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.

