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It’s raining and the night is dark. The quiet drumming of raindrops and the slamming of our feet against the pavement are the only meaningful sounds I can make out. My husband is running in front of me. I try to keep up, but I’ve never run while pushing a stroller before and it’s more difficult than I would have thought. I consider pulling my hijab off — perhaps then we won’t be recognized so instantly, perhaps we’ll have a chance to escape. But even if I were to do that, I realize with an emptiness starting to balloon in my stomach, my husband’s beard would give us away. I take a deep breath and keep running.

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And then I wake up, rousing myself from this nightmare, my breathing heavy and dense.

Before that dream a few nights ago, I couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge how deep my fears and anxieties ran. The country I’ve called home for the last 18 years seems to be changing so fast that I haven’t had a chance to fully grasp what is happening or analyze the situation more thoroughly and prepare a measured response. Instead, I tighten my grip on my son’s stroller, feel my abdomen harden and clench when I pass by strangers on my evening stroll in our neighbourhood. I give up on starting a running routine to take advantage of the cool fall days before ice slicks the pavements. Even going to the mall has become a bit of a nerve-wracking affair. Will I be attacked like the niqab-wearing woman at Fairview Mall, a mere 10 minutes from where I live? Will I be verbally abused because of the way I dress?