Segregated Britain: Everyday Life in Muslim Enclaves [New ed.] 1789976286, 9781789976281

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SEGREGATED BRITAIN

SEGREGATED BRITAIN Everyday Life in Muslim Enclaves

Farhaan Wali

Peter Lang

Oxford • Bern • Berlin • Bruxelles • New York • Wien

Bibliographic information published by Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbiblio grafie; detailed bibliographic data is available on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A CIP catalog record for this book has been applied for at the Library of Congress.

Cover design by Peter Lang. Cover image by Farhaan Wali ISBN 978-1-78997-628-1 (print) • eISBN 978-1-78997-685-4 (ePDF) ISBN 978-1-78997-686-1 (ePub) • ISBN 978-1-78997-687-8 (mobi)

© Peter Lang AG 2020 Published by Peter Lang Ltd, International Academic Publishers, 52 St Giles, Oxford, OX1 3LU, United Kingdom [email protected], www.peterlang.com Farhaan Wali has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this Work. All rights reserved. All parts of this publication are protected by copyright. Any utilisation outside the strict limits of the copyright law, without the permission of the publisher, is forbidden and liable to prosecution. This applies in particular to reproductions, translations, microfilming, and storage and processing in electronic retrieval systems. This publication has been peer reviewed.

To my loving parents and wife. This book would not be possible without their support and love.

Contents

List of Tables   ix I ntroduction Is Britain a Balkanised Dystopia of Segregated Enclaves?   1 hapter 1 C The East End Muslim Enclave I: Early Immigrant Experiences   37 hapter 2 C The East End Muslim Enclave II: Born into Enclaves   69 hapter 3 C Patchwork Segregation in Dundee   105 hapter 4 C Small-town Segregation in Bangor   139 hapter 5 C Gender Segregation   171 onclusion C Muslim Segregation in Modern Britain   203 Bibliography   233 Index   245

Tables

able 1: T Table 2: Table 3:

Enclave Identity-Type   78 Belongingness (Dundee)   112 Occupational Activities of Muslims in Bangor   145

Introduction

Is Britain a Balkanised Dystopia of Segregated Enclaves?

The headline for this introduction was taken from a Vice News article written by Matt Broomfield in 2016. He visited parts of Birmingham to assess ‘if it’s really an Islamist Ghetto’ (Vice, 7 December 2016). The news report sought to find out if Islamism was driving alleged Muslim segregation. After interviewing a small section of the Muslim community in Birmingham, the link to Islamism seemed redundant, as locals expressed their aversion to Islamist ideology. Beyond the somewhat alarmist focus on Islamism, I was struck by the article’s somewhat blasé analogy between Britain and the Balkans. I found this link extremely difficult to accept, as several years earlier I had visited the city of Mostar, the fifth largest city in Bosnia and Herzegovina. My encounters with the residents revealed a distinctly divided picture. This segregation was most evident in the social space of the city, which was heavily divided. After the civil war, the city was geographically reshaped along ethnoreligious lines, permanently separating the eastern and western blocks. The spatial segregation I witnessed could be seen in local parks, schools and shops. The Vice News article raised concerns about whether similar types of divisions exist across modern Britain. This provoked my interest and scepticism. Thus, when I began my fieldwork, my goal was not to prove the existence of Muslim enclaves in Modern Britain; but rather, I  sought to understand everyday experiences of British Muslims who allegedly live in segregated Muslim enclaves.

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Introduction

Some British politicians claim that Muslims are not actively dissolving the social boundaries between themselves and wider society. Dame Louise Casey, the former integration tsar, for instance, asserted that segregation and social exclusion are at ‘worrying levels’ amongst Muslim communities in Britain (BBC, 5 December 2016). She singled out the Muslim community, claiming that regressive practices are socially upheld in Muslim enclaves, which limit the self-agency of Muslim women. A cultural disconnect, she claims, fuels continued Muslim segregation in which Muslims reside in parallel communities. There are large segments of British society that believe British Muslims live in separate religious spaces, which are often termed Muslim enclaves (Tausch, 2014). The inability to locate these enclaves is a major problem. It is easy to claim Muslims live in separate territories, but does Muslim residential clustering equal an enclave? This book tries to offer ethnographic insight into the everyday lives of Muslims living in East London, North Wales and Scotland. Thus, the goal was not to ascertain physical data concerning the demographic distribution of these people – relating to their economic condition, housing and welfare – but to discover, through observations of everyday life, the various ways in which British Muslims construct a sense of belonging and segregation. In essence, I seek to understand the social world of Muslims living in so-called enclaves.

Starting in the East End of London: Cluster or Enclave? I often think to myself, what would you find if you walked the streets of the East End a hundred years ago? The area has undergone a radical alteration. Beyond the changing physical landscape, the ethnic upheaval experienced in the city stands out perhaps most vividly. I remember a few years ago, well before I began this book, I found myself strolling down the rustic back alleys of Brick Lane. There I encountered a small group of German tourists, who were meticulously tracking down the hotspots of Jack the Ripper’s victims. While hunting in the East End, one of the tourists asked me about the local area. He said that the East End was not what

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he had expected. I rather impulsively asked what he had expected to find, and his reply has haunted me ever since: ‘I do not believe I am in England … there are no English people here’. Despite the racist undertones of the statement, I was more concerned by the experiences of Britain that had shaped this point of view. I grew up in Bedfont, a small village in suburban west London, and thus rarely stepped foot in the East End. So, in many ways, I felt somewhat like a tourist too. With this encounter fresh in my head, I started aimlessly wandering the East End. I had the opportunity to speak to several non-Muslim white residents. They felt that the entire landscape appeared at odds with the wider city, believing the Muslim presence had vividly changed the cultural landscape of the area. The Muslim inhabitants of the East End, they asserted, seemed to be consciously constructing a community apart from British society. This type of alarmist sentiment exhibits some parallels with the rhetoric of the far right. According to Rydgnen (2018), the rhetoric of the far right focuses on defending against perceived threats to national identity and culture. He claims ‘immigrants from Muslim countries are singled out as particularly threatening, allegedly because they have the least in common with the native population’ (Rydgnen, 2018, p. 2). Even though it was clear to me that there were real causes of concern, I realised that my observations were very superficial. I needed to test my observations. Initially, I just focused on the East End of London. I meticulously scoured the numbers, to understand the demographic breakdown of the area. The data was compelling. In Tower Hamlets, for example, ethnic minorities outnumber the white population by nearly two to one (Riaz, 2016). Almost one-third of the borough’s population is Bangladeshi, making them the largest ethnic group in the area. As a result, Tower Hamlets has the largest concentration of Bangladeshis in the UK. However, I felt this broad data presented a skewed demographic picture. The concentration of Muslims in the area does not necessarily mean one should constitute it as a Muslim enclave. For instance, there are over eighteen different ethnic groups living in this area, which means it might be better characterised as an ethnic enclave, due to the multi-ethnic composition of the East End (Young et al., 2011, p. 31).

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Introduction

According to Park (1969), the creation of migrant enclaves often drew people of similar race, ethnicity and language together. However, as these migratory bonds gradually weaken, some members seek to integrate into the host society. Yet, on the surface, this does not appear to be happening. As one local white resident put it, ‘on the streets of Tower Hamlets people are living apart’. The demographic data gives a broad picture, but this does not necessarily tell the real story about the social lives of Muslims living in the East End. After spending several months in the area and speaking to locals, I started to see significant social gaps and differences between Muslim residents. Ultimately, my goal was not to determine whether the East End was a Muslim enclave; rather, I wanted to find out how some British Muslims construct a sense of belonging and whether those Muslims living in the East End considered the area a Muslim enclave. This distinction is important because I did not see evidence of British Muslims living in parallel worlds in the East End. Rather, I observed different pockets of Muslim populations. This, I felt, equated to residential clustering, which is a relatively common phenomenon within urban environments. According to Finney (2013), this residential clustering is a natural by-product of socio-economic structural forces. As a result, it is common across the UK to find ethnic minority populations clustered together within towns and cities. Peach (2006) claims that Muslim clustering functions at two distinct levels of civic engagement. The first level relates to the preservation of segregated communities, which Peach termed multiculturalism. The second level relates to assimilative processes, in which Muslim communities are gradually absorbed into the dominant culture of the host society (Peach, 2006). In 2005, Trevor Philips delivered a damning address to the Manchester Council for Community Relations in which he expressed his concern that Britain was harbouring ‘fully fledged ghettos’ (The Guardian, 19 September 2005). In large parts of the UK, the Muslim community appear clustered together (Varady, 2008). In the East End of London, residential patterns are drawn along ethnic and religious grounds, which have been facilitated by discriminatory housing policy and accelerated white flight (Simpson and Gavalas, 2005). Large parts of the East End, therefore, exhibit high clustering of Muslims. This was evident during the fieldwork, as the vast majority of respondents resided in areas populated with people of the same

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ethnic and religious background. However, despite the title of the book, it is vital to be extremely cautious while employing the term ‘enclave’. This is because Muslim residential clustering, in some parts of the UK, seems generally accepted by the academic community (Finney, 2013; Johnston et al., 2007; Vaughan, 2007). Yet, there is less agreement concerning Muslim enclaves. There are many reasons for this lack of agreement. Firstly, enclaves imply that communities become culturally disconnected from the dominant culture (Pores and Jensen, 1987). Secondly, it is assumed that residential clustering occurs after migration, and as the population cluster grows and settles it becomes distinct from the host society, turning it into an enclave (Vaughan, 2007). Therefore, if the East End of London is a Muslim enclave, then it must be culturally disconnected from the wider society. In order to assess whether this is actually the case, I undertook ethnographic fieldwork to discover if the inhabitants of the East End are culturally disconnected. In essence, I wanted to know whether Muslims believe that where they live is a Muslim enclave. I felt that gaining insight from inside the so-called enclave could provide me with a deeper understanding of the complex social world of Muslims and their perception of the outside world. This would help answer questions related to segregation and belongingness.

Urban Enclaves According to Flint, in a modern urban sense, enclaves refer to a ‘city neighbourhood displaying distinctive economic, social and cultural attributes from its surroundings’ (Flint, 2009, p. 191). This definition would imply that an enclave is a distinct ‘territorial space’. For Flint (2009, p. 191), this distinct territory is also ‘economically and politically’ segregated from the wider territory. This description does not quite match up to the reality of Muslim social life that I observed; as the inhabitants did not develop an understanding that politically or economically separated them from British society. Instead, I witnessed different forms of expressing cultural

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Introduction

and religious identity that gave rise to different levels of belongingness. Therefore, my goal is not to locate or prove the existence of Muslim enclaves; rather, I  want to understand how British Muslims construct meaning within so-called enclaves. The role state policy plays further complicates the problem, especially in restricting social stratification for economically deprived communities. In particular, the destabilisation of council estates after the 1980 Housing Act restricted the mobility of poorer communities (Madden and Marcuse, 2016). In theory, due to local council housing policies, According to Balchin and Rhoden (2002), who studied housing policy in the UK, some ethnic communities found themselves bound to the poorest areas of cities and towns due to local council housing policies and high unemployment. These economically disadvantaged areas witnessed gradual ethnic concentration, escalating White Flight from those areas (Cantle, 2018). This means the state is not necessarily neutral. However, from a socio-political and legal standpoint, the British state does not practise or enforce a policy of keeping ethno-religious communities apart. Historically, in the United States, after the abolishment of slavery, many Southern states actively employed a policy of racial segregation, which naturally spawned ethnic enclaves (Warde, 2016). This is why some academics argue that ethnic enclave formation is rooted in non-institutionalised factors, such as high levels of concentrated immigration (Martin, 2006). This ignores the structural inequalities created by housing policy. After speaking to locals, I discovered in the East End that some early Bangladeshi immigrants were able to secure homeownership after several years of undertaking low-skilled employment. This homeownership brought increased residential equality and gave them the opportunity to locate housing in the suburbs. This suggests Muslim communities in Britain are not economically segregated. The economic realities of modern societies do not reinforce the artificial social boundaries that keep people separated. As Schelling (2006) postulated from a cost-benefit breakdown, no active agent in society seeks out isolation. In other words, the increase in welfare, decentralising of the central government (local authorities), and the lessening of economic barriers have placed substantial obstacles in the quest to exist independently from the dominant culture. On the other hand, from a socio-economic

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perspective, one must acknowledge socio-spatial segregation in large urban settings. This type of enclave formation process is relatively common in large metropolitans, which give rise to social clustering amongst people of similar economic activity and lifestyle. This means enclave formation may be a relatively common phenomenon in large urban settings. As Tiebout (1956, p. 422) asserts, this clustering of people is grounded within the complexity of class mobility, seeing that agents select public good by ‘voting with one’s feet’. Some middle-class families move to a different catchment area, as they seek out better public facilities for their children. So, if enclave formation is relatively common across the UK, then why single out ‘Muslims’? According to Melanie Phillips, a social and political commentator, Muslim enclaves are a growing problem in Britain. She claims the Muslim presence in London, for example, has radically altered the socio-cultural landscape of the capital (Phillips, 2006). This assertion sees Muslim population growth and alleged cultural separation as inherently a Muslim problem. Thus, she claims Muslim enclaves exhibit distinct characteristics, making them inherently different from other forms of enclaves. If these so-called Muslim enclaves exist, then I wanted to find out how the residents reconcile religion, nationality and belongingness. Physical Enclaves An excellent place to begin an assessment of enclaves is the matter of segregation of space. On one end, many cities have witnessed an upsurge of fortified enclaves, such as Johannesburg, São Paulo and Karachi (Caldeira, 2000). The formation of these physical enclaves is rooted in the perceived lack of urban security. Therefore, walled residential enclaves, commonly referred to as ‘gated communities’, are a type of physical enclave. Historically, walls were a physical defence from outside threats, and thus walls were often constructed around the city as a form of security (Brebbia and Clark, 2014). Today, we find walled communities within the city. These enclosed spaces offer residents a sense of physical security, as the walled boundaries seemingly keep out the ‘undesirables’ of

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Introduction

the wider city. In this sense, the walls of these enclaves represent a power divide, representing a physical boundary amongst social groups, namely between rich and poor. According to Caldeira (2000), these walls do not necessarily exclude people based on race or ethnicity. This may be true at one level, but to some extent, this may ignore the fact that residential enclaves are often socially selected by income, and by default ethnicity. White, upper-middle-class residents, for example, predominantly populate gated enclaves in the United Kingdom (Caldeira, 2000). This means enclaves of this type exclude residents through the class hierarchy, as the walls represent the division of status in society. This was aptly identified by Sibley (1995), who asserted residential exclusion is predicated on socially constructing differences between groups based on wealth, ethnicity and religion. In essence, these segregated residential spaces are socially constructed in direct opposition to the negative perceptions of the ‘other’. In simple terms, the dominant class does not want to live among minority groups. Through selective housing, these groups can limit the types of people that populate their protective space. Thus, modern urban enclaves symbolise exclusion through a power imbalance, which are more pronounced at the top and the bottom of the stratification scale. Migrants wield little power as they cannot select housing freely. In contrast, the upper class have significant selective power, choosing to reside in gated enclaves. This is why, Lefebvre (1991, p. 26) believes, migrant and resident enclaves are not neutral spaces, because they reflect wealth and power dichotomy. Non-Physical Enclaves Gated enclaves are distinct as they are separated by walls, which set them apart from the wider surroundings. However, enclaves do not necessarily have to be separated by walls. In the heavily divided city of Mostar, segregation was visible in the public spaces of the city. It was easy to see the physical divide, but I also saw a cultural separateness that cloaked the city. This non-physical form of cultural segregation took place in a kind of imagined space. This is because enclaves do not necessarily follow a linear path, as there are multiple points of ‘intersecting experiences’ (Petersen,

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9

2006, p. 721) In other words, different social categories – such as gender, ethnicity, class, and religion – give rise to physical points of divergence. Take Midhat, a 42-year-old Bosnian Muslim, who grew up on the west bank of the Neretva River, which was predominantly Croat. According to Midhat, before the war, there were no physical enclaves, but there was a cultural divide. As he states, ‘our culture different to them [Croats] … no drink for us, we eat halal they eat pig … we pray in mosque’ (Wali, 2018). This would suggest that before the war, there were no clear boundaries related to physical proximity. However, at the cultural level, a non-physical boundary existed based on ethno-religious attachment. This indicates that conceptions of space dictate spatial enclaves. Physical walls do not divide the migrant enclaves that are populated across Britain. According to Park (1969, p. 40), migrant enclaves can be described as a ‘mosaic of little worlds’. In this sense, the migrant enclave is a separate territory formed from an assemblage of distinct pieces, such as ethnicity, religion and culture. They are not necessarily ethnically homogenous. The migrant enclave in the East End of London, for instance, is a shared ethno-religious space with different ethnic groups living together. This could mean migrant enclaves in the United Kingdom are not exclusivist in terms of ethnicity. However, the Muslim population is highly concentrated within these territories, which may suggest religious homogeneity. In simple terms, a migrant enclave is defined as a distinct geographic space where a disproportionate number of non-native groups reside, creating socio-spatial clustering of migrants. Within this space, ethno-religious traditions imported from the country of origin are socially displayed, forming a visible distinction between the enclave and the host society. More significantly, as Gopinath (2018) argues, when the migrant communities became more settled within the host country, the enclaves they populate developed into ethnic enclaves. This makes the term migrant enclave problematic as it relates to the migration process, but after settling the application becomes slightly redundant. Migrant enclaves, as a descriptive category, equates to the social reality of the first generation of migrants. For this reason, the term cannot be easily applied to the second and third generations, who are a by-product of settlement.

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Introduction

In a historical context, early migrants from the Indian subcontinent were seen as homogenous and thus lumped together under the broad category of South Asian. However, after a period of settlement, immigrants from South Asia were relabelled according to ethno-nationalistic and religious affiliations. As a result, terms like Pakistani and Bangladeshi became popular, but these are equally problematic descriptive labels. Before the migration process, these terms were anchored to one’s country of nationality, but after migration, they become re-designated to ethnic identity markers. This would suggest labelling enclaves as ‘ethnic’ might be equally problematic. According to Anthias and Yuval-Davis (2005, p. 4), ethnicity is often determined in relation to ‘who can and cannot belong’ to the group according to the credentials of birth, cultural practice and language. Enclaves do not function with such restrictive credentials, because the interplay between the enclave and wider society can be determined by factors that transcend ethnicity, like social mobility and status. Some theorists have argued that ethnic enclaves are designed to preserve ethnic identity within the host country in order to counter-act assimilative processes (Whitfield, 2013). In essence, behind the veil of the enclave, individuals can adopt the worldview of the enclave, enabling them to engage the dominant culture with an established ideological framework. This would mean internal forces position the enclave as a mechanism to maintain a shared cultural resource for its residents, providing them with the means to negotiate the struggles of living in the host country. This perspective appears to overlook the economic networks that function within the enclave. The ethnic enclave provides social protection due to its high contraction of non-native people in an enclosed space, but the dynamics controlling the enclave may hinge on economic activity. Migrant networks, argued Massey (1990), provided migrants with alternative modes of social capital. Initially, these migrant networks developed through close family ties that provided help to newly arriving migrants. Eventually, they evolved into more systematic and rigid interpersonal systems, providing low-cost housing and job opportunities that bypassed the state. According to Pietsch and Clark (2015), this had a profoundly negative effect on migrant integration, as migrants fell out of the broader social structure. Social mobility

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was dependent on access to education and capital resources. Those migrants, for instance, who could not speak English, would face long-term struggles (Berardo and Deardorff, 2012). Therefore, it was advantageous for migrant enclaves to keep newly arriving migrants embedded within the closed socio-economic structure of the enclave. Some theorist believe social capital in the enclave can provide a collective benefit to its members by providing them with access to economic opportunities, which may be denied to them in the wider society due to discrimination (Saegert et al., 2002). Migrant enclaves often construct ethnic-based employment opportunities, which are non-skilled, allowing migrants to find work straight away. In reality, by disengaging with the social and cultural structures present in the host society, migrants over time lack connectivity to society. Thus, despite the short-term benefits, the ethnic enclave inhibits social and economic integration. As will be shown in Chapter 1, the immediate advantages newly arriving migrants receive when they join the ethnic enclave are often quickly eclipsed by the long-term drawbacks of not participating in the wider society. I am not alone in highlighting this insular disadvantage. A recent report issued by the Runnymede Trust suggested that ethnic minorities in Britain suffer from an ‘invisible glass ceiling’ (Runnymede Trust, 14 April 2017). One aspect of this alleged invisible glass ceiling relates to the socio-economic barriers placed on ethnic minorities from attaining upward mobility in the workplace. In theory, beyond this unseen institutional discrimination, the ethnic enclave itself functions as a glass ceiling restricting migrant progression. The enclave labour market, for instance, is often cut off from accessing host country skills that may benefit migrant economic mobility over the long term. By impeding the migrants’ ability to access more extensive skills, the enclave creates a social barrier that prevents the migrant from learning the basic social norms to navigate society. When I spoke to first-generation migrants in the East End of London, several of them told me how they lacked the means to access essential welfare services because of the inward-looking nature of the Muslim enclave. As a result, for most migrants learning the host language became a significant challenge, making it easier for migrants to opt out of mainstream society and remain attached to the enclave. In simple terms, the ethnic enclave provides a sense

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Introduction

of security to the immigrant, while also giving them access to the familiar. Ultimately, the insular nature of the enclave acts as a socio-cultural barrier.

Why Enclaves Form? In the modern world, no one is unaffected by changes that take place in cities. Speaking broadly, cities are beckons for cultural and social change as they encourage new trends that shape how people live. For this reason, cities attract a broad spectrum of people from different social backgrounds, making an adjustment to the urban setting often tricky. Historically, in the nineteenth century, when the west experienced rapid industrialisation, it prompted a population shift from rural to urban (Alexander, 2009). As a result, the urban city arose in a somewhat chaotic and disorganised fashion; it evolved and developed through competition for space and resources. The tensions between capital and labour symbolised the end of feudal society and the birth of capitalism. This supposedly cultivated spatial class divisions, spawning the first urban enclaves (Hilton, 2006). If true, then space became divided along class faultlines within the city, sowing social segregation into the fabric of modern urban life. However, is this separation physical or has physicality been ‘assigned’ to it? During the 1950s and 1960s, America experienced substantial social upheaval. The city of Chicago appeared to be an epicentre for such upheaval, and not surprisingly, became the focal point of academic focus regarding immigrant settlement processes. For this reason, I shall focus my attention on the theories that arose during this period related to immigrant assimilation. In particular, did immigrant enclaves form in response to different modes of structural incorporation? According to Portes and Manning (2001, p. 568), two distinct views emerged to tackle this question, namely ‘assimilation theory’ and the ‘segmented labour market theory’. In theory, according to Gordon (1964), the assimilation process for new immigrants occurred sequentially. This means that after encountering

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financial difficulty and racial prejudice, they secured social stability and gained economic mobility, which was attributed to increased adaptation of the host society and culture (Gordon, 1964). In keeping with this assimilationist-theory, it was believed that some immigrant groups struggled to adapt, and thus failure to acquire social mobility pushes them towards the ethnic enclave. However, the formation of the enclave is not necessarily just dependent on economic factors. The host society often expects the immigrant to abandon their cultural and religious mores, making assimilation appear a one-way process. As a result, some migrants are reluctant to surrender their cultural values and identity. This suggests that immigrants do not merely ‘melt’ into the host society; instead, they seek to safeguard their migrant identity in the new society (Portes and Manning, 2001, p. 569). This desire to preserve their ethnic identity can also be observed in the labour market, as some newly arriving migrants looked to circumvent the free labour market for jobs in the enclave. Those migrants that selected this pathway represented the broad category of the so-called ‘unmeltable ethnics’ (Portes and Manning, 2001, p. 569). These migrants have been socially positioned by the labour market, which gave them distinct jobs and roles. When the British colonised India, for example, they assigned roles to the indigenous population based on physical and social attributes, confining generations to specific jobs (Maddison, 2013). This type of cultural division of labour died with colonialism. However, with the emergence of ethnic enclaves, similar aspects of labour exploitation have resurfaced within the enclave. Not surprisingly, immigrants enter the labour market at the bottom; those who chose to compete in the free labour market have the potential to obtain social mobility. In contrast, those who elect to remain in the ethnic enclave are often forced to work under substandard conditions and have minimal social mobility opportunities. Jobs in the enclave are poorly paid, as they require minim skill and experience. As a result, those newly arriving migrants are confined to the bottom of the enclave labour market, binding them to the economic and cultural forces of the enclave. These two perspectives related to how ethnic enclaves form are restricted to a distinct historical frame, and thus this does not necessarily match the social reality of British Muslim enclaves. Therefore, a situationally

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Introduction

based perspective also needs to be reflected upon, which draws on the unique properties of the British Muslim social experience within the socalled Muslim enclave. Trying to conceptualise and locate Muslim enclaves in Britain is difficult. At one level, the physical evidence shows that distinct areas across the UK contain a high concentration of Muslims. Is this clustering a consequence of discrimination and exclusion practised by the host society? Alternatively, is this concentration sufficient evidence to constitute a distinctly Muslim enclave? As mentioned above, the literature breaks down these types of problems into the Labour Market and Assimilation Models (Park, 1950; Birkelund, 2013; Egbert and Esser, 2007). The latter asserts Muslim enclaves are places of migrant employment, while the former sees Muslims enclaves as a place of migrant residence (Wong and Rigg, 2010). Both these perspectives tend to overly focus on the firstgeneration migrant, ignoring second- and third-generation shifts in labour and assimilative practices. This distinction is essential, as the second- and third-generation British Muslims are not newly arriving migrants that are entering the UK labour market for the first time; preferably, they are British-born. In theory, this means they do not have to acquire the necessary social skills required to navigate the labour market or integrate into British culture. Despite these apparent advantages, second- and thirdgeneration British-born Muslims remain at the lower tier of the labour market (Anwar, 2002).

