There is something about making and enacting a life decision as colossal as rerooting—a choice deeply bound to reckoning with your past and projecting into your future—that catapults you acutely into the present. For those juggling young families or busy lives, accustomed to the constant grind and planning for one life event after another, the present is a strange and alien domain. It is an arid and hostile territory for those constantly chasing tomorrow.
The present is a sensory plain where, much like a predatory animal, your senses are languidly heightened. You become acutely aware of the minutiae of your surroundings in a way you rarely are when preoccupied with meeting work deadlines or preparing the evening meal. Suddenly, you hear the small, echoing drips of a leaking tap or notice a discerning crack in the wall. The present gives you pause in a discomforting way because the stakes are unnervingly high. It forces you to address thoughts and feelings usually tucked away to unpack another day, somewhere in the nebulous terrain of the future.
This state of awareness offers an opportunity to gauge the here and now as a barometer for a future you are planning—a moment that will itself pass into the oblivion of yesterday, demonstrating the fleeting nature of our imperfect, temporary selves. It stands as the antithesis of how we are supposed to inhabit time, breaking away from the illusory routine we invest in yet remain perennially remote and absent from.
The Spatial Awareness of Dislodging
Being conscious of your position in the gap between past and future—the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it step on the treadmill of the "now"—grants a strange spatial awareness. While everyday life normally anchors us to familiar structures like schools, offices, and neighborhoods, being dislodged from them creates a necessary humbling effect. Understanding that you are a disposable component within these systems creates a sense of dwarfing. You 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. To be broken off from it contextualizes your smallness in ways that are deeply unsettling. People often cling stubbornly 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, situated near a familiar high street or secondary school.
And geography is one of the key determiners in the way we identify and situate ourselves in this world.
Human nature remains inherently tribalist, tethering individuals crudely to the material ground they inhabit. This highlights the arbitrary and superficial nature of national or cultural branding. People identify with or against the flag they sit under, the postcode they live in, or the football team closest to their hearts. This tribalism encompasses everything from an angry, fragile, and exclusionary nationalism to a melodic folk culture rooted in the nostalgia of earth and soil. It sears a loyalty that can be belligerent and ugly, or deep and beautiful, yet fundamentally senseless. It plays into grand narratives that people feel so possessively wed to, feeling coded by them to the point of feeling formless and bereft without them.
The word "home" embodies the wonderment of language perfectly. It is simultaneously universal and specific, immediate yet deeply complex in its personal implications. For such a small word, it carries the colossal job of tethering people completely to a concept and space. Its unassuming, monosyllabic structure serves as an economic vehicle for the many personal contours of its meaning, worn and familiar like the places shaped by human existence.
The Precarity of British Muslim Belonging
For Muslims watching the unfolding tragedy of children being killed on an hourly basis due to a shared identity, nothing previously deemed natural can be taken for granted. Axioms carried unthinkingly in back pockets have disappeared overnight, leaving a cold, gaping space in their place. Many realize they simply do not exist in the same world and can no longer afford illusions. British Muslims, in particular, have known for quite some time that belonging, tribalism, and nationalism come with a strange and telling discomfort.
National rhetoric concerning belonging explicitly draws a line at the Muslim, a reality reinforced by recent events. Social anxiety is built entirely upon Muslim identity on both micro and macro levels. Daily experiences on the street and relentless headlines suggest that to belong is not to be Muslim, and that to be Muslim is to not belong.
Witnessing the state of public discourse and feeling surrounding Muslims in the wake of recent race riots offers a renewed sense of perspective. When hotels housing Muslims can be targeted and blocked, it becomes evident that merely existing as a Muslim can feel criminalized. Outside of street lawlessness, even the peaceful exercise of civic rights, such as casting a ballot, has triggered panic and frenzy across parts of the media industry. This environment forces a hard look at the assumptions upon which citizenship, legitimacy, and humanity are based, revealing a conspicuous, Muslim-shaped hole in popular concepts of society.
Conversations surrounding Muslim migration have taken on a detached, sober tone. Many Muslims witness these predictable events with a resignation born from growing up in a hostile media climate. This hostility is becoming more than a mere footnote; it is now a relevant part of how British Muslims perceive themselves and their space on earth. It offers a glimpse of what it means to be a traveler—a reminder of life’s transitory nature. Making a conscious decision to change one’s place and time on earth requires an effort anchored in the everyday realities that people often try to deflect.
While there is a renewed acknowledgment of these motivating factors, social media in recent years has also been dominated by financial commentators rhapsodising about moving to Muslim countries for material benefits, appealing to those not solely chasing the capitalist dream. Others move for affirmative religious purposes rather than reactionary ones. What unites these varied motivations is the occasionally fragile foundation of belonging for Muslims in the UK—not to negate the idea of calling it home, but to acknowledge its precarious nature.
Moving Beyond Diaspora Twee
Much of Muslim cultural canon has historically fixated on the shared sentiment of diaspora, feeling like the "other," and the quaint narratives that accompany it, such as henna-tainted fingertips or eating with hands. However, 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.
The shift is not about looking backward at distant cultural spaces known as the "motherland," but rather confronting the geographies known most intimately—the streets grown up in, the concrete pavements tied to sensory DNA, and the visceral connections to neighborhoods where people are repeatedly made to feel like aliens. It is an acknowledgment of a lack of a traditional maternal homeland, realizing one belongs to a house, a street, or a neighborhood, but less so to a country shifting under political tides. It is a decision looking forward into what could possibly be, rather than lingering on 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 space, a moment in time, and a network of social and cultural connectedness. It forces an acknowledgment of the humbling spatial and temporal dimensions of belonging and existing, committing to the unknown while letting go of old reassurances and attempts at pigeonholing by others. It renders previous definitions and investments into perspective, revealing that long-sought-after "belonging" may not be as paramount as once believed.
Moving to a Muslim country introduces a different, blunted kind of otherness—navigating an unfamiliar language, etiquette, and customs without deep roots. This experience echoes the fluidity of home experienced by millions worldwide, forcing a reconceptualization of self and the discovery of new internal resources.
For many Muslims, leaving is not a defiant or reactionary choice. Just as Islam is not defined by external political narratives, individual existence remains whole and independent. Leaving is often about striving for improvement despite the comfort of familiarity, driven by personal values and faith-based intentions contextualized within their specific moment.
Saying Goodbye to the Familiar
While the heart is often viewed as the domain of faith, the brain frequently mediates the relationship with Islam. People may long for environments that cerebral analysis suggests are not right for them as believers. For many, leaving a city like London—deeply loved, familiar, and serving as the silent, non-judgmental backdrop to every rite of passage and life experience—is profoundly painful. It is a geography known like the back of one’s hand, embedded in muscle memory.
Saying goodbye to that place and time grants a new sense of awareness, historic and geographic context, and a renewed consciousness. It allows individuals to be more purposeful while adapting to new environments and resources. It is a challenging daily transition, but one approached as a new chapter aimed at personal and spiritual growth.