January 25 saw the first of what is bound to be many confirmations of controversial nominees off the Trump slate; the day also saw a run-of-the-mill excusal of anti-Muslim sentiment, which has become all too common in the wake of 9/11. When 50 senators and the sitting vice president voted to confirm Pete Hegseth as the next Secretary of Defense, they decided that the claims of abuse, sexual assault, and discrimination reported against Hegseth were not enough to deny him one of the highest cabinet positions in the country. However, in this barrage of unsavory allegations, one was forgotten and not addressed by a single senator. This lesser-known assertion against Hegseth comes from a former employee, who claimed he was at a bar in the early morning hours of May 29, 2015, during an official tour in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio and witnessed Hegseth chanting “Kill All Muslims! Kill All Muslims!” while intoxicated. This alleged statement is especially troubling in an era where the American government and military remains deeply involved in Muslim-majority countries, often with high civilian casualties in U.S.-backed conflicts, as evidenced by the fact that at least 408,000 civilians have died directly as a result of the wars in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, Syria, and Yemen. Congress’s apparent dismissal of it further reflects a troubling pattern of anti-Muslim sentiment with serious consequences.
While challenging to pinpoint entirely, modern anti-Muslim sentiment in America is deeply intertwined with anti-Arab attitudes. The frequent conflation of “Muslim” and “Arab” in American discourse—despite their distinct identities—has fueled persistent stereotypes, especially after 9/11, when both groups faced intensified vilification. Many Americans indiscriminately linked Arab identity with Islam and, by extension, terrorism, leading to discriminatory policies, hate crimes, and increased surveillance. This blurring of religious and ethnic identities has reinforced a cycle of bias, where anti-Muslim sentiment fuels anti-Arab rhetoric and vice versa, shaping enduring perceptions and policies. The post-9/11 era, in particular, ushered in heightened suspicion and discrimination against Arab and Middle Eastern Americans. It was here that the modern genesis of anti-Arab attitudes originated with a notable switch in the perception of Arab Americans from a “model minority” to a “problem minority,” as noted by Nadine Naber, Associate Professor of Gender and Women’s Studies at the University of Illinois. In the name of national security, anti-terrorism measures were enacted, leading to widespread surveillance, racial profiling, and the erosion of civil liberties. Arab and Muslim communities bore the brunt of these policies, facing heightened scrutiny and stigmatization.
Today’s political climate has once again made Arab and Muslim communities in America the scapegoats of a war waged thousands of miles away.
However, this was not the first time the U.S. government sought to infringe on the civil liberties of Arab and Muslim Americans; past anti-terrorism policies such as Nixon’s “Operation Boulder” authorized the FBI to harass Arabic-speaking individuals with phone calls and visits without evidence of criminal activity, on the assumption that they might have a relationship with “terrorist activities” in Palestine, according to Naber. These earlier measures laid the foundation for the new wave of anti-Muslim and anti-Arab policies that emerged in the post-9/11 era. The USA Patriot Act of 2001, in particular, institutionalized measures that disproportionately targeted individuals of Arab and Middle Eastern descent, exacerbating existing tensions and fostering an atmosphere of fear and distrust. The Patriot Act marked the onset of a series of alterations to surveillance legislation, facilitating government surveillance of everyday citizens. This expansion encompassed monitoring phone and email communications, gathering financial records, and tracking common individuals’ online activities. Despite persistent associations with counterterrorism, the Patriot Act has long raised concerns about government overreach, with public opinion remaining divided. A 2011 Pew Research Center survey found that 42% of Americans saw it as a necessary tool against terrorism, while 34% viewed it as an excessive threat to civil liberties—similar to previous years. In 2006, opinions were nearly split (39% necessary, 38% excessive), and in 2004, slightly more Americans believed it endangered civil liberties than supported it. Partisan views have also shifted, with Democratic support increasing from 25% in 2006 to 35% in 2011, while Republican backing declined from 65% to 57%. Awareness of the issue has faded over time, dropping from 51% in 2006 to 32% in 2011. These trends underscore the ongoing controversy over the Patriot Act’s expansive surveillance powers and their implications for civil liberties.
