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From: Aliza Becker <azbecker@mindspring.com>
To: Multiple recipients of list <nifl-esl@literacy.nifl.gov>
Subject: [NIFL-ESL:6666] FW: A Nation of Immigrants Rebuilds
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------ Forwarded Message
From: "Maurice Belanger" <mbelanger@immigrationforum.org>
Date: Thu, 8 Nov 2001 13:57:55 -0500
To: "Belanger, Maurice" <mbelanger@immigrationforum.org>
Subject: A Nation of Immigrants Rebuilds
National Immigration Forum
Date: November 8, 2001
To: Forum Associates and interested advocates
From: Forum Policy Staff
Re: More Stories Relating to the Aftermath of the Events of
September 11
----------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
1. "Muslim citizens need support from their fellow
Americans," Marrietta Times, October 30, 2001
2. "Sikhs hope to end misunderstanding," San Diego
Union-Tribune, October 29, 2001
3. "Afghan cabbie says he was beaten," San Diego
Union-Tribune, October 25, 2001
4. "Neighbors Speak Warmly of First New York Victim to Die
of Anthrax," Washington Post, November 1, 2001
5. "Attacks stir Albanians' old fears," The Detroit News
6. "Haq's son hopes to continue legacy," Contra Costa
Times, November 5, 2001
7. "At home amid freedom," Akron Beacon Journal
8. "Terror attacks taking a toll on limo drivers," Newark
Star-Ledger, November 5, 2001
9. "A day of understanding for Colorado Muslims," The
Denver Post, November 05, 2001
10. "Sept. 11 gives Jerseyans a sense of certainty about
right to vote," New Jersey Star-Ledger, November 7, 2001
11. "News briefs from Southern California," Associated
Press, November 6, 2001
12. "Area Muslims say it's time to join together, speak out,
Seattle Times
------------------------------------------------------
Tuesday, October 30, 2001
Muslim citizens need support from their fellow Americans
A horrible thing happened Tuesday, Sept. 11, and it was probably done by
Muslims.
But that doesn't give anybody the right to do horrible things to
Muslims. People are beating, killing and making fun of Muslim-Americans.
They are also American citizens and have the same rights as the rest of
us. It is a disgrace how some people are acting. If people wanted
immigrants to go back to where they came from we would all have to go
because the U.S.A. is a country of immigrants.
We need to join with the Muslim citizens of the U.S.A. and stop
terrorism.
Jenny Kinneberg
Sixth grade
Barlow-Vincent Elementary School
=====================
Sikhs hope to end misunderstanding
San Diego Union-Tribune
Violence result of mistaken identity
By Jennifer Dobner
STAFF WRITER
October 29, 2001
ESCONDIDO -- It is the same every other Sunday morning as the Sikh
Society of San Diego County transforms the cafeteria at Del Dios Middle
School into its gurudwara, or house of worship.
A group of men in turbans and Western clothes huddle around a dark-blue
Honda. They sing in Punjabi as a large book wrapped in embroidered cloth
is taken from the vehicle and carried to an altar.
The celebration continues for nearly two hours, with the adults and
children singing and listening to the prayers that form the Sri Guru
Granth Sahib -- the Sikh equivalent of the Bible.
They have been meeting at the school cafeteria for about two years. But
their time together has become more important since Sept. 11, society
president Rajbir Virk said.
The men and women who follow Sikh tradition, which includes beards and
turbans for men and scarves for women, are often confused with Muslims,
and many have been afraid, he said.
"We feel very secure when we are together," said Virk, who owns a
7-Eleven convenience store in Escondido.
For the first few weeks after the attacks, many local Sikhs only left
their homes when absolutely necessary, said Goldi Singh, 25, an engineer
from Scripps Ranch. He said he was so nervous that he swapped his turban
for the less traditional "do-rag." He also stayed in frequent phone
contact with others.
And Virk, who asked Escondido police for extra patrols during the
society's Sunday services, said some members have suffered verbal slurs
and physical assaults. As of Oct. 5, San Diego police said they were
investigating at least 36 hate crimes against people of Middle Eastern
descent.
Swaran Kauer Bhullar, a North County woman, was stabbed with knives
Sept. 30 while her car idled at Miramar Road and Cabot Drive. A
teen-ager who drives from Los Angeles for society services was jumped
and beaten by several high school classmates. And Dr. Igbar Singh
Athwal, 40, of Poway said his father was verbally assaulted by their
letter carrier.
"He told my father, 'You look like a Muslim; go back to your hometown,'
" said Athwal, an engineer who is between jobs. "We are being treated as
a negative in the community. You do feel sad."
What is most frustrating, Athwal said, is that the basic tenets of his
religion teach peace, generosity and respect for all. But most people
make judgments about others in a split second, and Athwal rarely gets
time to explain.
"Religiously and culturally, we never favor any kind of violence," he
said. "Our scriptures say if you are Christian, be a good Christian. If
you are Muslim, be a good Muslim. If you are Sikh, be a good Sikh."
Sikhism is a 500-year-old religion founded in Punjab, India, and
practiced by some 20 million people around the world. Its 10 gurus
collected their teachings into one holy book known as the Sri Guru
Granth Sahib.
The society draws an average of 130 adults and several dozen children to
each of its Escondido services. There is also a Sikh temple in Poway,
Virk said.
Although Virk said visitors have always been welcome, the society has
typically practiced its religious and cultural traditions quietly.
Members say that given the current climate of misunderstanding, now
might be a good time to throw open the doors of their gurudwara and
invite the community in.
"We feel sad for all the innocent people who were killed, and now for
all the innocent people who are being targeted," said Kuljeet Kaur Gill,
40, one of three women who teach Punjabi to the children. "So maybe we
need to come out a little bit more and say, 'We are Sikhs and we are
different.' "
==================
Afghan cabbie says he was beaten
By Kristen Green
STAFF WRITER
San Diego Union-Tribune
October 25, 2001
Tamim Keshawarz figures that if he had lied about where he is from, he
might not have been choked and punched in the head.
But Keshawarz is proud of his heritage, and when three passengers in his
cab noticed his olive skin, dark hair and Middle Eastern accent and
asked about his background, he told them he is from Afghanistan.
As soon as he uttered the name of his homeland, the woman and two men
became abusive, he says.
"Why are you here?" the woman asked the bearded 37-year-old.
"I'm here to work," Keshawarz told her.
"You're here to work and blow up the U.S.," she replied.
The passengers, all of whom are white, say Keshawarz mumbled
anti-American statements, according to the Harbor Police. He denies the
allegation.
