Issue 04: March 15

Assalamu Alaykum, Tēnā Koutou.

It’s always difficult for me to find the words to describe how I feel about March 15th. I’m overcome with a mixture of emotions—grief, anger, hope, caution. In the past, my voice has seemed irrelevant; whenever I talked about my faith, it was only to defend it, and compose myself in a way that legitimised my place in society. Such visibility needed to be managed, watered down, and palatable. Now I have the privilege to be able to co-edit this issue of Salient, and it's slightly terrifying. Those who are minorities know, when you’re given those few opportunities to speak freely, you want to make them count, you want to say what’s right. You want to make sure you do justice to your people, and for all those whose voices were shunned or lost.

This year, I am Vice President of Communications for VicMuslims. For those of you who are unfamiliar with what we do, our club is responsible for facilitating prayer rooms, hosting events, and fostering a supportive network for Muslim (and non Muslim!) students. It’s already been an incredibly rewarding experience to be a part of this kaupapa, and if there's one thing I’ve learnt from being in this community, it's how important and beautiful it is to have spaces where you can celebrate and connect with others through shared identity.

On 15 March 2019, worshippers gathered to do just that in a space they thought was safe, only for hatred to violate it. We will never be able to completely capture the diverse stories, histories, and identities of the 51 beautiful souls we lost that Friday afternoon. We also cannot afford to have white supremacy and xenophobia continue to infiltrate the spaces we deserve. 

That’s why in this issue, we are telling our stories, and speaking our truths. We’ve collated a series of writing and art from tauiwi and Muslim youth that is astonishing, authentic, and unapologetically honest. For some, it’ll be uncomfortable and confronting, but for many, it will be liberating. This is for the 51 shuhada (martyrs). For everyone who has ever felt like a stranger in their own home. For all the stories that go untold, all the breaths that get held, all the voices that get lost. We are no longer looking for sympathy or approval. We are here to claim our space.

Ngā mihi and salam,

Ronia Ibrahim (she/her)