Faith, Held Proudly

I have never been the loudest voice in a room when it comes to religion. I do not count the minutes between prayers or judge others by the length of their sleeves. I think of myself as a liberal Muslim, someone who believes deeply in a Creator but not always in the rigid choreography that surrounds belief, and who is genuinely at ease with people of other faiths. For most of my adult life, my identity as a Muslim woman sat quietly in the background like a familiar piece of furniture. I never questioned it, and I never celebrated it. That changed unexpectedly one evening while I was watching a YouTube interview. Growing up in Pakistan, I absorbed my faith the way one absorbs a language, without noticing the lessons. The azaan drifted through the neighborhood at dusk. My grandmother’s prayer mat was always folded in the same corner. Ramadan meant the hush of pre-dawn kitchens, and Eid meant new bangles and the smell of sheer khurma. Being a Muslim woman also meant carrying two sets of expectations. Outsiders often assumed I was oppressed or silenced. Insiders often assumed that my sincerity could be measured by my dupatta, my attendance at gatherings or the confidence of my opinions. In response, I took the easy route and kept my faith private and my identity vague. If nobody could define me, nobody could judge me.

What I eventually understood is that my version of Islam was never vague. It simply was not loud. It taught me honesty, charity and justice, and the idea that my worth does not depend on anyone’s approval. It gave me the verse that has always guided my approach to other faiths, “To you your religion, and to me mine.” That line is not a footnote in my belief. It is the foundation of how I live among people who pray differently, or do not pray at all. The women of Islamic history reinforced the lesson. Khadija was a successful businesswoman who employed and later married the Prophet, and Aisha was a scholar whom men sought out for knowledge. Neither seems to me a model of silence. Still, I would not have called myself proud. Pride felt like something reserved for the devout, for people with spotless routines and certainties I lacked. Then came the interview. The celebrated actor Shabana Azmi was asked how she relates to her religion. As I recall it, she said she loves saying Masha Allah and Insha Allah as familiar expressions, enjoys wearing gharara, cherishes the Urdu language and adores the food. She added that she does not offer namaz. The conversation moved on smoothly, and the audience likely nodded along. I did not nod. Something in my chest tightened, and I felt hurt. The strength of that reaction surprised me. I am not someone who prays five times a day without fail. I have no right to sit in judgment of anyone’s practice, and I do not want to. Faith is, and should remain, a private matter between a person and God. If Ms. Azmi chooses not to pray, that is her relationship to manage, not mine to police. My discomfort was about something else. Everything she named as her connection to Islam was cultural; language, clothing, cuisine, a few Arabic phrases that have become part of everyday speech. These are beautiful things, and I love them too, but they are shared across many communities and can be enjoyed without any belief at all. The one element that is specifically religious, namaz, which stands among the five pillars of Islam, was left out. To hear a faith reduced to its flavor while its foundation is set aside felt, to me, like being told that the house is lovely but the walls are optional.

I want to be careful here, because there is a difference between struggling with a practice and treating it as trivial. Many of us fall short. I certainly do. I miss prayers, and I fail at discipline, but I never regard namaz as a frivolous matter. I regard it as something I owe more effort, something I keep returning to with respect even when I stumble. What stung me was the casualness, the suggestion that a pillar can be swapped for a garment. This is also where public life changes the equation. A private person can hold any relationship to religion without consequence. A celebrated figure with a global audience cannot. When someone of Ms. Azmi’s stature is asked about being a Muslim, her words reach millions, including young women who are still working out what their own faith means to them. What she says helps shape what people imagine Muslim identity can be. I am not asking public figures to perform piety or to pretend to certainties they do not feel. I am asking for care, because when you carry a platform, your words carry weight. It matters whether they present Islam as a living faith or as a pleasant aesthetic. The most important lesson, though, was not about her. It was about me. A person who feels nothing does not feel hurt. My reaction was proof that Islam is not furniture in the background of my life. It is part of the structure. Somewhere along the way, in the azaan at dusk, in my grandmother’s mat, in the quiet ethics I was raised on, I had come to hold something precious, and I had never said so aloud.

So, I will say it now. I am proud to be a Muslim woman. My pride does not depend on perfect observance, and it does not make me intolerant. I can hold my faith close and still welcome the Hindu friend who invites me to Diwali, the Christian colleague who shares her Christmas cake and the Sikh neighbor who feeds half the street at Langar. Respect for other beliefs does not require me to be vague about my own. In fact, the two strengthen each other. I can honor another person’s conviction more sincerely when I understand the weight of mine. Being liberal and being proud are not opposites. I do not need to be the most devout person in the room to love where I come from or to defend its foundations when they are treated lightly. I can carry my faith softly and hold it firmly at the same time. That interview, which began as a moment of disappointment, ended as a moment of clarity. It taught me that pride does not always arrive with a roar. Sometimes it arrives as an ache, and what it reveals is that something you love is worth protecting.