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While rewatching Jodhaa Akbar, I found myself particularly intrigued by the character of Nimat. Nimat, a man dressed in women’s clothing and included in the female royal company, initially caught my attention. After some research, I learned that Nimat represented a hijra, a term for a South Asian gender identity that defies the Western binary of male and female. What struck me most about Nimat’s portrayal was how the character simultaneously embodied both "masculine" and "feminine" traits. In one scene, Nimat gossiped with the women, while in another, they were wearing a war armor while accompanying the princess. This fluidity in gender presentation stood out to me, especially in the context of the Mughal Empire—a Muslim society. This got me thinking about how our understanding of masculinity can differ drastically depending on cultural context. In the West, masculinity is often framed in strict, binary terms, where "masculine" traits are associated with power, strength, and rationality. Yet, this Westernized view of masculinity is not universal. In South Asian and Muslim cultures, for example, interpretations of masculinity can be much more nuanced, and expressions of gender may not fit neatly into the Western mold. This cultural diversity is often overlooked or dismissed in the broader, global discourse around gender and sexuality. In my own experience, what I have been taught to understand as "masculinity" is shaped by a specific cultural lens—one that may differ significantly from those of others. This dissonance is especially apparent when comparing Western concepts of masculinity to South Asian or Muslim masculinity, which complicates the ways in which race, gender, and sexuality intersect. Western constructions of masculinity often racialize South Asian men, framing them as embodiments of "deviant sexuality" or "dangerous" masculinity. In this view, the "Muslim-looking" subject is seen as a threat to normative gender roles, often associated with the figure of the "enemy combatant" and reinforcing stereotypes of South Asians as "perpetual foreigners". This racialized masculinity becomes irreconcilable with idealized notions of "American-ness"(Thangaraj, 375). When we consider the intersection of these racialized constructions of masculinity with queerness, the complexities deepen. Queer diasporic subjects, particularly South Asians in the U.S. after 9/11, navigate a fraught terrain where their queerness is simultaneously marked as "too deviant" and yet, at times, fetishized (Puar, 173). Queer South Asians may find themselves caught in a double bind: they are marked by their racial identity and simultaneously associated with the same "perverse" sexuality that makes them almost too queer to be redeemed (Puar, 170). Thus, the intersections of masculinity, race, and sexuality in the diasporic context of South Asian and Muslim identities create a powerful lens for interrogating how Western ideals of gender and sexuality have come to dominate global discourse. Masculinity, as we understand it in the West, is often framed in opposition to forms of masculinity that do not fit neatly into this paradigm—particularly in non-Western, racialized, and queer contexts. The marginalization of these alternative masculinities, along with the way in which they are often viewed through a lens of queerness, speaks to broader processes of cultural hegemony and the policing of gender and sexual identities in contemporary society.

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.

Multiculturalism, especially in big cities, can ease the racial tensions that are more obvious in rural areas like Quebec, but it doesn’t completely erase or solve them. In a diverse urban environment, a sense of comfort and anonymity allows for smoother interactions among different cultural groups, without the same level of discomfort or suspicion you might encounter in more isolated, rural settings. I experienced this firsthand during a camping trip a few years ago with my sister and dad, when we found ourselves in a very remote part of Quebec. My dad, speaking in his best Quebecois French, asked an older white man for directions. The man leaned in close, gave us a long, silent look, and then answered. It wasn’t overt racism, but there was a noticeable tension that felt out of place in a more multicultural city like Montreal. And it wasn’t just this one interaction—at the campsite, we also got a lot of curious stares from other campers, which made it clear we weren’t exactly blending in. (To be honest, we did bring atay and merguez for the BBQ.) These interactions made me realize that, while multiculturalism in cities can create a sense of acceptance and diversity, it doesn’t address the deeper, more entrenched tensions that exist in more homogenous places.

