I
am in a very bad mood tonight. I just got home from a protest in Dearborn,
Michigan ‐ the largest home to Arabs outside the Middle East. My throat
is a bit sore, but not as sore as my spirits. I was one of six people
who protested in front of the Arab-American Institute this evening.
Dearborn gave venue to none other than Madeline Albright. The Clinton
administration's Secretary of State was to speak about her new book,
The Mighty and the Almighty: Reflections on America, God, and World
Affairs.

I was there
with one other Arab. Two other protesters were Caucasian, one was Jewish,
and one cute baby whose delightful smile made the rainy weather easier
to protest in. We stood at each of the building's two entrances with
our signs: "Madeline Albright, 500,000 kids' lives do matter,"
"The 'price' is not worth it," "Uncle Scum kills kids,"

"Remember the Nakba." [Albright's visit took place on May
15th, the day Israel declared its independence. This day is now known
as Nakba or "The Catastrophe."]

We
called her out for her war crimes of supporting sanctions on Iraq and
unconditionally supporting Israel's violent occupation of Palestine.
Those few people going into the building who answered us on why they
were attending responded that they were there for "dialogue,"
a word I grew to despise on this rainy night.

Cops
kept a close eye on us the entire two hours we were there. Whenever
I did have a chance to speak to an employee, I asked them why an Arab-killer
was being hosted in a building that displays the word "Arab"
on the door. "Dialogue" was an answer to end all answers.

After an hour and a half of chanting, we finally caught a glimpse of
Albright from outside the glass doors as she emerged from the lecture
hall. We shouted at her full capacity, "Murderer, Arab-killer,
racist, war criminal, butcher."

We
weren't being rhetorical. If anything, we were almost quoting her own
words. She herself admitted to killing Arabs with sanctions on national
TV and added that it was worth it.

I
felt refreshed when about eight other people who had stepped outside
said they agreed with us. They made me think that perhaps I'd been too
judgmental of the folks who were inside. It could be the case that people
strategically thought of luring her into the lecture room where they
could throw tomatoes or at the very least verbally show her that she
is not welcome (on second thought, my people are more likely to throw
shoes if we want to insult. Tomatoes are better saved for nutritious
purposes). So I put my sign away and quietly entered the building, where
personnel, backed by the police, told me to leave. "This
is an event open to the public," I protested. "This is an
Arab organization and I'm an Arab and you're excluding me but allowing
Arab-killers in." My words fell on deaf ears.

Although
some of us were at the front door and some at the back, Albright somehow
managed to sneak into her limo behind our backs to be delivered to her
next destination. We'd initially thought she'd only be speaking at the
building. As the number of the event's attendees dwindled, we found
out her next stop, much to our horror.

She
was headed towards a mosque.

A
spontaneous decision needed to be made. Should we risk appearing disrespectful
to a place of worship and follow her there, or call it a night and drive
home before the rain gets worse?

Just
like the presence of American soldiers in Iraq's mosques and Israeli
soldiers in Palestine's mosques, the presence of a war criminal in a
Dearborn mosque is extremely disrespectful.

Perfect
timing. We arrived at the mosque the same time her majesty did. About
20 people greeted her. We knew we'd be escorted out immediately if we
said anything, so we walked in without a plan and blended in with the
bedazzled crowd. I finally got a close view of Albright. She was wearing
a purple suit and, how appropriate, a headscarf on her hair. The smile
on her face and on the faces of her flattered hosts almost made me physically
ill. It took every ounce of self-discipline I had to walk with everyone
silently, the charges of mass murder almost ripping their way out of
me while the images of bodies upon bodies of Iraqi infants rushed through
my head. Here I was, a few feet behind their executioner. I tried to
think of the most reasonable thing to do, but reason was inaccessible
and absolutely nothing useful came to mind.

As
she was being given a grand tour of the mosque, one of my friends, the
baby's mother, addressed Albright directly. "Shhh! Please! You're
being disruptive!" were the frantic, angry pleas she received from
the event's organizers. Cops, the same ones whom we'd encountered earlier,
told my two friends to leave for being "disruptive" (as if
their armed presence inside a place of worship wasn't).

So
I was now on my own and I followed the party upstairs. A cop followed
me each step on the way upstairs, barely a couple of feet behind me.
I should give people the benefit of the doubt; maybe the cop was trying
to protect me, an unarmed Iraqi, from the Iraqi-murderer who was upstairs.

