Let Them Ask Questions
Modern Adversity // By Olga Dolah
As the only Muslim student in my entire college department, there are many instances in which I’ve encountered issues with faculty and students concerning my religion. They range from minor moments — like when my classmates asked if my father forced me to wear the hijab — to major moments — like when my teacher spent a year assuming I didn’t know English after I started wearing the hijab and being unable to pray in the spaces I exist in daily. I’ve had countless people ask me where I’m “really from” only to argue about Palestine “not being a country” anymore, to then days later have students call me Pakistani because they can’t be bothered to remember our earlier conversations. One time a teacher, during a fabric drawing lesson, asked me to use a bed sheet to wrap around a student’s head as a hijab, and bowed to me afterwards with her hands clasped together. Aside from being obviously offensive, it was an astonishingly unusual experience. These small issues I’ve experienced with the people around me have led me to believe that I don’t have any support from the communities I’m supposed to — example given, my school.
People want to hear minorities complain so they feel like they’re doing something helpful by listening, but there’s more to be done than simply listening to our problems. I would feel embarrassed when I’d complain about an issue with a teacher or student regarding my religion. It often takes a lot for me to complain because I like to stay positive, and it’s easy to feel embarrassed when complaining about real issues because we all naturally want to avoid being judged. I realized the things I had issues with were very centered around other people’s thoughts about me. It’s different when a person in power treats you a certain way, but when it’s a peer who makes you feel uncomfortable, when you begin to feel embarrassed around the people who are supposed to “get” you, it all feels wrong.
My close friend from school and I would talk about everything in our lives except my religion. One day she felt overwhelmingly embarrassed when she asked me something related to religion. I realized the feeling I experienced speaking about my religion was similar to how others felt asking about it: We all felt uncomfortable. After I answered her questions I told her she could ask anything else she wanted — I wanted to let the floodgates open for every thought she’s ever had. She started asking the hard ones: “Why are Muslims known as terrorists?”. This question in particular shocked me, but I tried to come off casual telling her every religion has terrorism, and that’s just the way some people perceive us. I couldn’t let that question go and talked to a lot of people about it when I got home. It stuck to me, but I realized I shouldn’t be offended — how else was she supposed to learn if not by asking her friend? I shouldn’t be embarrassed by the most significant part of my life, my identity, and my community because if I did then others might be too scared to ask me about it, everyone would feel uncomfortable, and questions would go unanswered along with the presumptions they create.
One day at school I spoke with a few teachers and faculty about having a prayer or meditation room in my department’s building. My school has a chapel that sits across the street on the opposite end of campus, usually not used for any other religious practices. Muslims pray five times a day, meaning I would have to run across campus multiple times every day. I received no response from the president of the department after sending an email about creating a prayer or meditation room. All the faculty I spoke to prior told me afterwards that I shouldn’t have expected anything, even though they originally encouraged me to ask in the first place.
In high school I was the vice president of the Arabic club, and in college I was a part of the Muslim Students Association. Jumping from being around Muslims my entire life and other diverse communities to a school were maybe three of my peers knew someone who might have been Muslim who they never spoke to was an immense culture shock. I went from not thinking twice about what others thought of me to praying underneath the staircase at school because I didn’t want anyone to interrupt me or ask what I was doing. I realized the only way for me to feel comfortable in these communities is to make it happen myself.
I started praying outside on campus, and in the hallway out in the open — I still get nervous about this, but now I ask my friend to stand beside me, to give some support and assure that no one bothers us. Having her (and even other students I’m not as close with) be with me as I pray has helped a more open form of communication between the rest of the students and myself because it has broken any embarrassment around practicing my religion that I used to feel before. When I pray I’m my most true and vulnerable self. I want to be thinking about my relationship with God, not being embarrassed about partaking in something extremely important to me — in fact, my favorite part of the day.
As a girl born and raised in Brooklyn, I am often shocked when people act like I haven’t spent my entire life in New York. When people treat me differently than anything other than a United States Citizen I feel dumbfounded. I’m American. I’m Muslim. In finding my relationship with God, I’ve strengthened my relationship with who I am. I take the issues I face with a grain of salt because I know whatever challenges I meet, I will overcome them. I can only imagine how immigrants or refugees are treated — I am grateful for my life and want to continue changing and teaching the communities I’m in to help others. The more I can teach people about communication and tolerance, the better the future will be for others coming to the United States.
