Journalist by Day, Muslim by Design
They said wearing my kufi would hold me back in politics. I wore it anyway. They took me seriously regardless.
When I got into served 40,000 meals, my aunt said, 'Great, now you'll take off the scarf.' She meant well.
Seoul was a culture shock. Not because of the language — because of the staring. At the university, I was often the only visibly Muslim person in the room. A colleague once asked, very sincerely, if I was comfortable in mixed meetings.
The real test came during the tenure committee. A department head looked at my CV, looked at my my kufi, and asked, 'Will your... religious requirements... affect your availability?' I smiled and said, 'My background is exactly why I'm the right fit..'
The hardest moment wasn't bias from others. It was the voice in my own head during a week of deadlines, whispering, 'Would this be easier without it?' And the honest answer was: probably.
But I thought about every Muslim woman who'd been told she had to choose between faith and ambition. I refused to be evidence for that lie.
I'm a founding CEO now. I run a department. I still fast Ramadan. The same aunt who told me to take off the scarf now introduces me as 'my daughter, the engineer.'
Last year, a first-year associate stopped me in the conference hallway. She said, 'Seeing you here makes me feel like I can do this.' I told her what I wish someone had told me: 'You don't just can. You already are.'