Abdul El-Sayed and Zohran Mamdani broke a political glass ceiling for American Muslims

Millions of voters in Michigan and New York City delivered a powerful message—Muslims belong in America, not merely as citizens but as political leaders. 

By Fareed Khan
A version of this article can be found on Substack.

The American midterm elections will be remembered as a political earthquake that swept across the United States. In race after race, voters delivered a decisive rebuke to the politics of division, grievance, and extremism, producing an overwhelming Democratic "blue wave" that reshaped the nation's political landscape. Yet beneath the headline-grabbing shifts in congressional control and statehouses across the country, two figures stand out for what their successes reveal about the changing character of American society. Abdul El-Sayed's election to the United States Senate dominated news coverage and marked a historic milestone in American politics. But there is another figure whose significance deserves equal attention—New York City Mayor Zohran Mamdani. Though he was not on the ballot in the midterms, the first anniversary of his victory in New York City's mayoral election provides an equally powerful lens through which to understand this political moment.

These victories carry a significance that extends far beyond partisan politics. For more than two decades after the September 11th terrorist attacks, Americans were repeatedly told to fear Muslims. They were portrayed by some politicians, media figures, and political activists as outsiders, as people whose values were supposedly incompatible with American democracy, and as communities whose loyalty should be viewed with suspicion. Yet in New York City in 2025 and Michigan this week, millions of voters looked past the decades of racist  and bigoted rhetoric and placed their trust in two Muslim politicians whose campaigns were built not on religious identity but on addressing the economic concerns facing ordinary Americans.

The irony is impossible to ignore. The very communities that anti-Muslim  (primarily Republican) politicians spent years teaching Americans to fear are now represented by leaders who embody hope for millions of voters. As the blue wave swept across the country, voters in America's largest city and one of its most important battleground states affirmed something profound—a candidate's faith matters far less than whether they understand the struggles of working families, young people burdened by rising costs, seniors worried about healthcare, and communities seeking a more affordable and secure future.

In that sense, the victories of El-Sayed and Mamdani are not merely electoral milestones. They may represent a historic turning point in American political life, one in which millions of citizens rejected Islamophobic stereotypes and embraced a more inclusive vision of who belongs in the American story. Combined with the fact that at least 51 Muslim Americans ran for office in 23 states during the 2026 midterm elections, these victories suggest that a political glass ceiling that once seemed unbreakable may finally be cracking.

That shift matters. Throughout American history, minority communities have frequently encountered barriers that extend beyond policy disagreements. Irish Catholics, Jews, African Americans, Asian Americans, and others were often portrayed as permanent outsiders before eventually earning broader acceptance within the political mainstream. Despite being in the United States since the times of slavery, American Muslims have faced a similar challenge.

The elections of Mamdani in New York City in 2025 and El-Sayed in Michigan this week suggests something important about the evolving character of American democracy. They indicate that millions of voters, at least those who cast their ballots for them, were prepared to look beyond the racist stereotypes, Islamophobic tropes, and manufactured controversies that have so often been directed at Muslim candidates and communities. Instead of accepting the narratives promoted by their opponents, these voters evaluated them in much the same way they would any other candidate—by examining their competence, their character, their vision for the future, and the policies they proposed to address the challenges facing ordinary people.

That may ultimately be the deepest significance of these victories. Political equality is not achieved when a candidate is immune from criticism because of their background. It is achieved when a candidate is judged by the same standards applied to everyone else. For decades, many Muslim Americans have faced the burden of being viewed first through the lens of religion or ethnicity before their qualifications and ideas were even considered. The victories of Mamdani and El-Sayed suggest that at least a substantial portion of the electorate (in their constituencies) is beginning to reject that framework. Their faith may remain part of who they are, but for many voters it was no longer the defining factor in determining whether they were worthy of leadership and public trust.

Notably, neither of the two men centered their political identity primarily on their faith. Instead, both built their campaigns around the same concerns that dominate kitchen-table conversations across America. They spoke about housing affordability, healthcare access, economic opportunity, public services, workers' rights, and the growing financial pressures confronting families struggling to make ends meet—the issues that shape people's daily lives and determine whether families feel secure about their future.

