I Cannot Marry a Muslim

 

I Cannot Marry a Muslim

 I Cannot Marry a Muslim

Sana stood by the window, clutching the letter in her hand like it might burn her if she let it go. The morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting golden rays over the room—but all she felt was a heavy grayness pressing on her chest.

The letter was from her father, written in his sharp, familiar hand. It was kind, almost gentle, but firm in one sentence: "You cannot marry him. He is Muslim, and we are not."

She read it again and again, the words blurring. Not because she hadn’t expected it, but because it still hurt. Arjun, her fiancé, was everything her parents ever hoped for in a man—kind, intelligent, respectful. But he prayed differently, and that changed everything.

They had met at university, where faith was part of conversation, not conflict. He had explained his beliefs with humility; she had listened with curiosity. They never tried to change each other. In that shared space of mutual respect, love bloomed.

But love, as she was learning, is not always enough.

“You knew this would happen,” her friend Meera had said over coffee weeks ago. “Interfaith marriages are still taboo here, especially when religion is seen as non-negotiable.”

Sana hated the idea that love could be overruled by boundaries she never chose. She wasn’t deeply religious herself. Her parents were more cultural than devout, but now, suddenly, lines were drawn as if in stone.

Later that day, Arjun came to see her. He sat beside her quietly, reading her expression before asking, “Did you tell them?”

She nodded, holding up the letter. He read it in silence.

“I don’t want to be the reason you lose your family,” he said gently. “But I also don’t want to lose you.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “Why does it have to be a choice?”

He didn’t answer. Neither of them had one.

The truth was, Sana loved Arjun. But she also loved her family—their warmth, their memories, their place in her world. And so, with a breaking heart, she made the decision no one should ever have to make.

“I cannot marry a Muslim,” she whispered—not because she believed it, but because she knew she couldn’t bear losing everything else.

Sometimes, love doesn’t lose to hate. It loses to fear, to culture, to silence.