I M P R E S S I O N S

An American Story

I am an American. I am an American in experience and education, language and speech, customs and culture. 

I also consider myself a New Yorker. I’ve lived in Brooklyn and the Bronx, but mostly I was raised in Westchester County, just north of the city. I played Little League and soccer and rooted for the New York Yankees and New York Islanders. I graduated from a prominent liberal arts university in central New York. I worked in midtown for about a year in the publishing industry, then covered politics as a newspaper reporter in the suburbs. 

I currently write for a technology/government magazine right outside of Washington, D.C., where I live.

I tell you this so you can create an image of me in your head. Many of you probably relate to me in some way. And if you talked with me on the phone, there would be no hint of anything ‘different.”

But I am different. I am not white. And in this country — especially with the terrorist attacks last week — that apparently means something to some Americans.

I was born in India and moved here when I was just 4″ years old. I was raised Hindu, but I do not practice any religion. I have short black hair and brown eyes. But my most telling feature is my brown skin. So, I have become a target to some Americans, controlled by their fear, frustration and growing hatred of anyone whom they suspect as Arabic or Muslim.

Never mind that we are all hurting from the devastation in New York and the Pentagon. Never mind that I repeatedly called and e-mailed my relatives and friends in Manhattan to make sure they were safe. Never mind that my mother, who lives in Florida, and my sister, who’s in Boston, frantically tried to reach me to assure my safety and plead with me not to return to the District. Never mind that images of people falling from the World Trade Center towers are seared in my mind.

"If I see someone (who) comes in that’s got a diaper on his head and a fan belt wrapped around the diaper on his head, that guy needs to be pulled over," Cooksey said. 

In 1979, when I was in seventh grade, the American Embassy in Iran was raided and 52 people were held hostage for 444 days. There was a backlash against Iranians and Muslims and people with brown skin. I remember that for more than a month, high school kids, who didn’t know and didn’t care whether or not I was Iranian or Muslim, called me a “Fucking Iranian” as I walked to class. I was afraid then. Ten years ago, the Persian Gulf War again dredged up anti-Muslim, anti-Arabic fervor and again I was afraid.

And now it’s happening all over again and I fear this could be worse.

Before attending an impromptu vigil Friday night, my sister warned me that several Indians were attacked in New York and that three stores, one owned by an Indian, were vandalized. It doesn’t matter who we are, she said, adding that she’s become self-conscious of her appearance. She wondered if she were paranoid when she thought she caught a man staring at her. She said she wanted to identify herself, to tell him she’s an Indian and a Hindu.

Later that night, I bumped into a neighbor of mine who’s in her mid-20s. She said that she deplored the violence against Arabs and Muslims, but admitted that she would “look twice” at an Arabic person now. I tried to draw parallels between the tragedy last week and the Oklahoma City bombing and asked whether she looked at white people the same after Timothy McVeigh was caught and tried. She said that was different. I didn’t know what else to say.

I attended a public service at Washington National Cathedral Sunday to show my support and to mourn with other Washingtonians. The Very Reverend Nathan D. Baxter, dean of the Episcopalian church, delivered a powerful sermon that touched on the backlash against Arab Americans and Muslims.

“A local Muslim Imam told me last week that a Sikh man was attacked on the street,” he said. “As they attacked they were calling their victim a ‘murderous Muslim.” The attackers saw a turban and assumed that any Eastern-Asian must be a Muslim. American democracy is a beautiful complex mosaic of colors, cultures, religions and races. My brothers and sisters, in the weeks and months to come the gravity of this tragedy will continue to unfold and the pain will increase. We must resist turning on one another.

“We must remember that evil does not wear a turban, a tunic. a yarmulke or a cross. Evil wears the garment of a human heart, a garment woven from the threads of hate and fear. I fear those Christian leaders who accuse other Americans who do not share their political and moral views as culprits for this tragedy; or who say that America is so wicked God has allowed this to happen. Yes, we have our sins and failings, but this is a good nation of good people of a good heart. That goodness comes from our deep faith in God and democracy. It is this light, this faith which will give us the strength to find Justice with integrity.”

They were powerful words. They meant something to me and I think they meant something to hundreds of mourners. But I’m tired of justifying my “Americanism.” I’m tired of people staring at me, fearing me and hating me for no reason other than I am brown-skinned. I think most Americans are sensible, sensitive, and caring. I do not believe that anything will happen to me. But I couldn’t help thinking as I walked out of the church that some parishioners were looking at me twice.

– Dibya Sarkar is a contributing editor to PopPolitics