On Eid morning, I was distributing New Trend at the ISB, located on Baltimore’s West side. It is Baltimore’s largest and possibly most “controlled” mosque. The mood of the mosque-goers was upbeat, and nearly everyone I approached took the NT (unlike some mosques, where worshippers run away from a sista trying to hand them of a copy of the anti-imperialist Islamic paper). I was more than halfway into the distribution when a balding gent in grey shalwar-kameez approached me. He was unremarkable in appearance, somewhat slender (lacking the characteristic middle class Paki pot belly), clean-shaven, and bespectacled.
“What is this, sister?” he asked rhetorically.
I gave him my standard, This-is-an-Islamic-paper, it-talks-about-the-issues-affecting-the-Muslim-world speal. I expected him to take the NT and walk away, but instead he faced me with a dark look on his face.
“You need permission to distribute anything here,” he said.
“Really?” I breathed, surprised. “Is this something new? We have always distributed our newsletter here and it was never a problem.”
What I told him was nothing short of the truth. Spineless mosque staffers had initially threatened to call the cops on the NT editor as he stood distributing the vanguard Islamic paper. He told them to go ahead, please do. After that, the mosque administration had stopped harassing him and other volunteers when they distributed the NT.
“Yes, we have a new policy in place as of last year. Everything has to be approved by the board,” he said, his slight Paki accent emerging. “We had to do this because we were getting a lot of complaints about literature which was unIslamic or anti-American. Law enforcement was also concerned.”
“I see,” I said. “Well, I can certainly understand you have a policy. Can you please look this over, and make sure it’s not unIslamic,” I proffered a copy of the NT to him.
He said, “No, I can’t. It has to go before the board.”
“Well you’re on the board, right?”
Yes, but this is not a dictatorship. I can’t simply okay it without consulting the other members of the board.”
“Well, what if there is no time to consult the other members of the board?” I asked. “This is the Eid prayer. Time is of the essence.” I was getting irritated because people were walking by, without receiving information I thought invaluable, while Mr. Unremarkable waylaid me.
“This is the policy,” he was adamant, as only a toady can be.
“Look I’m a visitor. I’m don’t usually come here, and I wasn’t aware of the new policy, because, as I said, in the past there was never any problem with distributing Islamic literature. I’m asking you to please check it, and okay it,” I was clutching at straws.
“As I said it’s not a dictatorship,” he said.
“Okay, I understand you have a policy. Excuse me while I....” I headed toward the road, but it seemed to concern him that I was going to distribute the NTs even there.
“This is private property. You need permission to distribute anything here.”
“The masjid belongs to Allah,” I said.
“Let’s not go there,” he said.
“Why not go there?” I countered. “Do you see anyone else talking about these issues?” I indicated the NT articles on Afghanistan and Iraq. That is why I’m distributing this paper. No one else is talking about it.” Despite the residual Ramadan sabr, exasperation was setting in.
“We do talk about the issues,” he said. “I talk about the issues. In fact I’ll be on NPR tonight, talking about anti-terrorism.”
NPR. This joker was going to be on airwaves where independent-minded Muslim leaders were persona non grata. I relinquished all hope of him “permitting” a NT distribution.
“Really?” I feigned interest. “What’s your name? I asked.
“I’m ---,” he said proudly.
“I’ll make it a point to listen. And I understand you have a policy. I won’t be distributing anything on your property,” I told him. “Thank you for standing up for Haq. I hope you do great on NPR tonight,” I said, my voice heavy with sarcasm.
I’d been retreating toward the property line all the while, and he’d followed me, as if to intimidate, with the same dark look on his face. When I got to the road, I immediately resumed distribution of the NT, and he walked off, pretending to check the mailbox. I found that this was actually a much more effective vantage point from which to hand out papers, eliminating duplicate copies of the paper going to the same family, and in fact, conferring a degree of officiousness on the distributor, as I greeted the brothers and sisters just outside the mosque entrance. Nearly all the cars exiting the mosque took the NT, some of them honking their horns to get my attention if I missed them.
The interlude raised a number of issues:
1) The mosque administration seems more concerned with the sensitivities of law enforcement, than either the genocide being enacted upon the Muslim world, or, the interests of its congregation. Additionally, intrusion of law enforcement into mosques may violate the U.S.’s own laws mandating strict Separation of Church and State (or Mosque and State, in this case).
2) The mosque appears to forfeit First Amendment Freedoms in disallowing the distribution of items with the tenuous label of “anti-American” (ie, which dare question U.S. foreign policy). So, Muslims have fewer rights to speak out on issues at their own mosque than non-Muslim Americans who criticize U.S. foreign policy (whether at a religious institution or elsewhere). On the other hand, Madeleine Albright, instrumental in the mass extermination of Iraqi children, was infamously permitted to use this very mosque, the ISB, as a mouthpiece. Similarly, U.S. politicians are welcome to canvass there, and distribution of literature, such as that disseminated after Eid salat, entitled “Islam on Capitol Hill presents Jummah Prayer on Capitol Hill,” is permitted. So, only pro-government views—and not others—may be heard at the mosque, a clear contradiction of democratic (and Muslim) ideals.
3) The extent of government control of this mosque is troubling. Surveillance cameras, reportedly supplied by DHS, are in place, on and around the property, ostensibly for the protection of the mosque. Exactly who has access to the surveillance garnered by the cameras is unclear. If the property is under surveillance, are the khutbas also approved, monitored, or otherwise scrutinized by the authorities, as, for example, under the Egyptian or Saudi dictatorships? If so, would this not constitute a clear violation of First Amendment freedoms?
Monday, September 13, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
An Interview with Karima Al-Amin (Part 1 of 2)
The Fourth of July is my birthday. Each year, I seek an activity which expounds on Frederick Douglass’ renowned musing “What to the Slave is the Fourth of July” and my social consciousness as a Muslim. This Fourth, I visited Atlanta to run the Peachtree 10K race, the nation’s largest 10K (it boasts 50,000 participants) and to interview Karima Al-Amin, wife of Imam Jamil Al-Amin (formerly H. Rap Brown).
Imam Jamil Al-Amin is one of America’s foremost political prisoners, currently being held at the infamous high security prison in Florence, Colorado. I felt his case had received a degree of exposure, at least by independent Islamic media, but that far less was known about his wife and partner in the struggle, an activist in her own right.
Karima Al-Amin graciously granted me an interview at short notice, even though it meant according me her scant leisure time (the holiday was one of those rare occasions on which she closed her law office). I was to meet her soon after my race. When I called to confirm the details of our meeting, she expressed concern for my condition. Was I too tired and dehydrated after the race, being unaccustomed to Atlanta weather? And did I require more time to rest before our meeting? I was reminded of Imam Jamil, whose self-less concern for his visitors to the prison—even while he himself was being subjected to daily humiliation at the hands of prison guards—was fabled. And—she insisted she would drive to my hotel so that I would not have to attempt to navigate unfamiliar territory. We agreed to hold the interview in my hotel room.
She entered the room, a slender, bespectacled woman, with quiet manner and majestic bearing, dressed modestly in light green hijab. But, as she began to speak, I realized this was easily the most eloquent, self-confident, and politically aware Muslim woman I’d encountered. She was clearly very seeped in Islamic faith; indeed, it may have been what allowed her (and hence her family) to survive the incredible trials they’d experienced; yet she was not ostentatious with her Arabic, nor haughty or judgmental of me or others.
Q: How did you meet Imam Jamil, and what attracted you to him initially?
A: I met him July 31, 1967. I remember that day because it was the first day I had a job. I had just graduated from the State University of Oswego. I was there four years. I majored in English with the aim of teaching K - 9th grades.
Imam Jamil walked into the job. He was staying with my supervisor. The job was on 135th Street, in Harlem. It was with Job Corps. I thought I’d keep the job a while.
The Imam walked in. At the time, he had a cadre of bodyguards. He was meeting Minister Farrakhan, so he asked the supervisor “See if she’ll go to lunch with us.” I was the only female at a big table of only brothers. I remember it was a big, big table, and we got back to the job at 5 PM.
That evening, Nina Simone was performing. She had invited Imam Jamil. In later years, he kept in touch with her. She autographed a photo for him that night, which I still have.
Q: Tell me about yourself and your background.
A: My grandmother and mother were Canadian. In 1929, my grandmother brought my mother, her sister, and one of her brothers to the U.S. after divorcing my grandfather. They were deported, and then returned. Then, in 1938, my grandmother went before a judge to ask for her citizenship. In 1942, while my grandmother was living in Los Angeles, Immigration denied her case. By 1942, my mother’s sister had married. Her husband was in the entertainment business, and his father wrote “Dark Town Strutters Ball.” She was a little activist and traveled broadly.
My mother lived in the building where La Guardia, Duke Ellington, and other musicians lived on Fifth Avenue in New York. My father was from the U.S. (from Virginia), and was in the navy. He and my mother married in 1942, and I was born years later in New York.
We moved to Riverton, built and owned by Metropolitan Life Assurance, in Harlem on Fifth Avenue. It was built mainly for African Americans so that we would not reside in the company’s other private developments built for Europeans. In fact, my mother and father were considering being part of a class action suit to challenge the discriminatory practices of the company. Nevertheless, my parents moved to Riverton where I went to school in Harlem. and my mother was involved in the PTA.
My mother was involved in the PTA fighting zoning issues, and that was the first time the FBI came to the house. They thought the communists must be behind this, and we thought they were going to take our mother away.
My mother is from Hamilton, Ontario, Canada. We would go back and forth to Canada to visit our grandfather, our aunts and uncles, and cousins. My father didn’t want to tell a fib, so when they asked him is everyone in the car a U.S. citizen, he would just nod his head.
