This past November, voters in
the U.S. made history by electing
not
one,
but
two
incredible
Muslim women into our 116th
House of Representatives. They
are Ilhan Omar, a Black, Somali
Immigrant
from
Minnesota’s
5th Congressional district who
frequently and unabashedly calls
out deeply problematic white men
in power, and Rashida Tlaib, an
incredible
Palestinian-American
woman who coined the phrase
“Impeach the Motherf*cker” on
her first day in office.
Rep. Tlaib and Rep. Omar
were
praised
nationally
for
their progressivism and their
commitment
to
civil
rights.
They posed on magazine covers,
standing alongside new Speaker of
the House Nancy Pelosi. They were
even affectionately made a part
of the “squad” of freshmen WoC
Representatives, along with Rep.
Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez of New
York and Rep. Ayanna Pressley of
Massachusetts.
That is until they decided to
speak out on an issue that is seen
as largely untouchable in US
politics: defending the rights of
Palestinians.
Many who follow politics know
about
Rep.
Omar’s
infamous
response to a tweet from a
journalist who spoke about how
the House GOP Leader Kevin
McCarthy was threatening to
punish Omar and Tlaib for their
criticism of Israel. Omar wrote
back “It’s all about the Benjamins
baby,” and later clarified that she
was talking about AIPAC, the
American Israel Public Affairs
Committee. AIPAC spends about
3.5 million dollars in lobbying cash
to support pro-Israeli interests
in the United States. Omar was
immediately attacked by both
Democrats and Republicans – one
of the few bipartisan partnerships
of this past year.
I’m not going to get into the
nuances of the history of Israel
and Palestine and the conflict
today, mostly because it’s far
too much to compress into a few
inches of paper, and I would
absolutely oversimplify. Instead,
I suggest that you do your own
research, especially into Arab, and
most especially into Palestinian
voices. What I will say is this:
criticism of the Israeli government
shouldn’t be confused with anti-
Semitism. Criticism of the Israeli
government is a matter of calling
out the institution’s numerous
human rights violations against an
occupied people who have little to
no right to self-determination.
Rep. Omar ended up apologizing
for
her
statements,
yet
she
continued to be silenced not only
by the usual suspects (Trump and
Republicans) but also by her own
party. House Democrats were
quick to vote on a resolution that
condemned hate speech — a move
that was widely seen as a callout of
Omar. What I find ironic, though,
is that the same institutions
and organizations that initially
praised the election of the two
first Muslim congresswomen were
also so quick to attack them the
moment that they said something
beyond the mainstream ideas of
“progressivism.”
But these attacks are not
surprising. As a Muslim and
Arab-American
woman
who
has been in activist and feminist
spaces for most of my teen years,
it proved everything that I had
ever suspected: that a lot of
calls for inclusion are, frankly,
disingenuous. So-called feminist
organizations call for us to join
their ranks, to be a part of their
crusade against the patriarchy,
and then ignore the perspectives of
Arab and Muslim women. They call
for the freedom of women to wear
whatever they want without facing
harassment, but a Muslim woman
wearing a hijab, niqab or burqa
is viewed as “oppressed,” rather
than as making a deeply personal
and spiritual choice. A Muslim
woman might feel uncomfortable
about how so much attention in
feminist spaces is focused on sex-
positivity rather than issues like
inaccessibility to education and
employment for women, maternal
and gender-based health, gender-
based violence, FGM, etc. However,
she might not feel comfortable
expressing her opinions for fear
of being ignored as “prudish” and
potentially ostracized by the very
women who claim to fight for “all
women’s rights.”
Diversity matters to us! ... until
we speak out.
Listen to women of color! ... until
we say something that you don’t
like.
Stand with Muslim women!
w... but only until we go off our
predetermined script.
What all of these people seem to
realize though, is that just because
you elect a Muslim representative,
it doesn’t mean that they’re going
fade into the woodwork once the
excitement has lulled. Rep. Omar
and Rep. Tlaib were not elected
in their districts in order to give
the Democratic Party good PR, or
glossy magazine spreads with their
arms crossed, dressed in muted
tones of red, white and blue. They
were elected to change the world
for the better, and sometimes that
requires speaking when no one else
will.
Reader, I challenge you. It
doesn’t suffice to apologize and
offer platitudes, promising that
you’ll do better, that you’ll listen,
that
you’ll
learn.
Compassion
without action is just observation.
Put in the work to learn about
Muslim women – our issues,
our feelings, our perspectives.
Approach us, talk to us. Most of us
have been waiting for a while.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Monday, February 17, 2020 — 3A
A First Generation’s
Lullaby of Loss
“Ruchi, how do you live
like this? How will you get
married?” my mother shook
her head, sifting through the
ruins of my room. A dissonant
pitch filled the air. Being young,
messy rooms, disheveled hair
and an outspoken voice were
the products of my outright
opposition. I sat in the only
cleared portion of my room,
shoulders
firm,
head
high,
basking in the glory of my
rebellion.
