This story is part of a new podcast series, “American Suburb,” from KQED.

Aiysha Rahman remembers when she learned that her mosque -- a place her father helped create and one she considered a second home -- was torched by an arsonist.

Someone broke into the Islamic center early Sunday in August 2007. They kicked in a door and started four fires. Books went up in flames. Chairs were burned. The place was destroyed.

“I went into this shock,” said Aiysha. “I was reacting as if they told me a person burned. Like somebody put a person on fire and somebody that we knew.”

In the days and even years after the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, the small Muslim community in the Bay Area suburb of Antioch had made a decision to keep a low-profile -- not stand out, keep to themselves. But the arson would force them to reconsider that approach as they asked themselves: Should we stay and rebuild, or leave?

From old dentist office to mosque

When the Rahmans moved from Daly City to Antioch in 1998, the family adjusted. It wasn't just that summers were hotter out along the Delta, compared to living near the San Francisco Bay.  It was also Abdul’s commute to his job in Oakland, which became significantly longer, taking time away from the family. Aiysha, 28, who is the oldest of five brothers and sisters, moved from being home-schooled to attending public school. But there was no question the move was the right thing: They were homeowners now, enjoying a beautiful, big house.

“I was coming from a small apartment,” said Aiysha. "I was excited to have a backyard.”

When the Rahmans moved to Antioch, the town was in a tremendous growth surge.  The overall population had nearly tripled in the previous three decades to 90,000 people, according to census data. While white people still made up the largest demographic group, there were increasingly more people of color. But Abdul says he didn’t know too many Muslim families living in Antioch at the time.

Abdul’s uncle connected him with about a dozen Muslim families who were meeting out of garages. Each time the group would meet, they’d pitch in money to buy a mosque, he said. When Abdul joined the group, they had almost $30,000.

“I said what are we waiting for? I think this is enough, let’s go ahead and do it,” he said.

The mosque, called the Islamic Center of East Bay, opened in 1999. It was housed in an unremarkable single-story dentist office, but the place was theirs. They would hold Friday prayers, Sunday school for children and Iftar for Ramadan. Abdul noticed that attendance in the first two years grew substantially to several dozen families.

Then came Sept. 11.

‘We felt that we were not wanted’

After the terror attacks, Abdul trimmed his beard, which was a big part of his identity as a Muslim man. Aiysha stopped wearing her headscarf after being teased at school. Suddenly they found themselves trying to blend into a city by conforming to an identity that wasn’t their own.

“I would get pulls on the back of my scarf from kids walking behind me. I would get, ‘Go back to your county,' or 'Is your dad a terrorist?' " said Aiysha.

The mosque also tried to keep a low profile amid minor attacks and threats in the years following 9/11: People hurled rocks at the building and left some nasty voice messages, Abdul said.

“We knew there was an element here that probably thinks like this,” he said. “But they’re not the majority.”

After seeing a slight drop in attendance following 9/11, the mosque began to grow once more. Abdul said his family got used to Antioch and he began to enjoy the city more. But the biggest challenge for Abdul and the mosque would come on Aug. 12, 2007. Abdul said usually people who truly hate want to leave more of an impression, and the torching of their mosque was that “impression.”

“This was real,” he said. “We felt that we were not wanted. It was a very weird feeling. It was like being homeless.”

The city was going through its own crisis during this time. A wave of newcomers -- mostly people of color -- were challenging the notion of who belonged in Antioch. Many established residents felt threatened by an increase in crime. Some of those who recently arrived in the city felt like they weren't wanted.

The city tried addressing those issues in public meetings when it could. At a City Council meeting the week after the arson, Mayor Don Freitas apologized on behalf of the community, addressing Abdul and the mosque.

“Clearly, this was a cowardly, despicable act," he said. "We were all shocked. When you’re attacked, all of us are attacked.”

While the arson left many in Antioch stunned, there was a question that mosque leaders needed to answer: Should we rebuild in Antioch, or should we leave? And not everyone agreed.

“Even within my own family, they said we should not do this because we’re going to bring on more tension. We shouldn’t be here. It’s a signal. It’s a sign,” said Abdul.

A helping hand from the interfaith community

The Rev. Will McGarvey was at a meeting about starting an LGBT support group in Antioch when he heard about the arson. McGarvey is the pastor at the Presbyterian Community Church of Pittsburg, in the next city over. It’s a progressive church, one of the few places in eastern Contra Costa County that openly serves gay members, he said.

“I think religious minorities are always the canary in the coal mine, to tell us where we are as a culture,” said McGarvey. “We kind of think of the Bay Area as this whole region of very progressive people, but there are definitely pockets of more conservative folks.”

McGarvey has long been fighting social justice and equality issues through the church. He works with the Interfaith Council of Contra Costa County, representing more than 100 congregations in the region. McGarvey knows it can be hard to get people to rally around causes and to support one another in the suburbs, where cities are scattered, public transportation isn’t as prominent and commutes for many residents are long.

“A lot of these houses are built with the garage as the main feature. They can pull into their garage and watch their surround sound home theater and not have to do much with their neighbors,” he said.

McGarvey has tried to change that. After the arson, he helped organize a march against hate through downtown Antioch. Hundreds of people showed up to support the mosque. There was an outpouring of letters and money coming in the mail. A series of regional events to dispel Islamophobia was held with the help of the Interfaith Council.

Abdul said it was a major change to open the mosque doors, to become vulnerable in hopes of educating people about who Muslims are.

“That’s the only way of having any hope of changing minds. Because the other way — becoming more closed and exclusive — isn’t going to work,” he said.

Abdul said they likely weren’t reaching the target audience -- like whoever torched the mosque, which they’d never find out. But an interfaith support network was developing for Abdul. And when the mosque leaders decided to rebuild the Islamic center right back where it was, Abdul said it was a statement -- a way to say we’re not going anywhere.

'You just can’t keep running'

Two Ramadans passed. When the mosque reopened it still looked like an old dentist office from the outside. But now the Islamic Center of East Bay has iron gates and cameras around the perimeter.

Abdul knows there has been a rise in hate crimes against Muslims nationwide. In California, there was a spike in hate crimes in 2015 following the San Bernardino shootings, and during the presidential campaign of Donald Trump, whose anti-Muslim policies and rhetoric have been criticized and blamed for some of these increases.

In a way, it feels like the country is worse for Muslims now than it was after 9/11 and the arson, Abdul said.

“It doesn’t end. It is a struggle and we have to keep fighting the good fight,” he said.

Some Muslims who attend the mosque are still worried about drawing too much attention, he said. But there is a growing Muslim population and more mosques in these far suburbs in the eastern Bay Area. Which means there are more people like Abdul there to support each other.

Abdul loves Antioch and is optimistic that his community can handle whatever comes next. He has joined McGarvey and other interfaith leaders in a small group called East County United, which meets to discuss ways they can work together and improve their communities.

“You just can’t keep running,” he said. “You’re leaving it for somebody else to discover these things without a solution.”