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“Students, faculty and staff: This past year, there have been innumerable events locally and globally that have felt overwhelming and unsettling to many in our community. As tensions in the Middle East have escalated in recent days, it is more important than ever that we work collectively to offer solace and safety to one another,” University of Michigan President Santa Ono began in his letter written to University students, faculty, and staff on Thursday afternoon.
“فَإِنَّ مَعَ الْعُسْرِ يُسْرًا.” “Verily, with hardship comes ease,” an inscription from the Quran, and “মুনতাহা,” my name in Bangla — both inscribed in gold metal and sitting above my heart at all times. Not only do they form essential components of my necklace stack, but they also serve as an indicator of two key facets of my identity, reminding me of who I am and where I come from.
Whenever I meet someone new, I wonder what they think of me: Has media consumption led them to be innately predisposed to hate me? Do they think I’m in a 21st-century form of “The Handmaid’s Tale”? Do they think I need to be saved? Do they think that I’m trapped in a constant patriarchal, rigid belief system against my will, that I need to be set free like a dove trapped in a steel cage?
Or do they look at the brown of my skin, the beautiful and rich accents of my parents, the colorful bangles around my wrist, the hijab wrapped around me and dump me into a category of the distasteful “they”?
“They’re coming to steal our jobs.”
“They’re bringing terror into our country.”
“They’re infiltrating our homes.”
I was born July 5, 2004, in a hospital in southeastern Michigan. I am a U.S. citizen under birthright. I was raised in typical American suburbia, went to typical American schools, and now attend a typical American university. Yet the rhetoric still stands — “them” versus “us.”
“The university is absolute in its pledge to do whatever it can to protect and care for our students, faculty, staff and visitors. I also urge each of you to be proactive in prioritizing your mental health and well-being, and to take time to reach out to friends and colleagues,” Ono’s letter read.
2015. The year I began sixth grade and also when I started wearing the hijab at 11 years old. It was worn by the majority of the women in my family, and I always thought of it as beautiful. I was apprehensive — unsure how my new look would be received by my peers. I transferred school districts from elementary to middle school, so sixth grade would be the perfect time, I’d reasoned. I saw myself as the same as before, just with a hijab. That wasn’t what the world saw, though. Despite loving my faith and my identity, as soon as I began to wear the hijab, I truly began to learn what hate was.
“Why the fuck can’t you just look normal, like everyone else? Does your God hate you, or something?”
Taunts and teases from my classmates filled my ears as I had to be taken out of my sixth-grade math class in tears by my teacher. She constantly reassured me that she didn’t stand for this type of behavior, that I could call my parents if I wanted to or switch to a different class. I said no. I deserved to be here as much as everyone else.
2017. Seventh grade, and the year Donald J. Trump became the 45th president of the United States. I’d brushed off the entire election because it seemed like something straight out of a “South Park” episode, that an individual so public in his hate and bigotry towards multiple identity groups could become President. The day after the presidential election results were announced, my English teacher gave our class a tearful speech about the importance of holding on to and believing in the truth of your identity, despite people trying to wrest it from you.
I was terrified for my future, and for my immigrant family’s future, but I still had hope. Two months after that, I had my hijab ripped off me by a boy in my grade who thought the greatest insult that he could do to me was to take a physical component of my identity. I reassembled my hijab and my demeanor alone in a school bathroom stall while all he received was a stern talking-to.
“Late last night, a group of Jewish students had gathered for dinner at the Southfield home of a local rabbi when, shortly before 11 p.m., an armed individual entered through an open backdoor, stole a bag and fled. No one was injured and law enforcement officials with the Southfield Police Department are investigating this as a home invasion and a crime of opportunity,” Ono’s letter read.
2022. The year I graduated high school and started college as a freshman at the University of Michigan. I was born and raised in Michigan, a state home to the fifth largest percentage of Muslims in the country. Although I was actively aware of my differences from my peers, my upbringing in Michigan had ensured that throughout my childhood, even those who propagated hateful remarks toward me were aware of Muslim practices and knew other Muslims. That provided me some ironic, paradoxical type of comfort — although you may hate me, at least you know of me.