Growing up in a South-
Asian household posed a life
long ultimatum, as concepts of
independence and traditional
notions of womanhood often
felt mutually exclusive. Every
invitation from my mother to
cook had to be accompanied by
an elaborate scheme to shape
me into a domestic role. My
mother’s requests of tabling out
chai and chaat to guests were
indirect requests to jeopardize
my autonomy. The song of my
dissent climaxed, with me, the
melodist, stringing together an
anthem of independence.
In college, I stand now,
softer, more resolute in my self-
determination. I go home for
the holidays and see the lines
in my mother’s face. Older,
tired, she no longer invites me
to harmonize. My shoulders
hunch. I lean forward with the
weight of loss shrouding me. I
sit with a solemn understanding
of my “choice,” as generations
of tradition have now been
drowned out by my stanzas.
Now, I sit, in messy rooms,
empty kitchens, a delicate dirge
sinking into my skin.
RUCHITA COOMAR
MiC Columnist
The Public Shaming of Ilhan Omar, Or, What Happens
When Disingenuous Diversity Backfires On You
HIBA DAGHER
MiC Columnist
Illustration courtesy of Dalia Harris, MiC Featured Artist
This piece is a self-portrait focused on disconnection from identity. I made this when I was feeling pretty confused about my own
identity. The butterfly is supposed to represent the disconnect of soul, and the blood represents disconnect from the body.
I talk to God in the dark.
Thank him thirty-three times.
Give praise thirty-three times.
Thirty-three times I say
I’m sorry.
I ask for forgiveness.
Often not knowing what for.
My mother used to
light incense. Stand over us
in the dark.
And send her prayers
in the smoke.
On those nights
I stayed awake.
Saw the smoke take on
the form of a woman
lost in the desert,
a man being swallowed
by a whale, a serpent
inhaling the world whole.
Mornings were greeted
by the smell of ash.
And anxiety ridden
memories we did not live,
the fear of mistakes
we had not yet made.
And love.
My existence was delivered
by sin. I wonder if God knows
I’m sorry
To be alive. Wonder if that’s why
I spent this lifetime
swallowing saltwater
in anticipation of drowning.
If living is my penance.
I wish my body was not
made of mud and ruin.
I fantasize combusting
into fire and lighting
my own way.
But none of my history
Is history enough to learn from.
My fingers do not recognize
they were made to count
prayers. My hands reach too far.
My mother does not come
into my room anymore.
Those empty nights
I still get down on my knees,
Press my head to the floor,
And search for something holy.
JINAN ABUFARHA
MiC Columnist
“Ninety-Nine”
The purest form of love I
have
experienced
has
come
from friendships. I have always
believed that a soulmate does not
have to come from a romantic
relationship. A soulmate can
be your friend or even a hobby
that you cannot live without.
The love my friends have shown
me is so pure and it ranges from
having my hand held when I cry
to having them stay in my room
until I fall asleep. It is in these
moments that I realize how deep
our bonds run and how lucky
I am to have such powerful
women in my life.
“Para:
Mis Amigas”
DANIELA LUGO
Senior MiC Creative Content Editor
She told me that she didn’t
believe in love.
I found this hard to believe
because
the
Beatles
had
convinced me that it is all that
we need. I had first heard of her
through a friend who struggled
to find words of meaning and
instead sufficed for cheap laughs
and empty spaces.
After being stuck somewhere
between
Philadelphia
and
Hanover, with brief trips to
Jerusalem, we finally crossed
paths. And when I saw her
standing there, the gaze from
her emerald eyes had sent me
searching for the same words
which my friend had struggled
with.
I spent the majority of our
time together thinking of clever
lines as she sipped on a cherry
Pepsi, fooling everyone who was
a fool for her. But like the fool
who failed to play it cool, the
brief moment that we did share
left me hanging off a cliff. There
was something in the way she
moved which attracted me like
no other.
Our
ease
and
mutual
understanding
made
that
ordinary
porch
feel
like
a
strawberry field. Made me feel
like I wasn’t alone in what felt
like a crowd full of strangers.
But eventually, I traded her
emerald gaze for the glare of
blue iPhone read receipts and
conversations for texts which
could have easily been forgotten.
Effortless in a different sense, I
suppose. This isn’t to disregard
some of our moments which felt
larger than life. But somehow,
the closer we seemed to get,
the more we seemed to distance
ourselves from each other.
Did we run the risk of
talking until we couldn’t go on?
Ignoring the chance that we may
fall apart before too long?
Like a castaway, looking at
my phone as if it were a compass
that gave me no direction. Man
overboard! Jumped into a sea
of unanswered questions and
unresolved emotions.
So tell me Jude, does letting
her into your heart and under
your skin make it better? Or
is it just that the long and
winding road may not lead to
her door?
DEVAK NANUA
MiC Assistant Editor
Illustration courtesy of Hiba Dagher
“Jude? Are You Still There?”
Illustration courtesy of Daniela Lugo