Veiled Threat: On being visibly Muslim in Britain

iA compelling exploration of how a piece of cloth can transform your role in the fabric of society. Nadeine Asbali skilfully navigates the complex interplay between fear, bias and security policies like Prevent to unveil the Islamophobia faced by visibly Muslim women and the demonisation of an entire community. From counter-terrorism to Turkey Twizzlers, this book enlightens and entertains simultaneously.

Dr Layla Aitlhadj, director of Prevent Watch

"Veiled Threat is more of an invitation than a threat. Nadeine Asbali presents, through vignettes of her life, some of the most pertinent and universal flashpoints in the lives of British Muslims. She expertly handles the varying issues of heritage, identity, Islam, racism, feminism, humanity, motherhood and even joy with thoughtfulness and insight. Despite some of the heavier topics covered, Nadeine’s unique narrative style makes this an enjoyable whilst informative read. An essential addition to school curricula and home libraries."

Dr Sofia Rehman, author of A Treasury of ‘A’ishah

ii"As a visible Muslim and a dedicated doctor, Veiled Threat is a refreshing and eloquent testament to the nuanced challenges faced by Muslim women and men in modern-day Britain. Nadeine Asbali’s enquiries into the intricate intersections of misogyny and Islamophobia provide a profound understanding of the unique burdens borne by Muslim women, illustrating the systemic and institutional biases that disproportionately affect us. Her critique of white feminism is a vital contribution to the discourse on intersectionality, encouraging readers to engage in meaningful conversations about inclusivity and solidarity within the feminist movement. In addition, Nadeine’s exploration of social class as a compounding factor in experiences of Islamophobia enriches the narrative, painting a comprehensive picture of the challenges faced by Muslims across different socio-economic strata. This book not only resonates with my personal experiences but also advances the discourse on diversity, inclusion and the intricate intersections of Muslim identity. A must-read for anybody passionate about creating a more inclusive and informed society, promoting dialogue and solidarity across diverse communities."

Dr Kiran Rahim, paediatrician and Instagram educator

"A powerful journey into the complexities of identity and visibility as a Muslim woman in contemporary Britain. Nadeine Asbali, with poignant honesty, explores the impact of societal expectations and the intersectionality of Islamophobia and misogyny. Through vivid anecdotes and incisive observations, Veiled Threat challenges stereotypes, exposing the struggle of being perceived as an outsider in one’s own home. It’s a compelling study of resilience, sisterhood and the profound influence of the hijab on one’s sense of self."

Rabina Khan, writer and former Liberal Democrat councillor

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In the name of Allah, the most beneficent, the most merciful.

This book is for my sisters in faith, my fellow visibly Muslim women. Those, like me, whose existence is built upon the precarious ground of policy and stereotype, penned in between the twin oppressions of misogyny and Islamophobia, our voices drowned out by the endless din of those seeking to save us and others condemning our covered bodies as foreign, menacing, un-British. This is for us: we whose very presence on this racist island is resistance. Here’s to refusing to be fetishised, maligned and criminalised into integrating, into belonging. Here’s to refusing to prove our humanity to white feminists who trample over our dead bodies, politicians who call us letter boxes and a nation that never bothers to see us as anything but meek victims, convenient political mascots and veiled threats all at once.vi

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‘The woman who sees without being

seen frustrates the coloniser.’

Frantz Fanon

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Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Introduction

Chapter 1:Turkey Twizzlers and couscous on Sundays

English, Libyan, other

Chapter 2:Blood, bone and chiffon

How the hijab changed everything

Chapter 3:Central reservations

The dichotomy facing Muslim women

Chapter 4:Sinister saviours

White feminism (and other lies)

Chapter 5:Letter boxes

How Islamophobia in Britain is gendered

Chapter 6:Invisible

Mothering whilst Muslim

Chapter 7:Muslim masculinity

Andrew Tate, Mincels and the akh-right

xChapter 8:A nation within a nation

How class compounds Islamophobia in Britain

Chapter 9:Bottom of the class

Being Muslim in an education system that excludes us

Chapter 10:Salaams and smiles

What the hijab gave me

Conclusion

Acknowledgements

Copyright

1

Introduction

I’d be the first to say that a scarf on a woman’s head doesn’t define her, but in my case it’s a lie.

