There is something about making and enacting a life decision as colossal as rerooting—a choice so deeply tied to reckoning with your past and projecting into your future—that catapults you acutely into the present. For those with young families or demanding 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 who are constantly chasing tomorrow.
The present is a sensory plain. Like a predatory animal, your senses are languidly heightened, making you acutely aware of the minutiae of your surroundings in a way you might not be when 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 are unnervingly high. It forces you to address the thoughts and feelings we typically tuck away, leaving them to be unpacked at another time in the nebulous terrain of the future.
This moment offers an opportunity to reflect upon and gauge the here and now as a barometer for a planned future—a moment that will itself pass into the oblivion of yesterday, demonstrating the fleeting nature of our temporary selves. It is the antithesis of time as we are supposed to inhabit it, an illusory part of life we are all ostensibly invested in yet perennially remote and absent from.
Being cognisant of your position in this gap between the past and the future—this fleeting, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it step on the treadmill of "now"—grants a strange spatial awareness. While we might not typically be conscious of the structures that constitute us as individuals, such as the school, the office, or the neighbourhood where our lives are invested, being dislodged from them creates a necessary kind of dwarfing. You suddenly feel small in the grander narrative of time and history. So much of our identity is invested in feeling a part of that greater network; to be broken off from it contextualises your smallness in unsettling ways. We are resolutely attached to these concepts, like stubborn barnacles floating blissfully into a future planned as a trajectory, anchored near the local high street or an old secondary school within the constellation of the familiar.
Geography as a Key Determiner of Identity
As humans, our very nature is tribalist, and we tether ourselves crudely to the material ground we inhabit. This exemplifies the futility of our material selves and demonstrates 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 closest to our hearts. This encompasses everything from the fragile, exclusionary rhetoric 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 fundamentally senseless, playing into the grand narratives we possessively cling to and feel bereft without.
"Home" is one of those words that embodies the wonderment of language perfectly. It is simultaneously universal and specific; we are immediately aware of it while remaining unaware of its personal implications for others. For such a small word, it carries the colossal job of tethering us completely to a concept and a space. Its unassuming, monosyllabic structure serves as a vehicle for the many contours of its meaning, familiar and worn like the places we shape through our existence.
For Muslims watching the devastating realities of children losing their lives abroad due to a shared identity, and facing the nullifying concept of Muslim belonging at home, nothing that was once deemed natural can be taken for granted. Axioms carried unquestioningly in back pockets have disappeared overnight, leaving a cold, gaping space. British Muslims, in particular, have known for quite some time that this sense of belonging, tribalism, and nationalism comes with a telling sense of discomfort.
National rhetoric concerning belonging draws a strict line at the Muslim community, a reality underscored by recent events. Social anxiety is built entirely upon the identity of the Muslim on both a micro and macro level. The experiences reported on the street and the headlines read day in and day out suggest that to belong is to not be Muslim, and that to be Muslim is to not belong.
Witnessing the state of public discourse surrounding Muslims in the aftermath of recent race riots affords a renewed sense of perspective. When hotels housing Muslims can be targeted with blocked exits, simply existing as a Muslim can feel perilous. Furthermore, when Muslims merely making their mark on a ballot paper—an absolute civic right—triggers panic within the media industry, it becomes necessary to interrogate the underlying assumptions of citizenship, legitimacy, and humanity. Evidently, a conspicuous, Muslim-shaped hole exists within these popular concepts.
Conversations surrounding Muslim migration have taken on a sober tone as many witness these predictable events with a weariness born from growing up in the current media climate. This hostility is evolving beyond a mere footnote in contemporary Muslim discourse; it is now an active factor in how British Muslims perceive themselves and their place on earth. It fosters an understanding of what it means to be a traveller. Muslims know intimately that life is transitory, yet humans are often emotionally blinded by the intoxicating distractions of the here and now. Making a conscious decision to change one’s place and time on earth requires an effort anchored in everyday realities, and recent events have served as a catalyst for sobering reflection.
While there is a renewed acknowledgement of the factors motivating departure, social media in recent years has also been dominated by financial commentators rhapsodising about moving to Muslim countries for material benefits. Yet, many Muslims are not chasing a capitalist dream. Some are relocating for affirmative religious purposes rather than purely defensive ones. What unites these diverse motivations is the sometimes fragile foundation of belonging for Muslims in the UK—not to suggest they do not or should not call it home, but rather an acknowledgment of its precarious nature.
Much of Muslim cultural canon has historically fixated on the shared sentiment of diaspora, the feeling of being the "other," and the quaint narratives that accompany it. However, the current historical moment marks a necessary departure from this diaspora twee. For many in a position to act, it represents an upturn of passive consequence and cultural stagnation. It is not about looking backward to the "motherland," but rather acknowledging the geographies known most intimately—the streets grown up in, the concrete pavements that form part of one’s sensory DNA—where individuals are increasingly made to feel alienated. It is an understanding that while one may belong to a house, a street, or a neighbourhood, the broader national landscape often tells a different story.
Leaving a Place That Delegitimises Your Existence
Leaving a place that delegitimises your existence, despite it being the only place you have known, the only language you have conceptualised yourself in, and the only cultural topography you have formed, is an unnervingly deep process. It is a divorce not only from space but also from a specific moment in time and a sense of social connectedness.
Leaving forces an individual to reckon with all states of their being—who they were, what they are now, and what they want to be. It highlights the humbling spatial and temporal dimensions of belonging, compelling a commitment to the unknown, an excommunication from a limited sense of belonging, and an acknowledgment of the futility of seeking validation from hostile narratives. It takes leaving to realise that what one might have yearned for as "belonging" is not as important as previously believed.
Moving to a Muslim country and experiencing a different kind of "otherness"—where the language, etiquettes, and customs are unfamiliar—brings to mind the millions who navigate the fluidity of "home." It forces a reconceptualisation of self and the discovery of new internal resources.
Despite recent events, leaving is not merely a defiant or reactionary choice for many Muslims. Just as Islam is not defined by Western liberalism, individual existence is whole, complete, and independent of external meaning-making. Leaving is an endeavour for something better, pursued despite the comfort of familiarity. The measure of that "better" remains personal, shaped by individual values, choices, and faith.
While the heart is often viewed as the domain of faith, the brain frequently mediates our relationship with Islam, recognizing when a situation is no longer right for the believer. Personally, leaving a city as beloved as London—with its grey, everyday presence and its role as the backdrop to every life experience and milestone—has been abjectly painful. London has long acted as a tacit, non-judgmental witness to the quirks of life, embedded deeply in muscle memory.
Saying goodbye to that space and time has granted a new sense of awareness, historic and geographic context, and a renewed consciousness. It enables greater purpose while navigating a new environment. It is a testing daily experience, but one approached as a new chapter with renewed intentions.