Rooshna Javed, often argues with her daughter over dating. Photo by Mina Sohail

A Desi is how Indians, Bengalis and Pakistanis refer to themselves, but if you were raised in America, it is common to be called an ABCD or American Born Confused Desis.

The belief among many South Asians is that Desis, who were born and raised in the United States, are alienated from their roots and more susceptible to embracing the American way of life.

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Mina Sohail reports from Jackson Heights,Queens

Hoimi Bandyopadhyay, 22, of Bombay, studies filmmaking at the New York Film Academy. She has cousins who were raised in the United States and said they are culturally more active than she is.

“My cousins living here speak Hindi, watch Bollywood movies and celebrate Hindu cultural events,” she said.

Bandyopadhyay feels that addressing someone, as ABCD is a bit derogatory as it implies that one is confused about his or her roots. She prefers to believe that the confusion for those living here is about adopting a certain lifestyle, not about one’s roots.

Strolling down the streets of Jackson Heights, Queens is like walking through a mini South Asia. Indian and Pakistani restaurants dot the streets. The streets signs are in both Hindi and English. Tag Heuer Bollywood stars tote products on billboards. Mannequins in clothing stores are draped in saris.

Sultana Tahrin, a 45-year-old housewife originally from Bangladesh, likes to bring her 10-year-old daughter, Maliha, to the stores that offer traditional jewelry, and shoes so she can foster her daughter’s interest in her native land and lessen the pull of American culture.

“I speak with my daughter in Bengali at home,” Tahrin said. “This way she will grow up in America knowing her native language as well.”

Among these restaurants is a Pakistani eatery where Rooshna Javed, a Pakistani housewife, also works there as a cashier.

Javed, of Woodside, Queens moved to New York 12 years ago. She said she has a 20-year-old daughter who wants to date outside of her culture, which she forbids. In fact, she is not allowed to date at all and would be immediately sent back to Pakistan for an arranged marriage if she disobeys.

“My daughter has made it clear to me that she does not want to marry a Pakistani man,” said Javed. “She feels that a Pakistani man will not be accepting of her western clothing and lifestyle and she will find it difficult to embrace a more conservative culture after having lived in New York for so long.”

Javed feels the threats by her husband and herself have managed to keep her daughter “in control.” They get into many arguments over dating and marriage, but Javed’s husband has made the rules clear, as traditionally done so by the men of the house in a typical Pakistani household.

However, a lot of Desis living in the United States feel more American than their parents would like to think.

Mitch Thakron came to California from India when he was six-years-old and no longer feels much like an Indian. He has embraced the American Way from the food to the clothing, but deep inside there is a place that is still very much connected to India.

“It’s the spiritual part about my culture that I want to internalize,” Thakron said. “I rebelled against it earlier, but I respect it now. I don’t think ABCD (American Born Confused Desis) applies to me. If I am going to be judged by my own people for living here, I don’t care,” he said.

Culturally there exists a vast difference between America and South Asia. In the latter region, advertisements often depict women as cooking, cleaning and serving food to their husbands. “Good housewives” are mostly shown covered from head to toe. Women are rarely shown working in the corporate world.

When Desi children are raised in America, they are exposed to a different, progressive media, and this fuels the perception gap between them and their parents. Anything too “American” is inherently in conflict with something too non Desi.

Ali Nobil Ahmad, teaches modern history at Lahore University of Management Sciences in Pakistan. He has published articles and chapters on gender, sexuality and migrant labour. Nobil said there can be a discrepancy in aspirations between generations of Pakistani or Indian Origin.

“It stems from having a different set of experiences and priorities,” said Nobil, “However, all the evidence is that generational ‘culture clash’ is a bit simplistic and assumes that the parents themselves do not evolve in the new cultural context. Most immigrant parents become more liberal over time, and their expectations are different for their first, second and third offspring.”

Ammar Khalid, 26, is an Anthropology student at Columbia University from Multan, Pakistan. After having interacted with Desis in the US, he feels the term ‘ABCD’ is irrelevant precisely because a Desi subculture exists in America now. He feels there is some truth to the fact that people who grow up in the United States mediate between conflicting values or ideals.

Ammar Khalid, a Pakistani student studying Anthropology at Columbia University. feels the term 'American Born Confused Desis is has become irrelevant. Photo Mina Sohail

“I think this idea that people who grow up here are ‘confused’ comes from the assumption that the West is modern and the East traditional, and thus people living here are exposed to conflicting values which they find difficult to reconcile,” said Khalid.

But Khalid questions how their confusion is different from one’s confusion having lived and grown up in Pakistan. He feels the distinctions between ‘modern’ and ‘traditional,’ are conflicting cultural paradigms that people are caught between.

A similar view is that of Hafsa Rahman, a 27-year-old medical student at St. George’s University in Michigan. She moved to the United States with her parents from Karachi, Pakistan when she was eight years old.

“It is more difficult to understand which culture one belongs to as that is the primary basis of confusion,” said Rahman, “I think Desi kids in general are confused in their teen and adolescent years but as they get older they learn to form their own diaspora by combining aspects of their native and present cultures.”

Rahman said she and her parents grew up in different cultures, but the difference of opinion is not merely because of a cultural gap, but more so the current times and its influences.

Arabic on business awnings and windows are a regular sight on the two-block stretch of Steinway Street, home to many halal meat shops, hookah bars, doctor's offices, traditional Arab clothing shops and more. Photo by Joann Pan

Smoke whirled up from a corner cart, as fresh halal meat was pressed down against hot grates, melding with the sweet aroma of fruit tobacco coming out the open-air hookah bars lining Steinway Street near Astoria Boulevard in Astoria, Queens. Arabic covered business awnings and windows of the ethnic clothing shops, mosque and eateries. This neighborhood is casually known as Little Egypt. Locals know this is where to find the best Middle Eastern food in town.

