You heard me.

I was reading a post on the race-pop culture-politics blog Racialicious about Nidal Hassan and the aftermath of the Fort Hood shootings, and the PR campaign by Muslim organizations to condemn Hassan’s actions. It suddently occurred to me that this was a repetitive narrative: “Muslim” does something violent. Muslim groups rush to apologize for it. American media burns us at the stake anyway.

So my question is: Why the hell do we have to apologize for?

Why is it that everytime some so-called Muslim goes batshit crazy, we have to line up and say sorry? What in the world do any of us have to do with an individual like Nidal Hassan? Or Saddam Hussein? Better yet, Osama bin Laden? The answer: nothing. So why does the entire Muslim community act like there’s something we have to feel guilty for?

It’s interesting that this phenomenon seems exclusive to Muslims and Arabs. Where were all the white people apologizing for Timothy McVeigh’s actions in Oklahoma? Irish people apologizing for the IRA in the 90’s? Where are all the Hindus saying sorry for the 2001 massacres of Muslims in Gujarat? Where are the Americans apologizing for the some 90,000 people who’ve died in Iraq since 2003?

Lots of questions, and only one answer: When a Muslim does something wrong, it reflects on everyone associated with that culture and religion. When a white person, for example, goes apeshit and shoots up a high school (see: Columbine) it’s something wrong with that individual. Bottom line: it’s flat out racist.

So pardon me if I don’t want to apologize for a nutjob like Nidal Hassan. I don’t know the dude, and have nothing to do with him. As far as I’m concerned, he was just another man with murderous rage and access to a handgun.

Today marks Eid-ul-Adha, one of the two major holidays on the Islamic calendar. Eid, or the “Feast of Sacrifice” as it translates to, commemorates the biblical tale of the Prophet Abraham’s sacrifice of his son, Ismail. As the story goes, God ordered Abraham to sacrifice his dearest possession- his son–in his name.

The Prophet went through with it, only to discover that a sheep had been put in his place, and that the sheep had died instead.  Around the world, Muslims celebrate the Feast of Sacrifice with a morning mass prayer, as well as celebrations and feasts at home. Eid ul Adha also marks the end of the Hajj, the mass pilgrimage of nearly 3 million Muslims every year to Mecca, Saudi Arabia.

To me, Eid took on a whole new significance in post-9/11 America. It’s a time to dress up, celebrate, and to come together with thousands of other Muslims. For once, we get to create a happy image of our community, rather than the scary one peddled on the six-o-clock news by Fox. It’s the time of year that WE get to exchange presents, party, and have a good time. It’s great PR, and it’s good fun.

So to all of my bros and sisters out there- have a great Eid. Be joyful, be beautiful, be proud.

Bones, for those of you ignore your TV, is a Fox (Yes, that Fox) show that I happen to be a big fan of. It features a forensic anthropologist, Dr. Temperance Brennan (aka “Bones”) and her partner FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth. They find dead bodies, solve crimes, and mayhem, romance and violence ensue. It’s good stuff.

A few weeks ago, before the MLB World Series so rudely interrupted the Bones’ run of new episodes, the show featured a storyline about a Muslim character at Brennan’s forensic lab. In “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood”, the team finds out that the Muslim character, Arastoo, is not a recent immigrant from the Middle East like they believed.  See, the guy always spoke with a heavy Arabic accent, and one day he gets pissed off and that accent slips–to show his actual, American-as-apple pie upbringing. Why? Well, as he explains to a psychologist later, if he pretended to be an immigrant, his coworkers wouldn’t ask him to explain his religious beliefs and would simply chalk it up his “Islamic-ness” to being foreign!

It’s funny, interesting, and completely understandable. I’m shocked that a known culture-killing apparatus like Fox would actually aired a show like Bones in the first place–and this episode to boot. But hey, stranger things have happened right?

