Melancholic Migrants > Forum Home

I’m requesting to pass on this post because I attended the Saathis event on November 28.
Thank you

Homonationalism, as Puar explains, is when LGBTQ+ identities are used to make a nation look more progressive or legitimate, but this happens at the expense of other marginalized groups. After 9/11, this had a big impact on gay American Desis, who were navigating both racism and Islamophobia while also figuring out how to live as queer individuals.
For queer South Asians, 9/11 meant being racially profiled as “terrorist bodies” while also feeling pressure to present themselves as “acceptable” queer Americans. To avoid negative stereotypes about their race and culture, many embraced what Puar calls “homonormative” identities. Basically, identities that align with mainstream U.S. values. For example, Sikh advocacy groups organized candlelight vigils, covered temples with American flags, and even wore red, white, and blue turbans to prove their loyalty. These efforts were meant to fight back against stereotypes that painted them as dangerous or backward.
At the same time, queer South Asians were often left out of mainstream queer activism, which didn’t really address how racism and Islamophobia affected their lives. Many groups didn’t see how queer bashing and racist hate crimes were connected, which left queer South Asians in a vulnerable place. Sikh men, in particular, had it even harder because their turbans became symbols of fear. People associated turbans with resistance to Western norms or terrorism, making it even harder for turbaned men to fit into homonormative spaces.
This all shows how homonationalism gave some queer South Asians a kind of belonging, but it was very conditional and limited. Their acceptance often depended on conforming to homonormative ideals, which meant distancing themselves from their cultural identities and, in some cases, reinforcing harmful stereotypes—like the idea that their communities were inherently homophobic or regressive. While this strategy helped some people survive, it came at the cost of leaving others out, especially those who couldn’t or didn’t want to align with these expectations.

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Cultural Blackness, as Thangaraj explains, refers to how South Asians in America engage with elements of Black culture, such as slang, fashion, and basketball styles, to create a sense of masculinity and urban identity. This process allows South Asian men to challenge racialized stereotypes that frame them as passive, asexual, or purely intellectual. In basketball, a space deeply shaped by African American aesthetics, South Asian players adopt aspects of Black hyper-masculinity, like aggressive playing styles and coolness, to push back against these stereotypes and assert themselves in racial and gender hierarchies.
However, this dynamic is complicated. South Asian men often engage with a commodified version of Blackness, where figures like Michael Jordan represent a consumable aesthetic detached from the political and historical realities of African American communities. While they borrow elements of Black culture to resist their own marginalization, they frequently distance themselves from African American struggles, as seen in the exclusivity of Indo-Pak basketball leagues, and largely excluding Black players. This reinforces racial boundaries while overlooking the diversity and complexity of Black experiences.
Thangaraj highlights how Cultural Blackness serves both as a resource for constructing identity and as a point of tension. It enables South Asian men to assert their masculinity and challenge stereotypes, but it also risks perpetuating a shallow and monolithic view of Blackness. Ultimately, this process reflects the pressures created by whiteness, which excludes both South Asians and African Americans from dominant norms while shaping the ways marginalized groups navigate identity and masculinity.

10/10 title

The Commission’s procedure normalized a hierarchy between racialized people and white Franco-Québécois largely through the structure of the citizen forums, which were a central part of its process. These forums placed Franco-Canadian Québécois in a position of implicit power, as they were seen as the ones who could decide who did or didn’t belong in Québécois society. Testimonies often followed a predictable pattern: Franco-Québécois participants expressed concerns about losing a "pure" Québécois identity, while racialized groups and immigrants were left to justify their presence and offer reassurances. This dynamic granted the majority unspoken authority, as if they alone could determine what was acceptable and who truly belonged.
The emphasis on open dialogue further complicated matters. Instead of focusing on legal rights and obligations, the Commission shifted the discussion toward tolerance and generosity from the Franco-Québécois majority. This approach once again centered the concerns and opinions of the majority, sidelining the rights and lived experiences of racialized groups and immigrants.
The debate around secularism exacerbated these dynamics. Much of the public consultations revolved around Muslim practices, particularly the hijab, framing Islam as a threat to Québécois identity. The hijabi Muslim woman became a symbol of oppression, while non-Muslim Québécois were portrayed as progressive and tolerant guardians of modern values. This framing reinforced a hierarchy where the majority positioned themselves as arbiters of cultural and societal norms, further marginalizing racialized communities.

