Political signs vs. clutter control
Wheeling sign rule draws fire from resident
Originally published Monday, Dec. 17, 2007
By Nadia Malik
Daily Herald Staff Writer
For Wheeling, it's about controlling clutter, but for Chris Shefner, it's a matter of retaining his constitutional rights.
Shefner, a Wheeling resident, said he plans to fight a $25 citation he received for having two signs supporting presidential candidate Ron Paul in his front yard. Such signs have been a common manifestation of Paul's grassroots organizing effort.
Wheeling ordinances don't allow any political signs out on private property more than 30 days before an election. Residents also only can have one sign up per candidate.
"It's for aesthetic purposes mainly, to prevent accumulation of too many signs," said James Ferolo, attorney for the village of Wheeling.
It's an issue that has inspired controversy in other suburbs over the years, and at least one has backed away from such an ordinance.
A couple of years ago, Wheeling looked at extending the 30-day limit to 90 days, but trustees ultimately decided the policy was fine as is.
Mark Johnson, who is with the community development department in Wheeling, said the village received a complaint about Shefner's signs.
He said the protocol is to send several warnings to residents who violate the village ordinance and then hand out a citation.
Before this case came up, "we've never had anyone not comply," he said.
Shefner, however, says it's his property, and he should be allowed to have signs up in his yard whenever he wants.
"There's absolutely no reason for this kind of law to be around," he said. "It's my personal property; I should be able to put whatever I want in the yard."
The American Civil Liberties Union agrees with Shefner.
"We're always concerned when there are efforts to limit the capacity and ability of people to engage in free speech," said Ed Yohnka, spokesman for the Illinois chapter of the ACLU.
Adam Schwartz, senior attorney for the ACLU of Illinois, said he's sent a letter to Wheeling informing it of the organization's view.
He said presidential campaigns don't start a month before the election, so it's not realistic to create an arbitrary limit to signage.
"If this was a sign that said, 'Lower my taxes' or 'Support the troops,' it doesn't matter," Schwartz said. "People should be allowed to engage in basic First Amendment political speech."
Just last month, Buffalo Grove, Wheeling's next-door neighbor, changed its sign ordinance to drop a 30-day time limit because a candidate brought up the issue during the 2006 elections.
Buffalo Grove Village Attorney Bill Raysa said at the Nov. 19 board meeting that there have been several cases statewide regarding freedom of speech and election signs.
While the constitutionality of such laws isn't clear, Raysa said the 30-day time limit could come under scrutiny, and he recommended removing it to stay on the safe side. In a memo sent to the village board when the issue was under discussion, Raysa wrote:
"Although the Supreme Court has not considered the issue, the overwhelming majority of courts that have reviewed sign ordinances imposing durational time limits for temporary political signs tied to a specific election date have found them to be unconstitutional."
Other towns have had their share of political sign flaps.
Most recently, Hawthorn Woods was challenged for its rules, which require candidates to submit names and addresses of all political sign locations. That issue is still being resolved, although a tentative oral agreement could mean the ordinance won't be enforced.
A proposal in Algonquin to impose a limit of only one candidate sign per lawn failed earlier this year.
Ferolo, the Wheeling village attorney, said now that the issue has come up, he'll recommend the village board take another look at its ordinance.
However, that doesn't necessarily mean anything will change.
"Aesthetic purposes have been upheld in court, so long as you let people get their message across," Ferolo said. "Most villages have felt that with the 30-day limitation, you were still doing that while at the same time preventing too many signs accumulating."
Interim Wheeling Village President Judy Abruscato said political signs have been getting out of control in the village, and she thinks 30 days is more than enough time to show support for a candidate.
However, she said if it's brought up, she's willing to give the issue a second look.
"We're always here to help residents so that people don't feel that their rights are violated," she said.
Shefner said he plans on fighting the ordinance. He hasn't paid the fine, but he also hasn't received a court date from Wheeling yet.
He said that besides contacting the ACLU, he is looking for an attorney who can represent him if Wheeling doesn't overturn its ordinance.
"This is political; this is very important to people like me," he said.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Teen sues Dist. 214 over new silence law
Teen sues Dist. 214 over new silence law
Originally published Saturday, Oct. 27, 2007
By Nadia Malik
Daily Herald Staff Writer
Acting on a promise made earlier this month, 14-year-old Dawn Sherman on Friday filed a lawsuit against Northwest Suburban Township High School District 214 to fight the state-mandated moment of silence.
The district is planning to implement the law on Tuesday during morning announcements. The suit is believed to be the first seeking to overturn the new law.
Sherman's father, Rob, said they will be seeking an injunction Monday to prevent that from happening. The lawsuit was filed through Rob -- an atheist activist -- since Dawn is a minor.
He said the law violates the separation of church and state because it requires a moment of reflection on a daily basis.
"People shouldn't be stopping my education for prayer that they could be doing any time in the 18 hours they have the rest of the day," Dawn said.
Although the law doesn't require children to pray, Sherman said the name -- Silent Reflection and Student Prayer Act -- indicates that intent.
"The legislature does not have the authority nor the right in the constitution to promote religion in the public schools," said Gregory Kulis, Sherman's attorney. "It is clear by reading the act and the legislative history, the legislature is promoting religion."
Venetia Miles, spokeswoman for District 214, said she hasn't seen the lawsuit and can't comment on it.
However, she said the district will continue with the moment of silence unless otherwise ordered because it has a responsibility to obey state law.
Joseph Conn, a spokesman for Americans United, a group focused on separation of church and state, said the law seems to be a backdoor attempt to bring government-sponsored prayer into school.
"Teachers have the authority already to call for a moment of silence," he said. "When the legislature starts meddling in something like this, it's obvious they're doing it to appeal to voters."
However, he said it's up to the courts to decide where to draw the line on prayer and a moment of silence. Because the law gives prayer as only one option during the moment of silence, Conn said it's a little more complicated.
"It's hard to say where (the courts) will come down on this," Conn said.
State Rep. Fred Crespo, a Hoffman Estates Democrat, said when he sponsored the bill in the House, he never intended prayer to become an issue.
"If I for a second thought that the intent of the bill was to introduce prayers into public schools, I would not have sponsored the bill," he said. "It's definitely very clear that there has to be a line between church and state."
Crespo said the law doesn't give teachers a license to instill their beliefs into students. Instead, he said it's a chance to take a moment to pause in the midst of a busy day and reflect.
"I don't understand the merits of the lawsuit," he said. "Again, this is not asking (students) to pray."
Besides naming District 214 board members and Superintendent David Schuler, the lawsuit filed in federal court also names Patrice Johannes, principal at Buffalo Grove High School, which Dawn attends, Dawn's third-period teacher, Binh Huynh -- who would oversee the moment of silence -- and Gov. Rod Blagojevich.
Blagojevich vetoed the bill but was overridden by the state House and Senate. Sherman said the governor is cited because he is responsible for enforcing state law.
If the judge doesn't agree to an injunction, Dawn said she would just sit at her desk and study for that moment. She's hoping, though, that eventually the law will be taken off the books statewide.
Originally published Saturday, Oct. 27, 2007
By Nadia Malik
Daily Herald Staff Writer
Acting on a promise made earlier this month, 14-year-old Dawn Sherman on Friday filed a lawsuit against Northwest Suburban Township High School District 214 to fight the state-mandated moment of silence.
The district is planning to implement the law on Tuesday during morning announcements. The suit is believed to be the first seeking to overturn the new law.
Sherman's father, Rob, said they will be seeking an injunction Monday to prevent that from happening. The lawsuit was filed through Rob -- an atheist activist -- since Dawn is a minor.
He said the law violates the separation of church and state because it requires a moment of reflection on a daily basis.
"People shouldn't be stopping my education for prayer that they could be doing any time in the 18 hours they have the rest of the day," Dawn said.
Although the law doesn't require children to pray, Sherman said the name -- Silent Reflection and Student Prayer Act -- indicates that intent.
"The legislature does not have the authority nor the right in the constitution to promote religion in the public schools," said Gregory Kulis, Sherman's attorney. "It is clear by reading the act and the legislative history, the legislature is promoting religion."