But these are the same restaurants, cafes, hookah bars and shops the police sought out clues after the 9/11 attacks and continue to be monitored by the NYPD in search of terrorists, according to residents and an investigative report by the Associated Press. They say plainclothes police officers listen to their conversations in cafes, look over community center message boards, and take photos of these businesses.

In multiple press accounts Police Commissioner Ray Kelly has denied allegations of the alleged spy unit, but Muslim advocacy leaders have had enough and are now taking a stand against racial and religious profiling.

“The proof is there, we don’t need to prove anything,” said Linda Sarsour, director of the Arab Americans Association of New York (AAANY) said . “I think that the NYPD is so counterproductive to what they are trying to do because what they are trying to do supposedly is to keep us safe.”

Police would not return requests for comment on this story.

For Sarsour, the targeting of ethnic neighborhoods is a very real intrusion into the lives of Muslim Americans. She said Muslim residents are too paranoid to come out of their homes on a regular basis and take advantage of the social services the AAANY provides.

“People don’t feel free to talk about things anymore,” Sarsour said about Arab Americans, who she said are generally very politically opinionated but now hold back for fear of being thought a terrorist. “People don’t want to share their views. It is creating strife between groups.”

But Fadi Darwich, 26, from Jersey City, N.J., whose family operates a new Lebanese eatery in Astoria, does not feel intimidated by extra surveillance on the Muslim community.

“I don’t think it will affect the business,” Darwich said, of his customers that about half come from the local Muslim community and those who just come solely for the food. “They are targeting the area because there are Muslims. There should be privacy. But I am with the police if they can find something wrong.”

Jessica Zoppolo, 23, an Astoria resident who frequents this area to dine believes that nationality-specific investigations can be harmful to the neighborhood.

“It’s wrong to assume all the businesses on Steinway Street have some relation to terrorism,” she said. “It’s unfortunate when these investigations cause businesses to shut down… for fear of being blamed for something they are not a part of.”

A rally in Foley Square was the first grassroots action of this movement moving forward.

“There was a lot of fear, a lot of controversy,” Sarsour said. “People knew their pictures were going to be taken, they were doing to be in the media, potentially, NYPD looks at those videos and who they are already following.”

This is a step that Muslim New Yorkers must take in their fight to stop racial and religiously profiling, Sarsour said.

Leaders of this movement are currently looking at its legal options as well as initiating education workshops at college campuses, organizing future community action and getting people to talk about these issues through social media.

“One of the things that was missing in the past was we weren’t really, our entire community wasn’t necessarily involved,” Sarsour said. “We want people on social media to talk about it. In hopes, there will be online and petitions circulating.”

The next step for the coalition is to ask the NYPD to set up an oversight commission—an organization completely independent from the police department that can provide objective insight to what is going on and to prevent further damage.

The coalition against the racial and religious targeting of Muslims also wants to amend the training of police officers and the removal of anti-Islamic materials and “entire curriculums based on hate [conveying] Islam as a religion based on violence,” said Sarsour.

In the early morning hours of November 15th, New York City mayor Michael Bloomberg changed the face of Occupy Wall Street forever. Teams of police officers flooded the park, pulling protestors out of tents, sending them scrambling into the black of night, leaving in their wake the remnants of their 33,000-square-foot piece of paradise.

Before that moment Zuccotti was amorphous, a thermometer of the ever-changing scope of the Occupy Wall Street movement. In the early days, when the nights were warm and the company few, Zucotti resembled a mountain valley—a couple hundred protestors – heads resting against the cool, slick granite – dotting the otherwise open space like columbines, enveloped by the towering peaks of the financial district.

But as the movement grew, the park evolved. In true homage to Manhattan, space became a sought after commodity. Mattresses, airbeds and possessions wrapped in blue tarps turned Zuccotti into an ocean of inaccessibility; a stroll in the park was no longer an option. Tents sprang up in erector-set fashion—the domed domiciles, each decorated with the flair of their respective occupiers, made Zuccotti look more refugee camp than urban picnic spot.

One look at the park now and there’s no sniff of a revolution. When the sanitation plows rolled in after the raid of Zuccotti Park, they pushed out a nearly two-month accumulation of personal items: tents and tarps, homemade signs and mattresses, but most importantly, the occupiers. A Friday night at Zuccotti no longer hears the methodical beat of drums, or homegrown acoustic melodies set to lyrics of protestation.

Now the ground is clean, almost too clean for the outdoors; the sheen of granite reflects the sparkle of honey locusts draped in white lights; and the steps, once battered with the words, “All day, all week,” now only hear the laughter of a playful child.

On December 11, members of Immigrant Worker Justice, a working group of Occupy Wall Street, hosted a "teach-in," in order to relate the message of Occupy Wall Street to immigrant communities. Photo by Eric Zerkel

Packed into a conference room in a lower Manhattan office building, members of Occupy Wall Street’s Immigrant Worker Justice Group (IWJ) got to work, trying to set the agenda for how they would tackle a hot button issue that Republicans and Democrats both struggle to answer.

“It’s all about equal rights,” said Donald Anthonyson, 52, of Harlem, a member of IWJ. “When you’re talking about immigrant worker justice, you can’t get justice unless there is some equality. Immigrant Worker Justice is a vehicle to get equal rights.”

Donald Anthonyson, talks about immigrant workers justice with another group member. Photo by Eric Zerkel

“A big issue for me is not having meetings in immigrant communities,” said Mark Kushneir, 26, of Prospect Park Brooklyn who helped form IWJ. “I think getting people who are working 6 and 7 days a week, 14 hours a day to come to these meetings, it’s impossible for them to come.”