We’re actually the descendants of runaway slaves. My sister and cousins are being tested to determine where we are from, but so far Spain, Portugal, and Europe are coming up, and not Africa. So, my family members still are exploring further testing.
My mother, after 30 years of being a housewife, went for a job with the NAACP Legal Defense Fund. Thurgood Marshall was the head of it. He wanted her to be in charge of payroll. To do this, she had to be bonded. Thurgood Marshall sponsored my mother to this end. I became the baby sitter for Thurgood Marshall and various African American judges and attorneys of the Legal Defense Fund.
I remember that my mother would tell my friends to put their dresses on so we could go to the Apollo. During the intermission, she had us walk around with buckets to collect money for whichever case was being fought in the South at the time.
Q: What led to your personal involvement in the Black Liberation struggle?
A: In college, I helped organize the Friends of SNCC. That should have told me I’d wind up with the chair of SNCC. I graduated in June and met Imam Jamil in July. My sister and her husband got arrested. They were with RAM (Revolutionary Action Movement). This was the first case in which middle class African Americans were involved in supporting the Black Liberation struggle. RAM is mentioned in the original COINTELPRO papers along with SNCC, Stokely, H. Rap Brown, etc. My husband went to a rally for RAM before I met him.
By August 1967, the FBI had contacted me. They said, “You know your sister was framed. If you help us, we’ll clear her.” I told them I knew she’d be cleared because she was framed. The FBI wanted me to work for them to provide reports on Imam Jamil.
My parents were very involved with the community. We were a close knit family. I had a non-traumatic childhood (other than the fact that I was almost electrocuted). We did not go without anything. We traveled a lot. My father helped form an organization for African American city workers in transit.
My first trip to the South was in 1959 when a girlfriend of mine invited me to travel with her to visit her relatives. One day, we went shopping to look at earrings. I went to hand money to one of the workers, and she threw the money on the floor. Later, I was trying to buy a hotdog, and they would not sell it to me, because the hot dog stand was “Whites Only.” Up in New York, we protested White Castle (fast food establishment).
My mother was very proper. When my husband’s book came out, she would not say the name of the book, because it was called Die Nigger Die!
The FBI hounded my parents. They went to my father’s job repeatedly. Despite this, my parents continued to be very supportive. I came from very smart, compassionate parents. They both died young (at age 51). One day, we went to the grocery store. When we came out, we found our car had a flat tire. We said, “Oh FBI.”
Not long after, my father stopped at a gas station to fix a flat tire. He collapsed and died. Imam Jamil’s mother died the week after that. Then, my mother went into the hospital. They discovered an aneurism on the right side of her brain. Then, they located another on the left, and she died two months later, in June. Then, in October, Imam Jamil was shot and went to the same hospital where my mother died. In fact, he was in the room next to where my mother spent two months before she died. All this happened in one year. We just didn’t have time for grieving.
To be continued
Imam Jamil Al-Amin is one of America’s foremost political prisoners, currently being held at the infamous high security prison in Florence, Colorado. I felt his case had received a degree of exposure, at least by independent Islamic media, but that far less was known about his wife and partner in the struggle, an activist in her own right.
Karima Al-Amin graciously granted me an interview at short notice, even though it meant according me her scant leisure time (the holiday was one of those rare occasions on which she closed her law office). I was to meet her soon after my race. When I called to confirm the details of our meeting, she expressed concern for my condition. Was I too tired and dehydrated after the race, being unaccustomed to Atlanta weather? And did I require more time to rest before our meeting? I was reminded of Imam Jamil, whose self-less concern for his visitors to the prison—even while he himself was being subjected to daily humiliation at the hands of prison guards—was fabled. And—she insisted she would drive to my hotel so that I would not have to attempt to navigate unfamiliar territory. We agreed to hold the interview in my hotel room.
She entered the room, a slender, bespectacled woman, with quiet manner and majestic bearing, dressed modestly in light green hijab. But, as she began to speak, I realized this was easily the most eloquent, self-confident, and politically aware Muslim woman I’d encountered. She was clearly very seeped in Islamic faith; indeed, it may have been what allowed her (and hence her family) to survive the incredible trials they’d experienced; yet she was not ostentatious with her Arabic, nor haughty or judgmental of me or others.
Q: How did you meet Imam Jamil, and what attracted you to him initially?
A: I met him July 31, 1967. I remember that day because it was the first day I had a job. I had just graduated from the State University of Oswego. I was there four years. I majored in English with the aim of teaching K - 9th grades.
Imam Jamil walked into the job. He was staying with my supervisor. The job was on 135th Street, in Harlem. It was with Job Corps. I thought I’d keep the job a while.
The Imam walked in. At the time, he had a cadre of bodyguards. He was meeting Minister Farrakhan, so he asked the supervisor “See if she’ll go to lunch with us.” I was the only female at a big table of only brothers. I remember it was a big, big table, and we got back to the job at 5 PM.
That evening, Nina Simone was performing. She had invited Imam Jamil. In later years, he kept in touch with her. She autographed a photo for him that night, which I still have.
Q: Tell me about yourself and your background.
A: My grandmother and mother were Canadian. In 1929, my grandmother brought my mother, her sister, and one of her brothers to the U.S. after divorcing my grandfather. They were deported, and then returned. Then, in 1938, my grandmother went before a judge to ask for her citizenship. In 1942, while my grandmother was living in Los Angeles, Immigration denied her case. By 1942, my mother’s sister had married. Her husband was in the entertainment business, and his father wrote “Dark Town Strutters Ball.” She was a little activist and traveled broadly.
My mother lived in the building where La Guardia, Duke Ellington, and other musicians lived on Fifth Avenue in New York. My father was from the U.S. (from Virginia), and was in the navy. He and my mother married in 1942, and I was born years later in New York.
We moved to Riverton, built and owned by Metropolitan Life Assurance, in Harlem on Fifth Avenue. It was built mainly for African Americans so that we would not reside in the company’s other private developments built for Europeans. In fact, my mother and father were considering being part of a class action suit to challenge the discriminatory practices of the company. Nevertheless, my parents moved to Riverton where I went to school in Harlem. and my mother was involved in the PTA.
My mother was involved in the PTA fighting zoning issues, and that was the first time the FBI came to the house. They thought the communists must be behind this, and we thought they were going to take our mother away.
My mother is from Hamilton, Ontario, Canada. We would go back and forth to Canada to visit our grandfather, our aunts and uncles, and cousins. My father didn’t want to tell a fib, so when they asked him is everyone in the car a U.S. citizen, he would just nod his head.
We’re actually the descendants of runaway slaves. My sister and cousins are being tested to determine where we are from, but so far Spain, Portugal, and Europe are coming up, and not Africa. So, my family members still are exploring further testing.
My mother, after 30 years of being a housewife, went for a job with the NAACP Legal Defense Fund. Thurgood Marshall was the head of it. He wanted her to be in charge of payroll. To do this, she had to be bonded. Thurgood Marshall sponsored my mother to this end. I became the baby sitter for Thurgood Marshall and various African American judges and attorneys of the Legal Defense Fund.
I remember that my mother would tell my friends to put their dresses on so we could go to the Apollo. During the intermission, she had us walk around with buckets to collect money for whichever case was being fought in the South at the time.
Q: What led to your personal involvement in the Black Liberation struggle?
A: In college, I helped organize the Friends of SNCC. That should have told me I’d wind up with the chair of SNCC. I graduated in June and met Imam Jamil in July. My sister and her husband got arrested. They were with RAM (Revolutionary Action Movement). This was the first case in which middle class African Americans were involved in supporting the Black Liberation struggle. RAM is mentioned in the original COINTELPRO papers along with SNCC, Stokely, H. Rap Brown, etc. My husband went to a rally for RAM before I met him.
By August 1967, the FBI had contacted me. They said, “You know your sister was framed. If you help us, we’ll clear her.” I told them I knew she’d be cleared because she was framed. The FBI wanted me to work for them to provide reports on Imam Jamil.
My parents were very involved with the community. We were a close knit family. I had a non-traumatic childhood (other than the fact that I was almost electrocuted). We did not go without anything. We traveled a lot. My father helped form an organization for African American city workers in transit.
My first trip to the South was in 1959 when a girlfriend of mine invited me to travel with her to visit her relatives. One day, we went shopping to look at earrings. I went to hand money to one of the workers, and she threw the money on the floor. Later, I was trying to buy a hotdog, and they would not sell it to me, because the hot dog stand was “Whites Only.” Up in New York, we protested White Castle (fast food establishment).
My mother was very proper. When my husband’s book came out, she would not say the name of the book, because it was called Die Nigger Die!
The FBI hounded my parents. They went to my father’s job repeatedly. Despite this, my parents continued to be very supportive. I came from very smart, compassionate parents. They both died young (at age 51). One day, we went to the grocery store. When we came out, we found our car had a flat tire. We said, “Oh FBI.”
Not long after, my father stopped at a gas station to fix a flat tire. He collapsed and died. Imam Jamil’s mother died the week after that. Then, my mother went into the hospital. They discovered an aneurism on the right side of her brain. Then, they located another on the left, and she died two months later, in June. Then, in October, Imam Jamil was shot and went to the same hospital where my mother died. In fact, he was in the room next to where my mother spent two months before she died. All this happened in one year. We just didn’t have time for grieving.
To be continued
Friday, March 26, 2010
Notes on March 20 Protest
The energy of Saturday’s anti-war march proved yet again that questioning and anti-war sentiment is not dead among the youth. The crowd was overwhelmingly youthful, creative, and colorful in their modes of protest. Young Muslim women in hijab were out in force. Student activists, acting on ANSWER’s (ie, the organizer’s) suggestion to bring drums, pots, and pans (“anything to make noise against the war”) to the march, banged away just feet from the White House gates. The hugely talented Korean and Palestinian drum troupes, in particular, drew attention to the protest.
