Navigating the Firestorm: Polarized Reactions, Political Smears, and the Path Forward
If my last article taught me anything, it’s this: asking people to be moral in a time of genocide is seen as a radical act.
The responses to “From Orientalism to Activism” were a perfect microcosm of the wider world. I heard from dancers, Arab and non-Arab alike, who felt seen and affirmed, who thanked me for giving voice to a conversation they’ve been having in hushed tones. Their gratitude was a balm.
Then came the other side. The defensive, the outraged, the ones who claimed I was “policing” their art. To them, a call for solidarity felt like an attack. If you think being asked to stand against a genocide is someone “telling you what to do,” then the problem isn’t my article—it’s your conscience. You are not being asked to choose a side between two equal opponents; you are being asked to recognize a fundamental truth: one side is the oppressor, the other is the oppressed. Remaining “neutral” in such a dynamic means siding with the powerful.
My perspective didn’t emerge from a vacuum. It was forged over nearly a decade of working intimately within the Arab American community in Detroit and Dearborn. I didn’t learn these lessons from a textbook, but from sharing meals, attending weddings, and collaborating with artists and families who welcomed me in and taught me the truth. They taught me that the core values of their culture are family, generosity, and resilience—values that stand in stark contrast to the racist caricatures now being weaponized against them.
The Privilege of “Neutrality”: Why Your Outrage Reveals Your Comfort
To those of you who are outraged, who feel I am “policing” your art or “telling you what to do,” I need you to understand something: your very reaction is a testament to your privilege. It is the privilege of treating a centuries-old cultural tradition as your personal playground, while the people who birthed that tradition are being buried under rubble.
Let’s be brutally honest.
Your claim that “art should be free from politics” is a luxury afforded only to those whose existence is not political. When a Palestinian artist in Gaza cannot practice her art because she has been killed, your dance is political. When a Lebanese American dancer is afraid to wear a bedlah in public for fear of hate speech, your dance is political. When the very music you move to is produced by labels that fund the occupation, your dance is political. The only thing you are choosing is whether to be politically complicit or politically conscious.
Your insistence on “staying out of it” is not neutrality. It is active alignment with the status quo—a status quo of genocide, cultural erasure, and Islamophobia. It is the ultimate act of selfishness: placing your unexamined aesthetic pleasure above the literal survival of the people who gifted you this art. You want the shimmy without the struggle, the costume without the context, the beauty without the bloodshed. That is not love of the culture; that is cultural extraction. It is the behavior of a consumer, not a custodian.
This is not about controlling your art. This is about asking you to accept the responsibility that comes with borrowing a culture. When you take, you have an obligation to give back. When you perform, you have an obligation to represent with integrity. When you profit, you have an obligation to reinvest in the source community. This is basic ethics.
To feel that this basic request is an unfair imposition is to reveal a stunning level of self-centeredness. It says that your right to a fun hobby is more important than another people’s right to life, dignity, and self-determination. It frames genocide as an inconvenient political opinion that is “ruining the vibe” of your dance class.
So, if you feel controlled by a call for morality, ask yourself: who have you centered in your dance practice all this time? The answer, clearly, is yourself. True artists understand that their work is part of a larger conversation with the world. It seems the only thing you find offensive is being asked to finally listen.
The Dearborn Lie: Unmasking the “Jihad Capital” Smear
Recently, you may have seen vile media headlines and political pundits painting my friends and collaborators in Dearborn as a community of Islamic extremists who hate Christians and Americans. This is a dangerous, manufactured lie, and it must be called out for what it is: Islamophobic propaganda designed to sow division and justify further bigotry.
The truth I have witnessed firsthand is far more beautiful and complex.
First, the very label “Arab” transcends religion. The original Lebanese immigrants who built the foundations of Dearborn’s community were often Maronite Christians dating back to the beginning of the 20th century. The Arab community is a tapestry of faiths: Christian, Muslim, Druze, and secular, bound together not by a single religion, but by a shared culture, language, and heritage. To claim Dearborn is a monolithic “jihadist” enclave is to erase the vibrant Christian Arabs who are pillars of its society.
Second, the Muslim community in Dearborn includes many whose families fled violence and instability in places like Syria and Palestine. They are not refugees of ideology, but refugees of war—wars often fueled by the very Western governments now accusing them of disloyalty. They came seeking safety, just as our own ancestors did.
Most importantly, in Detroit, Muslims and Christians are one Arab family. I have seen churches and mosques collaborate on community feasts. I have watched Christian and Muslim business owners support each other unconditionally. I have seen them come together to mourn lives lost in Gaza, whether those lives were Muslim or Christian. I was there in October 2024 when Lebanon was attacked, and a local Muslim man was killed; everyone was at the mosque mourning him, Muslims and Christians alike. Their solidarity is not a performance for outsiders; it is the daily reality of a community that understands its strength lies in unity.
The Dancer’s Duty in an Age of Misinformation
So, what does this mean for us as artists and dancers? It means our role as cultural ambassadors is more critical than ever. We have a responsibility to:
- Counter the Lies: Use your platform to share the truth about the Arab community. If you’ve not been there, go visit. Talk about its diversity, its resilience, and the profound love at its heart. Correct someone when they repeat a racist trope about Dearborn.
- Reject False Binaries: Do not fall for the “clash of civilizations” narrative. The true conflict is not between Islam and the West, but between justice and oppression, between truth and propaganda.
- Deepen Your Solidarity: It’s easy to post a square on Instagram. It’s harder to show up consistently. Support Arab-owned businesses. Attend community events (as a respectful guest). Donate to relief funds. Let your solidarity be as deep and unwavering as the community bonds I’ve described.
The backlash against my article, and the smears against Dearborn, come from the same source: a fear of a narrative they cannot control. They want us to see Arab people as a problem, a threat, an “other.” But I have been blessed to see them as they are: as family.
And you protect your family. You speak up for them. You stand with them, no matter what.
