As the Wife of a Muslim-American, My Memories of 9-11

Like most everybody above the age of six, I clearly remember what I was doing on September 11, 2001 when our world forever changed.

I was at my work with a regional office for Habitat for Humanity when it happened. We must have had a TV in the office somewhere, because I remember that after the first plane hit, we were all glued to the screen.  None of us could believe what we were seeing as we watched the second plane strike, and then the towers fall.

As a staff, we were in the midst of planning for the annual Jimmy Carter Workcamp and Habitat's 25th year celebration and were due to fly out to it later that week.  It was because of this trip that my boss did something I will never forget.

He took me aside and told me he thought I should not go. He was afraid that there would be a backlash against Muslims in the country and that I should stay close to my husband.

His perspective shocked me, not as much as the attacks, but still, in a very personal way.

See, I know my husband, had known him for many years at that point.  There was no way, in my mind, that anyone could align this honest, caring, and somewhat goofy man with the types of men who directed planes as weapons of mass, and blind, destruction.  The men behind those attacks were not like any of my many Muslim family and friends.

I'd lived with my husband in his homeland of Turkey for many years.  I'd woken and gone to bed to the call to prayer.  I'd watched my mother-in-law, a woman as generous as my own beloved grandmother, cover her head and pray faithfully for her family's welfare five times a day.  I'd visited my husband's aunts, uncles and cousins on festival days and shared in the coffee, tea, and sweets.  I'd celebrated with his friends during Ramadan at the evening break-the-fast meals. The people, the customs, the holidays were as happy, peaceful, and loving as those I celebrated growing up in the Southern Bible Belt.

I'd also witnessed the "other side" during my time in Turkey.  I'd received missives from the Embassy every few weeks alerting Americans to new threats against Westerners.  And I'd watched on TV the Turkish news reports of terrorist attacks committed against Turks in Istanbul, or eastern Turkey, and once, Antalya where we were living.  We walked by the charred remains of the restaurant two days later, still smoldering, a child's stuffed teddy bear (I kid you not) in the rubble.  Those committing this violence were not like the Muslims I knew.  They were mad men hurting the innocent families of people I knew and loved.

Turkey has a large and varied population.  It always made me smile to hear them call themselves the melting pot, just like I'd always been led to believe was the domain of the U.S. -- except Anatolia has been melting together people of various origins and beliefs for thousands of years.

And that's just it.  No American would assume to think that we could label all Americans with one stroke.  Nor can it be done to Turks, or to Arabs, or to Persians, or Malaysians, or wherever Islam is practiced.

But, still, my boss' worry that my husband could be targeted by people who did not understand this simple truth became my own.  And so I stayed at home.  Along with the rest of the world, my husband, young son, and I watched the news every spare moment for the next couple of days.  Together, we went to give blood, joining with others in wanting to do whatever we could to help.  But, soon, he had to go back to work.

And that's when it happened.  My husband DID get a reaction.  He reported to me after a couple of days that people WERE treating him differently.  They were going out of their way to be even nicer to him, to let him know that they were not blaming him, nor any other Muslim, for the act of a few mad men.

See, the world is filled with beautiful people with shining souls.  Their acts of kindness just don't often make the news.  And while an act of terror can destroy many lives in the blink of an eye, the generosity of countless more good-hearted people, whether Christian, Muslim, Atheist, or Jew, western, or eastern, or some melting-pot in between, can restore the hope and faith of a world filled with people who love more than hate.


It is because of my faith that I join in the wish and commitment of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk and pray, "Peace at home, peace in the world."


PS: I know that many Muslim-Americans did suffer repercussions in the days and years following 9-11.  But we live in a fairly progressive community, and what we experienced is just as real and true, if under reported.  My husband says that only once since that terrible day has he faced someone's prejudice against Muslims and he's heard stories from friends of a couple of other incidents.  But overall, we've experienced more the generosity of the human spirit rather than the dark side.

PPS: Update 9/11/2015 - I wish I could say that all the positive reactions that my family experienced and that I witnessed when I wrote this piece four years ago were still as positive. But times have darkened and the negative backlash against Muslims have grown--especially towards those who wear their faith heritage more visibly than does my family.  Fear and lack of personal contact twists people's minds. As a person of faith who seeks truth across borders, I stand with proactive people from all communities who seek to reach out and get to know each other...to unite across borders rather than divide. For me, writing leads the way to creating and being the change I wish to see in the world.

Family Stories

When I was growing up, my father used to tell me stories.  I do not recall him or my mother reading to me, though I am sure that they did when I was very young, but I hold many fond memories, especially on long car rides, or sitting on the porch at Grandma's, of his telling me, my sister, and brother tales of his youth.  Some stories were his, but others were those his father told him or the tall tales that his grandfather was known for.  Great yarns of family ghosts and buried treasures and renegade cowboys from Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show.  All these stories involved family, and telling them to yet another generation was a way of holding onto those who had gone before.