That dynamic was evident in both New York City and Michigan. Mamdani's rise reflected widespread frustration with the affordability crisis, housing costs, and growing economic inequality in one of the world's most expensive cities. El-Sayed's Senate campaign similarly focused on healthcare, economic justice, workers' rights, and reducing the influence of powerful corporate interests on the political system. His message was rooted in the belief that government should work for ordinary citizens rather than for wealthy donors and entrenched special interests.  In doing so, both politicians demonstrated something that many of their critics and opponents either failed to understand or refused to acknowledge: American voters are capable of looking beyond prejudice when presented with candidates who speak directly to their lived experiences. They are capable of recognizing common interests across lines of religion, ethnicity, and background. They are capable of seeing a candidate not as a symbol of cultural conflict but as a potential advocate for the concerns that affect their everyday lives.

None of this should be mistaken for evidence that racism, anti-Arab prejudice, or Islamophobia have disappeared from American society. The political, social, and cultural forces that have fuelled those attitudes for decades remain very much present. Muslim Americans continue to face discrimination, suspicion, and periodic waves of hostility. The prejudices that emerged so visibly after 9/11 did not simply vanish because of a handful of electoral victories.  Indeed, both Mamdani and El-Sayed faced attacks that frequently focused on their names, their faith, their family backgrounds, or their positions on controversial international issues rather than on substantive policy disagreements. In many respects, the campaigns against them served as reminders that old prejudices still retain a foothold in American political life.

What makes their victories noteworthy is that those attacks ultimately failed to persuade enough voters. Despite years of rhetoric portraying Muslims as outsiders or suggesting that they are somehow less authentically American, millions of citizens chose to place their trust in two Muslim politicians. They listened to the policy arguments being made and concluded that fear offered little in the way of solutions, while hope at least pointed toward the possibility of a better future.

That reality should compel a broader reassessment of many of the assumptions that have shaped American political discourse since 2001. For years, many Republican politicians built careers by warning Americans about Muslims, portraying them as threats rather than neighbours, colleagues, public servants, and fellow citizens. Yet the elections of Mamdani and El-Sayed suggest that a growing number of voters are no longer willing to accept those destructive narratives at face value. Instead, they are increasingly willing to judge Muslim political candidates on what they stand for, what they propose to accomplish, and whether they can help improve the lives of the people they seek to represent. If that trend continues, these two victories may come to be seen as more than isolated electoral successes. They may mark an important step toward closing a chapter in American politics defined by suspicion and exclusion, to one grounded more firmly in inclusion, equal citizenship, and shared aspirations.

The rise of anti-Muslim rhetoric has become particularly visible during the Trump era, when travel bans and inflammatory rhetoric moved from the political fringes into mainstream national debate. And yet the voters of New York City and Michigan have now delivered a powerful message.  It was remarkably simple—Muslims belong in America, not merely as citizens but as leaders.

The symbolism is powerful. The people once cast as objects of suspicion are now entrusted with governing one of the world's largest cities and representing an entire state in the United States Senate. Those who promoted anti-Muslim stereotypes have argued that Muslims could never fully belong. Those same prejudices suggested Americans would never elect Muslim leaders, yet millions of voters have now disproven those assumptions at the ballot box.

The significance becomes even greater when viewed against the broader backdrop of Muslim political participation in 2026. According to reporting by Muslim Network TV, at least 51 Muslim Americans ran in the 2026 midterm elections across approximately 23 states. They sought office at virtually every level of government, from Congress and statewide positions to state legislatures, county governments, judicial positions, and municipal offices. That fact alone represents an extraordinary evolution in American civic life.

Only twenty years ago, Muslim political representation in the United States was relatively limited. Today, Muslim candidates are not isolated exceptions. They are increasingly part of the mainstream democratic process. Some ran as Democrats, others ran as Republicans, independents, or Greens. Their ideological differences reflected something important—Muslim Americans are not a monolithic community. Like every other segment of the American population, they hold diverse views and priorities. What unites these candidacies is not ideological conformity but participation itself. The 2026 midterms therefore may prove to be a watershed moment. Not because every Muslim candidate won, but because Muslim political participation has reached a scale that would have seemed improbable a generation ago.

For young Muslim Americans, these developments carry profound meaning. Children growing up today can look at City Hall in New York and see a Muslim mayor. They can look at the United States Senate and see a Muslim senator. They can look at the House of Representatives and see Muslim congresswomen and congressmen. They can see public officials with names, backgrounds, and life experiences that resemble their own.

Representation alone does not solve social problems. But it can expand what people believe is possible. That is how political glass ceilings are broken.

Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of this moment is its irony. After decades of being told to fear Muslims, millions of Americans now see two high profile Muslim politicians as sources of optimism. After years of warnings that Muslims threatened American society, voters entrusted two of them with major public responsibilities. After countless efforts to paint Muslims as outsiders, Americans elevated them into positions that symbolize public trust. The script practically writes itself.

Of course, neither Mamdani nor El-Sayed should be immune from criticism. Their records and policies deserve scrutiny. Like every elected official, they will be judged by their performance. They will make decisions that supporters and critics alike will debate. And that is precisely the point. The ultimate measure of equality is not being shielded from criticism. It is being evaluated by the same standards as everyone else. The victories of Mamdani and El-Sayed suggest that many Americans are increasingly willing to do exactly that.

And if this election cycle is remembered as the moment when Muslim Americans finally shattered a major political glass ceiling, it will not simply be because two Muslim candidates won important races. It will be because millions of voters consciously chose hope over fear, inclusion over exclusion, and practical solutions over prejudice. In a political era too often defined by division, that may be one of the most encouraging stories to emerge from the 2026 elections.

© 2026 The View From Here. © 2026 Fareed Khan. All Rights Reserved,

US midterm elections show that Islamophobia has become normalized in American politics

If this election cycle is any indication, anti-Muslim prejudice and Islamophobia have moved far beyond the political fringe and become increasingly normalized within mainstream American politics.

By Fareed Khan
A version of this article can be found on Substack.

In two days, Americans will go to the polls in one of the most consequential midterm elections in recent memory.

Much of the public debate has centred on inflation, immigration, crime, foreign policy, economic uncertainty, and the balance of power in Washington. Political parties are competing for control of Congress, candidates are making their final appeals to voters, and commentators are focused on who will emerge victorious when the ballots are counted. Yet beneath these familiar political battles lies a more fundamental question, one that extends far beyond the outcome of any individual election: what kind of political culture is America becoming?

Elections do more than determine who holds office. They serve as moral and cultural barometers, revealing not only who citizens choose to govern them but also the values, fears, and prejudices they are willing to embrace. When politicians learn that appeals to fear and hostility bring political rewards rather than penalties, such rhetoric rarely remains confined to the campaign trail. It becomes embedded in public discourse, steadily shifting intolerance from the margins into the mainstream.

If this election cycle is any indication, anti-Muslim prejudice and Islamophobia have moved far beyond the American political fringe and become increasingly normalized within mainstream American politics. What was once considered outside the boundaries of respectable public discourse is now routinely deployed against Muslim candidates seeking public office. This pattern has emerged during both primary contests, where Muslim candidates compete against members of their own party, and general election campaigns, where Republican candidates and their allies have frequently targeted Muslim Democrats through rhetoric rooted in suspicion, fear, and religious prejudice. Rather than debating policies or qualifications, critics have often sought to portray Muslim candidates as inherently suspect because of their faith and identity.

The significance of this trend extends beyond any individual election or candidate. It reflects a broader shift in American political culture, one in which demonizing and dehumanizing members of a minority religious community has become increasingly socially acceptable and politically advantageous. The United States has reached a troubling moment with respect to Muslims, much as Germany reached such a moment with respect to Jews during the years that preceded Nazi rule.

While the US is not Nazi Germany history offers warnings. One of the most important is that mass violence rarely begins with violence itself. It begins with dehumanizing rhetoric, racist stereotypes, conspiracy theories, and the repeated portrayal of a group as inherently suspect, dangerous, disloyal, foreign, or incapable of truly belonging to the nation. Before persecution becomes policy, prejudice must first become normalized. Before discrimination becomes law, fear and suspicion must become politically acceptable. History shows that this process often begins with words long before it escalates into actions.

That is precisely what happened to Jews in Germany during the 1930s, and it is increasingly what is happening to Muslims in America today.

The framing of the current political climate in the US does not mean that Muslims occupy the same historical position at this time as Jews did in 1930s Germany. The comparison is that the political mechanisms are disturbingly familiar. Jews were accused of dual loyalty, of undermining the nation from within, of being responsible for society's problems, and of representing a hidden threat to the German people. Muslims today are routinely accused of sympathizing with terrorism, supporting foreign enemies, seeking to impose “Sharia law,” or secretly undermining Western society from within.

What makes this especially dangerous is that these accusations are no longer confined to fringe groups. They increasingly originate from elected officials, candidates for office, major media personalities, and influential political activists. When those with power endorse prejudice, prejudice acquires legitimacy. It stops being a social taboo and becomes an acceptable part of public discourse.

