It’s not St. Crispin’s Day, I’m not at war, and (much as I wish I were) I’m not Shakespeare’s Henry V. Still, I cannot help but think: “we few, we happy few, we band of brothers (and sisters).”
During the Fulbright orientation in D.C., I met a hijabi Fulbrighter, A, among a myriad of other beyond-awesome people. As she and I and other newly met girlfriends strolled through our nation’s capital, we were accosted right and left — in the best possible way.
For example, the Muslim hotel concierge asked us about our countries of origin. On the street, a woman in hijab and salwar kameez requested directions. (We were just an ounce less clueless than she was.) Then, as we waited for the crosswalk, we witnessed a taxi driver make a perilous turn, with hands and face poking out of his window — all in order to tell us assalamu alaikum, peace be unto you.
One of our friends, K, regarded us quizzically after one of these perilous hi-and-runs. So we explained that salams were greetings of peace, an etiquette of Prophet Muhammad (pbuh). “Do you… like that?” she asked hesitantly. I completely understood where she was coming from. It looked like were being tokenized, that random passersby were making assumptions about our religious affiliation simply based on our appearance. And yet A and I couldn’t repress our smiles. “Do we like it? We love it!”
Nothing kicks estrangement out the window like a stranger’s salam. It’s like a “welcome to my ‘hood” sign. It’s like an “if you need any help, I’m here” signal. (Salam with a smile is like an In-N-Out burger with onions. Yes, it’s that good.)
Unfortunately, I realized that I only experience the euphoric hallucinogenic effects of salams where Muslims are scarce. Why, you ask? Because, ironically, where Muslims are ubiquitous, salams are harder to come by.
Take, for example, Egypt.
Cairo alone has a 7 million+ Muslim-majority population (which, by the way, outnumbers the entire population of its Sahara-plagued neighbor, Libya.) If Muslim residents of Cairo were to say salam every time they came across a fellow Muslim — well, they’d do little else.
As a guest of Egypt last summer, however, I didn’t know that. It was my first trip to a Muslim-majority country — correction, to any country outside the U.S. As I ventured with Baba onto new territory, I told myself I was going to be educated, thoughtful, attentive. What I succeeded in being, however, was naive.
After committing several touristy foibles at the airport (like taking pictures of the “Enter [Egypt] in Peace” banner — an allusion to a verse in the Qur’an), I militantly guarded my suitcases as Baba tried to retrieve a lost bag. As hijabi janitors passed by in their Guantanamo-like orange jumpsuits, I said my salams. They looked at each other, amused, but humored me nonetheless. I quickly noticed that no one — I mean, no one was saying salam.
Oh, I thought to myself. This is what it must feel like to be in places like Dearborn, Michigan, where seeing Muslims is like breathing air — taken for granted. I’ve heard about places like that, where a Muslim will meet a Muslim and look upon her with an indifferent eye. (Who but me goes to Cairo to learn about Dearborn? That’s like going to the sea to study the little pool of rainwater in your backyard.)
That made me think — yes, as a hijabi, I do wear a costume that, on most days, wins me gawking looks at the local Albertsons or no word of acknowledgement from the librarian. And yet, a single comical salam out of a taxi cab window makes this sore thumb a little proud to stick out.
