There is something about making and enacting a life decision as colossal as rerooting—a choice deeply bound up in reckoning with one’s past and projecting into the future—that catapults an individual acutely into the present. For those with young families and busy lives, accustomed to the constant grind and planning for one life event after another, the present can feel like a strange and alien domain. It is arid and hostile territory for those constantly chasing tomorrow.
The present is a sensory plain where, much like a predatory animal, one’s senses are languidly heightened. An individual becomes acutely aware of the minutiae of their surroundings in a way that rarely happens when preoccupied with work deadlines or evening meals. Suddenly, there is the sound of a small, echoing drip from a leaking tap, or the realization of a discerning crack in a wall. The present gives pause in a discomforting way, raising the stakes unnervingly high. It forces people to address thoughts and feelings they often tuck away for another time, somewhere in the nebulous terrain of the future. It offers an opportunity to gauge the here and now as a barometer for a planned future, recognizing that the current moment will itself pass into the oblivion of yesterday, perfectly demonstrating the fleeting nature of temporary selves. It stands as the antithesis of time as it is normally inhabited—the illusory part of life that people invest in while remaining perennially remote and absent from it.
Being conscious of this position in the gap between past and future grants a strange spatial awareness. While people might not ordinarily give much thought to the structures they constitute as individuals—the school, the office, the neighborhood—being dislodged from them and understanding oneself to be a disposable component creates a necessary kind of dwarfing. 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, shaping how individuals view themselves. To be broken off from that context highlights a personal smallness in ways that can be deeply unsettling. People are often resolutely stuck to concepts that give them a sense of self as they want to see it, acting like stubborn barnacles floating blissfully into a planned future trajectory near the local high street or secondary school—a constellation of the familiar that shapes personal identity.
The Geography of Identity
Geography remains one of the key determiners in how humans identify and situate themselves in the world. As a species, human nature carries a tribalist dye, tethering individuals crudely to the material ground they inhabit. This dynamic exemplifies the futility of material existence and shows 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 football team nearest to them. This encompasses everything from fragile, exclusionary, skin-headed nationalism to melodic terracotta folk culture focused on the nostalgia of earth and soil. It sears a loyalty that can be belligerent and ugly, or deep and beautiful, yet fundamentally senseless. It plays into grand narratives that people possessively cling to, feeling coded within them to the point of feeling bereft and formless without them.
"Home" itself is a word that embodies the wonderment of language. It is simultaneously universal and specific; people are immediately aware of it while remaining unaware of its personal implications for others. For such a small bolt of a word, it evokes immense weight, tasked with tethering individuals completely to one concept and space. Its unassuming, monosyllabic structure serves as an efficient vehicle for personal contours of meaning, designed well for everyday use. It is familiar and worn, much like the physical places people shape through their existence.
For Muslims watching the devastating reality of children being killed on an hourly basis due to a shared identity, and confronting the nullifying concept of Muslim belonging, nothing natural can be taken for granted anymore. Axioms carried unquestioningly in back pockets have disappeared overnight, leaving a cold, gaping space. Such individuals realize they simply do not exist in the same world and can no longer afford delusions. British Muslims, in particular, have known for quite some time that this sense of belonging, tribalism, and nationalism comes with a strange and telling sense of discomfort.
National rhetoric concerning belonging explicitly draws a line at the Muslim, a reality reinforced by recent events. Social anxiety is built entirely upon the identity of the Muslim on both micro and macro levels. Experiences on the street and daily headlines convey a clear message: to belong is not to be Muslim, and to be Muslim is to not belong.
Confronting Public Discourse and Safety
Witnessing the current state of public discourse over the embers of recent race riots affords a renewed sense of perspective. Incidents where hotels housing Muslims are targeted, and exits blocked, underline a chilling reality: simply existing as a Muslim can feel treated as a crime. Beyond street-level hostility, when the simple act of casting a ballot—an absolute civic right—triggers a widespread media panic, it forces an interrogation of the underlying assumptions of citizenship, legitimacy, and humanity. Conspicuously, a Muslim-shaped hole exists within these popular concepts.
Conversations surrounding Muslim migration have taken on a detached and sober tone. Many Muslims witness these predictable events with a resignation and weariness born from growing up in a hostile media climate. This hostility is becoming more than a mere footnote; it is now a relevant part of how British Muslims perceive themselves and their space on earth. It also enables them to feel a semblance of what it means to be a traveler, recognizing that life is ultimately transitory.
While making a conscious decision to change place and time on earth requires an effort anchored in everyday realities, recent events have served as a catalyst for sobering reflection. In recent years, social media has seen Forex traders rhapsodizing about moving to Muslim countries for material benefits, though many Muslims are not chasing a capitalist dream. Others have moved for affirmative religious purposes rather than purely defensive reactions. What unites these diverse motivations is the sometimes-fragile foundation of belonging for Muslims in the UK—not to deny that it is home, but to acknowledge its precarious nature.
While much of the Muslim cultural canon has fixated on the shared sentiment of diaspora, the feeling of being an "other," and quaint narratives involving henna-tainted fingertips or eating with hands, the current historical moment demands a departure from this diaspora twee. For many in a position to move, it represents an upturn from passive consequence and cultural stagnation. It is not about looking backward to a distant "motherland," but acknowledging the familiar geographies—the streets grown up in, the smell of concrete pavement—where people feel a visceral connection yet are made to feel like aliens. It is an acknowledgment of a fragmented sense of belonging, recognized across neighborhoods and cities, but challenged at the national level.
The Weight of Leaving
Leaving a place that delegitimizes your existence—despite it being the only place you have known, the only language you have conceptualized yourself in, and the only cultural topography you have formed—carries profound weight. It involves divorcing oneself from a physical space, a moment in time, and a network of social and cultural connectedness.
For those making this choice, the journey forces an acknowledgment of the humbling spatial and temporal dimensions of existing. It requires a commitment to the unknown, a total excommunication from a fractured sense of belonging, and an interrogation of both reassuring narratives and hostile pigeonholing. Leaving is disorienting because it renders past investments seemingly futile, contextualizing once-defining aspects of life as a mirage. It often takes leaving to realize that what was yearned for as "belonging" may not be as vital as once believed.
Moving to a Muslim country introduces a different, blunted kind of otherness—navigating an environment where one may not speak the language, understand customs, or feel naturally rooted. Yet, this experience echoes the fluidity of home experienced by millions worldwide, forcing a reconceptualization of the self and the discovery of new internal resources.
For many Muslims, leaving is not a defiant or reactionary choice, just as Islam is not defined by the dark underbelly of Western liberalism; existence remains whole and independent of external rhetoric. Instead, the move is often an endeavor for improvement despite the comfort of familiarity, driven by personal values and faith.
Saying goodbye to a city like London—a grey, everyday presence that served as the backdrop for every rite of passage and life experience—is profoundly painful. Like a wise, non-judgmental old friend, London has mediated relationships and developments, remaining embedded in muscle memory. Yet, stepping away from that space grants a new sense of awareness, historical context, and consciousness. It enables a more purposeful existence, offering a challenging yet hopeful new chapter.