Mava Moayyed: March 15 is not a day for 'us' and 'them'

OPINION: This deeply painful date in our history has so much to teach us all, writes SUNDAY reporter Mava Moayyed.

None of us can imagine the heartache the words 'March 15' bring to the families of that day's many victims. But all of us can remember where we were that terrible afternoon in 2019.

I was in the TVNZ newsroom. It was two weeks into the Baháʼí Fast so I wasn’t eating or drinking anything during daylight hours. No, not even water. I’d just hit that lunchtime wall and every minute at work felt like an absolute triumph of will.

At about 2pm, details started to trickle in about shots fired inside a Christchurch Mosque and my pangs of hunger were replaced by a surge of adrenaline. One of our reporters was sent the terrorist’s now-infamous video of the attack and I recall the sickening realisation that we were watching the murder of dozens of people, captured on his iPhone. Nauseous with grief, I snuck outside to cry. I knew I needed energy and stamina to cover the story over the next few days so that afternoon, I stopped fasting.

The Baháʼí fast is a lot like Ramadan in Islam; a time of meditation and spiritual rejuvenation. It’s joyful and also incredibly hard. At high school, I had a Muslim best friend who understood the challenge. In the TVNZ newsroom in 2019, I was the only one.

Newsrooms are pretty homogenous and while diversity may have increased onscreen, behind the scenes it’s still predominately middle-class New Zealanders from European backgrounds.

The disadvantages of this become especially pronounced in an event like the mosque attacks. Who had contacts within the Muslim community in Christchurch? What was the Arabic word for Friday prayers? Is it appropriate to film funerals? I remember being asked many of these questions but failing to answer them. As an Iranian growing up in New Zealand, I've been mistaken as Muslim all my life. But while my family's Baháʼí faith and Islam have similarities, they're different faiths with different practices.

While producing from Christchurch, multiple well-meaning Kiwis approached me with hugs and condolences. Some were people I’d worked with in the past. I felt guilty accepting love that wasn’t meant for me, but it felt cruel to correct them. I think sometimes you’ve got to let people think they’re doing a good thing because sincere intentions are worth a lot.

The truth is Muslim voices had been maligned and ignored by media for decades. Suddenly, after the mosque attacks, journalists were asking for intimate details about their trauma, expecting soundbites, grabs and promo lines. Across newspaper, radio, and TV the phrase “They Are Us” was parroted time and time again, despite the fact it “othered” the exact people it was purporting to include. It often felt like New Zealand media outlets were simply exaggerating the chasm between themselves and migrant communities and failing to consider how they’d contributed to Islamophobia in the first place.

Yet the Muslim communities in Christchurch acted with unbelieve grace and patience, consoling us despite their own pain. They carried the mental and emotional labour of patiently explaining their religion to us at a time of unbelievable grief.

Since the start of my career, I’ve been drawn to covering perspectives of Muslim communities because, as the daughter of Iranian refugees, it feels right to give misunderstood communities a voice on issues that directly affect them. I also think some editors thought I was the closest they had to a voice from the Muslim community. I’ve written about young Muslims in New Zealand, profiling of “Jihadi brides”, and the holy month of Ramadan. I’ve produced current affairs stories on Islamophobia and on a longstanding anti-Muslim refugee policy. I’ve never had a single qualm about doing these stories (though I hope journalists from Muslim backgrounds begin to take the helm).

My parents escaped Iran as teenagers and have never been back. As Bahá’is, they were part of the largest religious minority in Iran which has for decades been subjected to systematic and sustained persecution. Even now, Bahá’is aren’t allowed to attend university, their land and homes are routinely confiscated, and followers of the faith are imprisoned, tortured, and executed for their beliefs. Thanks to my parents, I grew up in the beauty and safety of Nelson while they mourned the separation from their parents and siblings.

Of course, Bahá’is aren’t the only ones; the rainbow community, political opponents, ethnic minorities, and women are oppressed in Iran. It’s the reason why hundreds of thousands of people worldwide marched last year, chanting the slogan “woman, life, freedom”. We were unified in seeking an end to oppression, discrimination, and tyranny.

I’m keenly aware of the sacrifice my parents made so that my brother and I could grow up without fear of persecution. Five years on from the mosque attacks, I’m reflecting on how many of the victims had likely come to New Zealand for the same reason.

I recently asked my parents what March 15 means to them. My mum said she grieves for those innocent people who, like her, came to New Zealand looking for a safe home. She explained that despite the pain of having to leave her homeland, she knew the leaders of Iran did not represent the billion-plus Muslims who are devoted to peace.

My dad said he never blames difference in religion for the way he was treated. It’s the manipulation of fear that breeds prejudice. It’s the exact way the the mosque attacker was so consumed by an ignorant fear of “replacement” that he was moved to murder 51 people. He didn’t need a religion to make him do it.

At times like this, where atrocities and tragedies are unfolding every way we look, it can be easy to slip into “whataboutism”. My parents didn’t let their own pain or suffering make them numb to the suffering of others. The fundamental truth of humanity is that we are all equal. Like different limbs of one body, when one part is hurting, the entire body suffers.

This year, the period of Ramadan has aligned with the Baháʼí fast. Right now, Muslims and Baháʼís around the world are fasting together. March 15 needs to be a reminder that while hate and ignorance is a powerful force, deciding to know and love each is far more powerful.