Threads Volume 24 Issue 1

threads volume xxiv | issue i uc berkeley’s muslim student publication

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volume xxiv | issue i

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t d e i o r ’s o n t e

Readers,

This organization holds a special place in my heart, and I am infinitely grateful for the opportunity to have worked with the most dedicated staff and board throughout these years. I have learned about the struggles that our community faces and have found myself in awe of the strength that our ummah is ingrained with. My hope is that you read this issue and are as impressed with the threads woven by our community as I am.

With gratitude, Rania Mirza

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oa r d b rania mirza editor in chief aamna haq managing director wanees hannan creative director hafsah abbasi print editor nishat sheikh print editor

zarah umerani social media & marketing director

rida jan photo editor

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a l b e of t n t o c n e ts 5 editor’s note

8 dua’a & collard greens

22 afghan girl

26 kaleidoscope

47 old city jerusalem, palestine

12 siti sakineh's hand embroidered palestinian thobes 37 old souk dubai

57 viva l’algérie

64 life in isloo

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18 the new seniors: medina at cal 43 crack in the glass

dua’a & collard

words | zainab adam

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At 19 years old, I have yet to read a book centering on a Black Muslim girl. As an aspiring author and Sudanese-American woman, I have longed for representation in contemporary literature; yet, it is sorely lacking. Growing up in the 2000s and 2010s, I was never aware of the vast spaces that Black Muslims had occupied in the history of Islam in America. My experience is living proof that despite increased discourse surrounding diversity and inclusion in the American national consciousness, literary and educational institutions have fallen short of acting upon the need for more representation for Black voices—that despite the long withstanding history of Black Muslims in American literature, they remain scarce in our reading materials, even going as far as being marginalized by the publishing industry.

Black Muslims have had a longstanding presence in American literature and it is long due that we acknowledge the greatness and beauty of our literary tradition. Some of the earliest Muslims in the history of America were Black. One of the earliest writers in recorded American history was Bilali Muhammad. After his death in 1857, he was found to have contributed greatly to American literature with his transcription of a Muslim legal treatise — it was later published in the Journal of Negro History. His writings detailed the laws of Islam, including the steps to the ablution before prayer and details on Islamic living.

Another early Black Muslim scholar was Omar Ibn Sayeed, an educated and wealthy man from the Fulani tribe who was captured in Senegal in 1831 and brought to Charleston, South Carolina. In Senegal, Omar Ibn Sayeed studied under the tutelage of his brother Muhammad Sayeed along with two other religious leaders for approximately twenty-five years until he was taken as a slave. As an enslaved person, he wrote a fifteen-page autobiography detailing the trials he experienced in the United States. His is the only known narrative in Arabic by an enslaved person in the U.S. and is considered to be unique as it was not edited by Sayeed’s owner, which was the case with many other autobiographies written by other slaves in English.

Figures like Omar Ibn Sayeed were integral to Muslim-American literary history and contributed to the American literary landscape. Yet today, from textbooks in classrooms to young adult fiction, literature has sorely lacked Black Muslim representation. I first came to this realization when one day I shuffled through the young adult section of my local library, in search of a book with a Black Muslim character, only to leave empty-handed. My heart sank as I had come to the realization that I was not seen, that my stories, my experiences, my existence as a Black Muslim did not matter. And that as an aspiring Black Muslim author, picking up my pen and writing these stories in and of itself would be a radical act.

In the essay The Disappearance of the Black Muslim, Jasmine Thompkins-Bigelow writes about just how scarce Black Muslim representation is in fiction. “Our erasure is violence crafted in carefully worded emails: Maybe it was an ‘I don’t understand this identity enough to represent it’ from an agent requesting Muslim-authored books. Or an ‘I don’t think there is enough of an audience’ from an editor on a book written in a popular genre.

Indie-published Black American author Maryam A. Sullivan shared that she was asked by one agent to consider changing the race of her Muslim protagonist. Consider writing a Muslim identity that is more palatable to people who aren’t Muslim. Consider erasing Blackness. Consider killing some part of you” (Bigelow).

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The lack of representation of Black Muslims is more than just a small diversity issue. It informs the fact that Black Muslims have been historically and systemically marginalized within the Muslim community. The idea that one can be both Black and Muslim is met with raised eyebrows and questions like “Where are you really from?” Not being a revert is met with equal skepticism. Would there be greater demand for books by Black Muslim authors if there was greater acceptance within the larger Muslim community? How might we answer the question of “Who is the audience?” when the audience is tepid to books published by Black Muslim authors? The solution is this: representing Black Muslims in literature would not only allow Black Muslims to see themselves in spaces where they were never before but also would dispel these misconceptions about the Black Muslim identity. Yes, there can be a young Black woman who recites her Duaas before eating steaming collard greens with chili and cornbread. Yes, she can be Muslim and still be Black. You can do both.

