By Varisha Khan
Winter 2017 Kaplan Award Winner
“On this day, December 19, 2016, the Electoral College of Washington State has cast its vote for the 45th President and Vice President of the United States of America.”
Each word rang in my ears like the toll of a bell in a cloudy scene of a movie, foreshadowing some misery. I close my eyes.
The air of brief silence at the end of the sentence was like the swing of a gavel, a final verdict of a long and tumultuous murder trial. Because truly, much blood was shed leading up to this moment. It is the sentence to 4, maybe 8 long and uncertain years of the worst kind of prison, and my heart sinks because this is my… our… fate.
I open my eyes and look at the sea of press and guests behind the velvet rope separating the Electors and the private audience. The silence among the hundreds of people of different colors listening in that white marble room was as if this verdict had come down on every single one of us, but for some, more than others.
Even though they kept saying this was a historic Electoral proceeding…
Even though they said all eyes were on the Electoral College—on us—unlike ever before…
Even though the people the Electors in the room were representing had chosen a different candidate…
Even though many, including a few in that room, had tried to sway the winning candidate’s Electors to defect…
Even though those same Electors who sat with me—the Hamilton Electors they called themselves—used their constitutional right but controversial option to defect…
Even though the number of defects—of “Faithless Electors”—would not be known until later that day…
Even though that number was the absolute last chance for so many who were hoping, hoping for a different outcome than that of November 8th…
Even though this statement read out loud did not include any names, neither of the electoral winners in our state nor the country…
It felt as though we were all thinking of the same person. And he won.
I feel wetness swell into my eyelids, and I blink to clear the blurriness. I look down to my lap, hoping the cameras don’t catch any cracks in my professionally poised poker face. I see my interlaced fingers giving a slight quiver. My spine feels the chill from the white marble on the sculpted ceiling and pillared walls. Though I’m surrounded by Electors, the Governor, Secretary of State, family, friends, guests and press, I feel alone.
I feel alone as images and sounds of the last two years fade into my vision before me.
I blink and suddenly I’m at the kitchen table, my parents, siblings, and visiting relatives around me. All eyes are on me as I break down my argument for why a Trump presidency will mean life and death and abolition of civil liberties for so many. I lay down why his character, which even children feel disgusted and angered by, makes him unfit to be president. I’m questioned and questioned and I defend with facts and history and logic relentlessly. It’s come down to me vs. my Texan, veteran, former cop, currently Homeland Security officer, gun-toting, Trump-supporter uncle. I run every which way trying to explain that a Trump presidency means he, like millions of Americans, will be reduced to and discriminated for his identity as a Pakistani-immigrant and American Muslim. One by one, my family peels away out of exhaustion and gets ready for bed.
One, two, maybe more hours go by, I’m aching from sitting on the wooden chair and my throat is scratchy from the strain of constant politicking. Passion and frustration were high. I was walking the line between defending constitutional rights and the nature of debating with my elders as a form of disrespect. I kept going. My house would become tense after that day, and it felt as if everyone would be on the edge of falling into debate at any moment. Things would not be the same.
We slowly start moving out of the kitchen, still debating, now standing. I couldn’t let it go. After my uncle first mentioned he believes in Trump during a 30 minute drive to the mall, I was told to “let it go,” because “everyone has a right to believe what they want,” and “it’s pointless to try to change someone’s mind,” and not to risk the familial relationship. But I couldn’t let it go. Not when we were watching Trump speak on CNN. Not when slight jokes about making something “great again” were made.
I couldn’t let it go because we were debating inalienable human rights, not politics. Relationships were strained, tension was high, and I had everything to lose by continuing to factually condemn Trump. That I had everything to lose was precisely why I couldn’t let it go.
If not me, then who? I ask my other relatives how they talk about the election, and they said they don’t. Too tense. I ask my friends how they talk about the election with their Trump-supporting family, and they said they don’t. No point, they say. There’s nothing we can do.
My uncle is a self-made man. A pull-yourself-by-the-bootstraps man. An immigrant, supporting his family. His presence is strong, straight, brave and bold. He is playful; teasing my little sisters and playing games with them, his laughter and occasional silliness a contrast from the slow cowboy-booted stride, thumbs in the gun-holstered belt I used to hide from as a child. His heart is generous, staying behind my family, long-gone after leaving a restaurant, to donate to a woman collecting for Canadian-Syrian refugees and to teach a lesson to my teenage cousin about compassion. The good cop, as they say.
