I wasn’t always afraid of my own identity. I would never consider my true identity a burden. But things change. I changed myself for society. What is my true identity you ask? My name is Amal Quader. I wasn’t born in the USA. I am not an American. I was born in Bangladesh. I am a Muslim.

Yes. Can you guess what my burden is? You’re right. It’s that 6 letter, bolded, italicized word right there. The word that people hear, and tremble. First word that comes into their mind? “Terrorist.” Society makes it so every single Muslim out there is known as a terrorist. They aren’t known as people of “Islam”. Does anyone know what Islam even means? Google it. Wait, no let me Google it for you.

“Google, what does Islam mean?”

“The root of the word Islam, silm, refers to "making peace, being in a mutually peaceful environment, greetings, rescue, safety, being secure, finding peace, reaching salvation and well-being or being far from danger, attaining goodness, comfort and favor, keeping away from troubles and disasters, submitting the self and obeying, respect, being far from wrong."”

Now, does that definition sound like the word terrorist fits in it? No, it doesn’t for me. I wish I could speak up like this more often to people around me. Society. But in this narrative, I will. I will mention how this burden of being a Muslim has dragged me down since the 3rd grade, when I started to realize what was happening around me.


3rd grade. The brink of elementary. Not to old nor young, not much work, recess, friends, and no drama (well maybe some, but we can talk about that another time). All of us were so innocent. We weren’t exposed to the real world yet. The world full of racism, hatred, politics, etc. No one cared about religion, no one cared if you were black, brown, white, purple, or green.

I had a new friend, her name was Sarah, she invited me over to play one day, and I went after school, and hung out with her. Afterwards, my mom came to pick me up, in her colorful shelwar kameez (traditional Bangladeshi dress) and her beautiful Hijab (head scarf). I was leaving the house, and Sarah’s mom wouldn’t even look at me, she didn’t even say goodbye, and slammed the door shut. I was confused, she just offered me cookies about an hour ago. I thought she was the nicest woman in the world.

Sarah never played with me after that day. She would look at me across the classroom, with a sorrowful glance, I knew she was as confused as I was. I presumed that her mother provoked her from played with me. Turns out that was true. Her mom forbade her to play with me because I was a terrorist. A Muslim.

I mean, let’s be realistic here, what 8 year old Muslim girl wouldn’t be carrying a bomb around, in her little Dora backpack?

That’s what made me realize that society hated us.

Ever since that year, I had kept my religion a secret. One thing I remember from Elementary, is that our teacher would have all the students bring their favorite Christmas present in after the holiday break and do a ‘Show and Tell’. (Which was actually really inconsiderate of them, you would think them being the knowledgeable ones in the school that they would realize there are religions out there that don’t celebrate Christmas) I would get scared, I did didn’t want people knowing I didn’t celebrate, that would get them curious. What would I tell them? That I was Jewish? Maybe I’ll tell them that I am Atheist. No, no, no, I have no clue about those religions were about. I would quickly shuffle around in my toy closet, and grab a toy that looked considerably new, and stuffed it in my backpack.

Next day I come to school, and give my presentation. My teacher awkwardly looks at me, as she has seen my mom wearing her head scarf at the parent teacher conferences. Once I was finished, I slumped back into my seat with a sigh of relief, then I waited for everyone else to present their present, secretly wishing I was them, and that I wasn’t a Muslim.

Yes. I said it. I wished I was a different religion, and that I didn’t have to hide the fact that I was a Muslim. I wish that I could go celebrate Christmas with all my friends, and get really cool gifts. I wished that I didn’t have to waste my time praying five times a day, and being that good Muslim girl my parents wanted me to be.

Yeah, well that was a lot to think about at that time. I knew my parents would think I was crazy if I told them that. So I shut my mouth. I shut my mouth for exactly two and a half years.

One day, in the 5th grade, my best friend Emily came over, we were looking through some magazines, and my mom just came home from planning an Eid Festival we were going to have at the City Library soon. She grabs her camera, and takes a picture of both of us, and tells Emily that she is going to put it in the slide show for the Eid Festival.

My heart stopped. No. No. No. Why mom, why do you have to ruin things like this? I hold my breath hoping Emily didn’t catch on to the unusual word, ‘Eid’. But of course, I wasn’t much of a girl who had good luck.