The IWJ working group is just one of 118 listed working groups behind Occupy Wall Street. It is comprised of a loose coalition of 20 or so New York City based immigrant and labor rights organizations and offers a chance for Occupy Wall Street to shake its demons and accomplish a specific goal.

With no direct immigrant involvement to drive the direction of the group, meeting topics typically steer towards the specific campaigns of the organizations involved – a prison divestment campaign, a boycott on Domino’s pizza, even solicitations to buy tickets for one organization’s fundraiser. With members throwing around the acronyms of the dozens of immigration and labor rights groups in casual conversation, and “twinkling” – moving fingers up and down, in silent agreement– in a measure of “solidarity” with each other, simply communicating in an IWJ meeting is overwhelming to any newcomer.

“Part of the flaws of this whole thing are that if you’re not part of an organization, NGO, or a solid group of people, it’s difficult to participate,” said Kushneir.

Some group members held out hope that two events, a December 11 teach-in and a planned December 18 march from Foley Square to Zuccotti Park, would shift the focus back onto individual immigrant communities.

But Sunday’s teach-in was little more than a staged coalition networking session. There was little discussion of IWJ, or how it could expand into the immigrant communities so underrepresented within. Instead, 10 immigrant and labor rights organizations took to the podium for eight presentations that stretched nearly four hours; IWJ was “teaching” to the choir.

“Organizations are so incredibly focused on what they are doing that they miss a lot of people and miss ways to bridge gaps between communities where there isn’t necessarily a connection,” said Kusneir.

But some members still believe that IWJ can reach out to individual immigrant communities and fight specific cases, such as deportation.

“The Occupy movement is full of thousands of people who are looking for a fight,” said Danny Katch, 36, of Jackson Heights, Queens. “And there is sort of this rare moment, when you have a lot of people saying, I don’t like how this thing usually works, I want to fight that. “

Katch is a self-proclaimed activist and frequent IWJ attendee, who spends his spare time writing articles for the International Socialist Organization. Katch’s first foray into IWJ actually came on behalf of an immigrant facing deportation, Ahmed Hossain.

When Hossain entered the United States from his native Bangladesh, his lawyer at the time mistakenly filed his application for political asylum under a different name, leading an immigration judge to dismiss his case on grounds of fraud and setting the stage for his potential deportation.

Hossain, of Woodhaven, Queens, has been in the United States for 18 years, embedding himself in the Queens Bangladeshi community, earning his way as a taxicab driver, and eventually building a family. In spite of all of this, Hossain faced a November 8 deportation hearing, with the possibility of leaving behind all that he had built in his nearly two decades in New York City.

As a part of Hossain’s campaign, Katch looked for ways to extend Hossain’s case outside of the Jackson Heights Queens Bangladeshi community, where Katch said Hossain’s case already had gained tremendous support.

“I do think there is a big gap between the Bangladeshi community, where there is a lot of knowledge and support, and the rest of the public, where there is kind of nothing,” Katch said.

He racked his mind for ways to bridge that gap in order to garner a wider array of public support, which he hoped would pressure Immigration and Customs Enforcement, or ICE, to suspend Hossain’s case.

“Ahmed was going to be facing deportation at 26 Federal Plaza which is only 10 blocks north of Zuccotti Park, said Katch. “So I had it in my head, how do we get Occupy Wall Street involved in this case?”

Through the International Socialist Organization, Katch was put into contact with the IWJ, and after acquiring a spot on the group’s agenda, Katch brought Hossain before the working group to plead his case.

Members sprang into action, planning a march on Hossain’s hearing date, offering guidance, legal aide, and most importantly using their immigrant and labor rights’ organizations’ contacts to lobby politicians on his behalf.

But before the group could march and protest in true Occupy Wall Street fashion, ICE issued a one-year deferral of Hossain’s case. And, despite all of IWJ’s involvement in Hossain’s case, Katch remained skeptical of the group’s affect.

“We’ll never know, because ICE doesn’t tell you why they make the decisions they do, but my opinion is that Immigrant Worker Justice and Occupy Wall Street didn’t have that big of an impact, said Katch. “I have a feeling that, the fact that a bunch of politicians, including Senator [Kirsten] Gillibrand, signed on in support probably had the bigger impact.”

Katch said that he usually doesn’t believe lobbying politicians offers a more effective outlet than protestation, and saw a new potential in Occupy Wall Street and Immigrant Worker Justice.

“What’s more important is that it [Ahmed’s case] kind of showed a direction that the Occupy movement could go in,” he said. ”Maybe the Occupy movement could fight deportation, and fight cases that highlight immigrants.”

But in order for that potential to take hold, IWJ will have to take further steps to include direct immigrant involvement, a value that Tsedeye Gebreselassie, 32, of Park Slope, Brooklyn sees great value in.

“Trying to fight through the xenophobia and anti-immigrant hysteria to try to get your message across is really tough,” said Gebreselassie. “And one of the best ways to do it is to have immigrant workers themselves get to the forefront of these campaigns.”

Kushneir echoed Gebreselassie’s sentiments, saying that the movement would have to start with organizations, but that the goal is to move away from that emphasis and into immigrant communities.

“They [organizations] are going to be focused specifically on doing it one way,” said Kushneir. “Whereas if we approach immigrants independently, the potential I think, is really endless.”

Undocumented students from NYSYLC participate in DREAM Graduation Ceremony in Washington, DC. Photo by Juan David Gastolomendo

Guadalupe Gracida crossed the border from Mexico into Arizona on foot. From there, she and her parents drove to New York, spending over two days in an uncomfortably crowded van, crushed in with almost 40 others.

