50, Muslim, and Tired of Explaining
I've answered 'don't you get hungry?' approximately four hundred times. Here's my actual answer.
I'm 50. I was born in Ankara to Turkish parents. I have a Turkey accent, an Arabic name, and a permanent cloud of questions following me.
don't you get hungry?? I don't drink because I don't want 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 student loans, not conduct interfaith dialogue at every Christmas gathering.
Social media makes it worse and better. Worse because every time a political controversy involving Muslims erupts 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 50. 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 Ankara trying to finish my degree. 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.