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In both the Québec debate on reasonable accommodation and the Western discourse surrounding the veil, we observe a troubling pattern of how public discussions of cultural identity can reinforce power imbalances and marginalize minority groups. Mahrouse critiques the Bouchard-Taylor Commission on reasonable accommodations, noting how the process positioned French-Canadian Quebecers as gatekeepers of Québec identity, while minorities, particularly immigrants, were placed in the defensive position of having to justify their presence and commitment to "Québec values" (89). This dynamic reinforced existing hierarchies, where immigrant voices were not fully heard but rather subsumed under the pressure to “defuse” the anxieties of the majority. This parallels Al-Saji’s (2010) analysis of the veiled Muslim woman in Western discourse, where the veil becomes both a symbol of oppression and a tool for excluding Muslim women from meaningful subjectivity. Al-Saji argues that the veil is often framed as an emblem of patriarchal control, and in doing so, it reduces veiled women to passive victims, erasing their individuality and agency. This "hypervisibility" of the veil simultaneously leads to the "de-subjectification" of Muslim women—making them highly visible in their oppression, yet invisible as active, autonomous subjects (891). Both the reasonable accommodation debates in Québec and Western representations of the veil function similarly: they create a space where minority identities are scrutinized and judged, while majority perspectives remain dominant and unchallenged. This pattern highlights how cultural representation and public discourse can serve as mechanisms of exclusion, reinforcing societal divisions rather than fostering genuine dialogue or inclusion. Both Al-Saji and Mahrouse demonstrate how these public processes, while ostensibly inclusive, often serve to legitimize dominant cultural norms, leaving minority groups in positions of perpetual defence and marginalization.

In discussions of race and identity in the U.S., the binary of black and white has long dominated frameworks of social categorization. However, Muslim identity complicates this binary. Muslimness, especially in the American context, is often tied not just to religion but to a perceived foreignness, which disrupts the neat divisions between black and white. In fact, Muslim identity is frequently racialized, positioned as something "other"—a marker of non-whiteness, sometimes even specifically "brownness"—and this perception can distort the ways we understand race in America (Hussain, 602). Growing up as one of the only Muslim kids in my primary school, I experienced this firsthand. One of the most telling moments came when a classmate, confused by my identity, asked me, "Tu viens de la musulmanie?" (en bon québecois). This question, both curious and bizarre, encapsulates the way Muslim identity is often perceived as foreign, existing somewhere "else"—in the East, far removed from the West. It highlights how being Muslim is frequently understood not as a religious identity but as a racial or ethnic one, a label that invokes images of distant lands rather than a simple choice of faith. In this way, Muslimness can be conflated with race, leading to enormous confusion and misapprehension.
Muslims, particularly those who are visibly non-white, are often seen as belonging to a separate racial category. This perception upends the traditional black/white binary by introducing an “intermediate” category, often associated with brownness or foreignness. In fact, immigrant Muslims, such as Arabs and South Asians, are frequently distanced from the black identity, despite shared experiences of racial discrimination, through the assumption that they are "foreign" or "outsiders." The phrase «muslimanie» reflects this assumption—that to be Muslim is to come from a place that is culturally and racially distinct from the black and white dichotomy that defines American society.
 
Nadeer, a Muslim man who enjoys surprising others by revealing his faith, shares that his race often leads people to assume he is not Muslim. He explains that without visual cues—like a kufi or prayer beads—he doesn't fit the stereotypical image of a Muslim (Hussain, 594). The discomfort people feel when learning of his Muslim identity highlights how race and religion are often conflated and how Muslimness is frequently seen as something that belongs "elsewhere." This disconnect between Muslimness and American racial categories points to a deeper issue: the creation of race as a way to define who belongs and who doesn’t. In this context, Muslim identity became linked to a kind of racial "otherness," which continues to shape how Muslims are perceived today. To be Muslim in America is not just to follow a religion but to embody a kind of foreignness that is racially coded and often racialized as non-white.

(45zoo lol) To follow up on the issue of police brutality, a recent incident in Montreal Nord highlights the troubling rise in police aggression toward the Arab community. A social worker was arrested for no apparent reason while waiting for a friend to grab coffee. While the specifics of the arrest are still unclear, the incident underscores a disturbing trend of racial profiling and excessive force that has been increasingly directed at Arab individuals in recent years. This uptick in police brutality may be linked to a number of factors (I think), including the rising narrative around 'gang' violence or the growing population of Arab immigrants and their children. Regardless of the reasons, this pattern of discriminatory behaviour raises serious concerns about systemic racism within law enforcement.

