by Lini S. Kadaba
What do you see when you look at a face like mine?
In the days since terrorists attacked America, I know some see a dark-skinned face, with large brown eyes, framed with black hair. It is a face that looks foreign, even Arab. It is the face of the enemy.
But when I look at my face, I see a face tinged brown because of my ethnic roots in India. I see the face of a daughter born in Lexington, Ky., of a mother with a 5-year-old son, of a citizen who loves this country as much as anyone else.
I am not Arab, or Muslim, or an enemy of the state. I know I can't speak for the Arab and Muslim communities, but I understand their absolute dread as suspicion focuses on Arab terrorism.
I understand because I fear for myself when I walk the streets of my own city. It is too easy to confuse the individual terrorists with "them," with anyone who is Muslim, or brown.
My husband is nervous, too. He called on the day of the tragedy to warn me to take care. He worried less about another round of terrorism than about senseless acts of xenophobia.
Every day since then, his deep unease has been borne out. The violence against Arabs, Muslims and South Asians, whose only crime is darker skin or a turban-swathed head, grows worse. South Asians in Northeast Philadelphia, South Jersey and Lower Merion have been attacked.
On Saturday, an Indian Sikh was killed in Arizona, and my heart skipped a beat. I can only imagine the fear of the Sikhs who own the Indian store where we buy our spices. Its windows are plastered with hand-scrawled signs declaring God Bless America. Sikhs from India. On your side.
I read with sadness, and dread, about mosques that have been firebombed, cabdrivers with brown skin who have been beaten, schoolchildren with head coverings who have been taunted, all in the last week. The hate continues to spread, and so does my fear.
I approach the world with a new wariness. A colleague jokes that I should wear a sign reading I am not Arab. I laugh, but a part of me wants to do just that.
I make sure, in other ways, to proclaim my heartfelt solidarity, my patriotism, my sameness. I plant a Stars and Stripes in the yard. Even though I am Hindu, I attend a meeting for worship at my son's Quaker school. Our family answers the call for donations and gives generously. We make sure, with a sense of urgency, to wear red, white and blue to work and school.
I urge my husband to be careful as he leaves for his office. I give my son an extra kiss as I drop him off, wondering and worrying about what he might encounter. And I take a deep breath as I pull into work. As I lock the car door, I catch my reflection in the window.
Can't you see? I want to scream. This is an American face, a face like yours!
Lini S. Kadaba is a staff writer in the Features department of the Philadelphia Inquirer. She lives in Edgemont, Pa., a suburb of Philadelphia.
This article originally appeared in the Philadelphia Inquirer.
