Hajj: Journey to the heart of Islam

Last week the British Museum opened the doors of its new exhibition “Hajj Journey to the Heart of Islam” to the public. Of course, some glaring questions came to mind prior to visiting the exhibition. How could anyone curate an exhibition focusing on a religious ritual – and, really, what’s the point?

Observing a ritual and being part of it are two completely distinct experiences. Although we might be able to speculate, analyse and interpret the meaning of rituals, we cannot grasp their significance to believers unless we experience them ourselves. And a museum is hardly an ideal setting for understanding a grand, cultural and religious phenomenon such as the Hajj.

By their very nature, museums set things apart and create a glaring detachment between the observer and the observed. Walking about an exhibition of ancient Egyptian artefacts, for example, inspires awe and wonderment rather than understanding, hardly granting an insight into the ancient civilisation on show. I’ve always felt that placing an object in a museum says more about the object’s significance to our own society, rather than the society which produced it.

Given that an exhibition of a religious ritual seemed so counter intuitive, I was pleasantly surprised by the innovative way in which the British Museum presented it. Venetia porter, the curator, explained that the exhibition was arranged according to three themes; the pilgrim’s journey to Mecca, the pilgrim’s stay in the holy city, and the return home. Arranging items this way meant that each section of the exhibition was a true mishmash of the medieval and modern.

While this might sound awkward, I couldn’t think of a better way to showcase the Hajj. The Journey to Mecca and back in itself is part of the religious experience. The influence of this aspect of the Hajj cannot be stressed enough. For example, it is because of the Hajj that very soon after the rise of Islam, travel writings developed into such a great literary genre in the Muslim world. The exhibition effectively highlights this. We are often presented with an image of religious rituals as performances which remain overly convoluted and stagnant, never evolving with time.

The exhibition therefore, makes an important point: while the rituals and obligations of the Hajj remain unchanged since the Medieval period, the ways in which pilgrims experience this journey has changed dramatically. From Medieval compasses to colonial prayer guides and to present day road signs and airplanes, the Hajj has never ceased to evolve. The viewer grasps a sense of the Hajj as a dynamic phenomenon and not something rigid which belongs in history. In fact I only ever seem to hear about the Hajj from the popular media when a stampede takes place and tragedy is involved.

This layout of the exhibition was accompanied by an impressive use of sound which helped make the experience that much more intimate. Prior to entering the space, as you walk through a narrow corridor, the chanting of the Talbiyya is heard, this is part of the prayer which Muslims recite before setting out for the Hajj journey. Within the exhibition itself the Azhan (Muslim call to prayer) can be heard faintly in the distance. And finally, just before leaving the exhibition, there is a quiet little corner in place for people to sit and listen to British Muslims’ accounts of their own Hajj experiences. This clever use of sound which mirrors the journey and return from Mecca helps museum-goers understand the experience a little more.

The link between Britain and the Hajj is not only explored by these British Muslims. The exhibition is scattered with British experiences of Hajj from items which reveal how Thomas Cook was responsible for organising ships to Mecca in the colonial period, to letters written by the first ever British woman to perform the Hajj in the year 1933, Lady Evelyn Cobbold. This demonstrated just how involved Britain was with this seemingly distant and mysterious ritual.

Personal accounts such as these are found throughout the exhibition floor and yet another intriguing addition comes in the form of modern works of art such as Ahmed Mater’s ‘Magnetism’ and Idris Khan’s ‘Seven Times.’ The works highlight the ways in which the Hajj continues to influence discourse, collective imagination and creativity today.

The British Museum has also produced a fascinating publication on the Hajj. Written by some of the leading academics and writers on Islam such as Professor Hugh Kennedy, Karen Armstrong and Professor M.A.S Abdel Haleem, this publication is not to be easily dismissed. Not only does it discuss key aspects of the ritual which the exhibition may not touch on, such as the political significance of the Hajj, it also provides a reference to some of the fascinating objects on display, including Lady Cobbold’s letter to her grandson. The book and the glossy images are undoubtedly gorgeous. So, if for some incomprehensible reason you’re not interested in what the academics have to say, there’s always the aesthetics.

