I fear being required to register as a Muslim so that I can be tracked. I fear for my family.
The great residual effect of 9/11, if you aren’t old enough to vote or buy cigarettes at the moment? “Murica.” Yes, that’s what 9/11 means to today’s kids. Not terror. Not tragedy. Not the loss of safety. It means “that weird point in time before social media where everybody liked Chuck Norris.”
Nice. A city a where a stranger will openly tell you how beautiful you are. A city where you can dance until 5 in the morning, drinking some of the best wine, only to finish the night with a swim in the warm, Mediterranean Sea.
“In fact, in many respects, they honor President Obama. ISIS is honoring Obama. He is the founder of ISIS.”
At some point in the past three weeks, the mundane became sacred.
Being on this list feels like suffocation. The panic attacks consist of fainting and death fighting to see who can squeeze my lungs tightest.
“But the vulnerability is palpable now. You don’t have to be on the battlefield or attending a protest or committing a crime to be shot dead or blown to bits. You could be at the airport heading to visit your mom, at a nightclub dancing with your friends, at work.”
I want our voices to be heard. I want those who commit these crimes against innocent people to hear us as we mourn. I want them to see us as we come together in the wake of tragedy. I want them to be flabbergasted as they see us gather together in love, not in hatred.
If I succumb to my fears and refuse to travel and see this beautiful world, I’m letting the terrorists win.
The Pulse shooting was not a function of Islam, or fundamentalism, or terrorism.