Confronting Islamophobia and Reclaiming the Muslim Narrative

With Ramadan behind us, we invite you to explore an often-overlooked perspective—the Muslim experience. For years, mainstream narratives have conflated Islam with terrorism, shaping public perception and unfairly stigmatising an entire faith. While extremist groups dominate headlines, countless peaceful, law-abiding Muslims bear the weight of these misconceptions.

Growing up in western Uganda in the 1990s and early 2000s, a region with one of the country’s smallest Muslim populations, I rarely encountered Muslims in my village. Life centered around agriculture, with families tending to their gardens every day—except on Sundays.

No one was expected to be seen with a hoe or dressed in work clothes on a Sunday—doing so risked being labelled a pagan or even a witch. Sundays were reserved for church, and the entire village gathered for worship, except for one family. They were Muslims, and to most villagers, treating Sunday like any other workday was seen as breaking an unspoken rule.

I do not know if the family knew of the whispers, but elders often used them as a cautionary tale to discipline unruly children. If you wanted me to finish my chores quickly, all you had to do was threaten to hand me over to Muhamood Hajati to “kill me.” The women in that family wore modest Islamic dresses, their faces covered with niqabs. To us, they resembled the figures in the frightening rumours we heard—stories of women in similar attire kidnapping children in the city.

Shift in Perspective

When I moved to the city years later, I was astonished to see Muslims everywhere—and unlike the fears ingrained in me growing up, no one seemed afraid of them. Apart from the movie portrayals, I had never personally experienced anything negative. In fact, I made wonderful Muslim friends.

“Was it all a lie?” The question lingered in my mind, but I didn’t know who to ask—until I met Rashida. Open to my curiosity and deeply passionate about intercultural relations, she welcomed my questions.

I first met Rashida when she invited me to participate in her Sophie Muwanika Institute project, which used art for change. As part of the initiative, we facilitated community discussions on inter-religious coexistence in the Bujiri district. It was during this project that I truly witnessed Rashida’s dedication to the topic. Through her, I finally heard the Muslim side of the story.

Just like the only Muslim family in my village, Rashida’s family was also the only Muslim household in their community. However, for her, childhood was a different experience.

“Our neighbours waited eagerly for us to share goat meat on Eid,” she recalls. “In a way, I saw it as a source of pride and enjoyed distributing the meat. Our home became the go-to place for Iftar, and as a result, our neighbours were always kind, polite, and genuinely curious about our traditions.”

Reality of Discrimination

But as an adult, Rashida came to realise that beyond these small moments of acceptance, deeply ingrained stereotypes about Muslims persisted. These biases, constantly reinforced, have led to the discrimination of innocent Muslims. She has personally lost count of the times she has encountered Islamophobia and, over time, has learned to live with some of its oppressions.

“The negative comments, the constant need to explain yourself just to make people feel safe, being singled out for random security checks—how random is random?” she says. “This happens to me all the time, especially in American airports. Without fail, I’ll be the ‘random check.’ My bags will get extra scrutiny.”

“There was a time I spent four months searching for a place to rent in the U.S., but every landlord turned me down. They feared I would make their other tenants and neighbours ‘uncomfortable.’ And I guess they were not wrong—because even in public spaces, I could feel it. People would even avoid sharing an elevator with me.”

Rashida has encountered Islamophobia not just internationally but also back home in Uganda, where she currently resides. One of her most unforgettable experiences was during her passport registration.

“As I stepped forward, an official shouted at me to remove my veil,” she recalls. “I adjusted it, exposing my ears and the rest of my face while keeping my hair covered since there were men in the room. But the interviewer wasn’t satisfied. He sent me out and convinced the other officers to refuse to process my application unless I fully removed my veil.”

She was forced to sit there for hours, watching as other women—some wearing wigs and extensions—had their photos taken without question. No one asked them to remove their artificial hair. Yet for Rashida, covering her hair was enough to deny her the right to be served.

Several other Muslim women have shared similar experiences with me—none differing much from Rashida’s.

Nakaganda Aadilah, 25, nearly missed her appointment at Interpol after spending hours at the entrance. A security guard blocked her, insisting she unveil completely, even after she had already removed her niqab to show her face. Surrounded by a silent crowd that watched but said nothing, Aadilah felt humiliated and broke down in tears. It wasn’t until another officer, seemingly of higher authority, found her in distress and allowed her inside—without further demands.

Shakira Namatovu, 27, and several others admitted that they deliberately avoid dressing in a way that visibly identifies them as staunch Muslim women. “We grew up hearing the same terrorist stories,” Shakira said. “I don’t want to be associated with them.”

The same stories I had once believed as a child.

Breaking the Silence

Rashida urges governments to promote awareness about intercultural coexistence, emphasising that much of the discrimination stems from ignorance. “If people were open to learning authentic information about those different from them—simply for knowledge—false narratives wouldn’t have the space to thrive,” she says.

Aadilah, on the other hand, believes the best response to Islamophobia is to live in peace and harmony as a true Muslim, representing her faith with dignity wherever she goes. She calls on fellow Muslims to do the same.

I find myself at a loss for words, realising how these forms of oppression have persisted unnoticed—except by those who suffer them. Perhaps we have all, in some way, been complicit, merely standing by as injustice unfolds before us. The silent crowd at Interpol watching Aadilah, the bystanders at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs when Rashida was humiliated—if even one person had spoken up, maybe it could have made a difference.

Now, think about the injustices you’ve witnessed but ignored—an abused child in your neighbourhood, a marginalised voice being silenced. What if, next time, you did something? Sometimes, even a single voice can shift the course of events. Aadilah will never forget the officer who stepped in for her that day.

We must also recognise how we contribute to these injustices, even subtly—through the casual remarks we make, the stereotypes we reinforce, and the assumptions that one way of life is superior to another. True inclusivity isn’t about tolerance; it’s about dismantling the prejudices that divide us.

Edited by Pius Okore