Muslim Enclaves in Britain During my early academic career, I became enthralled by the writings of twentieth-century Muslim reformers. In particular, I  recall being perplexed by Rashid Rida’s famous declaration that Muslims were jughrafiyun [geographical]. What did he mean by this statement? I pondered its significance for many years. Eventually, I came to understand that it related to symbolic attachment to faith and land. In other words, Rida argued that religiosity was an outcome of living in an Islamic environment. This

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15

meant that people only practise their faith because they live and grow up in a Muslim country. What about British Muslims? If social space dictates attachment, then enclaves might be a reaction to marginalisation. Enclaves create separate spaces, giving the inhabitants the opportunity to preserve their faith. These enclaves are not physical spaces, separated by walls; instead, they are symbolic manifestations of separation and difference. Unfortunately, British Muslims often occupy the bottom of the economic ladder, suffering from high unemployment and limited education (Wali, 2016). However, this does not mean Muslim enclaves should be seen as an economic dichotomy between power and resources, as this argument assumes an overriding economic imperative for ethno-religious communities to compete for depleting social resources. Historically, government policy has viewed ghettos and enclaves as an urbanisation problem, and consequently, social clustering is a natural by-product of the economic condition (Kanyenze and Kondo, 2011). This approach frames enclave formation within the restrictive scope of urban housing and spatial stratification. Early immigrants were denied access to public housing, forcing them to look within the private sector. This perspective is somewhat problematic because enclave formation does not exclusively occur due to inner-city proximity. Instead, as Rex (cited in Peach et al., 1981, p. 25) argues, immigrant enclaves in the United Kingdom arose from ‘racial discrimination’. At this stage, I am partially contesting the existence of Muslim enclaves in modern Britain, because population clustering cannot be seen as the primary determinant of an enclave. According to Turner (2007), enclaves are often insulated spaces, operating under separate systems of control and culture. This view suggests a movement away from assimilation theory as an adequate explanation of the process of immigrant adaptation to a host country. From a primordial perspective, the ethno-religious attachments of British Muslims are exceedingly entangled and cannot be easily removed. For most Muslims, in contemporary Britain, Islam forms a significant source of identity. It has been reported that two-thirds of Pakistanis aged 16–34 stated that religion is ‘very important’ to the way they live their lives ( Jacobson, 2006, p. 28). This implies deep-rooted primordial linkages to

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Introduction

kin and religion (Bellah, 2011). If these attachments genuinely exist, as permanent features of human identity, then early Muslim migrants would have imported them from their places of origin (Geerz, 1973). In theory, a sense of belonging is reinforced amongst community members and provides a means to conceive of their identity through sharing a common ethno-religious past. It is somewhat difficult to actualise the primordial approach in totality since it degrades the social context. For instance, the importation of cultural attachments into a host country needs to be merged with the national identity. The process of synchronising identities can be highly problematic as it is dependent on the actors themselves. Thus, despite some residual linkages to kin and country of origin, religious community identity is a fluid and mobile construct. In other words, religious identification becomes active within a given context. Saeed (1999) discovered that younger Muslims preferred to be recognised through multiple identity-types, namely Scottish-Muslim. However, when asked to place these hyphenated formations in order of preference, 81 per cent regarded themselves Muslim first. This statistic, though important, slightly underplays Muslim youth identity formation, which as I assert in Chapter 2, is a far more complicated process: one that is constructed through negotiation during different periods of socialisation. To start with, as Kyoso (2017) contends, immigrant identity construction is not merely an individualistic process since it is reliant on family networks, ethnic and racial group membership. These interconnected social threads are significant, as Geertz (2017) stipulates because attachments stem from a tradition of learnt rules of conduct. Jacobson’s (2006) study of second-generation British Muslims in the London Borough of Waltham Forest revealed that many young British-born Pakistanis hold religion as a strong element of their identity. As she states: ‘I have suggested that Islam survives as a source of meaning in the respondents lives partly because the content of its messages is accessible and appealing to the young people’ (2006, p. 126). This rather simplistic observation greatly underplays the complexities of identity negotiation through various stages of the life cycle. In reality, socialisation provides a way for young people to learn about their religious heritage, enabling them to become active members of their community and thus perpetuating religious affiliation for newer generations

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17

(Sedgwick, 2014). Therefore, socialisation becomes an essential element in the process of identity and community formation, as the process of upgrading and differentiating take place, gradually shaping specific characteristics through the complexities of the life cycle (Parsons, 1964). About second-generation Muslims, the complex nature of the upgrading process is greatly amplified since they emerge from two diverse social worlds. This makes it extremely difficult for them to adjust their identity to different social settings. Children of immigrants in Britain, Cockburn (2012) explained, are exposed to dual socialisation processes: in the home, they form primary identification with their parents’ cultural mores; while at school they encounter an opposing culture. In most cases, young Muslims struggle to overcome conflicts with elements that are perceived to be incompatible with their ethno-religious home-based identities. These situations are often exacerbated by the fact that second-generation Muslims are born and raised in Britain, and thus see their parents’ country of origin as foreign (Hoque, 2019). Trying to frame Muslim enclaves within a discreet and essentialist framework is hugely problematic, as identity construction is repeatedly negotiated within different periods of the life cycle. Identity negotiation is firmly embedded within the process of socialisation, which may result in the centralisation of identity into a core structure, providing balance to the other disjointed identities (Barbera, 2014). The centralisation of religiosity is contingent on the interchange between individuals recurring encounters and experiences within society (Schieman, 2008). In the case of secondand third-generation Muslim identity, I tentatively assume a stable core identity structure does not direct it because, as Schumann (2011) suggests, the settlement has generated ‘hybrid identities’. These multiple identities allow the individual to define for themselves who they are within different social settings, but this can often lead to dual loyalties and conflict. Consequently, the failure to establish stable identities can cultivate disaffection among some young Muslims who may become marginalised through socialisation. More significantly, radical Islamist groups, offer some young Muslims a strong core identity based on religiosity. In this regard, activists view themselves as symbolic disciples of Islam (Wali, 2013). In a broader context, young Muslims that contextualise religion as a core

18

Introduction

element of their identity often dichotomise the ‘other’ in antagonistic terms, posing a threat to their religious heritage. From a historical perspective, the British Empire often ‘privileged religious identities’ in order to exert control, ‘which inevitably helped to sharpen distinctions between Muslim and non-Muslim’ (Robinson, 1998, p. 5). This contextualisation of India had a continuing influence in the way migrants to Britain were categorised according to ethno-religious markers. This is greatly compounded by the broad struggle of young Muslims ‘to discover how to be a Muslim as a minority in a non-Muslim society’ (Lewis, 2007, p. 6). Stratham (2003) equates the rise in overt religious affiliation amongst some Muslims to two interconnected social realities: (1) Islam seeks to assert itself within the public realm, and (2) Muslim identity formation is an acute response to social deprivation and discrimination. In regards to the latter, Muslim self-consciousness is often reinforced by negative media stereotypes. The public vilification of Muslim belief and practice tends to lead to introverted responses: ‘Muslim communities closing ranks’ (Samad, 1996, p. 97). Similarly, Ballard (1996) believes the marginalisation of Muslims from the majority culture has triggered a reaffirmation of religion. This is because young Muslims perceive their religious identity to be under constant threat, and not their ethnicity, resulting in greater mobility towards Muslim identity. This movement away from ethno-identity labels is exacerbated by the declining attachment to South Asia, as a cultural and linguistic reference point. As Samad (2004, p. 17) suggests, ‘identification with Pakistan and Bangladesh – countries that young people may only briefly visit – becomes less significant and Muslim as an identity becomes more important’. In this respect, religious identity, Gardner and Shuker (1994, p. 164) explain, ‘provides both a positive identity, in which solidarity can be found, together with an escape from the oppressive tedium of being constantly identified in negative terms’. The examination of religious affiliation and identity amongst young Muslims in Britain has its inherent problems. As Lewis (2007, p. 1) explains, there is a tendency to miniaturise young South Asian identity to ‘one single affiliation’, namely their religious makeup. This is quite dangerous as Muslim identity is bound to different threads, as Lewis (2007, p. 2) points out: ‘for some, their “Muslimness” is as much “cultural” as religious … for others, it

Introduction

19

is a vehicle of “identity politics”’. Thus, pinpointing a coherent connection between an increase in religiosity – in terms of religious practice – and as a source of identity is not easy and highly complicated (Samad, 2004). In his most seminal piece, Lewis (2002) sets out in his research to explore the inner dynamics of Muslim communities in Britain, focusing on Bradford as his case study. His work has provided my research with some valuable insights. In particular, he observes ‘signs of a British Muslim culture developing’ (2002, p. 209). This would suggest that young Muslims are actively trying to negotiate and merge diverse elements of their ethno-religious cultural roots with the complexities and realities of modern Britain. Significantly, Lewis (2002, p. 207) points out; this process has ‘bypassed the ulama’, which means young Muslims are searching for identity solutions beyond traditional religious institutions and structures. It is clear from the cursory review of the literature concerning young Muslims that Islam remains a salient feature of identity construction, but this does not necessarily mean it leads to an increase in religiosity or radicalism. Thus, as Samad (2010) argues, the development of Muslim identification becomes more visible and prominent when young people acquire a sense of becoming British (Samad, 2010). At first sight, it might be difficult to rationalise why some Muslims in Britain want to live in separate communities. It is apparent Muslims in this part of the world contend with an array of issues concerning ‘identity, the adaptation of religio-cultural norms and values, and issues of everyday citizenship’ (Abbas, 2007, p. 3). Attachment to Muslim enclaves is a multifaceted phenomenon, which in turn, raises questions concerning ‘whether Muslims can be or are willing to be integrated into European society and political values’ (Modood, 2005, p. viii). In particular, two identifiable conditions are commonly cited as catalysts for enclave formation and attachment: discrimination and deprivation (Wolff, 2003; Suarez-Orozco et al., 2014; Mickey, 2015). Despite the fact these two interrelated conditions have been developed and argued within a specific socio-political and economic frame, they do not deplete the entire range of literature. According to some social theorists, enclaves seemingly appear to flourish in response to the host country’s perceived hostility (Lin and Mele, 2005; Alberts, 2003). Thus, first- and second-generation Muslims who experience

20

Introduction

political, social and economic dislocation due to discrimination may opt to live in the Muslim enclave. Relative Deprivation: Social, Political and Economic Relative deprivation, a theory strongly equated to Gurr (1970), is frequently mentioned as a salient cause of Muslim segregation in Britain (Ferrero, 2005). Socio-economic and political dissent is often exacerbated by the realisation that the gap between what Muslims expect to obtain from society and what they get is entirely different. The bleak realities of Muslim social life in the UK – such as high unemployment and low academic attainment – foster a sense of dissatisfaction and frustration (Modood et al., 1997). Supposedly, these socio-economic conditions provide a fundamental prerequisite for segregation. However, formulating such a causal link between segregation and deprivation is somewhat problematic. Many middle-class Muslims that I spoke to in the East End, for example, explained how they elected to remain in the East End, despite having residential options to move to middle-class areas. This suggests that cultural embeddedness may transcend some aspects of the economic condition, as middle-class residence explained:  ‘it is better to live with your own people’. In terms of socio-political dislocation from the wider society, it is argued that Muslims struggle to integrate at the political level (Modood, 2005). In particular, there appears to be a disproportionate representation of Muslims within the institutional structures of government, making it difficult to identify with the political system. As a result, young Muslims feel considerably detached from the political process, creating less integrated citizens (Twenge et al., 2007). This feeling of exclusion can foster a sense of not belonging, which brings into question issues of citizenship and identity. As mentioned earlier, the Rushdie Affair brought a number of these grievances to the fore, in particular, the ‘negative reaction to the anti-Rushdie campaign shocked Muslims’ (McRoy 2006, p. 25). This incident highlighted some of the glaring cultural and ideological differences between Muslims and non-Muslims in British society. As McRoy (2006,

Introduction

21

p. 25) affirmed, the Rushdie Affair exposed ‘a clash of values’. The state’s refusal to extend Blasphemy Laws beyond its existing remit to include Muslim religious beliefs inflated Muslim dislocation in some quarters. Firstly, it inspired a rededication to religious belief and practice, which to some degree resulted in the prioritising of Muslim identity (Lewis, 1994). Secondly, the perceived intransigence of the legal process and the lack of access to the political system encouraged some Muslims to seek out more extreme forms of politics. Beyond the national setting, globalised events like the genocide in Bosnia and the Iraq war animated Muslims into political activism. The refusal of the government to intervene within the breakup of the former Yugoslavia, despite significant efforts to lobby the government by British Muslims, seemed to perpetuate a sense of double standard and did little to encourage political integration. In the aftermath of the northern riots (2001), a key ingredient in the civil unrest appeared to be a lack of social and political integration (Denham, 2002). National events, like the disturbances in the north of England and the Rushdie affair, appear to act as a dividing line between the white majority and Muslim community. In many ways, these explosive events seem to fuel Muslim dislocation and thus impede their political and socio-economic integration. The above issues do bring some important contextual debates to the surface. A recurring theme amongst Muslim experiences in Britain appears to revolve around discrimination and stigmatisation. The European Monitoring Centre further strengthened this on racism and xenophobia (2006, p. 110), which stated: ‘it is evident that Muslims often experience various levels of discrimination and marginalisation in employment, education and housing, and are also victims of negative stereotyping and ­prejudicial attitudes’. The sense of exclusion brought about by social discrimination may reinforce a perception that the white majority does not entirely accept Muslims. As Wiktorowicz (2004) suggests, the experience of racism and Islamophobia has impelled some young Muslims to re-evaluate their identity and how it relates to the broader society. Therefore, some young Muslims interpret their negative social experiences in a seemingly positive light (Wali, 2013). In other words, segregation from British society provides young Muslims with an idealised sense of community, while

22

Introduction

explaining that their problem is the consequence of British society and its unequal power structures.

Muslim Enclaves, Segregation and Belongingness The word Muslim enclave conjures many adverse social reactions and stereotypes. From the outside, a Muslim enclave is a distinct social space standing apart from the wider society. This begs the question, what aspect ‘stands apart’? Some have suggested Muslim enclaves reflect economic and structural disparities; inevitably, triggering social isolation (McRoy, 2006). In a broader sense, many politicians and media commentators often single out particular items of clothing, like the burka, as an example of segregation. In 2006, Jack Straw’s comments about Muslim women who wear the veil trigged mass debate and controversy. He insisted the burka, concealing the face, was a ‘visible statement of separation and of difference’ (The Guardian, 6 November 2006). Unfortunately, his comments greatly simplify the complexity of segregation within the United Kingdom. This implies that segregation occurs at an individual level. Therefore, a person decides to separate from the dominant culture to preserve and safeguard his or her own cultural identity. There is one slight limitation to this paradigm. Identity is often bound to collective life and social experience (Hockey and James, 2017). In the East End of London, for instance, I discovered that people used the social space as a means to construct different modes of identity. There are many variations among the residents of the East End. Some have lived there for over sixty years, while others have just newly arrived. Most of the residents I spoke to in the East End described themselves as British nationals. In theory, this should be a positive sign, as an individual’s nationality should have some form of impact on how they think and act. As Turner (1987) surmised, an individual is trigged to think, feel and act in accordance with his personal, family or national ‘level of self ’. In the East End, there are multiple-ethnic groups visible, with each group and

Introduction

23

individual belonging to different nationalities. In the national context of the UK, a lack of national belonging has supposedly stimulated Muslim segregation. Some members of the East End seemingly sought out separation, promoting Muslim homogeneity to build a distinct faith community. As a result, the debate concerning Muslim national belonging has gained considerable coverage in recent years, especially after the 2001 race riots in the north of England. According to Bhabha (1994), legal citizenship does not entail acceptance or inclusion in the dominant culture. This view asserts that social ties dictate the levels of belongingness individual’s experience, especially within the national context. This means geographic space, like enclaves, can play a role in exacerbating exclusion. Ultimately, from a minority perspective, the notion of ‘Britishness’, and national belonging, are extremely vague and ill- defined notions. Therefore, constructing a sense of belonging is not a homogenous process; rather, individuals may construct belonging in different and diverse ways. There are multiple modes of belonging, which means one should not ignore different ethnic backgrounds, because these reflect different social contexts. Thus, a white English Christian may construct ‘Britishness’ centred on formulations of whiteness and Christianity. These identity-types will make it extremely difficult for ethnic minorities to identify with this discursive criterion of national belongingness. If these attributes are associated with Britishness, then it is not surprising that the vast majority of the Muslims I spoke to felt the ‘native’ population were not their people. Unfortunately, the inability to frame national belongingness has fostered segregation within some Muslim communities, because those who seemingly fall outside of the racial and religious boundaries of Britishness are deemed ‘foreign’ (non-native). Is there a model of national belonging that can work? Some academics have advocated the notion of ‘differentiated’ belonging, which in simple terms recognises communal difference (Taylor, 1992). The outdated ‘affirmative’ belonging model had a tendency to impose a homogenous approach to national belonging, shaped around vague ideas and values (e.g. British values). In contrast, differentiated belonging seeks to redefine the relationship between the modern state and ethnonational groups. This type of model gives individuals and groups the opportunity to select multiple forms of belonging to the nation-state. This is designed to accommodate

24

Introduction

what Taylor (1992) describes as ‘deep diversity’. In the British context, this does not necessarily translate into granting special group rights to minority groups; instead, it is about constructing different notions of ethnicity and citizenship (e.g. British Muslim, British Pakistani and so on). As I discovered during my fieldwork, enclave residents tried to engage with their national belongingness by using different local and national identitytypes, which were often rooted in ethnicity, culture and religion. The lack of identity homogeneity within enclaves created difficulties relating to the state. In simple terms, when the residents I spoke to encountered host discrimination, it stimulated a weakening of national belongingness and encouraged segregation. Unfortunately, differentiated-based models of belonging struggle to accommodate social conflict. This model asserts that even if minority groups are perceived as non-native by the wider society, they can still feel a sense of belonging if they maintain social ties with the host population. CarrilloRowe (2005, p. 33) defines this as ‘reverse-interpellation’. This formulation can be problematic as it creates belongingness through conceptions of space. Thus, 71.3 per cent of East End Muslims that I interviewed preferred being described as Londoners; yet, struggled with notions of Englishness and Britishness (0.9 per cent and 27.8). As a result, according to Peucker (2016), the Muslim community is not willing to give up its ethno-religious group status when engaging with the state. A possible explanation for this is provided by Anderson (2006) in his book imagined communities. He suggests, in the pre-modern period, the social structure of the state was divided into different groups (e.g. castes, tribes and so on). With the advent of the modern nation-state, the individual is no longer connected to the state through social group membership but instead represent free and equal individual citizens. This is where British Muslims seemingly struggle to construct a connection with the state. Some Muslim communities are not willing to transcend their ethno-religious communal bonds, which they supposedly must give up in order to function as individual citizens. As Parekh (2000, p. 181) explains, to be ‘a citizen is to transcend one’s ethnic, religious and other particularities, and to think and act as a member of a political community’. This makes it somewhat inherently difficult for some

Introduction

25

minority groups to dissolve their community associations and merge with the state’s national identity. As mentioned, most East End Muslims happily classify themselves as Londoners. They share a geographic context with fellow non-Muslims residing within the city of London. However, this bond does not transcend the local, limiting the sense of belonging to the broader national context. As a result, the vast majority of Muslims I spoke to in the East End of London constructed national belonging as a legal entitlement, giving them membership and rights as a UK citizen. This negates belonging, which is stripped away when seeking only legal recognition and membership. This is why Muslim belongingness has been strongly questioned, as it seems they may lack attachment to national identity. However, as I have already discussed, modern Britain is not homogenous, and thus national identity has to be framed in a way that intersects different communities. In the Muslim enclaves I encountered, belongingness started with the immediate family and community connections, providing the individual with a shared ethno-religious experience. Thus, second-generation Muslims are socialised within a distinct ethno-religious identity in the enclave, which may foster segregation. In order to understand the impact segregation has had on Muslim communities at a local and national level requires examining how it takes root at an individual and communal level. For this reason, extensive fieldwork has been conducted across Britain to help untangle Muslim segregation, ideally to the extent that the singular and collective identities of Muslims can be understood. If we divide Muslim segregation into two simple categories, the individual and the group aspect, then, in theory, one might be able to determine the relationship between individual and enclave segregation. To make this distinction clearer, consider the following example. The ethnic identity among young British Pakistanis represents the knowledge, values and emotion attached to membership of an ethnic minority group that has its origins in Pakistan. Similarly, the religious identity relates to membership of the Muslim minority in Britain and the global Ummah [Muslim Nation]. The process of categorising themselves in line with their social identities (e.g. Muslim, Pakistani and so on) places them within an in-group to which

26

Introduction

they internalise that group membership as an aspect of their identity. After being categorised with group membership, they seek to achieve positive and negative value connotations, as to differentiate their in-group from a comparison out-group (Tajfel and Turner, 1986). This search for positive distinctiveness shapes the individual’s sense of identity. However, this can lead to conflict; Muslims who attach greater significance and meaning to their religious, cultural identity may struggle with the national culture. Segregation may relate to people who choose to live collectively in an area dominated by their cultural group, as economic reality may trigger preferences. The question remains, how adequate is segregation as a description of Muslim social life in Britain. Although, segregation can be framed in multiple ways, the vast majority of theories tended to fall into one of three categories: those concerned with the reasons for spatial segregation (Loyd et al., 2015; Hershkovitz, 1981); those concerned with how structural segregation functions (Krysan and Crowder, 2017; Trounstine, 2018; Martin, 2006); and those concerned with the effects of segregation on identity (Hale, 2010; Mckeown, 2013). However, any generalisation must be tentative, as the above categories must be seen as fluid and shifting. To begin with, spatial segregation relates to where people reside, focusing on the socio-demographics of residential patterns (Hershkovitz, 1981). This can be explored through an array of demographic factors, such as household income and ethnic group. In contrast, structural segregation relates to institutional patterns of society like employment and education (Trounstine, 2018). These structural forces can shape patterns of social interaction, creating segregation along socio-economic lines. These approaches are useful to understand how social mobility can reduce patterns of residential segregation. The early migration of the Jewish community in the East End of London, for instance, illustrates that ethnic enclaves can be temporary. In particular, the Jews who settled in the East End during the nineteenth century were discriminated against and were subject to restrictions on the housing they could obtain (Tananbaum, 2015). Their segregation declined gradually as they gained social mobility upward and subsequently moved to more affluent areas across London. Why, one may ask, have Bangladeshi Muslims in the East End not gradually

Introduction

27

progressed as the Jewish community managed? It seems the experiences of both communities are not similar. Firstly, Bangladeshi immigrants arrived in large numbers, which rapidly altered and challenged the demographic makeup of the East End. In simple terms, the white English population felt threatened by the ethnic population shift and thus racist abuse became a common occurrence for early Bangladeshi immigrants. The overtly racist response to their presence pushed early immigrants to seek refuge amongst their community. The evidence for this strategy has been attested to by the personal narratives collected from early immigrants in Chapter 1. Today, ethnic segregation in the East End has not precipitously declined; instead, it seemingly has solidified and increased since the arrival of the first generation of Bangladeshi immigrants. According to Kantrowitz (cited in Peach et al., p. 46), referring to the American context, ethnic segregation exists and has progressively increased. He believes the only disagreement connected to segregation relates to its causes (ibid., p. 46). A wide range of academics appears to support this claim that ethnic segregation has increased access to many major US cities (Kantrowitz, 1979; Hawley, 1994). Although these cited works are dated, they have been reinforced by more contemporary studies, which have supported the increase in ethnic segregation in the US (Iceland and Weinberg, 2002; Crowder, 2017). This shift in attitude towards segregation, namely that it has increased, is a significant move away from Park’s assimilationist model (1969). The idea immigrants would initially settle in small clusters and then merge into the larger community after conflict does not appear to be occurring amongst Muslim communities in the UK (Park, 1969, p. 737). Park (1969) did acknowledge that the early formation of ethnic enclaves takes place from a commonality of race, culture and language. When these ties begin to weaken, some immigrants seek to integrate into the dominant culture, gaining economic advantage. This change in social status did occur among the Jewish community in the East End, but Bangladeshi Muslims have not replicated this. Despite gaining economic stability, the majority of the residents in the East End appeared reluctant to move away from the area. Instead, the residents have chosen to deepen their segregation from the wider society, as the so-called enclave gives them an opportunity to preserve their religious and ethnic identities. It became evident that respondents

28

Introduction

felt the East End is a social space that embodies a set of distinct cultural values and norms. Thus, segregation in the East End seemed to be occurring on the cultural level. Cultural Segregation The debate concerning segregation in modern Britain can be discussed from multiple perspectives, and so this study will focus mainly on the social and cultural strand of segregation. The reason for this is simple; cultural segregation is not a condition solely rampant among the working class. The phenomenon of cultural segregation can be equally prevalent among middle-class British Muslims (Wali, 2013). Moreover, in urban settings, residential development and growth will often result in some form of income-based segregation. This preferred form of economic segregation is usually triggered by upward or downward class mobility, which creates differentiated social groups based on class. The East End of London, for instance, has seen periodic waves of migration as each group gained upward mobility, their residential preferences changed. Conversely, economic deprivation can constrain social movement, upholding class-based segregation in large urban areas. Indeed, this economic reality is persistent in everyday life within most major urban centres around the country, so what makes Muslim segregation different? The socio-cultural component of Muslim segregation is highly complex in nature and appears to be the primary ignition point for separation. As Schelling (2006) noted several decades ago, people often seek out the familiar; they prefer to ‘live with their own type’. In Britain, it is clear that Muslims stand visibly apart in terms of cultural practices (e.g. cuisine, language and dress), but these variations are a natural fabric of multiculturalism. The state does not expect newly arriving migrants to negate their social histories, which often stretch back for centuries. Today there is a growing expectation that Muslims, despite their distinct cultural beliefs and practices, should be moulded into a national image of ‘Britishness’. In order to bring about this collective identity requires directly interfering at the cultural level with a community seeking its identity standpoint. As

Introduction

29

we know, British Muslims cannot opt out of the economic structures, as these place constraints upon economic activity and are centrally governed. The state is naturally reluctant to encroach on the public space, where culture in society is formed continuously and remoulded. It is within this neutral space that a cultural line has been drawn between Muslims and non-Muslims in British society. Du Bois (1899), commenting on the state of American segregation over a hundred years ago, described the creation of a similar boundary related to race. The ‘colour line’, as he put it, strengthened the widening gap between white and black. In Britain, Muslim migrants have added a new cultural dimension to the social landscape, but have they engineered a cultural point of separation? This book seeks to determine whether this cultural line is imagined or real. Race-related identity politics, especially amongst the Muslim community, in modern Britain, has somehow given way to cultural identity differences, allowing Muslims to express solidarity with those who reflect ‘the familiar’. So, if Muslims see themselves as culturally different to the majority, then has the creation of a ‘culture line’ accelerated their segregation from the dominant culture? At this introductory stage, it is a rather big leap to claim that Muslims living in Britain are segregated from British society at the cultural level. The problem of segregation is often seen through the restrictive lens of numbers. Even though statistical evidence provides a picture into segregation, providing insight into the demographic scale and space of the problem, it does not go deep enough to answer why specific groups exist apart. This book asks British Muslims if they have opted out of the dominant culture to form segregated Muslim enclaves. If the host culture sees only homogeneity amongst Muslims, then the commonality becomes ‘Muslimness’. To observe a community through the single frame of religiosity will naturally distort the image of British Muslims. In the popular imagination, British Muslims are expected to project a cultural identity that normalises religion and state. Trying to build a stable merger between these two aspects is not easy. We may see visible signs of separation between people and state. The Burka, for example, maybe seen as a concrete mooring that symbolises cultural separation. It might be easy to imagine the visible manifestation of segregation, especially at the

30

Introduction

individual and communal level, but placing connections between people in imagined spaces ignores social boundaries. Another aspect relates to cultural visibility. If we discard naturally occurring instances of segregation, like the process of class stratification and urbanisation, which can invariably alter the social reality of a locality. Then, we might be left with selective formations of segregation rooted in cultural distinctiveness. The East End of London, for instance, is populated with a large number of Muslims. At the visible level, this disproportionate spatial ordering can be characterised as ‘residential segregation’ based on ethno-religious divisions. The Muslim residents of the East End are not a homogenous entity. They are split according to class and ethnicity. However, religion seems to play an important role at the community level, creating a source of communal identity and belonging. For instance, I spoke to many middle-class Muslims who choose to live within the Muslim dominated localities, seemingly drawn to the religious community. For this reason, I want to explore Muslim perspectives of life in Muslim enclaves, in an effort to discover the underpinning reasons why some Muslims seek to ‘opt out’. Therefore, in order to understand Muslim segregation in Britain requires exploring the social and cultural fabric of specific communities across the British Isles. I have decided to focus on three distinct regions in the UK, namely London, Wales and Scotland, because these areas highlight the acute nature of the problem.

