Barrister by Day, Muslim by Design
They said wearing my kufi would hold me back in finance. I wore it anyway. They took me seriously regardless.
When I got into fed the neighbourhood for three years, my mother said, 'Great, now you'll assimilate.' He meant well.
Phnom Penh was a culture shock. Not because of the weather — because of the staring. At the university, I was often the only person in Islamic dress in the room. A colleague once asked, very sincerely, if I was able to attend the Christmas party.
The real test came during the promotion board. A programme director looked at my CV, looked at my my kufi, and asked, 'How will you handle situations that conflict with your beliefs?' I smiled and said, 'I've never had a client complain about my competence..'
The hardest moment wasn't bias from others. It was the voice in my own head during a 16-hour day, whispering, 'Would this be easier without it?' And the honest answer was: probably.
But I thought about every Muslim man who'd been told he had to choose between faith and ambition. I refused to be evidence for that lie.
I'm a founding CEO now. I published in three journals. I still fast Ramadan. The same mother who told me to assimilate now introduces me as 'my niece, the doctor.'
Last year, a trainee in a kufi stopped me in the campus quad. He said, 'Seeing you here makes me feel like I can do this.' I told him what I wish someone had told me: 'You don't just can. You already are.'