The commitment of the protesters was inspiring. Many had traveled all night or spent long hours on buses and trains to get to the protest. One young Caucasian man I met had driven from Chicago by himself. Evidently not of means, he’d intended to camp out while waiting for the protest to begin. He went to one campsite and then another, each time greeted by a sign “Closed Until April.” Undeterred, he slept in his car until the morning of the protest.
I am always surprised at the diversity of kaffiya-wearers at such events: there were the usual Palestinians, Arabs, Pakistanis, and Kanye West-ers. But then there were the kaffiya-wearing Caucasian males, whom, encountered elsewhere, I’d easily mistake for a redneck. That’ll teach me to stereotype.
Many leading voices in the struggle for justice were present: Ramsey Clark, Dick Gregory, Rev. Graylan Hagler, Hodari Abdul-Ali, Cindy Sheehan, and others. The local peoples’ radio station, WPFW (89.3 FM), which has told the truth about the war since its inception, was well represented. Representatives of D.R.U.M. (South Asian immigrant rights group) were there, as were Iraq Veterans Against the War, and Military Families for Peace. Representatives of the campaign to impeach Bush, as well as those from ArrestBlair.com, a group which challenges U.K. citizens to arrest Blair on war crimes (http://arrestblair.org/), made their presence felt.
Most striking was the line of pallbearers leading the march. In a mock funeral procession, they carried symbolic coffins bearing the flags of Iraq, Lebanon, Somalia, Yemen, and other countries invaded and occupied by the U.S. or its henchmen. There were also coffins draped with American flags, a reminder that predominantly poor, black, brown and Latino people have been the cannon fodder of America’s illegal wars. I noted the green and white flag covering the coffin of my native Pakistan, and immediately thought of Abdur Rasheed Ghazi (shaheed) of Red Mosque fame, lying there bleeding to death, forever changing the legacy of that centuries old Islamabad mosque, assaulted by Paki mercenaries in U.S.-supplied tanks.
Theatrics abounded at the protest. An American flag was burned on stage, by a former U.S. Army machine gunner and her youthful companion from the IVAW (Iraq Veterans Against the War). At one point, as the march proceeded past the offices of Halliburton, an effigy of Dick Cheney was squeezed, stomped, and finally trampled “to death.” At the end of the march, the coffins were delivered to the White House gate. Cindy Sheehan called Barack Obama a war criminal as she was led away in handcuffs (part of a civil disobedience action in which eight people were arrested), her supporters emotionally responding with shouts of “Let her go!” The Muslim American Society’s Mahdi Bray spouted anti-war rhetoric reminescent of pre-election Obama, into a megaphone tenderly held for him by Brian Becker, but carefully avoided mentioning a single Islamic resistance movement (even though without these, the war would be passé). A spacewoman, in intergalactic helmet, swayed to the drums of peace, while a short distance away, a hula-hooper kept rhythm to the beat.
Among the most insightful and relevant signs carried by the protesters:
• “Myth No. 1: This Time War will help Afghan Women” (carried by an older Caucasian woman)
• “End drone attacks” and “Northrup Grumen + One Drone = 35 Mil” (both carried by representatives of Code Pink, which did a particularly excellent job of calling attention to the inhumanity of the U.S. use of drones in killing)
• “Stop Israeli War Crimes, Stop Billions of Tax Dollars to Israel” (this was one of the largest banners)
• “US troops out of the Philippines, Iraq, Afghanistan, Haiti, and everywhere” (this was a beautiful, colorful sign, carried by members of Alliance-Phillipines USA)
• “Shariah law for a peaceful Iraq and Afghanistan” and “Is it terrorism to defend one’s land?” carried by brothers from the Islamic Thinkers Society, an independent group from Comstock, NY, which seems to have broken from the limited thinking of the big money Moozlem groups which take their queque from Riyadh/Cairo/Washington (more on this at a later date)
• “We need jobs and schools, not war” (preprinted, unfortunately, on hundreds of signs by the A.N.S.W.E.R. Coalition, but still helpful in drawing the interest of many bystanders)
(The march proceeded from Lafayette Park through downtown, past the corporate offices of Morgan Stanley, the Washington Post, Halliburton, and the National Bankers Association. Unfortunately, I missed the procession, as I came to the protest directly from the National Marathon, which I ran that morning, in dedication to Leonard Peltier, Native American political prisoner, whose case first made me personally aware of the many political prisoners held in U.S. prisons. So, alhamdulillah, I ran the 26.2 in a shirt calling for his freedom. I finished the marathon close to 11:00 AM, and left soon after, since I knew the anti-war actions would begin at 12:00 noon. Unfortunately, the many road closures that morning delayed me, until famished and dehydrated, I took a break to grab some Thai noodles, slurped these down, then abandoned my car, and hopped on the metro to catch up to the protesters.)
Alhamdulillah, we were able to distribute some JAMI literature. At one point, I was speaking to an older Caucasian woman who held a sign that said “Free Gaza.” She asked for a copy of the flier I was distributing. When I gave it to her, she looked it over and immediately asked for additional copies to pass along to others. This scene replayed itself throughout the day, as many people were pleased to receive JAMI’s now old, famous “Boycott Major Supporters of Zionism” flier, and wanted additional copies for their friends.
As I was about to leave the protest, I spotted a young man in a tee that read “I fund international terrorism.” I grinned and offered to buy the shirt from him. He grinned back and said rhetorically “Yup, I pay taxes to the U.S. government.” It was a heartening last view of the protest, the thinking youth, who are this country’s hope for the future.
The commitment of the protesters was inspiring. Many had traveled all night or spent long hours on buses and trains to get to the protest. One young Caucasian man I met had driven from Chicago by himself. Evidently not of means, he’d intended to camp out while waiting for the protest to begin. He went to one campsite and then another, each time greeted by a sign “Closed Until April.” Undeterred, he slept in his car until the morning of the protest.
I am always surprised at the diversity of kaffiya-wearers at such events: there were the usual Palestinians, Arabs, Pakistanis, and Kanye West-ers. But then there were the kaffiya-wearing Caucasian males, whom, encountered elsewhere, I’d easily mistake for a redneck. That’ll teach me to stereotype.
Many leading voices in the struggle for justice were present: Ramsey Clark, Dick Gregory, Rev. Graylan Hagler, Hodari Abdul-Ali, Cindy Sheehan, and others. The local peoples’ radio station, WPFW (89.3 FM), which has told the truth about the war since its inception, was well represented. Representatives of D.R.U.M. (South Asian immigrant rights group) were there, as were Iraq Veterans Against the War, and Military Families for Peace. Representatives of the campaign to impeach Bush, as well as those from ArrestBlair.com, a group which challenges U.K. citizens to arrest Blair on war crimes (http://arrestblair.org/), made their presence felt.
Most striking was the line of pallbearers leading the march. In a mock funeral procession, they carried symbolic coffins bearing the flags of Iraq, Lebanon, Somalia, Yemen, and other countries invaded and occupied by the U.S. or its henchmen. There were also coffins draped with American flags, a reminder that predominantly poor, black, brown and Latino people have been the cannon fodder of America’s illegal wars. I noted the green and white flag covering the coffin of my native Pakistan, and immediately thought of Abdur Rasheed Ghazi (shaheed) of Red Mosque fame, lying there bleeding to death, forever changing the legacy of that centuries old Islamabad mosque, assaulted by Paki mercenaries in U.S.-supplied tanks.
Theatrics abounded at the protest. An American flag was burned on stage, by a former U.S. Army machine gunner and her youthful companion from the IVAW (Iraq Veterans Against the War). At one point, as the march proceeded past the offices of Halliburton, an effigy of Dick Cheney was squeezed, stomped, and finally trampled “to death.” At the end of the march, the coffins were delivered to the White House gate. Cindy Sheehan called Barack Obama a war criminal as she was led away in handcuffs (part of a civil disobedience action in which eight people were arrested), her supporters emotionally responding with shouts of “Let her go!” The Muslim American Society’s Mahdi Bray spouted anti-war rhetoric reminescent of pre-election Obama, into a megaphone tenderly held for him by Brian Becker, but carefully avoided mentioning a single Islamic resistance movement (even though without these, the war would be passé). A spacewoman, in intergalactic helmet, swayed to the drums of peace, while a short distance away, a hula-hooper kept rhythm to the beat.
Among the most insightful and relevant signs carried by the protesters:
• “Myth No. 1: This Time War will help Afghan Women” (carried by an older Caucasian woman)
• “End drone attacks” and “Northrup Grumen + One Drone = 35 Mil” (both carried by representatives of Code Pink, which did a particularly excellent job of calling attention to the inhumanity of the U.S. use of drones in killing)
• “Stop Israeli War Crimes, Stop Billions of Tax Dollars to Israel” (this was one of the largest banners)
• “US troops out of the Philippines, Iraq, Afghanistan, Haiti, and everywhere” (this was a beautiful, colorful sign, carried by members of Alliance-Phillipines USA)
• “Shariah law for a peaceful Iraq and Afghanistan” and “Is it terrorism to defend one’s land?” carried by brothers from the Islamic Thinkers Society, an independent group from Comstock, NY, which seems to have broken from the limited thinking of the big money Moozlem groups which take their queque from Riyadh/Cairo/Washington (more on this at a later date)
• “We need jobs and schools, not war” (preprinted, unfortunately, on hundreds of signs by the A.N.S.W.E.R. Coalition, but still helpful in drawing the interest of many bystanders)
(The march proceeded from Lafayette Park through downtown, past the corporate offices of Morgan Stanley, the Washington Post, Halliburton, and the National Bankers Association. Unfortunately, I missed the procession, as I came to the protest directly from the National Marathon, which I ran that morning, in dedication to Leonard Peltier, Native American political prisoner, whose case first made me personally aware of the many political prisoners held in U.S. prisons. So, alhamdulillah, I ran the 26.2 in a shirt calling for his freedom. I finished the marathon close to 11:00 AM, and left soon after, since I knew the anti-war actions would begin at 12:00 noon. Unfortunately, the many road closures that morning delayed me, until famished and dehydrated, I took a break to grab some Thai noodles, slurped these down, then abandoned my car, and hopped on the metro to catch up to the protesters.)