Keshawarz, who has lived in America for 23 years, says he stayed calm on
the short ride from Croce's on Fifth Avenue to the Marriott Hotel on
West Harbor Drive early Saturday morning.
"I just kept quiet because I didn't want to start anything with them,"
he said. "I kind of tried to ignore them."
But when Keshawarz arrived at the Marriott and stepped out of his green
taxi, labeled with the company's name, Pal's Cab, one of the male
passengers lunged at him and grabbed his throat, Keshawarz told police.
The second male passenger tried to pay the $4.30 fare, Keshawarz said.
The first male passenger began punching him, Keshawarz alleges. He put
his arms in front of his face and fought off several blows, but three or
four of the punches struck him on the head and the side of his face,
police said.
At the same time, the woman yelled out, "We've got an Afghanistan here!"
Keshawarz recalled. She seemed to be trying to rouse other people who
are angry with Afghans to support her, Keshawarz said. The second male
passenger, the woman's husband, didn't do anything to intervene,
Keshawarz told police.
Then the woman yelled: "Afghans! Afghans! How many more Afghans are
here?" said Ahmad Bakhtari, a valet parking attendant who witnessed the
incident.
Bakhtari says he told her he was from Afghanistan, too.
The woman pulled him aside. "You're not like that," she told Bakhtari,
pointing at Keshawarz.
"What's wrong with him?" Bakhtari asked. But the woman never replied, he
said.
Harbor Police responded to a 911 call from Marriott's security. After
interviewing witnesses, they arrested Stanley Grogg, a pediatrician from
Tulsa, Okla., on a misdemeanor charge of battery and a felony hate-crime
charge. The other two passengers also are from Oklahoma.
No one else was arrested, and Harbor Police declined to release the
other passengers' names. But Todd Rakos, a senior officer with the
Harbor Police, said he is investigating the actions of the woman, who is
a nurse, to determine whether there is enough evidence to charge her
with a crime.
Grogg, who has been released on $33,000 bail, has not responded to
messages left at the Marriott or at his home in Tulsa. His wife,
Barbara, referred phone calls to his San Diego attorney, Tom Warwick.
Warwick said witnesses told him Keshawarz made remarks about the people
killed in New York City on Sept. 11 that offended the passengers. He
declined to elaborate.
"Unfortunately, there is a potential for a criminal charge being leveled
against my client," Warwick said. "I'm doing my best to determine what
happened."
Grogg, who is scheduled to be arraigned Monday afternoon, is an
associate professor at Oklahoma State University attending the American
Osteopathic Association at the San Diego Convention Center this week. He
also is president of the American College of Osteopathic Pediatricians.
A spokeswoman for the university's Center for Health Sciences said the
medical college will conduct an internal investigation. Grogg, 56, has
worked for OSU since April 1999.
After Grogg was arrested Saturday morning, Keshawarz says, he went home
to Southcrest. He wasn't injured, he adds, just shaken up.
But Saturday night, he was back in the 1989 Chevy Caprice he rents,
working to support his wife and five children and trying to make up for
the $100 to $150 in business that he says he lost on the night of the
alleged assault.
"I'm a little bit nervous still," he said yesterday. "It'll probably
take me a while to get over this."
But Keshawarz says that if asked again where he is from, he will
probably tell. In his five years as a San Diego cabdriver, no one else
has ever responded negatively.
"I don't have anything to hide," he said. "I'm from Afghanistan."
==========================
Neighbors Speak Warmly of First New York Victim to Die of Anthrax
By Dale Russakoff and Michael Powell
Washington Post Staff Writers
Thursday, November 1, 2001; Page A09
NEW YORK -- In life, Kathy T. Nguyen was just another working-class
immigrant in another big apartment building in the South Bronx. She
didn't own a car or a home. She had no court records. She did what so
many people in her neighborhood do -- rode the number 6 train to
Manhattan, worked hard, came home late at night to a small apartment
with a deadbolt lock, then did it again the next day.
In death, however, the tiny woman from Vietnam who lived alone at 1301
Freeman St. is the focus of national attention -- and rising national
anxieties. She is the first person to die of anthrax with no obvious
connection to tainted letters that authorities had believed to be the
source of the outbreak.
Nguyen, 61, who died this morning of pulmonary anthrax at Lenox Hill
Hospital here, had worked for years in the basement stock room of the
Manhattan Eye, Ear and Throat Hospital on the Upper East Side. She
brought medicine and supplies to the emergency room and the operating
rooms. She did not handle mail, but worked next to the mailroom. As FBI
agents descended on her neighbors seeking details of her until-now
ordinary life, and as men in moon suits tested her third-floor flat for
anthrax, bioterror seemed to have taken another big step into American
life. What do you tell the FBI about a beloved neighbor? That she had
shiny black hair and always wore hats? That she never complained when
children made noise? That she spoke amazing English? (She had a slight
accent, but to her Dominican and Puerto Rican neighbors, it was the
king's English.)
"She came from job to home, that's what Kathy did," said Jenny Espinal,
who had known Nguyen for 25 years. "She was always saying, 'Hello. How
you doing? How's the family?' "
Nguyen was the only Vietnamese immigrant in the building, her neighbors
said. "She would share anything," said Anna Silva. "She had a good,
great big heart."
Nguyen had known tragedy. She told neighbors she had lived comfortably
in Vietnam, but left in 1977 with nothing. They said she had married and
divorced, and that a son died years ago in an automobile accident. One
of her best friends was Josefa Richardson, a Dominican immigrant who
speaks little English. They swapped recipes and brought each other
dishes of food. "We don't have the same language, but we loved each
other," Richardson said.
Richardson last saw her friend last week, when Nguyen was fighting what
she thought was a cold. "She just said to me: 'I'm tired, I'm tired,' "
Richardson said. "Then I leave a message for her on Saturday, tell her
to come to my house. But there's nothing, just her machine."
Nguyen went to Lenox Hill Hospital on Sunday, her anthrax already too
advanced for doctors to stop it.
As a woman living alone, Nguyen was often on the minds of neighbors.
They had even warned her about anthrax. "I told her, 'You see a letter
with powder, you throw it away,' " Silva said. "She couldn't believe
that someone would do something like that. She'd say, 'For real? You
really think people would do something like that?'
"I said, 'Yes, Kathy. I do.' "
C 2001 The Washington Post Company
==========================
Attacks stir Albanians' old fears
Loss of N.Y. son renews suffering for Metro Detroiters
By Ron French / The Detroit News
NEW YORK -- The wailing comes in waves, a throaty dirge that erupts
from the women in babushkas gathered around the gold-framed photo of a
young man. Men in dark suits and black leather jackets huddle in
silence, shoulders hunched over cigarettes and shot glasses.