We can do both. I am both.

Our lack of representation causes this aspiring fiction writer to think: “What if ?” What if I had grown up with literary role models who look like me? Where was the Harper Lee for Black Muslims? Where was the S.E. Hinton for me? What if I could have looked up to and seen myself in Ray Bradbury? What if there was somebody who looked like me, prayed like me, and could reaffirm my aspiration to write on a larger scale? These authors and titles were all staples of my academic curriculum in middle school and high school. What is the final price we pay for the absence of our voice? Does it mean that the Black Muslim lens is never seen by readers? Does it mean Black Muslim characters are never truly understood because they’re never truly explained or examined? Imagine how many other Black Muslim writers would have seen themselves in those writers and thought “I can do that.” I can do that!

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siti sakineh's Hand Embroidered palestinian thobes photos | aiya hammoudeh

A treasured collection of hand embroidered Palestinian thobes made by my Siti (grandmother) Sakineh.

These pieces are very dear to my heart. Her passion and talent keep our traditions alive through many generations to come.

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Traditional palestinian thobes

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ROSA

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SItI SAKINEH 16

inna lilahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un in loving memory of my beautiful Siti Sakineh May Allah (SWT) grant you the highest level of paradise

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the new seniors: medina at cal

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But for one group of students, this year is particularly weird. Students who transferred from community college to Cal in 2020 — including myself — are Seniors, with the majority of our transfer cohort graduating in Spring 2022. And yet, for many of us, this year is our first and last on campus. This creates a bit of a conundrum. On the one hand, the Transfer Class of 2022 are Seniors. On the other, we’re very much the new kids on the block. Now, I could talk all day about my feelings on the matter. But, I had the chance to catch up with one of my fellow Transfer Class of 2022 students, Medina.

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Perhaps it’s the contradiction between navigating a “post-pandemic” learning environment while the pandemic is very much raging around the world. Or perhaps it’s the uncertainty of anxiously awaiting the next wave of infections to throw us all back into the world of Zoom University at Berkeley. Potential problems abound, and anxiety remains abundant — even more so than usual for college students.

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“2021 was weird, especially for students ”

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Q: Please introduce yourself (name, year, major, work/career/aspirations, fun facts).

Hello! I’m Medina. I am a senior here at Cal studying Political Science. After graduation, I hope to attend law school and one day become a human rights attorney. A fun fact about me is that I can write with my right and left hand!

Q: Tell me a little bit about where you transferred from.

I transferred from a community college in Sacramento known as Cosumnes Riv- er College. People from all walks of life attended that college. I had classmates who were veterans, parents to young children, and other students who had just graduated high school like me. Because it was a small college, a sense of community and belonging was always there.

Q: When you transferred during the Covid-19 lockdowns, what challenges did you face in adjusting to UC Berkeley over Zoom?

During my first semester at Cal, I was struggling to manage my time and complete my responsibilities on time. Before the lockdown, I had established a structure for myself. I would finish my homework at my college’s library before coming home, but the shutdown of libraries and cafes combined with asynchronous classes required me to adapt new study skills and habits. Forming friendships was also a challenge during that first semester as I wasn’t really able to interact with my class mates on Zoom.

Q: As a "New Senior"at Cal, what are some of the challenges that you have experienced settling into a new environment, while also being an "old" student?

Although I am a senior at Cal, people often ask me if I’m a freshman due to my lack of knowledge about a lot of things related to Cal. At the beginning of the semester, just navigating campus was difficult. Currently, I am on the search for study spaces and libraries. With the help of amazing professors and friends, the transition has become easier!

Q: What are you looking forward to in your last year at Cal? My experience as a UC Berkeley student so far has definitely been unique. Nonetheless, I am excited for my final year as an undergraduate student here at Cal. I intend to take part in research, attend football games, and form long-lasting friendships and memories for a lifetime.

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afghan girl words | susan osmani art | rokshana bushra

march 20, 2001: i am an afghan-american girl born into opportunity my parents cradled despite leaving behind the only world they knew. yet, never once were my aspirations not a possibility to eat, to drink, to bathe, to breathe in peace — i never questioned instead, i walked beside my dreams as they blossomed into reality but to think, had my parents lost their lives escaping war had my parents been denied refuge over thirty years ago the same girls displaced from their homes, struggling to stay alive the same girls denied access to liberation and bombed in schools, dare i say they would have been me. so yes, it’s personal. i am an afghan-american girl who lucked out. with my afghan diaspora guilt comes a particularly privileged pain of knowing not only am i helpless to their plight but that america, the country i have grown embarrassed to call my own, holds one of the sharpest blades against the neck of my people.

