The content on this website (from a book I have been working on for family and friends) has been a long time in the making and has passed through numerous iterations, surviving every change of heart and period of stagnation. It began as a work entitled, My Journey, which remains apt for this describes the approach of each of us to our Creator. We find the journey in the religious imagery of our two traditions: "Guide us along the straight path," recites the Muslim in every prayer, while the Christian reads from the scriptures, "But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it." In my own case, I began these notes with the sentiment that when I came to believe in Islam in 1998 it was not the end of the road, but rather its beginning.

Over a year ago I renamed my book, Reconciling the Heart, for this too described my journey towards God. Yet although I am still fond of that title, I settled in the end for the name at the head of this chapter and on the cover of this book: To Honour God. For many years--even as a wavering agnostic--my constant refrain has been the notion that I only want to honour God, and so the imagery of the journey returns for I have made little progress in this regard, taking only a few steps along this path.

It is a journey that begins with us turning to God as we sincerely call ourselves to account: there comes a time when we realise that we want to be close to God and there can be no substitute. Thus, responding to the call of our heart, we bring ourselves before Him, repenting for every wrong action that passed before and dedicating ourselves to this path: to worship God as if we see Him, knowing that truly He sees us.

For me, it means to turn in repentance, to strive to purify my heart from its spiritual diseases, to conquer the calls of my lower self and to adhere to God's commands. I find myself with a great need to accomplish humility in prayer and to enjoy true focus, to ward off pride and arrogance, and to replace self-centredness with a life revolving around God, recognising that good works are a means to an end, but not an end in themselves. All of this--I believe--is encapsulated in those six oft-repeated words of mine: I only want to honour God.

The path of Muhammad--the religion of Islam--enjoins upon its followers remembrance of God, which means glorifying, exalting and praising Him. In the Qur'an we read, "Remember Me and I will remember you." Elsewhere we read, "...and remember your Lord much and glorify Him in the evening and in the early morning." Another verse reads, "Those who believe, and whose hearts find their rest in the remembrance of God--for, verily, in the remembrance of God hearts find rest."

The Prophet said, "The difference between the one who remembers God and the one who does not remember God is like the difference between the living and the dead." It is also reported that he taught that God says:
As my servant thinks about Me so will I be for him. I am with him if he will remember Me. If he calls on Me by himself I will call him by Myself, and if he calls on Me in a group of people, I mention him in a better group in My presence. If he approaches Me one hand-span, I will approach him one arm's length; if he approaches Me one arm's length, I will approach him by a cubit; if he comes to Me walking, I will come to him running.

For every tiny action on our part, God promises that He will return it with something better. If we turn to Him walking, He will come to us running, for He is indeed the Most Merciful. Even if our sins were like mountains, reaching the clouds of the sky, He promises us forgiveness if we turn to Him alone with sincere repentance. With gifts like these, what excuse do we have not to honour Him?

The Prophet Muhammad said, "Any activity not begun with the words, 'In the Name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful,' is severed from its blessings." He also taught that the deeds most loved by God are those done regularly, even if they are small. He used to sleep during the earlier part of the night and stood in prayer during the latter part, for he said that the best prayer after those that are obligatory is the prayer in the middle of the night. He once said, "Getting up at night is enjoined upon you, for it was the practice of the pious before you. It brings you near to your Lord and is atonement for evil deeds and a restraint from sin."

Concerning the ritual prayers performed five times each day, the Messenger said, "If there was a river at the door of the house of one of you, and he bathed in it five times every day, would you say that any dirt would be left on him?" His companions replied that no dirt would be left at all. "So that is the example of the five prayers by which God washes away sins," he said. Once he was asked which deed was most loved by God and he replied, "Prayer which is performed on time."

The Prophet used to seek God's forgiveness and turn to Him in repentance more than seventy times a day. He told us, "No trouble befalls a Muslim, and no illness, no sorrow, no grief, no harm, no distress, not even a thorn pricks him, without God expiating by it some of his sins." A man asked Muhammad, "Which part of Islam is best?" He replied, "To provide food and to say salam--peace--to those you know and to those you do not know." In another narration he said, "Indeed the nearest people to God are those who begin by saying salam."

