It takes a community to eradicate hate

Four years ago, something profound
happened in my life.

I saw the fear and mental effects
of racism, hate crimes and Islamaphobia

was having on my community.

I'm an American Muslim
of Nigerian descent,

and growing up,

my parents instilled in me
the importance of community

and serving others.

My mom is fond of an African proverb
from my Yoruba tribe which states,

(In Yoruba) “Ènìyàn kan lon bímọ,
gbogbo ayé lon tọ́ ọmọ,”

which translated means, "a single
person gives birth to a child,

but every other person
looks after the child."

Now, the essence of this proverb is:

even though a woman gives physical birth
to each particular child,

the whole community
plays an important role

in looking after all children.

Growing up, it was not uncommon
for me to come home

and see my mom preparing a meal

for what felt like
the entire neighborhood.

She routinely shared food
with people struggling.

And I recall one day
being angry as a teenager.

It was a hot day.

I'd just completed doing errands.

I was looking forward
to a nice home-cooked meal.

But when I came home,
there was little food left,

because it had gone
to the neighborhood kids again.

I was not happy.

I just wanted to come home,

eat my fill.

My mom consoled me,

and I settled for smaller portions
while she prepared another meal.

Now, I certainly did not
appreciate her that day

but later realized my mom
was providing a safe space

and food for people
in the community that needed it.

(In Yoruba) “Ènìyàn kan lon bímọ,
gbogbo ayé lon tọ́ ọmọ.”

She was looking after all the children.

I came to the United States in 1999

and attended the University of Wisconsin
in the city of La Crosse,

a beautiful city located
along the Mississippi River.

And La Crosse was lovely.

I mean, despite the frigid,
subzero temperature

and lack of diversity,

people were generally warm and caring.

My biggest culture shock,

despite the fact that I came
during the summer,

was seeing people sunbathing
and laying out on lawns.

It just didn't make any sense to me.

Why would anyone choose to sunbathe
and bake your bodies in the hot sun?

In Nigeria, in Africa,
when the sun comes out,

you stay in the shade.

But here it was just the opposite.

When I was five years old,
something regrettable happened in Nigeria,

when the country's first
democratically elected president

required millions of undocumented
immigrants to leave the country.

And this response
was because of religious riots

that occurred in parts
of Northern Nigeria in the 1980s.

The sentiment shared by some

was that it was caused
by undocumented immigrants,

but official sources later disputed that.

Nevertheless, the army was activated

and over 200 million people,
including children,

were sent packing.

The United States government
strongly decried this action at that time.

I felt echoes of that history
the morning of September 11, 2001.

I knew immediately there was going to be
a strong backlash against Muslims,

despite reports that over 80 percent
of global terror-attack victims

are Muslims,

and also because I had seen before
how when something incredibly bad happens,

the easiest thing to do
is to find easy targets to blame.

I felt deeply sad for everyone
that lost their life in the Twin Towers.

It was wrong.

I also felt intensely angry

that terrorists hadn't just hijacked
a plane full of innocent people

but also hijacked my religion.

They turned my beautiful,
peaceful faith, Islam,

into something twisted and nasty
that I could not recognize.

And in turn, my adopted country
started to turn against one another.

The country felt like a powder keg
waiting to explode.

And indeed within days,

there were increased
hate crimes against Muslims

or people that looked like Muslims.

Hate crimes continued to rise
in the country many years after.

In 2012, for example,

a Sikh temple in Wisconsin was attacked,

and people were killed
because of their faith.

And the years later didn't get any better.

Between 2015 and 2016,

the increased number of hate crime
incidents against Muslims

actually surpassed the figures reported
during the year of the 9/11 attacks.

In my own household,

the run-up to the 2016
presidential election

was when we felt the effects of increased
hateful racist and Islamophobic rhetoric

reaching closer to home.

My wife and I tried
to shield our kids from the news,

but like noxious tear gas
ready all around us,

the ugly reality was closing in,

and our kids were choking
on the fear and hate.

My 12-year-old son routinely
came home panicked

that his dad was going to be killed

and that our family
was going to be deported

or put in internment camps.

He thought being identified as a Muslim

was a bad thing.

My 13-year-old daughter
simply disconnected

and shut up completely.

My wife also felt
the heightened sense of fear.

She focused her energy
on securing American passports

for the entire family.

She didn't want her family
to go to mosque to pray

and also explored if it would be safer
for our family to go to Nigeria.

Our family was traumatized,

and our fight-or-flight instincts
were in full effect.

For my part, I was pissed off

that instead of being
our brother and sister's keeper,

my adopted country was being divided
by race and religion.

I wanted our local Muslim community
to do something to quell that hate,

but we were all dealing with trauma.

