My background has always been beautifully diverse. Though I am of Pakistani and Muslim descent, I was born and spent the first part of my childhood in Germany. Aged 6, I moved to the UK and felt like I was adding another layer to my identity. Within a few weeks of arriving I was given a place in my local primary school, despite only being able to speak German fluently. I still remember my first day. I stood tearfully in the gloomy corridor as my mum waved goodbye and my teacher led me towards the classroom, firmly holding my hand.
My English was very limited, and so during break time when an older girl asked me a question in the bathroom, I stared blankly at her. I mumbled out a “yes” (one of the very few words in my limited vocabulary). The exchange made me feel even more aware of my foreignness in this big, new place. However, I picked up the language, and within six months I was able to have flowing conversations. As time went on I began to get more and more used to my new life.
Little did I know that my progress would be jolted by a short lunchtime conversation. It was a lunchtime like any other, children jostling around to find a place to sit with their friends. I spotted an empty seat on a table full of my classmates and made a beeline towards it. I eagerly reached into my lunch bag to retrieve my mum’s delicious home cooked meal: biryani and green chutney.
“They had clearly never seen my favourite cultural dish and before I could explain what it was, I heard a loud, clear voice announcing: ‘that looks gross’“
My delight at what I thought of as a treat was short lived as I registered the looks of disgust on the faces of my peers. They had clearly never seen my favourite cultural dish and before I could explain what it was, I heard a loud, clear voice announcing: ‘that looks gross’ followed by a string of giggles. I felt hot tears run down my face as I shoved my lunch back into my bag and left the seat I had been so excited to get. It was the first time I had been rebuked because of my culture.
My time at that school was short lived. A year later, I moved schools to one that was closer to my house and was bigger with better facilities, but even what was meant to be a fresh start at a new school quickly turned sour. During break one of the girls in my class (who wasn’t particularly friendly with me) announced that she was ‘half Muslim, half Christian’. Whilst I wouldn’t do so now, I corrected her. But she protested and continued to insist, so I turned away and continued talking to my friends.
When break finished and we returned to the classroom, I heard the sound of someone saying my name, drifting across from the other side of the classroom. I looked over and saw the girl who had been talking to me a few minutes ago, telling the teacher I had been trying to “convert her to Islam.” I felt my cheeks get hot, but I ignored what I knew were completely outlandish claims and continued working. The whole lesson passed by and the teacher didn’t approach as I had expected. I was pleased that she also felt that this girl’s accusations had been completely absurd.
“At home, I loved wearing colourful shalwar kameez and eating my mum’s spicy dishes. But outside, I toned down who I was, not speaking Urdu and avoiding conversations about my heritage and background”
It was only when I reached the playground for lunchtime, my classmates dispersing to far corners of the playing field, that I realised how wrong I had been. I also tried to run after my friends, but a cold, firm grip took hold of my hand, pulling me back. It was my teacher. Without making eye contact she marched me across the football pitch towards the benches. I stood in front of her as she sat down on the bench, exasperated.
“Right!” That was how she began berating me. I was shocked. Not only did she not ask whether the accusations she had heard were true, but she instantly chose to see me – an openly Muslim girl – as a threat. At that tender age, I struggled to understand why I was being met with so much hostility and mistrust, as if I was some sort of master manipulator.
It was then, on that cold afternoon when it dawned on me: my religion and identity were not seen as good things, so I had to hide them. My dysfunctional relationship with my identity stemmed from here. A place of bitter rejection and marginalisation.
As I grew up, I battled with my two identities. At home, I loved wearing colourful shalwar kameez and eating my mum’s spicy dishes. But outside, I toned down who I was, not speaking Urdu and avoiding conversations about my heritage and background for fear of the animosity I had become so accustomed to. However, as time progressed, it became tiring to constantly hide in the shadows whilst a curated, socially acceptable version of myself lived under a spotlight.
Traditionally, there has always been very little to almost no representation of Muslim women in the media and whenever there is, it’s almost always negative. But the birth of social media platforms like YouTube and Instagram saw the start of a new type of a career: influencers.
“Seeing the shift in recent years of Muslim women openly and publicly being unapologetically themselves, has also taught me to love my identity and take pride in it too.”
In my childhood, it had been a rarity to see young, empowered Muslim women on screen. But as I entered my teens and looked beyond the conventional representation on TV, I saw something that made me feel seen. Muslim women who didn’t fit the conventions of Eurocentric beauty were finding and creating their own spaces on the internet. They were able to control their own narrative rather than being shoehorned into a stereotype.
In more recent years, Muslim women are even beginning to appear at the very fore of society, the likes of MP Zarah Sultana and Halima Aden are testimonies of this.
The reality is that there is still a long way to go. Zarah Sultana tells of the racist emails she receives and it’s something I can relate to in my own way. Even to this day, I face challenges. It was only a few months ago that I was heckled in the street by an old man who questioned why I wore the hijab and told me I belonged in Afghanistan.
Of course, I am no longer the lost, little girl I once was. Seeing the shift in recent years of Muslim women openly and publicly being unapologetically themselves, has also taught me to love my identity and take pride in it too. Whilst it’s true that there are considerable difficulties that people who look like me will continue to face, I hope that with more positive representation and support, the girls of tomorrow will also learn to be comfortable and proud in their own skin, as I have.
This essay is published as part of Writers, Emerge! supported by I Like Networking.
Aurelia Magazine is an independent publication. If you enjoyed this article, please consider becoming a member on Patreon, or donating anything at all to our PayPal. Thank you!