Unhappy multiculturalism seems to refer to the feeling of being forced to respect and accept others. Sara Ahmed effectively unpacks this rhetoric around a multiethnic society as a source of unhappiness in The Promise of Happiness, where she describes how happiness is used as a colonial tool. Ahmed critiques how the utilitarian mission to create an ‘English’ happiness—rooted in colonial histories—serves to justify the assimilation of marginalized groups. This utilitarian logic of ‘civilizing’ others so they, too, can partake in this happiness disguises assimilation and discrimination under the guise of benevolence.

In Quebec, we live within a framework of interculturalism. Initially, this policy was designed to distinguish Quebec from Canada’s model of multiculturalism and to promote Quebec’s distinct culture. However, by privileging one dominant culture, others are often forced to assimilate or fit in. A clear example of this is the treatment of Indigenous communities living in Quebec. Many of these communities, often English-speaking, face significant barriers due to Quebec’s language policies—such as Law 96, which affects CEGEPs and universities—because they are seen as speaking the ‘wrong’ colonizer’s language. This creates an implicit hierarchy of cultures and languages, with Quebec's happiness and identity positioned as more important than those of linguistic minorities.

From my reading of My Dungeon Shook, Baldwin's assertion that white people are not free is rooted in the idea that their identity is built upon the subjugation and degradation of Black people. White Americans, have constructed a sense of superiority by positioning themselves as the norm while relegating Black people to a lower status. This relationship of dominance, however, becomes a psychological trap that prevents true freedom, both for Black and white people.

One of Baldwin's key points is that this system of racism sustains white identity at the cost of their moral integrity and freedom. This quote "It is the innocence which constitutes the crime” emphasizes that white people's ignorance or refusal to acknowledge their participation in a racist system is not just a passive failure but an active wrong. The innocence Baldwin writes of is the deliberate blindness of white Americans to the realities of racism and oppression, allowing them to feel morally unburdened while benefiting from these systems of inequality. By holding on to this innocence, white people remain trapped in a lie about their own identity and morality.

In other cases as described in this quote,  "Many of them, indeed, know better, but, as you will discover, people find it very difficult to act on what they know,” Baldwin highlights the dissonance between knowledge and action. Some white people may recognize the injustice of racism, but they find it hard to confront or dismantle it because it would challenge the foundation of their identity. Acknowledging Black people's humanity and equality would shake the "fixed star" of whiteness, which Baldwin refers to when he writes, “the black man has functioned in the white man’s world as a fixed star, as an immovable pillar: and as he moves out of his place, heaven and earth are shaken to their foundations.” This metaphor illustrates how deeply the white identity is anchored in the subjugation of Black people. If Black people move out of their assigned place in society, it threatens the entire structure of white supremacy, forcing a re-evaluation of what it means to be white. Thus, Baldwin suggests that true freedom for white people can only come when they let go of the need to define themselves by oppressing others.

The experience of many African immigrants in France, and in other Western countries, reflects a painful process of assimilation that requires them to suppress their true identities in order to gain a semblance of acceptance. As Karim recalls, he worked tirelessly to be “polite, nice, and docile,” always aiming to make a good impression, not as a personal choice, but as a survival strategy (Martin, 149). However, despite his best efforts to integrate into French society, he ultimately realized the harsh truth: “French people won’t ever truly accept you.” This realization, that no amount of adaptation could erase his "difference" in their eyes, is a cruel form of exclusion, one that is rooted in colonial history and racial prejudice.

The internalized inferiority that immigrants like Karim experience often extends to their children. The constant erasure of African history and culture in the education system, as he mentions—where only the “history of France, of the French people” is taught—reinforces the sense of being outsiders. For the children of immigrants, this cultural marginalization is even more pronounced. As Tsiory describes, he was taught to “make [others] think I’m less than him” in order to avoid conflict, a tactic borne out of a deep-seated belief that White people are inherently superior (Martin, 152). This ingrained inferiority doesn’t simply vanish but is passed down, shaping the identities of the next generation.

As children of immigrants grow up and witness their parents' struggles to fit into a system that views them as inferior, they often experience a profound desire to reclaim their heritage. For some, like me, this manifests in a rejection of the need to conform to foreign ideals. It becomes crucial to embrace, unapologetically, our African, Muslim, and cultural identities, proudly rejecting the notion that we must diminish our worth to be accepted. As Baldwin ironically writes, despite the West’s supposed “generosity” in accepting immigrants, it will never tolerate (or imagine) any rebellion (5). This is a rebellion against the legacy of colonialism, where not only were our ancestors oppressed, but our self-worth was systematically devalued. The legacy of inferiority embedded in these systems may continue to reverberate, but there is a growing movement among the children of immigrants to reclaim their value, assert their identity, and demand recognition on their own terms.