If you’re looking for an experience which helps approach the various aspects of the Hajj in a number interesting ways, this exhibition will surely not disappoint. But for actually knowing what the Hajj is or what it feels like, you’d probably be better off booking a flight to Saudi Arabia. Still, exploring the Hajj comes as a welcome addition to public discourse at a time when Islamic rituals are portrayed so negatively by the media. The British Museum should be commended for its efforts to generate cultural understanding.

Hajj: journey to the heart of Islam is open 26 January – 15 April 2012

Gallery

Photo Credits: Rukia Begum
Exclusively for The Platform

I sit here on spiraling stairs

Not knowing where I’m headed

And that I only pen when I hurt

And when I’m sore and drenched in fear

I stare at your fearlessness and courage

And the soft graves we pass

How you sit in silence

And I experience harakat wa sukoon

And utter what most men hide in their barest breasts

But seep through when the

battle’s over

And they’re hanging over a crane…

ready to give up

You envy my strength not knowing you’ve empowered me

and that Rahma came

when, God’s assistance was manifest in the coming of men

We hold hands and depart – thank you friend,

Know not to burn alone, please don’t run away… I’m here

Because there’s places like Perivale I never knew existed

Wait for me and venture – if we so dare

Image from: http://www.geolocation.ws/v/W/4cbe7f311d41c87e4d001413/view-up-the-stairs-inside-cape-may-light/en

The lilies continue to blossom

And the orchids a flagrant orange

You brighten this room

With your mirrors of lipstick red

Kissing the pain away,

salvaging the frayed love letters

broken vases with cut wounds

and soiled graze

Seeping hollow then our mighty tears

Breathing deep into your bosom

and sinking into the valves of your inner core

You gave birth on the mudhut floor

embracing the marble tiles

and the opening of God’s Door

You sank deeper into your mediocre worlds

Then wrapped in golden luminous sarees

You draped the mannequin

With sequins and crystals

Of which he’d never imagined

And you masked your fear

With goblets of sweet milk

as the banquet spread reeked of wine

and was drenched with ruby red spills

You covered the stains with your scarlet lips

and swore to keep faithful to your treasure trove

Empowered by the pangs of childbirth

you scatter rosebud petals

And close your eyes to your bleeding heart

Seal the bruises of your fangs

And leash out to the sea of hope

And paint the world blind

After Alexander’s death, a new ruler, Antiochus IV, came to power to oversee the region. Jews were no longer allowed to practise their faith. The study of Torah was forbidden, keeping Kosher and the Sabbath became illegal and the Greeks even began to desecrate the holy Temple in Jerusalem.

The story of Hannukah tells of a miracle that allowed a small band of Jewish resistance fighters to win a battle against the Greek army, allowing them to regain Jerusalem and the holy Temple. When the Jews arrived at the Temple and found it desecrated, they decided to try and light the Menorah, a seven branched lamp-stand which was lit daily in the

Temple with only the finest, purest oil. Yet they could only find enough pure, “un-desecrated” oil for one day and it would take 7 days to make more and bring it to the Temple. The miracle was that the oil lasted for 8 days.

This is why we celebrate Hannukah, an 8 day festival where we light a Menorah with eight branches, one branch for each night of Hannukah and place it outside our windows. We eat oily food – doughnuts and latkes (potato pancakes) and we play Hannukah games as a family whilst the candles burn.

Hannukah for me has always been a festival associated with family, happiness and joy. It is a symbol that as Jews living in modern times, we remain strong as a nation and in our faith. Hannukah reminds me to be thankful that in today’s society, we can practice our faith with no fear of discrimination. We can place our Menorahs outside our windows for the world to see the symbol of our hope and belief in G-d (Jewish people often refrain from writing out the full name of God).

I recently spent Hannukah in Jerusalem and as I walked through the streets one night, I could hear Hannukah songs being sung by families sitting together by the candles. I could see every Jewish home with a Menorah outside their window. I could smell doughnuts on every street corner. A sense of peace emanated from every home and I was struck with a powerful feeling. I was part of history, part of a nation which has been celebrating festivals together for thousands of years.

