To my friends blasting Muslims for the Paris attacks

This post was inspired by a particular exchange with a friend online, but is intended for every one of my friends who is tempted to respond to the violence in Paris by blocking all Syrian refugees from coming to the US, screening immigrants by religion, or painting all Muslims with the same brush.


 

Dear Friend,

We recently had a spirited exchange online about Syrian refugees and Islam. It started with me seeing a few anti-Muslim posts you shared. Then I shared this video with you and the conversation really got started:

 

I suspect the following exchange mirrors many that have taken place over the last few days.

You brought up some quotes from the Quran that incite violence. I pointed out that the Bible has similar verses, and a mutual friend of ours chimed in with some of these Bible quotes. We went back and forth. You questioned whether the refugees fleeing violence in Syria are really in need, using photo memes of what are apparently healthy-looking male refugees. Do these memes accurately represent the situation? Do a Google image search for “Syrian refugees” and you’ll find your answer. Include the words “boat”, “drown”, or “boy” and you’ll really have your heart broken.


 

You’ve only known me for a few years, so you don’t know much about the time I spent in the Muslim world in 2009 and 2011.

In 2009 I traveled to northwest India on a study abroad program with Principia College. We each designed our own ethnographic research project, and I chose to study Hindu-Muslim relations. India, the world’s largest democracy, is a Hindu-majority country, but also houses the world’s second largest Muslim population, approximately tying Pakistan and trailing only Indonesia. I got to interview many different people as I assembled a representative sample of Indians young and old, rich and poor, rural and urban, educated and uneducated, Brahmin and lower class, female and male, Hindu and Muslim. Two people stood out.

Siraj was a thirty-year-old family man who hosted me and another American student for a short homestay. He was a Muslim living in Udaipur, a predominantly Hindu city. He was tremendously kind, warm, and talkative. We sat on his rooftop at night and he would philosophize in English about Gandhi, peace, love, his dreams for his children, and his hopes for India.

Kamil was a Muslim that a group of us met in the middle of the bustle of the Delhi train station. He was an impressive, inspiring, spiritual man who deeply affected all of us after just a short conversation. And he had no legs. Our encounter with him inspired the most thoughtful of my blog posts from that trip: Dignity On Two Arms.

In 2011 I got my second experience in Muslim society. I spent three months in Israel, the Palestinian Territories, and Jordan, and traveled through a range of Jewish, Muslim, and Christian communities. I was fed by Muslim cave-dwellers in the deserts of the West Bank, housed by Israeli Jews in several kibbutz (intentional communities), and educated in non-violent activism by Palestinian Christian leaders.

Together these experiences make it impossible for me to judge and condemn an entire religion of over 1 billion people because of the violence of a few.


 

Though I think some of what you’re sharing is misinformation and/or hateful propaganda, I don’t blame you for sharing it. I just wanted to explain the life experience I’m coming from. I also think I understand, at least in part, where you’re coming from.

I know when you come home at the end of a long day, you’re physically exhausted and emotionally drained, you’ve been dealing with other people’s problems, and you don’t have time to become an expert in both foreign policy and religion. The world is a vast, overwhelming place (for me, too), and your life is stressful enough as it is. For the few minutes you spend on the internet in the evening, you just want to enjoy a video of a puppy cuddling with a lion cub, a nice landscape scenery shot taken by an old high school buddy, and maybe a post with a minion in it. You want to laugh and be inspired. You want a diversion from the craziness of daily life. We probably all feel this way sometimes.

However, I also know that you’re a person, like me, with a full range of emotions, and sometimes the emotional outlet you need is not just a cat video but a channel for your more aggressive feelings. Sometimes you’re angry and BuzzFeed just isn’t enough to brighten your day. This is where the Islamophobic messages come in. They satisfy that little part of you that wants to feel outrage. It seems that most of us experience moments when it’s comforting to find an evil in the world and indulge in pure, uncomplicated anger. There are plenty of people, acts, and even countries worthy of outrage, after all. But in these meme-ified moments, complexity and compassion go by the wayside, and that’s where we go wrong.