I never knew my grandfather.  He died before I was born.  I only vaguely remember my great-grandfather as he died when I was three.  But because of the tales I've heard all my life that they told, or stories that were told about them, I know them both very well.

For the last couple of days, I have been alone with my parents at their lake house repairing damage from Hurricane Irene.  No Internet, no children, just my parents and their stories.  My father is heavily into geneaology.  He took a class on memoir writing recently and has been busily typing away all his old tales and his memories into his computer.  So, I helped him start a blog where he could easily share these treasures with the rest of the family -- including his many grandchildren who will read only if it is on the Internet.  We've spent a lot of time the last couple of days discussing his memories, along with my mother's.

And through recounting my father's well-loved stories, I remembered one of my own.  My grandmother used to tell me how she and my grandfather had met.  It was a story I always cherished, perhaps because it involved such an unusual way to meet, perhaps because my grandmother was so dear to me, or perhaps because it helped me feel closer to this man that she obviously loved and I'd never known.  But, for whatever reason, a few years ago, I decided to turn that family story into a book.  I pieced it together with another story from my grandmother's youth and a memory from my father about a rumor circulating in the small-town he'd grown up in during World War II.  Together, the three intwined into a plot, which would not have been a fictionalized biography of their lives, but would have had touching points.

In a fevered rush of excitement, and with memories of my grandmother raining down on me from her picture on my parents' mantel, I wrote the first three chapters of that book in a few hours.  I then plotted out the synopsis.  Reading over it, the intended story brought tears to me.  The couple of times I've picked it up and read it since that night a few years ago, it has always done the same.

But, I set it aside.  I never pursued writing it beyond the first three chapters and synopsis because I thought no one but my immediate family would ever want to read it, and I was pursuing publication.  New York publication.  My story did not fit into a neat bookstore category.  It was not YA, not fantasy, not romance.   Aside from one aspect, it was a quiet story, but one of emotional depth.  It was, is, unlike anything I've ever written before or will likely ever write afterward.

Last night, I spent two hours talking with my father, answering his questions about self-publishing his memoirs and family history.  The good news, I told him, is that now it is easier than ever to get stories like yours out.  Stories that may not have the large market New York is seeking, but still deserve to be published.

Then today, my mother took me on a road trip to visit with aunts and uncles.  My 86-year-old uncle lives beside a key setting in that story I abandoned long ago and he remembers when it was still in operation.  We talked about it, and he gave me insight to help me visualize the setting better.  At another home, my aunt shared pictures and memories of my cousin who died way too young this past year.  The stories help her remember him and keep his spirit alive.  With both visits, we retold old family stories, of loved ones long gone, but never, ever forgotten because of the stories we tell.

JK Rowling has said many times that Harry Potter changed significantly after her mother's death.  If her mother had not died, Harry Potter would not have been the story it is today.

She incorporated bits of personal and family hsitory throughout her series.  The Ford Anglia which Ron and Harry hijaked to Hogwarts in Chamber of Secrets was exactly the car owned by one of Rowling's best friends which used to carry her to freedom in her teen years.  Snape teaches potions because Jo never cared for Chemistry.  She and Harry share the same birthday.  The Dementors, we know, were born of her personal experience with depression as a single mother living on the British welfare system.  Like Harry and Ginny, Jo's parents met on a train platform.  And as any fan can tell you, Jo put a lot of herself into Hermione.

As writers, is it possible to ever write a story that we pour nothing of ourselves into?

And yet, I had pushed off one of the stories into which I had poured so much of my personal history because of fear of the market.

To me, this is the beauty of the e-book revolution.  The journey my father has unintentionally taken me on the last couple of days, back into the memories of the beloved tales of my childhood, has reminded me why I am a storyteller today, like my father, my grandfather, and my great-grandfather before me.  My fathers told tales of their lives, of people they knew and loved best.  I tell stories of fictional characters inspired by those I know and love.  They told stories to keep memories alive, to pass along heritage.  I tell stories to awaken spirits and remind us of our connection, even if it is not by blood.

Because from one culture to another, from one age to the new, from my family to yours, Story is what unites us all.  Story is the power of meaning that flows eternally through the human blood.

And now, once again, my little family story that I love so dearly, but abandoned out of fear that it would never sell, is once again beating in my heart and filling my mind with possibilities.  I sit here, at 12:30 a.m., instead of sleeping, with ideas clammoring to get out, bits and pieces of dialogue, snapshots of setting, whisps of emotion.  (Of course, my lack of sleep could also have something to do with the coffee my mom serves which I am unused to. :-)

Coffee or not, my family story is running through my veins.  This time, I will open myself to it.  I am no longer afraid.