Almost 20 years ago, as Rais Bhuiyan lay on his deathbed, he risked his life to bargain with God.
Moments earlier, he had been shot in the face with a shotgun by white supremacist Mark Stroman. He targeted people he thought were Muslims in Islamophobia-fueled mass shootings in Dallas and Mesquite days after 9/11.
“I made a promise to God: 'If you give me a chance to live, I will try to do good with my life.' I will dedicate my life to the poor, needy, and underprivileged.” recalled Bhuiyan, a Bangladeshi-American.
Bhuiyan survived, but Waqar Hasan, a Pakistani immigrant, and Vasudev Patel, a non-Muslim Indian American, were killed.
For Mr. Bhuiyan and tens of thousands of other Muslims living in North Texas, the Sept. 11 attacks intensified Islamophobia and, for the next 20 years, changed their minds about what it means to be an American. It made me question my beliefs.
“I was in complete shock. I couldn't believe something had happened in dreamland,” Bhuiyan said. “America was a dreamland for me.”
Faizan Saeed, executive director of the D-FW chapter of the Council on American-Islamic Relations, said the advocacy group saw a sharp increase in Islamophobia immediately after 9/11. But anti-Muslim sentiment had receded to pre-9/11 levels about a year after the attacks, he said.
Then, around 2007-2008, “Islamophobia started to increase dramatically, and that continues to this day,” Said said. “The reason is that Islamophobia has become politicized.”
Said said conspiracy theories about former President Barack Obama's birthplace and religion contributed to the second surge in anti-Muslim sentiment after 9/11. A second wave of Islamophobia sparked controversy over plans to build a mosque near the site of the World Trade Center and prompted the passage of “anti-Sharia” laws in several states.
Consistent with Saeed's view, the total number of Islamophobic assaults, murders, and manslaughters jumped from 12 in 2000 to 93 in 2001, according to FBI hate crime data.
This number dropped significantly shortly after 2001, but has been on the rise since 2008, peaking at 127 in 2016, a post-9/11 high.
But behind all the statistics, there are civil rights violations, microaggressions at work and school, and people trying to hide their faith, even though they have nothing to do with the 9/11 attacks or those involved. There are stories of Americans facing pressure. Some have left the United States altogether.
Razan Bayan, 19, is a sophomore at Southern Methodist University who was born after 9/11. One of her earliest memories, she said, was her parents sitting her down and talking to her about the terrorist attacks.
“They said there were some really bad people who planned the attack a few years ago, and because they were Muslims, a lot of people are now blaming us for that, and that's the way the world is. they told me,” Bayan said.
Bayan said that as a Muslim woman who wears a hijab, she is often asked misguided and even outright offensive questions about her religion. However, comments made by those trying to claim the moral high ground, such as the statement that Islam is a sexist religion that forces women to cover their bodies, are often interpreted as a personal decision by a woman to accept the teachings of the faith. , she said.
Bayan said he worries that the sudden withdrawal of U.S. troops from the country last month has increased coverage of Afghanistan, and that people will once again mistakenly equate Islam as a whole with the actions of the Taliban. Told.
“If I think Islam impedes women's rights, I wouldn't be a Muslim. I think for myself,” she said. “I think Islam and its teachings and doctrines have more respect for women than any other religion or culture. That's one of the reasons I'm a Muslim.”
catalyst for activity
Yasir Kadi is a resident scholar at the East Plano Islamic Center, one of the largest mosques in North Texas. Qadi was pursuing a master's degree in Islamic studies in Saudi Arabia when he witnessed the collapse of the Twin Towers. He said the incident gave him a new desire to return to the United States.
“Before 9/11, I was really discovering myself and trying to figure out what I wanted to do and where I wanted to live my life. But after 9/11, this is my land and here I am. I felt strongly that I needed to go back,” Cuddy said. “I felt like my land misunderstood my faith. I love my faith.”
Kadi knows of Muslims who hid their faith for 20 years after 9/11 for fear of being exposed, but he has seen many redouble their love for Islam. said. His anti-Muslim sentiments also spurred political activity in the community.
“Many of us realized that this is my land and my faith. [and] “We will have to explain to the rest of our compatriots that this is the reality of our faith,” he said. “So a lot of people became politically active. It became a catalyst for activism in the Muslim community.”
Muslims were not the only victims of post-9/11 Islamophobia. Hatred against the community also plagued others, including Sikhs and other non-Muslims of South Asian descent who were targeted solely for their appearance.
Harbhajan Singh, 65, director of Gurdwara Nishkam Seva Religious and Community Center in Irving, said Sikhs across the country are harassed and assaulted for their religious practices of growing beards and wearing turbans. he said.
Singh said he remembers how fear in the Sikh community was amplified after the Islamophobic murder of Balbir Singh Sodhi in Mesa, Arizona, on September 15, 2001, and many Sikhs said they had been subjected to similar racial slurs and public harassment. Muslim.
But many Sikhs, including those in Dallas-Fort Worth, chose to show solidarity with the Muslim community rather than rejecting or distancing themselves, Singh said.
“We made connections to show them that we support them in their time of need. The Muslim community probably feels the influence of these extremists as much as any other community. I am receiving it,” he said. “We felt that the Muslim community was unfairly collectively aligned with these extreme views. We need the support of others to combat these sentiments.”
Bhuiyan, a victim of the Stroman shooting, said she believes people with anti-Muslim hatred, including the man who tried to kill her, were also victims of Islamophobia.
He, along with fellow shooting victim Waqar Hasan's brother-in-law and Irving resident Nadeem Akhtar, campaigned to save lives until Stroman died by lethal injection in 2011. Bhuiyan is currently the president and founder of a nonprofit organization called World. Without Hate aims to use storytelling to promote peace around the world.
“I saw the attacker not just as a murderer, but as a human being, and as a victim,” said Bhuiyan, who splits his time between Dallas and Seattle. “I realized that hatred and revenge may bring momentary satisfaction, but they do not bring solutions to any situation. They only bring more disaster.”
Akhtar, who is of Pakistani descent, said she was worried that recent events in Afghanistan could spark a new wave of Islamophobia like the one that claimed the life of her sister's husband. But he hopes his willingness to forgive people like Strawman will inspire other Americans to come together in the face of anti-Muslim sentiment.
“There is a line that people who misrepresent Islam quote: 'A life for a life, an eye for an eye,'” Akhtar said. “But the Quran immediately after this verse says: 'But if someone forgives revenge through charity, it is an act that brings peace to himself.'”
