Quotes from this interview have been edited for clarity and brevity.
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What is Gendered Islamophobia?
Islamophobia encompasses “racism, stereotypes, prejudice, fear or acts of hostility directed towards individual Muslims or followers of Islam,” as defined in Canada’s Anti-Racism Strategy 2024-2028. It not only manifests in individual acts of bias but also shapes institutional and societal practices that frame Muslims as greater security threats. A gendered approach to Islamophobia exposes the layered and distinct experiences of Muslim women confronting Islamophobia. Anti-Muslim racism is not limited to hostility toward a religious group but is intertwined with anti-immigrant attitudes, xenophobia, gender bias, and social class discrimination, according to the European Commission against Racism and Intolerance (ECRI).
Gendered Islamophobia occurs when a visible religious symbol becomes a barrier in a woman’s daily life and heightens Muslim women’s “vulnerability to hate crimes, discrimination, and employment obstacles,” as highlighted in the November 2023 report of the Standing Senate Committee on Human Rights.
Statistics Canada data from 2010 to 2019 shows that nearly half, 47 percent, of reported Islamophobic hate crimes target Muslim women.
When Visibility Limits Opportunity
Greater visibility brings greater risk and can also limit opportunities for Muslim women. The Canadian Council of Muslim Women (CCMW) released a study on June 20, 2024, titled Addressing Systematic Problems and Inequities to Resolve Employment Issues (ASPIRE), as part of a multi-year project aimed at gaining a “better understanding of and responding to the employment barriers faced by Canadian Muslim women.” The study reports an employment rate of 44% for Canadian Muslim women, compared with 55% for non‑Muslim women and 58% nationally.
In parallel, the study also found that Canadian Muslim women are “on average, more educated than the general Canadian population,” yet “Canadian Muslim women had lower rates of full-time employment compared to their general Canadian counterparts.” In the health care system, professionals who wear the hijab can face challenges that go beyond the workplace, affecting patient relationships and the training of future providers.
Ali Khan et al. (2022) note in their Canadian Medical Association Journal CMAJ commentary, “Dismantling Gendered Islamophobia in Medicine,” that visibly identifiable Muslim women in healthcare are often reduced to a single religious identity, while their intersectional identities, including racial and ethnic backgrounds, are overlooked. This discrimination can lower job satisfaction, limit career opportunities, and lead some to leave medicine, while microaggressions, stereotyping, and patient biases further undermine communication and trust.
Normalized Threats Against Muslim Women
With the rise of extremism, several incidents highlight the risks faced by Muslim communities in Canada. On January 29, 2017, 46 people were attacked at the Great Mosque of Quebec during evening prayer, leaving six dead, five seriously injured, and many others traumatized. On June 6, 2021, five members of the Afzaal family in London, Ontario, were deliberately targeted when a truck was driven into them. These events underscore the urgent need for awareness and education to combat Islamophobia, particularly as Muslim women continue to face normalized targeting.
In 2019, the Quebec government passed Bill 21, enforcing state secularism by banning certain public employees, including teachers, police officers, and judges, from wearing religious symbols at work. The law applies to hijabs, kippahs, turbans, and crosses, and also restricts face coverings that conceal identity, except for medical reasons. In October 2025, Bill 94 extended these restrictions to all individuals interacting with students in schools and prohibited students from wearing face coverings. More recently, in November 2025, a new secularism bill was proposed to ban prayer in schools and limit the provision of religion-based meals.
Lived Realities of Muslim Women
A woman’s ability to work and safety should not depend on her religion, identity, or ethnicity. It is crucial to identify the barriers Muslim women face, which may appear arbitrary or disconnected from formal policies but are in fact rooted in organizational structures that reinforce racial hierarchies. I interviewed two Muslim women from the community to gain insight into their lived experiences. One chose to remain anonymous, so for the purpose of this study, I will refer to her as Fatma.
Fatma, 24, is a Turkish immigrant who moved to Canada to pursue her undergraduate studies. She now works in the university and community‑engagement sector, where she supports equity‑oriented projects and collaborates with students and community partners. Living in Vancouver without her family, she has built her support system through community, work, and faith spaces. Her academic and professional focus on equity, inclusion, and community‑building closely aligns with her experiences as a visibly Muslim woman.
The second participant, Lulu Jama, 25, is an editor with the Middle East Program at the MEA Institute for Strategic Studies. She lives with her siblings and has familial roots in Somaliland, East Africa. Born in Canada and raised in Saudi Arabia, she returned to Canada in 2016. Lulu holds a Sociology degree and founded the Black Muslim Collective at UBC.
How does being a visibly Muslim woman shape your identity and daily life, and how does it affect how you are perceived in public and at work?
Fatma: Being visibly Muslim shapes almost every layer of my daily life—from the way I enter a room to how carefully I choose my words. I’m constantly aware that people may interact with me as their “first hijabi,” and that unfairly places pressure on me to be extra patient, or extra composed, even when others don’t extend the same grace. I know that my actions can influence how someone sees other Muslim women after me, so there’s a quiet responsibility I carry everywhere I go.
