To those who call Detroit home, the City and its surrounding suburbs are so much more than simply the geographical location that we grew up in.  Detroit is like a mother. She has struggled and persevered, yet continued to embrace us; her children. She has shaped our perceptions, formed our character and provided us with resolve and fortitude.  In essence, Detroit is a part of each one of her citizens.

Revered as the automotive capital of the world and the birth place of Motown Records, this American Midwestern city’s contributions to the world in technology and music remain universally unparalleled.  Although she harbors a history of racial conflict and segregation, resulting in scars that remain visible; has been criticized for crime rates that surpass her sister urban metropolises, and now has been confronted with the challenge of surviving a bankruptcy, her spirit continues to thrive.  

Like the phoenix, she finds it within her to rise and push forward.  Like a mother, she gains that strength from her children; the citizens of Detroit.

My loyalty and love for Detroit, as an American of Arab and Muslim decent, can be attributed to, not only what she stands for, but from my history and that of my family, who she is rooted in and whom also is rooted within her.  

My paternal grandfather, Hassan Abbas, journeyed to Detroit in the early 1900s to help build the Detroit-Windsor Tunnel, the second busiest crossing, between the United States and Canada.  When completed in 1930, it was only the third underwater vehicular tunnel constructed in the US.  Although I am certain that my grandfather knew not of the history he would be a part of, I imagine that he was most proud to be a part of such an accomplishment in linking two nations together.

In 1949, my maternal grandfather, Imam Mohamad Jawad Chirri, a prominent and widely respected religious scholar from Lebanon, made his way across the Atlantic, via ship, eventually reaching the Detroit area, to fulfill the summons of the growing Muslim community in and around the City, who were seeking religious guidance in this new land.  It was around this time that Arab immigrants, both Christian and Muslim, were flocking to Detroit to fill the labor demands of the booming auto industry.  In 1965, he founded the first ever Shi’a Islamic center in North America, now known as the Islamic Center of America.  Until his death, in 1994, he strived to grow awareness and understanding of Muslims and to build bridges between them and mainstream American society.  Although not born from her, my grandfather would often refer to himself as Detroit’s adopted son.

As a child, growing up in the suburbs of Detroit, I had my differences with her, like many children do with their mothers.  For years, well into my adolescence, I could not understand why this City always seemed so beaten down.  I resented her.  I did not understand her history, nor did I care to.  Thus, I did not care to be a part of her future.  While she nurtured my growth and provided the foundation for my primary and higher education, I could not wait to rid myself of her.  I felt that if I wanted to do anything substantial in my life, I needed to get as far away from her as possible.  And although she served as the basis for my initial professional success in the world of public relations, I took the first opportunity that was presented to me to leave her.  At the age of 28, I moved to Washington, DC to pursue a career with the federal government.  I was certain that, given the chance to spread my wings and leave her behind, I would achieve my ultimate happiness.  And while DC did provide me with the opportunity to grow and flourish, as a professional, by 30, I found myself longing to be back home, where I was understood and where my heart had remained.

That’s the funny thing about Detroit.  So many of her children long to leave her, and so many of them end up returning, knowing that to lose her completely would be to lose a part of themselves in the process.  I had missed her familiarity and her embrace; for although we had our differences, no one could dare speak ill of her in my presence.

Much of the Arab American community feels the same way about Detroit.  She gave them a home when they had lost theirs.  As they fled political turmoil and war in their homelands, she welcomed them into her arms.  She gave them a new place to call home.  She allowed them the opportunity to restore her many storefronts and help grow her struggling economy.  She nurtured the entrepreneurial spirit of these immigrants, who, in turn, helped heal her broken bones.

Now, as she struggles with her latest challenge, the announcement of a citywide bankruptcy, the world has turned their attention in her direction again, wondering how she could possibly pull through this most recent ailment.  As those outside of her borders look on, waiting to see if she can possibly survive, her citizens continue on.  For the Arab American community, specifically, they have seen much worse than bankruptcy in their homelands.  This is nothing more than a mere bump in her road.  For everyone else, just like all of her ailments before, this too shall pass.  

Life has not stopped on the streets of Detroit.  The City continues to breathe on her own and provide the sustenance that her citizens require.  As cars come off assembly lines and corporations build on her land and music and art are created, she continues to give of herself to the world.

And while, on her surface, she may not appear to be what is considered traditionally beautiful, her beauty is indeed rare.  It is found in the abandoned buildings that tell her story of struggle and survival.  It is found in the eyes of her citizens, who walk down her streets and refuse to leave her side, because they believe that she can continue to endure and, one day, she will rise again.  

For me, it is found in the roads that pave the tunnel that my paternal grandfather helped build, which links her to the outside world; and in the walls of the mosque that my maternal grandfather built, which have provided a sanctuary for those who have lost and found faith again.  

There is a hope in Detroit, which cannot die and that, I dare say, is not as easily found in many other places.  She cannot promise us that the road will be easy, or that things will get better soon, but, like the most loving of mothers, she will continue to keep her arms wrapped around us and will continue to give us a place to call home.