Auntie & 9/11” — How Muslim New Yorkers Still Bear the Weight of Their Silence:

In a stirring moment outside a Bronx mosque, Democratic mayoral candidate Zohran Mamdani told a story that cut to the heart of a quiet injustice: his aunt stopped riding the subway after the September 11 attacks because the hijab she wore made her feel unsafe. He said: “These are lessons that so many Muslim New Yorkers have been taught … And over these last few days, these lessons have become the closing messages of Andrew Cuomo, Curtis Sliwa, and Eric Adams.” Mamdani’s remark triggered a snarky response from Vice President J.D. Vance, who quipped that, according to Mamdani, the “real victim” of 9/11 was “his auntie who got some (allegedly) bad looks.” But Mamdani is pointing to something that matters far beyond bad looks. Even today, many Muslim New Yorkers feel they must hide parts of who they are—especially in the public‐eye arena of politics. The story behind the remark Mamdani recalled his aunt declining the subway after 9/11. That decision symbolises the fear and anxiety felt by many Muslims post-9/11—especially those who visibly practise their faith. He said he was advised, when entering politics, to keep his faith to himself. “These are lessons… we’ve been told to ask for less than that, and to be satisfied with whatever little we receive,” he said. When the other mayoral candidates—Cuomo (Independent), Sliwa (Republican) and Adams (Democrat incumbent, sitting out this year)—cast Mamdani as a “radical”, many Democrats felt the attacks veered into Islamophobia. Cuomo reportedly laughed along when a conservative radio host suggested Mamdani would “be cheering” another 9/11 attack—a remark his spokesperson later disavowed. Adams said, “New York can’t be Europe… I don’t know what is wrong with people. You see what’s playing out in other countries because of Islamic extremism.” Sliwa called Mamdani a supporter of “global jihad.” Why the subway anecdote matters At first glance the story may seem a small thing—a woman stops commuting. But the subway, for New Yorkers, is public space, mobility, freedom. Step off that train and you step out of normal life, of daily rhythm. For Mamdani’s aunt, putting on a hijab meant suddenly the subway was no longer safe. She isolated herself from a system every other New Yorker uses without second-thought. Mamdani’s message: the problem isn’t just extremist attacks (though these are real). It’s the steady drip of indignities: the looks, the whispered assumptions, the advice to mute one’s faith or hide one’s identity. The private toll becomes public when your “normal” is systematically interrupted. Politics, identity and the demand for more Mamdani said he initially tried to blend in: “I thought that if I behaved well enough, or bit my tongue enough in the face of racist, baseless attacks… it would allow me to be more than just my faith.” But he concluded: “I was wrong. No amount of redirection is ever enough.” He declared: “I will not change who I am, how I eat, for the faith I’m proud to call my own. But there is one thing I will change. I will no longer look for myself in the shadows. I will find myself in the light.” That declaration matters, especially in a city where identity politics softly (or loudly) dictate who belongs and who must conform. Mamdani’s challenge—and his story—ask this: Why should a Muslim New Yorker be satisfied with less than equal treatment? Why should fear or stigma shape when they ride the subway, or who they can be on a campaign trail? In short: the subway anecdote isn’t about pitying “some aunt who got bad looks.” It’s about recognising the fearful limits placed on everyday lives after 9/11—and recognising a demand for fuller, unabashed belonging. If the mayoral race is only about slogans and attacks, then it misses the point. For many, this is about something deeper: dignity, identity, and equality.

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