Studying British Muslims: Subjectivity and Objectivity This book has faced numerous challenges, most notably in trying to gain access to large and small groups of British Muslims across the United Kingdom. This inquiry, which arises from a lengthy investigation undertaken over a period of four years amongst British Muslims, explores the changing relationship these individuals and communities have experienced living within the United Kingdom.

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31

When I began my fieldwork, I realised I was not a stranger to my research subject. This book is about British Muslims, and thus I could not ignore my membership and upbringing within the Muslim community. However, I did not consider this a methodological paradox. Instead, it is precisely this social experience, which gave me a deeper appreciation of Muslim enclaves. This meant trying to exclude my own experiences and values for neutrality and indifference towards research objects seemed unrealistic. Thus, respondents were not looked upon as simple research objects but as mirror images of me. Consequently, the respondents gradually lost their initial mistrust that I might misappropriate their histories. This allowed for an open conversation, as Mies (1983, p. 123) notes: The researcher takes the side of a certain group, partly identifies, and in a conscious process creates space for critical dialogues and reflection on both sides. This enables both research ‘subjects’ and ‘objects’ to become more aware of the power differences and dynamics involved, and of distortions of perceptions to be corrected on both sides. Paradoxically, precisely through this process of partial identification a critical and dialectical distance is created between the researcher and the researched.

This ‘conscious partiality’ allowed me to express my own experiences of growing up in London, which led to an open and contextualised knowledge of subjective experiences. It was this method of collective perception of our experiences that lead to what Westkott (cited in Weiler, 1988, p. 62) described as ‘inter-subjectivity’. Secondly, despite adopting less conventional approaches to research objectivity, I was fully aware of the lack of social distance between the respondents and myself. As a member of the Muslim community, I had already experienced and encountered the challenges I was studying. This meant I shared similar patterns of ethno-religious socialisation and lifeexperiences as the respondents. However, this is not a problem, as Mamak (cited in Roberts, 2013, p. 55) observed: I found that my academic training in the methodological views of western social science and its emphasis on ‘scientific objectivity’ conflicted with the experiences of my colonial past. The traditional way in which social science research is conducted proved inadequate for an understanding of the people I was researching.

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Introduction

In this respect, the traditional scientific perspective that views the researched as mere objects of data collection are outdated for this research, because to penetrate closed social groups required personal connection. On the other hand, as Adler and Adler (1987, p. 8) point out, when examining closed social groups, the ‘researchers must assume social roles that fit the worlds they are studying’. Therefore, using ‘conscious partiality’, I sought not only to hear the life histories of British Muslims, but also observe and compare their social reality and experiences to my own. Therefore, from the commencement of my fieldwork, I was aware I could not divorce my personal experiences from my research. In actuality, my subjectivity was intimately embroiled in the research, as it guided my choice of topic, and it influenced the selection of my methodology. Consequently, I was concerned that my subjectivity might skew my reading of the social reality of Muslim lives. For this reason, I took steps to prevent this from happening. Firstly, respondents were selected in a random manner, which meant I did not know the respondents, so when they revealed their life histories to me, it was unknown. For that reason, I did not enter my fieldwork with a preconceived profile of British Muslims. Instead, I wanted to rely heavily on the data I collected. This meant utilising appropriate methodological techniques, namely interviews and surveys, to solicit complete and meaningful data that could be used to construct a picture of life in Muslim enclaves. I assigned ‘meaning units’ to interview transcripts, which identified distinct meanings within the respondent statements. In most cases, a collection of statements formed a unit, for example, when respondents emphasised their ‘hatred for non-Muslims and British society’. However, I did also identify single words as meaning units (e.g. racism and Islamophobia). As Ratner (2002) asserts, meaning units objectively summarise the personal meanings of the respondents. Secondly, since the research focused on unravelling the backstories and identities of British Muslims, I disclosed from the outset my background. Therefore, as complete objectivity was considered impractical, I made every effort to acknowledge and integrate my subjectivity within a contained methodological standpoint. Although my own experiences provided the backdrop for my research, it became clear that I needed to place British Muslims at the centre of my

Introduction

33

research. Constructing knowledge around the life experiences of British Muslims made it incumbent to tailor my methodology around the sensitivity of the respondents. This is because, as Collins (1990, p. 209) explains, it is an individual’s experiences that provide a concrete ‘criterion for credibility’. This enabled me to interpret my research findings while acknowledging my prior subjective experiences. As mentioned, I decided to use my previously gained knowledge to enhance my research. In this respect, my experiences gave me a distinct standpoint. For this reason, I actively used the knowledge of my Muslim heritage to interpret the social world of British Muslims. I integrated my knowledge of British Muslims in a number of ways into my research. Firstly, I used it to cut through programmed and robotic rhetoric often stated to ‘outsiders’. Secondly, most of the respondents I interviewed shared similar social experiences and backgrounds to me, which allowed me to ask more penetrating and targeted questions. I decided to use narratives as one way of exploring Muslim experiences, primarily related to growing up in Muslim enclaves. As Peterson (2006, p. 721) asserts, there is a need to study the ‘intersecting experiences’ of activists. By drawing on the personal experiences of British Muslims, I was able to explore segregation and its multiple intersections with class, religion and ethnicity. The concept of ‘intersectionality’, as framed by feminist scholars, sheds light on the intersection between different social categories – such as gender, ethnicity, class and so on – making it possible to observe the social divergences that exist amongst people (Davis, 2008, p. 67). It is essential to look at the multiple categories of differentiation amongst British Muslims because Muslim enclaves have formed in different and diverse locations. As the data revealed, Muslim identities appear to revolve around ethnicity and religion. This would, in theory, suggest that Muslim identities are largely formed in similar ways across the country. As the narratives will show, the experiences of first- and second-generation respondents fell in large part between the intersections of ethnicity and religion. After contextualising their experiences, it became clear that their upbringing were critical features in their narratives. However, it would be a mistake to assume that British Muslims share similar life experiences, as they do not emerge from similar social backgrounds. In particular, the Muslim experiences in Dundee

34

Introduction

demonstrate how national belonging can hinge on geographic differences. This makes it vital to study Muslim experiences from different geographic locations around the UK, as this will provide a more comprehensive glimpse into Muslim segregation patterns. For this reason, in order to understand why Muslim segregation takes place amongst British Muslims, requires looking at how these individuals and communities have been shaped by class, ethnicity and religion. Therefore, by utilising intersectionality, I will be able to understand the different intersections of Muslim experiences. The assembly of data entailed ethnography, in-depth interviews and surveys. The ethnographic method lasted two years, during which time I had access to different Muslim communities. Besides, as I will describe, I conducted semi-structured in-depth interviews with 112 enclave residents, providing a rich and stimulating source of data. After I had completed the ethnographic and interview stages, I began administering a series of surveys. As Bryman (2001, p. 274) points out, it is vital for the researcher to use more than one ‘source of data in the study of social phenomena’. My fieldwork started in a hands-on manner because I wanted to observe residents’ activities, thinking that this would provide insight into the social world of British Muslims. However, in documenting the types of interaction, it soon became apparent that there were other, much more important issues to be examined about the causes of segregation. It became clear I needed to conduct interviews, in part to examine some of the ideas that were emerging from the ethnography. It became evident that respondents were displaying different identities, which illustrated distinct differences in socialisation patterns. Thus, trying to paint a portrait of a typical British Muslim in as accurate and vivid a manner as possible was extremely difficult. In the end, then, detailed interviews were undertaken, in some instances, more as conversations in a series of natural settings. The interviews conducted with the first- and second-generation respondents revealed a rich source of data concerning the social world of Muslims in Britain. These qualitative accounts concentrate on life narratives: to be exact, their social background and upbringing, with attention given to the context of ethnic and religious identity. After interviewing forty-seven first-generation Muslim respondents and 175 second-generation respondents, my findings uncovered some

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common themes. A recurring theme, which emerged in the accounts from my respondents, is that of identity; and how their current identities seemed greatly dependent on their past and present experiences. The goal of my research was to map out the sources of identity construction. Consequently, each of the respondents I interviewed exhibited a distinct social world of lived experience. The results of my fieldwork indicated that common traits existed in certain individuals. I identified a host of recurring characteristics within all the respondents. Firstly, first-generation immigrants faced similar challenges and endured significant discrimination, which increased their frustration and anger towards the larger culture. These frustrations at being externalised led to their reliance on fellow immigrants, and thus the enclave offered a strong sense of belonging and security. Similarly, among second-generation respondents, enclave residents struggled to adapt the social world beyond the enclave, which would suggest that respondents’ current identities are the outcome of a failure to integrate with the wider social context. In this respect, the respondents needed the enclave to gain a sense of belonging. After I conducted my interviews with first- and second-generation residents, it became incumbent upon me to verify this information. I sought to determine whether the views and experiences expressed by my respondents were representative of the wider population. Therefore, I quickly recognised the inescapable necessity for administering a series of surveys. More importantly, the surveys became a key mechanism for unlocking the sense of belonging individual Muslims exhibited. I needed to understand the nature of the social embeddedness of Muslim residents. In other words, residents are fixed and rooted in multifaceted social realities that define and confine their social identities. Thus, from a social perspective, my fieldwork has demonstrated that most Muslim identities are fashioned from their social experiences, interactions and backgrounds. This sociological analysis provides an alternative way of looking at the developments that have taken place amongst the British Muslims I observed. Traditionally, sociologists are interested in identifying the relationships between social structures and processes, as they place greater emphasis on individuals moving from one social setting to another (Erikson, 1950). Therefore, I sought to expand and distil upon the key sociological features of Muslim

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community membership – such as class, age, gender, ethnicity and nationality, and religion. By focusing on these interrelated components, I was able to formulate a quantitative image of different Muslim identity-types, which included ethnic, religious, western and hybrid.

Chapter 1

The East End Muslim Enclave I: Early Immigrant Experiences

Throughout history, the East End of London has accommodated a large number of immigrants and refugees, all of whom have added a new dimension to the religious and cultural terrain of the area. Today, the Bangladeshi population of the East End stands out quite vibrantly. This seemingly apparent physical segregation has been facilitated over the years by the emergence of distinct religious and cultural practices. In the last several years, the white indigenous population of the East End has begun to voice their concerns regarding the large-scale settlement of Bangladeshis in the East End of London. They claim the Bangladeshi presence has eroded the cultural landscape of the area, which has increased local concerns. A project about the East End conducted by the BBC discovered that a new dialect combining Bangladeshi and Cockney is replacing the traditional Cockney accent (BBC, 22 August 2005). During my initial encounters in the East End, I began to notice a visible difference between early Bangladeshi immigrants and their children, who were often born and raised in the UK. It seemed clear that the second generation would not necessarily follow the same patterns of social engagement and interaction as their parents’ generation. This is mostly because when the early immigrants first arrived in the UK, the social landscape they encountered was entirely different. As a result, they consciously chose to negotiate the social world they encountered by retaining their ethnoreligious customs and identities from their countries of origin. In contrast, the second generation grew up within the closed setting of the East End Muslim community, which means their identity construction naturally developed differently. It was in the context of exploring this divergence in identity development that I realised I needed to start with the experiences

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of the early immigrants because their engagement shaped the future patterns of social development in the area.

Early Narratives of Muslim Experiences in the East End of London According to Melanie Philips (2006), the evolution of the East End Muslim enclave has been a growing problem, as she asserts it continues to alter the social and physical landscape. Yet, she seemingly ignores that this so-called problem cannot be easily divorced from experiences of early Bangladeshi immigrants. Historically, government policy has viewed so-called enclaves as an ‘inner-city’ problem, and consequently, social clustering is a natural by-product of segregation and the economic condition (Husband et al., 2016). This approach frames the formation of enclaves within the restrictive scope of urban housing. Early immigrants in the East End were denied access to public housing, forcing them to look within the private sector. However, the formation of the East End Muslim community did not exclusively occur due to its inner-city proximity. Early studies conducted in the East End of London during the late 1970s, for example, concluded that ethnic clustering had rapidly increased during the decade (Scanlon et al., 2014). The spike in immigration to the area explained this increase, but this clustering of different ethnic groups is not straightforward. For instance, demographic studies could not explain why some ethnic groups were drawn to enclaves while others were not (Pattillo, 2013). This chapter, which documents the narratives of early Bangladeshi immigrants, identifies three historical causes for the formation of a Muslim enclave in the East End of London. Firstly, ethnic familiarity pulled newer immigrants together, as they wanted to live near people similar to themselves. This desire gave rise to the creation of an ethnic immigrant enclave in the East End. However, ethnic ties began to erode when the early immigrants were joined by their wives and children, triggering a shift towards national-religious familiarity. Secondly,

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the experience of racial discrimination by early immigrants pushed them away from British society, reinforcing the need for a separate ethno-religious space. Thirdly, as the community grew, economic exploitation by established immigrants created a power imbalance, forcing newer immigrants to become socially and economically reliant on the enclave. In theory, this process helped consolidate their segregation, as it deepened dependency on the social networks located in the East End enclave. Before I try to delve into these three specific concerns, I want to explore some background issues that help understand the social world from which the early Bangladeshi immigrants emerged. The vast majority of first-generation immigrants I spoke to in the East End came from rural Sylhet in Bangladesh. When they first arrived, they collectively struggled to adjust to the new urban environment. According to Hoque (2015), this is a natural by-product of the migration process. Early Bangladeshi immigrants grew up and lived in small rural villages. In this respect, even if the men had migrated to a major city in Bangladesh, they would have struggled to adapt to urban life. Migration to the East End of London only exacerbated the sense of dislocation and upheaval the early immigrants experienced. As Bodrul, who migrated in 1972 from Bangladesh, narrated, ‘life in my village was very simple, we worked in field, my wife also worked … there was no electricity, no gas, no water, no car or machines. We’d just work with our hands. My village was like my family, it was one family’ (translated from Bengali). The rural village described by Bodrul is a small inter-connected social system, combining kin and neighbours. This interconnectedness forms the local village; it is custom and family ties that bind the people together. In this regard, the social interactions between individual family units create an extended communal village. Trying to understand the context of village life in rural Bangladesh is very important, as it will reveal insight into the ideals and customs imported by the early Bangladeshi immigrants. As Bodrul mentioned, farming and social life was not dependent on technology; instead, it was exclusively reliant on human labour. In essence, the male members of the village were expected to work the fields in order to provide for their family. From the narratives I collected several early immigrants provided insight into the social life of the village, making it possible to identify various

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common characteristics. Firstly, the vast majority of villages were essentially peasant farming communities. The Bangladeshi men emerged from pre-modern agricultural farms that were feudalistic, and thus the farmers had to pay tax, as free tenants, to a landlord. As Ashraf explained, ‘it was difficult, we owned nothing; while, the landowner took everything’. The Bangladeshi landscape was dominated by impoverished farmers struggling to provide for their families, due to natural disasters, drought and increasing land taxation (Sen, 1983). Secondly, there were limited links beyond the local villages and extended community, which restricted the knowledge base of the village. According to Ashraf, who migrated in 1971, ‘we never went outside our village, to come here [UK]; I went to the big city for the first time in Bangladesh’ (translated from Bengali). Thirdly, due to limited access to the outside world, religious and cultural traditionalism were embedded within the social structure of the village. As Bodrul explained, ‘in our village, we had izzat [honour] and we had good values’ (translated from Bengali). In essence, the village preserved primordial wisdom, which was a combination of religious and cultural ideals that were constructed around the unique reality of the distinct village. These preserved ideals became the source of religious and social life. As a result, the village gave more significant emphasis on ritual, mysticism, and superstition. These ideals served as the basis of social practice within the village, uniting individual villager by providing them with a coherent worldview. This worldview provided continuity between the local and the historical context; yet, beyond the village, these localised traditions may not make sense to people living outside the context in which they were formed. This makes the process of incorporating these localised village ideals highly problematic in the new setting. The traditional ideals used to bind the local village were imported as a means to organise social life in the UK and unite the dispersed Bangladeshi rural worker while outside his country of origin. Despite the localism of tradition, it was felt broader religious and cultural traditions could provide continuity to immigrants during the labour migration to the East End, which was initially seen as a temporary endeavour. Religious-traditionalism provided those in the UK with a set of ideals that could repeal the contradictions of the host culture. As a result, the early immigrants were quick to establish communal spaces to perform rituals, as these would reinforce the

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ethno-religious identity of the immigrant while living away from home. These ideals and practices provided a focus to daily activity, providing workers with a common bond, helping them to settle in a foreign environment without their family. The early immigrants encountered a new social reality, exposing them to the host culture, which geographically left them physically and emotionally displaced from their country of origin. As Iqbal explained, ‘I came from my village to London. All I saw was white faces; everything here was different from Bangladesh. I do not think we [immigrants] were ever welcomed, but we did the jobs they did not want to do … living with them [native population] never was an option we wanted to protect our culture, our religion, and our children’ (translated from Bangladeshi). It seems apparent this realisation forged the foundation for new ethnic enclaves in the UK. By opting to form a distinct ethnic community in the East End of London, the early Bangladeshi immigrants sought to establish an ethno-religious base that could allow them to preserve their identity. Added to this, as Geaves (1996, p. 43) notes, immigrant communities often form as ‘close-knit inner city’ dwellings designed to shield the immigrant population from the hostility of the white English majority.

The Enclave: Ethnic Familiarity The high demand for a cheap workforce created by the post-war shortage of labour facilitated the mass immigration of unskilled workers from the ex-colonies. According to Hiro (1991, p. 261), ‘there were more unfilled vacancies than unemployed workers, the excess being 174,000 in June 1956’. Despite the economic need for supplementing the employment shortfall, most newly arriving economic immigrants were immediately confronted with extreme prejudice and hostility from the white English population (Hiro, 1991). This hostile reaction triggered the early tendencies towards forming separate communities. This somewhat evasive resistance to integration can be understood by exploring the early narratives of Muslim settlers. When, in 1971, Mr Miah

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arrived in the East End of London from Bangladesh he tried to get a job and secure a place to live. Nevertheless, as he quickly discovered the reality of life in the East End was far removed from his initial expectations. As he recalls, ‘the first thing they [white English] call me Paki, three hours of plane … I was shocked, I didn’t understand what this meant. We [immigrants] were treated very badly [in the beginning]’. Most of the early immigrants arriving in the East End were very unaware that a negative white consensus existed concerning the new arrivals. They were subjected to constant racial harassment and attack, especially those who ventured into white dominated areas. As Mr Miah suggests, ‘they [white English] rejected us, they think we are here to take their jobs … so, we were not wanted’. The overt forms of racism encountered by early settlers forced them to seek refuge amongst the ‘familiar’. On the surface, according to the narrative of early Bangladeshi immigrants, it seems during the phase of early settlement; living in physically separated communities in the East End became a necessity rather than a choice. These isolationist trends developed greater meaning when the receiving culture seemingly rejected the migrants during the early phases of the diaspora. This directly affected the way migrants interacted with the white English population, limiting their social contact with the ‘other’. What caused early Muslim settlers to seek out the ‘familiar’ and seemingly resist the integration of the host society? To start with, the ethnic enclave that formed in the East End of London appeared to form somewhat organically, as immigrants arrived; they were drawn to the ‘familiar’. The community rapidly became an enclosed ethnic space. The confined geographic location meant that the large build-up of immigrants quickly started to alter the physical landscape of the East End. In this organic stage, the area attracted a high concentration of immigrants seeking out safety and security. Eventually, the immigrant community grew in strength and offered economic benefit to newly arriving immigrants. Some British academics, who studied immigrant experiences during the early 1960s and 1970s, predicted that newly arriving immigrants would adapt relatively easily to their new environment (Taylor 1962, Evens 1971, Anwar 1982). In reality, as Tsang and Inkpen (2005) noted, thirty years later, the closed inner dynamics of the immigrant community restricted

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the immigrant’s ability to access and integrate into the dominant culture. As Imrul explained, ‘I came to London to get a job, I had a room … I didn’t interact with English people’. The immigrant communities constructed in the heart of the East End were visible symbols of the immigrant desire to live geographically apart from the white population. However, the reality of living geographically apart inadvertently spawned cultural separation as well. The newly forming immigrant communities sought to retain connectivity with the land of origin. This meant moulding an immigrant identity in London that had close associative ties to the Indian sub-continent. In my study of the East End, Bangladesh and Pakistan appeared the most frequent places of origin for all the participants I interviewed. I suppose this is to be expected, as 37 per cent of the population of Tower Hamlets is South Asian (Riaz, 2016). Early immigrants arriving in the East End of London found it daunting to engage the broader social environment, as they lacked proficiency in speaking the host language. Bodrul, for instance, arrived in the East End after Bangladeshi independence; he came from a small fishing village near Sylhet. He had no formal education and could not speak English. Limited proficiency in the English language adversely impacted newly arriving immigrants, as Bodrul explained, ‘I don’t speak English well in the start. So who [will] I talk too? Desi people [Asian]’. Those early immigrants that arrived in the East End, without a basic command of English, found it difficult to locate jobs and housing opportunities. Mohammad, for example, immigrated to the UK in 1967 and he described several problems he encountered: I settled in Birmingham, near Small Heath, but I can’t find a stable job. I would get occasional work in a factory, but nothing long-term. I got rejected all the time for lots of work, the same excuse, ‘you can’t speak English’. So, I got frustrated and moved to London in 1968. I knew a few family friends, and they helped. I got a job working in a laundry shop in Bethnal Green, and then I worked as a factory hand and so on until I bought my own shop. (Translated from Bengali)

Employment involving interaction with white English people often required the ability to speak English. The inability to speak English pulled early immigrants to the perceived security of the enclave because knowledge of language did not hinder job prospects. When early immigrants

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arrived in the East End, they were extremely reluctant to remove themselves from the community, as the enclave provided them with a cultural stepping stone into the host country. The Pakistani and Bangladeshi immigrants who arrived in the East End with limited language skills had little difficulty in social interaction within the immigrant community. The lack of language meant immigrants were unwilling to venture beyond the boundaries of the enclave, as they did not understand the cultural norms of the majority culture. Mohammad’s case illustrates the entrenched attitude that developed amongst some immigrants. For instance, he has been living in the UK for over fifty years, yet he has minimal knowledge of the English language. As he commented, ‘I don’t need English; I work and speak to Asian people. So, why learn their language’. As Urdu and Bengali are completely distant from English, learning English was a real challenge for some early immigrants, especially those who migrated from rural villages that had no schooling system. Early immigrants found it difficult to construct sentences, limiting communication with white English people. As Amin narrated, ‘we could not understand the accent’. Accents represent geographical belonging, but for those who did not have an English accent, it was seen as an obstacle. As Amin explained, ‘[During] British rule [in India] they speak Queen’s English [Received Pronunciation]. When I come here [England], they speak different [common English], so we can’t understand’. Under British rule in India, the English language had prestige, and Received Pronunciation was spoken by English officers making it the perceived accent of the British people. In reality, this misrepresented the extreme diversification of regional accents within the United Kingdom. Thus, when immigrants arrived in the UK, they struggled to understand regional variations in accent and language. Added to this, early immigrants developed unique accents that further alienated them from white English people. Even though the East End housed multi-ethnic peoples, language strengthened the ties between the immigrants. The similarity between the dominant South Asian languages meant that immigrants from the Indian sub-continent could communicate with each other, creating a sense of immigrant belonging in the East End community. Mr Qureshi arrived in the East End in 1962 he was inspired

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to immigrate by his older cousin, who had made a move two years earlier. After spending several weeks in the East End, he noticed a significant cultural and physical divide between immigrant and native (white English). As he explained, ‘we feel comfortable with our people; I meet people from all over Pakistan. We eat, we live, we have good time … I enjoy this time. I don’t speak good English at the start, I need to speak, and I have only our people!’ The East End ethnic community proliferated because it offered newly arriving immigrants a socio-cultural environment that replicated aspects of the country of origin. In the East End, immigrants could speak and freely interact despite widespread ethno-religious differences. Language acted as an instrument that accommodated people from different backgrounds. Most of the immigrants struggled to integrate into wider British society because of language. Therefore, the ethnic enclave offered a safe social space in which immigrants could communicate with their neighbours and secure jobs. The second main pull of the East End was ethno-cultural familiarity. Stack (1986) argues that ethnic identity is shaped by a sense of ‘peoplehood’, assuming a natural aspect of immigrant identity. He contends that this group identity is passed down from each generation, connecting individual solidarity to a larger collective, which differentiates members of the group from non-members. The East End evolved in order to generate a new basis for the immigrant community identity. In other words, it involved the formation of a physical space that imported the ethnic and cultural markers of the land of origin. This sense of common origin and experience united the members of the community together. The East End rapidly developed distinct boundary lines related to ethnicity and culture. These ethno-cultural boundary markers reinforced membership – that is, those who can and cannot gain entry. Bodrul, for instance, referred to the East End as a separate and distinct place set apart from the rest of Britain, as he stated ‘their country, our home’. This would suggest the enclave did not simply provide immigrants with a space to pursue ethno-cultural practices; rather it represented an ethno-cultural separation. From the narratives collected, it would seem early immigrants did not think of themselves as British. As Bodrul explained, ‘we [immigrants] came here for work not to live’. Economic incentives overwhelmingly drew the reason for migration.

