Last year, we worked with 400+ students and teachers during a residency with Ping Chong + Company. What happened may brighten your day.

UMS hosted Ping Chong + Company for an extended artistic residency during the 2017-18 performance season. This residency involved a diverse population ranging from public events, University groups, and seven high schools from throughout southeast Michigan.

Editor’s Note: On February 18, Ping Chong+Company brings the interview-based theater work Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity to Ann Arbor. This interview-based theater production, part of Chong’s 25-year series entitled Undesirable Elements, explores the diverse experiences of young Muslim New Yorkers who came of age in post-9/11 New York City at a time of increasing Islamophobia. Participants come from a range of cultural and ethnic backgrounds and include young men and women who reflect a range of Muslim identities: those who converted to Islam, those who were raised Muslim but have since left the faith, those who identify as “secular” or “culturally” Muslim, and those who are observant on a daily basis. Beyond Sacred illuminates the daily lives of Muslim Americans in an effort to work toward greater communication and understanding between Muslim and non-Muslim communities.

This post is a part of a series of posts and interviews exploring Muslim identity on U-M campus.

Nama Khalil, the author of this essay, is a photographer and PhD candidate in Anthropology at University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. She is currently working on a photo-essay about Muslim American mothers and their children.  

The author and her daughter.

We had just finished dinner and gone into the living room. I was sitting on our red leather sofa speaking with my husband’s Muslim colleague while he was making tea in the kitchen. One conversation topic led to the next: from the Olympics, to the new Idris Elba movie, and finally the elections. I found myself blankly staring at my husband as he walked towards us holding a tray with a grey kettle and three empty glasses and said, “It’s a bad time to be Muslim in this country,”

“It always feels that way during election season. Besides it’s not easy being a minority in America,” our guest noted.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to live in a Muslim majority country and have your kids be Muslim than raising your kids here where they aren’t welcome…I mean, how can a place be your home when you are made to feel so uneasy about who you are?” My husband responded calmly while pouring the tea into short Turkish cups.

“Because this is home,” I countered. “Besides, it doesn’t matter where you are, you need a supportive and nourishing Muslim community to be able to raise Muslim kids and it’s a myth to assume that this only exists in the Muslim world…” my voice trailing off as I thought about what he said.

*

Photo Credit: Nama Khalil. Click for full-size image.

When I was pregnant, my husband and I discussed how we would raise our children Muslim. At that time, it meant nourishing their connection with the divine by teaching them to love praying, fasting, and giving charity. We wanted their names to be part of their Muslim identity, and so we named our daughter Safa, a name from the Quran that means purity, and is also the name of a sacred mountain that is part of Islamic history. For her nursery, I painted a mural of wildlife animals, to surround her with some of God’s creation, and a tree with the ninety-nine names of God shaped as leaves.

For her library, I carefully selected books that showcased the diversity of Muslim culture: Golden Domes and Silver Lanterns, A Muslim Book of Colors, Stories from the Quran, books that teach God consciousness: Illyas and Duck search for Allah, A Picnic of Poems: Allah’s Green Garden, and an illustrated book about the Prophet Muhammed. These books are shelved next to American classics by Shel Silverstein and Dr Seuss—books from my childhood. I focused my energy on building her a spiritual sanctuary, a space of childhood innocence, not ready to deal with what awaits her in the real world.

Since the birth of our daughter, conversations between my husband and I shifted to issues like: Why we shouldn’t buy her pink clothes, the minuscule details of how to sleep train, how many toys she should have (if any), and what method is best for introducing solids. We have been adjusting to parenthood, realizing our new roles—me, a feminist mother and the disciplinarian, and he, the doting father who spoils his daughter. Meanwhile, I have been drowning in feelings of loneliness, anxiety, irritation, self-doubt, and guilt. I can’t explain why these emotions consume me, each feeling shifting into the other within seconds, while the pressure to enjoy my time with Safa makes me succumb to them even more. I haven’t had a chance to truly think more about what raising a Muslim child would entail, especially a Muslim child in America.

