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.
