There is something about making and enacting a life decision as colossal as rerooting—a decision rooted in reckoning with the past and projecting into the future—that catapults a person acutely into the present. For those with young families or busy lives, accustomed to the constant grind of daily routines and planning for one life event after another, the present can feel like a strange and alien domain. It is arid and hostile territory for those constantly chasing tomorrow.
The present is a sensory plain. Like a predatory animal, one’s senses become languidly heightened, acutely aware of the minutiae of surroundings in a way that escapes those preoccupied with meeting work deadlines or preparing evening meals. Suddenly, there is the echoing drip of a leaking tap or a discerning crack in a wall. The present gives pause in a discomforting way because the stakes are unnervingly high. It forces individuals to address thoughts and feelings usually tucked away for another day, unpacking them somewhere in the nebulous terrain of the future. It offers an opportunity to gauge the here and now as a barometer for a planned future, recognizing that the current moment will soon pass into the oblivion of yesterday, demonstrating the fleeting nature of our imperfect and temporary selves. It is the antithesis of time as it is supposedly inhabited—the illusory part of life that people invest in while remaining perennially remote and absent from it.
Being conscious of this position in the gap between past and future—the fleeting step on the treadmill of "now"—grants a strange spatial awareness. While individuals might not ordinarily be conscious of the social structures they constitute, such as schools, offices, and neighborhoods, being dislodged from them creates a necessary kind of dwarfing. Understanding oneself as a disposable component suddenly makes a person feel small in the grander narrative of time and history. So much human identity is invested in feeling part of a greater network; being broken off contextualizes personal smallness in unsettling ways. People remain resolutely attached to concepts that provide a desired self-image, floating blissfully into a planned future as part of a three-dimensional nexus between time and space, near the local high street and old secondary schools. It is a constellation of familiarity that shapes individual identity.
And geography is one of the key determiners in the way we identify and situate ourselves in this world.
As humans, our very nature is tribalist, and we tether ourselves crudely to the material ground we inhabit. This exemplifies the futility of material existence and how arbitrary 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 closest to their proximity. This encompasses everything from fragile, exclusionary, skin-headed nationalism to achingly melodic folk culture focused on the nostalgia of 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 in and from them, and bereft and formless without them.
"Home" is a word that perfectly embodies the wonderment of language. It is simultaneously universal and specific, immediately recognized yet carrying profoundly personal implications for each individual. For such a small bolt of a word, it evokes a vast amount, holding the colossal job of tethering people completely to one concept and space. Its unassuming, monosyllabic structure serves as a vehicle for personal contours of meaning, designed efficiently for use. It is familiar and worn, much like the places shaped by human existence.
For Muslims watching the devastating realities of children being killed on an hourly basis due to a shared identity, nothing previously deemed natural can be taken for granted. Those axioms carried unquestioningly in back pockets have disappeared overnight, leaving a cold, gaping space. Communities realize they no longer 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 discomfort.
National rhetoric concerning belonging explicitly draws the line at the Muslim, a reality reinforced by recent events. Social anxiety is built entirely upon Muslim identity on both micro and macro levels. Experiences on the street and daily media headlines convey a clear message: to belong is not to be Muslim, and to be Muslim is to not belong.
Witnessing public discourse and feeling surrounding Muslims in the wake of recent race riots provides a renewed sense of perspective. Incidents such as hotels being targeted and exits blocked because they house Muslims demonstrate that simply existing as a Muslim can feel precarious in the British Isles. Beyond the lawlessness of the streets, when Muslims merely exercise their absolute civic right to cast a ballot and media industries enter a frenzy, fundamental questions arise regarding the assumptions underpinning citizenship, legitimacy, and humanity. Evidently, there is a conspicuous, Muslim-shaped hole in these popular concepts.
Conversations surrounding Muslim migration have taken on a detached, sober tone as many witness these events with a resignation born from growing up in the prevailing media climate. This hostility has evolved beyond a mere footnote in contemporary discourse, becoming a relevant part of how British Muslims perceive themselves and their space on earth. It fosters a genuine understanding of what it means to be a traveler, reinforcing the absolute truth that life is transitory. Making a conscious decision to change place and time, for those with the privilege of choice, requires an effort anchored in the everyday realities usually met with deflection. Recent events have served as a catalyst for sobering reflection.
While there is a renewed acknowledgment of these motivating factors, social media has also seen an influx of Forex traders rhapsodising about moving to Muslim countries for material benefits, even as many Muslims are not chasing capitalist dreams. Despite narratives concerning the liberal corruption of Muslim children, others have moved for affirmative religious purposes rather than reactionary defense. What unites these diverse motivations is the fragile foundation of belonging for Muslims in the UK—not to suggest they shouldn’t call it home, but rather an acknowledgment of its precarious nature.
While much of the Muslim cultural canon has fixated on the shared sentiment of diaspora, the feeling of being the "other," and repetitive narratives involving henna-tainted fingertips or eating with hands, the current historical moment demands a departure from this diaspora twee. For many in a position to move, it represents an upturn of passive consequence and cultural stagnation. It is not about looking backward at distant cultural spaces or the "motherland," but rather acknowledging the streets where people grew up, the ubiquitous smell of concrete pavements, and the visceral connection to an environment where they are nevertheless made to feel alien. It is an understanding that one may belong to a house, a street, or a neighborhood, but feel increasingly alienated from the wider nation-state.
Leaving, so finally, a place that delegitimises your existence, despite it being the only place you’ve existed in so completely, the only language you’ve conceptualised yourself in, and the only cultural topography you’ve formed, is unnervingly deep.
Leaving involves a divorce from a space, a moment in time, and a sense of social and cultural connectedness. Doing so forces individuals to reckon with all states of their being—who they were, what they are now, and what they want to become—highlighting the humbling spatial and temporal dimensions of existing. It allows people to see themselves within both their place on earth and the broader story of time. It is a commitment to the unknown, an excommunication from a limited sense of belonging, and an acknowledgment of the futility of seeking acceptance within rigid systems. Leaving disorients because it contextualizes previously defining elements of life as a mirage, ultimately revealing that true belonging is not as vital as once believed.
Moving to a Muslim country and experiencing a direct kind of "otherness"—navigating an unfamiliar language, etiquette, and customs—brings to mind the millions who experience the fluidity of home. It forces a reconceptualization of the self, drawing on different internal resources.
Despite recent events, leaving is not inherently a defiant or reactionary choice for many Muslims contemplating the transition. Just as Islam is not the dark underbelly of Western liberalism, Muslim existence is whole and independent of external narratives. Leaving is often simply about the endeavor to secure something better despite the comfort of familiarity. The measure of that improvement remains personal, driven by values, choices, and faith.
While the heart is often viewed as the domain of faith, the brain frequently mediates the relationship with Islam, prompting believers to recognize when a specific environment is no longer right for them. For many, leaving a city like London—deeply loved, familiar, and embedded in muscle memory as the silent backdrop of every life experience—is abjectly painful. Saying goodbye to that geography grants a new sense of awareness, historical context, and consciousness. It enables a more purposeful existence while navigating new environments, driven by personal intentions and the hope of a fresh chapter.