The way I see it, when you indulge in a simplistic message of hate, you’re being taken advantage of. Maybe by someone with a political agenda. Maybe by someone else who needs an emotional outlet. Maybe by someone trying to generate clicks and impressions for their “news” blog. They’re playing on your fatigue and your emotion and encouraging you to react in a simple, thoughtless way.

The need to express emotion
+ information overload
+ fatigue
= inadvertent bigotry.

Don’t be taken advantage of. You can’t be blamed for the hateful messages, cherry-picked facts, circumstantial evidence, and photo-memes that fire up so many passionate Facebookers. You can’t really be blamed for believing it, either. It’s a problem much bigger than you and me. But you are at fault if you close your eyes and ears and resist reason and new information. Or if you refuse to let compassion into your outlook.

Sincerely,

Your friend Adrian


 

An aside:

wpid-img_20151114_150350.jpg
I climbed to the top of Mt Tom in Holyoke, MA and found a rearranged French flag.

 

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Fear and Compassion: Moving Beyond the 9/11 Era

In March of this year, when Congressman Peter King (R-NY) held hearings about the professed increasing “radicalization of Muslim-Americans”, I was living in the West Bank. I first heard about the hearings through Al Jazeera’s English TV program. An Al Jazeera correspondent interviewed a woman who said that she is afraid of radical Islam, and that King’s exposure of the problem would be better than silence on the issue. Al Jazeera also cited Rep. Keith Ellison (D-MN), the first Muslim to be elected to the House of Representatives, who said that the hearings would increase fear instead of allaying it.

Rep. King’s hearings sparked a lot of controversy around the world. Al Jazeera host Riz Khan pointed out that countless Americans have made public statements about Islam and Muslims that would have gotten them fired if their subject had belonged to any other minority.

Why is this the case? Why do public figures and private individuals alike get away with using a less respectful tone when discussing the Muslim community? Most American newspeople and politicians do not hold any animosity toward Muslim Americans. However, they do sometimes make the mistake of telling stories about Islamist extremism in a manner that perpetuates fear within the US. This fabricated fear – distinct from the real sense of pain created by tragedies like 9/11 – combines with our inadequate understanding of Muslim societies around the world to create an atmosphere of distrust and misperception.

Ignorance is part of our problem. Al Jazeera reported that 45% of Americans believe they are well-informed about Islam. Muslims will only be fully enfranchised in American society when the public has embraced them and been educated about the cultures from which they come. Ignorance is a shared, societal problem, and tolerance will be a shared achievement. Still, ignorance is not the entire problem. One cannot in good faith claim that Americans collectively are ignorant. Furthermore, it would be unfair – perhaps offensive – to suggest that ignorance must by nature lead to prejudice. Such a claim certainly allows for little faith in the good nature of people. Therefore, to move beyond simple ignorance and fully understand the cause of Islamophobia in America, we must reckon with the fear people feel toward Muslims and the Islamic world. Where does this fear come from?

In some cases, ignorance itself can breed fear. Indeed, we see examples of this all over the world – places where misconceptions of the “Other” lead to tension and conflict. But the Islamophobia problem in the US – this open, pluralist, well-educated melting pot – has other causes.

Some people’s fear comes directly from September 11th, 2001. Those hurt by 9/11 – including the families and friends of victims, other New Yorkers, Pentagon employees, and Americans who watched the tragedy unfold on TV – cope with a tangible, rational fear that comes from a deep sense of pain and loss. Some of them may still feel this pain and this fear every day, even a decade after the largest ever attack on US soil. If some of these people have come to fear Muslims or Islam itself, one cannot, with any compassion, suggest that they need to “stop being so ignorant”. However, our problem with Islamophobia goes beyond those still reeling from 9/11. In fact, fear of Islam is a problem in the US because it occurs in people who have no rational reason to harbor that indiscriminate fear of one of the world’s largest religions.

