Trigger warning: This article contains references to Islamophobia, racism and violence that some readers may find distressing.
“I’m serious!” texts Refinery29’s beauty director, five minutes after she hops into her Uber and tells me to get home safely. “Share your location with me!”
It’s Wednesday night (7 August 2024), the night that riots are expected to hit London, and we’ve just left a press event. Up and down the country, far-right supporters are rioting in response to false information spread online after three children — Alice Da Silva Aguiar, Elsie Dot Stancombe and Bebe King — were killed in Southport on 29 July. Some are convinced that the man charged with their murder is an immigrant Muslim (he isn’t).
Another text, five minutes later, this time from my friend: “I’m so sorry to hear about the riots. Are you okay? Do you need me to come over?”
A text from my husband pops up too. “Alive???”
I reply to all, sigh, and open Instagram. “What to do in the case of an acid attack,” reads a post. The bright white letters blink at me and I blink back, dumbfounded. Acid attacks. I haven’t thought about acid attacks in a long time — not since 2017, when two innocent Muslims were attacked by a white man in east London. I briefly consider what it would be like and subconsciously move from the side street where I’m waiting for my Uber to the main road.
Another Instagram post, and another, and another: “Ethnic minorities! Do not leave your home tonight!” “Far right protesters attempt to set mosque on fire.” “Should Allahu Akbar be banned?”
Preposterous, I think, as my brain latches onto the last headline in an attempt to ignore the others. That would be like banning the terms ‘god save America’ or ‘god bless you’.
I continue to doomscroll. Hordes of angry white men stare back at me, indignation contorting their faces into vexed red balls, ripe to pop. They all spit the same words: Paki, scum, go back to where you came from.
I don’t think they mean Leicester. But I’ve never been to India. I’d have to get a visa…
I’m Humeara, and I am a Muslim. I am also a daughter, a University of Nottingham alum, a writer, an animal-lover, a sometimes-painter, a taxpayer, a dog mum, a sister, a wife to a white man from Chorley.
What I am not: a terrorist, against LGBTQIA+ rights, a hater of all things English (well, with the exception of baked beans), a threat to British existence.
Why am I telling you this? Because I — like many other Muslims and brown or Black people across the country — suddenly feel the need to convince the world that I’m just a human. That I am the same as you. That I am bone and I am flesh, with feelings. That I deserve to be here.
I am from Leicester, born and bred. My grandad came to the UK from India and worked in the British Army. I was educated at a Church of England school. As a brown Muslim, this means that racism is woven into the very fabric of my memories going back to when I was just 6 years old.
About 20 years ago I was in the school hall. We’d just recited The Lord’s Prayer. We were continuing to pray, and I had my hands cupped, as Muslims do, while everyone else had their hands together — flat, palm to palm. “You’re doing it wrong!” snarled an older kid. “Do it properly!” He slapped my hands and toppled me to the ground.
Yes, he was probably 8 or so, and he probably didn’t comprehend the weight of his words or mean to come across as intolerant. But this memory has stained my brain and I think it was the first time that I really felt othered.
In 2010 I was on a National Express coach to Heathrow in London. “Can I borrow your phone?” asked a woman in front of me.
“Of course!” I whipped it out and handed it to her over the crumbling leather seats between us.
“Thank you. I just feel so unsafe here. I need to ring my sister. There are just so many Muslims about! Where I’m from, we have guns to protect ourselves from them.”
I was suddenly very thankful for those crumbling leather seats.
Last year I was at Pride in Soho. My friends and I were sitting on the kerb, laughing and enjoying the atmosphere. They were drinking and grinning, eyes alight with childlike jubilation. Oh, how intoxicating it is to be surrounded by your people — by other minorities who know how it feels to be hated, rejected and judged — and to be loved. We all felt on top of the world, arm in arm in each other’s warmth, drunk on the feelings of peace and triumph.
“Oi! Pakis!” a stumbling woman cut through our circle of safety. “Have this!” She threw a glass bottle at us. We ducked. It whizzed through the air and smashed on the pavement, leaving a crumble of glittery shards in its wake. As I watched the contents of the bottle flow into a nearby drain and listened to the sound of a policeman cuffing her, I felt my naivety leaking away too, replaced with the truth: that we weren’t free of racism just yet.
When last week rolled around and riots worthy of a dystopian novel began to break out, I wasn’t therefore as surprised as I wish I was. These rioters — not “protesters”, as some have called them — have injured people, set fires, smashed windows and spewed many, many slurs.
My direct messages and comments have blazed with hurtful comments. From “We don’t want you here” and “You’re all monkeys” to more personal insults like “You have a huge nose”. It’s been a rough week of staying indoors and reading abuse, or going out and fearing it.
The UK has an insidious history of racism and racially motivated crimes, as the likes of our grandparents know well and may even have protested against four decades ago. I’d hoped that these attitudes had eased by 2024 but the reality is that Black and brown people feel more scared than ever, especially with social media making it so easy to attack strangers online. So, where do we go from here?
The truth is, we are all individuals. We are all unique. Our individualisms are just more noticeable because we’re brown. Yeah, I pray sometimes to a god that you might not believe in, but that’s okay. I ultimately believe in peace and treating each other with kindness — the core principles of most religions and people. We are all immigrants, really, if you go back far enough, or if you’re a white woman who lives in Spain or Dubai. Throughout history, we haven’t been sedentary creatures. Animals migrate. Humans migrate. We flee danger. We seek safety. It doesn’t matter. Immigrants are just humans. We are just humans. We’re on the same side.
My Uber arrives. I text Refinery29’s beauty director to say I’m safe. For now.
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