Alhamdulillah, we were able to distribute some JAMI literature. At one point, I was speaking to an older Caucasian woman who held a sign that said “Free Gaza.” She asked for a copy of the flier I was distributing. When I gave it to her, she looked it over and immediately asked for additional copies to pass along to others. This scene replayed itself throughout the day, as many people were pleased to receive JAMI’s now old, famous “Boycott Major Supporters of Zionism” flier, and wanted additional copies for their friends.
As I was about to leave the protest, I spotted a young man in a tee that read “I fund international terrorism.” I grinned and offered to buy the shirt from him. He grinned back and said rhetorically “Yup, I pay taxes to the U.S. government.” It was a heartening last view of the protest, the thinking youth, who are this country’s hope for the future.
Monday, November 17, 2008
An Exchange with the Hillel Director
Last Thursday I had an interesting exchange with the Towson University (Baltimore) Hillel director, following an on-campus lecture by Imam Muhammad Al-Asi.
Hillel seems to carry some clout at Towson, as it does at UMBC, and other U.S. universities. At the University of Maryland College Park, the "flagship university of the University of Maryland system, the organization has its own student center, providing kosher meals for Jewish students. In years past, I watched Hillel and other zionist groups place a gargantuan Israeli flag just outside the Adele H. Stamp Union on Israeli "Independence Day," wondering how UMCP's Palestinian students might feel upon encountering the reminder of zionist power atop their student union. The lecture, organized by the Towson MSA, was by Imam Muhammad Al-Asi. For once, I was there to attend--and they were there to protest.
Here is the exchange (as close to verbatim as memory would allow):
Me: Is it true that Hillel offers students all expense paid tours of "Israel"?
Hillel Director: Yes, that's correct.
Me: Can Muslim students participate in such tours?
Hillel Director: No.
Me: I understand that Hillel's tours offer Jewish students an opportunity to visit or stay in a kibbutz. Does the tour also include a visit to a Palestinian refugee camp?
Hillel Director: No.
Me: What is the primary aim of Hillel's tours to Israel?
Hillel Director: Propaganda.
I was rather amazed that the man was as blunt as he was. To be honest, he didn't seem like the brightest bulb in the.... so he could have conceded more than is typical for men of his position. Or not. Whatever the case, the dialogue revealed an overtly racist, exclusionary policy, meant to benefit only a select group.
Muslim students groups and their supporters need to consider organizing tours/exchange programs to Palestine for Muslim youth and students who are interested in going. It will make the Palestinian issue more relevant to the community.
Hillel seems to carry some clout at Towson, as it does at UMBC, and other U.S. universities. At the University of Maryland College Park, the "flagship university of the University of Maryland system, the organization has its own student center, providing kosher meals for Jewish students. In years past, I watched Hillel and other zionist groups place a gargantuan Israeli flag just outside the Adele H. Stamp Union on Israeli "Independence Day," wondering how UMCP's Palestinian students might feel upon encountering the reminder of zionist power atop their student union. The lecture, organized by the Towson MSA, was by Imam Muhammad Al-Asi. For once, I was there to attend--and they were there to protest.
Here is the exchange (as close to verbatim as memory would allow):
Me: Is it true that Hillel offers students all expense paid tours of "Israel"?
Hillel Director: Yes, that's correct.
Me: Can Muslim students participate in such tours?
Hillel Director: No.
Me: I understand that Hillel's tours offer Jewish students an opportunity to visit or stay in a kibbutz. Does the tour also include a visit to a Palestinian refugee camp?
Hillel Director: No.
Me: What is the primary aim of Hillel's tours to Israel?
Hillel Director: Propaganda.
I was rather amazed that the man was as blunt as he was. To be honest, he didn't seem like the brightest bulb in the.... so he could have conceded more than is typical for men of his position. Or not. Whatever the case, the dialogue revealed an overtly racist, exclusionary policy, meant to benefit only a select group.
Muslim students groups and their supporters need to consider organizing tours/exchange programs to Palestine for Muslim youth and students who are interested in going. It will make the Palestinian issue more relevant to the community.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Daily Racism on Baltimore's MTA
Ask virtually any Black person in the U.S., and he or she will tell you the police abuse Black people with impunity. Acts of police brutality are largely unreported for a variety of reasons, ranging from fear of reprisal and lack of faith in the System, to illiteracy and lack of awareness of legal options. Except within the Black community, the issue is rarely acknowledged or discussed. The notion that 9/11 was the first act of terrorism on U.S. soil is indicative of such tunnel vision. Centuries of lynchings, executions, rapes, and pseudo-scientific experimentation on Black people are somehow excluded from the rubric of terrorist acts on American soil.
I've discussed the issue of police brutality with a broad spectrum of Blacks and Whites. The difference in reaction is stark, and strictly divided along racial lines.
The reaction of Whites generally falls in one of four categories:
1. Don't you realize the predicament the poor cop is in? He doesn't know which suspect has a gun, and which one doesn't. If you were in that situation, you'd probably shoot first and ask questions later, too.
2. You deride them now, but I'll bet you'd call them in an instant if someone breaks into your house.
3. Oh, they pulled him over, searched his car, and held him for three hours? It happened to me, too.
4. He's in jail/dead/etc.? He must have done it.
Unfortunately, these reactions do not reflect the reality on the ground. The reaction of Black people is formulated through first hand experience. Nothing brings home reality quicker than being at the end of a police baton or stun gun. And judging from the number of Black men spreadeagled outside Jaguars and Lexuses in police stops, class offers little protection.
I'm not evidently Black, and am generally exempt from police harassment. As a Muslim, however, I feel strongly that I must speak out on this issue for three reasons:
1. Everyone living in the U.S. has profited from forced Black labor. We owe a debt to Black people. At the very least, we must oppose police brutality against the very people without whom this country's very infrastructure would not exist.
2. To remain silent against the racist power structure is to acquiesce--indeed profit from--that power structure.
3. The Qur'an commands opposition to injustice. And racism (with all its economic implications) is the leading form of injustice in the U.S.
Only the most blatant acts of police terror--such as those involving Amadou Diallo, Abner Louima, or Sean Bell--garner corporate media attention, and that too, usually after massive public outcry. But terrorism of the U.S. Black population occurs daily, and at many levels. Some are immediately life-threatening, such as the dragging of James Byrd, Jr., behind a pickup truck in Jasper, Texas, or the deliberate ramming of Black suspects with police cruisers in South Carolina. Others are not immediately life-threatening, but rather confer long-range mental and physical health problems on the victims.
Take for example, the case of a close friend, who is Black. He was accosted by MTA police on the Baltimore light rail enroute to work. The events as he related them:
Between commuting by public transportation and time spent at work, he is away from home at least 14 hours a day. Since he is very strapped for time, he occasionally pays bills via cell phone during his long commute. Recently, he boarded the train, sat down, and was paying a utility bill, when three hulking MTA cops approached him. My friend is 5'4," slender and slight, with a very quiet manner. He does not engage in illegal or threatening behaviors in public. The approach by three cops seemed grossly misplaced.
They demanded to see my friend's boarding pass (checking of boarding passes is standard procedure on light rail, but generally conducted by a regular MTA employee). He took a few seconds too long to hang up the cell and produce it, so they verbally assaulted him.
He challenged their rudeness. They removed him from the train without warning. Then, they wrote him a citation for "disorderly conduct". Since he was forced to miss his train and had to wait for a later one, he was late for work--a very serious matter, since he is the only breadwinner for his family, and could be suspended or fired for tardiness. And he was saddled with the added burden of going to court to contest the bogus citation.
My friend said what he'd experienced was not at all unusual. Poor and working class Black people riding Baltimore's light rail are routinely accosted by cops. He'd witnessed an incident involving an elderly Black woman with dreadlocks. Probably hungry after a hard day's work and facing a long commute on the slow moving train, she committed the mortal sin of eating a piece of bread on the light rail (eating on the train is technically prohibited by MTA rules). "MTA police jacked her up," said my friend. "They put her in a choke hold, and took her off the train."
He relayed another such incident involving a young Black woman with her child. She was quietly sitting on the train, talking to her mate on her cell, when she was accosted by two MTA cops. It was not clear what "crime" she'd committed. MTA police demanded her ID, frisked and verbally assaulted her--all in front of her child. Then, the cops forcefully removed her and the child from the train. When her mate arrived at the scene, the cops threatened to arrest him, too.
By contrast, the Whites who board the same light rail in Hunt Valley, Falls Road, or other affluent Baltimore suburbs enroute to their plush offices in downtown Baltimore, or to BWI Airport encounter no such police harassment. White and Asian tourists traveling by light rail for an afternoon of frolicking around Baltimore's sordidly gentrified Inner Harbor are untouched by racist cops. The rich, white drunks overflowing light rail trains leaving Camden Yards (stadium site) following a baseball game (whose tickets are so expensive as to be unaffordable to most of Baltimore's Black majority) are not harassed. Frequently, their fares are not even checked, nor is their public drunkenness.
Indeed police harassment appears reserved for Baltimore's poor Blacks, who often spend hours trying to get to work on the city's highly inefficient mass transit, to earn slave wages which they dutifully turn over to bloodsucking slumlords. All of this occurs in a majority Black city. I watch both sides of it from where I sit at work, and it makes me sick to the stomach. A People's Tribunal--to record and eventually try everyday acts of police terror against the U.S. Black population--is needed.
