Sheila
Sonnenschein's perspective:
I am a first-generation
American. My father was born in Varaklani, Latvia, and came to the United States in 1938 when he was a
year old. Not knowing a word of English and only speaking Yiddish, my bubbie and zayde traveled with my dad and his brothers
by train through Latvia, Lithuania, Poland and Germany before boarding the Queen
Mary in Chourbourg, France.
Although Bubbie
and Zayde left a successful business, they wanted the opportunities America had to offer. After landing
in New York, they reunited with my bubbie's brother, their sponsor, in Nebraska. My great-uncle set them
up with work, food, clothing and a place to live. They eventually moved to a small town - Tecumseh, Neb. - where my father and
his family were the only Jews.
My mom, who was
born in Kansas City, met my dad during their college years. They married and ultimately moved to Kansas City, where I was born.
Since my parents
never had formal Hebrew school training (girls usually didn't go to Hebrew or religious school back then, and my dad grew
up with no formal Jewish education available), they thought it was important that their daughters have a strong Judaic background.
Although I lived down the street from the public elementary school, my parents sent me to the Hyman Brand Hebrew Academy, the only Jewish day school
in the Kansas City area. I learned Hebrew, Torah and prayer. I learned about Israel and had an immense love
for my Jewish homeland.
Although my parents
wanted me to have a strong Judaic background, they also wanted me to know people in my neighborhood and secular community.
I belonged to the local Girl Scout troop, where I was the only Jewish girl. I didn't feel like I always fit in, but the girls
and the troop leaders tried to respect religious holidays and my kosher dietary needs. I had friends of different faiths and
color who lived on my block. We would play kickball in the street and have slumber parties at each other's houses. After seventh
grade, I transferred to public school. I was tempted to go to dances or sporting events on Friday evenings. Sometimes I went,
but for the most part, my parents didn't want me going out as the Sabbath was beginning.
It was also ingrained
upon me to marry someone Jewish. My mom would tell me not to date someone who wasn't Jewish; and, if I did, the likelihood
of marrying outside our faith would be greater.
I followed my
mom's advice. During our married life, my husband and I have joined Jewish congregations in every city in which we have lived
- Arlington, Va., St. Louis, and now in Kansas City. We send our children to the Hyman Brand Hebrew Academy, and we keep a kosher
home. We teach our children that we are the link from one generation to the next; what we are practicing now has been part
of Jewish tradition for thousands of years. We don't want the chain to be broken.
When Sept. 11
hit, my first reaction, other than being extremely sad and forlorn was, "Now the world will know how Israel has felt." Up until this
point, the United States would tell Israel to show restraint when
a suicide bomber would kill innocent people in a café or on a public bus.
As a writer, I
wanted to write a column about my experiences in Israel - having my purse searched just to go into
a shopping mall or having my suitcases opened at the airport, all to ensure safety against those who want to kill. I wanted
to write about what it's like to grow up knowing that 6 million of your own people were tortured and gassed to death. But,
I felt scared. Would I be a target? Would my family?
My insecurities
brought back memories of my second son, who always wears a kipah. He was the only Jewish kid on his baseball team in St. Louis. After practice one day,
he came to the car all choked up because the other boys were teasing him about his kipah. He said that he didn't feel like
wearing it anymore. As a mother, I felt pain. I tried to explain to him what discrimination was. We talked about the fact
that people, who aren't educated about certain things, might harass others for their differences. At the next practice, our
son told his teammates what a kipah was and why he wore it. They didn't bother him about it again.
Since Mahnaz has
been publicly educating people about her faith and advocating peace, we have opened a dialogue between the two of us. And
although we are adherents of religions that have been at odds with each other ever since Ishmael and Isaac were born, we are
fortunate to live in the United States where we can talk to each other. I hope to continue.
Sheila Sonnenschein
moved back to Overland Park, Kan., two years ago with her husband and four children. While living in St. Louis, she was an educator with
Our Jewish Home. She, along with her husband, co-founded the B'nai Amoona Mitzvah Garden in St. Louis. Sonnenschein is a free-lance
writer and has had articles published in The Kansas City Star, The Kansas City Jewish Chronicle and The Suburban Journal in
St. Louis.
Mahnaz Shabbir's perspective:
I always thought
of my parents as pioneers. They may not have crossed the country in a covered wagon, but they did come to the United States looking for the American
dream. My father came to the U.S. in 1952. Twenty years old, already married with
a baby boy, he left all he knew, all the people he loved, to go to a strange, faraway land. No one greeted him as his boat
landed in New York. With his Indian-trained English, he eventually found himself in Philadelphia. It took him five years
to complete his education, after which he got a job and brought his family over to join him in their new home. A couple years
later, I was born, and we moved to Willingboro, N.J.