While this was not the first instance of racially targeted anti-terrorism measures being used against Arab Americans, these measures were more openly promoted and publicly endorsed, with politicians actively campaigning on the concept. This newfound visibility gave way to a widespread and emboldened Islamophobic movement across America, further normalizing discrimination and intensifying the negative impacts on Arab American communities. President George W. Bush capitalized on this sentiment, using the burgeoning fear of Arab Americans to institute stricter regulations on their travel in the name of national security. He instituted the National Security Entry-Exit Registration System, which, according to the American Civil Liberties Union, “targeted foreign nationals from 25 majority Muslim countries” and tracked their movements at all borders and international airports in America. While this program garnered significant popular support for President Bush, in practice, it was a failure, yielding not a single terrorism conviction over the course of its nine-year implementation. It was this program that served as the blueprint for the Trump administration’s discriminatory travel ban, commonly referred to as the “Muslim Ban.” One inescapable truth remains: from the early 21st century, the Arab American identity has become a targeted symbol of hatred, exploited for political gain at the highest level.
Furthermore, both general and media representation have played a significant role in shaping perceptions of Arab and Middle Eastern Americans throughout history. Mainstream media outlets, as well as early educational materials, have perpetuated stereotypes and tropes, portraying these communities as monolithic and inherently suspicious. According to Nabeel Abraham, an American anthropologist and activist, a late 20th-century study of 43 high school social studies textbooks found Arabs portrayed as “primitive, backward, desert-dwelling, nomadic, war-loving, terroristic, and full of hatred.” It was this education that shaped the minds of the early 21st century, biasing them against Middle Eastern and Arab Americans. Furthermore, as Goleen Samari, a public health professor at the University of Southern California, observed in 2016, polling suggests that Islamophobia will only rise as Middle Eastern tensions grow.
This is illustrated now in the wake of the U.S. response to the October 7th attacks of 2024. The recent escalation in Gaza has reignited a troubling pattern that should be all too familiar to Americans. In the wake of Hamas’s Oct. 7 attack, President Biden was quick to invoke 9/11, calling it “like fifteen 9/11s.” While this comparison may have been intended to express solidarity with Israel, it also signaled the beginning of a now-predictable cycle: swift military retaliation resulting in large-scale civilian casualties, suppression of dissenting voices, and a resurgence of Islamophobia at home.
The politicization of Arab and Muslim identity has profound implications for individuals’ sense of belonging, security and integration into American society.
As in the post-9/11 era, where sweeping policies like the Patriot Act institutionalized the targeting of Muslims under the guise of national security, today’s political climate has once again made Arab and Muslim communities in America the scapegoats of a war waged thousands of miles away. Already, countless reports of FBI visits to mosques and violent attacks against Muslim Americans have surfaced. The most horrifying example came in Illinois just a year ago, where a six-year-old Palestinian Muslim boy, Wadea Al-Fayoume, was brutally murdered by his family’s landlord, who reportedly shouted, “You Muslims must die” before stabbing the child 26 times and attacking his mother, Hanaan Shahin, who barely survived. The pattern is disturbingly clear: just as the fear and suspicion cultivated after 9/11 led to the mass surveillance, harassment, and deportation of Muslim and Arab Americans, today’s political and media discourse — where support for Palestinians is increasingly conflated with support for terrorism — is fostering an environment of hostility and violence. This suppression extends beyond physical attacks; students, journalists, and employees have faced firings, rescinded job offers, and public smears for expressing solidarity with Gaza. Social media platforms have even taken part in the silencing, with documented cases of pro-Palestinian content being shadow-banned or outright removed across X, Instagram, and TikTok.
These parallels to the early 2000s should alarm anyone who lived through them. Yet rather than course-correcting, former President Biden perpetuated the same dehumanizing rhetoric that allowed the War on Terror to spiral into unchecked violence. While cautioning Israel against repeating America’s post-9/11 “mistakes,” he simultaneously reinforced the same binary thinking that made those mistakes possible. His reference to Palestinians as “the other team” and his silence in the face of Israeli military and political officials calling Gazans “human animals” only further strip Palestinians of their humanity — just as post-9/11 fearmongering reduced Muslims to a faceless security threat. America has been here before, and the cost of ignoring these lessons will be borne once again by those who have already suffered under decades of suspicion, surveillance, and state-sanctioned discrimination.
America has been here before, and the cost of ignoring these lessons will be borne once again by those who have already suffered under decades of suspicion, surveillance, and state-sanctioned discrimination.
The politicization of Arab and Muslim identity has profound implications for individuals’ sense of belonging, security, and integration into American society. Discriminatory policies and media portrayals have contributed to feelings of alienation and otherness among these communities. The historical legacy of politicization carries significant policy implications for contemporary policymaking.
And now a man who (allegedly) advocated for the indiscriminate death of my people sits sixth in the line of succession, a stark reminder that the forces of prejudice are not only persistent but deeply embedded within the nation’s highest institutions of power.
Noor Huda ‘27 studies in the College of Arts & Sciences. She can be reached at h.noor@wustl.edu.