Last summer, I studied abroad in Rome. Leading up to the trip, I was convinced that my time would be well spent endlessly gazing at men that looked like actor Michele Morrone. Instead, Rome was filled with Abduls. Mahmuds. Arifs. The flight was about 11 hours in total, but when I saw the mass number of brown men in every direction, I wondered if I had accidentally landed in Dhaka. Yes, I know, this sounds exactly like the far-right, anti-immigrant commentary spewed by “passport bros,” who are always alarmed by the fact that Europe is not as homogeneous as they hoped for.
My reaction, though, was one of relief. The whole way there, I was distraught by the fear that I would be subjected to bigoted comments or just blatant racism. As a person of Color, any vacation necessitates asking, “Will I be safe there?” But the second I saw those men, I instantly relaxed. To my surprise, Rome was filled with Bangladeshis like myself, navigating the ancient city in search of meaning. For me, that was through experiencing the rich, cultural landscape. For them, it was about leaving everything behind for a better life.
A majority of the Bangladeshis I encountered were surviving off of small, low-paying service jobs. They embodied the Bangladeshi universal spirit of hospitality and grit, a resilience engraved in our cultural code. They were waiters at all the restaurants we visited, secretly adding chili flakes to the rather bland pasta we could not stomach. They were cashiers at the shops we frequented for snacks, giving us routine discounts or extra bags of chips. And yet, despite their immense contributions to holding Italy’s tourism sector intact, I slowly caught wind of how the local Italians would undermine Bangladeshis through subtle hostility. A scoff on the bus when Bangladeshis sat next to them. Dismissive glances when they spoke their native language.
I shared the same physical traits as the Bangladeshi men I saw Italians insult. Only I foolishly thought Italians would be able to discern that I was an American if I exuded genteelness and cultural literacy. In other words, I was a suck-up. I found myself being overly apologetic in conversations, pronouncing grazie like a fifth-generation Italian American and felt the need to be overly courteous at all times.
My theatrical efforts to be tolerated were met with absolute rejection. Italians did not care what color my passport was or where I called home. The color of my skin, my hijab — by their standards, I was just asking to be ostracized.
Roughly 175,000 Bangladeshis live in Italy, both legal residents and undocumented, making the risky journey across the Mediterranean in pursuit of a better life. It is a bittersweet reality: Despite not being welcome, these Bangladeshis endure, with their futures and families in mind. Thanks to the kindness that is characteristic of Bangladeshi hospitality, everywhere I went in Rome, there was a sense of comfort in knowing that I could find someone who looked like me, who saw me for who I was and who welcomed me without hesitation.
I felt the same sense of belonging in London, where I traveled to after my month in Rome to visit family. Yet again, I was overwhelmed by the stronghold Bangladeshis have on the city’s cultural landscape. My cousin’s entire neighborhood consisted of families from Bangladesh, Pakistan, Nigeria and, of course, Ireland. As someone who grew up in a sheltered, suburban bubble in white America, this, to me, looked like a multicultural utopia.
When I returned home, however, my perspective was altered by the sudden surge of animosity toward immigrants, or what was now termed “migrants,” that took over my social media pages. I became transfixed by this type of media, and it left me questioning whether I was oblivious to how others truly saw people like me. I often refer to myself as a first-generation American. Except according to the architects of this new nationalist school of thought, that was indulgent. I was nothing more than a foreigner.
I had this sudden epiphany that perhaps all this time, I assumed a place in society that would be decreed as overstepping the arbitrary lines drawn to exclude immigrants. British far-right commentators, like Patrick Christy on Great Britain News, screened distorted videos of men crowded on boats, barely holding on against turbulent currents, and instead of commenting on their circumstances or what peril they must be suffering from, they just kept asking, “Where are the women and children?”
With large microphones they would visit refugee encampments, pressing questions on individuals who were supposedly “freeloaders,” despite the fact that they were barred from acquiring work permits. They walked through the same streets of East London I visited and noted that in the sea of shoppers, there was not one white person because they were being replaced and ideologically isolated. I immediately thought of my cousin’s primary school, where I had picked her up one evening. There was only one white child in the school courtyard during release. The teachers, aides, students — they were all South Asian.
Guiltily, I, too, began to wonder, if these people were truly endangered in their home countries, weren’t the women and children the most in need of safety? My consciousness could not sympathize with their injustice. It is not like I was unaware of the conflicts perpetuated by Western blocs that these innocent people were seeking refuge from. I knew better. But I ignored that rationale in favor of buying into the stance that these people were exploiting resources.
Their belittling taunts and ridicule — as much as I hate to admit — successfully swayed me. I internalized their criticism and discerned my community for traits that, according to these cultural critics, were backward and ignorant. They would say that our families were too large. That we relied on public assistance. That our traditional attire disrupted public order.
These hateful statements clouded my judgement, even when my own upbringing was a testament of what they rejected. My parents came to the United States in 1996 and have never been eligible for welfare programs. Since my memory serves me, my dad has woken up at 5 a.m every single morning, Monday through Friday, to make it to work with ample time to spare — because to him, America waits for no one. Sure, my mom wears salwar kameez in public. Has that ever affected her ability to be a contributing member of society? Is her status as an American citizen stripped for something as trivial as clothes?
These biased videos that only provided a snapshot into the immigrant experience — which I could have just scrolled past — had the power to plague me, bringing me back to my childhood, when all I ever wanted was for me and my family to be accepted. Years of shame and self-doubt reignited and, this time, channeled into hate.
I was blind to the systemic forces that were conditioning me to adopt these biases as personal shortcomings.
That changed when I took the time to subjectively reflect on my values. Not the ones that I acquired from the intolerant rhetoric I encountered but, the ones my parents always emphasized to keep us rooted and confident when confronted with prejudice. I grasped that I maintain certain ideals that I would still hold regardless of whether they are exploited by these far-right commentators. I did not need their validation to dictate my beliefs. I continue to believe in secularism, respecting the host culture, tolerating differing viewpoints and upholding civic responsibility.
I am not the only one. Many Muslims like myself, who have benefited from the systems and opportunities the U.S. offers, will tell you the same. Our faith instructs us to be public servants and we have undoubtedly earned that title. While only 1% of the U.S population, Muslims are overrepresented in medicine. 44% of Muslims are college graduates, significantly higher than the national average. Bangladeshis, too: Hamtramck’s Joseph Campau Avenue, the main commercial street of the city that was once boarded up following the Polish exodus, is being revitalized thanks to Bangladeshi and Yemeni entrepreneurs. Of course, that doesn’t stop the scrutiny. Because contributing economically or socially is not enough. Only when you turn your back on your roots to pledge your allegiance are you considered assimilated. Otherwise, you are just culturally incompatible.
Alas, my efforts to be an “assimilated citizen” have proved futile. The criteria is constantly evolving, and even when you think you’ve earned yourself a spot at the table, there will always be another trial or oath that you have to adopt in order to be accepted. Especially in these polarizing times, I realize now that community is not just a marker of your identity or a place to find comfort. Community is a defense mechanism, and the people that comprise your community will always have your best interests at heart. I regret ever doubting that.
From the Sunday markets of Rome, to the curry industry of London, to the mishti shops of Hamtramck, people like me are still making space for ourselves, even if they have to deal with rejection. Maybe we are culturally incompatible and unassimilated. At least we endure, unapologetically, in our pursuit of success. To me, there is nothing more American than that.
MiC Columnist Fahmida Rahman can be reached at fahmi@umich.edu.