Anyway, back to the Arastoo character. I totally got where this guy is coming from. In some ways, being a complete foreigner in America is easy. No one expects you understand anything or have any allegiances to this country. No one questions your different style of dress, language, or belief. Yeah, it’s not a walk the park of course, but people have no qualms about what you represent: foreign-ness. Difference.

However, if you are an American- born or raised in this country- and speak flawless American English, it’s a whole different ballgame. You live the double life, an idea eloquently expressed by African American philosopher W.E.B. DuBois a century ago in The Souls of Black Folk in reference to the unique situation of the Black American:

It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.

Double Consciousness.  American and something else: in this case Muslim. You get questions: If you are a fully an American, can you be a Muslim? Why have you chosen to be different? Why do you believe differently from what what most “real” Americans believe? Where are your allegiances, and what is their order? Foreignness is easy to explain, but one of “our” own? Who are you?

As a Muslim American, you get to live out the above questions day after day, year after year. We straddle that seemingly widening chasm between the “Islamic World” (I use quotes because considering the huge numbers of Muslims living in non Muslim states like India and China, this is a problematic term to begin with) and the United States.  Our very existence perplexes people–and the everyday stress of knowing that your allegiances, your faith, is constantly being questioned by everyone around you is draining.

We all cope in different ways. Some of us cover, like the Arastoo dude from “Bones”. Others of us make our Islamic identity come to the forefront. Others push it to the back of their minds. Many, many more of us struggle with it- day in and day out.

Or rather- Is Caring Out?

I found myself pondering that question this past week. Looking at this country’s shit-tastic economic state, the impending passage of an equally shit-tastic health care reform bill that will do more harm than good, and ironically (or perhaps not so ironically) the hipster culture that’s gone mainstream in America; it seems like a valid conclusion.

I attended a conference for PNHP (Physicians for National Health Program) two weeks ago, and I had the honor of hanging out with Dr. Margaret Flowers, a member of the PNHP Board. Dr. Flowers was one of eight doctors arrested at a Senate Finance Committee meeting last spring for protesting the exclusion of Medicare-for-All (single payer) advocates from the discussion. I remember wondering to myself if I could be moved to do the same if necessary. This doctor cared enough about her cause to put her degree and her livelihood on the line.

But Dr. Flowers and the like are an exception to the rule. A majority of Americans have seemingly abdicated taking any personal responsibility for what’s happening around them. Caring about society has become passe for a whole generation. Yeah, we have people fundraising and working on political campaign (Obama’s campaign is a notable example) but how many people are willing to put their careers and lives on the line? In the eminent social scientist George Lipschitz’s groundbreaking work Possessive Investment in Whiteness, the opening chapter describes the story of Bill Moore, a white postal worker from Baltimore who undertook a daring political action for the sake of civil rights in the 1960’s. Bill Moore was murdered by pro-segregationists as retailiation for undertaking that action.

Idealism is a powerful vehicle of radical change. But it only works if one believes wholeheartedly in it. If not for the brave actions of a few like Bill Moore, we would’ve lived radically different lives from what we have today. The longer we stay apathetic, the bigger of a hole we dig ourselves in.  In recognizing that the problems of society at large filter down to the individual, we realize that self-centrism is inherently flawed: for, in the words of John Donne: “No man (or woman!) is an island”.

My opinion? Apathy is out.

I’ve been a fan of spoken word for a few years now. For the uninitiated, this is the definition of a spoken word artist:

A spoken word artist is a person who stands on a stage with nothing but his clothes and speaks musically. You do not have to be a specific race. You do not have to change your accent or dress a certain way. You do not have to talk about the same things other spoken word artists talk about. You only need to have something to say, a musical way of saying it, and your precious guts, to be a spoken word artist.

It is a cross between rap and rhyme, lyric and poetry–elements of all, but belonging to neither. To me, spoken word is powerful because of its simplicity and theatricism. There are elements of hip hop in its socially conscious subject matter, but spoken word can be silly, raunchy, heartfelt, or all of the above. And there is the performance element: without a speaker with charisma and presence to breathe life into the language, spoken word is no different from any verse written on a page.

