I Am Muslim

I am Muslim.

Three words. Simple to utter. But in a world increasingly defined by noise, fear, and quick judgment, those three words are often met not with understanding — but with assumption.

I was twelve when I realized that my identity came with a silent burden.

It was a crisp autumn morning in New York City. The city buzzed like it always does — yellow taxis racing down avenues, the scent of roasted nuts in the air, and school buses pulling up in lines like yellow soldiers of routine.

That day was my first week wearing the hijab full-time. I remember wrapping it with care, proud of this new chapter in my life, unaware of the stares it might draw.

As I entered the school hallway, a boy behind me laughed and shouted,

“Do you shower with that thing on your head?”

The laughter around him was louder than my heartbeat, but quieter than the silence I chose in response.

I didn’t reply. Not because I lacked words — but because, in that moment, I felt marked. Branded. Different. Alone.

That night, at the dinner table, I asked my mother:

“Why do they think I’m strange?”

She looked at me with the softness only mothers carry in their eyes.

“Because they don’t know you,” she said gently. “And people fear what they do not understand.”

Those words rooted themselves deep in me.

I am Muslim.

I pray five times a day — though some days I wrestle with sleep more than I do with sin. I fast in Ramadan, and feel hunger not as deprivation, but as discipline. I do not drink. I do not eat what my faith forbids. I strive to speak truth, even when it trembles on my tongue.

But my faith is not a checklist of rituals. It is a rhythm.

Islam is the quiet “Bismillah” before I begin a task. It is the dua I whisper when I hear sirens outside, praying for a stranger’s safety. It is the comfort of Qur’anic verses when the world becomes too loud.

It is community, tradition, devotion — but also struggle, imperfection, and return.

Yes, my Islam is spiritual — but it is also deeply human.

I have felt the weight of being visibly Muslim.

At airports, I’ve stood still while agents swab my palms, their eyes scanning me for something I do not carry. On subways, I’ve watched people flinch as I adjust my scarf, their fear sharp, though unspoken.

Yet I’ve also felt the unexpected kindness of strangers. The Christian professor who asked me what the hijab meant — not to debate, but to understand. The Jewish roommate who stayed up with me until dawn during Ramadan, eating suhoor with me in sleepy silence. The atheist friend who stood beside me when a man screamed at me in the street, “Go back to where you came from.”

Moments like these remind me: hatred is loud, but compassion is deeper. Fear spreads quickly, but love roots itself quietly.

Now, at twenty-seven, I teach history in a public school in Queens. My classroom is a mosaic of names, languages, and faiths. I see myself in the shy Muslim girls who sit in the back, fingers tugging nervously at their scarves.

I meet their eyes and say:

“Your name is beautiful. Say it with pride.”

Each Ramadan, we create a classroom board: “What Ramadan Means to Me.”

One student writes, “It’s when I feel closest to God.”

Another says, “It teaches me patience.”

A non-Muslim student writes, “I admire your strength.”

This — this is the world I believe in.

I am Muslim.

I have my doubts. I make mistakes. I get tired. But I always return — to prayer, to peace, to purpose. I return to the unwavering truth that Islam comes from salaam — peace. That being Muslim is not only submission to God, but submission to mercy, justice, humility, and love.

Sometimes I wonder: what if we all paused and asked each other, not “What are you?” — but “What do you carry in your heart?”

Would the world change if we truly listened?

My name is Layla. I am Egyptian-American. I love baklava, Rumi’s poetry, and rainy afternoons. I teach seventh-grade history. I laugh too loudly, cry during sad movies, and always lose my keys.

And yes — I am Muslim.

Not the scary headline. Not the stereotype. Just a woman, walking through this world with her head held high and her heart rooted in faith.

And that is just one part of my story.