The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Monday, March 25, 2019 — 3A
My name is Haleemah Aqel.
I am a graduate of the class
of 2018. I am a Palestinian
Muslim American woman. I
serve as the current program
coordinator at the Program
on Intergroup Relations. I
am one of the founders of the
Islamophobia Working Group.
I was the head organizer of the
New Zealand Mosque Vigil on
Saturday, March 16. I’ve spent
the last few days processing the
events of Saturday.
I tend not to publicly share
my thoughts with people.
However, I have seen many
individuals on campus joke,
ignore, or fail to acknowledge
both the attacks in New
Zealand and the Saturday
incident and their traumatic
effects on individuals in the
community -- specifically the
Muslim community present at
the vigil. For that reason, I have
decided to share my thoughts
starting on Saturday afternoon.
Saturday, March 16th. 12:38
p.m.
I wake up. I slept in, which is
unusual for me. Something felt
off. I open my phone to texts
and emails about the vigil at 4
PM. I call my mom telling her I
already felt off about the day. I
knew I was still mourning the
victims of the New Zealand
mosque terrorist attack, but
I tried my best to pull myself
together to finalize the vigil
schedule and gather the list of
innocent lives lost.
2 p.m.
I text one of the other
organizers of the vigil asking
her what she thought about
the possibility of cancelling the
vigil. Something didn’t seem
right, or safe, about having the
vigil when numerous students
would be participating in St.
Patrick’s
Day
festivities.
I
was scared. I kept imagining
someone running into the
crowd and attacking students
— like I said before, something
definitely did not feel right at
all.
I email the other organizers,
but they convince me that
everything would be okay. I
believe them.
3:40 p.m.
I walk out of my apartment.
I make my way to Espresso
Royale on State Street to buy
a coffee to ease my nerves. I
make my purchase and begin
my walk to the Diag. I pass
by familiar faces and smile as
I walk towards the steps of
Hatcher. The sunny sky soon
turns grey.
3:55 p.m.
Volunteer
speakers
walk
up to greet me. I give them
their speaking order. Another
organizer arrives with the box
of candles. Professor Samer Ali
calls for the large crowd of 200
individuals to gather around.
We pass out the candles.
4:05 p.m.
The vigil begins. Samer
gives
opening
marks,
commemorating the lives of
those taken from hate crimes
and acts of terror since 2011.
I look around. I see members
of all different identities in
the crowd. I recognize more
familiar faces as they nod their
heads towards me. I begin to
tear up. I pull myself together
knowing I am standing in front
of hundreds of people.
4:10 p.m.
Members of the Muslim
Student
Association
begin
with their words. A verse of the
Quran is recited. The beautiful
and peaceful words soothe
the crowd and my nerves. The
sounds of the Quran bring me
back to a safe haven. Another
individual proceeds to recite
the English translation.
4:15 p.m.
It is now my turn to speak.
I walk up to the microphone. I
take a deep breath. I introduce
myself. I usually have a loud
voice, but my voice is soft.
My hands begin to shake as I
hold one candle in one hand
and my phone in the other. I
pause before I begin to call
out the names of the victims
so far counted as dead by
New Zealand officials. Not
all of the names of the 51
victims (at the time) were
announced. I encourage the
crowd to remember these
victims, not just as victims,
but as individuals with stories
and experiences. That we
will remember their beautiful
lives and never forget them. I
conclude my words. The next
few speakers follow me.
4:30 p.m.
State Representative Yousef
Rabhi speaks. I’m nervous once
again. Elected officials could
serve as targets to the public.
He concludes his speech and
steps off of the steps.
4:34 p.m.
Another volunteer begins to
speak. Yet, this time her poem
is about Palestine. The nature
of anyone discussing Palestine,
especially in such a public space,
has always put me on edge.
Speaking about the injustices in
Palestine on the University of
Michigan campus has always
brought some controversy. I
immediately
remember
the
time students had yelled at
me
and
other
Palestinian
students for a peaceful display
a few years back in the Diag.
My mind begins to race. The
speaker discusses the nature of
violence against Palestinians in
Palestine and how it is similar
to acts of white supremacy in
the world. I begin to remember
my times in Palestine and
my beautiful memories with
family. I start tearing up again.
I put my head down for a
second and when I looked up,
my life flashes before me.
4:35 p.m.
I will never forget this
moment.
I see two cops running into
the crowd from East side of the
Diag. I see them run before I
hear them. I instantly freeze,
my legs tense up. I hear the
cops scream “MOVE, MOVE,
MOVE” as they run into the
crowd.
This image continues to
replay in my head.
My
immediate
thoughts
were: someone in the crowd
has a gun. Someone in the
crowd has a bomb.
My adrenaline spikes as I
sprint up the rest of the steps
into Hatcher to take cover.
Maybe I would be a target,
I thought. Maybe they were
aiming for me. I didn’t look
back. I had no idea what was
happening.
Why
was
this
happening?
I instantly run into the side
rooms. I see students studying
and yell we need to hide. We
need to take cover. I run with
them into the North Stacks. I
begin to cry.
4:46 p.m.
We find a space hidden in the
stacks. I immediately open up
my Facebook and Twitter on
my phone, updating everyone
that I’m safe.
4:48 p.m.
My phone soon blows up
with text messages, twitter
notifications and numerous
calls.
My sister messages me. She
asks me if I’m okay. She asks me
where I’m hiding. I tell her I’m
safe and that I love her. I told
her to update my mom and let
her know I’m safe.