This experience made me reflect on the limits of multiculturalism as a solution to racism. As Narayanan notes, big cities provide a certain privilege, allowing people to live in a space where diversity is more readily accepted and celebrated (4). However, this "celebration" often masks the deeper issues of racism that persist beneath the surface. Thobani’s critique of multiculturalism highlights how it is used to maintain white supremacy under the guise of tolerance. As he argues, multiculturalism has been employed to reorganize white supremacy in a postcolonial era (148). While multiculturalism may present a facade of harmony in urban centers, it often redefines racism as a cultural issue rather than a racial one, allowing dominant groups to maintain their privileges while creating a false narrative of inclusivity. Thobani further explains that multiculturalism has reified culture as the primary marker of difference, defining immigrants as distinct 'cultural communities,' perpetuating the idea that their culture was the main source of their difficulties in integrating (149). This focus on culture rather than racism itself overlooks the ongoing structural inequalities and systemic discrimination that people of color face, both in cities and rural areas. Thus, multiculturalism, in its current form, does not resolve racism—it often obscures it, reinforcing existing power dynamics rather than challenging them.

(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.

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.

For many immigrants, including second-generation Iranian-Americans, Islam serves as a powerful means of reconnecting with their cultural and familial identity, especially after experiencing a disconnection from religious practices. While the social and political context of Iranians is unique, this phenomenon also resonates with the experiences of other immigrant communities. In these cases, Islam can be viewed not just as a strictly religious practice but also as a cultural anchor, helping individuals reestablish a sense of connection to their roots in an environment that often marginalizes them. This can sometimes lead them to place greater emphasis on religion rather than on cultural heritage, particularly when trying to define their identity in a context marked by racial or religious discrimination (Shawndeez, 249). For example, some second-generation Iranian-Americans, even if they do not regularly observe religious rituals, may adopt symbolic practices or claim a Muslim identity as an act of cultural resistance, thereby strengthening their bond with their community of origin. For others, especially queer individuals, there may be a sense of discomfort in reaffirming their Muslim identity, as evidenced by Nazamie’s exploration of the challenges queer Muslims face (23). In their short text, Nazamie touches on the complexity of queer people navigating Muslim identity, acknowledging that such an identity is both possible and valid. This reflects a broader trend among immigrants who, confronted with the challenges of assimilation, turn to religion not only for its spiritual aspects but also as a form of resistance and solidarity in the face of exclusion.

The construction and manipulation of Arab identity, particularly in the context of racial and religious tensions, has been shaped by shifting socio-political dynamics. In the case of Syrians in Indiana, a racialized divide emerged between Syrian Christians and Muslims, with the former asserting their "whiteness" in contrast to the Muslims, who also defended their racial identity as white. This intra-Syrian racial distinction was often marked by behaviors such as alcohol consumption, which became a cultural and symbolic marker of this divide (Curtis, 92). The broader Arab identity has similarly been reconfigured over time to accommodate the shifting demands of political and racial discourse. For example, during the early 20th century, the categorization of Syrians, Lebanese, and Armenians as "Asiatic" was vigorously contested, as advocates like Charles Malik argued that such classifications were both scientifically inaccurate and morally unjust. He and others pointed to encyclopedic definitions that placed Syrians within the "European races," with some even considering them Semitic rather than Asiatic (Asal, 83). This dispute over racial identity reflects a deeper struggle over how Arabs and other Middle Eastern peoples are perceived and categorized in the global racial hierarchy. In particular, Arabs sought to distance themselves from the "Asiatic" label due to the historical stigma and racial discrimination associated with this category, which often placed them alongside other marginalized groups in the West. The opposition to being categorized as Asiatic was not just a matter of scientific accuracy but also a strategic effort to avoid the difficulties and limitations of this racial classification. Moreover, there has been a tendency to subsume various national and ethnic identities under broader labels like "Lebanese," while disregarding the diverse Arab connections that link Syrians, Palestinians, Egyptians, and Iraqis (Asal, 15). This modification of Arab identity—whether to claim whiteness, resist the Asiatic label, or adopt a more flexible national identity—highlights the fluidity and political utility of racial and ethnic categories in navigating social and political spaces.

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.

Both Fun^da^mental and ADF present strong political and cultural remedies to combat white supremacist racism, emphasizing resistance and the importance of political engagement in music and popular culture. Fun^da^mental, in particular, uses their music as a platform for political statements. For example, their video Dog-Tribe directly tackles the issue of racism, calling for a response to street and institutional racism. Their work reflects an anti-colonial stance and a call for self-defence against racism, integrating migrant and anti-colonial sentiments into a broader progressive narrative (Hutnyck, 73). Fun^da^mental views music not as a mere commercial pursuit, but as a tool to engage and raise questions about race violence, specifically targeting young viewers and challenging mainstream media norms (Hutnyck, p. 64).