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In some way, this created an unhealthy association with the state, a residual side effect of British colonial rule, which maintained Britain as a source of employment. As a result, early immigrants developed a transitory ethos, believing that they would eventually return to their country of origin. While the myth of return was strong, the East End offered a safe pragmatic space to mix with people of the same ethnic backgrounds. In this respect, the East End provided immigrants from South Asia with a way to protect themselves from the unfamiliarity and hostility of wider society. Therefore, membership in the East End community provided early immigrants with an ethno-cultural link to home. However, ethno-cultural connections to home are not just bound by group ties to family and friendship but are also connected to other deepseated primordial bonds. Eventually, as the East End community grew, religious attachment replaced ethnic bonds. During the early phase of immigration to the East End of London, the enclave broadly united ethnic immigrants from the Indian sub-continent. As Iqbal explained, ‘English people don’t care if you are Hindu or Muslim, you’re just a paki’. At this stage, despite deep-seated religious division in South Asia, ethnic identity superseded religious attachment in the East End. The reason for this was somewhat aptly simplified by Iqbal, who described it as a ‘numbers game’. In other words, the early immigrants were vastly outnumbered by the white English population in the East End, who did not discriminate in their racial hostility. Thus, Asians from diverse religious and ethnic backgrounds joined together in solidarity against the perceived white backlash. Initially, immigrants arrived in the East End believing that they would eventually return to their land of origin, making their stay in the UK transitory. As Rubel mentioned, ‘my family [were in] Bangladesh, I [came to] make money and go home [Bangladesh]’. Rubel described the underlying reason for his migration as economic, but once his family joined him, then this migratory viewpoint gave way to permanent settlement. As he explained, ‘when my family came here we have Muslim community’. When the myth of return faded, the immigrant landscape in the East End enclave rapidly began to change. Early immigrants invited their family members, sparking a further influx of immigration. Mohammad Miah, a Bangladeshi who arrived in the East End before independence, suggested

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Muslim identity became important when his wife and child arrived. As he described, ‘I needed to look after them, make a safe home. I didn’t want my children growing up like them [non-Muslims]’. At this stage, the ethnoreligious attachments to South Asia became more focused on building a Muslim community. Before this, the enclave was a large immigrant enclave that combined different ethnic and religious groups from the Indian subcontinent together. It seemed the Asian element of the East End was somewhat removed and replaced with the ethno-religious identity. The newly arriving families were not united by the generic place of origin, namely South Asia, but instead, a sense of belonging was derived from ethnic and religious associations. In other words, despite the massive influx of Bangladeshis to the East End, it was not referred to by the inhabitants as a Bangladeshi enclave. As Mohammad Miah explained, ‘we make a community, no Pakistani or Bangladeshi, just Muslim!’ This religious attachment helped build somewhat generic Muslim communities in the East End, yet the East End is full of mosques that cater to different ethnic subdivisions. This is not contradictory since the East End enclave functions at two distinct, but interconnected, levels: macro-Muslim and micro-ethnic levels. At the macro level, the enclave appears Muslim, facilitating a physical space to be Muslim. While, at the micro-ethnic level, the enclave enables members to conceive of communal identities related to diverse ethnic-religious origins. So, on the surface, the East End may appear as one homogenous Muslim space, but in reality, this hides the diversification of religious sects and ethnic differences. This means the early immigrants imported different religious traditions from the Indian subcontinent, synchronising religious identities in the host country with those in the land of origin. This limited the hybridisation of Muslim identity amongst the first generation in the UK, as they merely imported the religious traditions and identities from the Indian subcontinent. This as we shall see in the next chapter degraded the social space for the second generation. The importation of ethno-religious and cultural attachments into a host country need to be merged with the national context. The first generation brought strong links to kin and country of origin, making religious formation static and disconnected. For instance, Friday sermons were largely delivered in Bengali or Urdu.

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Family Structure: Importing Value-Systems During my interactions with first-generation Bangladeshi immigrants, I found that they often made constant reference to their ‘gram’ [village] or ‘bari’ [home]. I  eventually discovered that these terms had greater meaning than the physical spaces they represented in Bangladeshi. In the UK context, they refer to a network of relationships that connect identities and peoples through common immigration experiences. In many ways, these were attempts to establish social connectivity across the immigrant community in the East End that embodied Bangladeshi village life. The village, the household, and family were considered central elements of social identity in Bangladesh that were left behind. As a result, early immigrants to the East End sought to revive Bangladeshi ideals and social networks. They wanted to reconnect the ‘ghor’ [family home] to the broader Bangladeshi network that was forming in the East End. Within the early enclave, Bangladeshi family units were dispersed across small geographic clusters in the East End. Each newly formed household would represent a distinct and separate individual unit, but beyond the specific ghor there was the more extensive social unit and network. Different Bangladeshi households connected this small network; often these households would contain large extended families. The family unit in Bangladeshi households, in contrast to those prevalent in much of Britain, is often not nuclear. Preferably, the household make-up of a given family not only consists of the nuclear family (including both spouses and any children) but also conforms to a patrilocal make-up where numerous generations of the family reside together, incorporating a collection of nuclear units to form a whole. For example, it is usual and conventional for a married couple (and any children) to reside within the same home as the husband’s parents and siblings. In cases where male siblings of the husband are married, it is also common for their wives and children to live in the same homestead as the husband’s parents. The husband’s female siblings, who are yet to be married, also share the same domestic space as the rest of the extended family until they leave to live with their husbands and his family post-marriage.

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I discovered that in most Bangladeshi homes in the East End, kinship ties were determined through patrilineal associations and thus family structure and male ancestors governed identity. In a social context, this forms the biradari, a family unit defined by male kinship. According to Lieven (2012), the biradari system plays a vital role in South Asian society, which can be stronger than any ethno-religious bond. In reality, male kin hold significant power and authority within the extended family unit, controlling common property and earnings. Importantly, izzat [honour] is connected to individual members and can affect the public perception and status of the family unit within the community (Lefebvre, 2014). In theory, the function of the biradari system is to aid family welfare and provide mutual support (e.g. in times of financial hardship). As Aminur explained, ‘when I came I stayed in my brother’s house for three years with my wife. Then I buy a house. I live there for more than forty years’. For three years they operated as an extended family; despite belonging to separate family units according to Bangladeshi family structure. Besides, the East End was visibly occupied by unaccompanied men, who had often immigrated without their immediate family. Initially, after they had secured a job and located suitable dwellings, they would summon their family members. This trend contributed to a population bulge amongst the Bangladeshi community in the East End. It became apparent that in the early stages of the enclave separate households would often co-operate financially and socially. Households would come together supporting newer immigrant families. The size of new Bangladeshi immigrant households was often substantial, combing multiple families or exclusively comprising of all male residents in temporary housing. In general, Bangladeshi households are more significant than the national average, due to pragmatic need and Bangladeshi social structure. The early immigrants describe the first communities that formed in the East End were largely modelled on traditional Bangladeshi homesteads. The early community was strongly influenced by kinship ties, which played a crucial role in organising social life in the enclave. In the early period, most Bangladeshi households actively maintained regular contact with kinship and non-kinship households. In essence, the clustering of households developed a Bangladeshi village spirit, in which households joined

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together for mutual support and protection. It also allowed the households to maintain their ethno-religious identity at the social level. Initially, caste did not play a functional role, but as the Bangladeshi population rapidly grew, in relatively concentrated areas, there was evidence of inter-communal conflict based on status. The vast majority of immigrants from Bangladesh were of similar social status, namely peasant labourers. However, when some middle-class families migrated to the UK, they expected higher status privileges, as they had received in Bangladesh. However, despite aspects of the social structure being imported from rural Bangladesh, little special recognition was given to higher status families. In the East End, social status was determined by economic mobility; rather than lineage. If a family became wealthy, then they were considered ‘noya Chowdhury’ (Aminur). As a result, the Bangladeshi caste system became mostly redundant in the UK context, especially in the East End were several peasant families gained mobility upward. Eventually, those families that were noya Chowdhury became economically high status; however, these families were despised by the high class as they had elevated their status through wealth and not lineage. The social practice of Samaj was established in the East End. It was considered an essential communal practice, as it encouraged family-based social cooperation and interaction. Samaj is somewhat tricky to describe as it has different variations of understanding in Bangladeshi villages. However, most would agree that it is often viewed as a moral duty to interact and engage with the social network, usually through religious and cultural events. In Bangladesh, this practice at the village level relates to caste interactions; however, in the East End, it became a way to facilitate social and community cohesion and belonging. When the wives of immigrants began to join their husbands, some women engaged in Samaj in order to interact with other newly arrived women, building a friendship network that bypassed the practice of purdah [seclusion].

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Reinforcing the Enclave: Racism and Discrimination When the early Muslim migrants arrived in the heart of the East End of London, some of them encountered considerable challenges. As they encountered the white English people, they quickly become conscious that the host society did not want them. This overtly hostile reaction left many immigrants socially displaced. As Minhajul noted, ‘we live away from Gora [white people] because they hate us … they attack us [immigrants]’. During the late 1970s, the streets of London erupted with violence, as many South Asians were attacked and some killed. Altab Ali, a 25-year-old Bangladeshi migrant, was brutally beaten to death by a group of white youths in 1978. White gangs prowled the back streets of the East End, seeking out Asians. Some of the most extreme forms of violence saw a spate of arson attacks on migrants living in the Tower Hamlets area, as these attacks intensified the local council installed ‘anti-arson letterboxes’ to protect immigrants (Sampson, 1992). The racial violence flaring up on the streets of London facilitated widespread social polarisation as ethnic groups sought protection in separate enclaves. Early immigrants chose to live apart from the white population, because as Minhajul explained: ‘we didn’t feel safe living with white people’. At one level, enclaves can be considered a geographical reality. Urban enclaves, for instance, grew out of the desire to elevate social status. During the colonial era, white Europeans carved out separate communal spaces that were geographically and culturally distinct from the non-white English population. As Nightingale (2012, p. 3) asserts, ‘the idea of separating a “black town” from a “white town” dates back to 1700’. The British adopted racial segregation across the empire in order to maintain a power imbalance between indigenous and colonialist. The construction of ‘hill stations’, in which Europeans built separate residential colonies in the highlands of India, symbolised deliberate racial and cultural enclaves. The white colonialists manufactured racial boundaries and chose to reside apart from the non-white native. So, if this was the attitude of the British colonialist in India, then when mass immigration took place, how did the white UK population react?

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Chapter 1 On the night of 25 January 1982, a gang of forty attacked the home of the Saddique family in the East End of London. They threw stones, smashing the shop window and narrowly missing the family crouched inside in darkness. They daubed swastikas, gave Nazi salutes and chanted, ‘F**king Pakis out!’ They did this for six straight hours without intervention from the police. (Teare 1988, p. xi)

Some of the earliest encounters with the white English population narrated by early immigrants often involved racism and violence. Taijul, after just four weeks in the East End of London, was chased and viciously assaulted by a gang of white youths. As he describes, ‘I walk home … I hear shouting I see five or six white English people running to me. So, I ran. They catch me and they say “no pakis here”. Then they start punching and kicking … next thing I wake up in the hospital’. He suffered two broken ribs and several head injuries. He spent over two weeks in the hospital recovering from his injuries. Eight months after this incident, several white youths tried to assault him again, but he managed to escape. According to Taijul, it was common to encounter verbal and physical racial abuse; it was a natural fabric of early immigrant life in London. However, this was not contained to disgruntled white youths, hanging out on street corners. Instead, racial abuse was encountered across society. Aftab, who immigrated to London in 1974 from Pakistan, worked in a textile factory in the East End. He describes, ‘it was hell! Working with white people … they call us Pakis every day and they give us the worst jobs’ (translated). Racial abuse proved to be a standard part of the London workplace. The tension between the white and non-white labour force had been escalating for several years in the factory where Aftab first worked, as the white English viewed the immigrant as a threat. They felt newly arriving cheaper foreign labour would result in their termination and thus loss of livelihood. This perhaps inspired the treatment received by immigrants. As Aftab explained, racial abuse was not restricted to the labour force. He asserted the management echoed similar racial abuse. The supervisor separated non-white workers and actively limited upward mobility. Aftab claimed, Asian workers were ridiculed and degraded both privately and publically, which gave the white labour force full licence to insult non-white workers racially. Most of the immigrant workforce emerged from different religious and ethnic backgrounds, but the collective racial discrimination

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they experienced gave them a sense of communal togetherness. This initially dissolved the deep-rooted religious differentiations that existed amongst most of the immigrants while in the Indian Sub-continent. However, this sense of communal solidarity slowly declined as the immigrants settled and began establishing distinct identity markers. Racial violence and abuse became a standard part of social life in London. The height of which was a spate of racially motivated murders of young Bangladeshi men in Tower Hamlets during the late 1970s (Teare 1988, p. 3). Racial violence towards immigrants became a widespread epidemic on the streets of London, triggering the immigrant desire to live apart from the white majority. Early immigrant communities in London were inspired by communal refuge. When early immigrants entered the social space, beyond the sanctuary of the home, they would instantly encounter the physical and verbal violence of the white majority. While on the bus, for instance, immigrants recounted stories of being spat upon, verbally insulted and physically attacked. Nayeem, who arrived in the East End of London in 1971, described an incident that took place on a bus. Nayeem was heading home on the local bus after a long day’s work; a group of white youths sitting at the back of the bus began to yell out racially abusive taunts. As they stood up to leave the bus, they hurled a wave of verbal abuse at Nayeem. Then, in a despicable act of racism, one of the youths poured milk onto Nayeem and shouted: ‘once a coon always a coon’. For Nayeem, this incident underscored the overwhelming hostility white people felt towards immigrants. As he described, ‘abuse from English people was normal, they [white English] are racist and they’ll never accept us [non-whites] and we should never think we will be’. This statement reflects the sentiment early immigrants developed in response to the perceived host rejection, as consequence immigrants chose to live apart. Living amongst immigrants in separated communities ensured a sense of sanctuary from physical and verbal assault from the white majority. Asian and black communities formed in direct response to white English racism, ‘no Hindu or Sikh called me Paki … only English people. So, we lived with our people’. Thus, this particular form of segregation from the mainstream population was a strategy to escape racial attack and harassment.

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The ‘Inner’ Enclave: Exploiting ‘Our Own’ The migrants who arrived in the early 1970s found it slightly easier to navigate the turbulent social terrain of life in the East End because they benefitted from existing migrant networks. These networks allowed immigrants to circumvent the social reality of racism and discrimination. The racism experienced by early immigrants inspired the formation of migrant enclaves and networks. These communities popped up across London, allowing new immigrants the opportunity to find housing and work. Consequently, the exposure to overt forms of racism fostered the formation of immigrant enclaves, drawing immigrants to the familiar. The familiar gave the immigrant a connection to home while adjusting to life in the receiving country. In this regard, the enclaves became distinct residential and commercial areas, which saw the rapid growth and clustering of Asian restaurants and businesses. These shops offered the immigrant accesses to the cultural familiarity of ‘home’: ‘we get halal meat and desi [Asian] food … so we make [a]‌community’ (Ahmed Miah). For the vast majority of immigrants finding work was a primary activity, but as Ahmed explained, he never envisaged having to downgrade his professional expertise. In Bangladesh, he worked as an accountant, yet migration had stripped him of his skill. Initially, he was optimistic of securing a job in the financial sector, but as time quickly passed, he became increasingly desperate. As he explained, ‘I take any job, I start washing dishes, I leave Bangladesh to wash dishes … I suffer too much and then I drive bus. I was accountant back home, but in England, I am bus driver’. Those professionally trained migrants who underwent jobdowngrading felt immensely emasculated by British society, and many attributed their lack of success to institutional racism. Ahmed narrated that he sent hundreds of applications and when on the rare occasion he managed to secure an interview was subjected to humiliating questions about his language, culture, and ethnicity. Beyond the workplace, early immigrants found securing suitable housing a significant challenge. Nurul, for instance, arrived in London

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in 1952. He mentioned that finding accommodation became his priority. As an early immigrant, he could not rely on established Asian networks for social and economic support, as they were not prevalent. Eventually, communal-support would become the backbone for new arrivals. However, Nurul was an early trailblazer, and as such had to navigate through the social displacement, he felt after leaving his homeland. Initially, he struggled to locate accommodation in the private rented sector often because white property owners were unwilling to rent to non-whites. On one occasion, a property owner refused to give him residence because he did not want his flat smelling of curry. In the end, after three days of sleeping in a bus station, Nurul found a bed in a halfway house, this temporary stopgap gave him time to understand the housing situation in London. Immigrants, he discovered, had to fill the housing vacuum left behind by the white English population. Nurul shared a small three-bedroom terrace with twelve other immigrants from South Asia. Living in substandard conditions became the norm for early immigrants. Nurul recalls half a dozen men ram shacked together into a single bedroom, having to share a bathroom, and no central heating or hot water. Despite the poor living conditions experienced by early immigrants, joint housing offered a sense of the familiar and protection from white English hostility. Patterns soon started to emerge related to ethnic clustering. Immigrants did not want to live in isolated areas in which they were vulnerable to racist attack. Therefore, they choose to reside in newly forming ethnic enclaves across greater London. The white English rejection of immigrant workers induced these early settlement patterns. This rejection pushed many immigrants towards the perceived sanctuary of the East End enclave. However, as I discovered, as the enclave grew it became a significant source of inward exploitation. In particular, those immigrants who arrived during the 1970s often felt enslaved by the enclave elite. As Raqibul explained, I came here in 1977, I had to work day-night in Mr. Malik’s shop, he paid me very little. I know nothing, I need work. I need [place to] sleep. He gave me a job, I thank him, but he treated me very badly. I work ten years for him. I have nothing … He cheated me.

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From the outside, the class disposition of the East End appears to be a homogeneous entity. The Muslim members of the East End occupy the lowest levels of the economic base. This image masks the exploitative role played by a small segment of the enclave. Through commerce, a few early immigrants attained partial economic upward mobility. They started to control and manipulate the economic condition of the enclave, restricting newly arriving immigrant’s entrance into the host society. As a result, immigrants had reduced contact with the dominant culture, which allowed the community elite to reduce the socialising effect of the wider society. In essence, the enclave defined the role and function of the immigrant, physically detaching them from the state. Despite the inner exploitive aspect of the enclave, the outer social reality seemed far more daunting for newly arriving immigrants. The harsh reality of racism helped concentrate immigrants within the East End. The racism experienced by immigrants across London inhibited social integration in the capital. Consequently, immigrant social activities became internalised. In other words, immigrants actively utilised the skills and resources of fellow immigrants to establish basic social needs, fostering the spatial clustering of immigrant enclaves in Greater London. The immigrant network became an essential utility, helping migrants establish themselves within the boundaries of the community. Newer immigrants were warmly introduced to a safe social space, providing them access in some cases to an alternative labour market. This densely populated area on the surface provided a cultural connection to the land of origin, but gradually systems of control were quickly cemented that would exploit newer immigrants. This economic exploitation actively negated assimilative attempts to integrate with the wider society, it utilised ‘social capital’ as a means to keep immigrants enslaved to the community. Within the immigrant enclave, social capital was often utilised through kinship ties to self-control the social and economic dynamics of the East End community. Early immigrants built a platform for newer immigrants entering the host country. However, kinship ties mixed with a complex system of culturally embedded seniority meant their community exploited newly arriving immigrants. As Sadik explained:

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I came [to] Whitechapel in 1982 from Bangladesh, for nearly five year[s]‌I work washing dishes for [my] brother in-law in his restaurant … he [has been in] England for over forty year[s]. He give me help and room, room behind restaurant, I sleep on floor and wash in kitchen. He use me, I work for nothing. This is what happened to us, we called paki in street and then we use like slave by own people … I cry every night I here for five years … it was Hell.

The exploitative nature of the enclave limited the mobility and success of newer immigrants, who were often used as social capital. New arrivals, like Sadik, were immediately inculcated within the enclave about the social reality of life in the UK. They were often told they had limited job opportunities amongst white people, due to racism and inadequate language skills. Thus, they were given jobs and shelter through kinship networks, and thus became enslaved by the social functionality of the immigrant enclave. In some cases, new immigrants were discouraged from seeking welfare assistance from the state, as this may break the social control of the enclave. As Saied suggested ‘my family tell lies about housing and job[s]‌… they want me to work for them. When I get job outside then I see truth’. The Muslim communities that have formed in the East End of London are not self-autonomous territories. They are subject to the legal and economic constraints of the state. This did not stop early immigrants from establishing rigid systems of cultural constraints, which were designed to control the newer immigrant labour force. The formation of an economically strong immigrant class within the enclaves promoted cultural separatism from the white majority. However, this slightly wealthier immigrant sub-group were constrained socially and economically in their sphere of domination. They could only exploit newly arriving immigrants, and thus their influence did not extend to the second generation. There are two likely explanations for this lack of complete communal control. First, the second generation was educated within the UK, and this enabled them to gain social mobility. Second, the apparatus of control utilised by the dominant classes in the enclave exclusively rely on newer immigrants remaining socio-culturally disconnected from the wider society. When new immigrants arrive within the host country, they often lack the necessary language skills to navigate British society. Therefore, they gravitate

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towards the familiar. On the surface, the enclave offers the new immigrant sanctuary from perceived host hostility. In reality, the enclave functions as an overreaching power that provides immigrant business with an endless supply of cheap labour. The systematic exploitation of the immigrant labour force by established immigrants became more evident when industries across the UK began to close. The economic instability caused by downsizing unskilled labour meant some immigrants became entangled again within the separate economic sub-system of the enclave. As Saied explained, ‘when jobs become less here [East London], some people [immigrants] were forced to work in restaurants for little pay’. The decline in the broader job market drove many immigrants back into the enclave social network, as the enclave had an endless need for cheap migrant labour. The faltering economic condition of the UK, coupled with the availability of work within the enclave, stimulated an upsurge in benefit fraud. Ali, who owns a chain of shops and restaurants in London, provides insight into this dual economic system. I came to the UK in 1956. I worked very hard, I cleaned dishes in restaurants, and I worked long hours in factories. After many years I bought a shop, it did well, so Alhamdulillah [praise be to God] I started my restaurant, which did well … I helped my community, I helped our people by giving them work … We paid cash-in-hand, to help with their income they got housing benefit and income support … I never took them hand in hand to the benefit office!

