Project Rebirth (24 page)

Debbie cringed when she remembered the moment in January of 2003 when two detectives had shown up at her home, unannounced, and told her two boys—in her absence—that they had a few questions. The detectives were especially interested in information regarding anti-American comments their mother had supposedly made. Mohammed tried his best to defend his mother: “We're not that kind of family. My mom would never say anything anti-American. You don't know my mom.”

In a conference call later that evening, one of the detectives explained, “Ma'am, we received an anonymous tip from a woman who had overheard you bragging about a son who went to train in Yemen and is now a National Reservist in the [U.S.] army.”

Debbie kept her cool but didn't hide her indignation. After all, Yousif had not only admitted to them that he had visited his mother's native Yemen in the summer, but he had also identified himself as a proud American who had served in the rescue at Ground Zero.

She responded to the investigators, “We are Yemeni Americans, sir, and my son loves this country, the country he was born and raised in, and wants to serve.”

At first, Yousif had been in support of the Iraq War, feeling that it was the necessary retaliation for the horrible carnage that he witnessed at Ground Zero. But when he sat, hip to hip, with his parents and watched the bombs being dropped on Baghdad, the reality of the violence set in. He came to see that America was creating more destruction, more Ground Zeros for other people's young sons to sort through. He didn't want anyone to see the things that he had seen.

He began educating himself more and more about the terrorist attacks, Al-Qaeda, the Bush administration, and all of the other complex facets of the moment that Americans were facing. Yousif's newfound knowledge made it difficult for him to continue his military commitment, but he ultimately decided to see his time commitment through and be discharged honorably. In the meantime, the reality that he could be deployed to Iraq at any time was paramount in his mind—perhaps part of why he had yet to plant his feet firmly on the ground.

Though Debbie continued to worry about Yousif, even larger opportunities to spread her message of religious pluralism were coming her way. In April of 2005, New Visions for Public Schools, a leading nonprofit in the education reform movement, contacted her to inform her that she had been recommended as the perfect person to head a dual-language Arabic and English school. It would be the first public school of its kind in the nation. “This will be your opportunity to bridge East and West,” the leadership at New Visions told Debbie.

At first, she was a bit skeptical. There was still so much violence, discrimination, and harassment going on toward Middle Easterners in New York and beyond. Getting Arab American Heritage Week had been a feat in and of itself; there was still a lot of opposition to anything that uninformed people associated with the culture of terrorism. Was it really possible to get such a school off the ground and running?

But for all of her skepticism, Debbie had too much excitement about the possibility not to dedicate herself—heart and soul—to this new project. She saw the school as the potential culmination of everything she had worked for in her career and a beautiful expression of her most deeply held values about the importance of education in pursuit of a more peaceful world.

She spent the next two years taking the school from a dream on paper to a bricks-and-mortar reality—a place destined to be filled with bright students, well-trained teachers, and a diversity of learning opportunities. “I've surrounded myself with amazing people who believe in what the school stands for,” she shared excitedly in 2006.

Everything was designed around one central question, the one that Debbie believed could serve as an inoculation against any ignorance that the children might be exposed to: How can I see myself in others?

In her excitement over the upcoming opening of the school, the Kahlil Gibran International Academy, Debbie quoted anthropologist Margaret Mead: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”

But, as Debbie was to learn, a small group could also commit to bring down those efforts.

As far as Debbie knows, the rumors started online the summer before the school was to open. Several bloggers, who categorically opposed the opening of a school that included curriculum on Arabic language and culture, began investigating Debbie's past, determined to smear her and take down the school.

As numerous untrue rumors circulated, Debbie was too busy actually building the school community to pay too much attention. Her request for a public relations director was never fulfilled, so she decided to keep her head down and hope the storms would pass. She had a school to create.

Then came the blow that brought it all crashing down.

The phrase “Intifada NYC” had been printed on a T-shirt sold at a summer festival in Brooklyn's Prospect Park. The offices of the organization selling the T-shirt were located on the same floor as SABA, a Yemeni American association that Debbie had founded along with three neighbors. Ironically, SABA had just won a prestigious Union Square Award in 2006, for which they had been nominated anonymously, to boot, for their grassroots activism and work at building community.

