In 2013 toward the end of the season, we were at a World Cup in Bologna, Italy. I remember looking at my bracket after qualifying for the second day of competition and realizing it was one of the toughest brackets ever. I would be competing against some of the best fencers in the world, women I’d yet to face off against on the strip. These were the women that I’d been admiring since I started fencing, women whose bouts I studied on video replay as part of my training, women like the Russian fencer Sofiya Velikaya, who had several World Championship titles and an Olympic medal to her name. To me Sofiya, or Sonia, as I called her, was like the Serena Williams of women’s saber. And I had her in my bracket.
Sonia was so smooth and dominant on the strip that as I put on my mask, my last thought before turning on fight mode was to try to fence like her. I wanted to be strong and confident in my actions, and that was exactly what I did. I beat the great Sofiya Velikaya, arguably one of the best fencers in the world, by a score of 15–10. My confidence was sky-high after that win. From there, it was almost like this mental courage built up inside of me because I had toppled one of the greatest. I felt invincible all day. I made it all the way to the semifinals, which meant I was going home with a medal.
The semifinal match did not start out well. I was losing miserably, 13–4, but then something clicked inside of me. I found this awareness that if I could beat Sonia, then I could beat anyone. My body caught up with my mind, and I rallied back on the strip to win the match against Ilaria Bianco from Italy 15–14. I ended up taking second place that day in Bologna, earning my first individual medal at a World Cup. I was ecstatic. When I stood on that medal stand I was so proud of myself. Nothing could contain my happiness.
From the medal stand I could see my teammates were watching me. But not one of them was cheering. And that’s the moment I realized I really was out here all on my own. It was a cold jolt of reality. Fencing is not the Girl Scouts. We’re not going to do a kumbaya as a team and rejoice in our joint success. Fencing doesn’t work like that. We are individuals first, a team second, and I would be smart to always remember that.
CHAPTER 14
Success isn’t handed to us; we earn it.
—MISTY COPELAND
The phone rang. Someone from the United States Department of State was calling and wanted to speak with me. It was a spokeswoman from Secretary of State Hillary Clinton’s office, and she was calling to ask me if I was interested in serving on the United States Department of State’s Council to Empower Women and Girls through Sports. This new initiative would be composed of American trailblazers in women’s sports who embody and support the secretary and department’s efforts to empower women and girls globally through sport. As a council member, I would travel to different parts of the world to share my story and encourage women and girls from around the world to pursue their potential through sports. By accepting the invitation, I would be joining an elite group of athletes, coaches, and sports journalists—like legends Mia Hamm and Billie Jean King—who were standouts in their field.
I didn’t know what to say. This was so humbling. I was honored to be acknowledged for breaking barriers in sport, as the first Muslim woman to represent the United States in international competition, but I hadn’t even qualified for the Olympics. My mind immediately went to that little girl who wanted my autograph in the clothing store. Was I accomplished enough as an athlete to be sent out into the world as an ambassador? Did I have a good enough story to share?
The State Department representative informed me that I didn’t have to give her an answer right away and could get back to them in a couple of days. I was grateful for the time to consider the offer. I used the time to talk to the people in my life I trusted most, beginning with my parents. I also talked to Peter Westbrook and Keeth Smart to gauge their thoughts on the opportunity. My parents told me I should be honored to show the world that a Muslim woman could excel in sports on an international level. Peter and Keeth both told me to seize every single opportunity that came my way. When I stopped to consider what this position really was about, I realized it fit perfectly with my aspirations since college. Being a part of this global initiative would be an amazing opportunity to merge my interests in diplomacy with my love for sports.
When Secretary Clinton’s office reached out again, I was happy to accept the position.
One of the first assignments I had as a council member was a series of speaking engagements at local schools in London about my journey as a minority member of Team USA. I had a World Cup in London at the end of the week, so I flew in a few days before to meet with cultural attachés and representatives from the United States embassy.
While on the airplane, I went over my speech a dozen times. I was still getting the hang of speaking in front of large audiences, but this would be one of the biggest assignments yet. I wanted to make sure I was prepared, because there was so much I wanted to say. I had to motivate these kids to follow their dreams no matter their gender, race, religion. I wanted to make sure my words reached them, and most of all I wanted them to know that I believed in them even if they didn’t yet believe in themselves.
As it turned out, the first school I visited, the Sarah Bonnell School for girls, had a large contingent of Muslim students. London is such a diverse city, with a large Southeast Asian Muslim community. As the students filled the auditorium, many of the girls wearing sky-blue hijabs smiled when they saw me, and I returned the favor. I shared my experiences growing up in a town with few Muslims, and I spoke about how hard it was to be the only person with brown skin or the only person wearing hijab in the sport of fencing. I also shared with them that my secret to success was to never let other people’s opinions about me stop me from pursuing my passions.
“When other people told me ‘no, you can’t,’ that’s when I told myself, ‘yes, I can,’” I said. Looking out into a crowd of eager faces, I felt fulfilled. The rush of making a room full of young girls feel good about themselves was amazing.