The Messenger of God said, "Charity is due upon every limb of a human being each day that the sun rises. To act justly between two people is charity. To help a man with his riding beast, or to load his provisions on it or lift them up for him is charity. A good word is charity. Every step going to prayer is charity. Removing from the road what causes harm is charity." Once he said, "While a man was walking along, he came across a thorny branch on the way and he removed it. God praised him for that and forgave him his sins." He taught us, "Fear God wherever you are; let an evil deed be followed by a good deed so that you blot it out; and be well-behaved towards people."

Our Prophet said, "Beware of envy, for envy devours good deeds like fire devours firewood." He also said, "The strong man is not the one who is strong in wrestling, but the one who controls himself in anger." The Messenger of God never used obscene talk, nor did he listen to it. He taught us to be humble so that no one boasts over his neighbour nor oppresses him. "None of my companions should tell me anything about anyone," he said, "for I like to meet you with a clean heart." He told his followers, "Do not talk for a long time without remembering God, for talking much without remembering God is hardness of the heart. The most distant from God amongst mankind is the one with a hardened heart."

The Prophet said, "The Merciful One shows mercy to those who are themselves merciful to others. So show mercy to whatever is on earth, then He who is in heaven will show mercy to you." He taught, "He who does not thank people does not thank God." He also said, "When someone has had good done to him and says to the doer, 'May God reward you,' he has done the utmost praise." He said that a man does not truly believe until he likes for his brother what he likes for himself.

The word Islam, which is derived from the Arabic root Salema--meaning peace--means submission to the will of God and obedience to His law. Within the teachings of the religion it is defined as the Middle Way, embracing both the law and the spirit of the law, denying both the Christian's rejection of the law in favour of its spirit and the Pharisee's dismissal of the spirit in favour of devotion to detailed legislation. The Middle Way provides balance so that we may appreciate the wisdom inherent in this way of life.

Two years ago as autumn turned to winter, I noticed that there was something wrong with me. I did not know what it was, but my emotions were heightened, I was on edge, easily upset and very inconsistent in my day to day dealings. My mood would swing between the strangest misery and confused folly. The misery revealed itself in the tears that welled up for no apparent reason from the tiniest seed. The folly in the quick humour which would rise rapidly and then die. I seemed to be dissatisfied with myself. My heart ached, feeling heavy in my chest.

Returning to England following a summer spent overseas, I quizzed myself about my unhappiness and decided that I could change it by engaging in one project or another. Each attempt lasted barely two weeks. There was a group writing initiative, to which I contributed five articles before hurriedly retracting four of them again, turning my back on the project because of the melancholy which kept overcoming me. It was all ups and downs, backwards and forwards, proposals and withdrawals. At work I wanted to be a writer, then a graphic designer, next an IT trainer, then a communications officer; and then, just as I was offered an interview for the latter, I was resigned once more to my role. Perhaps tomorrow would bring a better day, I concluded; perhaps it was not so bad.

Verily mankind is ungrateful. My first job after university was very comfortable. I earned a better salary then than I ever have since. It was located on a country estate outside Maidenhead, in converted stables between a lovely walled garden and a grand mansion with manicured grounds. The Chairman liked his fast cars but he was generous to us, keeping the fridge stocked up every week to provide his staff with a free lunch. For some reason, though, I was dissatisfied, despite a great wage for the simplest of graphic design work.

When the company downsized after the slump in the market following the attacks on the United States in September 2001 and I was out of a job, I started up my own business offering publishing services. This was a situation where I was in the position to do what I most love: creating beautiful books. Alas I became dissatisfied once more, even though I was given the opportunity to typeset some really very important works. There had to be something better, I told myself, and so I moved onto new ground. I ended up as Office Manager in a busy training department, a role that allowed me to do many interesting things. Yet again I became dissatisfied and so the cycle started again.

What is it that drives me over the edge again and again? Why is it that I am never satisfied with what I have? Is my situation not better than the poor soul who sets up his table on a bridge over the Bosporus every evening in Istanbul to sell ice cold, bright yellow lemonade to hot and tired commuters? Indeed, is my situation not better than those dry, scorching days I spent administering an internet café in the summer of 2003, with the fumes of traffic numbing my brain? Or the days spent serving prickly Thai and unsophisticated Lebanese cuisine to three hundred customers over lunchtime off Berkley Square?

Perhaps it was pride: pride, which made me think that the job I was doing was never good enough, pride which got in the way of an honest day's work, making it seem worthless and me worthless as a result. I thought I had been stumbling away from a path I once knew when I was younger and more devoted to treating a lump of flesh beneath my ribs.

