Fear as a Common Identity

Nour Mousa 

Palestinian-Syrian writer based in Canada

Last year on the evening of June 6, the Afzaal family did not know that there were people who had ingested enough hate to follow their steps and kill them on a corner. The Afzaal family did not realize that their evening picnic would end in death. A young man targeted the Afzaal family with his car and killed four family members because of his hate toward people of the Muslim faith. The victims are Salman Afzaal (46 years), his wife, Madiha Salman (44 years), their daughter Youmna Afzaal (15 years), and the grandmother Talaat Afzaal (74 years). The only survivor was Fayez, the youngest child, who will turn ten this year. A whole year has now passed for Fayez without his parents, sister, and grandmother.

The 21-year-old was charged with four counts of first-degree murder and one count of attempted murder, making him the deadliest mass murderer in London, Ontario’s history. The trial is scheduled to begin on September 5, 2022, at which he will face “terrorism charges.”

Although the assassination of the Azfaals was not the first terrorist crime whose victims were Muslims, this was the first time that an Islamophobic crime had been formally characterized as a terrorist crime in Canada. The word terrorism has become synonymous with ‘Muslim’ in the imagination of many because of the stereotype of the Muslim man and woman in the Western media, and it has become easy to mobilize feelings of hatred against Islam within extremist and racist groups, whom have a history in Canada. This Islamophobic media infusion is evident in news bulletins, comedy shows, films, and series that have a global reach. This Islamophobic content on media has shaped a single mould for all Muslim men and women—denying the existence of intellectual and cultural diversity in Muslim-majority countries.

Faith, belief, and identity are complex matters that contain many paradoxes. Still, the meaning of identity for the killer becomes simple and superficial when he tries to choose his victims. In front of the killer, all our complexities are simplified in the picture he painted for us. But it is worth noting that the superficiality of these classifications is not limited to the imagination of the killer. These classifications are ready-made templates to identify individuals and include them in minority classifications, whether based on colour, ethnicity, or belief. Such classifications are commonplace when filling out applications and forms for the government or universities or applying for employment in some institutions.

The paradox of these classifications is they lack consideration for the individuality of the people affiliated with these groups in countries where individualism dominates the social and economic system. If we want to consider the example of belief and religion, an individual’s relationship with religion may vary during life stages. On the level of groups, we can observe various sects and schools within each group affiliated with a particular religion. The same applies to other classifications that frame the identity of individuals within an identity limited to their religious or ethnic affiliations. The classifications that define the characteristics of groups reduce the uniqueness of individuals to generalizations and false assumptions.

Although these classifications are now global and not confined to Canada, they say a lot about the Canadian reality. They reflect a colonial and racist past whose effects are still visible. They refer to the colonial reality of Canada. Canada tries to present itself as a nation of immigrants who celebrate their diversity of colours, cultures, and beliefs. This country of immigrants still sees the affiliations and identities of its members according to classifications that are not free of racism and Orientalist ideology.

Canada has adopted the term “visible minorities,” to refer to those who face racial discrimination. “Visible minorities” can be a catch all for any individual or group not white or Indigenous. Although this term does not include religions, it has helped perpetuate stereotypes linking the ethnicity and colour of the individual with certain religious beliefs and social habits. The killer of the Afzvaal family targeted them based on a stereotyped image that made him associate the colour of their skin and clothing with beliefs that he deemed dangerous. He identified them as his victims simply by what was visible to him.

The term “visible minorities” was invented by the human rights activist Kay Livingstone, who coined the term in the 1980s to describe the social and political inequalities faced by non-whites. While the significance of the characterization was to shed light on the challenges these minorities faced at that time, this characterization, which is still adopted today by Statistics Canada, became a form of consolidating these challenges. The word ‘minority’ has become statistically inaccurate in some Canadian cities and towns. Furthermore, the word ‘visible’ lacks the intersectional understanding of racial, ethnic, religious, and gender identities that cannot be visible without falling back onto stereotypes. 

For refugees and immigrants like myself, we are still trying to redefine our identity at both the individual and collective level. We are trying to discover how our belongings are reshaped in this new place. Nevertheless, the reality that met us is that even before our arrival, we had a slot waiting among the categories of visible minorities, and we have had to adapt our identity to fit into that slot. Therefore, when we try to discover our affiliations and understand their meanings, we are constantly confronted with a history of conflict, colonialism, and stereotypes framing our identities and belonging.

Attacks on individuals who may share a certain ethnic or religious identity created a new form of belonging for minorities. Belonging became based on a fear of a common danger. Targeting a group based on a religious membership underestimates the diversity within this group. It disregards the fact that religious beliefs can be relative and vary from one person to another. We became equal in the face of one danger. The terrifying reality, in this case, is that fear developed to be the common denominator shaping minorities’ identities.

I remember that evening. I received messages from people at my work and university saying sorry for all the panic my family and I were feeling. Those messages tried to explain to me that this crime does not reflect the values ​​of London’s community. The messages, filled with condolences and apologies, seemed strange and frightening  – before I came across the news to learn of the tragedy of the Afzaal family murder. It did not take more than a few minutes to comprehend all those condolences and apologies. The killing of a family like the Afzaals meant I have to fear for my family. 

That evening I realized that this crime, which took place less than five kilometres from where I lived with my mother, who wears a headscarf, would reopen the doors of the terror that I am still trying to forget. The familiar feeling of terror returned to me. It was an apprehension, which I had previously traveled across land and over oceans to escape, that someone would come to harm my family and I for no comprehensible justification.

Perhaps my fear, which sometimes crosses the line of reason, is justified because the hate and violence that threatens our lives also cross the lines of reason. The murderer does not follow any reasonable logic and logical arguments seem weak before our feelings at times. My personal fear soon seemed like a collective fear. And now it is this fear that is being treated as an essential component of the collective identity of people described as “visible minorities.”