Before the students had to file off to their next class, I did a demonstration introducing some fencing basics followed by a short question-and-answer session. They asked if it was hard to train when no one else on my team looked like me. They wanted to know how heavy my saber was and if I could really kill someone with it. My favorite comment came from a little girl in one of the front rows who said that she had never seen a fencer who looked like me and now that she had, she realized she too could be the first at something, like the first Muslim woman astronaut from the UK. A bunch of other students added their own dreams of what first they wanted to achieve. It filled my heart to know that my story provided hope, and it confirmed my belief that there weren’t enough people like me in the public view for younger generations to find inspiration in. Black and brown young people, old people, Muslims and non-Muslims alike need role models to show that their dreams are possible.
And from that moment on, I made it a point to share my story as often as possible—not only through Secretary Clinton’s initiative, but whenever the opportunity presented itself. I realized I was in a unique position to transform the way society sees Muslim women and Black women in predominantly white sports, and the way we as ethnic and religious minorities see ourselves. I asked myself, If not me, then who? Looking back, I wondered how my own journey might have been different, easier maybe, if there had been someone who looked like me for me to look up to when I felt alone and defeated simply because I was deemed different.
Once I made the mental commitment to share my story, more and more speaking opportunities came my way. I was regularly speaking at universities, Muslim conferences, and different cultural organizations, in the United States and some internationally as well. Again, the Muslim community was particularly receptive to hearing about my experiences and cheered me on in my pursuits. In 2011, I received the Inspiration Award from the New Jersey chapter of the Council on American Islamic Relations (CAIR). In 2012, I was named Sportswoman of the Year by the Muslim Women’s Sports Found
ation, an organization based in the United Kingdom.
Because there were so few Muslim women on the professional sports circuit, I was an inspiration for a lot of people, especially as the first professional athlete from the United States who also wears hijab. There were misconceptions about Muslim women that existed both inside and outside of the Muslim community. While Islam doesn’t restrict women from exercising—in fact all Muslims are required to care for their bodies through exercise and healthy eating habits—women face a unique set of challenges with sports. A lot of Muslim women find it difficult to lead an active lifestyle while adhering to their religious principles around modesty, with most gyms being coed and workout wear being formfitting. These minor obstacles leave room for excuses not to make exercise a priority. It became common for certain groups within the Muslim community to encourage their boys to be involved in sports, while leaving their girls to sit on the sidelines. As a woman who pursued sport professionally in hijab, I proved that being a modest Muslim woman and being active were not mutually exclusive.
Another reason the Muslim community at large was embracing me was because they were simply starved for positive representation in the media. Media depictions of Muslims as terrorists and foreigners had inundated our televisions and movie screens, and these harsh misrepresentations fueled anti-Muslim bigotry and policies in America. My journey as a Muslim woman on Team USA flipped the Muslim narrative onto its head and became a source of pride for Muslims of all backgrounds. I bucked every single stereotype of the media depictions of Muslims. I was an American. I wore hijab by choice, and I proudly represented my country both on and off the fencing strip, both in victory and defeat. My journey was bigger than me. I was a vision that publicly counterbalanced the negativity surrounding Muslim identity in the United States.
Of course, there would always be people, even within the Muslim community, who didn’t want to see me succeed. They had complaints and critiques they couldn’t keep to themselves. Some questioned my traveling alone without a family escort, others opined that my fencing uniform was too tight. But these were exceptions to the overwhelmingly positive responses I received from my faith community. I was blessed to always have my parents around to remind me that what I was doing as an athlete, as a woman, and as a Muslim was brave and exceptional, and I should never let anyone make me feel guilty about the path I had chosen.
Everything seemed to be headed in the right direction. In addition to my speaking engagements at universities, with the State Department, and in the Muslim community, there was now a growing interest in my career by mainstream media outlets who found my story as an African-American, hijab-wearing Muslim in a traditionally white and elitist sport to be fascinating. It was kind of ironic that as anti-Muslim sentiment in the United States and the rest of the Western world increased, the media’s interest in my story grew in tandem. Because so few Americans personally knew a Muslim, and media misrepresentation of Muslims was at an all-time high, I was mindful that as one of the few Muslims receiving positive attention, I was in a unique and potentially precarious position. I wanted to continue to be a beacon of light for the Muslim community, challenging the negative stereotypes being perpetuated in the media. But I also wanted to be a voice who spoke up in defense of our religious rights.
This newfound weight on my shoulders changed and reshaped my conversations with God. Instead of praying for a win or praying during times of difficulties, I started to ask Allah to allow me to represent my community and my family well. I asked Allah to protect me from those who didn’t want good for me and surround me instead with those who would encourage and uplift me. I asked Allah to help me show patience even when the world was testing me.
And, oh, boy, was I tested.
