In a world that feels increasingly hostile, I find myself both heartbroken and anxious—not just for my own safety, but for countless others who share my fears. I am an American Muslim, and I cherish my identity.
Since embracing Islam, I have never wavered in my sense of belonging. However, the persecution I now face daily is daunting. My heart aches for those separated from their loved ones due to travel bans affecting seven nations, and I stand in solidarity with them.
My upbringing as a Christian instilled in me the golden rule: “Treat others as you wish to be treated.” My father, though not overly religious, emphasized the importance of faith in God. This foundation allowed me to build friendships across various beliefs, fostering connections with those who may not share my views.
What troubles me deeply is that the harassment I witness does not target only those of a specific faith; it affects anyone who believes in the right to worship freely. Perhaps I was overly optimistic to think my friends and family would embrace my journey when I first donned the hijab.
A moment in a store crystallized my naivety. As the call to prayer, or Adhan, resonated from my phone, I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me. “Allahu Akbar” echoed loudly, and I hurried to silence it, fearing the judgment of those around me. A woman behind me mocked, “Isn’t that your cue to get on the ground to pray to your God?” I stood there, taken aback, as silence enveloped the crowd. I noticed her crucifix keychain and wondered why she assumed my worship was so different from hers.
The reality of my life is filled with painful encounters. Just a day before the election, my ex-husband erupted in violence over differing political views, declaring, “If Trump doesn’t take care of you, then I will!” Friends and family have told me that I haven’t been a minority long enough to feel anger over the injustices I face. I’ve been bombarded with messages suggesting I brought this upon myself.
Even mundane moments, like tidying my hotel room, have become tainted with suspicion. A housekeeper noticed my Quran and quipped, “You’re not making bombs in here, are you?” It’s disheartening that such remarks have become commonplace.
Yet, I refuse to let anger overshadow my hope. For every negative interaction, there are ten people ready to embrace me with kindness. My fellow Muslims, while the days may seem daunting—especially when witnessing family separations and detentions—let’s not lose our faith in humanity. Embrace the essence of Islam: peace, love, and hope. The teachings of the Quran urge us to support one another and those in need, and I commit to doing just that.
As I conclude, I hear the Adhan calling me to prayer. I will respond to this call for as long as I draw breath, refusing to let fear dictate my life. Insha’Allah.
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In summary, my journey as a proud American Muslim is defined not only by the struggles I face but also by the resilience and support I find in my community. While the landscape may seem bleak, I hold onto hope and the power of love.