As an Arab-American, I Somehow Incur the Wrath of the Unintelligentsia

I am a member of that subset of American culture that now somehow inadvertently incurs the wrath of the unintelligentsia. I am an Arab-American, and since Sept. 11 I no longer introduce myself to strangers as Wahed Khamsa. Instead I am "Ed."

Since that day my father, who is Egyptian, has placed our family on high alert. Don't talk about the war with strangers, especially if they know I am Egyptian. In fact, don't even mention our heritage. Don't send controversial e-mails back and forth that mention the Taliban, Afghanistan, Osama bin Laden or George W., as our home computer in New York City is most likely being monitored, as well as our home telephone lines.

It seems every time I meet someone new these days they always get around to asking me, "So, where were you on the 11th?" I remember exactly where I was. I was walking into a coffee shop in Newport, Rhode Island, with my friend of eight years, Bill Coogan. The news had just broken about an airplane striking the first tower, and smoke and flames could be seen pouring out. We were both in shock as our eyes were fixed on the tv screen. Bill drew up alongside me and suggested I consider changing my name. At least while I was in Newport. When he introduced me to his friends as Patrick Murphy I didn't object. I knew it was only temporary. While at first I felt resentment, I understood his motives. He was protecting me.

Lately I keep a low profile. I haven't been avoiding anyone, but after reading about the hate crimes that have been taking place around the country, I decided to elude persecution by just blending in. I figured that Americanizing my name would be a good start. I talk about California, where my mother is from, and whenever I am tempted to speak about Egypt and all the amazing experiences I had there, I hold back and instead refer to it as someplace I lived for a couple of years. Nobody pursues it.

I am not ashamed to be an Egyptian. I never have been. Even while growing up on the Upper East Side in Manhattan, going to school with WASPs and Catholics where I definitely stood apart because of my total lack of athletic prowess and because the kids' parents referred to my father as a sand nigger, I still kept to myself.

There are those who suggest I should have guilty feelings regarding the events of Sept. 11 and the ongoing war. Why? Because I am an Arab-American? I do feel guilt. I feel guilty that the American military is in possession of two of the most atrocious weapons ever to be used in war: the a-bomb and the aerosol bomb. I feel bad that I wasn't at Ground Zero when the buildings fell so that I could be there to help the wounded and find survivors. I feel ashamed that I have to change my name to Ed to avoid being persecuted for something I had nothing to do with. I feel guilty that people lost their jobs while I have one. I feel guilty that I am alive when others had to lose their lives.

Since early October I have been doing volunteer work at City Harvest, the nonprofit organization that delivers food to homeless shelters and more lately for the relief effort at Ground Zero. Not to alleviate guilt, but because it is an organization I believe in.