I grew up doing the same thing. My father would take me to the mosque in the evenings when I was done my homework. I was allowed to bring a small toy with me to occupy myself while my father offered his prayers. He wanted me to understand that although I was born in Canada, I had a religion and an identity that I could never forget. I remember those days fondly. If I made too much noise my father would give me a stern look and place his index finger to his lips, urging me to keep quiet. This was a place of worship, not a playground for my Barbie dolls.
Eventually, the trips to the mosque became less frequent as I progressed in school, made friends, and generally started forging my own path in life. But I never forgot who I was. My Muslim identity follows me everywhere I go. It’s present even before I introduce myself, in the colour of my skin, the shape of my eyes, the third language I speak, and the summer vacations I spent in Cairo.
I was never scared of this identity until recent events that made me take a step back and try and understand how I fit into the fabric of our society. I was born in Canada but my parents are Egyptian. Does that make me Canadian? Egyptian? Both, perhaps? I have lived in Quebec almost my entire life, I speak French and know Quebec’s history and culture better than I know that of Egypt. Can I call myself Quebecoise? Who exactly am I, and where do I belong?
When my brothers in Islam are killed, not on the battlefield but on the carpeted floor of the mosque, where do I belong? Will I be persecuted because I place my forehead on the floor to pray five times a day, showing humility to God and hoping he will answer my prayers, rather than standing in a pew hoping that same God will answer my prayers? If so, where can I find a place safe enough to call home?
Many may think I’m being dramatic and tell me about the love and unity that has been shown since the shooting took place last night. And yes, I agree, standing side by side with so many Canadians last night made me feel at home. I felt safe. But there is still a problem, and there are still people out there who don’t want me here.
We came together as a community last night, and now we must continue to come together every day and educate those people who don’t understand.
As Canadians, we should not get too cocky. We have a habit of comparing ourselves to our neighbours south of the border and breathing a sigh of relief. But that’s not good enough. We have problems here. There’s xenophobia and racism and discrimination every day, and it shouldn’t take the murder of six praying men for us to realize that maybe things aren’t as perfect as we like to think here at home.
We are not immune simply because things are worse in the United States. We need to stop patting ourselves on the back simply because our prime minister is not a bigot. We need to hold our government officials to the highest standards and make sure that as a diverse community we don’t lose track of who we are.
In light of the horrific event in Sainte-Foy, we need to take a step back as a community and take an introspective look. We need to understand why members of the community feel scared and isolated sometimes and we need to understand what motivates outliers such as Alexandre Bissonnette. Finally, we need to come together as a community and practise what we preach.
Don’t just tell me I’m welcome here. Show me. Show the entire community by opening your hearts and homes to Muslims. Read about the faith, understand it, and realize that, at the end of the day, my family is trying to get by just like yours.
My father came here looking for a better future for his kids and himself. He taught us to work hard and aim high so we could become active members of society. My mother told us that we were Muslim and we were Canadian, that we had to love everyone equally, never judge anyone, and never discriminate.
These are my values as a Muslim, given to me by my Muslim parents.