On being a minority: a short Eid notes

Have you ever been a minority in your life?

For most part of my life, I’ve never been categorized, by myself or by the state, as a minority. I’m a male. I’m a Muslim. I come from a middle-class family with middle-class background and lead into middle-class life. I went to public school. My parents work for the government. I love football. I watch badminton.

All of it symbolizes a majority. In a certain sense, it feels almost like a privilege. But not here in the United States.

I woke up last Monday with mixed feelings. Back home, Idul Adha is one of the most important holiday in one year. Schools and offices are closed. Everybody enjoy the cheerful festivities with colorful clothes, happy songs, and delicious foods. The joy of living the same life almost everyone you know are living, too.

But that life is a life as a majority. Here in America, I’m living a life as a minority.

I went to the ISNA Mosque in Plainfield, fifteen minutes away from home. Everything seems very normal that Monday morning: yellow school bus full of students, trucks and cars cruising over the Interstate, the sun shines brightly over a pleasant fall weather of suburban Indianapolis.

Arriving at the mosque (which is located in the middle of a corn field!), I was struck with a familiar sight. Colorful clothes. Cheerful kids. Assalamualaikum and wa’alaikumsalam. The Eid is here!

The mosque itself is not very large. It can easily accommodate 100 to 150 people, I think. All kind of people was there. Moroccan. Egyptian. Syrian. Palestinian. Iranian. Afghan. Pakistan. Indian. Bangladeshi. Malaysian. Indonesian. All kind of clothes are worn. Abaya. Ghamis. Shalwar khameez. Baju Melayu. Batik tulis.

The Eid sermon was delivered by a young imam from some Arab countries who spoke clear and precise English. Like every Eid sermon, it was opened with a fateful reminding tale of Ibrahim and Ismail. It lasted fifteen minutes.

One part of the sermon struck me. The imam said something about redeeming yourself. You will never understand a thing until you experience it, he said.

I am. I never understand how it feels to be a believer in the middle of foreign land. I never understand how it feels to recite the takbir and shalawat in the middle of Indiana corn fields. Until I experienced it, I never know, I never understand.

Now I know how it feels to be a minority. Now I know.

Indianapolis, 10:09 PM