In August 2014, I was new to American life. As someone born and raised in Kashmir, my identity was always political. Introductory classes were a challenge. "So where are you from?" was not an easy question to answer. It carried a baggage of being pilloried by the Indian State on one hand, being played by Pakistan on the other, and a thirst for freedom. I was never conscious of my identity as a Muslim woman in a hijab until American journalist James Foley was beheaded by the Islamic State (IS).

In the aftermath of 9/11, Muslim identity became more than a religious marker - it became a political statement. Getting death stares, asked to leave the country, refused a haircut because "we don't cut the hair of people like you" were some of the stories friends shared with me of being Brown and thus, presumed to be Muslims.

Fourteen years after that, I moved to "post-racial" America. "Where are you from?" questions became more frequent. "Are you a practicing Muslim?", "What does Islam say about terrorism?", "What do you think about IS?" and "She is a Muslim PhD student" became the norm. My Muslimness was unwanted in this part of the world.

That semester, I took a course that dealt with sexuality and media. It was, as the professor had warned, "a sexually explicit class". He had even looked at me and said, "You are welcome to drop the class." But I stayed.

Towards the end of the semester, graduate students had to pick a book from a list and present a paper on it. I chose Emma L.E. Rees' The Vagina. It was probably too much for a classmate who came to me after class was over and asked, "Judging by your appearance," he pointed at my headscarf, "I can assume your religion. What the hell are you doing in this class?" The display of my Muslimness was a jolt to his understanding of how Muslim women ought to be.

Over the next many months, presidential candidates, selling their merit to Americans, emphasised the need for "Muslims cooperating and providing information that we might not get anywhere else" (Clinton), the importance of having "Muslim databases" (Trump), "patrolling of Muslim neighbourhoods" (Cruz), and the clichéd accusation of "non-assimilation of Muslims in the American culture" (Carson). All these statements added to the growing hate and intolerance against Muslims and presumed Muslims in the United States.

I was screamed at and called a "Muslim b****", stopped in a grocery store aisle and reminded that it was 9/11 anniversary, shunned because the scarf on my head had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with my religion. I reached a point where I had to choose between my external identity as a Muslim woman and my life. I chose life.

Taking the headscarf off was the hardest decision of my life. It felt like losing a part of my identity, accompanied by the guilt of being a "bad Muslim". I sought therapy to overcome my shame; I sought refuge in the stories of people with similar experiences.

Now, when I walked the streets, I found myself welcomed in the frequent smiles of people. There were no stares when I walked through the security lines at the airport. From being "the other", I suddenly became "them".

When I had moved to Delhi in the winter of 2012, being a Kashmiri with fair skin had set me apart from the people I lived with and around. I was mistaken for a "foreigner". There is a particular pride Kashmiris take in their skin colour that sets them apart from the "occupier" Indian state and its Brown people. Looking like an angrez is taken as a compliment.

When I took off my headscarf, I suddenly became a "white woman", an angrez. The burdens of my external identity, my threatening Muslim existence, and my perceived radical religiousness fell away like autumn leaves. My skin colour became my new identity. I was no longer asked where I was from. I could walk the streets with ease, with no one staring at me. Even my foreign accent became temporarily assimilated.

The institution of race is stronger than religious identity. Sometimes I wonder if I had a dark skin colour, what would have happened? Would it have made any difference if I had taken off my headscarf?