At the same time, my hijab anchors me in who I am. It reminds me of my values and gives me a sense of groundedness that I don’t think I’d have otherwise.
Lulu: The thing is that I am not visibly Muslim as I don’t, yet, wear the hijab. So my Muslim identity is entirely mine and is only known to those I choose to share it with. I used to work at the UBC Vice President’s office during my undergrad, and I told my supervisor that I am Muslim and require a place to pray. My perception at work didn’t change, I think it actually improved my image in my boss’ eyes because she is a practicing Black, Christian woman and we would relate on existing in spaces that don’t value or center God.
Can you share how being visibly Muslim has impacted your safety in public spaces, including experiences of harassment, abuse, or microaggressions, and how these experiences influence the ways you navigate daily life and protect yourself?
Fatma: Public safety is something I think about more than I like to admit. I’ve experienced both subtle microaggressions and very open forms of racism—people switching seats, staring in ways that make your whole body tense, or making comments that stay with you long after the moment ends. These experiences don’t just disappear; they settle into your body and change how you move through the world.
Because of that, I’m always scanning my surroundings—choosing certain seats on transit, avoiding walking alone at night, or pretending to be on the phone so I look “less alone.” It’s exhausting to manage your safety in ways others never even think about, but over time, it becomes second nature. Still, I refuse to shrink myself. I keep showing up fully, just with a quiet layer of hyper-awareness that comes from years of navigating life as a visibly Muslim woman in Canada.
Lulu: I usually feel safe in public spaces to that extent that a Black woman would feel, but on the days I’m wearing a hijab and abaya to a masjid, I certainly notice more eyes on me. I’m grateful to have not had a negative interaction in the few instances that I am visibly Muslim, but the times I am out and about in a hijab are limited. I also know that I experience life differently compared to a darker-skinned Black Muslim woman, given the white supremacist context we all exist in.
Can you share any experiences of workplace discrimination or bias linked to your name or visible religious beliefs, and how you have managed or responded to these challenges?
Fatma: A big challenge has always been navigating my religious needs at work, especially around prayer. In some of my previous workplaces, even mentioning that I needed a few minutes to pray felt uncomfortable. I worried people would think I was asking for ‘special treatment,’ so I avoided bringing it up at all. When I did try, I was sometimes met with comments like, ‘Can’t you just pray later?’ or ‘We’re busy right now,’ as if prayer were optional or something I could simply postpone. There was very little understanding of what that practice means to us, and it made me feel like my needs were inconvenient or hard to accommodate.
Fasting was similar. We often talk about accessibility and accommodations in theory, but actually practicing equity is a different conversation. I’ve had workplaces that were great at using the language of inclusion, but when Ramadan came, there was no real sensitivity around scheduling, energy levels, or even small adjustments like avoiding lunch meetings. It reminded me that inclusion sounds nice in emails, but it requires real effort in daily practice.
These contrasting experiences have taught me to seek out teams that practice equity in actual, tangible ways—not just in written statements. When my religious needs aren’t treated as burdens, I’m able to show up with more confidence instead of constantly managing myself around stereotypes or minimizing parts of who I am.
How have role models, community spaces, or advocacy initiatives supported you as a visibly Muslim woman, and what does support look like for you in practice?
Fatma: Support for me has come through women—often older Muslim women—who showed me that I didn’t have to choose between my faith, my intellect, and my ambition. Community spaces like halaqas, mentorship groups, and even Muslim-run organizations have given me a sense of belonging I struggled to find elsewhere.
What helps the most is relational support: someone asking how I really am, checking in after a difficult news cycle, or simply treating me with dignity without making me feel like a “representative” of all Muslim women. Support is also structural—having workplaces that actually understand cultural and religious needs, not just tolerate them. These spaces give me room to breathe, grow, and show up without overexplaining myself.
Lulu: Truthfully, my friends and very few community leaders—two, specifically—have been a real source of support for me. I faced abuse, doxing, and bullying from the remainder of Vancouver’s Muslim community for trying to create spaces for Black Muslims.
UBC’s Muslim Students Association and UK speaker Adbullah al Andalusi published a 400-page document deliberately misconstruing and undermining my advocacy efforts, all while egregiously invading my privacy and safety. This document spanned across North America, leading to local masjid imams, other Muslim institutions and their leaders, as well as my own community members participating in the slander of my name and ostracization from the community as a whole.
My Islam was brought into question, and I was accused of “takfir”, implying I did not believe in the fundamental principles of the faith and was therefore no longer Muslim. I was made out to be a boogeyman whose sole intent was to pervert Islam to allegedly fit my agenda.
The blatant anti-Blackness and misogyny were in full effect, and my only support was from friends and other trusted people. The community I used to be a part of displayed a sort of conditional support whereby one must adhere to and operate within acceptable social norms according to the Muslim mainstream opinion, or else they are considered to exist outside the fold of Islam. This lack of critical thinking and openness that Islam encourages is what ultimately pushed me away, leaving me in the comfort and care of my own trusted network.