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Alia Al-Saji explains that colonial desire plays a big role in how the hijab is represented and understood in colonial contexts. This desire is tied to the need for control and knowledge, but it’s also fueled by a sexualized “curiosity”. Because of this, Muslim women wearing the hijab are racialized and objectified. In the colonial imagination, the hijab becomes more than just a piece of clothing—it’s seen as a barrier to understanding and control, as well as a symbol of cultural backwardness that the West feels it has to “unveil.”
For colonial powers, the hijab was frustrating as it symbolized resistance to their gaze, which only made them more determined to dominate and expose it. Al-Saji builds on Fanon’s work to show how, in colonial Algeria, women wearing the hijab were treated as objects to be “unveiled”—literally and symbolically. This wasn’t just about understanding. It was also about control and power, tied to a fantasy of revealing and possessing what was hidden. The hijab became an obsession, representing colonial fears of the “other” and their frustration over not being able to control women. This justified their domination and intervention.
At the same time, the hijab’s hypervisibility in colonial discourse erased the individuality and agency of the Muslim women who wore it. Instead of being seen as people with their own perspectives and choices, they were reduced to symbols of oppression and targets for so-called “liberation.” The hijab became overloaded with meanings like backwardness, submission, and danger, which erased its complexity. This allowed Western powers to frame themselves as progressive saviors, while ignoring the lived realities and agency of Muslim women.
In the end, colonial desire for knowledge, power, and control shaped how the hijab was viewed—as something that needed to be conquered, exposed, and “fixed.” This wasn’t just a misunderstanding. Indeed, it was about maintaining colonial dominance and the West’s superiority while silencing the voices and choices of the women who wore it. The image of the hijab in colonial discourse wasn’t neutral—it was shaped by a controlling, possessive, and exploitative gaze.

Thobani argues that the category "visible minority," created by the Canadian state, plays an important role in silencing anti-racist discourse while maintaining white dominance in multicultural policies. By tying cultural differences to visible racial differences, this category helps hide the ongoing privilege of whiteness and justifies the assimilation of immigrants under the state’s control.
Labeling ten non-white groups as "visible minorities" puts skin colour front and center as a marker of difference. This creates a link between how people look and their culture, framing these differences as fixed and unchangeable. As a result, racialized groups are seen as fundamentally different and incompatible with what are considered Canadian values.
This connection between race and culture is what Thobani calls the "culturalization of racism." Unlike the blatant biological racism of the past, this newer form of racism focuses on supposed cultural incompatibility. It works to maintain hierarchies of power, but in a way that’s harder to call out because it’s masked by ideas of tolerance and celebrating diversity.
Within this system, cultural differences are often treated as barriers to inclusion. Immigrants are expected to change and conform to the norms and values of the dominant (white) society. Multiculturalism may claim to celebrate diversity, but it actually promotes assimilation, framing it as necessary for participation while ignoring the deeper problem of systemic racism.
Ultimately, this system reinforces white dominance by clearly separating "real" Canadians—white people—from "others," the visible minorities. Policies like the Immigration Act, which focuses on preserving Canada’s bilingual and bicultural identity, make this distinction even stronger. In the end, whiteness stays at the center of what it means to be Canadian, while racialized groups are pushed to the margins.

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The song Blood Brothers paints a complicated picture of the American Dream, connecting financial success and social mobility with the sacrifices demanded by hard work, but it ultimately forces us to question whether this dream is really worth it. At first, Nimo believes wholeheartedly in the promise of the American Dream. He leaves India with the clear goal of becoming a millionaire, convinced that hard work is the key to achieving success. Over the course of four years, he accomplishes his goal of gaining wealth and fame. On the surface, this seems like a triumph—a validation of the idea that anyone can climb the social and economic ladder with enough effort.
But the song doesn’t stop there. Swap’s perspective challenges this success, showing the personal costs that come with chasing financial success. He reminds Nimo of the family left behind, asking, “Do you think about Mama and Papa, or have you forgotten them?” Their parents’ health is failing, and yet Nimo seems consumed by his work, prioritizing money over relationships. Swap also points out how Nimo’s health has suffered, hinting that the physical and emotional toll of this relentless pursuit has left scars. The wealth Nimo has gained starts to feel hollow, weighed down by the relationships and well-being it has cost him.
By the end of the song, even Nimo starts to question whether it was all worth it. His line, “No, I would never let you go [through] what I’ve gone through,” is a striking moment of self-awareness. It suggests regret and forces us, as listeners, to reflect on whether the American Dream is really a dream or a trap. While it promises wealth and mobility, the sacrifices it demands—family, health, and connection to one’s roots—make us wonder if the cost is too high.

