A Love Letter to Muslim Kids in Public School

“All Muslim children should be either homeschooled or put into an Islamic school. And if a parent needs to work, or cannot afford Islamic school, then they should sell their house if need be.” The khatib continues, “Because what good is a house in this Dunya, if your child is going to Hell.”

I suck in a breath. Just a few months back, a Muslim family of nine raised by a single mother lost their home to a fire. One of the children, Saboor, attended the public middle school where I teach. My co-workers came together to create a GoFundMe, and collected lightly worn clothes. 

Another boy at my school, Jamal, receives free breakfast and lunch. For dinner, he brings leftover breakfast bags from the day, tucked into his backpack. I know this because Guidance, the office of shepherds for sheepish children, once mentioned that his family visits the food pantry often. I was one of the homeroom teachers who saved all the unpeeled oranges from the breakfast bags and sent them to the guidance counselors to deliver them to Jamal. 

I wonder if that khatib knows this. Has he met these children “destined” for the Fire? Does he know that for some, a fire has already lapped up their homes? The irony burns a pit in my stomach.

Since October 7th, 2023, the Council on American–Islamic Relations (CAIR) reported that they received a total of 1,283 reports of anti-Arab and anti-Muslim bias, a 216 percent increase over the past year. (MEE)

I remember the days and years after 9/11. I remember how Islamic schools across the country were shut down for days in fear of hate crimes, or actual death threats, or because law enforcement was investigating their “possible involvement.” I attended those schools, and felt protective over my hijabi mother everytime we left the bubble of school and home.

Yet, as someone with family and friends in public school I also remember all the black eyes, “accidental” shoves, and yanked headscarves. The word “terrorist” muttered quietly and yelled abrasively. The judging and fearful eyes boring into brown and black skin. 

I remember how nothing and everything has changed. How instead of Iraqi refugees, we have Afghani refugees. How we have Palestinians who must repeat the Pledge of Allegiance as their motherland they left is bombed into smithereens; weapons supplied by this very new nation they find themselves in. How our children have been forced to grow armor when they should have been growing wings. 

I spent seven years as the only Muslim teacher at a public school, and quickly realized that all the Mohammads and Maryams are mine. 

They are mine as they ask to sit in my classroom at lunchtime during Ramadan. As they proudly puff out their chest to tell me their last name is the same as mine. As they quickly let go of the girl’s hand they were clasping a moment ago, when they see me in the hallway. As they run to me during a field trip to ask if the pink slivers in the mac n’ cheese are bacon. As they change their name to something ubiquitous; Sami becoming Sam or Rehan becoming Ryan. As they peel away their baggy hoodie while their parents’ car drives off, revealing bare arms. As they excitedly greet me on a Monday, saying they saw me at the masjid over the weekend. 

They are mine, they are mine, they are mine. And these letters are theirs.

Dear Sawsan,

I thought of you today on the first day of fall, as autumn chill filled the air. The last time I saw you, you were a seventh grader, wearing a cascading Palestinian flag to the Halloween Dance as your “costume.” 

I spotted you immediately, and my heart swelled with awe. Do you remember what I said when I called you over? I said you were a real-life super-hero. I meant it. 

What I didn’t tell you was that the rest of the night, I watched you protectively, silently praying no one harassed you. You didn’t dance, but you ran briskly around the sweaty school gym, the greens and reds rippling behind you. Later, when Ramadan rolled around, your mother volunteered to set up a festive table in front of the School Office. That was the first time Ramadan was so boldly celebrated and acknowledged in the school. 

I hope your mother is doing well, and I hope that wherever you are, you are still courageously clutching on to the Palestinian flag.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Mohammad

Dear Ayanna and Sara, 

You must be graduating high school this year. You both were such a dynamic duo! I still smile thinking back to when you both created a type of sign language only I could understand. You would pass your hands through your hair, and that would signal to me that my hair was peeking out of my hijab, and that I should fix it. You both were kind for looking out for me during Period 5, when I was a frazzled and tired mess.