Photo Credit: Nama Khalil

Thinking about raising Safa as a Muslim in America overwhelms me. This election cycle has brought out the ugliest side of the country, revealing and emboldening those who wish my family and me harm. I worry for my daughter’s sense of belonging, security, and identity; How do I raise my daughter to be confident, empowered, and independent in a society that might not accept her for who she is—a Muslim American? How will I protect her from those who blindly support the rhetoric of Donald Trump and Fox News and pass that along to their children? How do I explain to her that as a Muslim woman of color she must be careful because our bodies are policed and commodified? Will she stand her ground? Or will she reject her religion, culture, and me?

Unfortunately, for Safa to be accepted, welcomed, and truly “American” she needs to be what our politicians call a “good Muslim”— someone who assimilates to the values and customs of the dominant society, and helps our government fight “bad Muslims” by defending our country’s decision to invade Iraq and Afghanistan, say nothing about our ongoing drone strikes in Yemen (killing more children than “terrorists”), constantly apologize on behalf of ISIS for those who assume that they represent Islam, as well as turn a blind eye to police brutality against the Black community, and pretend that other minority struggles are not her own.

These actions  do not embody what being Muslim is about. Not only does the “good Muslim, bad Muslim” dichotomy remove God from the equation, it ignores a vital component of Islamic teaching: social justice. The entire narrative of our Prophet revolves around eradicating injustices; he single-handedly changed the status quo and struggled throughout that journey. In attempts to depoliticize Islam and make it only about spirituality, we actually lose sight of our mission in this life. Yet, our political climate and global crisis has left me cynical and too numb to speak up, although it is crucial now, more than ever before, to find the strength to do so. How will Safa model this sunna if I have stopped following it? How do I teach her about active citizenship when I have stopped believing in it?

*

Our conversation was interrupted by Safa crying. I went into her room and held her tight, nursing her back to sleep while weaving my finger through her short curls and admiring her round face made visible by the glow-in-the-dark stars glued to the ceiling. In moments like these, I am grateful for the blessing of experiencing God’s greatest miracles. I still find myself apprehensive about her future, unable to maintain my unyielding reliance on God. I constantly remind myself that Safa is God’s child as much as she is mine, and that I was chosen to guide her, nourish her, love her, and raise her to be the best person she can be. So I closed my eyes and prayed. I prayed for physical and emotional strength, so I can be a good mother to her. I prayed for courage and strength, so I can raise her to be unapologetically Muslim. And I prayed for patience and energy, so I can work on making our home more welcoming for Safa.

Editor’s note: This post is part of a series of reflections from students who are part of UMS’s 21st Century Student Internship program. As parts of this paid internship program, students spend several weeks with a company that’s part of UMS’s seasons. U-M Theater student Shenell McCrary was with Ping Chong + Company. The company brings Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity to Ann Arbor on February 18, 2016.

Left: Shenell McCrary at Snug Harbor steps. Right: SoHo. All photos by Shenell McRary.

I was standing on the steps of the University of Michigan’s Hatcher Undergraduate Library with a group of actors from my theater program when I received the call. Jim Leija, the Director of Education & Community Engagement at UMS had called to tell me that I had received the highly sought after 21^st Century Internship. I almost dropped my phone when I heard the news. Since I had applied the year before and didn’t get it, I was really hoping this year was my breakthrough. And it was. Finally.

Jim told me that I would be assigned to New York City with a theater company called Ping Chong + Company. Right away, I started to research them, going through websites, news articles, reviews, and YouTube videos. And right off the bat, I found their work to be very interesting, especially the Undesirable Elements series. And of course, I was also excited about the opportunity to travel to New York City. I had been to the city a few times, but never own my own or for as long as I would be during the internship. I honestly couldn’t think of a better way to spend my summer.

Left: Harlem Brownstones. Right: Rooftop view.

As my plane descended, I began to feel those butterflies in my stomach. Would I like it here? Will I be ok? Will I get lost? Will I be alone? My shuttle took me from LaGuardia Airport to my new home in Harlem. I was staying in a spacious apartment that my theater professors allowed me to sublet. One of the many great things about Harlem for me was the liveliness of the neighborhoods. There is always something to do, and there is such a strong sense of community. What I loved most about the neighborhood is the lovely blend of culture and people of all ages. One of my favorite things to do was to sit on the stoop or at my window and watch the kids play. They opened up the fire hydrant on especially hot days, and let the water spray out into the street, splashing and playing to cool off.

