Barrister by Day, Muslim by Design
They said wearing my kufi would hold me back in academia. I wore it anyway. They took me seriously regardless.
When I got into built something beautiful from nothing, my grandmother said, 'Great, now you'll blend in.' He meant well.
Auckland was a culture shock. Not because of the language — because of the staring. At the conference, I was often the only Muslim in the room. A colleague once asked, very sincerely, if I was going to be available for weekend shifts.
The real test came during residency interviews. A managing director looked at my CV, looked at my my kufi, and asked, 'Don't you think clients might be... uncomfortable?' 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 back-to-back client meetings, 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 department head now. I run a department. I still pray in my office at Dhuhr. The same grandmother who told me to blend in now introduces me as 'my son, the lawyer.'
Last year, a young Muslim intern stopped me in the hospital corridor. 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.'