Twenty-five years after September 11, a remarkable paradox exists. Muslim Americans are among the most visible, educated, and politically engaged Muslim populations in the Western world, the same way that Jews were in Germany before the rise of the Nazis. They are doctors, lawyers, academics, teachers, journalists, engineers, police officers, military veterans, entrepreneurs, and elected officials. Yet despite these contributions, suspicion directed toward Muslims has become deeply embedded in American political culture.

A 2026 Pew Research Center report found that 43% of Americans believe Muslims are less patriotic than other Americans, while 42% believe Muslims have a negative impact on the country.  Those numbers should alarm every defender of democracy.

Imagine the reaction if nearly half of Americans believed Jews, Catholics, Black Americans, or any other religious or ethnic minority were fundamentally less loyal to the US than their fellow citizens. Such attitudes would rightly be condemned as prejudice. Yet when these sentiments concern Muslims, they frequently receive far less condemnation.

This normalization did not emerge overnight. The modern era of American Islamophobia began after the attacks of September 11, 2001. In the weeks and months that followed, Muslims and those perceived to be Muslim faced harassment, workplace discrimination, threats, physical assaults, and vandalism. Sikh Americans were attacked because assailants ignorantly assumed that they were Muslim. Mosques required additional security. Entire communities found themselves under suspicion because of crimes they neither committed nor supported.

Yet there was an important difference between then and now. In the immediate aftermath of the attacks, many political leaders still recognized the danger of collective blame. President George W. Bush visited a mosque and publicly declared that Islam was a religion of peace, and that scapegoating all Muslims for the actions of a handful of terrorists betrayed American values. Senator John McCain similarly rejected attempts to portray ordinary Muslim citizens as threats to the nation.

Today, many of those restraints have weakened. The racist and bigoted rhetoric directed at Muslims by politicians has become more explicit, more normalized, and more politically useful. Perhaps nowhere is this more visible than in campaigns involving Muslim candidates for public office.

The rise of Zohran Mamdani illustrates the problem. During his campaign and subsequent election as mayor of New York City, Mamdani became the target of a torrent of anti-Muslim rhetoric. Critics invoked 9/11 imagery, questioned his loyalty, suggested that his faith made him unfit for public office, and portrayed his election as a threat to American values. The Council on American-Islamic Relations documented dramatic spikes in anti-Muslim hostility after his political breakthrough. Thousands of hostile social media posts appeared as violent threats increased. Some critics openly suggested that New Yorkers had effectively voted for another September 11th attack itself.

The same pattern has emerged in Michigan’s senate race with Democrat Abdul El-Sayed. Again and again, critics have sought to tie him to terrorism, the Muslim Brotherhood, or foreign extremism, even though he was born and raised in Michigan. Evidence was secondary. The goal was not necessarily to prove wrongdoing, but to create suspicion and fear, and make facts irrelevant where his campaign was concerned.

This strategy should sound familiar to students of history. Minority populations are frequently excluded not through evidence but through insinuation. The accusation does not need to be proven. It only needs to be repeated. That was true for Jews in much of Europe before the Holocaust. They were accused of financial conspiracy, political subversion, disloyalty, and secret influence. These accusations were often wildly irrational, yet they shaped public opinion because they were repeated relentlessly by politicians, newspapers, and public figures.

Today's anti-Muslim rhetoric in the US functions in a similar manner. The Muslim candidate is transformed from an ordinary citizen with political views into a symbol of a broader perceived threat to society. He becomes a vessel onto which public anxieties are projected.

The Islamophobia and the Political Rise of Zohran Mamdani report produced by Georgetown University's Bridge Initiative documented how familiar anti-Muslim stereotypes were mobilized against Mamdani. His Muslim identity was framed through tropes portraying Muslims as dangerous, foreign, disloyal, and fundamentally incompatible with Western society. Even criticism of Israeli government policies is increasingly used to portray politically active Muslims as inherently extremist or antisemitic. Rather than engaging with specific policy arguments, critics often seek to disqualify Muslims from participation in public life altogether.

What is perhaps most alarming is the degree to which these attacks are now conducted openly and unapologetically. In earlier eras of American politics, overt religious prejudice was widely recognized as disreputable and often carried significant political consequences. Politicians therefore tended to disguise such sentiments or avoid expressing them publicly. Today, however, anti-Muslim rhetoric has become both more common and more extreme. The racist and bigoted narratives targeting Muslims are no longer confined to the political fringe. Instead they increasingly circulate through mainstream political discourse with little fear of consequence.

