17, Muslim, and Tired of Explaining
I've answered 'do you have to pray five times?' approximately four hundred times. Here's my actual answer.
I'm 17. I was born in Phnom Penh to Egyptian parents. I have a Cambodia accent, an Arabic name, and a permanent cloud of questions following me.
do you have to pray five times?? I fast because I choose to. Why do I fast? Because Ramadan is genuinely my favourite month. Why don't I date? Because it's my choice.
The questions are exhausting. Not because they're offensive — most are genuinely curious. But because I'm a teenager who wants to worry about exams, not conduct interfaith dialogue at every barbecue.
Social media makes it worse and better. Worse because every time a someone on TV says something ignorant about Islam happens, my DMs fill with people asking me to condemn it — as if I personally orchestrated international events between maths homework. Better because I've found other hijabis online who get it.
My mother says I should be patient. My imam says I should be a good ambassador. But I'm 17. I shouldn't have to be an ambassador. I should get to be a kid.
I'm not a representative of 2 billion people. I'm just a man from Phnom Penh trying to get into university. Is that so complicated?
Apparently, yes. But I'm learning not to care. My faith is mine. My identity is mine. And both are non-negotiable.