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Faith, Festivities and the Fiction of a Christmas ‘Threat’

Every year, without fail, the same tired myth drags itself out of hibernation, fuelled by headlines like “Outrage as council ‘rebrands’ Christmas to be more inclusive” and “Fury as Christmas events ‘scrapped’ to avoid offending Muslims”.

Never mind that these stories are debunked within hours. Apparently some people genuinely think Muslims spend December plotting the downfall of baubles.

Right on cue, certain commentators, right wing tabloids and so called influencers (the ones who think cultural literacy is a brand of toothpaste) leap into action. Because why let facts ruin a perfectly good culture war fantasy?

So let’s set the record straight.

Again.

1. Muslims do not hate Christmas.

We don’t mind the lights, the music, the markets, the festive chaos or even George in the gym who starts playing Christmas songs as soon as Halloween is out of the way.

We actually enjoy the warmth, the friendliness and the kindness the season brings even from people who earlier fought someone for a parking space.

2. Muslims absolutely do not hate Jesus.

Far from it. Jesus (upon him be peace) known in Arabic as Isa, is one of the most revered Prophets in Islam. His birth, his miracles and his message are spoken of with deep respect in the Qur’an. Muslims believe he was born miraculously to Mary, who is honoured as one of the most pious and exalted women in history. In fact Mary has an entire chapter of the Qur’an named after her, something not found even in the Bible.

Islam teaches that Jesus was a sign of God’s mercy, a bringer of compassion and justice, and a Prophet whose life is held in profound esteem. So the idea that Muslims somehow dislike Christ could not be further from the truth.

So no we are not plotting to erase him from the calendar.

3. Opting out of commercial madness does not mean hating Christmas.

Some Muslims join in fully. Some don’t.

Some put up trees, exchange gifts and enjoy halal turkey and alcohol free Christmas pudding.

Some prefer something quieter and more reflective.

And in my case I have a grandson born on Christmas Day which means the 25th is less about some imaginary war on Christmas and more about Noahmas. Cake, wrapping paper explosions, excited squeals and a very happy little boy.

None of this means we secretly want to ban:

* Christmas trees

* Christmas lights

* Carol singers

* Nativity plays

* School concerts

Or the neighbour who turns their house into Blackpool Illuminations on a budget.

So why does this myth keep returning?

Because it serves a purpose. Some people need a villain, someone to blame, fear or shout about. Muslims become that target.

But what makes it even more persistent is how certain groups wrap culture, faith and national identity together and then claim any difference is a threat.

Look at the rallies planned by certain divisive individuals, where chants about Christian heritage, defending Britain and reclaiming traditions are mixed with anti Muslim sentiment. The message is clear. Britain must be protected from an imagined enemy, and Muslims are cast as that enemy each winter when the Christmas myths begin again.

By repeating the idea that Muslims are hostile to Christmas these narratives stoke a sense of siege. They create the false impression that our culture is under attack, that Christmas is being cancelled and that someone must be blamed. It is a powerful and convenient distraction.

It is far easier to shout that Muslims are cancelling Christmas than to engage with real issues affecting our country. Loneliness, poverty, people struggling through winter or the fact that commercialisation has smothered much of the season’s spiritual heart. Families up and down the country are also battling the pressure to keep up with the Joneses so their children don’t feel left out. The latest gadgets, computer games, phones, trainers and the endless stream of must-have gifts create a mountain of expectation that many simply cannot afford. For countless parents the real stress of Christmas is not the lights or the carols but the fear that their children will notice what they cannot provide.

Instead we get distraction and division. A ready made wedge.

And it works until you actually speak to Muslims and realise we are simply part of the same festive swirl, sometimes joining in, sometimes not, often juggling our own family celebrations with everyone else’s.

The truth?

Most of us are just trying to get through December. End of term chaos, Christmas nativities and school fairs, winter colds, work deadlines, Noahmas planning and of course the most pressing question of all:

Where on earth am I putting my Christmas tree this year?

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Lest We Forget: Reflections on Remembrance Day

Today is Armistice Day. Eighty years ago, the guns fell silent at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. Across the country, people will pause in schools, offices, shops and streets to remember all those who gave their lives so that we might live free from tyranny.

I was honoured, on Remembrance Sunday, to lay a wreath as part of a local Service of Remembrance in my capacity as a Deputy Lieutenant of Staffordshire, representing the Lord-Lieutenant and through her, His Majesty the King. It is a privilege to serve in a role that supports civic life, represents the Crown in Staffordshire and celebrates the people and communities that make our nation thrive.

Each year, as the nation falls silent, we come together to honour those who gave their lives in the service of others. We do this not out of ritual, but out of duty. Remembrance is not simply about looking back, it is about safeguarding the lessons of history for the generations that follow. The freedom, democracy and peace we enjoy today were bought at a cost beyond measure. It is a debt that can never be repaid, but must never be forgotten.

As I stood among veterans, cadets, civic leaders and local residents, the words “Lest We Forget” echoed powerfully. Around me were faces of every background, people whose roots trace across continents, yet who share the same pride in calling Britain home. The richness and diversity that define our country today exist because of the sacrifices of those who fought and died to defend freedom from tyranny and fascism.

And we must never forget that among those who served were men and women of many nations and faiths. Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus, Jews, Christians and others, who fought side by side under the British flag. More than 2.5 million soldiers from undivided India served during the World Wars, many never returning home. Their courage and sacrifice helped shape the Britain we know today and the diversity of this island is, in many ways, their living legacy.

It is easy to think of war as distant history, sepia photographs and fading medals. But the values for which those brave men and women stood remain as vital now as they were then. The fight against oppression, prejudice and injustice continues in different forms across the world. Remembering them is also about recognising our responsibility to challenge hatred wherever it arises and to uphold the dignity of all people.

As the years pass, the number of surviving veterans from the great wars grows ever smaller. Their voices, once so many, are now few and far between. Schools do their best to teach remembrance, and I have great admiration for teachers who bring these stories to life for young minds. But collective memory needs more than education, it needs community. It needs us all to come together, to bear witness, and to pass on the stories of courage and loss that shaped who we are.

For me, a middle-aged, Pakistan-born British Muslim, wearing the badge of a Deputy Lieutenant on Remembrance Sunday is not only a symbol of service, it is a statement of belonging. It reflects the shared values that bind us as citizens of this country, regardless of faith or heritage. It is a reminder that the freedoms we cherish are built upon the sacrifices of those who came before us and that our duty now is to honour their legacy through unity, respect and compassion.

