The silence after the flames: what happens when solidarity is one-sided

Muslims are told to keep showing solidarity, even when none is shown back. People now fear even being visible in their faith. The Silence After the Flames looks at what happens when solidarity becomes one-sided and how fear quietly replaces freedom.

The Silence: Where Is the Solidarity?

I wonder when churches and synagogues will release a statement condemning this attack and standing in solidarity. Because every time a synagogue or church is attacked, mosques and Muslim leaders are the first to respond, to show compassion, to stand together.

But now mosques have been attacked and burned. And the silence is loud.

Where’s that same interfaith energy now? Where are the open letters, the hashtags, the candlelight vigils?

If solidarity only flows one way, it’s not solidarity. It’s hierarchy dressed as empathy. And Muslims are tired of always having to prove their humanity first before they’re worthy of compassion.

The Fear: Practicing Faith Under Suspicion

Let’s be honest. Even practicing Islam today feels political. Muslim women fear being seen in Islamic dress in public. They hesitate before donating to a charity abroad. They lower their voice when talking about Palestine or oppression.

Why? Because Islam, for Muslims, has been criminalised by association. Every act of devotion is treated like a potential threat.

And that’s the cruel irony. The same society that preaches freedom of religion will side-eye you for actually living yours.

The Mirror: Seeking Validation From Whiteness

Why do we, brown and Black people, still treat white people with more care and dignity than we give each other, in restaurants, at work, in everyday life?

We serve them faster. Speak softer. Smile wider. We try to prove we belong, in their systems, on their terms.

But belonging shouldn’t require bending. It shouldn’t require polishing your accent, dimming your faith, or softening your truth just to be accepted.

We go above and beyond to earn validation, and in doing so, we hand over power power we never needed to give away.

The Invisible Chains: How Colonial Thinking Still Shapes Us

Colonialism may have left our lands, but it didn’t leave our minds. It taught generations to see whiteness as refinement, and their own culture as something to outgrow.

We wear the coloniser’s language like a badge of honour. We measure progress by how Western something looks or sounds. We even police each other, shaming those who stay too close to faith or too vocal about justice, because we’re afraid of being seen as “too Muslim.”

Structures of empire survive not through armies, but through imitation.

The Psychology of Fear: How Faith and Activism Are Demonised

Let’s talk about fear again because it’s real, and it’s political. Many Muslims want to organise, to speak out, to challenge injustice, but they fear surveillance, blacklisting, or being labelled extremist.

The message is clear: practice your faith quietly, protest politely, and never make power uncomfortable.

But that’s not how justice works. And it’s not how faith works either. Faith, at its core, is meant to confront oppression, not avoid it.

Decolonising the Mind: Healing and Resistance

To decolonise the mind is to refuse fear as a way of life. It’s to stop seeing your culture, your skin, your faith as something that needs permission to exist.

It’s to pray without apology. To speak truth even when it’s unpopular. To love your language, your roots, your story, without needing Western validation.

Fanon said it best: the colonised person must stop seeking recognition from the coloniser. Because true recognition starts within.

True Independence: Liberation and Collective Healing

Political independence gave us flags and national anthems. But mental independence that’s the struggle we’re still fighting.

True freedom means living your faith without fear. It means organising without apology. It means building power that isn’t dependent on approval from those who once ruled over us.

And it means calling out hypocrisy the kind that grieves for churches and synagogues but stays silent when a mosque burns.

Because until we can live and believe freely, we are not truly free.

And maybe that’s the final act of decolonisation: to stop asking for permission to be human, and start living as if we already are.