Unveiling the Real Challenges: The Struggles of Being Muslim American Today

"This is even more devastating than the aftermath of the Muslim Ban and the aftermath of 9/11," exclaimed Abed Ayoub, a lawyer and childhood friend, standing just four blocks away from the White House, reflecting on the impact of these events that shook the nation two decades apart.

Khaled A. Beydoun

Marwan Thoaubi

In between the prevailing custom of doom-scrolling and delivering bad news, Abed looked up with a stare that said everything. I knew that look well.

As an Arab, Muslim, and American, like him, I have a fusion of identities that is often seen as outcast in the world we inhabit. However, the perception of this amalgamation has now shifted. In the midst of the unfolding mass destruction and loss of life in Gaza, which we witness both on screens we hold in our hands and in our hearts, our sense of self becomes a mockery.

We empathize with the people of Gaza as they bear similarities to us - sharing our names, our faith, our culture, and our traditions. Among those trapped in the 140-square-mile open-air prison, which has transformed into a living nightmare, are our friends, including journalists who sought refuge at the Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital during the tragic explosion on Wednesday.

But what we continue to see on our screens is still half a world away. On the other side of our terrestrial reality and this virtual insanity.

Until this past week.

"A Palestinian boy,

Wadea Al-Fayoume, 6.

Family Handout/CAIR-Chicago

Just 8 days before his tragic death, Wadea, a Palestinian-American boy, had joyously celebrated his 6th birthday. However, last Saturday, he was brutally stabbed with a military-style knife by his family's landlord, a 71-year-old man who has been charged with murder, hate crimes, and other offenses. In addition, Wadea's mother was also stabbed multiple times, although she survived. Nevertheless, the concept of survival seems to hold a different meaning now.

What does it signify for a mother who fled from war to find safety in an American suburb? What does it signify for Abed and me, as an executive director of a civil rights organization and a law professor, straddling the intersection of American power and an Arab identity unfairly linked to terrorism? What does "existence" mean for the millions of Arabs and Muslims residing in the United States, burdened with the impossible task of repeatedly proving their loyalty in response to vehement demands that diminish our humanity?

It feels as though we are existing on borrowed time, as if our citizenship could be revoked at any moment due to events occurring in America or anywhere else in the world.

Describing it as "Islamophobia" would be a significant understatement. The experience of being Arab or Muslim in America goes beyond that - it is incredibly burdensome and completely absurd. It feels as if there is no way out of this existence. It's like being in a play where every day starts with news of war, horrifying images and videos of innocent children being killed, constant updates about villages being destroyed, and relentless calls for us to denounce Hamas. Although this may sound like a storyline from the works of Jean Paul Sartre or Albert Camus, it is not fiction. This is our harsh and absurd reality.

In America, we find ourselves in an absurd reality where our voices are silenced and our speech censored on virtual platforms. Suspicion and collective guilt stain our names, nationalities, faces, and faith, even though we are innocent of any crimes. Tragic events such as the aftermath of 9/11 and the consequences of former President Donald Trump's Muslim Ban in 2017 forced many to hide their ethnicity or faith, especially women removing their hijabs and children adopting aliases. Hate crime statistics surged after 9/11 and reached alarming levels following the implementation of the Muslim Ban. The tragic death of Wade indicates that these figures may spike once again, targeting Arab and Muslim Americans who continue to live under the shadow of suspicion.

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Smoke billows following an Israeli airstrike in Rafah, located in the southern Gaza Strip on October 16, 2023. As a result of Hamas's deadly attack on southern Israel the previous week, the death toll in the Gaza Strip has now reached approximately 2,750, according to the Gaza health ministry's statement on October 16. Additionally, around 9,700 individuals have sustained injuries due to Israel's ongoing intensive aerial campaign on targets within the Hamas-controlled Palestinian coastal enclave, as reported by the ministry. (Photo by SAID KHATIB / AFP) (Photo by SAID KHATIB/AFP via Getty Images)

Said Khatib/AFP/Getty Images

Opinion: Many Palestinians in Gaza hate Hamas. My father certainly did

But we are unable to discard our physical forms. These bodies are the tangible vessels that link us to the individuals portrayed as villains in Gaza. They also serve as representations that connect us to faraway locations where acts of terror were inflicted in the past and are destined to ruin more lives in the future.

"I penned those words, 'Muslims are only deemed newsworthy as villains, never as victims,' for the first time during my time as a law student shortly after the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Back then, I was much younger and unaware of the reality that awaited the world."

However, I realized at that moment that things would never be the same again.

These exact eight words were typed by me two decades later in my book titled "The New Crusades: Islamophobia and the Global War on Muslims." Throughout the years, the hopeful naivety of a young law student gradually transformed into the somber perspective of an aging law professor. The events of 9/11 and the ongoing war today act as the beginning and end points, encapsulating the distressing experiences of Muslims in America and worldwide. This is evident through the genocidal campaigns in China, persecution in India, and the bans on hijabs and abayas in France, among numerous other examples. The concept of Islamophobia, with its impact on the law and language, has transcended borders due to the American "war on terror," which was initially inflicted upon Arab and Muslim individuals like myself, causing the abandonment of our citizenship.

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Being American was no protection. Not then and definitely not now.

The incessant cold gazes and demands to denounce terrorism, the imposition of collective blame, and the devaluation of our deceased children as mere "collateral damage" not only deprive us of true citizenship, but also dehumanize us. Carl Jung once noted, "People don't possess ideas; ideas possess people."

Moreover, the notion that associates our appearance with terrorism not only captivates the minds of individuals, but also permeates deeply into the core of American centers of authority. We are compelled to navigate and survive within the boundaries that separate our identities and isolate us from the ordinary.

While I am in Washington instead of Chicago, I can empathize with the pain of all 26 stabs that pierced little Wade's body. Across cities, big and small, in America, we witness the heartbreak of parents being forced to bury their deceased children in Gaza. This is a reflection of our collective identity.

Perhaps it is time that this country begins to see us.