As Muslims, it’s hard not to feel like we’re treated differently, like the word “terrorist” isn’t hanging over our heads like a bounty wherever we go. We’re expected to be alright with carrying the label with us like a visa stamp in our passports, be OK with knowing we’ll be searched each time we enter airport customs.
After two Australians were arrested in February for planning terror attacks against Cricket World Cup attendees, a security expert told Radio New Zealand it was only a matter of time before the same thing happens here too. The greatest threat, he said, was the rising phenomena of ‘lone wolf’ attackers seduced by ISIS’ masterful propaganda campaigns.
Mohamed Hassan Photo: Mava Moayyed
‘Only a matter of time’ is a phrase that suggests there is somehow a ticking time bomb within the Muslim community in New Zealand that is waiting to blow.
Of course, we should be concerned. After all, didn’t we just raise our terror threat level from ‘very low’ to ‘low’?
It’s frustrating trying to understand what it is we’re expected to do or say.
On one hand, calls for more action to stop the flight of foreign fighters to Syria and Iraq have just resulted in greater surveillance of Muslims. On the other hand, no one seems to be listening when we try and offer solutions, or at least join in on the conversation.
Despite their ongoing calls for dialogue, the Federation of Islamic Associations NZ has been invited to the White House to talk about counter-terrorism this year, but not to the Prime Minister’s office.
As Dame Susan Devoy so rightly said, the Muslim community is owed an explanation as to why our voices have been ignored.
READ: Being young, Muslim, and Kiwi
Like your average young New Zealander, I’ve spent the few last years battling itchy feet and small-town syndrome. With the call of ‘big brother’ enticing me with greener prospects of a good job and great pay, I often want to be living in Australia.
This week was not one of those times though, as I’ve watched my expat mates stunned by the realisation they now have to pay back their mountain of student debt on the newly dwarfed AUD.
I’ve also watched Muslim friends find themselves unwittingly at war with a nation’s identity, as thousands took to the streets demanding Australia “reclaim” itself from the grips of Creeping Sharia.
Angry mobs are never a good thing, and when you’re taking aim at an already marginalised community, heightened by economic turbulence and a PM accusing that community of failing to speak out against extremism, it spells trouble.
There’s been good critique, calling out the jaw-dropping irony of a settler population wanting to “reclaim” anything. While I’ve been happy to see Australian Muslims acknowledging the plight of aboriginal communities at risk of closure by the Government, I see them still left with unanswered questions about their own place under the flag.
The sad reality is, whether or not it’s true, we all already assume we’re being watched. It comes with the job.
Some of them have been pushed to speak out, join anti-racism rallies and be unapologetic for their communities, but many, if not most, have been intimidated into silence. The sad reality is, whether or not it’s true, we all already assume we’re being watched. It comes with the job.
A few months back, amid sweeping terror raids across Melbourne, a good friend told me we shouldn’t talk about politics over Skype, just in case. I remember when the GCSB was first being accused of alleged domestic mass-surveillance. There was outrage, of course, but not from the Muslim community.
Last week, I fought back tears as I watched a video of a social experiment in which a blindfolded man stands on a street in Stockholm holding his arms out. At his feet a placard reads: “I am Muslim, not the same as a terrorist. Do you trust me? I trust you!” As strangers take turns to embrace him, some whispering “I trust you”, it’s hard not to be overcome with emotion. The video is described as “heart-warming”, and it is, but it’s also heartbreaking.
What hurts is the desperation that drove this man, and that felt by many other young Muslims, to want to feel accepted and cherished in their own societies. There is a reason we feel so deeply connected to stories from overseas, and it’s because we understand how it feels to be reluctantly placed in the crosshairs of public frustration.
Sometimes it’s out of genuine misunderstanding. The majority of New Zealanders have never met a Muslim, and all they have to go by is the news. Other times we’re political poker chips used to drum up xenophobic fear in time for an election.
On the 11th of September fourteen years ago, I remember turning up to my Form 2 class bewildered along with everyone else. We spent the day watching live coverage of the rescue efforts and the inevitable speculations that followed. I remember the sense of dread I’d felt even as an 11-year-old, knowing what was to come.
What I imagined were the wars, the invasions and the bloodshed. What I didn’t expect was that I would suddenly become an unwilling ambassador to a word now synonymous with my name. I didn’t expect my mother to be harassed in a parking lot, or that my friend would be turned down from a job because of who he was and what he looked like. That we would all lose the power to choose what words are used to describe us, or to dismiss us.
At best we feel like collateral in the War on Terror. At worst, it’s hard not to feel like we’re only just tolerated in our societies, and that we must only speak when we’re spoken to.
