On Islamophobia in New York city

Six years ago, shortly after I had announced I was running for assembly, a well-meaning Muslim uncle pulled me aside. He smiled softly and looked at me with care. In a quiet voice, he told me, I did not have to tell people I was Muslim. His eyes kind, his beard proud, and his face heavy with the implication of the unsaid. I had not learned the lesson that he had been taught, time and again.

It is the lesson that safety could only be found in the shadows of our city. That it is in those shadows alone where Muslims could embrace the fullness of our own identities. And that if we are to emerge from them, then it is in those shadows where we must leave our faith. These are lessons that so many Muslim New Yorkers have been taught, again and again.

And over these last few days, these are the lessons that have become the closing message of Andrew Cuomo, Curtis Sleewa and Eric Adams. Yesterday, Andrew Cuomo laughed and agreed when a radio show host said that I would cheer another 9/11. Yesterday, Eric Adams said that we can't let our city become Europe. He compared me to violent extremists, and he lied when he said that our movement seeks to burn churches and destroy communities. The day before that, Curtis Sleewa slandered me from a debate stage, when he claimed that I supported global jihad. And every day, Super PAC ads imply that I am a terrorist or mock the way I eat, push polls that ask New Yorkers questions like whether they support invented proposals to make halal mandatory or political cartoons that represent my candidacy as an airplane hurtling towards the World Trade Center.

But I do not want to use this moment to speak to them any further. I want to use this moment to speak to the Muslims of the city. I want to speak to the memory of my aunt, who stopped taking the subway after September 11th, because she did not feel safe in her job. I want to speak to the Muslim city worker. Whether they teach in our schools or walk the beat for the NYPD, New Yorkers who all make daily sacrifices on behalf of the city only to see their leaders spit in their face. I want to speak to every child who grows up in New York marked as the other, who is randomly selected in a way that rarely feels random, who feels that they carry a stain that can never quite be cleaned.

Growing up in the shadow of 9/11, I have known what it means to live with an undercurrent of suspicion. I will always remember the disdain I faced, the way my name could immediately become Muhammad, and how I could return to my city only to be asked in a double mirrored room at the airport if I had any plan of attacking it. And since I was very young, I have known that I was spared the worst of it. I was never pressured to be an informant like a classmate of mine. I have never had the word terrorist spray painted on my garage as one of my staff had to endure. My mosque has never been set on fire. To be Muslim in New York is to expect indignity. But indignity does not make us distinct. There are many New Yorkers who face it. It is the tolerance of that indignity that does.

Since I announced my candidacy for mayor one year ago yesterday,
I've sought to be the candidate fighting for everyday New Yorkers, not simply the Muslim candidate. I've carried these indignities with me each moment of this race doing so all the while as the first major Muslim candidate for mayor in New York City history. I thought that if I could build a campaign of universality, I could define myself as the leader I aspire to be, one representing every New Yorker no matter their skin color or religion. I thought if I worked hard enough, it would allow me to be that leader. And I thought that if I behaved well enough or bit my tongue enough in the face of racist, baseless attacks while returning back to my central message, it would allow me to be more than just my faith.

I was wrong. No amount of redirection is ever enough.
In doing this, I have told the wide-eyed young boy in Jackson Heights or the first time voter in Park Chester, that they too should remain in the shadows. I am becoming that same uncle who took me aside.

No more.

The dream of every Muslim is simply to be treated the same as any other New Yorker. And yet for too long we have been told to ask for less than that, and to be satisfied with whatever little we receive.

No more.

For as long as we have lived, we have known that no matter what anyone says, there are still certain forms of hate acceptable in this city today. Islamophobia is not seen as inexcusable. One can incite violence against our mosques and know that condemnation will never come. Elected officials in this city can sell t-shirts calling for my deportation without fear of any accountability. The consequences are stark. More than one million Muslim New Yorkers exist in this city, only to be made to feel as if guests in our own home.

No more.

We stand on the precipice of an election, but that is not what today is about. We know that in less than two weeks we will say goodbye to a disgraced former governor and our current indicted mayor. The bigger question is whether we are willing to say goodbye to something much larger. It is whether we are willing to say goodbye to anti-Muslim sentiment that has grown so endemic in our city that when we hear it, we know not whether the words were said by a Republican or by a Democrat, we know only that it was spoken in the language of the politics of this city. In an era of ever diminishing bipartisanship, Islamophobia has emerged as one of the few areas of agreement. And while I appreciate all who have rushed to my defense over the past two days, I think of those Muslims in this city who do not have the luxury of being the Democratic nominee, who do not have the luxury of being deemed worthy of solidarity.

While my opponents in this race have brought this hatred to the forefront, this is just a glimpse into what so many Muslims have had to endure every day across the five boroughs that we call home. And while it would be easy to say that this is not who we are as a city, we know the truth. This is who we have allowed ourselves to become. A question lies before each of us. Will we continue to accept a narrow definition of what it means to be a New Yorker that makes smaller the number of those guaranteed a life of dignity? Will we remain in the shadows? Or will we together step into the light?

There are 11 days remaining until election day. I will be a Muslim man in New York City each of those 11 days and every day that follows after that. I will not change who I am. I will not change how I eat. I will not change the faith that I am proud to belong to. But there is one thing I will change. I will no longer look for myself in the shadows. I will find myself in the light. Thank you.