Enes Neza is an editor, writer, and researcher from Albania. He is currently a PhD student in Türkiye in the field of Social Media Studies. He embraced Islam at the age of 13. He is still working on with a special focus on Islamophobia— especially its expressions in the digital realm.
Could you briefly tell us about yourself?
My name is Enes Neza, and I come from the small but resilient country of Albania. Currently, I’m pursuing my PhD in Türkiye in the field of Social Media Studies, where I explore how Islamophobia manifests in the context of Muslimmajority countries. I didn’t grow up in a religious household. Like many Albanians born in the shadow of communism in the late 1980s, I was raised in an environment where religion was absent, sometimes even viewed with suspicion. Albania emerged in the early 1990s from decades of militant atheism. The wounds of that era lingered silently in our homes, where the sound of prayer had long been replaced by uncertainty. However, even in that silence, I felt something stirring inside me. A yearning. A quiet search that I didn’t yet have the words to name. Looking back, I now realize that Allah was guiding me long before I understood what that meant. My journey to Islam was not sparked by a single, dramatic moment. It was a persistent, silent question that lived inside me for years: “What is the purpose of my existence?” That emptiness I carried as a child wasn’t a curse. It was an invitation. A quiet call that I would one day answer.
What was your life like in terms of faith before you encountered Islam?
I embraced Islam quite early in my life, at the age of 13. But, long before I pronounced the shahadah, my soul had already begun its journey. I grew up in a small town in the 1990s, a time when Albania was just beginning to wake from its long spiritual sleep. There was no internet, no mobile phones, and not even a library. There were no mosques. The world felt small, but the questions within me were enormous. I had never seen a mosque in my life. I didn’t know a single practising Muslim. The only religious material I encountered came from Jehovah’s Witnesses. I read their pamphlets not out of belief, but because I was searching. Searching for God. For truth. For meaning. I remember the ache that lived in me an emptiness I couldn’t name. It wasn’t sadness, nor was it fear. It was more like homesickness but for something I had never seen. I would lie awake at night and wonder: “Why am I here? Why did God create me? What happens when I die?” One night, I had a dream that I still remember vividly. I saw myself dying, then being brought back to life, dressed in white. At the time, I didn’t know what it meant. But now, I believe it was a sign. A quiet message, telling me that something was coming. Something big.
When and in what kind of environment did you first hear about Islam?
Everything began to change around the year 2000 when my family moved to the city. I was in 8th grade. Christian missionaries were active in the schools, and I was drawn to their presentations. One day, I watched a film about Jesus. I followed it attentively, as I had already absorbed many Christian ideas through my reading. But then came a moment that deeply unsettled me. In the film, Jesus referred to himself as “the son of man.” That phrase struck me. “If he is the son of God,” I thought, “why would he call himself that (the son of man)?” The foundation of what I had started to believe began to crack. As I left the screening, I ran into an old-school friend I hadn’t seen in a few years. He, too, had attended the event. As we talked, he said something that shook me even more. “You know Jesus isn’t the son of God, right?” he said, calmly. I was stunned. “May God forgive you! How can you say that?” I asked. He didn’t argue. He simply smiled and said, “I’ve been going to the mosque lately. They teach you about God. You should come. They give free books you can read for yourself.” That same afternoon, I went to the mosque with him. It was the first time I had ever entered one. He showed me how to perform wudu (abdes). I followed his steps. Then we prayed. I still remember that moment like it happened yesterday the silence, the humility, the sincerity in each movement. I didn’t know the words, but I felt the presence of something pure and strong. After the prayer, I sat in a corner, unsure of what to do next. A bearded young man approached me. He noticed I was new and began speaking gently, not with pressure or preaching, but with love. He told me about Allah, about the purpose of life, about the beauty of the Oneness of God. I barely spoke I just listened and in that moment, something awakened in me. It felt like a light had been switched on in a room I didn’t know was dark. I left the mosque that afternoon carrying a plastic bag filled with books and I read like someone who had been thirsty for years. The concept of Tawhid struck me like a thunderclap. It was so simple, so clear, so powerful. It spoke directly to the questions that had haunted me for so long. Weeks passed. I kept reading, thinking, and reflecting. Then one day, I asked myself quietly: “What are you waiting for?” I already knew the answer. I had known it for a while now. That day, I submitted. I embraced Islam not just with my lips, but with my heart and soul. From that point on, the mosque became the most beloved place in the world for me. I would go five times a day. I would spend hours there, reading and learning. I was blessed in those early days to meet a wonderful teacher his name is Bashkim. He taught me the Qur’an with patience and deep sincerity. The foundations he gave me still guide me today. Every time I read the Qur’an, I remember him with gratitude and love. Bashkim wasn’t just a teacher, he was a light in my life, someone who passed on the beauty of the Qur’an with care and wisdom. Later, in the madrasah, I had professors who built upon what I had started with him, nurturing my love for learning and my faith.
How did your family and friends react to your choice of Islam?
When I began practising Islam, my family didn’t respond well. Like many Albanian families shaped by communism, mine viewed religion with suspicion. My parents had grown up under a regime that taught them religion was backward. So it was hard for them to accept my choice. Those first years were difficult. There was tension at home. I know many young Albanians who’ve faced the same and even worse. Some are forced out of their homes. For girls, it’s often harder, especially if they wear the hijab. My parents were confused and unhappy. But over time, they began to see that this wasn’t a phase. It was a decision I had made with deep thought and conviction. Slowly, they began to accept it at least outwardly. The scars of communism, though, run deep. Even today, I try to speak to them about faith whenever I can. One of the deepest prayers in my heart is that Allah guides them and allows them to live and leave this world as Muslims.
Naturally, my friendships changed too. Some old friends didn’t understand me anymore. I found myself needing a new circle people who shared my values. I surrounded myself with practising Muslims, and they became my closest companions. Their presence helped me stay strong. After finishing the 8th grade, I enrolled in a madrasah something similar to Türkiye’s Imam Hatip schools. Those four years shaped me profoundly. They gave me a strong foundation in Islamic knowledge and deepened my connection to faith.
What kind of projects are you currently working on?
I’m currently working on my PhD in social media studies, with a special focus on Islamophobia especially its expressions in the digital realm. Alongside my studies, I founded and now lead a media platform called Observatori Kombëtar Kundër Islamofobisë (Albanian National Observatory Against Islamophobia). Our website and our social media platforms, especially Facebook and Instagram, are active and growing. The goal was simple: to raise awareness and stand against Islamophobia, especially online. We focus on Albania, Kosovo, North Macedonia, and other Albanian-speaking areas. Since Islamophobic content spreads so easily through social media, we try to counter it with knowledge, critical analysis, and a firm but respectful tone. This is the only platform in Albanian devoted entirely to this cause. For me, it wasn’t just a project it felt like a responsibility. I didn’t plan it meticulously. It just pulled me toward it. Now, more than ten years later, I can say with humility that awareness has grown. People speak more openly about Islamophobia. There’s still a long way to go, but alhamdulillah, something has changed. Looking back on my journey, I see not just a series of events, but a story of longing, discovery, and transformation. Islam didn’t come to me in a flash. It came quietly, like rain after a drought, filling the deep emptiness I had carried for so long. It gave me meaning. It gave me structure. It gave me peace. Through Islam, I discovered not only who I am, but why I am. I still carry hopes and unanswered prayers especially for my parents. Yet, I walk this path with gratitude. Moreover, every step I take, every project I work on, is a reflection of that 13-year-old boy who was searching in the dark and finally found the light.