Def Poetry Jam is definitely one of the premier places for spoken word, and it is where the truly gifted perform. Here are two of my most favorite pieces of all time, by the supremely talented Amir Suleiman and Rafael Casal respectively.

So I’m a little angrier than usual about this. And that’s saying a lot (well, read the title of the blog, folks.)

I’m a student at a private college in the Northeast. I grew up on the West Coast, graduated from public grade school and a public university. Needless to say, the two institutions are like night and day. I go to school now with people who I never had any contact with before: the WASPy, overprivileged, polo-and-kate spade wearing upper class types who don’t really give a shit about other human beings. And one wonders: how did these people make it into med school in the first place? After all, isn’t this a meritocracy? Didn’t we get rid of that affirmative action bullshit a long time ago?

WRONG!

It still exists. We DO have affirmative action! except now….it is reserved exclusively for rich white people!

That’s right: hundreds of universities around the country are helping privileged WASPs everywhere with a little leg up over the competition- by giving them MORE PRIVILEGE!

But wait…isn’t this giving a handout to the these white people? Aren’t they going to feel inferior because they didn’t get into school on their own merit? Aren’t other deserving people being denied seats in exclusive professional and private schools because we’re ::gasp:: giving them an unfair advantage?

These are all arguments used (in breathtakingly hypocritical fashion) by opponents of affirmative action for underrepresented minorities, who apparently don’t give a shit about legacy admissions (which are not only practically the same thing, but worse as it compounds inequality and rewards white privilege?)

I find the whole idea of legacy privileges exceedingly vile. Not only does it expose the glaring hypocrisy of colleges that deny minority affirmative action, which is justified on the basis of remedying past discrmination, while simultaneously supporting and perpetuating pro-white affirmative action.  Case in point: somewhere around 20% of Harvard’s undergrad admits were sons and daughters of  (White) alumni!

What bothers me even more than all of the above is the idea that this racist/discriminatory/white privilege rewarding system is not going anywhere soon. Why, ladies and gents? Well, because millions of dollars are poured into endowments by those alumni parents who would love to buy little Jennifer and Michael their college seat. So to put it straight: our universities are essentially being bribed.

Meritocracy, my a**.

“Saaf Rang” in Urdu/Hindi translates to “Clean Color”–in reference to light-colored skin.

I had an interesting thought the other day. If you read this blog, I talk about race quite a bit. Racism in terms of white privilege, racism directed against immigrants, African Americans, and the like. But as I’ve come to discover, the spotlight is a wee bit more uncomfortable when it is directed against yourself.  I’ve had this idea floating around in my head for the last couple of weeks, and I finally decided to go ahead and address it.

It all began a few months ago when I mentioned to someone that I was going to a local makeup store to buy a bronzer.

Me: “I just got this new bronzer. I totally wanna be darker.”

Friend: “But you have the skin tone every Indian girl wants! Why?!”

Ah, the light-skin thing in Indian culture. Something I love to bitch about, except in this case- I’m the one with the privilege…which makes for great food for thought. I’m a “lighter-skinned” South Asian chick (On the “lighter” end of very wide skin color spectrum that exists on the Subcontinent).

White privilege isn’t something limited to the United States. Sure, it takes on a whole new malignant dimension when you consider the ways in which white privilege was written into the law. In India, preference for light skin color wasn’t grounds for legal discrimination–but it has been deeply rooted in our social fabric for centuries. From what I’ve read about the nature of white privilege in the United States, it is the idea that having white skin and being perceived as “white” comes with inherent social advantages. The kicker is, if you were born with this advantage, it becomes so innate and integral to the way you function in society that it is normal and unquestioned. It is something that you simply have never been without.