Similarly, ADF uses music to raise awareness of marginalized communities' ongoing struggles and the need to build alliances to resist racism. The group’s work is framed within a global context, highlighting the broader political implications of racism, including the impact of imperialism and colonialism. Both groups use their music to mobilize resistance against white supremacist violence and to inspire action within their communities and beyond.

Hutnyck criticizes the academic tendency to ignore the radical political potential of cultural expressions like music. This indifference is compounded by the law-and-order approach to racism, which focuses on punitive measures rather than addressing the underlying social and political causes of racial injustice. Law-and-order approaches often reduce racism to individual acts of discrimination or violence, ignoring the systemic nature of racism and its deep historical roots. This perspective also fails to recognize the role of cultural and political movements, such as those represented by Fun^da^mental and ADF, in challenging and resisting the structures that sustain white supremacist ideologies (Hutnyck, 51-52). Moreover, by focusing on law enforcement or cultural nostalgia for "authentic" communities, they fail to engage with the real, lived experiences of racism and the need for active, political resistance (Hutnyck,52).

Noble Drew Ali envisioned a transformative way to redefine what it meant to be African American, seeking to detach this identity from the negative connotations often associated with being Black in the United States. By tapping into religious principles and advocating for a national identity over a racial one, he aimed to reshape the understanding of Black identity. Drew Ali rejected the notion of biological blackness, asserting that all inhabitants of Africa are part of the broader human family, thus promoting a vision where cultural and national affiliation take precedence over racial classifications. He believed true identity stems from a shared history, creed, and values, advocating for separating people into their respective national groups rather than adhering to a singular, biologically defined race. He argued that Black individuals must return to their roots—specifically their Moorish and Asiatic heritage—because, as he stated, “By not being true to their heritage and its obligations, blacks had suffered the worst of fates: they did not know who they were and instead accepted the labels of their oppressors” (Curtis, 55). He emphasized that “through sin and disobedience, every nation suffered slavery since they honored not the creed and principles of their forefathers” (Curtis, 55). For Drew Ali, redemption would not come from the acts of a single Black messiah but through the collective actions of a whole nation, insisting that uplifting “fallen humanity” must include linking oneself with the “families of nations.” This approach was not merely a denial of racial identity but a deliberate strategy to escape the derogatory attitudes tied to Blackness, repackaging traditional notions of race into a more empowering framework rooted in culture and nationalism.

Like many of us, food has always been one of the strongest connections to my origins. Growing up, I often felt disconnected from the meals that were part of my culture, which made me disinterested in food. It wasn’t until I first visited Algeria that my perspective began to shift.
Stepping into Algeria felt both foreign and familiar. I struggled with the dialect, and while I could catch the jokes, there was an undeniable sense of belonging that came through the food. The scents, colors, and flavors provided an instant source of comfort, representing a tangible link to my Algerian heritage—a piece of my identity that felt solid and real.
I realized that my parents' cooking was more than just about making delicious meals; it was their way of preserving our culture and sharing it with us. Those large gatherings around couscous or trida were not just about the food; they were about community, family, and our shared history.
Now that I can host and cook for my friends, I find joy in sharing those recipes and blending my Algerian roots with their traditional dishes. Continuing this tradition feels important, not just because the food is enjoyable, but because it connects us to our stories and cultures. Food has this incredible power to unite us and remind us of who we are.
Reflecting on my journey, I resonate with the sentiment: “The disinterest in food that I had felt during my childhood years was transformed into a new kind of need for that food as an essential connection with home” (Mannur). I now recognize that those very dishes are crucial to my identity and my connection to home.

Marriages between Punjabi men and Mexican women in the early 20th century offered mutual benefits, despite significant legal and social barriers. For Punjabi men, these marriages provided a way to integrate into American society, where strict anti-immigration laws and racial discrimination made it difficult for them to establish permanent roots. Marrying Mexican women, who were often lighter-skinned, allowed them to bypass laws prohibiting interracial marriages with "colored" women. This strategy enabled them to build families, strengthen their ties to local communities, and improve their chances of staying in the U.S., even though it meant risking exclusion from their home countries for marrying outside their ethnicity or religion.

