Why Should the General Public Care?
by editor Zeina Abi Assy
I was recently in a meeting wherein the attendants were mostly people of color, and the conversation around the table was: thinking about ways to build bridges through art between Muslim Americans and non-Muslim Americans. Initially, the brief got me to reflect on the term “Muslim American”: one word refers to religion and the other one to nationality, or the country to which someone belonged. To begin with, the naming seemed enough of a problematic, because Islam is not representative of an-other place to which someone also belongs. How often do we refer to people as Christian American or Buddhist American or Jewish American.
Though I am Arab, I am not well versed with the experience of Arab Americans or Muslim Americans. I grew up with Lebanese people all around me, my sense of belonging to the place I was living in was natural, a given. I was never made to question whether or not I belonged in Lebanon. I always felt like in so many ways I was Lebanon and it was me. After moving to the U.S. — seeing and hearing about people’s experiences — I have come to realize just how much of an unsimple thing it is to be Muslim or Arab in America, or anything not white and male for that matter. During the conversation, I suggested the topic of surveillance: a means practiced by authorities to remove Muslim communities from the environments within which they exist. Maybe my wind was caught up with recent stories I was hearing, and so surveillance, though a by-product, felt like a direct force that was destroying a lot of understanding/bridges between “Muslim Americans” and “non-Muslim Americans.” One person stopped me, and asked us to refocus the conversation by centralizing it on one primary question; they looked at me and asked: “Why should the general public care?” Though I don’t come from a Muslim family, like everyone in Lebanon, Islam is very close to home. And for a second there, my mind rejected the question. I froze. And in avoidance of the spur of emotions, I passed. A fellow around the table took the lead and responded with “Because of the rich culture they bring to the U.S.” And though all well meaning, I was starting to feel very uncomfortable. It wasn’t until after the meeting that I realized exactly why. And if I can spin the wheels of time backwards, I would have objected to this question. What I heard was how can we tell people that Muslims are humans just like the rest of us?
Aside from the fact that Islam is deeply misunderstood, there seems to be a strong lack of wanting to understand. The person who asked the question is a person of color, the person who responded to the question is a person of color. And I mention that not to say anything but: when our own selves have experienced the cost of being discriminated against because of the skin we carry and the identities we ascribe to, then one would hope that we would extend a human perspective in viewing someone who is being excluded for similar delusional reasons. One would hope that we would then realize the danger in asking this question and in creating art under that banner. The issue with Islam seems to be larger than skin, religion, and identity — in America at least, it seems to represent the larger “other” — the ultimate “them” — as though if you say Muslim American then you are indirectly saying non-American. Everyone in that meeting was American, except for me, and I mention that for the reasons you are thinking. Because there was a sense of threat nestled in the conversation. Asking this question and it making sense to the majority meant that the people leading conversations about “Muslim American” issues are themselves looking for reasons to care.
That’s when I remembered Hamed Sinno’s Facebook post about his experience being Arab, Muslim, and queer — and to top it off, American. Sinno, the lead singer of Mashrou’ Leila, is outspoken, and often expresses on Facebook his direct and intimate experiences as a way to have the hard conversations that circulate our lives. He posted the below thoughts just before attending his first Pride Parade in Toronto this year. Facebook deleted it because it doesn’t follow “Facebook Community Standards.” I read on the comment thread that the actual reason could be simply because many users reported the post, but that is enough to say that people are not willing to listen, not willing to understand, and generally not willing to care.
After over 270 shares of the below where people expressed their outrage about the removal, Facebook reposted it. Facebook, at the end of the day, is a social media platform that is mainly concerned with numbers and aims to please the crowds. The responsibility is on us: how willing are we to read something outside of our experience without looking the other way, without trying to silence it?
**Mashrou’ Leila, a Lebanese alternative rock band, started in 2008 and it has grown to become a household name in The Middle East, and the rest of the world. Mashrou’ Leila reflects the reality of a generation in the Arab world that is seldom heard — a counter culture that challenges the prevailing norms and taboos in the region (from homosexuality to __), but more importantly, one that looks the dominating and imposed ideas of the west straight in the eye, one that gives the false pretenses of the west the middle finger.**
