There is something about making and enacting a life decision as colossal as rerooting—a choice deeply rooted in reckoning with the past and projecting into the future—that catapults an individual acutely into the present. For those with young families or demanding lives, accustomed to the constant grind and the relentless planning of one life event after another, the present is a strange and alien domain. It is an arid and hostile territory for anyone constantly chasing tomorrow.
The present is a sensory plain. Like a predatory animal, one’s senses become languidly heightened, making the individual acutely aware of the minutiae of their surroundings in a way that escapes those preoccupied with meeting work deadlines or preparing evening meals. Suddenly, there is the sharp sound of a small, echoing drip from a leaking tap, or the notice of a discerning crack on the wall. The present gives pause in a discomforting way because the stakes are unnervingly high. It forces people to address thoughts and feelings usually tucked away to be unpacked at a later time in the nebulous terrain of the future.
This state offers an opportunity to reflect upon and gauge the here and now as a barometer for a planned future—a moment that will itself pass into the oblivion of yesterday, demonstrating the fleeting nature of imperfect and temporary lives. It serves as the antithesis of time as humans are generally supposed to inhabit it; the illusory part of life that people are apparently invested in, yet from which they remain perennially remote and absent.
Being conscious of one’s position in the gap between past and future—the fleeting, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it step on the treadmill of the "now"—grants a strange spatial awareness. Individuals might not normally be conscious of the broader social structures they constitute as individuals, such as the school, the office, or the neighborhood, all of which their very being is invested in and contributes to. Yet, being dislodged from these structures and understanding one’s role as a disposable component creates a necessary kind of dwarfing. People suddenly feel small in the grander narrative of time and history.
So much of human identity is invested in feeling part of a greater network, constituting how individuals see themselves. To be absolutely broken off from that contextualizes one’s smallness in unsettling ways. People are resolutely stuck to concepts that provide a sense of identity as they wish to see it—like quietly stubborn barnacles floating blissfully into a planned future, part of a three-dimensional nexus between time and space, located somewhere near the local high street or an old secondary school. It is the constellation of the familiar that shapes personal identity.
And geography is one of the key determiners in the way we identify and situate ourselves in this world.
As humans, behavior is inherently tribalist, and people tether themselves crudely to the material ground they inhabit. This exemplifies the futility of material existence and highlights how arbitrary and superficial national or cultural branding can be. People identify with or against the flag they sit under, the postcode they live in, or the football team they feel closest to. This encompasses everything from the angry, fragile, and exclusionary skin-headed nationalism to the melodic, nostalgic folk culture focused on the earth and soil. It sears a loyalty that can be belligerent and ugly, or deep and beautiful, yet ultimately senseless. It plays into grand narratives that people are possessively wed to, feeling coded by and from them, and feeling bereft and formless without them.
The word "home" embodies the wonderment of language perfectly. It is simultaneously universal and specific; people are immediately aware of it, yet largely unaware of the personal implications it holds for others. For such a small word, it evokes immense weight, carrying the colossal job of tethering individuals completely to one concept and space. Its unassuming, monosyllabic structure serves as an efficient vehicle for the many personal contours of its meaning. It is familiar and worn, much like the places shaped by human existence.
For Muslims witnessing the earth-shattering reality of children being killed on an hourly basis on account of a shared identity, and under the nullifying concept of Muslim belonging, nothing deemed natural can be taken for granted anymore. Axioms carried unquestioningly in back pockets have disappeared without warning overnight, leaving a cold, gaping space. Such individuals simply do not exist in the same world and can no longer afford delusions. British Muslims, in particular, have known for quite some time that this sense of belonging, tribalism, and nationalism comes with a strange and telling sense of discomfort.
National rhetoric concerning belonging draws a strict line at the Muslim, as recent events have violently highlighted. Social anxiety is built entirely upon Muslim identity on both micro and macro levels. Experiences on the street and daily headlines communicate a clear message: to belong is to not be Muslim, and to be Muslim is to not belong.
Witnessing the state of public discourse and feeling surrounding Muslims in the wake of recent race riots affords a renewed sense of perspective. Hotels can be set alight and exits blocked if they house enough Muslims—suggesting that simply existing as a Muslim has, in some contexts, felt like a criminal offense in the British Isles. Beyond street-level lawlessness, when Muslims simply make a mark on a ballot paper—an absolute civic right—it is enough to send the media industry into a total frenzy. This reality forces a deeper interrogation of the assumptions upon which citizenship, legitimacy, and humanity are based, revealing a conspicuous, Muslim-shaped hole in these popular concepts.