It was a dangerous month-long journey—the family was robbed, and at one point had to hide in a safe house for over two weeks. Gracida was 14.

With hopes of a better life, her family settled in Elmhurst, Queens where she entered school and laid down an impressive track record earning A’s and B’s in her classes.

But when senior year came, the reward of higher education was not around the corner. Though she was accepted to Queensborough Community College, she could not attend. It wasn’t a valid social security number that blocked her from starting school, nor trouble with Immigration Services. Instead, she would not be entering college because her family could not afford the annual $3,600 tuition.

Gracida was partially prepared for the disappointment. “I knew it was going to be hard for me,” she said.

Her story of struggling to fulfill the dream of graduating from college is only one of many. There are approximately 345,000 undocumented students across New York. Some may never hope to sit in a university classroom, but for those that do, tuition is a main barrier.

Recent political moves however, could make it easier for Gracida and others like her to find the funds to realize their higher education ambitions.

The New York State Board of Regents voted on a resolution on November 14th “to support the extension of the state’s Tuition Assistance Program (TAP) to all students, regardless of immigration status,” according to the organization’s website. The decision will set off a process that could result in a new law for the Empire State. It would open taxpayer funds to undocumented students seeking higher education—a group previously barred from eligibility.

If passed, New York would join only two other states in making state aid available to immigrants living in America illegally.

Under the proposed plan, approved applicants could be awarded up to $5,000 per person per year to offset the cost of college—an amount that for many undocumented young adults could make the difference between dreams realized or repealed.

For Gracida, one of the approximately 10,000 undocumented youth who would now qualify for funds to put towards TAP-approved universities, those dreams meant majoring in psychology and taking a minor in history. She hopes to work with kids and teens in schools, to counsel them through what she sees as a troubled time in their lives.

But without the cash to pay for tuition, and college deferred till at least next year, Gracida is going down a path well-worn by undocumented youngsters—looking for low-earning jobs after high school graduation despite the potential for more.

“I’m looking for anything that comes. In this recession, nobody has jobs and with my status, I have no social security number, it is harder for me to find a good job,” she said.

Though it will be difficult to save enough money for tuition while earning low wages, Gracida is undeterred. “I believe at the end, the most important thing is my education. I am going to take the time and the resources. No matter what, I’m going to graduate one day,” she said.

Though students in New York do have a leg up over the college-bound in other states, for undocumented youth like Gracida, tuition remains out of reach. Albany allows illegal immigrants to pay in-state tuition making it significantly more affordable. Queensborough costs a New York resident $3,600 for two full semesters of up to 18 credits. An out-of-stater would pay $5,670 for two semesters of 12 credits each.

But even $3,600 a year is unmanageable when earning under $20,000, the average annual income for Mexican Immigrants according to the Center for Immigration Studies, a conservative, anti-immigration group.

The Education Equity for DREAMers Act, if passed through the New York State legislature, could help Gracida, and students like her, to close the gap and pay for school.

But there is a long legislative road ahead before the plan goes into effect. The resolution for a proposed bill, was passed by the Board of Regents, but the law must now be drafted by that body.

According to Natalia Aristizabal, the Youth Organizer with the immigration group, Make the Road New York, the proposed bill must then be sponsored by state leaders in both the Senate and Assembly and brought to floor of each house.

Aristizabal has been following the proposal closely and says that if everything goes smoothly, it will be introduced in Albany early in the next legislative session—perhaps as soon as January. She says it’s even possible that the bill could be voted on before February.

But opposition for the measure may rear its head. “This is a tough time for a bill like this. There’s not even enough money right now to offset tuition costs for legal, documented New Yorkers,” Republican State Senator Martin Golden said to the New York Daily News.

A version of the bill was voted down by the state legislature last March. But that potential law included big ticket, controversial elements like state drivers’ licenses and access to health care. The new iteration focuses exclusively on financial aid.

Unlike the federal bill that has languished on the Hill since 2001, the state-level law would not seek to blaze a path to citizenship for students, only help them along as they attempt to make the best of living in America without legal documentation.

This is a significant flaw of the measure according to anti-immigration advocates.

“If you say that we should legalize folks, then of course we should offer them the same public services we offer others, but the question here is, how do you justify scholarships to people who are not supposed to be here?” said Steven Camarota, Director of Research at the Center for Immigration Studies based in Washington, D.C..

Camarota said there is an inherent contradiction in the argument that government should help build an educated workforce when the people seeking aid are explicitly barred from holding a job in the United States. He questions the idea that undocumented students graduating from college will even be able to find better-paying work.

“It’s harder to get a job as an accountant or school teacher, a college educated job. There, they tend to check documents,” said Camarota. “It’s much easier to be a hotel maid.”

And, he said, there are opportunity costs. “If you spend money on illegal aliens that’s money you can’t spend on other things.”

Camarota said this could mean sacrificing anything from fixed pot holes to school aid for legal immigrants and native Americans.

He would call someone like Gracida a “compelling anecdote,” someone with a sympathetic story that focuses policymakers on the benefits of this kind of immigration policy.

But for Gracida, who feels like she grew up in America, who came of age in Elmhurst, this policy is not just about her.

“I am another young person who wants to succeed, not just for my family but also for my community,” she said. “There are a lot more DREAMers that they are already graduated, that they are working in many low paid jobs. And they are wasting their potential.”

After performing the lead role in the amateur play “Undocumented”, Sahar Muradi, a 32-year old Afghan-American, darted around a buzzing, auditorium-style classroom at New York University, shaking hands with admirers and hugging friends.

