Lingering Sectarianism: Musings from a Lebanese American Citizen
Photo by Hibr
As I wondered how to delineate my story with sectarianism, I simply couldn’t decide where to begin. How do you approach a topic bigger than Georgia, and Texas (I’m writing this in the midst of a U.S. election) combined? Which facet of sectarianism do you tackle? Which question do you pose first? How can I convey the gravity of this topic?
It’s impossible to dissect my entire experience with sectarianism, but I hope this sheds some light.
What Exactly Is Sectarianism?
A mere Google search reveals sectarianism is “excessive attachment to a particular sect or party, especially in religion.” Despite growing up in Lebanon, a country defined by its exceptionally corrupt political parties and religious groups, I knew that this definition does not do justice to my multifaceted relationship with sectarianism. Wikipedia ‘hit the nail on the head,’ as it lists ethnic identity, class, and regions for citizens of a country among other forms of sectarianism.
As I reevaluate my Lebanese upbringing and current life in the United States, the vast influences of class and religious sectarianism in both countries stick out like politicians’ lies.
How Was I Exposed?
The Lebanese government brands you from birth. Although my parents did little to teach me about Islam, my Lebanese ID constantly listed Muslim next to religious affiliation, and “Ali” as my first name. Not only was I stuck with a religion I hadn’t chosen, but my first name also showed I came from a Shia family. I was stripped of my free will before I was old enough to pronounce the alphabet. I was going to be prejudged based off a religion I never connected with. Even when I got older, I was not allowed to remove my religious affiliation. What does one label this, if not ‘inherent sectarianism’?
‘Acquired sectarianism’ is a ‘wholly other’ (pun intended) fiend. I was raised in Beirut, the city touted as ‘Paris of the Middle East,’ but my parents were from Yaroun, a tiny village in the south of Lebanon near the Lebanese-Israeli border. I was trapped between two different worlds by default.
While I was attending an Evangelical private school in Loueizeh, Baabda (near Beirut) for twelve years, my relatives in Yaroun never missed an opportunity to indicate that Shia was the true version of Islam, the Quran was more accurate than the Bible, or that I talked and acted like a ‘Beiruti’ (in other words, ‘urban’). It didn’t matter that I had lived in a Shia neighborhood till I was fourteen, where the residents shared their principles, or that my school had several Muslim students. In their opinion, I was living in sin, because I wasn’t going to a Muslim school or mostly engaging with ‘jnoubiyye’ (southerners) in Beirut.
I strongly believe all those judgements were due to insecurity and hurt. The inhabitants of southern villages feel their core values are threatened, and are still reeling from the tragedies of the Civil War. They’re convinced the Shias are an endangered group in Lebanon, and Beirut is the location of the Sabra and Shatila Massacre, a senseless tragedy that claimed the lives of 3,500 Lebanese and Palestinian Shiites. To them, the South is the sole region worthy of their patriotism. In fact, one of my paternal aunts outright said she did not care about Beirut shortly after the August 4th explosion. I guess she missed the verses related to empathy in her holy book.
Prejudice was prevalent in Beirut, too. For one, my Evangelical school was imposing a Christian agenda in multiple ways. To start with, it required students of different religions to attend a mandatory chapel service every morning, in order to sing songs they didn’t necessarily agree with, and listen to teachers or guest Christian advocates preach the Bible.
On a related note, we had weekly Bible classes over the years, and some teachers gave detention to Muslim students who challenged their beliefs under the guise of those students being ‘disruptive’. Where was the discourse? Where was the patience? Why were the classes mandatory?
In addition, I recall the principal not letting a Muslim classmate wear a hijab on school premises. At the time, the following questions came to mind: “Why did he allow her to enroll, given her religion, but was limiting her religious freedom? Why was it acceptable for other Christian students to wear crosses, but she couldn’t wear a headscarf? Was the school promoting acceptance and unity, or dictating Christianity?” Religion in schools is a global issue, but it exacerbates tensions in an extremely sectarian country.
Naturally, my peers were not immune to sectarianism: Christians have tried making me believe that Jesus was the Son of God, Sunnis and Christians have tried recruiting me into their political parties, and countless ones remarked I sounded ‘jnoubi’ (‘rural’). By no definition was I morally exceptional, for I once asked a grade school classmate if he was Christian or Muslim, and I wasn’t practicing any religion! That memory never fails to make me cringe.
What Triggered My Unlearning?
I suppose I’ve always been slowly breaking from sectarianism. First, my parents were my initial role models, not political leaders or religious figures. They put me in a school that would provide me with a great education, not one that would teach me about the religion they knew. Not to mention, their friends came from various backgrounds. Most importantly, they never condoned my extended family’s divisive rhetoric. In our house, morality was the priority.
Furthermore, education builds empathy. My religious school essentially taught English as a second language, knowing we had many American and British teachers, most of our subjects were taught in English, and our English class textbooks were imported from Britain. Though that seems irrelevant, it was key to reading the exact stories as American and British children, learning more about Western culture, meeting people from different countries, and exploring a massive library collection. I went through almost all of Roald Dahl’s work, tried to crack The Hardy Boys mysteries, learned about racial relations through the Noughts & Crosses trilogy, and met more fictional characters of distinct origins.
I’d be remiss for not crediting my eldest sister, who introduced me to Western art and media. Thanks to her, I became spellbound by icons such as Buffy Summers, Disney heroines (not you, Aurora), and most importantly, Mrs. Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter. As I grew up, I had a growing desire to seek art and news beyond Western and Arab culture, and globalization facilitated that.
Am I Free From Sectarianism?
As cliché as it sounds, secularism is a journey, not a destination. Sectarianism accompanied the conception of society. It’s ingrained in humans, and we might never reach a truly secular world in our lifetime.
In the meantime, we can do our best to reduce it. Sectarianism is a combination of biases, and the process of dealing with biases is to acknowledge you have them, learn what they are, expose yourself to the subject(s) of your bias(es), and calling attention to others’ bias(es) while stressing the advantages of unity.
I was fortunate to be born in New York and move there five years ago, as it allowed me to escape Lebanon’s heightened sectarianism. Nevertheless, I am greatly aware that my path to secularism didn’t stop there, since the USA has its own kind of sectarianism. I have seen Arabs and other people of color only interact with ‘their people,’ and disparage other Americans. On the other hand, I have noticed how uneducated and biased Americans can be about international news and foreign cultures. In the digital age, a Google search goes a long way, and I am tired of hearing excuses. In 2020, I should not have to hear ‘Your English is so good!” or “I want to visit Lebanon! Is it safe to go?” Not to forget, Lebanon is known more for its delicious cuisine, but it’s not the first thing I want people to mention when I share my nationality.
Assimilation is our lifeline. To create a peaceful future, we cannot see ourselves as superior to others. Instead, we must study their traditions and histories. We need to develop meaningful connections with people who don’t look like us, or we’ll always be divided. This message has not been clearer than in the Trump presidency, four years riddled with sexism, white supremacy, islamophobia, racism (especially against the Latinx and Black communities), and what seemed like endless toxicity. We voted him out, but the work is far from over. Once we admit that sectarianism is another global pandemic, and that breaking it is not a straightforward path, we will be on our way to reaching the nonviolent, accepting future preached by artists and activists.