6 — Wednesday, September 15, 2021
Michigan in Color
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

puzzle by sudokusnydictation.com

By Stephanie Lesser
©2021 Tribune Content Agency, LLC
09/15/21

Los Angeles Times Daily Crossword Puzzle

Edited by Rich Norris and Joyce Nichols Lewis

09/15/21

ANSWER TO PREVIOUS PUZZLE:

Release Date: Wednesday, September 15, 2021

ACROSS

1 Wine, with “the”
6 Athletic gripper

11 5 mL, in some 

recipes

14 Big state
15 Believer in 

karma

16 Order from a 

stool, maybe

17 Delighted
19 Cartoon 

collectible

20 Back-combs
21 __ sock
23 Last one in, 

competitively

26 Folklore cave 

dwellers

27 Jipijapa hat, 

familiarly

28 Call it a day
30 Stephen 

Hawking’s 
journalist 
daughter

31 Mouth-watering 

reaction?

32 Forest female
35 Not online, 

briefly

36 Delighted
38 Bit of wordplay
39 Eastern principle
40 Theater parts
41 Listen to
42 Log-in need
44 The “P” in 

TAFKAP

46 “No doubt”
48 Kept from 

leaking, in a way

49 Spun flax fabric
50 Sear and 

simmer

52 “__ dreaming?”
53 Delighted
58 Prefix with dairy 

or fat

59 Math 

calculations

60 Mild oath
61 “Affirmative, 

cap’n”

62 Like survey 

questions with 
two boxes

63 Stick-on 

decoration

DOWN

1 Trailblazer in 

the muscle car 
category

2 Gun for a race
3 Tool that’s swung
4 At some point 

during a trip, say

5 Great regard
6 Storage furniture
7 Margarita garnish
8 Ten-time all-star 

Slaughter

9 It may be about 

nothing

10 Sushi choice
11 Delighted
12 Be in a bee
13 Doesn’t measure 

up

18 “It __ familiar ring 

to it”

22 Word on a 

French passport

23 Took off
24 Dern or Linney
25 Delighted
26 Bank heist unit
28 One of the 

deadly sins

29 Comics punch 

lines?

31 Sandwich seller
33 Unit of perfume
34 Wrapped up
36 Packers home
37 Voldemort’s title
41 It’s unlimited with 

some rentals

43 Take in
44 Forked over
45 Didn’t dawdle
46 Comedian Glazer
47 Longtime 

Shatner co-star

48 Affirmative 

playground retort

50 Tourney passes
51 Horse of a certain 

color

54 Old-timey 

“before”

55 Ms. __-Man
56 Acronym for 

unabashed 
intimacy

57 DKNY 

competitor

SUDOKU

2

4

8

1

9
3

7

6
8

6

9

9

3
4
1

5

5

2

7
6

9

3
8

6

2

5

9


“Meet me at our 
spot.” 

“Soundscape.”

WHISPER

09/08/21

ANSWER TO PREVIOUS PUZZLE:

10 Medieval estates

22 Alert for an actor
24 Checkout printout

26 “Morning Edition” 

Every year around this time, the stares 

intensify. It doesn’t matter that I was born 
here or that I’ve lived here my entire life. The 
sense of estrangement in the country that I 
am a citizen of is as severe as ever.

It’s been 20 years. 
I am only 19. 
So why am I regarded as a monster?
How can I bear responsibility for 

something I wasn’t even alive to witness?

Why am I expected to apologize for the 

actions of those I have no connection to?

Is it because I am Muslim?
Is it because I wear the hijab?
Is it because I speak Arabic?
What about my identity makes it so easy 

for America to pin its grief on me?

Anti-Muslim profiling and surveillance 

of 
communities. 
Unlawful 
detentions. 

Racist immigration policies and bans that 
tore families apart. Endless wars waged in 
the name of fighting terror. Hundreds of 
thousands of children, mothers and fathers 
murdered in cold blood. Millions more 
displaced. 
Afghanistan, 
Iraq, 
Pakistan, 

Yemen. All scapegoats for securing America’s 
world dominance, ensuring this country 
remains number one at all costs. 

As we step out of our apartment, my 

roommate and I laugh about random TSA 
checks we’ve endured and the potential of 
being hate crimed. But this feeling is anything 
but funny. This is the life of many other 
Muslims living in Westernized societies 
around the world. 

Especially those of us who wear hijabs. 
Especially those of us with obvious 

Muslim names.

Especially those of us forced to directly 

witness American imperialism unfold under 
the visage of fighting terrorists.

Lives altered forever. Intergenerational 

trauma 
lingering, 
waiting 
to 
explode 

like bombs suspended in the air. People 
abandoning their identity and livelihoods 
out of fear. Triple checking anything and 
everything they say or do. Because God forbid 
you make a mistake. God forbid you mess up. 

