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After Monday's deadly bombing in Manchester, England, several commentators began invoking a familiar villain: ordinary Muslims who didn't speak out soon enough.

Among the first to cast blame was British journalist Piers Morgan, who tweeted his criticism a few days after the attack:

It's an unfortunately familiar refrain after a deadly terror incident.

Where were the Muslims? Why did they ignore the warning signs? If they only spoke out more, these attacks could be prevented, the thinking goes.


With the proliferation of terrorist attacks in the U.S. and U.K., it might seem like common sense to wonder. But putting the responsibility of preventing terrorist attacks on Muslims only reinforces the idea that all Muslims are complicit in acts of terror.

Not only is that divisive, it's been proven false — in case after case after case.

Photo by Ben Stansall/Getty Images.

Authorities were warned about Manchester bomber Salman Abedi — five times. And they refused (or were unable) to act.

That's according to a startling report in The Telegraph, which noted that several Muslim religious leaders, friends of Abedi, and fellow Muslims from his community came forward to tell law enforcement officials about the attacker's turn toward extremism.

"The missed opportunities to catch Abedi were beginning to mount up last night. The Telegraph has spoken to a community leader who said that Abedi was reported two years ago 'because he thought he was involved in extremism and terrorism'.

Mohammed Shafiq, chief executive of the Ramadhan Foundation, said: "People in the community expressed concerns about the way this man was behaving and reported it in the right way using the right channels.

'They did not hear anything since.'"



The paper reports that in addition to the community leader, two of Abedi's friends reported him to a counterterrorism hotline twice — once in 2012 and once last year.

Contrary to popular belief, Muslims help law enforcement root out extremists all the time.

Mohammad Malik, an acquaintance of Omar Mateen, reported the Pulse nightclub shooter to the FBI two years before the attack after discovering he had been imbibing al-Qaeda propaganda videos.

In August 2015, Virginia resident Amani Ibrahim warned authorities about her son Ali, who was raising money for ISIS online.

Muslims are on the front lines of fighting extremism — and they are also its primary victims.

A London mosque holds a memorial service for bombing victims. Photo by Carl Court/Getty Images.

Law enforcement agencies from the FBI to the Los Angeles Police Department have reported deep and frequent cooperation with Muslim communities in terror investigations.

"I personally have been called by community members about several things, very significant things,” LAPD deputy chief Michael Downing told Reuters in 2015. "What we say to communities is that we don’t want you to profile humans, we want you to profile behavior."

As in Orlando, as in Virginia, and as in countless cases where attacks were successfully prevented, Muslims tried valiantly to stop another senseless outburst of violence.

In Manchester, it simply wasn't enough.  

All over the world, Muslims are offering their support, their ideas, and most critically, their help in fighting terror.

Photo by Carl Court/Getty Images.

We need to stop ignoring them, stop accusing them, and listen to what they have to say.

After surviving the June 12, 2016, shooting at Orlando's Pulse nightclub, Tony Marrero found inspiration in a familiar place: music.

Recovering from a gunshot wound to the back, Tony found comfort in Katy Perry's music — specifically in her song "Rise."

Tony appeared on the Sept. 8 episode of "Ellen," recounting that night and discussing what life has been like in the post-Pulse world. At one point, he mentioned how helpful he found "Rise" in his recovery, telling Ellen DeGeneres that the song's powerful lyrics helped him stay focused, even joking that he played it so much that his boyfriend was surely sick of it.


GIFs via "Ellen"/YouTube.

"Have you met Katy?" asked Ellen. "No," Tony answered. "You want to meet Katy?" His eyed widened.

From backstage came Katy Perry herself. Smiling and waving, she approached Tony for a hug. Tears were shed. It was a beautiful moment.

It's easy to brush off things like music or TV or movies or art as being inconsequential or superficial. The truth is that these things are far more important to the world than we give them credit for.

During an interview while he was still in the hospital, Tony told NBC News some fairly gruesome details about that night at Pulse. In order to survive, the 32-year-old had to pretend he was dead, hiding his head under a couch.

"I never give up," he said.

That drive to live, to carry on, came from many places — music being one of them.

"Life isn't easy," Katy told him. "And you need little reliefs, through songs, quite possibly."

And she's absolutely right. The world can be a heavy place. While few of us will endure and overcome what Tony went through, we all have our own challenges in life, and it's important to find forms of self-care to help us through them.

In addition to some moving words, the Grammy-nominated singer had one more surprise for Tony: offering to pay for his first year of film school — something he'd wanted to do for some time — so that he, too, can help inspire others with his art.

Watch the entire moving exchange below, and be sure to have a tissue handy.

"Christopher was my only child. As I used to tell him, 'You can't do better than perfect.'"

That is how Christine Leinonen explained her relationship to her son to the teary-eyed crowd at the 2016 Democratic National Convention on July 27, 2016. Her son, Christopher, and his boyfriend, Juan Ramon Guerrero, were two of the 49 victims who were killed at Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida.


Photo by Alex Wong/Getty Images.

"Christopher's paternal grandparents met and fell in love in a Japanese internment camp," Leinonen noted, comforted by two of her son's friends at the podium. "So it was in his DNA that love always trumps hate."