The youth of the Albanian clan, the first generation born in America,
talk of moving back to the old country. The parent of two of those
teen-agers wonders what has gone wrong.
"Most people who come here from the old country come here for a
reason: They were wounded," Deda Margilaj says. "They try to put
together a better life. They work hard and raise a family, and this
happens and it brings back all the old miseries."
The next day, more than 2,000 people would attend a Catholic memorial
service for Simon Dedvucaj, a 26-year-old janitor killed in the World
Trade Center. Nearly half would come from Metro Detroit, where the
nation's largest and most tradition-bound Albanian community has been
shaken by the death of a grandson of an Albanian war hero. Relatives,
friends and community leaders made the 600-mile trip in caravans of
rented cars and minivans, talking of their homeland, their adopted home
and the violence they have been unable to outrun.
"You come 6,000 miles, and you find people who are just as good as
you and share the same values. And then find bad ones just like the bad
ones you left behind." says Margilaj, a former Detroiter now living in
New York. "You wonder, what good is it?"
Thirty years ago, they came looking for the American dream. Last
weekend, they began looking anew.
By the dim glow of a minivan dome light, Gjovalin Lumaj reads the
eulogy he will give the next day.
"Only the devil can think to do this," the Macomb Township resident
reads in Albanian from a notebook. The handwritten, 30-page poem
recounts the tortured history of Albania and its people, for whom the
Sept. 11 terrorist attacks seem the latest grief in 500 years of
suffering.
Kanto and Lindita Dushaj of Roseville lean toward Lumaj to listen,
the headlights of passing cars along the Ohio Turnpike lighting their
wet cheeks.
Lindita had 11 uncles killed between 1946 and 1997: Eight were
massacred in one night; another was shot while his mother watched.
Kanto's father, a rebel fighting the Communists, spent seven years in
hiding.
Communism fell in 1991, but Albania remains the poorest and
least-developed country in Europe, scarred by political and economic
unrest and crime. Since World War II, more than a half-million Albanians
have immigrated to the United States, settling primarily in Detroit, New
York and Boston. There are an estimated 100,000 Albanians living in
Metro Detroit, concentrated in Dearborn and Macomb County.
"You ever hear of a man born at 45?" Lumaj asks. "I was born at 45.
That's when I came to America."
Until five years ago, Lumaj was a well-known poet and director of
arts and culture for a province in northern Albania. Today, he is a
house painter in Macomb Township. He sits at a corner booth of a Denny's
restaurant in Youngstown, Pa., drinking coffee. Next to him is his
cousin, Kanto Dushaj, who was part of an exodus of Albanians in the
early 1970s fleeing economic and political problems.
Thirty years later, many still speak Albanian in their homes.
"I don't like leaving my country," says Dushaj, who works in the
English language program in Warren schools. "But when you have nothing
but the sky above you, you look elsewhere."
He points to his 3-year-old son, Emanuel, who is emptying a bottle of
ketchup over a plate of cheese fries.
"I want him to keep the culture, the religion, get educated, be
somebody," Dushaj says. "Over here, he has the potential."
"President of the United States," Emanuel's mother says.
"Everybody's dream is to come out here and be treated as a free
person," Kanto says. It's like a dream come true."
Parents' legacy
Simon Dedvucaj was the embodiment of that dream. He was the first son
born in the United States in a well-known Albanian family. He worked
hard to make a place for himself in a 21st-century city while
maintaining his family's 18th-century traditions.
Last year, he traveled to Albania and returned with a bride, an
arranged relationship that remains common in that country.
"He was the one who would have carried on the traditions," said his
sister, Drane Dedvucaj. "He was the legacy my parents wanted to leave
behind."
On Sept. 11, Simon Dedvucaj reported to work at Tower One of the
World Trade Center at 8:30 a.m. He called his brother, Niki, to make
sure his wife, Elizabeta, had a ride to school to begin English lessons.
"He was supposed to be off that day to take her to school. But there
were some new people at work he had to supervise," Niki Dedvucaj said.
Dedvucaj was the foreman of a four-person janitorial crew that
cleaned the offices of Marsh & McLennan, an investment firm on the 93rd
through 100th floors. Minutes after he arrived, at 8:48 a.m., hijacked
American Airlines Flight 11 hit Tower One, burrowing between the 96th
and 103rd floors, creating a fireball so hot that it melted steel.
Someone claimed they saw Dedvucaj in the Trade Center lobby after the
attack, helping people escape. A fellow janitor said he thought he'd
heard Dedvucaj on a walkie-talkie say he was going back up the tower to
help.
Nick Vataj thinks it more likely that he died instantly. Vataj was
Dedvucaj's boss. He also was Dedvucaj's cousin, and the one who got him
a job at the Trade Center.
"No one made it out from Marsh on up," he says. "If he was on the
floors he was supposed to be, he was gone."
'God Bless USA'
Six weeks later, many Michigan residents arriving in New York for the
memorial service make a grim pilgrimage to Ground Zero. Lindita Dushaj
peeks through the fence between bouquets of wilted flowers and
handwritten notes, inadvertently kicking one of several dozen teddy
bears on the sidewalk.
A young couple asks a woman wearing a mask to take their photo. They
intertwine arms and smile, as smoke rises behind them from the
still-smoldering rubble.
Street vendors encircle the site, their normal assortment of watches
and sunglasses replaced by World Trade Center photographs and American
flags. Lumaj buys a post card for $2; Lindita, an American flag ring for
$5.
Kanto stays in the car, not wanting to see the site where his cousin
died such a horrible death. But when the others return to the van, he
walks across the street, to a banner on which passers-by have written
messages. With a pen, he writes "Zoti e Bekoft Ameriken." It is Albanian
for God Bless USA.
Luvigj Gjokaj, an Albanian community leader in Metro Detroit, arrives
at the site at 3:30 a.m. The crowds are gone, and he is alone with only
the haunting smell of soot and dust.
"I walked around," Gjokaj says. "I thought for a moment about our
people, how many have tears in their eyes today. And then I thought
about all the other innocent people who lost their lives there, not only
Simon. Can you imagine? You cannot find even a piece of them, all you
have is that smell.
"I tell my cousin, get me out of here. I can't take any more of
this."
Tradition and change
There are traditions that must be kept, even with untraditional
death. Turkish coffee. Bulgarian cheese. Cigarettes and home-brewed
alcohol. The scarves, called babushkas, draped over the heads and tied
beneath the chins of female relatives.
