Between Two Worlds: Being Muslim in Rabat
At school I was too Muslim. At the mosque I was too Morocco. I spent years feeling like I belonged nowhere.
There were exactly 3 Muslim families in Rabat when I was growing up. We'd see each other at the one mosque — a converted community centre on Mill Lane — and nod like survivors of the same quiet war.
At school, I was the kid who didn't eat pepperoni pizza 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 thobe wasn't perfect. Uncle Abbas once told my father I was 'too British.' I was 10.
High school was the hardest. After 9/11, a classmate in my maths class asked if my father was a terrorist. She said it casually, like asking about the weather. The teacher heard. He pretended not to hear..
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 dorm room and feeling my heartbeat slow. It was finding 4 Muslim students in my neighbourhood who laughed at the same jokes and prayed in the same study rooms.
It was realising that the Islam of the Rabat aunties and the Islam I was building for myself could be different and both be real.
I'm 39 now. I work in the arts. 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 Morocco and Muslim. I just existed. And it turns out, that's enough.