It appears the hierarchy of the enclaves realised they could offset the low wage given to their immigrant labour if they also claimed unemployment and housing benefit. The work within the East End was often cash-inhand, making it easy for the immigrant to claim welfare support from the state simultaneously. According to Anamul, ‘all [immigrants] claim benefit and work on the side in restaurant … they all do’. The East End provided temporary economic refuge, as it harvested a syndicate of skills and opportunities. In reality, the enclave supplies wealthier immigrants with an abundance of cheap labour. Newer immigrants are ensnared through the allure of work opportunities, which often seem difficult to locate in wider society due to language inhibitions. In addition to work, newer immigrants were often encouraged to take financial

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loans from established immigrants. As Anamul explained, ‘those people [wealthier immigrant class] keep giving loans, to help do business, but they took a share of the business, profit and kept adding interest to the loan’. Newer immigrants took communal loans because mainstream financial institutions would not grant such loans to individuals who had no collateral or guarantor. Therefore, initially, newer immigrants were drawn to the perceived financial support, as most immigrants felt daunted by the prospect of going to a high street bank. As Anamul explains, ‘most don’t read or write … they can’t fill forms. So, how they go to the bank and get money?’ The perceived social barriers beyond the East End often drive newer immigrants to look for financial support from the familiar. Language plays a key functionary role in maintaining the dominance of the enclave; immigrants fear to navigate the trajectory of social and economic life in British society. The enclave provides them with a route into the familiar, negating the socio-cultural standards of wider society. In this respect, the East End enclave stands as a separate geographical entity, providing immigrants with a social space away from the complex protocols of mainstream society. Thus, Muslim enclaves exist as separate communities within the heart of London and other major British cities. In addition to the economic provision received by the state, the immigrants utilised kinship ties within the East End to gain work and housing. The economic control the wealthier immigrant class exerted over newer members of the enclave became weakened as stronger bonds were forged with the state. When newer immigrants started to obtain housing and employment benefit, they became insulated by the welfare state, and thus their dependence on kinship networks with the enclave became less necessary. As Samiur explains, ‘I start working in family friends business, but I paid very little money and I work eighteen hours …[then] I get benefits, I get housing and then job centre get me job in factory. So, you see how we tricked by the elders when we come’. This narrative gives a slight glimpse into the socio-economic disparity of the enclave. The power imbalance between newer and older immigrants created a perceived exploitative relationship. The established immigrants wanted an endless supply of cheap labour. However, recompensing low wages with state benefits had one major drawback. As Samiur explained, ‘benefits free us’. The welfare state

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gave immigrants direct access to income and social services, which emancipated them from the physical control of the enclave. The welfare state reduced immigrant insecurity, as it offered equal access to housing and job opportunities, as well as safeguarding employment pay and conditions. Nevertheless, despite its social advantages very few early migrants turned to the welfare state. As a result, the East End enclave continued to exploit the clustering of immigrants by using them as a cheap resource. The immigrants were tied economically to the enclave, as they were given jobs and housing, which also cut them off from the welfare state. They were often fearful of leaving the sanctuary of the enclave, as the host population did not openly welcome the newly arriving immigrants. Therefore, the enclave began to operate as a mechanism for economic control; the wealthier immigrants used ethno-religious cultural ties to generate a pool of cheap labour that could be easily exploited. On the surface, the enclave seemed to grant economic empowerment to immigrants. In reality, economic mobility was an exclusive privilege limited to the community-elite, who actively benefited from the non-legal labour market. Those exploiting the immigrants within the enclave realised that it was within their interest to close off new immigrants from the wider society, as assimilation into the welfare state would lead to self-empowerment. In order to safeguard cheap labour, the enclave elite kept newly arriving immigrants embedded culturally within the community. To work in an East End restaurant did not demand the skills of the host society, like language. This meant new immigrants exclusively spoke in their language of origin and were subsequently placed behind a cultural blockade. As several early immigrants explained, the initial rewards gained from the enclave appeared helpful, but as time elapsed, the long-term disadvantages became abundant. The immigrants were economically bound to the enclave, limiting their ability to access state benefits. Also, established immigrants did not want the cheap labour force to gain independence and upward mobility, as this would jeopardise their economic advantage. This process of institutionalised isolationism orchestrated by the enclave elite resulted in a significant culture deficit. As Khalid explained, ‘we work in restaurant, I speak only Urdu’. The enclave encouraged cultural separatism, as immigrants did not

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learn the language and cultural mores of the host country, denying them access to state services. When the economic ties within the enclave started to fragment, it became incumbent upon the wealthier class to find non-fiscal methods to bind newer immigrants to the enclave. The East End slowly started to transform, the physical nature and layout began to resemble the immigrant’s land of origin. Language and religion became an essential part of the enclave, for two keys reasons: (1) it maintains a cultural anchor to the immigrant’s place of origin; and (2) it established a way to control and resist the dominant culture. At one level, the enclave provides a point of cultural identification, allowing the immigrant to identify with the familiar while trying to adjust to the new social reality of the host country. This may initially offer immigrant protection from adverse hostility from the white English population. However, the connectivity forged between immigrant and enclave can be highly constricting and coercive. The elite within the enclave used the allure of ‘cultural familiarity’ to generate ‘ethno-religious’ solidarity. Initially, the protective aspect of the enclave acted as a key ‘pull-factor’ for newly arriving immigrants. As they settled within the enclave, they sought to utilise the enclave networks to secure jobs and housing. Therefore, as Iqbal described, the elite took advantage of the ‘atmosphere of amanah [trust]’ that existed amongst the immigrant community. The enclave furnished a seemingly endless supply of cheap labour. However, the elite did not simply limit their exploitation to labour; rather they sought to enslave the labour force through housing control. The elite did not just own the workspace, where the immigrants worked, but they also owned the housing space. As Iqbal narrated, ‘I came to the UK and Salman Chacha [uncle] give me a job; he made me live in a three bed house [with] twelve other people … I live there for three years. Salman Chacha own business and houses, he take pay from us [wages]’. This view would suggest the flow of immigrants provided a dual economic advantage to the wealthy class, namely cheap labour and paying tenants. The immigrants became entangled within the restrictive matrix of the enclave. They faced social hostility beyond the enclave and thus were disconnected from the welfare state. The enclave elite socialised newly arriving immigrants

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with the customs and practices of the enclave, assimilating them into the social structure of the enclave.

Enclave Leadership In general, most Muslims I spoke to in the East End agreed that leadership over the Muslim community is void of single proprietorship. This has enabled many organisations to make grandiose claims that they speak for the Muslim community in Britain. For instance, the Muslim Council of Britain (MCB) claims to be coordinating on Muslim affairs. Tatari (2014), who conducted extensive research in East London, dismisses this misleading assertion; suggesting that the Bangladesh community in Tower Hamlets lacked representation. Thus, it was concluded that the Bangladeshi response was greatly reduced by the inability to articulate their issues, due to differences between Bangladeshis based upon occupation, generation, kinship, and village loyalties (Tatari, 2014). The competition to represent the Bangladeshi community involves Islamic groups and mainstream political parties (i.e. Labour, Tories and the Lib-Dems). This reflected in sporadic support for the Labour party based upon collective interest. According to Glynn (2017), a successful appeal to the Bangladeshi community must be made by addressing localised issues, like housing, social services, police, and racism. From my interviews, it seemed apparent that the first generations of Bangladeshi immigrants were politically inclined towards the Labour party. However, this political support was not ideological; instead, it was pragmatic. Thus, at a constituency level, some elements of the Bangladeshi community vote according to common communal interest. This was reflected with various independents winning the Ward elections between 1982 and 1986 (Eade, 1989). No single body or organisation represents the Bangladeshi community in the East End. This exposes a need to contextualise the role-played by these groups seeking leadership within an East End context.

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It is probably best to start a study on leadership in the East End by first looking at different religious institutions and associations, as these types of institutions can access a wide audience. However, it can be problematic to exclusively frame Muslim social and political life through institutions, as these institutions appear somewhat out of step with younger Muslim attitudes. After spending several months trying to understand the functional role of religious intuitions, I discovered they only appeared to symbolise a religious space. As Nurul explained, ‘the mosque is where we pray, it is a spiritual house. There is no politics in Allah’s house, we go to worship God. People don’t like it when outside people come and talk politics in the house of Allah … the mosque is for worship only’ (translated from Bengali). This would suggest that the mosque does not play a significant role in social and political leadership. Its function is seen as spiritual. This means individuals visit the mosque to fulfil religious duties, and thus most mosques in the East End do not engage in more extensive social activism. Instead, the mosque represents a religious space, in which practitioners can come and engage in spiritual activities. The role of the mosque and associations bear mixed influence upon Muslim social life in the East End. For instance, the East London Mosque appears to exercise some influence. However, local mosque committee members appeared to have social influence in the community, as these individuals were often local businessmen that had established wide social networks. This enabled them to provide assistance and gain political support within the mosque committee. Yet, in general, these institutions have little religious leadership outside their front doors. The reason for this is due to ethnic cleavages, mosques vary according to the ethnic and religious traditions adopted, and thus you will have separate mosques to represent every section of the community in the East End. Also, language and the inability to connect to younger audiences have meant the regular practitioners to mosques are primarily drawn from the first generation. As Raqibul explains, ‘you no see young peoples in the mosque, it only us old peoples. This not good. Young peoples need to know religion’. Friday sermons, for instance, are delivered in ethnic languages, which younger Muslims are not acquainted. This inability to connect with the local mosque can push young people to search for their own religious identity away from the traditional

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institutions that represent the first generation. Therefore, religious institutions have little influence on the second and third generation, who are disconnected from the mosque, especially during early adulthood. Those young Muslims that were sent to the mosque as children to learn the Quran tend to view the mosque in very negative terms as they become adults. According to Shabbir, ‘I was forced to go to the mosque to memorise the Quran like a parrot, it did not affect my behaviour, I knew nothing about Islam. I was just beaten if I couldn’t memorise the Quran like a parrot … The mosque is a place for old people; young people only go there because they are forced to by their parents’. This revealing statement illustrates how some young British Muslims feel disconnected from the mosque. However, my focus in this chapter is the first generation, and I will postpone elaborating on second-generation experiences until Chapter 2. The first generation established mosques in the East End in order to preserve their religious identity; it also became a powerful tool for socialising their children into religious practice. Parents sent their children several times a week to the mosque, hoping they would be indoctrinated with Islamic ideals and culture. Although I strongly question the intellectual leadership the mosque has had on its practitioners, I must acknowledge the sense of belonging the mosque symbolically manifests. By sending children to the mosque at a very young age, parents know that they will develop a sense of religious identity that will be reinforced by the mosque and the community. The mosque inculcates the children of immigrants to think of themselves as Muslims, connecting them to a global community. However, the knowledge taught to children is exceptionally reductionist and basic, providing little tools to deal with the social challenges they will inevitably encounter in society. This is somewhat expected as Imams hold a limited sphere of influence, as they lack a thorough knowledge of Islam, and are in most cases inept in the English language. Despite lacking broad intellectual leadership, I did encounter individuals and figures involved in the running of the mosque who had limited influence over local affairs. In some parts of the East End, small mosques became a central part of first-generation activity. It was the older generation that attended the mosque for religious worship, making it an important status symbol among some first-generation immigrants. In each mosque, a

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selected committee oversee the way the mosque is run. I discovered the vast majority of committee members were comprised of relatively well established local businesspeople, many of whom had acquired noya Chowdhury status. As Raqibul explained, ‘I was a committee member for many years. There is a lot of politics inside the mosque, but I enjoyed my time. We helped many people in the community’ (translated). This suggests the committee members were seen as influential figures in the local area, dealing with a wide array of social problems. As Raqibul narrated, ‘we have to deal with funding issues, marriage dispute, community problems, young people’s education, many issues we solve’ (translated). The committee from other mosques around the East End had several vital commonalities. The committees were exclusively comprised of early immigrants, usually consisting of economically wealthy residents. Individual committee members with extensive business interests in the local area would often use their position to further their economic influence. In particular, the vast majority of business enterprises established by these early immigrants revolved around providing goods and services to the ethnic community, sourcing items that could not be easily acquired in the UK. As a result, it was within the interest of these men to maintain a closed market, which was facilitated by the introverted nature of the enclave. Therefore, opening the enclave to the wider society would have endangered their business interests, making it vital to keep the enclave economy close-knit. These committee members were given considerable public prestige, as they had established local economic empires. However, these men lacked any knowledge and understanding of Islam, and they were often uneducated labourers that had relocated from rural Bangladesh. This meant they could not gain intellectual leadership; instead, they used their economic status to influence the local community. As Mushfiqur explained, ‘the [mosque] committee strong power, you follow. I know friend lost much money because of chairman of the mosque. He no complain, no power … these people [committee members] are big Aparadhi [criminals]’. Although this allegation has little evidence, I did hear several residents’ voice concerns about the power the mosque committee often exercises, especially against those deemed a business rival. In simple terms, the members of mosque

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committees were rural labourers, who have little education and were socialised in the culture and tradition of the Bangladeshi village.

Conclusion: Reflections on a Divided City A recurring theme amongst the narratives of early immigrants interviewed through the course of my travels in the East End revealed that kinship ties played an essential role in the settlement process. Family members were willing to assist new arrivals and thus limit the economic burden they had to endure. However, most of the immigrants I  spoke too candidly exposed the adverse function kinship networks played in their entry to the UK. Immigrants arriving in the East End gained immediate social support from within the community, but this assistance would eventually develop into economic enslavement. Thus, relationship-based social systems are susceptible to fragmentation, as exploitation can occur. While the state offers equal access to resources and welfare, making it a far more viable option for long-term support and mobility. Newly arriving immigrants quickly become indoctrinated within the enclave system, creating a sense of separation from the wider society. The social imbalance of network ties within the enclave is often reinforced by the social reality that exists beyond the enclave. Portes and Wilson (1980), in their study of immigrant enclave formation in Miami, identified similar characteristics as those I have observed in the East End enclave. They suggested newly arriving immigrants’ procured work in the enclave labour market as an alternative to the opportunities offered by wider society. As Portes and Wilson (1980) observed, newly arriving Cuban immigrants tended to take-up jobs in immigrantowned shops and restaurants, which facilitated the creation of the ‘enclave economy’. However, the immigrants that entered the East End enclave in London did not gain access to alternative forms of rapid upward mobility. Instead, the traditional social immigrant networks were designed to institutionalise cheap labour as a resource for the elite members in the enclave.

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This might conflict with the findings of Massey (1990) who argued the inner dynamics of ethnic enclaves gives rise to large-scale socio-economic upward mobility. This argument is formulated on the premise that early immigrants construct a social network conducive to new immigrants, who subsequently benefit from the established structure. As the East End enclave demonstrates, early immigrants built social structures to support their economic prosperity. This embedded exploitation within the enclave social structure actively undermined cultural integration into the host society. If newly arriving immigrants became culturally absorbed by wider society, then they would lose their economic dependence on the enclave. Those immigrants who managed to break away from the chains of the enclave gained access to wider opportunities that enabled them to acquire economic independence and stability. As Rifat explained, ‘I got an education to escape working in a restaurant … it helped me get a good job in IT’. Education can provide new immigrants with opportunities to break away from the enclave while establishing a connection with state services. The enclave often acts as a social buffer for new immigrants, helping them overcome the difficulties of settling within a new country. Thus, most immigrants who arrived in the East End of London became incorporated within the subculture of the enclave system, and in some ways bypassed the assimilative process of British society.

Chapter 2

The East End Muslim Enclave II: Born into Enclaves

In Chapter 1, it became clear the majority of first-generation migrants I  spoke to came from rural parts of the Indian subcontinent, which greatly influenced their cultural and religious outlook. The distinct customs and beliefs of the subcontinent were imported to the UK. These ethno-religious markers became a strong aspect of community life in the East End. This attempt to preserve a distinct ethno-Muslim identity may have helped the first generation to navigate the migration process, especially when dealing with the hostility of the white English population. However, how did the children of Muslim migrants respond to the challenges of growing up in seemingly parallel communities? At first sight, it might be difficult to rationalise why some Muslims in Britain wanted to live in separate communities. Muslim enclaves seemingly appear to flourish in response to the host country’s perceived hostility. First- and second-generation Muslims who experience political, social and economic dislocation due to discrimination may opt to live in the Muslim enclave. Being raised in a Pakistani immigrant family has made it slightly more natural for me to reflect on second-generation British Muslim experiences. As I can appreciate some of the struggles and conflicts, they have had to endure growing up between two distinct cultures. However, compared to some of the narratives I collected, my entry into British society was relatively smooth. I grew up in a secular household in a predominantly white area. The first encounter I had with Muslims was at college, up until then I had no Muslim friends or acquaintances. This does indicate integration into British society can differ widely, depending strongly on the interplay between immigrants and their children with the receiving society. According to Shakeel, a second-generation British Muslim, ‘when I was a kid, a man came up to my mother and spat on her and called her a dirty paki.

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From that day I knew I was not British’. This disturbing incident illustrates how adverse experiences may externalise some second-generation children from British society. This traumatic experience had a profound impact on Shakeel’s perception of the ‘other’. Although my experiences were radically different from some of the narratives I encountered amongst secondgeneration British Muslims, there were still similarities related to identity formation. The second-generation British Muslims I spoke to throughout my travels often identified a standard set of concerns about living and growing up in modern Britain. They felt British society viewed them as different, which limited their desire to engage with broader society. This real or imagined perception of the other intensifies the social constraints experienced by some British Muslims as they attempt to navigate through British society. Added to this, British Muslims face considerable social and economic inequalities. They often occupy some of the lowest positions in British society in terms of education, income and housing.

Identity Divergence within the Enclave: The Miah Family I began my journey into the East End of London with the presumption that I would be entering a social world far removed from what I perceived to be mainstream British culture.1 However, as I learnt from exploring the first generation, the physical signs of spatial segregation such as ethnicity or religion are not necessarily factors that cause segregation. This presumption quickly dissolved after my second week in the East End. I dropped in on the Miah family, who kindly welcomed me into their three-bed flat. Nazmul, Mohammad and Sabbir were born and raised in the UK, while 1

Trying to understand what constitutes mainstream British culture today is very difficult. British culture has experienced significant change and is markedly different from what it meant twenty or thirty years ago. Thismeans any type of snapshot of British identity will also be mixed. Thus, I  have tried to see how British Muslims live, and to examine how helpful they are in explaining the way Muslim communities work.

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their parents were from a small rural village near Sylhet in Bangladesh. It became quickly apparent the parents of Nazmul, Mohammad and Sabbir were very traditional in their social orientation. This concerted effort to retain core ethnic and religious markers from the country of origin created social difficulties for the three siblings. In contrast to those prevalent in much of Britain, the Miah household, like many Bangladeshi family units, was not nuclear. Instead, the household make-up consisted of the nuclear family (including both spouses and children), but also conformed to a patrilocal make-up where numerous generations of the family reside together, incorporating a collection of nuclear units to form a whole (Harder, 1981). Nazmul, for example, lived in the family home with his wife. It is somewhat usual and conventional for a married couple to reside within the same home as the husband’s parents and siblings. In Bangladeshi tradition, in cases where male siblings of the husband are married, it is also common for their wives and children to live in the same homestead as the husband’s parents. Therefore, a ‘patriarchal, patrilineal and patrilocal social system’ exists in most Bangladeshi families (Pal, 2001, p. x). This traditional aspect of the Miah family social structure has a considerable impact on the emerging second generation, whose struggle for identity becomes a critical element of enclave-identity. British Muslims are fixed within a recurring cycle of identity negotiation. Indeed, young Muslims find themselves embedded within two opposing cultural frames: the imported and the host culture. At home, their parents’ ethno-cultural traditions provide them with a set of rigid identity markers which often leave them displaced from the dominant culture. Thus, as Roy (2004, p. 315) suggests, young Muslims seek to reconnect to a ‘lost identity’. Constructing a new identity, fashioned from an idealised perception of religion, gives young Muslims a sense of belonging that transcends community and society. Contemporary studies of Muslim’s in Britain frequently cite identity crisis as a salient formula in the externalisation process, which is often ignited by adverse social experiences (Wali, 2013). More significantly, as Ansari (2004) explains, the perception of ‘othering’ Muslims as outsiders pushed younger Muslims to question their place in British society. Identification with particular social groups depends on context and setting (Tajfel and

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Turner, 1979). If young Muslims struggle to relate to their social settings, then identity dislocation can be triggered. This implies when young Muslims feel their social trajectory becomes restricted by rejection (e.g. white peer group or an inability to relate to their social group), then Muslim enclaves can offer a sense of identity and belonging (Abbas et al., 2007). In addition, entrenching one’s identity within a rigid religious dimension can lead to greater internalisation, equating any real or imagined threat to Islam as a personal threat to their well-being (Roy, 2004). Therefore, religious discrimination may trigger stronger identification with Islam and thus weaken other identity affiliations (e.g. national identity). My encounter with the Miah family provided considerable insight into the complexities of second-generation identity formation within the Muslim enclave. Initially, the Miah family’s experiences became a central part of my observations and study, as their experiences enabled me to arrive at several important conclusions. The identities displayed by the family members provided an interesting example of the complexities of second-generation identity negotiation because despite being raised in the same household each sibling appeared to manifest a different source of identity. As Nazmul explained, ‘my brothers and I are very different, I’d say I’m traditional, Mohammad is Anglofied and Sabbir is religious’. At an elementary level, this description provided insight into the process of identity construction amongst the three brothers who grew up in the East End enclave. In this section, I need to present an overview of the basic tenets of identity exhibited among the three Miah brothers, which I believe offer insight into second-generation enclave identity formation. Nazmul, the eldest sibling, expressed an overtly ethnic-based identity. According to him, ‘I was the first child, my parents wanted to pass on our culture to me. This is why I can speak Bengali fluently and my brothers cannot’. Nazmul was the first offspring of the Miah family born in the UK, and as a result, he received a higher level of inculcation of the host culture, which shaped his identity into adulthood. The process of child socialisation, in which a child is inculcated into the culture of society, is radically different in South Asian households as it often occurs within a traditional setting. In

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the west, for instance, children are trained to value self-autonomy, which emphasises independence and self-sufficiency (Hogg and Holland, 2010). In contrast, South Asian society encourages conformity to social and cultural practice, as dictated by religious and ethno-cultural mores. In this social setting, Nazmul and his brothers were expected to obey and conform to the opinions, values, and instructions of their parents. Growing up in a traditional family environment necessitated conformity to the will of the family authority and hierarchy. As Nazmul explained, ‘to be deemed a good Bengali son, meant we had to obey our parents … we couldn’t question or disobey our parents’. This aspect of Bangladeshi tradition is considered a fundamental part of the Islamic tradition. So, as Ostberg (2003, p. 157) explains, it is often a prominent part of what it means to be Bangladeshi and a good Muslim. Another critical aspect of Nazmul’s ethnic-based identity construction was his perceived rejection by the white English population. As he explained, You need to understand something important when I grew up here; it was not like it is now. There were still a lot of white people here. And we would get into fights with them all the time. They’d call us the usual racist names, they’d say go back home … typical stuff. As a result, I never had white friends growing up, we kept to our own. We never went to their areas, because we’d get attacked. This is why I’m proud to say I’m a British Bengali. My culture is who I am.

This account suggests that Nazmul responded to social rejection from the white English population by forming a closer association with his ethnicity. He made friends with Bangladeshis and began to distance himself from British culture. Mohammad, the middle child, adopted what he described a ‘western lifestyle’. The utilisation of the term ‘western’, as a descriptive reference, to categorise his identity orientation is revealing. This is because the label ‘western’ has negative connotations in the East End enclave. It implies the individual is orientated to a western lifestyle – such as engaging in sex before marriage and drinking alcohol – cultural practices considered extremely taboo within the Muslim enclave. Those who perceive themselves to be ‘western’ are deemed to be lacking Islamic cultural values. Thus, by

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using this pejorative description, Mohammad was placing himself outside of the ethno-religious framework of the Muslim enclave. As he explained, My experiences of the East End were different; I had white friends I’d go to white areas. I had girlfriends growing up; I’m in a relationship with a non-Muslim now. I go to the pub with my workmates; I’m not like my family. They’re too religious and you can’t live like that.

From this statement, it appears that Mohammad did not feel socially excluded from British society and culture. Instead, he found it rather easy to adjust to his social environment and had no problem joining white peer groups. This would indicate he gained acceptance amongst the white English population, which lead to higher levels of integration into British culture. As a result, Mohammad became dislocated from the enclave, choosing to live outside the cultural constraints of the enclave. In simple terms, he develops a negative association with the Muslim enclave, perceiving the assigned roles and rules of the enclave as dysfunctional for engaging with British society and people. As he explains, I hate east London; people here are cut off from mainstream society. Don’t get me wrong, I respect Muslim values and stuff, but I don’t want to live in a Muslim community. You can’t enjoy yourself, girls have to cover and you have to live like you’re in Bangladesh. This isn’t Bangladesh! I drink, I don’t pray, I’m totally British.

This notion of a westernised identity is difficult to contextualise because the other siblings have adopted aspects of western culture in everyday life (e.g. dress, music and leisure activities and so on). However, it is problematic to reduce western culture to a set of lifestyle issues, because Mohammad is referring to ‘western’ as an ideological value-system. From this perspective, western relates to an ideology that is composed of a different and even contradictory viewpoint when compared to Islam. So, Mohammad’s siblings on the surface appeared ‘western’ in relation to dress, language and lifestyle, but they are not ‘western’ in an ideological sense. This enabled them to construct identities that, to some extent, control the perceived complexities of British or western society through an ethno-religious ideological framework.

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Sabbir, the youngest sibling, adopted a single religious perspective as his brothers emerged from a traditional household. He eventually rejects the ethno-cultural component of his identity. As he commented, I was not taught true Islam growing up. Instead, we were taught a cultural version of Islam that just focused on spirituality and tradition. There was no link to life, Islam is not just a few rituals, it’s a way of life. It should impact every aspect of life; it should be the reference point for life.

