Arab American Literature and the Ethnic American Landscape: Language, Identity, and Community

Home , A Promised Land, Beirut39, Razanne, Steven Stanley

A dissertation submitted to the

Graduate School

of the University of Cincinnati

in partial fulfillment of the

requirements for the degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

in the Department English and Comparative Literature

of the College of Arts and Sciences

Niven Herro, B.A., M.A.

July 2018

Committee Chair: Jennifer Glaser, Ph.D.

Committee Members: Lisa Hogeland, Ph.D., Laura Micciche, Ph.D. Abstract

This dissertation explores the works of contemporary Arab American women writers with a focus on language, identity, and community. I am especially interested in the ways in which the Arab American immigrant experience mirrors that of other ethnic American groups, as demonstrated in their literatures.

First, I argue that Randa Jarrar’s debut novel, A Map of Home (2008), which uses language—both Arabic and English—as a source of empowerment, reflects Chicana writer

Gloria Anzaldúa’s concept of the “new mestiza consciousness.” Comparing the Chinatown community in Fae Myenne Ng’s Bone (1993), to the Muslim community in Mohja Kahf’s The

Girl in the Tangerine Scarf (2006), reveals the complicated relationships the novels’ characters have with their communities. In both novels, the personal development of their young women protagonists is greatly influenced by their respective communities, which simultaneously serve as positive sites of support and complex sites of difficult negotiations. While the characters in A

Map of Home and The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf ultimately learn to effectively navigate their hybrid subject positions as both Arabs and Americans, the failure to do so leads to a tragic end for the couple at the center of Laila Halaby’s Once in a Promised Land. Halaby’s characters fail to recognize that the racial profiling they experience post-9/11 is symptomatic of the U.S.’s long history of violence against people of color. Once in a Promised Land serves as a cautionary tale, demonstrating that the idea of America as a “promised land,” especially for people of color, is false.

I posit that placing the literature of Arab Americans in conversation with that of other ethnic American groups reveals the similarities of their experiences, ultimately promoting solidarity and creating the potential for coalition building.

iii Acknowledgements

I am grateful to so many wonderful people that have supported and encouraged me during the process of writing this dissertation, especially my advisor, Dr. Jennifer Glaser, who has been instrumental to my scholarly and personal development over the past six years. I remember meeting Jenn when I first visited the University of Cincinnati in the spring of 2012.

Even though I had not yet committed to attending UC, Jenn took the time to meet with me and give me sound advice—advice that I still carry with me to this day. I admire Jenn as a scholar, advisor, and woman, and I am lucky to have her as a mentor and friend.

Dr. Lisa Hogeland and Dr. Laura Micciche have also been instrumental to my development. Reading and writing about Once in a Promised Land under Lisa’s guidance helped set the course for this dissertation. Laura has taught me so much about writing, teaching, and mentorship. I aspire to one day have a fraction of the influence on my future students that Laura has had on my peers and me. To the other wonderful mentors I have had a UC: Dr. Beth Ash,

Dr. Frederic Cadora, Dr. Theresa Culley, Dr. Joyce Malek, Dr. Therese Migraine-George, Dr.

Christine Mok, Pamela Person, and Dr. Cara Pickett—you have all taught me so much.

My experience at UC would not be the same without all the amazing friends I made along the way. Mercedes Katis, Julia Koets, Lindsey Kurz, Janine Morris, Insun Park, Bhumika

Patel, Rachael Shockey, Steven Stanley, Christine Rezk, Sara Watson, and Madeleine

Wattenberg—I consider myself incredibly lucky to know you, to go through this experience with you, and to call you my friends.

Furthermore, I am grateful for the support of the Taft Research Center, which allowed me to spend the summer of 2014 in Granada, Spain learning about liberation theology and Islamic feminism. I was lucky to participate in this program with some of the most intelligent, passionate

iv people I have ever met—and to leave Granada with so many new friendships. Their energy and commitment to social justice continues to inspire me.

In addition to my support system at UC, I am grateful to Wagner College, where I earned by B.A., and Seton Hall University, where I earned my M.A., for giving me the foundation that allowed me to pursue this degree. I have had so many amazing teachers and mentors that have guided me along the way, especially: Dr. Simone Alexander, Bill Coulter, Dr. Nancy Enright,

Dr. Jeffrey Gray, Dr. Christopher Hogarth, Dr. Anne Schotter, and Dr. Angela Weisl. And the most wonderful friends—Michelle Dowd, Orrianne Florius, and Amanda Ritondo—thank you for the hours you’ve spent on the phone patiently listening and encouraging me from afar.

In this dissertation, I write about the importance of community—especially in supporting individuals as they come of age—and I honestly could not ask for a better community of supporters. My family in New York, Egypt, and Cincinnati, has helped me become the person I am today. I am infinitely grateful for their support and encouragement. I am especially grateful for my big sisters, Noha Mataoui and Nermeen Louis, for setting a great example for me; my nephews and niece, Brendan, Adam, and Julie, the source of so much joy in my life; and my husband, Brian, and children, Nicholas, and Jonah, who have taught me so much about patience and unconditional love. Teta, my maternal grandmother, encouraged me to pursue my PhD eight years ago. When others remarked that pursuing an advanced degree would dwindle my prospects for marriage—she dismissed them. I miss her everyday.

My parents moved from Alexandria, Egypt, to Brooklyn, New York with my sisters and me when I was three years old. When I think about the courage it took to move to a strange country, where you do not speak the language, with three young children, I am in awe. Mama and Baba—all that I am, all that I have achieved, is because of you. Thank you.

v Table of Contents

Abstract…………………………………………………………………… ii

Acknowledgements……………………………………………………………….. iv

Table of Contents……………………………………………..…………… vi

Chapter One: Introduction……...………………………………………… 1

Chapter Two: The New “New Mestiza”…………………………………. 18

Chapter Three: The Complexities of Community………………………... 42

Chapter Four: The Language of Post-9/11 Discourse……………………. 87

Bibliography………………………………………………………...….. 120

Chapter One

Introduction:

Contextualizing Arab American Literature

I thought pain had no tongue. Or every tongue at once, supreme translator, sieve. I admit my shame. To live on the brink of Arabic, tugging its rich threads without understanding how to weave the rug…I have no gift.

The sound, but not the sense.

-“Arabic,” Naomi Shihab Nye (16-21)

This dissertation explores the ways in which Arab American Literature can be read and understood in the context of the American multiculture at large. I first became interested in exploring Arab American identity in relation to other marginalized American groups after reading an article in the Washington Post, “On Growing Up in Ferguson and Palestine,” by famed Arab American poet Naomi Shihab Nye. Born to a Palestinian father and American mother, Nye’s poems grapple with the difficulty of negotiating her subject position as both an

Arab and American. Nye’s August 2014 article is a reflection on injustice in the two places which she called home as a child, Ferguson, Missouri, and Palestine, written in direct response to two events that occurred concurrently that summer: the shooting death of unarmed African

American teenager, Michael Brown, by white police officers in Ferguson, and the disproportionate bombing of the Gaza strip by Israeli forces in response to Hamas’s rocket fire.

Brown’s killing, which revealed the racial injustice apparent in Ferguson to national audiences, led to weeks of justifiable outrage and protest that resulted in an overzealous, militarized response by police. Watching the two events unfold, Nye was moved by Palestinians’ expression of support for the people of Ferguson, which was especially extraordinary considering they were facing their own humanitarian crisis at the time. “People in Gaza actually sent messages of solidarity to Ferguson—Internet petitions signed by Gazan citizens,” writes Nye. In the article,

Nye struggles to understand why Americans do not express similar solidarity over the injustices experienced by the Palestinian people:

If the U.S. can’t see that Palestinians have been mightily oppressed since 1948, they

really are not interested in looking, are they? And we keep sending weapons and money

to Israel, pretending we’d prefer peace.

We send weapons to Ferguson, too.

After unarmed teenager Michael Brown was shot, quiet old Ferguson took over the

news. Citizens marching, chest placards, ‘I’M A MAN TOO’ ‘DON’T SHOOT.’ It’s

easy to see how delusions of equality in Ferguson – where a white officer might raise a

gun against an unarmed black kid – are simply wrong.

Why is that harder for people to see about Gaza?

Nye links the U.S.’s militarization of police forces in Ferguson to the U.S.’s militarization of

Israel. By revealing that violence in Ferguson and Gaza can be traced to the same source, Nye demonstrates the importance of solidarity amongst marginalized groups—even those whose struggles may initially seem unrelated. Nye concludes that the widespread demonstrations in

response to Brown’s death will catalyze change since racial injustice in Ferguson can no longer be ignored. If Brown’s death awakens Americans to the blatant injustice apparent in Ferguson, why does the bombing of the Gaza strip not evoke a similar awakening? She insists that similar expressions of solidarity with the Palestinian people are needed to provoke change.

Nye is not the only writer to make a connection between the marginalization of

Palestinians with that of other people of color. Steven Salaita, a scholar of Arab American literature, pursues this topic in detail in his book, The Holy Land in Transit (2006). Salaita finds many similarities in the discourses used to justify both the seizure and occupation of Palestinian land and that of Native American tribes. Due to the similar ways in which Palestinian and Native subjugation has functioned, Salaita argues that creating a dialogue and strategic alliance between the two groups would be beneficial in helping resist colonial forces:

Palestinians can only benefit by familiarizing themselves with Native tribes—their

histories, encounters with foreign settlers (in many cases, the same settlers occupying

their own land), armed struggles, survival tactics, scholarly models, successes and

failures. The same, of course, is true inversely. And they can both assist in the collective

improvement of native peoples by remembering the instances of victory and noting

moments of defeat from others around the world subsisting in similar conditions. More

dialogue among colonized parties would also increase pressure on the neoliberal policies

that thrive on the subjugation of Indigenous groups. (35)

Like Nye, Salaita’s argument suggests that the subjugation of certain groups—although seemingly disparate—is part of the same system of domination. While most Americans now recognize the ways in which Native Americans were brutalized by colonial forces, they fail to recognize the subjugation of Palestinians by the Israeli government. Salaita’s argument suggests

that if the similarities between the experiences of Native Americans and Palestinians are highlighted, perhaps Americans can learn to sympathize with the Palestinian people—and maybe even participate in the expressions of solidarity of which Nye writes.

Arab American Literature in the Ethnic Landscape

In this dissertation, I hope to participate in the kind of coalition building that Salaita and

Nye suggest by highlighting the similarities of experience shared by Arab Americans and other ethnic American groups as demonstrated in their literatures. Arab American literature shares many characteristics with the literature of other American ethnic groups. Lisa Suhair Majaj, a scholar whose numerous foundational works on Arab American literature and culture have been instrumental to the development of this project, explains the importance of such coalition building. “Ethnic identity cannot be constructed in isolation...the insularity that arises from a singular focus on Arab American issues may result in an obfuscation of the principles of justice and equity that underlie Arab American struggles, leading to a lack of solidarity with other groups,” she explains (325-326). Therefore, including Arab American literature in a broader discussion of American ethnic literature is vitally important to creating solidarity between Arabs and other ethnic groups. Majaj also explains that, “Arab Americans are one of the few ethnic groups it is still ‘safe to hate’” (321). This hatred and othering of Arabs and Muslims in the U.S. is certainly exacerbated post-9/11. However, it is important to highlight the ways in which other ethnic Americans groups have experienced similar discrimination in response to the sociopolitical environment. For example, the current anti-immigration policies enacted by the

Trump administration have targeted both South American and Middle Eastern groups. Solidarity

between the two groups will help demonstrate how certain policies are enacted to target people of color at large.

In Beyond Ethnicity, Werner Sollors writes that, “the writings of and about people who were descended from diverse backgrounds” reveal “something about how Americanness is achieved.” “Works of ethnic literature—written by, about or for persons who perceived themselves, or were perceived by others, as members of ethnic groups—may thus be read not only as expression of mediation between cultures but also as handbooks of socialization into the codes of Americanness,” he explains (7). The study of American ethnic literature reveals the

“codes of Americanness” to be complex and unstable, varying based on time, community, place, etc. However, placing Arab American studies in the context of ethnic American studies at large allows scholars to apply insights developed by other ethnic American groups to the works of

Arab Americans—further revealing their similarities.

Arab American studies is in some ways, still considered an emerging field, both because of an increase in the number of publications by Arab American writers and a heightened critical awareness of Arabs in America post-9/11. In Narrating 9/11: Fantasies of State, Security, and

Terrorism, Carol Fadda-Conrey expands on the premise that 9/11 is a “turning point, as opposed to the starting point, of histories of anti-Arab racism in the United States,” replacing certain exoticized orientalist narratives with those of terrorism and fundamentalism. Fadda-Conrey explains that in response to such narratives, 9/11 prompted literary production by Arab

Americans who sought to reclaim the their representations:

…[M]ore that being a turning point, and notwithstanding obvious continuities into anti-

Arab forms of discrimination that precede 9/11, I would argue that 9/11 has generated a

formative moment in the production of urgent self-iterations (literary and otherwise) that

insist on portraying Arab Americans through an antihomogenous lens. In other words,

this formative moment has mobilized poignantly vocal, assertive, and unapologetic

claims to complex types of Arab American identities that articulate cohesive yet

antiessentialist responses to the assimilative pressures of US belonging. (195)

The three Arab American novels analyzed in this dissertation, Randa Jarrar’s A Map of Home

(2008), Mohja Kahf’s The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf (2006), and Laila Halaby’s Once in a

Promised Land (2007), exemplify such “antiessentialist” responses. All three novels are published post-9/11, although only one, Once in a Promised Land, directly deals with the aftermath of the attacks. The other two, A Map of Home and The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf, although set prior to 9/11, indirectly respond to post-9/11 discourse in their diverse representations of Arab American Muslim life.

Early Arab American Literature and the Contemporary Shift

The recent surge of interest in Arab American literature is in no doubt due to the heighted awareness of Arabs in America post-9/11. Al Maleh explains that the works of Arab Anglophone writers “came in handy in recent years, as they seemed to meet the needs of a readership eager to learn about Arab culture and intellectual make-up in a language that was the lingua franca of the modern age” (1). While 9/11 has put Arabs—and their literary productions—in the spotlight during the past two decades, Arabs have been producing Anglophone literature in America since the turn of the twentieth century. The first Anglophone texts by Arab writers were produced in the U.S., including “the first Anglophone Arab poetry collection, Myrtle and Myrrh (1905), the first play, Wajdah (1909), the first novel, The Book of Khalid (1911), and the first Arab-English autobiography, Abraham Mitrie Rihbany’s A Far Journey (1914)” (Al Maleh 2). Khalil Gibran,

the most recognizable name amongst the early Arab-Anglophone writers, was a Maronite

Catholic immigrant to the U.S. His best known work, The Prophet, a collection of poetry published in 1923, experienced great commercial success during its time, and continues to be popular. However, Gibran was unique in the midst of his contemporaries, who went relatively unnoticed (Al Maleh 2). In fact, Gibran's The Prophet continues to be one of the best selling poetry collections of all time.

Although the work of early Arab American writers is currently being rediscovered in conjunction with contemporary publications, the significance of these early works is still being debated. As Al Maleh explains, many early Arab American writers have been criticized for orientalizing themselves as “poet-prophets”: “The writing of Gibran and his contemporaries of

Arab descent was a blend of messianic discourse and Sufi thought. The authors saw themselves as visionaries and assumed cosmic missions for their lives, a practice not wholly out of line with the traditional role assigned to poets in Arab culture” (3). Others however, see the early writers as “initiators and pioneers of cultural mediation and early examples of transnationalism and border-crossing” (Al Maleh 4).

Whether viewed as innovators or orientalists, early Arab American writers expressed an optimism in their East-meets-West narratives that is absent from contemporary texts by writers with Arab ancestry. Early Arab American writers expressed a, “hybridity that undoubtedly helped them negotiate the ‘identity politics’ of their place of origin and their chosen abode with less tension than their successors” (Al Maleh 4). The reduced tension in early Arab American works is a sign of their time: during the turn of the twentieth century, an immigrant’s ability to succeed depended on their ability to assimilate. This assimilationist conscience is expressed in the optimistic themes of early Arab American literature, which rarely problematized the

complicated melding of two cultures—Arab and American—but rather, naturalized this process by presenting their struggles as universal.

The Racialization of Arabs

In Race and the Arab Americans Before and After 9/11, Nadine Naber warns that 9/11 should be viewed as “a turning point, as opposed to the starting point, of histories of anti-Arab racism in the United States” (4). Naber recounts how the history of anti-Arab racism in the U.S. began with the first wave of Arab immigrants in the late 1800s. These early immigrants were mostly Syrian Christians seeking economic opportunities and fleeing religious persecution.

These early immigrants were classified as Asian, and therefore, denied citizenship under the

1790 U.S. statute, which stated that citizenship may only be granted to a “free white person.” In

1909 Syrian Costa George Najour challenged this interpretation of the law in a Georgia federal court. Ultimately, Najour was granted citizenship because he looked like he belonged to “the white race,” “comes from Mt. Lebanon,” which is historically Christian, “was not particularly dark,” and “has the appearance and characteristics of the Caucasian race” (Naber 20). However, proving the instability of racial classification, particularly in relation to Arab Americans, 1914, a

North Carolina judge denied citizenship to George Dowd, another Syrian immigrant. The judge ruled that, although Syrians may be “free white persons,” citizenship was only reserved for ‘free white persons’ of European descent (Naber 21).

The confusion regarding racial categories is well documented in the shifting perceptions of different racial and/or ethnic groups throughout U.S. history. As Michael Omi and Howard

Winant explain in Racial Formation in the United States: “[R]ace in the United States is concurrently an obvious and complex phenomenon. Everyone ‘knows’ what race is, though

everyone has a different opinion as to how many racial groups there are, what they are called, and who belongs in what specific racial categories” (3). These shifting perceptions are often reflected in laws that have either limited or expanded the rights of certain groups based on the political and economic circumstances of the time. When considering the ways in which the concept of race has been used to enable state-sanctioned profiling, surveillance and discriminatory policies against people of color, it is no surprise that critical race theory is rooted in legal studies. As Cheryl I. Harris explains in “Whiteness as Property,” during slavery,

‘whiteness’ was the legal property that afforded people rights. “Because the system of slavery was contingent on and conflated with racial identity, it became crucial to be ‘white,’ to be identified as white, to have the property of being white. Whiteness was the characteristic, the attribute, the property of free human beings,” she writes (Harris 78). A legal claim to whiteness—despite its instability—not only afforded people their freedom, but it also determined who was eligible for citizenship.

Framing Contemporary Arab American Literature

Food for Our Grandmothers: Writings by Arab American and Arab-Canadian Feminists, published in 1994 and edited by Joanna Kadi1, was the first anthology of its kind. The groundbreaking collection consists of a variety of works by Arab women writers2, which including recipes, poems, critical essays, personal narratives, and hybrid pieces. Kadi’s

1 Now identifies and publishes as Joe Kadi. 2 Many of the contributors continue to publish and remain influential in Arab American cultural studies including: Lisa Suhair Majaj, Therese Saliba, Naomi Shihab Nye, Nada Elia, Pauline Kaldas, Laila Halaby, and Carol Haddad, amongst others.

introduction to the anthology provides a number of thoughtful insights in foregrounding discussions of Arab American/Arab-Canadian literature.

Kadi introduces the discussion of language and transliteration in Arab Anglophone literature, explaining:

Many Arabic words are used throughout this book. By and large, I have left the

transliteration the way the authors wrote it. All of us grew up hearing Arabic very

differently, because of our countries of origin, our class and regional backgrounds, and

the time period our families immigrated. It seemed more appropriate to leave these words

and terms mostly as they are, rather than having them conform to one standard, formal

transliteration. (xi)

Kadi’s editorial choice empowers Arab Anglophone writers by allowing them to maintain elements of their native tongue in their English language writing. Furthermore, by allowing transliterated Arabic words and phrases to remain unchanged, Kadi signals an embrace of the diverse dialects within the Arabic language. These dialects are unique to individual countries, communities, and families.

Kadi also discusses the difficulty of naming a book with includes such a diverse collection of writers. “We are lesbians, bisexuals, and heterosexuals; of different generations; working class, middle class, upper-middle class; women born in the Arab world and women born here,” Kadi writes (xvii). Ultimately, Kadi settles on the phrase, “Arab American /Arab-

Canadian,” writers. However, Kadi concedes that one of the problems with this phrase is that it excludes Armenian, Turkish, and Iranian women, who are included in the anthology and whose cultures share many similarities with that of Arabs.

Furthermore, Kadi explains that the phrase is imperfect because it distinguishes Arabs from other people of color. “It does not link us to larger groups of people of color, that is Asians and Africans, but rather sets us apart and in isolation. This problematic dynamic already exists, because few other groups of people of color know much or care much about Arabs. It feels important to me to disrupt and change that pattern,” he explains (xviii). Kadi expresses his desire to link disparate people of color, writing through the discourse of the collection: “I hope this collection of essays and poems offers landmarks, signposts, names, and directions not only for Arab American and Arab-Canadian communities but for other communities of color and our allies.” Kadi also situates Food for Our Grandmothers with other collections by women of color, like “This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color, edited by Gloria

Anzaldúa and Cherríe Moraga; Home Girls: A Black Feminist Anthology, edited by Barbara

Smith; Making Waves: An Anthology of Writings By and About Asian American Women, edited by Asian Women United of California; A Gathering of Spirit: A Collection by North American

Indian Women, edited by Beth Brant” (xvii). Kadi explains that, “Books such as these help record a community’s history and spirit. They are valuable maps in our struggle for liberation, offering the hope and information, sustenance and analysis, education and challenges that we need so desperately” (xvii).

The works of the early Arab American and Arab Canadian women writers found in Food for Our Grandmothers have certainly influenced contemporary writers. The themes and tone of contemporary Arab American literature have changed drastically in relation to the current cultural and political environment. While the early Arab American writers were men, the writers at the forefront of this shift in contemporary Arab American literature are predominately women.

These writers certainly do not dodge tension in their work—the themes of these texts are

predominately familial, political, and feminist. I find equally compelling the ways in which the style of Arab American literature has shifted. While there is little to no trace of the Arabic language in early Arab American Anglophone texts, contemporary writers are constantly at play with Arabic words, phrases, and syntax in their work. This is why I identify the Arab American woman writer as the "new-new mestiza." Much like Chicano women in the 1980s, who were led by visionaries like Gloria Anzaldúa and Sandra Cisneros, contemporary Arab American women writers are deconstructing the Anglo-American expectation that one must be rid of their native tongue in order to live and function in the U.S.

The Language(s) of Literature

The question of language has often been at the center of debates on postcolonial African literature. Perhaps the two most prominent voices in this debate, Chinua Achebe and Ngugi Wa

Thiong’o, have differing viewpoints on whether the postcolonial experience can be effectively communicated using European languages. In a discussion of neo-colonialism, Ngugi fiercely advocates for the use of African languages to document African experiences: “Isn’t the writer

[who has opted for European languages] perpetuating, at the level of cultural practice, the very neo-colonialism he is condemning at the level of economic and political practice?” Unlike

Ngugi, Achebe believes that literature written in European languages can accurately represent

African identity. In his first novel, Things Fall Apart (Nigeria, 1958) Achebe achieves this through the style of his narrative, which incorporates distinctly African oral storytelling techniques. Achebe believes that such strategies are necessary when writing African Anglophone literature: “I feel that the English language will be able to carry the weight of my African

experience. But it will have to be a new English, still in full communion with its ancestral home but altered to suit its new African surroundings,” he says (349).