So when the bugle sounds and the silence falls, I bow my head with gratitude and with hope.

Because remembrance is not just about the past.

It is a promise to the future.

Lest we forget

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A Risky Invitation: Why Israel’s Move to Host Tommy Robinson Is Especially Troubling Right Now

Recent events in the UK, most notably the attack on a synagogue in Manchester, have created a charged and fragile atmosphere. It is therefore all the more reckless for Israel to extend an olive branch to Tommy Robinson (real name Stephen Yaxley-Lennon), a man with a long history of bigotry, criminality, and provocation. That this invitation comes now is no coincidence. It is a signal, a declaration of whose battles Israel wants to fight, and with whom. This decision is deeply inappropriate and should concern anyone who values justice, pluralism, and alliances grounded in principle rather than convenience.

On 2 October 2025, gun and knife violence struck the Heaton Park Hebrew Congregation in Manchester, killing two worshippers and injuring others. The attacker, Jihad al-Shamie, was shot dead by police and is believed to have been motivated by extremist Islamist ideology. This brutal assault on a synagogue during Yom Kippur horrified the nation, deepening fears within Jewish communities about safety and the resurgence of antisemitism.

But this attack cannot be viewed in isolation. Only days earlier, a mosque in Brighton was subjected to an arson attack, an incident that barely registered in the mainstream press and, tellingly, was not described as terrorism. Both events expose a deeply troubling reality: faith communities across Britain are being targeted, their sacred spaces turned into battlegrounds of hate. Whether Jewish or Muslim, no one should ever have to fear gathering to pray. The UK is nursing wounds of grief, mistrust, and vigilance. At such a moment, when communities are desperate for calm leadership and compassion, Israel’s decision appears not only tone-deaf but dangerously divisive.

In times of communal trauma, every gesture matters. Political leaders, faith institutions, and states alike must tread carefully, recognising that their choices send powerful signals about who is seen as an ally and who is cast as a threat. That is why it is heartening that organisations such as the Jewish Leadership Council have spoken out against this invitation. Communities already living with fear will interpret gestures like this not as acts of solidarity but as provocations. Inviting a figure like Yaxley-Lennon at this moment is far from neutral. It is loaded with meaning, and none of it benign.

Yaxley-Lennon’s record speaks for itself. He has multiple criminal convictions, including for contempt of court and fraud. He was imprisoned for his actions and has built a public persona on anti-Muslim hostility, aggression, and inflammatory rhetoric. As founder of the English Defence League, he normalised extremist discourse under the false banner of “protecting Britain from Islamism.” His rallies frequently descended into violence and arrests. He is not a moderate, not a bridge-builder, and certainly not a voice for peace.

By publicly associating with Yaxley-Lennon, Israel elevates a man widely recognised as a purveyor of hate. Even within Jewish circles and among Israel’s traditional allies, the move has been condemned. As LBC reported, “Britain’s Jewish leaders slam Israel over ‘thug’ Yaxley-Lennon invite.” Israel’s Diaspora Minister has defended the decision, saying it seeks to “strengthen bonds with allies who refuse to be silent.” But that language carries dangerous implications. It legitimises Yaxley-Lennon’s worldview and situates Israel alongside hard-right, confrontational voices. In doing so, it entangles Israel in domestic British divisions and undermines its own moral standing.

Israel often portrays itself as a democracy under threat, a nation that champions tolerance and resists extremism. Yet by embracing someone whose rhetoric has inspired division and hostility, it weakens its credibility. The faces a state chooses to amplify reveal where its loyalties lie. In this case, the message is unmistakable.

While the Manchester synagogue attack has rightly dominated headlines, it must not obscure the broader pattern of religiously motivated hatred now spreading through Britain. The Brighton mosque arson, largely ignored by mainstream outlets, is a chilling reminder that Islamophobia continues to scar our social fabric. To extend an invitation to Yaxley-Lennon in such a climate is to ignore the pain of Muslim communities already demonised and attacked. It sends the message that some victims deserve empathy and others do not, that antisemitic terror is “terrorism,” while anti-Muslim violence is merely “arson” or “extremism.” This double standard is corrosive. It breeds alienation, fuels resentment, and reinforces the idea that certain lives are more worthy of protection than others.

Israel, which claims moral authority in its fight against hatred, should be especially careful not to mirror such hierarchies. Instead of platforming an agitator, it could have extended genuine solidarity to British Jews through diplomacy, interfaith dialogue, and support for community safety. It could have encouraged unity between faiths by amplifying the voices of British Jewish and Muslim leaders who work daily to bridge divides. It could have used its influence to call for compassion and calm rather than importing polarisation from one conflict into another.

The alternative was clear: to stand with communities, not ideologues, to promote healing, not hostility. Yet Israel has chosen the opposite, and in doing so, it risks alienating the very people it claims to support. Muslim communities in the UK, already under pressure and often unfairly linked to global conflicts, may feel even more marginalised by Israel’s actions. Within the Jewish community too, there will be unease and division, between those who see Yaxley-Lennon’s support as validation and those who are appalled that their safety is being used as a political pawn.

Inviting Yaxley-Lennon under the guise of solidarity is not diplomacy, it is a political statement. It says far more about who Israel considers its friends and enemies than about any genuine commitment to combating hate. In times of pain and violence, leaders are tested not by whom they can provoke, but by whom they can unite.

If Israel truly wishes to support British Jewry, it should extend hands of peace, not applaud those who thrive on division. Real courage lies in championing voices that heal, not amplifying those that harm.

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Not Our Culture, Not Our Martyrs: Britain Doesn’t Need Valhalla Politics

Before his killing, I had never even heard of Charlie Kirk. Having stepped away from X/Twitter, I had no real exposure to the American right-wing influencer bubble. Yet, in the last 48 hours, our UK media has been saturated with his name, his photograph, his story. Rolling coverage, live updates, glowing tributes – as if a man most Britons had never heard of until yesterday is suddenly of historic importance.


And it begs the question: why this level of obsession?

In Britain, we know the devastation of political assassinations. We remember Jo Cox, brutally murdered by a far-right extremist in 2016. We remember Sir David Amess, stabbed to death in 2021. Both were sitting MPs, elected representatives serving their communities. Their deaths shook our nation. Yet our media reported those killings with restraint and dignity. Their funerals were sombre, their legacies remembered in context – not idolised, not mythologised, not immortalised into warrior legends.