Only a few moments before, this classroom-turned-theater had been packed from wall-to-wall with patrons fixated on her performance. Now, with lingering audience members scraping up the last of the post-production hors d’oeurves, Muradi was focused on trying to sneak out to grab some sushi with a few Afghan-American friends that had come to watch her perform.

Muradi, who moved to the U.S. with her family when she was 3 years old, is part of a burgeoning network of Afghan-American artists who are redefining the stereotype about what it means to be an Afghan woman in the United States.

“It’s really so cool to meet fellow Afghan-American female artists in New York City,” she said after her performance.

Many of those artists and writers are coming together to form the Afghan American Artists and Writers Association (AAAWA), a nascent group that Muradi, who is one of the founding members, describes as a “collective,” filled with authors, poets, musicians and performers, all of Afghan descent.

“The idea is to provide a space where Afghan-American artists can find each other and support each other’s work,” she said. “And from the start, there was this great excitement and solidarity about finding kindred spirits and producing great work.”

Muradi’s involvement in the group comes after a lifelong passion for the arts. She moved to Elmhurst, Queens, with her family in 1982, after her father, who worked in his father’s textile factory in Kabul, spoke out against the Soviet invasion in Afghanistan. The USSR was supporting the communist Afghan government in its fight against the mujahadeen.

“My mom had a friend who was in the secret service, and she saw that my father was blacklisted,” Muradi said. “So he had to flee.”

He got a business visa to enter the U.S., and moved to New York in 1981, where his father and brother were already living. A year later, Muradi, her mother, sister and brother followed.

Once here, she developed an early interest in language, essentially out of necessity.

“I (have) early memories about grammar mistakes, and about being bullied about how I spoke,” she said, noting that no one in her family spoke English upon their arrival to the U.S. “I remember one time I hit my cheek and got blood on my shirt, and I kept saying, ‘My shirt is bleeding!’ (The grammatical mistake) was this traumatic experience for me.”

She learned English by watching Sesame Street and All My Children on the couch with her mother. As she got older, she remembers being mentored by English teachers and immersing herself in books when her mom and dad were working late.

“I was really encouraged in middle school,” she said. By then, her family had moved to Ft. Lauderdale, Fla., where her parents opened a café in an office building.

“I started writing poems in 5th and 6th grade, and it was almost like there was no other calling,” she said. “It was just so apparent that that’s what I needed to do.”

Her parents, who both went to college in Afghanistan, encouraged her to pursue her passions. But not all Afghan women would receive the same treatment, particularly back home.

“In general, in Afghanistan, women who act and sing are considered morally suspect,” said Anand Gopal, an independent journalist who has reported extensively from Afghanistan. “In fact, respectable men and women don’t even do things as basic as going to a movie theater. It’s considered a seedy thing to do.”

Gopal explained that there are large differences in what is considered “acceptable” behavior for women in Afghanistan today, with factors such as age, tribal affiliation, hometown and especially class all playing a role. But he said there was very little chance that Muradi would have been able to pursue her love for the arts growing up.

“She wouldn’t have even survived any of this in the early 90’s,” he said. “The Taliban took tanks and destroyed cinemas to demonstrate that women shouldn’t be involved in cinema.”

In New York, where there are about 6,600 Afghan immigrants, according to a 2005-2009 American Community Survey report from the Census bureau, Gopal said that beliefs among Afghan families might not be as extreme as those of the Taliban, because families who are able move to the U.S. are generally from a higher-class, more educated background.

“The type of women who are able to come here are a very specific slice of Afghan society,” he said.

Naheed Bahram, a case manager at Queens-based community organization Women for Afghan Women, agreed with Gopal, but she said that there are also pockets of families who come from more conservative, uneducated backgrounds. Women in those families often struggle to acclimate to life in New York.

“They’re in a different country, with a different language, and it’s very hard for them (to adjust),” she said.

Muradi, who moved back to New York City after graduating from Hampshire College in Massachusetts in 2002, recognizes her good fortune. She says that had she grown up in Afghanistan, her life “probably would have been very similar” to that of her cousins, who had to flee to Pakistan to receive an education. When they returned to Afghanistan after they had finished school, their school credits weren’t recognized.

But she has taken advantage of the opportunities afforded to her and become an accomplished writer and artist in New York, while also trying to advance the work of fellow female Afghan artists.

She co-edited the book “One Story, Thirty Stories: An Anthology of Contemporary Afghan American Literature,” which was released in November 2010. In October of this year, she helped organize “Afghan Americans: Ten Years Later,” a multimedia exhibit and performance in Long Island City, Queens, reflecting on the 10th anniversary of the American invasion of Afghanistan. And she has been integral in the formation of AAAWA, a group that is slowly coalescing into a more concrete organization.

When she was first introduced to Zohra Saed in 2001, another female Afghan-American writer, she said that she was incredulous.

“All I remember hearing is (Saed saying), ‘I’m a writer,’” she said “And I (thought) ‘Wait, there’s a female Afghan writer? What the hell?’ Suddenly my world multiplied.”

Now, 10 years later, Muradi has found her niche as an artist, and she believes that she and the other members of AAAWA, including Saed, can set an example for other Afghans interested in pursuing the arts.

“I think other young, Afghan women might be afraid of pursuing something because they don’t see examples of it,” she said. “Going into the arts is not common in our community here, even more so among females than males.”

“But I think that’s changing,” she said, citing the work of Khaled Hosseini, author of The Kite Runner, as well as what she calls an increasing number of Afghan-American writers and performers. “And I think it’s important to break stereotypes.”