American ethnic writers have similarly struggled with language. In order to escape from this bind, where the importance of one’s linguistic identity is diminished and denied, Gloria

Anzaldúa posits that bilingual speakers must formulate a new language, one which adequately combines their lived experience in the ‘borderland’. In Borderlands/La Frontera, Anzaldúa writes:

…for a people who live in a country in which English is the reigning tongue but who are

not Anglo…what recourse is left to them but to create their own language? A language

which they can connect their identity to, one capable of communicating the realities and

values true to themselves—a language with terms that are neither espanol ni ingles, but

both. We speak a patois, a forked tongue, a variation of two languages. (77)

Anzaldúa’s foundational work has been expanded on in recent theoretical publications. In Lost and Found in Translation, Martha J. Cutter’s contributions are particularly useful in understanding these concepts in relation to American ethnic literature at large. Translation is a central theme in Cutter’s work; however, the translation she writes of is not literal, but ideological. Cutter explains that she reads “translation as trope” in ethnic literature, “often signif[ying] a process of continual negotiation and renegotiation between languages and an ongoing struggle between conflicting and often clashing cultures and ideologies” (6). Cutter goes on to explain how the effective ‘translator’ is able to combine their hybrid identities in writing, creating a style unique to their experiences:

An effective translator can creatively mesh languages and worldviews so that the

spiritual, cultural, and social values of the original or parent culture are not lost as the

translator moves into a new culture and language. For these writers, translation entails

moving the ideas and values of one culture to a new context, but it also involves

transplanting, transmigrating these ideas—making a new location for them in the new

world and the new language they must inhabit. (2)

Cutter’s understanding of language in ethnic literature certainly echoes Anzaldúa’s. In the face of such subjugation, language has become an important tool for resistance. Anzaldúa demonstrates her linguistic pride by including Spanish words and phrases in her writing. As a Chicana woman,

Anzaldúa refuses the erasure of her Mexican identity. Since Anzaldúa’s groundbreaking

Borderlands/La Frontera was published in 1987, many American ethnic writers have emerged with texts that incorporate multiple languages, including Japanese American Ruth Ozeki,

Dominican American Junot Diaz, and Arab American Randa Jarrar. The fluidity with which

American ethnic writers vacillate between English and their native language demonstrates a refusal to linguistically ‘other’ their native language. Furthermore, while some writers choose to translate the words and phrases which appear in their native language, others choose to provide no translation at all, illustrating their lived experience as multilingual speakers, where languages freely coexist.

Arab American Literature in Conversation

In Randa Jarrar’s debut novel, A Map of Home, Nidali, an Arab American girl moves from the U.S. to Kuwait, then back to the U.S., where her family eventually settles in Texas. In

Chapter 2, I am particularly interested in the way Jarrar’s writing reflects Anzaldúa’s “new mestiza consciousness”—the idea that freely intertwining Spanish and English empowers

Chicana women to embrace their cultural identity. Similarly, in A Map of Home, the

incorporation of transliterated Arabic words and phrases allows for the reclamation of Arabic linguistic and cultural pride. In recounting Nidali’s experiences, Jarrar often uses transliterated

Arabic words and phrases, some translated, some untranslated. The effect of Jarrar’s use of language is a narrative that more closely resembles the way a bilingual Arabic/English individual thinks and speaks. Jarrar’s novel demonstrates the new mestiza consciousness in both style and content. Nidali, who struggles with coming-of-age are complicated by her identities as an Arab,

American, Muslim, and young woman, learns to use language, both Arabic and English, subversively in negotiating her multiple subject positions. While living in Kuwait as a young girl, Nidali chooses to participate in a Quran recitation contest—an activity usually reserved for men and boys. Through her recitation of the Quran in a male dominated space, Nidali insists on the visibility and inclusion of women in Muslim spaces. As a teenager in the U.S., Nidali decides to pursue a career as a writer—allowing her increase the visibility of Arab and Muslim women in the American literary context.

Although A Map of Home and The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf are both novels about young women coming-of-age in America, the Arab American experience represented in each novel is drastically different. Mohja Kahf’s The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf follows Khadra

Shamy, whose family moves to America from Syria when she is eight years old, from childhood to adulthood. The majority of the novel centers Khadra’s relationship with the large, tight-knit

Muslim American community to which she and her family belong. In A Map of Home, there is no mention of a Muslim community, or even an Arab community, once Nidali’s family moves to

America. The Muslim community in The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf greatly influences Khadra’s life. As a child, she spends most of her free time with her Muslim friends, holidays are celebrated with the community at large, and her parents are also actively involved in the community. While

the expectations of the community can sometimes be stifling, their support is invaluable. In

Chapter 3, I explore the similarities between such Muslim American communities and Asian

American communities, specifically, Chinatowns.

Comparing the Chinatown community in Fae Myenne Ng’s Bone to the Muslim community in The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf, I demonstrate the complicated relationships the novels’ characters have with their communities. Like The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf, Bone also centers a young woman coming-of-age in an immigrant family. Bone tells the story Leila, a

Chinese American young woman, as she helps her stepfather and mother cope with her sister’s suicide. As she grapples with the untimely death of her sister, Leila reflects on her upbringing in

San Francisco’s Chinatown. Growing up, Leila often feels frustrated by the community’s gossip and intrusive ways. However, in the aftermath of her sister’s death, their support is vital. Their knowledge of the proper Chinese cultural traditions surrounding death help relieve Leila from the responsibility of managing her parents’ grief.

Similarly, in The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf the Muslim American community is brought together by an untimely death. When the daughter of one of the families is raped and killed in an apparent hate crime, the community comes together to support the family. Although Khadra is too young to fully process this event at the time, when she returns to the community as an adult, she is able to fully appreciate the way they came together in light of this tragedy.

While the characters in A Map of Home and The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf ultimately learn to navigate effectively their hybrid subject positions as Arabs and Americans, the failure to do so leads to a tragic end for the couple at the center of Laila Halaby’s Once in a Promised

Land. Halaby’s novel tells the story of Salwa and Jassim, a married couple who moved to

Tuscon, Arizona from Jordan. Salwa and Jassim’s comfortable, upper-middle class life is

disrupted by the September 11th attacks. Although they are both well educated, fluent in English, and successful in their respective careers, these factors do not afford them any claim to American identity, especially as Arab Americans post-9/11. While Salwa understands that despite their apolitical, secular nature, their identity as Arab Muslims has made them visible targets in post

9/11 America, Jassim fails to accept this fact. Halaby subtly conveys the gendered differences in

Jassim and Salwa’s use of language as bilingual Arabic/English speakers, revealing that Jassim’s lack of understanding is a problem of cultural translation. Refusing to accept that his identity as an Arab Muslim man has made him a target, Jassim fails to protect himself when he is the target of racial profiling which ultimately results in an FBI investigation. Ultimately, Once in a

Promised Land serves as a cautionary tale, demonstrating that the idea of America as a

“promised land,” especially for people of color, is false.

Chapter Two

The New “New Mestiza”:

Linguistics as Resistance in Randa Jarrar’s A Map of Home

I catch the pen now and listen to all our stories. –Randa Jarrar

The act of writing is the act of making soul, alchemy. It is the quest for the self, for the center of the self, which we women of color have come to think of as ‘other’—the dark, the feminine.

Didn’t we start writing to reconcile this within us? –Gloria Anzaldúa

Of the many recent incidents of Arabs being racially profiled and removed from planes, the most compelling does not involve an Arab, nor does it involve anyone speaking Arabic.

Guido Menzio, an Italian Ivy League economist and tenured associate professor at the University of Pennsylvania, triggered his seatmate by doing math. His seatmate didn’t recognize his complex scribbles, and thought they might be Arabic or some sort of terrorist code. Menzio was removed by authorities and questioned. “She thought I was a terrorist because I was writing strange things on a pad of paper. I laugh. I bring them back to the plane. I showed them my math,” recalls Menzio (“Professor: Flight was Delayed…). In addition to his strange scribbles,

Menzio’s olive skin, dark curly hair, and beard, features that, to some, connote “Arabness,” no doubt contributed to his profiling. After a two-hour delay, during which the FBI questioned him,

Menzio was allowed to resume his trip. The absurdity of this incident is not that Menzio is

Italian, that he was only doing math, or that he turned out to be a well-respected and well-known economist. It is that because of these factors this incident caused nearly every major media outlet to publish an article relaying the story with a disdainful headline3 aimed at Menzio’s seatmate, who couldn’t recognize math. The incident garnered widespread media coverage, all expressing overwhelming sympathy for Menzio. The outrage that an Italian-born, “decorated Ivy League economist,” as The Washington Post described him, could be subject to such discrimination, was apparent in the coverage. The Washington Post even went as far as to describe Menzio’s outfit that day—“He was wearing navy Diesel jeans and a red Lacoste sweater—a look he would later describe as ‘simple elegance’—but something didn’t seem right to her” (Rampell). The details about Menzio’s outfit seem to scream the rhetorical question: How could she make such a mistake when he was dressed in designer, Western attire? The implication being that if he wasn’t

Italian, but Middle Eastern, wasn’t doing math, but in fact, writing in Arabic, wasn’t wearing nice jeans and a respectable sweater, but a thawb and turban—alerting the authorities may have been within reason. However, despite Menzio’s Western attire, the very idea of the Arabic language was enough to elicit a response.

As for the woman who reported Menzio, the only details that have been released about her are that she is white, has blonde hair, and is in her thirties. While it may be easy to scornfully highlight this woman’s ignorance, she represents a much more pervasive problem—a fear of

Arabs, and by extension, the Arabic language, that is kindled by news outlets, politicians, and the authorities. It is not the fact that this woman felt Menzio to be a threat that makes this incident absurd; it is the fact that the responsible authorizes (FBI, airline, etc.) took action in response to

3 A few examples include, the Washington Post’s, headline, “Ivy League Economist ethnically profiled, interrogated for doing math on American Airlines flight”; Slate’s, “Passenger Delays Flight After Mistaking Math Equations for Terrorist Code”; and The Philadelphia Inquirer’s, “Passenger thinks Penn prof from Italy is terrorist, flight is delayed.”

her ignorance. The authorities, much like the woman who reported Menzio, have been conditioned to see sights of racial difference that connote “Arabness,” as cause for alarm. No doubt that Menzio’s dark hair, olive skin, and beard, in addition to his scribbles, contributed to his profiling.

In this chapter, I will demonstrate how Arabs, and by extension, the Arabic language, both written and spoken, came to elicit such fear, and how Arab American s are writing back to such ignorance. I begin by tracing the ways that the Arabic language has been represented in the

U.S., leading to a present where writing or speaking Arabic is treated as a threat to national security. This representation is pervasive; there is little to no nuance in the way Arabic, and

Arabs, are portrayed in films, by politicians, or on news channels. I will then provide a brief overview of Arab American literature, which saw its first productions in the early twentieth century, to demonstrate how the genre has shifted in both style and content.

I posit that contemporary Arab American literature, specifically the work of women writers, can be compared to that of the groundbreaking Chicana works that emerged in the

1980s. Resisting the stifling of the Spanish language is a cornerstone of Chicana writing; similar resistance is demonstrated in the work of Arab American women writers. Contemporary Arab

American women writers, like the Chicana writers that came before them (and are still producing work today), embrace their linguistic identity by freely intertwining their native tongue with their predominantly English-language texts. The result is writing which mirrors their natural speech and thought patterns.

Using Arab American writer Randa Jarrar’s debut novel, A Map of Home, as a case study,

I demonstrate how the concepts and themes developed by foundational Chicana writers, Gloria

Anzaldúa and Sandra Cisneros, are present in the text. The novel, which traces the coming-of-

age of Nidali, who, like Jarrar, is of Palestinian descent, is filled with transliterated Arabic words and phrases. The Arabic and English that appear in the novel are never presented as being in opposition with one another, rather both languages, through speech acts and writing, serve to empower Nidali throughout the novel. Because she is empowered through her embrace of her linguistic and cultural hybridity, Nidali, I argue, represents Anzaldúa’s concept of the “new mestiza consciousness” (99).

Arabic as Resistance

How is the Arabic language used as a tool for resistance in contemporary Arab American literature? To answer this question, we must consider the ways in which Arabs, and by extension,

Arabic, has been represented in the American landscape. Long before the 24-hour news cycle,

Hollywood films led the charge in negative, Orientalist stereotypes of Arabs, dating back to as early at 1896 (Shaheen 172). In his book, Reel Bad Arabs, Jack Shaheen reviewed over 900 films featuring Arab characters, concluding that, “the vast majority of which portray Arabs by distorting at every turn what Arab men, women, and children are really like… Seen through

Hollywood’s distorted lenses, Arabs look different and threatening” (172). Negative representations of Arabs in film have material consequences, much like similar distortions have had for minority groups in the past. Shaheen specifically compares Hollywood representations of

Arabs to that of Jews leading up the Holocaust:

Arabs, like Jews are Semites, so it is perhaps not too surprising that Hollywood’s image

of hook-nosed, robed Arabs parallels the image of Jews in Nazi inspired movies…Once

upon a cinematic time, screen Jews boasted exaggerated nostrils and dressed

differently—in yarmulkes and dark robes—than the film’s protagonists. In the past, Jews

were projected as the “other”—depraved and predatory money-grubber who seek world

domination, worship a different God, and kill innocents…. Yesterday’s Shylocks

resemble today’s hook-nosed sheiks, arousing fear of the ‘other.’ (Shaheen 175)

Aligning historically inaccurate representations of Jews and Arabs highlights the role that popular culture can play in the geopolitical climate—and how such representations can be used by nations to push their political agendas. Shaheen recalls a screening of the film Rules of

Engagement (2000), during which “viewers rose to their feet, clapped and cheered,” when U.S. marines open fire on Yemeni men, women and children (177). Earlier in the film, Yemeni children had been falsely portrayed as assassins. The Department of Defense (DOD) is thanked in the credits of Rules of Engagement, in fact, “more that fourteen feature films, all of which show Americans killing Arabs, credit the DOD for providing needed equipment, personnel, and technical assistance” (Shaheen 177).

It is important that we scrutinize such films for propagating negative stereotypes of

Arabs, as well as the DOD’s support of their productions. Surely, these cinematic representations of Arabs as terrorists are in line with Edward Said’s definition of Orientalism as the West’s distorted view of the Orient. The DOD’s support of such films is consistent with the epistemological roots of Orientalism—it is not merely a matter of false representations, it is a manifestation of complex systems of power that have justified the domination of the Orient and its people:

One ought never to assume that the structure of Orientalism is nothing more than a

structure of lies or of myths which were the truth about them to be told, would simply

blow away. I myself believe that Orientalism is more particularly valuable as a sign of

European-Atlantic power over the Orient then it is as a veridic discourse about the Orient.

(Said 6)

As Said explains, the accuracy of Orientalist representations does not matter—rather, such representations reveal more about the Westerners that produce them and their goals. Orientalist depictions of the Middle East help garner support for the dominance of the region and its people.

Therefore, the DOD has a vested interest in supporting Orientalism in order to carry out the

U.S.’s geopolitical goals.

In today’s climate, Orientalist depictions of Arabs, propelled by the 2001 attacks on the

World Trade Center and the 24-hour news cycle, have bolstered support for U.S. military action in the Middle East, justified the denial of basic rights to Arab American s through legislation like the PATRIOT Act, and resulted in the widespread profiling and surveillance of Arabs and those suspected of being Arab. Following the attacks, American news media repeatedly showcased

Arabic-language videos produced by terrorist organizations, most notoriously, those featuring

Osama Bin Laden.4 The constant repetition of these videos contributed to the same fear mongering that phrases like “access of evil” and “weapons of mass destruction” invoked. The message was clear: Arabs are dangerous and violent, a standpoint reinforced by the terrorist- produced videos in constant rotation, especially post 9/11. Unlike other foreign languages, say,

French or Italian, which may occasionally be featured in an English-language television show or

4 Interestingly, Bin Laden had a superior command of the Arabic language, specifically the formal dialect, Modern Standard Arabic, and he delivered his speeches in this classical dialect, which in the Arab world, is reserved for formal writing, government, business, and intellectual spheres. In an article titled “Living in Arabic,” published in 2004 in Al-Ahram, an Egyptian newspaper, Edward Said even noted the eloquence of Bin Laden’s speech: “What I found striking, quite apart from what was actually said, was the high level of eloquence among the more embattled and even repellent of the participants, Osama Bin Laden included. He is (or was) a soft-spoken, fluent speaker who neither hesitates nor makes the slightest linguistic slip, surely a factor in his apparent influence…”

movie when a beloved character takes the trip-of-a-lifetime to Paris or Rome, Arabic almost exclusively appears in contemporary American arenas in association with terrorism. In an article titled “Living In Arabic,” Said wrote of post 9/11 depictions of Arabic:

…Arabic is “considered to be a highly controversial and quite fearsome language for

entirely ideological reasons that have nothing to do with the way the language is lived in,

deployed, and experienced by native speakers and users. I don't know where this

conception of Arabic as a language essentially expressing blood- curdling and

incomprehensible violence comes from, but surely all those 40's and 50's Hollywood

screen villains in turbans who snarl at their victims with sadistic relish have something to

do with it, as does the fixation on terrorism to the exclusion of everything else about the

Arabs in the US media.

The repetition of terrorist-produced videos, coupled with the entertainment industry’s reinforcement of terrorist as Arabic speakers, aligns the Arabic language itself with barbarism. In fact, the word barbarian is rooted in xenophobia and disdain for linguistic difference. The association of linguistic difference with savagery dates back to Greek and Roman times, where barbarism connoted “an error in language, or rudeness in speech, such as might characterize an outsider” (Shipley 40).

Therefore, the sight of Arabic writing, or your average conversation in Arabic between friends, elicits the images of terrorism and violence that Americans are bombarded with. This fear of the Arabic language is apparent in the way its speakers, or even individuals like Menzio, whose math was mistaken for Arabic, have been profiled. Take for example the week following the Boston Marathon bombing in April of 2013, when two men were removed from a flight leaving Boston. What was their offense? They were carrying a conversation in Arabic. Other

passengers aboard the plane swiftly reported them to flight attendants who removed them for

“additional screening” (“Plane Brought Back to Gate”). For these passengers, and for the many other passengers, airline crew, and authorities that profile Arabic speakers, Arabic has never been a language of casual conversations between friends.

The prejudices associated with Arabic extend to include and exacerbate anti-Islamic sentiment. For example, on popular American 24-hour news channels, Muslims are often referred to as worshiping “Allah”—which literally translates to “God” in Arabic. Allah is used by Christian and Muslim Arabic speakers alike to refer to God, and is not associated with any religion exclusively. Referring to God as Allah when discussing Islam creates distance between

Islam and the other Abrahamic faiths by signaling Muslims as other. Never mind the fact that this demarcation has no linguistic or even theological basis—Arabic words, despite their actual meaning, simply invoke fear and difference.

This fear and misunderstanding of Arabic was particularly apparent leading up to the

2008 presidential elections. Barack Obama’s estranged Muslim father made him the subject of anti-Islamic criticism, much of which presented itself through the invocation of Arabic. For example, whether or not Obama attended a “madrassa” during his time spent living in Indonesia was a common topic of conversation. Although the criticism was aimed at determining whether or not Obama attended an Islamic school (which in an ideal world, would not matter either way), commenters failed to realize that “madrassa” literally translated, means “school” in Arabic, and has no religious implications. This fact however, did not matter, as the nature of the Arabic word was enough to elicit fear. Another example from the 2008 election season was the focus on

Obama’s Arabic middle name “Hussein,” which was emphasized by many of his opponents as

they tried to stir up support from Islamophobic voters. Although much criticism of Obama is rooted in racism, Islam provided a conveniently accepted prejudice with which to attack.

The power that has been prescribed to the Arabic language in the contemporary U.S. is fascinating. Its depiction has garnered support for international wars. Its use, or even perceived use, has the ability to provoke the FBI into action. It is powerful enough to use in campaigns to help sway presidential elections. It’s not surprising then, that a language that commands such power is being studied with more vigor in the U.S. According to a survey released in 2010 by the

Modern Language Association (MLA), the study of Arabic courses had seen a drastic increase in enrollment:

The new survey found that the study of Arabic registered the largest percentage growth at

US colleges and universities since the previous MLA report. Enrollments in Arabic

language courses grew by 46.3% between 2006 and 2009, building on an increase of

126.5% in Arabic enrollments in the previous MLA survey, the first in which the

language appeared among the ten most studied at US colleges and universities. Arabic is

now the eighth most studied foreign language at US colleges and universities.5 (MLA)

This newfound interest in Arabic is not a sign of appreciation or respect for the language and its people. Rather, this interest in Arabic parallels Cold War interest in Russian and Southeast Asian languages due to their association with Communism. Arabic interpreters are prized resources for government and military forces. The surge of Arabic learners in the U.S. is directly linked with the increased fear and surveillance of Arabic speakers.

5 The 2013 MLA survey showed a decrease in the study of all top ten languages except American Sign Language and Chinese. Of the eight languages that showed a decrease in enrollment, Arabic had the least percent decrease (7.5%), and remained in the top ten as the eighth most studied language in the U.S. (MLA).

The Importance of Linguistic Identity

To identify the characteristics that make the Arab American woman writer the ‘new-new mestiza’, we must return to the term’s origins, Gloria Anzaldúa’s groundbreaking work,

Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. Anzaldúa's Borderlands boldly, deliberately, and unapologetically vacillates between English and Spanish. Although words like codeswitching and interpolation are often used to describe the insertion of words or phrases from one language into a piece that is predominately written in another, I do not believe that such demarcations are appropriate for the work of Anzaldúa. 'Codeswitching' and 'interpolation' signify a conscious transition from one language to another. For the polyglot writer, these transitions mimic the natural flow of their thoughts and speech patterns. According to Anzaldúa, it is the suppression of this cross-lingual identity, an extension of the cross-cultural self, which forces the mestiza to feel as though she must choose between two collectivities with which to identify. Anzaldúa explains that the mestiza is,

In a constant state of mental nepantilism, an Aztec word meaning torn between ways, la

mestiza is a product of the transfer of the cultural and spiritual values of one group to

another. Being tricultural, monolingual, bilingual or multilingual, speaking a patois, and

in a state of perpetual transition, the mestiza faces the dilemma of the mixed breed: which

collectivity does the daughter of the darkskinned mother listen to?” (100).

Note that Anzaldúa describes the mestiza as being, "in a state of perpetual transition." The linguistic and cultural expectations of the mestiza are constantly in flux because she is "torn between two ways," forced to deny her duality. This 'nepantilism' that the mestiza experiences is exacerbated, and often fueled by the dominant Anglophone culture, which demands that she deny her ancestry—in the case of the Chicana, her Mexican ancestry—in order to appease the

dominant Anglo culture. Furthermore, la mestiza, “daughter of the darkskinned mother,” must also contend with the constraints of a patriarchal society; she is doubly subjugated by both her cultural identity and her gender. Ironically, the Anglo-American culture which hopes to erase the

Chicana's Mexican identity, does not recognize its own instability. Why are Anglo-Americans so threatened by Spanish-speaking immigrants or Arabic-speaking travelers on a plane? The surface level claims of job-loss, loss of tax revenue, and national security, conceal (and maybe not so well) an Anglo, white-supremacist nationalism that is destabilized simply by the presence of the

Arab or Mexican.