Much of the fear felt in the US arose from the way that the Bush administration responded to the terror attack. Two elements of that response specifically had this effect.

First, recall when President Bush famously declared on national TV, “if you’re not with us, you’re with the terrorists”. This was an attempt to show strength and to build consensus before the upcoming war, and it was an utterly incorrect and distorted assertion. For someone to oppose the war in Iraq or Afghanistan does not make that person an Al Queda sympathizer.

Bush’s statement created a new “us versus them” global conflict that filled a void left by the dissolution of the Soviet Union. It provided a symbolic enemy, it engendered Islamophobia, and it led to Abu Ghraib and questionable detainments at Guantanamo Bay.

Second, the framing of the War on Terror probably contributed to fear in the US, and it certainly did not help us understand our foreign targets or the places where we were sending our young service members. The use of the term “war” implied that there were forces amassed, ready to attack if we did not repel their advance. There is and was no such army. The terrorist threat remains a covert, complicated array of extreme groups and individuals, and it must be countered by an equally covert and sophisticated cooperation between our intelligence community and special military forces. The use of this terminology fell conveniently within the mold of previous initiatives like the War on Poverty and the War on Crime, but where those “wars” were strategic in nature, arguably designed to counteract the causes of poverty and crime, the War on Terror tragically failed to target the actual causes of terrorism.

In its response to 9/11, the US squandered a unique moment in history when our people had the sympathies of almost the entire world. Muslims around the globe demonstrated and spoke out against Al Queda and the terrorist attack. Instead of embracing this sympathy, we launched a divisive campaign that earned us more enemies and further widened the divide between Islam and the West.

The US government has moved past the Bush era by eliminating the term “War on Terror” from its vernacular. It should continue that progress by using deliberate, focused approaches to national security threats. Meanwhile, the American people should move past the era of misunderstanding into an era of enlightened pluralism.

While traveling in India in 2009, I met a turban-clad Sikh man who quit his job as a taxi driver in New York City after 9/11 because people would mistake him for a Muslim and verbally harass him. One can understand how those angry New Yorkers, trying to cope with the pain, fear and anger that make them human, misplaced their anger. But at the same time we cannot be happy about driving a ten-year legal resident of the United States to leave the country simply because we did not understand him. We also cannot be satisfied with our inability to comprehend the sources of our own fear.

There are signs that fear of Islam is ebbing in the US. After the death of Osama bin Laden, the Monitor’s Peter Grier wrote that “Americans may realize not that they have less to fear, but that their fear of what he represented had begun to subside long ago”. A report last month by the Pew Research Center showed that Muslims in the US are happy with the country, reject extremism (both of which have been true for years), and have not become alienated since the King hearings. David Rothkopt, a visiting scholar at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, wrote the following in a Foreign Policy blog after bin Laden’s death:

“for this success to be truly worthy of celebration, we must bury with him the confusion and disorienting anger that has distorted our world view for a decade. We must recast the real terrorist threat in proper size — eliminate it wherever we can — and remember that what’s greatest about America can’t be brought down by bombs or hijacked aircraft or by an amoral hate-monger furtively holed up in a walled compound in North Central Pakistan.”

As we reflect on the tenth anniversary of September 11, 2001, let us embrace with compassion the pain that emanates from our past and also work to close the gaps in our understanding of the world and country we live in.

In the words of Sami Awad, an American-born Palestinian peace activist, “The biggest opportunity now, after the death of Bin Laden, is for Americans to consciously and collectively free themselves fully from the domain of fear and those who manipulate it for their own agendas…You are not free until you eliminate all your fear.”

The Other Side of the Fence: Israeli Settlements In Perspective

“I’d prefer you call it a village, not a settlement,” our host requested.  “I think if you just call us ‘settlers’ it’s kind of dehumanizing,” he explained.

A few minutes earlier, this American-Israeli father had invited a group of 15 American students and adults into his home.  He lives in the village of Efrat, which most people would call a Jewish settlement in the West Bank.  His community of about 8500 sits atop a hill just south of Bethlehem and looks down on ancient terraces populated by silver-green olive groves.