I've discussed the issue of police brutality with a broad spectrum of Blacks and Whites. The difference in reaction is stark, and strictly divided along racial lines.
The reaction of Whites generally falls in one of four categories:
1. Don't you realize the predicament the poor cop is in? He doesn't know which suspect has a gun, and which one doesn't. If you were in that situation, you'd probably shoot first and ask questions later, too.
2. You deride them now, but I'll bet you'd call them in an instant if someone breaks into your house.
3. Oh, they pulled him over, searched his car, and held him for three hours? It happened to me, too.
4. He's in jail/dead/etc.? He must have done it.
Unfortunately, these reactions do not reflect the reality on the ground. The reaction of Black people is formulated through first hand experience. Nothing brings home reality quicker than being at the end of a police baton or stun gun. And judging from the number of Black men spreadeagled outside Jaguars and Lexuses in police stops, class offers little protection.
I'm not evidently Black, and am generally exempt from police harassment. As a Muslim, however, I feel strongly that I must speak out on this issue for three reasons:
1. Everyone living in the U.S. has profited from forced Black labor. We owe a debt to Black people. At the very least, we must oppose police brutality against the very people without whom this country's very infrastructure would not exist.
2. To remain silent against the racist power structure is to acquiesce--indeed profit from--that power structure.
3. The Qur'an commands opposition to injustice. And racism (with all its economic implications) is the leading form of injustice in the U.S.
Only the most blatant acts of police terror--such as those involving Amadou Diallo, Abner Louima, or Sean Bell--garner corporate media attention, and that too, usually after massive public outcry. But terrorism of the U.S. Black population occurs daily, and at many levels. Some are immediately life-threatening, such as the dragging of James Byrd, Jr., behind a pickup truck in Jasper, Texas, or the deliberate ramming of Black suspects with police cruisers in South Carolina. Others are not immediately life-threatening, but rather confer long-range mental and physical health problems on the victims.
Take for example, the case of a close friend, who is Black. He was accosted by MTA police on the Baltimore light rail enroute to work. The events as he related them:
Between commuting by public transportation and time spent at work, he is away from home at least 14 hours a day. Since he is very strapped for time, he occasionally pays bills via cell phone during his long commute. Recently, he boarded the train, sat down, and was paying a utility bill, when three hulking MTA cops approached him. My friend is 5'4," slender and slight, with a very quiet manner. He does not engage in illegal or threatening behaviors in public. The approach by three cops seemed grossly misplaced.
They demanded to see my friend's boarding pass (checking of boarding passes is standard procedure on light rail, but generally conducted by a regular MTA employee). He took a few seconds too long to hang up the cell and produce it, so they verbally assaulted him.
He challenged their rudeness. They removed him from the train without warning. Then, they wrote him a citation for "disorderly conduct". Since he was forced to miss his train and had to wait for a later one, he was late for work--a very serious matter, since he is the only breadwinner for his family, and could be suspended or fired for tardiness. And he was saddled with the added burden of going to court to contest the bogus citation.
My friend said what he'd experienced was not at all unusual. Poor and working class Black people riding Baltimore's light rail are routinely accosted by cops. He'd witnessed an incident involving an elderly Black woman with dreadlocks. Probably hungry after a hard day's work and facing a long commute on the slow moving train, she committed the mortal sin of eating a piece of bread on the light rail (eating on the train is technically prohibited by MTA rules). "MTA police jacked her up," said my friend. "They put her in a choke hold, and took her off the train."
He relayed another such incident involving a young Black woman with her child. She was quietly sitting on the train, talking to her mate on her cell, when she was accosted by two MTA cops. It was not clear what "crime" she'd committed. MTA police demanded her ID, frisked and verbally assaulted her--all in front of her child. Then, the cops forcefully removed her and the child from the train. When her mate arrived at the scene, the cops threatened to arrest him, too.
By contrast, the Whites who board the same light rail in Hunt Valley, Falls Road, or other affluent Baltimore suburbs enroute to their plush offices in downtown Baltimore, or to BWI Airport encounter no such police harassment. White and Asian tourists traveling by light rail for an afternoon of frolicking around Baltimore's sordidly gentrified Inner Harbor are untouched by racist cops. The rich, white drunks overflowing light rail trains leaving Camden Yards (stadium site) following a baseball game (whose tickets are so expensive as to be unaffordable to most of Baltimore's Black majority) are not harassed. Frequently, their fares are not even checked, nor is their public drunkenness.
Indeed police harassment appears reserved for Baltimore's poor Blacks, who often spend hours trying to get to work on the city's highly inefficient mass transit, to earn slave wages which they dutifully turn over to bloodsucking slumlords. All of this occurs in a majority Black city. I watch both sides of it from where I sit at work, and it makes me sick to the stomach. A People's Tribunal--to record and eventually try everyday acts of police terror against the U.S. Black population--is needed.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Defeated--For Now
Today marks one year since I lost Abdul Hakeem. Unlike my ex-husband Asif, he could not be seduced by blond hair and blue eyes. Unlike my beloved friend Steve (without whom my science major would be a thing of the past) he was not alcohol’s marionette.
Abdul Hakeem lived on Baltimore's Garrison Avenue, a proverbial American ghetto. There he could live free of the daily taunts of “nigger” which pervaded his Anne Arundel County childhood, while affording the rent and court-ordered $700/month child support on his meager blue collar wages.
At that time, I had my ancient red Honda with “permanently” fused tail light (“permanently” because the entire fixture--not just the bulb, was in need of replacement, an expensive, if not impossible proposition for a student). Every trip up and down Garrison in the Honda was an ordeal. The pigs who haunted the block stopped and gave me a work order or citation nearly every visit. To me, a small-built Asian woman, the pigs were cordial. I could only imagine the harassment that poor and working class black residents of the area endured at their hands.
One block south of Abdul Hakeem’s apartment stood the trick. She looked sickly, her face ashen and devoid of emotion. Despite the freezing weather, she wore no coat. She stood shivering and looking miserable, as I wondered how I might safely help her. What a far cry from the pimps and hoes often the butt of jokes among the privileged and uninformed students on my campus.
Two blocks south, at Hilton and Garrison, was the nearest “grocery store.” Charging thrice the going rate for produce purchased at suburban grocers, it reeked with the stench of dead rats. On payday, the customer service counter was swamped with poor people with no bank accounts, trying to get money orders to pay exorbitant rents to Indo-Pak slum lords. The “grocery store” shared the strip with a liquor store and a dollar store. The shopping center housing the three was graced by a blue strobe light and surveillance cameras.
Adjacent to the strip mall but right on the main road was a bar and a pawnshop. Across from that was another liquor store. One block from Abdul Hakeem’s apartment was the bail bonds man. Another few blocks south was a McDonalds and a Duncan Donuts. And a block north was a church.
When I first visited Garrison Avenue, I was bemused: Where were all the grocery stores? Libraries? Parks? Restaurants (serving real food)? Coffee shops? Books stores? It made no sense. There were children living here. They needed playgrounds, libraries, community centers, grocery stores, toy stores.
Once, during a trip to New York, my father pointed out to me that Manhattan was the modern day Big House, and Bronx the Slave Quarters. In New York, the juxtaposition was glaringly evident, but a similar theme seemed to arise in many American cities. It occurred to me that Baltimore’s slave quarters included Garrison Boulevard and the area surrounding it. Slaves were not to consume nutritious food, or drink. They were there to eat chitlin’s and to serve the labor needs of the massa. They were not to read, study, or discuss issues. To do so could lead to a slave revolt.
Surrounded by depravity, Abdul Hakeem did not succumb. He did not patronize the liquor stores, the bail bonds men, the tricks, or the churches. He smiled, joked, laughed and loved his way through life, bringing joy to everyone who crossed his path. He enchanted me with his soft voice, gentle manner, and sweet smile.
He had a son, Hakeem, who lived with him. Abdul Hakeem adored Hakeem, and his whole life revolved around the boy. The first time I called their residence, the boy answered the phone in his high pitched child's voice, his impeccable manners coming across clearly on the phone line. He was a bright youngster, gifted in math, and deadly at chess. We clicked almost immediately, and I took him under my wing, tutoring him in math, buying him books and school uniforms, and taking him out for special treats when he did particularly well. I learned that the boy’s mother had died of breast cancer when he was very young. I knew that I could never take the place of the mother, but this made me even more protective of Hakeem.
Eventually, Abdul Hakeem and I became engaged, and I was thrilled at the prospect that I would be gaining a husband and a son. I picked out the red dress I would wear at our wedding. We debated where in Africa to hold the nikkah.
Abdul Hakeem worried a great deal about his son (and I—when I came to visit them) being in the drug-ridden climate at Garrison. After a great deal of apartment-hunting (between working ten hour shifts and commuting by public transportation), Abdul Hakeem found an apartment on the north side of town. The rent, while high, was not completely out of reach, as it was at some of the places he’d looked at, and it was, by all appearances, a “clean” neighborhood. By now it was summer, and while Abdul Hakeem worked long hours, Hakeem, on break from school, fraternized with the unemployed, marijuana-using neighbors in the apartment below. When Abdul Hakeem found out about this, he was furious and forbade Hakeem from subsequent visits. As a result, there was an altercation between father and son. Then another. And another. Then, tragically, the younger Hakeem called the police on his father, saying that Abdul Hakeem had threatened him. The cops came to the apartment and took the police report.
A few months later, the teenager ran away to Delaware, from whence his dead mother hailed and which he perceived as his Shangrila. Unfortunately for him, unemployment and poverty in the area was even worse than Baltimore, and the boy, who by this time was living with his mother’s unemployed, pothead relatives, joined their ranks. Within months, he was jailed for grand larceny. The charges were dropped, but an onerous pattern was emerging.