There are other traditions Marash Dedvucaj thought he'd left in
Albania, but have followed him to the suburbs of New York.
"We suffered for 500 years what these guys are today doing to
America," says Simon's father. "We went through all these tough times to
get freedom of religion and expression and a lot of things. I work 16
hours a day just to support my family. Now, I grow my son to 27 years
old, and I can't even find his ashes."
Marash Dedvucaj takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. "It's
changed my mind about America," he says. "Wherever you go, you have to
look behind your back. With fear, you have to even walk out of your
door.
"Just like that, they change you. They change your complete system in
America."
Around the first floor of the middle class home are elaborately
framed photographs of Simon and his bride taken at their wedding last
year. Simon's mother, wife and two aunts gather around a wedding
displayed on one end of a dining room table.
In the next room, the teen-agers of the clan are cynical and bitter.
One sister of Simon says she's lost faith in the American government.
Another wonders aloud whether the government was involved in the attack.
"The first thing we thought was, America, of all places," says Linda
Dedvucaj, a sister to Simon. "One of my older brothers said, 'Why don't
we move back? There's no safety here anymore.' "
An Albanian gathering
The next morning, family and friends file into Our Lady of Shkodra
Catholic Church.
About 800 people fill the pews, and others stand six-deep on the
sides and in back of the church. Outside, another 1,000 stand in a
winding line around the church, waiting to pay their respects.
Among the crowd are an estimated 100 first-cousins and 400
second-cousins and third-cousins. Thirty-eight people have traveled from
Albania for the service. Between 700 and 1,000 drove from Michigan.
Pete Dedvucaj of Macomb Township came with his three brothers in a
caravan of 19 vehicles that drove through the night to make it to the
service. Another family struck a deer in Ohio, rented a car and kept
going.
Some are close relatives. Others have driven 11 hours for the funeral
of "my best man's first cousin" or "the son of a friend of my father
from the old country."
"We celebrate together and mourn together," says Vasel Nicaj of
Sterling Heights with a shrug. "This is my fifth or sixth trip to New
York this year. There must be a few Albanians on (Interstate) 80 all the
time."
On the altar, a large photo of Simon is framed in an American flag
made of red, white and blue carnations. At a nearby podium, a
spokeswoman for New York Gov. George Pataki apologizes for the governor
not coming to the service. "He has 15 other funeral masses to go to
today," she says.
In staccato Albanian, a dozen speakers and priests praise the noble
history of the family and condemn terrorism. "He came from a family of
freedom fighters coming to America, this new and wonderful land," said
Martin Vulaj, vice-chairman of the Albanian National American Council.
"Young Simon was fighting a new war. Instead of struggling in the
mountains of Albania, he was in the mountains of New York, struggling to
make a transition from that world to the next."
Afterward, at a reception in the church basement, tables are lined
with bottles of whisky and raki, the homemade, 200-proof alcohol
customary at Albanian gatherings. Plates are heaped with large blocks of
cheese that resembles feta. Men with large silver serving trays
displaying open packs of cigarettes circulate between the tables.
Nicaj has been to dozens of weddings and funerals like this,
traveling to New York for some; New Yorkers have driven to Detroit for
others. He fears there will be fewer such traditional gatherings in the
future, as the children and grandchildren of Albanian immigrants let go
of the old-world ways. Traditions that make sense in the mountain
province of Hoti are awkward in Farmington Hills.
They fought dictators with pistols and rifles. But how can they fight
progress?
"No community survives forever," Nicaj says. "But we're trying to
keep it going as long as possible."
A new life
Elizabeta screams and clings desperately to a door. Her former
mother-in-law and sisters-in-law wail as men drag her from the house.
It is the day after the memorial service for Simon Dedvucaj. By
tradition, it is the day his widow must leave the family home.
It is necessary, they say, so that Elizabeta can start a new life.
Her black babushka is replaced with a white one, and four men carry
her to an SUV, where her parents await. She must come with them to
Farmington Hills, where her family is staying with relatives. From
there, her future is uncertain. She may stay in America or return to
Albania.
She breaks away and runs toward the house, but she's caught and
pushed back into the vehicle. The Dedvucaj family surrounds the SUV,
beating their palms on the windows, crying "Beta! Beta!"
The vehicle inches through the crowd and down a drive way.
Elizabeta's face presses against the window. Her face grows smaller and
smaller as the SUV rolls away, turning onto Main Street, and she is
gone.
Revised American dream
In an Italian restaurant in the Bronx,, a dozen men finish a last
meal before beginning the long drive back to Michigan. Marash (Mike)
Nucullaj slices a fork into a dessert of tiramisu and talks about his
own American dream.
Like so many immigrants before him, Nucullaj came to the United
States as a young man with no money. Today, he owns the Belleville
Grille and Dimitri's Kitchen in Belleville. But his dream doesn't
involve material things.
"The world is getting so small," he says. "We really have to teach
each other who we are. I don't want to become a Muslim, but I want to
understand more. I want to know about the Koran."
He recalls the priest at the memorial service said something
untraditional. "He said, 'God, Allah, it's all one God.' That's the
first time I've ever heard a priest say that."
Maybe, Nucullaj says, just maybe, that is something good that can
come out of this.
"We've just got to stick together," Nucullaj says. "The whole world.
That's my dream."
==========================
Published Monday, November 5, 2001
Haq's son hopes to continue legacy
The 16-year-old Union City resident orphaned by the Taliban hopes to
bring peace to Afghanistan
By Guy Ashley
CONTRA COSTA TIMES
HAYWARD -- His father's death drew international headlines, and a blitz
of media attention on his own modest life in Union City.
But Abdul Majeed Arsala, 16, said it was not until Sunday afternoon that
he realized the depth of the appreciation and respect that Afghans
around the world felt toward Abdul Haq, Arsala's father and a renowned
resistance fighter executed by the Taliban in Afghanistan on Oct. 26.
"I feel comforted and very proud,'' said Majeed, as he is known to his
friends, outside the Abu Bakersiddiq mosque in Hayward, where hundreds
of Afghans attended a memorial service Sunday for Haq. "I want to follow
in my father's footsteps and work to bring peace to my country.''
Majeed said he believes the goals of his father, who crossed secretly
and unarmed into Afghanistan hoping to persuade fellow Pashtuns to
defect from the Taliban and help form a new, independent government,
will be realized.
But others who attended the service said they weren't so sure. Some
spoke with pointed objections to the United States bombing campaign,
saying they believe civilian deaths inside Afghanistan only strengthen
the Taliban cause.