West Bank Landscape

We sat in the cozy living room while our warm, rotund host told us the story of moving his family here from Chicago in the early 80s.  When he completed his family’s tale, he moved on to the story of Israel and Palestine.  We heard about the Jews’ ancient connection to this holy land.  He pointed out that no empire in the history of the Middle East ever bore the name Palestine.  This land has hosted rulers with names such as Roman, Ottoman and Israelite, but not Palestinian.

To describe life as a settler in the West Bank – or “a villager in the land of Israel” – the man provided an anecdote.  He described this story as the “first violence of the Oslo peace process”.  In 1993, shortly after the historic handshake between Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin and Palestine Liberation Organization chairman Yasser Arafat, our middle-aged friend’s family was driving home from Israel proper.  A car full of Palestinians approached from the opposite direction.  As they passed, a man in the other car opened fire with a machine gun, spraying the Israeli car with bullets.  In what the Israeli man described as God’s protection, the shooter aimed too low, and no one was injured.

Throughout our visit with the settler, the students offered intelligent, unoffending, but sometimes challenging questions, which he answered willingly.  We left his home with gratitude, hoping to maintain a relationship that would allow us to learn more from him in the future.

In the afternoon, we got to tour a tiny fenced-in Israeli kindergarten in the settlement.  A young Israeli teacher unlocked the gate for us.  We walked across the threshold and into a world of innocence, bliss, and beauty.  I noticed a large compost bin sitting in a garden near the entrance and lamented the scarcity of such features in America’s schools.  A friendly sign stood over the bin, explaining in Hebrew how to use the compost.

The teacher explained that this school teaches its students to develop a relationship with nature.  She led us into the school’s small greenhouse, tucked between the building and the surrounding fence.  Inside, three rows of pots provided soil for tomatoes, basil, lettuce, cucumber, thyme, and other vegetables and herbs.  The children all tend to these plants themselves, their teacher explained.  Just outside the greenhouse, she pointed out old drawers, thermoses, street lamps, and 5-liter beer containers filled with soil and their own array of vegetables and herbs.  She proudly reported that students from her school frequently go home and teach their parents how to live more sustainably.

After a survey of the greenhouse and gardens, our guide brought us inside to see the space where the children spend most of their time.  Just beyond the entrance, clear plastic spheres hung from the ceiling, each filled with a different grain or seed: lentils, chick peas, cardamom, beans, sunflower seeds, and others.  Inside the first classroom, large cardboard flowers hung from the ceiling.  Real, dried sunflowers sat on red knee-high wooden shelves, with half of their seeds removed.  Wall decorations included a variety of recycled and reused goods.  In the second classroom, five-year-old Israeli children sat at tiny tables making prints on paper using leaves dipped in paint.

I found myself thinking – this is a place I would love to send my kids.  These children will grow up with an appreciation for the earth and a knowledge of how to interact with it.  Unlike most of the developed world, they will both observe and engage in the process that creates their food.

As we prepared to leave the school grounds, I walked outside and around the side of the building to the playground in the back.  They had the sort of jungle gym I would have loved as a child: swings and slides in abundance, with ample structures to climb.

I paused and took it all in: the playscape, the adults sitting alone waiting for younger versions of themselves to scamper out and disport themselves, the mulch beneath their feet.  Finally my gaze fell on the wire fence – the barrier that encloses this small benevolent compound.

Suddenly this fence sparked a flashback that transported me to Delhi, India.

Fourteen months ago, while studying in the land of Gandhi and Ganesh, I visited an embassy school in the nation’s capital.  My group had eaten lunch with a British family that lived in the gated community that incorporated the school.  We sat in their dining room, ate Subway sandwiches with Sprite and Lays potato chips, and played with their children.  After swimming in the community pool, we continued on our way.  We walked out of the gate, crossed the street, and entered the toughest slum in all of Delhi.