Venetia Miles, spokeswoman for District 214, said she hasn't seen the lawsuit and can't comment on it.
However, she said the district will continue with the moment of silence unless otherwise ordered because it has a responsibility to obey state law.
Joseph Conn, a spokesman for Americans United, a group focused on separation of church and state, said the law seems to be a backdoor attempt to bring government-sponsored prayer into school.
"Teachers have the authority already to call for a moment of silence," he said. "When the legislature starts meddling in something like this, it's obvious they're doing it to appeal to voters."
However, he said it's up to the courts to decide where to draw the line on prayer and a moment of silence. Because the law gives prayer as only one option during the moment of silence, Conn said it's a little more complicated.
"It's hard to say where (the courts) will come down on this," Conn said.
State Rep. Fred Crespo, a Hoffman Estates Democrat, said when he sponsored the bill in the House, he never intended prayer to become an issue.
"If I for a second thought that the intent of the bill was to introduce prayers into public schools, I would not have sponsored the bill," he said. "It's definitely very clear that there has to be a line between church and state."
Crespo said the law doesn't give teachers a license to instill their beliefs into students. Instead, he said it's a chance to take a moment to pause in the midst of a busy day and reflect.
"I don't understand the merits of the lawsuit," he said. "Again, this is not asking (students) to pray."
Besides naming District 214 board members and Superintendent David Schuler, the lawsuit filed in federal court also names Patrice Johannes, principal at Buffalo Grove High School, which Dawn attends, Dawn's third-period teacher, Binh Huynh -- who would oversee the moment of silence -- and Gov. Rod Blagojevich.
Blagojevich vetoed the bill but was overridden by the state House and Senate. Sherman said the governor is cited because he is responsible for enforcing state law.
If the judge doesn't agree to an injunction, Dawn said she would just sit at her desk and study for that moment. She's hoping, though, that eventually the law will be taken off the books statewide.
Towns point fingers over airport
Towns point fingers over airport
Originally published Wednesday, Dec. 12, 2007
By Nadia Malik
Daily Herald Staff Writer
Wheeling Village Manager Mark Rooney, attacked by Prospect Heights officials last week, responded Monday by raising questions about hidden appraisals in a land deal that benefited Prospect Heights.
The Prospect Heights City Council sent a letter to Wheeling last week saying Rooney improperly pushed for a Wheeling fire station at Chicago Executive Airport, co-owned by both towns.
At Monday's village board meeting, Rooney -- who denies the accusations made in the letter -- said the issue stems from a meeting Nov. 28 between some officials from both towns.
At that gathering, Rooney said he wanted to ask Prospect Heights about appraisals for airport land that were never presented to the Federal Aviation Administration and Wheeling.
Last year, both Wheeling and Prospect Heights agreed to have the airport purchase 14 acres of land as a runway protection zone to buffer the airport's neighboring residents. An FAA grant made the deal possible.
Rooney said appraisals valued that property at between $10 million and $10.75 million. That report, from July 27, 2006, was given to the airport board and the FAA.
However, previous appraisals conducted on March 10, 2006 -- where the land was valued at $6.5 million -- and on May 16, 2006 -- where the property was given a $5.9 million value -- were never passed along.
Prospect Heights benefited from the higher price, since that land originally was part of a 28-acre tax-increment financing district created to bring an arena to the city. The arena plan fell through, and Prospect Heights was left with debt from the district.
Rooney recently discovered the discrepancy and said he wanted to give Prospect Heights officials a chance to explain.
"I was worried about the village of Wheeling's reputation," Rooney said. "We wanted to stay on good standing with the FAA."
Rooney said he was also worried about relations with the Illinois Department of Transportation, which plays a role in any acquisition of airport property.
"IDOT funds a great number of projects in Wheeling," he said. "We did not want to be held accountable by IDOT for the actions of Prospect Heights, which we knew nothing about."
Prospect Heights never responded to his question, Rooney said; instead, they sent the letter to Wheeling calling Rooney's conduct into question.
Pat Ludvigsen, acting Prospect Heights mayor, said the appraisals were done by the airport, so the city isn't involved in the issue.
"This had been reviewed by the FAA, so I have to make the assumption that everything was fine," he said. "This has been reviewed by so many people already; this is just an attempt by (Rooney) to smear somebody."
The Prospect Heights letter said Rooney threatened airport manager Dennis Rouleau's job if he didn't help push the fire station project.
Rooney said he's never threatened Rouleau's job and that the fire station proposal -- which Prospect Heights was well aware of -- is no longer on the table.
Rouleau said he didn't want to comment on the Prospect Heights letter and Wheeling officials said they wouldn't discuss personnel matters in open session.
"The only thing I will say is that I've had an outstanding career here at Chicago Executive," Rouleau said. "I've always been … professional in conducting my job, and I will continue to do so."
Originally published Wednesday, Dec. 12, 2007
By Nadia Malik
Daily Herald Staff Writer
Wheeling Village Manager Mark Rooney, attacked by Prospect Heights officials last week, responded Monday by raising questions about hidden appraisals in a land deal that benefited Prospect Heights.
The Prospect Heights City Council sent a letter to Wheeling last week saying Rooney improperly pushed for a Wheeling fire station at Chicago Executive Airport, co-owned by both towns.
At Monday's village board meeting, Rooney -- who denies the accusations made in the letter -- said the issue stems from a meeting Nov. 28 between some officials from both towns.
At that gathering, Rooney said he wanted to ask Prospect Heights about appraisals for airport land that were never presented to the Federal Aviation Administration and Wheeling.
Last year, both Wheeling and Prospect Heights agreed to have the airport purchase 14 acres of land as a runway protection zone to buffer the airport's neighboring residents. An FAA grant made the deal possible.
Rooney said appraisals valued that property at between $10 million and $10.75 million. That report, from July 27, 2006, was given to the airport board and the FAA.
However, previous appraisals conducted on March 10, 2006 -- where the land was valued at $6.5 million -- and on May 16, 2006 -- where the property was given a $5.9 million value -- were never passed along.
Prospect Heights benefited from the higher price, since that land originally was part of a 28-acre tax-increment financing district created to bring an arena to the city. The arena plan fell through, and Prospect Heights was left with debt from the district.
Rooney recently discovered the discrepancy and said he wanted to give Prospect Heights officials a chance to explain.
"I was worried about the village of Wheeling's reputation," Rooney said. "We wanted to stay on good standing with the FAA."
Rooney said he was also worried about relations with the Illinois Department of Transportation, which plays a role in any acquisition of airport property.
"IDOT funds a great number of projects in Wheeling," he said. "We did not want to be held accountable by IDOT for the actions of Prospect Heights, which we knew nothing about."
Prospect Heights never responded to his question, Rooney said; instead, they sent the letter to Wheeling calling Rooney's conduct into question.
Pat Ludvigsen, acting Prospect Heights mayor, said the appraisals were done by the airport, so the city isn't involved in the issue.
"This had been reviewed by the FAA, so I have to make the assumption that everything was fine," he said. "This has been reviewed by so many people already; this is just an attempt by (Rooney) to smear somebody."
The Prospect Heights letter said Rooney threatened airport manager Dennis Rouleau's job if he didn't help push the fire station project.
Rooney said he's never threatened Rouleau's job and that the fire station proposal -- which Prospect Heights was well aware of -- is no longer on the table.
Rouleau said he didn't want to comment on the Prospect Heights letter and Wheeling officials said they wouldn't discuss personnel matters in open session.
"The only thing I will say is that I've had an outstanding career here at Chicago Executive," Rouleau said. "I've always been … professional in conducting my job, and I will continue to do so."
Airport board finds old conflicts die hard
Airport board finds old conflicts die hard
Originally published Saturday, Oct. 18, 2007
By Nadia Malik
Daily Herald Staff Writer
Through talks of turning over a new leaf, the Chicago Executive Airport board on Wednesday still had the vestiges of past conflicts pop up.
Board members of the Wheeling-based airport, formerly known as Palwaukee, questioned its engineering firm on what information was passed along to a consultant.
The consultant, Airport Corp. of America, has caused problems on the board in past months. Several directors have questioned why John Kennedy, with that company, was hired and what work he had been doing.