“He wants to ban Muslims from America,” I say with conviction of the fact.
“He never actually said that,” he replied.
The unexpected response stung like a slap. This very point is supposed to be the end-all-be-all, and lack of recognition of the statement was almost worse than disagreeing with it. Of course he said it. He said it on a number of occasions. I’m certain he probably tweeted about it, and we all know how much he loves Twitter. There would be a term for such denial of facts later created by the Trump administration and advocated for by other Trump supporters: “alternative facts.” Such attention to fact would also be labeled by the same administration as “fake news.”
He went on to talk about if Trump, hypothetically, made such a statement, he couldn’t actually implement it, but, even, it might actually be a good idea because we need to keep our country safe.
“Even if that means our own good, hardworking relatives can’t come visit us from Pakistan?”
“Yes.”
A 2011 Harvard study found that the more religious and involved a Muslim person is in
mosque-related activities, the more likely they are to believe that Islam is compatible with political participation and to be civically engaged.
Muslims are not a monolith in any sense except for one: believing in one God and the Prophet Muhammad as the last messenger of God. Aside from this one belief, Muslims are widely diverse in religious practice, culture, race, ethnicity, profession and, yes, even political views. That means yes, there are Muslim Trump supporters—13% of them, in fact, according to an exit poll by the Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR).
That my uncle leans Republican wasn’t as much of a surprise to me as him believing in the dark promise of a Trump presidency. As much as it hurt to think it because of the oxymoron, there are Muslim Trump supporters, and I only had to look as far as my own family to find them.
What that meant was heated dinner conversations that carried over to heated breakfast conversations that carried over to heated car ride conversations that carried over to snarky comments and eventual silence on the topic.
Not what one would consider a “healthy” family conversation. But in a time when our votes mattered so much, I wonder what “healthy” family conversation means anymore. Does it mean we shouldn’t have talked about politics, despite the root of our deep interest being a matter of being allowed to live in our country or not? Does it mean we should only validate each other’s views despite our strong disagreement with them? Or does disagreement and leaving heated mean we are left thinking deeper about our own convictions and the words of the other?
One of the most respected scholars in Islamic history said the mindset when engaging in any intellectual debate is that “I am right but could be wrong. You are wrong, but could be right.” This is the reminder of humility I live by. Coupled with a devotion to justice for others and oneself, such mindset can create debate and discussion that is not only productive, but respectful.
My uncle steps into his heavy leather cowboy boots and reaches for his suitcase, smiling and quiet as we load the cars for his family’s departure. I make my way to him and ask him to forgive me if I said anything that hurt him personally. He reaches his broad arms out and pulls me into an embrace. A hug as warm as the ones I’d run into as a toddler.
“There’s nothing to forgive, Varisha. We’re both just really passionate about politics,” he says with a laugh.
He leaves, and takes the Trump-no-Trump conversations with him, but the thoughts and memories a seed for activism in my household.
I wonder how things will shape up if Trump gets elected. What will he do when he, a Homeland Security officer, witnesses a Pakistani family like his own turned back at the airport.
I blink again and the Electoral College meeting becomes the Democratic National Convention and the sight of the 44th President, Barack Obama, a half a stadium away from me. It’s July 28th, 2016. Women of color, people with disabilities, queer people, immigrants, Muslims surround me in the Washington State Delegate section. People who have everything to lose. People who gave speech after speech and were elected again and again to get to this point in representing our state’s voters at the highest stage in American politics. I cast my vote for who I, and my Congressional District believed at that early phase of the election who deserved the Democratic candidacy: Senator Bernie Sanders. I held signs about justice and duct taped my mouth with the the words “silenced” to gather the attention of the Democratic National Convention Committee to the issues even WikiLeaks raised a day before our arrival in Philadelphia.
I blink again, and the silence of the audience is interrupted by applause. I break my stare and applaud as well. The speaker is done reading the formal statement. Our Electoral votes are sealed.
This is it. I’m here. I’m here because I did everything I could. I’m here because I hope my friends and family did all they could. I’m here because all I could wasn’t enough. I’m here because my family will never be the same because I did all I could. I’m here because my religion and race and gender will be attacked even more than they have been. I’m here because I’m casting a vote and sealing history. I’m here because my work is not done.