50, 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 50. I was born in Vancouver to Bengali parents. I have a Canada accent, an Arabic name, and a permanent cloud of questions following me.
do you have to pray five times?? I don't drink because I don't want to. Why do I fast? Because Ramadan is genuinely my favourite month. Why do I pray so much? 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 career choices, not conduct interfaith dialogue at every dinner party.
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 young Muslims 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 Vancouver 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.