In stark contrast, the coverage of Charlie Kirk has taken on an almost mythic tone. He is being cast not just as a victim of violence, but as a martyr, a heroic defender of Western civilisation. Even the FBI director, Kash Patel, referred to him as a “brother” and signed off with the words, “see you in Valhalla.” The choice of language is extraordinary: Valhalla evokes Norse warrior mythology, a world of pillage, conquest, and violent glory.

For a public servant, heading a law enforcement agency, to draw on that imagery is jarring. It blurs the line between sober justice and the aesthetics of battle and martyrdom. It is not Christian, not civic, and not measured. Instead, it romanticises Kirk’s death, elevating him into the realm of myth and legend, far removed from the much harsher reality of who he was and what he stood for.

Let’s be honest: Charlie Kirk was not some neutral “family man.” His public career was built on misogynistic, racist, and homophobic views. He mocked the deaths of Palestinians and condoned the brutality in Gaza. He pushed an aggressive pro-gun agenda in a country already bleeding from gun violence. Yet now, headlines describe him as a family man, a patriot, a visionary – erasing the uglier truths of his record.

This sanitisation matters. When our media joins in the idolisation of figures like Kirk, it imports America’s culture wars into our public space and tells us which lives and deaths deserve reverence. And that culture is not one we should aspire to in Britain. We do not need the American habit of turning every political death into a battleground for myth-making or a chance to crown martyrs of the culture wars. It is not British to glorify individuals while erasing the harm they caused, nor to frame politics through the lens of warriors and enemies. Our own traditions, as seen in the restrained reporting of Jo Cox and David Amess’s tragic murders, have emphasised dignity, respect, and context. To abandon that for imported culture-war theatrics is to diminish our standards of public discourse and warp the values that hold our society together.

And then there is the double standard. In Gaza, medical sources say that at least 59 Palestinians were killed today alone, including 14 members of the same family. These deaths are rarely given the same level of coverage – entire families wiped out, schools and refugee camps bombed, lives ended with barely a mention in our news bulletins. Those deaths are summarised as mere statistics, stripped of names and stories. Meanwhile, one white American man is treated as a world-historical figure.

The contrast could not be clearer: Jo Cox and David Amess: reported with dignity but without cultish martyrdom. Palestinians: invisible, their humanity barely acknowledged. And Charlie Kirk: catapulted into canonisation.

To be clear, his murder cannot be justified. Political violence is corrosive and must always be condemned. But that does not mean we should whitewash who Kirk was or what he stood for. The media’s obsession risks doing just that: painting him as a saint while erasing the damage of his rhetoric, and worse, ignoring the global suffering that dwarfs his singular tragedy.

So perhaps the real story here is not Charlie Kirk himself, but what our coverage of him reveals about us. Whose lives are deemed valuable? Whose deaths spark vigils and wall-to-wall coverage? Who is humanised? Who is sanctified? And whose lives and deaths are brushed aside, treated as too complex, too foreign, too inconvenient to confront and better forgotten? If the cameras can follow every detail of his death, they can also follow the destruction of Gaza. If his life is worth endless analysis, so too are the lives of Palestinians whose stories remain untold. Until that imbalance is confronted, the obsession with Charlie Kirk tells us less about him and far more about the values of those choosing to mourn him so loudly.

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Hate Too Close to Home

I woke up this morning in the early hours, 3:21 am to be exact, my chest tight with what felt like an asthma attack. But clearly wasn’t. As I fumbled for my inhaler in the darkness, my breath and anxiety steadied but not my thoughts.

I could think only of the nurse attacked in Halifax, right where I’ve walked. Halifax is where my husbands family live and work. His cousin, a district nurse, goes into people’s homes, wound dressing, medication management, offering reassurance, all without the safety of a hospital ward. During the pandemic, she worked in a hospital, risking exposure, caring for others while putting herself last.

That the same compassion she lives by could be repaid with hate is chilling. And it’s not only the attack that unsettled me. It’s the symbols too, the cross of St. George strung from flyovers, flags on roundabouts, paint splashed across pavements and war memorials. Symbols should be just that – symbols of pride, of unity, of shared history. They should be treated with respect. They should lift us up, not be daubed underfoot to be stepped on, or twisted into emblems of division and exclusion.

I lay awake wondering: Who’s next? My 85 year old mother-in-law walking with her carers? Me, my husband, his nephews and nieces, all born and bred in Halifax, just living, yet feeling like outsiders, like suspects?

This isn’t just an isolated incident. It’s a climate of suspicion. Bigotry disguised in headlines. Politicians and pundits whipping up resentment about “the boats,” about refugees and asylum seekers supposedly living in luxury hotels with phones and iPads handed to them on arrival. It’s dehumanisation passed off as fact.

Let’s be clear: the reality is very different.

• As of March 2025, just over 32,000 asylum seekers were in hotel accommodation – down sharply from a peak of 56,000 in 2023. That’s around 30% of those in the asylum system. The rest are in cramped hostels, B&Bs, or temporary housing.

• These “hotels” are not the Holiday Inns or Marriotts some would have everyone believe. I’ve been inside a couple of them: unpleasant, overcrowded, barely adequate. Families packed into single rooms. No privacy, no dignity. They are holding pens, not holiday homes.

• Asylum seekers are not handed gadgets on arrival. There are no free iPads or phones. Most rely on cheap handsets, donated SIM cards, or community support to stay in touch with loved ones.

This isn’t luxury. It’s limbo. People waiting, often for years, in poor conditions, unable to work, stripped of agency – all while being vilified in the media and on our streets.

And here’s the bitter irony: the very people vilified and scapegoated in these debates are the ones holding the country together. They are our carers, our cleaners, our NHS staff, our drivers. District nurses like my husbands cousin step into strangers’ homes daily, caring for the vulnerable and forgotten, sometimes at the expense of their own families. They show up for everyone, no matter their politics, their faith, or the colour of their skin.

Yet in return, they are met with suspicion, abuse, or worse.

I’ve written before about my own experiences of racism growing up in Britain. As a child, I knew the sting of slurs, the feeling of being “othered” before I even understood the word. Decades later, the landscape looks eerily familiar. Only now, it feels sharper, less hidden, more brazen.