One of the first books I was given to read when I became Muslim in 1998 concerned the purification of the soul. When I reflected on those uncomfortable symptoms as autumn turned to winter, I realised that it was time that I returned to that work and others like it, recognising what it was that was creating this unease. My soul had been neglected as the smog and noise of a violent and political world obscured the reality of faith. As this realisation dawned on me I sat alone one night and prayed.

Oh my Lord, put comfort back into my heart and do not let me die other than as one who has earned Your pleasure. Take away this heaviness and ache in my chest and replace it with lightness and appreciation of the sweetness of all of Your blessings. Oh my Lord, let me return to You with a good heart. Amin.

Some months later I put my eldest brother's name into Google one afternoon and clicked on search; he came up as the first listing out of about 476,000 returns. He has been involved in a number of landmark cases in the High Court and Court of Appeal, and Chambers and Partners list him as an up and coming individual. I then put in my sister's name: she also came up first out of about 51,000, with eight further listings on the same page for work on single-crystal X-ray crystallography. I immediately felt a pang of regret, looking in on myself. In the next instant I was wondering what studies I could undertake to get out of this rut--to be something beside my siblings: the lawyer, the diplomat and the PhD doc. A moment later I realised that only pride lay behind this urge of mine.

For months I had been lamenting my place in the world of work--I commonly described it as being stranded--but recently I decided to just go with the flow, to go where my Lord takes me, to submit to His plan instead of crying over mine. Applications and interviews aligned to my interests yielded no results; the description of my current role seemed to be what I was looking for, but its reality had proved far removed. Stranded here, at last I began to recognise that I have a station according to my efforts--and others have their station according to theirs. Over recent years I have found myself in the company of intellectuals and had started to consider myself one by association, but the reality is entirely different. That friends of mine are solicitors, teachers, academics and diplomats does not alter the fact that I am a simple worker whose eight hour days pay the bills and little more. Over a number of months, the past that led me here had preoccupied me, but acknowledging mistakes cannot alter time.

There has always been a reason for every path I have taken, though I could not comprehend it at the time. I pray al-Istikarah at every juncture and move onwards accordingly. Friends ask me what I aspire to achieve in life: every time I just shrug my shoulders and mutter that I do not die other one who has earned my Creator's pleasure. A dear friend of mine, now a high flying diplomat overseas, once gave me a telling off in the final weeks of my degree when he asked me what my intentions were. I told him that I did not know and he promptly told me that this was not good enough, that we all had to aspire to something. What he would think of me today, I wondered, if he knew that my answer eight years later was still the same. I have dreams of course, but all I can say is that I want to honour God.

I only have these pangs of regret every now and then, when I realise how my siblings are doing and what my friends have achieved. But what lies behind this? I work to live, not vice versa. This simple job of mine pays the bills, puts food on the table. Does any man need any more? It is only pride that fosters these regrets of mine: the desire to be a great success, to be a match for my loved ones, to be known amongst the people, but that is not my station. Those that have reached great heights did so through hard work and perseverance, for we only reap what we sow.

Between my soul and God lie my heart and my deeds. The greatest obstacle that has stood in the way of my own spiritual progress over the past few years has been me. I have faced addictions, desires and distractions that taunt me, keeping me from realising any lofty goals. I once wrote to a friend with some thoughts that were pressing on me just then:

I fear I am regressing spiritually. I am torn between chasing after my religion and other matters, but more and more it is the other matters that dominate. I feel I really need help to get back on track because I cannot sustain anything on my own. I can bow down one evening in sincere repentance, only to slip again two days later. It is like I am falling.

There were times in the past when such realisation drove me to instant reform, but now I found myself with a kind of dispassionate resignation, which troubled me, the lack of emotion worrying me. Emotion can drive change, creating an energy and impetus. Instead I had this quiet realisation--I knew what I needed to do, but did not have the great drive. I had a problem, I told myself, and that was me.

Yet another truth dawned on me within a matter of days. The truth is that there is not going to be a starter whistle that tells us that now is the time to start putting our house in order: it is not going to work that way. We are going to have to realise that we need to take action and make a real effort. It is going to be hard, but it is the only way. Perseverance is the key: we have slipped a lot and we have a lot to do to get back on track.