Friends begin to call and
text me. I’m surrounded by 15
students. Each student sends
similar texts to family. Many
of us crying. We do a calming
exercise.
These could be my last
moments. I send ‘I love you’
texts to close friends. I check
my pockets and grasp the
fluorescent candle in my hand.
Everything from this point
on is a blur to me.
5:17 p.m.
I’m still hiding in Hatcher.
I continue to receive updates.
We are told that a gunman is in
the UGLi now. My whole body
feels numb.
Again, everything is a blur to
me.
5:50 p.m.
We immediately evacuate to
the basement of Hatcher.
The PA system in Hatcher
finally goes off. We are given
the OK to leave from the south
doors. I evacuate with 20
students. We are escorted to
South University.
I am not well. I felt sick.
My hands were shaking. I
wanted to throw up. I begin
crying again. Many random
individuals begin to hug me. I
walk away.
6:00 p.m.
I walk off campus alone to
the apartment where other
attendees of the vigil were.
I feel faint. I sit down on the
ground and open my phone
once again. I call my mom. I
told her everything was okay. I
was angry. I really was not okay.
I recall the moments of 4:35PM
again and again. The image of
the police officers running into
the crowd haunts me.
7:00 p.m.
I am driven home where two
friends stop by later to comfort
me. I continue to receive more
texts. I receive a call from the
Michigan Daily asking for a
quote. I provide them with my
statement. My friends leave
and I am alone. I am hesitant to
ask other friends to come over.
I don’t want to burden anyone.
8:30 p.m.
I contemplate leaving my
apartment. I feel closed in. I
feel lonely. I call some friends
to pass the time. I am still
shaking. People continue to
text me asking about the vigil.
My mind is racing.
10:00 p.m.
My best friend texts me
telling me not to leave my
apartment alone since I was
the head organizer. I am on
edge because she warns me of
being a target. I shower and
begin to cry as the water races
down on my body. My tears
are washed away. I silence my
phone, ignoring any calls.
12:00 a.m., Sunday, March
17th
I spend the rest of the night
locked in my bedroom. Any
noise immediately startles me.
I can’t sleep.
I end up falling asleep
around 2:00 a.m. or so.
5:30 a.m.
I wake up from a nightmare
screaming,
“Help!”
I
immediately start crying. I call
my brother, he calms me down.
I’m shaking and I immediately
run into my bathroom almost
throwing up. I stay awake. I’m
too scared to go back to sleep.
8 a.m.
I decide to open my phone
at this time. I check my email.
My inbox is flooded. Hate mail,
news inquires, old professors
reaching out asking if I’m okay.
I text a friend to meet up.
10:30 a.m.
I end up going to the gym
later that morning with that
friend.
A few weeks ago, I was
scrolling through Instagram
when I actually paused for a
second: two photos had caught
my eye. One was of a Japanese
family in kimonos at a temple,
faces turned away from the
camera; the other was of a
Vietnamese family, a father
and son, their faces also turned
away from the camera.
These were not photos
taken by a photojournalist —
they were images taken by
a college student studying
abroad in Asia. And for some
reason, they made me slightly
discomfited.
It might have been the
fact that in both photos, the
families’ gazes were turned
away
from
the
camera,
preoccupied with whatever
they were doing in the moment.
I wondered — did these people
know their photos were being
taken? Did the student have
their consent?
In these photos, subjects
were transformed into objects
to be gazed upon. They were
another part of the foreign,
exoticized landscape, blending
into
stereotypical
images
associated
with
people
who live in these countries:
individuals wearing kimonos
in Japan, individuals in rural
Vietnam.
I wondered — if the student
was studying abroad in
Europe, would she have
taken photos like these,
of
random
strangers
living their lives? Perhaps
in
a
specific
cultural
context, like Oktoberfest
in Germany or flamenco
dancers in Spain. But would
she ever be compelled to
stop and take a photo of
random strangers by their
houses or other buildings?
I could see the same thing
happening
in
African,
Middle Eastern and Latin
American countries — but
not necessarily European
countries.
Yes, the student might
have
taken
the
photo
because she thought the
people looked interesting
and
“exotic”.
Yes,
she
might have taken it as
appreciation of the country
she was visiting and to
share
that
with
other
people. But it’s important
to consider the current
and historical contexts of
travelers
photographing
people in foreign countries
in ways that are steeped
in colonialism and the
fetishization
of
those
people and that landscape
that renders them objects
to look at rather than actual
humans. It isn’t just regular
tourists that perpetuate
this either — popular and
well-established
media
do it, too (see: National
Geographic).
The photos also reminded
me
of
similar,
though
different, kinds of images that
are often uploaded to social
media. These are the photos
of volunteers with the people
they are supposedly helping.
And
the
volunteers
are
usually white, and the people
are usually non-white and
live in low-income countries
with entrenched histories of
colonialism and exploitation
from the West.
These
photos
often
perpetuate the problematic
white savior complex, wherein
a white volunteer goes to a
(usually)
non-European
country on a volunteer project
with ideas of “saving” the local
population there, who are
deemed to be in need of help.
MONICA KIM
MiC Columnist
HALEEMAH AQEL
MiC Contributor
Is that how
they see me?
To photograph or not to photograph?
March 16th: A joke to some, a nightmare to me
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READ MORE AT MICHIGANDAILY.COM
Illustration by Jhoanne Castro
’RE PR
ILLUSTRATION
These could
be my last
moments.