Racism isn’t just abhorrent – it corrodes communities, tears at the threads that hold us together. When hate is normalised, everyone loses. We should be able to walk through our local park without fear. We should be able to hang flags without them being co-opted as tools of exclusion. We should be able to speak our conscience without being vilified.

At 3:21 am, none of this felt abstract. It felt urgent. It felt raw. It felt like the country I’ve called home all my life is demanding, yet again, that I prove I belong.

But I do belong. We all do.

So I will keep challenging and calling out the bigots and the liars – loudly, firmly, and without apology.

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An Open Letter to the Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer

Dear Prime Minister

Re: Your “Island of Strangers” Speech – A Shameful, Xenophobic Betrayal

I have given this considerable thought before deciding to share this publicly. Over the past two weeks, I have had the privilege of engaging with a remarkable group of South Asian women, discussing political issues and the importance of ensuring that their perspectives and voices are recognised and heard. These conversations have underscored the value of speaking out, and I have come to the conclusion that remaining silent on a matter about which I feel deeply would be both inconsistent and unjust.

I am writing not out of disappointment, but out of fury and profound betrayal following your “Island of Strangers” speech. A speech that can only be described as a xenophobic dog-whistle cloaked in political calculation. It was a disgrace to the values the Labour Party claims to represent and a dark moment in its history.

Your language, painting Britain as fractured by the presence of immigrants, refugees, and people who “don’t look or sound like” some imagined norm, is not just irresponsible, it is racist and dangerous. You legitimised the rhetoric of the far-right from the dispatch box of a party that once stood for social justice, solidarity, fairness, compassion and inclusion. You did not just echo reactionary narratives, you amplified them.

And for those of us who have believed in Labour as a vehicle for justice and equality, the damage runs deep. I went through the Labour selection process believing, perhaps naively, that it was a space where the party would embrace and elevate voices like mine—people who reflect the real Britain. But what I encountered was cold, strategic gatekeeping. It became painfully clear that the Labour Party no longer wants people like me in Parliament. My background, my experience, my identity, were seen as liabilities, not assets.

Your speech did not merely confirm that suspicion but it broadcast it to the entire country.

This wasn’t a misstep. It was a calculated statement of intent. You have chosen to treat migrants and minorities as political expendables. People to be distanced from, blamed, erased from the national narrative. Your words feed the narrative that some people do not belong here, and in doing so, you have betrayed the very soul of the party you lead and the party I first joined over 40 years ago.

If this is the Labour Party’s vision of the future, then it is one built on exclusion, fear, and silence, not solidarity, not hope, and certainly not justice. You are dismantling, brick by brick, the foundation that generations before us fought to build.

Your words have caused real harm. Not only to those directly dehumanised, but to every Labour member who believed we were building a more compassionate and inclusive movement. The tone and implications of your speech evoke troubling parallels with Enoch Powell’s “Rivers of Blood”—a speech that once legitimised fear and division in the political mainstream. At a time when Reform UK is gaining traction, as evidenced by their recent success in the local elections, we must be especially vigilant. Normalising this kind of rhetoric not only alienates communities, it risks paving the way for a future in which a Reform-led government is no longer unthinkable.

Yours in bitter disillusionment

Hifsa

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Belonging in Modern Britain

Earlier today, I had the pleasure of speaking at the Margins to Centre Conference 2025 at the University of York. The conference seeks to amplify the voices of marginalised communities and this year the conference explored the theme of Belonging. Here’s the text of my keynote:

=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.

In The Tale of Despereaux, Kate DiCamillo writes

“Stories are light. Light is precious in a world so dark. Begin at the beginning. Make some light.”

In a world so often overwhelmed by fear, confusion, and division, storytelling becomes a sacred act. It is through stories that we remember who we are, where we come from, and what we are called to become. Stories don’t just entertain—they heal, they guide, they connect. They pass down truth wrapped in empathy.

When we tell stories—especially those of the marginalised, the unheard, the silenced—we are not just sharing information, we are shining light. And in spiritual traditions across the world, light is a symbol of hope, wisdom, and divine presence.

In Christianity, light is the symbol of Christ—the light that shines in the darkness. In Judaism, the lighting of the Menorah marks the miracle of resilience and faith. In Hinduism, the festival of Diwali celebrates the triumph of light over darkness, good over evil. In Buddhism, enlightenment itself is awakening into the light of truth. And In Islam, my own faith tradition, God is described as the Light of the heavens and the earth.

“God is the Light of the heavens and the earth. His light is like a niche in which there is a lamp, the lamp is in a crystal, the crystal is like a shining star, lit from ˹the oil of˺ a blessed olive tree, ˹located˺ neither to the east nor the west, whose oil would almost glow, even without being touched by fire. Light upon light!” (Quran Surah An-Nur, verses 35-37)

To tell a story, then, is to make light in a darkened world. It is to participate in something deeply spiritual—to spark connection, compassion, and courage. Personal stories shine a little light—and explain the meaning of belonging far better than I ever could in theory alone.

And that’s why I’d like to start with a story.

So this is a very recent story – something that happened a few weeks ago on Eid.

My children were all over and I’d managed to sneak upstairs to get dressed whilst they laid the table for dinner. I could hear lots of chatting and laughing but couldn’t make out any of the conversations taking place. As a mother whose children are now adults and have flown the roost, there is nothing quite so heartwarming as hearing your children laughing (and occasionally arguing) together as they used to do when they were younger. On this occasion, the conversation revolved around my ‘status’ whether I was British born or in their words “an immigrant”.

Now this is a word I’ve had hurled at me on many an occasion – personally, through the television, and more recently via social media. Those of us of a certain age will remember several British TV programmes that portrayed immigrants—particularly those from South Asian, Caribbean, and African backgrounds—through stereotypical or negative lenses. These portrayals often reflected the racial tensions and political climate of the time. Programmes that include Love Thy Neighbour, Mind Your Language, Til Death Us Do Part and It Ain’t Half Hot Mum, to name but a few. At the time, these shows were often hugely popular and considered “mainstream comedy.” However, they played a major role in reinforcing negative public attitudes toward immigrants and minorities,  with more sinister connotations than that being implied by my children. If I was an immigrant, my children were 1st generation immigrants not as they had thought 2nd generation immigrants.

So here I am, a British Muslim, a child of immigrants, an immigrant myself, who also happens to be a member of a nation that has been my home for over sixty years. My story isn’t unique; it’s the story of countless others who’ve made this country their own, striving to belong while navigating the complexities of inclusion, identity, and representation.

