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

