By 18, I was adamant that religion was a waste of time. Could I rediscover my faith?

Exclusive | 3 min read

Anyone who’s grown up in a religious family knows how faith plays a role in almost every aspect of life. It was the case for me after I moved to the UK from Pakistan aged three. 

My parents enrolled me in a local Islamic school to bridge the cultural gap, as well as uphold our family values. Till 11, there were few people I knew who were not Muslim or South Asian.

Despite living in the West where I was technically a foreigner, everyone else felt foreign to me. I practiced my religion because it was the norm in my circle. I was too young to question it or understand the larger power and existentialism of religion. All I knew was there was a God up in the skies, who would be pretty pissed off if I did anything bad.

Society

By 14, I was more aware of the role my religion was playing in society. It had been 10 years since 9/11 and Islamophobia was at its peak. Unlike primary school, I was now one of a handful of non-white students in a small, girls-only school. An even smaller proportion of us were Muslim.

It was the first time in my life I felt truly exposed to Western culture. I sang hymns, went to harvest festivals and Christmas carol services. But at home, my evenings and weekends were spent at Quran classes and reading prayers. It was important to my parents that Islam remained a part of my life.

But in time, I realised my father, who had spent most of his childhood and adulthood in the UK, didn’t pray. He even ordered non-halal food options when we went out sometimes. It left me confused.

I had always believed my religion was the right one. But now I had only questions. Was my dad going to hell? If God was real, why did bad stuff keep happening around the world? Why were some people bad? How could God prove his existence to me? My mind was swimming.

New beginnings

Leaving for university, I wanted my faith to remain an integral part of my life and enrolled in the Islamic Society, hoping to find people who would keep me grounded.

I wasn’t ‘overly’ religious though, usually failing to carry out all five daily prayers. But I still ate halal, fasted during Ramadan, didn’t drink or smoke and ticked the ‘Muslim’ box in any form asking my religion. That was good enough, right?

The next few years were turbulent. Every day, the news reminded what a horrible place the world could be. My friends were mostly atheists and the few who did have faith in a religion were not consistent.

It all rubbed off. Gradually, my prayers went from once a week to once a year and my Quran gathered dust. I stopped searching for halal restaurants, didn’t feel guilty buying a cheeseburger from McDonalds, and I stopped ticking ‘Muslim’ on forms.

The picture-perfect reality I had grown so used to began crumbled around me. Was it normal to have an existential crisis of such gravity as a teenager?

I continued practicing Islam, but more so out of respect for my mother and fear of the unknown. I had lengthy conversations with friends and my parents about my confusion. ‘You’re old enough to decide for yourself,’ my dad said.

But what if I made the wrong decision? Would the rest of my family still love me? And more importantly, would God forgive me?

A loss of faith

Being a sociology student who spent my time reading the works of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels fuelled the destruction of my belief. In time, I didn’t believe in God, heaven or hell and decided religion was a scam, a social construction invented by ancient people with strong, idealistic beliefs. 

And just like that, I had lost my religion with no plans to find it again.

But one morning in March 2018, I woke up with a sore back and within a fortnight, I’d lost 95% of my eyesight. No one could figure out what was wrong with me and I prepared myself for the end. Every fibre of my body ached, but I felt completely numb and at peace. I was ready to die.

Then, an eye scan revealed I had enough fluid built up behind my eyes to cause permanent visual loss and brain damage. I was diagnosed Idiopathic Intracranial Hypertension, a build of pressure in the brain, and told my chances of completely recovering were slim to none. The doctors had not seen a case as severe as mine and prepared me to never be able to see properly again. They warned the chances of me living a normal life would be difficult. 

No one could really explain what happened next. Over the next few weeks, I began to show signs of improvement. I shouldn’t have been able to see, and my brain should have been permanently damaged. It was a miracle. I found myself silently praying for the first time in a long time and thanking God for allowing me to be alive and well.

An awakening

My recovery was not just physical, it was spiritual too. I couldn’t explain my return of faith, but all I knew was one day I hadn’t believed in a higher power, and the next day, I did. Perhaps it was because words like miracle and disbelief were constantly being thrown at me by medical professionals, or perhaps it was because I had seen the light and almost walked towards it.

Three years on, my relationship with God is the strongest – and most forgiving – it’s ever been. I’m don’t keep up with prayers and Islamic traditions, and I hesitate when ticking the ‘Muslim’ box, but I now KNOW God is out there and he’ll have my back when I need it most.

Religion is a deeply intimate and personal thing and it can truly shape every aspect of your life. The thing that had prevented me from embracing my religion before was the fear of judgment and criticism. I didn’t want to be told that I wasn’t doing it right or that I was going to go to hell.

Now, I’m reminded of the presence of God in my life everywhere I go not just when following the rules of my faith. He is on my daily walk when I smell the fresh air and see flowers blooming. He is in the intricate details of my mother’s face and my father’s hands.

The last few years have taught me despite religious communities being close and strong, the relationship you have with God is ultimately between you and Him. I question various aspects of my religion and disagree with common practices and beliefs, but that’s OK too. As my father said, I’m grown enough to decide it all for myself, and that gives me so much hope for this life and beyond.

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