My admiration for Mohammed Siraj, who taught me to report hate

NICK FRIEND: Last Saturday, I received an anonymous message on social media – it wasn't my first experience of antisemitism, but this time I reported it as a hate crime. I felt indebted to the example of Mohammed Siraj

On the night that Mohammed Siraj stood tall against racist abuse and reported what he had heard, I began working on this piece. Through his strength, I felt compelled to put in writing my experiences of antisemitism – the most recent of which arrived in my inbox only a matter of days ago.

For a very long time, I suppressed the idea that I could ever properly talk about it. I buried my first encounter, trying and pretending to laugh it off because hiding the damage caused felt easier than speaking up. In truth, I didn’t really understand it and, ever since then, I’ve regretted not taking it further.

When I’ve relayed it to friends in the past, I’ve played down its severity and lasting impact, but it hurt. Before publishing these words, I checked with my parents that I wasn’t making a mountain out of something that had happened six years ago; I wanted reassurance that what I experienced was real. That’s what racism does to you. When you’re targeted for no reason other than your race or creed, you doubt yourself. I certainly did.

But watching the actions of Siraj last month really resonated; they made me wish that I’d taken a leaf out of his book, stood up for myself and my religion rather than slide away quietly into a hole of confusion.

I’m from a traditional Jewish family. I had never faced antisemitism, until I did. I don’t think you ever truly know its impact until it comes for you.

In my case, the first dose came while I was away from home at university – in the form of a text conversation I wasn’t supposed to see, from an adult whose racism changed me and left a cloud hanging over a part of my life that I was frequently told should be the best of times.

The message included all the buzzwords, anti-Semitic tropes and stereotypes. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.

Ultimately, you can’t unsee things. I say that it changed me, and it did. Not in ways that I immediately realised, but in a manner that I can appreciate with the benefit of hindsight.

I’m conditioned now to resent part of my university existence. I even wrote my dissertation on antisemitism, albeit in French literature; my brother is writing his now on antisemitism faced by students.

I sought the advice of my local rabbi, a man whose opinion and wisdom my entire community values and respects, and he encouraged me to press charges, stressing – rightly, of course – that these attitudes and racial prejudices only ever disappear if they’re called out. But as a naïve student wanting rid of the entire episode, I had already begun to repress it: I allowed it to go unchallenged, which really upsets me. Looking back now, I think I was caught somewhere between fear and bewilderment.

But more than half a decade later, it’s never far from the forefront of my mind. In recent weeks, it has held an extra pertinence: the twin consequence, I think, of Siraj’s courage and events in the United States, where the ‘Camp Auschwitz’ sweatshirts worn by some of those who stormed the Capitol highlighted the continued disease of antisemitism in our society.

So, that was going to be the crux of this piece: how events in Sydney had reignited those memories and made me wish once again that I’d done more than I did.

Then, last Saturday, I opened up Facebook to a message request from a mystery account without a picture, impossible to trace. “Jewish scumbag,” it read. “Auschwitz is where you belong.” That was it: no context, no warning, no identity. Just hate. The height of cowardice: an anonymous racist hiding behind a fake name, who had deleted their profile before I could even consider my right of reply.

All this, too, less than a week before Holocaust Memorial Day – a solid reminder of why occasions like January 27, where we stop to remember the atrocities of the past and strive to learn for the future, remain so important.

Once upon a time, I’d have let it slide. After all, these things are apparently untraceable. But recent events have flicked a switch in me, where there is an alternative to the feeling of worthlessness that comes with being on the receiving end. I was determined that none of this should have to eat away at me again.

And so, I contacted the police to report a hate crime. They were as reassuring as I could have asked for, arriving at my front door on the same evening my form was submitted: that moment alone provided a real sense of vindication.

In the recently published results of a Professional Cricketers’ Association survey documenting experiences of racism in professional cricket, players gave their reasons for not reporting previous incidents. Ten per cent were afraid of the consequences, 15 per cent didn’t know what to say, 20 per cent were unsure of the procedures, 22 per cent didn’t want to create a scene, 33 per cent were uncertain as to the seriousness of what they’d faced.

I feel as though I can relate to all five options. But what I would also say is that I found taking action a really cathartic experience and an important choice.

And by the way, social media must do so much more. Ten days after notifying Facebook, a stranger’s antisemitism would still be sitting among my list of messages had I not removed it myself. But it shouldn’t be for me to delete; that kind of bigotry should disappear immediately after its flagging. As the Professional Footballers’ Association put it in a statement on the back of several recent online incidents: “We do not believe the onus should be on an individual to manage the racism they receive.”

In the last fortnight, I’ve struggled to stop asking myself who the loser is behind the keyboard, nor would I be human if I didn’t feel more vulnerable than before.

But I want to return to Siraj, who was fielding at fine leg when he heard what he heard. A 26-year-old seamer playing in just his second Test, he had only made his debut at the MCG a game earlier.

These weeks should have been the most memorable of his life – the equivalent, in some ways, to those university days. Of course, they still were: he bowled beautifully and impressed onlookers, doing so amid a backdrop of personal tragedy. His father passed away in November, by which time Siraj was already in Australia.

The circumstances of the pandemic prevented him from returning home for the funeral, but he instead honoured his father’s memory through high-class performances and a remarkable series victory against so many odds.

When he was pictured in tears as India’s national anthem played out before the start of the third Test, he explained afterwards that he was thinking of his dad, who never saw his son play Test cricket for his country. And yet amid all that, here he was as Ajinkya Rahane’s opening bowler, representing his nation with such class.

And then, shortly before tea on the fourth day, he found himself alerting the on-field umpires to alleged racial abuse.

Mohammed Siraj became a hero in that moment; my admiration for him knows no bounds. He showed that you don’t have to take it. And last week, I felt indebted to him in following his lead.