Dr. Nooshin Razani
By, Dr. Nooshin Razani
I guess you could call me a Muslim-American, although under normal circumstances I’d deny it — or any other label. If I had to be summed up in a word, I’d prefer mother, pediatrician, or if I was lucky enough, artist. As such, I tried hard to ignore the Ground Zero Muslim mosque-or-is-it-a-community-center thing. Like many of my peers, I’m currently obsessed with sustainability: my to do list includes a neighborhood garden, standing up for green and child-friendly spaces in my city. But since everyone seems to be all up in arms about the “M” word, let me set aside the pressing environmental concerns of my generation, and address why I proudly slip on the “M” identity on today.
I come from family that is very integrated into the US. We’ve been here for three generations (my dad and uncle came here at age 18, 1954 or so), and in our large extended family have cross cultural and cross racial marriages, members who are proud of their LGTB sexual orientations, a member of the US National Guard and US Army, as well as people who are active in their local community based Muslim organizations. I am not writing this essay to have you write me off as somehow different than “those other” Muslims on TV because my family is integrated and service oriented, but to argue that the very fact that we have had the opportunity to integrate into society in a very authentic way, the fact that we have been able to serve our neighbors and country is exactly what has made my group of quirky “Muslim-Americans” some of the best Americans there are. And we are not the only ones.
Some of my favorite childhood memories are of soup kitchens. There is really nothing like working in a soup kitchen with a multi-racial, multi-ethnic group of people and feeling like you are part of something very special that no other place in the world can offer, something inclusive. These memories balance the others, the memories of the shadow side of growing up as an “other”, and there are plenty of those. A short list of examples: in elementary school our windows were smashed with bricks and our tires were slashed, my hair was pulled and insults hurled. Now that I am raising young children here, I deal with constant reminders that we are considered different, including one of the most hurtful discussions ever about how to celebrate the various holidays at their daycare last year. It left me wanting to scream: hey! please don’t worry about us! we celebrate anything and everything as long as we can dance a little and eat a lot! Most revealing though, is the refusal to let the unacknowledged wall of stereotypes people have about me drop even after my brother, a medic in the US army, died while serving in the Iraq war in 2004. How he died and the circumstances around the war are very painful and a topic for a different essay. But did this tragedy get my family any more acceptance as Americans? Well, a few months after his death, I found out that I did not have Thanksgiving off from my work. When I asked why, I was told they “assumed I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving.” That was an interesting statement. What was it exactly about me that made them think that I wouldn’t celebrate Thanksgiving? Was it the Michael Jackson I blare on the way to work, the fact that my biggest regret in life is that I never learned how to Krump, or that my brother just died serving in the Army?
My intention is not to complain, but to emphasize that exclusion creates separation. Separation is the problem. Exclusion is not an effective means of ANYTHING.
If there is a Muslim community center near Ground Zero, that means that Muslim people will have a space to serve — their own community and those around them. Let young immigrants work in soup kitchens, let them learn about community activism, and the many American leaders who have caused change from the ground up. Let them experience the hard work that goes into caring enough about the U.S. to work with your neighbors to impact change. That really is the beauty of the United States, and I am hopeful that Muslim people will not be excluded from the right to be part of the solutions to this nation’s problems. Most importantly, allow Muslim-Americans to serve at or near the site of one of the most painful tragedies for all of us. Please don’t forget that Muslim-Americans were killed in the twin towers as well as passengers in the airplanes. Please don’t underestimate the level of shame many Muslims have that a horrendous act was carried out in our name. Allow Muslim-Americans to serve.
Today I also took time to dig up a few essays I had written in 2008 during the presidential election, and print them here. If you don’t have time to read them, here is an excerpt from my experience at President Obama’s inauguration:
The one thing I did hear was Obama including me in his definition of America. That moment, despite being born and raised in America, despite having a brother who gave his life in service to this country, at this moment, this Iranian-American, non-religious Muslim finally felt embraced by America. I suddenly felt the peace that comes with knowing you are where you belong. I did not feel alone because I was in the company of my brothers and sisters who would accompany me through the rough times ahead.