The initial realisation came within only a matter of hours. It was not immediate, for there was another trip-up before I got there, but at last I took myself away and did some dhikr for a couple of hours in the garden. I took my little purple pocket prayer book with me and repeated every supplication that seemed relevant. With it came some ease and some resolve. I just need strength and perseverance now, I told myself, for I have been down this path before. There is not going to be some great fanfare--we just have to get going and try our best. It is up to us to make the effort, for nobody else is going to live our lives for us.

Tawbah--turning back to God--means to return to correct action after error, asking for God's forgiveness and turning away from wrong actions. We know that God is the Compassionate, the Most Merciful, but it is only when we recognise that our turning to Him is in fact His turning to us that we begin to appreciate the height of His mercy. We cannot travel this road alone, for we are dependent on our Lord in everything that we do. As individuals and as communities we often lose sight of our direction, becoming obsessed with our own ideas and aspirations, which although innocent or well-meant at first can soon take us away from the realities of our existence.

A few years ago, a close friend and neighbour of mine flew off to a life in a new country. For him the growing hatred of Muslims expressed in our midst had reached its pinnacle and he decided that his future was not with Britain. I believed he was overreacting, but still I watched as he packed his bags and then I waved goodbye reluctantly. Not long before that, another friend--a history teacher by profession--announced his defeated observation amongst friends: "Now I know how the Jews felt in the nineteen-thirties," he said. There was a low mood amongst friends at the time; a kind of fear permeating our conversations.

The days of condemning terrorism--with which we could all agree--seemed distant memories; now the institutions and personalities dearest to Muslims were under attack. Voices of moderation were being labelled as voices of extremism, and so we all felt under threat. The reassurance once felt--that a clear distinction had been made between terrorists and the rest of us--had disappeared. The ever narrowing definition of a moderate Muslim and ever widening description of the extremist caused little less than despair. Suddenly all of us who practice our faith were extremists and thus a legitimate target for the wrath of right wing, left wing and liberal commentators alike. There was something telling in my friend's emigration to a hot, unfamiliar country.

Exhaustingly, Muslims are perpetually the focus of attention in television programmes and newspaper articles. The modern anthropologists subject us to a bizarre public examination, never tiring of their quest, proceeding as if there were no Sikhs, Hindus, Buddhists or Jews residing within these borders. How many more programmes must we see on women turning to Islam or women choosing hijab, and how many more series on the radicalisation of Muslim youth or documentaries quizzing the eccentric white convert? Whether positive or negative, the attention is becoming suffocating, and it is all a distraction, taking us away from the keys of our faith. Negotiating all the talk of conversion, hijab, women, terrorism and the permissibility of this and that, one wonders what happened to the focus of our faith. All these philosophical acrobatics ignore the focal point of our lives. Distracted by politics and emotion, all mention of God appears to be some way down the list in the topics of our discourse.

The main principle of Islam is not that we should not eat pork, although some Muslims would give that impression. I once only learnt three things from some early Muslim acquaintances: Muslims do not eat pork, they only eat halal meat and they do not drink alcohol. No mention of God at all.

The Arabic word Islam means the submission or surrender of one's will to God. A person who does this is known as a Muslim. This is why Muslims believe that the religion of all the prophets was Islam and that all of them were Muslims. The first principle of Islam is encapsulated in the Arabic phrase, "La ilaha ill-Allah." This is a testimony of faith which states that there is nothing worthy of worship except God. The two oppositions to this principle are that a person refuses to worship God at all and that a person worships others as well as God. The latter harks back to the first commandment, that "The Lord your God is One God." This is known as Tawhid and it is a concept which affects all aspects of the Muslim?s belief and worship.

A Muslim declares his or her faith by witnessing that none has the right to be worshipped except God and that Muhammad is the Messenger of God. By these words, Muslims reject the worship of anything other than God. This means that they will not worship idols, rivers, rocks or a person. By these words they recognise that they have a direct relationship with God, the Creator of all things. The second half of the statement indicates belief in the Prophethood of Muhammad, upon whom be peace. This belief means that one believes in and follows the guidance which he taught. The first part of this declaration of faith, however, indicates that if a person were to worship Muhammad, they would not be considered a Muslim.

