NEW YORK, NY — If you wanted to express what you admire most about the United States to two young, Muslim men visiting this country for the summer, what would you say?

Two weeks ago, I found myself outside the New York University dorm I was living in, sitting on a plastic crate and talking late into the night with two affable fruit vendors, Yasin and Royal, as they sipped Dunkin' Donuts coffee. They often work for 15-hours shifts that last until 7 a.m., six days a week, for about $100 a day. Though they earn low wages, Royal attends college in Azerbaijan, and Yasin is a student at one of Turkey's best universities. They came to New York this summer on short-term visas, hoping to improve their English. But they have mastered the names of every variety of fruit—and little else. In Turkey, Yasin told me, vendors often give gifts to their customers as they make small talk. Americans, he said, quietly hand over the money.

Yasin and Royal live far away from my Manhattan dorm, in the cheaper outer boroughs, so they must commute for hours each day. They have never been to Central Park or even to Washington Square, just a few blocks away from Yasin's stand on 14th Street. They have never been to Central Park SummerStage or the Metropolitan Museum of Art, even though they are free. Not surprisingly, in their nocturnal isolation, they feel alienated. New York City is home to every variety of humanity, and at times it seems that everyone is rich, and comfortable in the main stream. A young Muslim man may feel that he is part of a very small minority. The two grocers work night and day, but, unlike many of their customers, do not shop with diverse groups of friends in the trendy Greenwich Village boutiques down the street.

Relations between the sexes, too, pose a problem. Royal told me that it is difficult to watch young men and women walk by on the street, flirting and touching each other with limbs exposed. In Azerbaijan, he said, a woman generally speaks sweetly and softly while looking only at her male partner. Royal feels that in New York he cannot express his opinions about relationships, or about religion more broadly. He believes that his English is bad enough that he could not hope to express the truths contained in the Koran, and encouraged me to read it for myself. Though they attend services at a nearby mosque, Royal and Yasin, working their long hours, do not have the opportunity to pray daily. The young Muslim men feel that many Americans are so hostile to Islam that they would not hesitate to ridicule their faith. Royal told me that he is frustrated because, while he must watch pedestrians flouting Islamic traditions all day, he cannot say to anyone that he believes they should convert to Islam.

Seeking to offer a good word for America, and for Harvard, I asked the two men what they thought about our culturally sensitive policies. Sarkozy might want to ban burqas in France, I said, but in America, women can wear what they want. In recent years, I added, Harvard has constructed a private prayer space for Muslim students, and given Muslim women special hours for working out in the Quadrangle Recreational Athletic Center. My words fell on uncomprehending ears. I was as powerless as Royal to communicate my beliefs. The two friends did not understand what I meant when I spoke of "cosmopolitanism" or "multiculturalism." In the process of trying to talk about protecting traditional Islamic cultural practices, I had mangled their identities. Yasin's female friends in Istanbul do not wear head garb, or need special times to work out. In many ways, Royal is not a traditional Muslim, either. He feels alienated from American materialism, but he wants to study business in the United States for the next four years. And though Yasin and Royal do not approve of many American romantic customs, they are interested in the possibility of relationships with American women. Sometimes, while trying to accommodate what you imagine to be a people's culture, you can lose sight of the people themselves.


Alex M. McLeese ’11, a Crimson news writer, is a history concentrator in Cabot House.