There is something about making and enacting a life decision as colossal as rerooting—a choice deeply tied to reckoning with your past and projecting into your future—that catapults you acutely into the present. For those navigating the demands of young families and 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 arid and hostile territory for anyone constantly chasing tomorrow.
The present is a sensory plain. Like a predatory animal, your senses become languidly heightened, making you acutely aware of the minutiae of your surroundings in a way that escapes you when you are preoccupied with meeting work deadlines or preparing the evening meal. You suddenly 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 feel unnervingly high. It forces you to address thoughts and feelings often tucked away to unpack for another day in the nebulous terrain of the future. It 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 and temporary selves. It is the antithesis of time as we are supposed to inhabit it, serving as the illusory part we invest in yet remain perennially remote and absent from.
Being cognisant of your position in this gap between past and future—this blink-and-you-miss-it step on the treadmill of the present—grants a strange spatial awareness. While you might not ordinarily dwell on the social structures you constitute as individuals, such as the school, the office, or the neighborhood, becoming dislodged from them creates a necessary kind of dwarfing. Realizing you are a disposable component makes 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, shaping how we see ourselves. To be broken off from that context highlights your smallness in unsettling ways. We are often resolutely stuck to the concepts that grant us a sense of identity, floating blissfully into a planned future as part of a three-dimensional nexus near the local high street or secondary school—a constellation of the familiar that shapes who we are.
Geography as a Determiner of Identity
Geography remains one of the key determiners in how human beings identify and situate themselves in the world. By nature, human societies are tribal, tethering themselves crudely to the material ground they inhabit. This highlights the futility of our material selves and demonstrates 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 sports team closest to their proximity.
This tribalism encompasses everything from the fragile, exclusionary hostility of aggressive nationalism to the melodic, nostalgic folk culture rooted in the earth and soil. It sears a loyalty that can be belligerent and ugly, or deep and beautiful, yet ultimately somewhat senseless. It feeds into the grand narratives people possessively cling to, feeling coded within them to the point of feeling bereft and formless without them.
"Home" is a word that perfectly embodies the wonderment of language. It is simultaneously universal and specific; people are immediately aware of it while remaining largely unaware of the diverse personal implications it holds for others. For such a small, monosyllabic word, it evokes immense weight, carrying the colossal job of tethering individuals completely to a single concept and space. Its unassuming structure serves as a vehicle for personal contours of meaning, remaining as worn and familiar as the places people shape through their existence.
The Fracturing of Safety and Belonging for British Muslims
For Muslims witnessing the devastating toll of conflicts abroad—where children are killed on an hourly basis due to a shared identity—the notion of safety and naturalized belonging can no longer be taken for granted. Axioms once carried unquestioningly in the background of daily life have disappeared overnight, leaving a cold, gaping space. British Muslims, in particular, have understood for quite some time that tribalism, nationalism, and national rhetoric concerning belonging come with a strange and telling sense of discomfort.
National rhetoric surrounding belonging draws a rigid line at the Muslim identity, a reality underscored by recent events. Social anxiety is built entirely upon the identity of the Muslim on both micro and macro levels. Daily street experiences and relentless media headlines convey a persistent message: to belong is not to be Muslim, and to be Muslim is to not belong.
Public discourse and sentiment surrounding Muslims, heightened by the embers of recent race riots, have afforded a sobering perspective. When hotels housing Muslims can be targeted and exits blocked, simply existing as a Muslim can feel perilous in the British Isles. Beyond street-level hostility, even the peaceful exercise of civic rights, such as casting a ballot, has occasionally triggered panic across media industries, prompting deeper questions about the assumptions underpinning citizenship, legitimacy, and humanity. A conspicuous Muslim-shaped hole remains evident in these popular concepts.
The Reality of Leaving and the Search for Something Better
Conversations surrounding Muslim migration have taken on a detached, sober tone. Many Muslims witness predictable social and political tensions with a weariness borne from growing up within a hostile media climate. This animosity is becoming a defining part of how British Muslims perceive themselves and their space on earth, enabling a deeper realization of what it means to be a traveler in a transitory life. Making a conscious decision to change one’s place and time on earth requires an anchoring effort that forces individuals to grapple with their current reality.
While recent years have seen social media dominated by financial influencers rhapsodizing about moving to Muslim countries for material benefits, many Muslims are not simply chasing a capitalist dream. Some are relocating for affirmative religious purposes rather than reactionary ones. What unites these diverse motivations, however, is the fragile foundation of belonging for Muslims in the UK—not to suggest that they do not or should not call it home, but rather an acknowledgment of its precarious nature.
Much of Muslim cultural discourse has historically fixated on the shared sentiment of diaspora, the feeling of being an "other," and quaint narratives of heritage. However, the current historical moment represents a necessary departure from this diaspora trope. It involves inverting a story of passive consequence and cultural stagnation. Rather than looking backward at a distant "motherland," the focus shifts to the streets grown up in—the familiar concrete pavements that form part of one’s sensory DNA—which individuals are made to feel alien in. It is an acknowledgment of a fragmented sense of belonging, recognized across neighborhoods and cities, but challenged by broader national political climates.
Leaving a place that delegitimizes your existence—despite it being the only environment you have ever fully known, conceptualized yourself in, and formed cultural roots within—is an unnervingly deep process. It means divorcing from a space, a moment in time, and a network of social connectedness. Packing up and confronting past, present, and future selves forces an acknowledgment of the humbling spatial and temporal dimensions of human existence. It requires a commitment to the unknown, questioning both reassuring narratives and the pigeonholing rhetoric of hostility. Ultimately, leaving contextualizes what once seemed large and defining as fleeting, offering the realization that what was yearned for as "belonging" may not be as central as previously believed.
Relocating to a Muslim-majority country and experiencing a different, perhaps blunted, form of otherness—where one may not speak the language or understand local customs—brings a new perspective on the fluidity of home. It forces individuals to reconceptualise themselves and draw on internal resources. For many, leaving is not a defiant or reactionary choice, just as Islam is not defined by external cultural conflicts. Instead, the decision to leave is often driven by a pursuit of personal and spiritual betterment, despite the comfort of familiarity.
Saying goodbye to a city like London—which serves as the backdrop to every rite of passage, relationship, and memory—is profoundly painful. It is a geography known instinctively, embedded in muscle memory like a wise, non-judgmental friend. Yet, stepping away from that familiar space grants a new level of historic and geographic context, enabling a renewed consciousness. It offers an opportunity to live more purposefully while navigating a new environment, driven by intentionality and a desire for personal and spiritual growth.