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 of us navigating young families or demanding modern lives, the present is a strange and alien domain. We are so accustomed to the constant grind of daily existence, perpetually planning for one life event after another, that the present becomes arid and hostile territory for anyone constantly chasing tomorrow.
The present is a sensory plain. Like a predatory animal, your senses become languidly heightened, and you grow acutely aware of the minutiae of your surroundings in a way that is easily missed when you are merely preoccupied with meeting a work deadline or preparing evening dinner. Suddenly, you can hear the small, echoing drips of a leaking tap or notice that 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 the thoughts and feelings we routinely tuck away to unpack at another time, somewhere in the nebulous terrain of the future. It offers an opportunity to gauge the here and now as a barometer for the life we are planning, serving as a moment that will inevitably pass into the oblivion of yesterday, perfectly demonstrating the fleeting nature of our imperfect and temporary selves. It stands as the antithesis of time as we are supposed to inhabit it—the illusory part of life we are all ostensibly invested in, yet from which we are so perennially remote.
Being conscious of your position in this gap between past and future—this fleeting, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it step on the treadmill of the present—grants a strange spatial awareness. While we might not typically dwell on the institutional structures that shape us as individuals, such as the school, the office, or the neighborhood, being dislodged from them creates a necessary kind of dwarfing. Realizing you are a disposable component within these networks makes you suddenly feel small in the grander narrative of time and history. So much of our identity is invested in feeling part of a greater framework, which makes being broken off from it an unsettling experience. We are resolutely attached to these concepts that define how we wish to see ourselves, floating blissfully into a future we have planned as a trajectory near the local high street or our old secondary school—a constellation of the familiar that anchors our 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 reliance exemplifies the futility of our material existence and highlights how arbitrary and superficial national or cultural branding can be. We identify with or against the flag we sit under, the postcode we live in, or the football team nearest to our hearts. This tribalism encompasses both the angry, exclusionary nationalism of the far-right street agitators and the melodic, nostalgic folk culture rooted deeply in the earth and soil. It sears a loyalty that can be belligerent and ugly, or deep and beautiful, yet ultimately somewhat senseless. It plays into grand narratives that we possessively cling to, feeling so coded in and from them that we often feel bereft and formless without them.
"Home" itself is a word that embodies the wonderment of language. It is simultaneously universal and specific; we are immediately aware of it, yet largely unaware of the personal, nuanced implications it holds for each individual. For such a small word, it carries the colossal responsibility of tethering us completely to a specific concept and space. Its unassuming, monosyllabic structure serves as an efficient vehicle for personal contours of meaning, designed perfectly for everyday use. It remains familiar and worn, much like the places we shape through our mere existence.
For Muslims witnessing the devastating reality of children being killed on an hourly basis—tragedies unfolding precisely because of the shared identity we carry with them through the nullifying concept of Muslim belonging—nothing that was once deemed natural can be taken for granted anymore. Those foundational axioms we carried unquestioningly in our back pockets have disappeared without warning, leaving a cold, gaping space behind. We simply do not exist in the same world as we once thought, and we can no longer afford to live under delusions. For British Muslims in particular, this sense of belonging, tribalism, and nationalism has long come with a strange and telling discomfort.
National rhetoric concerning belonging consistently draws its sharpest line at the Muslim, a reality reinforced by recent social anxieties manifesting on both micro and macro levels. The experiences we encounter on the street and the headlines we read day in and day out tell us a stark story: to truly belong in the modern public consciousness is to not be Muslim, and to be Muslim is to not belong.
Witnessing the state of public discourse and the public mood regarding Muslims over the glowing embers of recent race riots affords a renewed sense of perspective. When hotels housing Muslims can be set alight and their exits blocked, simply existing as a Muslim in the British Isles can feel perilously close to a crime. Beyond the lawlessness of the streets, when Muslims merely make their mark on a ballot paper—an absolute civic right—in a way that sends the media industry into a total panic, we are forced to interrogate the assumptions upon which citizenship, legitimacy, and humanity are built. Evidently, there is a conspicuous, Muslim-shaped hole in these popular concepts.
