork and drink alcohol, 
which is against the tenants 
of their faith. Among some of 
the punishments for failure to 
denounce their religion and 
identities include starvation, 
beatings 
and 
solitary 

confinement. One can only 
imagine 
the 
psychological 

damage that ensues from this 
type of treatment.

Islam and Muslims have 

been the target of hate and 
bigotry since 9/11, but this 
bizarre phenomenon of treating 
the religion like an actual 
disease and sending Muslims 
to be quarantined is absolutely 
outrageous. Referred to as the 
“the largest mass incarceration 
of a minority population in 
the world today,” the lack of 
attention and concern for this 
issue baffles me. My heart goes 
out to all the Chinese Muslims 
who live in fear, who are being 
tortured 
and 
brainwashed, 

who are being stripped of 
their faith and their families 
and their identities. Uighurs’ 
unique religious and ethnic 
traditions are being replaced 
with 
manufactured 
Chinese 

communist pride. I pray we see a 
day when Muslims of every race 
and country can freely practice 
and be rid of the life sentence 
of scrutiny that the world has 
inflicted upon us. I pray we see a 
day when the world understands 
the real “ideological illness” is 
hatred and the inability to allow 
humans to exist as humans and 
not targets.

Don’t ask why we came.
Ask why we left.
Some say the story ends in 

liberation,

but there was no end,
only the horizon.
In the distance,
a military ship.
Men dove into the water
like fish eager for home.
But I,
who had learned to escape,
not swim,
remained onboard.
Safety was already far 

behind us.

And in front,
a soldier.
One finger on the trigger,
the rest clawing through 

my bag.

Our compass buried at the 

bottom

of a rice bowl.
Your father, a boy of 

seventeen

with a twist in his leg,
passed the time
in the nape of my neck.
No one could know us now.
I was so hungry for a new 

life

that I had swallowed the 

paper trail.

There are no heroes in this 

version,

only survivors.
I’ve always been that kind 

of person,

the kind to remember the 

way things were

yet still forget to be afraid.
Don’t feel bad, my dear.
These aren’t tears —
just the ocean left in my 

eyes.

You 
could 
never 
love 

Vietnam,

for you are a December 

child,

and to return to that 

country

is to step into summer 

forever.

But do not think you could 

come

from anywhere else.
You look like me
after all. 

I’ve 
never 
really 
cared 

about or followed the latest 
trends. Instead, I’ve always 
thought 
of 
myself 
as 
a 

trendsetter. But on Monday, I 
stumbled upon Seek Refuge, 
a clothing company that uses 
its platform and products for 
female empowerment, Muslim 
representation and refugee aid. 
They’re branded as the first to 
make streetwear for Muslim 
women 
regardless 
of 
their 

personal modesty choices.

For me, my wardrobe is an 

extension of who I am. My style 
is a reflection of my personality 
and my commitment to be 
unapologetically me.

Like my wardrobe, I don’t 

neatly fit into one box or 
category. 
I 
am 
boho-chic, 

professional and daring. I am 
Nigerian-American, 
Muslim 

and progressive.

Like my personality, my 

closet 
is 
overflowing 
with 

vibrant colors, patterns and 
fabrics. I am as bright as my 
favorite coral dress, as unique 
as my African attire and as 
strong as my leather handbags.

Like the way my outfits 

change as the seasons pass, I 
am adaptable, reliable and a 
little unpredictable.

Yet, I have always struggled 

to find a balance between 
expressing 
myself 
through 

fashion and staying true to 

my faith as a Muslim woman. 
I see Muslim women cloaked 
in beautiful robes and tightly 
pinned hijabs and yearn to 
look as beautiful as they do. 
Yet, when I pin up my hair and 
look into the mirror, I don’t 
see me. It’s taken me so long to 
feel comfortable and beautiful 
in my own skin and now I’m 
proud to show it off. I’m finally 
starting to find a balance 
and defining my own type of 
modesty. Seek Refuge gives 
Muslim women a way to define 

modesty for themselves.

The best part is a portion 

of every purchase is donated 
to refugee aid organizations 
overseas. Lately, I’ve felt pretty 
frustrated with my inability 
to aid in the growing refugee 
crisis across the globe. I feel 
guilty at times knowing I 
have two homes when about 
11 million Syrians have been 
forced to flee their homes, but 

companies like Seek Refuge 
give me a way to do something 
I probably would have done 
anyway while giving back.

I personally cannot wait 

to get my very own “Refuge 
Jacket,” their feature item. Its 
oversized fit and the Arabic 
script on the back perfectly 
embodies 
Seek 
Refuge’s 

mission. It’s quite literally a 
fashion statement. The Arabic 
script on the back, handwritten 
by a Muslim calligrapher, is 
a poem written by a Syrian 
refugee. It reads:

Once we were at least happy. 