"The bombs are not harming the Taliban as much as they are harming the
innocent people,'' said Steve Faryabi, who heads the Afghan American
Association, based in San Leandro. "Meaningful change in Afghanistan
must come from within. Bombing military targets cannot accomplish
that.''
Faryabi said that is why Abdul Haq's death dashed so many hopes for
peace. Respect for Haq crossed the tribal lines that separate Afghans on
many issues; his heroism during the years of war against the Soviets,
when he lost a leg but succeeded in leading the resistance in driving
out the invading Soviets, created an almost mythic appeal in
Afghanistan.
Sunday's service drew admirers from all generations, the majority
Afghans from the East Bay, where immigrants from the war-torn country
have settled over the past three decades.
As a crush of reporters peeked through the mosque's front door, hundreds
of Haq's admirers sat shoeless on a carpeted floor, their faces marked
by sadness and loss as they listened to an imam read lyrical passages
from the Quran.
The women inside the mosque, even a few local journalists, wore
traditional Afghan robes and scarves around their faces. Men in
attendance were divided among those in Afghan robes and vests, and those
in Western slacks and dress shirts.
Displayed proudly outside the mosque were pictures of Haq, known as the
"Lion of Afghanistan,'' as he looked two decades ago when he led the
mujahadeen resistance in the war with the Soviets.
Though Haq earned his reputation as a tireless resistance fighter, his
son said his primary mission was to bring peace to his native country.
"He lived for the day when the fighting would stop,'' said Majeed.
With his father's solid build and dark, somber eyes, Majeed Arsala came
to the East Bay in 1999 after his mother and a brother were gunned down
before his eyes in Peshawar, Pakistan.
He is now a junior at James Logan High School, living in a modest Union
City neighborhood with an uncle.
While the air Sunday was thick with admiration for Abdul Haq, it was
equally clear that the local Afghan community has rallied around his
son, aiming to provide him a semblance of the family web that violence
on the other side of the world has destroyed.
"The biggest reason I came here today is to show my support for my
friend Majeed, who I love like a brother,'' said Mohammad Yasini, 16, a
high school classmate. "He needs our support, so he can feel love as
well as anger.
"That is the only way he will grow up to be like his father-- a man of
peace.''
============================
At home amid freedom
Businessman from Lebanon treasures his adopted land
BY ANDREA MISKO
Akron Beacon Journal
CUYAHOGA FALLS: Since Sept. 11, Elie Akiki has never felt more American.
``It was a turning point for me,'' he says. ``You live here, but you
don't think about how American you are. I now have more of an
appreciation of living here.''
An appreciation of freedom.
Of being able to have opinions and speak his mind.
Of being able to practice his Christian faith.
Of being able to prosper.
All this, the 45-year-old Akiki has gained since coming to the United
States from Lebanon 23 years ago.
``I really appreciate my freedoms a lot,'' he says, `` . . . more than
words can explain.''
Like most Americans, Akiki was glued to the television set on Sept. 11.
He was aghast at what he saw. But he had perspective different from that
of most Americans watching. There was a horrible familiarity to the
dying.
Akiki came to the United States in 1978 partly to escape the civil war
that had erupted in Lebanon in 1975. That war ended only 11 years ago.
The conflict was rooted in the religious differences of the Lebanese
people. The country is home to both Muslims and Christians.
A Maronite Catholic, Akiki had seen terrorists invade his hometown of
Zahle in the Bekaa Valley. He had seen the destruction of schools, homes
and businesses. He had seen the killing of innocent people, including
many of his friends.
Before war broke out, Lebanon was a prosperous land with a healthy
tourist industry. In 1987, when Akiki last visited his hometown, he
found that residents had fled, the economy had slowed, and freedoms were
fewer. Life was lived in fear.
``There I have fear,'' he says. ``You could be arrested there if you say
what you want to say. I have no fear here. This is more civilized here.
You can speak your mind. You are free here to do what you want to do.''
The American dream
Like most immigrants, Akiki, who became a U.S. citizen in 1985, was
pursuing the American dream when he arrived in this country in September
1978. He was 21 and hoped to start a business, knowing it would be a
challenge. He had little money and couldn't speak more than a few words
of English.
He stayed with his late mother, Wedad, his sister Teresa, and his
brother George, who had come to the Akron area the year before. Many of
his aunts, uncles and cousins had been living here for decades.
His late father, Mike, owned a grocery store in Lebanon, and Akiki
learned early in life what it means to work hard. At age 8, he was
sweeping the hair from the floor of his neighbor's salon after school to
earn extra money. By age 14, he was shampooing, cutting and styling hair
of the salon customers. And he loved it.
A year after his arrival in the United States, Akiki opened his salon in
the business space under an apartment he was renting in an older section
of Cuyahoga Falls. Two years later, he owned the business and the
building, which is nestled at Chestnut Boulevard and Meriline Street.
Today, his business has the same name -- Magic Shears -- the same
location, and many of the same customers.
Scot Staats is one of them. For 20 years, the Cuyahoga Falls resident
has been talking politics with Akiki from one of two orange vinyl chairs
in the salon.
``He's probably as American as anyone you'd meet,'' Staats says while
getting a trim around his ears. ``He's given me an insight I would have
never had. He understands how radical some of the Muslim groups are.
There aren't many people you can talk to who have experienced it
firsthand.''
Staats says Akiki, who also owns a dry cleaning business adjacent to the
salon, is well-known and respected in the city. He's ``a heck of a
stylist and a nice guy,'' Staats says.
Message for Americans
Akiki, a modest man, was reluctant to be the subject of a story. But he
agreed because, he says, he has an important message: He wants people to
know that the United States has friends in the Middle East, and he hopes
Americans will learn to differentiate between their friends and enemies.
``Our culture and our country have been friends to the U.S.,'' he says
of Lebanon. ``Our culture is closest to Western culture. I want people
to know there really are friends for them in the Middle East.''
The Lebanese government opposes terrorism, Akiki says, and has given
words of support to the United States.
In his 23 years in the country. Akiki can recall only one incident when
he was judged based on his Middle Eastern appearance. ``When I first got
my store,'' he says. ``A neighbor where I worked . . . I was hauling
drywall in my car, and he was watching me, and he yelled, `Hey, curly
hair, go back home.' I couldn't retaliate. I didn't speak English that
well.
``I asked my cousin, `What do I say?' and he told me.''
Akiki refuses to repeat what his cousin told him. ``The next time I saw
that guy, I chased him. I wasn't nice.''
While his American pride is important to him, at the center of his life
is his church and his family. He married Dalal, who's also from Lebanon,
in 1987, the same year she became an American citizen. They have three
children: Mike, 11; Anthony, 9; and Celine, 4. Another child is due in
February.
