The Night My Cab Driver Challenged My Fear of Islam

I recently had to catch a cab ride home after a long and exhausting trip on the bus from Maryland. It was Mother’s Day, and I had spent an amazing time with the family, but as always, I was eager to get back to civilization. I was excited that despite the fact that it was way after midnight, it took me less than five minutes to nab a taxi. When I jumped in, however, the eerie face that greeted me immediately made me wish I had opted for the long walk to the subway at Thirty-Fourth Street and Eighth Avenue.

He was wearing a turban and I could feel the familiar red flags rise to attention. I was uneasy and could feel myself bracing for a panic attack. His smile sent chills down my spine. Was I deliriously tired or was he as spooky looking as he appeared? His headgear was bright red and overtook his aged face. His eyes were frighteningly glossy and his generous beard was a glistening gray. As his lips moved, I felt as if my life sentence was being read. Was he a monster or was I transforming him into one?

I tried to remain calm, watching intently as he maneuvered the cab, hoping he would remain on the busy streets. He did. He was disturbingly attentive for an older man. He remarked on my lively disposition and declared me “a very happy person.” I was confused. Then I realized I was displaying the exact opposite of what I was feeling. I was trying to overshadow the fact that I was scared shitless by answering his invasive questions with forced gusto. Then, just when I thought I was going to explode, he tried to force feed me something in a medium sized cup.

It turned out to be “Indian tea.” He dangled it in my face, as if his life depended on me taking a sip. I politely refused, but he kept insisting. This was a bad sign. He was either going to poison me or knock me out. After what seemed like an eternity, he gave up and we resumed the Q & A segment. He queried me on how long I had been living in New York City. I lied and said eight years, and then he asked me the last time I had Indian food. I said about two years ago, and that was the truth. He began the task of explaining the benefits of his cultural delicacies.

It was during this session that I realized that he most likely wasn’t even Muslim. I was so consumed with shame. I had spent the majority of our ride categorizing him as the enemy. It was deplorable that I had reacted to a man wearing a turban as if it was a symbol of hate and violence. It was simply part of his traditional makeup and I had no right to register him as a felon in order to feed my delusions.

I used to be better than this. During most of my childhood, I was woken up by the “call to prayer.” It was always laced with the anthem “Allahu Akbar” which translates to “God is the greatest.” My boarding school mates made Islam seem like such an elegant religion each time they dutifully honored their daily prayers. Like all New Yorkers, I was irreversibly affected by Osama bin Laden’s elaborate protocol back in 2001, but that was a long time ago. I thought I had successfully waged the battle against misplaced prejudice. But I was once again reminded that old habits die-hard. No matter how hard I try, I always seem to revert back to that person who, despite being well exposed, ends up relying on destructive stereotypical tendencies.

I remembered flying back to the States from Nigeria in 2002, and being petrified because two men who were clearly Muslim occupied adjacent seats. I spent the entire flight stalking them with my eyes. I gave myself a pass for that episode. After all, it had been just under a year since I had witnessed a plane being used as a live missile. However, years later, during my first Amtrak ride to DC in 2010, I was once again held hostage by the gripping pangs of uncontrollable fear. My “suspect” looked like he was on a mission. The way he repeatedly opened his briefcase, scanned his surroundings, and feverishly scribbled in his notepad convinced me he was a terrorist.

My growing obsession also extends to the subway. More times than I would like to remember, I have been struck by particular profiles that presented me with the possibility that something catastrophic was about to happen. I actually got off the train a couple of times and said a prayer for the victims as I watched them speed away to their doomed destination.

As we approached my neck of the woods, I cautiously asked my cab driver to drop me off a block away from my building. I was elated to be home, and immensely dispirited by my vile reaction to this otherwise innocent fellow. As if he knew how tense and uncomfortable I had been, he insisted on giving me the front door treatment. I relented, feeling even worse. Even though I couldn’t afford it, I gave him the maximum tip. Money wipes away all the ugly, right? Wrong.

He had tried in vain to accommodate me and I repaid him by being a judgmental, paranoid bitch. I could blame the present chaotic climate in Nigeria for the heightened dramatics. Or could my hyperactive imagination be attributed to the overly ambitious newsmagazine shows? What really is responsible for my intolerant temperament?

The truth is that I am a sequestered coward who doesn’t practice what she preaches. I am not really sure why I harbor these feelings. And I sadly can’t guarantee that I will ever get back to that girl who used to welcome the call to prayer with cited reverence. But I do hope that I won’t ever mentally assault an innocent victim in the name of Allah. And if I feel the need to go there, I will quietly recite the Lord’s Prayer and end it with “Allahu Akbar.” Here’s hoping that that will do the trick.

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