There is something about making and enacting a life decision as colossal as rerooting—a choice deeply rooted in reckoning with one’s 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 planning for one life event after another, the present is 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, and an individual grows acutely aware of minutiae that vanish during the daily scramble to meet a work deadline or prepare an evening meal. Suddenly, a person can hear the small, echoing drips of a leaking tap or notice a discerning crack in a wall. The present gives pause in a discomforting way because the stakes are unnervingly high. It forces people to address thoughts and feelings they typically tuck away to unpack at some nebulous future date. It offers an opportunity to gauge the here and now as a barometer for a planned future, recognizing that this very moment will pass into the oblivion of yesterday, demonstrating the fleeting nature of temporary selves. It stands as the antithesis of how time is ostensibly meant to be inhabited—the illusory part of life that people invest in while remaining perennially remote from it.
Being conscious of this gap between past and future, this fleeting step on the treadmill of "now," grants a strange spatial awareness as well. Individuals may not ordinarily dwell on the social structures they constitute—the school, the office, the neighborhood—institutions in which their very beings are invested. But being dislodged from them and understanding oneself as a disposable component creates a necessary dwarfing effect. 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, so much so that being broken off contextualizes personal smallness in unsettling ways. People tend to stick resolutely to concepts that grant a sense of identity, floating blissfully into a planned future trajectory somewhere near the local high street and an old secondary school—the constellation of the familiar that shapes who they are.
And geography is one of the key determiners in the way we identify and situate ourselves in this world.
As humans, behavior often trends toward the tribal, tethering populations crudely to the material ground they inhabit. This dynamic highlights 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 nearest to them. This encompasses everything from fragile, exclusionary nationalism to melodic, nostalgic folk cultures focused on the earth and soil. It sears a loyalty that can be belligerent and ugly, or deep and beautiful, yet ultimately senseless. It feeds into the grand narratives people possessively cling to, feeling coded by them and bereft without them.
"Home" is one of those words that perfectly embodies the wonder of language. It is simultaneously universal and specific, immediately recognizable while carrying deeply individual implications. For such a small word, it shoulders the colossal job of tethering people entirely to a concept and a space. Its unassuming, monosyllabic structure is a flexible vehicle for personal contours, designed efficiently for widespread use. It remains familiar and worn, much like the places shaped by human existence.
For Muslims witnessing the devastating loss of children’s lives abroad on an hourly basis—tragedies connected by a shared identity and the nullifying concept of Muslim belonging—nothing previously deemed natural can be taken for granted. Axioms carried unthinkingly 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 understood 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 population, a reality reinforced by recent events. Social anxiety is built entirely upon the identity of the Muslim on both micro and macro levels. Street-level experiences and daily media headlines suggest that to belong is to not be Muslim, and that to be Muslim is to not belong.
Observing public discourse and the emotional climate surrounding Muslims in the wake of recent race riots offers a sobering perspective. Incidents involving hotels targeted for housing Muslims demonstrate a hostile environment where simply existing as a Muslim can feel precarious. Beyond street-level hostility, when the mere exercise of a civic right like voting sends shockwaves through media industries, fundamental assumptions regarding citizenship, legitimacy, and humanity demand interrogation. Evidently, a conspicuous, Muslim-shaped hole exists within these popular concepts.
Conversations surrounding Muslim migration have taken on a detached and sober tone. Many witness these predictable events with a resignation born from growing up in a hostile media climate. This animosity is evolving beyond a mere footnote in contemporary discourse, becoming a relevant factor in how British Muslims perceive themselves and their place on earth. It fosters an understanding of what it means to be a traveler. Muslims know that life is transitory; as human beings, they can be emotionally blinded by the intoxicating distractions of the immediate present. Making a conscious decision to change place and time on earth requires an effort anchored in everyday realities, accelerated by recent catalysts for reflection.
While acknowledging these motivating factors, social media has also seen an influx of financial traders rhapsodizing about moving to Muslim countries for material benefits, even as many Muslims are not chasing capitalist dreams. Despite anxieties surrounding cultural preservation, some relocations are driven by affirmative religious purposes rather than purely defensive reactions. What unites these diverse motivations are the fragile foundations of belonging for Muslims in the UK. This does not mean the UK cannot or should not be called home, but rather forces an acknowledgment of that home’s precarious nature.
Much of Muslim cultural canon has historically fixated on diaspora sentiment, the feeling of being the "other," and quaint narratives of heritage. However, the current historical moment demands a departure from this diaspora trope. For those in a position to move, it represents an upturn from passive consequence and cultural stagnation. It is not about looking backward toward a distant "motherland," but rather addressing the geographies known most intimately—the streets of childhood, the concrete pavements tied to sensory DNA—where individuals are made to feel alien and told repeatedly that they do not belong. It is an acknowledgment of a fragmented sense of belonging, recognized across neighborhoods and cities, yet contested at the national level.
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.
Departing means divorcing oneself from a physical space, a moment in time, and a network of social and cultural connectedness. Leaving forces individuals to reconcile past, present, and future selves, highlighting the humbling spatial and temporal dimensions of existence. It represents a commitment to the unknown, an excommunication from a tentative sense of belonging, and a realization of that endeavor’s ultimate futility. It challenges reassuring narratives alongside the pigeonholing narratives of external prejudice. Ultimately, leaving contextualizes previously defining life fixtures as temporary, proving that the concept of "belonging" may not be as critical as once believed.
Moving to a Muslim country introduces a different, blunted form of otherness—navigating an environment with an unfamiliar language, etiquette, and customs. Yet, this mirrors the experiences of millions navigating the fluidity of home, forcing a reconceptualization of identity and internal resources.
For many Muslims, leaving is not a defiant or reactionary choice. Just as Islam is not defined by Western anxieties, Muslim existence remains whole and independent of external meaning-making. Leaving is an endeavor to pursue betterment despite the comfort of familiarity. The measure of that betterment remains deeply personal, often driven by faith and contextualized by intention.
While the heart is often viewed as the domain of faith, the brain frequently mediates the relationship with Islam, recognizing when a familiar environment is no longer spiritually or practically sustainable. For many, leaving a beloved city like London—the backdrop of a lifetime’s worth of rites of passage, relationships, and memories embedded in muscle memory—is abjectly painful. Saying goodbye to that geography grants a new sense of historic and geographic context, enabling a more purposeful consciousness. While testing on a daily basis, it marks a new chapter undertaken with deliberate intentions.