One of the most challenging things for me was definitely learning my way around the city. I like to think of myself as someone with a pretty strong sense of direction. However, New York completely threw off my internal compass. Even looking at the map of the subways initially nauseated me. I had never been on a subway train without someone who absolutely knew what they were doing, so the thought of having to navigate the city on my own terrified me. I often imagined myself on the wrong train, ending up lost in the middle Brooklyn (which actually happened once). After many missed trains and rookie mistakes, I got the hang of it. With every week I knew more and more, and what initially terrified me became easy and familiar. Sometimes, I even offered transit advice to confused tourists.

Left: Night skyline. Right: Sunny day at the High Line.

Ping Chong + Company’s offices are in East Village in Manhattan. Because the company was not working on performances during the summer, the bulk of my work was assisting in the office with day-to-day tasks in preparation for the end of the fiscal year, as well as helping to prepare and plan for upcoming tours and institutes. I also had the opportunity to prepare for one of Ping Chong + Company’s performances-in-progress, Where The Sea Break It’s Back.  What I enjoyed most about my experience in the office is the opportunity to gain insight into exactly how a professional theater company runs. Because I aspire to some day become the artistic director of my own company, seeing just how much work goes into keeping things running was especially helpful.

Left: Ping Chong + Company office building. Right: Central Park.

Not all of my time was spent in the office, though. I took full advantage of my free time, exploring the massive city. Many of my adventures included sightseeing, going to Coney Island and Brighton Beach, visiting The Highline, popping into free art galleries around Manhattan, watching movies in the park, kayaking down the Hudson, taking yoga and spinning classes, and, of course, seeing shows.

Left: Coney Island sunset. Right: At the beach.

The Training Institute was probably one of my favorite weeks in New York. I was so excited to actually be on my feet and learning how the Company does what it does so well: creates interview-based theater works. I had so many questions about the process and about interviewing in general.

What I loved about this experience was working alongside artists of all ages from all over the world. Before the intensive, we filled out a questionnaire, answering questions about our history, environment, and culture. We used those packets as well as in-person interviews to form pieces of theater. The intensive culminated in an unforgettable and deeply moving showcase of our work. In documentary theater, the interviewee shares a part of his or her story, which is funneled into a script. The process takes trust and communication. It really opened my eyes to how everyone has a history and many stories. To be able to have someone share these stories, and to then be able to turn these words into something artful, is a great honor.

Left: Institute group, with Shenell in center. Right: Ping Chong.

The trip back to LaGuardia airport was bittersweet. I was sad to say goodbye to New York, but I couldn’t wait to go back to Ann Arbor and share and apply the cool things I learned. My time in New York was some of the most unforgettable in my life so far. The trip has taught me so much about myself, my craft, and the industry I plan to work in. I was so lucky to have the Ping Chong + Company family to take me under their wings for my six week stay. In such an enormous, dizzy city, I felt at home. I cannot thank UMS and Ping Chong and Company enough for the opportunity of a lifetime.

See Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity in Ann Arbor on February 18, 2016.

On February 18, Ping Chong+Company brings the interview-based theater work Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity to Ann Arbor.

This interview-based theater production, part of Chong’s 25-year series entitled Undesirable Elements, explores the diverse experiences of young Muslim New Yorkers who came of age in post-9/11 New York City at a time of increasing Islamophobia. Participants come from a range of cultural and ethnic backgrounds and include young men and women who reflect a range of Muslim identities: those who converted to Islam, those who were raised Muslim but have since left the faith, those who identify as “secular” or “culturally” Muslim, and those who are observant on a daily basis. Beyond Sacred illuminates the daily lives of Muslim Americans in an effort to work toward greater communication and understanding between Muslim and non-Muslim communities.

In this series of posts and interviews curated by Annick Odom, we explore Muslim identity on U-M campus.

In this essay, Abraham Ahmed Mustafa Achachi Matsui reflects on his identity.