Abdul Hakeem and I went to Delaware to meet Hakeem and his social worker in court. We hoped to bring the boy home. But, Hakeem told his social worker that he would rather be a ward of the state of Delaware for the remainder of the time until he turned 18 than to return home with his father. In the waiting area outside the court, Hakeem barely spoke to Abdul Hakeem. When he did speak, it was as if he was addressing one of his homies, not his father. The last Abdul Hakeem heard from Hakeem was that he was attempting to enlist in the National Guard, but having trouble getting in due to his athsma.
That fall, Abdul Hakeem’s mother, Delma, died of cancer. He’d been very close to her, and was profoundly affected by her loss. Abdul Hakeem had two brothers, Mark and Andre, both of whom lived in what had been Delma’s apartment. Before passing away, she had asked Abdul Hakeem to take care of Andre, who was “a little slow.” Since neither of the other two brothers was responsible, and Hakeem was out of the picture, the need for a space of his own was less. So, Abdul Hakeem assumed Delma’s lease. No sooner had he moved into his mother’s apartment, which still contained her special scent, to take care of his retarded brother than he found out that both of his brothers were on crack.
The following May, Abdul Hakeem and I visited the National Zoo (it was his birthday). It was a beautiful day, and we spent much of our time in the Ape House, philosophizing on the inhumanity of imprisoning such intelligent creatures as primates, and sharing dreams of liberating them, before going on to have dinner at a favorite restaurant.
Ironically, the very next day, when Abdul Hakeem visited Child Support Services to make sure he was in good standing with his child support payments (he had two little girls—one from a previous marriage, and another from his jahilliya days), he was locked up. They nabbed him without warning, saying he was behind on payments (the notifications ostensibly mailed to him never arrived). He called me from Central Booking, and told me he was being held in a vastly overcrowded, steamy hot cell with 20 other men.
I immediately put down the carbohydrate biochemistry book I was reading, and ran across town to collect money to bail him out. As a student, I was quite broke, and so had to be creative. I called his employer and advised him of the situation. Abdul Hakeem was a well-respected and reliable employee, and the employer, to my amazement agreed to advance some of the money. The remainder I acquired as a cash advance on my credit card. I posted the money, and then called the employer to update him. Abdul Hakeem was released two days later. Central Booking officials refused to tell me his release time, and though I waited as long as possible to receive him, he was ejected, along with others being released, around midnight, when no public transportation was available, and spent hours traveling home. He went back to work shortly thereafter, and it seemed that things were finally getting back to normal.
But it got worse.
Tony was Abdul Hakeem’s nephew. He never knew his father, and was raised by a mother who brought different men home nightly. Like many young black men, he got caught up in the game, and went to prison for minor offenses. Martial arts, which he’d engaged in since very young, seemed to keep his focus while in prison, and the third degree black belt emerged to acquire his ASE-certification. He was a talented young mechanic, highly sought after by his employer’s patrons. Like Abdul Hakeem, he did not drink, smoke, or take drugs. Abdul Hakeem was proud of him, and considered him a success story in the family, even wishing at times that his son could have been more like Tony.
One day, Abdul Hakeem called to tell me that Tony had been shot to death in his home by the cops. Since Tony’s mother, Carla, was nowhere to be found (she was gallivanting about California with her Italian boyfriend), Abdul Hakeem went to the morgue to claim the body. He was clearly very shaken when he returned. After giving me the initial run down, he entered into a period of depression and refused to speak further on the incident. It was my penultimate semester at school, and, after a very long drawn out academic career riddled with trials and tribulations of every sort, I was doing my darnedest to focus so I might finally graduate. Abdul Hakeem and I started to talk less frequently by phone.
One day, shortly prior to my graduation, Abdul Hakeem became fodder for the prison industry. I feel a complete and utter sense of loss. Although he was not directly involved in the struggle at the time he succumbed, he’d demonstrated the possibilities of daily resistance. I weep at his loss. It is, indeed, a big blow for the Black liberation struggle. My Black shining prince, with whom I’d dreamed of living happily ever after, resides in the Ironhouse of Greed.
Abdul Hakeem lived on Baltimore's Garrison Avenue, a proverbial American ghetto. There he could live free of the daily taunts of “nigger” which pervaded his Anne Arundel County childhood, while affording the rent and court-ordered $700/month child support on his meager blue collar wages.
At that time, I had my ancient red Honda with “permanently” fused tail light (“permanently” because the entire fixture--not just the bulb, was in need of replacement, an expensive, if not impossible proposition for a student). Every trip up and down Garrison in the Honda was an ordeal. The pigs who haunted the block stopped and gave me a work order or citation nearly every visit. To me, a small-built Asian woman, the pigs were cordial. I could only imagine the harassment that poor and working class black residents of the area endured at their hands.
One block south of Abdul Hakeem’s apartment stood the trick. She looked sickly, her face ashen and devoid of emotion. Despite the freezing weather, she wore no coat. She stood shivering and looking miserable, as I wondered how I might safely help her. What a far cry from the pimps and hoes often the butt of jokes among the privileged and uninformed students on my campus.
Two blocks south, at Hilton and Garrison, was the nearest “grocery store.” Charging thrice the going rate for produce purchased at suburban grocers, it reeked with the stench of dead rats. On payday, the customer service counter was swamped with poor people with no bank accounts, trying to get money orders to pay exorbitant rents to Indo-Pak slum lords. The “grocery store” shared the strip with a liquor store and a dollar store. The shopping center housing the three was graced by a blue strobe light and surveillance cameras.
Adjacent to the strip mall but right on the main road was a bar and a pawnshop. Across from that was another liquor store. One block from Abdul Hakeem’s apartment was the bail bonds man. Another few blocks south was a McDonalds and a Duncan Donuts. And a block north was a church.
When I first visited Garrison Avenue, I was bemused: Where were all the grocery stores? Libraries? Parks? Restaurants (serving real food)? Coffee shops? Books stores? It made no sense. There were children living here. They needed playgrounds, libraries, community centers, grocery stores, toy stores.
Once, during a trip to New York, my father pointed out to me that Manhattan was the modern day Big House, and Bronx the Slave Quarters. In New York, the juxtaposition was glaringly evident, but a similar theme seemed to arise in many American cities. It occurred to me that Baltimore’s slave quarters included Garrison Boulevard and the area surrounding it. Slaves were not to consume nutritious food, or drink. They were there to eat chitlin’s and to serve the labor needs of the massa. They were not to read, study, or discuss issues. To do so could lead to a slave revolt.
Surrounded by depravity, Abdul Hakeem did not succumb. He did not patronize the liquor stores, the bail bonds men, the tricks, or the churches. He smiled, joked, laughed and loved his way through life, bringing joy to everyone who crossed his path. He enchanted me with his soft voice, gentle manner, and sweet smile.
He had a son, Hakeem, who lived with him. Abdul Hakeem adored Hakeem, and his whole life revolved around the boy. The first time I called their residence, the boy answered the phone in his high pitched child's voice, his impeccable manners coming across clearly on the phone line. He was a bright youngster, gifted in math, and deadly at chess. We clicked almost immediately, and I took him under my wing, tutoring him in math, buying him books and school uniforms, and taking him out for special treats when he did particularly well. I learned that the boy’s mother had died of breast cancer when he was very young. I knew that I could never take the place of the mother, but this made me even more protective of Hakeem.
Eventually, Abdul Hakeem and I became engaged, and I was thrilled at the prospect that I would be gaining a husband and a son. I picked out the red dress I would wear at our wedding. We debated where in Africa to hold the nikkah.
Abdul Hakeem worried a great deal about his son (and I—when I came to visit them) being in the drug-ridden climate at Garrison. After a great deal of apartment-hunting (between working ten hour shifts and commuting by public transportation), Abdul Hakeem found an apartment on the north side of town. The rent, while high, was not completely out of reach, as it was at some of the places he’d looked at, and it was, by all appearances, a “clean” neighborhood. By now it was summer, and while Abdul Hakeem worked long hours, Hakeem, on break from school, fraternized with the unemployed, marijuana-using neighbors in the apartment below. When Abdul Hakeem found out about this, he was furious and forbade Hakeem from subsequent visits. As a result, there was an altercation between father and son. Then another. And another. Then, tragically, the younger Hakeem called the police on his father, saying that Abdul Hakeem had threatened him. The cops came to the apartment and took the police report.
A few months later, the teenager ran away to Delaware, from whence his dead mother hailed and which he perceived as his Shangrila. Unfortunately for him, unemployment and poverty in the area was even worse than Baltimore, and the boy, who by this time was living with his mother’s unemployed, pothead relatives, joined their ranks. Within months, he was jailed for grand larceny. The charges were dropped, but an onerous pattern was emerging.
Abdul Hakeem and I went to Delaware to meet Hakeem and his social worker in court. We hoped to bring the boy home. But, Hakeem told his social worker that he would rather be a ward of the state of Delaware for the remainder of the time until he turned 18 than to return home with his father. In the waiting area outside the court, Hakeem barely spoke to Abdul Hakeem. When he did speak, it was as if he was addressing one of his homies, not his father. The last Abdul Hakeem heard from Hakeem was that he was attempting to enlist in the National Guard, but having trouble getting in due to his athsma.
That fall, Abdul Hakeem’s mother, Delma, died of cancer. He’d been very close to her, and was profoundly affected by her loss. Abdul Hakeem had two brothers, Mark and Andre, both of whom lived in what had been Delma’s apartment. Before passing away, she had asked Abdul Hakeem to take care of Andre, who was “a little slow.” Since neither of the other two brothers was responsible, and Hakeem was out of the picture, the need for a space of his own was less. So, Abdul Hakeem assumed Delma’s lease. No sooner had he moved into his mother’s apartment, which still contained her special scent, to take care of his retarded brother than he found out that both of his brothers were on crack.
