How Muslims helped me wipe away hate FIRST PERSON

V “WELL, OF course I’m going to die Jewish. It’s how I was born, and it’s how I plan to die.”

“‘Die Jewish.’ Maybe the vandal so admired Jewish death that the wanted everyone to experience it.”

These were a few ways that my husband and I, both grandchildren of Holocaust survivors, tried to joke about the shocking graffiti we saw in our area of Birmingham, while out for our evening constitutional recently.

“Die Jewish”—were they unable to distinguish the noun from the adjective? Or had they run out of paint? The second half of the ‘h’ in ‘Jewish’ was faint. Perhaps they had planned to elaborate on their slur.

We called the local police. CST. Our rabbi — who, ironically enough, was busy teaching about antisemitism to a youth group. We registered complaints with the city council and the West Midlands police. I wrote to our MP. I believe in my heart that had I seen an Islamophobic slur, a racist one, anything promoting hatred against a group, I would have done the exact same thing. I would like to think, in turn, that I was not the first to contact the police about this statement sprayed on a brick wall in Billesley.

And if I were the first — surely it was because it was so new? Surely, had it been there long, we would have seen it? I feel we’ve walked this street a 1,000 times since March. It’s here we take our ten-year-old son for homeschool breaks; here we run towards the canal that snakes towards Stratford-upon-Avon; here we walk in the evening to talk about our insights and frustrations of the day.

I could tell you the angle of each crack in the pavement, the gradient of hills, the number of steps between bus stop and trash can, the name of each shuttered hair salon and restaurant. This is the neighbourhood my family has called home since moving to the UK six years ago. It hurt to see my neighbourhood defaced this way.

There are many ways this pandemic has made us feel far from our families, lonely, alone, sad. A couple of weeks ago, we celebrated my son’s barmitzvah in an empty synagogue. My son, who has been studying and preparing for this day for two years, mounted the bimah and leined a portion of his sedra, through a mask, in front of his parents, brothers, and rabbi. Our family and friends in Canada, America, Israel, Austria and the UK could only

The antisemitic graffiti watch through my phone. I want to say it was a beautiful ‘zoomitzvah’

— in some ways it was! — but it isn’t the same as having your loved ones around you. Witnessing vile antisemitic graffiti soon afterwards, steps from my house, was the icing on the cake.

But there is a happy ending to this story. Impatient for an answer from the authorities, I reached out to my friends at Nisa-Nashim, a network of Jewish and Muslim women across the UK. It is a wonderful organisation devoted to fostering relationships, setting up initiatives, and tackling stereotypes. The women in my local chapter answered immediately. They offered to call their MPs, councillors, Tell Mama and CST. I said I had asked my MP to meet me there the next day. “Get a couple of us along!” suggested one. “Yes, Jewish and Muslim women together,” said another. “I’m in the constituency and will readily meet the MP there with my active allies!” announced a third. She then added, “I think we should go together tomorrow and clean it off! Show a united front.”

And so we did! When I arrived the next day, Salma Hamid, co-chair of Nisa Nashim West Midlands, who had suggested we clean the wall, had arrived before me. More women came — Muslim women and Jewish women. A police constable. The local MP. The graffiti was removed, and we redecorated the site of hate with bunting, chalk and sisterhood.

Dr Karen E H Skinazi lives in Birmingham with her husband and three sons. She is a Senior Lecturer and the Director of Liberal Arts at the University of Bristol