The Christchurch mosque terrorist attack allegedly carried out by a self-declared violent, rightwing extremist changed the Muslim communities in Australia in ways that are hard to articulate.
It was a watershed moment for us. The attack was live-streamed online, and 51 worshippers were slaughtered. The youngest to be gunned down was Mucad Ibrahim, who at only three years old is nearly the same age as my youngest son.
It still feels raw, like an exposed wound that refuses to heal properly. I suppose that is the nature of grief.
The Australian Muslim communities understands the consequences of political leadership cultivating intolerance and division, when hate speech can spill over into violence.
We understand how polarising positions can be advocated as absolutes, as irreconcilable positions – the pain that comes with being “othered”, of being made to feel that we are a virus that must be contained.
We understand how it feels to be disposable within a politicised landscape; the untethering of your connection to public institutions and both political and community leadership. This has been our post-9/11 reality, a common thread in the war on terror narrative.
I hoped that Christchurch would be the turning point, not just for Muslims but for Australia – that surely there were lessons that could not be ignored.
When I see the vehemence of the debate surrounding the religious protection bill, I see the same lessons being ignored. Political leadership (or rather the lack of leadership) is cultivating intolerance and division, people feel they have the “right to be a bigot”, hate speech is rising. The LGBTQI community feels it is being demonised.
This current debate erases the existence of people who belong to both the LGBTQI community and a faith community. You can be same-sex attracted and be of faith. They are not two mutually exclusive concepts.
Muslims who belong to the LGBTQI community face challenges that impact on their relationship with their communities, their families, their identity and their creator. The willingness of both the LGBTQI and the Muslim communities to silence them is a form of violence.
We have seen Muslim organisations join other faith-based organisations in consulting the Australian government on the bill, make submissions with respect to drafting of proposed legislation and advocate for further religious protections.
Suddenly, the Arabic saying “Me against my brothers, me and my brothers against my cousins, and me and my brothers and cousins against the world” makes more sense than it usually does.
People of faith are being co-opted by intolerant faith leaders and organisations. It reveals the extent in which unholy bedfellows will copulate between the bedsheets of hate, intolerance and prejudice, driven by the desire to be part of a comforting alliance.
It must feel so good after being demonised for so long to be on the other side of the fence, right? To be inoculated from criticism, from suspicion. Suddenly, Muslims are on the side of the good guys. Suddenly, Islam in Australia has a purpose.
There is no doubt that Muslims deserve to be protected from hate speech, prejudice and violence. As a Muslim woman, I know first-hand the reality of managing your own safety and security in a context of rising Islamophobia. As a lawyer, I have seen the impact of bad laws and policies on everyday Australians.
The bill will not protect Muslims, particularly Muslim women, LGBTQI Muslims or Muslims with a disability from being discriminated against.
What will happen when faiths collide and there is a dispute, for example, between a Muslim and a Christian? Whose faith “wins”?
For Muslims, this bill is a Trojan horse. It will enshrine prejudice and discrimination into law. Providing economic rewards for discriminating against others would cause further cultural, religious and economic divides that will benefit the affluent, entrench privilege and maintain ideological ghettos. The first draft of the bill legitimised racial and religious profiling by law enforcement and intelligence organisations – one of the main concerns consistently raised by Muslims post-9/11.
As Muslims, why should we build our own security and safety at the expense of vulnerable people? We are participating in the dehumanisation and violence towards them. A group that has been discriminated against so profoundly should be the last group to side with those who wish to discriminate. We have ignored the lessons from Christchurch.
We have been sold a lie: that protections for faith-based communities can only be achieved by sacrificing those in the LGBTQI community. This is a convenient lie. Convenience maintains the status quo, whereas a bill of rights would smash the status quo.
A bill of rights could strike an appropriate balance that is sorely missing in both the debate and the proposed legislation.
I fought against self-censoring in this article, or not writing it at all. It is seductive to want to avoid criticising your own faith community. But this article is for the LGBTQI Muslims – many fellow Muslims see you and you matter.
All of us, whether we are believers or not, whether we are same-sex attracted or not, are being co-opted by intolerant political and faith leaders who are willing to sacrifice not only the principles of secularism but the shared values that bind us together as Australians.
We are losing our ability to engage with people who may look different to us, who pray differently to us or who don’t pray at all. We are losing our ability to speak with those who may not speak our mother tongue but who understand the language of the heart. If this is the case, we have learned nothing from Christchurch.
• Lydia Shelly is a lawyer and student in terrorism and security studies
