“Are you Indian?”

I’m routinely asked such as I walk through my university campus, the streets of New York, the dating chat boxes. My caramel skin tone, long flowing black hair, and big brown eyes would suggest so.

“No, I’m Bangladeshi, the smaller, friendly neighbor.”

I grew up in a Muslim family in a predominantly Muslim country. I can read the Quran. I can recite my prayers. I’ve even visited Saudi Arabia for holy pilgrimage. When I came to America, I saw firsthand the horrors of Islamophobia. I read the bigotry. I studied the history. I spoke out against it. But I’ve never experienced it.

I don’t look Muslim. I don’t act Muslim. My name isn’t obviously Muslim.

My outward appearance paints me as Indian, which more often than not, implies I am Hindu. And with that simple misjudgment, I’m able to escape the wave of condemnation of 1.6 billion people.

While I’m frustrated that an identity of mine has been repeatedly erased by the encounters I have in America, I’m oddly okay with it. There’s a comfort in being able to walk and not be forced to openly condemn the atrocities of militant Islamism. There’s a comfort in not being openly harassed as a result of my religion. There’s a comfort in being able to walk away from the pain and suffering that comes from bigotry.

But this is not okay. My life should not be easier because an identity of mine has been suppressed. My identity is an expression, a celebration, and a piece of clothing proudly worn.

Islamophobia is an issue bigger than me, and there are people actively working against it. But I can start with a simple solution to my dilemma.

For the next curious questioner, don’t assume an identity (be it race, nationality, religion, etc). Just ask. And let us rejoice in the identity with you.