“What’s Eid?” Emily asked politely.

‘It’s a holiday that Bengali’s celebrate. It has nothing to do with religion at all.’ I wanted to blurt out right there and then. I’d become such a good liar in the span of 2 and a half years.

“Eid is a holiday that Muslims celebrate because of a major event in the Quran (The Holy Book, for Muslims),” my mom replied as she went into her kitchen, “You can come to the festival if you’d like.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mom you just ruined a perfectly good friendship, and you expect her to come to a Festival with me?

“That’s really cool! I would love to come!” Emily smiled as she went back to looking at her magazine.

What. Just. Happened?

I was surprised, she didn’t care that I was a Muslim. Maybe everyone wasn’t like Sarah’s mom. Maybe they didn’t care, and they would actually like me for who I am. Of course, for the next few months I didn’t tell anyone that I was a Muslim unless they asked. But then again, everyone thought I was Mormon, so why would they ask me anyways?

Ramadan was beginning. No food, sunrise, till sunset. I reached the age where it was mandatory for us to fast. Well, I told my friends for a month straight that I wasn’t hungry, and a few of them thought I was becoming anorexic. Of course that wasn’t true, so I told them, because I didn’t want them going up to the principal or counselor and telling them that I was anorexic. I told them that I was a Muslim, and during this month I had to fast. All of them were surprised of course. And some of them turned their backs. But the only thing that lead to was me finding out who my true friends were, and it honestly felt good. I knew who I could trust, and it was just like an automatic filter, shaking all the friends that would never care for me anyways, and leaving me with the ones I wanted/needed.

I had nothing to hide anymore, everyone knew, and a huge weight was lifted off my back.

Student Boy Officer Elections. Whoo hooo. I thought I was cool enough to run, so I ran. I ran for Secretary. I made a posters and posted them around school, and made bracelets to go along with it. I made it to finals, and was feeling very good about my campaign. Voting day was coming up, I came to school, with a good mood, and with a smile on my face. I walk into school, and head down the long hallway. Oh look, there’s my poster. Wait…wait… There is a red mark on it. I head over to it, and look at it in horror. 9 dreadful letters. Those 9 dreadful letters that haunted me.
T.E.R.R.O.R.I.S.T.

Honestly, all I remember is ripping my poster off the wall, and throwing it away. Not even crying. I was emotionless. I went to my class. Everyone was staring at me. Was it because I was late, or because they saw my poster? I never knew. I didn’t win the election, not that I cared. I got over it but all my friends stopped talking to me except for Emily. It’s like they all changed their mind. Did I care about that either? No. All I cared about was leaving this school. Not going to the same school all these miserable people were going to go to for Jr High.

I did research. Found a school. I showed it to my parents. I signed up to go to Wasatch Jr High the next week. I was enrolled. I was going to escape these people and start all over again. I am not going to let them know who I am. I’m going to lie again. It was all better that way.

First day of school. I’m going to make a good impression. I loved Wasatch. People accepted me. (Not exactly sure if it was for who I am.) I made good friends. Wasatch was a great experience. And for those the years I was “An Atheist.”

One of my closest friends, whose name is Mirna, would talk to me hours at a time over chat. We became so close. She was the first person I told that I was a Muslim. She never treated me any different. Sadly, I’m not friends with her anymore, but she’s the one who made me realize that I could tell people, and become stronger. She told me how I could take this burden of mine and make it into something positive, and not hide anymore. She inspires me so much, even now, she’s made me half of who I am.

I talked to my parents, and asked them to leave my old school. (Keep in mind, this is not the only reason I left) I wanted to scratch out my past, and begin again. Start something new. Forget about everything I tried doing in the past. I would of continued at Wasatch, but most people knew me as an atheist, so I headed out, and did more research and talked to a very inspirational person in my life, Samah, and she asked me to come to a new school with her, while it was her senior year. She told me it would be a good idea to try out the school and see if I really liked it while she was there, and that she would guide me.

It was decided.

Well. That’s where I am right now. And I love it. I love my burden. All my friends know who I am. They all know this story. And they don’t mind. No one does. Of course there are those people, who discriminate, but hopefully they will understand, just like I did. I have learned to love my religion, and it’s made me into a whole new person this year.