I opened my eyes blearily to the stubborn sunshine filtering in through my bedroom window. I was tired–as usual–but got up and went about my business like I would any other day of the week. Bathroom? Check. Teeth? Check. Study my under-eye bags in the mirror above the sink? Check and check. When I finally sat down to eat breakfast, I grabbed my phone to see what I had missed that night. The first thing that I noticed upon turning on my phone were about 30 messages from a group chat between me and my friends. It was unusual for there to be such a large number of texts from this particular chat, so I was intrigued, but that intrigue soon became horror. The second I read what was being discussed, there was an army of expressions battling to take prominence on my face. Shock, sorrow, horror, fear, and rage were among them, each and every emotion more negative than the last.

 I clicked on a news article that someone had sent and the title spread across the screen. “49 Dead as Far-Right Shooter Opens Fire on New Zealand Mosques.” The feeling in my heart at that moment was indescribable. No word could ever encompass the intensity or the enormity of that feeling. That could have been me and my family, and that knowledge scared me to no end. Of course, there had been terroristic attacks before the one in New Zealand, and there would be attacks after, but that one resonated with me. The sorrow and empathy that is felt whenever one reads about an attack is magnified tremendously when it happens to your own people.   

For the rest of the day, everywhere I went, the news followed me. More information on the shooter. More people dead. It didn’t stop and I felt like yelling at the bright, sun-filled sky to stop its taunting and get with the program.

 Later that night, I was sitting in the kitchen by myself when I heard my mom gasp in horror. “I don’t want to see it,” she said. I turned my head towards the living room and I heard a ‘pop’ noise coming repeatedly from where my parents were stationed on the sofa. I got up and slowly walked over.

            “See what?” I asked. I saw my dad, his face somber, staring at a video on his phone, and my mom’s face turned away with her head buried in her hands. “See what?” I repeated again, and my parents finally looked over at me.

            “The video… from the New Zealand shooter,” my dad said.

            “I want to see.” I stared stubbornly at him, and even though both of my parents refused, I sat next to my dad and looked over his shoulder. I wanted to know what happened, what they experienced, but when that first shot rang out, I looked away and tears filled my eyes. I will forever hear those shots, accompanied by the terrified screams, in the back of my mind. That monster killed children, innocent children, and I can’t help but look over at my 4-year-old brother in fear of what could happen if we were in that situation. That was a new fear that entered my conscious that day, like a parasite in my brain, and it is often that the same feeling returns.

A couple months later, I was standing in the mosque with my friend. “To be completely honest, I was scared to come here today. I was seriously thinking about turning your invitation down,” she said. I didn’t even ask her why because I already knew. Even then, as we were talking, my eyes would stray over to the window that we were standing in front of, or the door that we were next to, and I was petrified of what would happen if a man with a gun slung over his shoulder walked in.

 Everything changed that fateful day, Friday the 15th of March, 2019. I never go anywhere without my head constantly looking over my shoulder. I’m constantly running escape routes in my head, making note of anything and everything that’s around me that I can use as self-defense if necessary. It doesn’t feel safe anymore, not even in the places where I should feel safe, where I shouldn’t have to worry about being persecuted for who I am or the religion I follow. It feels like I have a huge target painted on my back because of the scarf that I wear on my head. But I refuse to remove it because no matter how scared I may be, I am proud of the person I am and the religion I follow. I do not condone terrorism, in any of its forms, nor does anyone else I know. I stand tall and fight back against the ignorance and misconceptions that I face. And I do that by being unapologetically me. Unapologetically female. Unapologetically Latina. And most of all, unapologetically Muslim.