My Hannukah prayer to you is that we shall all continue to be tolerant and respectful of each others faiths and beliefs, to embrace our diversity and to share in the joy that family brings.

Happy Hannukah.

Having grown up in a Christian family, the story of Christmas is very familiar to me. As a child I enjoyed (or endured) many nativity plays, where I played a variety of parts including an angel, sheep, shepherd, and even an inn keeper (unfortunately never Mary). I know many carols by heart and have been to countless carol services. Nevertheless, I often find it hard to connect with the “real” or religious meaning of Christmas.

I think the reason for this is that the real meaning of Christmas encompasses aspects of both religion and mainstream festivities. What I love about Christmas is that everything stops. Everyone has a day off. Everyone enjoys giving and receiving presents. Everyone shares with one another. It’s the time of year when it’s good to smile and say ‘Happy Christmas’ to the shop assistant. It’s the time of year when you can actually spend time with your family. It’s the time of “goodwill to all men”. People can share in that, whether they believe that Jesus, God’s son, was born on that day or not.

The carol “Good King Wenceslas” comes to mind. It was my favourite carol as a child. I think that was partly because it was the first one I learnt to play on the guitar, but I am also struck by the last line: “Therefore, Christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing, Ye who now will bless the poor, shall yourselves find blessing.”

Christmas became the time of year when compassion and service came to the forefront of people’s minds. This is found throughout all of the gospels, in which Jesus’ teachings are recorded. In Luke’s gospel, Jesus quotes from the book of the Prophet Isaiah: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed, to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord”(Luke 4:18-19).

Over the Christmas period charities receive more money than during any other period throughout the year, while people are also more likely to volunteer. It promotes and encourages people to look after others, especially those in need. I think the story of Jesus is the impetus behind this. I believe that God sent his only son, who chose to live humbly, to become human, to serve others, and ultimately to die so that others could live. Jesus to me is the ultimate example of serving others, of teaching us how to love one another as ourselves.

In Matthew’s gospel, Jesus speaks of bringing the Kingdom of Heaven or the Kingdom of God to earth. Similarly, in Luke 11:20, and Luke 17:21, Jesus claims that “the kingdom of God has come to you” and “the Kingdom of God is within you”. The “Kingdom” that Jesus spoke of will be fully realised in the future when “the lion will lie down with the lamb” (Isaiah 11.6), after which there will be no more war, conflict or death. However, Jesus also brought this into fruition during his life and through his teachings. Jesus’ deeds and words had an immediate effect: he served the poor; healed the blind and lame; and brought the Kingdom of God to earth. When people have compassion for one another, enough to extend their love even to their enemy, it is the manifestation of the Kingdom of God coming to earth. If we were all to love each other as Jesus said, then we would live in a much more peaceful and just society.

Christmas has become too commercialised, with more emphasis on what presents you get and how much you spend, rather than on family, love and service. The true meaning of Christmas is about learning to have compassion. It is about serving those who have less, at a time of “peace on earth and goodwill to all men.” Everyone, of any faith and none, can play a part in this.

Tzedek and Faiths Act will be recruiting for an exciting and inspirational interfaith campaign programme in London, to take action against the injustice of gender inequality and to tackle global poverty. This programme, called INFACT, is more important than ever given that we live in a society where injustice and inequality are widespread, with 1.4 billion people living in extreme poverty. Jesus inspires me to have compassion, and to act to try and prevent this.

Kofi Annan said that, “Until there is gender equality, there can be no sustainable development. It is impossible to realise our goals while discriminating against half the human race.”

Christmas is a time where we are reminded of this, to have compassion for family and also those most in need. Every faith promotes compassion and joined together – they can be the difference they wish to see in the world.