The following May, Abdul Hakeem and I visited the National Zoo (it was his birthday). It was a beautiful day, and we spent much of our time in the Ape House, philosophizing on the inhumanity of imprisoning such intelligent creatures as primates, and sharing dreams of liberating them, before going on to have dinner at a favorite restaurant.
Ironically, the very next day, when Abdul Hakeem visited Child Support Services to make sure he was in good standing with his child support payments (he had two little girls—one from a previous marriage, and another from his jahilliya days), he was locked up. They nabbed him without warning, saying he was behind on payments (the notifications ostensibly mailed to him never arrived). He called me from Central Booking, and told me he was being held in a vastly overcrowded, steamy hot cell with 20 other men.
I immediately put down the carbohydrate biochemistry book I was reading, and ran across town to collect money to bail him out. As a student, I was quite broke, and so had to be creative. I called his employer and advised him of the situation. Abdul Hakeem was a well-respected and reliable employee, and the employer, to my amazement agreed to advance some of the money. The remainder I acquired as a cash advance on my credit card. I posted the money, and then called the employer to update him. Abdul Hakeem was released two days later. Central Booking officials refused to tell me his release time, and though I waited as long as possible to receive him, he was ejected, along with others being released, around midnight, when no public transportation was available, and spent hours traveling home. He went back to work shortly thereafter, and it seemed that things were finally getting back to normal.
But it got worse.
Tony was Abdul Hakeem’s nephew. He never knew his father, and was raised by a mother who brought different men home nightly. Like many young black men, he got caught up in the game, and went to prison for minor offenses. Martial arts, which he’d engaged in since very young, seemed to keep his focus while in prison, and the third degree black belt emerged to acquire his ASE-certification. He was a talented young mechanic, highly sought after by his employer’s patrons. Like Abdul Hakeem, he did not drink, smoke, or take drugs. Abdul Hakeem was proud of him, and considered him a success story in the family, even wishing at times that his son could have been more like Tony.
One day, Abdul Hakeem called to tell me that Tony had been shot to death in his home by the cops. Since Tony’s mother, Carla, was nowhere to be found (she was gallivanting about California with her Italian boyfriend), Abdul Hakeem went to the morgue to claim the body. He was clearly very shaken when he returned. After giving me the initial run down, he entered into a period of depression and refused to speak further on the incident. It was my penultimate semester at school, and, after a very long drawn out academic career riddled with trials and tribulations of every sort, I was doing my darnedest to focus so I might finally graduate. Abdul Hakeem and I started to talk less frequently by phone.
One day, shortly prior to my graduation, Abdul Hakeem became fodder for the prison industry. I feel a complete and utter sense of loss. Although he was not directly involved in the struggle at the time he succumbed, he’d demonstrated the possibilities of daily resistance. I weep at his loss. It is, indeed, a big blow for the Black liberation struggle. My Black shining prince, with whom I’d dreamed of living happily ever after, resides in the Ironhouse of Greed.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Quds (Jerusalem) Day 2007
I arrived at Dupont Circle around 11:15 AM., hoping to participate in the annual Quds Day procession down Massachusetts Avenue (Embassy Row). The street was unusually quiet--no protestors, no Palestinian flags, in fact nary a Muslim. Disappointed, I walked down Embassy Row to the Islamic Center. Outside this well-known Washington landmark, a small but spirited group, including some of the organizers of the Quds Day event, regularly hold juma'a prayer, known to locals as the Sidewalk Juma'a. The juma'a is held outside--not inside--the mosque, for reasons to be discussed later.
The imam of the Sidewalk Juma'a, Syrian-born Muhammad Al-Asi, had not yet arrived. About a half dozen people milled about, waiting for the khutba to commence. I asked one of them, an Iranian named Yousaf, who seemed to be in charge, about the Quds Day protest. He explained that the procession was cancelled due to the lack of a permit. In my backpack, I carried a Palestinian flag, picturing Masjid Al-Aqsa in the center. Given to me by a dear friend who is a Palestinian artist, activist, and imam in North Carolina, it has special meaning. I expressed my regrets at the march's cancellation, and asked if it might be okay to display the flag as a gesture of solidarity. Yousaf said yes.
I looked around for someone to help me hold the flag. The only brother I knew rather well was busy talking to someone, so I thrust one end of the flag in the direction of two older Iranian gents, figuring one of them would hold it, considering it was the flag of our beloved Palestine, or at least give it to someone else to hold.
One of them took it, but seemed rather embarrassed to be doing so. Although significantly taller than me, he insisted on holding the Palestinian flag much lower than me (almost at waist level), as if hoping no one would notice us. Ah well.
Yousaf, on the other hand, seemed smitten by the flag, because a short time later, he asked if I had any more. I didn't. No one else had any placards or flags, other than a Caucasian brother, who'd brought a yellow Hizbollah flag, with the famous depiction of the kalima in the form of a machine gun.
A short while later, Imam Al-Asi arrived. The khutba was about to commence, and I realized I was at the back of the men's section (necessary to hold the flag with the poor gent I'd impressed into service). The men, predominantly Iranian, were very respectful of me, and no one asked me to move. But, I voluntarily relinquished my end of the flag to a brother, and moved over to the women's section, which, interestingly, flanked the men's section, rather than posterior to it, as is the case at many juma'a congregations.
Asi's khutba powerfully commemorated Quds Day. He quoted verses from the Qur'an naming the characteristics of the Bani Israel. Their nature, as delineated in the Qur'an, he said, was to wreck havoc not just in a single city, country, or even continent--but throughout the earth. The "Muslim" heads-of-state who recognized Israel were complicit in the subjugation of Palestine, said Asi. Imams who refused to speak out against such misguided rulers were "Scholars for Dollars," he said, gesturing towards the Islamic Center.
The grey-haired, bespectacled khateeb's excoriation of corrupt Arab/Muslim rulers partly explained why he was outside a multi-million dollar Islamic Center rather than inside it. It is clearly a role to which he is accustomed. The Sidewalk Juma'a began after Asi was ousted from his elected position as the Center's imam by the Saudi government with the help of U.S. authorities in 1983, and briefly jailed. I asked him what would happen if he attempted to enter the Center today. Asi said he'd variously been barred outright from the Center; been told he could enter but not talk to or interact with anyone; and banned from preaching there. I noted that such actions appeared to constitute particularly flagrant violations of Asi's First Amendment rights (his Islamic right to access the Islamic Center notwithstanding).
Worshippers emerging from the Islamic Center proper appeared stunned at Asi's powerful message, and several of them stopped in the middle of the street, gawking at the kaffiyeh-adorned Sidewalk imam. Notably, few other imams around the DC area commemorated Quds Day, although ostensibly the freedom of Jerusalem--second most holy site to Muslims--is an issue on which Muslims are in complete agreement.
The imam of the Sidewalk Juma'a, Syrian-born Muhammad Al-Asi, had not yet arrived. About a half dozen people milled about, waiting for the khutba to commence. I asked one of them, an Iranian named Yousaf, who seemed to be in charge, about the Quds Day protest. He explained that the procession was cancelled due to the lack of a permit. In my backpack, I carried a Palestinian flag, picturing Masjid Al-Aqsa in the center. Given to me by a dear friend who is a Palestinian artist, activist, and imam in North Carolina, it has special meaning. I expressed my regrets at the march's cancellation, and asked if it might be okay to display the flag as a gesture of solidarity. Yousaf said yes.
I looked around for someone to help me hold the flag. The only brother I knew rather well was busy talking to someone, so I thrust one end of the flag in the direction of two older Iranian gents, figuring one of them would hold it, considering it was the flag of our beloved Palestine, or at least give it to someone else to hold.
One of them took it, but seemed rather embarrassed to be doing so. Although significantly taller than me, he insisted on holding the Palestinian flag much lower than me (almost at waist level), as if hoping no one would notice us. Ah well.
Yousaf, on the other hand, seemed smitten by the flag, because a short time later, he asked if I had any more. I didn't. No one else had any placards or flags, other than a Caucasian brother, who'd brought a yellow Hizbollah flag, with the famous depiction of the kalima in the form of a machine gun.
A short while later, Imam Al-Asi arrived. The khutba was about to commence, and I realized I was at the back of the men's section (necessary to hold the flag with the poor gent I'd impressed into service). The men, predominantly Iranian, were very respectful of me, and no one asked me to move. But, I voluntarily relinquished my end of the flag to a brother, and moved over to the women's section, which, interestingly, flanked the men's section, rather than posterior to it, as is the case at many juma'a congregations.
Asi's khutba powerfully commemorated Quds Day. He quoted verses from the Qur'an naming the characteristics of the Bani Israel. Their nature, as delineated in the Qur'an, he said, was to wreck havoc not just in a single city, country, or even continent--but throughout the earth. The "Muslim" heads-of-state who recognized Israel were complicit in the subjugation of Palestine, said Asi. Imams who refused to speak out against such misguided rulers were "Scholars for Dollars," he said, gesturing towards the Islamic Center.
The grey-haired, bespectacled khateeb's excoriation of corrupt Arab/Muslim rulers partly explained why he was outside a multi-million dollar Islamic Center rather than inside it. It is clearly a role to which he is accustomed. The Sidewalk Juma'a began after Asi was ousted from his elected position as the Center's imam by the Saudi government with the help of U.S. authorities in 1983, and briefly jailed. I asked him what would happen if he attempted to enter the Center today. Asi said he'd variously been barred outright from the Center; been told he could enter but not talk to or interact with anyone; and banned from preaching there. I noted that such actions appeared to constitute particularly flagrant violations of Asi's First Amendment rights (his Islamic right to access the Islamic Center notwithstanding).