The tenuous connection between Debbie and the T-shirts was exploited in the media to raise public suspicion of her as someone who would use her position as principal of the Arabic-English, dual-language school to proselytize to students, or even worse, promote a violent uprising.

As far as Debbie understands, some of her superiors were at a loss as to how to handle the situation, while others were blindly optimistic that the controversy would die down. The facts showed that the T-shirts had nothing to do with her, and even less with the school, which is why she was strongly encouraged by the Department of Education to give an interview, though her gut told her otherwise.

Debbie recalls how the interviewer asked her what the root meaning of the word “intifada” was, to which she gave a neutral response. She explained that its etymological origin is “shaking off,” although it has taken on more violent connotations recently.

Her full answer, however, did not make it to print. The title of the article was “City Principal is ‘Revolting,' ” giving the public a fearmongering message: It is a danger to the city to have such an out-of-touch principal, who defended such inflammatory T-shirts, educating our children.

Never mind that T-shirts and the sayings printed on them are considered free speech. Never mind that Debbie had nothing to do with the shirts. Never mind that the actual answer she had given the interviewer was a thorough, informed definition of the word. She had failed to condemn “Intifada NYC,” as the public wanted her to, and so she would lose the opportunity to lead the school of her dreams, blood, sweat, and tears. Debbie was forced to resign.

Debbie mourned her school as one might mourn a lost child. It was hard to believe that something that she had worked that hard on could be taken from her so easily. Her only consolation was that the Kahlil Gibran International Academy would go on without her. It would be an institution that would outlast the petty controversies and vitriolic bloggers. It would educate children in the beauty of diverse cultures and, ironically, the value of really hearing and learning from those unlike oneself.

The school did open on September 4, 2007, under a new principal, with only a sixth grade to pilot the school. The Kahlil Gibran International Academy has since relocated to downtown Brooklyn, near the Navy Yard, sharing a space with P.S. 287 and housing 108 students from grades six to eight.

Kahlil Gibran himself, as if anticipating Debbie's difficult journey, wrote hundreds of years ago, “Advance, and never halt, for advancing is perfection. Advance and do not fear the thorns in the path, for they draw only corrupt blood.”

Debbie would continue to advance. In March of 2010, the U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission ruled that she had been pushed out of her leadership position in a discriminatory manner. “It was the most incredible vindication anyone could ask for,” Debbie says. She was glad that the story made print in major media like the
New York Times.
Although this turn of events lent Debbie's argument the needed weight should she decide to sue her employer, she decided not to. She didn't want to endure the emotional toll that a lengthy lawsuit would entail. “I couldn't imagine dealing with another six years of litigation,” she explained. “For what? For money? That was not my intention from the beginning.”

In fact, Debbie is still employed by the Department of Education. She now works as the special education department coordinator at a school in another part of Brooklyn, the Benjamin Banneker Academy, where she has had the opportunity to expand her own horizons and work with a largely African American population, a significant percentage of whom are Muslim.

Debbie would rather focus on the future than the past. She is now pursuing a Ph.D. in urban leadership education at Fordham University. Her expectation is to develop a certification program for teachers of Arabic language and culture so that more schools like Kahlil Gibran can flourish under the aegis of the best minds within the upcoming generation.

To Debbie's great relief, Yousif honored his full commitment to the military without being deployed to war. Civilian life has been a struggle for him, but he is making his way. An engaging stint as an expediter—a liaison between the New York City Department of Buildings and local architects—set him in the right direction. He developed communication and negotiation skills, like his mother, that would help him later secure a job in the hotel industry, like his father. “He is throwing himself into his work—really trying to find himself,” Debbie explains.

One day, as Debbie was walking with Yousif along Battery Park City, near Ground Zero, her son started recounting what it was like down there when he was serving with the National Guard. He described the blanket of dust that covered everything and the buckets they had used to clear it all out. He talked about the other guys, the dark moments, the tender volunteers.