My racialisation occurred overnight. One day I was a white(ish) child with a slightly foreign-sounding surname and the next I was something sinister and threatening, perverse and foreign. Suddenly, I was an outsider in the town I called home. I was called ‘Taliban’ on the bus and grown adults steered their children away from my covered head as though my otherness was contagious, like the flu. Teachers swooped in to save me from the chauvinistic father they imagined to be the cause of my newly covered hair. I didn’t know it as a mixed-race teenager, but I had been passing as white my whole life. My passably English-sounding first name, my white mother and my homelife of Turkey Twizzlers and Tracy Beaker had sold me the myth that I was like anyone else – that I had access to Britishness by birthright. That it could never get taken away.

2But then the façade, and the entire life I had built upon its premise, collapsed. No longer a normal kid who went under the radar, I learned that being visibly Muslim in a nation as hostile as Britain means forever living in the margins. A perpetual victim, a ceaseless threat. The object of someone’s fetish or someone else’s white saviour complex. A political symbol, a harbinger of extremism. A terrorist’s wife or a woman desperate to whip off her headscarf. Never, ever simply ourselves.

Still, I almost didn’t write this book.

I thought, it’s so rudimentary, isn’t it? So obvious. So typical. A hijabi writing about the hijab, as though the only thing Muslim women are capable of writing about is what’s on our heads rather than anything that might happen to be inside them.

I wondered if anyone would care about what a Muslim woman had to say about a piece of cloth. I doubted if the things I had to say were even relevant any more. Look around you, I told myself, there’s a hijabi in pretty much every make-up advert on TV these days. Nadiya Hussain is a household name. Primark puts headscarves on its mannequins. I haven’t been asked by a student if Muslims are ‘the ones who shoot everyone’ in at least half a decade. Let it go!

But that’s the point. Muslims shouldn’t have to prove our humanity, our worth. We shouldn’t have to win gold medals or baking contests to matter. We shouldn’t have to 3fold ourselves up and squeeze through the narrow definitions that society dictates of us in order to be heard. We shouldn’t have to dress a certain way, behave a certain way, think a certain way in order for people to listen up.

Well, this is me forcing you to listen. I may be a Muslim woman but I don’t speak for us all, so if you have come to this book for representation – to tick your book club’s diversity box for the month – look away. I am tired of defending, explaining, justifying my existence away. I am exhausted from constantly condemning actions that aren’t mine, obscuring parts of me that are unpalatable to the only place I have called home. This book is not about what all Muslim women think; but it is about what it means to be visibly foreign in a nation intent on forced assimilation and integration, that views covered bodies as primitive and dangerous. It is about grappling the twin oppressions of misogyny and Islamophobia, and how Muslim women are perpetually stuck between patriarchal cultural norms in our own communities, racist policy-making, white saviour feminism and the unstoppable Islamophobia machine. And it is about the gleaming joys to be found in those margins, too. The sisterhood, the community. The beauty, the fulfilment. It is about all the ways the hijab has defined me – for better and for worse.

As I wrote this book, Muslim women were suddenly back in the news again. In the past few months alone, France has banned girls from wearing anything even remotely 4Muslim-looking in state schools – including co-ord sets and high-street maxi dresses. Palestinian women are giving birth in bombed-out hospitals with no anaesthetic whilst the world sanctions it as self-defence. France (yes, again) has just prohibited its athletes from wearing the hijab during the upcoming 2024 Paris Olympics, and we’re over a year on from white feminists saving Muslim women in Iran by livestreaming themselves shaving their heads. The spectre of a British Prime Minister referring to us as ‘letter boxes’ hangs over our heads. The name Shamima is practically a racist slur. And the world’s most viral misogynist has become a Muslim and converted scores of our brothers, husbands and sons to the idea that we are subhuman.

From Europeans colonising the mysterious, primitive ‘east’ full of sensual veiled women being traded for camels to today, where wearing an H&M maxi dress to a French school is illegal if your name is Khadija but not Chloe, Muslim women have come no further in unshackling ourselves from the double jeopardy of Islamophobia and misogyny. The same old myths, stereotypes and paradoxes that have always defined us still prevail, confining us in ways that, ironically, we are told only the scarves on our heads are to blame for.

