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