On
the second floor of the mosque, Albright and her company had their backs
towards the stairs as she admired the chandeliers. I found the main
organizer of the event, and asked him why he'd invited a war criminal.
He said "because she has a new book." He was just about to
mention that cursed word "dialogue" when I asked him whether
Ariel Sharon was anywhere on his list of guests. He said he didn't want
to discuss it now, at which point my guardian angel, the one in police
uniform, told me to leave and that I'd be arrested if I caused further
disruption.

At
that very moment, Madeline Albright and her tour guides turned around
and started heading towards where I was standing on their way downstairs.
They were only a few feet away, and as the cop was uttering threats,
Albright's eyes met mine.

The
following two or three seconds seemed like an eternity as I struggled
to think on my feet. What should I do? What should I say? The grand
imams and important men of the Arab community are surrounding her. They're
still "my people" in the end and they probably just don't
know better. Wouldn't I be embarrassing them if I say what I feel? Should
I open my mouth and forever be excommunicated from this mosque or should
I remain silent? I was asked to leave an Arab building earlier and I
will be asked to leave the mosque now, so should I go ahead and sign
my own exile decree from Dearborn, the last place that feels like a
home away from home, and close its doors behind me on the way out?

The Iraqi children you killed and their parents can't exactly dialogue
with you, Madeline Albright.

After
the policewoman's arrest threat, I realized I had one last shot at "dialoging"
before possibly being arrested. I yelled at Albright 'you killed half
a million of my people!' and the policewoman escorted me downstairs
before I had a chance to see the reaction on Albright's or her hosts'
faces.

I
reached the mosque's main door, where cops were intimidating my two
friends. When I was upstairs, they had threatened the baby's mother
with imprisoning her, leaving the child in state custody, if she didn't
show them her identification. After vain attempts to reason with them,
we finally left the mosque.

On
this night that I will never forget, I was excluded from an Arab organization's
building although I'm an Arab, and I was excluded from a mosque although
I'm a Muslim. This was so that I don't disrupt the otherwise
harmonious visit of a child killer who was generously received at both
places.

My
question is why? Why does our obsession with survival in the United
States of America trump our concern for our people, our homelands, and
our identities? And what's next? Kurds hosting Saddam Hussein to dialogue?
Or Blacks hosting White supremacists?

Remember
what happened the last time a war criminal visited a mosque? The entire
Palestinian population rose up. The second intifada started in 2000
because a warmonger dared to set foot on Muslim holy property. How exactly
is Madeline Albright any different from Ariel Sharon? If she's not,
then are occupied peoples the only ones with a duty to resist?

"Ten men can be sitting at
a table eating, you know, dining, and I can come and sit down where
they're dining. They're dining; I've got a plate in front of me, but
nothing is on it. Because all of us are sitting at the same table, are
all of us diners? I'm not a diner until you let me dine. Then I become
a diner. Just being at the table with others who are dining doesn't
make me a diner, and this is what you've got to get in your head here
in this country. Just because you're in this country doesn't make you
an American." ‐ Malcolm X

Many
of us in this country haven't even contemplated sitting at the table.
We're perfectly satisfied crouching underneath the table, scrambling
to salvage and treasure any crumbs Albright and other diners may charitably
throw to us.

I've
criticized my fellow Arabs too much. My failure to organize Arabs in
America, not to mention my continued enjoyment of the fruits of the
occupations of Iraq and Palestine by virtue of existing here, robs me
of all moral authority to judge any Arab.

My
dear nameless, dead children of Iraq, forgive your big sister for being
capable of so little in the face of your murderer this evening.

After
I dropped off my friend and her baby, I drove the last remaining protester
home. She tried to lighten our mood, so she asked me, "You don't
drink, do you?" I said no. She replied, "But this would've
been a perfect night for whiskey!" We both had a much-needed laugh.
Whether or not we're observant Muslims, we take intoxicants stronger
than whiskey everyday and we don't even know it. We've chosen our comfortable
lifestyles, our desire to seize job opportunities in governments and
important companies, our photo-ops with politicians. We've chosen to
live in the belly of the beast and we renew that decision every morning
we wake up on U.S. soil. But we know how to deal with it. We've developed
our defense mechanisms. We've chosen to numb what's left of our conscience
towards our sisters and brothers back home. From where we sit, inside
our red, white and blue ivory towers, we try to imagine that perhaps
the United States can be a fair broker in the Middle East if it would
only listen to us. So we "dialogue" our way there as we gradually
start believing the lies we tell ourselves.

However,
if the children of Palestine who throw rocks have hope in the face of
Israeli tanks, and if the martyrs of Iraq had hope in the face of their
tyrany yesterday and the world's only superpower today, I have no excuse
to give up.

Saja is
an Iraqi peace activist in Michigan.