Brian Welker, with Crawford, Murphy and Tilly, Inc., the airport's engineering firm, said Kennedy was concentrating on land acquisition and noise regulations.
However, board members said they still don't have a full idea of why he was hired by the board's former chair, Kevin Dohm.
Dohm recently resigned from the board after several members took up the question of how the consultant was hired without their approval.
The board's vice chairman, L. James Wylie, also resigned a few weeks after Dohm.
Welker said the consultant situation "put us in an extremely awkward position" since the board as a whole wasn't and still isn't aware of what Kennedy was doing.
The board also changed to whom the airport's manager reports. Previously, the airport's bylaws had the manager reporting only to the chair, but he will now report to the whole board.
The group also had the responsibility of electing a new vice chairman after Wylie's departure. Secretary Ralph Shepstone will take over for the next few meetings; however, he said he wasn't interested in keeping the job permanently.
Darlene Ahlstedt also joined the board for her first meeting since the Prospect Heights city council confirmed her appointment Monday.
Ahlstedt was chosen by the city to take Wylie's open seat; both Wheeling and Prospect Heights co-own the airport and choose two members each to appoint.
The chairman position is chosen by both the Wheeling village president and the Prospect Heights mayor. Both are still discussing who to appoint as the chair.
The remaining members of the board said on Wednesday they'd like to put the consultant situation behind them.
"I just hope that tonight is the beginning of the future of the airport," said Pam Arrigoni, the Prospect Heights city administrator, who also has a seat on the board.
Originally published Saturday, Oct. 18, 2007
By Nadia Malik
Daily Herald Staff Writer
Through talks of turning over a new leaf, the Chicago Executive Airport board on Wednesday still had the vestiges of past conflicts pop up.
Board members of the Wheeling-based airport, formerly known as Palwaukee, questioned its engineering firm on what information was passed along to a consultant.
The consultant, Airport Corp. of America, has caused problems on the board in past months. Several directors have questioned why John Kennedy, with that company, was hired and what work he had been doing.
Brian Welker, with Crawford, Murphy and Tilly, Inc., the airport's engineering firm, said Kennedy was concentrating on land acquisition and noise regulations.
However, board members said they still don't have a full idea of why he was hired by the board's former chair, Kevin Dohm.
Dohm recently resigned from the board after several members took up the question of how the consultant was hired without their approval.
The board's vice chairman, L. James Wylie, also resigned a few weeks after Dohm.
Welker said the consultant situation "put us in an extremely awkward position" since the board as a whole wasn't and still isn't aware of what Kennedy was doing.
The board also changed to whom the airport's manager reports. Previously, the airport's bylaws had the manager reporting only to the chair, but he will now report to the whole board.
The group also had the responsibility of electing a new vice chairman after Wylie's departure. Secretary Ralph Shepstone will take over for the next few meetings; however, he said he wasn't interested in keeping the job permanently.
Darlene Ahlstedt also joined the board for her first meeting since the Prospect Heights city council confirmed her appointment Monday.
Ahlstedt was chosen by the city to take Wylie's open seat; both Wheeling and Prospect Heights co-own the airport and choose two members each to appoint.
The chairman position is chosen by both the Wheeling village president and the Prospect Heights mayor. Both are still discussing who to appoint as the chair.
The remaining members of the board said on Wednesday they'd like to put the consultant situation behind them.
"I just hope that tonight is the beginning of the future of the airport," said Pam Arrigoni, the Prospect Heights city administrator, who also has a seat on the board.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Starting over after Sept. 11
Starting over after Sept. 11
Vernon Hills man changes his life after terrorist attacks, realizes his dream
Originally published Monday, Sept. 10, 2007
View video
By Nadia Malik
Daily Herald Staff Writer
Six years ago, Vadim Lovinsky feared for his life as he made his way down 61 flights of stairs as the second tower of the World Trade Center was on the brink of collapse.
On the anniversary of Sept. 11 this year, he'll be doing what he's wanted to do since the age of 14 -- working at his own restaurant.
The Vernon Hills man took over the Madison Café in Arlington Heights in May, after leaving his career as a financial adviser four years earlier.
Lovinsky said he considers Sept. 11 a second birthday of sorts, a chance to do something significant with his life.
"God gave me an opportunity," he said.
Lovinsky and 280 others -- five from Chicago -- started working at Morgan Stanley in May 2001. The group arrived in New York for training on Sunday, Sept. 9.
Two days later, the new employees met for about an hour in the South Tower of the World Trade Center.
As they were walking out of a room on the 61st floor, Lovinsky went to the window to look out onto the city.
"It was a beautiful day," he said. "I was in awe to see the (Statue of Liberty) there."
While he looked down on the sight, he felt a sound wave and heard a resounding explosion. It was 8:46 a.m.
"You could feel the building just move," he said. "That was it -- training was over."
Although he didn't know it at the time, American Airlines Flight 11 had crashed into the neighboring North Tower.
Lovinsky thought it was a gas explosion as he watched reams of paper floating in the air.
"It was like this big ball of confetti," he said. "You think about how many thousands of man-hours you've put into this paper, and it just doesn't mean anything anymore."
The flight begins
Lovinsky saw others evacuating down a staircase and followed suit.
Loudspeakers were telling people, "Get back to your offices," but he followed the orders of a fellow Morgan Stanley employee. "Forget that, we're getting out of the building," the employee said.
Lovinsky saw crowds of people running down the stairs and knew there was a chance for a stampede.
Although he was hesitant to say anything at first, his Navy training kicked in.
"You're nervous; you don't want to speak up," he said. "I started yelling out orders, you know, just like in the military again."
He told people to walk calmly so that all could make it out safely.
In his four years with the Navy, which included training at Great Lakes Naval Academy in North Chicago, Lovinsky learned fire fighting, so he knew another explosion could be imminent if there was a leak in a gas main.
He prepared others around him, telling them he could handle a fire hose with their help if that happened.
The second jolt he had feared came as the group neared the 44th floor. It was 9:02 a.m. United Airlines Flight 175 had just hit the building floors above where he had just been.
"For a second, it felt like the whole building's coming down sideways, and that was it." He locked eyes with another man and thought, "I'm going to die right now.
"And then it just stopped."
Everyone started running down the steps again. He saw huge cracks in the cinder block walls and feared the staircase couldn't handle the load. "I thought it was just going to be like an organ, collapsing on itself," he said.
He took charge again, telling everyone to slow down.
When the group made it to the 10th floor, the smells and sounds hit them. Evacuees coughed from the mixture of oil, gas and fire fumes. Lovinsky took his tie and covered his mouth and the mouth of a fellow trainee who had grabbed onto his arm.
They finally made it to the ground, but debris rained down outside, creating another hazard. The group made a run for it.
Waves of people ran from the buildings, which collapsed moments later, first the tower Lovinsky was in and then the one next to it.
"You see ambulances rushing around; you see guys being carried around," he said. "You felt like World War III just started in front of your eyes."
No escaping it
Lovinsky walked the 40 blocks to his hotel. The rest of the night, he kept his eyes on the news, which replayed the moment he had lived hours earlier over and over again.
He had occasional dreams about falling buildings, and he still isn't comfortable in a tall one. The planes flying overhead near O'Hare International Airport are a source of apprehension.
Whenever he sees a clock at 9:11, he can't get his mind off that day.
He remembers the firefighters who helped him that didn't make it out. He recalls the man at Morgan Stanley who signaled for people to evacuate; he saved their lives, but couldn't save his own.
"You thank God that you're here, always."
Lovinsky returned to his routine to avoid being mired in the past, working hard to stay at Morgan Stanley, which was laying people off daily in the economic slowdown that followed Sept. 11.
"The company's trying to save money; every day someone's getting fired," he said. "It's a terrible feeling."
By the time Lovinsky was laid off in May 2003, only 30 out of that original group of 280 trainees remained.
After a year at National City bank, he decided he needed to stop working for others.
"This is not really what I want to do with my life," he said. "I just decided that I've got to go do it for myself."
In taking that course, he also was following the advice of his parents, who had worked for General Motors in Cleveland after emigrating from the Ukraine when Lovinsky was 3½ years old.
