Love, Hate and Other Filters(38)

Madame DuPont hits PLAY on the remote, and the movie resumes.



I almost lose myself in the dreamy soundtrack until the cacophony of discordant ringtones starts. All at once, everyone has their phones in their faces.

The uproar is loud and immediate.

“There’s been a terrorist attack,” one student yells out.

“It’s in Springfield,” adds another.

Madame DuPont turns to her computer. A handful of students gather around her desk, searching for more information. One student tries to get reception on the cableless television. The information and misinformation comes in fits and starts. A bomb exploded at the Federal Building in Springfield. Homeland Security has issued a red alert for the entire state of Illinois. There’s a shooter. No, it’s a suicide bomber. A plane is missing. There are dozens of victims. Wrong. Hundreds are dead. It’s a truck bomb. It’s poison gas. The building was leveled. The National Guard is being called up. The army has been deployed. The president has moved to an undisclosed location. All schools and government buildings are on lockdown. No one is allowed in or out. Parents are at the school doors demanding to get their kids. Police are stationed at the entrances of the high school. There’s a steady flow of news and innuendo, and it’s hard to discern the truth.

I’m frozen. My fingers curl tightly around my phone.

The entire room is in chaos, but I see the action as if through the blades of a whirring fan. Disjointed and surreal. My stomach lurches.

A terrorist attack. Another tragedy. Is there no end? Is this how life will always be? I want to know more, but there is one piece of information I absolutely hope I don’t hear. I whisper a prayer to the universe. “Please, please let everyone be okay. Please don’t let it be a Muslim.”

I know I’m not the only one hoping for this. I know millions of American Muslims—both religious and secular—are echoing these very same words at this very same moment. I know I’m not a very good Muslim, but I hope my prayers are heard. Prayers for the dead and wounded. Prayers for ourselves. Prayers for peace, hoping that no more lives are lost to hate.

I’m scared. I’m not just scared that somehow I’ll be next; it’s a quieter fear and more insidious. I’m scared of the next Muslim ban. I’m scared of my dad getting pulled into Secondary Security Screening at the airport for “random” questioning. I’m scared for the hijabi girls I know getting their scarves pulled off while they’re walking down a sidewalk—or worse. I’m scared of being the object of fear and loathing and suspicion again. Always.

I remember my parents telling me about how devastating 9/11 was, how those burning buildings and all the posters of missing people are seared in their memories forever. Hina thinks that was the tipping point, when the Islamophobia went mainstream and became fodder for campaign slogans. It left American Muslims to fight for their Americanness and their beliefs. I know what Hina says about all of it, about not giving in to fear. I’m trying to hold onto that.

Violet touches my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

I jerk upright. “Yeah. I … I’m worried. I can’t believe—”

“I’m sure we’re fine,” she interrupts in a rush. “They’re probably going crazy overboard with security. I doubt Batavia is high on the terrorist target list.”

“There is Fermilab.”

Violet stares at me, her eyes wide. “Oh. My. God. I didn’t even think of that. But they don’t store weapons. It’s physics research.”

“It’s a government facility. I’m guessing terrorists don’t sweat the details.”

“I’m calling my dad,” she says.

As I watch Violet dial, I’m painfully aware that I haven’t thought of calling my own parents. I look at my phone and see several missed calls from all their numbers. Worst-case scenarios no doubt colonize my mom’s head. I call the office. No answer. I call home. Mom picks up. She speaks before I can even say hello.

“We’ve been calling and calling you.”

“Sorry, Mom. My phone was on silent. The school is on lockdown.”

“Yes, beta, we know. We called the front office. They say they will probably let you out soon. They want to make sure that everything is okay before releasing students from school.”

“Can you believe this? It’s horrible. What are they saying on the news?”

“They still don’t know what happened or who is responsible. But it seems that a suicide bomber blew himself up inside the Federal Building in Springfield. They don’t know much more. It’s terrible. They are still trying to get people out of the building.”

“Do they know if the bomber is … if he was …?” I don’t want to say it out loud.

“No. Nothing, yet.” My mom doesn’t want to say it out loud, either. “Those poor, poor people who died. I’m going to go pray for them. Your dad is coming to get you.”

“No. It’s okay. He doesn’t need to. They still haven’t said when they’re letting us out, and I can get a ride with Violet.”

“Okay. Call us if you want. The school secretary said the lockdown is a precaution. Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not scared.” I lie because my mother’s concern annoys me. I know it shouldn’t. She’s a parent. She’s my parent; worry and love are part of the package. But to me, it feels smothering.