Musfirah Jamal · for CBC First Person

· Posted: Jun 07, 2026 4:00 AM EDT | Last Updated: 2 hours ago

This First Person article is the experience of Musfirah Jamal, who moved from Dubai to Regina in 2022. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ. 

It was Friday night, and home felt as it always did — safe and warm, as a home is supposed to be. The air was ripe with the smell of my mum's biryani, a smell I associated with joy. 

But my brother, who was in fifth grade, sat at the dining table like a ghost, not touching his food. 

“Why aren't you eating anything?” my mum asked worriedly.

“Not hungry,” he frowned. “Just don't give me any rice for school anymore."

Those words wounded my heart.

It was clear something was shattered inside of him. I tried to get him to open up. I asked him what was up, why he seemed so down, why he was sitting in the corner of the room looking so miserable?

A blanket of silence filled the room. He didn't say a thing. Eventually, he just pointed his finger to his bag.

Confused, I slid the zip open of his bag. Tucked behind one of his backpack pockets, between his notebooks were three horrendous pictures of the 9/11 tragedy showing the smoke in the sky, the broken metal, the images of terror. 

Jamal found pictures of the September 11, 2001, attacks in her brother's backpack, which he told her had been put there by a classmate. (Submitted by Musfirah Jamal)

I stood there looking at him with those terrifying pictures in my hand. How did a fifth grader even get these photos? He wouldn't have printed the pictures himself. Someone had put them there.

This wasn’t just an ordinary playground joke; this was my little brother's identity and dignity being snatched away from him. 

My brother used to be an outgoing little boy, spending his afternoons hanging on trees and playing tag with his friends. Now he didn't even want to go to school anymore. Instead, his afternoons were spent sitting in front of his screen because he felt judged for who he was as a Muslim.

Before being bullied, Jamal says her brother had been a happy and outgoing kid. (Submitted by Musfirah Jamal)

It angered me to see that even after all these years, people look at us and associate this event involving terrorists that occurred decades before we were born. I started to wonder, when I enter a room, is this what comes to everyone's mind? 

It felt like society had issued us as Muslims this collective punishment.

My brother's quietness was a weight in every room. I missed his pranks, his endless stories and that natural bubbliness that used to fill our home. Seeing him like this, I realized it was my turn to step in.

I felt like like the animated supervillain Megamind, meticulously plotting and trying to create a new hero out of the shadows of the old one.

Since I had always been the calmer sibling, learning to be annoying was a challenge, and not so surprisingly, an enjoyable one.

I discovered that plotting and implementing a prank is a craft; once you master it, it never leaves you. I teased my brother relentlessly, but he only met my jokes with a straight face. I was determined to find a way to decode his silence.

I would dance and tease him, but for months, he met my jokes with a straight face. The lack of progress was exhausting, but every time I felt like accepting defeat, my brother’s eyes stopped me. They seemed to plead with me to keep going.

Armed with those small knots of inspiration, I pushed forward.

One day, I finally looked at him and said, "Whatever you do, don't laugh. It's strictly prohibited."

For the first time in a long while, a smile appeared on his face.

Some parts of him hadn't disappeared. Thankfully, he was still the same little brother who was still stubborn, still mischievous and still completely incapable of listening to me. I found myself jumping around and pulling his cheeks in celebration. I had done it. I finally made my brother smile again.

It's been two years since that day and he's doing better. He has built strong friendships and gained a stronger sense of identity. But still, sometimes I see him stumbling and looking less confident when meeting people outside of our Muslim community.

Sometimes I'll see him pause, reliving the moment he had tried to forget. But I'll see him brush it off and remind himself not everyone will stereotype him.

Looking at his strength has helped me build back my own strength too.

Jamal and her brother are back to enjoying their dinners as a family, having put past hardships behind them. (Submitted by Musfirah Jamal)

For a long time, I let those pictures define how I entered a room. 

But I've come to realize that if you don't write your own story someone else will for you, usually in the margins of a tragedy you have nothing to do with. 

I've learned the past is out of my hands, but I still have control of my own future. I can't live my life as a prisoner worrying about what others may think of me. 

Now when we sit at our family dinner table with the smell of my mum's savory biryani permeating the air, it comes with a different feeling for me. It doesn't just signal joy. For my brother and me, it comes with a feeling of finding our strength, confidence and dignity. 

We discuss our problems and find solutions together, knowing that our greatest protection isn't a new school or the digital world in a screen; it’s the fact that we never stopped showing up for each other.

We don’t have time to wait for the world to change its mind.

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