Belonging is a deeply human need. It’s the comfort of knowing you’re seen, valued, and accepted not tolerated. But for many, especially those of us from diverse backgrounds, belonging has often felt like something that we have to earn, as opposed to something that is inherently ours. My parents arrived here in 1965 with 6 children – the eldest 18 years old and the youngest just 11 months (I was the 11 month old). They will have come with fear, apprehension, trepidation but also with aspirations for their children, optimism for the endless possibilities that lay ahead – and as devote Muslims an unwavering trust in God. They worked tirelessly to build a life, contributing to a country that promised opportunity and fairness. Yet, as their child in the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s, I was raised in a world where my claim to Britain as home was constantly questioned — a world it seems we’ve sleepwalked right back into.

Identity is at the core of belonging. I’m British, Muslim, South Asian, a woman, a daughter, a wife, mother, mother-in-law and grandmother. But for too long, people “like me” have been asked to choose – am I British or Muslim, British or Pakistani, British or ‘other.’ Why do I, should I, have to choose? True belonging means being accepted for all of who I am, without having to hide any part of myself. It means understanding that being British isn’t just one story, but lots of different ones woven together.

Inclusion goes beyond tolerance. It’s about making space at the table, not just as guests but as equal members of society. It means seeing our stories reflected in classrooms, boardrooms, and in the media. It means hearing our voices in Parliament—not just as tokens to satisfy diversity quotas or to ensure legal compliance in candidate shortlists, but as genuine representatives with the power to influence and lead. Too often, minorities are used as fodder to tick a box, to ensure rules are not broken regarding the election of candidates, rather than being valued for their contributions and perspectives. Representation is not just about numbers; it is about influence, agency, and the power to shape the future. When young British Muslims see themselves reflected in positions of power, they don’t just aspire — they believe. They don’t want to be merely tolerated — a word that suggests people are simply putting up with them — but actively included, with their rights, dignity, and security fully upheld in society.

​In 2011, Baroness Sayeeda Warsi, then co-chair of the Conservative Party, stated that Islamophobia (a term I personally dislike so prefer to use the term anti-Muslim hatred) had “passed the dinner-table test.” By this, she meant that expressing anti-Muslim sentiments had become socially acceptable in polite society, even among middle-class individuals during casual conversations. She observed that while overt racism and homophobia were largely condemned, anti-Muslim remarks were often tolerated or overlooked. Over a decade later, in her 2023 keynote speech titled “Muslims Don’t Matter,” Baroness Warsi reiterated her concerns, emphasising that Muslims are still often excluded from decision-making processes and are held to higher standards than other citizens. She called for a collective effort to address and dismantle systemic anti Muslim hatred in British society.

The road to belonging is paved with countless challenges. We live in times where division feels stronger than unity, where difference is sometimes feared rather than embraced. Anti-Muslim hatred, racism, and prejudice still cast shadows over our collective progress.

Those of us who grew up without smart phones will know what I’m referring to when I mention the ‘Norman Tebbit cricket test’. In 1990, Norman Tebbit, a Conservative politician, suggested that you could measure the loyalty and integration of immigrants in the UK by asking which national cricket team they support—especially when England played against the country of their or their parents’ origin (e.g., India, Pakistan, the West Indies). Tebbit argued that if British-born people of immigrant backgrounds supported their parents’ home countries over England in sports, it showed a lack of allegiance to Britain and a failure to integrate. This was highly controversial at the time, as critics saw it as oversimplifying identity and ignoring the multicultural reality of modern Britain. It was seen as what today we would call dog whistle politics – a shout out to nationalism, implying that immigrants must erase their cultural heritage in order to be truly British. Many public figures, especially from ethnic minority communities, criticised the idea at the time, pointing out that cultural pride and national loyalty are not mutually exclusive—you can be proud of your heritage and still be loyal to the country you live in.

Now this was 35 years ago – but has much changed? Belonging should not be about proving our allegiance through something as trivial as sport, or whether we know the name of our local pub. It’s about our contributions, our values, and our commitment to the shared future of this nation.

Moreover, we cannot ignore the increasing abuse and hatred directed at Muslim communities by the extreme right wing over the last 20 years. Groups like the English Defence League (EDL), Britain First, Patriotic Alternative, and many other far-right groups who have sought to spread fear, division, and misinformation about Islam and Muslims. Their rhetoric fuels hostility, leading to real-life consequences – verbal and physical attacks, the vandalism of mosques, and the marginalisation of entire communities. This rise in violent right-wing extremism is not just a threat to Muslims; it is a threat to the very fabric of our society.

The power of this hatred was tragically demonstrated in the riots that erupted across the country following the attack in Southport – an attack committed by a man who was not a Muslim. Yet, despite this fact, far-right groups seized the opportunity to inflame tensions, using misinformation and fear to incite violence and target innocent Muslim communities. This reaction revealed how prejudice, rather than facts, continues to shape the narratives pushed by extremists. Such events should serve as a wake-up call for all of us: we must not allow hatred to dictate our national discourse, nor permit extremists to exploit tragedy for their own agendas. True belonging is about being seen and accepted for everything we are, without needing to shrink or hide parts of ourselves. It’s about recognising that British identity isn’t a single story, but a rich mix of many voices and experiences.

We need to recognise and celebrate the remarkable contributions of British Muslims in our society.

Such as Sir Mo Farah, who came to Britain on a boat, a refugee, now a four-time Olympic gold medallist who has inspired a generation with his resilience and determination.

Nadiya Hussain, who not only won the hearts of the nation as the Great British Bake Off champion but continues to use her platform to champion inclusivity and representation. Not to mention the fact that she also made the late Queens Elizabeth II’s 90th birthday cake!

Sadiq Khan, the first Muslim Mayor of London, whose leadership has demonstrated that British Muslims belong at the highest levels of public service.

Mo Salah – a powerful symbol, not just as an elite footballer but as a global Muslim icon—someone who has helped shift perceptions through both his excellence on the pitch and his character off it. Salah is unapologetically and proudly Muslim—he prostrates after scoring, thanks God in interviews, and shares Ramadan fasting and Eid publicly. As someone who knows so little about anything football related, even I will never forget the chant that reverberated through the stadium in 2018:

“Mohamed Salah, a gift from Allah
He came from Roma to Liverpool
He’s always scoring, it’s almost boring
So please don’t take Mohamed away”

His popularity among fans reflects how his presence and performance have contributed to fostering a more accepting and diverse environment within football culture.

