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This story was originally published on Shenaz Kermalli’s Substack, reflecting on Zohran Mamdani’s historic election as New York City’s first Muslim mayor and what it means for the next generation of young Muslim leaders.
When I noticed that my 16-year-old son had posted a photo on his social media feed last Tuesday that emphasized Zohran Mamdani’s age - 34 - in being elected as New York City’s mayor, I realized the profound significance of this moment. For a young Muslim in North America dreaming of a future in law and politics, Mamdani’s win at such a young age felt like validation.
Mamdani campaigned on affordability, compassion, and dignity for all, values I’d like to think we’ve ingrained in our children’s hearts. To Ali, this win signals possibility: that young Muslims can not only belong here, but also lead, shape policy, and speak for their communities without apology.
My younger child, who is 12, reacted differently. “What’s the big deal?” she asked as I played reels of Mamdani’s rousing victory speech over breakfast. “He’s just a mayor.” And in that simple comment, I realized something else: To her, a Muslim man becoming mayor of one of the world’s biggest cities doesn’t feel extraordinary. It feels normal. What a quietly revolutionary reaction, I thought. Because this is the world I want for my kids. A world where representation isn’t a headline; it’s a given.
For parents like me, a Canadian-born Muslim who began my career in journalism in the shadow of 9/11 - this moment carries a different weight. I remember the suspicion, the fear, the way airports could make our stomachs tighten. I remember crossing the U.S. border once in 2007 with my sisters for a simple day of pre-wedding shopping and being interrogated for hours at the border about my job at Al Jazeera English in Doha. “Where are your parents from? What do you think about George Bush? Do you support the war in Iraq?” they asked.
I remember the constant need to prove my belonging - and the unspoken pressure to understand, in granular detail, groups like Al Qaeda so I could report on them “objectively” for Western media. I was a new graduate then, reading Zohran’s father’s landmark book Good Muslim, Bad Muslim and clinging to its clarity as it challenged the toxic simplicity of the post-9/11 narrative. “The war on terror has turned every Muslim into a suspect, every believer into someone who must prove that they are not the enemy,” he wrote.
Mahmood Mamdani, a postcolonial scholar at Columbia University, offered a language and dignity that millions of Muslims in the West relied on after 9/11 - especially those of us who felt suddenly precarious in our own countries. His work helped us resist being defined by the actions of a violent few and reject the constant pressure to apologize for a faith we love.
Growing up Muslim in Canada has always meant holding contradictions. This country has given me opportunities my parents prayed I would receive, yet it has also asked me to smooth out parts of myself to fit more comfortably within its idea of who belongs. As a visible Muslim entering the news industry, I often felt I was walking a tightrope - expected to bring “diversity” but not to unsettle anyone with perspectives that challenged the status quo. I learned early that my presence could help newsrooms reach audiences they had long ignored, but it could just as easily be used to reassure Canadians that the stories they told about themselves - about fairness, tolerance, and safety - were still intact.
Motherhood introduced a new set of reflections. I wanted my children to feel pride in who they are, without carrying the self-consciousness that shaped so much of my twenties. I wanted them to love this country without worrying that it might love them conditionally.
Moments like Mamdani’s win matter because they stretch the public imagination. It doesn’t erase the challenges, but it cracks the door wider for every young Muslim and indeed every marginalized person, watching, wondering, hoping. It’s also a reminder that progress is not linear. It is slow and requires patience.
And for parents like me, it is a quiet affirmation: we are building something. Our children are stepping into a world we sometimes feared (or knew) would push them out. They are walking in not as outsiders, but as leaders.
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