“I Am Not Like Them”

They call us terrorists, filled with hate,
Our prayers, they say, hide darker schemes.
But I’m different, peaceful, good—
I don’t belong in their fearful dreams.
Yes, I am a Muslim, but…
I am not like them.

They mock my accent, my skin, my face,
They say we lie, and hoard, and cheat.
But I’m honest, fair—don’t lump me in
With those who tarnish the country’s seat.
Yes, I am Indian, but…
I am not like them.

They say we’re leeches, here to take,
Their jobs, their homes, their hard-earned bread.
But I’m no thief; I work, I strive,
Unlike the others, who cheat instead.
Yes, I am an immigrant, but…
I am not like them.

They see us as paper citizens, fake,
A birthright they claim we don’t deserve.
But I was born here, raised with pride,
Not like those who don’t “preserve.”
Yes, my parents are immigrants, but…
I am not like them.

But what is this game we choose to play,
This fight to stand above the rest?
In trying to prove we’re “not like them,”
We leave our brothers dispossessed.

These words, so small, so selfishly sharp,
Slice through the ties that could bind us strong.
Each time we say “I am not like them,”
We let the hate march further along.

For what is hate but a shifting mirror,
That turns and finds a new face to blame?
Until we shatter the mirror itself,
We will always live in its frame.”