For Mexican women, these marriages often offered a solution to economic hardship. Many of the women came from poor families and worked in agricultural fields owned by Punjabi men, making marriage an appealing option for financial stability. Marrying their employers or other Punjabi landowners elevated their social and economic status, providing security for both themselves and their families. As some accounts note, women who worked as domestic laborers or agricultural workers for Punjabi men saw marriage as a path to escape poverty.

However, these unions faced opposition from local authorities, with some clerks refusing to issue marriage licenses if the couple’s skin colors were deemed too different. Couples sometimes had to travel to other counties or even out to sea to marry. Despite these challenges, these marriages represented a practical and mutually beneficial alliance between two marginalized communities, helping them navigate and resist exclusionary racial and immigration laws.

New York City's distinct racial composition and cultural dynamics make it an attractive destination for Indian immigrants, especially in East Harlem. American conceptions of India are strongly influenced by the historical background of Orientalism, wherein a romanticized and exoticized image of Indian culture has been created through various media, including theater, music, and consumer goods. The figure of the Indian "nautch" dancer, for example, became emblematic of this fascination in American burlesque, showcasing how cultural stereotypes were commodified and consumed.
Furthermore, the spread of Oriental products around the turn of the century, including jewelry, textiles, and decorative arts, reinforced these exotic notions in the American mind. A wider cultural connection with Indian patterns resulted from middle- and lower-middle-class Americans' desire to imitate the sophistication associated with "Oriental" aesthetics, proving that this consumerist tendency was not just confined to the upper classes. The existence of specialist shops in New York that served a range of socioeconomic classes, like A. A. Vantine, suggests that there is a sizable demand for Indian products and cultural representations.
In conclusion, the racial composition of New York City and its long-standing interest in Indian culture, as evidenced by Orientalist depictions, foster a friendly atmosphere for Indian immigrants. This environment not only provides a forum for fostering community and cultural expression, but it also fits well with the historical patterns of consumption and appreciation for Indian goods and culture in the United States.

The British perceived significant divisions between Muslims and the dominant white community, shaped by factors such as religion, ethnicity, and social class. Muslims were often viewed as a distinct group, marked by their specific religious beliefs and cultural practices, which contributed to a sense of otherness and separation. Within this context, women played a crucial role as both agents of change and markers of community boundaries. Those who married into Muslim seafaring communities experienced a unique blend of empowerment and constraint. With their husbands frequently away at sea, these (Muslim) women often gained greater autonomy in managing households and making decisions, which allowed them to navigate and negotiate their roles within both their families and broader society. However, their experiences were also influenced by prevailing social norms and expectations, which could impose limitations on their freedoms. Moreover, the relationships between Muslim seafarers and local women often transcended social class divisions, leading to mixed responses from the white community, including disapproval and tension. British observers noted that women acted as critical intermediaries within their communities, facilitating connections and opportunities for their husbands by engaging with local institutions. This integrative influence was significant; women could serve as translators and negotiators, sometimes concealing their husbands' racial identities to secure jobs or housing. The dynamics of these relationships highlighted the complexities of identity and belonging within a multicultural society, demonstrating how women's roles were pivotal in bridging divides and fostering integration, even amid the broader societal tensions surrounding race and class.

For enslaved Muslims, the act of prayer (salat) presented unique challenges that the declaration of faith (shahāda) did not. The shahāda, a simple proclamation of belief, could be recited quietly and discreetly, allowing individuals to express their faith even in hostile environments. In contrast, salat requires physical discipline, including specific postures such as kneeling and bowing, as well as ritual cleanliness and the use of a prayer mat. These elements posed significant obstacles in a context where enslaved individuals faced constant scrutiny and restrictions on their movements. Public performance of salat was fraught with danger; it risked exposure and punishment. The need for a clean space and proper attire was often unrealistic, as enslaved people had limited resources and were subject to harsh oversight. Despite these challenges, many enslaved Muslims demonstrated remarkable courage and determination to maintain their faith. Enslaved Muslims often prayed in secret, using nighttime hours or secluded spaces to fulfill their religious obligations. This not only reinforced their commitment to Islam but also fostered a sense of community and solidarity among fellow believers (Diouf, 89). Gathering for prayer, though risky, became a powerful act of resistance and cultural preservation.

