How Does It Feel to Be A Problem: Being Young and Arab in America (2008)

“‘We’re the new blacks,’ he says. ‘You know that, right?’”

These words are spoken to Bayoumi by Sade, a young man in his twenties who learned after September 11th that one of his close friends was actually an undercover police detective sent to spy on him. In the spirit of DuBois’s quote, this statement suggests that Arab-Americans now deal with the kind of systemic suspicion, scrutiny, and mistrust African-Americans have dealt with for generations, to the degree that they often can’t tell who their true friends are. 

“But what exactly is a profile? It’s a sketch in charcoal, the simplified contours of a face, a silhouette in black and white, a textbook description of a personality. By definition a profile draws an incomplete picture. It substitutes recognition for detail. It is what an outsider from the street observes when looking through the windowpane of someone else’s life.”

After explaining the rise of Arab-American racial profiling post 9/11—purportedly “to combat terrorist attacks”—Bayoumi deconstructs the definition of a “profile” and invites us to question how profiles are used. By noting that a profile “substitutes recognition for detail,” Bayoumi suggests that people often apply the concept of profiling to Arab-Americans they encounter in their day-to-day lives, thinking of them in terms of race rather than their unknown, undrawn individual characteristics. 

“She hadn’t been convicted. She had been abducted. This wasn’t justice. It was revenge.”

After her family is put into prison, Rasha learns that they have not been accused of any crime. They have been incarcerated on the flimsy pretext of an overstayed visa, but much like the Japanese internment during World War II, they’ve really been imprisoned out of a panicked reaction to the September 11th attacks and a racist fear of all Arab-Americans. 

“It didn’t matter if the women were serving criminal sentences or were detained for immigration violations. Everyone was incarcerated together. And slowly Rasha and her sister and mother learned that the women in jail, both immigrant and criminal prisoners, were kind to each other. The system had turned all of them into caged specimens, and as a way of dealing with it, the inmates shared a surplus of goodwill for one another. Being treated as beasts grew their humanity to one another. It was how everyone survived.”

While in prison, Rasha observes different groups of prisoners—especially fellow immigrant groups—banding together to help one another through difficult times. This passage establishes a reoccurring theme in How Does It Feel To Be A Problem: people from a variety of ethnicities converging to support their community. 

“I’m like the most far-off Arab you’ll find […] You have to be Muslim to be an Arab. You have to listen to Arabic music all the time to be Arab. You have to be in love with wherever your parents are from. You have to marry an Arabic girl to be Arab. Certain things. You’re not a real Arab if you’re like me. I don’t listen to Arabic music. I don’t watch Arabic programming. I hate going to Egypt. I hate going overseas. I date a Puerto Rican female.”

Here, Sami explains to Bayoumi why he often finds himself at odds with the Arab-American student group he is a member of. He believes that by abstaining from travel, disliking Arab music, and dating a woman outside of his ethnic group, he does not fit the group’s idea of what an Arab is supposed to be. By the end of Sami’s chapter, however, he displays his own distinct breed of Arab-American pride by getting a tattoo with lights spelling “NYC,” Arabic text spelling, “Always remembered, never forgotten,” and a moon vaguely printed with the logo of the Marines. Thus, Bayoumi suggests that far from being “the most far-off Arab you’ll find,” Sami’s quest to forge a unique identity amidst his complex, conflicting experiences is actually emblematic of the Arab-American experience. 

“He wanted to get in Andrew’s face and scream at him, ‘What’s wrong with you? You act like you’re all big and tough because you have a gun? What if the roles were reversed? […] They’ve probably already gone through hell. They’ve probably already had their houses blown up. God knows what happened to their families. And now you want to add undue pressure? Was he—this old Iraqi man—a threat to you? You’ve got thirty other Marines with guns here. Are you serious?’ But he didn’t want to appear soft on the enemy, so he didn’t say anything.”