Lovinsky had years of restaurant experience; from the age of 14 onward he had worked as a busboy, a dishwasher and a waiter. He and his friend had always talked about owning their own restaurants, and he decided to finally act on that ambition.
He and his father-in-law, Alex Serbryannyy, who had also gotten laid off from his job, bought the Island Lake Café in central Lake County in 2004. He combined his restaurant experience with his financial knowledge to help the restaurant grow.
But his wife Diana pushed him to get a restaurant of his own, asking, "What have you done so far in your life?"
When he went through a litany of the Navy, his finance career and the restaurant, she prodded: "Why don't you go do it for yourself?"
In response, he now runs the Madison Café, 902 W. Dundee Road, which he opened in May in a spot that has had a checkered history for past operators. He's determined to grow the new eatery while his father-in-law runs the Island Lake Café. They co-own the restaurants.
"I have a definition of success for myself, where I want to end up," he said. "I want to be successful with my family, financially. I want people to know about my restaurant -- that's success for me."
Vernon Hills man changes his life after terrorist attacks, realizes his dream
Originally published Monday, Sept. 10, 2007
View video
By Nadia Malik
Daily Herald Staff Writer
Six years ago, Vadim Lovinsky feared for his life as he made his way down 61 flights of stairs as the second tower of the World Trade Center was on the brink of collapse.
On the anniversary of Sept. 11 this year, he'll be doing what he's wanted to do since the age of 14 -- working at his own restaurant.
The Vernon Hills man took over the Madison Café in Arlington Heights in May, after leaving his career as a financial adviser four years earlier.
Lovinsky said he considers Sept. 11 a second birthday of sorts, a chance to do something significant with his life.
"God gave me an opportunity," he said.
Lovinsky and 280 others -- five from Chicago -- started working at Morgan Stanley in May 2001. The group arrived in New York for training on Sunday, Sept. 9.
Two days later, the new employees met for about an hour in the South Tower of the World Trade Center.
As they were walking out of a room on the 61st floor, Lovinsky went to the window to look out onto the city.
"It was a beautiful day," he said. "I was in awe to see the (Statue of Liberty) there."
While he looked down on the sight, he felt a sound wave and heard a resounding explosion. It was 8:46 a.m.
"You could feel the building just move," he said. "That was it -- training was over."
Although he didn't know it at the time, American Airlines Flight 11 had crashed into the neighboring North Tower.
Lovinsky thought it was a gas explosion as he watched reams of paper floating in the air.
"It was like this big ball of confetti," he said. "You think about how many thousands of man-hours you've put into this paper, and it just doesn't mean anything anymore."
The flight begins
Lovinsky saw others evacuating down a staircase and followed suit.
Loudspeakers were telling people, "Get back to your offices," but he followed the orders of a fellow Morgan Stanley employee. "Forget that, we're getting out of the building," the employee said.
Lovinsky saw crowds of people running down the stairs and knew there was a chance for a stampede.
Although he was hesitant to say anything at first, his Navy training kicked in.
"You're nervous; you don't want to speak up," he said. "I started yelling out orders, you know, just like in the military again."
He told people to walk calmly so that all could make it out safely.
In his four years with the Navy, which included training at Great Lakes Naval Academy in North Chicago, Lovinsky learned fire fighting, so he knew another explosion could be imminent if there was a leak in a gas main.
He prepared others around him, telling them he could handle a fire hose with their help if that happened.
The second jolt he had feared came as the group neared the 44th floor. It was 9:02 a.m. United Airlines Flight 175 had just hit the building floors above where he had just been.
"For a second, it felt like the whole building's coming down sideways, and that was it." He locked eyes with another man and thought, "I'm going to die right now.
"And then it just stopped."
Everyone started running down the steps again. He saw huge cracks in the cinder block walls and feared the staircase couldn't handle the load. "I thought it was just going to be like an organ, collapsing on itself," he said.
He took charge again, telling everyone to slow down.
When the group made it to the 10th floor, the smells and sounds hit them. Evacuees coughed from the mixture of oil, gas and fire fumes. Lovinsky took his tie and covered his mouth and the mouth of a fellow trainee who had grabbed onto his arm.
They finally made it to the ground, but debris rained down outside, creating another hazard. The group made a run for it.
Waves of people ran from the buildings, which collapsed moments later, first the tower Lovinsky was in and then the one next to it.
"You see ambulances rushing around; you see guys being carried around," he said. "You felt like World War III just started in front of your eyes."
No escaping it
Lovinsky walked the 40 blocks to his hotel. The rest of the night, he kept his eyes on the news, which replayed the moment he had lived hours earlier over and over again.
He had occasional dreams about falling buildings, and he still isn't comfortable in a tall one. The planes flying overhead near O'Hare International Airport are a source of apprehension.
Whenever he sees a clock at 9:11, he can't get his mind off that day.
He remembers the firefighters who helped him that didn't make it out. He recalls the man at Morgan Stanley who signaled for people to evacuate; he saved their lives, but couldn't save his own.
"You thank God that you're here, always."
Lovinsky returned to his routine to avoid being mired in the past, working hard to stay at Morgan Stanley, which was laying people off daily in the economic slowdown that followed Sept. 11.
"The company's trying to save money; every day someone's getting fired," he said. "It's a terrible feeling."
By the time Lovinsky was laid off in May 2003, only 30 out of that original group of 280 trainees remained.
After a year at National City bank, he decided he needed to stop working for others.
"This is not really what I want to do with my life," he said. "I just decided that I've got to go do it for myself."
In taking that course, he also was following the advice of his parents, who had worked for General Motors in Cleveland after emigrating from the Ukraine when Lovinsky was 3½ years old.
Lovinsky had years of restaurant experience; from the age of 14 onward he had worked as a busboy, a dishwasher and a waiter. He and his friend had always talked about owning their own restaurants, and he decided to finally act on that ambition.
He and his father-in-law, Alex Serbryannyy, who had also gotten laid off from his job, bought the Island Lake Café in central Lake County in 2004. He combined his restaurant experience with his financial knowledge to help the restaurant grow.
But his wife Diana pushed him to get a restaurant of his own, asking, "What have you done so far in your life?"
When he went through a litany of the Navy, his finance career and the restaurant, she prodded: "Why don't you go do it for yourself?"
In response, he now runs the Madison Café, 902 W. Dundee Road, which he opened in May in a spot that has had a checkered history for past operators. He's determined to grow the new eatery while his father-in-law runs the Island Lake Café. They co-own the restaurants.
"I have a definition of success for myself, where I want to end up," he said. "I want to be successful with my family, financially. I want people to know about my restaurant -- that's success for me."
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Beyond the veil
Beyond the veil
Daily Herald reporter Nadia Malik shares how the Islamic head covering liberated her.
Her mom was initially opposed.
Originally published Sunday, Feb. 27, 2005
By Nadia Malik
Daily Herald Staff Writer
The three mannequins draw stares, some puzzled, some pitying, as they pose in the lobby of the Harper College student center.
Shrouded head-to-toe in black or red, their eyes peer out from behind Islamic veils. One stands in a paint bucket as punishment, a sign says, for not dressing modestly enough in Iran.
The college sponsored the exhibit to call attention to "hijab," the veil the Iranian government forces all women to wear.
The exhibit, a collection of clothing and photographs taken by journalism students in Tehran, does not hide its disgust for the veil. Through their lenses, the photographers see a symbol of female oppression and degradation.
The message isn't lost on anyone viewing the exhibit in Palatine, including myself. But I look through a different lens.
I can feel the other visitors looking at me, wondering whether I'm offended or enlightened by the political statement. One man is curious enough to ask.
Steven Peskind, a rabbi and a professor of world religions at Harper, chooses his words carefully so as not to offend.
"I'm interested in your opinion of this," he says. "I'd like to know what you think as someone who wears the veil."
The inquiry is simple enough, but it requires a complex answer.
How can I explain to people who see hijab as a tool of oppression that it was one of the most liberating experiences of my life? How can I convince the rabbi that this yard of fabric strengthens my identity?
Perhaps if he knew my story.
* * *
Why?
