Mohamed El Bachiri, a Belgian of Moroccan descent, grew up in Molenbeek, the majority Muslim Brussels neighborhood that became notorious as the home base of a deadly terror cell after attacks in 2015 and 2016 in Paris and Brussels.
One of the victims of the bomb blasts that shook the Belgian capital on March 22, 2016 was El Bachiri’s wife and the mother of his three children, Loubna Lafquiri.
In the aftermath, El Bachiri wrote “A Jihad for Love.” What started as a eulogy to Loubna became a rallying cry for humanist values in the face of terror and a bestseller in the Netherlands, where it was published in 2017.
On Wednesday, the day before the second anniversary of the attacks, Molenbeek’s Place des Alouettes was renamed Place Loubna Lafquiri. Mohamed took his two oldest children, 11 and 9, to the ceremony. The 4-year-old, he said, is still too young.
Here are his reflections on the two years since the terror attacks that upended his life, as told to Esther King. His words have been translated from French and edited for content and clarity.
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The most significant day for me this year is not March 22, but the day before. I see the inauguration of Place Loubna Lafquiri as a tribute to her, and to all of the victims. It’s symbolic, because Molenbeek too suffered after the attacks; it was stigmatized, it got a bad reputation.
Loubna was a Molenbeek resident, a Belgo-Moroccan, a Muslim and a victim of terror. It’s important to show Molenbeek through Loubna; to send a message of love and respect — and hope, more than anything.
I won’t go to the official commemoration on Thursday. There is a lot of bitterness among the victims of the Brussels terror attacks. I was lucky, because I found a way to express myself and to live, to survive, as a result. But there’s what I shared in front of the cameras and then there’s my daily reality. And that reality is very, very hard.
I often think of the other victims who didn’t have the kind of outlet I did, and who are in some ways the forgotten ones.
To commemorate the anniversary with these politicians doesn’t make sense to me. The government has failed the victims of these attacks. The level of support we receive is a catastrophe. I had to stop taking my kids to counseling for several months because it wasn’t reimbursed by the insurance. We were there, in our pain and our suffering, and there was no one.
We need to recognize that difference is an asset. My Moroccan identity is something I carry with pride and positivity. I think that’s the key.
Explaining to my kids what happened is an ongoing process. But I tell them that the bombers were criminals, that they took something beautiful — spirituality, religion — and betrayed that to commit unspeakable, irreparable violence. We talk about tolerance and respect and celebrating differences of belief.
But it’s hard. The kids feel anger about what happened. That’s why I want to teach them the importance of asking questions, of philosophy, of striving for happiness, peace, harmony. Kids are naturally very philosophical. You have to cultivate that sense of curiosity in them.
It was important to me to answer to nihilism and terror with a message of love. It’s powerful and, in some ways, it’s also about anger. Because speaking about openness and love is a way to hurt those extremists. It’s hard for them to hear — it is so unthinkable, so unacceptable to them.
Writing the book helped me grieve. It also made me into a kind of spokesperson against my will. When I see that it helps people, that it brings a smile to their faces, that feels good. It was a way to honor Loubna, but also to prompt people to think differently, to respect one another.
As a Muslim, and looking the way I do, I’m confronted with a kind of daily violence. I recently had my papers checked as part of a “random” check at a restaurant in Brussels. I realized that these days I’m not only a potential terrorist, I’m a potential refugee.
That’s why I’m against assimilation. As a Belgian citizen, I can’t be asked to put my background, my roots, my physical appearance to one side. I am Belgian and Moroccan. And in the end that difference — my Moroccanness — will always be used against me.
A vigil in Brussels on March 22, 2016 after the terror attacks that killed 32 people | Carl Court/Getty Images
We need to recognize that difference is an asset. My Moroccan identity is something I carry with pride and positivity. I think that’s the key.
The clash of these identities is creating a sense of unease among young people. When you’re stigmatized, it’s only human to feel frustrated. It’s a form of injustice. The challenge is to meet these young people in the reality that they’re confronted with. And at the same time to comfort them, to allow them to express those frustrations — not through violence, but in different ways.
That’s what I try to do when I talk about my book in schools and detention centers for minors. Young people tend to feel closer to me, because of my background and my appearance. I still have a toe in their world — I understand their codes, we have common cultural references, I listen to their music. If you listen to their music, you get a sense of the world they live in and how to talk to them.
My message is still the same. It’s a message of love and tolerance. And it’s a fight. A fight against all forms of fanaticism.
The truth is that a lot of young people are marginalized. There’s a lot of work to be done. We need to teach our youth critical thinking and humanist values — they’re the most important tools — and give them a strong base to resist radical ideology.
If I didn’t have my hands full with my kids, I would have liked to study philosophy. To be open to the world, to draw inspiration from a lot of things, it’s very important. But when it comes to the future … Sincerely, I don’t know.
In my utopia, I’m on an island, in the sun. I’d like to find a way to be a bridge between my two cultures, to take what’s beautiful in one and what’s beautiful in the other. Maybe it can be a source of comfort to those who are suffering, who feel stuck between conflicting identities.
My message is still the same. It’s a message of love and tolerance. And it’s a fight. A fight against all forms of fanaticism. It’s about teaching young people to strive for harmony and peace. Because the first step is to find peace within ourselves.