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Bakali: 'Let's correct some of the stereotypes.'

What concerns Zafar now is not so much what he sees as the blatantly racist treatment of Muslims -- after all, racism existed before 9/11 -- but the effectiveness of the Muslim reaction to what happened that day. Scorning Ralph Lauren Polo and other sweatshop-produced garments my mother buys for him, my brother rages against the Muslim-American establishment, which I'm sure few people outside the Muslim community know exists.

"The only leaders we have, specifically in Fort Worth, are the figureheads of the rich," he said. "The 'Muslim American' ideology in this town flows from a particular class and culture -- a high culture that will always seek to repudiate low-brow Islam, low-class Muslims, and the low intelligence of real political power." Low-brow Islam may or may not mean extreme forms of Islam, ones that are anti-assimilationist or anti-American. It is nevertheless true that the blame game, in which leaders say "Those who are anti-American are poor and uneducated and not like us, who are very American," exists in the Fort Worth Muslim community, which seems predominantly upper- and upper-middle class (no statistics are available, though CAIR-DFW is seeking to conduct a full survey of the Muslim-American population).

Zafar rails against the idea that Muslims are more politically united since 9/11, explaining that organizations such as the American Muslim Caucus do not represent the interests of those who have been most victimized by the post-9/11 crackdown on civil liberties.

"Muslims in Fort Worth may feel under attack. But why? Is it sympathy pains? The [INS holding centers] are on the East Coast, the 'voluntary interviews' are in Michigan and Illinois. Where does the wealth [of Muslims in America] go? A fancy mosque in the suburbs? A 'caucus' or 'council' comprised of self-absorbed doctors and engineers? It certainly isn't helping anyone in the U.S."

What that money and political involvement is doing, Zafar says, is furthering a trend toward assimilation that some, like Subhani, think will salvage the image of Muslims. But to Zafar, assimilating into mainstream politics means avoiding the real issue of political empowerment.

"September 11 is the historical turning point for Muslim Americans insofar as they push for assimilation into the American mainstream -- the affluent, politically influential and conformist American mainstream where fighting for the disenfranchised isn't the point at all. When I see a Million Muslim March on Washington--a million Muslims of all classes and races and sexes and sexualities marching for the rights of all of America's oppressed-- then I will feel a lot more confident about Muslim-American unity post-9/11."

African-Americans make up 42 percent of Muslims in the United States (by far the largest portion), according to a 1992 report from the Muslim American Council. But the National Asian Pacific Legal Consortium has found that most hate crimes against Muslims after Sept. 11 were against South Asians. Yet, even if African-American Muslims are largely unaffected by Sept. 11 in terms of fear for their safety, they still have plenty to reckon with. The neutral or even positive image of Islam as a rehabilitating religion for prison inmates (among whom Islam has a high conversion rate) or religion of champions like boxer Muhammad Ali and NBA star Hakeem Olajuwon has been challenged by the Islam-terror connection presented in media reports.

Nigerian-American Asli Parker wasn't worried about a cold reception for her own young children, whom she is raising with her African-American husband, but after 9/11 she went out of her way to try to ensure that other Muslim American kids would not be insulted because of ignorance. She spoke to fourth- and fifth-grade classes at a Dallas elementary school about the basics of Islam. Afterward, she was asked questions that might startle most other Americans, like "Why did you do this?" But the questions didn't upset her. "I said to them, 'I'm sorry, I cannot tell you who did it. Only God knows,' " she said.

Parker wears hijab, and after Sept. 11 she was heartbroken by the intolerance she felt when, as she drove down the highway, she was treated to horn-blowing and middle-fingering. But the lasting effects of 9/11, she said, have been good for Islam. "A lot of people were really interested to learn about the Qu'ran," she said. "It's our mistake that we didn't deliver the message a long time ago."

Delivering the message of Islam is part of why 18-year-old Amena Bakali began a Muslim Students Association at R.L. Turner High School in Carrollton last year. But she came up with the idea well before Sept. 11, and it was a coincidence that the principal granted her permission just as Muslim Americans began to take the heat, she said.