While nothing can truly heal the loss of a child, Leinonen — and many other parents in her shoes — can at least rest assured that their children's memories will never be forgotten in Orlando.

The Pulse nightclub is slated to construct a permanent memorial honoring the victims of the June 12, 2016, massacre.

The LGBTQ nightclub's owner, Barbara Poma, filed paperwork with the State of Florida on behalf of the OnePulse Foundation earlier this month to fund and construct a monument honoring Christopher and the other victims, the Orlando Sentinel reported.

The incident marked the largest mass shooting in American history.

Photo by Gerardo Mora/Getty Images.

The specifics of Pulse's future as a nightclub are still a bit unknown, seeing as the community is still reeling from unprecedented tragedy and loss. But Poma is set on two things: Pulse will return as a safe space for the LGBTQ community, and it will always honor those who lost their lives this June.

"Anything we would ever do would include a memorial," she told the Sentinel.

Tragically, what happened at Pulse is symbolic of a much larger systemic issue: violence against LGBTQ people — and, particularly, queer people of color.

While simply being LGBTQ means you're living more at-risk of discrimination, black and Latinx queer people — especially those who are transgender — are "massively overrepresented among victims of anti-LGBT violence," Fusion reported, pointing to data from the National Coalition of Anti-Violence Programs.

The majority of people who died at Pulse were LGBTQ people of color.


Photo by Bryan R. Smith/AFP/Getty Images.

Although we've taken monumental strides forward toward equality in recent years on issues like marriage equality and same-sex adoption, that level of progress hasn't been felt on every issue across the board.

In fact, the Southern Poverty Law Center reported in 2011 that LGBTQ people "are far more likely than any other minority group in the United States to be victimized by [a] violent hate crime."

In her heart-wrenching speech at the DNC, Leinonen encouraged us all not to feel helpless, but to fight so that no other parent needs to experience what she has.

That fight for justice, she said, certainly includes gun control.

"At the time [Christopher was born], I was a Michigan state trooper," she explained. "When I went into labor, the hospital put my off-duty gun in a safe. I didn't argue — I know common-sense gun policies save lives."

"I'm glad common-sense gun policy was in place the day Christopher was born, but where was that common sense the day he died? I never want you to ask that question about your child."

Photo by Win McNamee/Getty Images.

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Another major country lifted its gay blood-donor ban. It's about time.

It's time to lift the ban. And it's been time for quite a while now.

I remember sitting alone awkwardly in a row of empty chairs at a campus blood drive when my friend looked over, smiled weakly, and mouthed, "I'm sorry."

She was standing in the line to donate blood. I'd gone with her to do the same thing, but I'd been told I wasn't allowed.

I wanted my blood to help someone out there who could use it. So it hurt feeling that this supposedly dirty part of me just wasn't good enough.


Image via iStock.

I wasn't allowed to donate blood because I'm a gay man. On that day a few years ago, I learned my blood wasn't just deemed less valuable — it was considered potentially dangerous.

When HIV became a public health crisis in America in the 1980s, the FDA banned donations from all men who have sex with men (MSM), aiming to ensure the nation's blood supply was kept safe.

Marchers in the AIDS Walk of 1995 in Washington, D.C. Photo by Joyce Naltchayan/AFP/Getty Images.

Many other countries around the world also put similar bans in place.

But that was then, and this is now.

Now, we know much more about HIV and how it spreads than we did in the 1980s, and technologies that screen blood for the virus have improved greatly. So really, banning blood donations from men like me isn't justifiable — and it hasn't been for a while.

It's rooted in homophobia. It contributes to the stigma surrounding gay and bi men when it comes to HIV/AIDS, and it makes for a smaller pool of donors when blood is needed.

Fortunately, countries are slowly coming around to this realization. France is the latest.

In July 2016, its 33-year ban was reversed, allowing French MSM to donate.

Photo by Matthieu Alexandre/AFP/Getty Images.

“This is a good sign, which shows that men who have sex with other men are becoming less stigmatized,” Sophie Aujean of advocacy group ILGA-Europe told France 24.

The FDA reversed a similar provision in the U.S. in December 2015. Canada, too, is on the fast track to lifting its ban.

Photo by Chris Roussakis/AFP/Getty Images.

These are all important steps forward. But there's a catch to the new guidelines in France, America, and Canada.

In each country, MSM must abstain from sex for at least one year before donating blood. Many advocates have argued that this expectation, while much improved from the previous status quo, still favors fear over actual science — and they point out that this discriminatory policy has real-world impact.

Photo by Adam Berry/Getty Images.

In the aftermath of the mass shooting at an Orlando LGBTQ nightclub in June, MSM were still prevented from giving blood.

How horrible is it that gay and bisexual men were stopped from helping save the lives of victims in their own community?


The irony is a grim reminder of why these kinds of discriminatory policies need changing.

I can still remember feeling like an outcast that day when I was told my blood wasn't good enough just because of who I am.

While we should recognize the positive steps forward on this issue, we also need to double down on demanding that our governments use science and facts — not fear and homophobia — to decide policy.

No one should be made to feel dirty or dangerous or judged the way I did on that day simply because of who they love.