Lavish signs in all hues of orange, blue, and green adorn Main Street in Flushing, Queens, showcasing homeland favorites like flaky, pan-fried scallion pancakes and luscious pearl milk tea to Chinese movies and books galore. Most of these signs catch the eye not for their colors or designs, but because majority of them are in Chinese.

“It really makes me feel like I’m actually there – in China,” said Rouen, France native Agnes Rousseau, 37, who was visiting New York with her husband and two young daughters. “But it’s extremely overwhelming and a bit intimidating how nearly every sign is structured in the same way with barely any English translations.”

Last August, Councilman Peter Koo urged inspectors with the New York City Department of Consumer Affairs to enforce a state law passed in 1993 that would require Flushing businesses to have at least 60 percent of their signs in English or face a fine if they did not comply. The law was originally enacted during the Depression to safeguard shoppers from scams in underground stores.

“Ultimately, these bills will help local businesses expand their customer base, increase revenues and be more consumer friendly,” said Koo in a press release. “Additionally, our police, firemen and emergency responders will be able to easily locate an establishment and ascertain what type of business they will encounter when they arrive.”

Koo’s chief of staff, James McLelland, said the bill is still being discussed in general counsel.

The proposition has divided much of the Asian population. Some dissenters believe English signs would not only “alienate” Chinese customers, especially those who do not speak English and rely on the signs for guidance, but also force immigrants to assimilate to American customs. On the other hand, supporters of the law feel that implementing English is something necessary that would not only generate more revenue by attracting consumers of more diverse backgrounds, but also seems proper to incorporate the dialect that U.S. citizens are required to know.

Flushing resident Yu Zhou, 52, does not want the signs to change. They help her feel connected to her native language and culture.

“My language and culture is all I have here to remind me of what I left behind,” she said . “I feel like I would be giving up a part of me if all the signs were to change.”

Zhou, who came to New York with her daughter and son from Shanghai nearly 20 years ago, said she felt the law “may have good intentions,” but being immersed into “so much English” in a city supposedly renowned for its diversity is upsetting.

According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, Asian Americans constitute about 12 percent of New York City’s population, with those of Chinese origin making up nearly half that number.

Maylei Zhou, 24, Yu’s daughter, has been frequenting Main Street’s Tai Pan Bakery for her daily morning roast pork bun and hot milk tea before her commute to Hunter College, where she is studying nursing. She said the bakery, which caters to a mostly Chinese community, makes her relive the few memories she has left of her childhood back in Shanghai.

Maylei Zhou (center), a Shanghai native who has been living in Flushing for the past 20 years, shops for fruits outside the Ou Jiang Supermarket on the corner of Main Street and 40th Road in Flushing, Queens on Saturday. Photo by Alexa Mae Asperin

“It’s like my little piece of China,” she said. “It gives me a sense of connection to the things we left back home. But for others, the menu, the language, it may seem a bit overwhelming.”

Zhou referenced the predominantly Chinese-language menu at Tai Pan Bakery, where she pointed out the minute English descriptions under the large Chinese lettering of menu items, adding that for those unfamiliar with the Chinese language, deciphering the menu could very much be a daunting endeavor.

A few blocks down south at the Maxin Bakery, which also has a menu much akin to the one in Tai Pan, Mai Ling Chen, 45, said most of the regular customers were of Chinese descent and that tourists rarely frequented the eatery. She said the law, if enforced, would not welcome new customers, but rather discourage some of their current patrons.

“When most people think of Chinatown, they go to Manhattan, not Flushing,” said Chen, of Bayside, Queens. “Most of the people that come in here are Chinese and other Asian customers buying groceries or baked goods on a daily basis, not as a one-time visit.”

The New York City Department of City Planning’s 2000 Census states there are over 122,000 foreign-born residents in Queens Community District 7, which includes cities such as Flushing, College Point, and Bay Terrace. Of that figure, about 32,000 people are from China. Additionally, nearly 35 percent of that population does not speak English; Chinese is the main language spoken in 27,031 homes.

Gary Luo, 55, owner of a small electronics store nearby, agreed with Chen, noting that most of his customers are fellow Chinese consumers, many from his hometown of Beijing. Luo said most of the people that visit his store come in because “they feel comfortable asking questions about technical things with someone they know will not judge or criticize them if their language is a little off.”

Luo, who came to Flushing 22 years ago with his daughter and son, said he struggled learning English but knew it was necessary for him to start his business. He added that he felt it was important for him to know English so he could teach his children.

“It was scary at first when we first came to America, learning something new, but it’s part of being an American,” Luo said. “I feel as a Chinese-American that you need to embrace the English language but remember your roots also. You don’t need to give it all up.”

However, he added that the law does not take into consideration differences between the Chinese and English languages.

“That up there in Chinese means Red House,” Luo said as he pointed to a fluorescent orange sign surrounded by other multicolored placards. “But that’s actually a real estate office.”

Lin Chun, 31, of Flushing, left Changsha, China for New York five years ago to pursue a law degree. She has come to Maxin Bakery every morning for her usual coffee and egg tart, which she said instantly “teleports me to the corner bakery in Changsha.” She felt it was a “shame” that the battle for English signs in Flushing was garnering opposition because “equality is something that should be present everywhere.”

“I am proud of my heritage, my culture, my language,” Chun said. “You see all of that here, but I’m not only Chinese. I’m Chinese-American. And that means the English language is a part of me now, too. It’s only fitting that everyone should get the best of both worlds.”

After fleeing Peru in 2001 because he was persecuted for being gay, Jair Izquierdo settled in New Jersey, met his future husband, and started a life with him. But that life was brought to an abrupt halt last year when Izquierdo was deported for being in the country illegally.

