Lost of Humanity: The Cruel Reality Written By: Lady Le Roux

Lost of Humanity: The Cruel Reality 

Written By: Lady Le Roux

Edited by: Lady Khasandi

Why do you look at me with fear before I’ve even spoken? Is it my faith you distrust, or the reflection it casts on your own fragility? How can you proudly champion diversity while recoiling at the sight of my scarf, my skin, or the sound of my name? 

What gives you the audacity to demand that I apologize for the actions of those I’ve never known, to hold me accountable for crimes committed by strangers, when you would never dream of bearing the weight of someone else’s sins yourself? 

Why is it that my children must grow up learning to diminish their identities, to stifle their voices, and to temper their dreams just to make others feel comfortable? 

Why is it their innocence that must pay the price for your prejudice? And you, my fellow Muslims—why do we let the world force us into silence, into softening our pain and diluting our anger to avoid making others uneasy? 

Why do we carry the burden of shame for crimes that have nothing to do with us? If justice is truly blind, why does it see my beard, my scarf, my skin, and my faith so clearly?

If mercy is universal, why is it withheld from those who don’t fit a narrow mold? Where is the humanity that should compel people to seek truth, to embrace empathy, yet instead demands that my very existence be an endless explanation? 

When did the world decide that my identity is a question that must be justified, and my faith a burden for others to bear?

Being Muslim in today's world feels like living under a magnifying glass, every aspect of our identity dissected, questioned, and judged. The promise of inclusivity and equality that society so proudly parades often crumbles when tested against the realities of our daily lives. From schools to workplaces, and in the simple act of existing in public spaces, Muslims are reminded—explicitly and implicitly—that we are viewed as "other." This is not paranoia; it is the lived experience of countless Muslims, myself included, who face discrimination masked as curiosity, fear disguised as concern, and exclusion dressed up as "security measures."

Imagine walking into a classroom or workplace, carrying the weight of stereotypes that you never asked for. Every conversation, every interaction, is laden with unspoken assumptions about your identity. It’s not uncommon for people to suddenly grow quiet when you enter the room after a news headline involving a Muslim-sounding name. Their discomfort is palpable, their sidelong glances piercing, and their silence deafening. And yet, we are the ones who are expected to smile, to reassure them, to prove our humanity as if being Muslim somehow inherently negates it.

In school settings, this dynamic is even more pronounced. Growing up, I endured moments that no child should ever have to face. When discussions about terrorism, the Middle East, or Islam arose, I was involuntarily thrust into the role of a representative for over a billion people. My classmates would look at me, waiting for an explanation or an apology for events I had no connection to. Teachers, whether through ignorance or insensitivity, often failed to challenge these moments, letting the discomfort linger in the air like an unspoken accusation.

What is perhaps most infuriating is the casual ignorance that permeates these spaces. When teachers mispronounce basic Islamic terms like "Ramadan" or "Eid," or perpetuate false narratives about our faith, it’s not just embarrassing—it’s a reminder that our identity is seen as foreign, exotic, and unworthy of the effort to understand. And when we attempt to correct these misconceptions, we are dismissed as overly sensitive, our voices drowned out by a society more comfortable with its own assumptions than the truth.

The workplace offers little respite. Professional environments often pride themselves on diversity, but for Muslims, this promise rings hollow. We are forced to navigate dress codes that fail to accommodate hijabs, prayer breaks that are seen as inconveniences, and colleagues who hesitate to shake hands with us as though our faith is contagious. Muslims who request time off for religious holidays are met with confusion, as though such observances are a strange imposition rather than a reflection of our humanity.

Even in moments of personal tragedy, the world finds ways to blame us. When an act of violence is committed by someone claiming Islam, we are held collectively responsible, asked to denounce actions we never condoned. The same demand is not made of others; no one asks a Christian to apologize for the actions of extremists who share their faith. Yet, for Muslims, this collective blame is inescapable, a burden placed upon us simply because we exist.

And let’s talk about safety—the simple, basic human right to feel safe in public spaces. For many Muslims, particularly those who are visibly identifiable, this is a luxury we cannot afford. Walking down the street in a hijab invites stares, whispers, and occasionally outright hostility. Traveling becomes a minefield of anxiety as we prepare for the inevitable "random" security checks and suspicious glances at airports. The act of boarding a plane should not feel like an act of defiance, yet for us, it often does.

These are not isolated incidents. They are part of a broader pattern of systemic discrimination that seeks to marginalize Muslims while gaslighting us into believing we are overreacting. We are told to "lighten up," that "not all non-Muslims are Islamophobic," and that "things are better than they used to be." But better for whom? For every well-meaning comment, there is a news article about a mosque being vandalized, a hijabi woman being attacked, or a Muslim student being bullied in school.

The emotional toll of this constant scrutiny is immense. It erodes our sense of belonging, making us question whether we will ever be seen as equal, as fully human. We carry the weight of proving ourselves over and over again, in ways that others are never asked to. And yet, society continues to fail us, perpetuating stereotypes and feeding into narratives that dehumanize us.

This is not just my story; it is the story of millions of Muslims worldwide. It is a plea, a demand, for society to do better. To stop asking us to justify our existence, to listen to our experiences without dismissing them, and to recognize the ways in which its systems and structures continue to exclude us.

Being Muslim is not a crime, nor is it a challenge to others’ way of life. But the way we are treated often makes it feel that way. To those who still doubt the reality of Muslim discrimination: open your eyes, your ears, and your hearts. Acknowledge the humanity of those you have othered for too long. Because until you do, the promise of inclusivity will remain just that—a promise unfulfilled.