I had been traveling overseas for a series of training camps and competitions. My mom had been with me in Belgium for my last competition, and now we were heading home. As we were passing through a security checkpoint at the airport in Brussels, we were pulled out of line.
“You must take this off,” the security officer barked at me in halting English, pointing at my hijab.
I turned to my mother, who was standing behind me in the line. She must have seen the fear in my eyes.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
“I think he’s saying I have to take off my hijab.”
Sensing the agent’s belligerent energy, my mom stood next to me and tried to deescalate the situation by calmly asking the security officer what the problem was. He repeated his words verbatim, indicating with hand gestures that we would have to remove our scarves. The officer had thinning brown hair and pale skin and looked to be in his late fifties. Maybe he was having a bad day or didn’t care much for his job, but either way he did not look happy with my mom and me.
“I’m sorry, we’re wearing this for religious reasons. We’re not taking them off,” I said firmly.
With the color in the officer’s cheeks rising, he looked like I had insulted him personally.
“Off or no flight,” he said. “You will not board the airplane if you do not take it off for the security check.”
This had never happened to me before. My passport was now filled with stamps from dozens of different countries, and I had never been asked to remove my hijab at an airport for security.
“We’re from the United States, and we’ve never had to remove our hijabs for security,” I said. My tone was defiant, but I was offended by the insensitivity of the officer and suspected this wasn’t a required safety precaution. This was profiling.
“Take it off,” the officer shouted, “or you will not fly on any airplane leaving this airport.”
I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed our mistreatment by the security officer. I was now starting to panic and wondered if anyone would step in to help us. Removing my hijab would feel like a severe violation of my privacy. It would be like asking someone to remove their underwear in the middle of the airport. I tried to be cordial and plead our case, but the officer seemed firm in his words. As desperation started to kick in, I tried to think of alternate routes my mom and I could take to get out of Belgium. Luckily, my mother kept a cooler head and intervened. “Sir, how about you pat our heads down like this to check. That’s how they do it in the United States,” my mother said, pantomiming with her hands.
“What is the problem here?” A female officer finally came over. The two officers spoke in hushed but heated tones in French, and then the female officer indicated that we were to follow her. Mindful of the time, Mom and I exchanged looks and then followed the woman into a room not far from the security hall. It was an unadorned gray room with a small table with two metal folding chairs. I imagined it was an interrogation room, and I feared what was going to happen to us. I reached for my mother’s hand for comfort.
“Okay, ladies,” the officer said. “Who is first?”
“For what?” I said.
“For the head check. I will pat you down over the scarf,” the woman answered.
Before I could answer, my mother stepped forward. The whole procedure for both my mom and me took five minutes. The female security officer was brisk and efficient. When she was done, we were free to go. We thanked the woman and hightailed it out of there, eager to make our flight back to the United States.
I didn’t want to think what would have happened if my mother hadn’t kept her cool. I was not going to remove my hijab—it was a violation of my religious rights to be forced to do so. But as I sat there I realized how close I’d come to a potentially hostile situation. I knew it was important to stand up and fight against discrimination, but I also knew that the next Muslim woman wearing hijab would feel the repercussions of my actions either in a positive or negative way. I prayed no other woman would have to choose between her hijab and getting home.
Sometimes I had to pinch myself when I stopped to think about all the blessings, self-awareness, and lessons I learned because of my commitment to the sport of fencing. I thought back to m
y darker days after college when I battled depression and uncertainty, unable to find a job in the corporate world like my friends. It reminded me to be thankful for every moment in my journey, including the obstacles, that had led me to this place where I could find happiness and purpose. If only I had known then what I know now, that my life would lead me to a place where I would have a greater impact on the world than I likely ever would have had sitting behind a desk in an office in Manhattan. The blessings now seemed endless, and there was always something new to experience.
But all of those blessings came at a cost. I was training, competing, and showing up for speaking engagements. I was spending so much time on the road that exhaustion felt like my permanent state of being. Sometimes I wondered if I would be able to make it through a single day. I didn’t complain about any of these bonus activities, though, because they were a rewarding and uplifting way to balance out the rigorous training I continued to do. But when I wasn’t on the road and had the opportunity to be home, my favorite place to be was curled up in my bed or spending time with my family. I didn’t have much time for a social life. I would see friends every now and then, but similarly to my time at Duke, I chose to focus on fencing and training. I didn’t always answer the phone and took hours to reply to text messages from friends, but they understood my schedule was hectic and overwhelming. That’s why most of my friends thought I had lost my mind when in 2014—one year away from Olympic trials—I decided to start a business.
Any good business begins with a problem that needs solving. I was having trouble finding modest clothing options to wear to the speaking engagements now filling my calendar. When I stood in front of these large audiences, I wanted to be modest in my clothing options, but did not want to sacrifice my sense of fashion. I had decided that finding an on-trend, long-sleeved maxi dress in the United States market was like finding a unicorn in the desert. And even when I was lucky enough to find one online, it was often from overseas and expensive. I would end up paying too much for a dress I didn’t even like that much.
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