Traveling with ‘them’

The bus was just about to leave Manhattan’s Port Authority bus station when a final passenger hopped in. He staggered inside, thanking the driver for opening the door at the last minute, and strolled down the aisle looking for a free seat. He skipped the first (and nearly only) one he saw, kept walking down and sat himself beside a middle-aged woman holding a noisy toddler. From my seat in the middle of the bus, I had observed the scene, and two very similar previous ones, where other passengers had also skipped that empty seat at the front of the bus in favor of other ones further down.

That free empty seat was beside a man in a blue shalwar-kamise (traditional Pakistani or Afghan outfit), a turban and a long beard. I looked around the bus: that seat next to him was the only empty one, as the driver pulled out to start the 40 minute trip to a nearby suburb.

The clientele of this bus was a mix of people from different colors, languages and ages. Words such as «porque» or «amigo» floated in the air, as a noisy Latino family started quarreling over whom would get the window seats. It hit me. I also somewhat unconsciously avoided the unfortunate seat. Has Islam phobia reached the level where even I did not want to sit next to a Taliban-looking man? Or has the mere terror of being remotely associated with any «suspicious-looking» person pushed me away from him? And why did I instinctively label that man as «suspicious»?

As I sunk into my seat, a wave of embarrassment engulfed me: I live in the Middle East. I am a Muslim Arab. I have studied Middle East politics and I am a shrewd critic of how the tragic 9/11 terrorist attacks have been used and abused to alienate my region, my people, and my religion. Yet, my knee-jerk reaction as I entered the bus that sunny Saturday was to stay as far away as possible from a man whose religious inclinations could not be mistaken. How did that man feel, I wondered, and did he notice that the seat next to him was the only empty seat on the bus?

He could have been heading home from a hard day’s work in Manhattan. He could be going home to his family, happy to spend an evening with his children. He could also be plotting to rob a bank. Or even to detonate that same bus we were riding. Before 9/11, this last option did not really cross many minds. After 9/11 the mere sight of a Muslim-looking male could send shivers down the spines of many people who totally fed on the clichés created around Islam and the Arabs in general (regardless of whether this man looked more Pakistani than Iraqi or Syrian).

Away from the chapters and articles that have endlessly argued for or against Islam, for or against tolerance, for or against the East vs. the West dichotomy, the scene that day was particularly striking for me because of the seemingly instinctive and spontaneous reactions of people around that man. And this is precisely the tragic outcome of the war against terror, or of the culture it has engendered worldwide. Many people, especially in the West, now instinctively avoid the Muslim other, while many in the East think of «foreigners» (read Americans or Europeans) as crusaders on a mission to abolish Islam. This is a wide gap, as fictitious as it is, that will take many years if not generations to vanish, despite conferences and lofty statements ex-changed among hundreds of conferees meeting in Doha or Amsterdam.

For all those who are not part of the «East meets West» conference scene, demonizing the other is much easier than trying to understand him or her. Believing that «the other» does not deserve our tolerance makes us stop thinking of him/her as a human being. Putting the «other» in a frame, created by few true stories but also many fake ones, is easier, to our minds, than making the effort (sometimes a huge one) to understand and then respect or criticize him/her but not automatically hate. Seeing that the other could have similar values to ours, could be as human as us, seems to no longer an option.

I myself was instinctively aware of «the other» during my trip to the US. I had not been to the US after 9/11, mostly because I had no business there, but partly because of all the horror stories I had heard from fellow Arabs who had been subjected to interrogation in American airports upon arrival and on departure.

Meanwhile, in my job I followed the development of the post 9/11 debates, on the evolution of the Arab/Muslim sentiment vis-à-vis America, and vice-versa. I had read hundreds of articles and analyses, listened to numerous opinions about the East and the West, and attended tens of fora and conferences that attempted to bridge the illusory gap between both. All this, and the images from Afghanistan, Iraq and Palestine haunted me and fellow viewers of Al-Jazeera and other TV networks as my plane touched down in JFK, wondering how «the other» was going to welcome me. I was prepared to antagonize «the other».

My experience did not justify my fears. This is not to say that a red carpet was rolled out for me, but to say that I did not feel that I have been singled out at any time because of the way I look, dress or when I identify myself as a Syrian or Arab. However, once you associate yourself with any of the ‘identifiable’ insignia such as a turban, a beard, or a military uniform, normality disappears and «us versus them» takes over.

It is indeed sad that in the age of the global community and satellite TVs, it has become harder to acquire a broader mind and more tolerance towards ‘the other’—any other—whether dressed differently or speaks with an accent, whether she covers her hair or he wears a cross. It is high time to separate normal people, who are the majority, from those who claim they are acting on their behalf and wreak havoc. Not all Americans are Rumsfeld, nor are all Muslims a Bin Laden. Tamara al-Rifai is Syrian who is based in Cairo and works for an international agency in humanitarian, media, and developmental issues.