We can travel together

Tamara Al-Rifai

Cairo - We were just about to leave Manhattan's Port Authority bus station when a final passenger hopped in. He staggered inside, thanking the driver for opening the door at the last minute, and strolled down the aisle looking for a free seat. He skipped the first (and nearly only) one he saw, kept walking down and sat himself beside a middle-aged woman holding a noisy toddler.

From my seat, I observed that two previous passengers had also skipped that empty seat at the front of the bus in favour of other ones further down.

That free empty seat was beside a man in a blue shalwar kameez (traditional South Asian clothing), a turban and a long beard.

The clientele of this bus was a mix of people of different ages and colours, speaking different languages, but the seat next to him was the only empty one.

It hit me. I also somewhat unconsciously avoided the unfortunate seat. Has Islamophobia reached the level where even I did not want to sit next to a bearded man dressed in traditional Asian clothes? Or has the mere terror of being remotely associated with any "suspicious-looking" person pushed me away from him? And why did I instinctively label that man as "suspicious"?

As I sunk into my seat, a wave of embarrassment engulfed me: I live in the Middle East. I am a Muslim Arab. I have studied Middle East politics and I consider myself a shrewd critic of how the tragic 9/11 terrorist attacks have been used and abused to alienate my region, my people and my religion. Yet, my knee-jerk reaction as I entered the bus that sunny Saturday was to stay as far away as possible from a man whose religious inclinations could not be mistaken.

How did that man feel, I wondered, and did he notice that the seat next to him was the only empty seat on the bus?

He could have been heading home from a day's hard work in Manhattan. He could have been going home to his family. Before 9/11, other ideas did not even cross most people's minds. Yet, after 9/11 the mere sight of a male whose style and wardrobe suggest that he just might be Muslim can send shivers down the spines of people who are constantly fed the clichés surrounding Islam.

Away from the chapters and articles that have endlessly argued for or against Islam, for or against tolerance, for or against the East versus. West dichotomy, the scene that day was particularly striking for me because of the seemingly instinctive and spontaneous reactions of people around that man.

And this is precisely the tragic outcome of the "war on terror", or of the culture it has engendered worldwide. Many people, especially in the West, now instinctively avoid those they perceive as possibly Muslim, while many in the East think of "foreigners" (read Americans or Europeans) as crusaders on a mission to abolish Islam.

For all those who are not part of the "East meets West" activist scene, demonising the other is much easier than trying to understand him or her. Believing that the "other" does not deserve our tolerance stops us thinking of him or her as a human being. Putting this other in a frame created by a few true stories but also many myths and rumours is easier, to our minds, than making the effort to understand him or her. It seems that we no longer see our other as having similar values to ours, or being as human as us.

I myself was instinctively aware of my other during my trip to the US. I had not been there after 9/11, mostly because I had no business there, but partly because of all the horror stories I had heard from fellow Arabs who had been subjected to interrogation in American airports upon arrival and on departure.

Meanwhile, in my job, I followed the development of the post 9/11 debates, and the evolution of Arab/Muslim sentiment vis-à-vis America – and vice-versa. I attended several conferences in the US attempting to bridge the illusory gap between East and West, always wondering how the other was going to welcome me.

My experience did not justify my fears. This is not to say that a red carpet was rolled out for me, but simply that I did not feel singled out at any time because of the way I look or dress, nor when I have identified myself as Syrian or Arab. However, once you associate yourself with any identifiable insignia such as a turban, a beard or a military uniform, normality disappears and "us versus them" takes over.

It is indeed sad that in the age of the global community and satellite television, it is still hard to acquire a broader mind and more tolerance towards people who are different somehow from ourselves, whether it is someone who dresses or speaks differently, covers her hair or wears a cross. It is high time to separate regular people – no matter how they dress or sport their facial hair – from that minority which claims to act on their behalf while wreaking havoc in their name.

###

* Tamara Al-Rifai is a Syrian based in Cairo, working on humanitarian, development and communications issues for an international organisation.

.

.

This article is distributed by the Common Ground News Service (CGNews)
Source: Daily Star, 18 September 2007, Copyright permission has been obtained for publication.