***

As my Muslim parents taught me about 

the beauty of Islam and the love and empathy 
it preaches, the military family next door fed 
their children propganda about my religion, 
filling their hearts and minds with hatred 
towards all Muslims. 

When Dylan and Lauren would come 

out to play, my brother and I would hide 
around the porch, waiting in anticipation as 
they rushed into our backyard to indulge in 

kickball with hushed voices. If their parents 
ever peeked out the window and found they 
were out of sight — possibly spending time 
with two young Muslim children — they 
called them back inside immediately and 
would keep them there until my brother 
and I went back home. Then, and only then 
were Dylan and Lauren allowed back outside. 
This tiringly endless cycle continued on, but 
the measly half hour of fun with them was 
worth it. One week, they stopped coming out 
to play. We were only informed by the fading 
chalk note they left on the sidewalk that they 
had moved out because Dylan and Lauren 
weren’t allowed to say goodbye.

My brother Ali was 5. I was 6.

***

Ramadan rolled around during the school 

year. I had fasted for the first time the year 
before, but only a few scattered days, so I was 
committed to fasting the full month this time. 
My parents were worried I would get hungry 
and dehydrated at school. Not wanting to 
discourage me, they told me it would be easier 
to fast on the weekends and that I would be 
rewarded with goodies and prizes, but after 
a long night of begging and pleading, they 
reluctantly agreed. As my mom dropped 
me and my brothers off to school the next 
morning, she reminded me it would be okay 
to just fast until lunchtime and then she 
bid me farewell. But I was too excited and 
determined to prove my strength. When 
lunchtime rolled around, the kids in the 
cafeteria bombarded me with questions, 
noting that I didn’t grab a lunch tray or take 
out my lunchbox. I protested giving them an 
explanation, and finally they came to their 
own prejudiced conclusion: that my parents 
were neglectful and forced me not to eat. 
They said I should be adopted by new parents 
that would love and feed me. My classmates 
continued discussing my family situation 
— as if I wasn’t there — as my brother’s 
kindergarten teacher started rounding his 
class up for recess. He saw me and ran up for a 
hug. Now that everyone knew I had a sibling, 
the conversation grew deeper. One girl, who 
was adopted, declared it would be hard to 
find a family willing to take in two kids, and 
that we probably wouldn’t stay together.

My brother Ahmed was 6. I was 10.

***

We were in line to board the plane on our 

way to Jordan. My brothers and I were so 
excited that we didn’t get a lick of sleep the 
night before. As per usual, my dad had us at 
the airport 6 hours before departure “just 
in case.” It was a good thing he did. After 
completing the customary security checks, 
we were all pulled aside for a “random” TSA 
check. We were heavily interrogated before 
even setting our bags down, and my youngest 

brother was starting to get antsy. I reached 
over to my bag to grab the stuffed animal I 
had been carrying for him. Immediately, the 
TSA agent told me to stop what I was doing 
and grabbed his walkie talkie to call for 
backup. We were the first ones to check in, 
but the last ones to board the flight.

My brother Amin was 5. I was 14.

***

Terrorist. Towel head. Camel jockey. Goat 

f***er. Sand n***er. 

The anti-Muslim slurs and hate go on for 

decades. 

Then, there is also this aggression towards 

the religion of Islam as a whole that stems 
from preconceived notions of associating 
Muslim women who cover themselves with 
oppression and this belief that western 
women must provide them with secular 
liberation. This idea of “colonial feminism” 
falsely labels the hijab or veil as a sign of 
oppression, but gives no support to things like 
women’s right to education or suffrage. It is 
used to justify past colonization of and current 
war in the Middle East, all done under the 
guise of fighting for the rights and dignities 
of Muslim women. Rather than focus on the 
actual safety and health of women in the 
Middle East, North Africa and South Asia, the 
United States and Europe use “the freedom to 
unveil” as a tactic for waging wars, colonizing 

lands,and extracting valuable resources. 
The obsession with this unveiling of Muslim 
women connects back to the savior complex 
of the West and their Orientalist view of the 
East; white men saving brown women from 
brown men. These white men have no actual 
concern for “saving” brown women, they are 
more so ridding the brown man of all that is 
“his” while simultaneously pinning him as 
the danger. Essentially, either way women are 
not concerned for, but painting their freedom 
as the motivation provides access and acclaim 
to the white man without him having to do 
anything other than harm the brown man. 
This othering of the East allows the West to 
justify the wars they wage while granting 
them impunity, aiding them in furthering their 
own personal gain and economic agendas.

With this piece, I do not intend to center 

my plight or dissect Orientalism while 
discrediting the pain of those who lost loved 
ones on 9/11. I do, however, want to bring light 
to an oftentimes forgotten group. A group 
that is facing the violent and blatantly hateful 
consequences of a day and event they had 
nothing to do with. A group that is constantly 
expected to condemn and apologize for 
the actions of others they don’t know, 
but of whom they have become assumed 
accomplices. A double standard that their 
white, Christain counterparts are not held to. 

