Between Two Worlds: Being Muslim in Mexico City
At school I was too Muslim. At the mosque I was too Mexico. I spent years feeling like I belonged nowhere.
There were exactly 4 Muslim families in Mexico City when I was growing up. We'd see each other at the one mosque — a converted shop on Mill Lane — and nod like survivors of the same quiet war.
At school, I was the kid who didn't eat ham sandwiches at birthday parties. The one who disappeared during Ramadan lunch breaks. The one who had to explain, every single December, why there was no Christmas tree at home.
But the mosque wasn't refuge either. The aunties would whisper if my kufi wasn't perfect. Uncle Ismail once told my father I was 'too British.' I was 14.
High school was the hardest. After 9/11, a girl in my chemistry class asked if my father was a terrorist. She said it casually, like asking about the weather. The teacher heard. The teacher changed the subject..
I want to tell you there was a dramatic turning point. There wasn't. It was slow. It was reading Surah Ad-Duha during a panic attack in my car and feeling my heartbeat slow. It was finding 5 Muslim girls in my new job who laughed at the same jokes and prayed in the same study rooms.
It was realising that the Islam of the Mexico City aunties and the Islam I was building for myself could be different and both be real.
I'm 53 now. I work in finance. I pray five times a day — not because anyone is watching, but because those five pauses are the only times my brain goes quiet.
I stopped asking for permission to exist as both Mexico and Muslim. I just existed. And it turns out, that's enough.