In the midst of a city of 12 million, across the street from a wealthy international community, lie 3000 of the most destitute people on earth.  We walked between patchwork shanties, dumbfounded by the juxtaposition presented by these two neighboring blocks.  One man we met had not left his cot in years.

Why would the pristine school in Efrat remind me of the embassy school in Delhi?  There is no squalid, overcrowded slum in or near Efrat.  So what sparked the connection?

Let’s say you did decide to peer through those chain links and down into the valley – what will you see?

It might not come into focus at first.  You might have to venture downhill somewhat, to get a better look.  You might have to squint.  You might have to listen very carefully, just to catch a whisper as it passed on the wind.  If you do these things, however, what will you find?

You might find people whose homes have been displaced by massive roads built to connect settlements with Israel.  You might find livelihoods lost on the hundreds of acres of olive trees bulldozed to make way for a wall twice as high as the one that fell in Berlin 22 years ago.  You might find men and women in Bethlehem who once drove twenty minutes to visit their families in Ramallah, and now must take a circuitous route through checkpoints and over mountains, with a travel time that is impossible to predict.  You might find a peaceful protester whose unarmed brother was killed by an Israeli rubber-coated bullet.

If these images sound troubling, however, you don’t have to put yourself through it.  You don’t need to come down from the hill.  It’s awfully hard to make out that sound on the wind, anyway.

You don’t have to look beyond the fence.

Racial Injustice and God

On February 17th, 2010 Anne C. Bailey walked into the room asking, “Is God part of the problem or part of the solution?” and I walked out with an answer.  That answer begins with one concept: as worshippers the world over will tell you, God is love.

Two kinds of people among us will address this question with equivalent fervor: lifelong churchgoers and students of history.  Those who feel they have a personal relationship with God provide a quick answer: God has a positive effect on racial relations, as it does on every worldly problem.  At the same time, however, others with a different perspective provide the opposing argument.  To them, one need only look at the historical record of organized religion to conclude that God has had a negative effect on racial relations.  After all, that record is ugly.  It’s not just about the crusades, or the history of European Christians in Africa, or Islamic radicalism.  Any time a religious organization acts as a political organization, that’s dangerous.  But there is a clear way to cut through the contradiction between these two answers: a distinction must be made between God and those who act in the name of God and especially those of them who are empowered by religious institutions.  To keep this distinction clear, we must adopt a new paradigm for religious practice.  Those who wish the world to see God as a force for good must embrace religion as a personal pursuit.

I come from a religion that focuses entirely on one’s personal relationship with God.  We have no preachers, and we require no person to serve as a link from God to man.  Our prayers – and therefore our lives – are focused on demonstrating a “fervent desire for growth in grace, expressed in patience, meekness, love, and good deeds” (Mary Baker Eddy, Science&Health page 4).  Because of this focus on the individual’s path toward understanding, we don’t have strong social or political institutions.  So after hurricane Katrina hit Louisiana, my sister and I joined a local Methodist group that drove down to New Orleans and volunteered.  In this way religious institutions can be strong forces for social good.  However, to remain altruistic and benign, these institutions must perceive themselves as simple gathering places, venues, and givers of opportunity.  They can avoid doing harm by staying in touch with their purpose: facilitating individuals’ spiritual development.

Some of you earnest believers in God will ask, “How can I spread God’s goodness and help other people without broadcasting my beliefs from a mountaintop or a TV?”  If you express your best self – if you try to live by the teachings of Jesus, Muhammad, Moses, Buddha, the Guru Granth Sahib, or the example of Gandhi – people will notice.  They will wonder how you forgave when forgiveness seemed impossible.  They will wonder how you persisted when defeat loomed.  They will wonder how you were honest when deceit appeared in your self interest.  They will either want to follow your example or want to know how you set it, and this gives you the opportunity to tell them what empowered you to act as you did.

Few people who call themselves religious or spiritual – anywhere in the world – will deny the connection between deity and love.  Now go back to the question, but insert “love” in place of “God”.

Is love part of the problem or the solution?

What kind of question is that?