Children Caught in the Crossfire: Protecting Muslim Youth in the Struggle for Religious Freedom across Rural America
I didn’t realize it at the time, but the reason my mother stood beside me was to shield me from potential shooters as I spoke in support of our town’s first Mosque. Stepping into the County Board of Supervisors hearing room, I noticed the heightened security: armed police officers at the doors and undercover cops amongst the audience. My heart raced, remembering the death threats against our community. I began to have second thoughts. Was this really worth it? Was I doing the right thing, risking my life at just 12 years old to speak out? Years later, I came to realize that this moral dilemma I was facing had no immoral response.
My Mom’s mixed-race, Canadian-Malay family fled the race riots of 1970s Malaysia to seek freedom and stability in America. They became Americans—cheering for the 49ers and volunteering in the community—but their Muslim last name branded them as different. My mom was called a terrorist, insulted for wearing a hijab, and repeatedly assaulted. Yet, more demoralizing was the fact that their Islamic community had to pray in a barn. Despite this, their hope of achieving the American dream was never diminished.
Inspired by Barack Obama’s presidential election victory in 2008, our community applied for permits to build a Mosque in San Martin. This act of faith triggered years of legal challenges from local conservative groups, primarily rooted in Islamophobia. Finally, in 2019, our community had the chance to plead our case before the County Board of Supervisors after nearly 12 years of delays.
Standing behind the podium, I spoke about my Christian ancestors’ pursuit of freedom in Jamestown on my dad’s side of the family and my Muslim family’s journey, which was no different. As I concluded my speech, the audience responded with a standing ovation, expressing their support for the American values I professed. The Board voted unanimously to build our Mosque. I felt relieved and empowered. The hope our community had held onto for so long had born fruit, and I helped make it happen. I had entered that room unsure of who I was but left proud that I had served my community.
By volunteering to speak at the board hearing, I chose to value service to others over my own personal safety. Everyone in my community told me that I had done the right thing, but what would have been the wrong thing to do? I’m not saying that I regret what I did, in fact, I’m extremely proud of my actions. However, if I were to accept that deciding to speak out was a difficult but correct decision, then the opposite must have been the incorrect decision, right?
A big reason that I flew all the way back home to California for the hearing was because of the risks a lot of my friends would face if they had spoken out in my place. At the time, many of the other kids in our town’s Islamic community had been receiving death threats and physical intimidation at school as their angered peers hoped to coerce them out of taking any action in support of the Mosque. Terrified for their kids’ safety, all parents in the community blocked their children from speaking out. While one might refer to this as cowardice, it’s hard to argue that they made the wrong decision. At the end of the day, their responsibility as parents to ensure their children’s safety superseded any and all commitments to the community, and they made the best decision they could when it came to meeting those responsibilities.
My parents, on the other hand, didn’t see things the same way. To them, our duty to God came above all else. As a family, we all believed that our faith and desire to honor it were worth any cost. Reliant upon our shared virtues of service and faith, my parents sent me forward to speak, disregarding the looming threats to our safety.
This contrast between the decisions of my parents and the other parents in our Islamic community highlights an ethical dilemma. On one hand, with all of the risks involved, their parents had every right to withhold their children from speaking out. When looking at the issue with the safety of us kids in mind, one could even argue that my parents were extremely reckless by allowing me to do so. But when facing the dilemma with service to one’s community in mind, allowing me to speak was the right thing to do.
In the end, the reality of the situation was that while my family and I did the right thing by standing up for the mosque, my peers who decided to stay at home had made a virtuous decision of their own. My family’s decision to speak out and my peers’ families' decision to prioritize their children’s safety were both reflections of deep-rooted virtues—love, faith, and commitment. Looking back on that day in court, it’s now clear that courage isn't a singular virtue but one that thrives in a myriad of forms: the courage to be vulnerable, the courage to protect, the courage to speak, and the courage not to.