My parents vividly recall two days that took place in the summer of 2001. The first, my birth. Soon after, the Sept. 11 attack that took the lives of 2,977 U.S. Americans in New York. My family was luckier than most; we already lived within a Muslim community, in a small town in Pennsylvania. But that day changed the lives of Muslims and Arabs forever.

Last Sunday marked the fifteenth anniversary of the Twin Towers’ bombing. The perpetrator was part of a terrorist organization that read the teachings of Islam falsely and used it to justify their actions. Social media feeds, as per usual, were filled with the slogan “Never Forget,” alongside an overwhelming amount of Islamophobia.

Current U.S. President Donald Trump has only further driven said hateful rhetoric toward people of Islamic faith. He stated that Muslims celebrated Sept. 11, that a wall needs to be built to keep refugees out, that any Arab could be ISIS and that Muslims are dangerous — to name a few.

A recent study showed that there is a direct correlation between Trump’s tweets and anti-Muslim sentiments in the U.S., which are prevalent now more so than ever, resulting in an increase in hate crime toward Arabs.

I don’t need a study to tell me about the discrimination I face daily. I’ve known it my entire life. From “random” security checks at airports to being banned from beaches because of “inappropriate attire,” my experiences have unfolded as an embodiment of the xenophobia that followed the Sept. 11 attacks. I am not denying the fact that I face challenges as a hijabi living in the Arab world, but the villainization of Muslims in the West is radically different.

Honoring the lives of the victims should not be coupled with blaming the Arab world — Muslims and non-Muslims alike — for this event. There is definitely a diversity in the readings and interpretations of Islam, similar to other religions, and not all Muslims are the same. However, one group’s radicalization of these beliefs is not an accurate portrayal of the belief system. One organization does not represent an entire region or faith. Villainizing countries in the Middle East, and also disregarding the diversity of faiths in these countries by assuming all Arabs are Muslim, has constructed them to be perceived as a group threat.

This leaves Muslim — and non-Muslim Arabs who are often grouped into the same political and social image — with a constant need to respond to the narratives created for us by the West through justifying our choices and lifestyles. Being timelessly perceived and analyzed, internally and externally, through an Orientalist lens, halts our development as a region because it prohibits our ability to reflect introspectively on our cultures and move forward.

When I was a first-year, I wrote an article about the oppressive representation of the hijab in Western media. I defended the hijab as a choice, explaining its role in Islam. I felt obliged to stand up for the Arab world, to explain myself to the general public so as not to let my religion fall further into Western presumptions and stereotypes.

Two years later, I need to make a confession that my younger self failed to admit — a part of the truth that I chose to gloss over: the hijab can be oppressive, especially within certain cultural restrictions. Waking up and choosing to wear the hijab is a daily struggle, and its misrepresentation in the media does not make it easier. I should not, however, have to feel the need to hide that or explain myself. The Orientalist discourse in Western spheres has stolen the narrative from me, and silenced me.

It is time to take back the agency needed to be able to reveal these hard truths in order to allow space for the Arab world to grow.

The Arab region does not need to explain itself to the Western world. It should not feel the need to. The attacks on Sept. 11, 2001 were a tragedy, but it is time the West stops using it to hold us back.