“The Bush administration sent 44 drone strikes to Pakistan; the Obama administration sent over 300. The intended target is the Taliban, which has been hit, but the drones also have killed an appalling number of civilians. Between 500 and 900 civilians have been killed, over 1000 injured. The democratic government looks like a joke for legislating against drone strikes and having no power to do anything about them. And what is the stated purpose of drone strikes in Pakistan? Spreading democracy.”—
Obama’s drone strikes involve CIA’s tactic of attacking rescuers, funerals and weddings. I once met a young man from one of the federally administrated tribal agencies (where the US drone strikes occur) and he said something (in Pashto) I’ll never forget: “No one cares if we’re killed today or tomorrow. No one.”
I have nothing else to add.
the first time i have ever experienced racism was from the mouth of someone who prays to the same God as me.
‘she can only afford this school because her black mother is a maid to a rich family, they took pity on their hideous daughter.’ ‘go back and join your starving people you piece of shit.’ ‘fucking wash your skin, did you run out of soap? do you need me to buy you worth, as well? consider this sadaqah.’
i did not understand. your father made tawaf like my father, but you tell me yours is superior to mine, that my body is a mistake, that this body is a tainted thing, as if He is not Al Musawwir. boys would call me pretty but turn their eyes in public, what will my friends think? and, i could never marry you. only desirable in secret, behind closed doors and in alleyways. there is a reputation i am supposed to uphold but your people have always been poor, dirty, always slaves in our hands. they shackle and they degrade and they torture. they have silenced your cries and bloodied your deserts, and then they deny with a chilling ease.
in the eighth grade, i punched a boy in the face. he never said a thing about my country for the rest of the year. my sisters are called horrible things and najat, a fiery dark skinned wonder, always responds with, ‘i am beautiful. in which way do you want me to tear apart your limbs?’ i was always soft, though. but after some time blows in the shape of words leave bruises and bruises fade (or do they become a part of your bones?)
in ottawa, my uncle said, ‘wallahi i will never live in an arab country again. here i have a job, and a school for my children. there, there they treated me like garbage and in the same breath claimed we are all brothers in islam. whenever i voiced my anger, my utter contempt for their hypocrisy, they would remind me i am black. that the religion is theirs. tell me, is this the way of the Prophet ﷺ? did he not teach you to Love?’