Why I am forever indebted to those who questioned my faith --

I am uncertain whether it is ultimately a privilege or a curse in disguise – to have been raised by Muslim parents in a society where the teachings of Islam are observed by the masses.



It seemed like the only obvious way of life, of course.



When your mother labored to bring you into this world, the first words your delicate, red little ears heard were those of the Aa’zaan – the call to prayer.

When you were prepped up in your high chair at age 1, proudly exposing the first of your milk teeth, the sweet scent of mashed bananas on your bib, you heard your father adoringly say Bismillah before every spoonful he fed you.

When you began to stand despite your unsteady knees and fragile toes, grabbing on to the closest piece of furniture for support, with each wobbly step your mother sighed MashaAllah.

When you mumbled a prayer seconds before you were handed your Math exam, the tension in your shoulders eased, knowing that God had heard you, the way He heard you all those times before.

How then, can your mind question the complexity of what you have been taught? When these words, these rituals have seamlessly fused into the fabric of your subconscious as a force of habit? And how do you react when these beliefs are challenged – even ridiculed?

Have you grown so comfortable simply existing within the bracket of your Muslim community that you never felt the need to dive deeper? To look beyond the customs and traditions that we have grown so familiar with? To understand parts of your religion that are frequently used as ammunition for a gun that is pointed directly at your temple?


I didn’t.


Not at first. I was complacent in the knowledge that I was a moderately decent individual, that I started and ended my day with a prayer, that I helped the impoverished if the opportunity presented itself, that I fasted in the month of Ramadan and celebrated ‘Eid’ when the day came. That was the extent of my focus.

Then, slowly but somehow all at once, it wasn’t nearly enough. When I left my comfort zone and moved away to a country where in spite of a growing Muslim population, Islam is feared. Whether this fear stems from ignorance or genuine misrepresentation is irrelevant for now.

The point is that I was disturbingly unprepared. The scenarios of prejudice that I had once witnessed on my television set from the comfort of my couch began to take shape before my eyes; it was in that moment I realized how little I knew about the faith I had so proudly worn in my name. When I couldn’t do justice to my teachings; when I couldn’t accommodate their skepticism with an intelligent response.

There was so much that I didn’t know. All because I never needed to. Because I was surrounded by those that shared or at least accepted my beliefs. Because as attached as I had felt to my faith, I subliminally believed that religion, if followed too scrupulously, would make life a tad bit inconvenient. That it would make me feel isolated. Narrow-minded.


How was I to know that the crux of Islam – and every religion, frankly – was made on the foundation of self-preservation? That it isn’t just about heaven and hell. That within it are teachings of liberation; to follow them devotedly would mean to soften your heart, not to make it incompatible and hostile towards others. That you would become so preoccupied with monitoring your own character, it would become inconceivable to disgrace another. That your happiness will be derived from something far more valuable and enduring than material wealth; that your tether to this world full of vanity and greed will be severed. That when you finally acknowledge your inner strength, you are no longer vulnerable to malice or resentment. That your cordiality and sincerity will make you a blessing for those in your presence.  That your devotion to God is mirrored in your ability to love all His creation - different from you as they may be. That your success does not make you self-important or contemptuous and your failures can not make you weak or despondent.


I am genuinely grateful to those that denounced the faith I was raised in. It made me realize that I, like many others, had taken my privilege of being born into it for granted. Bit by bit, it helped me lay aside everything I knew and initiate groundwork for my own research. For all the concepts that were ambiguous to me, for all the times I hesitated to verify my existing knowledge. For all the things I learned in a year that I had somehow overlooked all this while; things that left me not only pleasantly surprised, but in awe of this sophisticated religion that is so often accused of being primitive.