When it comes to sport, there’s an unwritten rule: if you’re not Australian, you have to dislike them. As a cricket fan, I put it down to spending many years of my youth watching them win everything.
And then, in January 2022, that changed.
16 January 2022 - Hobart, Australia
Australia had just won the Ashes 4-0. The team gathered on the stage and the champagne came out. And one man quietly stepped away: Usman Khawaja, a Muslim who doesn’t drink or associate with alcohol.
He’d done it before. It was his way of staying away from what is prohibited in his faith. So he stepped out of the frame so the team could enjoy their celebration.
But this time his captain noticed. Pat Cummins stopped the party, had the bottles put away and called him back. Khawaja knelt beside him for the photo.
It cost them a few moments of a very well-earned party. Let's be clear: I’m no Australian cricket fan, but that was the day Pat Cummins became a star in my eyes.
This week
The reason this comes to mind right now is that Khawaja’s book, Sabr, came out on Tuesday. Most of the coverage is about 2018, about who knew what during the Sandpapergate saga. As a South African, you’d think I’d be first in line to join the pile-on. I didn’t - for a number of reasons.
One of the main reasons was found towards the end of an interview on the ABC’s 7.30. When asked: "Did you ever stop feeling like an outsider in Australian cricket?", he talked about that Hobart moment. He said it was the first time in his life he felt part of the Australian team, and that even now it’s emotional to talk about.
Listening to him describe the moment, I felt the lump well up in my throat.
Why it landed
Because I know what it is to stand on the edge of the frame.
I grew up towards the tail-end of Apartheid, in a system that taught me - without anyone saying it out loud - that I was less than people with lighter skin. I’ve spoken about this before. As a young cricketer, I’d turn up to play a “White” school and I’d already decided they were better. Before the first ball was bowled, my confidence was down. I was on the back foot before the game even began.
That’s what an invisible hierarchy does. And that’s why Khawaja being called back means so much to me.
The other half
Days earlier, on another continent, Abdul El-Sayed won Michigan’s Senate seat, reported as the first Muslim elected to the US Senate. In his victory speech he introduced himself by his full name - Abdulrahman Mohamed El-Sayed - and turned the “insha'Allah” (God-willing) he’d been saying all campaign into “alhamdulillah” (All praise to God).
I’m not writing about his platform nor the hostility his faith drew along the way. I’m writing about a man who didn’t shrink his name. I know something about names. I’ve called myself an immigrant with a funny name more than once.
Both halves of belonging
Two moments. Khawaja needed someone with power to notice that he’d stepped aside. El-Sayed walked onto the stage and took up the space himself. Most of us need both: leaders who notice who’s missing from the photo, and the courage to say our own name when it’s our turn.
A gesture isn’t a system. Khawaja has said for years that fitting in was the hardest part of his career. But cultures are built from moments like this one, from a leader deciding what’s normal.
I had a quiet version of this conversation this week. I was talking with someone from a different faith and a very different background, and we ended up talking about knowing our Maker. I mentioned a series that’s helped me, and they welcomed me sharing the link. Neither of us treated our differences as a wall. We treated them as something to learn from. In my tradition we’re meant to be stewards on and of this earth, and I can’t think of a better description of the job than making room and learning from difference.
Final thought
So here are the questions I’m sitting with this week - and I’d invite you to sit with them too:
Who in your world quietly steps aside - from the photo, the table, the celebration - and would you notice?
What ritual in your team or family quietly assumes everyone is the same - and what would it cost to stop it?
Where are you waiting to be called back when it might be time to say your full name?
Who called you back once - and do they know what it meant?
Belonging isn’t found in the room. It’s brought into it. And sometimes it takes someone with the power to stop the champagne.
Go on. Take the Next Step.
