We were sitting so close on the sofa that our knees touched, and I could feel her breath on my right cheek. We did not speak while watching the anti-police brutality protestors chant and march peacefully down a street on my phone. We croaked our heads and squinted our eyes to read their signs as the camera hastily spanned over them. We watched as the police abruptly disrupted the peaceful protest by throwing tear gas at the protestors, then when that was not enough, they grabbed and hit them with their batons. After a few seconds of watching the chaotic brutality, Hafsa started to cry. I immediately closed the video and held her in my arms until the tears stopped rolling down her face.
After a few minutes in this new silence, her tears stopped. She quietly went to the bathroom, and I could hear the water running. I imagined she was washing the dried tear streaks from her face. After a few minutes, she quietly returned to what she was doing before I showed her the video.
I sat in the same position, now watching her. I looked at her face searching for signs of distress, sadness, or anguish. For now, there are none. I left the room to let her be, for now.
An hour later, we are sitting shoulder to shoulder, after finishing our prayers. I asked Hafsa if she remembers when we were watching the video.
“Yes,” She said.
“Can you tell me why you started crying?”
“Because it was so sad. What the police did was messed up. The protestors were not doing anything wrong.”
“Sorry you had to see that. I didn’t know the police were going to act like that. I wanted you to see how people over the country are putting their lives on the line to fight for Black folks and others, even the threat of Coronavirus.”
We sat and talked for a while about how we can participate in this fight and movement. I wanted Hafsa to feel that she can contribute and that her voice matters, so she would not feel helpless.
But I feel helpless to protect her from the violence in the video. I feel helpless that her peace and spirit were broken at that moment. I feel hopeless that I cannot protect her from potential police violence. I feel hopeless that no matter what Black people do, they are seen as threatening. I feel powerless to protect her from racism, sexism, and Islamophobia. I feel powerless to protect her and all Black children from seeing our bodies die in the streets. I feel hopeless that there will be no justice for the victims. I feel helpless that another generation of Black children are growing up without the privilege of childhood innocence.
I struggle with the role I play in stealing pieces of her innocence. From showing her the video to having numerous “talks” with her about how to behave when dealing with the police or other authority figures. These talks started almost from infancy and were mainly broken into two sections: “Black is Beautiful” and “Islam is the Truth.” Sometimes the two parts intertwined when I talk about the importance Hajar and Bilal, both Black, play in Islamic history and tradition. Or when we discussed the Prophet’s (Peace Be Upon Him) last sermon, where he gave the guidance that no non-Arab or White person has any superiority over a Black person, except by piety and right action. But even with this instruction, unfortunately, some Muslims are racist.
As she got older, the “Black is Beautiful” conversations became more detailed with stories of slavery and Jim Crow while focusing on the positives, and acknowledging that our ancestors went through a lot to survive. Because of them, we exist. Admittingly, I rush over the atrocities of slavery and the Civil Rights Movement. I attempted to educate her on the stories of our people without breaking her. Within the last few years, our talks have dealt with modern-day atrocities of police brutality and systematic racism. But I did not linger on these because I wanted her to be carefree. I wanted her to have a childhood free from worry and fear.
I struggle with protecting her while making her aware of what it means to be an identifiable Black Muslim girl in America and the impact her race, gender, and religion can have on her life. I do not know if I’m doing too much or not enough. I do not want to inundate her with all of the ways her multiple identities can affect how others treat her.
I think of Tamir Rice, who was 12 when the police murdered him. I think of the Central Park Five; the youngest was 14 when he was arrested. I tell her to always ask for a lawyer if she is ever arrested. And under no circumstances should she say or answer any of the police questions. I try to drum into her to put her hands up, if she is ever told by the police, hoping that my advice would save her, knowing that it does not matter.
Hafsa is 11. I tell her these things, and she replies that she is a child, and the police will not arrest a child. But so were they.
Then I get angry at the way the world is and how it treats oppressed people. I am angry at the individual police officers who stood around while their coworker murdered a Black man in the streets. I am angry at the systems that favor white-sounding names over Black ones, discrimination against Black natural hair, and how Black students are punished more than white ones. I am angry that racism is killing Black mothers, and we are three to four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white women. I am angry that schools, where our children are supposed to learn and grow, are named after notorious racists and traitors.
Then sometimes I’m envious of how white children can live with the privilege of childhood innocence. Their innocent bubble is not broken by the multiple “talks” about how to try to exist without being discriminated against or dying from police violence. Their parents do not have to scour bookshelves or Netflix to find positive representations of themselves. Their parents do not have to give them constant reminders about how to act or dress. They are allowed to live.
Then some say if I want her to experience an innocent childhood, then I should not have these conversations with her. That I should either wait until she is old enough or let her learn and experience them for herself. They ignorantly assume that there is an “old enough” as if racism and bigotry will wait for the right age. Then, there are those who say that mothers of Black daughters do not need to worry as only Black males are affected by police violence. As if the families of Sandra Bland, 7-year-old Aiyana Jones, Breonna Taylor, and Atatiana Jefferson did not have to bury their daughters. Our genders will no protect us.
Then I think about the Black mothers before me, who wrestled with the same issues of how do we keep our children soft while the world treats them as hard. I think about the Black mothers who had to bury their children, wipe their tears when they are called the N-word, visit them in jail, or pick them up from the principal’s office. I think of how we all want our children to be loved, play safely, be happy, have a sense of wonder, and explore the world around them.
Then I tell her it is okay to be angry, happy, sad, envious, and scared because I am, too. I shower her with kisses and hugs. I let her stay up late, eat multiple desserts, and watch numerous episodes of Avatar. I try to balance the awful outside world with creating a snug, protected inside our house. I let her know that no matter how others see you, what’s important is how you see yourself. That she cannot let others hate to cause, her to hate herself. Their hate will consume them, but it should not consume her.
I hope that is enough…
Your words resonate with me. I’m sorry that anyone goes through this, but there is strength in numbers. Maybe we can change the world for our children.