Mishal Husain’s appointment as a prime-time BBC news presenter marked a historic moment — the first time a visibly Muslim woman held such a prominent role in British broadcast journalism. Her presence signalled that Muslim identity and mainstream British identity were not mutually exclusive. As the first high-profile Muslim woman in a prime-time role at the BBC, Mishal Husain shattered a glass ceiling for many who had never seen someone like themselves on screen in such a position of authority and trust. She became a symbol of what is possible for British Muslims, particularly women, in public life. In a media landscape that often frames Muslims through the lens of conflict, terrorism, extremism, or cultural difference, Mishal Husain stood out by simply doing her job with clarity, professionalism, and integrity. In doing so, she helped challenge narrow stereotypes and offered a new narrative of normality, competence, and credibility.

Humza Yousaf made history as the first Muslim and first person of South Asian descent to become First Minister of Scotland. His ascent to one of the highest political offices in the UK sends a powerful message: that young Muslim men can — and should — see themselves at the heart of national leadership. Humza Yousaf does not hide his Muslim identity; instead, he wears it with dignity while championing an inclusive, progressive vision of politics. He shows that you can be both unapologetically Muslim and deeply committed to public service, social justice, and civic leadership. He isn’t just a symbol — he’s a leader. For young Muslim men growing up hearing that they don’t belong, Hamza’s presence in power affirms that they do. His story disrupts the narrative that Muslims are always outsiders in British public life.

These individuals are just a drop in a very big ocean. How can we talk about the countless and often unrecognised doctors saving lives in the NHS frontline, artists, entrepreneurs, and activists shaping the cultural and social fabric of Britain. Muslims are an integral part of this country’s success.

I’m going to finish with another story – something that happened nearly 35 years when I moved to Wales and joined a new GP practice. When I walked into the surgery, the doctor (a man) didn’t look up just indicated to the chair next to his desk. He was looking at some notes on his desk. After an awkward silence, without looking up he says “so how the heck do I pronounce that then”. Not one to cower I responded “it can’t be that difficult – it’s only five letters – try it”. After another silence he says “hmm – Hifsa. So where the heck are you from then?”. To which I responded “Leeds – where are you from?”. His response was “no you know what I mean – where are you ACTUALLY from”. Again I replied “I’m from Leeds”. He then said – “no I mean where are your parents from” to which I again replied “they’re from Leeds too”. It was only at this point he actually looked up from his desk, realising he wasn’t going to get the answer he was for and decided to ask me how he could help me.

Belonging isn’t a gift granted by others – it’s a right that we claim. We don’t need to shrink ourself to fit into society’s narrow definitions. Our identity is not a contradiction; it is a bridge. Belonging isn’t just about fitting in; it’s about shaping the space we inhabit. We belong because we’re here. We belong because we contribute, we create, we build, and we serve. And by doing so, we ensure that Britain is a place where everyone, regardless of race, religion, or heritage, doesn’t just live—but truly belongs.

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A week in Ramadan 2024 (1445 AH)


Today marks the 18th day of Ramadan, and as is customary each year, this month spirals into a whirlwind of activity. It’s a period filled with exhausting early morning wake-ups for suhoor, the usual daily routines compounded by the effects of reduced food and sleep. Yet amidst the hustle and bustle, with numerous other engagements unfolding, time seems to slip away faster, contributing to the weariness. However, despite the fatigue, the experience is undeniably rewarding and enriching. I wouldn’t alter any part of it. Alongside reconnecting with our children and grandchildren—entailing frequent travels along the M6/M40/M1 & M25—I’ve had the pleasure of attending various events. While not all directly linked to Ramadan, they bear relevance to its essence in some form or another.

Last week, I had the pleasure of supporting and attending an event in Parliament organised by the Sir David Amiss UK Children’s Parliament, in collaboration with the Association of British Muslims and Football for Peace. Children from Muslim, Jewish, and Christian backgrounds united to dismantle a symbolic “Wall of Division” for water security, sending a powerful message that despite our cultural and religious differences, we can and must collaborate on issues of global significance. This event shed light on the urgent matter of water security affecting communities worldwide.

I was particularly impressed by the work of The Sir David Amess UK Children’s Parliament, which aims to empower young voices and cultivate an understanding of fairness and democracy. Through partnerships with organisations like Football for Peace and the Association of British Muslims, they provide a platform for children to engage in meaningful dialogue and take action on issues shaping their futures.

On Saturday, I had the privilege of attending a bar mitzvah at The Ark Synagogue in Northwood. For those unfamiliar, a bar mitzvah (meaning “son of the commandment” in Aramaic) or bat mitzvah for a girl, is a significant ceremony in Jewish tradition that signifies the transition of Jewish children from childhood to adulthood. According to Jewish law, this milestone typically occurs when a Jewish boy or girl turns thirteen years old. During the ceremony I attended, the young boy was called to the Torah (the Jewish sacred text) to read a portion of the weekly Torah portion in Hebrew, demonstrating his commitment to observing Jewish laws and traditions as an adult member of the community.

Meeting and conversing with Rabbi Aaron Goldstein and numerous members of the congregation brought me great joy. It was my inaugural experience attending a bar mitzvah, and I was thoroughly impressed by the confidence shown by the young person as he spoke and eloquently explained the Hebrew text he was about to read. His clarity was immensely helpful to many of us present. Especially moving were the prayers offered by Rabbi Goldstein for the safety and security of both Israelis and Palestinians.


The day concluded with a delightful iftar shared with my eldest son’s in-laws. Ramadan always presents a delightful chance to reconnect with family and friends we may not have seen for some time. It’s a period for spiritual contemplation and self-discipline, offering us the opportunity to deepen our gratitude for the everyday blessings we often overlook, such as food and clean water. Additionally, Ramadan nurtures empathy and compassion for those less fortunate, especially in our world marred by conflict. It serves as a unifying force, bringing families and friends closer together, fostering stronger bonds, and promoting a sense of togetherness and unity.