My mother kept asking as we drove down to Champaign before the start of my sophomore year.
The answers, when she listened to them, only frustrated her more. She reacted to each explanation the same way.
But I don't understand why.
No reason could satisfy my mother, Yasmeen, a devout Muslim and Pakistani immigrant who wore western fashions. My decision to embrace hijab, it seemed, would never make sense to her.
To be honest, when put down on paper, it didn't make much sense to me, either.
Until that moment, I had always mirrored those around me. I was an 18-year-old suburban girl who lived in a nice Westmont home, listened to the Backstreet Boys, pulled my hair back in a pony tail and wore flared jeans because they were the fashion.
My parents had instilled in my brother, sister and me a devotion to Islam. They raised us to pray five times a day and fast during the holy month of Ramadan.
But they never, not even once, talked about the veil.
My mom and dad had grown up in Pakistan, a predominantly Muslim country where the veil is a personal choice. My mother never entertained the idea of wearing hijab. Her loose-fitting clothes followed her definition of Islamic modesty.
Because she had not considered the veil for herself, she never imagined it for her eldest daughter.
Unbeknownst to my mother, though, the first seeds were planted at the Islamic Foundation in Villa Park when I was 16. My friend, a fellow student at the weekend school, told the class she had been considering the veil.
Our teacher, a young religious instructor, encouraged us to discuss it. She told us how the veil gave her a sense of identity after she converted to Islam during college.
Hijab, -an Arabic word meaning hide or conceal - entails wearing loose-fitting, opaque attire from head to toe. The clothes are meant to be modest, cloaking a woman's physical appearance to highlight her intelligence and personality.
In some Muslim metropolises, like my parents' hometown of Karachi, a head scarf isn't considered an Islamic obligation. Others interpret the burqa as a requirement because the Prophet Muhammad's wives covered their faces.
For Muslims in the United States, it is a personal choice dictated by family tradition or religious interpretation.
The veil has become an increasingly popular fashion and religious statement for young Muslims. In the past two decades, it has served as an old-school way for first-generation Muslim-Americans to celebrate their ancestors' religion.
The idea appealed to me, but I pushed it aside. I was a shy, somewhat awkward teenager. I didn't want to stick out further in my high school, where the majority of students were rich, white and Christian.
It wasn't until my first year at the University of Illinois that I contemplated the veil again.
The college, which has one of the country's largest Muslim Students Associations, seemed more welcoming to Islamic traditions. I met dozens of girls who wore hijab and found strength in their numbers. I could cover my hair without feeling self-conscious or worrying I'd stand out.
I went home at the end of my freshman year seriously considering the veil. I spent the summer going over the practicalities.
I would lie in bed at night, staring at my room's lavender walls, turning over the many reasons for not wearing it.
I worried, most of all, about people staring at me. Vanity reared its head, too, when I realized I could never wear hats or show off my good hair days to the world again.
The choice would mean more than just covering my hair. It would entail cloaking my entire body in public, save for my face and hands.
On summer days, I would be considerably warmer with arms, legs and hair covered.
I surprised myself by deciding I could accept the inconveniences. It just felt right.
Since childhood, I had been aware that I am different from those around me. I could feel the two sides - the "Muslim" one and the "American" one - abrading each other.
I finally realized I would never be happy if I kept pretending to fit in. I needed to embrace being Muslim and show the rest of the world that I wasn't ashamed of my identity.
In doing so, I liberated my American self. I was exercising the freedom and rights of self-expression upon which this country was built.
I didn't make my final decision until the moment I left for school. We had packed the car, and from my bedroom I could hear my mother yelling that we were running late.
It was a do-or-die moment. I opened the top drawer of my dresser and pulled out a white scarf that I wore during religious services.
I folded the lightweight square fabric into a triangle, wrapped it around my face and pinned it under my chin. I pulled the two remaining flaps in opposite directions around my neck and pinned them.
I dashed out of the house wearing gray track pants, a long-sleeved shirt with an Aeropostale logo across the chest and a veil on my head.
I got into the car and hoped my mother wouldn't notice.
She, of course, did. She demanded an explanation as I backed the Ford Explorer out of the driveway.
I felt a sense of relief the minute I put it on. The reservations I had about wearing hijab seemingly disappeared.
I was at peace. Or at least as much at peace as any 18-year-old with an angry mother can be.
For the next 2 1/2 hours, my sister and I counted the corn rows as we listened to our mother's steady flow of questions in her native Urdu.
Why do you want to wear it?
Do you want people to see you as a fundamentalist?
How will you get married if nobody knows what you look like?
I stopped answering before we reached the tollway. I had learned long ago it was easier to let my mom run out of steam than to try to cool her down.
She was still hot as she and my sister returned home later that day. It was 16-year-old Samia who finally calmed her.
"Mom," my sister said in English. "She's not doing anything wrong."
* * *
I can see the disdain in Barbara Njus' eyes as she views the Harper College exhibit.
The English professor has no tolerance for a culture that imprisons and tortures women for showing their hair. She shakes her head as she examines a photograph of women boarding the back of the bus, much like black people in the segregated South 40 years ago.
"It's difficult to look at," she says. "It really is."
I've seen contempt for Iranian law before. I share it, too.
But I fear disdain for that theocratic state often results in sorrow for all who wear the veil.
I don't need pity. In fact, I have come to resent it.
* * *
I spotted a woman wearing a burqa as I walked to class in the fall of 2001.
Fully covered in the flowing cloth, she navigated her way through Gregory Hall from behind netted fabric.
The sight startled me because I didn't know anyone on campus who wore the full veil. I was even more surprised later that day when I saw a second burqa-clad woman.
I respected their resolve so soon after Sept. 11. I wondered who they were.
A few days later, a teacher's assistant in my political science class solved the mystery. She explained that a feminist group on campus had donned the coverings to protest the plight of Afghan women who were forced to wear burqas under the Taliban regime.
I abhorred the treatment of women in Afghanistan, just as I empathized with their Iranian sisters. Yet I resented my fellow students' silent protest, which I viewed as a suggestion the burqa was inherently evil.
The implication offended me on behalf of all the women I knew who willingly wore the burqas and head coverings. The protest mocked our beliefs, implying anyone who wore hijab was oppressed.
They assumed we were demure, obedient Muslim women because we covered our hair. We looked different, but we were not unlike other students .
At the time, I lived with three other girls in a four-bedroom apartment off campus. All of us wore hijab. Once we got home from class, we stripped off our veils, put on comfortable clothes and watched MTV.
We spent our free time running up and down the complex stairs as we visited others who lived in the building, all the time wearing our veils. We put off writing papers to catch up on our soap operas and pulled pranks on each other.
Nothing about my life suggested I was a slave to my religion's feminine ideals. I simply had chosen, after much independent study and thought, to live my life as modestly as possible.
That includes, in accordance with Islamic law, wearing loose, opaque clothing that covers everything but my hands, face and feet.
The feminist group may consider my dress a symbol of oppression. But it's no worse than the hidden forms that exist in America.
We live in a country obsessed with the Western definition of beauty. I pity the oppressed women who fall victim to eating disorders or have plastic surgery to enhance their looks.
In college, many of my female classmates would shun their jackets and wear tank tops to bars in the middle of winter so they might be more attractive to guys.
Their attire looks as strange to me as I assume hijab seems to them.
The difference, though, is I support their right to do it.
* * *
The Harper exhibit triggers a powerful response from those viewing it.
They want to help the Iranian women who are forced to wear the veil as young as 7. How terrible for their self-esteem, more than one person says.
As they tsk-tsk and shake their heads, a lone voice poses a rhetorical question.
"Aren't women here suppressed?" an anthropology instructor asks. "These are universal feelings that we all experience."
* * *
If anything oppresses me, it's my crushing shyness.
I've always felt a bit apprehensive before I walk into a room. Wearing hijab - a cloth that hides my hair but draws more attention to me - exacerbated the problem.
A woman once approached me as I went into Panera for lunch. I offered a smile as she walked toward me, but her angry look wiped it off.
In an indiscernible accent, she asked me if I wanted to buy her passport. She implied, in her broken English, that she was more American than me.