Photo Credits: Wallpaper from http://www.abstract-thoughts.com/ 

Shi’a Muslims across the world regard this day, known as ‘Ashura, as a day of mourning, and footage of mourning rituals is broadcast on our TV screens. Whilst most of what we see in the brisk coverage on the evening news may be footage of practises in Iran, this day is, in fact, also honoured by Shi’a Muslims in Trinidad and Tobago, of all places. Renamed Hosay, ‘Ashura constitutes part of a 13-day festival whereby a 10-day fast is observed, followed by three days of lively celebrations, featuring what seems to be rather a lot of tinsel. Quite a different image to ‘Ashura in Iran or Iraq.

Yet what is often missed amongst all this, is that the 10^th of Muharram is in fact a day which Muslims from all denominations commemorate, whether Sunni or Shi’a, and this is based on events which took place long before the Battle of Karbala.

According to Islamic tradition ‘Ashura, meaning ‘tenth’ in both Arabic and Hebrew, marks the day God rescued the Children of Israel from the tyrannical grasp of the Pharaoh by splitting the Red Sea.

In remembrance of God’s mercy upon this group of people who had been oppressed at the hands of a brutal dictator, according to the Islamic tradition, Jews at the time of the Prophet Muhammad used to fast on this day. As testament to the fact that Muslims too revere and believe in Moses as a prophet and messenger of God, and in commemoration of God’s aid to His followers, and in the spirit of shared bonds between Muslims and other people of Scripture, Muslims too were ordered to fast on the day of ‘Ashura, along with either the day preceding or following it.

Various Islamic sources also relate that this day was also the day that Adam was forgiven for his transgression, Noah was saved from the flood, Job was healed from his illness, and Jesus was brought up to heaven.

The month of Muharram itself is a sacred period during which, even before Islam, fighting of any kind was strictly prohibited, a directive which continued into the Islamic period. Being the first month of the Islamic calendar, it is also a chance for Muslims to reflect upon the Hijra, the migration of the early believers from Mecca to Medina in order to escape persecution, an act which signified the start of the Islamic calendar 1433 years ago.

Recounting these additional significances to the day of ‘Ashura, and the month of Muharram as a whole, in the midst of the turmoil gripping several countries in the Middle East, one cannot help but be struck by the way in which history repeats itself. And whilst it would be naïve to think that any religious prohibition of violence during this month would be adhered to, one can only pray that this new Islamic year brings with it the salvation and freedom for those seeking to practise that which they believe in.

Millions of Americans gather today for Thanksgiving, a holiday historically observed at the end of the harvest season to ‘give thanks’. Families come together to celebrate, with the essential accompaniment of good food – including the indispensable deep-fried turkey and pumpkin pie – laughter and the warm spirit of communal celebration. An occasion marked by gratitude, the holiday has a spiritual element, one that is too often found lacking in our more secular homeland of Britain and wider Europe, where even religious holidays such as Christmas find themselves reduced to commercialised festivities of expensive gifts, shopping and over-indulgence.

However, the spiritual element of gratitude is in danger of erosion by a sentiment quite at odds with the occasion’s origins. In the US, another signifier of Thanksgiving is the Black Friday sales that sweep the nation. Like the summer and Christmas sales in Britain, people swarm to shopping centres and online stores to literally shop ‘til they drop’. The sales are an almost religious experience, where shoppers queue for long hours at these glittering temples of capitalism to pay homage to the culture of greed that our societies are too often imprisoned by. The whole affair stands in stark contrast to the backdrop of gratitude and family spirit that the season is intended to symbolise. It is unfortunate that such holidays should be marred by a culture of commercialism and promotion of greed.

Traditionally, shops open doors to the sales in the early hours of Friday morning, with long queues of shoppers waiting for hours. This year has seen the opening times drawn even earlier, with some stores opening as early as 10pm on Thanksgiving Day itself, turning Black Friday into Black Thursday. Stores, desperate for a pick-up in times of austerity, are competing to attract even more customers and sales. While for the avid shopper this is an opportunity, to many this represents an encroachment upon the holiday and the family time that they have been long-awaiting after months of long hours in the office. Even in Britain, sales begin in the early hours of Boxing Day, allowing for Christmas Day to be wholly spent relaxing with those who matter the most, following the suffocating, hectic existence that the rest of the year entails. Earlier starts mean less time spent at home, sharing in the spirit of gratitude with loved ones, as people rush to benefit from the all-important sale to save a few precious dollars.