The children are being raised with an awareness of their Lebanese
heritage. Six years ago, Dalal Akiki took her sons to Lebanon. ``I
wanted to show them our country and how they live,'' she says. ``It's
important. . . . I like my kids Americanized, but I don't want them to
forget where they came from.''
In their home, Dalal and Elie often speak Lebanese, which is a dialect
of Arabic. While the children understand Lebanese, they generally speak
in English.
The family is very active in Our Lady of the Cedars Maronite Catholic
Church in Fairlawn; most of those who attend are Lebanese-Americans
living in the Akron area.
Although there are historical differences between Maronite Catholics and
Roman Catholics, they celebrate the same holidays and share most of
their beliefs.
The Akiki home, only blocks from the family's two businesses, is very
American-looking. The only evidence of Middle Eastern culture is in the
air. It's the aroma of kibbeh, a popular Lebanese meat dish, wafting
from the oven.
========================
Terror attacks taking a toll on limo drivers
11/05/01
BY ANA M. ALAYA
NEWARK STAR-LEDGER
Since the World Trade Center attacks, Muhammad Barlas of Bayonne has
been doing a lot of waiting around -- waiting for calls, waiting for
customers, waiting for his luck to change. And in his business, waiting
is a very bad sign.
Like hundreds of limousine drivers who once made a living taking clients
to and from the bustling Manhattan business district, Barlas has seen a
steep drop in the number of riders since Sept. 11.
"We are struggling," said the 42-year-old father of three. "I used to
get calls to pick someone up every two hours. Now, I have to wait four,
maybe six hours for a job. I'm not sure what I'm going to do."
When the Twin Towers fell, the ripple effect extended well beyond the
financial industry, taking a heavy toll, particularly on limousine
drivers who catered almost exclusively to the executives who darted from
Lower Manhattan to airports, their suburban homes and back. The reeling
economy has only made matters worse.
"The epicenter of this business is Wall Street and the metropolitan-New
York airports," said Kevin Lynch, whose union represents more than
11,000 limousine and black car drivers in the New York-New Jersey
region. "These drivers have suffered initially 80 percent of their
business, and now are somewhere around 50 percent."
Limousine drivers, unlike yellow cab drivers, rely almost entirely on
corporate clients, who have contracts with dispatching companies called
"bases." The drivers, who buy their own cars, pay a fee, sometimes up to
30 percent of their pay, to these base companies.
Lynch said he believes more than 400 drivers in the International
Association of Machinists and Aerospace Workers Union, many from New
Jersey, need immediate financial assistance, in some cases, just to stay
afloat.
"We're really talking about putting food on the table," Lynch said.
"Even if everything goes back to normal, people who have spent more than
the past month without income are going to be driven out of the business
when their cars are repossessed. Also, the airline industry is also
down, and the business travel is down."
Driving a limousine has been tough, in more ways than one, since Sept.
11.
Mohsen Abou, like many of his colleagues, did not drive in the first two
weeks following the attacks because he was afraid his Middle Eastern
features would make him a target for Americans angry about the attacks.
About 90 percent of limo drivers in the New York-New Jersey area are
foreign born, of Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Egyptian, Russian, and
Israeli descent, among other nationalities.
"We got hit double, both financially and through discrimination," said
Mohsen, 34, an Egyptian immigrant who lives in Green Brook. He has been
driving for 10 years, and most of his clients worked at the World Trade
Center.
"I feel like I'm an enemy, but I am an American, too," he said. "I came
to the United States because it was my dream. Now, I get strange looks."
But strange looks are the least of Abou's worries. He's two months
behind on the car payments, even though he received an initial emergency
grant of $1,000 from Safe Horizon, the New York-based organization
providing emergency aid to attack victims. Like others, he also received
initial aid from the Salvation Army and Red Cross.
No one knows if the aid will be enough. He once made about $1,500 a
week; he now makes about $300. He used to do about four pick-ups a day,
and now he's lucky if he gets one.
"I'm worried about the job like the rest of the drivers. I don't know
how I'm going to make it," Abou said.
The financial toll on the limo drivers now is particularly hard because
most drivers were stretching to make ends meet in the first place,
according to Lynch. He said the average driver makes a gross wage of
about $60,000 a year. But after taking out the commission for the
dispatch company, car payments, tolls, and insurance, the net salary
hovers around $25,000.
"And this is for a day that typically in this industry stretches 12 or
more hours," Lynch said. "Some guys literally sleep in their cars."
For Barlas, life is "paycheck to paycheck." he said. Like other drivers,
he has turned to relatives for financial help during this crisis.
Barlas, a Pakistani, was in the Merchant Marines for 12 years before he
married and decided to become a limo driver, a far more flexible job
that allows him to stay in the metropolitan area and spend time with his
three children. He's been a driver for more than eight years, and has
never struggled so hard.
"It's better than doing any other odd job," he said. But now he's not so
sure. His 1995 Lincoln Town Car has 300,000 miles. He's working overtime
to make the $480 monthly payments and to pay for his $5,000 annual
insurance package.
The dispatching company Barlas works for, Newport Car and Limousine
Service in Jersey City, is down to about 100 calls for rides a day, from
400 before the attacks, he said.
Ali Mohammad, a supervisor at Newport, said he hopes to get some small
business loans to cover the shortfalls. He said some of his roughly 120
drivers quit working after the attacks because they couldn't make their
car payments. Most of the company's business served clients in
Manhattan's commercial district.
"We're only getting about 20 percent of our usual business," Mohammad
said. "It's picking up gradually now and moral is going up, but we have
a long way to go."
There is some hope on the horizon, however.
Bob Bellan, coordinator for the WTC NJ Family Assistance Center in
Jersey City, said he plans to set up a centralized location for drivers
to apply for small business loans.
"The Red Cross and Salvation Army will be offering some services also
based on identified need," Bellan said. "Maybe we can help with a
month's rent or a car payment or insurance payment. We're focusing on
the drivers who live in New Jersey."
The challenge, said Lynch, is going to be to get drivers to apply for
the benefits.
"You're talking about people who never ever ask for help," Lynch said.
"These are the people who came to this country willing to plunk down
$35,000 to work at the bases, $25,000 for a car . . . all of this to
work seven days a week, 12 hours a week, solely because they didn't want
to ask for help."
========================
A day of understanding for Colorado Muslims
By Jon Libid
Special to The Denver Post
Monday, November 05, 2001 - A Muslim immigrant, a detention-camp
survivor and a former Colorado Supreme Court justice spoke up Sunday in
pursuit of a common goal: understanding.
