Love, Hate & Other Filters

by Samira Ahmed

Everyone seems happy to be here, except me.

The vows are simple, the same kind of pledges I’ve heard at weddings of every faith. Except at the end, there is no kiss.

some taboos cross oceans, packed tightly into the corners of immigrant baggage, tucked away with packets of masala and memories of home.

I like how he accepts the supporting role and doesn’t try to desi-mansplain things to me.

You are still young, free … Do yourself a favor. Before it’s too late, without thinking about it first, pack a pillow and a blanket and see as much of the world as you can.

I smile. He smiles. There is smiling.

But I want to be in New York already. You know, a place where I can live and do what I want and not be the Indian girl or the Muslim girl. A place where I can just be me.”

“Do you really feel that different here?” “I am different. I mean, literally; we’re the only Indian Muslim family in town.”

“I never thought of it that way. To me, you’ve always been the girl who knows the right answers.”

Only now I’m about to go on a date with a guy who is actually available, infinitely more suitable, and definitely interested.

But when I relive it in my mind, the lips I’m kissing are Phil’s.

I’m not sure how much time passes. No one else exists. Only us.

I know I can wish for life to be different. I can click my heels and hope I’m somewhere else. But in the end, I’m here. I’m me.

“Please, please let everyone be okay. Please don’t let it be a Muslim.”

I’m scared of being the object of fear and loathing and suspicion again. Always.

And who isn’t a presumed terrorist first and an American second.

The Quran says that whoever takes a life of an innocent, it’s as if he has killed all of mankind—

“And if anyone saves a life, it’s as if he’s saved all of mankind.

“These terrorists are the antithesis of Islam. They’re not Muslim. Violence has no place in religion, and the terrorists are responsible for their own crimes, not the religion and not us.”

I’ve learned: that hope is just a million shards of broken glass.

But we all have secrets, hopes that stay locked deep inside, trapped by our fears of the world’s judgment.

The choice is my dreams or theirs. In that way, it’s not a real choice at all.

As a daughter, you are dead to us. When you turn eighteen in June, you will leave this house.”

We must build bridges, conquer hate with love, and meet intolerance with a renewed commitment to education and open-mindedness. From many, we are one.

The fact is they didn’t do anything wrong. I see that now. They are my parents. I am their daughter. And the world between us cracked because of the difference in how we understand that fundamental bond.