Part 2

Whenever I had time to think, I began speaking directly to God, asking, "If You really exist, why is everything so unclear to me?"

It started as a one-sided conversation, then turned into a direct plea: "If You exist and hear me, give me a sign." I wanted a sign, and I got one; from that day on, I was fully convinced that a Creator exists.

Once I was sure of the existence of a Creator, I realized that many people believe in this in different ways. I began to explore what different religions said about God and this life.

I bought books on the five major religions: Islam, Judaism, Christianity, Buddhism, and Hinduism. I started by reading these books, comparing them, and asking myself which aligned with my understanding of God and my feelings.

Buddhism and Hinduism were quickly ruled out. Among the three monotheistic religions, I examined Judaism first and set it aside. Then I focused on Islam and Christianity, comparing them.

What I needed were answers to my questions. I found those answers in the Quran, which not only answered my questions but also gave direction to my life. It provided a holistic view, bringing a sense of harmony within me.

As I approached the end of my studies, I spent a lot of time with friends and colleagues. One night, as I sat outside, I asked myself, "If you continue with this life, will you be happy?" The thought troubled me because I had no satisfying answer.

The next day, I had a train journey and was waiting at the station. It was a sunny day, and I realized that fear was holding me back. I had built a wall around myself, afraid to take the next step. As I stood on the platform, looking at the tracks below, I felt like I was standing at the edge of a dark abyss, filled with emptiness. This realization made me very sad.

Approaching my 18th birthday, I had chosen a religion but hadn't taken any steps forward. I was standing at the gate but hadn't entered, afraid to walk the path I knew was right. When you know the right way but don't have the courage to follow it, it's like betraying yourself.

I boarded the train, tears streaming down my face. From a distance, I saw a blind man sitting on a four-seat section, marked by an armband. I clearly remember thinking how fortunate it was that he couldn't see my tears. I watched as he touched his watch to check the time and listened to a text message he received, later telling me it was a poem sent to him. I marveled at this blind man, full of life, sending poems to his friends, while I, in the prime of my youth and health, was struggling to find peace with life. I admired him greatly.

As we traveled, at the next station, I saw a boy standing outside my window, holding a woman's hand. He was also blind. Doubts crept in—I thought, "I travel by train often, but I've never noticed blind people at the station before." At the following station, on the same platform, but for a different train, stood a Black man, also blind, holding a woman's hand. In that moment, it hit me: perhaps I was the one who had been blind until now. This realization opened my eyes.

A few days later, through a Muslim friend, I learned of an event at a mosque. I decided to take the first step. We went together to the event, which lasted three days. There, in front of the mosque, I wore a headscarf for the first time with the help of my friend. I spent three days in that mosque, and it was a new world for me, one I had never experienced before. I had never been to a mosque, seen Muslims pray, or known anyone who practiced Islam. Those three days had a profound impact on me. After returning home, I no longer wanted to remove my hijab.

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