Growing up as a first-generation Muslim immigrant, I seamlessly integrated into American culture and regarded this country as my home. Arriving as a six-year-old in the vibrant neighborhood of Devon, Chicago, my childhood circle included friends from diverse backgrounds, such as Russian, Greek, and Indian immigrants, all of us navigating the opportunities of the mid-’80s.
My teenage years were marked by a quest for cultural identity, during which I settled into the role of a “Muslim-lite” Pakistani-American. This term signified my tendency to represent my faith with a casual, “hands-up-nothing-to-see-here” approach, emphasizing commonalities rather than differences. Little did I recognize how this complacency was slowly enveloping my true self.
However, the era of Trump changed everything. The misrepresentation of my faith and the surge of harmful rhetoric against immigrants forced me to confront my identity more boldly. My sense of patriotism, once passive, transformed into a fierce commitment, marked by moments of anger and uncertainty, yet always defiant. I have an equal right to celebrate my Americanness, even if the narrative of “Making America Great Again” seems to exclude people like me. The love I feel for this country mirrors that of a birth mother’s fierce devotion to her child, unique yet profound.
The rise of Trumpism ignited a realization among many privileged Muslim-Americans, including myself, as we faced a troubling wave of racism reminiscent of darker historical periods. The statistics on hate crimes against Muslim-Americans are alarming, and the idea of a Muslim registry proposed by our president was chilling. Events like the “March Against Sharia” organized by groups like ACT for America only amplified the anxiety. The counter-protests, where communities rallied against hate, provided a complex mix of relief and dread as I witnessed the solidarity of non-Muslims standing up for us.
In a land that celebrates religious freedom, it’s disheartening to see hostility directed toward my faith. Yet, I also feel immense gratitude for those who stand with us. Recent rulings against the travel ban for six Muslim-majority countries brought a fleeting sense of relief, although the struggle continues.
Now, amid the holy month of Ramadan, I find clarity in my journey of self-discovery. Ramadan is a time of reflection and spiritual growth, requiring believers to practice fasting and restraint from dawn until dusk. This period has become a crucible for my endurance and patience, qualities that resonate deeply in the face of adversity. As this month progresses, I recognize that I can no longer remain silent or hide my identity. I must embrace my role as a representative of my faith.
Inspired by the essence of Islamic hospitality, my children and I have begun creating gift baskets filled with blessings to share with our non-Muslim neighbors and friends. This act represents my desire to foster understanding and connection, as I seek to demonstrate the goodwill of my community.
For over thirty years, I have quietly celebrated Ramadan and Eid, but the current political climate compels me to engage with those around me more actively. It is my hope that these gestures will help my friends and neighbors see me as a reflection of my religion, rather than an exception to the rule.