Thahabu

Ramadan ended last week. I’m not Muslim but I’m part of an organization that has a large Muslim membership. We work to bring marginalized communities together to fight for mutual liberation in the U.S. and around the world. Being in this organization has taught me how to practice solidarity in action, and not to be simply an ally, but rather an accomplice.

We pride ourselves on being community-oriented, so in order to become more visible in the city, and bring people together, we held a huge public iftar a few days before Eid. We were all afraid that it would be a failure since, typically, people aren’t interested in political events. Every member was required to help prepare for the event and bring a dish—I brought banana pudding. We were nervous because we had an enormous amount of food and didn’t want it to go to waste if the attendance was abysmal. We were so happy to be wrong: Over 70 people came and made most of our food disappear. We laughed and danced all night while munching on more traditional dishes like maklouba, lamb haneeth, and dates along with tacos, and cannoli in the dessert section. People even devoured my pudding, saying it was the best dessert there.

Members of the organization gave speeches on Islam’s connection to social justice. We were all so proud of what we accomplished and I felt so accepted by a group of people I wasn’t sure even liked me. I know that’s silly, because I’ve been working with them for over a year, but I’m still learning and developing as an activist and they’ve had to be very patient with me. It felt good to be around such love and to be appreciated in that way. That was the energy I was desperately craving after hearing about the executions of Philando Castile and Alton Sterling.

It seemed like every social media platform had the shootings of Philando Castile and Alton Sterling on replay 24/7. Death was everywhere I looked. Although I understand people are trying to spread awareness, seeing those images definitely put my mental health in a precarious state. I’ve resorted to sleeping too much and watching Melissa and Joey reruns. Watching funny sitcoms that are nothing like your actual life definitely makes for great self-care. There was no one physically around me whom I could talk to about the pain I was in. All I craved was a hug and for someone to hold my hand. Then my good friend Razan texted me. At first, we talked about how our summers were going, but then she admitted that her true intention in texting me was to check in on how I was doing given everything going on with police brutality and the media. I began tearing up; she’s not even in the States right now and she still thought to check up on me. That was the hug I was looking for, just in virtual form from my iPhone. She was there for me the same way I’m there for her when terrorist attacks happen and she gets self-conscious about being an Arab Muslim girl. That is what friendship and solidarity are supposed to feel like.

After that conversation I felt a little better and was ready to go to a protest in Newark. At the first the march was small—we marched through the streets, people gave speeches, and we even stopped traffic a few times with our tiny army. Then one of the leaders suggested that we head back to Penn Station. I was afraid the protest was coming to an end. I could feel people’s spirits beginning to dwindle as we chanted “Black lives matter…” We drew closer to the tunnel in Penn station, where the buses stop to drop people off.

I was in the middle of the crowd and noticed that people began sounding confused. The chanting became muffled. As we got closer to the tunnel the chant resumed: “Black lives matter!” Then, as we got to the tunnel entrance it got even louder: “Black Lives Matter,” and some people began running. By this point we were in the tunnel, and the chants became much louder. I ran to the front of the protest to see what all the commotion was about: There were about 800 other Black kids on other side of the the tunnel waiting for us with open arms screaming, “BLACK LIVES MATTER!” in unison with us. As soon as the group I was with saw them it was over—both groups began running and skipping toward each other at full speed screaming “BLACK LIVES MATTER! BLACK LIVES MATTER!”, and the echo from the tunnel made it even more pronounced.

It felt like I was in a movie as I sobbed and dropped my umbrella while running, crashing into to them, hugging them like they were long lost siblings. We didn’t know each other, and we didn’t have to, we knew we were all there for one thing. It was so crowded that the buses couldn’t even get in. I felt so loved. In those moments I finally understand the meaning of Assata Shakur’s words: “We must love each other and support each other. We have nothing to lose but our chains.” ♦