The other night, I was at the mosque for Taraweeh, and after the first four raka’at (units of prayer), the imam paused for a short sermon. He spoke about maintaining pride in our identities, urging us to wear our Islamic identity with full confidence.
As I sat quietly on the soft carpet, his words resonated deeply — especially during Ramadan, a time when my connection to faith feels stronger than ever.
Ramadan isn’t just about abstaining from food and drink; it’s a period of spiritual renewal, community, and self-discipline. It’s a time when one’s connection to faith strengthens, and the awareness of our identity as Muslims becomes clearer.
However, as I embrace this sacred month with gratitude, I must also acknowledge that not all Muslims have the privilege of experiencing Ramadan in peace.
For many of us, growing up Muslim in the West comes with its challenges. Whether it’s navigating misconceptions, dealing with Islamophobia, finding a spot for prayer, or feeling the pressure to downplay our faith to fit in, being unapologetically Muslim isn’t always easy.
But during Ramadan, something shifts. The sense of belonging we feel when we break fast together, the peace found in Taraweeh prayers, the way a simple “Ramadan Mubarak” from a stranger sparks warmth — it all reinforces the fact that Islam is not just a religion, but a way of life, a source of strength.
There is power in reclaiming our identities — in refusing to shrink ourselves to make others comfortable. The imam’s words that day weren’t just about personal confidence; they were a call to embrace who we are, to recognize the value of our faith, and to stand firm in it.
But what does it mean to embrace our Islamic identity when so many of our brothers and sisters around the world are struggling? In Palestine, families break their fast amid the rubble of their homes and in East Turkestan, Uyghur Muslims are systematically oppressed and deprived of the right to practice Islam. These realities exist alongside my own Ramadan experiences, and they cannot be ignored.
While I gather for Iftar with my loved ones, there are families mourning losses they shouldn’t have to bear. While I pray in the comfort of mosques, there are Muslims whose places of worship have been destroyed. Recognizing this contrast doesn’t mean feeling guilty for the blessings we have, but rather using our privilege to raise awareness, to advocate, to donate, to make du’ah.
Ramadan is a time for reflection, not just about our own faith, but about the global ummah we are part of. It’s a reminder that our strength lies in our unity and compassion and that embracing our Islamic identity means embracing the responsibility to stand for justice.
“O believers! Stand firm for justice as witnesses for Allah even if it is against yourselves, your parents, or close relatives. Be they rich or poor, Allah is best to ensure their interests. So do not let your desires cause you to deviate ˹from justice˺. If you distort the testimony or refuse to give it, then ˹know that˺ Allah is certainly All-Aware of what you do.”
Qur’an 4:135
Not only is this a time to embrace my faith with pride but to use our voices for those who are silenced — educate yourself, support relief efforts, and stand in solidarity. Because to be unapologetically Muslim is not just about wearing a hijab with confidence or praying in public without hesitation. It’s about standing firm in our beliefs, advocating for justice, and recognizing that the struggles of one Muslim are the struggles of us all.
And that, more than anything, is what makes our faith so powerful.