The following essay by Kevin Adler, a senior politics major at Occidental College, is the winner of the inaugural Student Diplomat Essay Competition sponsored by NAFSA: Association of International Educators and Abroad View, the global education magazine for students.  Adler's essay was originally published in International Educator and Abroad View., and  can also be viewed on the NAFSA web site by clicking here. 

Frustrated, I turned my head from the computer screen and stormed off: I refused to even look at those stupid flak jackets. My dad, in one of his less rational moments leading up to my semester abroad in London, thought he would show me the latest fashions in shrapnel and debris repelling body armor. He thought it might be useful to wear “just in case” while riding public transport during my five months away from home. What on earth was my dad thinking? What could possibly motivate this otherwise intelligent man to urge his son to wear a “flak jak,” a serious piece of defensive equipment that he once wore while riding Huey helicopters over Vietnam?

It must have been fear—I have no other explanation for it. My 54-year-old father was terrified for the safety of his eldest son, a debilitating panic wrought by “what ifs” and the unknown. And I knew exactly what caused this panic. Less than three months before my planned departure for study abroad, four young Muslim men decided to blow themselves up on three Tube trains and a red double-decker bus, killing 52 innocent people aboard and wounding hundreds more. As had happened after September 11, 2001, a widespread suspicion of all things Arab and Muslim reared its prejudiced head in society, percolating down even into the psyche of my own papa.

I could empathize with him. My dad was fully aware that University College London, the institution where I was headed, was only blocks away from the Russell Square bombing site. And he knew, much to his discouragement, that I would be traveling on London’s public transport regularly. Clearly, this attack hit a little too close to home for comfort. Would I be safe on the Tube?

It is this question and these thoughts that occupied my mind on September 3, 2005, my first day in London, as my train on the Piccadilly Line rattled through its trademark deep tunnels. I nervously peered at my fellow passengers. Though I like to think of myself as receptive to people of all cultures, I could not help feel a tinge of anxiety creep up my spine and invade my countenance as I registered skin colors and religious garbs I had scarcely seen before, certainly not in my largely white hometown, nor even at my home university which is renowned for its diversity and is located in the multihued city of Los Angeles. My dad’s enjoinder to “just keep your wits about you” echoed in my head. Should I move to another Tube train? Was this a rational thought? Should I have worn a flak jak “just in case?” Was I being paranoid? God, I was in London, and I was afraid for my safety.

The train rattled to a halt at my destination, and I began the arduous process of heaving two suitcases, a full backpack, and a laptop carrier up a jumble of stairs. Upon my triumphant and sweat-soaked arrival into daylight, I performed a quick spin-around and mentally noted an all-too-evident observation: I had no idea where I was, much less where I needed to go. Quaint accents colored conversation tidbits of busy Londoners bumping by. Black cabs sped past—on the left side of the road. Kansas seemed a lot more than three shoe-clicks away. What I wouldn’t give for a charming Brit to tip their top-hat, flip their cane, utter a dry witticism, and ask…

“Are you lost?” I looked up from my daze. My heart skipped a beat. A lone sets of eyes peered at me through a black facial veil. Two Muslim women, one in traditional burqa and the other with her face visible, stood before me. “Where do you need to go?” they coolly asked after I stammered out a “Yes, I am lost” in reply. For a brief moment, which I am still ashamed of, my thoughts returned to my dad’s words, to the flak jak, to September 11 and July 7, to fear. I had never seen nor spoken to anyone in real life who wore those clothes before. Only on the television screen, the news, the Internet: the domain of the play and replay of the Stars-and-Stripes burning, the crowds-cheering after the United States was attacked. These were the stubborn images that were seared into my psyche, images that elicited the good versus evil lexicon of the day: “jihad” and “democracy” and “bring it on” and “terrorism” and “Islam.”

And in one liberating moment of humanity, the fear was wiped away.

Over the course of the next half hour, my two new friends patiently read maps, walked city blocks, and even proffered their mobile phones, all to ensure that I made it safely to my destination. As the bus I was to board pulled up and people began streaming out, I turned to my companions and asked a final question that had been on my mind the entire time, “Do you feel like people look at you differently, being Muslims, since the terrorist attacks?” The bus doors were clear now. The platform would soon be mine. “Yes, sometimes,” one of my new friends said as my foot entered the bus, “but most people are good.” Before I had a moment to reflect on these words, she stepped up to the driver’s window, instructed the exact stop where I was to be dropped off, and bid me a safe journey as the door closed between us. My two new friends waved goodbye as my red double-decker bus sped off.

Between September 2005 and September 2006, I spent more time in London than anywhere in the United States (I returned to London for a summer internship after my fall semester abroad). During this period, my panicky mindset quickly evaporated into a more steely and pragmatic outlook. While at London’s global uni, I took every opportunity to expand my comfort zone without violating my common sense. The whole “flak jak” debacle and consequent “Are you lost?” encounter thoroughly shaped the rest of my stay. It made me more open. I befriended fellow students hailing from places as diverse as Nigeria and Pakistan, Israel, and Spain. I would try to sit next to people on the Tube who appeared Arab Muslim. And occasionally, this admittedly affable Californian would break the cultural faux pas and say hello and talk to strangers on London public transport.

Due to this openness, this propensity to meet and learn and understand rather than ignore, I had a much richer experience while abroad. Stereotypes on both sides dissolved: the image of me as a self-interested and rude American, and the attitude that others are aggressive anti-American fanatics. “Everywhere, people are people,” as my mom so often affirms. Thanks to Sri, Zahra, and Olimade, and many others from around the world who are now dear friends, as well as all those nameless acquaintances who reside in the throes of my memory bank as ebullient smiles or helpful tour guides, the flak jak seems all the more ridiculous and unnecessary.

And this makes complete sense: there is no need to fear what you know.