When I found out that I was brown, I was still in kindergarten. I have always known-and am proud of-my culture, but it takes a white peer to look at me and say “dirty skin” to make me understand the reality of living in Canada as a racialized person.

Even so, I still didn’t fully understand the seriousness of what was about to happen, even though my parents asked me to sit down and have a “talk”-talk about racism.

When I was three years old, my family immigrated to Canada. My parents have lived and worked in peace and contentment throughout their careers and surrounded by caring family members. They decided to start again in a new continent so that their children can get better education and opportunities.

Although the promises of “multiculturalism” and “inclusiveness” spread around them, they soon realized that these narratives were lies. Within a few days after arriving in their new country, my parents had to deal with their first racism. What followed was decades of torture: racial slander, “random” selection, thousands of “roll back to your country” statements, and even denial of service because my parents didn’t speak English “correctly”.

For me, what stands out is my school experience. I remember my parents pulled me out of school in the third grade because I lacked the support of teachers and school administrators after children often bullied me because I was too brown.

My family often moves. Every year I hope it will be different this time. Every year is different-racism is getting worse. I started to hate school.

I remember begging my mother to let me wear a headscarf when I was 12 years old. All the strong and powerful women around me have done this, and I want to follow in their footsteps. My mother made a conscious decision to extend my wish, perhaps because she knows the complex reality of brown and obviously Muslims very well.

When I started wearing a headscarf in the 9th grade, I immediately noticed that I was treated differently. Not only was I called “Paki”, but my skin was made fun of for being “dirty”, and my peers and my teacher also asked me questions about terrorism, as if my headscarf meant that I had a responsibility to condemn The terrorist attack on me has nothing to do with my religion.

I chose to become a teacher, hoping to reform the education system. In my experience in the Canadian education system, I have been looking for a familiar face—a reliable adult who knows what I face. My sense of isolation in school was magnified because I never felt that any of my teachers could understand it.

If I had a racialized teacher who knew what it was like to be oppressed, maybe my cultural costume would be celebrated instead of discouraged. If I had a South Asian teacher who also liked the delicious combination of spicy food, maybe the biryani that my mother carefully packed for my lunch would be appreciated, not made fun of. Perhaps Muslim teachers will share the responsibility and share the responsibilities of non-Muslims when they spew anti-Islamic hatred.

If there is someone who looks like me next to me, all my experiences at school will not be so terrible. So I became that person.

Within a few days of my first year of teaching, I realized the importance of obvious Muslims and browns. At that time, students who had never taught came to my classroom and couldn’t believe that people like me could In this role.

I choose to take on the responsibility of coexisting with racialized students. I took on the responsibility of fighting against the system created to oppress racialized students, so that one day they don’t have to “celebrate” because of their flexibility, but can.

In a predominantly white society, my presence as a brown teacher reminds all students that our community is made up of people from all corners of the world.

I urge my students to challenge their preconceptions. I ask questions, I nudge, and then we gently forget and learn together. I am reminded every day how much children are eager to make the world a better place.

Although this work should start at home, as educators, we have a responsibility to ensure that all students feel safe, not only in our classrooms, but also in our communities. Although I know my job is important, I am still reminded every day that racism is deeply ingrained in every structure of Canadian society, because even as an adult, I still have to face it.

The recent terrorist attack in London, Ontario is a clear reminder of the reality facing Muslim Canadians. When we mourned the loss of more lives by white supremacy, I was reminded again that Canada is not home. When I saw many statements made by the city, provincial, and federal leadership, their (lack of) action reminded me that their words were performance.

The leaders we need are not only willing to condemn racism and anti-Islamic hatred, but they are also willing to take action.

My family looks like the Afzaal family. My parents take a walk at night, and my mother always wears her Salwar Kamezi proudly. This may be us. This has always been us, but we are fortunate to survive racist comments and slander. Not everyone is so lucky.

Every day, I remind people of what it means to wear brown hair and a headscarf in Canada. Every day, I am reminded that I do not belong here. Although some people think that racism and anti-Islamic hatred are issues specific to those affected by them, they are actually Canadian issues. Now, every Canadian shoulders the responsibility of condemning, questioning and advocating for change, starting with a conversation with relatives at home.

How long will it take us to live a life free of violence? We can’t wait any longer. Our people are dying.

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