So, to answer my own question: yes. Writing about the hijab does matter now as much as it ever has done. Perhaps more. I can’t imagine an archetype of visible foreignness more contested and political than the hijab and thinking 5about what it means to be visibly Muslim in Britain is to get to the very core of the Islamophobia, misogyny and racism that rules our society. It is to expose how state surveillance, geopolitics and social expectation compete on the battleground of our bodies. It is to interrogate liberalism’s unshakable hatred of covered bodies. It is to hold this nation to account for what it does to those who don’t assimilate. To say, I’d rather be a veiled threat than your version of a palatable Muslim woman.6

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Chapter 1

Turkey Twizzlers and couscous on Sundays

English, Libyan, other

My mum called me down for dinner in that sing-song way she always did. But I was busy.

Nade-eine, dinner’s rea-dy – she called again, as I illustrated the hundredth perfectly placed eyelash and traced the curve of a nose on the two faces peering up at me from the pages of my sketchbook.

Dinner’s getting cold, sweetheart, she said, now in my room. A dab of blue eyeshadow here. A fringe there.

What are you drawing?

It’s me, Mummy.

Which one?

Both.

…

Come on, sweetie, let’s eat.

8I know what you’re thinking: this memory sounds made up. It’s just almost too convenient to be real. It too perfectly conveys the fragmented and fractured innards of my identity to sound like something a kid would actually do. But that’s why it’s real – because I really did view myself as two separate but simultaneous beings. I simply didn’t know how to be both.

One version of me had long flowing hair and bare shoulders, sometimes with a little star tattoo. This me had long lacquered lashes, cat eyeliner to rival Cleopatra’s and a Barbie doll pout. The other me had my head covered in an eclectically patterned scarf with a spherical face in a permanently chirpy smile. One was the English me and one was the Libyan me. On the brink of adulthood, I would become one, but I was never quite sure which one that would be. Like a caterpillar awaiting the chrysalis, I didn’t yet know what I’d emerge as.

Before becoming a visibly Muslim woman with an awareness of the heavy political implications of my existence, I was just a child with a foreign-sounding surname and skin that tanned easily. Growing up with an English, non-Muslim mother and a Libyan, Muslim father was like having two selves that lived parallel lives inside of me. These two sides of me barely met, and so they coexisted perfectly. Like flatmates who work opposite shifts, one sleeping whilst the other lives their life. Experiencing nothing of each other except some crumbs on the worktop 9and the scent of perfume lingering by the door. The eldest child in a mixed-race home has no blueprint for how to navigate life between two identities. I was making it up as I went along, and the way I dealt with it was to separate the fractions of my being along physical, geographical and temporal lines.

On weekdays, I was English. I wrote song lyrics up my arm and ate Turkey Twizzlers in front of The Simpsons (followed by The Weakest Link). I did my homework at the table and pretended I wasn’t listening to Hollyoaks in the background and spoke to my friends on MSN about who said what about whom. I wrapped my hair in socks so it would be curly for school and begged my mum to let me walk to the shop on my own for sweets. I listened to my iPod at the dinner table by hiding the earphones behind my hair and thought slamming my bedroom door in anger was the most grown-up thing in the world. I stayed up past my bedtime reading Harry Potter under my duvet and painted my nails a different colour on every finger.

Then, I was Libyan when we’d hurtle up the M1 every weekend to meet my dad’s old Libyan school friends in Coventry, Nottingham and Sheffield. I was Libyan when we’d eat stuffed peppers on kitchen floors, the lost cadence of Arabic washing over me as we listened to our dads rally against the dictatorship they had all fled – free in some terraced house in Earlsdon to say what would have got them killed at home – whilst our English mothers rolled their 10eyes and reminded them that they didn’t need to shout, they weren’t in Libya any more.