I didn’t grow up as a “White” person in America. I did, however, grow up as a light-skinned, (in the eyes of others) ambiguously South Asian person. And in the Indian culture, being a light skinned female comes with profound advantages. You’re considered better looking. Wealthier, higher-class. More marriageable. And that’s just in America. In India, it’s another story: “Saaf rang” puts you at a higher social strata, period. Case in point, I remember going jewelry shopping with my mother (who is even more lighter than I am). We entered the store behind a group of dark-skinned women. Who do you think got waited on first, despite being the last in?

I have to admit, this is something that I didn’t really consider until I got into college and was forced to question all of my old ideas. Without even thinking about it, my light-skin was a social advantage in the world I was growing up in–be it in America or India.  I had many dark-skinned friends–Indian, African American and the like who didn’t have this advantage, and many of the South Asian girls who were more “tan” were raised in a culture that devalued them. I had grown up secure in a position near the upper echelon of that social hierarchy, and the thought of losing that privilege scared me.

I wonder, what will the attitudes of second-gen Indians be about this issue? Are we going to preserve the “colorism” hierarchy of our parents, where lighter-skinned people occupy the top? Or does America in its “post-racial” (that’s a huge point of debate!) reality afford us a chance to redo this social construct? I vote for the latter.

Colorism in the media: Check out Beyonce’s mucho-lightened ad for L’Oreal.

As promised! The journal continues…

Day 9/10
We started volunteering at the LifeSpring Hospitals today. The hospital is out in the Boduppal area, which is about an hour outside of the Hyderabadi outskirts. Yaseen and I were assigned to ride with Mahesh, one of the admins at the hospital to go out and promote the opening of the hospital at different community centers in villages around the area. This was the first time I’d been out on the ground in rural India, and the contrast with urban India is startling.

First of all, it was pretty—pretty in the sense that it was green, and free of the tons of dirt and grime that characterize India’s urban center. Second—the kids we saw were ridiculously cute. WE asked to take pictures with them, and we were like instant celebrities. The kids went apeshit when we showed them the pictures we took. The teachers at the schools were the ones we were asking for information. I was a little apprehensive at first, mainly because I know zero Telugu, which is the main language in the area. It turned out ok, as I spoke enough Urdu/Hindi and probably looked foreign enough to excuse any deficiencies. The villages (and villagers) were neater, cleaner than I expected. Unfortunately, till this point I’d always had an image of rural India as backwards, dirty—but it was quite opposite.

The villages were mixed in terms of religion—I noticed Muslim names, Arabic signs on certain homes in the vicinity of Hindu temples. I don’t the state of communal relations in the region, but from what I could see there was that interesting coexistence of very disparate cultures and beliefs that characterizes India.

We visited a few Immunization Centers with Mahesh. The goal was to disseminate information to the mothers who were bringing their children to be immunized. Most of the people at the center were women, including the workers giving the shots. There were a few women here and there. I gave a woman brochure and explained as much as I could in my broke-ass Hindi. It was a proud moment.

The children I saw seemed pretty healthy, a bit on the thinner side, but generally good. It’ll be interesting to get to sit and conduct checkups with the doctors on Saturday.

Day 11/12
Today the “damn I’ve been India for ‘hella long’ feeling is setting in”. A few of the highlights:
-The TB Clinic at Mahavir Hospital. Hyderabad is one of India’s centers for the DOTS (Direct Observed Therapy) Program. It was really interesting to learn that there is a huge stigma attached with TB in India. I guess it has to do with the fact that TB is an easily communicable disease that requires a lengthy treatment regimen and isolation from the family—runs counter to India’s family-based society.

The DOTS Program was extremely well organized. We actually saw a few patients who were finding out that they had TB. One began crying (and being surrounded by foreigners probably didn’t help). The women doctor who was seeing her was very comforting and kept telling her not to be afraid—“darro nahin, is bemaari ka ilaaj hain” –Don’t fear, there is a treatment for this illness. The hospital itself had all these pics of Bill Clinton all over the place because had visited a few years before and foundation donated to the hospital.