@camelia_bakouri PTDRRR

I’m requesting to pass on this post because I attended Aanchal Malhotra's talk at the Teesri Duniya Theatre on September 20. Thank you

I’m requesting to pass on this post because I attended the SASSA event on September 27. Thank you

This week’s readings resonate deeply with me as a second-generation immigrant in Montreal. They reflect many conversations I’ve had with my parents, especially my father, about the reasons for choosing Montreal and our experiences here. Before coming to Canada, my dad travelled extensively—to France, the U.S., Mexico, Germany, and Italy —looking for a place where he could build a better future for his future family (#king). Ultimately, he chose Montreal because it seemed like a more open and accepting society, particularly for North Africans.

Mandin’s interviewees describe similar motivations: escaping the socio-economic precarity and systemic discrimination in Europe. Like my father, many viewed Montreal as a haven, especially when compared to places like France, where the colonial legacy casts a long shadow, or the U.S., with its history of slavery and segregation. For my dad, Montreal was the “least racist” choice, and he hoped it would offer his children and wife a life free from the discrimination and racism he suspected to endure elsewhere.

However, my family’s experiences show that this perception can be overly romanticized. For instance, shortly after arriving in Montreal, my dad was wrongfully (and illegally) detained by the police for 24 hours simply because he “fit the description” of an Arab man they were looking for. To this day, my family encounters racism—whether it’s my mom facing discrimination on the streets or my brother being profiled and followed by security guards. These moments remind me that while Montreal may be better than some places, it is far from free of racism, discrimination and Islamophobia.

Mandin’s interviewees also reflect this tension. They describe Montreal as a place of hope, offering a sense of "normalization" where they are not constantly reduced to their ethnic or religious identities. However, they also note that Quebec’s openness has limits. Debates like the “Charter of Values” and the growing Islamophobic rhetoric echo Europe’s struggles with religious and racial diversity. This convergence challenges the perception of Montreal as a refuge and acceptance.

Despite these contradictions, I think Montreal’s appeal for many North Africans lies in its distance—geographically and emotionally—from the colonial powers that shaped their histories. My mom, for example, could never consider living in France, a country she associates with the trauma of colonial violence and the loss of many family members. For many North Africans, choosing Montreal over France may feel like having a real chance of “making it”.

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Baldwin’s depiction of French attitudes toward Algerians in Paris highlights the deep discrimination they faced, particularly from the police. He recounts their living conditions, marked by extreme poverty and social exclusion, and observes how they were labelled "lazy" for spending time in their affordable cafés, even though French students did the same without criticism. Baldwin also notes the menacing and brutal behaviour of the police, which he links to the French loss of colonial power, such as the fall of Dien Bien Phu. He recalls watching police brutally beat an elderly Arab peanut vendor while French bystanders remained indifferent—an image that underscores the systemic violence Algerians endured, despite France's claims of generosity and their insistence that Algerians were French too, since Algeria was considered a “French département”.

Baldwin himself, as a Black American, was treated differently. He describes being praised as “très évolué” (highly civilized), in contrast to the French perception of Arabs as uncivilized and untrustworthy. This distinction reveals the contradictions in French claims of non-racism, which Baldwin critiques as rooted in colonial superiority.

What I find especially interesting is how these dynamics shift in a city like Montreal. While police brutality might disproportionately affect Black communities here, workplace discrimination seems more common for Arabs and Muslims (at least in my opinion). This layered racialization reflects the complex legacies of both colonial legacy and systemic racism.

Thus, I find myself thinking, again and again, about how Montreal’s identity as a multicultural hub carries its own contradictions. Like Baldwin’s reflections on France, it is a place where historical, systemic racism and discrimination persist beneath the surface of inclusivity and generosity. Yet, Montreal’s history—its colonial foundations, the resilience of Indigenous communities, and the strength of its diverse and interconnected communities—creates a space where heartbreak and hope coexist. For me, this paradox defines Montreal and continues to shape my understanding of belonging and identity.

