I remember my first brush with Islamophobic sentiments like it was yesterday. I remember where I was, what I was eating and how scared and how less it made me feel. I am not Muslim even though my name suggests I am. The correct pronunciation of Ashma leaves out the ‘h’ sound. It was given to me by my grandmother who was Muslim and her seamstress. I personally never thought much of my name except for how interesting it made my identity: a Christian girl with a Muslim name who grew up performing Jhandis.
Still it did not matter until I was sharing the news with an elder, over a decade ago in 2008, that I was leaving to study in the UK. The war in Iraq was ongoing and I suppose his suspicions, which were amplified through Western media, got the best of him. I was an impressionable 19-year-old who had never known a life outside Guyana and this elder made me feel like a guaranteed suspect in a white society. The advice he lent was how careful and how non-Muslim-looking I should appear to be because my name was already a “clear indicator”. His words filled me with fear and constant worry.
