“I’m sorry for what happened,” my friend Zara* wrote in our university WhatsApp group. A few days after the Islamic State-connected Easter Sunday bombings in Sri Lanka, every corner of the island was ignited with fear of ethnic tensions.
Anti-Muslim violence began and reached a peak on Monday, May 13th, during the holy month of Ramadan. In one single day, extremist mobs demolished 500 houses, businesses, and mosques, including Sri Lanka’s largest pasta factory. One man was slaughtered to death. Reports suggest that there was political involvement and organized thuggery, but some was organic violence created by extremist Sinhalese Buddhists.
“You don’t have to apologize,” I wrote her back.
“But I feel guilty…because of some Muslims, now we can’t face anyone,” she wrote back two days after the explosions. That was the last conversation I had with Zara. In the midst of anti-ethnic violence, my attempts to reach her have been in vain.
“For the sake of my country, I’m not covering my face anymore,” says Farhath. A week after the explosions, the government banned face coverings such as niqabs and burqas. In many ways, the veil ban has encouraged Islamophobic views. Farhath is an entrepreneur and mother of two. She runs a henna art business for high-end destination weddings in the country. Last December, I met her on a flight home from Bangkok. She offered me tuna sandwiches and shared stories about her business. “Come for a henna art when you are in Colombo,” she last wrote me on Facebook a week after the veil ban.
It wasn’t Zara. It wasn’t Farhath. But it was them. They were the target of the island’s fueling hatred. And it wasn’t only them.
“I was afraid to step out of home,” says a 30-year-old teacher who likes to go by the name Zami. Her colleague’s neighbor – wearing a salwar and a hijab – was walking on the road when a man driving motorbike ran into her. “He had pointed to her headscarf, ‘Remove that. You can’t wear it anymore,’ that is what a stranger on the motorbike told her,” Zami says.
I am a Sinhalese Buddhist. I grew up in a Muslim neighborhood. As a child, I made sand castles with my younger neighbor Ruzmi in the evenings. On some days of Ramadan, During Iftar, Ruzmi’s mother would share a plate of biryani with my mother. I would count my fingers until Eid to eat Watalappan. The creamy, custard-like dessert made with coconut milk, eggs, and jaggery kept us all connected. Prepared by the Sri Lankan Muslim community with a portion of love, watalappan was our heartbeat. In schools, offices, and homes – despite our race, ethnicity, and religion – watalappan kept us all united.
But that Ramadan is long gone.
“Ramadan doesn’t feel Ramadan at all,” Zami tells me. “We feel somewhat scared to share food with other communities because we are afraid of their response.” Zami feels that Muslims are now viewed with suspicion and fear by other communities, “it hurts us,” she says, her voice shattered.
“It’s like the Muslim community is under microscopic scrutiny, so you don’t want to do ‘normal’ things in case it’s suspicious and you’ll get in trouble,” says Aisha Nazim. The 28-year-old is a journalist and a corporate communications manager. “Brother doesn’t go for Taraweeh prayers. I don’t think the mosques are even hosting them anymore,” she says. Taraweeh, an optional prayer, is observed every day during the holy month of Ramadan after Isha prayers.
Customarily, a week or two before Eid, clothing stores are brimming with customers. I no longer see the happy faces looking for their favorite Eid attire decorated with sequins and handmade embroidery designs. Instead, I hear extremist voices from the majority Sinhalese. Some of my friends tell me to boycott Muslim shops. They tell me to cancel my Uber trip if the driver is Muslim. They tell me to say no to a plate of biryani.
“I’ve always had a pretty deep love for Sri Lanka,” says Aisha, “As a state, I feel it is a very insecure and unsafe place for Muslims. It’s not a place I can trust anymore, or even hope to live well anymore.”
But maybe, there’s still hope. A story on Twitter a few days after the anti-Islamic riots shared a tiny, beautiful moment on our tiny island. During a three-hour long ride from Colombo to Kandy on a packed train, a Sinhalese man offered his seat to an elderly Muslim man who was struggling to stand after a day of fasting. Later, when it was time for Iftar, the Muslim man shared his food with the Sinhalese. They smiled and rejoiced together. On May 18, though smaller than the previous year, We Are From Here Project organized an interfaith Vesak-Iftar.
“At my place, we always invite a bunch of non-Muslim friends over on Eid. We’re still going to do that this year. We’ve been doing this since around 2012, because one of the boys asked my mom for biryani once, and it became tradition,” Aisha says.
Maybe when my university resumes for classes next week, I’ll see Zara again, wearing her colorful hijab and her favorite long navy blue gown with embroidered crimson red flowers on it. Maybe, like last year after Eid, she will bring homemade gulab jamun.
*Some names have been changed to protect privacy.