I guess the only negative experience was getting pimped by one of the doctors on percussion—which I’ve never been tested on—not awesome! But the moment I remember most vividly was talking to one of the patients who we had observed getting a biopsy done. I remember her looking pretty afraid, probably because she was surrounded by a group of foreign strangers. I spoke to her and asked her name and where she was from.  I told her who we were and then asked a few questions about how she’d gotten sick. It was interesting moment. I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated my ability to speak Urdu as much as I did then.

Friday was all spent on preps for the health camp. Friday is also Jumma, which is the Islamic holy day of the week. I went with Mahesh, one of the assistant coordinators of the hospital to buy decorations. We had to ride on a motorcycle, which in India can be a death defying experience!

But…I was OK. Ha. I got to talk with Mahesh on the way, and he was asking me about Muslims and our prayer practices. I don’t think he’s known a Muslim well personally, which was a little surprising. I asked him about what days he went for pooja and what not. It was interesting—maybe I was able to make a positive impression on him somehow.

One moment I remember distinctly came when I went to offer Jumma prayer at the hospital. One of the front desk ladies, Kasimi, was Muslim as awell and prayed with me. We stood side by side in a dark consultation room on one of the hospital sheets and prayed Zhuhr together. We finished and she bowed to me in the “adaab”—the traditional Indian Muslim greeting. I turned and greeted her back—returning the sign of respect.

LifeSpring Hospitals was an interesting experience. It wasn’t a charity hospital, and it wasn’t a government hospital. Meaning it was midrange, middle class. I really liked getting to know the people there, but I didn’t get the experience I wanted—which is to do charity work for Muslims. But I learned an important lesson: that perhaps one solution to India’s healthcare woes is not to simply give handouts, but to enable to medical institutions  is to be self-sustaining.

Humanist Manifesto: “Healthy Profits v. Healthy Americans”

A ridiculously awesome piece. that cuts through the misinformation and lies and convincingly argues that universal health care via single payer (publicly financed,privately delivered) model is what we need. Written by my good friend and fellow med student Bridget P. check it out!

Picture Day in high school was never one of my favorite days. I hate taking pictures to begin with, and the thought that a photo of my face would be plastered in a yearbook for all eternity.

Picture Day eight years ago was September 11, 2001. Eight years ago, I was a junior taking a picture for some idiot publication- and it was the last thing on my mind.

That morning, I woke to the news that two planes had been flown into the World Trade Center and three thousand people had died in New York. That morning, I went to school as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed, and irrevocably so. I remember wearing my newest sweater and neatly pressed khakis, stretching my mouth into a smile like I had not a care in the world. Inside, however, I was thinking more along the lines of “Shit, we are screwed. I’m Muslim, and from today onward, we are all officially screwed.”

Well, we are still pretty screwed. At least that hasn’t changed. Obama was elected, all the while being “accused” of being Muslim, like it was some crime or disease. Bombs still rain down on Iraq, Gaza, and Afghanistan, with no regard to civilian or non-civilian.

But on the flip side, there is hope. We did elect Obama. The Iraq War has been relegated to lost-cause status. Muslim Americans have found respect and acceptance for the most part. Do we live in a world marginally better than during 9/11? I would say so.

I got to visit Ground Zero last year. The nothingness was striking: in a city choked by skyscrapers, buildings, teeming with human life–the square block was empty, with the stillness and silence to fill it. And I thought back to that picture I had taken eight years today. Frozen and still in that moment of my young life, from henceforth everything had changed. I morphed from bystander to activist, eyes squinted shut to eyes wide open.

This is in memoriam to all of those lives lost on 9/11, before 9/11, and after 9/11- due to actions of states, groups, and men with little regard for human life. Rest in peace.