I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard
Muslims use Bilal (rA)’s name to support their
theories on why racism cannot or does not exist
in the Ummah. As if the Ummah is monolithic, as
if it were a small community or a classroom or a
place that could be static, even for a moment.
As if the act of tokenizing a man as a one size
fits all patch to the “non racist” racism that
“doesn’t exist” is somehow okay. As if they were
capable of naming another black Sahaba and not
have to resort to Malcolm X in a desperate
attempt not to be labeled the “R word.” As if
Twitter and other social media platforms weren’t
littered with the word abeed, as if in the mad
dash to advocate and mobilize for Syria and
Palestine we didn’t forget Somalia, and the war
on black men, women and children and non
binary folks that is occurring right now in our
towns, our cities, our homes.
As Muslims we like to knock ourselves in the
head with the idea that we aren’t susceptible to
racism, that somehow because we were warned
by the Prophet (saws) to beware of oppression
and to remember that racial hierarchies are
bullshit, we are spared from the parasitic nature
of anti-black racism. We give the Ummah this
projected identity of a safe and equitable space,
void of aunties who want lighter-skinned
daughters for their sons; uncles who won’t let
black men marry their daughters; and masjids
that actively work to keep out “urban culture”,
i.e., black culture. As if there aren’t brothers and
sisters who forget what private naseeha looks
like when they see the blackness of someone’s
skin, as if there aren’t entire countries being
crushed by the foot of neocolonialism that go
unsupported because a significant portion of
their populations are black.
A few months ago I went to a masjid that was
predominately Pakistani. I stopped on my way
home from work, it wasn’t my normal masjid, but
it was the closest one to me, so I decided to
pray there. I generally have no qualms about
praying somewhere on the side of the bus stop
or in a quiet place at the subway station, but this
day I had a little more time, and so I thought I’d
check out this masjid I’d never been to before.
Immediately after I walked in, the women were
staring at me. As a black woman, I’m used to
this. I was also wearing a merlot colour lipstick
and big headphones so I wrote off their looks as
inquisitive, or disapproving of my chosen
aesthetic (I can see how it may be an acquired
taste). Either way, their prying eyes were
inconsequential, because as a black woman who
has experienced being the only black woman in
her class, or at her place of work, staring is
something I can generally ignore.
I smiled, said my salaams (which weren’t
returned), put my bags on the floor of the
musullah and prayed my first two rakahs. A
woman came over to me in the middle of my
salaah and proceeded to say “excuse me” at
least 5 times. I ignored her, disgusted by her
disrespect, but eventually so frazzled that I could
not continue praying. When she had succeeded
in getting my attention she said, “This is an Urdu-
speaking mosque.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t respond. I looked at her,
waiting until she made her point, shocked at her
audacity and disrespect. She waited for me to
respond but when she saw that I wasn’t going to,
she continued, “There is another mosque where
you can go not too far from here. There are
more people like you there.”
I was in complete disbelief, I looked around at
the other aunties who were smiling and nodding
in agreement. It made me think they had drawn
straws to see who would come and tell me that I
was not welcome, and that they were glad it
wasn’t them.
I stood for a moment that felt like a lifetime,
bouncing around in my own head, trying to
unpack what I had just heard. I turned back to
the qibla, finished praying, grabbed my stuff and
left. The sound of anger was loud, and it clouded
my thoughts. I knew what “people like you”
meant. Black people. People whose skin is
always dark enough to be offensive, its presence
so jarring, so stirring that those women felt
compelled to interrupt someone’s communion
with God to save themselves from having to be
in its presence.
I wish I could say that this experience existed in
a vacuum, but it doesn’t. I have experienced
overt racism in the masjid on at least three
separate occasions, directed at me by other
Muslims online more than 50 times, and subtly
more times than I can count. It’s frustrating that
when black Muslims try to have these
conversations they are often shut down
immediately by using Bilal (rA)’s name. The only
time that anti-black racism in the Ummah is
discussed in depth is usually amongst a group of
black Muslims, outside of our religious spaces.
The kinds of stories I hear from other brothers
and sisters about their experiences with racism
from other Muslims are stunning.
We need to be able to have these conversations
in our masjids, in our other religious spaces, in
our homes with our families, in our social groups,
whether we have a black friend present or not.
We need to check each other when anti-black
racism arises. We can’t wear keffiyehs around
our necks and stand in the middle of a pro-
Palestine protest but go home and use the word
abeed, or not stand in solidarity with our black
brothers and sisters and not give them space to
share their experiences safely.
Last year I met a black woman who experienced
so much emotional and psychological violence in
the masjid because of her blackness, that she
left Islam. I often wonder if Bilal (rA) would be
ashamed to hear the ways in which he is
tokenized by clearly racist Muslims to justify
their racism. We need to do better and be better.
We need to interrogate our anti-blackness, we
need to unlearn our language and the
stereotypes that we have conceived around black
people. We need to be open to critique and
challenge when our words or sentiments are
triggering and oppressive. We need to shed the
defensiveness. When we are able to do this, we
will begin to heal the trauma and distrust left by
anti-black racism.
I believe that when we can have these
conversations, hear these stories, mobilize for
change we will truly be an Ummah. As long as
we adhere to racial hierarchies or allow racism
to parade itself in front of us without challenging
it, we will continue to be disjointed, and the
trauma and hurt will fester.
We’re capable of closing these wounds and
healing, but we have to be dedicated.

https://loveinshallah.com/tag/key-ballah/