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august 28, 2021: the echoing chants of “our flag, our identity” ricocheted out of the heart of afghanistan and lit the fire of resistance in forty-two cities, one by one, in solidarity until the whole world was burning in black, red, and green an abyss of perpetual mourning weaves into afghanistan’s flag in black, casting generations’ weeping shadows over the past and everlasting present. i watch my parents’ eyes as i ask - would you ever go back? if you could? in the darkness that reflects lay imperial puppeteers playing chess under the guise of women’s rights, afghan pawns fall victim children bury their mothers, mothers bury their children side by side renowned world powers that took their turn at destruction at what cost does the graveyard of empires continue prevailing? black is death. yet, black is a dare. dripping off the flag, honoring bloodshed of historical independence my country drowns in red for forty years now. endless massacres: from mazar-i-sharif to kabul university to bombings of masjids to murders through the night, my people know no peace. when sewage water turns deep red from the murder of hundreds begging for safe passage away from despicable regimes, how does your blood not boil, how do your eyes not see the red? rippling out of the homes in herat, into streets of afghanistan you’ll hear “allahu akbar” reclaimed in defiance instead. red is bloodshed. yet, red is resistance. green are the eyes of sharbat gula, the women of afghanistan exploited for beauty, for the justification of greed rooted in our natural treasures green grows strikingly from the entrenched violence and loss: muslims and sikhs break bread after the harsh winter, fertilizing a hearth surrounded by lively fields filled with tajik, pashtun, hazara, and baloch children’s laughter as spring nears this collective people’s perseverance undeniably keeps afghanistan alive. afghan women lead marches in defiance, risk their lives to stand tall our youth, our minorities echo brave cries draped in black, red and green green is greed. yet, green is hope. submerged in these colors i march to confront a hypocritical reality an afghan-american girl is quite nearly a dichotomy one part of my identity so actively detrimental towards my watan but the pride placed in red, white, and blue? i have none. to wave this flag in the name of liberty is failing to see a systemic irony.

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red salutes me in hardiness and valor mocking the supposed heroism afghanistan was lucky to have how brave you are, america, for committing war crimes destabilizing and corrupting an entire country how courageous you must feel to be responsible for afghan bloodshed abandoning the very people you vowed to save. when you cowardly tell us that afghans refuse to fight for themselves, over a hundred thousand afghan men, women, and children roll in their grave. red is the blood on your hands. stars and stripes shine in white for fifty states and thirteen colonies in your country alone, your roots are destructive, decayed, clouded in genocide, enslavement, colonialism even a fool knew you would not leave afghanistan unscathed. symbolizing pretend purity in a flag you fly oh so high complicit — what do you make of generations of trauma? children laying in the arms of the dead, their futures buried beside them, surely, america is our white savior. white is the innocence that you stole. i cannot forget the navy blue of perseverance and vigilance after all, fighting through a twenty-year war against the very evil you created and promised to eradicate, only to surrender innocent people and a land you dreamed would be yours? erasing decades of progress, displacings hundreds of thousands, and yet, unashamedly closing your doors. i applaud you for your destructive determination certainly, this is the most american reality of all. blue is the justice afghanistan will never receive from america. i am an afghan-american girl begging you to open your eyes to the utter devastation my people will continue to face so long as you eagerly meet red, white, and blue in embrace remember, resilience rises in black, red, and green long live afghanistan.

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KALEIDOSCOPE art | aamna haq

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old souk dubai photos | aiya hammoudeh

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Crack in the Glass crack in the glass words | aleeza adnan illustration | eman peri

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He said, “Pass the water.”

Skin scared of glass Present inflicted by the past as the darkness before me lights up what I struggled to forget

Yet you have no regret for How you broke my glass heart When I lived in glass slippers How you let the pin drop As I pondered

How you poured wine On my watered-down childhood memories stained with red As they told me To forgive and forget That blood is thicker than water

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As your glass breaks When I break My silence

But now the black and white truth Muddles into gray While the salt from my wounds Turns bittersweet

Yet water heals and offers life But you simply took away Any love I had for mine And my memories flood

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old city jerusalem, palestine photos | aiya hammoudeh

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viva l’algérie words | meriem cherif illustration| hafsah syed

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The drum of a darbuka, steam wafting off a fresh batch of couscous, date palms swaying in the breeze...

Nestled in the Maghreb region, with vast stretches of the Saharan desert and a Mediterranean coastline, stands the country of Algeria. As the largest nation in Africa by land area and home to fourty-three million people, Algeria makes itself known in the Muslim and greater global community. But more than boasting geographic might, the nation is home to a people whose collective spirit binds them together, no matter the physical distance.

