My entire life, I've carried heavy identities, each one facing persecution. When your identity is under attack, you become fiercely protective of it. Being Afghan, Muslim, and woman is who I am, and I've carried those pieces with both pride and pain. These aspects define me, and I can't recall a time when I wasn't aware of it. Sadly, the world often reminds me through discrimination, limiting and dividing me.
Towards the end of last year, I came across a 9-minute meditation by Sadhguru that quietly shook my life, right in the midst of my sukhasana. Don't subtle moments often bring about the most profound changes? This specific "a-ha" moment ignited multiple immediate transformations within me, and it has had a lasting impact ever since. Sadhguru emphasized that while identities offer security and comfort, they don't lead us to explore life fully. He encouraged listeners to surpass these limiting identities and discover our "true nature," prompting me to reflect on my own boundaries.
While identities offer security and comfort, they don't lead us to explore life fully.
The realization struck me that my identity as an Afghan, Muslim, and Woman had dominated my life, leaving little space for other aspects of who I could be. This triggered days of introspection, as I questioned, "Could I explore other identities? Can I become more athletic? Can I improve my cooking skills? Can I embrace motherhood? Can I find ways to be less angry?" This marked the start of a journey of self-exploration, where I began by closely examining what it meant to embody the identities of an Afghan, a Muslim, and a Woman.
On being Afghan
Being an Afghan in America has been a challenging journey that deeply touches my soul. I find myself in a constant state of offense. A regular day can involve enduring airplane jokes related to 9/11 and the heartbreaking story of the soccer player seeking escape from the Taliban.
In my homeland, countless women have disappeared, trapped with no means of escape, and even my language, a vital part of my identity, is endangered, facing the risk of fading away like our women. Living in the West, I've been labeled as "exotic," while our cherished Afghan heritage is perilously close to becoming extinct. Adding to the burden, I reside in a country responsible for our displacement, and yet, I am constantly reminded that I don't belong here.
I reside in a country responsible for our displacement, and yet, I am constantly reminded that I don't belong here.
Joyous Eid celebrations with our entire family have remained an elusive experience, as we are scattered across the globe. The essence of my music, food, and traditions is confined solely within the four walls of my "home," leaving me with an unwavering yearning for the vibrant experiences that have forever been out of reach.
Years of prejudice towards refugees, particularly Afghans, have been fueled by the portrayal of us as "the enemy." This perception has deeply affected our lives in ways that aren't merely isolating; it's a haunting experience, riddled with gaslighting and mistrust. Resettlement may offer new opportunities, but it comes with the weight of trauma, impacting our mental well-being deeply. Though I chose to live in the U.S., accepting this decision has been a struggle. After that transformative meditation experience, I've begun to come to terms with the fact that this is now my "home" – or at least, a place of permanent displacement where I must find comfort. There's nowhere that I am returning to, and while that realization weighs heavily on my heart, it also set me free.
On being Muslim
Being a Muslim in a world where Islamophobia is constantly rising isn’t easy. I’ve written before about high school memories when I would be called a terrorist, pushed into lockers, and subjected to bullying. These experiences don’t just fade from memory or the body. As a result, there are more states in the U.S. where I feel uncomfortable traveling to than places where I feel at ease. Even within the Muslim community, judgment takes various forms, including scrutiny over wearing hijab or not.
As a Shia Muslim, the pain goes even deeper, as we belong to a minority sect that has faced persecution from Sunni Muslims for centuries. Our escape from Afghanistan was driven by the fact that we are Shia Muslims. However, the feeling of being abandoned by allies isn’t a recent occurrence, and it didn’t start in 2021 with the U.S.; it traces back to historical conflicts, such as the events of Kerbala in Oct 680. These conflicts have persisted over time and continue to impact our lives today. Even our family's migration to the West was contingent on the expectation that we would convert our religion.
Despite the challenges, progress has been made over the years. Today, in my 30s, I am grateful to see our religious holidays recognized in shared calendars and to witness privileged big cities where people understand terms like "Alhamdulillah," "Mashallah," and "Inshallah." Hijabis are on runways and Billboard artists are singing about deen, it’s an example of gradualism. However, these are small steps in contrast to the world I grew up in, where scrutiny and suspicion were the norm.
Being subjected to unjust scrutiny has become an unfortunate part of Muslim life, affecting even those who don't fit the stereotype of a bearded Muslim man.
Being subjected to unjust scrutiny has become an unfortunate part of Muslim life, affecting even those who don't fit the stereotype of a bearded Muslim man. This racial profiling often leads to being singled out at customs lines, causing missed flights due to so-called "random selections."
Our biggest battle lies in how our religion, which advocates for peace, has been turned into a weapon used against us. To make matters worse, Netflix shows and films perpetuate stigmas and glorify violence against Muslims, contributing to hate crimes that keep us living in fear and insecurity.
On being Woman
The challenges I face are compounded by cultural and religious limitations, as well as being a woman—an identity that encounters difficulties in every country. Not only do I come from a controlling culture that uses religion to exert control over me, but I now live in a country where my body is subject to control again, and policies that once protected me have been removed.
During the time of Roe v. Wade, while grappling with its implications, I couldn't help but be more focused on the plight of Afghan girls being denied education and basic rights, like the freedom to go to the park. This is where the concept of intersectionality comes into play, recognizing the interconnected nature of different forms of oppression.
Being a woman is challenging, but being an Afghan woman poses even greater hardships.
Being a woman is challenging, but being an Afghan woman poses even greater hardships. Growing up, I was restricted from participating in various activities, like playing sports or music. The issue of pay gaps seemed trivial when I didn't even have the freedom to choose how I dress. Though encouraged to use my brain and pursue education, I was also constantly reminded to stay silent, lower my voice, and serve men.
During my time as a DJ, I endured a decade of being labeled as a "female" DJ, where my gender seemed to play an unnecessary part in my career title. In the Western world, I faced continuous undermining, with people surprised that I was genuinely skilled in my craft or disappointed because I chose not to dress provocatively and refusing to "shake my booty". Meanwhile, in my own culture, being a DJ was considered outright shameful, leading me to keep it a secret for many years.
Experiencing trauma as a woman added another layer of complexity. It led me to develop a hyper-masculine and defensive demeanor, pushing away the idea of relying on others for help and support. The pressure to conform to body image and beauty standards added to my struggles, with expectations to change my appearance by separating my unibrow and straightening my hair. Coping with this burden, I resorted to leading a double life, secretly altering my clothing at school to appear more "cool" and avoid judgment in school or reprimand at home.
These challenges are intertwined, shaping the unique struggles I face as a woman, particularly as an Afghan Muslim woman, navigating complex cultural, gender, and personal dynamics.
Claiming Life > Claiming Identity
Claiming my identity means embracing and representing it, but sometimes I must set it aside to reclaim life. As an Afghan, Muslim, and woman, I will always stand up to defend and protect these integral parts of myself. However, I question whether they have to dominate my life daily, leaving me in a constant survival mode.
In my journey of inner transformation, I am cultivating a greater tolerance for others' ignorance and focusing on self-awareness. Instead of pushing away those who struggle to understand my identities, I am seeking a more universal language. This perspective has prompted me to let go of my own narrow-mindedness and attachments, and enabled a more fulfilling life.
Does this mean I will abandon these significant aspects of my identity that I've held dear? No, it means I am committed to surrendering, freeing myself from the perpetual state of agitation, feeling misunderstood, and being in limbo.