This piece was originally published on Throughlines and was reprinted with permission.
A view of San Diego Bay. (Photo by Ambreen Ali)
Our bodies recognize what’s happened even before our minds register it.
Worried parents gathered in parking lots.
Children hiding in kitchen pantries, under desks, in closets.
Aunties and uncles who built safe sanctuaries, now interrupted by violence.
We know what to do; muscle memory takes over.
We assemble quickly on What’s app chats and Signal threads:
Frontline responders.
Crisis communicators.
Grief coordinators.
Safety planners.
We verify the facts: who, what, when, how.
We already know the why, even before the news breaks.
We identify the victims.
We say their names, honor their sacrifices
Remember the fullness of their lives
Comfort their loved ones; I’m here with you, lean on me.
We start GoFundMe’s and donation links.
For funeral expenses.
For survival needs.
For college funds.
We clean the sacred space,
remove traces of death,
prepare for community to return.
We draft our statements:
the condemnations of violence,
the concerns for physical safety and emotional well-being,
the demands to policymakers (again),
the appeals for unity.
We speak to cameras at press conferences and on zoom screens:
making meaning of tragedy,
translating it (again) for the American public.
We say it even louder this time:
This violence didn’t happen in a vacuum.
It’s rooted in hateful rhetoric and policies,
scattered across airwaves and algorithms,
normalized through fear and silence.
We read the manifestos, knowing the patterns already:
It’s Islamophobia.
White supremacy.
Anti-Black racism.
The guns.
It’s misogyny.
Anti-LGBT.
Anti-immigrant.
It’s 25 years since 9/11.
We bear witness to San Diego while remembering
Oak Creek
Christchurch
Mother Emanuel
Tree of Life
We gather for healing circles, our grief pouring out, arms linked, feet on the ground.
We hold peace vigils where the message becomes: stay hypervigilant.
We rally for justice, chant for peace, post black squares of outrage.
We rise up from everywhere:
churches, synagogues, gurdwaras and temples
community centers and interfaith networks
elementary schools and small businesses
We send our solidarity, resolve to take care of each other, deepen our fortitude.
We hold our children a little closer
We say please be safe when we drop them off
…and hold our breaths till they are home again.
When we return to ourselves, we feel the weight of living inside this cycle:
struggling to understand where we end - and trauma begins,
still managing grief alongside logistics,
still channeling outrage into strategy,
still (somehow) holding on to the hope of a different future for our children’s children.
Deepa Iyer is a writer, strategist, and community activist. Her books include “We Too Sing America: South Asian, Arab, Muslim, and Sikh Communities Shape Our Multiracial Future,” “Social Change Now,” and “We Are The Builders.” Learn more at www.deepaiyer.com.
Ways to support affected families and communities
*Donate to the official Islamic Center of San Diego fund for the families of Amin Abdullah, Mansour Kaziha, and Nadir Awad.
*Support/volunteer with local organizations on the ground such as Partnership for New Americans San Diego (PANA), Pillars of The Community, and CAIR San Diego.
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