The Noise Beneath the Silence

I Have Been Quiet

I have been quiet. Not just with the (digital) pen—my favorite outlet, writing—but in real life too. At some point, I had to pause and step back in order to ground myself, because I started experiencing very high levels of anxiety. And anxiety is probably the most normal response to what is happening right now.

It’s hard to witness. It’s hard to narrate. Even as I write this, that feeling of anxiety rises again, and I know I’m not quite ready.

Minnesota, Right Now

Yesterday, I logged into a Zoom where national leaders were speaking about the current reality in Minnesota. One of them is a good friend of mine—a community trailblazer. She shared how the recent ICE surge, which has not quite ended, has left a devastating impact.

Empty masjid parking lots during Jumu’ah and Taraweeh — something many of us never thought we would see. People still cowering at home. The mental health toll on adults and children alike that will take time to address.

One thing she said landed heavily: “It feels like we are being hunted.”

Hunted. What a painfully appropriate word for what is happening to immigrant communities—especially Latino and Somali communities. People are being hunted. And it isn’t really about right or wrong. It isn’t about protection. It isn’t even about preventing fraud—because if that were the case, every state in this country would be hunted for the rampant fraud that exists and has always existed.

We used to eat popcorn and watch movies about dystopian futures—stories where the elite hunted the marginalized, where rules were made and then quickly taken away, where the end goal was suffering, fear, and then more suffering. It felt fictional then.

If I, as an adult, am struggling to make sense of what does not make sense, how are the children doing? How are the elders? How are the community advocates who wake up shaking from sleep, only to face the real nightmare waiting for them?

Ramadan, Interrupted

And in the middle of all of this, it is Ramadan—the month of Qur’an, charity, community, and sacrifice. It has always been a time when I feel a deep sense of tranquility. But that tranquility keeps being shattered every time I lift my head to a news headline, see the growing list of people we are trying to serve and how they are just trying to survive the day, or when I recognize that same anxiety I am battling resurfacing on the faces of my friends, their children, and their parents.

And our organization? We are planning an iftar. A sensory joy event for Eid. We hold our weekly support group sessions, and embrace the periods of silence in between conversations. We continue trying to show up for the community in the ways we know how. But we do it with heavy hearts, and with fading optimism that maybe next month—or the one after that, or the one after that—this will all be behind us.

But it won’t be, will it?

Words That Help Me Breathe

I read an article today for one of my classes, and it began with a quote from Maya Angelou:

“You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them.”

She had such a gift for pulling words from the heart—naming feelings that live in the body before they ever reach language.

And I think about that quote. The events have not reduced me. But they have pushed me to experience an othering like no other.

She also said, “Still, I rise.”

And I do still rise. But sometimes the ground beneath me disappears—like when I’m at an appointment, or shopping, or going to check the mail and I have to greet new faces. Faces of people who have consumed the same news as me. People who silently go about their day while I manage the internal screaming—the kind that turns into migraines, earaches, a pressure that feels so loud inside my body.

And the voice keeps asking:

Can anyone hear me?

Can anyone just say that this is not normal?

That breathing, living human beings are being spoken about like invasive species.

And that I am them. That we, are them?

I remind myself that this clarity is not a bad thing. The people who stay silent during this period of suffering are not the ones I will turn to in my future moments of serenity.

But the truth is—I don’t have the words yet.

Belonging

In some ways, I am living one of my own poems, one centered on biculturality and belonging. I wrote:

I am a nameless, faceless ghost longing for founded foundations, something to call my own.

I thought this was my own. But maybe I was wrong.

And I don’t know how to end this on a positive note. So I won’t try to force one. I will just say this: it isn’t over. There is no reason to celebrate. People are still hurting. Still grieving. Loudly.

Even if you cannot hear them.