For both Pearson and Trudeau, a good immigrant was, above all, an individual capable of contributing to the Canadian economy and integrating effectively into the labour market. This vision emphasized an immigration policy driven by the country's economic needs, where individuals were evaluated not solely based on humanitarian grounds but on their potential to meet the requirements of the Canadian economic system.
More specifically, Pearson argued that only immigrants possessing skills aligned with Canadian labour force demands, or those capable of quickly acquiring such skills, were considered "desirable" and truly "welcome" in the country (p.78). This approach reflected a pragmatic and selective policy where immigration candidates had to demonstrate their ability to integrate seamlessly into the workforce.
Thus, to meet these expectations, immigrants were required to either be ready to work immediately upon arrival or possess the necessary qualifications or abilities to undergo training in Canada, highlighting that despiste their so-called effort to get rid of racialized and discriminatory approach, immigration was perceived as a strategic resource for economic progress rather than merely an act of solidarity or humanitarianism.
While framed as a progressive shift away from overtly racialized criteria, the points system’s emphasis on skills, education, and economic readiness reveals its inherent biases. By prioritizing those who could meet labour market demands, it favoured immigrants from regions with greater access to education and vocational training, often excluding individuals from developing countries where such opportunities were limited. Thus, while appearing neutral, the Canadian points system’s underscores that the changes were more strategic than genuinely inclusive, as immigration remained a tool for national economic benefit rather than an avenue for equitable access.

The Aga Khan IV played a crucial and multifaceted role in influencing Trudeau’s decision to accept Ugandan Asians. His involvement was defined by his leadership as the spiritual head of the Ismaili Muslim community, strategic advocacy for his people, and a deep personal connection with Trudeau.
At the heart of his influence was the Aga Khan’s ability to leverage his longstanding friendship with Trudeau. Their relationship, established in the 1960s, allowed the Aga Khan to engage Trudeau directly and personally, ensuring the plight of Ismaili refugees received the prime minister's attention. This personal connection enabled the Aga Khan to emphasize both the humanitarian urgency of the crisis and the potential benefits of resettling the Ismaili community in Canada.
The Aga Khan also addressed Canadian public concerns about the integration of refugees by assuring Trudeau that the Ismailis would successfully adapt and contribute to Canadian society. This was supported by the Ismailis’ reputation for entrepreneurship, education, and self-reliance—qualities that aligned with Canada’s immigration priorities under the points system. These assurances were critical in framing the resettlement as an economic opportunity rather than a social burden.
Additionally, the Aga Khan demonstrated his commitment by offering financial support for the transportation and resettlement of the Ismaili refugees. This practical contribution strengthened his case, as it mitigated fears of government expenditure while reinforcing the image of the Ismailis as self-sufficient and capable immigrants.
For me it’s interesting—and somewhat ironic—that the primary reason for the acceptance of Ugandan Asians into Canada was the personal friendship between the Aga Khan and the Prime Minister of the time, without mentioning their submission to the UK. If Canada truly upheld its image as a multicultural rather than bicultural nation, why was this friendship, along with guarantees of economic contribution, so essential? Once again, this highlights the hypocrisy in Canada’s approach, where decisions often seem less about genuine inclusivity or humanitarian principles and more reliant on economic assurances and elite connections.

The Syrian community in Indiana, particularly in Michigan City, was marked by the weaponization of religion. The denial of citizenship by the government, based on the argument that Syrians were "Asiatic" rather than white, intensified racism and fueled resentment toward Syrians in the press. As Curtis notes, when conflicts arose within or between minorities, the press would often label them as "race riots," framing Syrians as foreigners who did not belong in the United States. This racialized portrayal added pressure on Syrian Christians to distance themselves from Syrian Muslims, aligning more with the racist white rhetoric that depicted Muslims as barbaric and uncivilized.
These tensions were not solely due to religious differences; struggles over economic resources, social status, and political rights also drove them. Both Syrian Christians and Muslims faced societal discrimination that made whiteness seem like a path to increased acceptance and social mobility. In an attempt to access these benefits, Syrian Christians emphasized their religious difference, marking Syrian Muslims as the problem within the Syrian community in Michigan and back in Syria to position themselves as more aligned with American whiteness while further reinforcing the perception of Islam as incompatible with American identity.
This distancing did not imply that Syrian Christians were solely responsible for the division; instead, it reflects how the broader racist system pressured minorities to seek whiteness as a route to social and economic advancement. Thus, the Syrian community in Indiana experienced significant internal tensions as individuals navigated the pressures and challenges of a racially and religiously discriminatory society.