There once was peace where 
we resided

In 
our 
land 
of 
birth; 

our 
homeland. 
We 
never 

anticipated this

That war would tear us apart 

and leave us miserable this way

We witnessed so powerlessly 

our 
brothers 
and 
sisters 

brutalized

Our homes and properties 

burnt, and then came our 
displacement

We 
have 
hopes 
but 
in 

despair. We cried peace but in 
bloodshed

That oh, we’d better seek 

refuge. We ran for our dear 
lives

Hunting for safety across the 

borders our dreams seem direly 
shattered

As we seek for a new 

homeland, in a land where no 
one wants us.

What’s 
your 
fashion 

statement?

October 1, 2018

Expressing identity through fashion

MAYA MOKH

Assistant MiC Editor

A virus of the mind: 
Justice for the Uyghurs

HALIMAT OLANIYAN

MiC Contributor

Boat People

ELIZABETH LE

MiC Columnist

 
“Kuch Kuch Hota Hai,” “Dil 

Chahta Hai,” “Kabhi Khushi 
Kabhie Gham,” “Mujhse Dosti 
Karoge!”, “Kaho Naa… Pyaar 
Hai” - I grew up watching the 
sappiest romance movies ever. 
My first celebrity crush was 
a Bollywood actor and I’ve 
always cared more about the 
newest Hindi movie than the 
latest Jonas Brothers album 
(my worlds have been colliding 
a lot recently … ). When I was 
younger I’d get teased for not 
having seen “Toy Story” or 
not being able to quote “The 
Parent Trap.” While my friends 
debated the spelling of “sup
ercalifragilisticexpialidocio
us,” I was singing, “chanda 
chamke cham cham chikhe 
chaukanna chor, chiti chate 
chinee 
chatoree 
chinikhor” 

from “Fanaa.”

When I was younger, I 

watched 
Bollywood 
movies 

because that’s what my desi 
parents watched and it’s all I 
knew. As I got older, I continued 
to watch them for a multitude of 
reasons.

When I would visit my 

cousins abroad, they made fun 
of my weird American accent 
and how I couldn’t really 
communicate 
with 
anyone 

outside of our family. My 
cousins in Mumbai learned 
Hindi and English in school as 
well as our family dialect. I, on 
the other hand, grew up in the 
United States, where the only 
additional language I learned 

was English. I used to visit India 
confused about everything and 
with zero communication skills. 
So, I watched Bollywood movies 
in the hopes of learning Hindi.

I 
continued 
watching 

Bollywood movies in the hopes 
of learning about customs that 
weren’t mine. I didn’t like the 
astonished reactions I would 
get when I told people I didn’t 

know the answer to their 
question about Hindu rituals 
that they assumed were Indian 
traditions, or when my non-
Muslim desi friends mentioned 
holidays or ceremonies that my 
family didn’t participate in. I 
wanted to be part of the desi 
community around me and 
watching 
Bollywood 
movies 

was how I tried to decipher all 
the things that to an outsider I 
looked like I would know, but 
just didn’t.

Now, I watch Bollywood 

movies because these movies 
are a connection to my South 

Asian roots. I’ve spent so much 
of my life internalizing racist 
ideals and distancing myself 
from my parent’s heritage that 
Hindi movies have become 
my way of learning to love my 
culture.

As much as I love the 

Bollywood film industry and 
Hindi-language films, I can’t 
help but feel some cognitive 
dissonance every time I sit 
down to watch one. Bollywood 
movies are SO problematic. This 
is, of course, a reflection of the 
society that creates these movies 
and the audiences that consume 
them. Yet, while I recognize 
the problems in these movies, 
I haven’t been able to bring 
myself to boycott them the way 
I will Hollywood movies. How 
can I cut myself off from the one 
thing that’s keeping me rooted 
in 
my 
culture? 
Ultimately, 

I’ve decided that I can still 
appreciate a typical Bollywood 
blockbuster for its filmy drama, 
while acknowledging that some 
of the jokes, and sometimes even 
the entire plot, is extremely 
problematic.

This 
column 
will 
be 
a 

space for me to talk about my 
problematic favs. The biggest 
Bollywood movies always have 
questionable 
elements 
and 

I want to think about them 
critically while still being able 
to appreciate the reasons that I 
bother watching these movies 
in the first place. Stay tuned for 
movie reviews, rants about the 
many messed up parts of the 
Hindi film industry and some 
celebrity buzz too.

Bollywood films: My problematic fave

ZAINAB BHINDARWALA

Senior MiC Editor

“Like my 

wardrobe, I don’t 
neatly fit into one 
box or category. 
I am boho-chic, 
professional and 

daring”

“As much as I love 

the Bollywood 
film industry...I 
can’t help but feel 

some cognitive 
dissonance every 
time I sit down to 

watch one.”

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Michigan in Color is hiring bloggers! Email 

michiganincolor@michigandaily.com for more 

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Michigan in Color
Monday, September 17, 2018 — 3A