In a second-floor classroom of their Islamic school in the suburbs of Chicago, seventeen girls are gathered. The whiteboard, in their AP U.S. Government class, displays notes about the U.S. Constitution, the First Amendment, and the Declaration of Independence. However, they are questioning whether these rights extend to them.
Their teacher, Nadia Ismail, asks what rights they feel restricted in exercising right now.
“Freedom of speech,” one girl exclaims. “Representation,” another adds. “Religion,” follows.
It has been two weeks since they were sent home for a few days due to a hate letter that was mailed to their school. This letter, filled with violent threats and slurs, targeted Palestinian American and Muslim children. Shockingly, the letter celebrated the murder of six-year-old Palestinian American, Wadea Al-Fayoume, and labeled his alleged killer, someone who had reportedly been influenced by conservative radio discussions about Israel and Gaza, a “national hero.”
Local police are investigating this letter, along with several others targeting religious and racial minorities in the area.
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Mays, one of the students, expresses her feelings, “It feels nerve-racking, and I’m scared most of the time. We can’t leave our school. We have to be watched by bodyguards just to walk to our parents’ car. The bathroom doors are locked. It’s difficult.”
These students are grappling with hate, all while remaining deeply concerned for their loved ones in the West Bank and Gaza. The ongoing conflict in the region has resulted in the loss of over 10,300 Palestinian lives, including more than 4,200 children. In addition, a previous attack by the Palestinian militant group, Hamas, took the lives of 1,400 Israelis last month.
This school, founded by Palestinian refugees 37 years ago, aimed to empower Muslim girls, remaining an all-girls institution for students in grades six and above. These students have previously been advocates for social issues like climate change and school shootings, but now they are facing their own challenges, feeling a lack of support beyond their community.
Principal Tammie Ismail, the sister of Nadia Ismail, expresses her concerns, “Everything I’ve taught them about speaking up, they’re now questioning. We’re working to help them find ways to feel empowered. We don’t want them to feel as though their feelings and voices are invalid because they are Muslim or Palestinian Americans.”
‘School should be where you feel safe’
Sitting in her small, comforting principal’s office, Tammie Ismail recounts her recent visit to the police station, where she provided her fingerprints to help identify the sender of the hateful letter.
“I’m hoping that providing that might get us a step closer to identifying who decided to send hateful letters and threatening messages to my students in my school, my community,” she states.
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Although Tammie has been the principal for over a decade, the urgency to keep the children safe has never been more pronounced. She, like many others, believes that dehumanizing rhetoric in U.S. politics and media about Palestinians, Muslims, and Arabs has inspired hate, threats, and violent acts, including Wadea’s tragic murder, the hate letter, and other incidents in the area.
The school has taken extensive security measures, including hiring private security, installing cameras, keeping window shades mostly drawn, and receiving assistance from the Cook County sheriff’s office. Recess was moved indoors for a couple of weeks, and teachers kept track of students going to the bathroom to ensure their safety.
Tammie is actively participating in national webinars to enhance school security and applying for grants to support these safety measures, as they have thus far relied on the school’s budget and some parent fundraising to cover the costs.
“School should be where you feel safe. They can’t learn if they don’t feel safe,” Tammie explains. “I think it’s going to take some time.”
On the day of Wadea’s funeral services, held in the mosque adjacent to the school, grief counselors were brought in by the administration, as the boy’s killing had traumatized the students. However, the school can only do so much to ease the students’ fear when they step outside the building.
“Going out as a hijabi is also scary,” says a student named Jana. “I get more stares sometimes. It feels like I’m being watched by people whenever I go out for a walk.”
May, another student, reveals that her parents do not want her to wear anything in public that identifies her as Palestinian.
“Right now, I don’t really feel like we’re in the land of the free,” she states. “I’m only 16, and people are scared of me because I’m Muslim, wear the hijab, and I’m Palestinian.”
Mays, the first student, was not surprised by the letter, as her older sister experienced a similar threat two decades ago, following the 9/11 attacks. She expected to “get a letter that’s treating us like we’re not even human, like we deserve to die because we’re Palestinian.”
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“When you look at the media, all this propaganda is put on the Muslim and Palestinian community,” she notes. “And when you’re seen as these people who promote terrorism, or we stand with Palestine, so we’re ‘animals,’ … what were you expecting?”
‘They’re not in pain anymore’
These safety concerns at home coincide with the students’ deep sadness and anger over Israeli airstrikes in Gaza and attacks on Palestinian civilians in the West Bank by settlers and police.
“Many of our students’ families have strong ties to Palestine,” Tammie Ismail explains. “They have relatives there, grandmas and grandpas, uncles and aunts, that have been killed or that they don’t know whether they’re safe. That’s a very real sadness, a very real deep experience that they’re having.”
Seven students from the school had moved to the West Bank in the past year with their families, but nobody has heard from them in the past few weeks.
Emily, a fourth-grade teacher, shares her fear for her own family while trying to console her students, including a kindergartner who came to school crying, worried about his grandparents.
“Even if I might be a little bit scared, I know I can turn to a colleague and talk to them, and we can make each other feel better,” Emily says.
May says students are leaning on their faith to remember that the Palestinians who have been killed, including Wadea, are martyrs, referring to the Muslim belief that those who have been oppressed and killed will go to heaven.
“It helps us to know they’re not in pain anymore,” she says.
This sense of shared grief and communal mourning has provided some solace.
“It’s nice because we’re all people who understand what we’re going through,” Mays explains. “I’m afraid that something bad might happen to me. But so is Jeanine, and so is Jana.”
A mother, Sarah, has two daughters at the school and is thankful they are surrounded by classmates and teachers who can relate to their feelings.
“I think I would have been more worried if there was a potential of being in a setting where they may be exposed to bullying because of their backgrounds or the views that they hold,” Sarah says. “It’s a safe place.”
‘We can’t even express our identity’
The students want to advocate for their people, just as they have done for other causes. However, speaking up for Palestinians is met with backlash.
“Even saying something as simple as ‘free Palestine’ gets twisted,” Jana explains. “So we can’t even express our identity.”
“Palestine protests downtown are labeled as ‘pro-Hamas protests,'” she adds. “We can’t even breathe without being scared.”
May spent the past couple of weeks rewriting all but one of her 11 college application essays to remove any mention of her ethnicity and religion in her answers to identity and diversity questions.
“We’re not even sure if we should state that we’re Palestinian or Muslim,” she admits. “I think we’re all kind of trying not to. We’re worried that the school might turn us away.”
Tammie and Nadia Ismail find this disheartening, as they aim to empower the girls at the school. They had to face their own fears when some in the community preferred to stay silent about the hate letter.
“I think our community is, in some cases, so afraid of backlash, so afraid of exposure, that they’d prefer to just keep it quiet,” Tammie Ismail acknowledges. “Just keep it between you and the police. Nobody else needs to know.”
Sarah, the mother, has a fifth-grader at the school who asks questions about Gaza and has attended protests.
“I want her to grow up knowing that it’s important to stand up for what’s right,” she concludes.