"This is extremely important for us to do," said Kaled Murib, a native
Lebanese from a moderate Muslim family. "We should do this for all
different religions to prevent the widening gap of misinformation and to
increase tolerance."
Murib learned firsthand about the challenges of diversity when he fell
for his wife-to-be, an American from a conservative Alabama family with
preachers on both sides. It took some effort, but now Murib and his wife
are preparing to celebrate their 20th wedding anniversary.
On Sunday, Murib and other speakers discussed the struggle for
understanding and acceptance facing Colorado's Muslims during a
presentation called "Understanding Islam," at the Teikyo-Loretto Heights
Auditorium.
The program featured two hours of musical presentations and a wide range
of speakers, from former Colorado Supreme Court Justice Gregory Kellam
Scott to Bill Hosokawa, a U.S. citizen of Japanese ancestry who was
interned during World War II.
"This is really a hand on the shoulders of our Muslim neighbors," said
organizer Trip Mackintosh of the Holland and Hart law firm. "This is
education and the product of education is tolerance."
Mackintosh learned much about Muslims from a two-year stint in Morocco
when he was with the Peace Corps. He decided to start organizing the
event when Muslim friends began calling him the day after the Sept. 11
terrorist attacks with stories of harassment. Mackintosh said he hoped
the program would send a message to Colorado Muslims that any acts of
harassment are isolated incidents.
Hosokawa recalled that no such town meetings or dialogues were held
during 1942, when Japanese-Americans lost their citizenship rights "with
the stroke of a pen," referring to President Franklin D. Roosevelt's
order to intern "all persons of Japanese ancestry, alien or non-alien."
"What is a non-alien? A citizen," Hosokawa said. "I was a citizen, but
the next day I was a non-alien."
Hosokawa said he was delighted that nearly 200 people attended but was
"saddened that a meeting of this kind is necessary."
Skip Tinnell of Denver said he knew quite a bit about Islam and attended
to gain strength, peace and understanding.
"I was just glad to see that something local was being done to foster
dialogue," Tinnell said.
Mackintosh's daughter, Terra, a sophomore at Littleton High School,
closed the program by singing "God Bless America" in English and Arabic.
The crowd applauded the effort loudly, even though she admittedly
mispronounced some of the Arabic that she spent a week trying to learn.
"It's very important to bring us closer," said Rose Merheb, a Lebanese
audience member. "Hopefully we'll all live in peace as brothers and
sisters."
========================
Sept. 11 gives Jerseyans a sense of certainty about right to vote
11/07/01
BY BOB BRAUN
NEW JERSEY STAR-LEDGER
This is where they brought their new fears and their anger and their
determination and their sense of duty--to schools and town halls and
senior centers and firehouses.
To vote.
"Something horrific has happened to us here," says Donna Cabell, a
Republican poll watcher in Jersey City. "People are scared and they feel
they should do something about it. What else can most people do but
vote?"
Although participation was low throughout the state, those who did come
out talked about voting in the context of what happened exactly eight
weeks earlier--the attacks of Sept. 11.
It didn't matter where, not really. An urban school or a suburban
firehouse. Polling places were where people found community yesterday.
The chance to talk about what everyone has been talking about for two
months.
And to vote.
"People are paying more attention now to their connection to everyone
else, to what's happening around them," says Mary Ann Bori.
She has come to vote at the firehouse on Washington Road in Basking
Ridge. Bori has to pass a memorial that's been set up to honor lost New
York City firefighters.
And, of course, she is aware this town suffered at least 18 deaths from
the attacks on the World Trade Center. Her nephew works for Cantor
Fitzgerald and, while he was in England on Sept. 11, he lost co-workers,
friends, even members of his bridal party.
"How can you not vote at a time like this?" she wonders aloud.
The same sentiments are expressed by Hassan Awad from Jersey City.
"You've got to vote now--are you kidding?" says Awad, an ironworker who
says he worked at Ground Zero, cutting steel beams in the days after the
tragedy.
Awad is an American citizen, born here of Palestinian parents. "My
culture is Arab, my country is America--I'm proud of both. I want to see
this country strong and united and everyone should be out here voting."
He's outside P.S. 11, the Martin Luther King School, in downtown Jersey
City. There with his friend, David Francis, an American of Egyptian
descent. Sure, they've heard comments, even some threats, but they
ignore them.
"Hey, I get more grief from some Arab neighbors," says Awad, gesturing
toward his left ear, which bears a diamond-studded earring. "You know
how many Palestinians wear a diamond earring? Not many. I'm a black
sheep to them. I'm too American."
As the day wore on, poll workers and party challengers said they
believed the events of Sept. 11 had brought some people to the polls who
might not normally turn out for statewide elections.
"People do want to get out, they want to show themselves," says Gisela
Hamm of New Providence. "They don't want to feel isolated."
This was something of an occasion for Hamm, who came to this country
from her native Germany in 1961. She didn't become a citizen until May
and this was her first opportunity to vote in an American election.
"This is how you show you are an American," says Hamm.
Talk about what happened Sept. 11 was far more evident than political
discussions at the polling places. Candidates and issues didn't seem to
matter much--especially in communities hard hit by casualties.
Communities aware of what happened to their neighbors.
"I've been sitting here for hours wondering whether anybody here lost
someone," says Judy Verheian, a Democratic challenger in Jersey City,
scanning her list of registered voters. "I think some people have."
She talks about being an eyewitness to both planes hitting the towers,
something she saw when she was walking out of a supermarket near the
Jersey City riverfront.
"I still see it, all the time," she says, her eyes welling with tears.
In Basking Ridge, poll worker Roy Farnham, says he noticed something
odd. People coming in, asking whether this person or that had been in to
vote. People expressing concern about families they knew who were caught
up in the tragedy.
"It's like everyone knew each other, even when you know they didn't."
There's also a special seriousness now, according to some voters. Anne
Britt of Summit, usually an ardent Democrat, says partisan differences
don't seem so important.
"I don't think there should be any automatic voting anymore," she says,
as she leaves the Summit Middle School. "What happened to us, to all of
us, means we should look beyond party label. Look at what's important."
And what seemed very important yesterday was making a statement about
being an American and doing what Americans have long been told they
should do.
"We love this country," says Adel Mikhail, who emigrated from Egypt 32
years ago and lives in Jersey City. He came with his wife, Nour, also an
Egyptian immigrant. They talk about the funerals they attended at their
local Coptic Christian Church, funerals for members of their community
killed Sept. 11.
"We cried for our friends," says Adel. "We cried for our country. Today,
it is the time to do what we should do for our country."
To vote.
