September 11, 2001 was a horror for any human being. But as a mother who is a Jewish American married to a Palestinian Muslim, it was also complicated.
Like other mothers, I waited for the school bell, anxious to be with my children. Unlike other mothers, I didn't fear planes or bombs. I feared people on the streets, in stores, in cars. When the doorbell rang, my mind raced: "If the neighbors are here to harass us, I'll call the FBI, but if it is the FBI coming to harass us, who should I call?" Time went on and the many phone calls we got were supportive. I was relieved to find our family connected to a loving, if disparate, "community." But at the same time there were many unintentional yet insidious ways that we were made outsiders. I found that advocating for my children exacerbated many of the conflicts that arose.
For example, there was a flag mobile that came home with a pile of other artwork. My six-year-old was so proud of the red, white, and blue glitter--but I couldn't hang it up. To our family, the U.S. flag is a symbol of misplaced patriotism for a national entity when loyalty to humanity is called for. When I explained to the teacher that I would prefer artwork that symbolized support for victims or world peace instead of the U.S. flag, she looked at me like I was one of the those "crazy moms." I felt my stomach tense. I don't want those who care for my child to think of me as a "crazy mom." But how could I let them teach my child that the U.S. flag is a universally positive symbol?
A few weeks later our public school invited a respected psychologist to speak about how to help children deal with the events of September 11th. He said things that made so much sense to the parents around me, but denied my reality. I paraphrase: "Since it's been several weeks, children should feel less scared as the threatening events fade into the past." (Not if you have family in the Middle East.) "And if children ask if they are safe, tell them that the smartest people in the country are working hard to be sure this never happens again." (But it would be more honest to say that they are working hard to make sure it happens only to "others," like Afghanis.) There was a palpable "we" in the room that didn't include my family. It was not because our family includes people from "both sides" of the conflict. It was because our family does not frame the conflict in terms of "us" versus Arabs/Muslims as many other Americans do. We see "peace loving" versus "war mongering." We see ourselves on the peace side; but still we are treated like we don't belong.
The impact on our (American) children is substantial. For example, as we drove to our mosque (we teach our children about both religions) after the attacks, my eldest cried, "I'm not an Arab, don't make me go." She couldn't tell me what she'd seen or heard that evoked such shame. "And you're not Arab, Mommy," she kept reminding me, as if it wasn't fair for me to make her be something that I myself was not willing to be.
I tried to get advice from teachers about how to boost her self-esteem, but I felt judged as if I had created the problem by teaching my children who they are. Apparently, teaching children they are Jewish is cultural (and I am supported for that), but teaching children they are Palestinian is automatically political. People say, "Aren't they too young to impose on them the harmful complexities of conflict?" I searched the Internet for help, but of the myriad sites offering advice to parents, only one acknowledged that the children who are traumatized by September 11 may be Arab or Muslim. There is, however, no scarcity of resources to support my children's Jewish identity.
One year later, the fear and shock-induced intensity has waned, but my "crazy mom" identity remains. It is as if we live an alternate reality interacting, but only superficially, with people who can't relate at all to what's most important to us. The radio cites a United Nations report detailing how Palestinian babies are literally dying because pregnant and delivering women are not allowed to travel to the hospital. And I ask, is that not genocide? Are their lives worth less than those who died in the World Trade Center? And on television, President Bush appears rational when he says that we have the "right" to attack Iraq because they might attack us, though by his own logic, his pronouncement gives Iraq the right to attack us first. If the U.S. attacks Iraq, at is seems we will, hundreds of thousands of innocent people could die, in addition to the half-million children who, according to the United Nations, have died as a result of U.S.-imposed sanctions. Is that not genocide? I argue that there is no action individuals can take that justify terrorizing an entire population (who, by the way, are not perpetrators of any crimes).
The U.S. stands up against the murder of U.S. people in New York and DC, of Jews in Israel, but somehow we are entitled to kill Arabs. Can it be that Arab lives are worth less than American lives? Are my children worth less than yours?
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