Don’t get me wrong, I do believe the importance of sales cannot be underestimated. In the economic climate into which we have been thrust over the past few years, any saving is a necessary one and the opportunity to obtain essentials at a reduced price is one to take advantage of. Many are forced to put off their needs until that all-important sale day arrives. However, to time it such that it is a choice between spending valuable quality time with loved ones and purchasing cut-price essentials before they run out seems to be quite an unfair situation to create.

In my new home in the States, this Thanksgiving, I will be spending time with my family, sharing laughter, stories, and most importantly, the warmth of each other’s company. And while we will make some use of the sales, I will try my level best to remember what it is that we are celebrating: the gratitude of having rather than the ingratitude of wanting.

At my local mosque, the “Hajj Package” posters have just come down and pilgrims will soon be returning. This got me thinking about this year’s cohort which had headed to the Holy Land, and as I scuttled into the mosque I wondered how many prayers were to be answered on those journeys. This lead me to memories of how my own prayers had been answered before and during my Hajj – things I regarded at levels of the mighty, middling and minor.

Of course, there are so many moments of Hajj to remember: inspiring knowledge that Prophets and their wives once walked and outlined the paths you follow, that you are within the proximity of the righteous at their graves, and of course, the astronomical reward on offer – even for just staring at God’s house. But it is the memory and nature of answered duaas (supplication prayers) that jumps out at me over and over again.

Of the mighty ones that stand out, I remember back in 2006 craving to join the Hajj so badly for nearly a year but having no finances to take me – having only my prayers. And God in His mercy answered them, as I got an unexpected call one day from a family member saying that someone was sending me on the pilgrimage. It was the first time I felt like I’d ‘won something’ and I couldn’t have hoped for a better prize.

The true weight of the words shook me and I checked again to make sure that the caller was being serious. I then hung up and called again to make sure it wasn’t a dream and, within two months, I was heading to visit the Prophet (pbuh*) thinking, as the Quran outlines: “God provides from an unexpected source”.

Later, to the middling, in Mecca, sitting about 30 meters from the Kaa’ba, my zikr (meditation on the attributes of The Divine) was plagued by thoughts I’d heard from others earlier about the rights and wrongs of the Hajj rituals, which sounded like deleted scenes from The Wire: ‘Nah man…check it, I heard…’ and ‘Bro, you gotta listen and learrrrn yeah… I’m telling you for real…’. And while I’d read numerous books before coming out, I wished I had a guide to ease my heart through what I was doing, if nothing more.

Again the idea of duaa popped up, so I cupped my hands and prayed, “Lord, show me how to do things in the right way.” Simple enough.  I turned to my left to read the Quran of the guy next to me and as I settled into the first few lines I was tapped on my shoulder. A handsome old man with the finest of beards asked “Arabic?”, and since I was drawn to his beard I thought it was an odd question, until I realised he was handing me an Arabic Quran. I answered in the affirmative and took it. He asked me where I was from and I replied “London”; he was from Egypt. He also asked for my profession and I said teacher, to which he replied that he was a teacher too. I added that I teach English and asked as to his specialty. “Religion” was the answer – I nodded and led the conversation on to its natural next step: “So where do you teach?” hoping he would mention one of the five Egyptian cities I actually know. To my surprise, and in response to my duaa, he answered “Al-Azhar”. I nodded, admittedly a little in awe, as I had not expected him to name one of the world’s most respected Islamic universities. God had given me my guide and over the next few days I was by his side, learning and listening, but somehow still surprised that I was asking and receiving, even though I knew well that “God answers prayers.”

Back to the minor, and on the walk to the stoning of the symbolic Devil (part of the Hajj where Muslims act out Abraham’s stoning of Satan who is represented by three pillars), in the midst of hundreds of thousands of people, I found myself parched beyond belief. I looked around and knew I would cause major disruption if I tried to sideline out of the horde of people to find some water, so I resolved to go thirsty until I made another duaa. “God, please give me water to drink” and I walked on, hoping someone would maybe sip from their water and then offer me some. But God had other plans.

