My name is Rasha Yousif and I am a photographer from Bahrain. Over the course of 12 years, I have visited every country in the world, becoming the first Bahraini woman and the first hijabi Muslim woman to do so. From the isolated streets of North Korea to the long-sought borders of Paraguay, I have stood on every continent in every corner of Earth.
If you had known me when I was younger, you might not recognise me today. Growing up in Bahrain, I was a studious child. I got good grades, went to university and eventually built a career in finance. For 16 years, this was my world. I grew up with clear ideas of what success looked like and how to pursue it. I followed those rules faithfully. My passport, at the time, was barely filled.
The seeds were planted quietly during a youth exchange programme that took me to New York, Chicago and Washington DC. I remember thinking the world was far larger than the one I had known. It was on that trip that I bought my first camera, a Canon DSLR, and returned home with a new way of seeing. Walking the streets of Bahrain afterwards, I noticed that the one constant was change. I would return to the same streets weeks later and find either a wall repainted or a building gone. It made me realise that if something is not documented, it can disappear as if it never existed. I wanted to preserve what I felt was vanishing: architectural heritage, cultural detail and the ordinary lives of people in places that rarely tell their own stories. I carried that desire for a long time, but it was only after years of accumulated stress and burnout in my corporate job that I chose to pursue it. That was my signal and I went.
My first solo trip was to Zanzibar. I had read that Swahili culture shared deep similarities with Arab culture, and I was drawn to that familiarity within the unfamiliar. I planned everything myself, connected with a local photographer and moved across the island for a week.
“What began as a photographer’s instinct to document became a reckoning with my capacity to be present in the world and to take up space in it.”
People often ask if I felt lonely or afraid. The honest answer is no. Not for a single moment. I felt only the particular excitement that comes from finally doing something you have always wanted to do. From there, the goal formed almost without me realising it. Once I started seeing the world, I knew I wanted to see all of it. What began as a photographer’s instinct to document became a reckoning with my capacity to be present in the world and to take up space in it.
That visibility was heightened by my hijab. I have sat across from fellow travellers who, often with certainty, have suggested that wearing it must limit me, or have implied that I should speak on behalf of millions of Muslim women. I always respond the same way: I can only speak for myself. For me, wearing the hijab is a choice. It is a strength I carry wherever I go. From hiking mountains to swimming in challenging places, it has been a constant companion.
These experiences have shaped how I understand my relationship with the hijab. In the beginning, I wore it casually, treating it more as a cultural marker than a personal commitment. Over time, that changed. I reached a moment of clarity where I realised that I should either wear it with full intention or not wear it at all. So I chose to respect it fully, not just as clothing, but as identity. My hijab shapes how I move through the world, how I present myself and what I stand for. Travelling to 197 countries has also shown me how differently women wear it. Its form may shift across cultures, but what remains constant is the woman wearing it. I have seen women in hijab working under a relentless sun, carrying children and doing physically demanding labour that would break most people. Women are strong, with or without it, and no distance I have travelled has ever suggested otherwise.
“My hijab is a strength I carry wherever I go. From hiking mountains to swimming in challenging places, it has been a constant companion.”
But strength, like travel, is not without interruption. COVID-19 nearly stopped everything. For two years, the world stood still, and even when borders reopened, the complications felt endless. It was during that period that I found myself in Lamu, a small island in Kenya where life moves slowly.
There are no cars, the community is close and the days are simple. What Lamu gave me, beyond that stillness, was one of the most meaningful friendships of my life. I met Omar, a 70-year-old fisherman, at a cafe I visited daily. A greeting became a conversation, and conversation became routine. We watched sunsets and sunrises together. We shared only one common language, but it was enough. It reminded me that connection extends far beyond language or race. When I later began bringing small groups of women to Lamu, Omar became a natural part of the experience, eventually stepping into the role of a guide.
Those early trips grew organically. I organised my first group trip to India during the Holi festival. It was simply something I arranged because people on social media kept asking if they could join me. One trip became two, then many, and eventually a company: Qaflh. With Qaflh, I wanted to organise trips that are designed to challenge. These journeys are not luxurious; instead, they encourage women travellers to cultivate independence and connect meaningfully with the world around them.
What I want for the women who travel with me is what I have come to understand through my own journeys: that humility matters most. The world is filled with different people, beliefs and circumstances, but at the core, we are all the same. It is about recognising that—respecting one another, while also respecting the differences that shape us. I may not always be able to speak the language or fully understand every context, but I look for shared humanity. I notice the similarities rather than focus on what separates us.
To the young Muslim woman who might feel hesitant, I want to say this gently but plainly: just start. Take a train to somewhere you have never been. Travel within your own city if that is what is available. But go. Go alone if you can because alone is where the real work happens.
As for me, I am still searching. My goal was to visit every country and I have done that. What remains now is depth. I return to places I once passed through too quickly, taking time to understand them more fully. When people ask what I hope to find, my answer is simple: everything. I am open to whatever the world offers.
