Journalist and poet Mohamed Hassan shares stories, poetry and conversations with members of the Muslim community as he tries to come to terms with March 15 mosque attacks in Christchurch one year on.

"This being human is a guest house, every day a new arrival, an unexpected visitor."

In the aftermath of tragedy, how does a community learn to grieve; as a country, as individuals, and as a hidden minority suddenly thrust into the spotlight?

The Christchurch attacks left for some in the Muslim community a trauma that was hard to deal with, and questions about where they see themselves in the national identity of New Zealand. A home they loved dearly but didn't always feel they were welcomed in, or belonged to.

Over five episodes, and five intimate conversations, journalist and poet Mohamed Hassan - and producer of the award winning podcast Public Enemy - looks at the fractures left after March 15, the unspoken truths, the ripples sent throughout the world, and ultimately the path towards healing.

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Mohamed Hassan works through the five stages of grief felt by Muslim New Zealanders after the March 15 attacks. Stage one is denial; he talks to Hassan Raslan, who spent three days helping with the burials.

"This being human is a guest house, every morning a new arrival. A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor." - Rumi

It is a normal part of trauma to experience dissociation in the face of an overwhelming crisis. A body can shut down, or shut out key pieces of information so that you are able to function. Sometimes that means delaying an emotional response to a tragedy - feelings of pain, loss and sadness are pushed to the back - replaced by a numbness. A denial.

"It felt unreal, you know? Like you were watching a movie or something," saysHassan Raslan, a biomedical engineer from Auckland.

"The more I realised how serious it actually was, it just made me sick to stomach."

This is how many of us felt in the wake of the Christchurch attacks. Dazed. Unable to accept that our tiny Muslim community had been suddenly and violently ripped open, and our places of worship deprived of their safety, we pushed all our feelings aside and got to work.

Within days, a bustling volunteer centre was set up at a local school, and hundreds of Muslims from across the country flew down to lend a hand with food distribution, visiting families and survivors, and most importantly, assist in the mammoth task of washing and burying the 51 victims.

"It hit me really hard on that first day, when there were only three or four people being buried. My friend was there, burying his father, and it was so difficult seeing him in that state. It was just a wrecking ball." Hassan Raslan was one of them.

The first dozen bodies were buried over three days, in a large cordoned section of land at the Memorial Park Cemetery, where 51 empty graves lay side by side. Volunteers wore yellow vests and ushered each body, and its family, to the allocated grave. Then they led hundreds of people from the Muslim community to walk past one by one, pray, pay their respects, and empty a fistful of dirt into the grave.

On the first Friday after, the remaining 40 victims were buried, one after another, across three hours.

"It's not an easy task to bury 40 people. I'm not talking emotionally, I mean physically," he says…

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After denial comes anger. Guled Mire became a spokesperson for his community after the mosque attacks, but when he showed anger at the death of innocents, he found the tide shifting.

Guled Mire is a firecracker by nature, driven by an unyielding sense of justice. It often gets him into trouble.

After the March 15 Christchurch attacks, he suddenly found himself a voice for his broken community, sifting through his own emotions and figuring out what he could say out loud, and what he couldn't.

Like many other young Muslims he felt angry at what had happened. Angry at the immeasurable loss of life. Angry that warnings from the community about rising levels of hate and Islamophobia had being ignored for years.

When he started to express this anger though, he quickly found himself facing intense public backlash.

"Most negative feedback I've received is when I've been the most angry, speaking my mind and saying how it is," says Mire, a community advocate.

"I think when people see me on TV or on the radio they don't really understand the balancing act that goes into it. I have to talk to myself again and again, in the shower or in the bathroom, going over my key messages. Making sure I don't fit into that angry black man stereotype."

After March 15, Mire wanted to speak about the racism he saw directed towards Muslims in New Zealand, and ask questions about whether the government had failed to protect his community. Initially he felt he was allowed to speak his mind freely in interviews and on social media, but within a few days he felt the tide shifting against him.

Suddenly, the comments sections, letters to editors and personal emails were calling him an "outsider", an "ungrateful refugee" who should be thankful for New Zealand having "given him a new home".

"It was like I wasn't even allowed to have a say as a Kiwi. I was being critical of my own country, but that wasn't afforded to me."

Then things began to spiral out of control.

When The Crusaders announced they were considering a name change because of the historical connotations of their brand, journalists began asking Mire what he thought. He gave his opinion, supporting a change, and thinking nothing of it.

But overnight, he found himself become a lighting rod for angry comments, hateful personal messages and eventually, death threats.

"There have been instances where I've had to report things to keep my own safety in check, people talking about 'this is just the beginning'." he says.

"You can't take your safety for granted especially after Christchurch."…

Go to this episode on rnz.co.nz for more details