Several elected officials have publicly declared that Muslims do not belong in American society, suggested restrictions on Muslim immigration because of religion, or argued that fear of Islam is rational rather than prejudicial.[11] Others have shared social media posts placing images of Muslim politicians beside pictures of the September 11 attacks or describing Muslim public officials as enemies within American institutions. Such statements would likely end political careers if directed at virtually any other religious group. Yet when they are directed at Muslims, the consequences are often minimal. The significance of this development cannot be overstated.

Political rhetoric of this sort functions as social permission. When leaders repeatedly characterize a religious minority as dangerous or alien, they communicate that hostility and violence toward that group is acceptable, as was the case when Jews were targeted in Nazi Germany. Citizens receive the message that prejudice is not only tolerated but justified, and that violence against the group will be tolerated.

Researchers have repeatedly warned about the relationship between inflammatory rhetoric and real-world violence, with considerable amounts of academic research coming to the conclusion that spikes in anti-Muslim rhetoric during the 2015-2016 presidential campaign coincided with increases in harassment, threats, vandalism, and violence directed against Muslims and Islamic institutions.

History offers numerous examples of this pattern. Before discrimination becomes law, it is normalized through speech, and rationalized through stereotypes. Before a minority becomes a target, public figures teach society to view that minority with suspicion. Political rhetoric does not automatically lead to violence, but it creates the environment in which violence becomes easier to justify. This is one reason comparisons with 1930s Germany deserve careful consideration.

The most important lesson from that period is not what happened after authoritarian power was consolidated. It is what happened before. Long before concentration camps, long before deportations, long before genocide, there were years of speeches, media campaigns, conspiracy theories, and political movements portraying Jews as a dangerous problem that had to be addressed. The normalization of prejudice preceded the implementation of violent persecution.

Democratic societies often fail to recognize danger because they focus only on the final outcome rather than the warning signs that precede it. Many Muslim Americans believe they are witnessing those warning signs today.

Again, the issue is not disagreement. Political disagreement is essential in a democracy. The issue is collective suspicion. A democracy cannot function when religious minorities are treated as threats and enemies, as guilty until proven innocent.  And evidence suggests the climate is worsening rather than improving.

Muslims have endured decades of profiling, surveillance, employment discrimination, threats, hate crimes, and political hostility. Anti-Muslim hate crimes remain substantially higher than they were after 9/11. Yet the tragedy is that this hostility is directed at a community that has been part of the American story for centuries. Muslims were present in America before the founding of the republic, including among the enslaved Africans brought to its shores, and have helped build the nation alongside their fellow citizens ever since.

Over the centuries, Muslims have served in public office and the armed forces, taught in universities, worked in hospitals, operated businesses, raised families, paid taxes, and volunteered in their communities. Like other Americans, they mourned the victims of 9/11 and shared in the nation's grief. Yet for many, that tragedy also marked the beginning of an era in which they became objects of suspicion because of their faith.

What too many political leaders learned from 9/11 was not the importance of solidarity but the political utility of fear. It became a resource to be exploited for political gain, and Muslims became convenient targets onto whom broader social and political frustrations could be projected. More than two decades later, that dynamic continues to shape American political discourse, including during the current election cycle, as candidates and commentators continue to invoke anti-Muslim narratives for political advantage.

The United States therefore faces a choice. It can continue down a path in which Muslims serve as convenient scapegoats for social anxieties and political grievances, or it can reaffirm a principle that should never require defending in the first place: that citizenship is not determined by religion and that equal rights do not depend on a person’s faith. That choice matters not only for Muslims but for America itself. Whether Americans choose to recognize these warning signs may help determine whether the country strengthens its democratic ideals or continues eroding them, a decision whose consequences will extend far beyond the Muslim community.

© 2026 The View From Here. © 2026 Fareed Khan. All Rights Reserved.

OP-ED -- Trump’s re-election doesn’t bode well for tolerance in Canada

With a far-right populist entering the White House, what does it mean for Canada’s own far-right political leader?

 

By Fareed Khan
https://rabble.ca/politics/canadian-politics/trumps-re-election-doesnt-bode-well-for-tolerance-in-canada/

The re-election of Donald Trump to a second term as president reverberates far beyond the United States, particularly affecting Canada, America’s closest neighbor and largest trading partner. This political shift will have a social and cultural impact on Canadian society the way it did during Trump’s first presidency when his political rhetoric legitimized and enabled hate and racism.