According to Husain, when white people adopt markers of Islam, they experience a shift in how others (white people) perceive their racial identity—or, more accurately, how they are perceived as individuals. She notes that in the United States, Muslimness is associated with non-whiteness and foreignness, which disrupts traditional racial categories, particularly within the black-white racial binary that has long structured racial dynamics in the country. This association with foreignness is a form of racialization, where religious identity becomes entangled with racialized perceptions, labelling Muslims as outsiders regardless of their actual race.

The impact of this racialization is evident in the responses of white Muslims who find that their whiteness is "compromised" by their Muslim identity. White Muslim Americans who do not display visible signs of Islam tend to still benefit from assumptions of belonging and adhering to the white community, in other words, to the norm. In contrast, visibly Muslim white Americans often encounter assumptions that they are from outside the United States or are racially "other." For example, Allison describes how, despite being white, she experienced a shift in attitudes from other white people after she reverted to Islam and began wearing the hijab. She went from "belonging" to "stranger," facing encounters that questioned her ability to properly wash her hands, for example, simply because her hijab marked her as foreign, due to the assumption that “others”/foreigners lack the same “civilized” manners as white Americans.

This shift suggests that, within American society, Muslimness is implicitly linked to non-white identities—such as Arab or South Asian—positioning visibly Muslim individuals outside the norms associated with whiteness. This positioning leads to social and cultural repercussions for white Muslims, who may encounter racism disguised as suspicion or curiosity that reflects broader racial stereotypes applied to Muslims.

Moreover, there's this idea that Muslimness can be associated with, or at least accepted, when it comes from black people, as they both fall under the broad category of "other." However, the combination of whiteness and Muslimness is inconceivable as it disturbs the meaning of being white.

When Malcolm X was incarcerated, he started questioning his life choices and searching for a new direction. Letters from his family played a big role in this shift, encouraging him to give up pork and cigarettes, practices forbidden by the Nation of Islam (NOI). In The Autobiography of Malcolm X, he recalls how these letters introduced him to the NOI’s teachings, which they described as the “natural religion for the Black man.” For Malcolm, the NOI wasn’t just a set of rules. Indeed, it was a path toward dignity and a powerful way to push back against the racism he and other Black Americans experienced.

Malcolm found that the NOI offered more than just personal transformation. Led by Elijah Muhammad, it connected him to a movement for Black empowerment. The NOI promoted Black pride, self-reliance, and a sense of identity that ran counter to a society where Black people were devalued and stripped of their heritage. Thus, joining the NOI meant a way to reclaim an identity that had always been denied before.

By the 1950s and ’60s, many Black Americans found peace in reverting to Islam, particularly because of the discrimination they faced, even within Christianity, which had a history tied to slavery and segregation. Turner’s chapter on bebop jazz highlights how Black musicians were also drawn to Islam, especially through the Ahmadiyya Muslim Community, which emphasized racial equality and openly challenged systemic racism. The Ahmadiyya’s vision of Islam as a universal brotherhood offered Black Americans a place within a global community, helping them resist isolation and find solidarity beyond the borders of the U.S.

I’m requesting to pass on this post because I wrote a pre-add/drop post for the class on race and class (Sept 9). Thank you

I’m requesting to pass on this post because I wrote a pre-add/drop post for the class on gender and queerness (Sept 4). Thank you

Buettner’s take on British interest in “Indian food” hits home, not because Brits suddenly fell in love with authentic Indian flavours but because Indian food, and food from outside the Western world, were changed to suit their tastes. Chicken Tikka Masala, for instance, became popular not because of its Indian roots, but because a creamy masala sauce was added specifically to cater to British preferences (p. 143). This kind of “fusion” lets them enjoy what they see as Indian food without engaging with the culture or understanding the immigrant stories behind it. Buettner calls this “boutique multiculturalism” (p. 146), a kind of shallow appreciation where they are happy to sample the “safe” parts of the Indian identity while ignoring the racism, discrimination, and struggles the community faces. It is strange and disheartening to see this surface-level appreciation where they will pick the parts of our identity that seem interesting or safe, but our deeper experiences and challenges remain unseen—or, should I say, ignored.

