My Resistance Movement

http://www.nytimes.com/2017/02/04/opinion/sunday/my-resistance-movement.html

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We tried to warn people — hipster friends, Republican neighbors, fellow suburban parents wrangling toddlers near the Thomas the Train section at Barnes & Noble. This was going to be a war on Islam. Not “radical Islam,” but Islam itself — which includes three million American Muslims and a global population of nearly 1.7 billion people.

The signs have been there for years, but many people said we were whining, exaggerating or claiming victimhood.

Even when Donald J. Trump said, “I think Islam hates us.” Just to make sure he wasn’t subtle, he also promised an extreme vetting of Muslims. He promised a ban on Muslims.

Still, people didn’t believe it was going to happen.

At the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia, a Republican police officer laughed at my dark humor — I asked if he would bring me halal meat in the Muslim camps — and assured me I shouldn’t take Mr. Trump seriously. An elderly man in Maine, wearing his red cap, put his hand on my shoulder and promised me that after November I would understand how this once great country would be great again.

However, two weeks into Mr. Trump’s presidency, I feel like a Muslim registry could be around the corner. How do I know? Because Mr. Trump said it might.

And unlike his senior adviser Kellyanne Conway, I do not judge the former reality TV star by what’s in his heart. I am not a cardiologist. I judge him like I do the rest of humanity — by his consistent rhetoric and actions.

So here we are. The future of the country’s soul will be fought along the lines of race, class, gender and Islam. Will we accept Muslims, the most diverse religious communities in America, as an integral part of our fabric, or allow them to be discarded as an inconvenient thread in an internment camp?

A day after President Trump’s inauguration, a few friends gathered in Virginia for a house party we called “Come Visit Sanctuary City,” as a chance to heal and overeat Hyderabadi food. Many of these peers, all hard-working, educated children of Muslim immigrants, had made a surprising decision: It was time to have guns in their homes to protect their families. Their only previous shooting experience, like mine, is limited to the Nintendo Zapper we used in Duck Hunt.

“We need to immediately get you to a gun range and get certified” was the advice of my liberal Muslim colleague, a geeky father of two.

I remain hesitant, convinced I’ll accidentally shoot off my toe before ever disposing of a marauding army of bigots.

We have to “outbreed hate” was the joking advice of a few others. Having co-produced two babies already, I’ve already done my part in populating the recruits.

But according to a recent poll, we need not worry because people believe there are already 54 million Muslims in America. Alternative fact-check: There are only three million. We are not Gremlins who multiply if you feed us hummus after midnight. But hate and paranoia create imaginary enemies.

The days look bleak right now, but I refuse to give into cynicism, nihilism or hate. My faith commands me to remain hopeful. There’s a beautiful saying of the Prophet Muhammad: “Even if you see the day of judgment coming around the corner, plant a seed.”

Even though the cruelty of the earliest days of President Trump’s administration seems like the horsemen signaling the end of times, the crisis has also awakened a multicultural coalition in America determined to resist.

Resistance means arming yourself with ferocity and compassion, leaving the comfort of your homes to go plant a seed at a local airport. Resistance means joining Yemenis in the New York City streets who closed their bodegas to protest Mr. Trump’s refugee ban. Resistance is people donating millions to the American Civil Liberties Union so it can defend the Constitution’s being manipulated like Play-Doh to advance hate.

Resistance for me is owning my multi-hyphenated identity with humble swagger and calling President Trump “Bannon’s Poodle” on cable television. Resistance is forgiving my high school acquaintance who apologized on my Facebook page for not taking Mr. Trump seriously and vowing to stand in solidarity with us. Resistance is the Arabic names and caramel-mocha brown faces of my children, smiling in the age of carnage.

I will refuse to teach my children that their legacy as American Muslims will be the following: You suffer well. You will always be a victim. You will always be hated, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

I’ll teach them instead to hope, love, forgive and fight back when necessary. That’s what resistance looks like.