My faith became a source of fear for me. Really, it was a fear of people’s fear of me, what their reactions would be if they knew I was Muslim. When I was 10, I started routinely being blamed for things I never did. By 12, I knew all the things I couldn’t do at an airport: outwardly prey before take off, say anything was “the bomb,” or really do anything other than keep my head down and try to go unnoticed, because any perceivable action could be considered suspicious. The fact the I was a 12-year-old girl didn’t matter, in an airport especially, even the most innocuous actions had the potential to be read by many as sinister. At times, I felt I fell into a cycle of hoping the latest terrorist attack wasn’t perpetrated by a Muslim, and profusely apologizing when it was.