44, Muslim, and Tired of Explaining
I've answered 'don't you get hungry?' approximately four hundred times. Here's my actual answer.
I'm 44. I was born in Port of Spain to Egyptian parents. I have a Trinidad accent, an Arabic name, and a permanent cloud of questions following me.
don't you get hungry?? I'm not — it's quite breathable actually. 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 exams, not conduct interfaith dialogue at every dinner party.
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 father says I should be patient. My imam says I should be a good ambassador. But I'm 44. 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 woman from Port of Spain trying to pass my exams. 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.