Story from mosque inspired me to be a voice for the voiceless

Commentary

By Jennifer Sinco Kelleher
Special to freedomforum.org

09.25.01

Printer-friendly page

Jennifer Kelleher

When my editor sent me to cover the service at a [Los Angeles-area] mosque, Masjid Omar Ibn Al Khattab, I didn't think twice about what I would experience. I took the assignment like a reporter — get the five W's and get out, write the story and put your personal feelings aside.

But because I'm a journalist I'm flung into people's lives, experiences that I wouldn't normally come across. And today I was part of a world that many Americans point a finger at. Realizing that, it became a huge responsibility for me to cover the service with extra care. The mantra I've held on to since the day I decided to pursue journalism reverberated in my mind: "Be a voice for the voiceless."

I don't know much about Muslims or Islam. I'm struggling to make sense of the events that I know will be the most significant of my lifetime. I'm a recorder of history, yet I feel so ignorant, so helpless to adequately paint an image of the world around me. I have no profound thoughts to dispense, no intellectual pontifications to share with those who wear their degrees on their sleeves. I'm a just a kid from Waianae, Hawaii — Pidgin English and all — armed with a notebook and a pen.

A burly security guard greeted me at the mosque. I meekly flashed my press pass and explained what I wanted to do. I asked if it was OK to talk to people coming in — a question reporters are taught never to ask. We are taught to push our way through the doors and never take no for an answer. But I asked, not as a reporter, but as a human being using the laws of respect as an outsider, teachings ingrained in me during my childhood in Hawaii. This is their place of worship; I can't barge my way through.

He said it was fine, and asked if I'd be joining the services. I told him I'd like to, and he seemed pleased. I was surprised there were no other reporters there. There was a throng of news trucks parked outside the Catholic church nearby and the First African Methodist Episcopal church in Crenshaw I had just been to. But none here.

Over the last few days, I have heard local Muslim leaders repeat over and over that the media are responsible for adding fuel to the fire that has enraged Americans to feel hatred toward all Muslims, and those who appear to be Muslim, including South Asians. I began to think those Muslim leaders were right in many ways. The media is made up of everyday people, with everyday biases.

A woman with soft hands led me to a back room. I'd need a hijab, or traditional scarf, to cover my head, she said. She carefully searched for one that would match my clothes, a light blue and white silk scarf with purple flowers on it. The woman smiled warmly at me as she tied the scarf around my head and over my shoulders. She brushed my hair away from my face, tucked the loose strands under the silk and took my hands in hers. "Thank you so much for coming," she said. "We're so glad you're here."

I believed her, and the words warmed my heart. Despite the negative images of Middle Easterners cheering on the attacks, which have been highlighted in the media, despite the skewed stories that incited anger instead of fostered education, this woman was glad to welcome a member of the deplorable media into her sacred house of worship.

I was led into the prayer area, where already people were sitting on the floor, bowing their bodies and touching their foreheads to the floor in unison. There was one entrance for men, another for women. The women sat in the back, the men in the front. It naturally shocked me, but I didn't question. I merely observed. I didn't realize it, but a woman had kneeled down to remove my shoes and had tucked them into a cubbyhole filled with everyone's shoes.

As I listened to the Imam Saadiq Saafir give an upbeat lecture, which reminded me of the one given moments earlier at the First AME church, my bare feet grew cold and numb from trying hard to keep still. I wanted to absorb everything going on around me. I watched from under my hijab and wondered what it was like to be Muslim right now. And even though I've never been a patriotic person, I gave thanks to this country, for in this country anyone can walk into any church without fear.

I thought it would be nice to come back here and learn more about their faith — educate myself and make up for the failings of my Hawaiian and University of Southern California education. Earlier I had reluctantly given my cell phone number to a persistent Muslim man outside, who said he wanted to "rap" about all that was going on. I felt better, hoping that he really did want to educate me and that I had made a new friend.

After the service, a Muslim woman said something that nearly brought me to tears for the first time this week. She said, "It was scary leaving that room, because I kept thinking, 'Will this be the last time I come here?' With all that's going on, I'd hate for anyone to attack this mosque."

Something a wise woman recently told me began to make sense. She said what makes a church isn't the physical space it's in — the bricks that make up the walls, the fixtures inside. Instead, it's a place where one goes to be closer to God. Of course, she said it much more eloquently than I ever could, but her sentiments have stuck with me, rumbled around in my head as I have grown closer to making sense of my own personal religious beliefs.

As I made my way through the busy downtown traffic toward my office, the silk hijab slipped from my shoulders. I hadn't realized I still had it on. I began to wonder if those in cars nearby took me for a Muslim.

Last night I had a conversation with a close friend who said something that slightly bothered me. He said Muslim women wearing scarves should take them off or else not feel bad when they're the targets of negativity. I didn't agree. Just because a woman chooses to wear a hijab, she shouldn't become a target of a hate crime. Americans have no right to judge, even if it is determined that those responsible cite Islamic teachings. Muslims living here are not the ones who attacked the East Coast. Does that mean to say that interment of Japanese-Americans after Pearl Harbor was justified because they couldn't pull off their masks of ethnicity — their racial scarves?

I wrote my story with a heavy heart, wanting to pour out all my emotions into the article. But I knew I couldn't. I'm bound by rules of news writing that filter heart-felt words. That's why I wrote this so fervently, to release the words trapped inside me.

For solace, I went to the place of worship that has always comforted me — a Catholic church. The instant I feel the coolness of the holy water on my head, I am at ease. As I knelt in St. Vincent's I saw something that tied the events of my day together.

While I had been focusing on grasping the enormity of what was happening on the East Coast, I forgot that lives still go on. A wedding rehearsal was taking place at the altar in front of me. The wedding must have been planned for months, with no thought that the world would halt in crisis. A couple still can start a life together. I want to always remember the happiness in that young couple's eyes. If I can remember that, I can't imagine ever letting fear take over.

Thanks to the mixing pot of diversity that is Los Angeles, in one day I had been to completely different places of worship, some places that I would never have visited if not for the fact that my chosen career is to be a journalist. I am forever changed by the people who shared their lives, their culture and customs with me.

I can still feel the arms of those who have hugged me today — people who felt it was OK to hug me even though my relationship with them was brief and as a reporter.

Society often criticizes the media, and I admit that I'm often one of the loudest voices throwing blame and wondering, "Why am I doing this?" But I'm finding that in times like this, people look to the media for answers. People are hungry for information and eager to swallow it up. I'd just like to thank those who have shared their stories with me and inspired me to trudge on as a voice for the voiceless.

Jennifer Sinco Kelleher wrote this while working as a reporter in the Los Angeles bureau of Copley News Service. A Chips Quinn Scholar who interned at The Detroit News in 2000, she has joined the Los Angeles Times as a reporter in the METPRO program.