After a few more steps a bottle of water rolled from between people and hit my foot. I bent to pick it up – again amazed – but closer inspection revealed the bottle was only three quarters full and had been opened. Obviously I’m not a water snob, but with the ease of spread of disease in the area (and if you’ve been you’ll know what I mean) I figured it best not to drink from such a container. I put it down and let it roll on. A moment later, with a little guilt an element of slight expectation, a slightly more precise duaa request came to mind ‘God. Please give me an unopened bottle of water, to drink,’ and I walked with my eyes rooted to the small space of ground in front of me and, sure enough, within two minutes a full unopened bottle rolled my way.

At Arafat, when the vigil is held on the mountain of Arafat, the climax of the hajj, I had endless prayers spewing from my mouth and stressed one worldly thing in particular: to keep me constantly asking. It’s not just the ten sacred days or the month or Ramadan where the requests are answered; indeed, we have that opportunity every day.

To search through narrations of the Prophet (pbuh) you will find many instances of times and days in which duaas are more beneficial, but in that, we sometimes blind ourselves to the fact that this is a constant stream open to us and we ask from an ever Merciful, Ever-lasting source.

That source is always there and always there for us: “I am as My servants think of Me”.

So when is the best time to make duaa? All the time.

* Muslims repeat the phrase “peace be upon him” after mentioning the Prophet Muhammad’s name. It is abbreviated to (pbuh) elsewhere in the text.

According to sociologist Victor Finkelstein (1980), societal attitudes to disability have shifted through three major phases over time. The first phase is said to have existed prior to the 18^th century Industrial Revolution, where those with disabilities were neither segregated from society nor viewed as socially incapable. Instead, they were part of a lower social class along with paupers and the mentally ill who took on the ‘profession’ of begging. Finkelstein claims that negative attitudes towards people with disabilities were not exclusive to them. Rather, they were seen to be as much to blame for not working as able-bodied poor people due to their own sins, laziness, or the sins of their parents. It was only when society began to distinguish between the able-bodied poor and individuals with disabilities, that attitudes towards them became distinct. This marks the beginning of phase two – the institutional phase. With the growth of medical institutions and asylums in the 19^th century, more and more emphasis was put on ‘caring’ for people with disabilities. What followed was a long and continuous process of physically segregating such people into asylums and special care, removing them from general social engagement and hiding them from the eyes of the public. A new passive identity of ‘otherness’ was thus being constructed for them, largely characterised by weakness and dependence. The rise and emphasis of hospital environments facilitated the rapid increase in the number of nurses, physiotherapists, occupational therapists, social workers, counsellors, asylums, and charitable homes which, despite their apparent noble intent, only ensured the success of further segregating people with disabilities from society, and contributed heavily to their stigmatisation as alienated ‘objects of research and help’.

This was followed by phase three and the advent of the revolutionary ‘social model’ of disability in the mid-late 20^th century, which was an approach that sought to both improve the way in which we perceive people with disabilities and to reintegrate them back into society. The new model, as an alternative to the previously prominent ‘medical model’ of disability, sees the disabling factor no longer in the individual person, but in the environment’s inability to accommodate them. What needed addressing were structural and technological issues which led to grand investments into the installation of ramps, lifts, automatic doors, better lighting in buildings, wider corridors, computer aiding technology, and so on across the entire nation. This endeavour, which continues today, aims to reduce the phenomenon of disability as much as possible.

The negative effects of phase two – the institutional phase, however, are still with us. Prejudiced assumptions remain deeply ingrained both in our common perceptions towards people with disabilities, as well as in the portrayals of them in the media, which are incredibly unflattering (Barnes 1992, Duncan 2002). Despite the positive goals of the social model, stigmatisation of people with disabilities as incapable victims of tragedy has stubbornly remained rigid in our minds.