How do you define strength on your own terms as a Muslim woman, and in what ways do you challenge stereotypes or biases associated with religious visibility—through mentorship, advocacy, storytelling, or other strategies? How have these experiences influenced your identity and confidence?
Fatma: Strength, to me, is gentleness without naivety. It’s refusing to let the world make you bitter, even when you’ve seen its harshness up close. I challenge stereotypes simply by existing in spaces where people don’t expect someone like me—whether that’s in academic settings, consulting rooms, or leadership tables. I share my story openly, mentor younger Muslim girls, and choose to lead with compassion instead of defensiveness.
Being visible means people project their assumptions onto you, but I’ve learned to meet that with clarity and confidence. Over time, this visibility has shaped my identity—not by making me harder, but by making me more rooted. When young Muslim women tell me they feel more confident because they see someone like them in these spaces, that’s when I’m reminded why visibility matters.
Lulu: My strength is from knowing that Islam’s approach to life is very logical, just, encouraging, merciful, and balanced. I do not practice a faith that doesn’t have justice and mercy at the foundation of its instructions. Most of the stereotypes I have had to battle have been within the Muslim community, specifically as it relates to my positionality as a Black Muslim woman and my views on social justice.
We are in an age of anti-intellectualism where mainstream voices and opinions rebuke perspectives that challenge the status quo, and naturally, day-to-day people follow suit in the perceived fight against “the left”. It’s a culture war that intersects with religion. Islam isn’t left or right. So I challenge this through learning and sharing what I find. I did until the takfir allegations against me began, and I have been disconnected from the community since. But my confidence isn’t shaken, and my message hasn’t altered; it has only made me more steadfast in what I believe in.
From your perspective, what changes in policy, community support, or public awareness could make your community and BC more inclusive and safer for visibly Muslim women?
Fatma: Real safety requires both policy and cultural change. At the policy level, stronger protections against hate crimes, better reporting systems, and equity training that goes beyond mere diversity checklists are essential. But community support matters just as much—public education that humanizes Muslims, more representation in media, and dedicated funding for Muslim-led community programs.
There also needs to be an honest acknowledgment that Islamophobia exists in BC, not just in headlines but in everyday interactions. Inclusion isn’t built through slogans; it’s built through consistent investment in the communities most affected. For visibly Muslim women, safety looks like being able to walk, work, and exist in public without carrying the extra weight of hyper-awareness or fear.
Lulu: I really do not believe society as a whole can include Muslim women to the extent that we deserve without our own Muslim communities embodying it first. To start, our Masaajid (mosques) need to move away from living solely within the haram-halal binary, one that often places women at the center of all “fitnahs” which is often translated as ‘test or trial,’ but can also denote persecution, wrongdoing, shirk (worshipping others alongside God) or kufr (denying the basic beliefs of Islam), and various forms of punishment or suffering. Muslim women continue to struggle under patriarchy within our communities, so the onus of bridging that gap lies with masjid (mosque) board members, imams, and local leaders.
The foundation of Muslim women’s issues is because of the intersection of misogyny and islamophobia; this is something that all youth, but boys in particular, need to understand to make spaces safer for Muslim women. Frankly, I believe that both male and female teachers should be highlighting how young boys can honour women in society to offset the growing red pill commentary that plagues our male youth. The practice of men teaching men and women teaching women is counterproductive in the current social context. Aisha RA, closest companion of the Holy Prophet and the first Khalifa of the Holy Prophet, used to teach men and women alike—why and how have we strayed so far from this norm?
I do not believe we, the ummah (global community of Muslims), are more polarized now than we have been historically, but social media and manufactured culture wars have pushed it to the forefront. We have become more comfortable preaching doctrines of separation rather than unity. Shifting this perspective by actually practicing it within mosques and community spaces, I believe, is what can begin the conversation on inclusivity.
Fostering Awareness of Cultural Diversity
Acknowledging diversity and preventing discrimination against visibly religious women in BC and across Canada is essential. The government has appointed Amira Elghawaby as its first-ever special representative to combat Islamophobia, to help promote inclusive public policy, and to work with national advocates to protect human rights, including freedom of religion. There is a need for more representatives like her across Canada’s diverse communities.
Similarly, interviewees highlighted the importance of sharing stories, emphasizing that awareness, education, and open conversations can foster inclusion. In her TED Talk, Lulu Jama highlights the value of multiculturalism and cultural diversity within communities, noting that “one can become more culturally aware and celebrate various cultural traditions without having to travel far.”
Many women report that when they began wearing the hijab, they were often asked why they did not simply remove it when facing discrimination. Dr. Tammara Soma, Associate Professor of Planning at Simon Fraser University and Director of Research and Co‑Founder of the Food Systems Lab, explains that the hijab is not merely a piece of clothing but a vital part of one’s life and identity. She has stated that she would rather die than remove it, emphasizing its profound personal and spiritual significance. Ultimately, respecting how individuals choose to express their faith and identity is what truly matters.
Edited by Osama Alshantti