My name is Abraham Ahmed Mustafa Achachi Matsui. It’s quite a mouthful. The Ahmed part of my middle name is the part my mom wanted to name me. My mom is from Lebanon and was born a Muslim. It’s traditional to give the name of her father to her son. My father is Japanese, so Achachi is my dad’s first name. And then my parents decided to give me a universal name used across the world — Abraham.

I was raised Muslim, and attended Sunday school, but my dad pushed me to attend Buddhist festivals and services. In a lot of ways I think my personality and reality are more aligned with being Japanese. I participated in Judo club in undergrad, and I’m a wrestler. I have what I consider a Japanese mindset; I take care of myself, remember to be proud but courteous, do the best in everything I can, and work to be logical.

Still, I’m kind of darker-skinned and look like almost any kind of race. Wherever I go in the country, I kind of get pre-set in people’s mind as whatever underclass that is. It’s a harsh word, but it is the reality of things. People see a race and are so conscious in thinking, “That’s the other.” In California, they think I’m Mexican. They approach me and say “¿Qué pasa?” In Detroit and Michigan, I’m often seen as African American. In other areas of the country, I know I’ve been identified as Samoan. I like to joke that I’m the most American you can get. I have grown up feeling Japanese, but people think I’m Mexican. I put down I’m half Caucasian on forms because that’s what Middle Easterners do. I should be the poster child for what an American actually is!

I did an MFA at UC Davis California, and while I was there I joined the Muslim Student Association. I’ve always been politically driven, so I ran for Davis City Council. This was the first time I was publicly attacked based on being a Muslim, because if you look at me, I don’t look like a “stereotypical” Muslim. People said that MSA was a terrorist group, and an article was published saying I had terrorist ties.

You hear people saying how that affects you. I didn’t want to do anything Muslim-related for a year or two afterwards. I didn’t go to a mosque. It was in the wake of all these terrorist activities. I kind of lost it, you know. It wasn’t until I got to law school when I met a couple of my friends who were pretty religious. I hung out because they were really cool people, not because they were Muslim. They revitalized the faith in me. I came into law school with no thought of being in the Muslim Law Student Association. In the end I actually became president!

This pushed me to start to think of the Muslim student experience as a whole. One of the largest challenges we were faced with at U-M was the “American Sniper” debate. Despite many complaints from Muslim students and student organizations on campus, it was still shown. When I first heard it was being shown, honestly, I thought, “You know what, it’s college. We saw way worse things in undergrad. There needs to be things that make people uncomfortable. A college campus should have free, open dialogue.” But then I talked to my members, and found that it made several of my members feel physically unsafe and unsafe in their opinions to glorify this sniper and have a public institution give him credence. After hearing their opinion, I agreed. It made us feel like we were alone, like we were alienated, like we were “the other,” and like we were outsiders.

The biggest thing I’ve learned is to tell my story so people see what it’s like. That’s the biggest step to understanding that Muslims aren’t weird, crazy people and to gaining acceptance. We’re your neighbors and friends. We’re logical people. Right now I’ve hit a nice medium about how I feel to be Muslim. I sometimes feel bitter but I also love my faith.

If you’re interested in joining the Muslim Student Association or attending some of their events, you can contact them on the MSA Maize Page or check out the MSA Facebook page.

See Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity in Ann Arbor on February 18, 2017.

On February 18, Ping Chong+Company brings the interview-based theater work Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity to Ann Arbor.

This interview-based theater production, part of Chong’s 25-year series entitled Undesirable Elements, explores the diverse experiences of young Muslim New Yorkers who came of age in post-9/11 New York City at a time of increasing Islamophobia. Participants come from a range of cultural and ethnic backgrounds and include young men and women who reflect a range of Muslim identities: those who converted to Islam, those who were raised Muslim but have since left the faith, those who identify as “secular” or “culturally” Muslim, and those who are observant on a daily basis. Beyond Sacred illuminates the daily lives of Muslim Americans in an effort to work toward greater communication and understanding between Muslim and non-Muslim communities.

In this series of posts and interviews curated by Annick Odom, we explore Muslim identity on U-M campus.

In this essay, Ann Soliman reflects on her identity.