Mannur’s idea of “culinary nostalgia” captures this feeling so well. For immigrants, food isn’t just about taste; it’s a link to home, a source of belonging and happiness found in an unknown and unwelcoming place. But fusion is a double-edged sword: while adapting dishes can make us feel at home, each change also takes away from the authenticity. Like with Tunisian makloub in Montreal—normally spicy with harissa, but now places replace it with a mix of ketchup and mayonnaise to make it more palatable. It’s frustrating because the real taste, the heart of the dish, gets lost in translation. Mannur calls this feeling “culinary nostalgia” (p. 29): that longing for the flavours of home that can’t fully be recreated here, where each tweak for Western tastes feels like a small part of our culture slipping away. Adapting our recipes to fit these expectations feels bittersweet, and that little taste we are left with is only an echo of the original, never quite fulfilling memories of home.

This reminds me of when my mom, sister, and I visited this Tunisian place near our house during reading week. They had mostly all the classic street foods—makloub, baguette farcie, fricassé—and we were excited. But as much as we enjoyed it, we all felt the same: it just hits differently in Tunisia. The bread, for instance, has a texture that’s hard to replicate here, and the harissa? It’s not just spicy; it has this depth that brings the whole dish together in a way ketchup and mayonnaise never could. Even though we ate familiar foods, they felt like distant versions of themselves, missing the soul you only get back home. Every tweak feels like a reminder that while we can bring pieces of home with us, they’ll never fully be the same.

Even though my sister and I weren’t born in Tunisia, we still felt that tug of nostalgia, a bittersweet reminder of a place we know through stories, visits, and the tastes our family has kept alive here. For my mom, though, it’s something even more profound. For her, it’s not just about the food but a lifetime of memories tied to it—the place, the people, the familiar routines. For her, the flavour of home means so much more, something we can sense but only imagine the full weight of. Every adapted dish here must feel like a reminder of what’s been left behind, carrying a deeper sense of melancholia, reaching far beyond taste alone.

Girlie really said make it make sense!!!!!!! 10/10 I enjoyed reading your answer lmao, thank you for this

In British Columbia, Punjabi workers were seen by white labourers as a threat to their jobs and wages. White workers feared that the influx of Punjabis would drive down wages because they were “willing” to accept lower pay for hard labour. The Victoria Trades and Labor Council highlighted this fear, arguing that "cheap Asiatic labour" would exclude white workers from stable employment and undermine their ability to support families​. This economic threat fostered hostility toward Punjabis, who were often left with the most difficult, lowest-paying jobs in sectors like logging and railway construction.

In addition to economic challenges, racial prejudice played a major role in the treatment of Punjabis. White workers and officials viewed Punjabis through a lens of racial inferiority. Stereotypes about Punjabis being unclean and physically unsuited for the cold climate of British Columbia were common. W. D. Scott, the federal superintendent of immigration, claimed that Punjabis were “accustomed to the conditions of a tropical climate” and therefore unfit for Canadian life. This view, based on deeply ingrained racism, reinforced the idea that Punjabis were fundamentally different and inferior, further marginalizing them within society. Moreover, this exposes a broader hypocrisy: how can the West label people as “unfit” for a country when it is the very force that caused them to migrate? The West exploited, devastated, and subjected native populations to violence, driving them from their homelands, while simultaneously colonizing lands like Canada and claiming them as their own. What makes the colonizers more "fit" for that land than the very people they displaced, killed, and marginalized? And what gives them the legitimacy to decide who is “fit” or “unfit” to come to a country where Indigenous people of that country in question are still fighting for their land back? Why are they allowed to colonize and profit from violence, while colonized people from elsewhere cannot benefit from the system they created?

In California, Punjabi workers encountered similar challenges. They were also perceived as a threat to white workers in industries like agriculture, where they were “willing” to work for lower wages. This economic tension was compounded by racial prejudice, as they were often grouped with other Asian immigrants and viewed as racially distinct and unassimilable, contributing to their social exclusion.

Finally, both countries implemented discriminatory immigration laws to limit the number of Punjabis entering. In Canada, the 1908 "continuous passage" rule effectively prevented most Punjabis from immigrating, even though they were British subjects. The justification for these laws was often framed as protecting the social fabric and racial homogeneity. One official argued that "it is a great unkindness" to bring Punjabis to Canada due to their cultural differences. These laws also made it difficult for Punjabis already in the country to bring their families, further isolating them.