Izquierdo and his partner, American citizen Richard Dennis of Jersey City, N.J., are one of thousands of binational same-sex couples in the United States that struggle with deportation. They were joined together by a civil union, but Izquierdo was an illegal immigrant, and because immigration law is federal, rather than state, Dennis was unable to sponsor him for citizenship.

“Most people don’t even realize how screwed up it is,” Dennis said of the current immigration law and how it applies to gay couples. “There’s so much subjectivity and fear and misinformation.”

The Defense of Marriage Act

The problem for couples like Dennis and Izquierdo is the Defense of Marriage Act, which ruled in 1996 that marriage is a legal union between a man and a woman. Because of DOMA, the federal government and its agencies, including those responsible for immigration benefits, are prohibited from recognizing same-sex marriages and civil unions.

“It’s very hard to explain to the many people who call us every day because it’s so patently unjust,” said Victoria Neilson, the legal director at Immigration Equality, a national organization that advocates for the rights of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgendered immigrants.

In February, the Obama administration announced that it would no longer continue to defend DOMA in the courts. However, it will be enforced until Congress or the Supreme Court votes to strike it down. In the meantime, the administration claims to be focusing on immigrants with criminal records.

This makes sense, Neilson said, because the backlog of immigration cases in each state would ease up, and many immigrants with clean records and ties to the community would have their cases closed. But whether this theory is being put into practice is a source of contention.

“It doesn’t really seem like the word has reached the field of the actual attorneys and ICE agents who are charged with deciding whether to put people in removal proceedings or not,” Neilson said, referring to the people working for Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE).

Dennis echoes Neilson’s concerns.

“They talk tough about secure communities and weeding out criminals, but I think that they just want to deport as many people as possible,” he said. “So the rhetoric doesn’t match the actions and it doesn’t match reality.”

Fighting for “Traditional” Marriage

Immigration Equality advocates for same-sex marriage so couples like Dennis and Izquierdo can be together. On the other side of the issue are the signers of the Manhattan Declaration, who believe in the traditional marriage view that DOMA reinforces.

Helen Alvare, a professor at the George Mason University School of Law, signed the declaration because she believes that maintaining traditional marriage protects children. She wants the government to consider new reforms that scholars and legislators have come up with that would result in what she calls “equal recognition.”

Then she heard the story of Dennis and Izquierdo. She called their separation “a huge tragedy in their lives,” but was left unconvinced that the laws of marriage should be changed.

“Is this situation really enough to overturn the argument that we really need to make something special of opposite sex unions?” Alvare asked. She said that traditional marriage still needs to be honored above all.

For couples like Dennis and Izquierdo, she suggested going some other way than “the marriage route.”

“Changing marriage as a tool for [immigration benefits] is not enough.”

Other Options

According to the Williams Institute at UCLA, there are an estimated 28,500 binational same-sex couples living in the United States. The options are limited if the foreign partner is in the country illegally, especially if it has been for longer than a year, like it was for Izquierdo.

“If someone’s here with a visa and they overstay, under current immigration law, it’s almost impossible to change from being here illegally to being here legally within the United States,” said Neilson. “And if a person leaves the country to try and legalize their status, if they have been here over a year, they can’t come back for ten years.”

Izquierdo applied for asylum after having been in the country for five years, and was denied. A series of appeals and requests to reopen the case have led to a court sending the decision back to the immigration judge, claiming the reasoning to not reopen were invalid.

Dennis said that they will move to Canada or Europe if Izquierdo cannot come back to the U.S., a common remedy among binational couples.

“We do see a fair amount of couples who end up giving up on the U.S. entirely and starting a new life in Canada,” Neilson said.

Ending DOMA

Since the current Congress has not passed much legislation, Immigration Equality is looking to the Supreme Court to repeal DOMA. Neilson suspects that the earliest this could happen is 2013, so Immigration Equality is pursuing other legislative actions in the meantime.

The Uniting American Families Act is pending, a bill that would amend immigration law to say “permanent partner” where “spouse” exists, so an American can sponsor his or her partner for immigration benefits.

There’s also the Respect for Marriage Act, which would legislatively appeal DOMA. Immigration Equality also encourages its clients to call their political representatives and ask for their help.

“When you work with lesbian and gay immigrant families, you see that it’s not an abstract right,” Neilson said. “It’s a fundamental desire to just be with the person you love. And that’s just such a heart-wrenching situation to talk to someone who finally found the person they want to be with, and they can’t be with them because of this unjust law. It’s got to go.”

Over 100 years ago, Little Italy was a neighborhood spread out for over a dozen blocks, stuffed to the brim with Italian immigrant families who lived and worked there to achieve the American dream. But today its size has shrunk from a heaping plate of spaghetti to a mere forkful. The neighborhood stretches only about four blocks, which are filled with tourist shops and restaurants pushing “the best homemade” cannolis and meatballs around.

What was once a home to thousands of Italian immigrants in New York has become what many call a tourist trap. But though the neighborhood has changed, there are some Italian-Americans who refuse to give up their businesses, homes and the true essence of Little Italy. Many believe that those who remain in the neighborhood are what keep its nostalgia alive.

“Little Italy, ain’t only a place, it’s a mind set,” said Ernest Tramontana, a lifetime Little Italy resident.

Hasia Diner, professor and academic chair of Hebrew and Judiac Studies at NYU, said that Italians immigrants moving out of the neighborhood was a positive thing for them because it meant they were making it.

“Little Italy was really the victim of its own success, in as much as the children and for sure the grandchildren of the people who lived there wanted to live in places with yards, if not the actual suburbs,” Diner said.

Vinny Vella, a 3rd generation Italian-American, sat at the little patio outside La Bella Café, at a marble topped table scattered about with lottery scratch tickets, laughing and joking with friends while watching passersby on Mulberry Street.

