I first felt what it meant to be an outsider on a work trip to Israel. My headscarf marked me as a Muslim, and it was clear some Israelis assumed I was an Arab, and by their logic, unwelcome. People pointed, stared, treated me rudely. Security checks at borders were longer and more intrusive ordeals for me than for my non-Muslim colleagues, and I grew frustrated and exhausted with constantly having to provide details on my family background and nationality to prove my identity.
But I told myself this was expected, especially during these tense times, and tried not to take it personally. Does everyone tell themselves these sorts of things when they are profiled? I just wanted to finish my work and leave as soon as possible for friendlier territory—East Jerusalem, the West Bank, Gaza, Jordan, and finally, America, my home. Sure enough, when I got off the plane in the US, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. No one at the airport, grocery store, or mall stared or treated me differently. I was American, the same as everyone else.
However, this was all before San Bernardino, before the alleged shooters were identified as Muslim, before Donald Trump's call to ban Muslims from coming to America full stop, before the sudden spike in violence and threats against American Muslims. My Muslim friends and family worried about being harassed or attacked; some women I knew considered taking off their hijabs. It was overwhelming—Islamophobic incidents were already on the rise after the Paris attacks just a month earlier, but San Bernardino and its aftermath hit much closer to home.
What was perhaps most frightening of all was the sense that that the need to prove myself had followed me from Israel to America. I had not changed, but all of a sudden my religion made me a target of suspicion. This is not my imagination, and the phenomenon is not limited to a few loud far-right voices. While he was careful to make the distinction between ISIS and Islam in a recent speech, even President Barack Obama stated that it was the "responsibility of Muslims around the world to root out misguided ideas that lead to radicalization."
But I told myself this was expected, especially during these tense times, and tried not to take it personally. Does everyone tell themselves these sorts of things when they are profiled? I just wanted to finish my work and leave as soon as possible for friendlier territory—East Jerusalem, the West Bank, Gaza, Jordan, and finally, America, my home. Sure enough, when I got off the plane in the US, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. No one at the airport, grocery store, or mall stared or treated me differently. I was American, the same as everyone else.
However, this was all before San Bernardino, before the alleged shooters were identified as Muslim, before Donald Trump's call to ban Muslims from coming to America full stop, before the sudden spike in violence and threats against American Muslims. My Muslim friends and family worried about being harassed or attacked; some women I knew considered taking off their hijabs. It was overwhelming—Islamophobic incidents were already on the rise after the Paris attacks just a month earlier, but San Bernardino and its aftermath hit much closer to home.
What was perhaps most frightening of all was the sense that that the need to prove myself had followed me from Israel to America. I had not changed, but all of a sudden my religion made me a target of suspicion. This is not my imagination, and the phenomenon is not limited to a few loud far-right voices. While he was careful to make the distinction between ISIS and Islam in a recent speech, even President Barack Obama stated that it was the "responsibility of Muslims around the world to root out misguided ideas that lead to radicalization."
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