Climbing With Conviction as a Muslim Woman and Immigrant Daughter

Day 14: January 11th, 2025. One step. Take a deep breath. Focus. You’re at 21,000 ft and have regulated your nervous system and suppressed your emotions, not from your training for this expedition but from everything else leading up to it. 

Day 1: October 7th, 2023. The day the lives of so many Palestinian families were upended. It’s astounding how watching a genocide live-streamed and seeing your people massacred can make you numb to everything. Choosing suffering is a privilege, and a guilt that stays with me until I reach 22,838 ft- the summit of Aconcagua. 

Between two worlds: balancing passion & priorities  

As I prepared my expedition duffel in my family home, I neatly packed my Egyptian and Palestinian flag into the stuff sack with my summit gear. I’d kept my mountaineering objectives to myself, a few friends & mentors, and a small number of brands I’d sheepishly reached out to hoping to obtain a sponsorship. As I waited for the first leg of my trip, I opened up Instagram and started swiping: my algorithm showed me another Gazan child killed in between reels of running and climbing influencers.

Morally, I struggled to tear my focus away from the genocide in Gaza and leave my community to complete my climb. Back home, I’m met with blank stares and confusion — mountaineering being a far cry from what my priorities should be as a single 28-year-old woman. I’ve never been able to explain the passion I feel as I gaze up at the highest peaks in the world.

As a child of immigrants, the guilt of following an unconventional path will always be there. And so I told no one, and I spent those 16 days on the mountain trudging in silence—often met with stares & the feeling of being othered as a visibly Muslim woman, not encountering a single Arab during the three week expedition. 

An uncommon path: what is my place here?

Our people don’t do this stuff.

Unsurprisingly, I’d learned a few months prior that I’d be the second Egyptian woman to summit Aconcagua, the highest peak in the Americas — if I made it to the top. A week prior to my departure, I was sitting in the living room wondering why there haven’t been more of us on these summits — and the answer I’d resolved myself to at the time was “I guess I’ll find out.”

In the months leading up to the expedition, there were a number of times I’d doubted my decision and had an email notification of my withdrawal drafted and ready to send. I didn’t doubt my ability; I had prepared physically and mentally as best I could and was stronger than ever. Instead, it was seeing the magnitude of suffering in this world and feeling waves of helplessness that gave me pause. I kept wondering what my place should be amidst all of it.

“The strength and resilience of Palestinians amidst oppression is stronger than anything we can develop as endurance athletes.”

Witnessing the genocide and mass displacement via social media while world leaders remained silent was something hard to put into words. Daily tasks began to feel trivial. Instead I felt deeply the fragility of human life and the erosion of trust by institutions that were meant to protect. It wasn’t just hard to focus; it became difficult to set goals or think about anything else.

Then there was the realization that I would be voluntarily leaving every comfort & privilege behind to sleep in a tent for 16 days—that almost stopped me in my tracks. My choice was my own but the grim reality is that millions of people from war-torn countries have no other option. In those moments, I’d realized why we don’t “do this stuff.”

But the more time I spent truly thinking about my motivation, the closer I got to making a decision to continue.

Climbing with conviction: finding my purpose in these peaks 

The beauty in our religion is that everything we pursue is with intentionality, purpose, and ihsan (excellence). I chose this summit and brought these two flags with me because my identity, faith, & community are the most important things to me right now. I know this much: the representation and visibility of my people matter in spaces where our stories & struggles have long been ignored.

In a time of rampant hate crimes & Islamophobia, the choice to retreat into our communities due to fear is justified but speaking up to educate and counteract harmful rhetoric is just as important. If we don’t speak up, then who will? I had found my passion and place in the outdoors and would unapologetically bring my whole self.

But why did I feel that every day I actively chose to pursue my mountaineering objectives separated me from those I was closest to?

“Choosing to suffer is a privilege - and along with our privilege comes responsibility. ”

My parents begrudgingly allow it but the tension and skepticism always remain. Coming back to reality after every successful summit inspires complicated feelings of both gratitude and guilt. How can I celebrate my individualistic mountaineering goals after growing up in a culture that teaches collectivism & service? Is there a way I could ever truly thrive with these two sides of my life without compromising my values or ambition? 

I wish I could share with my community how freeing the mountains can be. In the same way the Palestinian climbers in the West Bank have shown us that climbing can be a source of joy and a symbol of resistance—an attempt to reclaim their land and right to exist. These expeditions have taught me a level of mental fortitude, resilience, and confidence like nothing else.

Eventually I realized I could shatter my own preconceived notion that identity and passion are mutually exclusive. I made the decision to pursue these objectives while remembering exactly why we do hard things and why I continue to persevere. The strength and resilience of Palestinians amidst oppression is stronger than anything we can develop as endurance athletes.

Choosing to suffer is a privilege - and along with our privilege comes responsibility.

In the words of Dr. Refaat Alameer, “If I must die, you must live to tell my story.” The line that rings through my ear as I look back at my summits: raising my flag on the summit of Volcano Cayambe in Ecuador; covering the Salkantay trek with stickers of freedom and justice, and wearing my headscarf unapologetically in spaces that rarely see people like me. 

Palestine resistance: a pinnacle of hope & resilience 

It was 1:55 pm when we finally reached the top of Aconcagua. We snapped a group picture, and I knelt down and tied the Palestinian flag to the summit cross. Three days later, I was back in my hotel room in Mendoza, swiping through  Instagram, when I saw that the new climbing friends I’d met at base camp had just made it to the summit and posted a picture. I noticed the flag was still tied to the cross, and I smiled. I kept scrolling and the next story I saw was the announcement of a potential ceasefire. I smiled even more. I felt a moment of joy— and was reminded that in between hardship, there is hope that justice prevails.

And knowing that this world is not perfect, but we will still celebrate every win while recognizing there is still work to do. We will be trailblazing- both literally and figuratively- and I’ve realized that everything I’ve learned about resilience, discipline, and hope throughout my expeditions over the past two years has never been from the mountains but from my people.