_{Loving Your Community while Remaining Steadfast in Your Faith}

By Zahara Alzubaidi

Jul/Aug 26

The fastest path toward cultural self-erasure is creating a narrative defined solely by pain. Western Muslims in the media are often viewed through the lens of their trauma: perpetually misunderstood or in danger, facing academic or work discrimination. This struggle is real, but surrendering to it is to erase all our celebrations and accomplishments. 

Growing up Muslim in Kentucky was a mixed bag of struggle and success, but ultimately, it promoted growth founded on a uniquely Muslim American joy. 

The beauty of the Muslim American experience is often found in these unexpected spaces of cultural juxtaposition. During long Ramadan nights at the local mosque, children run themselves ragged in the youth rooms after iftar. Just before exhaustion sets in, someone shouts that a few uncles walked to the Speedway down the street and returned with two dozen slushies. A chaotic race to the lobby ensues, where aunties stand portioning the vibrant drinks into little cups, laughing at the collective excitement. The contrast of cold, syrupy sweetness cutting through the heavy Kentucky humidity is a reminder that communities can actively choose to define their identity through these shared moments.

Choosing this joy requires fighting a real, modern temptation to withdraw. It’s easy to self-isolate, to retreat behind mosque walls, when it feels like the outside world perpetually demands Muslims defend their right to exist. Of course, it’s attractive to stay where you are understood, where you don’t need to prove your humanity. But my journey in spiritual care taught me that the only antidote for feeling misunderstood is reaching back out to the world with radical love and relentless curiosity. 

Lesson One: People Cross Paths For a Reason

The lessons came long before community support was a formal part of my education. Fresh out of high school in 2021, I was working behind a pharmacy counter as the world struggled to reshape itself in the wake of a global pandemic. Trust in the health care system was at an all-time low across America. There were both positive and tense experiences, but the first memorable lesson featured an elderly woman with electric purple hair. She had rigid features and never spoke much, so the mind was left to imagine every reason an elderly southern white Christian woman would avoid speaking with a young hijab-clad Arab woman. 

One day, I cautiously complimented her purple hair, expecting only a polite thanks or maybe no response at all. Yet her entire face lit up. “I’ve been dyeing it this color myself, since I was your age,” she fervently expressed. “It’s my choice what I do with my hair, and it makes me feel closer to God.” 

I told her I knew exactly how she felt, and the conversation ended with grins and a firm handshake – a rare experience in 2021. After that interaction, something shifted. She started bringing her grandchildren, who always lingered to talk about weekend plans or to show off school awards. 

Weeks later, she arrived visibly thinner. More surprisingly, her hair dye had faded to gray for the first time since I started seeing her. She broke down only minutes into our conversation, and I pulled her aside. Her husband had filed for divorce, and she lost her health insurance as a result. The Medicaid customer service line was already pulled up on my phone, but that wasn’t what she wanted to talk to me about. She asked if “your people” believed that her experiences were divine punishment and if divorced women were sinful. I told her the Quran says God doesn’t test a soul with more than it can bear (2:286). 

She had more questions – she’d been skipping Sunday church to escape the judgment of women in her congregation and was reading the Bible at home instead. Did I think God would be okay with her staying away from His house? It was a baffling moment. Why did this Christian woman want a Muslim opinion on whether it was okay to skip church? But her questions exposed a deeper connection as she looked past the superficial differences between us and chose to focus on the one major commonality: we were both religious women. 

I told her any house with somebody praying is a house of God and we sat in silence for a while as she cried. She explained that she felt God put a veiled woman in her path that day to redirect her during her crisis of faith and asked if it was allowed for Muslims to pray with Christians. We held hands, she thanked God for our conversation, and didn’t just pray for herself. Despite all her hardships, she prayed for my safety instead. We never crossed paths again.

Lesson Two: To See and Be Seen

The next lesson is that connecting with the community as a Muslim often means never mentioning religion at all. Another regular patient at the pharmacy was a middle-aged white man who came every week in a politically-charged red hat. But while it was possible to connect with the purple-haired woman through a shared aspect of our identities as religious women, there was no obvious way to connect with the man in the red hat. And so for weeks, every transaction was brisk. Then suddenly, he had a new medication, and it rang up for hundreds of dollars. 

Panic spread on his face as the discount code only took a few dollars off. I told him I understood this was scary, but he would be able to come back for the medication in a few days, and suggested he see his doctor as soon as possible to work out a solution. Maybe it would be something easily fixable, like the pill would be cheaper than the capsule; or maybe there was a similar medication that was more affordable. The next week, he came back in and was cheerful. There was no good solution with the medication, but he wanted to express his thanks to me. I had no idea what I’d done to deserve being thanked, but he insisted he’d needed someone to understand him at the moment and help him make a plan. 

While the pharmacy counter taught me how to find community in the rhythm of counting pills and managing crises, my path eventually led me to a space where that community became entirely unintentional. When I formally entered my Clinical Pastoral Education chaplaincy unit, there was no stipend, so I worked part time at a makeup counter. I assumed this gig was going to be disconnected from the “real” emotional work, but it was the stage for many surprising connections. 

Sitting in front of the mirror, people quickly became comfortable sharing their celebrations and problems with the person holding the blending brush. In this space, the hijab wasn’t a wall but a conversation starter. The same interaction seemed to repeat every few days – a client would accidentally let out an “Oh my God!” while describing a hectic week, then freeze, and ask if that was offensive. Then they’d ask more, and eventually they’d be faced with the strange realization that there was a woman in hijab doing their makeup while explaining she hoped to be certified as a hospital chaplain. 

The tension would quickly break with this line I’d repeat like a script: “I love God and I love people. Isn’t that the job description for a chaplain? Is there something I’m missing?” Contented and looking visibly more bold, they’d ask, “I respect your religion, but can you explain why you don’t love Jesus?” 

The question wasn’t accusatory, they were looking for a path to connect with me and asking me to explain what seemed like the biggest obstacle to forging that connection. I’d tell them about Surah Maryam (chapter 19) in the Quran and all the places where the story of the miraculous birth was told, and we’d agree that we had more similarities in faith than differences. 

The Muslim American Story 

Reflecting on my journey from the long Ramadan nights of my childhood to interactions in clinics and makeup counters, I realize that the narrative of the Western Muslim does not have to be a tragedy. Being a Muslim American in 2026 requires believers to resist the comfortable temptation to pull inward and hide behind the safe, familiar walls of our mosques, and to realize we have the agency to choose a different path. True khidmah (devotion) is found when we willingly step out into the secular, unpredictable, and sometimes hostile spaces of the world, carrying our identity as a bridge to reach others. When we actively choose to define our identity through these shared, human moments of joy and connection, we thrive as Muslim Americans.

As America celebrates its 250th anniversary, believers should reflect on their predecessors, the first Muslims to reach America. The first Ramadan in America was celebrated by enslaved Africans. They faced unbelievable challenges in persevering in their faith but held steadfast, choosing joy. By stepping out into the world with radical love and relentless curiosity, we honor 250 years of Muslim American history.

Zahara Alzubaidi is an Iraqi American writer and future physician with a passion for providing holistic care. She is currently pursuing Clinical Pastoral Education to bring holistic spiritual care into her future medical practice.