A friend asked me at the coffee shop this morning,

“What’s with all the Islamic terrorism all over Europe?”

I paused.

I am a, Muslim.

I grew up in it,

bathed in its mercy,

overwhelmed with its compassion,

drowned by its empathy, sympathy.

“What’s with all the Islamic terrorism?”

Did you hear those words?

The terrorism itself, is Islamic.

It’s inspired by that religion,

motivated by that religion,

blown up by that religion.

I am tired of those questions.

Especially this one:

“Are you a terrorist?”

If I counted the times I’ve been asked that,

In my three decades of life in the US,

I would run out of fingers, three or four times.

What would be your answer?

I usually say, “No, I’m not.”

Then the wound inside me bleeds a little more.

That wound stays red, raw.

Oozing blood, and shame.

Sure.

Some have done terrorism in the name of Islam.

They have killed some people.

They have blown stuff up.

But they the farthest thing from true Islam.

As far as the North Pole is from grandma’s garden,

on Abdul Malik street in the Old City of Al-Shaam.

That garden with its tomatoes and cucumbers,

artichokes and radishes and beets,

with figs that taste like honey,

and olive trees beckoning the sun,

while shading children playing hid-and-go-seek.

Those bombers,

are far, way freaking far, from my true faith.

As far as the South Pole from the ancient Souq Hamedia.

I used to go to the ancient market with my babba,

to get Cumin, Tumeric, Sumac, and Zaatar,

to sharpen momma’s Damascus-steel knives.

That market is a sand storm of senses,

noise of copper-pot engraving,

smell of Sheep-hide prayer rug tanning,

taste of roasted pistachios and almonds and Kastana.

And the tapestry of colors, my god, the colors,

Syrian silk and Egyptian turbans and Moroccan Kafias,

and Kuwaiti camel-hair abbaye,

the robe my babba wore in the winter,

keeping the bitter cold away,

and the warm memories closer than my skin.

I used to hide from momma in that robe,

comfy and safe in my cozy cocoon.

I would listen to his poem it watch ticking,

counting the seconds till she left.

Those terrorists,

place me, place all Muslims,

in a narrow and dark and scary place.

The terrorists have nothing to do with Islam,

and everything to do with twisted and sick minds.

They terrorize in the name of Islam to galvanize the masses.

They think they are doing it for god.

What they’re truly doing it for,

is death.

“What’s with all the Islamic terrorism?” My friend asked.

I gazed at him with weary, shamed, eyes,

then quietly said, more like whispered,

“Terrorism could not be, Islamic,”

Why do we never hear about Hindu terrorism?

Christian terrorism?

Jewish terrorism?

Shinto, Buddhist, or whatever you want to call,

your need to justify your existence on this tiny ball,

hurtling through space with billions of other balls around it,

each rotating around themselves and others,

according to organized chaos embroiled in random order,

or a chaotic structure ensnared in systemic insanity.

Please stop asking me about Islamic terrorism,

or if I am a terrorist.

At least,

on that morning at the coffee shop,

my cappuccino was good.