Bakali, who wears hijab and is beginning her first year at UT-Dallas, said there was no negative reaction by non-Muslims to the new club, whose dozen or so members successfully lobbied for Muslim prayer accommodations. Bakali mentioned "Osama bin Laden comments" as incidental; what stands out in her memory of the days following 9/11 is the angry reaction of other Muslim students. "Some of them said 'Why the heck are you doing this?' and I said, 'If [others] can have FCA [Fellowship of Christian Athletes] then why can't we have an MSA? Let's correct some stereotypes.' "

When I spoke with Bakali in August, she had not yet stepped through the doors of a college classroom. But she was already active in organizing the DFW Muslim Students Association's big summer event, a music concert in downtown Dallas called Showtime at the Majestic that raised $5000 for Muslim refugees. She talked excitedly about the event and the initial opposition of "the adults," who thought that concerts and Islam didn't mix. She and other young Muslims are mired in the classic American struggle with their elders; they want to assert their independence but be respectful, too. So when I asked her how Sept. 11 has permanently affected her life, the question felt irrelevant.

"I don't see it directly affecting my life," she said. "But I'm going to have to respond to people [who ask questions about Islam]. People have more to say now ... more respect, more time to listen."

I empathize with few of the people I spoke with in the course of writing this article. I do not fear for my safety in the way that Naeem does, and I certainly do not think of "going back" to a place I never went to in the first place, since I live in the exact same county I was born and raised in. I don't often think twice about what I say in college classes as Amber does, maybe because I still think that if I speak up, my voice will overwhelm any objections to what I say. I don't even consider how much 9/11 has affected my job prospects.

Americans may be more willing to hear about Islam now, more tolerant of what's different, and more interested in what used to only be Over There. But I'm not eager to lecture about it. I'm not sure how much I like being the "visible" and "controversial" minority discussed on CNN Headline News, in AOL chat rooms, or during the lunch break. I've been listening to Michael Jackson sing "It doesn't matter if you're black or white" for a long time. Amid the celebration of "color blindness," I thought most people had forgotten there were races in between. So all the attention was at first startling and is now a little distracting from my life. Yes, I had a life before Sept. 11, though honestly, it's hard to remember what I did all day and what people talked to me about back then. It's not that I believe I'm "just like everyone else" or that I'm "ashamed of being Muslim," as my parents sometimes imply when I announce I'm going bowling with friends instead of watching the latest Bollywood flick. It's just that a little less than one year since the Real Thing happened, I'm sick of it and all the notice it's brought me.

Maybe that's because it seems that so many who want to hear about Muslim Americans want to know about the "terrorists" and the "radicals." Being Muslim American doesn't have much to do with either, for me. It means hearing your mom explain that your Pakistani cousin is in big trouble for having the Muslim version of an affair to remember -- coffee with a male classmate. It means being beckoned to the television to hear the latest about Kashmir and (evil) India or Palestine and (awful) Israel from an anchor on Pakistani government television -- oh, the wonder of satellite tv. It means being simultaneously bombarded with the American Dream (if you work hard like us and become a doctor then maybe you'll own a BMW like we do) and the Pakistani Dream (get married to a good Muslim and have four kids, preferably three boys and one girl). These aspects of life were a constant before Sept. 11 and remain so. But few wanted to know about them before last September, and they certainly weren't considered newsworthy enough to make the front page of the daily paper.

But most Muslims don't share my tired reluctance to speak. They want to talk -- about being Muslim, being American, and everything in between. They have a lot of stories to tell -- some are true, but like all Texans, DFW Muslims are prone to telling tall tales. It's true that some Muslims are in hiding -- just as you were right after Sept. 11 when the government said that another attack was imminent. Those folks won't talk -- not even to me, a person who was told "Allah bless you" so many times in the course of interviewing that she forgot whether she was a reporter or a divine messenger. But they'd still like to be heard, if by chance they let something slip to you. They want you to ask, because for all their self-imposed isolation they are lonely for the comfort of community, which probably came easier in their countries of origin. They'd like to speak up, but -- like you -- they're wary of what's different. And the most different thing about this post-9/11 world is that you're talking to them, prodding them, pushing them into a spotlight they've never seen the source of. You're asking them to speak up louder and clearer in a voice that, until now, they never even dreamt of having.

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