An emotionally draining barrage of questions 
that will always have us on the defensive: 
“Does your religion promote terrorism? 
Doesn’t jihad mean killing all non-Muslims? 
Why do you guys hate America so much?”

We don’t hate America so much. We hate 

America’s foriegn policy that advocates for 
the destruction of the countries we belong 
to. We hate that the American government 
engages in imperialism abroad. We hate 
that America feels so entitled to our natural 
resources to the point where forever wars 
have become the norm. But I don’t hate 
America as a whole nor am I rooting for its 
destruction. My parents came to America to 
pursue their own higher education and give 
me and my brothers the chance at a better life. 
Opportunities. Freedom. A fighting chance 
to live a life free of war and destruction. But 
this war and destruction that my family was 
forced to flee didn’t just “come to be.” It’s part 
of an endless cycle of colonial imperialism. 
White supremacy. Orientalism. A cycle filled 
with intergenerational trauma and pain. 
One that America is at the forefront of. But 
I am still an American citizen. And though 
this country is far from perfect, it is still my 
country.

Being Muslim in a post 9/11 world

MARIAM ODEH

MiC Columnist

Design by Janice Lin

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

The afternoon sky seems to bleed 

forever as the highway traffic drives 
closer into its abyss. Cars race past 
me: 20 over the limit, determined to 
get to where they’re going. I take a 
sip of water, and I let my left hand 
slide 
down 
the 
steering 
wheel. 

Drinking more water seems like 
the right thing to do. I drink more 
water. Listen to more podcasts. I’m 
not really listening though. I switch 
between catastrophic daily news, 
philosophical food for thought and 
niche playlists made by my best 
friend from high school. Anything to 
keep me from forming a thought of 
my own. 

Commuting in silence felt like a 

waste of time. 

More accurately, spending time 

with myself felt like a waste of time. 

I had been back and forth all 

summer. 

Between my hometown and my 

college town. 

Between the home I grew out of 

and the home I grew into. 

On the road again before the end 

of the week. 

Just me and my little red Nissan. 
I was unreachable. 
I was a nomad. 
I used to be envious of the 

vagabond. 
Detached 
from 

Destination, they were free to roam. 
How liberating that must feel. But 
I don’t feel like that. I feel trapped. 
Trapped by repetitive days. Trapped 
by my own company.

I was never really good at spending 

time with myself. 

My summer commute left me with 

no choice.

- Packing List: 
- Work Uniform
- Extra Gym Clothes
- Laptop
- Follow through on plans with 

college friend

- Grab groceries before I get to my 

place

Shit. I forgot my vitamins again. 

I merge onto the M-14 highway. 

I run through lists in my head and 

forgive my forgetfulness. Co-Star 
told me to be kind to myself today. It’s 
good to believe in something. Even if 
it’s some shitty astrology app. I queue 
up Lorde’s “Mood Ring” just for the 
irony. I was desperately chasing after 
some kind of eudaimonic well being, 
hoping it would be the antidote to my 
chronic Pure Heroine phase. 

Driving is one of those things I 

often crave when I need to think or be 
alone. When I need to escape reality. 
When I’m not focused on where I’m 
headed. But these days, I wish I could 
reach the Destination faster.

These days, this commute feels like 

a very painful purgatory between 
places 
of 
belonging. 
Between 

versions of myself. 

The human condition frequently 

centers around being rather than 
becoming. A podcast I’ve grown 
to like speaks of this in the most 
metaphysical sense — in the way 
that nothing is static and everything 
is constantly changing at the most 
elemental level. But on those drives 
when the stereo can no longer pacify 
my demanding thoughts, I’m focused 
on everything I am not — everything 
I am not being and everything I am 
not becoming. I know that’s not fair 
to myself, and I resent my hostility. 
Soon enough, Interstate 275 blurs 
from my vision and the month’s 
repressed tears spill over. 

Driving in a storm activates my 

fight or flight. 

This time, though, I choose to 

fight.

I choose to soften my bitterness. 

Partly because it’s an exhausting 
emotion. Partly because I deserve 
better. I switch on my wipers, forging 
ahead. And when the rain subsides, I 
discover sparse roots of healing. The 
very crooked healing that makes you 
weary. Weary and impatient. 

With every red light and detour, 

my impatience intensifies. But I can 
only think of moving forward. 

I am becoming. My being is always 

becoming. 

This is me believing in something 

more. I may not be There yet, but I’m 
on my way.

June, July and August slip away in 

monotonous movements. And maybe 
somewhere along the way, I made 
peace with this two-laned concrete 
journey of mine.

My summer commute

EASHETA SHAH

MiC Columnist

