The Cost of Dissent - When Identity and Faith Collide (Part 1)

Leaving religion is often framed as a simple change of belief, a rational decision made in the pursuit of truth. However, for many, this shift involves far more than the rejection of a set of theological ideas. It is the unraveling of an identity, a community, and a worldview deeply intertwined with faith. The emotional and social toll of leaving a religion, especially one that shapes every aspect of a believer's life, is profound.

In The Atheist Muslim: A Journey from Religion to Reason, Ali A. Rizvi describes this process poignantly:

"Simply changing one's mind can mean leaving behind not only one's family and community, but also childhood memories, lifestyle, relationships, feelings of belonging, and, as discussed earlier, one's sense of security, safety, and comfort. When beliefs are so deeply ingrained in one's identity, a shattered faith almost inevitably results in a shattered identity - one that must be rebuilt fragment by fragment."

For me, this journey was deeply personal. My path away from Islam began not from rebellion but from a quest for answers. Since childhood, I questioned religious teachings, always asking, "Why?" This insatiable thirst for truth, though genuine, led to friction with family, friends, and religious preachers. I longed to believe, and I sought solace in learning. I immersed myself in Islamic teachings, registering for courses from Bilal Phillips' Islamic Online University, devouring his book on Tawheed, and following scholars like Ibn Taymiyyah. I read classical texts on creed and worship, hoping to quiet the doubts that stirred within me.

Yet, the more I learned, the more questions arose. My skepticism persisted, and I struggled to reconcile faith with the contradictions that plagued my mind. I wasn't satisfied with the vague notion of faith in the unknown; I needed clarity. Despite my best efforts to believe wholeheartedly, I couldn't find peace. I turned to prayer as my last resort - engaging in conversations with a god I desperately wanted to believe in, calling upon His 99 names during my prayers.

During Ramadan 2020, I resolved to wholeheartedly rely on Allah for guidance, aiming to become a true mu'min (believer) by invoking His names - Al-Mu'min (The One Who gives Emaan and Security), Al-'Aleem (The All-Knowing), As-Samee' (The All-Hearing), Al-Baseer (The All-Seeing), Al-Hakeem (The All-Wise), Al-Haqq (The Absolute Truth), Al-Haadi (The Guide), and more. I read the Quran alongside its translation, hoping to deepen my understanding of Allah on a more profound level.

But it was during this spiritual journey that a verse shattered my resolve. Surah An-Nisa 4:34, which instructs men on how to deal with wives they perceive as disobedient, was a turning point. The verse described a hierarchy between men and women that I couldn't accept.

"If you fear high-handedness (nushūz) from your wives, remind them [of the teachings of God], then ignore them when you go to bed, then hit them. If they obey you, you have no right to act against them: Allah is most high and great." - [Sūrah al-Nisā': 4 : 34].

When I contemplated this verse, I dove deeper into research. I questioned friends and preachers, consulted various books, but the more I looked into it, the more dissatisfied I became. Why would Allah instruct a man to discipline his wife for nushūz, but a wife, faced with her husband's nushūz, was expected to seek peace?

"If a wife fears high-handedness (nushūz) or alienation (iʿrāḍ) from her husband, neither of them will be blamed if they come to a peaceful settlement, for peace is best. Although human souls are prone to selfishness, if you do good and are mindful of God, He is well aware of all that you do." - [Sūrah al-Nisā': 4 : 128].

It struck me as a glaring double standard. How could a just god instruct men to discipline women while expecting women to bear the burden of seeking peace? It reeked of inequality, and no one I asked could provide a satisfactory answer. My values of justice and fairness clashed violently with this verse, and it was in this dissonance that I began my intentional journey out of Islam.

This verse was not just a theological stumbling block - it was the moment I started to detach from religion. I stopped wearing the hijab, quit reading the Quran, and eventually ceased performing Salah (prayer). It wasn't an easy decision. As Rizvi writes:

"These monumental upheavals in the lives of young, freethinking Muslims are solely the consequence of changing their minds about one thing - their religion."

During this transformation, an ex-friend called me after seeing a picture of me without my hijab. She berated me for misleading people and demanded that I delete my old pictures where I wore the hijab from my Facebook, accusing me of not being serious about the religion. I was heartbroken. As friends, I had confided in her about my doubts and struggles with certain religious issues, but she used those vulnerable moments to castigate me, questioning the sincerity of my intentions to ever be a true Muslim. To this day, people cast aspersions on whether I was ever a 'real' Muslim before leaving Islam.

This is the price ex-believers pay for their departure from religion - they are scrutinized, doubted, shamed, and sometimes even threatened. The cost of this change was steep. Religion had shaped my morality, my worldview, and provided me with a sense of community. Walking away meant leaving behind not just a belief system, but an entire way of life. It resulted in the loss of family ties, friendships, and even the comforting routine of religious practice. The psychological toll was immense, as I wrestled with guilt and isolation. Like many ex-Muslims, I experienced the "disorientation, anxiety, and/or depression" that follows such a profound identity crisis.

I divided the article into two sections for readability and length. You can read the continuation of this story in part two. Check my platform for part two. I hope you enjoyed my story.