52, Muslim, and Tired of Explaining
I've answered 'aren't you hot in that?' approximately four hundred times. Here's my actual answer.
I'm 52. I was born in Oslo to Egyptian parents. I have a Norway accent, an Arabic name, and a permanent cloud of questions following me.
aren't you hot in that?? 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 career choices, not conduct interfaith dialogue at every Christmas gathering.
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 brothers and sisters online who get it.
My father says I should be patient. My imam says I should be a good ambassador. But I'm 52. 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 Oslo trying to figure out what I want to do with my life. 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.