I Am An American Muslim Woman

By Mahnaz Shabbir

October 20, 2001

“I am an American Muslim Woman”. These words put together are very powerful and symbolic for me. Words I would never have said out loud-yet unquestionably that is who I am.

Why would this be so difficult? Would you have difficulty saying that you were an American Christian Woman or an American Jewish Woman? Probably not. However, for most of my life, my identification as a first generation American Muslim has been a struggle.

I did not realize I was different until I was four years old when the kids in my nursery school carpool would make whooping noises (similar to the 1960’s television version of American Indians).  I would put my fingers in my ears and tell my fellow carpool mates to, “Go on, I don’t care”.  After awhile they would stop.  My dad would later tell me that I did a good job by not reacting. If I had, he said, they would just do it more.

When I started kindergarten, I realized I was different once more. My name was different and my skin color was different.  There was no negative connotation. Only that the teachers and kids would have difficulty saying my name.

My first negative experience came when I was in third grade and I started a new school wearing a new pair of eyeglasses. We were playing dodge ball.  Most of the kids did not know me. Somebody said, “Get the girl with the glasses”.  My heart sank. I remember going home and crying to my mother. She tried to comfort me by saying, “They didn’t know your name. That’s why they said, get the girl with the glasses”.  I believed her on the surface. Yet, I would wonder, “ They didn’t know my name? Why didn’t they know my name? Why did my parents give me that name? Why wasn’t it Susan, Cindy or Julie?” What’s in a name?

In sixth grade, an event occurred that altered my life. The Six-Day War between Israel and the Middle East countries had occurred.  My cousins had just immigrated from India that summer. Before that, I was the only non-white, non-black, non-Christian, non-Jewish student in school.  One of my cousins was only a few days older; we were in the same grade. Now there were two children with different names.

It was the month of Ramadan.  My cousin’s teacher wanted to know why he wasn’t eating. My cousin tried to explain Ramadan to him, but because his English was developing, he wasn’t able to explain it adequately it to the teacher.  Therefore, his teacher marched into my classroom and asked me to come up to the front.  I remember looking at my teacher. She didn’t say anything. I thought perhaps she would say something, but she didn’t.  I came up to the front of the room. My face feeling hot. I remember the teacher bending over me and demanding to know, “Why isn’t your cousin eating?”  I tried to explain Ramadan as best as a twelve year old could. I also wished my cousin didn’t go to my school. I wished I would disappear.  It was at that moment that a sentence was handed down to me.  A sentence that I would carry like the Scarlet Letter.  A sentence that said, “ I Am Different”.

Yes, I told my parents what had happened. My dad met with the principal and the teachers. Intellectually, I said, “My dad took care of them!”  However, only until 24 years later, I realized what that my sentence cost me. It cost me my silence, my identity.

I did whatever I could to blend in. However, my name and my skin color would always give me away. I would try to be the best student, the one the teachers would like.  I was a friend to all.  I would try to please everyone.  I remember someone telling me that they didn’t see me as being different. I felt I had succeeded.

As I grew into a teenager, my parents continued to instill our culture and beliefs. The Muslim faith does not allow for dating.  I wasn’t aloud to go to dances. I wasn’t allowed to sleep over my friends’ homes. I remember wishing that I wasn’t different. I remember wishing I had different parents. I remember wishing I wasn’t a Muslim.

College life was short lived. I got married to someone my parents introduced me to after my sophomore year. I finished my college, had our first child, and had my first professional job.  Through all of that, I would open myself to people only when I could trust them- only when I felt it was safe to disclose that I was different.  I remember one of my friends telling me that she was surprised that I was a lot of fun to be around.  I thought about her statement. Why was she surprised? Of course, its fun to be around me. Why hadn’t she seen it before now? I then saw the cost of my silence. The cost of hiding that I’m different. The cost of withholding my self-expression.

Over the next six years, I have shared myself. I’ve led interfaith prayer services. Given talks to schools, churches and hospitals.  I’ve been the MC for annual Ramadan Eid dinners where Muslims and non-Muslims celebrate the ending of the Muslim holy days. The hospital chaplains have called me twice to help them in their ministry as Muslim women were dying.  Muslim women I never knew when they were conscience. All of these incidents would never have occurred if I had not seen the cost of my sentence. My sentence that I was gloriously different.

Another incident-September 11, 2001. Oh, how I prayed, like many American Muslims prayed, do not let these people be Muslims. Nevertheless, they called themselves Muslims. Unfortunately, it happened. I was out of town. My fear was for my children. Will people treat them with malice? When I returned, I found out that both my older boys had experienced negative comments. I initially went back to that sixth grader. I wanted to hide. I was afraid. That lasted for three weeks. Fortunately, it will not take me another 24 years to see that cost. 

I recently agreed to participate in a public round table, “The Truth about Islam-Dispelling the Myths”. I will be participating with two other successful American Muslim Women sharing our thoughts.  I cannot say that I have lost my inhibitors, my concerns, and my fears. They are all there, but what is stronger is my identity of who I am and what I can contribute as someone who is different. Someone who is an American Muslim Woman.

About the Author: Mahnaz Shabbir lives in Stilwell, Kansas.   She is a first generation American Muslim Woman. Her parents immigrated to the United States in the 1950s from India. She was born in Philadelphia and has lived in the Kansas City area for the last 21 years. She is married and the mother of four boys.  She is part of the senior management team at a local health care system in Kansas City, Missouri.  Mrs. Shabbir will be speaking at the Central Exchange on November 13, 2001 with two other local American Muslim women. The topic, “The Truth about Islam: Dispelling the Myths”.

Home  Articles and Speeches by Mahnaz