The contentious history of the physical borderland further destabilizes Anglo, white- supremacist nationalism. Anglos began migrating into Texas, then part of Mexico, during he

1800s. As Anzaldúa explains, “Their illegal invasion forced Mexico to fight a war to keep its

Texas territory. The Battle of the Alamo, in which the Mexican forces vanquished the whites, became, for the whites, the symbol for the cowardly and villainous character of the Mexicans. It became (and still is) a symbol that legitimized the white imperialist takeover” (28). Despite

Mexico’s initial success, the 1846 invasion by the U.S. would force Mexico “to give up almost half of her nation, what is now Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado and California” (29). It would also leave 100,000 Mexican on U.S. side of the newly minted border. Despite a treaty that stated these Mexican citizens would be allowed to keep their land, they were eventually forced to relinquish their property (29).

Anzaldúa explains that although the physical borderland she refers to is the “Texas-U.S.

Southwest/Mexican border,” the “psychological borderlands, the sexual borderlands and the spiritual borderlands are not particular to the Southwest. In fact, Borderlands are physically present wherever two of more cultures edge each other.” Although Anzaldúa’s work is grounded

in the material space of the U.S./Mexico border, she recognizes that borders are physically present, even in between two differing ideological standpoints. Borderlands, therefore, are not clearly demarcated, but rather, deliberately hazy, designed to ensnare: “Borders are set up to define the places that are safe and unsafe, to distinguish us from them. A border is a dividing line, a narrow strip along a steep edge. A borderland is a vague and undetermined place created by the emotional residue of an unnatural boundary. It is in a constant state of transition,” explains

Anzaldúa (25).

For Arab American s, the presence of these psychological borderlands is particularly apparent. Earlier in this piece, I detailed the ways in which the Arabic language has been marginalized in contemporary American culture. I posit that this marginalization is a representation of a “psychological borderland.” As Anzaldúa writes, “Ethnic identity is twin skin to linguistic identity—I am my language. Until I can take pride in my language, I cannot take pride in myself” (81). The demonization of Arabic in the U.S. goes hand-in-hand with the political and cultural marginalization of Arab American s. Political marginalization is evident in the way Arab American s are denied equal rights under the law, continually profiled and targeted in the name of “national security.”

Although the material consequences of this form of marginalization are more apparent

(like my earlier example of the two men removed from a airplane simply because they were speaking Arabic), the psychological affects of cultural marginalization are just as damaging. As

Anzaldúa rightly notes, language is a matter of pride in oneself and one’s people, a concept that holds especially true for Arabic speakers. Historically, Arabic has always been the center of Arab cultural identity, predating both Islam and nationalism. During Pre-Islamic times, those who demonstrated mastery over the Arabic language were greatly revered. Poets, in particular, were

held to high esteem. In fact, the linguistic style of the Quran, considered by Arabic speakers both

Muslim and non-Muslim alike to be the height of eloquence in the Arabic language (and believed by Muslims to be the literal word of God), mirrors the style of early Arabic poetry. Atef

Alshaer, whose scholarship focuses on Arabic in relation to culture and politics, explains this historic significance:

The cultural epitome of Pre-Islamic Arabic was embodied in poetry, an artistic tradition,

which still occupies the premier position within the Arab world… Arabic has thus been at

the heart of the Arab world as a cultural and political emblem; its significance predates

nationalism in its modern sense, even if nationalism gave the question of language

visibility and momentum. (282)

As Alshaer notes, the cultural and political significance of Arabic are not mutually exclusive.

During the twentieth century, Arabic began to serve as a “political emblem,” unifying Arab nations and encouraging Pan-Arab identity in response to a variety of conflicts: the colonization of Arab countries by French and British forces, the violent removal of Palestinians from their land, the numerous wars fought with and amongst Arab nations, etc. These conflicts were compounded by the rise of nationalism during the twentieth century, which threatened Pan-Arab unity. However, despite these conflicts, the Arabic language continued to signify the cornerstone of Arab identity. Alshaer cites Sati’ al-Din al-Husari, “an eminent Syrian educator and nationalist,” who explains the unifying power of Arabic:

Every individual who belongs to the Arab countries and speaks Arabic is an Arab. He is

so, regardless of the name of the country whose citizenship he officially holds. He is so

regardless of the religion he professes or the sect he belongs to. He is so, regardless of his

ancestry, lineage or the roots of the family to which he belongs. His is an Arab [full stop].

(qtd. in Alshaer 284)

Al-Husari’s insistence that Arab identity is premised upon the Arabic language despite nationality, religion, or ancestry is significant. (Spanish speakers share a similar sense of unity through linguistic identity). The colonization and domination of Arab countries during the twentieth century left Arabs contending with new languages, new borders, and a newly minted diaspora. As we know, colonization is not simply an act of political domination, but of cultural domination as well. The message sent by British and French colonizers was clear: Arabs are inferior, their culture is inferior, and therefore, they are not capable of self-governance.

Unfortunately, this message still permeates our culture, although its primary proponent has shifted from France and Britain to the U.S—leaving Arab American s in a liminal space—a space in which they return to Arabic as a mode of resistance.

Postcolonial writers, in response to Western domination, have long advocated the embrace of one’s mother tongue as an important mode of resistance. Kenyan writer Ngũgĩ, Wa

Thiongʼo has argued that writers can only align themselves with the struggles of their people if they do so in the language of their people. “[The writer] will have to confront the languages spoken by the people in whose service he has put his pen. Such a writer will have to discover the real languages of the struggle in the actions and speech of his people…” Ngũgĩ explains (12).

Therefore, in order to accurately reflect the lived experiences of marginalized groups—one must do so in their language. When language is deployed for this purpose the hybrid writer resists linguistic domination, and creates work that is unique to their mixed identity. For writers living and writing in the U.S., a complete return to their mother tongues would not accurately expressed

their lived experience as hybrids—so their texts must be hybrid as well, intertwining their native language into their English language texts.

A Map of Home and Resistance

In Randa Jarrar’s novel, A Map of Home, the incorporation of transliterated Arabic words and phrases allows for the reclamation of Arabic linguistic and cultural pride. A Map of Home exemplifies the transnational novel, telling the story of Nidali, born to a Palestinian-father and

Egyptian-Greek-mother in the United States, who spends her childhood in Kuwait and Egypt before her eventual return to America at the age of fourteen. The novel’s plot unfolds much like a classic coming-of-age story, beginning with Nidali as a child and ending with her as a young- adult that is on her way to college. Written in English, it relays the experience of diaspora as

Nidali navigates her multiple subjectivities as an Arab, American, young woman, and Muslim.

Nidali narrates the novel with wit and humor, beginning with the story of her birth and naming in a Boston maternity ward, which frames the conflict of the remainder of the novel.

Without knowing the sex of his child, her father, Waheed, rushes to find a nurse and fill out a birth certificate, naming the baby Nidal, an Arabic boy’s name meaning “strife” or “struggle”

(Jarrar 3). Upon learning that he has had a daughter and not a son, Waheed adds an “I” to the name, feminizing it into “Nidali,” meaning “my struggle.” In the hospital, her mother, Ruz, unsuccessfully argues with Waheed and insists they change their daughter’s name, stating that she will not be “forecasting this girls future [by] calling her ‘my struggle’!” (6). Nidali’s name certainly does forecast her future, serving as symbol for her struggles with her father. More significantly, the name becomes an important symbol of Nidali’s productive hybridity as she defies gender roles and negotiates her multiple subjectivities to find her voice as a young woman.

Nidali’s hybrid subject position—as both masculine and feminine, Palestinian/Egyptian/Greek and American, English and Arabic speaking—and the productive ways in which she negotiates these multiple subjectivities, is representative of Anzaldúa’s concept of the “new mestiza.”

Although Anzaldúa uses the word “mestiza” in reference to her own “Indian, Spanish, and white” (81) background, the concept of the “new mestiza” can certainly be applied to Nidali:

At the confluence of two or more genetic streams, with chromosomes constantly

‘crossing over,’ this mixture of races, rather than resulting in an inferior being, provides

hybrid progeny, a mutable, more malleable species with a rich gene pool. From this

racial, ideological, cultural and biological cross-pollinization, an ‘alien’ consciousness is

presently in the making—a new mestiza consciousness, una conciencia de mujer: It is a

consciousness of the Borderlands. (Anzaldúa 99)

Anzaldúa’s definition of the “new mestiza consciousness” rejects the traditional view that

“mixed” individuals are inferior. Furthermore, she extends the concept of what it means to be

“mixed” by including “ideological, cultural and biological cross-pollinization.” The new mestiza is “alien” in American culture—a marker of difference against which white Americanness is defined. However, her “consciousness is presently in the making.” By embracing her hybridity, the new mestiza defines herself in her own terms—not those demarcated by any of her subjectivities. We see many of these concepts as play in A Map of Home. Nidali is of mixed ethnic, religious (her Greek grandmother is Christian), and linguistic backgrounds. It is through the embrace of all of these subjectivities that Nidali becomes the “mutable, more malleable” woman of which Anzaldúa writes.

In order to become her more “mutable, more malleable” self, the new mestiza must finds her voice in the borderland by embracing her linguistic identity. This new mestiza consciousness

is not only illustrated though the content of the novel, but through the style as well. Jarrar, who like her protagonist, is also Arab American, incorporates transliterated Arabic words and phrases, both translated and untranslated, throughout the text. The Arabic in a Map of Home is a productive choice by Jarrar—to express her narrator’s engagement with the events of the novel, she must recount them as Nidali, a bilingual Arabic/English speaker, experiences them. The addition of Arabic serves to illustrate Nidali’s hybrid conscious. Similarly, in Anzaldúa’s

Borderland’s, Spanish plays a similar role. Throughout the book, Spanish appears in many forms—translated and untranslated, as a sign word, a brief phrase, several sentences of a paragraph, a long poem, etc.

It is interesting to note that all of the transliterated Arabic words and phrases that appear in the novel appear in italics.6 Similarly, throughout Anzaldúa’s Borderlands, Spanish always appears in italics. Jarrar and Anzaldúa may use italics to emphasize the Arab and Spanish words and phrases to readers, and therefore, further center the marginalized languages. Furthermore, in

A Map of Home, the italics supplement the look of Arabic letters by mimicking their curved

6 Interestingly, Jarrar’s most recent publication, Him, me, Muhammad Ali, a short story collection, does not contain as much transliterated Arabic as A Map of Home. In instances throughout the collection where Jarrar does use transliterated Arabic, it does not appear in italics.

This editorial shift could simply indicate the progression of Jarrar’s style as she develops as a writer (A Map of Home was her debut full-length work), or it could indicate a shift in her engagement with the Arabic language in her English language texts. Or perhaps, rather than signify its difference through italics as in A Map of Home, its simple insertion in her short stories may signify a more natural, fluid relationship between the two languages.

shapes. The only Arabic word that does not appear in italics is “Allah.” I found this to be an interesting, and perhaps even significant choice by Jarrar. Since “Allah” is commonly used in

English-vernacular, I posit that Jarrar did not find the italics necessary since they signify codeswitching, which she is not doing when using “Allah.” Furthermore, “Allah” and “God” are used interchangeably throughout the text. The majority of these interchanges appear in places where an English word just wouldn’t suffice. A prime example is when Nidali is asked by her mother, “What is your most important possession?” to which she responds, “‘my dignity,’ karamti,” (28). The English and the Arabic appear side-by-side in the text, highlighting the distinction between the two. The “i” in karamti indicates personal possession—dignity as something that is embedded in the self.

In A Map of Home, transliterated Arabic often appears in the form of dialogue, representing a phrase or formality that is unique to the Arabic language. Quite frequently, transliterated Arabic curses appear in the exchanges between Nidali’s parents. In the opening scene of the novel during their argument over Nidali’s name, Waheed cautions his wife to calm down because her “kussik”—which Jarrar translates to both “pussy” and “cunt” at various points—“needs to rest,” to which Ruz replies, “Kussy? Kussy ya ibn ilsharmoota?”—“My pussy? My pussy, you son of a whore”(5). Though Waheed and Ruz’s language is quite profane,

Jarrar writes these exchanges with a comical, light tone. The inclusion of Arabic in this scene and others like it is important in that it directly mimics Waheed and Ruz’s language, highlighting the absurdity of their fights. If these scenes were written in straightforward English the comical tone would be compromised and the language may appear too harsh. Therefore, in these instances, the use of Arabic becomes necessary to accurately express the emotions of the characters.

The freedom to incorporate words from different languages, to italicize or not to italicize, or to play with stylistic conventions in general, is significant in the work of hybrid women writers. As Sandra Cisneros explains, such stylistic choices by women writers allow them to mold the text to better reflect their subjectivity:

She experiments, creating a text that is as succinct and flexible as poetry, snapping

sentences into fragments so that the reader pauses, making each sentence serve her and

not the other way round, abandoning quotation marks to streamline the typography and

make the page as simple and readable as possible. So that the sentences are pliant as

branches and can be read in more ways than one. (Cisneros xvii)

One might assume that works that break so drastically with stylistic conventions are easier to write. However, both Cisneros and Anzaldúa have written about the labor of writing, especially as women of color living in American. Their writing is painstakingly molded reflect their experiences as women who hold multiple subjectivities. As Anzaldúa explains, “The work of the mestiza consciousness is to break down the subject-object duality that keeps her a prisoner and to show in the flesh and through the images in her work how duality is transcended” (102). Jarrar explained that she once felt anxiety about her own duality: “…as an Arab American writer, someone who writes in English, and mostly thinks and dreams in English, I used to struggle with authenticity issues. In the last two years, I’ve found myself ripping up the voices in my head that question my authenticity. No one can tell me what I am” (Beirut39).

In addition to exemplifying the new mestiza consciousness through the stylistic and linguistic choices she makes in her writing, Jarrar’s novel is an example of Arab American and

Muslim feminism in practice. Nidali’s feminism, coupled with her “new mestiza consciousness” is best exemplified in her decision to enter a Quran contest being held at a near-by boy’s school.

During the contest, participants must recite a section of the Quran from memory. In order to do this successfully, participants must master the difficult, yet beautiful classical Arabic of the

Quran. In undertaking this task, Nidali simultaneously embraces her linguistic identity as an

Arabic speaker and her religious identity as a Muslim. Nidali practices with her father prior to the contest, who choses several verses for her to recite:

Baba chose several small verses instead of one long verse. I didn’t ask him why, but he

explained to me that the last few verses of the Koran would be necessary for me to know

in the future. ‘All your life you’ll remember these verses. I don’t want you to be prepared

for just a contest. Life itself is a test. Knowing these verses by heart will help you pass it,

and will bring you comfort.’ (Jarrar 45)

Waheed’s insistence that the verses will provide comfort and prepare Nidali for life’s contests rings true. As the contest approaches, Nidali’s father becomes physically and emotionally abusive when she makes mistakes during practice. However, Nidali is resilient, turning the words against her father: “My pronunciation and my recitation became most powerful when I recited

[the lines]: ‘With every hardship there is ease. With every hardship there is ease’” (Jarrar 50).

The language of the Qur’an, and her mastery of it, becomes a subversive tool against her father, strengthening her resolve to succeed despite his abuse.

At the competition, Nidali recites the “comfort” verse once again, this time in its entirely, ending with the line: “When your prayers are ended resume your toil, and seek your lord with fervor” (Jarrar 51). Nidali is proud of her performance, thinking to herself, “I didn’t make one mistake; in fact, I felt almost as though I was singing” (Jarrar 51). Shortly after the competition, she receives a framed certificate in the mail declaring her as one of the three victors. On the certificate, masculine pronouns are crossed out and replaced with feminine pronouns, indicating

that the certificates clearly were not intended to recognize the achievements of girls. Nidali literally enters a male-dominated sphere, the boy’s school, to recite the Qur’an, a male dominated practice, and emerges a victor.

Nidali’s recitation of the Qur’an is consistent with the “new mestiza consciousness.” The new mestiza must make a place for herself in spaces where her existence is threatened. This is particularly important in Islamic contexts, where the erasure of women and girls is rampant.

Nidali’s successful recitation of the Qur’an in the male-dominated competition subverts the traditionally patriarchal interpretations of the text that have been used to justify the exclusion of women from such spaces. Tafsir, or interpretation of the Qur’an, has served as a primary source for establishing religious practice for many Muslims. Unfortunately, tafsir has often supported perpetuated misinterpretations of the Qur’an that deeming women inferior and subordinate to men. Asma Barlas provides a simple explanation for this:

The reason Muslims have read the Qur’an as a patriarchal text has to do with who has

read it (basically men), the contexts in which they have read it (basically patriarchal), and

the method by which they have read it (basically one that ignores the hermeneutic

principals that the Qur’an suggests for its own reading). (97)

Since Islamic theology has been dominated by men in patriarchal societies who have taken its teachings out of context, Muslim feminists have encouraged a return to the text itself, reading, interpreting, and reciting its ideologies to restore its humanistic principals and establish an

Islamic feminist practice. 7 The recitation of the Qur’an by girls has a significant affect, teaching them to rely on the text itself rather than patriarchal interpretations and to claim visibility in

7 I use the term “Islamic feminism” in accordance with Margot Badran’s broad definition as a feminist discourse grounded in Islam that “insists on the full equality of women and men across the public-private spectrum” (250).

public spaces as young women and proprietors of Islam. Nidali’s performance and victory in the male-dominated Qur’an completion is truly a feminist act.

As she celebrates her success with her parents, Nidali notes that her mother and father react differently to her victory:

I was happy I’d won…but something told me Baba was happier. This truth upset me. His

happiness didn’t seem to stem from a place of pride, but rather from the source where

feelings of accomplishment reside. It was almost as though he’d won…Mama was

already at her piano, playing something she must have been making up as she went along.

I knew she was proud too, but she was too preoccupied with creating something to invest

all her energies into my success. With her back to me and fingers arched over the black

and white keys, I wanted to go over there and hug her, but I was scared of interrupting.

(Jarrar 57)

Nidali’s description of her parents’ reactions invokes the opening scene of the novel. Seeing his daughter’s victory as his own is symbolized in the possessive “I” he adds to her name at the time of her birth. Ruz, a musician, plays an impromptu tune on the piano, setting an example for her daughter of the importance of self-expression. Unlike Waheed, who claims possession over his daughter, Ruz encourages her independence. Throughout the novel, Nidali is seen developing her own creative outlet, writing, which her mother supports and nourishes.

It is through language that Nidali, who from her childhood, aspires to be a writer, recognizes and embraces her power. As she struggles with her identity “the quest for the self,” as

Anzaldúa calls it, she finds comfort in writing. Anzaldúa’s profound declaration that for women of color, “the act of writing is the act of making soul, alchemy” rings true for Nidali (30). The new mestiza consciousness is a feminist one—one where women, through writing claim power.

In fact, the importance of women’s writing is a common theme in Jarrar’s. In Jarrar’s most recent publication, Him, Me, Muhammed Ali, a short story collection, four of the thirteen stories feature Arab women writers: “Building Girls” tells the story of two single moms, both

Egyptian, who find comfort in romantic encounters one another as one completes her PhD; In

“How Can I Be of Use to You,” a young Arab American woman aspiring to be a writer, interns for a famed Arab woman writer and is inspired to continue pursuing her own writing career;

“Asmahan” features a hijabi Egyptian woman that starts her own fashion magazine; a young woman recounts memories of her deceased mother, a writer, in “Him, me, Muhammed Ali.”

Lastly, “Lost in Freakin’ Yonkers,” does not have an Arab woman writer character, but features

Aida, a young Arab American woman that yearns to read work of others like her. Aida is pregnant with her abusive boyfriend’s child, estranged from her family, and living in poverty. As she lists her many hardships to a police officer about to give her a ticket, she adds, “…and there’s not a single book by an Arab woman in my college library” (Jarrar 51). Characters like

Nidali, and those in her short stories, reflect Jarrar’s desire to create and read works by Arab women writers—specifically, Arab women writers in the borderlands. "Me wanting to ‘come out’ as Arab in my writing is my way to reach my family, my community and it’s the stuff I wanted to read growing up," explained Jarrar in a discussion of her writing (Farid).

Throughout the course of the novel, Nidali becomes more confident in her writing, and ultimately decides to leave her stifling home environment to carve out her own path. Against her father’s wishes that she continue to live at home and attend a local university, Nidali applies to an out-of-state college’s writing program, which she decides to attend upon her acceptance. The night before she leaves to begin her freshman year, her mother wakes her up in the middle of the night. Ruz presents Nidali with all the works she has written since childhood: “She had saved

every single thing I’d written for imla or composition, every single thing I thought Baba had discarded...I hugged her hard against myself. I smelled her burnt hair. I smelled her goodness. I heard Chopin” (Jarrar 289). Keeping Nidali’s writing signifies Ruz’s belief in self-expression and the validity of her daughter’s ideas, experiences, and talents. Following this significant moment, Nidali ends the novel by recalling a verse in the Qur’an that emphasizes the importance of writing:

The Pen is a sura in the Koran that starts: ‘Nun. By the pen, and what they write, you are

not mad: thanks to the favor of your Lord! A lasting recompense awaits you, for yours is

a sublime nature. You shall before long see, as they will see, which of you is mad.’

(Jarrar 289)

It is important to emphasize that Nidali’s decision does not signify a rejection of her family or culture. Rather, she has become the “mutable, more malleable” new mestiza—a woman who creates her own path in the borderlands.

Chapter Three

The Complexities of Community:

Fae Myenne Ng’s Bone and Mohja Kahf’s The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf

If the themes of Asian American and Arab American literature were organized into a

Venn diagram, the overlapping circles would nearly constitute an eclipse. Like many narratives that recount the experiences of immigrant and first generation families, Asian and Arab

American literatures navigate the socioeconomic, cultural, linguistic, and intergenerational difficulties they face, highlighting the ways these challenges are uniquely experienced by a specific ethnic group. These challenges are often exacerbated by the discrimination the characters experience, evident in their emotional turmoil as they try to understand and piece together their personal and national histories (the nation being both America and their ancestral homelands). In this chapter, I am particularly interested in the way Asian and Arab American immigrants, in response to such challenges, formed communities to ensure their survival and success, and how these communities are represented in literature as both positive sites of support and complex sites of difficult negotiations.

Fae Myenne Ng’s Bone (1993), and Mohja Kahf’s The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf

(2006), feature especially salient examples of such communities. In both novels, the role of community is central to the plot and the personal development of the young women protagonists.

As they negotiate their complex identities in what can often be an unwelcoming environment, the importance of a strong, united immigrant community, with which they can identify, is vital. Both

novels recount the stories of immigrant families and the importance their respective communities play in their lives. In Ng’s Bone, San Francisco’s Chinatown is central to the development of the

Chinese American Leong family. In Kahf’s The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf, the Dawah Center

(a Muslim community organization in Indiana) is central to the development of the Syrian

American Shamy family. Together these texts illuminate the complex role that immigrant communities play in the American imagination.

