On the morning of September 11, 2001, Sabinah Mohyuddin was focused on the ordinary routines of family life at her home in Clarksville, Tennessee. As a native Tennessean and a mother, her primary task at the start of that Tuesday was simply getting her children dressed and prepared for the school day ahead.
Her husband, a practicing cancer physician, was still resting when the morning’s peace was abruptly shattered. The initial alert came through the bedside radio, which was habitually tuned to National Public Radio. Upon hearing the news of an aircraft colliding with the World Trade Center’s North Tower in New York City, her husband rushed from the bedroom, urging her to turn on the television immediately.
Initially, observers and news anchors were uncertain whether the collision was an accident or a deliberate act of destruction. However, after Mohyuddin returned from dropping her children off at school, any lingering doubt vanished in horror as she watched the second airliner crash into the South Tower. The coordinated attacks would ultimately claim nearly 3,000 lives, sending shockwaves across the globe.
By the following day, investigators and media outlets revealed that the devastating hijackings were orchestrated by al-Qaeda, the extremist network led by Osama bin Laden. Mohyuddin shared in the collective national grief and disbelief, but her experience was also shaped by a personal reality: she is Muslim, belonging to the faith that the perpetrators claimed to represent.
In the immediate aftermath of the tragedy, high-ranking leaders attempted to draw a clear line between the militant extremists and the vast majority of peaceful adherents worldwide. President George W. Bush made public appeals to prevent anti-Muslim prejudice, declaring that the face of terror was not the true faith of Islam. He emphasized that Islam stands for peace, while the hijackers represented evil and war.
Despite those official calls for tolerance and restraint, a palpable anxiety quickly settled over Muslim households across the country. In Clarksville, the reality of potential hostility hit home when Mohyuddin attempted to run a routine errand to the local grocery store the day after the attacks. Her husband intervened, advising her to stay home out of intense concern for her physical safety in public.
Mohyuddin described the realization of the impending backlash as a crushing emotional burden. In the initial hours after the towers fell, she had experienced the tragedy purely as a horrified citizen, only later confronting what the catastrophe would mean for the broader Muslim community and her own personal safety. She recalled that viewing the event with grief before fear was simply human, even if some might have considered it naive.
Fears of retaliatory violence quickly proved warranted across the country. Just four days after the September 11 attacks, on September 15, 2001, Balbir Singh Sodhi, a Sikh man wearing a turban, was shot and killed while planting flowers outside his business in Mesa, Arizona. His killer, Frank Roque, claimed to be a patriot seeking retribution against people of Middle Eastern descent before his arrest and eventual conviction. Roque later died in prison in 2022.
The early post-9/11 appeals for unity and restraint made by federal leadership stand in stark contrast to the modern political environment, where hostility toward the Islamic faith has increasingly surfaced in public rhetoric. Observers have noted that anti-Muslim rhetoric and Islamophobic sentiment frequently surge in conjunction with high-stakes political campaigns and election cycles.
In Tennessee, such rhetoric has emerged directly from prominent elected officials. In March, U.S. Representative Andy Ogles drew widespread criticism after posting a message on social media asserting that Muslims do not belong in American society. The inflammatory statement came despite the fact that Ogles’s congressional district encompasses one of the largest Muslim populations anywhere in the American South.
Ogles subsequently faced political fallout in his reelection bid. In an August primary contest, he was defeated by challenger Charlie Hatcher, marking a rare outcome in Tennessee political history, where only three other sitting U.S. House incumbents had lost primary elections over the preceding century.
Hostile political commentary surrounding the Islamic faith extended to state-level politics as the anniversary of the 2001 attacks approached. Tennessee State Representative Monty Fritts of Kingston posted statements online just one day prior to September 11, alleging that political opponents were weaponizing Islam against the American Republic and using the religion to attack constitutionally endowed rights and liberty.
Fritts, like Ogles, experienced defeat at the ballot box shortly after promoting such rhetoric, having lost his own campaign for the Republican gubernatorial nomination in the August primary election. The recurring nature of such statements highlights how the memory of 9/11 continues to be invoked in political messaging decades later.
Even amid persistent political friction and periodic spikes in Islamophobia, members of Tennessee’s Muslim community continue to focus on civic involvement and community advocacy. Mohyuddin has remained actively engaged in civil society, participating in forums such as the Democracy Summit organized by Organize Tennessee in Nashville, an event dedicated to protecting and strengthening democratic participation statewide.
For Mohyuddin and many other Muslims living in Tennessee, reflecting on the anniversary of September 11 remains a complex and enduring process. More than two decades after the attacks, navigating the dual realities of shared American mourning and the recurring weight of societal prejudice remains a defining aspect of their ongoing journey.
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