From schools to language to religion, American Muslims are becoming a people apart. Young, first-generation American Muslim women — whose parents were born in Egypt, Pakistan and other Islamic countries — are wearing head scarves even if their mothers had left them behind; increasing numbers of young Muslims are attending Islamic schools and lectures; Muslim student associations in high schools and at colleges are proliferating; and the role of the mosque has evolved from strictly a place of worship to a center for socializing and for learning Arabic and Urdu as well as the Koran.
The men and women I spoke to — all mosque-goers, most born in the United States to immigrants — include students, activists, imams and everyday working Muslims. Almost without exception, they recall feeling under siege after Sept. 11, with FBI agents raiding their mosques and homes, neighbors eyeing them suspiciously and television programs portraying Muslims as the new enemies of the West.
Such feelings led them, they say, to adopt Islamic symbols — the hijab , or head covering, for women and the kufi , or cap, for men — as a defense mechanism. Many, such as Rehan, whom I met at a madrassa (religious school) in California with her husband, Ramy, also felt compelled to deepen their faith.
“After I covered, I changed,” Rehan told me. “I felt I wanted to give people a good impression of Islam. I wanted people to know how happy I am to be Muslim.” But not everyone understood, she said, recalling an incident in a supermarket in 2003: “The man next to me in the vegetable section said, ‘You’d be much more beautiful without that thing on your head. It’s demeaning to women.’ ” But to her the head scarf symbolized piety, not oppression.
A group of young college-educated women at the Dix mosque in Dearborn, Mich., described the challenges many Muslims face as they carve out their identity in the United States. I spoke with them in the winter of 2004, after they had been to the mosque one Sunday for a halaqa (a study circle) focused on integrating faith and daily life. They were in their twenties: Hayat, a psychologist; Ismahan, a computer scientist; and Fatma, a third-grade teacher.
Hayat said veiling was easier for her than it had been for her sister, 10 years her senior, because Hayat had more Muslim peers when she reached high school and felt far less pressure to conform to American ways. When she went on to the University of Michigan, she was surrounded for the first time by young Muslims who dared to show pride in their religion in a non-Muslim setting.
Ismahan recalled similar experiences. In elementary school, she had tried to fit in. As an adult, though, “I know I don’t have to fit in,” she said. “I don’t think Muslims have to assimilate. We are not treated like Americans. At work, I get up from my desk and go to pray. I thought I would face opposition from my boss. Even before I realized he didn’t mind, I thought, ‘I have a right to be a Muslim, and I don’t have to assimilate.’ ”