Historical figures like Mamout exemplify the complexities faced by enslaved Muslims (Diouf, 87). His public expressions of faith in a predominantly non-Muslim environment illustrate both the risks involved and the potential for religious identity to thrive even amid oppression. Their perseverance in practicing prayer serves as a testament to their resilience and determination to uphold their identity in the face of adversity.

The Aljamiado manuscript, circulating among Morisco/as in Aragon, presents a comforting vision of the Day of Reckoning, reflecting the spiritual struggles of a community caught between two worlds. It portrays Muhammad as a compassionate intercessor, pleading with God for the forgiveness of the faithful. This depiction is particularly significant for Morisco/as, who faced persecution and forced conversion under Christian rule, as it reinforces the importance of their faith and offers solace amid uncertainty. Central to this manuscript is the phrase “la ilaha illa Allah Muhammad rraçulu Allah,” which serves as a lifeline for souls yearning for salvation. The narrative emphasizes divine mercy, illustrating that even those who have sinned can find hope through Muhammad’s intercession. As the angel Jibril (Gabriel) reveals the open doors of paradise, the community of believers, or ummah, is highlighted, showcasing the profound bond among the faithful.

The moment when God commands Muhammad to “look into the fire and take out anyone who carries in their heart an atom of belief” powerfully reassures Morisco/as. It suggests that redemption is attainable, reflecting their struggles with guilt and identity under oppressive circumstances. This vision positions Muhammad as a mediator between humanity and God, offering a pathway for forgiveness and reinforcing the validity of their faith. In essence, the Aljamiado manuscript’s portrayal of the Day of Reckoning serves as a beacon of hope for Morisco/as, affirming that their belief can lead to salvation even in the darkest times. By emphasizing mercy and intercession, it not only comforts but also empowers a community striving to maintain its identity amidst adversity.

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.

To me, Islamophobia and anti-Indigenous racism are deeply intertwined and continue to persist today. Both Indigenous and Muslim identities are complex and differ across the world, making it easier for those in power to create hierarchical narratives. What makes these struggles so connected is that 'Indigeneity' takes different forms. For example, the Indigenous peoples of North Africa, such as the Amazigh, are often Muslim, creating a layered identity that can be exploited to perpetuate white Christian supremacy. As you pointed out, both Indigenous and Muslim identities have been historically portrayed as ‘savage’ and uncivilized, reinforcing the same colonial and dehumanizing narratives.

On a more personal note, I recently had an experience highlighting the need for solidarity. In a discussion about our environment class, I mentioned my interest in exploring the intersection of colonialism and environmental issues. The person responded bluntly: ‘I don’t care about Indigenous or whatever.’ At the time, I was unsure how to respond—not just as an Amazigh person, but out of respect for Indigenous communities everywhere.

Reflecting on it now, that comment reaffirmed for me that even though Islamophobia and anti-Indigenous racism may manifest differently today, they are deeply intertwined through a shared colonial history. This connection makes solidarity all the more important in confronting both.

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.

When Edward Said refers to the Orient as a "surrogate and even underground self" in Orientalism, he suggests that Europe projected its repressed desires, fears, and fantasies onto the Orient, using it as a mirror to define itself. The Orient became a space where European societies could explore aspects of identity that were marginalized or unacceptable in their cultures. It allowed Europe to define itself as rational, superior, and civilized in contrast to an imagined Orient, which was depicted as irrational, inferior, and exotic. This process not only constructed the idea of the Orient as "other" but also helped Europe reinforce its own identity and dominance through this opposition.

A prime example of the creation of the Orient as "the other" is Said's depiction of Egyptian women. She is defined entirely by the European gaze, with her voice, desires, views, and opinions all silenced. This allows space for constructing a narrative that serves Europe’s interests and reinforces its own identity. As Edward Said notes, "Flaubert’s encounter with an Egyptian courtesan produced a widely influential model of the Oriental woman; she never spoke of herself, she never represented her emotions, presence, or history. He spoke for and represented her (p.7)." This representation reduced the Oriental woman to a passive subject, reflecting only the European perception and reinforcing the unequal power dynamics between the West and the East.