Conversations surrounding Muslim migration have taken on a detached and sober tone as many communities witness entirely predictable events with a resignation born from growing up in a hostile media climate. This persistent animosity is becoming more than a mere footnote in contemporary Muslim discourse; it is now an active component of how British Muslims perceive themselves and their space on earth. It also allows individuals to experience what it truly means to be a traveler, which is, at our core, what we are. As Muslims, we know absolutely that life is transitory. As human beings, we are often emotionally blinded by the intoxicating distractions of the present. Making a conscious decision to change our place and time on earth requires an effort anchored in the everyday realities we often shroud in deflection, forcing us to grapple with our current state. These recent events have served as a catalyst for that sobering reflection.
While there is a renewed acknowledgment of these motivating factors to leave, social media over the past few years has also been dominated by financial traders rhapsodising about moving to Muslim countries purely for material benefits. Yet, many Muslims are not chasing a capitalist dream. Despite concerns regarding the liberal environment of the West, some have moved for affirmative religious purposes rather than defensive, reactionary ones. What unites these diverse motivations is the sometimes 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.
While much of the Muslim cultural canon has historically fixated on the shared sentiment of diaspora, feeling like the "other," and repetitive narratives involving henna-tainted fingertips or eating with one’s hands, our current moment in history demands a departure from this diaspora twee. In fact, it requires an inversion of that story. For many in a position to leave, this represents an upturn of passive consequence and cultural stagnation.
This departure is not about looking backward at cultural spaces we feel a contradictory proximity to, such as the distant "motherland." Rather, it concerns the geographies we know intimately—the streets we grew up in, the ubiquitous smell of concrete pavements that form part of our sensory DNA, and the visceral connections we hold to neighborhoods where we are increasingly made to feel like aliens, told time and again that we do not belong. It is an acknowledgment of a lack of a traditional maternal homeland, an understanding that you belong to your house, your street, your neighborhood, and perhaps your city, but far less to a nation-state that constantly questions your place. It is a decision looking forward into what could possibly be, rather than anchoring oneself in what has passed.
Leaving, so finally, a place that delegitimizes your existence—despite it being the only place you have existed in so completely, the only language you have conceptualized yourself in, and the only cultural topography you have formed—is unnervingly deep.
It is a divorce from a space, but also a stark departure from a specific moment in time and a sense of social connectedness. Leaving and reckoning with all the states of your 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 human existence. It allows individuals to see themselves both in terms of their physical place on earth and within the broader story of time. It is a commitment to the unknown, a total excommunication from a fractured sense of belonging, and an acknowledgment of the futility of seeking acceptance where it is consistently denied.
Moving to a Muslim country, and experiencing a blunted but more direct kind of "otherness" in a place where one might not speak the language, understand the local etiquette, or feel naturally rooted, forces a reconceptualization of the self and the utilization of 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, Muslim existence remains whole, complete, and independent of external narratives. Leaving is an endeavor to seek something better in spite of the comfort of familiarity. The measure of that better life remains personal, rooted in individual values, choices, and faith.
While we often place the heart as the domain of faith, it is frequently the brain that mediates our relationship with belief. We may long for an environment that we know, cerebrally, is not right for us as believers. Leaving London, a city beloved for its grey, everyday presence and as the backdrop to every rite of passage and life experience, can be abjectly painful. London has long acted as a tacit, non-judgmental witness to the quirks of personal history—a familiar geography embedded deep within muscle memory.
Yet, saying goodbye to that place in time grants a new sense of awareness, offering historic and geographic context that enables a renewed consciousness. It allows individuals to be more purposeful in their identities, utilizing new environments to bolster their faith and personal growth. It is a testing daily reality, but it marks a new chapter for those willing to take the leap.