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My whole life I have grown up in a small but tight-knit community of Bay Area Algerians with unwavering pride for our country; the red, white, and green flag waves at all soccer game watch parties, political demonstrations, and community events. The Algerian community center in our local park became my second home, a place where I could express an intrinsic component of my identity.

With most of our extended family living overseas, we had no choice but to integrate ourselves within the surrounding Algerian community. A web of relationships developed, with my mom befriending the moms and my dad befriending other dads, while my brothers and I came together with the young children of the group.

Speaking Arabic together, exchanging recipes for sweets like mekrout and cherek, and sharing the same Islamic values, only our last names separated us from being true family. Rather than frilly dresses for the daughters, our parents would slip us into “World’s Greatest Algerian” t-shirts; during every hafla (social gathering), we would sing along to the music on the speakers, belting out “One, two, three viva l’Algérie!” I once assumed that my parents’ immense pride for Algeria was a byproduct of their immigration—a form of holding on to the culture they have known their whole life. With time, however, I learned that their pride was rooted in much more struggle and hardship than I had known.

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The spilling of blood, uncertainty about the next day...is this the end?

Ever since the nation’s fight for independence began in 1954, Algerians have undergone struggle to fight for their political, cultural, and religious autonomy.

Colonization at the hands of the French emerged during the nineteenth century, kickstarting a vicious cycle of imperialism, bloodshed, and political instability.

Considered second class citizens, Algerians were only seen equal to French colonizers under two conditions: they renounce their culture and forgo religion. Following a decade of brutal violence, Algeria eventually gained independence on July 5, 1962, but the Algerian people were far from free. With unfair elections, domestic terrorism was on the rise, ushering in what is known as the Black Decade. The ten year period that started in the 1990s led to 200,000 deaths, depicting once more the detrimental toll that political turmoil takes on a people.

As young university students studying medicine, my parents experienced firsthand the bleakness of the Black Decade. On one particular autopsy rotation, my parents attended to a recently deceased man who ended up being the father of their close friend. A bus suicide bombing had left the man decapitated, and they had to identify him solely from his lower body and the ID in his pocket. My parents’ experience was not an uncommon one, as nearly every Algerian who lived during the time period carries haunting experiences and personal accounts. Twenty-five years later, my mom and dad still remember the trauma and anguish of this decade, when they were still young students with hope for the future of their country.

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Recently, Algerians marched weekly during the Hirak (political movement), protesting after then-president Abdelaziz Bouteflika announced he would run for a fifth term in 2019. After peaceful protests led to his resignation, citizens focused their attention onto other corrupt factions in government. Unfortunately, however, COVID-19 put an end to the protests as Algerians grappled with the new difficulties of a destructive pandemic. The fragmented healthcare system has been overwhelmed by hospitalizations, with hospitals and clinics running out of vital supplies like oxygen tanks. Moreover, fires in the Kabylie region have devastated the countryside, forcing families to flee to safety.

Since the nineteenth century, Algerians have grappled with ineffective government and its consequences; unfortunately, the country is often synonymous with this troubled history. The only time I hear about my country in mass media is during tragedies, or in association with the colonization of the French. The nation, though, has a deeply-embedded culture of political activism that keeps them united during moments of hardship. The peace of the 2019 political demonstrations that led to the resignation of the president was known as the “Revolution of Smiles.” Even globally, Algerians have come together to support their home country and ensure the safety of their people amidst political turmoil and health crises.

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Images of solidarity, renewed hope for the future, we will prevail...

In my local community, frequent fundraisers allow us to provide supplies and care to Algeria, with no city or region being left behind. The creation of the Algerian Solidarity Foundation, a local non-profit assisting Algerians with everything from covering funeral costs to providing lambs to families during Eid, has streamlined our community efforts to assist those in need. In 2018, the foundation arranged a campaign to turn Algerian passports biometric, inviting thousands to the Bay Area and sparing them a trip to the Algerian Consulate in New York. Even as a freshman in high school, I was involved in the endeavor, editing and revising messages to members of the community.

It was then that I truly understood the spirit behind my parents’ chanting of “One, two, three viva l’Algérie!” Their heritage has consistently been under threat: by the government, by the corrupt military, and by colonizing powers. With no political body or organization behind them, Algerians have had to rely on themselves, their neighbors, and their family to uphold their culture and the roots of their identity. In the face of strife, Algerians develop self-sufficiency; under the shadow of corruption, their pride sparks alight like a fire in the dark. “Viva l’Algérie’’ represents more than just a chant—it is the promise by Algerians worldwide that despite every barrier, burden, and struggle, Algeria will live on.

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life in isloo photos | rania mirza

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Damascus Gate, Jerusalem

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