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 READ MORE AT MICHIGANDAILY.COM READ MORE AT MICHIGANDAILY.COM Illustration by Jhoanne Castro ’RE PR ILLUSTRATION These could be my last moments.