In the current climate it is worth reflecting on why we are really here. As we are told in the Qur'an, God only created us so that we would worship Him. So we must not let us not lose heart or go off track; remember God and He will remember us.

Despite having adherents across every continent, Islam is often considered an ethnic religion in popular discourse along with Hinduism, Buddhism, Sikhism, Judaism and others. In Britain it is often thought of as the religion of Pakistanis even as its roots in the Arabian Peninsula are acknowledged, with some Muslims contributing to this image themselves in the present age of nationalism. Islam, however, has always seen itself as a religion for the whole of humanity. One of the first converts to Islam in Mecca was an African named Bilal. Within decades of the death of the Prophet, Islam had spread across North Africa up to Spain in the west and into China in the east. Muslims have existed in small numbers in the British Isles for centuries, although in time many of them emigrated and settled in North Africa and other Muslim regions. Such people were typically known as Renegades. In 1641, for example, the Puritans published a pamphlet about a sect of Mahometans--as Muslims were known in Christian circles--warning: "this sect is led along with a certaine foolish beliefe of Mahomet, which professed himselfe to be a Prophet."

Muslims have existed in other parts of Europe for centuries and it is known that Islam entered some parts of what are now Russia and its satellites long before Christianity.

In my personal relationships, the idea that I adopted an ethnic religion was no doubt clouded by my behaviour as a teenager. While I had a healthy interest in the agricultural politics of Africa and in ideas of social justice, I also had some rather dubious ideas and habits as encapsulated in a passage I wrote one night in December 1997 at a time when I was still struggling with my agnosticism:

Silence settled; I held hushed fear. Fear of sins returning to haunt. You changed, rearranged, but like heaven and hell, your mark remains in that gruesome book. No forgiveness or recognition, because they never saw your deconstruction and the reconstruction that followed.
I saw the reflection of myself in characters passing by; exploitative, consumptive bodies, self-constructed images dwelling in pools of the commonest stereotypes. Dancing in the sweat of created images, consumed. Gasping for air, I died, drowning in the reality of the foul lies I puddled around me.

My silence and fear. Hidden behind masks, disguised as a character unknown, I grasp at anonymity, watching--admiring--guests and relatives new. Fear of those whispers; telegram awaiting; please read out the African tongue. "Anyone but me, please." I changed, never pleaded forgiveness, though sorry I was, for I turned my back and denied that past. And yet you never understood; my deconstruction and reconstruction. Here you remind me of what I preferred be forgotten, like God on judgement day reminding me of every sin I made, though I regretted it long ago. To you the speech of that African tongue was not a single thing; but to me like awaiting God's final call. Unrepented sins returning to the mind, your sorrow, your regret, ignored. Just like that, you changed, turned away from your blinded past, but no one can see now. All the same stereotypes; the same offensive view.

A generous brother's wedding reception, the speeches halfway through. In Afro-Caribbean company, sister-in-law and all, the message from the African state gets pushed across the room. To you, only a happy sign, a message of goodwill, but to me, shaped like a nightmare, ready to curse me for my greed. Read the African tongue; I whisper, "What's the need?" You hear the message, but I only reflect on the image of my soul. Like softest soul; those stereotypes; purity, goodness, gold. The ist in me, not with hate, but in stereotyping empathy. I wished it lost, and perhaps it is, but in me I felt those who know, see. Old me, same construction, no de or re.

I read the words, pronounced the sounds, but all I held was anger. Memories of other times; sell myself, prove a point, display my selfish greed. Reggae played unnaturally loud in Caribbean company; right on displayed, but actually tastelessly off. Suggesting messages of freedom and equality in ear shot of the passing Nigerian. Telling the South African associate, quite indirectly, that not all your friends are white. 'Ethnic' names dropped into conversations, always passively of course. And look around, what do you know? A poster of Martin Luther King stuck upon the wall.

Past times I hoped to bury, immaturity I hoped to burn. Skin used to fight me with words aimed, but I would just deny. "That's not me." My fight with Skunk Anansie, but sadly it was me. No guilt of hate, of name calling, or bullying, but guilt of stereotyping empathy. Pages filled with poetry, arguing, justifying; satisfying myself of my very existence; all denial that she had mouthed the truth.