Worshippers emerging from the Islamic Center proper appeared stunned at Asi's powerful message, and several of them stopped in the middle of the street, gawking at the kaffiyeh-adorned Sidewalk imam. Notably, few other imams around the DC area commemorated Quds Day, although ostensibly the freedom of Jerusalem--second most holy site to Muslims--is an issue on which Muslims are in complete agreement.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
The King David Hotel Bombing—Min al-Erhabi (Who’s the Terrorist)?
July 22 marks the anniversary of the 1946 bombing of the King David Hotel in Palestine by the Zionist Irgun organization. Palestine was then a British mandate, and the headquarters of the British Secretariat were located in the hotel. Ninety-one people were killed in the bombing. Forty-five more were wounded.
Irgun claimed responsibility. Chaim Weizman, then President of the World Zionist Organization and soon to be first president of Israel, cried when he learned of the bombing, saying he couldn’t help but be very proud for "our boys." (Crossman, A Nation Reborn, The Israel of Weizmann, Bevin and Ben-Gurion)
The lead terrorist was an Israeli named Menachem Begin. Begin was commander of the Irgun at the time of the attack. Irgun’s stated philosophy was that "political violence and terrorism" were "legitimate tools in the Jewish national struggle for the Land of Israel." (Perliger and Weinberg, Jewish Self Defense and Terrorist Groups Prior to the Establishment of the State of Israel: Roots and Traditions, Vol. 4, No. 3)
Indeed Irgun’s actions were congruous with its philosophy. According to author James Gelvin, “Irgun perpetrated some of the most appalling terrorist atrocities committed in modern Palestine,” including a campaign of bombings in Arab markets in 1937. From 1936 – 1939, Irgun carried out at least 60 attacks against Palestinian Arabs. In 1948 the organization carried out the Deir Yassin massacre, in which more than 250 Palestinian villagers were slaughtered (The Israel-Palestine Conflict, Cambridge University Press).
Begin went on to become Israeli Prime Minister in 1977, overseeing the bombing of Iraq’s Osirak reactor in 1981 (while keeping Israel’s nuclear weapons--developed around 1967--a well-guarded secret), and the invasion of Lebanon and Sabra-Shatilla Massacre in 1982. He won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1978.
My American friends tell me that Israel is a bastion of democracy—indeed the only democracy—in the Middle East, and that Palestinians are terrorists. I laugh. And laugh. And laugh.
Irgun claimed responsibility. Chaim Weizman, then President of the World Zionist Organization and soon to be first president of Israel, cried when he learned of the bombing, saying he couldn’t help but be very proud for "our boys." (Crossman, A Nation Reborn, The Israel of Weizmann, Bevin and Ben-Gurion)
The lead terrorist was an Israeli named Menachem Begin. Begin was commander of the Irgun at the time of the attack. Irgun’s stated philosophy was that "political violence and terrorism" were "legitimate tools in the Jewish national struggle for the Land of Israel." (Perliger and Weinberg, Jewish Self Defense and Terrorist Groups Prior to the Establishment of the State of Israel: Roots and Traditions, Vol. 4, No. 3)
Indeed Irgun’s actions were congruous with its philosophy. According to author James Gelvin, “Irgun perpetrated some of the most appalling terrorist atrocities committed in modern Palestine,” including a campaign of bombings in Arab markets in 1937. From 1936 – 1939, Irgun carried out at least 60 attacks against Palestinian Arabs. In 1948 the organization carried out the Deir Yassin massacre, in which more than 250 Palestinian villagers were slaughtered (The Israel-Palestine Conflict, Cambridge University Press).
Begin went on to become Israeli Prime Minister in 1977, overseeing the bombing of Iraq’s Osirak reactor in 1981 (while keeping Israel’s nuclear weapons--developed around 1967--a well-guarded secret), and the invasion of Lebanon and Sabra-Shatilla Massacre in 1982. He won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1978.
My American friends tell me that Israel is a bastion of democracy—indeed the only democracy—in the Middle East, and that Palestinians are terrorists. I laugh. And laugh. And laugh.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
HPV Vaccine Mandate: a Human Rights Violation?
The DC City Council passed legislation on April 19 stipulating vaccination against Human Papilloma Virus (HPV) as a requirement for public school attendance for young girls. On April 4, a similar bill was passed by the Virginia legislature. I find the HPV vaccine requirement very troubling and an infringement on the rights of the U.S. female population. (Imagine the hue and cry if an Islamic country were forcing its female population to take an untested vaccine for any reason.)
Some reasons for my objections to the HPV vaccine mandate:
Some reasons for my objections to the HPV vaccine mandate:
- 90% of HPV serotypes do not result in cancer.
- Sexual activity is required to contract the virus.
- The HPV vaccine (Gardasil) has not been adequately tested on the subject (teen) population.
- So, 100% of sixth grade girls in Washington, DC (including the significant Muslim population), will be required to take a vaccine for a virus which is non-lethal 90% of the time, which occurs only as a result of sexual activity, and which has yet to undergo proper testing in their age group.
- HPV was simply not on the public agenda until (artificially) placed there by a multinational corporation. The vaccine requirement in DC and Virginia--and its very consideration in other states--resulted from extensive lobbying by the manufacturer, Merck. And Merck, like any self-respecting pharmaceutical company, has profit as its primary interest, not public health. The vaccine costs $360 per person to administer, so the bottom line in vaccinating the entire school age population of a major city such as DC is huge. It is clearly a case of corporate interests driving public policy.
- Gardasil's use was endorsed by the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) upon the recommendation of the Advisory Committee on Immunization Practices (ACIP), without full disclosure of who sits on the ACIP (for instance, the number of Merck board members).
- While the option to opt out on behalf of their children is available to parents, it is feared that the procedure to do so will not be clear to many parents.
So, young girls will be Merck's lab rats. Side effects may not become evident for years, making it difficult to demonstrate Merck/U.S. government complicity in case of complications. And the U.S. government has a long and unsavory history of experimenting on its own population. My suspicion is the HPV requirement may even violate the Geneva Convention on the Rights of the Child--but that is something I'll have to research further.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Protesting the Death Penalty
On March 24, a UMBC friend and I attended a protest organized by the Baltimore Coalition Against the Death Penalty, and the Campaign to End the Death Penalty at the Super Maximum Security Prison in Baltimore. In recent years, conditions at the facility, including several incidents in which prisoners died while awaiting trial, were the subject of protests. The event at hand, however, focused on the death penalty, as Death Row, evidently, is housed somewhere within the confines of the sprawling, barbed-wire encircled facility, which encompasses several city blocks. Our spirited group of about 40, paraded around the perimeter of the dungeon-like facility, chanting “Death row, hell no!” My friend, who wore a Palestinian kaffiyah, proudly carried a freshly prepared placard which read “Money for jobs and education, not for racist incarceration!”
At an informal rally following the march, the moderator drew attention to the fact that the death penalty targets predominantly black and poor people, and that almost no wealthy, white men are put to death by the state.
A speaker from Physicians for Social Responsibility drew parallels between the killing of poor black prisoners in the U.S. with the killings of innocent Iraqis and Afghans. Another, from the Baltimore Coalition Against the Death Penalty, said that the policy of scapegoating, prevalent in the U.S., blamed Iraqis for U.S. foreign policy woes, immigrants for unemployment, and prisoners for social ills. He deplored the 70% increase in the U.S. prison population in recent years.
Kevin James, of Son of Nun, a socially conscious hip-hop group, told protestors, “Poverty exists because the system relies on it,” before launching into a potent, politically conscious rap. I have the utmost respect for James, who took it upon himself to personally invite me (and many others, I am certain) to the protest. For more on Son of Nun:
http://myspace.com/socialistmc
The mother of Vernon Evans, a well-known death row prisoner, spoke. Evan’s sister was recognized, but did not take the mic.
Afterwards, I extended Islamic greetings and support to the organizers and gave them information about the case of Imam Jamil Al-Amin. My view is that the death penalty, when administered by an unjust, racist state playing God (astagfirullah) should concern all people of conscience, but particularly Muslims, since our faith is about justice. Many death row inmates are imprisoned as a result of inadequate legal counsel, and later found to be innocent of the crimes with which they were charged.
At an informal rally following the march, the moderator drew attention to the fact that the death penalty targets predominantly black and poor people, and that almost no wealthy, white men are put to death by the state.
A speaker from Physicians for Social Responsibility drew parallels between the killing of poor black prisoners in the U.S. with the killings of innocent Iraqis and Afghans. Another, from the Baltimore Coalition Against the Death Penalty, said that the policy of scapegoating, prevalent in the U.S., blamed Iraqis for U.S. foreign policy woes, immigrants for unemployment, and prisoners for social ills. He deplored the 70% increase in the U.S. prison population in recent years.
Kevin James, of Son of Nun, a socially conscious hip-hop group, told protestors, “Poverty exists because the system relies on it,” before launching into a potent, politically conscious rap. I have the utmost respect for James, who took it upon himself to personally invite me (and many others, I am certain) to the protest. For more on Son of Nun:
http://myspace.com/socialistmc
The mother of Vernon Evans, a well-known death row prisoner, spoke. Evan’s sister was recognized, but did not take the mic.
Afterwards, I extended Islamic greetings and support to the organizers and gave them information about the case of Imam Jamil Al-Amin. My view is that the death penalty, when administered by an unjust, racist state playing God (astagfirullah) should concern all people of conscience, but particularly Muslims, since our faith is about justice. Many death row inmates are imprisoned as a result of inadequate legal counsel, and later found to be innocent of the crimes with which they were charged.
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