My name is Ann Soliman. I was born in the United States to my Egyptian parents. I was the second of two kids, born after my parents had decided to stay in the U.S. for a while, so they decided to give me an American name—a stark contrast to my older brother, Ahmad. Our parents raised us in Houston, Texas, then Ann Arbor, Michigan, and aside from summer trips to visit my family in Egypt, I was never strongly a part of a “Muslim community” until I started college.

I dealt with the typical aspects of culture shock that many first-year students experience—sharing the bathroom with a couple dozen girls, compromising with a roommate over use of a 12’x19’ room, and feeling incredibly small as one of five hundred students in my chemistry class. Meanwhile, I relied on the support of friends from the Muslim Students Association (MSA). Through late-night mafia games in cramped apartments that could always swell to accommodate another person and regular religious talks from knowledgeable, compassionate scholars, I felt myself grow in ways that I hadn’t expected. The friends I made through the MSA continued to support me throughout my time in undergrad, even as I got involved in classes and activities that demanded most of my time. As a medical student, I am grateful that my support network has only swelled to include members of the Muslim Medical Students Association (MMSA).

It seems paradoxical to me that my Muslim identity has brought so much love and support into my life, when the very presence of Muslims in the U.S. is now a controversial topic. Despite the significant role that the MSA played in my growth during undergrad, I hesitated to include it in my applications for medical school, concerned that someone with a negative perception of Muslims would take away my opportunity before I had a chance to get my foot in the door.

My parents always taught me that the way to show people what Muslims are really like is to treat every person with kindness—indeed, my grade school teachers would talk about my smile at parent-teacher conferences, and many years later, this is still a point of pride for me. Some days, I wonder if this “one person at a time” approach is enough. But I remember the one person, my medical school classmate, who gave me a hug and started planning a “Love Lunch” for Muslim students one week this year when the anti-Muslim rhetoric was particularly fresh and stinging. I remember the one person, a peer in my college English class, who said that after reading some of my writing, she looked up different meanings of the hijab online for half an hour. And I remember the one person, my elementary school best friend, who sent me a message to say that knowing me as kids allowed her to have more understanding and respect for Muslims as an adult. And I know that, in many ways, one person can be enough.

See Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity in Ann Arbor on February 18, 2017.

On February 18, Ping Chong+Company brings the interview-based theater work Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity to Ann Arbor.

This interview-based theater production, part of Chong’s 25-year series entitled Undesirable Elements, explores the diverse experiences of young Muslim New Yorkers who came of age in post-9/11 New York City at a time of increasing Islamophobia. Participants come from a range of cultural and ethnic backgrounds and include young men and women who reflect a range of Muslim identities: those who converted to Islam, those who were raised Muslim but have since left the faith, those who identify as “secular” or “culturally” Muslim, and those who are observant on a daily basis. Beyond Sacred illuminates the daily lives of Muslim Americans in an effort to work toward greater communication and understanding between Muslim and non-Muslim communities.

In this series of posts and interviews curated by Annick Odom, we explore Muslim identity on U-M campus.

In this essay, Ayah Issa reflects on her identity.

You were once owned by another, but you learned that their ownership was unfair and broke free.

In 1776, you became your own ruler and slowly you grew from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Since then, you’ve owned, killed, birthed, and raised a nation. Since then, you’ve birthed and raised me. In 1997, a part of you opened to me and gave me a home. Deep in your mitten, at the southeast side of your palm, I grew with your love.

But your love is conditional.

Home was a red brick house with an old wooden porch that faced a fountain. With its chipped paint and dirty rain water, the fountain was not a place we were allowed to play, but that never stopped our dizzying runs along the tilted, circular inside of the fountain. My grandfather, Hajj, built this house for his sons and daughters to live with their families all together. In the back, your raised ground serves as a picnic spot in the summer and a sledding course in the winter. Eventually, you gave us more of yourself and Baba and his brothers built us a playground with four swings, two monkeybars, one slide, one tire swing, and a playhouse.

Blissful with your love, home remained my place with you. I broke my arm against your gravel jumping off a porch table. I learned to play basketball with the hoop welded to your cement sidewalk. I got stung by a bee that lived under your porch stairs and made friends with a stray cat that strolled your streets looking for food in trash cans or stealing it away from unaware children. Every year, I celebrated my birthday with you on June 17th and celebrated your birthday with everyone on July 4th.

