I sat glued to the television, my frustration boiling over. The moment we had dreaded was finally upon us: the Muslim ban. Dressed up as a matter of national security, the U.S. government had barred entry from a list of countries that, in many cases, shared one common characteristic—they were predominantly Muslim. I felt the weight of the situation and the hate it would unleash, knowing it would ripple into my home country of Canada, where intolerance has no borders. I steeled myself, ready to push back against the tide of bigotry, but I didn’t anticipate the specific tragedy that lay ahead.
On January 29, 2017, just two days after the signing of the executive order, a gunman entered a mosque in Quebec and opened fire. As evening prayers concluded, 25 worshippers were struck by his bullets, resulting in six heartbreaking deaths: Ibrahima, Mamadou, Khaled, Aboubaker, Abdelkrim, and Azzedine. The motive was clear to everyone.
This act of violence wasn’t merely a consequence of the Muslim ban; three months prior, Quebec had enacted a law prohibiting niqabs and burqas in public services, making Muslim residents feel unwelcome in their own homeland. My Muslim friends were left feeling targeted and unsafe. Before the mosque shooting, I had witnessed Canadians smugly sharing articles about Trump’s actions, proclaiming, “Thank goodness we live in Canada,” as if our nation was shielded from intolerance. The tragedy at the mosque extinguished any doubts about the presence of Islamophobia in our midst.
My anger soon gave way to profound sadness. I mourned for the families affected, worried for my friends and their communities, and feared for Muslim children who were afraid to attend school. They were being weaponized in a culture war, and I knew they needed to be seen and loved.
In a moment of desperation, I gathered some cardstock and markers. I brought my nine-year-old son, Liam, into the room and explained the situation facing the Muslim community. Tears streamed down his face as he empathized with children who felt unsafe and unwanted. As a biracial child, my heart ached for the day he might face prejudice himself.
Together, we created cards with affirmations like, “We are glad you are here,” and “You are loved and valued.” We mailed them to mosques in our city, hoping to let the community know they weren’t alone in the face of hate.
But the niqab and burka ban only fueled more animosity. A young girl suffered the trauma of having her hijab ripped off her head, igniting my rage once again. I needed to show these little girls they were seen and loved for who they are.
Using fabric scraps, I crafted 25 small dolls adorned with hijabs and anonymously left them on the doorstep of my friend, Amina. I thought about the importance of representation. Did these children see themselves in the media or toys around them? A quick search confirmed that hijabi dolls were nearly nonexistent in mainstream toy stores. I knew I had to offer something meaningful to these children.
To my surprise, Amina didn’t just distribute the dolls as I had suggested; she had far grander plans. She shared the story of the dolls on Facebook, and the response was overwhelming. Instead of simply handing them out, she decided each doll would serve a higher purpose in spreading goodwill.
Her story quickly gained traction, and soon it was featured in international news. I watched in awe as Amina’s mission evolved, completely unaware that my small act of kindness would lead to something so impactful. Seeing her enthusiasm, I crafted 53 more dolls—50 for distribution and one each for Amina’s kids and my own.
As Amina’s excitement grew, I worried I was causing her stress by keeping my identity secret. Eventually, I confided in her, and she respected my wish to keep it under wraps. Today, I share this not for recognition, but to highlight Amina’s incredible work.
What Amina has accomplished with these dolls is nothing short of remarkable. She began distributing them to children who had faced discrimination, sending messages of kindness and resilience. The dolls became ambassadors of goodwill in both Islamic and public schools, filling reading nooks and inspiring discussions about diversity. One teacher even created a program where students could borrow the doll, named “Shazia,” as a reward for acts of kindness.
Amina didn’t stop there; she continued distributing the dolls to schools and daycares in Toronto and even sent some to schools in Pakistan, where students began making dolls as part of their curriculum. A year later, she still has ten dolls saved for anyone who might need a gesture of kindness.
From this experience, I learned a vital lesson about the need for kindness in the face of hate. Anger can motivate us to act against injustice, but it should not overshadow our humanity. We must strive to replace hate with compassion and outreach, showcasing what we stand for.
In the end, while hate may spread like wildfire, Amina showed me that kindness can regrow a forest.