It was an ironic opinion, given that I was born here and she couldn't even speak the language. I imagined her bragging to friends about the confrontation, and it sickened me.
I realized a cold truth that day. Regardless of the pride I felt wearing hijab, there would always be someone, somewhere who would consider me a terrorist because of it.
Yet as I grew accustomed to the veil, I got used to the looks and the occasional suspicions it drew. I remained timid, but no longer worried people were judging me because of my religious expression.
When I started at the Daily Herald in May 2003, I had the typical college intern's anxieties. I worried about pleasing my editors and finding stories.
Like high school, the DuPage County newsroom was predominantly white and largely Christian. But I had become so comfortable in my new skin, I didn't care if I looked different.
The staff treated me like anyone else. My sources acted with the same respect, and I could approach strangers without fear.
At the end of my internship, I was hired as a full-time reporter. It was an unusual career choice for a Muslim woman, but one my religion and my family encouraged me to pursue.
My veil hasn't stopped me or suppressed my professional goals. If anything, it has been an invitation for co-workers to use me as a resource on stories with Islamic themes.
A few have summoned the courage to ask about hijab. I greet their tentative questions with a warm response.
They want to know where I get my hair cut or if I'm hot in the summer. They are the same practicalities I thought about when I first considered the veil.
I tell them I go to a salon with a back room or one owned by a Muslim woman who cuts my hair in private. This way, I eliminate the risk of a man seeing me without my hijab.
Of course, I get warmer than others on hot summer days. But I've quickly learned which fabrics work best in certain temperatures.
The biggest question is what I look like in the privacy of my own home. They seem surprised to learn I look a lot like them.
I take off my veil when I return home, much as a businessman removes his tie. I wear short sleeves around the house and show the multiple piercings in my ears.
When I'm with my female friends, I dress like any other 23-year-old. I can put on shorter skirts and style my hair for parties, as long as no males are present who are not my relatives.
The questions, which some co-workers hedge with apologies for being too personal, show me they want to understand my decision and my background. And where there's acceptance, oppression does not dwell.
* * *
Two years after I decided to wear hijab, my younger sister called my mom from college to say she had made the same choice.
Samia obviously had learned from my experience and knew the conversation was best avoided while trapped in a confined space with my mother. A quick phone call would be much easier.
My mother, too, had learned from our skirmish.
"Oh, that's good," she told my sister.
She even smiled when she said it.
The transition, though, wasn't easy for any of us. My mother endured intense questioning and judgmental comments from friends who do not wear the veil.
She also grappled with the sideways looks I would receive when we were in public.
But she has now accepted my choice, as I knew she eventually would. It was easier to embrace my decision once she saw I remained the same person on the inside.
I've made an effort to increase my knowledge on Islam and pray five times a day. I still enjoy shopping for shoes, watching "The Simpsons" and reading Harry Potter books. I've given up the Backstreet Boys, but we all grow up some time.
I compensate for my shyness by greeting stranger's stares with a smile. I try to make myself appear open to questions about hijab, so as to lift the misconceptions shrouding it.
I give honest, informed opinions to questions like the one Professor Peskind asked me at Harper College.
My defense of the veil - but never of its Iranian enforcers - leads to a discussion of a book Peskind recently read.
It is about a young Iranian girl who flees to Europe with her family. Living amid Western culture, she realizes the importance of her religious values - even though she's against their imposition.
"The idea of Westernization automatically being better bothers me," Peskind says. "Do we risk demonizing the hijab? Isn't it possible that wearing the veil is just an expression of faith?"
Perhaps the professor has answered his earlier question for me.
Daily Herald reporter Nadia Malik shares how the Islamic head covering liberated her.
Her mom was initially opposed.
Originally published Sunday, Feb. 27, 2005
By Nadia Malik
Daily Herald Staff Writer
The three mannequins draw stares, some puzzled, some pitying, as they pose in the lobby of the Harper College student center.
Shrouded head-to-toe in black or red, their eyes peer out from behind Islamic veils. One stands in a paint bucket as punishment, a sign says, for not dressing modestly enough in Iran.
The college sponsored the exhibit to call attention to "hijab," the veil the Iranian government forces all women to wear.
The exhibit, a collection of clothing and photographs taken by journalism students in Tehran, does not hide its disgust for the veil. Through their lenses, the photographers see a symbol of female oppression and degradation.
The message isn't lost on anyone viewing the exhibit in Palatine, including myself. But I look through a different lens.
I can feel the other visitors looking at me, wondering whether I'm offended or enlightened by the political statement. One man is curious enough to ask.
Steven Peskind, a rabbi and a professor of world religions at Harper, chooses his words carefully so as not to offend.
"I'm interested in your opinion of this," he says. "I'd like to know what you think as someone who wears the veil."
The inquiry is simple enough, but it requires a complex answer.
How can I explain to people who see hijab as a tool of oppression that it was one of the most liberating experiences of my life? How can I convince the rabbi that this yard of fabric strengthens my identity?
Perhaps if he knew my story.
* * *
Why?
My mother kept asking as we drove down to Champaign before the start of my sophomore year.
The answers, when she listened to them, only frustrated her more. She reacted to each explanation the same way.
But I don't understand why.
No reason could satisfy my mother, Yasmeen, a devout Muslim and Pakistani immigrant who wore western fashions. My decision to embrace hijab, it seemed, would never make sense to her.
To be honest, when put down on paper, it didn't make much sense to me, either.
Until that moment, I had always mirrored those around me. I was an 18-year-old suburban girl who lived in a nice Westmont home, listened to the Backstreet Boys, pulled my hair back in a pony tail and wore flared jeans because they were the fashion.
My parents had instilled in my brother, sister and me a devotion to Islam. They raised us to pray five times a day and fast during the holy month of Ramadan.
But they never, not even once, talked about the veil.
My mom and dad had grown up in Pakistan, a predominantly Muslim country where the veil is a personal choice. My mother never entertained the idea of wearing hijab. Her loose-fitting clothes followed her definition of Islamic modesty.
Because she had not considered the veil for herself, she never imagined it for her eldest daughter.
Unbeknownst to my mother, though, the first seeds were planted at the Islamic Foundation in Villa Park when I was 16. My friend, a fellow student at the weekend school, told the class she had been considering the veil.
Our teacher, a young religious instructor, encouraged us to discuss it. She told us how the veil gave her a sense of identity after she converted to Islam during college.
Hijab, -an Arabic word meaning hide or conceal - entails wearing loose-fitting, opaque attire from head to toe. The clothes are meant to be modest, cloaking a woman's physical appearance to highlight her intelligence and personality.
In some Muslim metropolises, like my parents' hometown of Karachi, a head scarf isn't considered an Islamic obligation. Others interpret the burqa as a requirement because the Prophet Muhammad's wives covered their faces.
For Muslims in the United States, it is a personal choice dictated by family tradition or religious interpretation.
The veil has become an increasingly popular fashion and religious statement for young Muslims. In the past two decades, it has served as an old-school way for first-generation Muslim-Americans to celebrate their ancestors' religion.
The idea appealed to me, but I pushed it aside. I was a shy, somewhat awkward teenager. I didn't want to stick out further in my high school, where the majority of students were rich, white and Christian.
It wasn't until my first year at the University of Illinois that I contemplated the veil again.
The college, which has one of the country's largest Muslim Students Associations, seemed more welcoming to Islamic traditions. I met dozens of girls who wore hijab and found strength in their numbers. I could cover my hair without feeling self-conscious or worrying I'd stand out.
I went home at the end of my freshman year seriously considering the veil. I spent the summer going over the practicalities.
I would lie in bed at night, staring at my room's lavender walls, turning over the many reasons for not wearing it.
I worried, most of all, about people staring at me. Vanity reared its head, too, when I realized I could never wear hats or show off my good hair days to the world again.
The choice would mean more than just covering my hair. It would entail cloaking my entire body in public, save for my face and hands.
On summer days, I would be considerably warmer with arms, legs and hair covered.
I surprised myself by deciding I could accept the inconveniences. It just felt right.
Since childhood, I had been aware that I am different from those around me. I could feel the two sides - the "Muslim" one and the "American" one - abrading each other.
