As I dashed out of school, I knew my mother had already heard the terrifying news. Before school released, my dumb- struck teacher collapsed on the blue carpeted floor. Our class had just found out that two airplanes had crashed into the Twin Towers and they were boarded by dangerous terrorists. As I glanced around me, I noticed everyone staring back at me with fearful and malevolent eyes. “Just my luck”, I thought, “I was born an Afghani Muslim girl, who just entered high school. And of course, Afghani terrorists had to attack and murder thousands.” My name is Aliya Zahed-Zahir, and I am an Afghani Muslim of fourteen years. The only reason people can tell that I am a Muslim is because I wear a burkha and a cloth that covers most of my eyes. The only visible features of my countenance are my eyes; my big hazel eyes. I also wear a long black dress, everyday.

Passing through the shocked and shuddered crowds of New York, I knew that this year would be extremely difficult for me. When I reached my street, I ran up the old broken down steps and entered my miniature apartment room. Just as I entered the small living room, I saw my mother sitting on the worn –out burgundy couch. She looked at me with mournful, intense eyes. I remember these same eyes from the days following the death of my father.
As I entered the room my mom stiffened and asked, “Do you know? Did you find out yet?”

I answered her question by nodding immediately. She had a deep drawn crease on her forehead.

Before she could speak, I uttered a question. “Why did they do that? How could they do that? Why did this happen? What made them do this terrible and disturbing thing?”

My mother looked at me the same way she did the day my father passed and replied, “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

The next morning I woke up to the sound of the hysterical reporters at Ground Zero. Because of the horrifying incident that took place yesterday, school was cancelled. But because it was a Wednesday, my mother and I had to pick up our daily food items. We went to the small Middle Eastern grocery store. All of the people inside the store looked upon us with the similar eyes on ourselves. I ran to my best friend Aisha, and gave her a long meaningful hug. After we had gone to the store, my mother and I had found a reason to go to the memorial site for the towers. As we walked to the site, all the people began to stare again. When we reached the memorial site, I saw a note pasted on the wall. It read: “The American Spirit Cannot Be Broken By Cowards!” I felt the same way, but others began to whisper violently when we read it. Then three tall, muscular men came by and began to curse at us, my mother looked into my eyes, and I knew she meant we should move on past the site. My mother and I walked home because we didn’t want to see anymore loathful things. As we entered our apartment building, we saw that our door was graffitied. It said: “GO BACK HOME, MUSLIM!” For the first time in a long time my mother began to cry uncontrollably. And from that night I knew all would go down hill

The next morning my mother and I decided to go out and see a friend. As we came back from our small trip, I saw a crowd of people standing with beautiful, meaningful signs that were kind, supporting us and telling fellow Americans not to disapprove of us. One man’s sign said: It’s not their fault, don’t blame them! The group of people encouraged us and told us not to worry.

Three years have passed since that incident and I have grown both physically and emotionally. Over those weeks, months, and years, I though that I could never get past the hate and resentment. Some encouraged me, but others still give me that disturbed, annoyed look. During those days, I felt hopeless, unable to carry on. But as that time has past, I know that I can go through any trial or tribulation without faltering.