According to his omission, Sabbir experienced an abrupt intensification of religiosity at college. The intensity and tempo of the religious awakening, from a traditional state, in Sabbir’s personal life becomes quickly visible; increased attention to religious practices, greater emphasis on Islamic dress and custom. However, this statement reveals some important insights. Firstly, Sabbir believes his parents’ generation have mixed non-Islamic practices and laws with Islam. The first generation, Sabbir claimed, took loans and mortgages from financial institutions, despite ‘riba [interest] being forbidden in the Quran’. In this ­respect, Sabbir appears to conceptualise Islam beyond the spiritual, seeing it as a religious system that impacts the material world. This suggests that some young practitioners believe the Islamic text, despite being written in the seventh century, can resolve problems in the modern period. This means Islam must be applied, making it a duty to bring individual action into alignment with the commands of God. Sabbir is not advocating a form of Islamic authoritarianism. Instead, he argues Islam is an individualistic system that must be administered in the private and public sphere. Importantly, he explained this should not be enacted by a state; rather, it is a Muslim’s duty to apply Islam only on themselves irrespective of location or residence. The Miah family have provided a good starting point for a discussion of the development of identity-types in the East End enclave because each sibling reflects a distinct identity-type. Even though the identity of each sibling relates and overlaps, they cannot be reduced to a single view of second-generation Muslim enclave identity. Moreover, although, when combined, they offer the beginnings of a picture, my knowledge of the whole is still imperfect. The meaning and significance of these identities will

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become more evident as each is developed and interpreted. However, the identities are not self-contained. Each takes as its focus a different aspect of the same whole process. Each draws upon the same essential phenomenon, namely crafting a sense of identity and belonging. In order to develop a theory of identity that recognises, but does not restrict, the social structures from which second-generation British Muslims emerge requires specifying the essential features most likely to facilitate the construction of multiple identity-types in the enclave. This aspect of identity provides a category of social significance, for belonging to a specific ethnic and religious group enables the brothers to define their distinctiveness regarding comparisons with other social groups (Schumann, 2011). Now I need to determine whether the identity-types exhibited by the three Miah brothers hold up outside of their family dynamic. A great deal of what I know about second-generation Muslims living in the East End of London, such as social composition, levels of religiosity and ethnicity, has been obtained through surveys. Correlating this data would, in theory, allow me to determine whether the second-generation inhabitants of the East End enclave can be dissected into distinct identity groupings. The first point to note derives from the way the respondents in this survey have been catalogued. It was possible to group respondents into four distinct categories: ethnic-based, religious-based, host-based and hybrid-based identities. It was not assumed, however, that these four identity-types exclusively made-up all forms of identity-options available to enclave members. Given the diversity of the East End enclave, I expected to encounter a range of identities. I did not encounter, for example, Islamist-based identities. This does not mean that such an identity-type is non-existent; instead, this type of identity did not present itself in the survey. Due to the limitations in sample size, as well as the large population distribution, it became necessary to identify the central identity-types. It should be noted; despite some ambiguity concerning the broadness and characteristics of each identitytype, I believe they accurately represent the types of identity available to second-generation Muslims living in the East End enclave.

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Multiple Enclave Identities: Ethnic, Religious, Host and Hybrid According to Schumann (2011), identity formation is not simply a personalised process; instead he identifies three key social contextual factors that include family network and structure, ethnicity and religion. This makes framing a workable theory of identity difficult, especially relating to second-generation Muslim identity because it remains a highly complex issue. In particular, structural forces like religion, class, ethnicity and nationality have been treated as explanatory factors. However, simplifying the concept of identity-formation into these restrictive parameters does not necessarily explain the emergence of second-generation enclave identities. For instance, ethnicity is a challenging concept to ascribe to multi-ethnic societies. Cohen (1974, p. 5) suggests this is because of its ‘ubiquity, variety of form, scope and intensity, and its involvement in psychic, social and historical variables’. For this reason, Kroger’s (2004) examination of identity construction offers greater scope for analysis. According to him, identities are a series of connected elements that form and change with culture, social class, ethnicity and historical ethos. This means second-generation enclave identities are constructed from various sources, making it crucial to categorise the different identity-types prevalent in the East End enclave. The data I collected generated some impressive results concerning how second-generation Muslims perceive their identity across the different modes of identity available to members of the enclave. The two identity-types most often selected by respondents, which they believed best represented their identity was the religious-based and ethnic-based. This tells me that the East End enclave is relatively split between these two differentiated identity options. It should be noted the identity-types identified are restricted to the East End enclave, at this stage; I cannot use them as a general typology to apply to British Muslims in general. Once I have presented the data from other towns and cities, then I will be in a position to assess whether broad generalisations can be developed. Thus, the identity-types noted here are the ones that were observed and documented in the fieldwork in the East End of London. Added to

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this, the East End enclave is a social constellation, which means it should be studied as a social phenomenon. As such, in the social space known as the East End Muslim enclave, I identified four modes of localised identity; each identity-type has its distinct social characteristic. These characteristics will only be explored in their local context, I do not seek to ignore global and national forces, but at this stage, I want to focus on the localism of the East End enclave. Table 1:  Enclave Identity-Type Identity-Type

Aged 16–26 (%)

Aged 26–36 (%)

Aged 36–46 (%)

Religious-based Identity

37.9

42.9

46.1

Ethnic-based Identity

39.1

37

43.4

Host-based Identity

10.5

9.6

2.1

Hybrid-based Identity

12.5

10.5

8.4

As Table 1 shows, second-generation members of the East End enclave can be dissected into four separate modes of identity, moulded from contrasting social experiences, which have a considerable influence on the social orientation of that particular individual within the enclave. Wright (1982, p. 71) argues the concept of identity is usually derived by means of asking, ‘Who am I?’ However, this to some extent neglects other dimensions of identity. Social identity, for instance, refers to a category-based perception of an individual who belongs to a group, which enables him or her to derive a sense of identity from that group. In this respect, identity is greatly influenced by a member’s affiliation to a well-defined and clearly distinct social category. In the East End, the ethnic and religious identities were the highest recorded identity-types, with an average of 81.8 per cent of respondents indicating one of these two groupings best represented their social identity. The boundary between ethnic and religious-based identities for Bangladeshis living in the East End is not easily separated, as the two components are often fused. Although Bangladeshis may disproportionately populate the East End, this does not necessarily mean they are homogenous. In fact, as the above data shows, religious and ethnic affiliation was

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not evenly distributed. I discovered the level of ethnic and religious identification varies across the Muslim communities, and thus within Muslim enclaves. Taken as a whole, the four different identity-types documented provided the respondents with a means to resolve and navigate through encounters with British society. Some of these identities provided the individual with the tools to resist the host culture; while other identity-types sought accommodation and alignment with the host society. The data I managed to compile on second-generation Muslims, between the ages of 16 and 46, has provided an interesting glimpse into the identity choices available within the East End. I will try to explore the data in more detail in subsequent sections, but for now, it is worth highlighting some of the salient features and themes singled out as necessary. To start, age played an important factor in the development of identitytypes. The religious-based identity, for instance, increased by 12.5 per cent across the age spectrum, indicating religiosity heightened as respondents got older. While the host-based identity decreased by 8.4 per cent. This suggests identity-types are not fixed and are susceptible to changes, which means enclave members adopt identities as a means to resolve and navigate through British society. Some of these identities provided the enclave member with the tools to resist the host culture; while, other identity-types encourage accommodation and alignment with the host society. Each of these identity-types needs to be explored in more detail and conjunction with belongingness and segregation. Religious-Based Identity For second-generation Muslims living in the East End of London the question of identity is not a straightforward process. The first generation appeared to adapt to the host society by importing their ethno-religious identities because they were born and raised outside of the UK. This meant the first Muslim immigrants related more easily to their cultural mores from their country of origin; rather, than to British culture. For second-generation British Muslims, they have been exposed to dual identity models, creating conflict between host and imported culture.

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Those who opted to construct their social identity around Islam sought to resist the host society and challenge the imported ethno-cultural systems introduced by the first generation. As Ziaur explained, ‘our parents follow a very different Islam, it is full of cultural stuff brought over from Bangladesh that has nothing to do with Islam’. Throughout my fieldwork, the religious-based respondents I spoke to heavily criticised the first generation for their importing of cultural values from their countries of origin. They felt these values were incompatible with Islamic belief and practice. As a result, the second generation actively sought to assert a religiousbased identity. This was a self-conscious choice to separate religion from the ethno-cultural system brought to the UK by the first generation. For the first generation, religion and ethnicity were fused into an allembracing system. As Geaves (1996, p. 1) suggests, early Muslim migrants imported customs and practices of the Indian subcontinent, providing them with a way to reinforce their ethnic distinctiveness. The religiousbased identity adopted by some second-generation enclave members was designed to centralise Islam as the sole point of reference for social life. To make Islam the central source of identity meant separating it from the ethno-cultural system of the first generation. The religious-based identities I encountered in the East End were overwhelmingly shaped by interactions moulded with reference to social adversaries. The Muslim community has acquired a strong sense of collective identity about themselves and about their opposition, believing the fight is between ‘us and them’. This process of ‘othering’ non-Muslims can be traced back to the early encounters of the first generation, who suffered racial discrimination and violence. The first generation of setters to the East End appeared to withdraw from mainstream society, as they felt the white English population regarded them as inferior. In contrast, the second generation adopted a combative stance, opting to confront racial violence. For those adopting a religious-based identity, Islam was perceived to conflict with the west. This seemingly religious dichotomy, between Iman [belief ] and kufr [disbelief ], became more prominent in the wake of the Rushdie Affair. Fusing religious rhetoric to events gives the confrontation a larger-than-life dimension. As the interaction with the west matured, second-generation religious-based Muslims in the East

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End sought to fabricate a distorted narrative of confrontation with western society, depicting it as monolithic and dangerous. This manufactured polarisation between Islam and the west, allowed some Muslims to demonise western culture and society. Evidence of this became apparent from my interviews with religiousbased Muslims in the East End, as they continually sought to evoke the perceived injustice of the west. For instance, Khalid stated: ‘non-Muslims cannot be trusted they have hatred in their hearts towards us [Muslims]’. Another suggested that ‘Muslims in the UK will eventually suffer a British genocide’. The antagonistic tone of these comments illustrate that a lack of interaction with the ‘other’ creates a disposition that is rigid and uncompromising. This enabled religious-based respondents to transfer their negative social experiences onto those that rejected them in the first instance. Consequently, it is important to understand the nature of the relationship between the individual and the enclave to which he or she belongs. Apter (cited in Kucukcan 1999) believes that ‘one of the most salient forms of self-definition in most people derives from the membership of groups … extending the “I” and “me” terminology to a group could be said to provide a way of giving meaning to “me” in terms of “us”’. In this instance, some of the respondents I spoke to failed to gain a sense of their ethnicity and cultural roots, and as they were not adequately accepted by the majority culture either, this perpetuated the need for an identity that could give social meaning and purpose. According to Allport (cited in Sedikides and Brewer 2001, p. 126), ‘there is no psychology of groups which is not essentially and entirely a psychology of individuals’. However, the religious-based respondents are more than the sum of their parts (e.g. the members that make it up). The enclave, for instance, in one sense is nothing but the residents who live there, but it is also much more than the aggregate of individuals. Through their interactions over time, their social structures, rules, roles and shared understandings are collectively created and these in turn act on and shape responses. This view presents me with a problem in determining the extent to which the properties of enclave membership can be reduced to individual religious-based identity processes. Tajfel (1986) provides some insights into this problem by making a critical distinction between interpersonal and

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social identities. According to Tajfel (1986), social identity is influenced by a continuum of interaction, which on one end is governed by the membership of various groups, while at the other it is more directed by interpersonal characteristics and relationships. This helps me to understand the multiple identity-types presents amongst the second-generation Muslims residing in the East End enclave. For instance, respondents have to sustain their economic livelihood, and thus they will engage in positive relationships while at work or college in order to safeguard their self-interest. A silent feature of adopting a religious-based identity is the creation of a ‘we’ versus ‘them’ dichotomy. From a social context, it is beneficial for people to seek out attachments to social groups, as they offer protection in unfamiliar and hostile settings. In this respect, the respondents I spoke to felt secure in the East End enclave. As Jamal explained, ‘this is a Muslim area, here we are safe; we are accepted, and we can practise our deen [religion]’. From this statement, it seems religious-based identities feel the need to remain within the enclave, as it provides a source of recognition, security and identity. When Jamal, for example, failed to attain these needs from the wider society, he became frustrated, which in turn developed a deep psychological need to find a sense of belonging. Consequently, within the Muslim enclave, he developed a distrust of non-believers, breeding a hostile identity. According to Jamal, ‘the Kuffar [non-Muslims] are evil, they hate us, and they certainly don’t want us here’. By developing a sense of ‘we-ness’, a member of the enclave is made aware that beyond the enclave there is a ‘they’ that constitutes the dominant culture. This distinction from the larger society allows the enclave to shape members’ identities, which plays a significant role in the very being and functioning of sustaining the enclave. According to Turner (1982), individuals identify with their social group, and as a result, they begin a process of what he calls ‘depersonalisation’ and ‘self-stereotyping’. In other words, members of the enclave adjust their sense of identity, their thoughts and behaviours, to match the collectively defined attributes of the enclave. When religious-based individuals mature in the enclave, they feel compelled to remain within the enclave because they derive their sense of identity from the enclave. Also, the majority of religious-based respondents I observed enhanced their sense of identity by making comparisons with

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out-groups. In the case of religious-based individuals, the maintenance of the enclave’s cohesion was achieved by using religious markers as a means to create distinctions with the broader society. In particular, I observed four distinct symptoms of religious-based respondent’s collective identity within the enclave. Firstly, respondents had unquestioned belief in the moral correctness of Islam. According to Yusuf, ‘Islam is based on divine rules given to us by Allah, making them correct and irrefutable’. Secondly, those who adopted a religious-based identity appeared to manufacture negative stereotypes about the out-group. As Rafiqul commented: ‘the kufar [non-Muslims] are corrupt, shallow and evil … look at the way they worship celebrities and footballers’. Religiousbased respondents seemed to be indoctrinated into stereotyping others by focusing on alleged characteristics and ignoring variations. Thirdly, at the religious level, there was strong social pressure towards conformity. For instance, individuals were expected to attend religious service on Friday, not to eat during Ramadan and so on. Nazmul, who moved away from the East End Muslim enclave six months ago, made some disturbing allegations about the religious-based Muslims in the enclave who act like ‘religious police’. He stated, ‘some of them [religious-based] actively spy on non-religious Muslims … they have kangaroo style courts in which individuals have to disclose every personal detail’. Unfortunately, I could not verify whether these activities are common place, as no other respondent corroborated the allegations. However, according to Nazmul, the more extreme instances of religious policing that he witnessed in the East End were conducted by affiliates of Al-Muhajiroun (ALM), an Islamist organisation established by Omar Bakri Muhammed in 1996. It should be noted that all the religious-based respondents I spoke to were not linked to or affiliated with any Islamist organisation. Fourthly, self-censorship helped ensure that religious-based members of the enclave remained committed to Islam in different social settings. As Fardous commentated, ‘living here [East End enclave] has made me a better Muslim, because people around me are practising Islam and that pushes me to practise; now I perform all my Islamic duties’. It appears that religious-based Muslims develop a strong emotional attachment to the enclave through socialisation and institutionalisation,

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which creates dependency. I would like to postpone trying to examine these highly complex processes here, as I explore these issues in greater detail in my other works, but a few observations need to be made at this point. As Fardous mentioned earlier, the enclave maintains social control over some of the residents. By invoking social influence, younger Muslims appear socially coerced into action. However, as segregation deepens, coercion and guilt become less frequent giving way to socialisation. Socialisation within the enclave is a lengthy process, as the enclave values and ideals are transferred in a concentrated manner over several years, in order to bind the individual to the enclave. Thus, when a younger Muslim has been sufficiently integrated, they appear unwilling to leave the community, as they feel dependent upon it. Therefore, those religious-based individuals that are attracted to the homogeneity of the enclave display a predisposition for belonging. Thus departure is unthinkable as re-socialisation into the wider society cannot occur; this is analogous to criminals who spend a lifetime incarcerated. Internal forces provide enclave residents with a host of possible identities, but these are subordinate to the dominant-enclave identity. As a result, the religious-based identity shapes a member’s sense of who they are, because it is constrained within their enclave membership. The categorisation of individuals places them within an in-group to which they internalise that membership as an aspect of their identity (Tajfel and Turner, 1986). After being categorised to religious-based identity membership, individuals seek to achieve positive and negative value connotations to differentiate their in-group from a comparison out-group. This search for ‘positive distinctiveness’ shapes the individual’s sense of identity. Tajfel (1978, p. 28) attributes this identity formation to ‘that part of an individual’s self-concept which derives from his knowledge of his membership of a social group together with the value and emotional significance attached to that membership’. In other words, the psychological importance religious-based respondents attach to their enclave membership provides even more significant influence on their identity, which stems from the enclave. Therefore, it seems religious-based membership gives some religiously orientated member’s an opposing identity. I further discovered that this influenced religious-based members in two distinct ways: (1) it shaped

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their social encounters and experiences; and (2) it provided them with an opposing viewpoint to resist the dominant social culture, giving them a sense of religious purpose and meaning. However, as Harding (1998, p. 151) notes, the social realities of ‘marginalised peoples’ creates a set of divergent problems that are not apparent to the ‘dominant groups’. I found it somewhat interesting speaking to those I classified as religious-based members, as they looked down upon non-religious-based members. According to Nurul, British Muslims only partially understand Islam, as ‘they mix it with non-Islamic practices’. He further declared, ‘Muslims only know Islam by its rituals’. This suggests religious-based members view Islam as a comprehensive religious and political system. As Nurul explained: ‘Islam is not just a list of do’s and don’ts, it gives humankind solutions to day to day problems’. Although the Islamic religious system was revealed 1,400 years ago, religious-based members believe the social side of Islam is still alive and intact in the ‘Quran and Sunnah’ (divine legislative sources). A common theme argued by religious-based members was the belief these two authoritative sources generate a comprehensive set of legal laws that govern all aspects of human affairs. As Tamim declared, ‘Islam is superior to western culture because it makes the human being subservient to Allah [God] rather than to his desires’. This suggests religious-based identities orients member’s actions exclusively to God. This translates into complete submission to the speech of the ‘law-giver’ relating to human actions, as God has laid down the ‘hukm’ [rule] for every action and thing in this world. On the surface, this proclamation inhibits the performance of necessary actions within a secular society, because religious-based members cannot perform an overtly forbidden act. More significantly, as Shafiul declared, UK Muslims cannot deduce and codify Islamic law, as ‘they do not possess the ability to perform Ijtihad’. As Kamali (1991, p. 3) explains, ‘Ijtihad’ is the juristic ability to extract laws from the Islamic sources. Therefore, if the jurist does not have sufficient understanding of the principles of ‘usul al-fiqh [roots of Islamic law]’, then it creates the ‘risk of error and confusion’ in the function of Islamic law (Kamali 1991, p. 3). This inability to undertake ‘ijtihad’ is highly problematic for some religious-based actors, as they are very selective in referring to suitable Islamic scholars. Most religious-based

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members I spoke to believed there were very few qualified Islamic scholars in the UK who can extract rulings from the Islamic sources. Therefore, for the religious-orientated, the enclave is a social entity comprised of individuals that conform to a set of religious rules and norms. These religious precepts are perceived as absolute for religiousbased members in their instruction, imposing a formal codification of Islamic law, which governs all aspects of a devotee’s life. However, the prolonged ­exposure to western society has provoked an immense dilemma for religious-based members. The temporal realm is subject to specific social and economic controls, making it difficult to synthesise Islam into this fixed system of laws. This is further convoluted by the regimental adherence to Islamic law by some enclave members, as no action can be performed until its Islamic ruling is known. This translates into complete submission to the speech of the ‘law-giver’ relating to human actions, because according to some religious-based members, God has laid down the al-Hukm [the rule] for every action and thing in this world (Tamim). As a result, some religious-based respondents have adopted a pragmatic approach to living in the UK, which has helped them rectify this imbalance between Islam and secular society. This is achieved by rationalising the text to correspond to a manipulated reality, enabling the Hukm [rule] to be applied. I have examined numerous social and economic problems faced by religious-based members to understand how they articulate a response. In order to negotiate a secular society, without the perquisite knowledge of how to apply Islamic rulings, religious-based members adopt a pragmatic approach to living in society. By rationalising the text to correspond to a manipulated reality, members can enact the hukm [rule] to different situations. As Nazmul explained, the Ijtihad methodology for applying rules ‘requires knowledge of the reality and the rule’. This interpretation gives the religious-based member the potential to switch the source of thinking from the hukm [rule] to the situation, changing the nature of the source of law. For example, a general principle in the Quran states: ‘cut the hand of the thief ’ (Quran 5:38). Some religious-based members I spoke to believe this general principle is not applicable, if you adopt a situational approach, as the implementation of capitalism negates the enactment of the ‘hudud’ [punishment]. Nazmul, who is very critical of religious-based members of

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the East End, argued most ‘religious people in East London’ approach to ‘Shariah is wrong as they view it as an obstacle’ to their lives. I put this criticism to several religious-based members. According to Rafiqul, ‘Muslims can use qiyas [analogy] to apply rulings’. In an Islamic context, qiyas relates to the extension of a fixed ruling from an established situation to a new situation because of the equivalence of the reasons causing them (Kamali, 1991, p. 3). To demonstrate this method of thinking, I have examined several social and economic problems faced by religious-based members to understand how they articulate a situational response. The first categories of problems I have isolated are those related to economic transactions that are performed throughout society. The current economic structure is designed from a capitalist view of life, which according to some respondents, is not compatible with Islam. This perceived lack of compatibility relates to riba [interest], as seemingly identified by religiousbased members living in the East End. The validity of ‘using credit cards was raised as an issue’ because it is a mode of conducting transactions that is an essential part of daily commerce (Imran). It was concluded that to sign the agreement for having a credit card that states and permits the holder not to pay in full the amount due for purchases is forbidden because it is an acceptance to bear the responsibility of paying riba [interest]. The rapid development of information technology has made credit cards an integral device for daily transactions. To overcome the obstacle of credit cards, some religious-based members saw no inherent problem with connect or switch cards. These types of cards were considered valid because the cardholder has a certain amount in the bank that issued the card, they use the card to make purchases and as long as they do not exceed this amount, then it is satisfactory. The manipulation of the Hukm [rule] is accomplished by changing the perimeters of the text, which stipulates no transactions can be performed which involves interest. Connect or switch cards negate the interest deal and in effect, it is a legal loophole that enables religious-based enclave members to have these forms of cards. Some religious-based Muslims adopt Islam as a complete system, and thus some respondents I spoke to raised problems with dealing with companies. Fardous explained that he was uncertain about whether it was allowed to deal with shareholding companies which are owned by Muslims.

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Therefore, he asked several local Muslims about this issue, some of them told him that it was forbidden to have dealings with share companies belonging to Muslims because they cannot be contracted in Islam. Therefore, in practical terms, this means it is not allowed to engage in transactions with share companies owned by Muslims. For example, it is not permitted to purchase a ticket from Pakistan International Airlines (PIA) because the Pakistani government has a share of 57 per cent and the company has a share. Fardous was troubled by this as he had to book tickets for his family, who wanted to travel to Pakistan via PIA. He then asked several other Muslims, and one member of the East London Mosque committee informed him that he could manoeuvre around this legal mandate by purchasing tickets from a travel agent, who may be either Muslim or nonMuslim, because they are not considered to be a share company, as they operate on their account. The problem with this reasoning is that if the travel agent is Muslim, then he has committed a sin and so have you because you are the purchaser. Fardous rationalised this transaction in order to present it as acceptable, even when dealing with a Muslim travel agent, because as he explained, ‘as long as you have not assigned the agent to buy tickets from the share company then you are buying from the agency like any other buyer’. Plausible ignorance separates the agent from the buyer making the act permitted according to the divine text negating the sin from the individual. This pragmatic mode of thought is methodically applied to a reality that induces a problem. Textual restraints are manipulated within the boundaries of Islam, allowing the enclave member to control the situation so it can conform to his or her self-interest. Living within a western social environment has caused the religiousbased members to encounter numerous problems because the Islamic code of social behaviour is radically different to western culture and co-existence becomes difficult. I have examined some of the central problems faced by religious-based members living in this different environment. Many members have suggested they are reluctant to send their children to nonIslamic schools because they are aware of non-Islamic beliefs and thoughts would be promoted as part of the curriculum. Tamim, for example, was worried about sending his daughter to a non-Islamic school, as he did not have sufficient funds to send her to a private Islamic school. He arranged a

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meeting with an Imam from the East London Mosque and asked if I would also attend, which I did. He asked the Imam about sending his daughter to a non-Muslim school and being taught by non-Muslims. The Imam proclaimed that sending children to non-Muslim schools was permissible because seeking knowledge is not restricted. Instead it is general, and thus it is allowed for Muslims to learn any discipline. He attached a condition to this in which if the subject matter leads to a haram [a forbidden act] then learning such discipline would be forbidden. This answer confused Tamim, as this meant his child could not attend science classes, for instance, because they will be taught about evolution. The Imam looking at Tamim’s perplexed expression smiled and said ‘don’t worry there is always a way around these things’. The Imam suggested Tamim could adopt an obscure Sharia [Islamic law] principle, which states: ‘if any aspect of a permitted thing leads to haram, then that aspect is prohibited, but the thing remains permitted’ (Leaman 2006, p. 249). Consequently, Tamim was able to utilise this principle to manipulate the ruling to conform to the demands of the situation, and thus he subsequently used this rule to send his daughter to school, allowing her to study any academic subject because nothing can be interpreted as haram according to this Islamic principle. The rationalisation of Islamic law pragmatically takes place, as the members invariably refer to Islam in some formal capacity to justify the changing of a ruling to correspond to a particular social or economic need. I encountered another controversial topic while having a casual dinner with several young religious-based members of the East End, related to pornography. Two young religious-based members, Moinul and Ali, sought to argue that it was permitted to view any two-dimensional (picture or video) image. They suggested these images do not constitute awrah (parts of the body that cannot be seen) because they are not real images. Therefore, this understanding can be extrapolated to sanction the viewing of naked images in picture or video form. This verdict gained intense criticism from the other youngsters around the table. Interestingly, despite having strong objections, those who disagreed struggled to explain why pornography was forbidden. In the end, one youngster, Abu, explained that it was haram to view pornographic images because to do so would lead to haram. This solution suggested by Abu is based on an Islamic principle which states: ‘the