Conversations surrounding Muslim migration have taken on a detached and sober tone as many witness these predictable events with a resignation born from growing up in the contemporary media climate. This hostility is becoming more than a mere footnote in contemporary Muslim discourse and movement; it is now a relevant part of how British Muslims perceive themselves and their space on earth. It also enables them to feel a semblance of what it means to be a traveler, recognizing that life is transitory. Making a conscious decision to change place and time on earth requires an effort anchored in everyday realities, pushed forward by a sobering reflection on the current social and political state.
While there is a renewed acknowledgment of these motivating factors to leave, social media has simultaneously seen a rise in influencers and financial traders rhapsodizing about moving to Muslim countries for material benefits, even though many Muslims are not chasing a capitalist dream. Despite narratives concerning the liberal ruination of Muslim children, some individuals have moved for affirmative religious purposes rather than purely defensive or reactionary ones. What unites these diverse motivations is the sometimes weak foundation of belonging for Muslims in the UK—not to suggest they do not or should not call it home, but rather an acknowledgment of that home’s precarious nature.
Much of Muslim cultural cannon has historically fixated on the shared sentiment of diaspora, the feeling of being the "other," and the quaint narratives that accompany it—such as henna-stained fingertips and eating with hands. However, the current historical moment demands a departure from this diaspora twee. In fact, it represents an inversion of that story. For those in a position to act, it involves breaking away from passive consequence and cultural stagnation.
The journey is not about looking backward at cultural spaces felt to be distant yet strangely familiar—the "motherland." Rather, it confronts the geographies known intimately: the streets of childhood, the ubiquitous smell of concrete pavement that forms part of sensory DNA, and the visceral connection to places where one is made to feel like an alien, told time and again that they do not belong. It is an acknowledgment of a lack of a maternal homeland, an understanding that while a person may belong to a house, a street, or a neighborhood, they find themselves increasingly alienated from the broader political nation. This chequered sense of being is delineated by tensions in self-perception versus how others place individuals in the bigger picture of belonging. It is a decision looking forward into what could possibly be, rather than what has passed.
Leaving, so finally, a place that delegitimizes your existence, despite it being the only place you’ve existed in so completely, the only language you’ve conceptualized yourself in, and the only cultural topography you’ve formed, is unnervingly deep.
Leaving involves divorcing oneself from a physical space, but it is also a stark departure from a specific moment in time and a sense of social and cultural connectedness. Packing up and reckoning with all the states of one’s being—who you were, what you are now, and what you want to be—forces an acknowledgment of the humbling spatial and temporal dimensions of existing. It allows people to see themselves both in terms of their place on earth and within the broader story of history. It represents a commitment to the unknown, a total excommunication from a fractured sense of belonging, and an acknowledgment of the ultimate futility of trying to force that fit.
Moving to a Muslim country, and experiencing a blunted yet more direct kind of otherness—where one may not speak the language, understand etiquettes, or feel naturally rooted—draws parallels to the millions who experience the spatial and temporal fluidity of "home." It forces a reconceptualization of the self, prompting individuals to draw on different parts of their identity and discover new internal resources.
Despite recent events, leaving for many Muslims is not merely a defiant or reactionary choice. Just as Islam is not defined by the dark underbelly of Western liberalism, individual existence remains whole, complete, and independent of external meaning-making. Leaving is often about the endeavor to pursue a better life in spite of the comfort of familiarity. The measure of that "better" life remains personal, tied to individual values, choices, and faith.
While the heart is often viewed as the domain of faith, it is frequently the brain that mediates the relationship with Islam. Individuals may long for environments that cerebral analysis indicates are not right for them as believers. Personally, leaving a city as beloved as London—with its grey, everyday presence, its role as the backdrop for every rite of passage, and its status as a non-judgmental witness to life’s quirks—has been abjectly painful. London has always been there as a willing backdrop, mediating relationships and personal development, known instinctively like the back of one’s hand and embedded in muscle memory.
Saying goodbye to that place and time has granted a new sense of awareness, offering historic and geographic context while enabling a new consciousness. It allows for a more purposeful existence while navigating new environmental resources. It is a daily test, but it marks a new chapter undertaken with the hope of personal and spiritual growth.