Invisible voices
Lisa Cumming invites an anonymous guest to write about her recent experiences as a Muslim woman whose safety and anxiety are ignored.
I was asked to write a blog post for Islamophobia Awareness Month and I felt unsure. I could write about the reports we (the Peacebuilding in Britain team) review as part of our ongoing conflict analysis. Like the latest Home Office report on hate crimes stats showing a 19% increase in religious hate crimes targeted at Muslims in England and Wales (excluding the Metropolitan Police Service). I could write about Scottish TV reporting that Muslim Engagement and Development Scotland are increasingly concerned with the “alarming rise" in Islamophobic incidents within recent months, following a wave of attacks. I could write about the racially targeted violence towards people seeking sanctuary in hotels, some of whom will be Muslim. But what I really wanted to do was to listen to Muslim friends and share at least one example of how it feels to be Muslim in the UK right now.
What follows is what a Muslim friend and former peacebuilding colleague, who I've known for around 25 years, wanted to share in this moment.
As a woman of a certain age I've become accustomed to being invisible. My friends and I, in that age bracket between death and life (over 50), often bemoan how we seem to throw words out into the void and no one listens.
Having explained why sadly invisibility is an unexplained superpower albeit an unhelpful one, imagine my surprise when I've recently realised that my feelings, hurts and worries are also ignored. It appears that if you are an Asian woman, daughter of a migrant, a Muslim and even worse, a hijab wearing Muslim, you are not afforded the 'kindness' of being scared or the luxury of being comforted by your 'higher uppers'. Let me explain.
The sound was deafening
When all the flags started going up and the blatant racism was being confused by even more confused people for patriotism, I waited for a message from the top of the office about my safety and those of hundreds of others like me (Muslim, Asian, minority ethnic, ordinary, legally entitled to be here, born and raised). It did not come. The sound was deafening. They didn't care if we were scared or anxious or worried.
I went on a visit to another city and had to ask my colleague, 'How loud are the roundabout painting brigade there?' She (a lovely kind white colleague) was horrified that I had to ask. My manager was also shocked when I explained my anxiety at getting the train. That I even had to think like that was a shock to them. But they thanked me for raising it and offered what assurances they could, including meeting me at the station. I know I am blessed to have some good work colleagues who are kind and compassionate.
And in a similar vein, I reached out to another woman in our team when I could see she was struggling with something, basically the lack of acknowledgment about the genocide (I'm going with the scholars and my eyes) in Gaza, which weighs heavily on any person with a conscience anywhere in the world. But nada. Zilch. Not a word from the top of the office.
Another friend and colleague was clearly distressed, as she is from the same area where a young Asian woman (Sikh by faith) was attacked in a racially motivated sexual assault in broad daylight! I cannot even believe I am typing such words. My friend (Sikh female) was terrified and getting a taxi to and from work. But did we hear anything from anyone at any level in the organisation about how awful this was and how awful it must feel for all women and especially anyone from the area? Nope. Nada. Zilch.
Fast forward to the horrific attack on the synagogue in Manchester. My thoughts and prayers went to the victims and families as I watched in horror at what hate leads to yet again. I reached out to my Jewish friend who was so shaken she had to cancel our catch up. I offered my love and condolences and a patient ear when she was ready. This time there was no organisational silence. There were messages, e-mails, and offers to listen. And rightly so.
And yet, as I'm only a flawed human, I could not help but think, it would be nice to know I mattered that much too. We all should matter that much to organisations, our communities, and our families.
Doesn't matter the colour of your skin, we all bleed the same, and heartache hurts the same.
I should mention I'm a public servant and work for a large organisation that should be able to navigate difference and nuance much better. And if not, they should be able to show due concern to their staff regardless of background. Thank goodness some of us can.
Love and compassion go a long way.
Thankfully, I know lots of people from all backgrounds who know and love me and would give me refuge if I needed to escape in the middle of the night. In fact, a friend reached and offered me exactly that if ever I needed it. She is a lesbian, wheelchair user, mum, wife and all-round good egg. It doesn't take much.
Love and compassion go a long way.