In this passage, Bayoumi relates Sami’s experience attempting to mitigate a fellow soldier’s hostility toward Iraqi civilians. Herein, Sami illustrates the complexity of his role as an Arab-American Marine: while he identifies and empathizes with the perspective of the Iraqi civilians, he is also highly aware of the prejudice soldiers feel toward him because of his Arab roots. Thus, all of his communications must strike a delicate balance between upholding his beliefs while still appearing tough on “the enemy.” 

“It’s for a good cause! It’s for all the Muslims! If it becomes a good law, then it applies everywhere!”

In this passage, Yasmin attempts to persuade her father to hire a lawyer, hoping to pursue a legal case against her high school. After being elected multiple times for roles in her high school’s student government, Yasmin’s school has enforced anti-Islamic discrimination by requiring that she attend student dances, which goes against her religion. Yasmin is passionate in her pursuit of this case, recognizing that it not only pertains to her, but to religious discrimination against “all the Muslims.”

“You never really know what you’re capable of or what you can accomplish if you don’t keep fighting for it, no matter how bad things are.”

The book’s theme of perseverance in the face of discrimination continues through Yasmin’s victory. Not only does she win her case, she is elected to serve as the class president, providing positive representation for the Muslim students in her school. Though Yasmin’s case is effectively won with the help of a pro-bono lawyer, she never would’ve developed a case if not for her diligent documentation and her repeated campaigning for student government positions, proving that it is often necessary to fight for your beliefs, “no matter how bad things are.” 

“For Palestinian kids in American high schools, their keffiyehs matter. Unlike other kids, they don’t have a country to lay claim to so they hold tightly to their symbols. ‘Some people have do-rags,’ Akram said. ‘We have our hattas.’”

Here, Akram explains that numerous teachers at his high school have misunderstood the significance of the keffiyeh post 9/11, asking, “What does that mean? […] You hate all Jews?” (127), and associating it with negative images of Palestinians (and those of Arab descent) they’ve seen in the news. He defends the traditional garment, suggesting that it is not only an important symbol of home for those who “don’t have a country to lay claim to,” but a signifier of ethnic identity that establishes group solidarity: “Some people have do-rags […] We have our hattas.” This kind of group solidarity is especially important at Akram’s high school, where floors are organized into their own “political geography of race and ethnicity” (127). The connection between African-American identity and Arab-American identity also echoes back to W.E.B. Du Bois’s quote from The Souls of Black Folk.

“‘We’re the new abeed,’ he said. ‘We’re the new niggers.’”

After Bayoumi describes the retaliatory response many communities had against Arab-American run local grocery stores such as Mike’s Food Center, he explains the disparity in response from members of Brooklyn’s African-American community. Though some longtime residents such as Walter express their disapproval of “middle man minority” (122) merchants such as Akram’s family, the more recent immigrant groups, such as the West Indian customers, seem to identify more strongly with Arab-American shop owners. Akram posits that this identification comes from their innate understanding of the American immigrant hierarchy, whereby new groups become successive targets of racism and profiling. Akram’s cousin, Thayer, echoes Bayoumi’s idea introduced through Du Bois’s quote: that Arab-Americans have assumed the position—and absorbed the discrimination—of African-Americans. 

“America’s not America anymore to me.”

Akram explains that he is strongly considering a move to Dubai because he will have more opportunities to pursue a future free from anti-Arab discrimination there. As Akram explains, Dubai’s promise of prosperity and community solidarity is similar to the former American dream. After the discrimination he’s experienced post-9/11, however, Akram has felt forced to relocate his American dream to Dubai, feeling that “America’s not America anymore to me.” This line itself comes from the African-American poet Langston Hughes, reaffirming the connection between African-American and Arab-American experience. 

“‘That’s the new Arab store,’ he says to a car full of shopkeeper sons. ‘Which one?’ asks Thayer […] ‘Target,’ says Akram.”

With this quote, Akram insinuates the changing nature—and duplicity—of the local Arab-American shop. On one hand, even corporate stores such as Target (and the Arab-owned Dunkin Donuts mentioned earlier in Akram’s chapter) are perceived as distinctively Arab-run by locals who frequent them. In the sense that the corporate store workers maintain a sense of community connection with locals—recommending halal-friendly foods, for example—they are indeed representatives of “the new Arab store[s].” Of course, as a representative of his family’s individually-owned business, Akram recognizes the ironic tension between a corporate enterprise and its local Arab ownership, including the fact that such businesses compete with family stores like Mike’s. The new Arab Target is one of many signs that indicate, for Akram, that “America’s not America anymore” (145). 