The practice of bringing Indian servants to the UK, particularly through the East India Company, began in the early 18th century as British officials, merchants, and military personnel returned home with their Indian servants. As Visram notes, "the custom of importing Indian servants and ayahs into Britain probably began in the early eighteenth century, if not earlier" (Visram, 11).
Several factors motivated this practice, including the convenience of having ayahs care for children during long sea voyages and the desire to replicate the lavish lifestyles many had enjoyed in India. Indian servants were often perceived as status symbols and provided a more affordable alternative to European domestics. However, this focus on luxury and convenience often overshadowed the harsh realities and repercussions of such practices. The British were more concerned with their own comfort and social standing than with the welfare of the individuals they brought with them. It wasn't that they were unaware of the challenges faced by Indian servants; rather, they chose to ignore these issues, demonstrating a troubling lack of empathy for the human cost of their imperial pursuits.
Upon arrival in Britain, many of these individuals faced neglect, left to navigate life in a foreign land without contracts or plans for returning home. The existence of advertisements seeking runaway servants underscores the exploitation and dire circumstances they often encountered. Ultimately, while Britain’s imperial endeavors facilitated the arrival of Indian servants, the significant hardships and exploitation they faced highlight the oppressive nature of colonialism and its devastating impact on those subjected to its effects.

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British racism against Yemenis, Arabs, and Somalis in the early to mid-20th century was rooted in economic and cultural prejudices, often linked to their socio-economic status and cultural practices. Communities like Butetown (Tiger Bay) initially fostered a sense of solidarity, as exemplified by Olive Salaman, who integrated into Yemeni culture and cared for orphaned Muslim children. However, the urban regeneration of the 1960s led to the displacement of these communities, marginalizing them and eroding their social cohesion.

In contrast, Islamophobia tends to conflate race and religion, portraying Muslims as inherently suspicious or threatening. This shift simplifies complex historical prejudices, focusing on religious identity.
Overall, while early British racism against these communities laid the groundwork for anti-Arab and anti-"coloured" sentiment, Islamophobia represents a more generalized and religiously motivated form of racism that overlooks the diversity and complexity within Muslim identities.

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After reading Grace's response, I think that she provides a very strong analysis, nothing to add really.

A Morisco, or Morisca, refers to a Muslim who converted to Christianity after the Reconquista but often continued to practice Islam in secret. The migration of Moriscos to New Spain (modern-day Mexico) is considered dangerous for several reasons.
Firstly, the presence of Moriscos posed a threat to the Catholic Church's efforts to maintain religious uniformity. The Moriscos represented a challenge to the hegemony of the Catholic Church since their cultural and religious practices could undermine the Church's authority in the New World. This tension was exacerbated by fears of rebellion, as Moriscos had a history of revolting against oppression in Spain, which made their migration a cause for concern among colonial authorities.
Additionally, the political climate in New Spain at the time was unstable. The Moriscos were often viewed with suspicion and hostility, as their migration was seen as a potential catalyst for unrest.

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Morales critiques Khadija Rivera’s approach to understanding the Latino Muslim community on several fronts. A primary concern is Rivera's tendency to overgeneralize, treating Latino Muslims as a monolithic group and neglecting the diverse backgrounds and identities within it, highlighting the need for an intersectional analysis that considers factors like race, ethnicity, and socioeconomic status, which shape individual experiences.
Furthermore, Morales draws attention to the fact that Rivera frequently ignores the larger historical and sociopolitical settings that have an impact on Latino Muslim identities, particularly the consequences of Islamophobia following 9/11. In addition, Morales highlights the significance of gender dynamics, arguing that Rivera's approach might not fully capture the experiences of women, particularly those in leadership positions within groups like LALMA, as these women must negotiate complex gender intersections in contexts that are both Muslim and Latino.
I largely agree with Morales’ critiques. The call for a nuanced, intersectional approach is essential for understanding the diverse experiences of Latino Muslims. Moreover, Rivera’s framework tends to reflect a white perspective, which risks oversimplifying the unique narratives of this community. We should not approach their experiences through a white lens, as this can erase the rich histories and struggles that Latino Muslims face. However, I also see the value in Rivera’s work as it raises awareness about a community often overlooked. While her approach has limitations, I think it can serve as a starting point for deeper exploration.