Love, Hate and Other Filters
Samira Ahmed
For Lena & Noah,
Meri aankhon ke taare ho tum. And for Thomas, who always believed.
Dear Reader,
I wrote this book out of hope.
A large picture window in my old apartment in the East Village in New York City once had a clear view of the World Trade Center. Every year on the anniversary of the 9/11 attack, I would stare out that window at the two bright shafts of light that beamed upward to the heavens. A beautiful and heartbreaking memorial for those we lost. A reminder to lead with love.
I wrote this book to shine a light.
My first experience with bigotry was when I was eight years old, in the midst of the Iran Hostage Crisis. It was the first time I saw fear behind my parents’ eyes—not only the worry that all Americans shared for our hostages, but also a more personal distress for the safety of their children, growing up in a small Midwestern town—the only Muslims, the only South Asians. For what people might say to us, for what people might do.
Their fears were well founded. One day that summer, inching forward in a traffic jam, my parents chatting in the front seat, I rolled down my window as a car came even with ours—two adult men in the front seat. The man in the passenger seat made eye contact, rolled down his window and pointed his finger at me—an eight-year-old child, too puzzled to look away, and yelled with a guttural ferocity, “Go home, you goddamned Iranian.” I was stunned. I kept staring at this man, who was so moved by hatred that he felt compelled to yell at a child, a stranger. Who wanted to hold me responsible for the actions of individuals thousands of miles away. I was also confused. Why did this man think we were Iranian? Couldn’t he tell we were Indian?
I learned a lot of things that day; one of them was that the visceral rage of bigots means they are immune to basic facts or civility. Though it was decades ago, that scene is perfectly etched in my memory—a moment of childhood innocence lost, shattered by ignorance and hatred. I knew then that I would forever be confronted by a choice: to cower or to speak.
I wrote this book out of love.
My experiences of Islamophobia and bigotry are mild compared to the violence many others have faced, will face. In this time of political uncertainty, we’ve seen hate speech emerge out of the dark corners to which it was once relegated. Worse, we’ve seen horrific violence. But all around us, we’ve seen people rise up to speak, not merely against the forces of hate, but for equality and justice. This is the world we are fighting for.
And for those who bear the brunt of hate because of the color of your skin or the sound of your name, for those who are spat upon, for those who are told to “go home,” when you are home: you are known. You are loved. You are enough. Let your light shine.
I wrote this book for you.
—Samira Ahmed
His mind wanders back six months to a fetid basement. Windowless, lit by a solitary bulb; empty except for sweaty bodies. Meeting and sanctuary. There was arguing, then a loosely drawn plan, and a call for volunteers. They laughed when he raised his hand. Someone said, Can’t send a boy to do a man’s job.
Destiny sucks.
Sure, it can be all heart bursting and undeniable and Bollywood dance numbers and meet me at the Empire State Building. Except when someone else wants to decide who I’m going to sleep with for the rest of my life. Then destiny is a bloodsucker, and not the swoony, sparkly vampire kind.
The night is beautiful, clear and bright with silvery stars. But I’m walking across a noxious parking lot with my parents toward a wedding where a well-meaning auntie will certainly pinch my cheeks like I’m two years old, and a kindly uncle will corner me about my college plans with the inevitable question: premed or prelaw? In other words, it’s time for me to wear a beauty-pageant smile while keeping a very stiff upper lip. It would be helpful if I could grow a thicker skin, too—armor, perhaps—but we’re almost at the door.
My purse vibrates. I dig around for my phone. A text from Violet:
You should be here!
Another buzz, and a picture of Violet appears, decorated in streamers, dancing in the gym. Jeans skinny, lips glossed. Everyone is at MORP without me. It’s bad enough I can’t go to the actual prom, but missing MORP, too, is death by paper cuts. MORP is the informal prom send-up where everyone goes stag and dances their faces off. And there are always new couples emerging from the dark corners of the gym.
I miss all the drama, as usual.
“Maya, what’s wrong?” My mother eyes me with suspicion, as always. I only wish I could muster up the courage to actually warrant any of her distrust.
“Nothing,” I sigh.
“Then why do you look like you’re going to a funeral instead of your friend’s wedding?”
I widen my toothy fake smile. “Better?” Maybe I should give my mom what she wants tonight, the dutiful daughter who is thrilled to wear gold jewelry and high heels and wants to be a doctor. But the high heels alone are so uncomfortable I can only imagine how painful the rest of the act would be.
“I guess a little happiness is too much to ask of my only daughter.”
Dad’s chuckling, head down. At least someone is amused by my mother’s melodrama.
We step through an arc of red carnations and orange-yellow marigolds to a blur of jewel-toned silk saris and sparkly fairy lights strung in lazy zigzags across the walls. The Bollywood-ized suburban wedding hall feels pretty cinematic, yet the thought of the awkward social situations to come makes me turn back and look longingly at the doors.