On Tuesday, I received an invitation to join an iftar gathering at the home of a Jewish friend. It was a heartwarming scene as Jewish, Muslim, and Christian sisters convened just before Maghrib to share in breaking our fast together. We engaged in prayer, gathered around the table, and dined together. Amidst discussions about the distressing situation in Gaza and the events of October 7th, including the hostages, one sentiment remained steadfast: the importance of preserving relationships between British Muslims and British Jews. Interestingly, many of us harboured similar concerns about attending—not questioning the decision to join, but rather how our respective faith or community members might react knowing we were “breaking bread” with those of other faiths. However, what became evident was our collective understanding that, as women, we approach things differently, and therein lies great strength. The following prayer was read before we ate and I shall end with these very powerful words, written by Kamran Shazad from the Bahu trust in Birmingham:

Oh God, You are the Creator, the
All-Powerful, the Sustainer of all life

Oh God, we are gathered here today with our
interfaith friends to show solidarity with refugees, Ya Allah, give us the
strength to show more compassion for their plight, soften our hearts to their
situation and guide us in seeking justice and mercy on their behalf.

Oh God, we pray for an end to the wars,
poverty and human rights abuses that drive desperate people to become refugees
in the first place.

Oh God, we cannot sit here in prayer and not
hold in our hearts the crisis that we are seeing in the Middle East.

Ya Allah, let
violence end in the region.

Oh God,, our hearts break for those killed
and those left behind—for the orphaned child, the injured elderly, those
abducted and families desperate for safety.

Oh God, we pray for those who have lost
loved ones.

Oh God, please protect and provide for those
who have been abducted and bring them home safely.

Oh God, let them be
reunited with their loved ones.

Oh God, we pray for the opening of
humanitarian corridors to allow food, essentials and medical supplies to reach
those in need.

Oh God, give strength to the suffering people
in the face of the escalating humanitarian crisis

Oh God,, we pray that aid workers be able to
rescue the injured, comfort the grieving and help rebuild many lives.

Oh God, we pray for peace and reconciliation
to overcome conflict.

We ask that you give wisdom and direction to
our global leaders and those in power who have the ability to impact the course
of this conflict.

Oh God, many friends have come together
today for the greater good, I beg you to shower us with your blessings of
guidance and bring us all to goodness.

Oh God,, strengthen the bonds of friendship
between us, help us to be bold advocates and to be strong agents of peace in
our own communities.

Ameen

“O humanity! Indeed, We created you from a male and a female, and made you into nations and tribes so that you may ˹get to˺ know one another. Surely the most noble of you in the sight of Allah is the most righteous among you. Allah is truly All-Knowing, All-Aware”. (Quran 49:13)

(PS. If you’ve found my blog enjoyable and informative, kindly consider supporting one of the charities I’m spotlighting through my upcoming skydiving event in July! Your contribution, no matter how small, can make a meaningful difference to peoples lives. To donate, simply click on the link provided. Thank you sincerely for your generosity in advance! https://justgiving.com/team/mumandsonmissionpossible

Condemnation of the Attack on Manchester Synagogue

The attack on the Jewish community in Manchester, targeting a synagogue on one of its holiest days, must be condemned without hesitation. To strike at a place of worship is an assault not only on one faith, but on all who value peace, dignity and the right to practise religion freely.

Jews and Muslims share much in history, in values, and in our deep connection to worship, family and community. At times like this, it is vital we remember that what unites us far outweighs what others may try to use to divide us. An attack on a synagogue is an attack on every mosque, every church, every gurdwara, and every sacred space.

The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) taught us: “Whoever harms a person under covenant (a non-Muslim living in peace among Muslims), I will be his adversary on the Day of Judgement.” This powerful Hadith reminds us that safeguarding the rights, safety, and dignity of others – regardless of their faith – is a sacred duty.

Whatever tensions and conflicts exist in the world, they must never be allowed to spill over into hatred or violence on the streets of Britain. Here, every person of every faith should be able to walk into their place of worship free from fear.

This attack was not just on one community – it was on all of us. The only answer must be solidarity, compassion, and a shared commitment to protect one another.

Speaking Truth to Power: The Silencing of Palestinian Solidarity in the UK

I have spent many years working to build understanding, trust, and solidarity between our faith communities across the country. I have been welcomed into the homes of Christian, Sikh, Humanist and Jewish friends. We have shared countless meals, laughed together at life’s absurdities, and cried together in moments of grief. As the former Chair of a national Jewish-Muslim organisation, I have spoken out time and again against antisemitism, because hatred against Jews is an affront to all of us and I have always recognised that, as people of Abrahamic faiths, our histories, traditions, and values are intertwined.

I have also, in the past, been criticised, and rightly so, for not speaking out loudly enough about the plight of Palestinians. That criticism has stayed with me. It has made me reflect on the dangers of selective empathy, and on how silence in the face of oppression allows injustice to deepen. It is from this place of connection, reflection and commitment to universal human dignity that I write these words.

Which is why the message on the poster, held up at the recent demonstration in London by prominent British Jews including the Chief Rabbi, reading “Are you clueless or are you heartless – over 670 days! 50 hostages are still being starved and tortured in Gaza”, has prompted me to write this piece. Frankly, the slogan is not only in bad taste but profoundly unjust in its framing.

When a public slogan wallops us with the suffering of 50 hostages, it ruthlessly concentrates sympathy on Israeli pain while entirely erasing the far greater, daily horrors endured by Palestinians. Hundreds of thousands have been displaced. Tens of thousands of innocent people have been killed and maimed, including over 15,000 children. Systematic starvation continues, alongside relentless bombardment and the destruction of homes, hospitals, schools and basic infrastructure. Everything that points towards the total annihilation of an entire people.

It is not just selective empathy, it is a form of moral erasure that treats Palestinian lives as collateral damage while elevating Israeli suffering as human by default. Every life matters equally. If we are rightly mournful over 50 people, justice and morality demand that we mourn even more deeply for the tens of thousands of innocent Palestinians killed. Anything less is an endorsement of injustice and tacit acceptance of genocide.

Even within Jewish communities, those who dare to amplify Palestinian suffering face severe consequences. In the UK, 36 Deputies, mainly from Reform, Liberal and Masorti communities, signed a Financial Times letter condemning Israel’s military actions in Gaza and highlighting the humanitarian crisis. Five of them were suspended for two years by the Board of Deputies, while others were reprimanded. This prompted an outcry from Progressive Rabbis who called these punishments “disproportionate” and damaging to diversity of opinion.

