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1 Nimat Hafez Barazangi 1 After thirty-five years of living in the United States, every time I meet a new person, I am asked: “Where are you from?” My own personal, political, and scholarly journey along with that of some of my cohorts engaged in search for answers to this and similar questions has shaped my silent revolution. It is a revolution against the way Muslim Arab girls have been raised unprepared to experience their identity autonomously. It is a revolution against the social systems that abuse and stereotype Muslim Arab women—be it the Muslim, the Arab, or the American systems—chiefly because of their dress code. The goal of this revolution is to ignite the flames for social change, reinterpreting the Qur’an in order to retrieve its dynamics that originally intended to establish gender justice. In my search for answers to the question “Where are you from?” I weave back and forth between two distinct periods during my three and a half decades in the United States—first as a foreign student, and then as a permanent resident and a citizen. In the late 1960s, I answered the question in my usual honest, straightforward manner: “I am from Syria.” More often than not, the questioner could not locate Syria on his/her “mental” map, so I would add “from Damascus, the biblical city that St. Paul and Peter passed by during their travels .” Whether the questioner made the connection or not, his/her next question would be: “Is this your national costume?” (because I was dressed Silent Revolution of a Muslim Arab American Scholar-Activist Nimat Hafez Barazangi Where are you from? 2 A Muslim Arab American Scholar-Activist modestly, with a head-cover). My reply has always been: “No, I am a Muslim.” By then, the questioner was confused enough to simply nod and move on to another subject. On a rare occasion, if the questioner happened to be a reader of the New York Times or the Washington Post, he/she would lament, “Oh, yes, isn’t it sad that those women are suffering under illiteracy (1960s), that they are subject to polygamy and divorce (1970s), that they are forced into seclusion (1980s), that they cannot drive (1990s), and that they are stoned and beaten in the streets (2000s).” These different, pathetic descriptions changed chronologically along with world events. With the eyes of a scholar-activist, I noticed that the majority of my Muslim women friends and colleagues did not dwell on similar situations. Later, I started answering the same question sarcastically: “I am from Ithaca, New York,” or “American.” But the unconvinced questioner would persist, adding: “No, I mean originally, where do you come from?” I would still say: “I am a Muslim!” (with an s sound), and the questioner would add, “Oh, Moslem!” (with a z sound). So who am I, and why do I identify with Islam? Why do my fellow American citizens still insist on identifying me as an “outsider,” and why do I still insist on identifying myself as a Muslim (with an s) when this identity , along with every expression related to Islam, has been associated with many negative connotations? When I left my native country, Syria, after finishing my formal university education in Islamic philosophy and ethics, and after the 1967 Middle East war, I was determined to be identified as a Muslim first. Primarily, I chose Islam as a belief system and a worldview, the main goal of which is social change and, in particular, enhancing gender justice. Being born and raised in an Arabic/Muslim culture, and because Arabic is also the language of the Qur’an, I feel Arabism to be part of my heritage. Ironically, these meanings of “Islamicity” and of “Arabism” crystallized for me only after years of self-searching, self-learning, and self-identification while living in the United States. In this anthology, I reflect on my experience in the context of the uneven sociohistorical and political exchange between the Arab, the Muslim, and the American peoples, as affected by the different governing bodies and world events, during the late 1960s through the early 2000s. When I first arrived in the United States, I thought that by adhering to the Islamic article of faith, “there is no god but God (Allah in Arabic), and Muhammad is the last Messenger,” and by following what is known as the “Islamic dress code,” I would secure my Islamicity, and I would defy the [3...

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