“Lina’s story is all over the place and has enough eccentric detail to make it impossible to generalize to all Iraqi Americans. Yet at the same time politics will never leave you if you are Iraqi. It hangs around in all corners and stops you dead in the street. In the circus ride that is Lina’s life, Iraqi politics has always trailed closely behind and occasionally overtakes it […] In the end Lina’s story is about how the personal is political, and it’s about how politics can get very personal, too.”

In his introduction to Lina’s chapter, Bayoumi reaffirms his book’s goal of moving beyond profiles of Arab-Americans to incorporate the full “eccentric detail.” Lina’s story takes her all over America, Iraq, and ultimately to Syria, as she explores numerous roles and identities, processing them and developing into a complex, multi-faceted individual incapable of being reduced to a mere profile or “generaliz[ation of] all Iraqi Americans."

“But exile is usually characterized as the terrible longing to return home, ‘an healable rift forced between a human being and a native place,’ in Edward Said’s words. Yet this isn’t true for Lina. Since I have known her, I have always been struck by how proud Lina is of her Iraqi roots but also by how she also talks about Iraq the country mostly in the past tense. Yet is it really any surprise? Lina simply no longer recognizes the nation she sees on television.”

With this passage, Bayoumi explains that Lina is not moving to Syria out of a sense of exile, as one might expect, because she has accepted that her former home country has changed. Having traveled to so many locations—and tried on so many identities—to reach an adult understanding of herself and her family, Lina perceives “home” as an idea that can be relocated from Iraq to Syria. Bayoumi’s line about “the nation she sees on television” resonates with the idea of media representation of Arab nations (and the deep-reaching impact of those representations, whereby for those of Arab descent, such as Lina, the “personal is [made] political […] and […] politics can get very personal, too” (155).

“‘There is no Iraq anymore.’”

Echoing the reflection of Akram—when he quoted Langston Hughes’s statement, “America’s not America anymore to me” (145)—Lina tells Bayoumi that “There is no Iraq anymore.”In so doing, she suggests—just as Akram did—that her idea of home has moved to a new location. For Akram, his new home is in Dubai. For Lina, her new home is in Syria.

“‘Since we literally have no country,’ Omar explained to me, ‘the only thing we have is our identity, and it’s important for me, as the oldest son, to preserve that identity.’”

In the beginning of his section, Omar unpacks the complex sociocultural pressures behind his need to establish a career in news media. Among these pressures is his desire to marry Nadine, a woman of Arab descent, and the traditional standard that a man earns a living wage to support his family. Omar also explains that he romanticizes the traditional Palestinian wedding ceremony, complete with Palestinian food, traditional dancing, and other symbols of his ethnic heritage. Because Palestinians “literally have no country,” such ceremonies are important symbols of his Arab-American identity. 

“‘My father’s a mental-health expert for the city of New York […] He’s diagnosed me with post-9/11 syndrome.’”

Omar explains that although he is part Chilean and part Palestinian, he has identified more closely with his Palestinian roots after 9/11. He understands that his desire to explore his Palestinian heritage is in part a defensive response to the discrimination and negative representations of Arabs after the September 11th attacks. 

“I believe in news media that are objective […] And that’s very scarce in the world. News controls the world nowadays. Whatever people see, they believe. If you have companies like Fox and NBC controlling the media, the attention of the people, then it’s only going to lead to disaster. Then the people have no other option, no other source of information, unless they’re extremely educated, which you hardly see, unless they read the Independent, the Nation, or something like that.”

In his interview for his internship at the world-renowned Arab news organization Al Jazeera, Omar is lauded for his commitment to providing a wide “objective” range of representation. Ironically, Omar’s commitment to balanced representation is challenged in the course of pursuing follow-up employment, to the degree that interviewers from other companies warn that his Al Jazeera experience could work against him on a resume. Omar believes that his Arab-American heritage—reflected in his Al Jazeera position—may be part of the reason companies aren’t calling him back in response to his job applications. In short, he learns that representation—and the upholding of one’s values—is often fraught with complications.