I finally realized I would never be happy if I kept pretending to fit in. I needed to embrace being Muslim and show the rest of the world that I wasn't ashamed of my identity.
In doing so, I liberated my American self. I was exercising the freedom and rights of self-expression upon which this country was built.
I didn't make my final decision until the moment I left for school. We had packed the car, and from my bedroom I could hear my mother yelling that we were running late.
It was a do-or-die moment. I opened the top drawer of my dresser and pulled out a white scarf that I wore during religious services.
I folded the lightweight square fabric into a triangle, wrapped it around my face and pinned it under my chin. I pulled the two remaining flaps in opposite directions around my neck and pinned them.
I dashed out of the house wearing gray track pants, a long-sleeved shirt with an Aeropostale logo across the chest and a veil on my head.
I got into the car and hoped my mother wouldn't notice.
She, of course, did. She demanded an explanation as I backed the Ford Explorer out of the driveway.
I felt a sense of relief the minute I put it on. The reservations I had about wearing hijab seemingly disappeared.
I was at peace. Or at least as much at peace as any 18-year-old with an angry mother can be.
For the next 2 1/2 hours, my sister and I counted the corn rows as we listened to our mother's steady flow of questions in her native Urdu.
Why do you want to wear it?
Do you want people to see you as a fundamentalist?
How will you get married if nobody knows what you look like?
I stopped answering before we reached the tollway. I had learned long ago it was easier to let my mom run out of steam than to try to cool her down.
She was still hot as she and my sister returned home later that day. It was 16-year-old Samia who finally calmed her.
"Mom," my sister said in English. "She's not doing anything wrong."
* * *
I can see the disdain in Barbara Njus' eyes as she views the Harper College exhibit.
The English professor has no tolerance for a culture that imprisons and tortures women for showing their hair. She shakes her head as she examines a photograph of women boarding the back of the bus, much like black people in the segregated South 40 years ago.
"It's difficult to look at," she says. "It really is."
I've seen contempt for Iranian law before. I share it, too.
But I fear disdain for that theocratic state often results in sorrow for all who wear the veil.
I don't need pity. In fact, I have come to resent it.
* * *
I spotted a woman wearing a burqa as I walked to class in the fall of 2001.
Fully covered in the flowing cloth, she navigated her way through Gregory Hall from behind netted fabric.
The sight startled me because I didn't know anyone on campus who wore the full veil. I was even more surprised later that day when I saw a second burqa-clad woman.
I respected their resolve so soon after Sept. 11. I wondered who they were.
A few days later, a teacher's assistant in my political science class solved the mystery. She explained that a feminist group on campus had donned the coverings to protest the plight of Afghan women who were forced to wear burqas under the Taliban regime.
I abhorred the treatment of women in Afghanistan, just as I empathized with their Iranian sisters. Yet I resented my fellow students' silent protest, which I viewed as a suggestion the burqa was inherently evil.
The implication offended me on behalf of all the women I knew who willingly wore the burqas and head coverings. The protest mocked our beliefs, implying anyone who wore hijab was oppressed.
They assumed we were demure, obedient Muslim women because we covered our hair. We looked different, but we were not unlike other students .
At the time, I lived with three other girls in a four-bedroom apartment off campus. All of us wore hijab. Once we got home from class, we stripped off our veils, put on comfortable clothes and watched MTV.
We spent our free time running up and down the complex stairs as we visited others who lived in the building, all the time wearing our veils. We put off writing papers to catch up on our soap operas and pulled pranks on each other.
Nothing about my life suggested I was a slave to my religion's feminine ideals. I simply had chosen, after much independent study and thought, to live my life as modestly as possible.
That includes, in accordance with Islamic law, wearing loose, opaque clothing that covers everything but my hands, face and feet.
The feminist group may consider my dress a symbol of oppression. But it's no worse than the hidden forms that exist in America.
We live in a country obsessed with the Western definition of beauty. I pity the oppressed women who fall victim to eating disorders or have plastic surgery to enhance their looks.
In college, many of my female classmates would shun their jackets and wear tank tops to bars in the middle of winter so they might be more attractive to guys.
Their attire looks as strange to me as I assume hijab seems to them.
The difference, though, is I support their right to do it.
* * *
The Harper exhibit triggers a powerful response from those viewing it.
They want to help the Iranian women who are forced to wear the veil as young as 7. How terrible for their self-esteem, more than one person says.
As they tsk-tsk and shake their heads, a lone voice poses a rhetorical question.
"Aren't women here suppressed?" an anthropology instructor asks. "These are universal feelings that we all experience."
* * *
If anything oppresses me, it's my crushing shyness.
I've always felt a bit apprehensive before I walk into a room. Wearing hijab - a cloth that hides my hair but draws more attention to me - exacerbated the problem.
A woman once approached me as I went into Panera for lunch. I offered a smile as she walked toward me, but her angry look wiped it off.
In an indiscernible accent, she asked me if I wanted to buy her passport. She implied, in her broken English, that she was more American than me.
It was an ironic opinion, given that I was born here and she couldn't even speak the language. I imagined her bragging to friends about the confrontation, and it sickened me.
I realized a cold truth that day. Regardless of the pride I felt wearing hijab, there would always be someone, somewhere who would consider me a terrorist because of it.
Yet as I grew accustomed to the veil, I got used to the looks and the occasional suspicions it drew. I remained timid, but no longer worried people were judging me because of my religious expression.
When I started at the Daily Herald in May 2003, I had the typical college intern's anxieties. I worried about pleasing my editors and finding stories.
Like high school, the DuPage County newsroom was predominantly white and largely Christian. But I had become so comfortable in my new skin, I didn't care if I looked different.
The staff treated me like anyone else. My sources acted with the same respect, and I could approach strangers without fear.
At the end of my internship, I was hired as a full-time reporter. It was an unusual career choice for a Muslim woman, but one my religion and my family encouraged me to pursue.
My veil hasn't stopped me or suppressed my professional goals. If anything, it has been an invitation for co-workers to use me as a resource on stories with Islamic themes.
A few have summoned the courage to ask about hijab. I greet their tentative questions with a warm response.
They want to know where I get my hair cut or if I'm hot in the summer. They are the same practicalities I thought about when I first considered the veil.
I tell them I go to a salon with a back room or one owned by a Muslim woman who cuts my hair in private. This way, I eliminate the risk of a man seeing me without my hijab.
Of course, I get warmer than others on hot summer days. But I've quickly learned which fabrics work best in certain temperatures.
The biggest question is what I look like in the privacy of my own home. They seem surprised to learn I look a lot like them.
I take off my veil when I return home, much as a businessman removes his tie. I wear short sleeves around the house and show the multiple piercings in my ears.
When I'm with my female friends, I dress like any other 23-year-old. I can put on shorter skirts and style my hair for parties, as long as no males are present who are not my relatives.
The questions, which some co-workers hedge with apologies for being too personal, show me they want to understand my decision and my background. And where there's acceptance, oppression does not dwell.
* * *
Two years after I decided to wear hijab, my younger sister called my mom from college to say she had made the same choice.
Samia obviously had learned from my experience and knew the conversation was best avoided while trapped in a confined space with my mother. A quick phone call would be much easier.
My mother, too, had learned from our skirmish.
"Oh, that's good," she told my sister.
She even smiled when she said it.
The transition, though, wasn't easy for any of us. My mother endured intense questioning and judgmental comments from friends who do not wear the veil.
She also grappled with the sideways looks I would receive when we were in public.
But she has now accepted my choice, as I knew she eventually would. It was easier to embrace my decision once she saw I remained the same person on the inside.
I've made an effort to increase my knowledge on Islam and pray five times a day. I still enjoy shopping for shoes, watching "The Simpsons" and reading Harry Potter books. I've given up the Backstreet Boys, but we all grow up some time.
I compensate for my shyness by greeting stranger's stares with a smile. I try to make myself appear open to questions about hijab, so as to lift the misconceptions shrouding it.
I give honest, informed opinions to questions like the one Professor Peskind asked me at Harper College.
My defense of the veil - but never of its Iranian enforcers - leads to a discussion of a book Peskind recently read.
