Democratic frontrunner for mayor of New York City, Zohran Mamdani, offered a closing campaign message decrying Islamophobia. “To be Muslim in New York is to expect indignity,” he said. “I’ve carried these indignities with me each moment of this race, doing so all the while as the first major Muslim candidate in the history of our city.” “I thought that if I could build a campaign of universality, I could define myself as the leader I aspire to be-one representing every New Yorker, no matter their skin color or religion, no matter where they were born,” Mamdani said. “I was wrong. No amount of redirection is ever enough.” “In an era of ever-diminishing bipartisanship, it seems that Islamophobia has emerged as one of the few areas of agreement.” “While my opponents in this race have brought hatred to the forefront, this is just a glimpse of what so many have to endure every day across the city,” he said. Will we continue to accept a narrow definition of what it means to be a New Yorker that makes smaller every day the number of those guaranteed a life of dignity? Will we remain in the shadows? Or will we together step into the light?”

ZOHRAN MAMDANI: Six years ago, shortly after I’d announced I was running for state assembly, a well-meaning Muslim uncle pulled me aside. He smiled softly and looked at me with care. In a quiet voice, he told me I did not have to tell people I was Muslim. His eyes were kind, his beard proud, and his face heavy with the implications of the unsaid. I had not learned the lesson that he had been taught time and again. It is the lesson that safety could only be found in the shadows of our city-that it is in those shadows alone where Muslims could embrace their full identities, and that if we were to emerge from those shadows, it is in those shadows that we must leave our faith. These are lessons that so many Muslim New Yorkers have been taught again and again. And over these last few days, these lessons have become the closing messages of Andrew Cuomo, Curtis Sliwa, and Eric Adams. Yesterday, Andrew Cuomo laughed and agreed when a radio host said that I would cheer another 9/11. Yesterday, Eric Adams said that we can’t let our city become Europe. He compared me to violent extremists, and he lied again and again when he said that our movement seeks to burn churches and destroy communities. The day before that, Curtis Sliwa slandered me from the debate stage when he claimed that I support global jihad. And every day, super PAC ads imply that I’m a terrorist or mock the way I eat. Push polls ask New Yorkers questions like whether they support invented proposals to make halal food mandatory. Political cartoons represent my candidacy as an airplane hurtling toward the World Trade Center. But I do not want to use this moment to speak to them any further. I want to use this moment to speak to the Muslims in New York City. I want to speak to the memory of my aunt, who stopped taking the subway after September 11th because she did not feel safe in her hijab. I want to speak to the Muslim who works for our city-whether they teach in our schools or walk the beat for the NYPD. New Yorkers who all make daily sacrifices for the city they call home, only to see their leaders spit in their face. I want to speak to every child who grows up here marked as the other, who is randomly selected in a way that never quite feels random, who feels that they carry a stain that can never be cleaned. Growing up in the shadow of 9/11, I have known what it means to live with an undercurrent of suspicion in this city. I will always remember the disdain that I faced-the way that my name could immediately become Muhammed, and how I could return to my city only to be asked, in a double-mirrored room at the airport, if I had any plan on attacking it. And since I was very young, I’ve also known that I was spared the worst of it. I was never pressured to be an informant, like a classmate of mine. I’ve never had the word terrorist spray-painted on my garage, as one of my staff had to endure. My mosque has never been set on fire. To be Muslim in New York is to expect indignity. But indignity does not make us distinct. There are many New Yorkers who face it. It is the tolerance of that indignity that does. Since I announced my candidacy for mayor one year ago yesterday, I’ve sought to be the candidate fighting for every single New Yorker-not simply the Muslim candidate. I’ve carried these indignities with me each moment of this race, doing so all the while as the first major Muslim candidate in the history of our city. I thought that if I could build a campaign of universality, I could define myself as the leader I aspire to be-one representing every New Yorker, no matter their skin color or religion, no matter where they were born. I thought that if I worked hard enough, it would allow me to be that leader. And I thought that if I behaved well enough, or bit my tongue enough in the face of racist, baseless attacks, all while returning back to my central message, it would allow me to be more than just my faith. I was wrong. No amount of redirection is ever enough. In doing this, I have told the wide-eyed young child in Jackson Heights or the first-time voter in Parkchester that they too should remain in the shadows. In many ways, I have become that same uncle who pulled me aside six years ago. No more. The dream of every Muslim is simply to be treated the same as any other New Yorker. And yet, for too long, we have been told to ask for less than that and to be satisfied with whatever little we receive. No more. For as long as we have lived, we have known that no matter what anyone says, there are still certain forms of hate that are acceptable in this city. Islamophobia is not seen as inexcusable. One can incite violence against our mosques and know that condemnation will never come. Elected officials in this city can sell T-shirts calling for my deportation without any fear of accountability. The consequences amidst this inaction are stark: more than one million Muslims in this city, existing all while being made to feel as if we are guests in our own home. No more. We stand on the precipice of an election, but that is not what today is about. We know that in less than two weeks we will say goodbye to a disgraced former governor and our current indicted mayor. The bigger question is whether we are willing to say goodbye to something much larger than either of these two men. It is whether we are willing to say goodbye to anti-Muslim sentiment that has grown so endemic in our city that when we hear it, we know not whether the words were spoken by a Republican or a Democrat-we know only that it was spoken in the language of politics of this city. In an era of ever-diminishing bipartisanship, it seems that Islamophobia has emerged as one of the few areas of agreement. And while I appreciate all who have rushed to my defense over these past few days, I think of those Muslims in this city who do not have the luxury of being the Democratic nominee, who do not have the luxury of being deemed worthy of solidarity. While my opponents in this race have brought hatred to the forefront, this is just a glimpse of what so many have to endure every day across the city. And while it would be easy for us to say that this is not who we are as a city, we know the truth. This is who we have allowed ourselves to become. And the question lies before each of us: will we continue to accept a narrow definition of what it means to be a New Yorker that makes smaller every day the number of those guaranteed a life of dignity? Will we remain in the shadows? Or will we together step into the light? There are twelve days remaining until Election Day. I will be a Muslim man in New York City each of those twelve days and every day that follows after that. I will not change who I am, how I eat, or the faith that I am proud to call my own. But there is one thing that I will change: I will no longer look for myself in the shadows. I will find myself in the light. Thank you very much.

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