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| Donations to Muslim charities drop amid anti-terro |
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| jannah |
| 09/25/03 at 16:07:00 |
| Donations to Muslim charities drop amid anti-terror fears Tom Tingle/The Arizona Republic ASU students (from left) Nure Elatari, 22, and Sumaya Abdul-Quadir, 19, recently visit Tempe's Islamic Cultural Center. Peter Ortiz The Arizona Republic Sept. 23, 2003 12:00 AM Zarinah Awad watches every day as fear erodes her charitable network of donors and uproots a tradition of giving considered a sacred duty for Muslims. Two years after the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks spawned vicious stares, verbal jabs, physical attacks and terrorist accusations from a few non-Muslims, Awad sees a disturbing trend within the Valley's Muslim community: Muslims are no longer giving to mosques and Muslim charities for fear their donations will be traced and they will be targeted in an anti-terrorism campaign. Where to contribute • Islamic charitable causes in Arizona "There is a concern that if they give money, is it going to be connected with some al-Qaida cell or they are going to be investigated because of that," Awad said. "They fear in some way they will be connected to something." From her central Phoenix house Awad hears from Muslim families in need of emergency food boxes or financial help and then calls upon a local mosque or friends willing to help. In the Muslim faith, this charitable spirit is known as Zakat, or the purification of wealth, and is one of the religion's five pillars. The fear has real consequences for mosques, considered important religious and social centers with a primary mission of helping struggling families. It also is creating a rift in the Valley Muslim community, estimated at 50,000, who are not accustomed to voicing personal concerns to their non-Muslim neighbors. Muslim students and leaders say the frustration of watching friends questioned and detained by Arizona's Joint Terrorism Task Force is compounded by the inability of their mosques to help families. Some American and foreign Muslims have spoken out in spite of suggestions from friends and family to keep a low profile. Deedra Abboud, director of the Council on American Islamic Relations in Arizona, blames the government for creating an environment of fear. The 32-year-old Arkansas native, who converted to Islam in 1998, worries about her community unraveling and says Muslims and mosque leaders need to be more aggressive in fulfilling their obligation to those less fortunate despite the fear. "We will be targeted for a very long time and we need to deal with that," Abboud said. "We don't air dirty laundry, but we feel we are leaving people behind and allowing them to be hurt when it should not be happening." Awad can no longer depend on the mosques to help her serve families or to help her fund a food bank she hopes to start in Phoenix. Her idea for a food bank started when she noticed fewer donors returning her calls for help. Awad, an African-American Muslim convert, helps Muslims who range from Iraqi refugees to White American converts. She has recently heard from upper-middle-class Muslim immigrants from Pakistan and Bangladesh requesting help after losing their jobs. "I mean these are families who are engineers and doctors, who have good positions in the community," Awad said. "Barely ever did I get those families . . . but lately, they have been coming." Ahmad Al-Akoum, 41, chairman of the Islamic Cultural Center in Tempe, said his mosque is doing its best with fewer resources. He estimates a 25 percent drop in donations since January 2002 and says many avoid writing checks for concern their names and addresses will invite scrutiny. The center draws 750 to 800 worshipers for noon service on Fridays, easily overflowing the second-floor mosque. Like the Valley's eight other mosques, there is a special account designated for families in need. Help in the form of food and gas vouchers is given to families, including wives whose husbands are in a detention facility in Florence. The center also sends checks directly to utility companies to avoid suspicion about humanitarian efforts. But even with these careful measures, it is hard for the center to pay its own bills sometimes. "Some of the accounts specifically dedicated to help the needy are depleted," Al-Akoum said. "We are seeing that people are being reluctant to help because of the fear." Another religious leader and major fund-raiser in the Muslim community, Omar Shahin, also has seen a huge decline in donations. "Before 9/11, it was easy for fund-raisers to encourage people to collect $15,000 in 15 minutes during Friday services," Shahin said. "Now we can barely get $5,000." At past fund-raising dinners Shahin could rely on donors giving anywhere from $350,000 to $400,000. But during a dinner two weeks ago for a school he collected about $100,000. He estimates donations at Valley mosques have decreased about 30 percent. Both Abboud and Al-Akoum credit the FBI for its outreach efforts after the attacks in 2001 and say they still maintain regular contact with the agency. But both are hearing more complaints about a few aggressive agents. "They are afraid if they do anything their name is going to get on an FBI list, even if they have nothing to hide, they feel every little thing can get them in trouble," Abboud said. Susan Herskovits, a spokeswoman for the FBI's Phoenix division, said her agency meets regularly with Abboud and other Muslims to foster good relations. She said if there is a problem with a particular agent, that agent should be reported. She suggested some Muslims could be wary of legitimate investigation and questioning by FBI agents due to bad experiences from authorities in their home country. "Just like you would in any other case, you don't get investigated for your association with people necessarily," Herskovits said. "For us to investigate someone we have to have something concrete that leads us to think it is worthy of an investigation." Muhammed Zubair, 40, a member of the Tempe Human Relations Commission, said it is more difficult to get educated and respected Muslims to volunteer or serve on boards where before Sept. 11 people were being turned away. "I know a medical doctor and we wanted him to serve as a volunteer for the Islamic Center in Tempe, but he is reluctant to do that because he doesn't want to take the liability," Zubair said. Arizona State University students Nazeef Ebrahim, Yaser Alamoodi and Nure Elatari have watched other students retreat from social functions involving their Muslim Student Association. International students especially are afraid of jeopardizing their student visas by speaking out or associating with other Muslims. Ebrahim and Elatari are Arizona natives. "It is like you essentially lost a part of your community," Ebrahim, 24, said. Elatari, 22, said students are afraid to attend rallies or fund-raising events. The terrorist attacks did encourage some students like her to become more politically active on campus. Despite being born and raised in Arizona, her parents, both Palestinian, express concern for her safety. "I personally don't feel it, but I know people around me feel it," Elatari said. "My family is fearful for me." Alamoodi, 26, said the shock and fallout of Sept. 11 encouraged him to switch his major from economics to political science. An Arab-Muslim born in Saudi Arabia, Alamoodi came to Arizona in 1996 and grew frustrated at how Arabs and Muslims were treated because of a few terrorists. "We need to do our part," Alamoodi said. "We cannot just be passive observers to what has happened to us after 9/11." |
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