Yet consciousness of colour was not ingrained naturally in me. The saddest irony of all; my ism became from a workshop on the problem of those ists. Through the South African who suggested that white people were generally racist, an innocence of unconsciousness quickly drained away. Now I had something to prove. From an unconscious wanderer, a constructed ist became. But as an ist, I never realised, until I saw the reflection of myself in characters passing by. An exploitative, consumptive body, a self-constructed image dwelling in pools of the commonest stereotypes, I immersed myself to drown. Emerged to be myself, changed and re-invented, but my face was still the same, so you thought I was still the same and, ignorant of my dishonest past, the way it troubled me so, you watched me stand reluctantly and I spoke your words at last.

Although it would be reasonable to suggest--in the light of past behaviour--that I was attracted to Islam for a reason other than considering it the truth, the reality was that I had moved away from those ill-considered ways over a year before I chanced upon this path. Instead, my sole criterion for taking Islam as my religion was considering it the proper way to worship my Creator. Even so, it is impossible to escape the spectre of the ethnic religion as one encounters the perceptions of colleagues and neighbours. My adherence to Islam is often viewed as a lifestyle choice: I could be a hippy or a Buddhist instead and it would be the same thing. Religion in general is commonly derided in the workplace so that religious minded folk are considered fools. Practising Christians are often ridiculed: the symbol of a fish on the back of a colleague's car is considered a sufficient reason to knock their contribution to the organisation. A Muslim's adherence to Islam meanwhile is usually tolerated in the spirit of cultural difference as long as it can be aligned with race or culture, for although Islam arises from the same region as Christianity it is considered alien. The native that embraces the alien is considered a fellow of somewhat dubious nature: a follower of fashion at best. In an environment that frowns upon religion in general, the exotic is easily dismissed. Yet the issue of ethnicity drives deeper.

In 1996 when I went to study at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS)--a college of the University of London--I watched as a fellow student went through what he thought was a radical transition in his views. Given the nature of the college, many white students came in with quite similar views: they were generally anti-racist, empathetic for the under-dog, left-wing/liberal and greatly interested in the affairs of particular African or Asian nations. Although this kind of leaning does exist to quite a degree within wider British society, including sections of the media, it would be fair to say that a Eurocentric and white ethno-centric viewpoint still predominates on the street. Thus the views found amongst white students at SOAS could have been considered quite radical.

Young people, however, often have a tendency to rebel against the dominant environment in which they find themselves, as I witnessed in the case of this particular student. He was studying Geography and Development Studies like myself and had spent the previous year doing field research in Zimbabwe. When I first met him he had hugely Afro-centric views and was very keen on deliberately making friends with African students. As time went by, I noticed that these views were starting to shift quite significantly. It started with him playing devils-advocate with his 'ethnic' friends, moved on to a passionate defence British colonial engagement in Africa and later derision of the alleged anti-white ethos in the college. He had become a true radical--except that these views were not radical at all. They were just radical within his context.

I often recall this fellow when I am in gatherings made up mainly of white converts to Islam. Many of us were able to make a reasonably easy journey towards Islam precisely because we had a more internationalist perspective on life. Like those students at SOAS, we too had a generally anti-racist mindset, empathy for the under-dog and left-wing/liberal views. But like that radical student at SOAS, there seems to be an increasing trend for gatherings of white Muslims to descend to the level of racist exchanges, particularly about Pakistani Muslims. There is contempt for their culture, derision of their ways and a level of general stereotyping about this group of people.

There is probably a good reason why I have experienced more of this since moving out of London. London is a hugely diverse city and the character of its mosques reflects this. In every part of the city we find mosques that are not the preserve of one particular ethnic group, but are cosmopolitan instead. They also tend to have good or decent provision for women. In many places outside the capital, however, this is not the case. Mosques are often split along community lines and Islamic identity is conflated with ethnic identity. In my own town, although there exist a fairly large number of European, Arab and African Muslim families, the Pakistani community clearly dominates. The result is a sense of exclusion at the mosque for anyone who does not speak Urdu, although change is slowly underway. No doubt it is this sense of exclusion which fuels the somewhat racist talk of some white Muslims--and particularly women who may have been refused entry to the mosque--in these areas.

I have another theory about this attitude though. A prominent characteristic of the call to faith over the past decade has been the separation of Islam from 'culture'. This has led to a sense of superiority developing amongst converts--not just white converts--and amongst young people born into Muslim families: that we follow true Islam, not the cultural interpretations of those before us. This sense of superiority is a real disease, which has seen old Bengali men who have prayed in the mosque five times a day without fail for forty years castigated by young men as foolish ignorant folk. Given that many of these unsettling convert discussions revolve around the question of their (Pakistani) culture--as if we do not come to Islam with our own--I would say that an argument of Islam versus culture has a lot to do with it.