However, the University was diverse in the way that it was my first time encountering individuals who did not know of me, so for them, I was their “first Muslim” and initial exposure to anything Islam-related. It was extremely common that I heard statements such as “you’re the first Muslim I’ve ever met,” “I’ve never met a hijabi before” and “you’re not what I thought you would be.” Although many of these statements were said in earnest, I felt like an appetizer — to be poked, prodded at, inspected; the measure that you would use to predict whether you find the rest of the restaurant’s food palatable.
These types of statements, despite being said with good intent, were a see-saw of sorts — they had the potential to go either way, like a “choose your path” novel. For many of my peers, I was the first introduction to Islam that they’d ever had, aside from what they’d learned about “me” on the news, which detailed wars, bombings and bloodshed in excruciating detail. They had the option to progress beyond that — to know me — or, the option to stick with what they knew and see me under a peculiar and oppressed lens.
October 2023 was the start of what many students would describe as a “split campus” due to escalated “tensions in the Middle East,” as President Ono puts it. “Us or them,” a binary split that I was used to growing up with as an ethnic and religious minority in America, now became an actual physical split, with tensions riling up between supporters of Palestinian and Israeli sides. Wearing keffiyehs to class became a silent show of solidarity in the face of the University administration, who laughed and jeered at students advocating for divestment from investments related to Israel.
Hatred once again became comfortable to express without fear of reprimands. On Oct. 13 2023, pro-Palestinian students were verbally assaulted by School of Information board member Carin Ehrenberg while staging a peaceful sit-in protest at President Ono’s house. Exclaims such as “Are you going to send one of your terrorists after us?” and “rapists and murderers” were shouted at Arab and Muslim students.
On Nov. 17 2023, 40 students were arrested at the Ruthven Building while protesting the University’s investment in companies linked to Israel and profiting off of its military campaign. The University responded to this protest by calling in law enforcement from more than 10 different departments and denying protestors access to water and restrooms.
No action was taken and no “mass email of condemnation” was sent out in either case, in response to physical and verbal attacks against Muslim and pro-Palestinian students on campus. An email was sent out, however, in response to a home invasion 40 minutes from campus that had no political motivation and that even the Southfield Police Department solely recognized as a “home invasion and crime of opportunity.”
“These are challenging times, but there is enormous strength in our community. Resolve with me to join together in solidarity, and help everyone feel safe, protected and empowered to live and learn at the University of Michigan.”
All individuals, regardless of religious belief, deserve to be able to hold their religious activities and practice their beliefs without fear of physical violence and intimidation. However, what good is a campus “joined together in solidarity” when the attacks against one side are not recognized at all? What good is this, when a mass email is sent out to students concerning a petty crime not committed on grounds of religious or political discrimination? Does that not stoke more flames of fear-mongering and incite more division?
Campus administration is completely silent when it comes to expressing outrage for the issues faced by people of color on campus, tiptoeing around using the P-word and M-word: “Palestinian” and “Muslim.” Condemning the actions affecting one side while remaining silent on the issues affecting the other feels like an indirect condemnation of the latter.
University administration loves to use us in campus advertisements and showcases of “Look how diverse we are! Look at all the organizations we have on campus!” However, when it comes to actually supporting the students of those identities, all of a sudden the excited chatter falls flat, to be replaced with an awkward silence. The P-word and M-word — never to be expressed in any mass campus condemnation email except in a derogatory fashion.
President Santa J. Ono and the University of Michigan refuse to acknowledge me or my Muslim peers, despite promising us “a sense of belonging and empowerment to participate in our community.” But my existence and my identity as a proud Bengali Muslim woman is not up for debate — nor will it be silenced.
MiC Columnist Muntaha Rahman can be reached at muntaha@umich.edu.
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