I am an American Muslim woman
 By MAHNAZ SHABBIR
 Special to The Star   January 9, 2002

I am an American Muslim woman. These words are very powerful for me. Words I would never have said out loud, yet unquestionably that is who I am. Why would this be so difficult you ask? Would you have difficulty saying that you were an American Christian or Jewish woman? Probably not. Yet my identification as a first-generation American Muslim woman has been a struggle.

The events of Sept. 11 have caused more concern – but the need to share and disperse misunderstandings is far greater.

I didn't realize I was different from other 4-year-olds growing up in New Jersey until the kids in my nursery school teased me with whooping noises (similar to the 1960's television version of American Indians). Suddenly, I realized I was not like the other children.

Later in 1971, while in sixth grade, something happened that altered how I thought of myself. My cousins had just immigrated from India. One of my cousins was in the same grade. Finally, there was someone like me.

It was the month of Ramadan, and my cousin's teacher wanted to know why he wasn't eating. His teacher wasn't satisfied with the explanation of the Islamic fasting month, so he came to question me in my classroom. He demanded to know, "why isn't your cousin eating?" I tried to explain Ramadan as best as I could while also wishing my cousin didn't go to my school. I was also hoping I would disappear. It was at that moment that a sentence was handed down to me, a sentence that said, I Am Different.

I told my parents what had happened, and my dad met with the principal and teachers. Logically, I said, "My dad took care of them!" However, 24 years later, I realized what my sentence cost me. It cost me my silence and my identity.

From then on, I did whatever I could to blend in. My name and my skin color would always give me away. I would try to be the best student, the one the teachers would like. I was a friend to all. I remember being told that I didn't seem different. I felt I had succeeded.

I would open myself to people only when I could trust them – only when I felt it was safe to disclose that I was a Muslim. One day a trusted colleague told me she was surprised that I was fun to be with. I thought about her statement. Surprised? I then saw the cost of my silence. The cost of withholding my self-expression.

That was six years ago. Since then, I have led interfaith prayer services and given talks to schools, churches and hospitals. I have been the emcee for the annual Ramadan Eid dinners where Muslims and non-Muslims celebrate the ending of the Muslim holy days.

The chaplains at Saint Joseph Health Center have called on me to help them in their ministry of Muslim women in the emergency room. I found myself with Muslim women I never knew during the last minutes of their lives. All of these incidents would never have occurred if I had not seen the price of my sentence. My sentence that I was gloriously different.

On Sept. 11, 2001, another life-altering moment arrived. Oh, how I prayed, like many American Muslims, that the attackers weren't Muslims. Nevertheless, they called themselves Muslims. I was out of town on a business trip when it happened. My fear was for my children. Will people treat them with malice?

I found out that both my older boys had experienced negative comments. Can you imagine a 14-year-old telling another 14-year-old he was responsible for the terrorists' attacks?

I initially became the sixth-grader from 30 years ago. I wanted to hide. However, there has been so much negative information about Muslims and Islam, I knew I couldn't remain silent. Thank God for people who want to know the truth.

I've spoken on a radio talk show and continue to speak to various groups about my faith. Last November, the Central Exchange in Kansas City asked two other American Muslim women and myself to participate in a forum called "The Truth about Islam: Dispelling the Myths." A second forum is scheduled for noon Thursday at the Central Exchange.

The silent moderate Muslim community can no longer be silent. We have to share ourselves with others so our children won't face discrimination and racism. I cannot say I have lost my inhibitions and fears. They remain, but what is stronger is my identity. I am an American Muslim woman!

Mahnaz Shabbir lives in Stilwell, Kan. Her parents immigrated to the United States in the 1950s from India. Born in Philadelphia, she has lived in the Kansas City area for 21 years. She is the vice president for strategic planning and business development at Carondelet Health in Kansas City.