The ‘Muslim’ Gremlin:
REMEMBERING WITH LOVE
I was nine years old when I lost faith in the media. And I was nine years old when I learnt to question what a TV screen told me who I could and shouldn’t love. I was also nine years old when the world fragmented into rupture, and what could have been a global cry for love became a trojan horse for mass war, death, fear and, above all else, separation.
And this, my friend. We remember the anniversary of 22 years since the Twin Towers fell.
In studio, photo credit Kirke Club
L e s s o n s
As a Muslim kid in the UK, before 9/11, Islam wasn’t on the radar of the public, and my family, albeit stood out from the white crowd, did not pose a threat. And then, after that day, I saw my uncles and brother become archetypes of a villain. I walked alongside my mother as kids threw stones aimed at the hijab on her head, and ignorant truck drivers shot hand signals and threatening signs of aggression. Overnight, the news portrayed people I associated with my family as terrorists and years later, 22 years on, the ripple effects of that prejudice still stop my family from living freely.
Whilst I knew the 9/11 event was tragic and heartbreaking, the other side of my brain couldn’t understand why it was fair that now, every Muslim worldwide was branded a terrorist and tarred with the same brush. My innocence was ripped as I discovered that the media doesn’t care about fairness; it cares about fear.
“I hope that the world turns and that things get better. But what I hope most of all is that you understand what I mean when I tell you that even though I do not know you, and even though I may never meet you, laugh with you, cry with you, or kiss you. I love you. With all my heart, I love you.”
At nine, I couldn’t understand how the news could so crudely depict the religion I associated with my identity and how two billion people in the world became villains. From that season on, I learnt that separation and prejudice always have two sides to the story. And that the ‘other’ deserves to be heard. I knew that I didn’t like how that event was used as a weapon for more hurtful wars, and I didn’t like how none of my friends (yes, even in 4th grade) cared to question but instead went back home to their families and closed the door because they weren’t affected.
This is not a newsletter about terrorism, racism or even religion. Those - are heavy topics I cannot begin to contextualise in a witty paragraph for your pre-lunch consumption. Instead, this is a gentle poke to ask you when, if at any time, you began questioning mainstream media/ narrative and how that impacted your life.
Karimah Hassan, White Chapel Market, Acrylic on Canvas
RIP to all those lost in that event and the consequent events across the Middle East in the name of justice. No life should be lost in the name of hate.
This is why, I say over and over, as creatives, our divine right is that we do not need to bully the bullied but instead use creative alchemy to turn the pain, the fear, and the hurt into music, dance, art, colour, expression and step over the bullied to radiate as a beacon of love.
That is the only way to actual change.
Time and time again, waring hate with hate fragments us into separation. The power of art to bridge a common ground is what gives me faith in humanity. Without such confidence, I would have given up a long time ago.
P.S
Every year, I write on this topic. And use it as a way to reflect upon how the world can or will use water-shed moments to unite and fracture. You can read previous articles on 9/11 and a cry for unity here:
Till Next week
YOU GLORIOUS THING
Karimah x