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means to haram is itself haram’ (Al-Qaradawi, 1999). However, according to Moinul, this does not annul the original view that still endorses pornography. As he explained, ‘if an individual view’s naked images and does not act upon it, then this is a permissible action’. Furthermore, sexual arousal has not been classified as a haram act, because it is a natural instinctual feeling, which further negates the validity of the principle if one refrains from a haram act. Rationalising the rule seems to be a natural process of integrating Islam into society as a whole. In theory, religious-based identities are incompatible with secular society, making it necessary to sanction a deliberate rationalising of the Islamic rule. Rationalising the rule in principle entails adjusting auxiliary thoughts by the western system. This process occurs when a problem is encountered requiring immediate resolution; however, most enclave members are not capable of deducing an Islamic ruling and thus are solely reliant on external advisors. Within the enclave, some Imams may provide answers to questions; however, none of these individuals can perform Ijtihad. As a result, many younger Members of the enclave resort to social media, sending their questions to Islamic scholars in the Muslim world. However, to extract an Islamic ruling requires knowledge and understanding of the reality and the Islamic text. The reality concerns the issue or problem that has to be understood from all dimensions. The scholar has a limited array of information concerning the reality of the problem, because it exists outside of his sensory perception, limiting his ability to infer a coherent ruling. This obliges religious-based members to manipulate the reality to conform to the ruling. Islamic principles are commonly applied to vindicate the pragmatic approach because this enables the ruling to be integrated into daily life. However, in essence, this does not constitute a compromise of the Islamic rule, as interpreting the text to conform to a favoured reality does not violate Islamic law. Religious-based actors will always remain within the boundaries of interpretation permitted by Islamic jurisprudence. Furthermore, the general principle of ibahah [permissibility] is utilised, which states that the basis of things is legitimate unless there is evidence for its prohibition. God in the Quran states, ‘that he has created for you everything in the heavens and the earth’ (cited in Ali, 1994). This, according to religious-based

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members, provides latitude within the social world. God has created the things within the two realms and placed man within the earth; things and natural utilities have been bestowed to him for his utilisation, and therefore they are mubah [permitted]. There is no requirement for any one of these things to have specific evidence because it is included in the general rule of ibahah [permissibility]. This general principle has a significant practical application on daily life, as without this principle religious-based enclave members would first have to discover whether God sanctions a thing before they utilise it. Ethnic-Based Identity Although Bangladeshis still far outnumber other Muslim minorities in the East End of London, the category ‘Muslim’ is highly problematic. Should ‘Muslim’ be used as a descriptive label in the East End to describe all Bangladeshis? Firstly, it is worth contesting the usage of ‘Muslim’ as a broad label, because during my fieldwork, I  discovered ‘Muslim’ should not necessarily be seen as synonymous with the term Bangladeshi in the East End. This was made apparent when I  encountered ethnic Bangladeshis that were Christian, Hindu and Buddhists. Although, the census data indicates that non-Muslim Bangladeshis in the East End are minimal, the presence of these groups skews the boundaries between ethnicity and religion (ONS, 2011). In a broader sense, the data revealed ethnic-based identities represented the highest levels of identity affiliation, on average 39.8 per cent of respondents selected this mode of identity. Interestingly, the ethnic-based identity was not susceptible to rapid or gradual identity shifts across the age spectrum. This identity-type offered enclave members with the most stable form of identity. So, why is the ethnic-based identity the most popular identity-type for second-generation enclave members? This is somewhat difficult to resolve, as I did not expect the second generation to assert their ethnic identity in the ways I observed. In some ways, membership within the East End enclave entitles a member to assert his or her distinctiveness, but it also imposes members to conformity and often encourages expressions of

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similarity. If ethnicity is the salient binding feature of the East End enclave, then it is somewhat natural to find younger enclave members identifying with their ethnicity. The data showed 39.1 per cent of respondents aged between 16 and 26 categorised their identity as ethnic-based. This higher rate of affiliation to ethnicity during the formative age range may indicate that ethnic association is somewhat prescribed. However, as the enclave member grows older, they can select and disaffiliate with specific identitytypes. This is perhaps why amongst the 36–46 age group religious-based identity had the highest proportion of representation. Yet, as I suggest, for younger members there may be a lack of identity-options during their early life cycle. Trying to pin down ethnicity is a tough task. Individual members in the enclave often appeared to express their ethnicity in different ways. However, the role and influence played by the first generation cannot be ignored related to the adoption of the ethnic identity by second-generation enclave members. When the first generation of immigrants settled in the East End of London, they sought to retain core ethnic and religious cultural mores of their native heritage. These ethno-religious markers became institutionalised within the enclave social structure, becoming a symbolic shield against the host culture. As I discussed in Chapter 1, the early immigrants, who often came from rural parts of the Indian subcontinent, arrived in the East End with little resources. This meant they were compelled to cluster together in economically deprived inner-city wards. This transition from rural South Asia to urban London was further complicated by the perceived rejection of the host population. The exposure to racial discrimination, harassment and violence pushed immigrants to preserve their ethno-cultural identity within the confines of the enclave. Consequently, the early immigrants resisted the assimilative process of migration to the UK, favouring their communal bonds and networks that were exported from their countries of origin. These ethnic markers formed the cultural foundation of the East End enclave. After migrants settled in the East End, the first generation utilised Bangladeshi ethnicity as a means to transfer their social experiences to the next generation. This was designed to solidify emotional attachment to the Bengali ethnic group. Shils (1957, p. 130) argues these types of primordial

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bonds to ‘kin, territory and religious belief systems’ are characterised by a state of excessive solidarity, coerciveness and ineffable significance. This would indicate the primordial attachments an enclave member had to his or her ethnic group emerged from the ‘givens’ of the social and historical experience of the Bengali migration to the UK. In other words, East End Bangladeshi identity is shaped from a sense of people-hood, which is passed down from each generation. This transferring process allows newer generations to integrate their self into a larger collective, helping them to differentiate their identity from the other. However, this primordialist approach appears to perpetuate a static view of ethnicity that is bound in primitive form. This fails to account for shifts in ethnic association. As my fieldwork showed, when most enclave members grew older they decreased ethnic-based identification, gravitating towards a more religious-based identity. The enclave member continually contests identity-formation throughout the life cycle, which means self-agency plays an important role. Although the collective experience of the enclave members influences creating a shared enclave identity, the differences in individual experiences create divergences and may result in disaffiliation to ethnicity. Therefore, within the East End enclave, identity is not static; instead, it is susceptible to change making it contested. Returning to the data, I was somewhat surprised by the disparity between age and ethnicity. In particular, the ethnic-based identity scored the highest percentage of identification amongst the youngest age group, 39.1 per cent of enclave members aged 16 to 26 defined their identity as ethnicbased. So, why does there appear to be a higher rate of affiliation to ethnicity in the early life cycle? Well, according to the primordialist approach, ethnicity is a deep-seated attachment, which is transferred during early socialisation. However, this view ignores the social, cultural and political forces that tend to effect ethnic identity. The data has shown all identitytypes are susceptible to change, which means enclave identities are influenced by social forces inside and outside the enclave. Ethnicity is not just bound by group ties to family and friendship, but are also connected by ties of interest. Therefore, during the initial migration bulge, the Bangladeshi presence in the East End was overwhelmingly drawn by economic incentives. This created an unhealthy association with the British state, a

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residual side effect of colonial rule, which maintained Britain as a source of employment. As a result, early immigrants in the East End developed a transitory ethos, believing they would eventually return to their country of origin. When this ‘myth of return’ evaporated, it forced early migrants to confront new social systems. However, this does not appear to provide any insight into the inherent commitments displayed to ethno-religious attachments amongst enclave members. Barth (1962, p. 10) asserts ethnic groups should not be viewed as isolated units of history; instead they have evolved within an extensive continuum of social relations. This perspective, often referred to as the boundary approach, assumes primary emphasis is given to the ethnic groups as ‘categories of ascription and identification by the actors themselves’ (Barth 1962, p. 10). In this regard, within the enclave, the analysis should focus on the boundary between ethnic groups, rather than their distinct cultural contents. This perspective offers some interesting insight, especially concerning ethnic-based identities in the enclave, as it is not simply restricted to determining continuity in patterns of ethnic associations. Therefore, it is important to focus attention on actors’ perceptions of their identity construction, because this will allow me to examine the development of different identity-types within the enclave. The Muslim enclave in the East End can be characterised, as ethnically diverse, but Bangladeshis makeup the largest ethnic group in the borough of Tower Hamlets, which is the epicentre of the East End enclave. If you walk down the streets of the East End, such as Brick Lane or Bethnal Green Road, you will see physical expressions and manifestations of Bangladeshi culture all around you. For instance, road signs are in English and Bengali. Those second-generation members of the East End enclave who appeared to adopt an ethnic-based identity were able to retain their cultural heritage. The ethnic-based identity provided them with a way to articulate the specific identification adopted by the broader enclave in the East End. In other words, they appeared to be socialised into the ethnic-based identity from childhood. They acquired their ethno-cultural markers within the home, giving them knowledge and values about their ethnic group. During this early socialisation, the enclave member learnt Bengali or Urdu, becoming connected to the language of their culture that surrounded them in the

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home and within the enclave. This enabled them to adopt the ethno-cultural mores that were held by most members of the enclave. This is where the enclave member accepted the ethnic-based identity that was exhibited by his family and enclave. It becomes an essential process of identity formation, as it gradually shaped specific ideals and attitudes through the complexities of the life cycle. This begs the question, if socialisation within the enclave is seemingly homogenous, then why were there different identitytypes amongst enclave members? Variations in religiosity may explain why socialisation can result in non-uniformity of identity within the enclave. I encountered some families that were religiously active; for instance, while others were inactive. This would mean religion as an active socialising agent was not always prevalent in enclave homes. Fazlul, adopted an ethnic-based identity that had little to do with religion, as he described: In my upbringing, I remember my parents wanted me to know everything about Bangladesh – the language, the food and culture. They didn’t want us to grow up disconnected from our heritage. My parents didn’t pray or go to the mosque; they were too busy working. So, religion for us was a background thing. I was Muslim, I knew the basics, but it never influenced our household. Like I said it was there in the background.

This rather revealing insight illustrates that some children in the enclave received an exclusively ethnic-based socialisation, with religion playing a limited role in their identity-formation. If ethnic-based children receive slightly different socialisation, it is likely that they will not share similar identities in adulthood. In other words, the socialisation patterns of Bangladeshi families should not be seen as standardised. This means some families in the enclave may emphasis religious education and values during early socialisation; while, other families may seek to implant ethno-cultural values. As a consequence, early socialisation in in the enclave often differs in techniques, goals, and identities. Since these enclave families are not culturally homogenous, they do not have unanimous agreement about what should be the shared identity. This ambiguity does not create open division in the enclave, as ethnic-based or religious-based identities are socially accepted within the enclave. However, a host-based identity is viewed as socially problematic and is not socially

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accepted in the enclave. As Zak explains, ‘I might not practise Islam, but I know who I am. I am a Bengali-Muslim. If you abandon this, then you are lost’. Thus, it is socially acceptable to have an ethnic or religious identity in the enclave, as these components retain the culture and values of the country of origin. However, this does not mean that there are no conflicts between the religious and ethnic-based identities in the enclave. Religiousbased actors often view some ethno-cultural practices carried out in the enclave as non-Islamic (e.g. Qawwali, devotional music and dance). Importantly, as the child develops they will internalise the family values and norms, they are indoctrinated into within the home setting. However, outside of the home exists an alternative cultural value-system, when the child goes to school they encounter the dominant culture. Therefore, identity formation is not a process exclusively constructed in the home or enclave. The child will encounter and make connections with the broader social world. If we commence with a general example, a child born in the enclave will undergo primary socialisation, allowing them to identify with the family and ethnic community to which they belong. This allows the child to form an understanding of the world, which fashions their concept of identity. This socialisation continues during their life, defining and shaping identity, which results in the creation of values and ideals. Secondary socialisation allows the child to gain contact and develop relationships beyond the home, establishing a more comprehensive social identity. During secondary socialisation the individual continually adjusts the values learned in their primary socialisation adapting to new situations. In other words, what is learned during socialisations becomes part of identity, forming a specific personality? Furthermore, socialisation is gained through experiences, which teach individuals lessons and potentially lead to alternative identity-types. Shaqeel, for instance, experienced racial abuse causing him to be distrustful of the white English population, pushing him to embrace his ethnic identity. During my fieldwork in the East End enclave, it became apparent the ethnic-based identity, as well as the religious-based identity, was a shield used by enclave members to avert the assimilative risk posed by the dominant culture. The process of socialisation within ethnic Bengali households is radically different as it occurs within a traditional setting. In Britain, for

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instance, children are taught to value individuality, which emphasis independence (Chung and Shibusawa, 2013). In contrast, Bangladeshi families encourage conformity to social and cultural practice, as dictated by ethnocultural mores. In this social setting, children are expected and forced to obey and conform to the opinions, values, and instructions of parents. Host- and Hybrid-Based Identity During early adulthood, the data has shown that out of the four identitytypes, ethnicity constituted the highest level of identification with 39.1 per cent of 16- to 26-year-olds picking this identity. However, as I  discovered, the ethnicity of members is greatly influenced by an array of complex social processes. For instance, some characteristics are fixed at birth, such as parental ethnicity, but many other traits are acquired or modified later, such as language, religiosity, clothing and culture. This has created some problems for the members as they struggle to frame their identity, especially when they encounter the dominant culture. They have had to deal with inherent complications, even while living within the enclave. For this reason, some young Muslims have sought to embrace the host culture as a way to navigate living in British society. Those young respondents who identified themselves as host-based have been seemingly integrated into British society and thus moulded their social norms to match the broader culture. In essence, they consider themselves British. As explained by Zak, ‘Most Muslims around here struggle to fit in because they’re holding on to their parents’ culture. They need to realise their parents’ culture isn’t compatible with being British … you need to pick one or the other, you can’t be stuck between the two’. This rather apt assessment highlights some interesting issues. Firstly, most young Muslims living in the enclave struggle to adjust their identity to the prevailing cultural and social conditions outside of the enclave, keeping them confined to the enclave. They often struggle to reconcile their ethno-religious values and norms with British society. Sexual relations outside of wedlock, for instance, is considered extremely taboo in the enclave; yet, in British society, this is an established social norm.

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I spoke to many second-generation Bangladeshi Muslims in the East End, and I did not encounter a single individual that fully actualised a complete host-based identity. There are perhaps two reasons for the lack of integration into the host culture. Firstly, many young Bangladeshis maintained some ethno-cultural threads of their Bangladeshi heritage, and thus individuals maintain these aspects as distinct features of their identity, which is not seen at odds with the majority culture. Secondly, irrespective of limited hostility from the host society, most Bangladeshi young people experienced some form of racial discrimination, which makes total integration difficult. In reality, most young people that claim to have a hostbased identity are more than likely manifesting a hybrid-based identity. It could easily be argued that all second-generation Bangladeshi Muslims have hybrid identities, as they invariably adopt a mixture of values from the home, community and society. When the ‘myth of return’ faded amongst the first generation, it forced them to confront new value systems. Not all immigrants remained culturally tied to the enclave; some sought to disaffiliate with the enclave and affiliate with the host culture. This selective expression of self-agency suggests individual members of the enclave possess different understandings of their identity, choosing to manifest their identity in different ways. The individuals who adopted a host-based identity encountered minimal racism during their early socialisation, which shaped how they engaged with the wider society. While I spoke to some individuals, who grew up on the periphery of the enclave and thus felt they struggled to identify with their national identity because of racism, in some ways, I observed young people struggling to adjust their sense of self with the wider social surroundings. They seemed buffered between British society and the Muslim community. As a result, some respondents actively chose identities that bridged the values of the enclave with the outside world. In this respect, those enclave members who ascribed a hybrid-based identity were actively mixing social practices from multiple sources. As Sabbir explained, ‘I have a girlfriend, I occasionally drink, I respect my parents, and I pray’. Although Sabbir believed he was able to express his self-agency within the enclave openly, I did not see many instances of this in practice. The social space is governed by shared ethno-religious norms, and thus performing actions in

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opposition to these standards can generate social disapproval within the enclave. In some instances, the character of the individual can be brought into question, if it is deemed they are acting in a manner contrary to the accepted enclave values. Trying to navigate these competing values can be a complicated process. This is why some respondents selected the hybrid option when trying to define their identity. In reality, hybridisation is an integral aspect of all the identity-types mentioned, because identity formation unavoidably comprises some form of alignment between cultures. Irrespective of the type of second-generation identity, British Muslim identity formation requires grafting of parts from the host culture to create a hybrid identity. For my purpose, hybridisation needs to be understood as a fluid reconfiguration process. When second-generation Muslims encounter different social realities, they revert to different cultural and religious forms, allowing them to navigate British society. I witnessed the existence of different, and often conflicting, identities of the second-generation British Muslims. There were some who consciously appeared to reject British culture, while others accepted British culture. I was shocked to discover that the East End was not homogeneous. In fact, at the second-generation level, the enclaves were a hotbed of identity conflict, perpetrated by the inability of the first generation to impart a coherent identity to younger British Muslims. An excellent way to explore this identity-type is through the example of marriage, as this will help illustrate the mixing between value systems. Marriage, in the Bengali context, is a way of joining two extended families together. For this reason, the romantic aspect has a minimal function in the marriage procedure. In the first instance, the bride and groom are representatives of their respective biradari. At the socio-familial level, Bangladeshi marriages are intricately intertwined between Islamic and ethno-cultural values. From the Islamic perspective, the marriage is a contractual agreement that is usually negotiated between two male representatives of the biradari. Therefore, the responsibility of arranging the marriage is solely a parental obligation. In a social context, Bangladeshi marriage is dictated by the need to acquire new family associations, which strengthens communal bonds within the village or biradari. In order for individuals to function in Bangladeshi society they must be married, as participation in the social

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and economic arena is greatly influenced by the practice of purdah (female seclusion, purdah means veil or curtain). In Bangladesh, marriages are often arranged within the biradari, in part as property exchange at marriage with one’s family member stays in the patrilineage. These internal marriages reinforce the extended familial bonds, bringing the extended family closer together. Bangladeshi weddings are tied to the Islamic tradition, which means you will find several fundamental commonalities across the region irrespective of regional and ethnic differences. Regarding the East End enclave, I observed three distinct types of marriage: (1) the traditional arranged marriage; (2) the semi-arranged marriage; and (3) the non-traditional love marriage. The most common form of marriage across the enclave was the traditional arranged marriage. It occurs when a member of the biradari, or outside associate (usually a friend of the family), recommend a compatible matrimonial opportunity. In this dynamic, the bride and groom have never met before, and in some traditional instances, only see each other briefly at the nikah,2 and then at the rukhsati3 ceremony. In some Islamic-based family units, it is considered preferable for both parties to the marriage to have no formal interaction until the bride comes to the new family. This type of marriage arrangement is deemed traditional and more Islamic families implement much more restrictive measures on the bride and groom (e.g. no physical contact or verbal interaction). The semi-arranged marriage is gaining popularity among some younger members of the enclave. It has become a significant growing trend among the second generation. This type of arrangement allows both men and women to interact with one another before marriage in order to gain familiarity, as well as to assess compatibility. This gives the 2

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Nikah:  This is the formal contract, signed by both parties, making the marriage legal. The nikah is the first key wedding ceremony, as it is presided over by an Imam [Islamic cleric]. The nikah constitutes a binding legal contract between the bride and groom, which must be signed and witnessed to ensure mutual consent, specifying the rights and duties of both parties. The rukhsati is the second key wedding ceremony; it is the act of sending the bride off to her new family, where they can engage in their intimate conjugal relations. The rukhsati occurs after the nikah.

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prospective couple the opportunity to have pre-arranged encounters. There is no fixed time limit to this acquaintance stage, which can last months or years. When both parties are ready to agree, then the marriage is formalised through the nikah. Love marriages are extremely rare, as they often defy the will of the family and the wider enclave, and thus the bride does not usually have the consent of her guardian. Therefore, to certify the marriage, the couple must seek proper authentication from a court (e.g. a civil marriage). This form of marriage challenges the traditional model, as it bypasses parental authority and it is generally considered a socially unacceptable form of marriage. Despite slight social changes and trends, marriages across the East End enclave remain fixed within the traditional model; parents continue to arrange their children’s marriage. As a result, the social pressure to conform to the traditional marriage model greatly influences young people, who generally are not prepared to defy their parents.

Conclusion: Identity, Belonging and Segregation My fieldwork in the East End has tried to show how young Muslims are transformed within the enclave. Enclave members are validated by the enclave and gain a social identity because of their membership, which may be ethnic, host- or religious-based. Developing an identity-type requires understanding the self as an essential part of the individual, which is a unique combination of many components. For instance, this identification for most enclave members is constructed by ethnicity, social positionality and religion. These are the critical indicators among enclave members I surveyed. In this chapter, I have explored different sub-groupings of secondgeneration Muslims, all of whom adopted identities in order to cope with the challenges of growing up as British born Muslims. The first categories are those who appear to adopt an ethnic-based identity. In simple terms, some migrant children were socialised in households that strongly imparted the

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ethno-cultural values of the subcontinent, which became the cornerstone of their identity in adulthood. These individuals appear to have replicated the religious and cultural components of their parents’ subcontinent identities. The next category relates to those who asserted a religious-based identity divergent to their parents’ ethnic-based customs and beliefs. This reactionary identity attempted to build an identity separating religion and ethnicity, giving younger Muslims a uniquely Islamic-centred viewpoint to cope with British society. The last category are those who have rejected the ethno-religious identities and embraced the host culture. They have resisted the enclave to conform to the various forms of religious and ethnocultural identities. The second-generation British Muslims I spoke to throughout my travels often identified a standard set of concerns about living and growing up in modern Britain. They felt British society viewed them as different, which limited their desire to engage with broader society. This real or imagined perception of the other intensifies the social constraints experienced by British Muslims as they attempt to navigate through British society. Added to this, British Muslims face considerable social and economic inequalities. They often occupy some of the lowest positions in British society in terms of education, income and housing. The ethnographic interviews explored the social reality of the East End enclave in some depth, providing a relaxed environment in which the respondents openly expressed their views and experiences. Nonetheless, the views that the individuals conveyed, for example, may not be representative of the wider enclave population. Despite the meaningful data I collected from my interviews with male and female residents of the East End enclave, I realised the need to conduct surveys. These surveys allowed me to extend my knowledge of the second-generation enclave identity. After interviewing and observing over 200 second-generation respondents in the East End, my findings have uncovered some common themes. A recurring theme, which emerged in the accounts from my respondents, is that of identity; and how their current identities seemed greatly dependent on their past and present experiences. Although, I was not surprised that this topic came up so frequently, it was difficult to deal with because identity is crafted from many different sources. Thus, a number of themes and issues

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must be discussed to reveal the importance of the social settings in which my respondents are embedded. Some respondents, for example, concentrated particularly on ethnicity, but other respondents picked up on other features such as religion, home environment and family background, class, and so on. My goal was to map out the identity-types available to enclave members, and assess whether some are more susceptible to segregation processes. Consequently, each of the respondents I interviewed exhibited a distinct social world of lived experience. Therefore, the accounts I have drawn upon offer me a glimpse into the construction of identity within the enclave from rather different perspectives.

Chapter 3

Patchwork Segregation in Dundee

In the previous chapters, I  documented my travels through the East End of London. My prolonged stay in the East End supplemented my initial observations with a broader understanding concerning British Muslims. Unfortunately, the overall impressions I gained from my encounters with first- and second-generation Muslims residing in the East End reinforced the general perception that British Muslims appear to be choosing to live in separated communities. However, not all Muslim communities in the UK have formed enclaves. This begs the question of why some Muslim enclaves have formed in some parts of the country and not in other parts. The issue of Muslim segregation and enclave formation is often studied as an urban phenomenon. Thus, media attention seems obsessed with the Muslim presence in large cities, as it appears easier to draw out explanations. As a result, enclave formation in small towns and cities is mostly ignored. This is a significant oversight. The characteristics of small-town segregation can reveal essential clues in the formation process of Muslim and migrant enclaves. In a small, working-class city like Dundee, the Muslim presence is not so visible. This suggests trying to locate and define the Muslim community in Dundee may be difficult. In contrast, the East End Muslim enclave was relatively easily defined, as it had somewhat well-marked boundaries and a substantially homogeneous religious constituency. Trying to apply these patterns of Muslim clustering to Dundee is not simple or straightforward. The historical development of the Muslim presence in Dundee is largely undocumented, making it very difficult to understand the contemporary realities. This is to be expected because the Muslim community in Dundee, which in its current form, is constituted by a variety of ethnic derivations. For this reason, the Muslims in Dundee are interesting, as they offer a glimpse into the initial formation of a Muslim enclave.

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Community vs Enclave Before any detailed attempt is made to dissect the Muslim community in Dundee, an important distinction must be made regarding the designation used to describe the Muslim presence in Dundee. Up to this point, I  have used the term enclave rather profusely, which made sense when describing the East End of London. However, using the term for Dundee would be problematic. Within Dundee, the term does not have suitable resonance because the geographic clustering of Muslims in the city does not constitute an enclave. This undoubtedly relates to the low numerical presence of Muslims in Dundee. Therefore, to some degree, I need to semi-abandon the term in this geographic context until it can be made relevant. In this chapter, for references to the Muslims in Dundee, the term enclave will be replaced by ‘Muslim community’. There are equally problematic issues with using this descriptive phrase. The idiom ‘Muslim community’, apart from being an overly broad term, ignores ethnic-based attachments. These attachments can eclipse a sense of religious homogeneity. In Dundee, ethnic diversification is relatively large amongst the migrant population, making the phrase Muslim community somewhat problematic. In other words, the religious landscape of Dundee is not solely dominated by the Pakistani or Bangladeshi ethnic group; rather, other minority Muslim groups have a considerable physical presence. This diminishes the communalism of religious identity, as ethnic groups may seek to retain their ethno-cultural traditions in the public space as a means to assert communal dominance. This means ‘community’ can be employed to designate specific ethnic groups as well as membership of a homogeneous religious community. This is consistent with the way Muslims in Dundee used the term community themselves. They habitually referred to their ‘community’ interchangeably with their religion or ethnicity (e.g. Muslim community or Pakistani Community, Arab community and so on). The reason for this identity-interchange is explained by Halliday (1992) as a contextual phenomenon. He suggests, ‘Islam may, in some contexts, be the prime form of political and social identity, but it is never the sole form and is often not the primary one within Muslim

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societies and communities’ (Halliday 1992, p. x). This may suggest that segregation of Muslims in Dundee may be divided according to a host of social categories, which may be equal to or greater than religious affiliation. In other words, the ethnicity among Muslims in Dundee represents the knowledge, values and emotion attached to membership of an ethnic minority group that has its origins outside the UK. Similarly, the religious identity relates to membership of the Muslim minority in Britain and also the global Muslim community. However, this creates a conflict, especially among segregated communities, as their identity is governed by the notion that they are connected to the global Muslim community. As a consequence, the psychological importance Muslims attach to their religion provides more significant influence to those who belong to their religious group, rather than national separations. This is to be expected because the Muslim population in Britain exist as a distinct minority community, which means they differ in some characteristics with the majority population. It can be argued that Muslim communities are constructed from different characteristics that shape and influence a homogeneous group identity. However, identity might be perceived in a strong sense of community solidarity, but a fixed idea of the community greatly understates the degree of differentiation inherent within the Muslim community in Dundee.