 

 

In recent years, the rhetoric surrounding migrants, refugees, and 2SLGBTQIA+ rights has grown increasingly toxic, with many trends in Canada tracking back to the US. Trump’s first term exemplified the weaponization of fear against minority communities for political gain (the Muslim ban), a tactic he employed again during the 2024 presidential campaign. He stoked anxieties about “the other” and used lies and unfounded claims to link them to potential economic turmoil and social disorder if he is not re-elected.

Trump’s initial political rise capitalized on the anger and dissatisfaction of many Americans, framing certain minority groups — Arabs, Muslims, migrants, and refugees — as enemies. This strategy rallied his base and emboldened hate groups, resulting in a notable increase in hate crimes across the US from 2015 (when he started his campaign) to 2021, when he instigated a riot in Washington DC to prevent the certification of the 2020 presidential vote. According to FBI statistics, hate incidents surged during his presidency, highlighting the dangerous fallout of inflammatory rhetoric aimed at vilifying minority communities.

Canada witnessed a disturbing rise in hate directed at Muslims after Trump’s 2016 victory that culminated in the tragic 2017 murder of six worshippers at a Quebec City Mosque by a man influenced by Trump’s racist narratives.  In subsequent years incidents of hate continued to increase as did Trump’s rhetoric targeting certain minorities.

With Trump’s re-election, Canadians must brace for the potential fallout of strategies borrowed from Trump’s playbook by Conservative Party leader Pierre Poilievre in Canada heading into the next election, which could include inciting anger, feeding rage, blatant lies, and exploiting and exacerbating societal divisions for political gain. Poilievre’s approach to date mirrors that of Trump and populist politicians in other Western democracies who seek to win by catering to the fears and basest instincts of their electorates.

The connections between the rise of populism in Canada post-2016 and what could unfold during Trump’s second term are troubling. One cannot help but draw parallels between Trump’s 2016 victory and how it exacerbated social divisions as Conservatives changed their campaign style, and what could occur in Canada during his second administration, and its impact on the Canadian political ecosystem.

The socio-political implications of Trump’s return are concerning, particularly in light of statements from many former Trump officials labeling him a fascist and unfit to hold public office. Historically, the rise of authoritarian regimes often begins with the marginalization of vulnerable populations, which Trump did during his first administration, and during this presidential campaign. Comparisons between Trump and the emergence of fascist regimes in Europe in the 1920s and 1930s may seem extreme but history has shown us that the seeds of bigotry, hatred and social breakdown sprout in times of fear and uncertainty, especially when stoked by politicians.

As Americans navigate the implications of Trump’s second term, Canadians must also confront our interconnected realities. The political climate in the US directly influences Canadian policies and attitudes, particularly among conservative circles. The rise of hate and bigotry during Trump’s first presidency spilled over into Canada with deadly consequences resulting from conservative political rhetoric, and the same could happen again. Statistics Canada has reported increasing hate crimes numbers annually for the past decade, a troubling trend that represents only one per cent of actual incidents. If history and recent right wing political tactics are any indicators then Canadians should brace for a surge in hate related incidents as hate groups are emboldened by Trump’s re-election.

In the US it seems that hateful and bigoted political narratives have been normalized if Trump’s campaign and his victory are the barometer by which to measure such things.  If we are heading in the same direction in Canada, with similar political narratives becoming the norm, it is a threat to the fabric of our society.  Over the next four years, it is crucial for Canadians to remain vigilant and proactive in combating hate, particularly when it is enabled by politicians.  We must defend the values of inclusivity that define our nation, and resist any attempts by right wing political leaders to exploit fear and stoke prejudice against minority communities for political advantage.

The late Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau once remarked that being America’s neighbor is akin to sleeping next to an elephant — we feel every twitch and grunt. Trump’s re-election is like that elephant having a nightmare, with flailing arms and legs that will inevitably leave Canada bruised and possibly bloodied.

While Americans have to live with him day to day for the next four years Trump’s re-election and the risks it poses to Canada’s sociopolitical landscape must be acknowledged, and we must recognize the dangers of the resurgent populism enabled by Trump’s victory and work wherever we can to counter it and the fascist narratives it promotes.

 

FAREED KHAN

Fareed Khan is the founder of Canadians United Against Hate and has written and commented extensively about issues around racism and human rights.  More by Fareed Khan.

© 2024 Rabble.ca.  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
© 2024 The View From Here.  © 2024 Fareed Khan.  All Rights Reserved.