Being Muslim and Refusing to Let Bigotry Decide Who I am
What does it mean to be a Muslim? What does it mean to be an atheist? What does it mean to not want to be a Muslim at all?
These are questions that I have struggled with throughout my admittedly short life. My relationship with my “religious identity” is one of mostly violence. My parents are secular, they are atheist and an inter-religious couple. They never brought me up as either Muslim or Hindu. In fact, I did not even know that such divisions existed until my first day of school. I introduced myself to a boy in nursery and I said my name, “Zafar Habib” and immediately what was meant to be a handshake turned into my hand being grabbed and my fingers being bent forcibly backwards until I screamed.
My name and its “Muslimness” became the basis for violent bullying throughout my school life. I never understood why it happened but only that sounding like a Muslim was enough for one child to be attacked by another child as if it was completely normal. This made me resent being Muslim, it made me resent my name. I wanted to change it to “Zafar Dev”, adopting my mother’s surname instead, maybe if I showed that I am half-Hindu that would make life easier? However, retrospectively, it may have just put an even bigger target on my back. Thus, I resented everything about religion, about being forcibly associated with a religion as it became the basis for deep trauma. In the current political, social and the recent borderline war-like state of our country, my imposed identity becomes something that weighs more heavily on me than ever before.
Yet, somehow, I find myself more willing than ever to put myself forward as a Muslim today than before.
I am not a practicing Muslim by any means, I am sure that if I made my views on religion vocal to some within the community, I may not really be considered Muslim. Despite that, I was warmly invited to an Iftar meal by my university’s Muslim students. I was treated as an equal, talked to lovingly and made to feel at home. It was an odd experience, I had never had an Iftar meal in my life, I had never sat on a table with Muslims other than my family members like this, I had never felt an acceptance of this sort. A community that I never identified with decided to accept me that day. They had also invited Hindu and Christian students to this meal, and they happily joined us in celebration. It makes one think about what being in a community based on a particular identity even entails, perhaps being a part of a community is more than just about labels or rigid definitions of belief.
Currently, Islamophobia is more rampant than ever, especially on social media. In my university, it has become common place for anonymous posts to go out. The fact that I won student council elections and became president clearly left a sour taste in some people’s mouths. I have been declared as a khanzeer-e-communist, a rather creative term I’d say – “khanzeer” is an Urdu word that roughly translates to “narrow minded pig”.
Illustration: Pariplab Chakraborty.
In other universities such as Gujarat University, Jamia Millia Islamia, O.P. Jindal Global University and most recently the case of professor Ali Khan Mahmudabad from Ashoka University there have been clear instances of violence against Muslim students, rape threats and online harassment of students as well as online trolling or FIRs being filed against Muslim faculty. According to a report by the Center for the Study of Organized Hate, Instagram is actively being used to promote extremist content in order to glorify anti-minority violence, especially against Muslims. The organisation tracked and analysed 1,023 Instagram accounts of individuals and groups that are involved in cow vigilantism. Around 30% of these accounts uploaded posts in which they shared videos of violence against Muslims who were transporting cattle. They confirmed the “Muslims” identity of these drivers by asking their names on camera. Once again, it doesn’t matter if I declare openly that I am an atheist, my name is something I cannot escape. But then I find myself asking, should I escape it? Then again, can I afford to keep it in this political climate?
Somehow, I find myself more ready than ever to keep it, to fight for it. India was established not on the basis of supporting a particular community or religion. According to our constitution, “every person who has his domicile in the territory of India and (a) who was born in the territory of India; or (b) either of whose parents was born in the territory of India; or (c) who has been ordinarily resident in the territory of India for not less than five years immediately preceding such commencement, shall be a citizen of India”.
Now that I am established as a citizen of India, it becomes important to note that there is a “prohibition of discrimination on grounds of religion, race, caste, sex or place of birth” in India. Our reality today has seemingly drifted or rather has been actively shifted away from the promises made to each and every citizen or future-citizen of India at the time of the country’s inception. In 2024, India Hate Lab documented 1,165 in-person hate speech events targeting religious minorities, with 98.5% directed at Muslims. This marks a 74.4% increase from 2023. Around 259 of these events included clear calls for violence, and 274 advocated for the destruction of Muslim places of worship. To simply be a Muslim or to be identified as one almost means by default to be someone that the current Indian government finds as a threat and as someone to be eradicated. The Human Rights Watch analysed speeches made by Prime Minister Narendra Modi during his 2024 election campaign. It observed that in at least 110 speeches, Modi made clearly Islamophobic remarks, going against the election code of conduct which forbids any appeal to “communal feelings for securing votes”. Throughout his speeches he described Muslims as “infiltrators”, raised fears among Hindu voters that their faith, places of worship, land, women and community will be under threat from Muslims. At the same time, the fact that I did win Student Council elections by a large margin also gives one hope that there is a kind of majority out there that is willing to look past these binaries of religion.
As a result of this ongoing systemic violence, political propaganda, and societal attacks, I now find that my journey with my name, with my apparent “Muslimness”, has grown from one of rejection to one of resistance. Identity is not simply a matter of belief, but it is a lived experience which is often dictated by how others choose to see you. I did not choose this name, this identity, or the discrimination that comes with it, but I am now prepared to choose to carry it forward. This is not an affirmation of religious faith, but a refusal to let such bigotry decide who I am. In a time when being identified as Muslim is equated with being a threat or even a “terrorist”, the decision to bear that identity is, in itself, a political act. It is an attempt, admittedly small, of reclaiming a degree of dignity in a country that promised equality but is now quickly forgetting it. Thus, I choose not to run from the name “Zafar Habib.” I choose instead to speak it louder.
Zafar Habib is a third year undergraduate history student at Shiv Nadar Institution of Eminence, Delhi NCR.
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