A week later, more than 25 Reform and Liberal Rabbis, including Rabbi Laura Janner-Klausner, Rabbi Robyn Ashworth-Steen, Rabbi Jackie Tabick, Rabbi Frank Dabba Smith and Rabbi Elli Tikvah Sarah, signed another public letter urging an end to the war, respect for international law and unrestricted humanitarian aid into Gaza. This too sparked institutional backlash.

And at the very demonstration where the aforementioned poster appeared, Rabbi Charlie Basinsky and Rabbi Josh Levy were physically removed from the stage for speaking about the suffering of Palestinians and saying that Palestinians, like Israelis, had a right to self-determination. That such treatment could be meted out to members of the clergy, for the simple act of expressing compassion for all victims, speaks volumes about the depth of the silencing taking place.

These are not nameless voices. Some are friends. Many are respected religious leaders willing to risk their reputations to stand for equal humanity. Their courage highlights an uncomfortable truth. Even within spaces committed to justice, Palestinian suffering is often minimised or erased.

And now, that silencing is being codified and criminalised. The UK government’s proscription of Palestine Action, effectively branding a direct-action protest group as “terrorist”, sends a chilling message. It says that non-violent resistance to state violence can be redefined as extremism. We are seeing pensioners, disabled campaigners and ordinary citizens arrested for nothing more than speaking out or protesting against the daily horrors inflicted on Palestinians. The justification offered is “security”, framed once again around the plight of 50 Israeli hostages that the Israeli government, in their efforts to genocide Palestinians, don’t actually seem to care about. Yet this framing obscures the disproportionate and ongoing suffering of millions of Palestinians who remain occupied, besieged and bombarded with no path to freedom.

This poster’s slogan is not just insensitive, it is emblematic of a deeper bias that dehumanises Palestinians while centring Israeli pain. It tilts public sympathy, weakens moral clarity and deepens division. True justice demands empathy for all civilians, unequivocally. We must mourn all victims, criticise all perpetrators and insist, loudly and persistently, that every human life carries the same worth.

We must also be honest about why this imbalance exists. For months, the majority of mainstream media and political leaders have amplified Israeli grief with front-page coverage and parliamentary speeches. Meanwhile, the slaughter and starvation of Palestinians, documented by UN agencies, aid organisations and journalists on the ground, has been treated as background noise. We are drip-fed the humanity of Israelis and starved of the humanity of Palestinians. This is not just bias. It is complicity.

If we want a future where Israelis and Palestinians can live in peace and dignity, our compassion must be indivisible, our outrage consistent and our voices fearless in calling out injustice, no matter who commits it and no matter how politically costly it may be.

“Let no one, no person, no news organisation, no government gaslight you into thinking that basic human empathy is controversial” (Nicola Coughlan)

Ramadan Reflections: When Breaking Fast Has Felt Like Breaking Hearts

Ramadan is a month of reflection, gratitude, and spiritual renewal. Every year, I find joy in sharing images of my Iftar and Sehri, cherishing the community, the food, and the quiet moments of prayer. But this year, my heart has been too heavy for such celebrations.

Each day, the news has brought more images of devastation from Palestine—families breaking their fast amidst the rubble of their homes, parents weeping over the lifeless bodies of their children, and the echoes of airstrikes drowning out the call to Maghrib. This Ramadan, instead of celebrating the blessings on my table, I found myself grieving the loss of those who will never see another Ramadan.

In Gaza, Ramadan nights are not filled with the warmth of family gatherings but with the cold reality of displacement, destruction, and death. The images are haunting—children with eyes too weary for their age, women searching for loved ones beneath collapsed buildings, men with trembling hands offering their last morsel of food to someone hungrier than them. The violence has not ceased, the suffering has not abated, and yet, the world continues as if their agony is just another footnote in history.

Nearly 300 women and children were slaughtered by the Israeli army in a recent attack, adding to the ever-growing toll of innocent lives lost. Among them are wounded children, war orphans, who have no surviving family left to comfort them. Hospitals, meant to be sanctuaries of healing, have become targets themselves, with healthcare workers risking and often losing their lives to tend to the wounded. Journalists, whose duty it is to bear witness, have been deliberately targeted, with over 150 now killed for daring to report the truth. These are not accidents of war; they are deliberate acts of terror.

How can we speak of peace when there is no justice? How can we bring ourselves to celebrate Eid-ul-Fitr when our brothers and sisters are burying their children instead of feeding them? It is impossible to ignore that this conflict is not an accident of history but the direct result of the Israeli government’s choices—one that has prioritised land over lives, fleeting gains over faith, and power over peace. What we are witnessing is not just war—it is a systematic erasure of a people, their history, and their right to exist. And yet, in their grief, Palestinians continue to pray, fast, and hope. Their resilience is a testament to their faith, even as the world fails them.

Amid this catastrophe, the fate of innocent Palestinians and the Israeli hostages remains a painful open wound. Their release—one that could have brought solace to so many—has been jeopardised by men seeking glory over humanity. In their pursuit of power, they have chosen to prolong suffering rather than end it. Each passing day is another opportunity lost, another life at risk, another family torn apart. And still, the world watches, complicit in its inaction.

As Ramadan draws to a close, my prayers are with those who have lost their homes, their families, their very sense of security. I pray for the innocent children who did not live long enough to understand the world’s cruelty. I pray for the women who carry the weight of survival, and the men who stand steadfast despite overwhelming despair. I pray for the hostages, held in a fate not of their choosing, and for all those caught in the crossfire of leaders who value their own legacies over human lives. And above all, I pray that those who have lost their lives find eternal peace with our Maker, that their suffering is not in vain, and that justice will one day prevail.

God warns us in the Quran:

“And do not incline toward those who do wrong, lest you be touched by the Fire, and you would not have other than God any protectors; then you would not be helped.” (Quran 11:113)

This verse serves as a stern warning against silence and complicity in the face of oppression. It reminds us that even passive support or neutrality in matters of injustice can have severe consequences. Remaining silent or failing to stand against wrongdoing allows injustice to persist and grow. True faith calls for action, for standing firmly on the side of justice, even when it is difficult or unpopular.

This Ramadan, I have not posted pictures of lavish meals. Instead, I bear witness. And I ask you to do the same. Pray, speak, share—because silence is complicity, and the world has been silent for far too long.

“O you who have believed, be persistently standing firm in justice, witnesses for God, even if it be against yourselves or parents and relatives” (Quran 4:135)