Bone, Ng’s debut novel, is largely about loss and understanding. Leila, the eldest of three daughters, narrates the struggles her family faces as they cope with the suicide of middle sister,

Ona. The Chinese American family’s tragedy is compounded as they try to navigate death and mourning in two cultures. Leila’s nonlinear narration pieces together their lives growing up in

San Francisco’s Chinatown. She, along with her parents, Mah and Leon, and youngest sister,

Nina, attempt to identify where things went so irrevocably wrong for Ona. Chinatown is ever- present in the novel. It serves, not only as the primary setting—but also symbolically and literally, as the space for negotiating the family’s understanding of their individual identities, their collective identity as a familial unit, and their identities within the Chinese American community at large. Chinatown is a liminal space, one that provides the Leong family with the comfort and familiarity of community, but it can also feel stifling, confining them to the struggles associated with their immigrant identities.

The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf follows Khadra, a Syrian American immigrant, as she reflects on her childhood and the ways in which her community has influenced her identity into adulthood. Like Bone, The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf is written in a nonlinear style, allowing

Kahf’s omniscient narrator to piece together the events that lead to Khadra’s self actualization.

Khadra’s family immigrates to the United States from Syria during her childhood in order for her

father, Wajdy, to pursue a degree at an American university. After completing his degree at an unnamed university, in an unnamed college town in the Rocky Mountains, Wajdy takes a job in

Indiana at a community building organization that supports American Muslims, known as a

Dawah Center. The family, which includes Khadra’s mother, Ebtehaj, and older brother, Eyad stay in the U.S. and settle in the Indianapolis area, where they eventually welcome a baby boy,

Jihad, the only member of the family to be born on American soil. Central to Khadra’s development is the close-knit Muslim American community that surrounds her. The support of her community remains vital, serving as an important foil to the hostility she experiences as an

American Muslim. However, like Leila, the constraints of growing up in such a close-knit community sometimes feel stifling for Khadra, especially as she enters her college years and begins to figure out her own place in the world, outside of the expectations of her community.

The Complexity of Community

In Raymond Williams’ foundation text, Keywords (1976), he traces the various ways the word “community” has been deployed in the English language since its initial introduction in the

14th century. According to Williams, community has been used to describe, “the commons or common people; a state or organized society; the people of a district; the quality of holding something in common; a sense of common identity and characteristics” (65). Community may connote a group of people brought together organically in common spaces, or intentionally, like members of a commune. Community may reflect groups of people that are bonded informally through shared beliefs and interests, or those who actively and formally organize to work towards a common goal (Williams 66). Williams explains that the “complexity of community”

lies within these various definitions; although the word has been used to describe a variety of different relationships and organizations between people, its connotation is always positive:

Community can be the warmly persuasive word to describe an existing set of

relationships, or the warmly persuasive word to describe an alternative set of

relationships. What is most important, perhaps, is that unlike all other terms of social

organization (state, nation, society, etc.) it seems never to be used unfavorably, and never

to be given any positive opposing or distinguishing term. (66)

Williams’ assessment of community as perennially “warmly persuasive” is not a confirmation of its positive connotation, but rather, a prompt—advising scholars to apply a critical lens to the word and the groups it describes.

Williams’ prompt provides a productive mode of reading and understanding immigrant communities in ethnic American literature. In Jeffrey F.L. Partridge’s Beyond Literary

Chinatown, he explores the way Chinatowns have traditionally been represented as one- dimensional, “warmly persuasive” communities. Partridge argues that within the American imagination, Chinatowns are falsely viewed as insular communities where immigrants choose to congregate. This assessment of Chinatowns ignores the lived reality of early Chinese American immigrants, who were ostracized from mainstream society:

The development of Chinatowns in the United States over the last century might appear

to the casual observer to be a self-determining communal phenomenon. The clustering of

Chinese immigrants in these ‘ethnic islands’ reinforces a notion of essential cultural

differences: that Chinese immigrants prefer their culture, their food, language, and social

customs; and the Chinese immigrants desire not to assimilate, but to produce their culture

on American soil. Such cloistering is perceived as an act of empowerment: rather than

sprinkling themselves throughout the land, Chinese immigrants congregate in

Chinatowns to increase their visibility and hence their representation in the American

political and social imagination (Partridge 32).

Partridge’s analysis challenges traditional views of immigrant communities. Chinatowns are not symbols of Chinese American “empowerment”; rather, they represent the survival tactics immigrants were forced to employ to combat their disenfranchisement. This assessment is representative of arguments made by many scholars of Asian American culture—that

Chinatowns, while important sites of early Chinese American history, are not the idealized communities they are often viewed as being. Rather, Chinatowns were formed out of necessity— proving a place for Chinese immigrants to live, work, and socialize, in a country where they were often excluded.

Contemporary perceptions of Muslim American communities mirror those of early

Chinatowns. Muslim American communities are viewed as insular, impenetrable groups, where members favor a way of life distinctive or contradictory to that of mainstream American society.

However, Muslim American communities function in similar ways to early Chinatowns, providing necessary socioeconomic support to individuals who are not granted such support in mainstream American society. Placing the literatures of Asian Americans and Arab Americans in conversation with one another highlights the similarities in their experiences of community.

Applying Williams’ understanding of complex communities reveals that they are not insular, homogenous or self-ostracizing—but rather, they are complex, vital sanctuaries.

Nonetheless, literary productions by Asian and Arab Americans are still consulted to confirm or seek some kind of universal truth about their subjects. The publication history of

Asian and Arab American literatures reflects this phenomenon. The heightened interest in Arab

American literature in the 2000s mirrors that of Asian American literature in the 1990s.

However, very different circumstances sparked increased interest in these texts. Chinese

American Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club, published in 1989, spent nine months on the New York

Times best-seller list, leading publishers to seek out more texts by Chinese American writers.

Publishers believed that Tan’s success signaled greater interest in the Chinese America experience. This lead to a surge in publications by Chinese American authors like Gish Jen, Gus

Lee, and David Wong Louie during the 1990s, many of which were well received by critics

(Partridge 15). Chinese American writer Ha Jin’s third book, Waiting, for example, won both the National Book Award and the PEN/Faulkner award in 1999 and 2000, respectively (Partridge

15). Opportunistic publishers also drove the surge in publications of Arab American literary texts that began in the early 2000s. These publishers sought to capitalize on the increased interest in, and scrutiny of, Arab Americans after 9/11. Notable Arab American writers publishing post 9/11 include Diana Abu-Jaber, Laila Halaby, Randa Jarrar, and Naomi Shihab Nye. The works of these and other Arab American writers have also been well received by critics.

A comparison of the works of Asian and Arab American authors reveals a common resistance to the orientalist narrative that initially attracts both publishers and readers. Such resistance is clearly evident in Bone and The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf, both of which were published at the height of these periods of interest, and both of which work against the essentializing of their respective communities. These works center the lives of young women coming of age in immigrant communities in a nuanced and complex manner.

In Sue Im-Lee’s A Body of Individuals: The Paradox of Community in Contemporary

Fiction, she explores novels that feature similarly complex communities. Lee expands on

Williams’ understanding of community, explaining that the “warmly persuasive” connotation of

community, what she calls, “idealized community,” is often held in opposition to “the discourse of dissenting community,” which highlights that, “heterogeneity, conflict, difference, and unbreachable singularity of being are inextricable ingredients in any unity” (2). Lee thus proposes a third understanding of community, one that embraces the “paradoxical nature of its proposition” (3). In her study, Lee explores several contemporary American novels that contain such paradoxical communities, including Toni Morrison’s Jazz and Karen Tei Yamashita’s The

Tropic of Orange. She explains that,

[These novels] conceive of community as full of paradoxes, impossibilities, and

contradictions. Their conflicted movement between the values, assumptions, and ideals of

community means that they invoke the two competing discourses of community in a

dialectic manner. They idealize the proposition of community and pursue the

transformative powers of commonality; in the next breath, they interrogate the nature of

that commonality and even the very category of commonality. (3)

This third understanding, that of “paradoxes, impossibilities, and contradictions,” is also found in

Ng’s Bone and Kahf’s The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf. Ng and Kahf do not settle into the normative themes of their genres: intergenerational conflict and Muslim vs. American identity respectively. Rather, both go beyond these binary oppositions. Despite their flaws, Ng’s

Chinatown and Kahf’s Dawah Center, are important sites for their communities. The nonlinear narratives of Bone and The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf illustrate the lack of a clear trajectory in the formation of identify. In both novels, identity formation is not simply about the pull between two cultures, but rather, the complexity of coming of age in their respective communities.

Bone and the Importance of Chinatown

The opening scene of Bone the novel reflects both a rejection and an embrace of

Chinatown—establishing it as a complex, paradoxical community. Leila, who has just returned from New York where she has eloped with her boyfriend, Mason Louie (who is also Chinese

American) immediately seeks out her stepfather, Leon, in Chinatown, to tell him the news. As she navigates the streets of Chinatown, she expresses her distain for the community’s gossip and their intimate familiarity with her family’s history. “We were a family of three girls. By Chinese standards that wasn’t lucky. In Chinatown, everyone knew our story. Outsiders jerked their chins, looked at us, shook their heads. We heard things,” Leila explains (1). As we learn later in the novel, the Chinese superstitions that have been used to try to understand Ona’s suicide make

Leila uncomfortable. Leila is clearly still trying to understand and cope with the death of her sister—and doing so in such a closely knit community can sometimes feel stifling—denying her the space and privacy she needs to mourn.

Nevertheless, Leila’s search for Leon in the first few pages of the novel brings her further and further into Chinatown. While the familiarity is constrictive, it is invaluable during her search for her stepfather. She knows the stories behind the places and the people she encounters, and they recognize her, and know her family. Leila’s intimate familiarity with her community is established in the opening pages of the novel; the locals and shop owners immediately recognize her as she moves through Chinatown with ease. At Uncle’s Café, she knows to expect that

“every single table is an old-man table,” referring to the old Chinese men that frequent the establishment. Upon seeing Leila, the woman at the register at Uncle’s Café immediately shakes her head, indicating that Leon is not there. As she turns onto Waverly Place, she remembers that,

“Leon still calls it Fifteen-Cent Alley, after the old-time price of a haircut” (5). At Woey Loy

Goey, the head cook immediately recognizes Leila and mutters “The Square,” anticipating her question about Leon’s whereabouts (6). Leila’s opening quest through Chinatown establishes the importance of Chinatown to the family, and to Chinese American communities at large.

The most revealing stop during her quest is the “old-man hotel on Clay-Street, the San

Fran,” where Leon has been boarding (2). Although Leon is still married to Leila’s mother

(Mah), they have been living separately since Ona’s suicide—the death of their daughter having further strained their already difficult marriage. She explains that the San Fran, a boarding hotel of sorts where Chinese bachelors lived, is an “important place” for the family:

Leon’s got the same room he had when he was a bachelor going out to sea every forty

days. Our Grandpa Leong lived his last days at the San Fran, so it’s an important place

for us. In this country, the San Fran is our family’s oldest place, our beginning place, our

new China. The way I see it, Leon’s life kind of made a circle. (Ng 2)

Leon’s return to the San Fran during this time of difficulty is significant. It provides him with a communal space where he can safely mourn the death of his daughter. The importance of the San

Fran, and the bachelors that call it home, is best understood in the context of the systemic oppression of Chinese immigrants. In an analysis of the economics of Chinese American families, Evelyn Nakano Glenn explains how discrimination was institutionalized to target

Chinese immigrants and those hoping to immigrate, crippling any hope for forming families or achieving upward mobility:

The Chinese were the first group excluded on racial grounds from legally immigrating,

starting in 1882 and continuing until the mid-1950s. When they were allowed entry, it

was under severe restrictions which made it difficult for them to form and maintain

families in the United States. They were also denied the right to become naturalized

citizens, a right withheld until 1943. This meant that for most of their 130-year history in

the United States, the Chinese were categorically excluded from political participation

and entrance into occupations and professions requiring citizenship and licensing. In

addition, during the latter part of the nineteenth century and early twentieth, California

and other western states in which the Chinese were concentrated imposed head taxes and

prohibited Chinese from carrying on certain types of businesses. (179)

Leon’s room at the San Fran is symbolic of this systemic oppression experienced by Chinese immigrants. The San Fran alludes to a time when young Chinese men were prohibited from bringing Chinese wives to the United States, and from marrying white American women. The bachelor men that currently live in the San Fran are remnants of this time, much like Grandpa

Leong, who, according to Leila, “lived his last days at the San Fran.” Grandpa Leong is not biologically related to Leon, Leila, or anyone else in the family. Leila explains that “Grandpa

Leong was only Leon’s father on paper; he sponsored Leon’s entry into the country by claiming him as his own son” (Ng 47). Since Chinese immigration to the United States was severely restricted, Leon could only enter the country under these false pretenses, which cost him five thousand U.S. dollars (paid to Grandpa Leong) and a promise to return Grandpa Leong’s bones to China upon his death (the title of the novel is derived from this promise). The connection between Leon and Grandpa Leong is known as “paper family,” a term used to refer to the relationships formed through the forged legal papers Chinese Americans used to enter the country. These paper families, much like the Chinatown communities in which they congregated, formed out of legal necessity during a time when restrictive laws forced the Chinese to find creative ways to immigrate.

In identifying the San Fran as “our family’s oldest place, our beginning place” Leila recognizes the importance of the old Chinatown establishment. Once a necessity for young

Chinese men, the San Fran is not just merely a remnant of a bygone era. Juliana Chang explains that, “the novel is set at a key historic moment, where large numbers of this younger generation are coming of age and as families become more establish in Chinatown” (31). Chang notes that the novel’s dedication, to Ng’s great-grandfather and her references throughout the novel to

“similar grandfatherly figures” is an important recognition of the roles that these men played in establishing early Chinese American communities. The inclusion of the San Fran also bridges the gap between the old Chinatown community—one of bachelors, like Grandpa Leong—and the new Chinatown community—one where families, like Leila’s, called home. Ng’s inclusion of the old bachelors in a novel that is mostly about the lives of young Chinese American women, signals that their lives, “resonate with, not merely against, those old bachelors” (Chang 31).

As Leila leaves the San Fran, the importance of the space is further emphasized when a disoriented old man wanders into the hotel:

When I got downstairs, the lobby was as full and as noisy as the Greyhound bus

station. A group of coatless men stood in front of the sofa, barking questions at an old

man who was seated there. He’d gotten lost.

‘How come you go there?’

‘How long?’

‘You’re home now, savvy?’

‘How about we call your daughter?’ (Ng 4)

Although the exchange seems somewhat aggressive to Leila, the man’s questions and offer to call his daughter further reflect the importance of the community. Ng never states why the old

man is lost, the implication being that he suffers from dementia, Alzheimer’s, or some other similarly disorienting illness—and that this is not his first time he has confusedly wandered into the San Fran. The men’s comment that the old man is “home” suggests that during his bachelor days, he once called the San Fran home, and that his return during his time of need is appropriate. When Manager Lee sees the old man, he immediately springs into action, ordering the others to pour him a hot drink as he contacts his daughter. “I followed Manager Lee into his office and watched him flip through a notebook. He dialed quickly, jabbing his long yellowed nail into the circles. . . . ‘This, Lee at the San Fran hotel. Can you ask Choi Wei-ling to come to the phone?’” recalls Leila (Ng 4-5). It is clear from Leila’s description that Manager Lee has done this before. Not only is the San Fran a familiar space for the old man, it is also a safe space, one where the community immediately knows what to do during his time of need. The exchange emphasizes the link between the old bachelors and the new generation of Chinese Americans, illustrating Leila’s earlier description of the San Fran as a “beginning place.” The San Fran is not simply a remnant of Chinatown’s past, it is a starting point for Chinese American families—one to where the old man can return—and where his daughter can safely retrieve him.

The Pressures of Community in Bone

The importance of community in the lives of immigrant families like those in Bone and

The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf cannot be overstated. However, despite the important role that the Dawah Center plays in Khadra’s life, and Chinatown plays in Leila’s life, the pressure of abiding by their respective community’s standards is difficult to manage. The women are often at odds with the expectations of their cultures; a failure to meet such expectations is exacerbated by the judgment of their communities. The pressure to uphold their community’s ideals is often

thrust upon them by their parents. As young women, this pressure most often presents itself in gendered ways—their sexuality and bodies are policed by both family and community.

In Bone, Leila and her sisters’ primary conflicts with their parents revolve around the choices they make regarding their personal relationships. We learn that prior to Ona’s suicide, her family greatly disapproved of her relationship with her ex-boyfriend, Osvaldo. Her family’s disapproval was fueled by a failed business partnership with Osvaldo’s family. Leila recounts that Leon and Mah had forbade Ona from seeing Osvaldo, forcing her to hide her relationship from her parents. As Leila tries to understand the reason for Ona’s suicide, she wonders if there was a warning sign or indicator that she may have missed. However, she concludes that Ona

“could keep a secret better than anybody” (109). In fact, all of the sisters were skilled at keeping secrets, a skill they acquired from their parents, who were often concerned about how others would perceive the details of their lives. “We learned it from Mah and Leon. They were always saying, Don’t tell this and don’t tell that. Mah was afraid of what people inside Chinatown were saying and Leon was paranoid about everything outside Chinatown. We graduated from keeping their secrets to keeping our own,” Leila explains (109).

Leila’s middle sister, Nina, also finds herself in conflict with her parents. Nina becomes unexpectedly pregnant and decides to have an abortion. When she informs her parents of her decision, they disown Nina. Leila recounts, surprised by the level of her parents’ anger:

Mah and Leon joined forces and ganged up on her, said awful things, made her feel

like she was a disgrace. Nina was rotten, doomed, no-good. Good as dead. She’d die in a

gutter without rice in her belly, and her spirit—if she had one wouldn’t be fed. They

forecast bad days in this life and the next. They used a word that sounded like dyeen. I

still can’t find the exact translation, but in my mind it’s come to mean something lowly,

despised.

‘I have no eyes for you,’ Mah said.

‘Don’t call us,” Leon said. (Ng 23)

The abortion is clearly a source of shame for Mah and Leon. The insults they direct at Nina are based on the perceived consequences of breaking with the cultural expectation of their community. In their estimation, Nina has disrespected herself, her parents, and her upbringing.

Therefore, Nina will not be afforded the comfort of a good life, or even a restful afterlife for her soul. Knowing her parents’ conservative stance on such issues, Leila has trouble understanding why Nina would even tell her parents about the abortion. “…I don’t know what got into Nina, why she had to tell them about the abortion she’d had. I didn’t see what it would do, telling, but

Nina did,” Leila recalls (22). However, upon visiting Nina at her home in New York, Leila begins to better understand her sister’s decisions. Nina has built a happy life for herself, away from the constraints of her parents and Chinatown. She eventually reconciles with Mah and Leon when she takes a job as a tour guide to China. Her parents are so excited that Nina will be traveling to China, that they visit her at the airport during a stopover in California. Visiting China helps mend her relationship with her parents because it signals to them her connection with her cultural values, a connection they previously felt she had lost.

After witnessing the conflicts between her parents and sisters, Leila is understandably reluctant to defy her parents’ wishes. Anticipating the disapproval of her parents, Leila continues to live in her family’s Chinatown apartment, despite wanting to move in with her boyfriend,

Mason. At the urging of her mother, who is concerned about what the neighbors will think, she and Mason attempt to conceal that fact that he occasionally spends the night. When Leila and

Mason decide to elope while visiting Nina in New York, she is primarily concerned with how her mother will respond to the news. Leila is not concerned with her mother disapproving of

Mason, but rather, with her mother’s concerns about the community’s reaction to an elopement.

She discusses her concerns with Nina over dinner:

‘I just don’t want it,’ I said.

‘Want what?’ Nina asked.

‘The banquet and stuff.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘Mah wants it.’

‘So?’

‘So what am I supposed to say? Mah wants one. She has obligations.’

‘What are you talking about?’

I put my fork down. ‘Everybody’s always inviting her to their banquets, and she’s

never had the occasion to invite back.’ (Ng 30)

Although Leila does not want a banquet, she recognizes the importance of such traditions to her community. Unlike Nina, Leila feels a greater obligation to uphold such traditions. She understands that attending and hosting such banquets is important to Mah, who will be concerned about the community’s perception. Leila ultimately marries Mason in a courthouse ceremony in New York. She is emboldened by Nina, who urges her to follow her own desires, rather than those of her parents.

Upon returning to San Francisco, Leila visits Mah at her shop, the Baby Store, to break the news. Mah initially does not speak, but rather, walks away from Leila, who translates her response as one of “Disgust [and] anger” (19). As Mah and Leila argue, they notice two sewing

ladies walk into the store. The sewing ladies, Mah’s friends from her time working at a clothing factory, are notorious for spreading gossip. The argument between Mah and Leila continues.

Mah insists that she loves Mason. Rather, she is understandably upset about being left out of her daughter’s plans. She is also worried about the how her daughter’s actions will be perceived by others. “Marriage is for a lifetime, and it should be celebrated! Why sneak around, why act like a thief in the dark?” Mah tells Leila (20). Mah’s fears about perception are not unfounded. The sewing ladies leave the store after witnessing the argument. Leila anticipates their gossip: They were going to Portsmouth Square, and I knew that they were talking up everything they heard, not stopping when they passed their husbands by the chess tables, not stopping until they found their sewing-lady friends on the benches of the lower level. And that’s when they’d tell their long-stitched version of the story, from beginning to end” (Ng 21). The presence of the sewing ladies during the exchange between Mah and Leila is telling. They are the physical embodiment of the community’s judgment.

Ona’s Death and Community

The complexities and paradoxes of the community are personified in the sewing ladies and the role they play in the lives of the Leong family throughout the novel: While the sewing ladies’ gossip and judgment can be a burden, they provide vital support for the Leong family after Ona’s suicide, their time of greatest need. “I considered the odd course of our affinity: how often the sewing ladies were a gossiping pain and equally how often they were a comfort.

Bringing the right foods was as delicate as saying the right words. The sewing ladies knew, in ways I was still watching and learning from, how to draw out Mah’s sadness and then take it away,” explains Leila (Ng 102). Upon their arrival, Leila expresses her gratitude:

The sewing ladies came and saved us…. I knew they’d brought more than food for

Mah; they’d brought their village advice. I heard Luday use Mah’s personal name, and

the intimate sound of it made me think about Mah as a young girl. Before Leon. Even

before my father. I remembered other times I’d heard them call Mah by that name: when

she found Grandpa Leong dead in his room, when Leon moved out after finding out

about Tommie Hom. Hearing her personal name must have soothed Mah. She nodded,

listening as they told her what she had to do. They knew all the necessary rituals to get

through this hard time. (Ng 101-102)

The sewing ladies bring with them the wisdom of Chinese cultural rituals, which are important in helping Mah and the rest of the family mourn. Their arrival is a necessary relief for Leila, releasing her from the burden of “dealing with death in two languages” and two cultures (12). As

Leila recounts the hardship her family experienced as they struggle to cope with Ona’s suicide, the text is laced with references to Chinese. Chinese functions as a way to both buffer the intense emotional toil the family faces, and to understand the depth of their tragedy. After Leila is notified by the police of Ona’s suicide, she omits certain details when breaking the news to her mother: “The police said she was on downers. But I didn’t translate that for Mah or tell her everything else I heard, because by then I was all worn-out from dealing with death in two languages” (12). It’s not surprising that Leila experiences emotional fatigue as she tries to both understand her sister’s suicide and how to translate it, both literally and figuratively, for her parents. Leila attributes her lack of disclosure to the fatigue she feels, not recognizing the ways in which she is protecting her parents from the painful details of Ona’s suicide. The sewing ladies’ arrival, and their comforting use of Chinese, is a welcome change from the burden of translation. Luday’s use of Mah’s “personal name,” and the comfort it provides, signifies the

important role of immigrant communities—it is only the sewing ladies, who are able to provide such familiar comfort.