Your navy sky is painted with colors. Artificial stars shine over natural stars, red and blue streaks compete for space, and smoke blurs the dim sight of the crescent moon. Yard chairs scrape your skin and spilled drinks leak between your cracks. It’s your birthday, oh how you’ve grown, 228 years and counting. I’m sitting with my older sister watching colors in the sky and listening to each boom boom boom as you’re filled with more smoke and colors.

Neighbors join us and cars park along your streets to admire your colorful present. They know your history and hope for your future. You know that your birthday brings people together not because of the casualties of independence, but because the pretty colors and cheery parade. People come together when happy because they do not have to worry about you or others.

Today I would like to visit your park along the river… Mama is overseas visiting her Mama, and Baba is at work checking people’s eyes. That leaves me and my siblings at my uncle’s house. My cousins sit outside and talk amongst themselves like usual. I’m one of the youngest there and so no one includes me. I want to go to the park, but no one agrees. “We don’t go out today,” my cousin’s wife says.

“Why not?” At nine years old, I’m annoyed with her for ruining my day.

“It’s not a safe day to go out.” she looks at me as if that was all she needed to say for me to stop asking.

“Why?” I ask as any elementary kid would… why.

“Today is no good.” And that’s all she says.

Participants on stage during Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity. Photo by Adam Nadel.

Today my cousin’s wife fears you. She fears you because of the hijab she’s chosen to wear for her faith. She fears you, and I do not know why. Today is any day for me, but not for you.

Five years before that day on September 11, 2001, terrorists hijacked four of your planes. They pierced through your skin four times… 767, 767, 757, 757. Two planes crashing into the twin towers, the third into the pentagon, and the fourth taken back by passengers and staff and into a field of grass. No passengers or staff survived the four plane crashes. I did not know this. September 11th was not a date that stuck out to me. At four years old, I did not remember that day in preschool, and I still do not know when someone finally told me why September 11th was a special day of mourning and love for you. I learned something new that day. I learned my status did not meet the conditions of your love. I learned you love me, but not always.

As I grow with you, I begin to memorize your features. Even with just a glimpse to a part of you, I see your entirety. Every winter, your winter wonderland blocks cars, turns the white snow grey and sloshy, and make the cold almost unbearable, but still snowmen are built, sleds go down hills, and angels are imprinted into you. And every summer, your sunny days grow humid, your sun turns skin red, and the heat is just as unbearable as the cold, but still sandcastles are built, floats go down waterslides, and bare feet run across you.

As I grew, I felt as you had felt. Unfortunately, you feel the pain more than you feel the pleasure. When you are happy, you do not seek the source of your happiness; instead, you remain unaware in your joy. When you are hurt, you seek the source of your pain… Someone must be blamed for hurting you so severely. Someone.

                                                    September 11, 2001

                             Iraqi War

Paris

Brussels                                                             Boston

                              Afghanistan

                            ISIS

                              Gaza

Al Qaeda

                                                                     San Bernardino

… Conditional?

I grew up not knowing my decision in fifth grade to wear the hijab would push you away. I grew up not knowing Falasteen was not your friend. I grew up not knowing that terrorist was synonymous to Muslim. I guess you teach me a little each day, and yet I still thought about how you’ve raised me to be exceptional. How you love me because I am yours. I will be grown one day and with that I hope to show you love is not conditional.

So as I sit here on your front porch, facing the fountain with the chipped away paint, and I think, I know you. The fountain blurs and the focus is on the water cascading down onto the chipped surface. Each water drop learns the fountain’s surface as it slides down the curved interior and into a pool of millions of water drops. Overwhelmed with drops, the fountain feels many and not one. To know many, the fountain loses the site of one drop. To know one, the drop gains the site of one fountain. This is us… I know one and you know many. Eventually, the water drops will flow through the system and out through the peak of the fountain, only to cascade again onto its surface. Each time, the fountain will get only glimpse of the water drops, while the water drops experience the same complete knowing of the one fountain with the chipped away paint.

This is an abridged version of Ayah’s original piece. Read the full story.

See Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity in Ann Arbor on February 18, 2017.