'Those people are not me'

Updated 1453 GMT (2253 HKT) September 10, 2021

(CNN) — Many Muslims in the United States point to September 11, 2001, as the day their relationship with the country changed.
Islamophobia had always existed, but the terrorist attacks in New York, Pennsylvania and Virginia seemingly made it worse -- much worse.
Muslims of all stripes -- citizens, immigrants and refugees -- faced backlash. Many were ostracized and harassed, some physically assaulted and even killed. Charged rhetoric, successive wars and attacks further inflamed the situation.
Feeling condemned for crimes they didn't commit, some Muslims changed their names and clothing to conceal their identities, while others clung even tighter to their faith. A few became outspoken advocates for the community.
Every Muslim in America has a story to tell. Here are some of them.

Ruwa Romman

Ruwa Romman, 28, is a Palestinian American community organizer and policy analyst living in Duluth, Georgia.
When the terrorists attacked, she was 8 years old and had just recently immigrated to the US with her parents. But the dream she had of building a new life in America quickly turned into a nightmare.
Ruwa Romman and her husband Shahzaib Jiwani.
"I remember the hallways and the day seemed darker even though I remember it was sunny outside," Romman told CNN about her experience in school that day. "I don't think I fully understood what was happening since I barely spoke English."
Still, she recalls the long list of insults hurled at her as a child: "terrorist" and "sand n****r." Some even asked if she was related to Osama bin Laden, the al Qaeda mastermind behind the attacks.
Romman says she can't remember a single day in elementary school when the bullying stopped. High school wasn't much better -- with one teacher pulling her out of class to ask if her family belongs to a terrorist group.
Outside of school, a close friend's family banned her from their home because she was Muslim and "dangerous," she said. Airport travel required numerous bag checks -- sometimes three times during a single trip.
The bullying and harassment set Romman on a path to educate and advocate for her community, even at a young age.
"I felt this sense of duty to never respond to every terrible comment made to me and instead try to educate people," Romman said. "Looking back at my younger self, I'm so angry and sad for her. I didn't have to do any of that. I was a kid trying to grow up and figure out my life. All of a sudden I'd become an ambassador for a billion people around the world."
"I remember trying so hard to get people to just see me as a person," she added. "I stubbornly ignored the reality in front of me that my community was being systemically targeted from airports to universities to mosques. It wasn't until I was around 18 that I began to learn about government entrapment, surveillance of students in Muslim Student Associations, and so much more."
In 2016, Romman joined the Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR), the nation's largest Muslim civil rights and advocacy organization, as their communications director. She's since become a community organizer, policy analyst and consultant working on related issues.
Romman says advocating for US Muslims and the issues they face is daunting, but sees hope in every small victory.
"We will continue to be politically engaged and unapologetically so." Romman said. "Muslims are no longer willing to carry that burden. None of us committed 9/11. Why should we carry that burden?"

Qasim Rashid

Qasim Rashid, 39, is a Pakistani American human rights lawyer living in Stafford, Virginia.
He remembers standing with coworkers in front of the office TV watching the World Trade Center collapse. Like the others, he was shocked by the news, but then he overheard a colleague whisper "rag heads" and fear set in.
Qasim Rashid.
"I moved here when I was four, so this was the only home I knew," Rashid told CNN. "I'm American through and through in every sense of the word. But I was 19, Muslim, and I had a beard, and suddenly people couldn't see me as American."
Random police stops became his norm. Racial slurs that once felt so jarring eventually became predictable. And anytime Rashid met someone new, he braced for when they would inevitably bring up 9/11.
"Whether I liked it or not, just by existing I was suddenly representing 1.6 billion