29, Muslim, and Tired of Explaining
I've answered 'why can't you eat pork?' approximately four hundred times. Here's my actual answer.
I'm 29. I was born in Kathmandu to Iraqi parents. I have a Nepal accent, an Arabic name, and a permanent cloud of questions following me.
why can't you eat pork?? I don't drink because I don't want to. Why do I fast? Because Ramadan is genuinely my favourite month. Why do I read Arabic? 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 university applications, not conduct interfaith dialogue at every barbecue.
Social media makes it worse and better. Worse because every time a terrorist attack happens somewhere 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 Muslim creatives online who get it.
My father says I should be patient. My imam says I should be a good ambassador. But I'm 29. 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 Kathmandu trying to survive sixth form. 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.