Coming back to the story about the Prophet; by encouraging the blind man to attend the daily congregational prayers – a rich and frequent activity of social cohesion – the Prophet sought to maintain integration amongst all members of the community. To be physically present and integrated denies the possibility of constructed alienation and otherness. Integration also reduces the scope of stigmatisation, insofar as the gap between ‘virtual’ and ‘actual’ social identity is kept to a minimum (Goffman 1969). Furthermore, the Prophet was known to give prominent roles and tasks to people with disabilities in order to further consolidate their involvement in society. Ultimately, the Prophet as ruler and statesman appeared to guide his community in a way which would by-pass the institutional phase of disability outlined by Finkelstein, highlighting that the primary solution for negative attitudes towards disability, should have been, and should always be, integration.

Most come to their own conclusion and I’m no different; I feel my British passport will hopefully get me access to most of the world’s countries and my Muslim passport will hopefully get me into the better half of the afterlife.

I’ve never really struggled with my religion and citizenship in my personality since the only difference between them in the hum-drum of my day-to-day life is that if a typical British person gives me directions somewhere, they normally offer a few pubs as markers along the way, whereas if a Muslim were to outline the same route, they would use takeaways instead.

I’m sure that being of Egyptian heritage and bearded, I’d look more Muslim, and in London at least, I feel I have a clear idea of myself and how other people will see / stereotype me.

Imagine my shock when, after moving to Australia, all this was suddenly being thrown out of the window, like a rather lame henchman in a rather lame kung-fu movie. Speaking to Melbourne’s lovely locals, they seem to have no idea of who I think I am.

In Australian cafes and restaurants a foreign tongue (I choose to speak to my one year old daughter in Arabic since I’m keen for her to learn it) is sometimes met with glazy stares and a little caution; I presume there is a little stereotyping going on, and whole sale. Yet when I speak English, suddenly, to my audience I’m British through and through and am still pleasantly surprised when they quickly smile and open conversation with me, and in such chats I’ve been ‘insulted’ with: ‘your lot can’t even play cricket!’. ‘You don’t want to be another whiny pom’ as in ‘don’t be a moaning Englishman’.

I could add many similar ones where it seems my colour and beard are completely washed away by accent. I dress no differently, act no differently (please don’t think I wore a ‘soldier of Allah’ t-shirt back home and exchanged it for Union Jack Bermuda shorts when I got here) but am completely regarded as British for all intents and purposes.

I’m far too new to understand why this is. Could it be the Australians have a natural preference for labelling the ‘other’ ,‘British’ as it’s the most popular immigrant group to these shores? Is it that anti-Muslim hysteria in the media isn’t played and re-run enough to make tanned, beardy people scary? Could it be that since beards seem quite prevalent among the Aussies, another one in their midst isn’t that big a deal, or is it that my accent is so regal and defined, my Englishness and aristocratic links are at once fully recognizable and respected?

The answer of course is possibly all and none of the above, but such a radical change in one’s understanding of how others see you is a shock to the system.

Speaking as a Muslim, I feel there will always be an imbalance between the person  we should be according to the Prophet’s (pbuh) guidance and what we are in reality. But what we are and how we’re portrayed to the world has an even greater disparity. Yet here, in one of the furthest places you could get from Britain, the imbalance and disparity quickly disappeared and I felt I had a chance to make an impression on a stranger, away from any common Muslim stereotypes. I rarely if ever felt that in London – stereotypes there may be too strong, too overplayed or too discarded by those who know Muslims for any quick reappraisal to kick in.

For now though, while here, I seem to be re-cast, or should that be re-typecast and the weight of responsibility to be an example of my religion bubbles within me. My own ideas of identity slowly fade as I think of all the steps taken by Muslims to let ‘Britishness’ spring from their Islam and also wondering how I’ll get my Islam to spring from the ‘Britishness’ people here see in me. In essence: how will I get them to see me as another ‘other’ from the one I’m used to? For some reason, it feels like the best opportunity in ages and reminds me of the verse:

“The angels ask those they take while they are wronging themselves, ‘What were your circumstances?’ They reply, ‘We were oppressed on earth.’ They say, ‘Was Allah’s earth not wide enough for you to have made hijra (emigration) elsewhere in it?’” (Qur’an 4:97)