"O Allah, bring peace and tranquility to the world," says Deanna Khalil, a 17-year-old junior, leading a prayer that she wrote. "O Allah, bless those who have died in Iraq and those who continue to suffer. O Allah, grant them paradise." 

Many of the students had just heard the news that U.S. troops had overtaken Baghdad and that a huge statue of Saddam Hussein had fallen, bringing about a mix of emotions: sadness for those who've died, along with elation and relief. 

Underpinning their emotions is fear and, for many students, questions about their future in a nation where many Muslims feel increasingly unwelcome. 

"Before, I wasn't scared of anything. This was a happy place - the center of my world," Deanna says, referring to the campus in this Chicago suburb, which includes the Aqsa School and the mosque that many have attended since they were little girls. 

"Now it seems like everyone is scared - and you are scared of the people who are scared of you." 

That was true even before the war, adds classmate Alaa Mukahhal, who worries that the end of the Iraq campaign will not quell the bad feelings. 

"I feel like Sept. 11 was just an excuse to hate us," the soft-spoken 16-year-old says. "It's like it was there just under the surface waiting to come out." 

Tension was certainly obvious in Chicago's south suburbs, neighborhoods with many Arab-American and Muslim families, after terrorists hit Washington and New York on Sept. 11, 2001. 

Despite local Muslim leaders' clear and quick condemnations of the attacks, an angry mob marched on the mosque next to the girls' school the following day. Some waved American and Confederate flags and shouted "USA! USA!" 

School was closed for days, as the National Guard kept watch and Muslim leaders installed security systems. 

That tension was stirred again as the Iraq war began. A man in nearby Burbank was charged with a hate crime for allegedly throwing an explosive into a Muslim family's unoccupied van. 

All of this comes at a time when the girls, like many teenagers, are getting their first real taste of freedom. Many have their driver's licenses and are making plans for college. 

Deanna, a point guard on the school's basketball team, dreams of attending Northwestern University to become a doctor or lawyer. Alaa, who often acts in school plays, wants to study microbiology at the University of Chicago with a minor in politics. 

Rahaf Cheikhali, who counts chemistry among her favorite subjects, also wants to go to a Chicago-area university and hopes to one day own her own business. 

Her fear of continuing conflict with non-Muslims - even if the war in Iraq ends soon - is tempered by optimism. 

"I have a lot of hope because I know there are a lot of open-minded people," says 16-year-old Rahaf, a native of Syria who is now a U.S. citizen. "I'm just so ready to let everyone know everything about me - my religion, everything. It's just such a beautiful religion." 

"We want to break down the idea of us and them," Deanna says. "We are all Americans." 

One of their teachers, Tammie Ismail, is a little surprised but pleased at their hopefulness. The girls remind her of herself at that age, she says. 

"In college, I felt like I could change the world. And it's so difficult to feel that way now," says Ismail, 26. "Sometimes I feel like it's out of my hands - like making connections in the real world is so much harder." 

But it does happen. 

Ismail, a second-generation Arab-American, recalls a recent town hall meeting where people were encouraged to introduce themselves to one another and talk about the war. Ismail, who wears the traditional Muslim "hijab," or head scarf, nervously turned to the woman next to her, a Christian who supported the war. 

She says she was "a little scared" to tell the woman about her personal misgivings about the war, but in the end, the two women exchanged phone numbers. 

It was one of the interactions that help soften the pain of the sneers and comments - the "raw hate," as Ismail calls it - they have encountered outside school. That includes the post-Sept. 11 marchers who noticed Ismail's hijab and ran toward the car she and her husband were in. Her husband made a U-turn and sped away. 

More recently, a woman in a Wal-Mart parking lot called her a "terrorist" and yelled that she was going to follow her home and kill her. 

Ismail shakes her head. 

"We were under the impression that we had done a good job of communicating who we are. But after that," she says. "Maybe we need to do more. Maybe we're more secluded than we realize."