We were attacked during what was my first week of 9th grade. I was looking out my classroom window at the Twin Towers with a classmate as we inadvertently witnessed the first plane hit the building. We were in shock. More kids gathered at the windows as a particular silence fell over the group. We eventually moved to a bigger room with more students, but with blinds pulled down. The sound of the second plane hitting the building made the blinds pop.

I don’t remember much else about that day except that the room went quiet in a way I’d never heard a room go quiet before. But I vividly remember what would happen in the days after.

The city’s grief curdled into something else for people who looked like me. Harassment on the streets. Windows broken. Women with their hijabs pulled off on the street. Fathers, brothers, grandfathers were pulled out of homes and businesses across the city and questioned like suspects, not for anything they’d done, but for what mosque they prayed at or what their passport said.

Twenty-five years later, the machine that was built to watch a few of us is watching most of us.

Read More: Common Dreams