When the sewing ladies express their concerns over Ona’s suicide so close to the New

Year, Leila is understanding of the cultural implications. She does not see their concern as callous, although she acknowledges how it may appear that way:

Soon-ping said, ‘Finish one thing before starting another.’ She meant, finish your

grieving before beginning the New Year.

But Ona jumped too close to the New Year. She made it hard for us. It sounds harsh

in English, almost as if I’m saying she did it on purpose, that she wanted to make trouble.

But that’s not what I mean. All I wanted was to ‘finish one thing.’ When Soon-ping said

it in Chinese, the phrase sounded true and soothing. Here was the New Year, an

important time of celebration and beginning. And here was this sadness, this ending.

Everything rushed ahead and then slowed to a swirl, a shoal of time around the New

Year. These three days felt like forever. (Ng 103)

This positive understanding reflects her embrace of Chinese culture and community, her understanding of the nuances of melding two cultures. In Lisa Lowe’s Immigrants Acts, she cautions readers of Asian American literature against distilling these narratives into simplistic representations of gendered, intergenerational conflict. “Although it is important that we address the way rigid cultural expectations uniquely impact young women growing up in immigrant families, we must be careful not to read these texts as simply representative of intergenerational conflicts,” explains Lowe (62-63). This reflects growth for Leila, and it reflects Lowe’s scholarship on intergenerational conflict. Leila’s gratitude for the sewing ladies demonstrates that the conflict in Bone and other immigrant narratives is far more complex than simple

intergeneration conflict—as she matures she is better able understand the nuance of her upbringing and community.

Travel and Mobility in Bone

There is no doubt that Chinatown, and the community it fosters, is central to the themes of Bone and the identity formation of its characters. Chinatown anchors the characters and their experiences in both positive and negative ways. As previously noted, Chinatowns formed out of necessity and were vital to the survival of Chinese immigrants, who were systemically denied mobility—both economic and physical—within the United States. Bone represents a new era for

Chinese Americans, one where mobility is less restricted, and movement beyond Chinatown is possible. For Leila’s generation, unlike that of her parents, Chinatown is no longer an economic necessity. Therefore, the ability to move within and outside of Chinatown is important.

The importance of this movement is demonstrated throughout the novel, especially through the Leong’s middle daughter, Nina. Nina has a falling-out with her parents after she decides to have an abortion. The abortion is a source of shame for Mah and Leon, who initially disown Nina, prompting her move to New York City. When Leila visits Nina in New York City, she expects to find her sister free from the constraints of her family and the Chinatown community. “I always thought that Nina had the best deal because she escaped the day-today of it; and to me that was being free. But on this trip to New York, I saw different, I saw that Nina still suffered,” Leila explains (13). However, she learns that Nina is still trying to reconcile her upbringing with her current life. When Leila suggests that she and Nina catch up over dinner in

New York City’s Chinatown, her sister immediately dismisses the idea:

When I suggested Chinatown, Nina said it was too depressing. ‘The food’s good,’ she

said, ‘but life’s hard down there. I always feel like I should rush through a rice plate and

then rush home to sew culottes or assemble radio parts or something.’

I agreed. At Chinatown places, you can only talk about bare issues. In American

restaurants, the atmosphere helps me forget. For my reunion with Nina, I wanted nice

light, handsome waiters, service. I wanted to forget about Mah and Leon.

‘I don’t want to eat guilt,’ Nina said. (Ng 24)

Leila and Nina’s decision to avoid Chinatown is not a rejection of their cultural heritage. Rather, both women are still learning to cope with Ona’s suicide, and the memory of their upbringing in

Chinatown evokes their childhood with their deceased sister. Chinatown represents the struggles their family faced as they worked to make ends meet with limited means. Outside of Chinatown, the women feel free of these struggles. Eventually, Nina and her parents repair their broken relationship, but she continues to live in New York, where she thrives in her new life as a tour guide to China. Her career choice is significant, as it demonstrates her connection to her Chinese cultural heritage. In her role as a tour guide, Nina serves as a liaison between China and the U.S.

Nina’s job signifies her ability to move freely between Chinese and American culture, a freedom her family was not afforded during her childhood.

Leaving Chinatown also has a profound effect on Leila. Although she doesn’t go far, she often travels in and out of Chinatown, and eventually settles in the Mission District with Mason.

However, something always pulls her back to Chinatown. It seems as though leaving Chinatown gives her clarity, but she always returns, whether to attend to Mah and Leon, or for her job. The ability to move freely is important to Leila—she is not confined to Chinatown, like earlier generations were. However, she continues to be a part of the community. She works as a

community liaison for a Chinatown school, and often finds herself working to help Chinese

American families like her own. In a way, Leila becomes a facilitator for her community:

My job is about being the bridge between the classroom teacher and the parents.

Teachers target the kids, I make home visits; sometimes a student needs special tutoring,

sometimes it’s a disciplinary problem I have to discuss with the parents. My job is about

getting the parents involved, opening up a line of communication. I speak enough

Chinese and I’m pretty good with parents, but it still surprised me how familiar some of

the frustration still feels. The job sounds great on paper, but sometimes, when I’m face to

face with the parent, I get this creepy feeling that I’m doing a bit of a missionary number.

(Ng 14)

Although she chooses to live outside of Chinatown, Leila still serves an important role in the community. The majority of the students she serves are recent immigrants, and their home lives remind her of her own upbringing. Leila feels a connection to the students and their families, and often goes beyond her assigned duties to help them. “Time is what they want,” explains Leila,

“A minute. A call to the tax man, a quick letter to the unemployment agency. I do what I can.

What’s an extra hour?” (Ng 15).

Leila’s generosity reflects how she has grown to accept her community. Tasks that were burdensome as a child and young adult are now completed graciously for school families.

“Growing up, I wasn’t as generous,” she confesses, “I hated standing in lines: social security, disability, immigration. What I hated most was talking for Mah and Leon, the whole translation number. Every English word counted and I was responsible. I went through a real resentment stage. Every English word was like a curse. I’m over that now, I think” (Ng 15). Her attitude towards her community has shifted. As she matures, Leila learns to appreciate the sacrifices that

Mah and Leon made for her and her sisters. She now understands how difficult it was for them to live, earn a living, and raise children—to survive in a country with an unfamiliar language and culture. Her attitude towards her parents, and the Chinatown community at large, has softened.

The extra time she spends with school families demonstrates her desire to give back to the community. Through her career choice, Leila demonstrates that she is invested in her community and its success.

The Dawah Center and Early Muslim American Communities

The opening of Mohja Kahf’s The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf mirrors Fae Myenne Ng’s

Bone. Both novels open with their young women protagonists journeying towards their home communities with similar feelings of familiarity and disdain. “Liar,” Khadra Shamy says to the highway sign that reads “The People of Indiana Welcome You,” as she drives towards her hometown (Kahf 1). Khadra, now an adult, is visiting her hometown on assignment from her editor. A photographer for a news magazine, Khadra is tasked with documenting the lives of religious communities in America. She has chosen to include the suburban Indianapolis Muslim community in which she grew up. As she drives further into Indiana, Khadra, who wears a hijab, notices a group of “burly beardless white men” men fix their eyes on her, and immediately she feels unease. “She feels them screw their eyes at her as she drives past, her headscarf flapping from the crosscurrent inside the car. She rolls the windows up, tamps her scarf down on her crinkly hair, and tries to calm the panic that coming back to Indiana brings to her gut,” writes

Kahf (3). Khadra’s response is grounded in the discrimination and violence she and others in her

Muslim community experienced at the hands of local white supremacists in Indiana. The novel

recounts these experiences, detailing how Khadra and her peers came-of-age in such an environment, and how the community helped them counter such hostility.

Wajdy’s decision to take the job as Chapter Coordinator of the Dawah Center is influenced by his religious convictions. He feels called to service at the Dawah Center:

One day Khadra’s father heard a call in the land and, the love of God his steps

controlling, decided to take his family to a place in the middle of the country called

Indiana, ‘The Crossroads of America.’ He had discovered the Dawah Center.

His wife said that a Dawah worker’s job was to go wherever in the country there were

Muslims who wanted to learn Islam better, to teach it to their children, to build mosques,

to help suffering Muslims in other countries, and to find solutions to the ways in which

living in a kuffar land made practicing Islam hard. This was a noble jihad. (Kahf 14)

Wajdy and his wife, Ebtehaj’s belief in the mission of the Dawah Center influences the way they raise their children. Khadra and her brother are raised in the heart of the Muslim community that the Dawah Center unites, among American Muslims of all ethnic backgrounds. The Dawah community plays an important role in the lives of those it serves, providing everything from religious instruction, legal counseling for those navigating immigration issues, help settling refugee families, and more. It also serves as a social center for its members, who often host each other for potlucks, pool parties, and other gatherings. Although the Dawah Center is technically a community organization and not a mosque, it serves the important roles of building the community and providing support that typically mosques have served throughout the U.S.

Historically, Muslim organizations, whether they be mosques or otherwise, have played an important role for American Muslims since the mid-twentieth century. In their study of

Muslims in the United States, Ilyas Ba-Yunus and Kassim Kone explain that these Muslim

organizations “started with almost a defensive posture—to keep the Muslim identity intact and save the fundamental Islamic character of the next generation” (45). This “defensive posture” was a necessary reaction; “very early Muslims, brought in slavery, were forced to quit Islam and assimilate into a biracial American society.” Those that came to the U.S. voluntarily as immigrants during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries often assimilated because of a lack of Muslim communities, or, after accumulating some wealth, returned to their home countries to help maintain the cultural identities of their children (Ba-Yunus and Kone 45).

Therefore, like early Chinatown communities, early Muslim communities formed out of necessity—a reaction to the harsh environment new immigrants faced.

Some of the first major sites for Muslim organization were college campuses. During the mid-twentieth century, as more and more young Muslims began entering the U.S. on student visas to pursue university education, Muslim student associations arose, “bringing together

Muslims of varied racial, ethnic, and national backgrounds while keeping its doors open to the non-Muslim for dialogue” (Ba-Yunus and Kone 51). These associations united students for weekly Friday prayer services as well as social and intellectual activities. In 1963, at the

University of Illinois, Urbana/Champaign, disparate organizations from across the country joined to form the Muslim Students Association of U.S. and Canada (MSA). Ba-Yunus and Kone describe the formation of the MSA as a “historic event in Islamic activity in North America,” and explain that the MSA, “quickly overshadowed every other organized Islamic activity in

North America” (49).

In much the same way as the demographics of Asian American communities changed in response to new and revised U.S. laws and regulations regarding immigration, so did the that of

Muslim American communities. The 1965 Immigration and Naturalization Act, signed by

President Lyndon Johnson, allowed Muslim in the U.S. on student visas to extend their stays beyond receiving a degree and become residents. It also allowed more Muslims to enter the U.S., beyond those seeking a degree. The change in immigration policy allowed Muslims to settle in the U.S. and form families. As the demographics of America Muslims changed, so did their needs. Community organizations outside the scope of Muslim Student Associations were formed to meet the needs of those outside of campus communities.

Kahf’s novel, which recounts Khadra’s childhood, from first immigrating to the U.S. in the 1970s to her young adult hood in the early 1990s, spans an important period in the lives of

Muslim Americans, one where mosque communities experienced exponential growth. The

Council for American Islamic Relations (CAIR) reports that “over three-fourths (76%) of all existing mosques were established since 1980” (Bagby 4). The most recent survey of American mosque communities, conducted in 2011 by CAIR found that there are 2,106 mosques in

America, a 74% increase since the year 2000, when only 1,209 mosques were counted (Bagby

5). CAIR links the increase in mosques to a few different factors. The increased number of

Muslim refugees in American, especially those from Somalia, Iraq, Western Africa and Bosnia has led to more mosque communities being formed. CAIR also found that as more Muslim

Americans move out of cities, once the primary sites of mosques, and into suburbs, they start their own mosques closer to home. Lastly,“[b]eing a richly diverse community, the ethnic and religious divisions within the Muslim community has led Muslims to leave a mosque in order to establish their own mosque which better reflect their vision and understanding of Islam” (Bagby

5). The growth of American mosques is an important reflection of the growing, diverse population of Muslims Americans.

Complexities of the Dawah Center Community

The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf does well in illustrating the diversities and complexities of these varied mosque communities. While the Muslim community represented in the novel is unified in many ways, its diverse mix of nationalities, races, classes, and modes of worship, is often the source of tension. Kahf does not conceal such tensions—the community is both vitally important to the lives of its members—and it is deeply flawed. The community’s failures are most apparent in tensions between immigrant “birth-Muslims,” who are mostly Arab and South

Asian, and African American Muslim converts. Kahf illustrates the way racism often permeates the interactions between the Dawah Center’s mostly immigrant “birth-Muslims,” and the Salam

Mosque’s African American convert congregation:

Masjid Salam Alaikum, or Salam Mosque, was a storefront space in the black part of

Indianapolis and had served the local Muslim community before the Dawah Center was a

gleam in the bearded engineering student’s eye. The Salam community welcomed the

influx of immigrant Muslims in a cautious embrace, only to find the Center siphon off

some if its members toward the (very white) south side of the city to work at the Dawah

office. Meanwhile, earnest young Dawah members like the Shamys attended juma at

Masjid Salam and felt free to tell the Afro-American brethren how to run things, despite

the fact that, as far as the number of years in Islam went, many of the birth-Muslims

hadn’t been awakened to their Islamic consciousness any earlier than the converts had

converted. (Kahf 31)

The conflicts between the Dawah Center and Salam Mosque are representations of larger issues within Muslim American communities. Kahf’s representation of Muslim American communities in the novel reflects the statistical data that CAIR has gathered. As more Muslims immigrate to

the U.S., more resource communities, like the Dawah Center, are established. In many ways, these resources are positive additions, since they provide more and varied support to Muslims immigrants. However, as illustrated in the interactions between the Dawah Center and Salam

Mosque, they also highlight the fissures in the Muslim community.

There are many instances in the novel where Kahf highlights the community’s racism. As

Khadra comes-of-age, her understanding of the community’s shortcomings, especially in terms of race, shifts. As a teenager, Khadra’s understanding is limited. In a discussion of race with an

African American Muslim friend, Hakim, she quickly dismisses his claim that there is a difference between his experiences and those of immigrant Muslims like herself. “‘We’ are all on thing: Muslim,” she insists. Kahf explains that Khadra’s attitudes arose from the Dawah

Center’s flawed ideal that there was “No racism in Islam,” a “denial that retarded any real attempt to deal with the prejudices that existed among Muslims” (137). Hakim continues to press

Khadra: “Then how many Dawah Center officers are black? How many immigrants do you know who’ve married African American?” (Kahf 137). Khadra internally acknowledges that there is truth in Hakims argument, but she never admits this to him. Rather, she accepts her parent’s insistence that, “it was about language not color” (137). Since knowledge of Arabic is considered by some to be central to the understanding of Islam (a belief which problematically places

Arabic speakers on the top of the Muslim hierarchy), her parents insisted that she marry a native

Arabic speaker.

Khadra’s understanding of race within the Muslim community is challenged when her brother, Eyad, is interested in marrying Maha Abdul-Kadir, a Sundanese woman described as a

“regal beauty whose color was rich and dark” (137). When Eyad attempts to enlists his parents’ help in requesting Maha’s hand in marriage, the depth of their racism is revealed, to Khadra’s

surprise. Khadra believed Maha to be an ideal match for her brother, she came from a respectable family, was pious, and met her parents’ demand that she and her siblings marry a fluent Arabic speaker:

The girl had impeccable character, was active at the mosque and wore flawless hijab

with not a hair showing. And, definitely, she was a native speaker of Arabic, with a pure

accent, and a fluency aided by the private Arabic tutors her father hired. She was

splendidly qualified to teach their future children the language of the Quran. Piety,

character, beauty, brains, the right language, the right home culture—what more to ask in

a bride? (Kahf 138)

Khadra’s assessment of Maha reveals no logical reasons for her parents to resist the union. When

Eyad approaches his parents regarding his interest in marrying Maha, his father, Wajdy, blurts,

“But for heaven’s sake, she’s black as coal!” (Kahf 139). Although their mother, Ebtehaj initially remains silent, Kahf explains that, “it was clear that black grandchildren were not what she had in mind” (139). Ebtehaj goes on to make a nonsensical argument that regarding Eyad and Maha’s age difference—although Maha is only a few months older than Eyad—it is clear that she is attempting to conceal her and her husband’s obvious racism. Eyad accepts his parents’ disapproval and relinquishes his pursuit of Maha. The damage to both Khadra and Eyad’s perception of their family and community is irreversible. For the first time, they are able to see clearly the limitations of their community.

As Khadra comes of age, she continues to notice both her parents and her community’s limitations. Khadra’s parents, and the community at large, struggle with the desire to represent an ideal Islamic piety, a struggle that is amplified on American soil, where they feel they need to vehemently defend and uphold their values. This strict orthodoxy stands in opposition even to

the beliefs of their Syrian family. When Teta (grandmother, in Arabic) comes to visit the Shamys from Syria, Khadra is taken by her love of music, explaining that she “had a song for everything”

(77). As opposed to her parents who, “felt that music, while not outright haram, tended toward frivolity and the forgetfulness of God” (77). Still, her father couldn’t bring himself to throw away his old tapes of Arabic crooners, occasionally indulging in their music while dancing around the house. The Shamys, like others in the community, fear that any slippage could result in losing their religious identity and culture. They fear becoming like the Mishawaka Muslims, who they believe have dangerously “mixed American things with real Islam” (103). The

Mishawaka Muslims are Arab immigrants “who had come to America as far back as the 1870s”

(103). The Dawah Muslims are scandalized by the Mishawaka’s lack of proper Muslim attire and their co-ed dances, amongst other things. They believe that that Mishawaka’s have watered down what they consider proper Islam and fear that this is the beginning of the loss of the faith altogether. Khadra internalizes the community’s beliefs about the Mishawaka Muslims. When she befriends Joy, a member of the Mishawaka Muslim community, the Dawah Center community’s criticisms negatively influence Khadra’s perception of her friend.

The Importance of Community

Kahf is clearly critical of the community’s perception of the Mishawaka Muslims. Her representations of conflict within the community, whether it be with the so-called “lost Muslims” of Mishawaka, or in regards to race, demonstrates an important balance. While the novel often highlights the importance of the community, it is still very flawed, and therefore, very real. It balances this criticism by demonstrating the important role the community plays, especially in presenting positive role models for the younger members coming of age in America. As Khadra

recalls, throughout her childhood, the only representations of Arabs and Muslims she was presented with were negative:

The only Muslims on television were Arab oil-sheiks, who were supposedly bad

because they made America have an energy crisis. Teachers at Khadra’s school had to

pass out purple-ink mimeographed worksheets that said “Switch off the lights when you

leave the room!” And President Carter pleaded with the Americans to use less gas. Nasty

Arab sheiks appeared on Charlie’s Angels, forcing the shy angel, Kelly, to bellydance

(Kahf 83).

This negative image is further reinforced in school: “There was a picture in the ninth-grade social studies book of an Arab with an unkempt beard standing in a dirty caftan next to a camel, and a picture of an African bushman with no clothes and a bracelet threaded through his nose that made Khadra wince” (120). These representations are in opposition to what she has been taught about Africans, Arabs, and Islam. Her father teaches her the Middle East’s oil was its own

“national treasure,” and that Arabs had every right to use it to their advantage for the development of their countries (83). Members of the Dawah community teach Khadra about the many important contributions that Muslims had made to math and science. They teach her about

“the great empires of Mali and Ghana,” and “the beauties of Baghdad and Cairo in their prime”

(120). Her mother shows Khadra her old Damascus University books to teach her about “Muslim contributions to medicine” (121). However, despite their best efforts, young Khadra is still not convinced. “None of this information was in any book Khadra could find at the school library.

Sometimes she wondered if maybe a little bit of Muslim pride made them exaggerate,” she recalls (120). It is not until she reaches high school that the teachings of her community begin to take effect. Khadra notices that the American news does not cover the injustices experienced by

Muslims worldwide, she reads Malcolm X, she learns about the colonization of the Middle East and its long-lasting effects. She becomes critical of the way Muslims are represented in the

American imagination. She engages the topic of representation in her schoolwork, and is met with disapproval, receiving a Cs and Ds on her assignments. When she turns her attention to neutral topics, she receives an, ‘A,’ revealing the prejudice of her teacher. The teachings of her community are foundational in helping Khadra develop an informed understanding of the issues that Muslims face in the world at large, and helping her navigate the injustices she faces in her own life.

Interestingly, in both novels, one of the major plot lines follows the communities as they deal with untimely deaths. In The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf, Zuhura, a college student and community activist, is raped and murdered in an apparent hate crime. Zuhura’s death, like that of

Ona, demonstrates the important ways the respective communities come together during times of crisis. Despite their previous criticism of the freedoms granted to Zuhura by her parents, the community rallies around her family to support them following her disappearance. The men form search parties and spend days retracing Zuhura’s footsteps, circulating her picture, and speaking to her classmates in an attempt to gain any knowledge regarding her disappearance (Kahf 90).

The women take turns visiting Zuhura’s mother, praying with her, and cooking and cleaning for her family. Ultimately, Zuhura is found dead, evidently targeted by a local white supremacist group. The Dawah Center is an important resource for the family during this time. They assist

Zuhura’s parents in procuring a proper Islamic burial, a difficult task to undertake in a foreign land. Ebtehaj, Khadra’s mother, even participates in the Islamic ritual of washing the deceased’s body prior to burial. This is a ritual usually performed by same-sex members of the deceased’s family; however, in America, the Dawah Center community has filled the role of family.

Following Zuhura’s death, the Dawah Center recognizes the need to a resource for Muslim

Americans regarding Islamic burial. In response, they “print up a pamphlet giving all the answers in easy-to-follow directives based on sound shariah research” (Kahf 96-97). Khadra’s father,

Wajdy, is one of the authors of “How to Be Buried as a Muslim in America,” which “untold numbers of the U.S. faithful appreciated” (Kahf 97).

The Pressures of Community in The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf

Similar to Bone, in The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf, the shortcomings of the community are often exacerbated when dealing with issues regarding gender. Khadra begins to take note of these instances as a child. She notices that the community gossips about the freedoms granted to

Zuhura, the college-aged daughter of family friends, who Khadra greatly admires. Members of the community criticize her parents for allowing her to commute to Bloomington campus of

Indiana University. “What was wrong with the Indianapolis branch of IU?” they ask, “Zuhura was going farther afield than a Muslim girl ought to be, especially when it entailed driving home late at night by herself” (61). An ambitious pre-law student, active in several social justice groups on her campus, Zuhura is certainly worth admiring, despite the murmurings of the community. Khadra again notices the gender disparities in her community when her childhood friend, Hanifa, is set to live with her grandmother in Alabama when she becomes pregnant as a teenager. When a concerned Khadra asks her mother about Hanifa, she is chastised. “Never speak her name again,” Ebtehaj hastily responds (130).

