It was a Tuesday evening like any other at the Al-Rashid Mosque in Edmonton. Families gathered for evening prayers, kids chased each other around the parking lot. Then the email hit the imam’s inbox. ‘We know where you live. We know where your kids go to school. Leave this country or we’ll make you leave.’ No signature. No subtlety. Just raw, cowardly hate.
The email wasn’t unusual. Not anymore. Across Canada, Muslim community centers, mosques, and advocacy groups report a surge in threats, vandalism, and harassment. The RCMP says hate crimes targeting Muslims rose 67% in 2025 alone. And every data point, every incident, is a story of someone’s life upended.
The rhetoric that fuels it
You can’t separate the violence from the words. Look at the last federal election. Conservative leadership candidates competed to out-tough each other on immigration. One proposed a ‘Canadian values test’ that would ban religious symbols. Another called for ‘extreme vetting’ of newcomers from Muslim-majority countries. Meanwhile, the People's Party of Canada ran attack ads depicting Muslim women in niqabs as security threats.
Prime Minister Justin Trudeau called it ‘dog-whistle politics’ — but the dogs heard it loud and clear. On Telegram, Facebook groups, and private Discord servers, anti-immigrant chatter turned into action. A mosque in Mississauga had its windows smashed twice in one month. A halal grocery store in Calgary was firebombed. Nobody died. But the message was clear: you’re not welcome.
“We’re in a perfect storm,” says Amina Husain, executive director of the National Council of Canadian Muslims. “Economic anxiety, social media algorithms that amplify hate, and politicians who see division as a winning strategy. It’s a recipe for disaster.”
Real people, real fear
I met Mohammed at a Tim Hortons in Brampton. He didn’t want his last name used. He’s a 34-year-old engineer, born and raised in Mississauga, married to a woman who wears a hijab. “She used to walk to the grocery store alone,” he told me, stirring his coffee. “Now she won’t leave the house without me. And I’m scared too. Not for me — for her.”
That fear is the point. When you make a community feel unsafe, you push them to the margins. You silence their voices. You make them question their place in a country they call home. Mohammed’s wife was spat on at a bus stop last November. The man screamed “Go back to where you came from.” Mohammed was born in Toronto.
The economics of xenophobia
Anti-Muslim sentiment isn’t just a social problem — it’s an economic one. A 2025 study from the University of Toronto found that job applicants with Muslim-sounding names were 35% less likely to get callbacks than those with Anglo names, even with identical resumes. Muslim-owned small businesses report higher insurance premiums after being labeled ‘high-risk.’ And the tourism industry in cities like Montreal and Vancouver has quietly acknowledged a drop in visitors from Gulf states, though they won’t say it publicly.
Then there’s the housing market. Landlords in Surrey, B.C., have been caught posting ads that say ‘No Muslims, no exceptions.’ The B.C. Human Rights Tribunal has a backlog of cases. But even when complainants win, the damage is done. You can’t un-hear the rejection.
Who speaks for the community?
Part of the problem is representation. Canada’s Muslim population is not a monolith. It’s diverse: South Asian, Arab, Black, Southeast Asian, white converts, indigenous Muslims. But in the media and political discourse, it’s often reduced to a single monolithic bloc. And the voices that get amplified are often the most moderate, the most apologetic, the ones who say, ‘We condemn violence, we love Canada, we’re just like you.’
That’s fine as far as it goes. But it doesn’t address the root. “We’re tired of having to prove we’re not terrorists,” says Husain. “We’re tired of the conditional acceptance — you’re welcome as long as you don’t make us uncomfortable. That’s not inclusion. That’s tolerance with a limit.”
What the data shows
The numbers paint a grim picture. According to Statistics Canada, hate crimes against Muslims in 2025 exceeded the peak of 2017, the year of the Quebec City mosque shooting that killed six. Back then, there was a national outcry, a moment of unity. This time, the rise has been met with a collective shrug. The same week that a pig’s head was left at the doorstep of a mosque in London, Ontario, Parliament debated a motion on ‘combating extremism’ that never once mentioned Islamophobia.
Meanwhile, online platforms have become incubators. A report by the Canadian Anti-Hate Network found that anti-Muslim content on YouTube, TikTok, and Facebook has tripled since 2023. The algorithms reward outrage. The platforms claim to act, but moderation is slow, inconsistent, and often captures satire while letting hate speech slide.
Fighting back, but at what cost?
Community groups are responding. The NCCM launched a national hotline for reporting incidents. Mosques in Toronto and Vancouver have installed bulletproof glass and hired private security. Some parents are pulling their kids out of public schools, opting for Islamic schools where they hope their children won’t be bullied for their faith.
But these are defensive measures, not solutions. “We’re spending millions on security that could be going to youth programs, mental health services, interfaith work,” says Husain. “Every dollar spent on a guard is a dollar not spent on a scholarship.”
And the emotional toll is invisible. Imams are reporting burnout. Community leaders are fielding constant calls from families afraid to send their kids to summer camp. Children are asking their parents, “Why do they hate us?” — a question no parent should have to answer.
The silence of the majority
Perhaps the most troubling aspect is the silence of non-Muslim Canadians. In 2017, after the Quebec City shooting, millions marched in solidarity. Candles were lit. Hashtags trended. Politicians gave speeches. Today, a similar rise in hate goes largely unacknowledged. The prime minister has made statements, but they feel routine, hollow. The opposition barely mentions it.
“We don’t need allies who only show up after a tragedy,” says Mohammed. “We need people to speak up now. When your uncle tells an Islamophobic joke at dinner, say something. When your coworker says Muslims are taking over, correct them. It’s the small things that change the culture.”
He paused, looked out the window of the Tim Hortons. “I love this country. I really do. But I’m starting to wonder if it loves me back.”
The sun was setting over Brampton. A woman in a hijab walked past, holding her child’s hand. She glanced over her shoulder. Then she kept walking, faster.