It is fair to acknowledge that the experience of many converts, particularly those residing outside cosmopolitan settings, has been the racism of existing Muslim communities. I once felt that this was more likely to affect black converts, but more and more I see that white converts perceive discrimination. It seems more likely that white Muslims will be positively received in mosques with larger Arab attendance, but this cannot be said of Pakistani community mosques. The children of some English Muslim friends of ours have been put off Islam because when they were at school their Pakistani schoolmates told them that they could not be proper Muslims because they were white--one was told that she could not be Muslim because she had Christian hair. My general response to this kind of racism--be it the refusal to return the salams of the convert or simply the reluctance to make friends--is to hypothesise that this community probably experienced white racism in its early years and has therefore become quite insular in its outlook. The views of an English Muslim in my town suggests that there may be something in this: he became Muslim back in the 1960s and reports that race relations were extremely poor at that time. Meanwhile, a Pakistani friend of ours suggests that some Pakistani racism is linked to Mirpuri self-image. Whatever the cause, the result is the same: the sense of exclusion felt by those outside that group.

This is all very unfortunate, for our community is at risk of splitting down quite rigid lines whether that is ethnicity or 'converts' versus 'immigrant'. When people talk about radicalisation in relation to the Muslim community, they are usually talking about a polarisation towards militancy. The radicalisation that I am witnessing more and more is the acceptance of racism, and it is a disease which needs tackling with equal urgency. If we are now all resigned to the fact that we will experience racism at some point from within the Muslim community, we need to act as individuals to counteract this. For my part that means continuing to attend the mosque and not giving in to prejudice. It means saying that the experience of my convert friends is far from the totality of my experience.

Beyond this it is recognising why we are Muslims: we must get away from our obsession with ourselves and recall where our focus should lie. We should be God-centred, not self-centred. When I talk of the obsession with the self, I am not talking about that very real need of ours to correct ourselves, but about the debates about identity, about who and what we are. We are Muslims and our aim is to achieve the pleasure of God. God has made us into nations and tribes that we may get to know one another: enough said. After this we remember that this brotherhood of ours is one brotherhood. Although I know that the atmosphere in my local mosque is not what I was used to in the cosmopolitan big city, that I am not easily accepted as I was in the mosques of the capital. I recall that--revolving around Tawhid--my prayer, worship, life and death are for God, Lord of the Worlds, who has no partner. In this we find our resting place, our home. When we recognise this, it becomes less important whether we are accepted by others: what matters is whether God accepts us and whether He accepts our deeds.

Repeatedly over recent years, newspapers have labelled as extremists people whom many Muslims consider to be voices of moderation. Week after week, just before the radio phone-in host denounces the alleged actions of another extremist amongst us, we hear the tired refrain, "The vast majority of Muslims are peaceful people..." But who are the vast majority of Muslims and what do they believe? How are they defined and who defined them? In many senses I find my belief in Islam a continuation of my upbringing, not a rejection of it, and I have hardly suffered an identity crisis because of my beliefs. Yet with the use of undefined phrases such as "the vast majority" and "moderate Muslims", and the claims that are made on our behalf--if indeed we are the people intended--our place in society does seem to be in question.

Not even a century ago, as a wise Muslim noted, Jews were forced by the frenzy of state and media to debate their place in society; would it be integration or isolation, tradition or reform? Were they moderates, or fanatics obsessed with a law which should have no place in a modern secular society? Today, for all the lessons that were supposed to be learned from history, little has changed. Like the good moderate Jews before us, we too must become secular. If not, then once more the talk will be of parasites on society, of an ungrateful community burdened by their religious law and plotting the nation's downfall from ghettoes in its midst.

Too often discussion about Islam starts--and sometimes finishes--with the topic of fundamentalism, writing off any dimension of spirituality amongst the community's faithful in the process. Generous authors often concede that fundamentalism is common to all faiths, but it must be acknowledged that what is meant in each case is actually very different. In the Christian context it is generally used to signify conservative Protestantism characterised by a literal interpretation of the Bible as God's unadulterated word. In the case of Islam, by contrast, all orthodox Muslims believe the Qur'an to be the word of God, but the term fundamentalist is not generally used in this sense. Instead, fundamentalism when speaking of Muslims is more often aligned with ideas of extreme militancy, although this wholly depends upon who is using the label.

