Whatever shape vase you pour Islam into, it takes that shape: Reconciling My Cherokee Heritage and My Muslim Identity by Sarina Asbury-Bagcioglu

As a convert to Islam, or rather a “revert,” I have faced challenges navigating the metamorphosis of my identity that has been shaped by many factors, including my background, cultural traditions, and societal attitudes. In blending my Native heritage and Muslim faith, I have built a strong personal sense of self and connection with my immediate Muslim community and the broader society, while also honoring and embracing the values of my multiple cultures. Throughout my adult life, I’ve slowly worked to reconcile the lessons my mother instilled in me with the cultural heritage she wanted me and my sister to be proud of—the heritage we carried in our blood.

My mother grew up in the 1930s and 1940s in the mountains of West Virginia when assimilation had already affected her family for two generations. She shared with me the fears and insecurities she felt when her grandparents visited. Living in a coal-mining town, she and her siblings often tried to fade into poor white society, assuming a more “acceptable” role.  It was clear they were not white, but it was also clear that they were aspiring to be “civilized.” To embrace Native heritage at that time was to be “savage and uncivilized.” When she shared the stories of her youth with me, I sensed that she too was working to deprogram herself from the cultural constructs of the shame that she felt for being native growing up.

Although she and her immediate family did not live on the North Carolina reservation where her grandparents were from, my mother’s parents preserved traditions of storytelling and spirituality that were central to the Twister Clan, also known as the Long Hair Clan. Storytelling, her most cherished gift to me, became her way of ensuring our family’s history was preserved. In her family line, there were diplomats and speakers. Her honesty and sense of justice were part of this legacy. She instructed me to keep our history, telling me from a young age never to forget who I was and where I came from. Though I didn’t understand this responsibility as a child, her guidance inspired a quest to reconcile my American identity with my Cherokee heritage in my early teens. In seeking my Native self, I fed my spirit and developed an even deeper hunger for truth. She taught me that a person with a hungry soul is both powerful and vulnerable, as the soul needs nourishing too.

My spiritual journey eventually found solace in faith, with Islam as a lighthouse guiding my soul toward comfort. The Arabic word Islam has the root “Sa La Ma,” which holds the meanings of peace and submission. This resonated deeply with me as another lesson from my mother: “You can’t lead until you can humble yourself to follow what is true. If you search, you will find it. But when you find it, you must not reject it.” But then there were times I felt parts of myself became invisible or even minimized as I began my path in Islam. This journey was beautiful, taking me across oceans and to many countries in my pursuit of knowledge. Everywhere I went, I often had to explain—and sometimes convince—people that I was really Native American on my mother’s side, a member of the Cherokee Nation. But because I inherited fair skin and green-blue eyes from my father, my heritage sometimes seemed to be met with skepticism, amusement, or ignorance. Often, responses would include stereotypes taught by Hollywood—remarks that subtly felt like mockery because American society has shaped perceptions of Native American culture as something mythical and entertaining. In more recent films there is a more noble view, however it still lacks authenticity.

I felt pride in sharing my heritage, yet it was sometimes exhausting. The disbelief or surprise in others at my Native American identity brought moments of emptiness. People in various Muslim communities would ask questions as if needing proof, and I sensed an expectation to provide a simplified answer. But I don’t fault Islam, nor do I blame the broader Muslim culture, members of which I’ve spent more time over the past 34 years with than with my people both blood family, who I lost at the end of my teens, and people from the Cherokee Nation.  It was the cultural inaccuracies and misconceptions that have been perpetuated by false sources that also stained the lenses of people in my adopted Muslim community and have often left me feeling invisible. Particularly, in my early years as a Muslim.

Over the past two decades, I have embraced opportunities to visit tribal lands, attend Pow Wows, and reflect at sites of historical significance for Indigenous people. When visiting places of past tragedies, I pay my respects with moments of silence.  I revere those Native people who have paid a heavy price for our existence today. I also admire the indigenous people who work hard to teach and rebirth “the ways” of our people. I understand that I cannot change the past or the attitudes of others toward it. But I do my part internally, affirming my own diversity that exists under my hijab. My faith does not erase who I am; rather, it enriches me, bringing unity to the many layers of my identity.  No matter what vase Islam is poured into, it takes on that shape.

I have passed down many stories to my children, hoping they may carry them forward in their own ways. Their journeys are different from mine, and I am uncertain if they will hold these stories close. Today, I no longer struggle with what others may or may not understand. Amid crises and global upheaval, the human spirit continues its search for meaning. In the end, truth will prevail, whether people nourish their spirits or not. But our existence would be far richer if more people sought to unite their minds, bodies, and spirits. After all, a “hungry spirit can be a powerful and a dangerous thing.”

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