On a cold Saturday morning, a little over a week before the New York City mayoral election in November, I was at a park in Queens to speak at a fundraiser for Asiyah Women’s Centre, the oldest and largest shelter providing support for American Muslim female victims of domestic violence. Vendors selling everything from chai to embroidered Palestinian handicrafts turned out to support the fundraiser; a DJ blasted music and artists painted children’s faces with the colours of Halloween.

I chose the vendor with the most protein on offer because I lift and squat more than my bodyweight and must meet a daily goal. “Our kebab is one of Zohran’s favourites,” the man at the King of Kebab stand told me, proudly and unprompted, as he piled my plate with meat.

I had not asked him anything about the mayoral race but I knew exactly who he meant, because like Cher, Madonna, Beyoncé and Björk, our mayor-elect is simply Zohran to many of us. And not because we can’t pronounce his family name – I’m looking at you Andrew Cuomo and all who seem to deliberately mangle “Mamdani”. In New York City, and everywhere else I’ve been, 2025 was the year when everybody learned his name. And after he is sworn in today on the steps of City Hall – followed by a party for 40,000 in Lower Manhattan – 2026 will be the year of Zohran.

I’ve been a New Yorker for 23 years. During that time, I have travelled across the world to give lectures and I’ve never been asked what I think of Michael (Bloomberg), Bill (de Blasio), or Eric (Adams) – our mayors since I moved here. None of them has come close to encapsulating the arduous and necessary complication of identity that many........

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