The Yoruba proverb called to me:

(In Yoruba) “Ènìyàn kan lon bímọ,
gbogbo ayé lon tọ́ ọmọ.”

I felt that our larger community
had an important role to play

in that if we connected with people,
and people got to really know who we were,

they would see that we were
part of the fabric of America

just like they were.

I got word from a friend

that a local interfaith group
was looking to build bridges with Muslims,

but they first needed Muslims
to be part of the group.

And I remember the first day
of our meeting:

Wednesday, February 24, 2016 at 7pm.

There were 12 of us in attendance

and consisted of eight Christians
and four Muslims,

including myself.

We shared why were there,

and we were all proud to be citizens
of this great country.

An American Muslim
who immigrated 39 years ago

shared that he was afraid
for his grandchildren's future.

Another Muslim who escaped
violent persecution from his home country

shared that we was afraid
for the first time in a long time,

afraid of what the future held
for Muslims and children.

I was afraid for my kids, too.

I wanted to make sure our community
was a safe and thriving place for my kids

and everyone else.

And I felt that most of my negative
experiences up until that point

were more about me
being Black than Muslim.

But I also felt negative microaggressions.

I recall several years after 9/11,

a colleague of mine mentioned

that I could potentially be
a terrorist spy.

And whether this statement
was made in jest, conjecture

or just plain ignorance,

the statement really hurt.

It was also a side reminder
that some people are going to judge me

and see me as dangerous
without even knowing me.

Christians around the table
shared they were there to protect

and support us.

And I've got to say, it was such a relief

to be in the company of people that cared
and wanted to help.

We committed that day to stand
shoulder to shoulder with one another.

Our next meeting saw our group expand,

and four others joined us,

including members of the Jewish
and Buddhist faiths, and a student.

Our group was diverse and strong.

We had people in their 20s,
30s, 40s, 50s, 70s

and a local social justice advocate
who was 95 years old

and not interested
in sitting on the sidelines.

A former missionary,

this 95-year-old woman also experienced
injustice under apartheid South Africa,

and that experience made her
an activist and a feminist.

The La Crosse Interfaith
Shoulder to Shoulder Network was born,

and our focus was clear:

ending anti-Muslim sentiment
and hatred towards any targeted group

as we stood shoulder to shoulder.

In May 2016, the local Muslim community
issued a statement rejecting hate.

In January 2017,

a presidential order banning immigrants
from seven mostly Muslim countries

was declared.

This Muslim ban,

which went into effect
on January 27, 2017,

created tremendous anger
in our community that needed an outlet.

A small group of us planned
and organized a community rally

and started to get the word out.

We were regular folks,

not community organizers.

We'd never done anything like this before.

We shared information on Facebook
with our neighbors and friends

and had no idea who would come,

but also knew that it
was important to share

the powerful, simple idea
behind this action.

(In Yoruba) “Ènìyàn kan lon bímọ,
gbogbo ayé lon tọ́ ọmọ.”

We were standing up for each other
and each other's children.

And people showed up,

young and old.

It was extremely cold and below freezing,

but that didn't stop people from coming.

The community was responding
to our call for help.

Over 700 allies came
to the event that day.

A Jewish woman whose family
escaped religious persecution

in the Holocaust in Slovakia

came to support us.

We sparked something beautiful
in La Crosse that day.

We made compassion, equality
and justice everyone's business

and made it everyone's business
to stand shoulder to shoulder together

fighting fear and hate.

For little La Crosse,
this was a very big crowd.

But perhaps even more importantly,

it gave my family and others
an unending sense of support and comfort

that we were not alone

and that more of our neighbors
and communities stood with us

than against us.

The lessons I've learned
from these experiences are:

there are good people in every community,

and your community will stand
shoulder to shoulder with you

if you make it your business.

(In Yoruba) “Ènìyàn kan lon bímọ,
gbogbo ayé lon tọ́ ọmọ.”

When you really connect with a community

and are vulnerable in your quest
for support and communion,

good people will come forth.

And sometimes, all it takes
is one spark to set things in motion.

This year, hate crimes remain high,

with latest FBI reports showing 70 percent
of those crimes being motivated by race,

ethnicity, Islamophobia and anti-Semitism.

And persistent discrimination,
including the death of George Floyd,

shows that we have
a lot of work to do in society.

I mean, this is not one person's,
group's or organization's problem

but all of our problems.

We all have goodness in our hearts,

so let's not sit on the sidelines.

(In Yoruba) “Ènìyàn kan lon bímọ,
gbogbo ayé lon tọ́ ọmọ.”

All of our children deserve
protection and help.

And staying silent does not
make things better.

So let's make our community
and world a better place

by making standing up to
discrimination and hate

everyone's business.