======================
News briefs from Southern California
ASSOCIATED PRESS
November 6, 2001
MONTEBELLO - Citizenship applications have soared since the terrorist
attacks on America.
The Montebello-based Mexican American Opportunity Foundation, a
nonprofit organization that helps immigrants become U.S. citizens, said
it has been inundated with new applicants, many of them swept up in
post-Sept. 11 patriotism.
Applications for citizenship doubled in the first weeks after the
terrorist attacks with 160 applications submitted in September.
"For some it's convenience; for others it's fear that they're going to
get stopped because, let's face it, Latinos look like Muslims," said
Tony Cervantes, director of naturalization services for the foundation.
"And for some it's patriotic spirit," Cervantes said. "They just get
caught up in it. There's a reduction in Mexican flags being waved around
homes. The American flag is now the flag. People are caught up in that
spirit and want to show it."
The number of naturalization applications filed with the Immigration and
Naturalization Service has not increased since Sept. 11, INS spokesman
Anthony Lew said. But immigrants contact groups like the foundation
first and those applicants have yet to formally apply.
"Even if the (foundation) has seen a marked and dramatic increase, it
will be a while till we see them," Lew said.
==========================
Area Muslims say it's time to join together, speak out
By Janet I. Tu
Seattle Times staff reporter
Tariq Panni had never been much for political involvement.
The 51-year-old Muslim had a full life, working as a mortgage broker in
Bellevue, coming home to his wife and two children, and hiking,
bird-watching and playing classical guitar on weekends.
The closest he had come to political involvement was trying to gain
recognition for problems facing the garment-importing industry in
Bangladesh, where he is from.
All that changed Sept. 11. Panni realized he could not continue living
his insular life.
Since then, he has spoken on and organized a panel for a radio talk
show, met with government leaders and joined activist groups.
"I think a lot of us have been content to be basically invisible in some
respects," he said. "Muslims have sometimes been inadvertently
demonized" in America and not drawing attention seemed the safest thing
to do. But since Sept. 11, he said, "I think it's important for us not
to hide anymore, to speak out."
Like Panni, other local Muslims who have not been much of a political
force are suddenly making themselves into one. Spurred by incidences of
hate crimes and racial profiling - airline pilots kicking passengers off
planes if they look Muslim or Middle Eastern, for example - they are
writing letters to government leaders, making speeches, keeping each
other informed, meeting with politicians, organizing community workshops
and educating the public.
"To survive in this country, any group has to have a political profile,"
said Jeff Siddiqui, a spokesman for the loosely formed Muslim Community
of the Greater Seattle Area. "We have to develop a political profile.
Starting right now."
It hasn't been easy. The 35,000 to 40,000 Muslims in Western Washington
are scattered from Bellingham to Vancouver, Wash., with most
concentrated between Marysville and Tacoma. They come from many
countries - India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Somalia,
for instance - where for many, political involvement was dangerous and
distrust of government rampant.
And there's a wide range of age and experience with life in America
among local Muslims - from first- to third-generation to immigrants. But
after Sept. 11, many felt an urgent need to organize, to educate the
public about Islam and to protest what they say is discrimination and
the loss of their civil rights.
For the first time, nine mosques and Muslim groups in the Puget Sound
area have come together to sign letters to government leaders, asking
them to condemn the Federal Aviation Administration, the Transportation
Department and airlines for letting pilots remove from those who appear
Muslim.
The Muslim Community of the Greater Seattle Area and the University of
Washington's Arab Student Union have teamed up with the World Affairs
Council to present a series of open lectures, featuring Muslim speakers
talking about Islamic perspectives on topics such as terrorism and peace
and U.S. policies in the Muslim world.
Local Muslim groups are organizing meetings with government leaders such
as U.S. Reps. Jay Inslee and Adam Smith, both of whom agreed to write
letters expressing concern over possible discriminatory policies
instituted by airlines.
"Many Muslim Americans didn't think of themselves as anything other than
American," said Rizwan Samad, acting president of the American Muslim
Alliance's local chapter. "But now people are targeting them, and that
makes more Muslim Americans get involved. After Sept. 11, everyone
wanted to get involved, even the people who didn't want to get involved
in political issues before."
The local arm of the American Muslim Alliance, a nationwide political
group, was formed about a year ago; before Sept. 11, it had only 30 or
so active members.
When the alliance arranged for meetings with government leaders, about
10 people would attend. Since Sept. 11, similar events have drawn about
70 to 100 people each time.
Siddiqui, a 50-year-old real-estate agent from Lynnwood, is now speaking
to groups an average of once a day. Previously, he averaged about one
group a quarter.
It's important for local Muslims to speak out, loudly and often, he
said.
"Mosques are coming together to agree we cannot just sit there and
watch," Siddiqui said. "We've looked at the Japanese-American example.
We've seen what keeping a low profile did for them."
Nationwide, too, Muslims are organizing more workshops, open houses and
community forums, said Ibrahim Hooper of the Council on American-Islamic
Relations, an advocacy group based in Washington, D.C.
For Ambareen, a 29-year-old stay-at-home mom from Kirkland who declined
to give her last name, her most political act was voting. Now, she has
begun to speak to churches and other groups, especially about Muslim
women.
"What's really motivated me to go out and make myself known is the
negative reporting of Muslims in the media, how Islam has become
synonymous with the word 'terrorism,' " she said. "Muslim women are
perceived so negatively here because the coverage has been about the
Taliban beating up on women there. That's not how women are in most of
the Muslim countries."
Panni, the mortgage broker from Bellevue, organized a panel, including
himself, that spoke on Dave Ross' radio show on KIRO. He was spurred to
action after Ross had asked on an earlier show why more Muslims weren't
speaking out and condemning extremism.
He also spoke up at a community forum featuring U.S. Rep. Jim McDermott
and then reported on the meeting to other Bangladeshi-American and
Muslim friends.
The group keeps in touch by e-mail and phone, keeping each other
informed about community events - which they didn't used to do.
He's participating in the Asian Pacific Islander Coalition, an umbrella
organization that serves as an advocate for the rights of Asian Pacific
Americans and has shown support for Muslims, Arab Americans and South
Asian Americans since the terrorist attacks.
In a way, Panni says, "this is very good for Muslim Americans. I'm by no
means the only Muslim American who was keeping a low profile. This will
force Muslim Americans to reach out more, to look at themselves more
closely, be a little more clear that we're here in America to enjoy what
America has to offer and what it means to be good Americans."
Janet I. Tu can be reached at 206-464-2272 or jtu@seattletimes.com.
Copyright C 2001 The Seattle Times Company
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