On a late-September evening, the Garnet B. Rickard Recreation Complex in Bowmanville felt less like a municipal facility and more like a living room where the whole town had been invited to sit down and talk. The doors opened early, and by the time the program began, the space was filled with residents of every age and background. Some were newcomers who had been in Canada for only a few months; others had spent most of their lives in Clarington and still recalled when the neighborhoods were smaller and the faces more familiar. The occasion was “Together, We Are Clarington: A Community Conversation,” an event organized by the Municipality of Clarington, Durham Region, the Clarington Library, Museums and Archives, and Victim Services of Durham Region. Residents filed past information tables staffed by local faith communities and service organizations, where volunteers handed out pamphlets and answered questions about everything from mental health supports to open houses at places of worship. But the heart of the evening was not on the tables; it was in the conversations unfolding between neighbors. Municipal officials and Durham Regional Police officers moved through the room, not to lecture, but to listen. The program tackled subjects that are often avoided over polite conversation: the line between hate incidents and hate crimes, how to report bias, how to recognize disinformation, and how to disagree with someone without losing respect for their humanity. For some residents, the night was an education, a chance to understand what legally counts as a hate crime and what remains an incident. For others, it was an emotional opportunity to share experiences they had not always felt comfortable telling. And for many, it was simply a chance to be in a room with people they might otherwise never meet—to look across at someone of a different faith or background and realize the community is not as divided as online voices claim. The evening did not promise easy answers, but it created a space where difficult questions could at least be asked.
Behind the evening was Nirosha Balakumar, supervisor of equity, diversity and inclusion for the Municipality of Clarington and one of the event’s organizers. Balakumar helped shape the conversation around connection rather than conflict, and she spoke with evident passion about why the gathering mattered. “We are continuously growing,” she said. “Canada is made up of a huge group of folks from different cultures, faith backgrounds, races, religions, and I think it’s really important that we continue to understand how can we live together in peace and harmony, and how do we support one another in our community.” She acknowledged that the need for these conversations has existed for many years, not just in moments of crisis, and that it remains important as communities continue to evolve. Balakumar also announced that Clarington had launched the second phase of its Together, We Are Clarington campaign, an online space where residents can share stories or photos about acts of kindness in their daily lives. “It could be your neighbor, it could be a teacher, a student, a friend, a colleague, a business owner,” she explained. The idea is to make goodness visible, to collect small gestures that often go unnoticed—the driveway shoveled for an elderly neighbor, the meal delivered to a family in mourning, the moment someone extended patience and grace to a stranger. Balakumar’s words carried a clear message: kindness cannot be restricted to one race, faith, or background. “Kindness and humanity doesn’t have a certain race or faith background,” she said. “We are all human, and we can all extend acts of kindness to one another.” In a room where people had gathered in part because of hatred, that reminder felt like both comfort and challenge. The campaign is not simply about making people feel good; it is about creating a culture in which residents see each other as deserving of care. And in that sense, the online stories are just the beginning—they are invitations to let kindness become a habit rather than an exception.
Clarington Mayor Adrian Foster brought a thoughtful urgency to the conversation. He reminded residents that living together peacefully requires more than tolerating one another; it requires knowing each other personally. “We need to know our neighbors on a human basis,” Foster said. “We need to not be judging on background. We need to not be judging on possibly race or creed.” He spoke about the quiet toll hate takes on a community, noting that the effects of an incident often go far beyond the moment itself. A person who is targeted because of their religion or identity may become afraid to walk down the street, uncomfortable in their own neighborhood, and uncertain whether they belong. That fear does not disappear quickly; it stays in the body and shapes every future encounter. Foster urged residents not to grow numb to hatred, not to accept hateful graffiti or cruel acts as normal parts of life. He described Clarington as an inclusive and diverse community, and he repeated the municipality’s message: “Hate has no home in Clarington.” But he also warned that words are not enough. He turned, as many at the event did, to the problem of disinformation. False and misleading claims are spreading so fast, he said, that they can quickly outpace truth. “People start believing the myth as opposed to the fact,” he observed. In a society where an unfounded rumor can travel around the world before a correction is ever posted, the mayor’s warning felt especially relevant. The antidote, he suggested, is not only reporting bad content but building the kind of relationships in which people trust each other enough to question what they see. Residents need to know their neighbors not as statistics, but as human beings—fragile, hopeful, and deserving of the same dignity they want for themselves.
