A Brown Girl's View on Terrorism

As a kid, I grew up in an upper-middle class suburb outside of Chicago.  Majority of my friends were either white, or had immigrant parents like mine who were "living the American Dream".  I fit right in with everyone, we all ran the streets as late as we could playing Ghost in the Graveyard or fishing for catfish in the lake out back.  No one saw color, or race, or anything like that.

Imagine my surprise then, when I found out I was different. 

I was 4 years old when my parents announced my grandmother was going to be visiting us, and staying in our house for about 5 months.  I didn't know much about her, other than she was my dad's mother, she didn't really speak English very well, and she was from Pakistan which to me, existed on the same planetary line as Mars.  I had no idea where Pakistan was, but I did know she would come bearing gifts and that had me rubbing my greedy little hands together in absolute glee.  When she finally did arrive, all of my gifts were so beautiful.  I had hand painted china dolls in traditional Pakistani clothing, matching outfits for myself, tea sets, and the final gift which my grandmother presented to me with such gusto; a backpack printed with the Pakistani flag, and a glitter glue headline proudly proclaiming, "PAKISTAN" across the front.  When my grandmother asked me what it said, I was so excited to show off my reading skills (I had already diligently worked my way through the Berenstain Bears books) that I announced exuberantly..

"PANCAKES". 

And that was the first moment in my life that I realized I was not brown enough.

There would be many more moments like this later in life.  Like the time when I went to visit my cousin the diplomat at his new post in New York.  He spoke to me in rapid fire Urdu, and in a flustered moment I responded in Spanish.  Or the time when I went to Pakistan, only to be appalled at the fact that cows and livestock roamed the roads freely, and often contributed to traffic jams.  Or when, in Pakistan, I was fascinated to find out there was a small village in the foothills of the Himalayas, in which they held a book of my families ancestry going back a few hundred years.  Pretty insanely cool, if you ask me.  But in that same vein, since 2001, the world has gone under a rapid change that has made me feel more "brown" than ever.

To stray off topic a bit, I'm just going to say that terrorism has always existed, though people suddenly think it's a new thing created solely by Muslims to hunt and kill white people.  Untrue.  There have always been terrorists, of all races, creeds, colors, sizes.  However it is an unfair stereotype put onto muslims ever since September 11th. 

Now, forgive my erratic mind for jumping around, but there is just so much I want to say on this subject, and so little room for me to type it all (otherwise you'd be reading a seriously psychotic look into the way my mind works. And that doesn't work out nicely for anyone).  But I have to say that seeing the death of Osama bin Laden has made me question the people around me as human beings.  I'm going to get super serious for a bit, but I wonder about the way people work when they hear of something like this.

When Osama bin Laden was killed, my immediate thought was, "It's about time".  Not joy, not unadulterated cheering, but a blanket statement at the fact that a man that was hunted for so long had finally met his demise.  However I saw people around me praising God, or claiming it was the best news they had ever heard.  And this made my stomach flip.  

Why does a death justify many deaths?  Who is the animal here?  We celebrated in the streets that OBL had been killed, but didn't we feel horrified to see fundamentalist Muslims doing the same thing at America's expense? 

As a country, we tend to assume "the terrorists" struck first, and we struck back, heavy handed.  That's not the case, however.  We have been monsters for years upon years upon years, killing in the name of peace.  Does that solve anything, though?  At the end of the day, is your life any different because Osama bin Laden is dead?  Was your life different when he was around?  What changed?

I know I have a barrage of questions, but it's mostly because I cannot fathom the mindset of someone who takes delight in the death of someone.  Regardless of how evil or negative or horrible they were, their death will never replace the lives lost.  It will never give an answer to a child as to why their father or mother or brother won't be coming home.  It will never, ever, finalize an equal playing field for countries everywhere, and no one will step up and say, "We're done.  This is the end of war."  9/11 forever changed the landscape of the world, and things will never go back to how they were, no matter how many people died.

I'd also like to add that the people who are vehemently demanding to see the death photos of OBL are disgusting.  Why on earth you would want to see the image of a dead person is beyond me (and I say this having witnessed some pretty gruesome deaths, why the fuck would someone be cool with seeing this shit?), and again.. seeing the image will not suddenly make all right in the world.

In other fun facts, I've actually been to Abbotabad, where OBL's compound was.   My father had his military training in the school there, and I visited the camp as a child.  There's a picture of me in one of the family albums next to a guard on an appaloosa horse (who I named Belinda, after my obsession with Belinda Carlisle), proudly pointing to the sign and holding my father's medals.  But to be honest,  I don't really remember that town.  Most of my memories of that trip to Pakistan involve animals and my inability to comprehend a country without pizza or a McDonalds.  In many trips after though, I was touched by the warm welcome I received from strangers, or the hospitality, or the absolute beauty of the country.

I'm going to end this here because I've gone completely off track and have done nothing but ramble, but please take a moment to reflect on what's going on in the world today.  And if you are celebrating someone's death, does that make you any better than them?

My cousin and I with a goat in Islamabad, before it was slaughtered. I decided to serenade it with some Wham! while my cousin instead decided to ride it triumphantly around the yard.