Feeling Alone In A Land You Call Home

A personal reflection on what it means when your visibly Muslim and British

I wrote the following entry a week or so back, in the heat of the UK far-right riots. I wrote it to process my own emotions, to be completely honest.

And as the days went by — seeing the counter protests, the support from colleagues and friends was so beautiful and warming, that it really made me simply close this journal entry off, like any other memory.

But today, as I was having a quick scan through my entries, the title of this entry made me give it a click. And as I read through it, I couldn’t help but feel the urge to share this on some sort of platform.

The news is starting to become old news now. But the truth is, those few days made all us British Muslims reevaluate our place in this country. This place we called home.

This entry is almost a glimpse into our souls — we who live in this country balancing two identities, Islam and Britishness.

(Disclaimer: parts of this entry have been edited for easy reading!)

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Entry Date: 06.06.2024

It’s a sunny day today, which means it’s park day.

That’s what we always do.

But today, today I’m too afraid to leave my home and head to the park. Too afraid to enjoy the sun.

Too afraid of the colour of my skin. Of this piece of cloth on my head.

Too afraid that I’d end up being the young child pushed off her bike.

Too afraid that I’d end up being that girl who had her hijab ripped off her head.

Too afraid that I’d end up being that old uncle dragged out of his car.

I find it difficult to recognise myself. Usually I’m one to push the boundaries, to bend the rules just a bit. But today I’m actually afraid to. That‘s a new feeling.

But the reality is too real.

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It’s Tuesday, 6th of August. Just over a week since the horrific Southport killings.

I was in India when that happened. I was in India but my heart was back home, back in England. I was counting the days down to get back on to the flight, back to the streets of Manchester. It might be dull and cold and too quiet. But it was home and I missed it too much.

I remember landing back into the airport, just taking in all the scenes. The dull gray halls of the airport, the crispness in the air, the smell of cut grass.

I walked pass the arrival gates, immediately thrown into a whirlwind of sounds and colours — from the young hijabi in her slick outfit strolling by, to the old black uncle striding past with his 2 big bags, to the old white lady shuffling slowly ahead with her trolly.

This madness of sounds and colours all around meant only one thing — I was finally home. And I couldn’t have been happier.

But it feels like everything has changed now.

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Living as a visible Muslim in the UK has never been easy.

I remember the 7:7 incident. I would’ve been 7 or 8. More than the incident, I remember being told to stay indoors and play. I remember my parents being scared for our safety. It didn’t make sense to us. We played on these streets our whole life. Why would something that happened cities away affect my streets?

I remember the Manchester concert incident. I was older then — a university student commuting by train. I understood the feeling of fear my parents felt before. I stopped commuting for a while. The piece of fabric on my head felt like too much of a target.

But apart from those specific incidents, there’s the more mundane every day incidents. Being egged at by neighbours in high school, being jeered and intimidated in the town centre. Every morning, as I stood in front of the mirror pinning this piece of fabric around my face, a part of me was fully aware of the statement I would be making as I leave the front door.

I knew I looked different, I knew there might be opinions and statements about my identity. I also knew there was a small possibility of being in danger. But, those thoughts were just fleeting thoughts. They never bothered me at all.

England is home. Every home has issues, is what I told myself.

Although the world around me seemed adamant on wanting to tear my two identities apart, kept wanting me to choose one over the other, it had never been a battle for me.

For me, I was proud Muslim and proud British too — I was British Muslim, and that was it.

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But the far-right riots this time leave me feeling lost.

I was aware of the subtle shift in the British political landscape — of the new policies that seemed increasingly hostile to Muslims, from policies like Prevent to the increased surveillance on Muslim communities. I was aware to not expect much from the people on the top.

But, I guess I feel so lost because I relied on believing in the goodness of community instead.

But these riots, they showed me I was naive. That this place I called home, these people I called home, might not want me here.

Seeing the hateful chants, the ugly taunts and ridicule hurt. All they seemed to see was the foreignness of my skin and my clothing. All they saw was a threat to ‘Britishness’.

But I thought I was British. My love for baked beans on toast, my mancunian slang, my forgotten mother tongue made me cling onto this place as home. All I knew was this land, all I knew was its ways. Was that not enough to make me British?

Will I only be classed as British to you when I look like you too? When I dress like you, when I bleach my skin to your colour?

But then I can’t help think back to that scene from the airport — the old black uncle striding past with his 2 big bags, to the old white lady shuffling slowly ahead with her trolly, to the young hijabi in her slick outfit strolling by. The mixtures of sounds and colours.

Nothing screams Britain, nothing screams British than that one scene etched in my mind. And I am part of that scene, how much you might hate it.

I am Muslim. I am British. I am British Muslim, alhamdulillah.

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Thank you for reaching till the end of this post.

I hope we get to meet each other in the next one too. Until then, if you have any thoughts about what you’ve just read let me know. I’d love to start a conversation!

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Until next time,

Thasneema 🌻