As an adult, Khadra’s choices put her directly at odds with her community. At twenty- one, Khadra is in a failing marriage with a controlling, emotionally abusive spouse. When she speaks to her brother about wanting to initiate a divorce, he dismisses her feelings as “selfish”

(243). When Khadra learns she is unexpectedly pregnant, she knows that she cannot stay in the marriage and have a baby. When she informs her parents of her decision to have any abortion, they urge her to keep the pregnancy. Ultimately, Khadra’s mother, father, and brother all refuse to accompany to her the doctor for the procedure. Much like Nina’s abortion in Bone, Khadra’s abortion is a source of shame for her family. Her friend, Joy, a member of the Mishawaka

Muslim group that the Dawah community had criticized as the “lost Muslims,” accompanies

Khadra. Joy’s kindness in supporting her, and the lack of support from her own community, is revelatory for Khadra:

It took her by surprise, the sudden revulsion she felt for everything. For her whole life

up till now. She wanted to abort the Dawah Center and its entire community. Its trim-

bearded uncles in middle-management suits, its aunties fussing over her headscarf and

her ovaries, its snotty Muslim children competing for brownies points with God.

Twenty-one years of useless head-clutter. It all had to go all those hard polished

surfaces posing as spiritual guidance. All that smug knowledge. Islam is this, Islam is

that. Maybe she believed some of it, maybe she didn’t—but it needed to be cleared out so

she could find out for herself this time. Not as a given. Not ladled in her plate and she had

to eat it just because it was there. (Kahf 262)

Khadra defiance of her community’s expectations through her divorce and abortion is pivotal.

Although she had previously acknowledged the shortcomings of her community in regards to race relations, gender, and the Mishawaka Muslims, it is only through her personal experience of their disapproval that she begins to question the validity of their beliefs. It is through this experience that Khadra begins to understand the way she has not only internalized, but also upheld the community’s expectations.

Travel and Mobility in The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf

Like Bone, mobility is also an important theme in The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf. After her abortion and divorce, and the lack of support Khadra receives from her community, she travels to Syria to visit her free-spirited grandmother, who is affectionately referred to as Teta throughout the text (the Arabic word for grandma). Visiting Syria and experiencing Arab and

Muslim culture at its site of origin releases Khadra from the rigid ways her community’s cultural practices. “Syria, in fact, was a sweet relief from the myth of Syria that had hung over her life,” explains Kahf (278). With the encouragement of Teta, Khadra explores Damascus and reconnects with her extended family members.

Khadra’s travels allow her the opportunity to release herself from the constraints of her parents and community while simultaneously learning to understand and appreciate their motivations. While in Syria, Khadra learns about the hardships her family faced under the rigid regime of the Syrian government. When she visits her Aunt Razanne, she tells Khadra about an incident in 1982 where the Syria government dropped paratroopers into Damascus to tear off women’s hijabs at gunpoint. In Kahf’s scholarship on the veil, she details the significance of this event, and the government’s justification for such violence: “The September hijab rape in

Damascus epitomizes the story of forced unveiling: the state, a leftist one advocating ostensibly

‘progressive’ secular ideology, uses its police powers to rip what it regards as the sartorial sign of reactionary religion from the bodies of women” (“From Her Royal Body” 35). Khadra is shocked to hear a first-hand account of the attack on hijabi women. Furthermore, she is shocked that her Aunt and Uncle “don’t blame” the government for such violence, but rather, criticize

“dissidents” like her mother and father who insisted on a woman’s right to wear the hijab (Kahf

282). “You see…if the government hadn’t been so anxious over what dissidents were doing, it wouldn’t have been forced to crack down on us so hard,” Aunt Razanne justifies (282).

This conversation with her Aunt and Uncle is revelatory for Khadra. She learns that, unlike her uncles and aunts, who chose to remain in Syria and thus, yield to the demands of dictatorship, her parents moved to America to escape the actions of a regime they openly opposed:

Khadra’s mind couldn’t help but reel at this. At least her parents had stayed true to

themselves. Wajdy and Ebtehaj stood taller in her sight. They had not stooped, had not

twisted their minds to fit into a cramped space, had not shrunk themselves like poor

Uncle Mazen and Aunt Razanne. Her parents had fled, even if it meant leaving

everything, everyone they knew, the life that was made for them, the life they could have

lived so easily, without being outcasts in an alien country, All it would have taken was

accepting a little suffocation, living on a little less air like Razanne and Mazen. Instead,

her parents had flown into new air. Home had been left behind, given up. For the utter

unknown. What a bitter and marvelous choice. (Kahf 282-283)

This knowledge leaves Khadra with a newfound understanding and respect for her parents and their sacrifices. In many ways, this awakening is similar to that of Leila’s upon realizing the sacrifices Mah and Leon made to support her and her sisters. This awakening helps Khadra reconcile the discrimination she has experienced as an Arab American Muslim. Her parents’ choice—which exposed her to such discrimination, was not a move backward, but a move forward. In the U.S., they hope to build a community free from the rigid demands of an oppressive government.

The trip is also important in helping Khadra better understand her religious identity. In addition to visiting historic mosques with Teta, and Teta’s longtime friend, Auntie Hayat, she also visits a Syrian Jewish community and synagogue, and befriends a local rabbi. Teta tells

Khadra stories about her past, how she was amongst “the very first wave of working women,” and the many hearts she has broken (Kahf 271). Khadra is shocked to learn that Teta eloped after her father refused to grant her hand in marriage to the man she loved (Kahf 273). Exploring

Damascus with Teta and learning about her rebellious past shifts her once-rigid perspective on her culture and religion. While sitting on a hilltop looking down on Damascus, Khadra reflects that, “you could not possibly hold that one religion had claim to an exclusive truth (Kahf 297).”

Khadra’s religious awakening is further provoked by her newfound friendship with a

Syrian poet, who joins her, Teta, and Auntie Hayat as they explore Damascus. Khadra and the poet often spend their time engaged in debates on Islam—he, questioning her rigid interpretation of the faith, and she, struggling to remember why she ever held such conservative beliefs. One day, while picking cherries at the Ghuta Orchards with Teta, Auntie Hayat, and the poet, Khadra removes her hijab—or, more accurately, allows it to fall off—for the first time since her childhood. It is an important moment for Khadra, signaling her newfound freedom from the expectations of her community:

Her scarf, a kelly-green chiffon, was slipping off the crown of her head. She reached to

pull it back up. Then she stopped, noticing the wine-red juices running between her

fingers, and not wishing to stain the lovely scarf. The poet glanced at her.

…The scarf was slipping off. She shrugged. The chiffon fell across her shoulders. She

remembered when she’d taken her last swim in the Fallen Timbers pool as a girl. She

closed her eyes and let the sun shine through the thin skin of her eyelids, warm her body

to the very core of her. She opened her eyes, and she knew deep in the place of yaqin that

this was all right, a blessing on her shoulders. Alhamdu, Alhamdulilah. The sunlight on

her head was a gift from God. Gratitude filled her. Sami allahu liman hamadah. Here was

an exposure, her soul an unmarked sheet shadowing into distinct shapes under the fluids.

Fresh film. Her self, developing. (Kahf 309)

The removal of Khadra’s scarf is written as an unceremonious, almost passive choice, as she simply “shrugged” as it “fell across her shoulders.” Kahf’s narrative choices in this important moment release Khadra from the burden of the weighty symbolism that is often associated with unveiling. Khadra recalls swimming during her childhood, before she began wearing a hijab, demonstrating that the feeling of being without a hijab is natural, reminiscent of the innocence of childhood. The ease at which Khadra allows her hijab to fall is not a rejection of faith, but rather, a active choice to learn to live Islam on her own terms, away from the strict expectations of her community. Furthermore, the transliterated Arabic words of praise which appear in the narrative as the hijab falls (which roughly translate to, “Praise God,” and “God listens to those who praise him,” respectively, reinforce her faith.

Representations of Muslim women in literature, especially those who veil, often present

Islam and self-determination as being in strict opposition to one another. In Samaa Abdurraqib’s article, “Hijab Scenes: Muslim Women, Migration, and Hijab in Immigrant Muslim,” she explores such representations. “The current trends in fiction about immigrant Muslims seems to fall into two categories: fiction that focuses on culture and assimilation, rather than religion, and fiction that focuses on the oppressive nature of religion and assimilation,” explains Abdurraqib

(55-56). Kahf’s nuanced understanding of Khadra’s relationship with her Muslim identity goes

such binary representation of Muslim women. Rather, The Girl is the Tangerine Scarf represents a third space—one where wearing a hijab is choice. As Abdurraqib explains,

…immigrant narratives by Muslim women who choose to veil fall in a different category

because their bodies cannot escape being marked as other and they, therefore, cannot

reach the endpoint of being fully incorporated into American society. In these texts,

women who wear hijab, by virtue of their adherence to a practice that is clearly not

American, can never construct a narrative in which comfortable assimilation is the

denouement. As a result, immigrant Muslim women who veil must create a new genre

that defies the demands American culture places on conformity. (Abdurraqib 56)

Kahf’s novel reflects this “new genre.” Khadra chooses to not wear a hijab during the remainder of her time in Syria. Upon her return to America, Khadra begins to wear a hijab once again.

However, she is less rigid about wearing the hijab, at times choosing to wear it and at times foregoing it. Ultimately, she decides that she prefers to wear the hijab:

She was beginning to see that, of the covered and uncovered modes, she preferred the

covered, after all, and she wore it more often than not. It was a habit—hah, she thought,

no pun intended! She was never going back to being a stickler about hijab. But it was

something her body felt at home in. She knew this now from letting her body speak to

her, from the inside out—rather than having it handed to her as a given. (Kahf 373-374)

The experience of foregoing the hijab in Syria has allowed Khadra the freedom to come to her own conclusion and choose to veil. The hijab is an important part of group identity for Muslim women, therefore, in choosing to veil, Khadra is choosing to identify as a member of the Muslim

American community at large. Abdurraqib’s posits that Kahf’s book of poetry, Emails from

Scheherazad, “transforms the genre of traditional immigrant writing because the volume directly

challenges the way in which assimilation requires remove of the hijab” (63). The Girl in the

Tangerine Scarf does similar work. Like in Emails from Scheherazad, through Khadra’s narrative, “Kahf creates a different immigrant trajectory, one that includes veiling as a particular expression of Muslim Americanness, rather than foreignness” (Abdurraqib 63). As Khadra comes of age and makes her own choices about her body, she learns that she can reconcile her

Muslimness and Americanness, without compromising the values of her community or her own autonomy.

Emboldened by the freedom she experiences in Syria, Khadra decides that she must move away from Indianapolis to release herself of the Dawah Center community’s expectations. “She wanted to move to a big city where she knew no one. There she’d make it on her own, carve out a life that would manifest gratitude and modesty and love,” writes Kahf (315). She also decides that she will not return to college to “finish a degree she’d never use,” but rather, that she would like to pursue a career in photography (Kahf 314). Although she leaving, in part, to escape her community, and despite her ambition, Khadra finds that their support is vital in helping her pursue these goals. “She wanted her own theme song. But she ended up doing it with help from the community, after all, help from friends of her family, and the families of her friends,” explains Kahf (315). Community members recommend the Art Institute of Philadelphia, help her enroll and secure financial aid, and connect her with a female, Muslim roommate. Upon her arrival in Philadelphia, Khadra explores several different Muslim communities, visiting a variety of mosques, but she finds that none evoke the same feelings of comfort and security of that of the

Dawah Center.

A Newfound Understanding and Appreciation of Community

Upon completing her degree at the Art Institute, Khadra continues to live in Philadelphia, where she works as a photographer for a magazine, “Alternative Americas.” The magazine, Kahf explains, “is doing a feature on minority religious communities in Middle America and has decided to feature the Indianapolis Muslims among them—to Khadra’s dismay” (48). Khadra is uncertain of whether or not to take the assignment. She is anxious about seeing her family and old friends; most of her generation is now married with children, and have continued to live in the Indianapolis area. Khadra, who is single, does not have children, and lives far away from her home community, worries that they will judge her lifestyle. After contemplating the benefits of returning to the community for her “self-actualization,” she ultimately decides that she is ready to undertake the assignment (Kahf 389-390). Khadra’s personal growth over the past few years will allow her to return to the community with an open mind; for the first time, she will be able to truly see the community’s complexity:

A few years before, she’d have only been able to see the dark side of the community

she came from, the religious guilt-tripping and world-frowning. And a few years before

that, in college, she still would’ve been gung-ho about conservative Islam, showing only

the bright side, the slick PR-campaign side. She’d have criticized anyone who did

otherwise as a ‘cultural traitor’ a Salman Rushdie—not deserving death, of course,

because she was never that radical—well, maybe in her black-scarf days—but deserving

reprimand and protest and boycott, certainly. (Kahf 390)

Khadra’s community is neither the repressive place she escaped after her abortion and subsequent divorce, nor the place she idealized as a child and teenager. Although the novel opens with Khadra’s dread at the thought of returning to and photographing the community in which

she was raised, it ends with her newfound understanding and appreciation for the Dawah Center and its members.

Khadra demonstrates this newfound understanding, in part, through her photography. She is cautious of the way the community will be represented in the article and is committed to avoiding stereotypes and illustrating the complexity of American Muslim communities. “She cringes at the thought of putting her own community in the spotlight. She doesn’t think she herself can take one more of those shots of masses of Muslims butts up in the air during prayer or the clichéd Muslim woman looking inscrutable and oppressed in a voluminous veil,” explains

Kahf (48). Although Khadra is herself critical of certain community practices, she is aware of how representations of Muslims can easily be manipulated to reinforce the notion that Islam is backwards and oppressive. While in Indianapolis, she photographs both the flattering and the unflattering sides of the community. Her insistence on accurate, nuanced representation causes clashes with both her editor, who insists she turn the story into an exposé on polygamy in

Muslim American communities, and her brother, Eyad, who insists she not run certain unflattering depictions of the community. Ultimately, Khadra makes her own strategic choices on what to include and what to omit, balancing both the negative and the positive. “Because it takes both sides to make a whole picture—the dark and the bright,” she tells Eyad (435).

In addition to allowing her to see both the “dark and the bright” in her community,

Khadra’s newfound perspective enables her to gain a deeper understanding of her parents’ generation and their choices. While in Indianapolis, Khadra has several conversations about the restrictive choices the adults made to protect her and the other children. “Our biggest fear was always losing you… Losing our children to America. Having you not keep Islam one hundred percent,” her mother, Ebtehaj, explains (Kahf 383-384). Although Khadra is reluctant to accept

her mother’s defense, she is still sympathetic to her feelings, and in response, simply gives her a kiss on the cheek. It is only later, during a conversation with Aunt Ayesha, who is far more forthcoming than Ebtehaj, that Khadra is truly able to understand her parents’ choices. Aunt

Ayesha, Zuhura’s mother, accompanies Khadra as she visits Zuhura’s grave for the first time since her childhood. While at the gravesite, they discuss Tayiba, Aunty Ayesha’s other daughter, and Khadra’s childhood friend, who has grown to represent the adults’ ideal vision for the future.

Tayiba, who like Khadra, is in her mid-twenties, is married with three children, and an active, dedicated volunteer for a dozen Dawah Center communities. “She turned out the way I was supposed to, I guess,” Khadra tells Aunt Ayesha, startled by her own tone and candor. Aunt

Ayesha patiently responds to Khadra’s flippant comment:

‘We were so young when we came, you must know that,’ Aunt Ayesha says slowly.

Khadra realizes with a start that her parents had been younger than she is now when they

moved to Indiana. ‘Young in a strange land, your mother was, like me. We were both a

little jumpy. Afraid of losing something precious. Not only like that,’ she says, nodding

in the direction of the grave. ‘Although that is a terrible part of it. Of being swallowed up

by this land, reduced to nothing.’

Khadra nods. She knows that fear.

‘And we were so idealistic, oof! Full of zeal! But we put it all on you. Too much.

Wanting you to carry our vision for us, our identity—our entire identity, on your heads,

imagine!’ She laughs, and Khadra nods, because she’s right—‘on our heads’ is right, she

thinks.

She’s nailed it.

‘Forgive us,’ Aunt Ayesha says abruptly… (Kahf 405)

The fear that Aunt Ayesha expresses is similar to Ebtehaj’s earlier sentiments. However, unlike

Ebtehaj, Aunt Ayesha approaches the topic with vulnerability, admitting that she, and the others, responded to such fear overzealously, burdening their children with the responsibility of achieving their vision. Aunt Ayesha’s acknowledgement and apology is cathartic for Khadra, who “feels like something hard and leaden has just been lifted from her” (Kahf 405).

Moving Forward

Ultimately, The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf and Bone end with Khadra and Leila’s newfound understanding of their communities. It is only as adults that they are able to appreciate their communities and the important role they played in supporting their families in a new and strange land. Kahf and Ng’s nonlinear narratives allow readers to journey with Khadra and Leila as they reflect on their upbringing. It is only after this reflection that the young women are able see their communities as both complex sites of difficult negotiations, and vital pillars of strength and support. Khadra’s reflection upon her coming-of-age illustrates this newfound understanding:

Wrong and mulish they could be, but dear to her, and maddening and conformist and

awful, but full of surprising beauty sometimes, and kindness, and, then, just as full of

ugliness and pettiness and, overall, really quite mediocre mostly. But no, some were

really quite remarkable, possessed of nobility and courage—yet the pride, the pride of

holding themselves above the way they do, and thinking they know. In the end, then, they

were just so very human and vulnerable, like anyone else. Really, so vulnerable, when

you think about it. Especially now, Khadra realizes, especially now. (423)

As an adult, Khadra understands the incredible weight that her parents and their peers carried as they struggled to provide for their children and maintain their cultural heritage in America. Her recognition of their vulnerability is not a criticism, but rather, a testament to their courage in the face of such vulnerability. Returning as a photographer to document her community allows

Khadra a new perspective of their challenges and a new appreciation for their successes. Leila also gains a new perspective of her community through her job. The families she serves in her role as a school liaison are recent Chinese immigrants. During her visits to their “cramped apartments,” she reminded her of own upbringing. “Every day I’m reminded nothing’s changed about making a life of raising kids. Everything is hard,” Leila thinks (Ng 15). She is empathetic to the struggles of the school parents, and is grateful for her own parents’ perseverance.

Placing the novels in conversation with one another reveals the similarities in which their characters come-of-age in their respective communities. Ultimately, both novels represent a uniquely American experience of community. The promise of America that leads Leila and

Khadra’s families to immigrate is the ability to choose their place in society, to form communities where they can freely express their values. Yet, quite often, these communities are imperfect, filled with their own restrictive expectations. Dennis Foster thoughtfully explains the presence of this phenomenon in the American imagination:

[We] express an ambivalence about community that is part of a fundamental American

tension; fleeing compulsory society, we find some way to light out for the territories,

where people unite freely. But once there, we again draw around us the strictures that had

previously driven us from civilization. ‘Community,’ it turns out, refers both to a fantasy

of a place we lost and hope to regain, and to the real, often agonizing condition of living

in proximity with the separate bodies and minds of others. (20)

The feeling of “ambivalence about community” persists throughout both novels. In Bone and The

Girl in the Tangerine Scarf, which contain imperfect communities, the characters journey, both literally and figuratively, to balance the fantasy of idealized community with the lived reality of community. In fact, Bone’s, book jacket describes the novel as an “explor[ation of] what it means to be a stranger in one’s own family, a foreigner in one’s own neighborhood—and whether it’s possible to love a place that may never feel quite like home.” While this description accurately alludes to illusory nature of an ideal community, Leila still reflects on how comfortable she feels in Chinatown as she has dinner with her parents for the last time before moving to the Mission District. Later, as she prepares to permanently leave Chinatown, she remembers, reassuringly, Leon’s saying, “The heart never travels” (Ng 190). Khadra has a similar epiphany upon visiting her home community. Although she has lived in Syria and

Philadelphia, it is with the Dawah Center community members, despite their flaws, that “she knows she is where she belongs” (Kahf 441). The answer to the question posed Bone’s book jacket, “whether it’s possible to love a place that may never quite feel like home,” is a resounding ‘Yes!’ for both Leila and Khadra.

Chapter Four

The Language of Post-9/11 Discourse

in Laila Halaby’s Once in a Promised Land

The prologue to Laila Halaby’s Once in a Promised Land, simply titled, “Before,” frames the narrative by prompting readers to acknowledge their role in perpetuating and supporting discrimination against Arabs and Muslims in the U.S. post-9/11. The prologue shifts back-and- forth between two voices: one, presented in italics, of a Transportation Security Administration

(TSA) agent asking invasive, racist questions to an Arab traveler going through airport security; the other, of the narrator, directly commanding readers to abandon their own racist preconceptions of Arabs and Muslims. For each invasive question the traveller is asked by the

TSA agent, the narrator interjects, confronting readers about their own racist beliefs and insisting they abandon these notions before beginning the novel:

Before I tell you this story, I ask that you open the box [I have placed in front of you]

and place in it any notions and preconceptions, any stereotypes with regard to Arabs and

Muslims that you can find… This box awaits terrorists, veils, oils and camels. There’s

room for all of your billionaires, bombers, and belly dancers…. No turbans, burqas, or

violent culture.

Who will you be visiting?

And for good measure, why don’t you throw in those hateful names as well, ones you

might never even utter: Sand Nigger, Rag Head, and Camel Jockey….

What line of work are you in?

And finally, throw in those thoughts about submissive women…

How long will you be gone?

and hands cut off…

Do you plan on traveling by car as well?

and multiple wives…

Is this your first trip out of the U.S.?

and militant bearded men.

I’m sorry for any inconvenience.

There. That will do for now. (Halaby VIII-IX)

By juxtaposing explicit racial profiling at the hands of a federal agency with the narrator’s call for readers to abandon orientalist notions of Arabs as “billionaires, bombers and belly-dancers, etc.,” Halaby frames government sanctioned racial profiling—like the kind performed at airports in the name of national security—and the every day racism of orientalism as one in the same. In effect, Halaby forces readers to recognize their complacency—if not direct role—in producing and supporting institutionalized racism.

The remainder of the novel does not take on the same (rightfully) didactic and

(justifiably) angry tone of the preface. Rather, Halaby reveals, through her protagonists, Jassim and Salwa Haddad, the role that such racist ideologies play in producing and perpetuating institutionalized racism and how these ideologies serve to destabilize Arab American identity. In many ways, the Haddads, of Tucson, Arizona, are like many American couples: they are overworked, have trouble communicating, find their coworkers frustrating, and seek material things for comfort. However, unlike white-Americans, their troubles are compounded by their

ethnic and religious identity as Arab-Muslims, an identity which has been constructed by the popular American imagination, as illustrated in the preface, as exotic, dangerous, and definitively

‘Other.’