“Every week we do this,” he said. “We play and then decide who gets what,” he said pointing at the scratch tickets with a hearty laugh, waving his hand adorned with a gold ring on his pinky and chain on his wrist. On the crisp fall afternoon, Vella was dressed to the nines; his black knee-length peat coat and grey grizzly hair toped off the look.

Vinny Vella, 63, is a 3rd generation Italian-American who's lives in Little Italy. He loves New York and the neighborhood because of the hustle and bustle. Photo by Nicole Guzzardi

Vella, 63, is an actor who has lived in Little Italy most his life, and prefers to keep it that way. Though he said the area has changed dramatically since he was young, he can’t seem to bring himself to leave. For Vella, Little Italy still possesses charm and romance.

“I’m still here because I was born here,” he said. “I live here, I lived her all my life, it’s home, where am I gonna go?”

Between 1810 and 1980, over 5.3 million Italians immigrated to the U.S., many fleeing poverty and overpopulation, with over 2 million between 1900 and 1910, according to census information. Many of these Italians settled in Little Italy neighborhoods all over the country, the most famous being in New York.

“For the Italians of New York, Little Italy became the place to go to,” Diner said. “It came to stand for a symbol of authenticity.”

Historically, Little Italy in Lower Manhattan ran north to Bleecker Street and south to Canal Street. It stretched west to Lafayette and east to Bowery Street. Today, the neighborhood has shrunk to a few blocks on a single street. Businesses were once stretched out among the large neighborhood. Now what’s left of the neighborhood lies mainly on Mulberry Street from Broome to Canal streets.

Meanwhile Chinatown, Little Italy’s touching neighborhood, continues to grow in size and numbers, engulfing areas of Little Italy as Asian immigrants continue to flow into the United States. Stores once owned and run by Italians have been sold to Chinese management.

Diner said Chinese immigration was big in the 1960s and still continues to be today.

Vella has his own theory on why the neighborhood changed. Back in the 1940s and 50s when many Italians immigrated to New York, they bought up a lot of buildings for a little money, he said. But as time went on and rent increased, many were forced to sell, or wanted to take the money and make a new life.

“All of a sudden someone comes around in the 70s and 80s and says they’ll give you two million dollars for the building, and they take they money,” he said. “They neva had that kinda money before.”

Many Italians left Little Italy, moving to other parts of New York, like Staten Island and Long Island, he said.

Vella’s father, Louie, started his own fish market on Mott Street in Little Italy, and ran the business for years before selling. Louie was born in New York, but was taken back to Italy with his parents, who were born in Italy, when he was nine months old. He grew up in Italy and came back to New York at 17. He started working as an ice man, saved money, bought a pushcart to sell fish from and eventually opened his own market.

Louie ran the market 41 years before selling. Vella said his father didn’t sell because he needed the money, but because he had to retire. Louie didn’t want to sell the business to anyone but an Italian, Vella said.

“I said ‘Pa, there’s no Italians gonna buy this store. It’s all Chinese right now, you have no choice,’ ” he said.

Eventually he couldn’t keep it up anymore, Vella said, and his father sold the business to a Chinese family, who still runs the market today.

Over the years Vella has watched the neighborhood change.

“There are more tourists now then there were before. Canal Street was the borderline. There was Italians on one side of the street and Chinese on the other,” Vella said.

While there is no doubt the neighborhood is not the size it once was, others believed it hasn’t really changed all that much.

Tramontana, an Italian-American who was raised and still resides in Little Italy, said there are still plenty of Italians living in the area. Tramontana, 30, is president of Sons of Little Italy in New York, an organization dedicated to promoting tradition and culture. He believes the changes the neighborhood has seen are just a natural part of immigration itself.

“This was a Dutch-Irish neighborhood,” he said. “The Dutch-Irish moved to the outer boroughs; it became an Italian neighborhood, the Italians moved to the outer boroughs. It’s the American way.”

Tramontana himself said he too will eventually move from the neighborhood, because when he has a family, he wants to give them a different life, the yard.

Among the Italians who still own space and run businesses in the neighborhood are Italian-American brothers Frank and Nick Angileri. The Angileri brothers have run La Bella Café on Mulberry Street for 41 years. The brothers were both born in Sicily, Italy, and Franky moved to New York by himself at age 17. A few years later his brother Nick came to live in Little Italy as well.

Frank Angilieri, 68, owns La Bella Ferrera Cafe on Mulberry Street in Little Italy. He was raised in Italy and came to New York at age 17. He opened this business with his brother Nick Angilieri 41 years ago. Photo by Nicole Guzzardi

Franky Angileri, 68, thinks the neighborhood changed partly because the younger generation of Italians went to school, became educated and moved out of the neighborhood for more comfort and space. With fewer Italians, the neighborhood began to change, he said.

“Many years ago, Italian people used to control the neighborhood and make sure no other nationalities came; they wanted to keep it Italian. Unfortunately, those kinda people aren’t around anymore,” Angileri said.

“They sold out,” Tramontana said. “They didn’t sell to their own kind. The Chinese came through with shopping bags full of money.”

Tramontana said that organizations in Little Italy have to step up promotion and public relations to bring the “bridge and tunnel” people back to the neighborhood.

“That’s the future of Little Italy, having your locals come back,” he said.

There is no way of knowing how long Little Italy will withstand the economic challenges and overflow of other neighborhoods, but some Italians will stay to keep its essence alive.

“When they stop making a good lasagna, I’m outta here,” Vella said.

A Protestor and a police officer exchange angry words.

The “people’s mic” in action.

Protestors chant “Everybody Stay” as rain pours down.