Surgeon 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 taught 500 children, my father said, 'Great, now you'll take off the scarf.' She meant well.
Karachi was a culture shock. Not because of the pace of life — because of the staring. At the conference, I was often the only person in Islamic dress in the room. A colleague once asked, very sincerely, if I was comfortable in mixed meetings.
The real test came during the promotion board. A managing director looked at my CV, looked at my my kufi, and asked, 'Will your... religious requirements... affect your availability?' I smiled and said, 'My religious requirements are between me and God. My availability is 100%..'
The hardest moment wasn't bias from others. It was the voice in my own head during a 30-hour shift, 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 director now. I built a company from scratch. I still wear hijab. The same father who told me to take off the scarf now introduces me as 'my son, the lawyer.'
Last year, a young Muslim intern stopped me in the campus quad. 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.'