As I was scrolling on social media in 2018, I came across a post titled ‘Punish a Muslim Day’.

I’ll never forget the stomach-churning disbelief I felt reading the words of an anonymous writer encouraging hateful and sadistic attacks on Muslims for 24 hours.

It awarded ‘10 points’ to anyone who verbally abused a Muslim and 25 points to someone who pulled the headscarf off a Muslim woman – all the way up to 1,000 points for the act of burning or bombing a mosque.

It felt as though someone had simply taken the rulebook of a videogame and tried to apply it to real, human lives – Muslim lives – to see what came of a cruel social experiment.

I was a second-year university student at the time, studying for summer exams.

There were moments where I found myself distracted by what I was seeing, baffled by the lack of reasonable media coverage for what seemed a colossal and newsworthy event.

But then my thoughts turned to the root of the problem: the sinister beast that is Islamophobia.

I grew up in North West London, a little corner of the world that has seen more than its fair share of Muslims.

In my estate, along roads and school hallways, being Muslim, wearing the hijab, were not things that typically drew eyes or whispers.

As a 20-something now, I realise the privilege – yes, an odd word to use – that I had growing up in a community that never made me uncomfortable about practising my religion or put me in a position where I felt the need to question my identity.

The same, however, cannot be said about the rest of society.

This unsettling prejudice has established a shadowy but secure home for itself in the media, entertainment, and even government.

Who can forget former PM Boris Johnson’s unsavoury and derogatory remarks about veiled Muslim women looking like ‘letterboxes’?

On top of that, the Conservative Party has faced a string of Islamophobic allegations in recent years, which have gone so far as to warrant investigation.

In television, biased representations of Muslims are in abundance. Look no further than the hit-drama Bodyguard, which featured a Muslim woman who appeared to be forced into terrorism by her abusive husband. 

The twist at the end (spoiler alert!) revealed she was the mastermind of the entire plot, which just seemed to swap one lazy stereotype type for another.

And then we turn to the media, which has no shortage of bias. The difference in treatment between Muslim and non-Muslim terrorists in reporting has long been a contentious issue. 

The Finsbury Park Mosque attack is one example that comes to mind when considering the real world consequences of these harmful depictions. The ‘Punish a Muslim Day’ letter is another.

My family and I hadn’t received anything in the post but knowing it existed was enough to rattle us, and the community, for some time. And the resulting shockwaves stalled us: were we supposed to just go about our daily lives as normal? Grocery shop, attend lectures, or stop by a restaurant?

And what about the day before the proposed punishment, or the following week? Would the danger be lessened then? Would we be able to put our guard down? It felt, in many ways, there was an even bigger target on the backs of the women in my family, as hijab-wearing, visibly Muslim women.

I recall my worried parents, insisting that my sister – a Masters student at Barts at the time – be accompanied to one of her final year exams by my father during the week of the proposed ‘punishment’.

For protection, they said, because of her perceived, and very real, vulnerability.

I grew up learning to internalise all of this – both the manifest and undercurrents of Islamophobia – but, of course, it left a lasting mark on me. One that eventually found its way out into the world as a work of fiction.

Writing my debut book, You Think You Know Me, two years ago during lockdown, has been one of the biggest challenges in my life to date.

The story is about a girl who tries to find her voice amid rising anti-Muslim tension, but it is also about hope, faith, and the strength of family and friendship.

There are moments of tragedy, like when Hanan, the main character, faces bullying, but also moments of light, when she recognises that she is much stronger than she knows.

I knew, at the beginning of this journey, that it would be no easy feat trying to distil my own experiences – and the wider experiences of many Muslims – to craft a story that packs a punch, while giving justice to the issue of Islamophobia at heart.

There were times that I found the process intensely uncomfortable.

In having to grapple with my own deep-seated, ofttimes imperceptible trauma and in trying to wrestle the words into something that would hopefully give voice to young Muslims who very rarely see themselves represented authentically in children’s literature.

At times, I felt I did not want to go on, but the overriding voice in my head that kept me going was: I wish I had read a book like this growing up.

Reading stories that we can see ourselves reflected in should never be a privilege.

Children should be exposed to all sorts of heroines (and villains!) but there are still gaping holes when we consider the diversity in books being published today.

In my story, the hero I offer up is a Muslim girl. A brave, hijab-donning teen who struggles against bias and prejudice, but eventually finds her voice. 

Is Hanan an unconventional main character? Yes. But, as someone who could have done with reading more stories about people like Hanan growing up, I know she shouldn’t be.

You can buy Ayaan Mohamud’s book, You Think You Know Me, on Amazon here.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing [email protected]. 

Share your views in the comments below.

Source: Read Full Article