At the time, I
never thought about being a first-generation American. I played kickball with Danny Roach and climbed the weeping willow tree
with Andy Bartle. I gave up tomboy activities when I was able to cross the street and became friends with Paula Kleeman. We
sang Monkees songs and played with Spirograph. She taught me the dreidel song; I taught her a few Indian words. We were in
the same Girl Scout troop. We were best friends while the 1967 Middle East war played on in the background.
I always attended
public schools - there weren't any Islamic schools in town. My religious education came from my parents, grandmother and uncle.
During the fasting month of Ramadan, I still had to participate in gym classes and sit in the cafeteria while everyone else
ate. No one gave me any special considerations. It never came into anyone's mind to ask for these things.
We moved to Appleton, Wis., during high school. The
kids in this sheltered town thought I was exotic and wanted to call me "Mona." Wanting to be liked, I eagerly accepted. One
day a friend called the house and asked my mom to speak to Mona. Overhearing the conversation, I quickly said the call was
for me. My mother's eyes got that not-so-pleasant look. I ended the phone call quickly, and my mother went into a lengthy
lecture about my name. It went something like this: "Mahnaz is your name. Do not ever think of changing your name. Be proud
of your name." That incident has stayed with me to this day, whenever someone asks for a nickname. Hearing my mother's voice,
I quickly say I do not have one.
It hasn't been
easy growing up Muslim in a western country. Muslim diet requires eating halal meat. Before the 1980s, it was either eat non-halal
meat or become a vegetarian. You could go out to a farm and slaughter your own meat, but who wanted to do that every Saturday
morning? During the last several years, halal meat has become readily available. Even so, it's hard to steer kids away from
the McDonald's Happy Meal and its lovely toys.
Another issue
was being a teen-ager in America. I wanted to hang out late with my friends, go to dances,
etc. Since these activities are against the Muslim faith, I wasn't allowed to do them. I still remember telling my parents
in teen-age frustration and anger; "I'm not going to treat my kids this way when I grow up."
Twenty-five years
later, I am experiencing the same issues as a mother of four boys. I hear my parents' voices as I bridge our faith to the
western world. It is a constant "conversation" in our household about sleepovers, pizza dances and staying out late. I thought
I was the "worst parent in the world" until I heard another parent who was dealing with the same issues. I found out the "worst
parent in the world" job was already taken.
The biggest challenge
being a Muslim in the western world came to the forefront with the events of Sept. 11. I was out of town on a business trip.
I prayed that the responsible parties were not Muslim. Unfortunately, they were identified as Muslims. My fear was for my
children. Will people treat them with malice? Painfully, I found out that both my older boys had experienced negative comments.
Can you imagine one 14-year-old telling another he was responsible for the terrorists' attacks?
Around the country,
numerous hate crimes were being reported, properties were destroyed, lives were taken and name-calling was rampant. My now-70-year-old
father, in his grief, asked without expecting an answer, "Where can we go now? I thought we could live and practice our faith
here. Now where can we go?" I assured my father we need not leave. This is our country, and we will get through this. Logically,
I said this. But emotionally, I, too, had many fears.
It's now been
seven months since that life-altering event. The world hasn't kept silent. The issues in Palestine and Israel have resurfaced. Too many
lives have been lost, physically and spiritually. As a mother, I asked myself, "What would I do if I were a mother in the
holy lands?" It is easy to say I would do a multitude of positive actions. But would I have the ability? Would I be brave?
Would I have hope?
I don't live in
the holy lands; I live in Stilwell, Kan. I can be in action here - and I am. I've also been on a radio talk show, television news, in the newspaper
several times and I continue to speak to various groups about my faith. This is what I can do as a pioneer after Sept. 11
and as a mother.
Mahnaz
Shabbir has lived in the Kansas City area for the last 21 years. She is the vice president
for strategic planning and business development at Carondelet Health, a Catholic health care system in Kansas City, Mo. Her article, "I am an
American Muslim Woman" appeared in The Kansas City Star.
Two mothers
will talk after film
Mahnaz
Shabbir and Sheila Sonnenschein met in a writing class at Johnson County Community College. Their friendship grew
after Sheila responded empathetically to an essay Mahnaz wrote about her feelings as an American Muslim woman after Sept.
11. After the kidnapping and murder of Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearl in Pakistan this year, Mahnaz helped
to organize an interfaith "prayer for peace" event. The two women plan to work together on future writing projects that advance
understanding and good will.
Sonnenschein and
Shabbir will be the guest speakers following the showing of two films that deal with Jewish and Muslim tensions as part of
the upcoming Halfway to Hollywood Film Festival. Kansas City Star columnist Louis Diuguid will moderate the discussion. The
two hour-long films are titled "Ramleh" (set in the Israeli sister city of Kansas City, Mo.) and "My Journey, My Islam." They show at
1:30 p.m. Sunday, May 12, at the Fine Arts Theater, 5909 Johnson Drive. Tickets will be available
at the door on the day of show, or they can be purchased in advance by calling (913) 383-8500 or by visiting the festival
Web site: www.halfwaytohollywood.org. | 