I was Libyan when we would eat couscous on Sundays, bejewelled with caramelised onions and chickpeas, tomatoey stewed meat and vegetables poured over the top. I was Libyan when my dad would lift us up and shake us whilst my mum hoovered up the small grains of couscous that fell beneath us, which we had inevitably got in between our toes and in our hair (couscous is a messy business when you’re a child). I was Libyan when my dad would get a sudden pang of homesickness and grow quiet for the day, looking out the window at our morose English street and imagining he was in the bustle of his home city, where the houses packed tight together like overgrown teeth in a teenager’s mouth and lines of washing ran between them like floss. I was Libyan when he’d take out his melancholy on the garage, randomly tidying up the leftovers of our lives into a semblance of order, watching our straight-lipped English neighbours avoid his eye as they slid into their houses and remembering how, at home, everyone knew everyone, how everyone’s door was open for a neighbour’s child to eat lunch or an old childhood friend to catch up over tea. I was Libyan when that sorrow would metamorphosise into a spontaneous desire to stuff sheep guts with spiced rice and meat, creating osbaan, a meal none of us were particularly keen on but that I ate anyway, eager to show him that home could be found here, too.

11In the winters, I was English. I would pop a small square of chocolate in my mouth every day in the month of December and count down the days until Christmas. I’d eat roast turkey on the 25th and unwrap my presents in front of the twinkling tree. I was English when I was singing Christmas hymns in school assemblies, my shiny tinsel earrings swinging in time with ‘Away in a Manger’. I was English as fireworks exploded in the air and as I made resolutions I’d break within a week. I was English in the rain and in the hail, in the grey din of a British January. I was English when we put on the local radio to listen out for our school listed amongst those closed for snow days. I was English in the spring, as everyone commented on how long the winter was and when warmer evenings suddenly felt full of hope. I was English writing Valentine’s cards to my friends and making nests for Easter chicks. I was English as the days got longer and our school trousers turned to checked summer dresses, as we laced together daisy chains and watched aeroplanes trace lines across the sky.

Then, suddenly, I was Libyan again, usually around the end of July. I don’t know exactly when it would happen, when and where the parts of me would do their silent exchange. She’s yours for the summer. See you again in September. Perhaps it was the last day of school, when I’d go home to the house turned upside down as we packed our lives into suitcases for the next six weeks. Maybe it was the first day of the summer holidays, when my parents, my younger 12brother and I would head out on the two-hour drive to Heathrow Airport. Inevitably running late and having forgotten something, we would rush down the motorway at breakneck speed, my dad’s driving getting increasingly erratic as the clock ticked closer to departure time, my mum berating him with her eyes. ‘We’re not in Libya yet!’ she’d tease, transporting us all to the lawless roads of Benghazi and the incessant beeping that sounded in every corner of the city, as constant and pervasive as birdsong. Or maybe it was in Heathrow itself, as I’d puke my guts out due to travel anxiety in the toilets whilst my parents solemnly watched the clock. It could be when we were on the rickety Libyan Arab Airlines plane, halfway across the ocean with England behind me and Libya on the horizon. Or as we landed, when the plane erupted in applause or when the hot gush of desert air smacked us in the face as we climbed down the stairs to the tarmac.

Either way, for the next month and a half, there was no balancing act. I’d eat with my hands, stay up too late and drink more Pepsi (Bebzi) than I’d ever be allowed at home. I’d sleep at a different auntie’s house every night, eat shawarmas and knock-off Nutella straight from the jar at 3 a.m. I watched horror movies on MBC and sang along to songs I didn’t understand the lyrics to. Everyone fasted until sunset and we broke our fasts on dates and milk as the mosques around the city reverberated with the word of God. We sat on the kitchen floor peeling almonds, stuffing courgettes, 13squeezing the juice out of tomatoes and chopping onions. Picking grapes straight from the vine and olives straight from the tree, we’d deliver them to neighbours armed with stock phrases I memorised beforehand. We’d float weightless in the hot salt bath of the Mediterranean Sea as the sun roasted our skin. Listening to the sounds of faraway crickets and the whoosh of ceaseless traffic, I’d dip freshly made bread in saccharine mint tea as my aunties gossiped about somebody’s son and somebody’s daughter.

Then, again, as abrupt as it had arrived at the helm of summer, the exchange would occur again. A plane