It was a balmy Tuesday morning. There was no hint of fall and the weather was still warm and humid. I was driving to work half listening to National Public Radio as usual when the newsperson announced that a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center. My attention drifted back to the radio as I assumed that some amateur pilot had veered his Cessna off course and ended up crashing it into the tower. A few minutes later when the news about the second plane came on, I realized, like most people, that something was very wrong.
I had heard people talking about how they remembered exactly where they were and what they were doing when they heard that President Kennedy had been shot. For people my age, around 8.45 am, September 11, 2001 was such a moment, one that will always remain etched in my memory.
I drove on to work where the television was on in the waiting room as always. We could all see the view from across the river with a plume of smoke rising from the towers. A short time later, the towers went down one by one. My first thoughts were for my younger brother, single and studying in San Francisco and my mother who had come to visit me in the US but had gone to Chicago for a few days to meet a friend. No one knew what was going on. News sites on the internet were jammed as everyone tried to find out what was happening.
Rumors started flying soon, though. Someone said there had been more attacks on oil refineries and nuclear installations. Someone else said gas was rising in price by the minute and would run out in hours. It was another two days before we got a hold of my brother and several more days after that my mother was able to get a flight home to me, shaken and tearful. My father asked me several years later what it was like. I told him it was the most horrific day of my life. Worst of all was the uncertainty, the not knowing what was going on and what was next. We were Americans, damn it, we were always in control. We knew how the world worked because we were the ones who made it work; On that day, for a while, we were not in control and it was a frightening feeling.
Soon after, the news came out that the attacks had been carried out by Muslim fundamentalists. American flags and wreaths made of stars and striped started appearing on doorways and in lawns. I resisted this for a while not because I agreed with the attacks or condoned them in any way but because I didn’t think that flag waving jingoism was the correct response. After a few days, though, when my house was the only one that did not have a wreath on the door or a flag in the yard, I felt uncomfortably isolated.
I had also been reading the reports of racist attacks on Arab/Muslim or even ‘Arab appearing’ men. One mob even killed a Sikh because they didn’t know any better. There were reports of arrests, detentions and interrogation. For the first, and last, time in my life, I felt afraid of being in America. I thought about my wife and infant son and what they would do if the FBI knocked on the door one night and took me away. One day, I decided I needed to take the bulls-eye off my front door and went to get a wreath.
I rationalized it to myself. I wasn’t agreeing with the bigots and racists attacking Muslims, Arabs and non-whites in big cities or supporting the war-mongers whipping up the nation into a frenzy of hostile patriotism. I was expressing my sorrow at the thousands of innocents who lost their lives on that Tuesday morning. I went to the local K-Mart expecting to walk in and pick up a wreath. No such luck, as every shelf was marked ‘sold out’. I made my way to the back and at the customer service center, someone agreed to make me one. As he worked, I could feel him eyeing me intently. Finally, he asked “Where are you from?” I stiffened perceptibly as I answered “Pakistan”. He smiled and told me his grandparents were from Lebanon. He then asked if my family was alright or if anyone had harassed us.
This scene was repeated numerous times in the subsequent weeks. Neither my wife nor I were ever subjected to any harassment yet were asked many times by American friends, co-workers and many times strangers in grocery stores, gas stations and book stores if we were OK. It was this feeling of being in a place which recognized us as different and respected us for it, where human rights were more than just platitudes mouthed by politicians that carried me through the ensuing months and years. The war in Afghanistan commenced soon after. “Guantanamo” became a house hold name along with “Patriot Act”, “Special Registration” and other choice procedures devised especially for us “aliens”. Being a rabid science-fiction fan, the irony was not lost on me.
My mother eventually went home to Pakistan swearing never to come back to America (although she eventually did). My brother went through an unpleasant episode where he was taken off a flight and questioned by the FBI because his name resembled someone they were looking for. He finished his education and also went home swearing never to return (and he hasn’t). I kept on taking my annual trips to Pakistan, patiently enduring the fingerprinting at airports, the picture taking, the questions, the trips to the local immigration office. To their credit, they were brusque but never rude.
Since that terrible September day, I have had passionate discussions about it, with friends and colleagues, family member and acquaintances, in person, in print and online. I have tried to walk the fine line between criticizing America for its ham-handed response to the specter of fundamentalism of any type and praising it for the healthy and open society that it still is.
At home, in Pakistan, where chauvinist nationalism, rabid anti-Semitism, anti-Americanism and fundamentalist Islam have melded together to create a particularly noxious stew, it is difficult to get people to engage in a constructive conversation about problems and solutions. In addition, by virtue of having lived in America for so long, I am now American, the term being used with humorous derision. My opinions are thus contaminated by my ‘American-ness”.
Here in the US, the news media have painted Pakistan and its surrounding areas as some sort of latter day Iwo Jima with people being killed on the street and bombs exploding all round. My trips to Pakistan usually elicit anxious queries from colleagues about whether I will be safe. While Pakistan has had its share of unrest, life goes on, people go to work, come home, visit their families and carry on with their lives.
It is actually much easier to criticize, analyze and discuss American policies here in the US than anywhere else. Abroad, the discussions quickly become tainted with laundry lists of America’s real or imagined crimes and misdemeanors.
My family, with my three American born children, is now inextricably linked to this great country, which welcomes outsiders, rewards hard work and encourages people to dream big dreams, this country where people may not understand your accent but will always respect your accomplishments, where they may not understand your religion but will defend your right to practice it as you see fit, this country that asks you to always have an opinion and to defend it without fear of reprisals or retribution.
Perhaps one day, my fellow citizens in Pakistan will be able to claim as much.
The author is a Psychiatrist, practicing at Mid-South Health Systems in Jonesboro, AR.
First published in the daily “Jonesboro Sun”, April 12,2008.