Essay 1: Sharing tears. Written Fall 2008
An Iranian boy dies in Iraq while serving in the U.S. army. What an amazing world we live in that allowed for a story like that. I take you back 4 years, midmorning at a Forest Lawn funeral home in Los Angeles. 300 overdressed, over-perfumed Iranian-Americans in black, a smattering of North Hollywood High School graduates, my multiracial extended family, and an impressive set of young men in Army gear. We hear from the Koran, knowing Omead would have preferred Hendrix or Cobain. We walk up a hill, carrying Omead side by side. Omead’s various families converge for this horrible task. We walk to the top of the hill, the Persian section, with “the best view” my dad points out. It is here that with disbelief, we hand him to the young men in uniform, carrying guns. In any other context this confrontation would be the scariest thing an Iranian-American could imagine. But here we are, a shared circumstance. With helpless respect for the honor Omead deserves, we observe the flawless, precise military ceremony in burying our son. So different than the passionate chaos of Persian grief. Then — the Quiet of TAPS — the violence of the gunshot salute, each shot piercing — noticing that tears are falling from military eyes. and finally, a release: — after handing my stepmother and father a flag and star in the place of their son, the commander embraces them. They, the men with guns and the Iranian immigrants, they hug. Each one of us. Our tears smear into each other’s. My brother’s being blurred all kinds of lines between us/them/them/us. In this painful moment, Omead helped me glimpse the irony. We — Iranians and Americans — and actually all the moderates in the world — have a shared struggle. At this time, we face two possible futures — one where we share tears while burying each other’s children, or one where we watch our children grow to share a world of tolerance. It is a struggle between the forces of fanaticism that will have our civilizations clash, and the forces of reason/ tolerance that will have us co-exist. The United States has the ball in its court this election. Dear moderate, reasonable people of the US. Please roll up your sleeves, drop everything, and work on getting reason back into the White House. Barack Obama has said that this election is about issues and not ideology. He is wrong. This election is absolutely about ideology. It is about changing the Mickey-Mouse delusions of the world we are currently fed into the real nuanced world we must start understanding. It is about sending a signal that we don’t tolerate fanaticism or fear mongering at home. It is about screaming out-loud that we don’t believe the world should or will end any time soon. Putting reason back into power is also the best way to help Iranians to do the same in their parallel struggle. It doesn’t stop with the election, because if we are not vigilant our leaders will disappoint us. Those of us who have suffered at the hand of fanatics, we have had enough, and we now stand fearless in defense of reason. Let us stand together, steadfast, and for as long as it takes, in defense of the future.
Essay 2: Sharing an inauguration, written November 2008
I insisted on wearing a skirt to celebrate our nation’s new presidency. I nudged and winked at mother nature, assuming she’d protect me from the cold so I could rise to the most formal occasion of my lifetime. Was I schooled. I woke at 3 am that inauguration morning, boarded the first running metro train at 4 am, and burst out of the train triumphant, no, downright arrogant about my self disciplined resolve. I looked forward to the front and center experience I surely deserved at this, the most important event of my era. Was I schooled. Was I humbled. This is the story of a crowd kicking and screaming for individuality, but being forced to be one. This is the story of being absolutely vulnerable to the people around you. This is the story of being disappointed despite impeccable planning. This is the story of realizing the only thing you control during the ridiculousness of this life is your attitude. My friend/sister, her 4 year old son, her parents, and 10,000 others accompanied me during this journey through a tunnel. As we ascended the metro escalator at 4:30 am that morning we were stunned but excited to see masses already in front of us. There were new blockades in place since we had planned our route the day before, so we were disoriented. We asked any policeman we saw, all volunteers from other states, how we could get to the National Mall. Each gave a contradicting answer, only a few gave the welcome and honest “I don’t know.” So anxious that we would not lose our place, we followed the stream of people entering an underground passage. The sign with an arrow pointing into it, saying “National Mall” seemed to make this route a safe bet. Upbeat and ambitious, we