I hope the two of you are still good friends; the type of friendship you both had is rare to come by.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Mohammad

Dear Rehma,

I hope you’ve found your people in college, the kinds of people who appreciate your henna-stained hands and the carefully packed food in your lunch box. I know kids in middle school stuck up their noses and looked at your orange palms like you were carrying a disease, especially on that one Eid. I wished on the following Eids you’d still come to school with your festive hands, but instead they were bare, adorned only with palm lines. 

I understood, though. Middle and high school can be rough; everyone is a sheep following the herd. You were always on the cusp of carving your own path. 

I hope you’ve taken a leap and found comfort in that new path.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Mohammad

Dear Abdullah,

The day you were missing from my class for two days in a row, I knew something was horribly wrong. I asked your classmates if they heard from you and if you were sick. 

They quickly spilled the tea, excitedly chattering about what each of them saw or heard from a friend, who heard from a friend. I sent an email to your guidance counselor to confirm if it was true. It was. 

You were suspended for punching another kid.

Another kid, who everyone, including me, knew was a racist. But hadn’t ever gotten in trouble for it because there was never “hard evidence” to prove it. 

I quickly quieted the class as the story became larger, slowly becoming lore. I was so angry on your behalf. It wasn’t fair and I wish I could have done more to protect you.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Mohammad

Dear Afia,

I saw your poem was published in a high school literary magazine. I’m so happy that you’re still writing. I sometimes think about the time you cried while writing a journal entry about your father in class. You shared with me how you were tired of pretending your father is part of your life in front of your friends. Pretending because you didn’t want them to know and believe in the stereotypes revolving around Muslim men and their daughters. 

I told you it was okay to write it down, that paper will listen without passing judgment.

I’m sorry you felt you had to carry such a large burden. I hope you’ve since set it down.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Mohammad

Dear Baseer,

I hung the hand-made painting of my name in Arabic calligraphy you gifted me. It’s in my living room, and everyone who visits comments on it. I always boast and tell guests my student made it. I tell them how you were always quietly sketching bold and beautiful Arabic letters into your notebook. How at one point you garnered an entire fan club, students from multiple backgrounds sitting at your lunch table, trying to mimic your pen strokes. It was such a beautiful form of dawah, and you didn’t even know it. 

I am lucky to have a painting of yours before you become too famous.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Mohammad

Dear Yusuf,

You must be in college now, but you are still mentioned and missed. How could you not? You gifted all your teachers such a unique and memorable gift, bakhoor. 

I knew it was even more special because your parents bought it when they returned from Umrah. I had to explain this to the teachers who were all huddled in the teacher’s lounge, quizzically looking down at their gift from you. I explained to them how it’s used and they nodded in understanding, wide-eyed and amazed. 

I smiled, imagining the homes of all these White women, with bakhoor burning in the background. I imagined the smoke curling and dancing, lingering on the fabric of their couches and old, wooden furniture. 

You’re going to be a name that’s mentioned around this building for years to come. 

Sincerely,
Mrs. Mohammad

I think about how they are all ours. Ours because they hold our burdens, our flaws, our most hopeful dreams. The ones who quietly cry behind library books, then use those books to arm themselves in correcting their teachers when the bias oozes out. The ones who learn to bite their tongues until they draw blood, and the ones who sharpen their tongues to whip back at anyone who dares spit venom their way. The ones who find time to pray in the corner of the media center, and the ones who are still searching for the courage to pray. The ones who have found their way, are finding their way, or are so far they are clinging to a raft with no land in sight. 

They are ours. They are formed in our bellies and when they outgrow our flesh, we send them off into the cruel and wild world stumbling like fawns not out of want, but out of necessity. They are our quiet, glowing embers, morphing into phoenixes soaring far far away. 

Still, no matter where, they are ours. 

*This is a work of creative nonfiction. While most of the events are true, some parts have been fictionalized or altered in order to maintain individuals’ anonymity. All identifying characteristics and details have been changed or removed.