The changing face of Clarington was reflected in the voices of longtime residents who attended the evening, each carrying a different memory of how the community has grown. Regional Coun. Willie Woo, who has lived in Newcastle, a community on the eastern side of the municipality, for 72 years, said Clarington has changed dramatically during his lifetime. Where once there was a small, fairly familiar population, there are now people from dozens of cultural backgrounds, faiths, and countries. Woo did not romanticize the past or fear the future; instead, he encouraged residents to be curious and to question the information they see and hear, especially online, where disinformation often wears the mask of truth. His remarks pointed to a simple but powerful idea: a community is not a static thing, but a living relationship that must be continually renewed. Monifa Miller, who has lived in Courtice since 2006 or 2007, offered a similar perspective from a slightly newer vantage point. She described watching her neighborhood grow and diversify, and she welcomed it with an openness that was moving to hear. “I love the idea of just having diversity because it just gives us diversity of thought, gives us great food, gives us, you know, a lot of opportunity,” Miller said. She spoke about the practical benefits newcomers bring to a place: new skills, new businesses, new energy, and new ways of seeing the world. They contribute to the local economy, support schools, and enrich the daily life of the community. “I think it’s only a benefit,” she said simply. Her optimism was not naive; it was grounded in her own experience of living alongside people who had come from far away and watching them become part of the fabric of Courtice. For Miller, diversity is not something to be managed but something to be celebrated, and the event itself was proof that residents are ready to do that work together. In a society that often treats difference as a threat, her voice was a reminder that difference can be a gift.
Faith leaders and community members deepened the evening’s meaning by speaking about the power of relationship and interfaith connection. Zaihan Rashid, representing the Islamic Centre of Bowmanville, called for community education and direct contact between residents. He described how the Islamic Centre has participated in public events and welcomed neighbors into its space through open houses, so people can see for themselves what happens inside and meet the Muslims who worship there. Rashid was honest about the challenges that remain. Islamophobia, he said, is still a serious concern, and he pointed to several incidents in Durham Region in recent years, including graffiti and episodes involving members of the Muslim community. He did not pretend there was a single solution. Instead, he listed the ways communities can respond: increasing information, raising awareness, educating, sharing our spaces, allowing people to come and see what we do. He also emphasized media and social media as important tools in reaching people, and he spoke about the value of partnerships between faith and community organizations. His most memorable phrase, though, was about the ordinary places where life happens: “Neighbors ought to talk to neighbors.” He insisted that relationships cannot be built only online. “It can’t just be online. It has to be on site as well.” Koren Kassirer, a Bowmanville resident and vice-president of Oshawa Synagogue Beth Zion, carried a similar message. As a board member of Clarington’s diversity advisory committee and the anti-hate coalition in Durham, she has spent years building connections across lines others are afraid to cross. “The best way to combat hate is to build bridges between communities because really when there’s an attack against one of us, it’s an attack against all of us,” she said. She remembered working alongside Muslim community members, including when her family helped sponsor a Syrian refugee family about a decade ago. That experience taught her something ordinary and profound: “People are people.” In those four words, the whole evening found its moral center. The conversations at the event were not about abstract policy debates. They were about seeing each other clearly, refusing to let fear name us, and choosing to stand together when any member of the community is hurting.
Law enforcement added a practical dimension to the conversation, grounding the discussion in clear definitions and real-world guidance. Durham Regional Police Supt. Sean Sitaram explained the difference between a hate incident and a hate crime. A hate incident may involve harmful or offensive behaviour motivated by bias or prejudice, but it may not meet the legal definition of a criminal offence. A hate crime, on the other hand, is a criminal offence motivated by hatred toward an identifiable group. Both are serious; both have consequences; both need to be reported. Sitaram told residents to call 911 if a hate-motivated crime is happening or if there is a safety risk. But he also stressed the importance of community engagement beyond enforcement—police presentations, Community Safety Days, and programs that allow residents to build relationships with officers and learn about local resources. The police service alone, his remarks suggested, cannot solve a problem rooted in fear and misunderstanding; it takes the whole community. The Region of Durham has recognized the need for more accessible reporting options. In January 2026, the Region launched a community-based hate reporting program with Victim Services of Durham Region. The program allows people to confidentially report hate incidents, including those that may not meet the threshold of a criminal offence, and it accepts anonymous and witness reports as well. The initiative was born out of a troubling trend: hate-motivated crimes and incidents increased by 77 percent in Durham between 2023 and 2024. Even more alarming, officials say hate activity is significantly under-reported, meaning the true scale of the problem is likely worse than the numbers suggest. Behind the statistics are people—students afraid to ride the bus, families afraid to check their mail, neighbors who no longer feel at home in the only place they have ever known. As the evening at Garnet B. Rickard drew to a close, the conversation did not end. It returned to the same fragile, important truth: community safety is not something that can be delivered by police alone. It is created in the relationships residents build with one another, in the willingness to listen, in the courage to report what is wrong, and in the steady habit of extending kindness to the person next door. The room was a small reflection of that truth—a group of strangers and neighbors choosing to sit together, talk together, and begin the long work of making sure everyone belongs.