were on our toes. Competing diligently over inches of space in order to move forward in line, we soon noticed a wise looking young African-American man with a green blanket draped around him, a beard, serene eyes, and a relaxed face. He wasn’t moving at all. As I became indignant towards people pushing ahead, he said, “Let them go. There is no where to go. This is it.” Turns out we stood in a line leading to a security check point. The check point would not be opening until 7 or 8 am. Let it go. There was no where to go. This was it for the next 3 or 4 hours. As we settled in to our spot, rumors started circulating that this line led to the parade seating and not to the National Mall. Turning to gauge the possibility of an escape we looked behind us to see waves and waves of humanity extending into the horizon behind us with new hoards coming out of the metro each second. There was no way out. Let it go. There was no where to go. This was it. Over the next three hours in the relentless pre-dawn cold, I sang and laughed with, complained to and became angry with, rationalized optimism with, bonded over the uselessness of chemical heating pads with, debated “are toes really necessary anyways?” with a multicultural crowd of strangers. The goal — do whatever necessary to keep hope. Highlights included breaking into song with thousands of other people. “Lean on me” was the most moving. “Obama, Obama” was the most frequent. Don’t get me wrong, I doubted. First of all, I fretted, whose in charge here? No secret service, no police, no military. Isn’t this the most anticipated event of the year? Where is the police state I thought monitored the citizenry’s every move? Accustomed to an infrastructure to enforce the peace and justice, we were now only as safe as each of us chose to be. Second of all, every so often a surge of pressure would ripple through the crowd, and I would be pushed into the person in front of me. Occasionally someone would quietly mutter “Oh no, remember the person crushed at Walmart?,” then quickly pretend they didn’t say it. It became clear that the only reason those of us at the front of this tunnel were not crushed was because of the composure and patience of each of the 10,000 people behind us. The heartbreak came at about 6:30 am when a cell phone streaming CNN live was passed around. To our horror we watched the National Mall, already more than three quarters full, continue to fill quickly. We quietly realized that we may experience history in a tunnel, freezing and forgotten. At about 7:30 am, a woman came out with a loud speaker and muffled some Charlie-Brown style incoherence. Shortly after that the March of the Penguins started. Imagine March of the Penguins, and you will understand exactly what we experienced. We were a mass of humanity inching forward able only to see the person in front of us, not knowing if we were being led off a cliff. Some comic relief came when a man shouted not to take it personally if you feel hands on your booty (the women in the crowd laughing while rolling their eyes). Several of us created a safety zone around my friend’s 4 year old son with our bodies, and yelled “be peace,” “slow,” “no pushing” as the larger crowd lurched forward when they figured out that the doors had opened. At this point, I was only asking God to help me get out of this situation, and did not care whether I saw an inauguration. We cleared security screaming and hugging only to realize that Pennsylvania Avenue was closed because of the parade and we were on the wrong side of it. I will spare you the freezing and frustrating hours that followed, but will tell you that by the time Aretha sang, I was arriving on the National Mall. I was probably the farthest person from the stage, standing by the last rows of porta potties, and by this time separated from m friend and her family. When I arrived at the Mall, I cried quietly and sincerely. I don’t remember any of the speeches because, at this point, this wasn’t about the people on the screen but the people next to me. The one thing I did hear was Obama including me in his definition of America. That moment, despite being born and raised in America, despite having a brother who gave his life in service to this country, at this moment, this Iranian-American, non-religious Muslim finally felt embraced by America. I suddenly felt the peace that comes with knowing you are where you belong. I did not feel alone because I was in the company of my brothers and sisters who would accompany me through the rough times ahead. So, with humility about the forces we do not control, here we are. Here is the ridiculousness of our circumstance. Here is the hope that we will get through it with song, laughter, long lasting bonds, and without trampling the most vulnerable amongst us.
- Dr. Nooshin Razani was born at Cedars Sinai, raised in West LA and attended Buckley.