The Haddads’ relatively mundane lives are disrupted by the September 11th attacks. In the preface, Halaby explains that, “We really come to know [Salwa and Jassim] only after the World

Trade Center buildings have been flattened by planes flown by Arabs, by Muslims. Salwa and

Jassim are both Arabs. Both Muslims. But of course they have nothing to do with what happened to the World Trade Center. Nothing and everything” (VII-VIII). Prior to 9/11, the Haddads were relatively unnoticed in their community, having abandoned the religious and political ideologies that linked them to Jordan for the easy comfort of upper-middle class American living. Jassim, a hydrologist for the city of Tucson, relishes in the power he feels when driving his expensive sports car. Salwa, a bank-teller and aspiring real estate agent, indulges in buying expensive, silk pajamas, a habit that earns her the nickname, “Queen of Pajamas” (Halaby 47). Jassim and

Salwa’s consumerist tendencies signal their pursuit of the American Dream—demonstrated through their capitalist consumption of luxury goods.

However, the 9/11 attacks disrupt Jassim and Salwa’s easy, nonpolitical lives when their identities as Arab-Muslims become notoriously visible in the aftermath. Nadine Naber rightly locates 9/11 as, “a turning point, as opposed to the starting point, of histories of anti-Arab racism in the United States,” she explains that, “representations of ‘terrorism’ and ‘Islamic fundamentalism’ have increasingly replaced other representations (i.e. the rich Arab oil sheikh and belly-dancing harem girls) and have become more fervently deployed in anti-Arab state policies and everyday patterns of engagement than ever before” (4). In the aftermath of 9/11, the comfortable lives Jassim and Salwa once led slowly begin to unravel as a result of this shift.

In Chapter 2, I demonstrated how post 9 /11 representations of the Arabs circulating in the American imagination seemed to function exclusively to promote fear and garner support for aggressive military action in the Middle East. Amongst the numerous negative representations of

Arabs were representations of the Arabic language, which served to suggest that it is the language of terrorism. Such representations inextricably link the Arabic language with Islam and state-supported terrorism in Arab countries. As explained in Chapter 2, Arabic predates both

Islam and nationalism, and has a long history of literary expression and cultural importance in the Arab World. Arab identity is premised upon the Arabic language despite nationality, religion, or ancestry—unifying and creating a collective amongst speakers.

Unfortunately for Jassim and Salwa, in the American context, their fluency in English has no such value for them—obscured by their Arab identity, they are denied access to the American collective. However, although these factors effect both Jassim and Salwa, they do so differently.

In the aftermath of 9/11, Jassim has great difficulty understanding that his subject-position as an

Arab/Muslim man has made him a target of suspicion and discrimination. Salwa, on the other hand, immediately understands. Although Salwa and Jassim are both bilingual Arabic/English speakers, I posit that Salwa has a greater ability to “translate” the cultural implications of 9/11, as opposed to Jassim, whose mastery of English more scientific. Arabic sociolinguistic studies have revealed that Arabic speaking women are more likely to use informal, dialectic Arabic, while

Arabic speaking men are more likely to use formal, Modern Standard Arabic. My reading of

Once in a Promised Land suggests that such sociolinguistic aspects of Arabic influence the way

Jassim and Salwa think and speak in English, ultimately giving Salwa the upper hand in recognizing and understanding the detrimental effects that 9/11 will have on their lives as Arab

Americans.

In this chapter, I will explore the effect that such sociolinguistic considerations have on

Jassim and Salwa, and how they further serve to alienate them from the American collective post-9/11. Steven Salaita explains that 9/11 created, “division and distrust” in American society, the effects of which have “end[ed] up playing themselves out on the bodies of Jassim and Salwa”

(90). Halaby slowly and meticulously demonstrates how such “division and distrust” fuels the anti-Arab, Islamophobic ideology which permeates every aspect of the couple’s otherwise mundane, suburban lives, destabilizing their sense of identity, denying them access to the

American collective, and rendering impossible the notion of the American Dream.

For Salwa, whose family moved back to Jordan shortly after her birth in the U.S., an imaginary America had “pulled and yanked at her from a very young age” (Halaby 49). Upon her arrival to the U.S. as an adult, Salwa quickly realizes that her longing was for a place that never existed. “The America that pulled at her was not the America of her birth, it was the exported America of Disneyland and hamburgers, Hollywood and the Marlboro man, and therefore impossible to find. Once in America, Salwa still searched and tripped and bought smaller and sexier pajamas in the hope that she would one day wake up in that Promised Land,”

Halaby explains (49). Despite her suspicions that an idealized America does not exist, she still tries to permeate its borders by buying sexy pajamas, a representation of two great pillars of

American life, consumerism and an obsession with the body. However, after 9/11, even sexy pajamas cannot satiate Salwa, as she begins to accept what she’s known all along—that the

America she longed for never actually existed.

Unlike Salwa, who seems to understand that the America she idealized is imaginary, and that she will always be an outsider, Jassim sees his mastery of English as a point of entry into

American society. Having received both a Master’s and a PhD from American universities, and

working in the U.S. for almost twelve years thereafter, Jassim has spent nearly twenty years perfecting his English. In fact, when Jassim thinks about how he first ended up in the U.S., language is one of the first considerations, recalling how he, “fine-tuned his English, spun idioms, split words apart, and floated along in his master’s-degree coursework” (Halaby 62).

Throughout the novel, Jassim is illustrated carrying out extensive conversations in perfect

English. In fact, the only person who questions Jassim’s mastery of English is the FBI agent who investigates him after he is reported as being “suspicious” by an overzealous, racist acquaintance from his gym. When Jassim calls the agent to set up a meeting, she pauses, not expecting the call, but claims that her delayed response was because she “didn’t understand [him] at first”

(227). The agent never asks Jassim to repeat anything that he says during their phone call, indicating that her initial pause was the result of being caught off guard by Jassim’s willingness to speak with her, rather than any lack of comprehension due to his English. Claiming that she

“didn’t understand” him comes naturally for the agent, as she draws from the xenophobia and anti-Arab sentiment that circulates so widely post-9/11. Her claim alienates Jassim from the language that he has spent so many years perfecting. Any claim he may have to his lived- experience of speaking and thinking in American English is disregarded, and by extension, so is any claim to American identity.

9/11 and the Impossibility of Assimilation

To help us better understand Jassim and Salwa’s experiences, I will first trace the ways in which Islamophobia and anti-Arab racism function in post-9/11 American society. Following the

September 11th attacks, there was a “1,600 percent increase in hate-based incidents against persons perceived to be Arab, Muslim, or South Asian in the United States (between 2000 to

2001)” (Naber 289-290). The most obvious iterations of post-9/11 discrimination occurred in the immediate aftermath of the attacks in the form of violent, and in some cases, fatal, hate crimes8.

These visible, palpable acts of violence, while tragic, represent only a fraction of post-9/11 violence enacted against Arabs and Muslims (or in many cases, anyone appearing to be Arab or

Muslim). The rhetoric of post-9/11 patriotism and vigilance perpetuates an “us vs. them” binary than enables insidious acts of violence in the name of national security. This “us vs. them” binary extends beyond the Middle East and Muslim countries; often, Arab and Muslim Americans are deemed outsiders, more closely aligned with “them” than “us.” Carol Fadda-Conrey explains, that, “the difference allocated to a ‘them,’ who are positioned as backward and uncivil Arabs over there in the Arab/Muslim world, is simultaneously inscribed on the racialized bodies of

Arab Americans over here in the US. Such logic yields a culture of suspicion and paranoia that uses religious and ethnic markers as yardsticks for determining the American from the un-

American, regardless of citizenship status (96).” This suspicion results in the increased policing

(like the airport racial profiling illustrated in the preface) and disenfranchisement of Arabs and

Muslims in the U.S. Unlike blatant acts of violence, like hate crimes, this “culture of suspicion and paranoia” is insidious, permeating post-9/11 representations of Arabs and Muslims in a way which normalizes their othering and justifies discrimination.

For example, a study of representations of Arabs and Muslims in the New York Times

(NYT) found that the paper “narrates Arab Americans and Muslim Americans in ways that result from and enable racial policing by associating them with terrorism and a demonized, globalized

Islam” (Joseph et al. 229). The study, which analyzed all representation of Arabs and Muslims in the paper from September 2001-May 2004, revealed that “word choices, rhetorical moves, and

8 See Jamal and Naber, 289.

thematic patterns” consistently racialized Arab Americans and Muslim Americans, “mak[ing] them problematic to the U.S. nation-state” (Joseph et al. 233). Amongst the most significant findings: “Arab Americans and Muslim Americans are represented as intimately tied to their countries of origin”; “highly religious”; “devoted to Islam and other Muslims before they are devoted to the United States and other Americans”; “linked to international Muslims and Muslim movements”; “Muslims around the world are represented primarily in terms of their religious devoutness. That devoutness is represented as being thinly differentiated from religious fanaticism”; “the ‘irrational religious rage’ of Islamic fanaticism against the United States emerges as a thin veil separating the hearts and heartbeats of Arab Americans and Muslim

Americans from globalized Islamic fanaticism and terrorism” (Joseph et al. 234-235). The findings of the study revealed such pervasive, consistent racialization of Arabs and Muslims, that even the authors expressed their surprise that the NYT, perhaps the most widely circulated, most influential American newspaper, that is widely considered liberal, would perpetuate such ideologies. They conclude that, “Arab and Muslim Americans, in this rhetorical maneuver are transformed into high-risk citizens, subtly justifying indiscriminate violation of the civil rights of, as well as possible violence against, a vibrant part of the body politic” (Joseph et al. 234-

235).

The effects of such rhetoric are evident in American attitudes towards Muslim

Americans. A Gallup Poll conducted in July 2006, three months shy of the 5th anniversary of the

September 11th attacks, found that many Americans have negative perceptions of Muslims

Americans. In fact, “nearly one quarter of Americans, 22%, say they would not like to have a

Muslim as a neighbor” (Saad). A great number of Americans—31%—said they “would feel nervous” if they were passengers on the same flight as a Muslim man, far fewer, 18%, would feel

similarly if they were sharing a flight with a Muslim woman (Saad). Although Americans “tend to disagree with the notion that Muslims living in the United States are sympathetic to al-Qaeda,” less than half believe that American Muslims are loyal to the U.S. (Saad). The most disturbing result revealed that 40% of Americans would approve of unconstitutional policing practices for

Muslims—regardless of citizenship status. According to the poll, “4 in 10 Americans favor more rigorous security measures for Muslims than those used for other U.S. citizens. This includes requiring Muslims—including those who are U.S. citizens—to carry a special ID, and requiring them to undergo special, more intensive, security checks before boarding airplanes in the United

States” (Saad).

These figures support the premise expressed in Halaby’s “Before”—that anti-

Arab/Muslim sentiment perpetuated by individuals in America supports, enables, and perpetuates discriminatory government policy. As the Gallup Poll revealed, Arab/Muslim men are greater targets of suspicion, and therefore, are far more likely to be targets of government sanctioned discrimination. The policing of Arab/Muslim men in the U.S. goes hand-in-hand with violent military action in the Middle East—the same narratives that result in “4 in 10 Americans favor[ing] more rigorous security measures for Muslims” in the U.S., garners support for foreign wars against Arab/Muslim men abroad. In Race and the Arab Americans Before and After 9/11,

Naber explains this phenomenon in greater detail:

After 9/11, in the process of legitimizing imperialist ambitions through appeals to

nationalist narratives about protecting national security, dominant U.S. discourses have

refashioned post-Cold War binaries from patriot versus enemy to those who are with us

versus those who are with the terrorists. Names signifying an ‘Arab/Middle

Eastern/Muslim’ identity rendered particular men and boys at once foreign, or alien, to

the nation, but at the same time connected, in the most familial and instinctive terms, to

‘the terrorists.’ In this sense, nation-based racism conflates ‘Arab/Middle

Eastern/Muslim’ masculinities with an inherent potential for violence and terrorism and

legitimizes the discipline and punishment of ‘Arab/Middle Eastern/ Muslim’

masculinities ‘over there’ (in countries the United States is invading) and ‘over here’

(within the geographic borders of the U.S.). (292)

In the aftermath of 9/11, Jassim becomes a direct target of these ideologies. Throughout the novel, average citizens with a newfound zeal for exposing the perceived threat of the

Arab/Muslim man “over here,” target Jassim at work, at the gym, and even at the mall.

Ultimately, this vigilantism leads to an FBI investigation. Jassim’s plight is complicated by his inability to truly “translate” the American sociopolitical climate post-9/11. Jassim fails to understand that despite his scientific mastery of English, and his adherence to American capitalist values, his subject position as an Arab/Muslim man will primarily dictate his place within American society post-911.

Sociolinguist Differences in Arabic and English

In his 1999 memoir, Out of Place, and a 2004 article9, “Living in Arabic,” Edward Said wrote extensively about the experience of being a bilingual Arabic and English speaker. In both works, Said is particularly concerned with reconciling the differences between Modern Standard

Arabic (MSA) and colloquial Arabic as an English speaker. MSA is formal Arabic, which is learned in school and is consistent through out the Arab world. MSA is used in all forms of

9 Published posthumously with the permission of his wife, Mariam Cortas-Said.

writing10, academics, government, business, news broadcasts, etc. Colloquial Arabic is informal, and differs throughout the Arab world; each country has its own dialectic, some of which are more similar than others. Colloquial Arabic, learned in the home, is used amongst families and friends, and in most information conversations. In “Living in Arabic,” Said explains how the distinction between MSA and colloquial Arabic fail to translate, both literally and figuratively into English, complicating the experience of the bilingual speaker:

…an educated [Arab] has two quite distinct linguistic personae in the mother-tongue. It's

a common enough thing to be chatting with a newspaper or television reporter in the

colloquial and then, when the recording is switched on, to modulate without transition

into a streamlined version of [Modern Standard Arabic], which is inherently more formal

and polite…because Arabic and English are such different languages in the way they

operate, and also because the ideal of eloquence in one language is not the same as in the

other, a perfect bilingualism of the kind that I often dream about, and sometimes boldly

think that I have almost achieved, is not really possible. There is a massive technical

literature about bilingualism, but what I've seen of it simply cannot deal with the aspect

of actually living in, as opposed to knowing, two languages from two different worlds

and two different linguistic families. (Said)

The vast sociolinguistic differences between Arabic and English, specifically in relation to MSA and colloquial Arabic, complicate the experience of translation for bilingual speakers. Since

Jassim and Salwa are educated, they have both learned MSA in school. Since they are well educated, they have both also learned English in school. Said distinguishes between “living in, as opposed to knowing” two languages—prior to their arrival in the U.S., Jassim and Salwa had

10 Fiction is mostly written in Modern Standard Arabic, except for individual snippets of dialogue. There is also a tradition of poetry in colloquial dialects.

only “known” English, but never “lived in” the language. Once in the U.S., each perfected their

English in distinct environments in which they “lived in” the language. Since Salwa works in customer service fields as a banker and real estate agent, her ability to communicate in English in a relatable, friendly way is vital to her success—therefore, allowing her to “live in” an English that more closely resembles colloquial Arabic. Unlike Salwa, Jassim came to the U.S. to complete his formal education, earning Master’s and Ph.D. degrees in the sciences. Since MSA is the language of academics, and professional work, which Jassim has been submersed in since his arrival in the U.S., the English that he has perfect is formal and scientific.

The distinction between Salwa’s informal and Jassim formal English is representative of gendered distinctions in the use of colloquial Arabic and MSA. Multiple studies in Arabic sociolinguistics have concluded that women are more likely to use colloquial Arabic, while men are more likely to us MSA11 (Ismail 263). Manal A. Ismail explains that men more commonly use MSA, the language of public spaces like “government, religion, law, finance, [and] media,” which have traditionally been male-dominated. However, colloquial Arabic, which is used more commonly by women, represents traditionally feminine spaces, like the home, and is the

“language of family, personal relations, and community.” Unlike MSA, colloquial Arabic captures the “social meaning of locality” and has the “capacity to index regional and social variation.” While MSA plays an important role in unifying the Arab-speaking world at large, colloquial Arabic binds local communities. Colloquial Arabic varies widely—individual Arabic speaking countries have their own distinct dialects—and within those dialects, regional differences distinguish speakers from the same nation. Therefore, speaking and understanding a local dialect signals a sense of belonging to the local community. Ismail explains that, women’s

11 Although Ismail’s study specifically looks at men and women’s speech preferences in Saudi Arabia, studies in Egypt, Syria, Lebanon and Iraq have produced similar results.

use of colloquial Arabic, “effectively binds them to the local community and conceivably reflects their high degree of solidarity with the community” (273). Salwa’s realist reaction to 9/11 (which

I later discuss in detail) and the effect it will have on Arab Americans reveals her understanding of the “local community,” and therefore, her ability to understand and translate the “colloquial” dialect. Jassim’s precise mastery of English—more in line with MSA—does not have any exchange value in the U.S. (unlike MSA in the Arabic speaking world). Therefore, although neither will ever be able to achieve “perfect bilingualism” (if Edward Said can’t, then who can?),

Salwa’s ability to speak and interpret English in a style more aligned with colloquial Arabic is more valuable in the American experience.

Throughout the novel, Jassim and Salwa’s syntax and diction indicate that they conduct most of their conversations with one another in Arabic. Outside of his conversations with Salwa,

Jassim is never shown conversing with anyone else in Arabic while in America. Salwa often talks with and visits her close friend Randa, a Lebanese immigrant that lives in Tucson with her husband and children. It is clear that their conversations are also conducted in Arabic.

Unlike Jassim, Salwa has someone to confide in outside of her marriage that understands her culture and the struggles she feels as an Arab in America. Salwa and Randa’s conversations, although written in English, often invoke common Arabic terms of endearment. For example, when Randa visits Salwa after her miscarriage, she greets her by saying “Your health, habibti,” to which Salwa responds, “God protect you, Randa” (Halaby 90). Arabic speakers would recognize this exchange as the commonly used phrases, “Salamtek” and “Allah yehfazek,” respectively. “Salamtek,” which Halaby literally translates as “your health,” would be used when addressing a person who is sick—and carries a similar connotation to “get well soon,” in

English. “Allah yehfazek,” which Halaby also translates literally to, “God protect you,” is used

here to express gratitude—similar to the way an English speaker may say, “God bless you,” in the context of thanking someone for a kind act.

Halaby’s use of “Your health” and “God protect you,” reveals the awkwardness of attempting literal translations of two distinctly different languages. For the bilingual

Arabic/English speaker, certain terms, especially colloquial terms that carry sentimental value, can never truly translate. In his memoir, Said discusses this phenomenon, reminiscing about the comfort such Arabic phrases, often spoken by his mother, provided, and lamenting about the harsh tone her English carried:

Certain spoken phrases of hers like tislamli [‘May the Lord preserve you for me!’] or

mish ‘arfa shu biddi a‘mal? [‘I don’t know what to do’]. Or rouhha [‘My soul/my very

being’]—dozens of them—were Arabic, and I was never conscious of having to translate

them or, even in cases like tislamli, knowing exactly what they meant. They were a part

of her infinitely maternal atmosphere, which in moments of great stress I found myself

yearning for in the softly uttered phrase ‘ya mama’ [‘Mummy!’]…

Her English deployed a rhetoric of statement and norms that has never left me. Once my

mother left Arabic and spoke English there was a more objective and serious tone that

mostly banished the forgiving and musical intimacy of her first language, Arabic. At age

five or six I knew that I was irremediably ‘naughty,’ and at school was all matter of

comparable disapproved-of things like ‘fibber’ and ‘loiterer.’ (4)

The gentleness associated with Said’s mother’s terms of endearment is never found in her

English. The natural way that her comforting Arabic phrases are used and understood cannot be replicated in English. Therefore, her English takes on an “objective and serious tone,” the intimacy and sentiment of Arabic lost.

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Yasir Sulieman, who has written extensively on the Arabic language an identity, writes of

Said’s experience as a bilingual Arabic and English speaker: “At times, the two languages worked in tandem, but they also Othered each other… Living in and between two languages,

Said must have felt that a part of him was lost in translation, through the semantic leakage that the transfer of feelings and meanings from one language to another inevitably produces” (Arabic,

Self and Identity 80). To a certain extent, this “semantic leak” exists for any bilingual individual.

However, in Once in a Promised Land, the effects of such linguistic othering have a greater impact on Jassim. The familiarity and comfort of colloquial Arabic, which Salwa continues to employ, demonstrates her ability to move more fluidly between Arabic and English. In effect,

Salwa’s greater ease as a bilingual speaker allows her to better translate the cultural impact of

9/11.

The Immediate Aftermath of 9/11

Salwa and Jassim’s initial reactions to the September 11th attacks are vastly different.

While Salwa worries about the repercussion of the attacks for Arab Americans, unlike Jassim, whose analysis of the attacks is strictly scientific. The morning after the attacks Jassim wakes up early, as he normally does, for his daily ritual, a swim at the local gym. In the aftermath of such a catastrophic event, his only indiscretion is forgetting to empty his gym bag the night before.

Jassim is an avid swimmer, and his morning swim usually allows him to clear his mind. When he wakes up that morning, he does not think once about the attacks; however, as soon as he enters the water, he becomes preoccupied with a methodical analysis of the attacks. He briefly begins to wonder, with an anthropological curiosity, “What entered into someone’s mind to make him

(them!) want to do such a thing? It was incomprehensible. And unnatural—human beings fought

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to survive, not to die” (Halaby 20). When this inquiry produces no answers, he wonders what caused the buildings’ total collapse, remembering what he once read about flaws in their architectural design:

Somewhere he has read about the construction of those two buildings—that to make

them so massive architects had eschewed typical skyscraper protocol, if there was such a

thing, and designed core steel tubes supported by narrower steel columns, putting the

strength of the structure at the core rather than in the frame of the building, which

allowed for large offices with expansive views. He wondered if that as the reason for the

collapse. It would be interesting to see what architects and engineers said about this in the

coming weeks. (Halaby 20-21)

While he wonders what the coming weeks will tell about the integrity of the buildings’ structures, he at no point wonders what the repercussions of such devastation at the hands of

Arab/Muslim men, like himself, will be. In fact, Jassim is so oblivious, that he is dumbfounded when his and Salwa’s families in Jordan call to check in on them:

Both his and Salwa’s families telephoned shortly after it happened, which was also

beyond his comprehension. They were all intelligent human beings that knew America

was a large country and that New York was on the East Coast, and yet they had called to

see if he and Salwa were safe. It was ridiculous, and he told his father so. ‘Baba, we are

so far away, there is nothing to worry about.’

‘You are far away from me, and I always worry.’

Jassim’s failure to empathize with his father’s concern is consistent with his overall response to the 9/11 attacks. His inability to understand the local cultural leaves him unable to see the impact they will have on American culture—and by extension, the impact they will have on him as an

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Arab/Muslim man living in the U.S.

Unlike Jassim, Salwa immediately understands the repercussions of the attacks. Jassim callously recalls the way Salwa spoke to her friend Randa on the phone several times on

September 11th, “babbling about how horrible it was and how she feared for the repercussions towards Arabs in this country.” Salwa tells Jassim that Randa is worried about her children being persecuted because of the attacks, to which he responds, “Why would anyone hurt Randa’s kids?

People are not so ignorant as to take revenge on a Lebanese family for the act of a few extremist

Saudi’s who destroyed those buildings.” Halaby goes on to write that Jassim, “had promptly been proven wrong when a Sikh gas station attendant in Phoenix was killed in retaliation.” Upon learning of the gas station attendant’s murder, Salwa’s “outrage and sadness was immense.”12

She rightly warns Jassim that such retaliation will not prove to be an isolated incident, and that anyone remotely resembling the attackers will be a target:

‘What does a Sikh have to do with anything? People are stupid. Stupid and macho,’ she

finished in English.