It is about a young Iranian girl who flees to Europe with her family. Living amid Western culture, she realizes the importance of her religious values - even though she's against their imposition.
"The idea of Westernization automatically being better bothers me," Peskind says. "Do we risk demonizing the hijab? Isn't it possible that wearing the veil is just an expression of faith?"
Perhaps the professor has answered his earlier question for me.
An attack in Iraq, a changed life
An attack in Iraq, a changed life
A roadside bomb just missed killing a Buffalo Grove native serving as an Army lawyer
Originally published Monday, Jan. 1, 2007
By Nadia Malik
Daily Herald Staff Writer
Quiet had settled over the town Patrick Gilman just left, but in Iraq, quiet means anything but calm.
He and the four others in the Humvee traveling back to a base 20 kilometers north of Baghdad knew the eerie silence wasn't a good omen.
"Everybody in my truck that day had a weird feeling," Gilman, an Army lawyer and captain, said. "Everybody was driving with a bated breath."
That one day in Iraq changed the 29-year-old from Buffalo Grove, but months later, as he's telling the story in his mother's suburban home, he's still not sure how. The scars on his shin and arm will be with him, but only time can show him the other effects.
"Those few hours, the feelings that I had, I try not to forget because I don't want to forget that terror, that horror," Gilman said.
"It certainly had a profound effect."
An odd combination
That September morning, Gilman left his base in Taji for a routine meeting with a tribal leader in a nearby town.
One of his responsibilities during his seven months in the country was brokering settlements with local Iraqis. When the Army raided a house and left damages, the affected Iraqis filed a complaint with him.
On that Saturday, Gilman had handed the town's leader 45 of about 60 recently filed complaints because they needed more information.
The Iraqi leader had aired his own concerns with the civil affairs team, which is responsible for funding the rebuilding of schools and other infrastructure.
Looking back, Gilman said the odd combination of a lawyer traveling with the civil affairs officer - both responsible for handing out money - might have made them an advantageous target.
"There's certainly people who didn't like what we do," Gilman said.
After lunch, about 2:30 p.m., the convoy of four Humvees - with Gilman's truck bringing up the rear - left the last stop of the day and headed back to base.
"The town was usually very busy," Gilman remembers. "It wasn't very late, but the town seemed kind of eerily quiet."
The 130-degree temperature might have kept people indoors, but Gilman, the three soldiers and the translator in his Humvee took it as a portent.
The lack of activity was just the first in a series of odd events.
Also unusual was the absence of cars traveling on the road that runs on the fertile land between the Tigris and the Euphrates rivers.
Ask soldiers and they'd rather have cars coming at them than no cars at all, Gilman said. They know that locals are likely warned when an attack is imminent.
A shocking reality
About 10 minutes into the ride back, the engine on Gilman's Humvee died.
The convoy had already been having problems with the radio, and as the truck rolled along in neutral, the distance between it and the other three trucks grew greater.
After some false starts, the driver managed to get the engine back up.
He had just hit the gas to catch up with the others when it happened.
Boom!
To Gilman it sounded like a pop, but it felt as if the Humvee had hit a brick wall at full speed.
Someone waiting on the side of the road had detonated an IED, or improvised explosive device, that had been buried under the concrete of the road.
The pervasive quiet of the day was suddenly filled with noise. The pavement cracked from the explosion, and Gilman heard someone screaming in pain.
All around him, concrete was cascading into the truck through the gunner's hole in the roof.
The gunner himself was dangling from his harness.
Although it happened in a few seconds, Gilman remembers every feeling he had during the blast, including the pure terror.
Knowing that his awareness of the events was a good thing, he kept repeating to himself, You're still OK. You're still OK.
Any time he felt any pain, he thought, You're not dead yet. You're not dead yet.
When the truck landed from the explosion, he immediately checked his arms and legs for any bleeding.
Seeing no immediate problems, Gilman, who was sitting behind the driver, pulled the gunner down into his lap.
Then he didn't know what to do.
"It's funny to think that time doesn't just stop when that happens," he said. "You still have a mission."
A major sitting in the passenger seat, who Gilman said was one of the most fearless soldiers he saw in Iraq, directed him to get the injured driver and gunner out of the car.
"He knew exactly what he was doing," Gilman said.
The passenger's-side door was stuck, and Gilman was the only one able to get out.
Since the explosive had hit just at the front left tire, the driver, the gunner and Gilman felt the brunt of the impact.
"It was actually the best place to hit," Gilman said. "Had we been one foot to the left or one foot forward, we all would have been dead."
Gilman maneuvered out of the truck and put the gunner down under it so he wouldn't be a target if gunfire broke out.
He then ran to the driver's door, which was blocked with a large piece of cement loosened from the road by the impact of the explosives. Gilman moved it and opened the door.
"(The driver) was screaming in pain, and I didn't want to move him," Gilman said.
By that time, the medic traveling with the convoy had reached the scene, and she told Gilman to move the driver. His foot was stuck under the brake, though, and Gilman had to break the pedal to get him out.
A medevac helicopter had been called in, and Gilman and others had to go through the 4-foot-wide and 4-foot-deep hole the explosion created to set up a landing area.
"You couldn't just hop over it; you had to go into it and hop out the other side," he said.
Although his hand was hurt and he could see blood dripping from his face, Gilman refused to get on the helicopter with the driver and gunner.
A lingering remnant
It took nearly five hours to return to base that night.
Although it should have taken 20 minutes, another truck broke down before the convoy could move again.
On the way back, the group ran across Iraqis digging a hole in the road, which led to a round of questioning.
The pain that Gilman had been able to ignore because of the adrenaline boost and constant movement earlier had started to build up.
"I was frustrated by this point," he said.
Gilman finally had his hand and head checked out at the hospital and returned to work late that evening.
It took a night of sleep to let the pain really settle in.
"The next day I couldn't move," he said. "I could barely walk. I felt like a 97-year-old man."
Gilman suffered from constant headaches, he thought because of a concussion. But doctors found a 2-millimeter piece of metal above his left eye weeks later. That remnant of the blast remains.
"They felt it was more high-risk taking it out than leaving it in," Gilman said.
Two long scars also remain on his left hand, and a circle on his left shin marks where shrapnel hit.
Gilman said he's seen other IED explosions - one of the biggest fears for soldiers - but he had never experienced one so close.
"That was the worst IED we had seen; that was the most explosives packed into one IED I had seen," Gilman said.
While always aware that was the reality during his time in Taji, his involvement in an actual incident made the risk that much more real any time he went outside base.
"Nobody really worries about getting shot," he said. "They worry about getting blown up."
The same day, just 3 kilometers from Gilman's convoy, at least five other IEDs went off, hitting five other convoys.
"Generally (people) don't understand. They don't know what the roads are like there," he said. "They don't realize how much activity there is out there."
Fulfilled obligation
About three months after the explosion, Gilman returned home.
Instead of flying into Chicago, however, he stayed in the house he had bought in Texas before his time in Iraq.
"When I got home, I made it clear that I didn't want anybody coming to see me," he said. "I just wanted to go home and be on my own."
Gilman said in a way it was a blessing for him not to have a family that was depending on him to care for them. Not all soldiers have that time to reflect on their tour in Iraq.
"I had a good amount of time to decompress," he said.
The first time he was around a large crowd of people, it took getting used to.
He told his friends about the explosion right away but waited until he was in Kuwait - on his way back home - to tell his mom, Cheryl.
She wasn't sleeping while Gilman was in Iraq as it was, and the knowledge that her son was almost blown up wasn't something he was ready to deliver.
"I see her face when I tell the story; it kind of makes it a lot more difficult," he said.
He hasn't gone into great detail with anyone, mostly because it's hard to comprehend what happened if you haven't been there.
Although the experience was harrowing, Gilman said he still doesn't regret volunteering for the Army stint. He still has two more years in his contract as a lawyer and will be stationed in Texas after his vacation ends.
He hopes to be at Fort Hood for the remainder of his time. Gilman said he feels he's fulfilled an obligation he had weighing on him.
"I was a selfish, spoiled kid from the suburbs," he said. "I felt a need to do something kind of selfless."
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