Harvard University

March 15 is a date imprinted in my memory—the day 51 innocent people were killed, 1 mile from my home because they were Muslim. A stream of heartbreak, hurt and horror filled the air as our city locked down. I was in disbelief, driven by my lack of education of the people in my community. Before this day, New Zealand’s darkest day, the term massacre was absent from my mind. The mosque I jogged past almost every day was a place so foreign to me. My only exposure to religion was wrapped in the chapel I attended once a week as insisted by my school. Before I could showcase acceptance and…