‘Macho?’ he asked.

‘Macho. You know, throwing their weight around if something happens they don’t

like. Only it doesn’t matter to them if they get the people who did whatever it is that they

are angry about, just as long as they’ve done something large and loud. I hate to think

what sort of retaliation there is going to be on a governmental level for what happened.

Jassim, it’s not going to be easy, especially for you.’

In response to Salwa’s impassioned argument, Halaby writes that, “Jassim said nothing.”

12 Here, Halaby draws from actual events. A Sikh gas station attendant, mistaken for an Arab/Muslim, was killed in Mesa, Arizona on September 15th, 2001. There were a number of other murders and violent hate crimes in “retaliation” in the weeks immediately following the attacks (Naber 289).

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However, he later concedes to Salwa that she “may be right about Randa,” but adds that, “the worse thing that would happen to her kids is other children saying unkind things to them. She worries too much about them, always thinking they are going to get kidnapped or hit by a car”

(Halaby 21). Jassim’s attempt at empathy is brief, as he quickly follows up with a statistic: “Did you know a child has a higher chance of having a heart attack then being kidnapped?” Later on, while swimming his daily laps at the pool, he reflects on this exchange with Salwa, revealing that, “he felt pleased with the statistic about children and heart attacks” (Halaby 22). Jassim’s comment, and the way his revels in his comeback thereafter, is quite cold; however, because he lacks the cultural understanding that has led Randa to fear for the safety of her children, he can only assess the situation from a scientific perspective.

After completing his swim, Jassim’s mind begins to once again wander, reflecting the aftermath of 9/11. As he takes a shower, he thinks about “the office girls at the ends of the table” at his last work meeting, recalling that their interactions with him seemed different than usual:

Something had been wrong. Had he said something impolite? He couldn’t imagine what,

since he barely spoke with them. He’d probably not given them this much thought in the

entire time he’d worked with them, and here they were in his thoughts in the swimming

pool and in the shower. Why? Surely not because of what happened in New York? He

had as little connection to those men as they did, and there was no way he could accept

that anyone would be able to believe him capable of sharing in their extremist

philosophy. No, he was not indulging this notion. (Halaby 22)

Despite having no relationship with the young women in his office, Jassim refuses to believe that they would associate him with the 9/11 attacks. Although he realizes that the women’s interactions with him changed post-9/11, he ultimately dismisses the idea that the change is in

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response to the attacks. After analyzing the situation, he concludes that there is no way that anyone would logically associate him with the “extremist philosophy” of the perpetrators.

Unlike Salwa, who understands the seismic shift that 9/11 triggered for Arab Americans, Jassim refuses to accept that his identity will make him a target of discrimination. Salwa’s warning to

Jassim that things are “not going to be easy” especially for Arab/Muslim men like himself, proves to be true.

Jassim Is Targeted

Salwa’s warning that things are “not going to be easy” especially for Arab/Muslim men like Jassim, proves to be true. The first incident where Jassim is the target of blatant racial profiling happens at a clothing store during a trip to the mall. As Salwa browses the selections,

Jassim wanders away toward a motorcycle displayed at the far end of the store. Once she and

Jassim are reunited, Salwa expresses her concern when she notices, “an odd expression on his face, almost fear” (Halaby 28). Jassim’s distressed express is the result of being followed by a security officer. He jokingly reveals this to Salwa, attempting to make light of the situation: “If you look behind me, you will see a woman with a walkie-talkie on her shoulder. She thinks she’s

Clint Eastwood. She’s following me. Apparently I am a security threat. Maybe she thinks I’m going to steal all this fashion and climb on that motorcycle, which I am then going to fly off its pedestal and into the mall. God give us patience” (Halaby 28-29). Despite Jassim’s sarcasm, his

“odd expression” reveals his discomfort. Jassim, unable to confront the situation, attempts to minimize the incident with his blasé attitude.

Unlike Jassim, Salwa has the cultural awareness and communication skills necessary to directly confront the situation, and she immediately takes action. Salwa confronts the security

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officer, asking her a series of questions about why Jassim is being followed. The security officer eventually concedes, leaving the store before reluctantly admitting to Salwa that, “someone called security,” what she claims is the result of a “misunderstanding.” Unsatisfied with the security officer’s conceit, Salwa insists on confronting the salesperson that called security, a teenage girl named Amber. Jassim, uncomfortable with his wife’s relentless pursuit of justice, leaves the store before urging her to, “Please let it go.” In his absence, Salwa smoothly and expertly confronts Amber, as demonstrated by the snake-like imagery Halaby uses to describe her: a “cobra face” and “venom to her words” (29). Amber tells Salwa that after Jassim, “stood there and stared for a really long time,” she decided to call security, “remember[ing] all the stuff that’s been going on.” Salwa, “gigantic in her anger,” asks to speak to a manager. As they wait for the manager to arrive, Amber blurts out that her uncle died in the Twin Towers. However,

Salwa is not caught of guard by the outburst, in fact, she is prepared to respond. “Salwa knew something like this was coming, had been waiting for the moment when it became spoken,”

Halaby writes. “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you planning on having every Arab arrested now?”

Salwa responds without hesitation (Halaby 30). As the confrontation continues, and the manager joins the conversation, Salwa seems to anticipate every excuse for the girl’s bad behavior, responding with appropriate timbre and wit.

As Nada Elia explains, the ability to engage in such effective deconstruction of the dominant discourse is premised upon the ability to use language subversively:

A realization that greater familiarity with the dominant discourse always/already implies

some degree of alienation from one’s own culture, but is not necessarily accompanied by

an acceptance of the hegemonic discourse. Indeed, the use of that language becomes

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itself a subversive practice, as it strips it of its exclusive membership rules, decentering

and deterritorializing it. (186)

After an apology from the manager, Mandy, and the offer of a gift card as compensation (which she refuses on principal), Salwa reunites with Jassim outside of the store. “Did you save my reputation?” he askes her (Halaby 31, emphasis added). In referring to his reputation, Jassim evaluates the situation as an individual event, not one that is part of a systemic problem. When

Salwa explains that the girl’s uncle died in the Twin Towers, Jassim asks, “What does that have to do with me?” (Halaby 31). Of course, it has nothing to do with him, however, his inability to make the connection between the September 11th attacks and his racial profiling reflects his inability to understand the “hegemonic discourse.” Salwa, however, does understand the

“hegemonic discourse,” and is therefore about to confront the security officer, salesperson, and manager, eventually receiving an apology (not to imply that the apology is genuine or adequate; rather, it is representative of Salwa’s relative success in confronting the situation). Despite

Salwa’s anger, Jassim continues with his attempts to minimize the situation:

‘It probably wouldn’t be so bad if we lived in a bigger city. Salwa, it’s okay. She’s

just a kid. She’s doing what she thinks is right.’

‘It’s not okay, Jassim. Do you think this is going to get better? For God’s sake, she

called security on you in the mall, in a teenage clothing store.’ For all her rage, she could

see that Jassim had shut off the part of himself that should be fuming, that he had

accepted what had happened and allowed his thoughts to move on.’ (Halaby 32)

Salwa responds with frustration to Jassim’s insistence. Unlike Jassim, Salwa understands that the incident in the clothing store is not an isolated act of discrimination—or something that could have been avoided had they lived in a “bigger city” or the salesperson wasn’t a “kid.” Rather,

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Jassim’s profiling is a product of the national discourse post-9/11. As Salaita explains in his analysis of this scene, the teenage salesperson, Amber, “ is merely responding to the definitions of ‘suspicion’ to which she has been subjected… Amber therefore did something wrong morally, but she did not do anything wrong according to the ethos of post-September 11 fear in the United

States.” Although Amber’s manager apologizes and offers Salwa a gift card, she is also complicit, having told her employees to “report anything suspicious.” She explains to Salwa that,

“people are a little freaked out by the idea that someone might try to blow up a mall here in

Tucson” (Halaby 31). Despite their role in perpetuating discrimination, Amber and her manager are simply responding to the post-9/11 discourse. As Salaita explains, “the guiltiest party,” in perpetuating such discrimination, “is the collection of media and politicians who have worked hard to make certain that imagined Middle Eastern features are perceived as inherently threatening and thus worthy of suspicion” (88). Salwa’s recognizes that Jassim’s profiling is part of this larger master narrative, something he either does not understand or refuses to accept.

Us vs. Them: The Mentality of Post-9/11

In the aftermath of the September 11th attacks, the idea of what it means to be an

American—an already unstable construct—becomes even more arbitrary. Taking advantage of the national’s trauma to garner support for wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the Bush administration adopts a “you’re either with us or against us” approach to foreign policy. In this environment, patriotism is mandatory and loyalty to the nation is premised upon blind support for military action. Halaby presents this ideology with expert subtly when Joan, one of Salwa’s coworkers at the bank, gives her American flag decals to display on her and Jassim’s cars. “You never know what people are thinking, and having this will let them know where you stand,” Joan tells Salwa,

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expressing genuine concern for her Arab friend’s well being (Halaby 55). Although Joan presents the decals in good will, she fails to recognize that such symbols of patriotism will never afford Salwa and Jassim a claim to American identity or protection from suspicion and racial profiling. Furthermore, the gesture may function to gauge or even police Salwa and Jassim’s loyalty to the nation. “Her concern for Salwa is genuine, and her desire to assure that Salwa remains safe is unassailable; the problem exists in her implicit demand that Salwa display a certain level of patriotic devotion with which Salwa is uncomfortable. ‘This will let them know where you stand’ can be interpreted as an injunction just as easily as it can be understood as a suggestion,” explains Salaita (89). Salwa is well aware of the deeper symbolism of the gesture.

After Joan walks away, Salwa is left, “rattled, staring at decals given to her in kindness and in themselves loaded with hatred” (Halaby 56).

Although seemingly intended as an act of good will, Joan’s gesture further alienates

Salwa from her coworkers. While reflecting on her relationship with her coworkers, Salwa reveals that she has always been “struck” by how “emotionally distant they seemed.” In the aftermath of attacks, Salwa feels even more distance from her coworkers, a distance she links to the fervent patriotism that emerges post-9/11. “In the past month that distance had been stronger, an aftereffect of what had happened in New York and Washington, like the cars sprouting

American flags from their windows, antennas to God, electric fences willing her to leave,” Salwa thinks to herself. (Halaby 54). This feeling of distance is exacerbated by the displays of patriotism she sees everywhere on her drive home. While the American flag may represent unity for some, in the aftermath of 9/11, it serves as a reminder of difference for outsiders like Salwa.

During her drive, an angry diatribe on the radio confirms Salwa’s suspicion that in the face of such patriotic zeal she in unwelcome. “Is anyone fed up yet? Is anyone sick of nothing being

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done about all those Arab terrorists? In the name of Jesus Christ! They live with us. Among us!

Mahzlims who are just wanting to attack us. They just want…” Salwa hears before turning off the radio (Halaby 56). “Shaken” and “disgusted, ” Salwa pulls into a parking lot to regain her composure before continuing home (Halaby 57).

Salwa knows that displaying Joan’s American flag decal will not counter such hatred, something she anticipates Jassim will not understand:

She tried to imagine Jassim’s reaction: ‘It’s a compliment, really. She thinks you’re

one of her kind, and that you need the protection of a four-by-two-inch sticker to prove

it.’ He would see no harm in it. He would think it perfectly acceptable. Inoffensive.

Natural. This made her angrier than the stickers themselves. How could he be so

complacent? (Halaby 56)

Once Salwa arrives at home, she tells Jassim about the decals. Although his reaction is not exactly as she anticipated, he still fails to understand her frustration at the gesture. “Do you think people who might intent to blow things up are putting those same decals on their cars for disguise?” he asks, unironically. Salwa begins to lose her patience with Jassim, feeling as though

“in looking at the details he missed the entire point.” Hoping to help Jassim understand her concerns, Salwa, impassioned, tells him about the Islamophobic rant she heard on the radio.

However, Jassim remains unshaken, responding with “calm and reason” to “be patient” (Halaby

58). Unable to reason with Jassim, Salwa does not respond, suppressing her frustration instead.

“Salwa wanted to shake him, to scream that for God’s sake, somebody could report him, have them both deported because his eyebrows were too thick, his accent was not welcome, especially in line of his work,” she thinks to herself. Jassim interrupts her thoughts with a statistic about efficiency of Japanese recycling practices. “The Japanese are incredible,” he remarks (Halaby

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58). The implication being that the Japanese managed to survive persecution. Salwa once again does not respond to her husband, and with this statistic, the conversation ends. Jassim’s calm, scientific analysis of in the face of Salwa’s raw emotion is consistent with their understanding and interpretation of language. As a bilingual speaker who masters English in an academic, scientific environment, Jassim lacks the ability to “translate” American culture beyond such logical analysis.

Post-9/11 Indiscretions

Jassim and Salwa’s inability to effectively communicate with one another leaves them especially vulnerable in the aftermath of 9/11. In addition to beginning an affair with a local waitress, Jassim keeps two life-changing events from Salwa: the first, that he was involved in a car accident in which a teenage boy died; the second, that he is being investigated by the FBI.

Jassim comes under investigating by the FBI after he is reported “suspicious” by two separate sources: an acquaintance from the gym he attends and one of his clients from work. At this point in the novel, Jassim and Salwa’s relationship, which was already unstable, has all but disintegrated. Jassim does not tell Salwa he is under investigation, and therefore, has neither her moral support nor her communication skills when he meets with the FBI.

Jassim first learns about the FBI investigation from his boss, Marcus. Despite being strongly cautioned by the FBI not to do so, Marcus informs him that agents came to the office and questioned him about Jassim’s political views. Marcus tells Jassim that he told the agents he is, “as apolitical and unreligious a person I know” (Halaby 224). Although his answer implies that a religious or politically engaged Arab American may be cause for suspicion, Marcus’s concern for Jassim’s wellbeing is genuine. Consistent with his character, Jassim fails to

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understand the severity of the situation, and despite being urged by Marcus to hire a lawyer and document all of his interactions with the FBI, he makes plans to speak with the agents alone.

While the implication of Marcus’s comment on Jassim’s “apolitical and unreligious” nature is misguided, the sentiment is correct. Fadda-Conrey explains that, “Jassim’s apoliticalism, which enables him to participate for some time in the fiction of the American Dream, in fact renders him oblivious to the associations pegged to his male, Muslim, and Arab (hence suspect) status in post-9/11 America” (152). Eventually, the FBI agents reach out to Jassim directly and ask to schedule a meeting. Jassim does not take Marcus’s advice, and agrees to meet with the FBI agents without consulting a lawyer. Furthermore, he does not tell Salwa about the FBI investigation, who unlike her husband, would recognize he is the target of post-9/11 profiling.

When Jassim calls the FBI agents to settle on a meeting time and place, he views the exercise as wordplay: “He dialed the number on the card, memorizing it as he went. (And noted that FBI could become FIB and [Agent] Noelle James could be lemon see jail. No, there was no

I.)” (Halaby 227). Still unable to recognize the severity of the situation, Jassim meets the agents for lunch and views the interrogation from a scientific standpoint. He is unable to understand why they continue to probe him about the car accident he was involved in, even if the empirical evidence has already cleared him. “But he had done all the right things,” he thinks to himself,

“He had called the police. They had investigated. There were witnesses. What were they trying to do with these questions?”. When asked about his reaction to September 11th, Jassim delivers a stoic response, having prepared for such a question “I was shocked, saddened, unsettled.

Probably much the same as most people in this country. It was unexpected,” he tells them

(Halaby 231). Much to Jassim’s surprise, his well-prepared answer only arouses more suspicion from the FBI agents. Unlike Salwa, who is able to recognize and subvert the dominant discourse,

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Jassim fails to do so. “Uncritical speakers of dominant discourse adhere to rigid language that does not allow for great liberties in interpretation and that does not accommodate great variations in meaning,” explains Elia (188). In this context, Jassim’s inability to recognize the dominant discourse means he cannot use it subversively when speaking to the FBI agents.

After a series of uninspired questions from the agents, Jassim finally snaps when they imply that, because of his work as a hydrologist, he is capable of tampering with the city’s water supply:

Jassim couldn’t help himself. ‘Means is one thing, motive is another. I am a scientist.

I work to make water safe and available. I am a normal citizen who happens to be Arab.

Yes, I have access to the city’s water supply, but I have no desire to abuse it. The mere

fact that I am Arab should not add any suspicion to the matter.’ His stomach tightened.

He knew he should keep quiet, but the words were bursting from his mouth. ‘I have spent

my entire life trying to find ways to make water safe and accessible for everyone. Just

because I am an Arab, because I was raised a Muslim, you want to believe I am capable

of doing evil. It is sometimes best to look within before casting such a broad net.’ The

words got ahead of him, and he was not sure what he had just said. This righteousness

was more in the style of his wife. He had never been prone to outrage. (Halaby 232)

While he may view it as a failure in self-control, this is actually Jassim’s most dignified moment in the novel. It is the first time he clearly acknowledges that his Arab Muslim identity is enough for the FBI to justify such profiling. Although he thinks his reaction is “righteous” and effeminate (“more in the style of his wife”), it actually illustrates a triumph for Jassim. Much like

Salwa has done throughout the novel, Jassim’s reaction demonstrates an ability to understand and subvert the dominant discourse.

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However, Jassim’s triumph is brief. When he leaves the meeting with the FBI agents, he quickly returns to a strictly logical analysis of the situation. Thinking to himself, Jassim recounts all the way he has properly adhered to American society:

Jassim had done nothing wrong and this was America and there should have to be

proof of negligence on this part for his job to be affected. People, companies, the city,

shouldn’t be able to pull accounts on the basis of his being an Arab. Yes, finally he saw

what had been sitting at the back of his consciousness for some time in a not-so-

whispered voice: with or against. But was he not with? I understand American society, he

wanted to scream. I speak your language. I pay taxes to your government. I play your

game. I have a right to be here. How could this be happening? (Halaby 234)

In the midst of Jassim’s continued denial, the voice in the back of his head whispers, “with or against,” a reference to the post-9/11 xenophobic nationalism that Salwa has long recognized.

However, Jassim continues to justify his place in American society—a place, he fails to understand, where he will never truly be accepted.

Although Salwa is more adept at understanding post-9/11 American society, the aftermath has clearly left her vulnerable. Shortly after 9/11, Salwa has a miscarriage; she does not tell Jassim about miscarriage because she had never told him about the pregnancy. In fact,

Salwa had stopped taking her birth control without Jassim’s knowledge. The deceitful circumstances of Salwa’s pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage do not turn out to be her most grave indiscretions.

Rattled by 9/11, and without adequate emotional support, Salwa is easily disarmed by

Jake, a coworker at the bank, with whom she eventually begins an affair. A connection between

Salwa and Jake initially seems unlikely; several years younger than her, he is both a drug addict

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and dealer that the other bank employees find odd. Perceiving her as an exotic conquest, Jake is immediately attracted to Salwa, and uses Arabic to flirt with her. Jake, who is taking Arabic classes a local college, begins to insert the few simple phrases he knows in conversations with

Salwa. Initially indifferent, Salwa begins to develop an attraction to Jake when he speaks to her in Arabic. It is clear that Salwa seeks a connection to her language and her culture through Jake.

Halaby makes it clear that Jake is manipulating Salwa to gain her trust by feigning interest in

Islam and Arab culture (after all, he only decides to study Arabic because he incorrectly believes it is the language of opium).

After a couple of steamy encounters, Salwa confesses to her friend Randa that she is having an affair with a coworker. Randa, who feels that Salwa has lost herself in America, advises her friend to return to Jordan and reconnect with her family and culture. Salwa takes

Randa’s advice and books a flight to Jordan; before leaving she visits Jake at his apartment to end the affair and inform him of her plans to leave. Behaving erratically, and clearly under the influence of drugs, Jake calls Salwa a “Goddamn fucking Arab bitch!” before violently attacking her (Halaby 322). Jake beats Salwa, disfiguring her face with the blunt corner of a picture frame before throwing her down the stairs of his apartment complex.

In the Shadow of 9/11

Following his investigation by the FBI, Jassim’s life continues to unravel when he is fired from his job. Although his boss, Marcus, was initially on his side, he eventually decides to let him go after the company loses a number of clients who refuse to work with Jassim. Marcus ultimately gives in to the dominant discourse to protect his business—a demonstration of how individual and government sanctioned racism serve to support and perpetuate one another.

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Despite the series of events that led to his firing, Jassim is still unable to fully process what has happened:

In more than a decade of good citizenship, he had never for a minute imagined that his

successes would be crossed out by a government censor’s permanent marker, that his

mission would be absorbed by his nationality, or that Homeland Security would have

anything to do with him. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen in America.

Americans are pure, simple people, their culture governed by a few basic tenets, not

complicated conspiracy theories. (Halaby 299)

Again, Jassim approaches the matter from a strictly scientific, logical perspective. He believes that the empirical evidence of his “good citizenship” should out weight any negative stereotypes associated with his ethnic and religious identity. His insistence that, “Things like this aren’t supposed to happen in America,” reveals just how disconnected he is from the reality of post

9/11 sociopolitical culture—or even the reality of America’s historical treatment of people of color at large.

The novel ends with the suggestion that both Jassim and Salwa will return to Jordan.

However, readers are left uncertain if Jassim and Salwa stay together, if they will find out about each other’s affairs, or if they will ever return to the U.S. In her book, Rhetorics of Religion in

American Fiction, Liliana M. Naydan offers a compelling argument as to why such uncertainty is appropriate in the present circumstances: “Halaby’s hybrid novel ends with a focus on a defining feature of hybridity. It ends with a focus on ambiguity, once again the only certitude that a post-

9/11, post apocalyptic world can offer, particularly for Islamic Others” (47).

Despite Jassim and Salwa’s tragedy, Halaby’s novel suggests that there is hope for Arab

Americans. Once in a Promised Land serves as a cautionary tale for ethnic others who believe

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that disengaging from their cultural and political roots will allow them the comfort of full assimilation. In contrast to Jassim and Salwa, Fadda-Conrey suggests, “a visible and vocal type of transnational political citizenship among Arab Americans” in which Arab Americans actively engage in dismantling exiting systems of oppression. Such engagement “demands difficult but necessary interrogations of US foreign policy as well as of the internal Islamophobia and anti-

Arab racism pervading the U.S.” According Fadda-Conrey, participating in such interrogations would empower Arab Americans. “Americans, of Arab background or otherwise, rather than succumbing to the numbing and silencing effects of homogeneous US patriotism, would instead practice a form of US citizenship that demands a critique of the racist and imperialist agendas imposed by the state, despite the threat of curtailment, imprisonment, or deportation,” she explains (156).

The jacket design of the 2007 hardcover edition of Once in a Promised Land features a man in a pool who appears to be swimming laps, next to him, he is accompanied by the shadow an airplane:

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Illustration by Bob Kosturko.

The man, of course, is Jassim, and the plane represents one of three used in the September 11th attacks. Prior to 9/11, Jassim’s daily swim was a cathartic experience in which he cleared his mind and focused on his body’s movement in the water. In the aftermath of 9/11, this sacred ritual is disrupted by thoughts of the attacks. The jacket art represents Jassim’s new reality,

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whether or not he chooses to accept it—that as an Arab Muslim man living in America post 9/11, his life is overshadowed by acts of terrorists who share his ethnicity and religion.

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