What is meant by a term needs to be specified from the outset. If Muslim fundamentalism is viewed in the same light as conservative Protestantism it becomes not a radical reaction against other forces, but merely a manifestation of accepted dogma. However this is clearly not what is meant; the idea of Muslim fundamentalism has entirely different connotations. We are not witnessing different expressions of the same concept, but rather different concepts given one name. Hugh Goddard has one of the definitions of fundamentalism as "the conviction that the authentic version of their faith is to be found in the earliest period". This surely best describes the common ground for the term when used for both Christianity and Islam.

In the community in which I live I could not say that there is a problem of extremism amongst the Muslim youth. Not "Islamic Extremism" in any case--anti-social extremism maybe. In this community, our concerns are with drug use, alcohol consumption and anti-social behaviour. A friend tells me that some young Muslims are bringing drugs into the area to foster a previously non-existent trade in the town. Our local press has reported on a number of occasions about youths in our town being given Anti-Social Behaviour Orders; troublingly in each case the recipients have had Muslim names. Late on Friday and Saturday nights, young Muslims gather in the centre of town, smoking perpetually and ranting aggressively with sentences littered with expletives. This is probably not what the middle-class commentators have in mind when they call for Muslims to integrate with society; still here the Muslims certainly are adopting the culture of those they find themselves amongst. The behaviour of the natives is the same.

Undoubtedly British Muslims have a duty to tackle extremism in our midst, where it exists, but there is also an urgent need to tackle the vast array of huge social problems which have emerged. A friend of mine was until recently the head of department in an inner city London secondary school and he was appalled by the behaviour of his students--more so, he lamented, because the majority of them came from Muslim families. Apart from having no knowledge of their religion whatsoever, these young people had no manners, no respect for the people around them and were frequently members of gangs. The Muslim community makes up barely two percent of the British population and yet seven percent of the prison population. The Muslim Youth Helpline draws the following inferences from research carried out by Muslim organisations:

- Drug abuse and smoking are shown to have a significantly higher prevalence amongst Muslim youth between the ages of 16 and 25 years.

- Mental Illness occurs more frequently amongst Muslim youth, particularly those that enter Britain as refugees. Almost one-half of Muslim Youth Helpline clients complain of mental anxiety, depression or suicidal feelings.

- Muslims make up 7% of the country?s prison population, a figure that is five times that of the total Muslim population in Britain today.

For the past few years I have been working with a national helpline charity which aims to help Muslim women in crisis. Domestic violence is rife, divorce rates are high and the issue of forced marriage is not going away. It is sad to report that huge numbers of unwanted babies are being abandoned by Muslims in the care of social services, often by Muslim girls who become pregnant outside marriage. Meanwhile educational achievement amongst young Muslims remains poor. All in all, as a community we have huge problems and the question of extremism is only one of them.

When the Prime minister addressed the Muslim community on the topic of doing more to tackle extremism, the first response was naturally one of defence. We asked what power we have, given that the extremist groups quite deliberately do not frequent established mosques. If wider British society is understandably not asked to root out the extremism of the BNP, we asked, why should the Muslims be asked to take on the role of the Police and Local Government? But once these initial objections passed, we were faced with a very uncomfortable truth: despite pockets of light--and there are many examples of the Muslim community making a positive and successful contribution to society--there are issues which we as a community must address ourselves.

Merely resorting to the very un-Islamic sense of victim-hood is not going to help any of us. Merely condemning terrorism is not going to help us either, nor is my writing about social problems. Like my friend who went into teaching or those running the various Muslim helplines, there is a realisation that we need to get out into the community to engage in social works. It is time that we awoke to the realities facing us. As we move on after the massacre on the London transport system in 2005, the focus on the Muslim community will no doubt intensify. Some of it will be unfair, some of it deeply insulting, some of it untrue, but Muslims must not pity themselves for we have a lot of work to do. If one of you sees something bad, our religion teaches us, you should change it with your hands, and if you cannot do that you should change it with your tongues, and if you cannot do that you should hate it in your heart, and that is the weakest of faith.