Jag har bett min småkusin Kim beskriva sin vardag efter Trumps president vinst. Här kommer den:
“What’s it like?” my Swedish cousin asked
in a Facebook message. “What’s it like living in Trump’s America?”
Every morning, as I’m surfacing, a feeling
of unease creeps in. I take a quick mental inventory of my husband and kids. All
is well. The next moment I remember…Trump.
What disaster has befallen us since I fell asleep?
What tweet has he fired off in his manic wee hours? What global leader has he
insulted? What cherished American institution has he denigrated? What
vulnerable group has he threatened?
My husband is Pakistani American, a model
citizen and a patriot for 20+ years. Like the vast majority of Muslim
Americans, he is moderate, peaceful, sloppy around the edges with his religious
practices, but a believer, someone who identifies with the faith of his
childhood. I have watched for decades as he and his Pakistani-born cousins have
navigated their way through the American dream. They are hardworking nurses,
engineers, teachers and business people; moms, dads and soccer coaches; home
owners, taxpayers and mowers of lawns; proud citizens and voters. They are now nervous
to speak too loud, concerned they will be victimized by sanctioned racism,
worried to travel to Pakistan to see aging parents.
My eldest daughter is a graduate student
hoping to become a professor. She woke up the day after the election to a
climate where academicians are vilified. My youngest daughter is an artist,
launching her career as funding for national arts is at risk. My foster
daughter has a serious illness. She’s about to make her way into the adulthood with
targets against Affordable Care Act and Medicaid. I am a writer, a believer in
truth. Every day, I see journalists bullied and facts twisted.
But, I am also an American, a granddaughter
of four immigrants who came to this country joyfully and never looked back. Who
built a life through sheer determination and faith in the American experiment.
So, I don’t give up. I invite my daughters,
sister, nieces and good friends to join me in Washington, DC, for the Women’s
March. It is my first protest in all of my 55 years. The march is beautiful,
peaceful, defiant, respectful and resolute. I go to another protest two weeks later,
one sponsored by Yemeni small shopkeepers, of which there are many in Brooklyn.
There are tons of flags and proud chants of USA, USA.
I feel hope stirring.
I host a Resistance group. Weekly, a dozen
neighbors gather around my dining table to follow up on concrete actions: attending
congress people’s town halls, calling elected officials, demanding what the
majority wants: democratic ideals upheld, checks and balances respected,
kindness and compassion for all.
I feel determination stirring.
I watched hundreds of lawyers rush to the
airports the night the travel ban was instituted, sitting on the floor,
feverishly working to protect the detained, filing an emergency request that
very night and winning the first of a string of important legal victories. I
cried as I watched thousands of people spontaneously gather at the airports to
protest the ban, to welcome the travellers who finally got through, to demand
that the country and the world pay attention.
I feel optimism stirring.
This is what we must cling to: an energized
left; the mainstream media waking up and calling out lies; a robust judiciary
ready to save us from ourselves; an engaged public of surprising allies—Jews
and Muslims, middle-aged moms and LGBTQ advocates, black and white.
As a protest chant says, “This is what democracy
looks like.” When I hear that, I feel pride in this country stirring again. We
must endure and emerge from this nightmare. We will.
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