Zohran Mamdani recently secured his primary win in New York, defeating Andre Cuomo in what many celebrated as a political shift toward justice and accountability. Across much of what I see on social media, his victory felt like a breath of fresh air, as it became a prime example of a politician who didn’t dilute his beliefs to appease power. Mamdani, a member of the Democratic Party, has been vocal in his criticism of Israel’s actions in Palestine, calling for accountability at a time when many politicians continue to offer unconditional support.
In one interview, he was asked – if elected mayor – where his first international trip would be. His answer? Nowhere. He was focused on New York and its five boroughs. It was a straightforward response, yet only he was asked a follow-up: would he visit Israel? Again, he said no. When asked about Netanyahu, he didn’t flinch. He said he would support arresting the Israeli prime minister for war crimes if he ever came to New York under his leadership.
And then, as expected, the backlash came.
Over the course of his election campaign, Mamdani was subjected to deeply personal, racialised, and Islamophobic attacks. He was falsely labelled a jihadist, accused of wanting to “eradicate Hinduism,” and smeared with baseless claims that his election would lead to “another 9/11.” Even mundane aspects of his identity, like eating with his hands, were called ‘unsanitary.’ Far-right activists went so far as to argue that Islam isn’t a religion, but a ‘political ideology.’
This moment made me queasy. Not because it was surprising, but because it wasn’t.
For many Muslims, these responses have become predictable in Western media. A public figure with a Muslim name, let alone one critical of Zionism, becomes the immediate target of suspicion, hostility, and racist speculation. The burden of representation is suffocating. To be Muslim and visible is, too often, to be seen as dangerous. To speak out is to be labeled a threat.
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Watching Mamdani stand firm in his principles and watching the backlash unfold reminded me of something deeper – that for Muslims like me, existing in public spaces often comes with a footnote. A disclaimer. A quiet fear. Even in moments of pride and progress, there is a shadow of risk.
It is not just politicians who bear this burden. Ordinary Muslims, particularly those who wear visible signs of faith, such as the hijab, regularly face discrimination and harassment. Hijabs are pulled off in the streets. Arab names trigger “random” security checks.
Islamophobia did not begin on 9/11, but it certainly found new legitimacy in its aftermath. The events of October 7, 2023, and the renewed violence in Palestine have only intensified the public scrutiny Muslims face, especially those who express solidarity with Palestine. To speak out against injustice is to risk being labelled an extremist. Silence, meanwhile, is never enough to protect us.
What does it mean to be a Muslim in this climate? It means negotiating between pride in your faith and fear for your safety. It means balancing the desire to speak truth with the reality of being misunderstood. It means seeing someone like Zohran Mamdani get hit with a wave of hate not because he did anything wrong, but just because of who he is – and realising that same hate could just as easily be aimed at you.
And yet, amid the hate, there is also resilience.
Mamdani’s win is not just a political milestone. It is a reminder that we are still here. That despite the suspicion, the slurs, the surveillance – Muslims continue to show up, organise, lead. And perhaps that is what scares people most.
I don’t know what will happen in November’s general election. Even though I’m Malaysian, I hope Mamdani wins because it sets an important precedent for Muslim leadership in the U.S., which plays such a powerful role in global politics and economics. What happens there often ripples across the world, and it’s encouraging to see more inclusive representation in such a major sphere.
But win or lose, his presence is already powerful. Because every time someone like Mamdani refuses to shrink himself to fit into a hostile system, it challenges the idea that Muslims need to stay silent to be accepted.
I long for a world where our faith is not politicised. Where we can practice Islam or any religion without fear. Where speaking up for justice is not seen as a threat, but as a virtue. Until then, I find strength in people like Mamdani, and in the community that uplifts him.
Because being Muslim shouldn’t mean carrying a target on your back.
It should just mean being human.
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