"Security must be so tight just to keep out terrorists,” they snicker and turn back to glance at me after reading an article on airport security.
My heart begins to thud so loudly, I’m sure everyone around me can hear each beat in my chest. The girl sitting next to me shoots me a pitying glance, causing the few tears collecting in my eyes to threaten to overflow. I turn to stare at the wall, hoping the bright posters will distract me from the humiliation and anger coursing through me, as a rogue tear escapes and slides down my cheek. Quickly wiping it away, I rush out the room as the bell rings.
My sister and I, two pessimists, drag our feet through the gates to the “Happiest Place on Earth”. Smiles inch across our faces as we catch sight of our four-year-old brother jumping around our parents, his Mickey Mouse hat tilting on his head and the happiness he radiates seems to light up the place. Suddenly, a security man roughly grabs my sister’s arm, insisting that she comes with him to the security check station, leaving me to stand alone with a lost expression on my face. “So much for ‘random’ checks,” my mom says dryly as she joins me. I’m caught up in my thoughts, wondering if I too will be subject to the same security checks and discrimination, when I permanently put on the hijab like my sister.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror as I wrap my hijab around my head, trying to smooth out all the bumps. As I am pinning it into place, trying not to stab myself becomes impossible as my hands become slick with nervous sweat. Walking into the unfamiliar school, I feel like everyone’s stares penetrate me. Stop being paranoid Saba, I tell myself. Most of them don’t even know you. I still cross my arms tight, as if my arms would protect me from the judgmental stares I’ll get from my friends, who haven’t seen me since eighth-grade graduation, three months back. As I approach my friends sitting in the gym’s balcony, they turn to face me, their friendly faces faltering slightly, but they quickly adjust their masks. As the year progresses, they slowly start excluding me from their group “hang-outs”, until I barely see them outside of school. It’s probably because you’re not like them, your appearance says it all, my thoughts taunt me.
“Shoot them with bullets covered in pig-blood,” Trump, the soon-to-be 45th president of America, tweets about Muslims. Inauguration Day comes and a solemn feeling settles on me as I slowly accept the harsh reality of Trump being president. I walk into my class and abruptly stop at the sight of the boy and girl flanking my seat, both of them decked out in Trump gear from head to toe. She’s bragging about her family attending the Inauguration Ball and whining about missing out, oblivious to the effect her words are having on me. At every mention of Trump, I can feel my slight semblance of control slipping as I slump deeper into my seat. Shoot them. Pig-blood. The words pound through my head, again and again.
“17-year-old Muslim girl killed walking to mosque for Ramadan prayers,” I read the news headline. My mom’s fear-fueled rant about never letting my sisters and I go to the prayers at night alone fade as I stare at the smiling hijab-clad face on the computer screen. The news describes the murderer as a military officer, almost as if his former occupation would excuse his actions. That night, trying to focus on a novel, I can’t ignore the sound of sniffles as my mom prays behind me, her murmuring as she asks God to protect her children and all of the other innocent ones in today’s America.
