There is something about making and enacting a life decision as colossal as rerooting—a choice deeply rooted in reckoning with the past and projecting into the future—that catapults a person acutely into the present. For those with young families or demanding lives, accustomed to the constant grind of daily survival and planning one life event after another, the present is a strange and alien domain. It is an arid and hostile territory for anyone constantly chasing tomorrow.
The present is a sensory plain. Like a predatory animal, the senses become languidly heightened, making a person acutely aware of the minutiae of their surroundings in a way that is easily missed when preoccupied with meeting work deadlines or preparing the evening meal. Suddenly, one hears the small, echoing drips of a leaking tap or notices the discerning crack in the wall. The present gives pause in a discomforting way because the stakes are unnervingly high. It forces individuals to address thoughts and feelings usually tucked away to unpack for another day, somewhere in the nebulous terrain of the future.
This moment offers the opportunity to reflect upon and gauge the here and now as a barometer for a future being planned—a moment that will itself pass into the oblivion of yesterday, 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 apparently invested in, yet from which we remain perennially remote and absent.
The Spatial Awareness of Displacement
Being cognisant of one’s position in this gap between the past and the future—the fleeting, blink-and-you-miss-it step on the treadmill of the "now"—grants a strange spatial awareness. While everyday life rarely brings conscious awareness of the structures that form individual existence, such as the school, the office, or the neighbourhood, dislodging from them changes everything. Understanding oneself as a disposable component creates a necessary kind of dwarfing.
People suddenly feel small in the grander narrative of time and history. So much human identity is invested in feeling part of a greater network, contributing significantly to how individuals view themselves. To be absolutely broken off contextualises this smallness in unsettling ways. People resolutely cling to concepts that give them a sense of self, floating blissfully like stubborn barnacles into a planned future trajectory—somewhere near the local high street and an old secondary school, held together by the constellation of familiarity that shapes identity.
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, tethering us crudely to the material ground we inhabit. This exemplifies the futility of material existence and the arbitrary, 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 they feel closest to. This encompasses everything from fragile, exclusionary, skin-headed nationalism to the melodic terracotta folk culture focused on the nostalgia of the earth and soil. It sears a loyalty that can be belligerent and ugly, or deep and beautiful, yet fundamentally senseless, playing into grand narratives that people feel possessively wed to and bereft without.
"Home" is a word that perfectly embodies the wonderment of language. It is simultaneously universal and specific, immediately understood yet carrying deeply personal, hidden implications for each individual. For such a small bolt of a word, it evokes immense weight, tasked with tethering people completely to one concept and space. Its unassuming, monosyllabic structure is a perfect vehicle for personal contours of meaning, designed for economic and profound use. It is familiar and worn, much like the places shaped by human existence.
Confronting the Precariousness of Belonging
For Muslims watching the harrowing reality of children being killed on an hourly basis on account of a shared identity, nothing deemed natural can be taken for granted any longer. Those axioms carried unquestioningly in back pockets have disappeared without warning overnight, leaving a cold, gaping space in their place. British Muslims, in particular, have known for quite some time that this sense of belonging, tribalism, and nationalism comes with a strange and telling discomfort.
National rhetoric concerning belonging explicitly draws the line at the Muslim, a reality reinforced by recent events. Social anxiety is built entirely upon the identity of the Muslim on both a micro and macro level. Experiences on the street and daily headlines make it clear that to belong is often framed as not being Muslim, and to be Muslim is to not belong.
Witnessing the state of public discourse over the glowing embers of recent race riots affords a renewed sense of perspective. When hotels housing Muslims can be targeted and exits blocked, simply existing as a Muslim can feel perilous. Beyond street-level hostility, when the simple act of casting a ballot—an absolute civic right—sends the media industry into a total panic, it demands an interrogation of the assumptions upon which citizenship, legitimacy, and humanity are based. A conspicuous, Muslim-shaped hole exists within these popular concepts.
Conversations surrounding Muslim migration have taken on a detached and sober tone. Many Muslims witness these entirely predictable events with a resignation born from growing up in a hostile media climate. This animosity is becoming more than a mere footnote in contemporary discourse; it is now a relevant part of how British Muslims perceive themselves and their space on earth. It forces an acute awareness of what it means to be a traveller in a transient world.
While social media is increasingly dominated by financial influencers rhapsodising about moving to Muslim countries for material benefits, and others voice concerns over the liberal landscape, many are moving for affirmative religious purposes rather than purely reactionary ones. What unites these strands is the sometimes weak foundation of belonging for Muslims in the UK—not to suggest they don’t or shouldn’t call it home, but rather acknowledging the precarious nature of that home.
Stepping Away from Diaspora Twee
While much of the Muslim cultural canon has fixated on the shared sentiment of diaspora, "otherness," and repetitive, quaint narratives—such as henna-stained fingertips and eating with hands—the current historical moment demands a departure from this diaspora twee. For many in a position to leave, this represents an upturn of passive consequence and cultural stagnation.
It is not about looking backward at distant cultural spaces or the "motherland." Rather, it is about the geographies known most intimately: the streets of childhood, the ubiquitous smell of concrete pavements that form part of sensory DNA, and the visceral connection to places where individuals are made to feel like aliens. It is the acknowledgement of a lack of maternal homeland—knowing you belong to a house, a street, or a neighbourhood, but feeling increasingly alienated from the wider nation-state.
Leaving, so finally, a place that delegitimises your existence, despite it being the only place you’ve existed in so completely, the only language you’ve conceptualised yourself in, and the only cultural topography you’ve formed, is unnervingly deep.
Divorcing from that space also means a stark departure from a specific moment in time and a sense of social connectedness. Leaving forces individuals to reckon with all the states of their being—who they were, what they are now, and what they want to be—highlighting the humbling spatial and temporal dimensions of existing. It is a commitment to the unknown, an excommunication from a fractured sense of belonging, and an acknowledgement of the futility of seeking validation from hostile systems.
Moving to a Muslim country and experiencing a direct, albeit different, kind of "otherness"—navigating an unfamiliar language, etiquette, and customs—brings into focus the millions who experience the fluidity of home. Despite recent events, leaving is not merely a defiant or reactionary choice for many Muslims. Just as Islam is not defined by the margins of western liberalism, individual existence is whole and independent of the external narratives that wrestle with it. Leaving is about striving for a better environment, despite the comfort of familiarity.
A New Chapter
While the heart is often viewed as the domain of faith, the brain frequently mediates the relationship with Islam. People may long for a place that, cerebrally, they know is no longer right for them as believers. Personally, leaving a city as beloved as London—with its grey, everyday presence, acting as a non-judgmental, wise old friend and the backdrop to every rite of passage—has been abjectly painful. London has mediated relationships and personal growth, embedded deeply in muscle memory as the only geography known instinctively.
Saying goodbye to that place and time has granted a new sense of awareness, offering historic and geographic context that allows for a new consciousness. It enables a more purposeful existence while figuring out how new surroundings can bolster personal values. It is a daily test, but it marks a new chapter, entered into with renewed intentions and the hope of making the most of the path ahead.