“Before, they went after the Jews, the Italians, the Irish. And now it’s our turn. Everybody gets their turn. Now it’s just the Muslims.”

While Bayoumi hangs out at a family gathering with Omar, one of Omar’s cousins offers a break-down of immigrant hierarchies similar to the one offered in Akram’s chapter, when he declares, “We’re the new abeed” (135). One after one, each immigrant group in the United States absorbs its share of racism and ethnic discrimination until it’s a new group’s “turn.” 

“Visibility is considered a source of power whereas its opposite, invisibility, becomes a sign of oppression.”

In Rami’s chapter, Bayoumi quotes Jeanette Jouli, a French Muslim thinker who explained the importance of women who wore the hijab in the workplace (rather than rendering themselves—and their religious identity—invisible). Bayoumi applies this idea of visibility to Rami’s positive preachings of Islam to the greater New York community, suggesting that Rami is not only sharing his religion, but offering powerful “visibility” and representation for Arab-Americans. This reflection on visibility echoes Omar’s earlier thoughts on representation shared in his Al Jazeera interview. They also resonate with Yasmin’s reflections on how one law can benefit all Muslims. 

“In The Souls of Black Folk, W.E.B. Du Bois observed that the treatment of African Americans stands as ‘a concrete test of the underlying principles of the great republic.’ In fact, the same can be said about Arabs and Muslims today. However, the principles currently at stake revolve not only around issues of equality and inclusion, but fundamentally around the consequences that American foreign policy has on domestic civil rights. This is not new, and the history is important to remember.”

In the Afterword of How Does It Feel To Be A Problem, Bayoumi reminds us that the connection between the African-American and the Arab-American experience not only pertains to “issues of equality and inclusion,” but to “domestic civil rights.” He thus urges us to learn from our history and respect the deep-reaching implications of these stories—and the policies connected to them—for all Arab-Americans. 

“Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda are to blame for the terrorist attacks, but we are responsible for the kind of society we live in, and since September 11, 2001, Arab- and Muslim-American civil rights have been even further eroded. First there was the preventative detention of at least 5,000 men and a few women and entire families, as Rasha’s story shows, grabbed almost exclusively because of birthplace. The government then sought 19,000 ‘voluntary’ interviews between the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. They instituted the program of ‘Special Registration,’ begun a year after 9/11, which required the interviewing, fingerprinting, and photographing of more than 17,000 men from twenty-four Muslim majority countries (and North Korea). Special Registration initiated deportation proceedings for almost 14,000 people […] None of these policies produced a single terrorism conviction.”

Bayoumi further illuminates the disparity between discriminatory US domestic and foreign policies and the people affected by them: innocent Arab-Americans for whom “[n]one of these policies produced a single terrorism conviction.” With his reference to “the interviewing, fingerprinting, and photographing” required by the Special Registration program, he reminds us of the habitual “profiling” referenced in his Preface. In short, he suggests that we need to empathize and identify with Arab-Americans as humans, resisting the urge—and the impetus—to “profile.”

“There is also the ruling by Brooklyn District Court judge John Gleeson in 2006 stating that the U.S. government had the right to detain immigrants on the basis of their race, religion, or national origin and that it can legally imprison immigrants indefinitely as long as their eventual removal from the country is ‘reasonably foreseeable.’ This is a district court’s decision, and it is currently on appeal, but if the judgment is allowed to stand as good law, the implications are profound and chilling, paving the way for future selective prosecutions and incarcerations of any immigrant community based solely on its collective attributes.”

Bayoumi expands on his explanation of American policy and the need to evolve beyond profiling. Here, he echoes back to Jasmin’s earlier words: “If it becomes a good law, then it applies everywhere!” (106), ominously suggesting that the inverse, “if the judgment is allowed to stand as good law, the implications are profound and chilling,” also applies.