‘Patchwork’ Enclaves in Formation Adopting a somewhat narrow definition of spatial segregation suggests Dundee’s Muslim population does not occupy a separate space within the broader population of the city. However, as I mentioned at the start of this book, segregation cannot be explicitly measured by residential separation exclusively. As I will show, segregation patterns in Dundee reflect both the material and ethno-religious cultural conditions. In the first instance, the material condition shaped the encounters of the first immigrants to the city. The city, much like other parts of the UK, suffered from a labour shortfall during the post-war period. In Dundee, during

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this time, migrants were encouraged to fill vacancies in the jute factories. Despite the arrival of several thousand migrants to Dundee, these job opportunities did not lead to residential concentrations of ethnic groups in the city. The ethnic migrant population were forced to locate residential housing across the city due to the low economic condition of the city. In simple terms, Dundee experienced minimal white suburbanisation, during this period, which meant social housing was relatively scarce (Hopkins and Aitchison, 2016). In other inner cities in the UK, the arriving ethnic population tended to fill the residential void left behind by some of the white population that experienced social mobility. With the eventual collapse of the jute industry in Dundee, the Muslim migrant population had to adapt to different employment opportunities. However, during this transition, like the white, working-class residents of Dundee, the Muslim population suffered prolonged unemployment. However, most turned to social housing when they gained citizenship, but due to large demands for welfare housing meant that individuals were distributed across the city. This meant the migrant Muslim population were not concentrated to a particular part of the city. In contrast to other urban areas, there did not appear to be a disparity between race and housing in Dundee. According to Ward (1984), allocation of council housing in Britain was strongly influenced by racial inequalities that saw differential access. The lack of this disparity in Dundee may be attributed to the relatively low number of ethnic immigrants applying for housing. Added to this, very few reports were lodged by early migrants regarding adverse racial discrimination and harassment. This meant ethnic minorities were not unwilling to move to places like the Hilltown, which was a predominantly white, working-class area. This is why the emergence of Muslims in Dundee took a slightly different adaptation path compared to other Muslim communities in the UK. The residential patterns of Muslim immigrants were not concentrated in one physical space in Dundee; instead, it was geographically spread across the city. However, today in Dundee, there appear to be signs of smallscale Muslim residential clustering. So, what has influenced this emerging trend? In order to understand the formation of the Muslim community in Dundee required examining the historical perspectives from which these

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communities emerged, in their own right. This made it crucial for me to categorise the Muslims I encountered in Dundee according to ethnicity and religion respectively. The ethnic dynamic needed to be measured carefully in order to assess the levels of identification exhibited between members of differently identified Muslim ethnic groups. This was achieved by carrying out extensive quantitative surveys and in-depth interviews of different ethnic groups of Dundee’s Muslim community. After I conducted interviews with members of the Muslim community in Dundee, I noticed a recurring tendency to identify with multiple identity-types. Saeed (1999) discovered second-generation Muslims living in Scotland preferred to be recognised through multiple identity-types, namely Scottish-Muslim. This suggests that these self-identities are formed from personal and social characteristics. Thus, according to self-categorisation theory, people tend to gravitate towards those in their in-group, because they share a common sense of group identity. In my encounters, I discovered it was equally common for Muslims in Dundee to describe themselves with different hyphenated identities (e.g. Scottish-Muslim, Muslim-Dundonian, Pakistani-Scottish, Scottish-Libyan and so on). I recorded over thirty-six ethnic, national and religious variations. These hyphenations allowed firstand second-generation immigrants to adjust their sense of who they are in a fluid manner. This suggests Muslim identity in Dundee is highly changeable, which means Muslim-Dundonians do not construct their identity in fixed terms. As Nadir, a 39-year-old living in the Hilltown area of Dundee, aptly put it, ‘I’m not just Muslim; I’m Scottish, a Dundonian and an Iraqi’. This means identity is a selective process related to the interchangeability of the self in relation to religion, ethnicity and society, making identity susceptible to change in social life. This made it incumbent upon me to verify whether the views and experiences expressed by my respondents were representative of the wider Muslim population in Dundee. Therefore, I quickly recognised the inescapable necessity for administering a series of surveys. More importantly, the surveys became a key mechanism for unlocking the self-identification of Muslims in Dundee. I needed to understand the nature of the social embeddedness of Muslims in the city of Dundee. In other words, are Muslim-Dundonians fixed and rooted within multifaceted social realities that define and confine their

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social and ethno-religious identities. Thus, from a social perspective, my study demonstrated most Muslim-Dundonian identities are fashioned from their social experiences and backgrounds – the place of their families ethnic origins, whether they grew up in Dundee, the significance of ethnicity and religion, and the cultural gap between the first and second generations that defines what is expected of children outside of the home. This sociological analysis provides an alternative way of looking at the developments that have taken place amongst the Muslims living in Dundee. Traditionally, sociologists are interested in identifying the relationships between social structures and processes, as they place greater emphasis on individuals moving from one social setting to another (Erikson, 1950). Therefore, in my study, I sought to expand and distil upon the key sociological features of Muslim social life – such as class, age, ethnicity and race, and religion. By focusing on these interrelated components, I was able to formulate a quantitative image of the Muslim community in Dundee. I suggest in the course of this chapter that the Muslim population in Dundee is split in terms of those defining themselves as either religiously orientated or ethnically orientated. This selective categorisation has a manifest function concerning how individuals define their belongingness and the location of residential preference. Religiously orientated individuals, for instance, identified their social identity within a Muslim-first context. This meant framing their ‘Muslimness’ as a means to differentiate, as well as seek out Muslim commonality, by creating housing clusters near Muslim religious institutions and shops. In contrast, ethnically orientated individuals displayed stronger identification with their ethno-nationalistic side (e.g. Scottish-Pakistani). This distribution of identity has a significant bearing on residential preference and segregation. It appeared from the 1990s onwards, the religiously orientated population began to move to small pockets of Muslim areas in Dundee. These were tiny clusters of residential houses and shops that sprung up near to the location of religious institutions. As Imitaz explained, ‘I move to Dundee 25 years ago from Pakistan … we [Muslim community] very small [then], still today small, but we make a good Muslim community, near the Masjid, Alhamdulillah [praise be to Allah]’. This would support Peach’s (2006, p. 353) observations that religion has become more of a feature of Muslim segregation than ethnicity.

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However, the Muslim community in Dundee is not homogenous; I observed significant signs of increasing communal fragmentation of residential space in the city split between ethnically and religiously orientated Muslim inhabitants. On the surface, this communal-separation appears selective. In reality, there were communal and structural forces that influenced the dispersion patterns across the city. I managed to document the dispersion patterns of ethnically orientated and religiously orientated Muslims living in Dundee. The religiously orientated appear to be clustering around religious institutions; while ethnically orientated appear to be clustered around social housing. The evidence I uncovered in Dundee suggested ethnically orientated Muslims displayed fewer signs of segregation than religiously orientated Muslims. A closer inspection of the religiously orientated revealed they preferred self-employment, as it made them less dependent on social welfare. They seemingly were able to move to different dwellings, unlike ethnically orientated Muslims who appeared embedded within the welfare system. The data showed a disproportionate number of ethnically orientated Muslims living in council housing. While a disproportionate number of religiously orientated own or rent their current property. This indicated an internal divide amongst the Muslim population in Dundee, split between ethnicity and religion.

The Ethnically Orientated vs the Religiously Orientated These two rather broad and somewhat simplistic classifications need to be explored in more contextual detail. In analysing my data, I discovered it was necessary to explore the contextual reality of Dundee through the experiences of the respondent’s frame of reference. This gave me insight into the way individuals think about themselves and how they construct their identity. On a personal note, I felt this was important because as a second-generation British-born Pakistani Muslim, I also have struggled with framing my identity in different social settings throughout my life.

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I, therefore, did not want to impose my own experiences and perspectives on to the contextual reality in Dundee, as this would distort the picture regarding identity, belongingness and segregation. When I started my fieldwork, I did not know that the data would reveal a split between the Dundee Muslim demographic based on ethnicity and religion. When this statistical trend became more visible, I decided to carry out more in-depth interviews with Dundee Muslims that fit into either category. These interviews revealed common themes and patterns related to how ethnic and religious-orientated Muslims in Dundee felt about their identity and their distribution within the city. When I began my fieldwork, it was estimated by the local authorities that approximately 15,400 Muslims were living in Dundee. According to the data I collected, 42.7 per cent of Muslims were categorised as religiously orientated; while, 57.3 per cent were documented as ethnically orientated. Although this is a relatively proportionate split, the majority of the Muslim population identified themselves as ethnic-based. It appears religiously orientated respondents displayed fewer identity options, than those that expressed an ethnically orientated identity. Thus, I needed a way to determine a correlative link with belongingness. The data in Table 2 indicates a correlative link between religious and ethnic identity selection with national belongingness. Before I can explain this correlative link with the spatial distribution of Muslim housing across Dundee, it is first vital to describe both subdivisions and how respondents were classified into each grouping.

Table 2:  Belongingness (Dundee) Belongingness Islam-First Ethnic-National First

Religious-Orientated (n)

Ethnic-Orientated (n)

6,102.3

2,611.9

92.8%

29.6%

539.2 8.2%

6,212.2 70.4%

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Religiously Orientated Dundee Muslims In the initial stages of my fieldwork in Dundee, my research question was very broadly defined. I wanted to know how ‘belongingness’ is represented amongst the Muslim community in Dundee. In trying to validate this question, I  sought to let the data inform my answer, but as I engaged with different segments of the Muslim community, it became clear that no clear answer could be given. This was because Muslims seemingly acquired their sense of belonging from a mixture of identity sources. Academic attention in the UK has recently focused on religion as the primary mode of identification for British Muslims, eclipsing the role played by ethnicity and other identity markers. Although I contest this assertion in the next section, for now, I must present the insights I gained regarding religion as an identity marker for Muslims living in Dundee. To understand the role religion played for some Dundee Muslims required seeing it as a phenomenon that went beyond belief and practice. In simple terms, for my study, I wanted to measure religious identification amongst Dundee Muslims as a form of ‘belonging’. This would entail determining a way to capture religious membership. It became imperative to determine a way to measure religious identification in connection with belongingness, which may be tested at the individual and community levels. Or more significantly, can I record this sense of belonging Muslims in Dundee may or may not have? In theory, religion has traditionally played a dominant factor in preserving a sense of communal religious identity, as practitioners may gain a sense of unity through engaging in collective ritual. This at a superficial level could be seen every Friday when Muslims prayed in congregation in the mosques in Dundee. On the surface, it was easy to see the impact this weekly activity seemingly had, bringing Muslims from all over Dundee together, giving them a collective sense of Muslim belonging and collective religious identity. In theory, the congregational prayer and sermon are designed to energise the Muslim practitioner, enabling them to carry this sense of spirit beyond the mosque and implant it into their daily lives. However, in Dundee, there are five mosques and Islamic institutions. This creates a non-homogenous religious environment, as the content and message of each institution is

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embedded within not just religion, but fused with ethno-religious cultural traditions and contexts. This means Muslims are drawing different social and cultural elements from the institution they visit, creating a communal division related to Muslim belongingness. At first glance, Islam reinforced the social ties that seem to bind the Dundee Muslim community together. However, through my fieldwork, I discovered frequency of contact with religious institutions dictated the sense of belongingness they had with the Dundee Muslim community. There are five religious institutions in Dundee: (a) Dundee Central Mosque; (b) Al-Maktoum Mosque; (c) Tajdar E Madina Mosque; (d) Mahmood Mosque; and (e) Scottish Islamic Cultural Centre. Taken as an average across each institution, the data showed 92.8 per cent of Muslim practitioners attending religious institutions on a daily basis felt they were strongly connected to the Muslim community. In contrast, only 63 per cent of those who attended on a weekly basis felt they had a strong connection to the Muslim community. Lastly, and not surprisingly, those Muslims who did not attend any religious institution displayed the lowest levels of identification with the Muslim community; around 29.6 per cent felt they had a strong connection to the Muslim community. The data presented suggest those individuals attending the mosque on a daily basis display greater connectivity and sense of belonging to the Muslim community. According to Newcomb (1965), social connectivity between individuals is often dictated by similarity. This means those who attend the mosque habitually are more likely to share similar religious orientations with other regular attendees, increasing the likelihood of Muslim identity convergence. Applied in reverse, these elements – mosque attendance and similarity – indicate why those who do not attend the mosque have weaker ties to the Muslim community. This means the frequency of engagement with religious institutions plays an important factor in social identity, primarily related to belonging to a religious community. After having the opportunity to speak to some of those individuals who had minimal contact with the mosque revealed they did not engage in religious activity in the private sphere either. So, as one respondent somewhat aptly put it, ‘I am only Muslim in name’. For most of these individuals, being a Muslim in Dundee only assumed membership of a ‘cultural group’ or

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an ‘ethno-religious’ community, and does not necessarily imply members possess any level of knowledge regarding the religion beyond what would be considered ‘nominal’. As a result, many Muslims in Dundee can be described as ‘nominal Muslims’ who are not necessarily invested enough in Islam to be considered part of the Muslim community. Most of these Muslims possess only cursory or intermediate knowledge of the tenets of Islam (due to a lack of religious education). This begs the question, is religiosity an adequate measure for determining the levels of Muslim community belongingness? There are two issues that I need to deal with. The first relates to measuring the levels of community belongingness, and second, what can religiosity tell us about Muslim segregation. The respondents in my survey were asked to rate several statements relating to their religious activity and sense of belonging to the Muslim community using a five-point response scale (e.g. strongly agree, agree, neutral, disagree, strongly disagree). The survey was employed at all Muslim religious institutions, as well as amongst those who did not attend religious institutions, in Dundee. The data clearly showed a correlation between religious activity and Muslim belongingness. Those who displayed higher rates of religious activity, especially regarding daily attendance, also showed the strongest feelings towards belonging to a Muslim community. The data showed a clear correlation between religious activities (e.g. regular prayer in the mosque or home) and the sense of Muslim community belonging. As religiosity increased, Muslims were more likely to identify Islam as the most reliable marker of their social identity. While, as religiosity decreased, so did the representation of Islam as a communal marker; instead, the non-active were more likely to identify with national or ethnic identifiers. More significantly, this correlative trend was proportionately represented across the gender and age divides. In other words, women and young people who were religiously active also displayed higher levels of belonging to the Muslim community. Regardless of the area of residence in Dundee, most religiously active Muslims reported a higher propensity to identify their social identity as Muslim first. In the following sections, I will explore in detail how this correlative trend cuts across diverse social

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positions (e.g. ethnicity, class, gender and age). At this stage, I need to explore ways of making sense of this correlative trend. Identity construction is not merely an individualistic process since it is reliant on a family network, ethnic, social identity and religiosity. These interconnected social threads are significant because attachments stem from diverse sources. Jacobson (1998) in her study of Muslims in the London Borough of Waltham Forest discovered British-born Pakistanis regard religion as a core aspect of self-identity, providing a valuable source of meaning ‘partly because the content of its messages is accessible and appealing to the young people’ ( Jacobson 1998, p. 126). This somewhat one-dimensional opinion considerably minimises the complexities of identity negotiation through various stages of the life cycle. In fact, socialisation enables young people to grasp and absorb their religious heritage, allowing them to become active members of their community. As a result, socialisation becomes an indispensable aspect of identity formation, gradually sculpting particular features of identity construction (Parsons, 1964). About British Muslims, the complex nature of the upgrading process is greatly amplified since they emerge from diverse social worlds. This makes it extremely difficult for them to adjust their identity to different social settings. Children of immigrants in Britain are exposed to dual socialisation processes (Cockburn, 2012). Being exposed two diverse forms of socialisation patterns can create problems negotiating identity in different social settings. Trying to frame religion and religiosity within a discreet and essentialist framework is hugely problematic, especially within the Dundee context as identity construction appears to be constantly renegotiated within different contexts and situations. Religious identity negotiation is firmly embedded within the socialisation and interplay between the Muslim community and the wider society, which may result in the centralisation of religion into a core structure. The centralisation of religiosity is contingent on the interchange between individuals recurring encounters and experiences within the Muslim community in Dundee. For example, I noticed ‘hybrid identities’ across the Muslim community in Dundee. These multiple identities allow the individual to define for themselves who they are within different social settings, but this can often lead to dual loyalties and conflict.

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Those Muslims who struggle to form durable identity-types often become inclined towards segregation and disaffection. In particular, some young Muslims that I spoke to felt marginalised through the socialisation process, while others did not. As a result, religious institutions in Dundee offered some young Muslims a sense of religious and communal belonging, which they seemed to be missing in wider society. In a broader context, Muslims that contextualise religion as a core element of their identity often dichotomise the ‘other’ in antagonistic terms, posing a threat to their religious heritage. Lewis (2007) asserts it is extremely difficult for young Muslims to negotiate British society, especially as a minority community. Yet, those British Muslims that adopt an Islamic-orientated identity seek to assert their identity in the public sphere. This attempt to centralise religious identity, Stratham (2003) argues, is a conscious response to perceived religious and racial discrimination. The creation of a Muslim self-consciousness promotes isolationism, as the social world reinforces non-Islamic values and norms. Added to this, the rise in Islamophobia tends to lead to introverted responses: ‘Muslim communities closing ranks’ (Samad 1996, p. 97). These perceived anti-Muslim social attitudes can marginalise young British Muslims from the majority culture, pushing them to adopt religious-based identities. This is why some second-generation Muslims actively choose to live within the enclave, as the Muslim enclave can protect Muslim identity and community. Many young people I spoke to in England and Wales felt Islam was under constant attack. This perception of threat is a strong Muslim enclave pull factor. The mobilisation of religious identities amongst young people residing in Muslim enclaves is often exacerbated by the weakening of ethnicorientated identities. Although, the data I have collected does not suggest ethno-identity labels are vanishing in enclaves, there does appear to be an age-based shift in identity attachment. Samad (2004, p. 17) argues that ethnonational identity markers have become less relevant, and he believes they have given way to religious identities. In the enclave context, religious identity provides a way to build a sense of community that transcends ethnic-based distinctions, helping to create communal solidarity.

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This identity shift towards a religious disposition seems somewhat redundant when applied to the Muslims in Dundee. As mentioned, Dundee is ethnically diverse, which means it would be problematic to shrink ethnicity to a single form of identity-type. In other words, in a diverse social environment, like Dundee, it can be tricky to conceptualise identity into a single frame. Muslim identity is connected to diverse elements, for some the religious identity could be actualised as a cultural component. Consequently, isolating a consistent association between intensification in religiosity – regarding religious practice – and as a source of identity is not straightforward. In this chapter, I set out to understand the inner dynamics of Muslim community identity makeup in Dundee. The interactions and activities witnessed amongst Dundee Muslims have provided me with some valuable insights, which have challenged some of my preconceptions. In particular, I have observed signs of Muslim clustering in Dundee based on ethnonational and religious lines. This would suggest Muslims are actively trying to negotiate and merge diverse elements of their ethno-religious cultural roots with the complexities and realities of life in Dundee. Lewis (2002) in his case study of Muslims in Bradford discovered that identity formation among newer generations of British Muslims is circumventing religious institutions. However, I discovered this not to be the case in Dundee. Young and older Muslims appeared to be discovering identity solutions within religious institutions and structures. In simple terms, those who attended religious institutions carried their religious identity beyond the mosque, becoming a salient feature of their social identity. Thus, the development of Muslim identification becomes more visible and prominent when individuals regularly attended religious institutions, which appeared to enhance their sense of belonging to the Muslim community. Many social theorists view religious renewal as a salient dynamic of identity change (Buckser and Glazier, 2003). This argument presumes that a Muslim is first galvanised by a spontaneous, in some cases a gradual, intensification of religiosity. According to Esposito (1992, p. 12), ‘the indices of an Islamic awakening in personal life are many: increased attention to religious observances, more emphasis on Islamic dress and values’. Esposito (1992) believes this renewal of religion has been supplemented by Islam’s reaffirmation within civil society, through governments and opposition

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movements both seeking to appeal to the popularising of Islam. According to Browers and Kurzman (2004, p. 165), in times of ‘great social transformation’, a natural resource is the ‘revival of religion’. The more data I unearthed about the Muslim community in Dundee, the more important ‘religiosity’ became, especially for those who displayed stronger ties to the Muslim community and belongingness. However, trying to understand the Dundee Muslim community better is a very challenging endeavour. One aspect of their lives that remains difficult to document is their sense of belonging to a Muslim community. As stated earlier, a correlation exists between religious activity and identification with Islam as the primary source of identity. This means Islam is an active and important component in their daily lives, providing them with guidance. Before I p­ resent my findings, it is imperative to first explain the meaning of ‘­religious commitment’ (Roof, 1979, p. 17). As Stark and Glock (1968) have pointed out, this can be very difficult because religiosity has a plurality of meanings. In other words, individuals perceive religion in different and conflicting ways. Despite this plurality, Stark and Glock (1968, p. 62) developed a five-dimensional approach to understanding religious commitment. Their classification principally relates to religious seekers, and not to broader sociological aspects of religion (Furseth and Repstad, 2006). In the context of Dundee Muslims, the belief dimension would entail ‘Iman [belief ] in Allah, his angels, his books, his messengers, the last day and al-Qada wal Qadar [divine fate]’. Second, the ritualistic dimension involves performing and adhering to a set of structured religious practices (e.g. five daily prayers). Thirdly, the experience dimension refers to subjective religious experiences and emotions. One respondent told me, for instance, after he performs salat [pray] he feels overwhelmed by joy and tranquillity. Fourthly, the intellectual dimension involves acquiring knowledge about the fundamental tenets of the Islamic faith. For example, those who considered themselves religiously orientated seek to restrict their actions according to the hukm shariah [divine law] and therefore no action is performed until its ruling is known. Finally, the important dimension relates to the interaction with other people, and the effect religious beliefs and attitudes have on everyday life. No comprehensive list can be crafted that correctly documents religiosity, as religious experiences are unique and

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complex. However, I have used these generic markers to identify a general pattern, which helped me analyse the commitment and development of religious beliefs and practices amongst Dundee Muslims. Trying to locate the settings and context for religiosity is central to my investigation. I wanted to gather data on the importance of religion at the social level: whether the respondents were religious, and, if so, what role it played in their family and social lives. The overwhelming majority of respondents who identified themselves as religious became involved with, and committed to, Islam at an early age. What is hugely striking about the religious experiences of these Muslims is the strong influence of family and community. The struggle for identity is a critical element of the segregation process. As mentioned in earlier sections, British Muslims appear somewhat fixed within a recurring cycle of identity negotiation. As McGown (1999, p. 98) points out about Somali Muslims in London: It [Islam] provided an oasis of tranquillity amid the dislocation of refugee straits and the turmoil of adjusting to a new culture, trying to learn a new language, and attempting to find jobs. What was valuable about it was the very ritual of stepping outside the daily struggle, five times throughout the day, to concentrate on the prayers that never alter, in rhythmic language that linked them to a community of believers that was theirs no matter where in the world they were.

Similarly, Dundee Muslims find themselves embedded within two opposing frames:  religiously orientated vs ethnically orientated. In Dundee, those who were religiously active adopted an identity-type that provided them with a set of rigid identity markers which often left them dislodged from the dominant culture. Thus, some young Muslims search for reconnection with an idealised religious identity, which can help them overcome the host society. Crafting a new identity, fashioned from an idealised perception of religion, gives some Muslims a sense of belonging that transcends community and society. Contemporary studies of segregation frequently cite social identity as a salient formula in the externalisation process, which is often ignited by adverse communal interactions and experiences. More significantly, the perceived attempt to displace Muslims from wider society has pushed some younger Muslims to

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question their place in British society. As my fieldwork and interviews have shown social identity was a recurring theme amongst the Dundee Muslims I spoke too. Identification with particular social groups depends on context and setting. If some Muslims struggle to relate to their social settings, then identity dislocation can be triggered. This infers when some Muslims experience social rejection from the white majority they draw closer to Islam, as they can seek out a sense of identity and belonging. The problem of Muslim enclaves and segregation of the Muslim community underscores the necessity for better consideration of the tensions and fragilities in Muslim social identity construction. Modern theorists have actively sought to rationalise the seemingly sudden revitalisation of religion as a key marker for Muslim identification (Ballard, 1996; Saeed, 1999; Samad, 1996; Statham, 2003). The socio-political landscape has greatly shifted, especially after the Rushdie Affair and the Gulf War, which widened the labelling of South Asians into specific ethno-religious categories. However, as Hutnik (1985) confirmed in his study of South Asians, 80 per cent of his respondents regarded religious membership an integral part of their identity makeup. This is important because his research was carried out before the Rushdie Affair. To explain Muslim identity in Dundee, I have already explored why some Dundee Muslims are referring to religious markers, but now I need to look at those who adopt ethnically orientated identity markers. Ethnically Orientated Dundee Muslims The data showed that 70.4 per cent of ethnically orientated Dundee Muslims displayed a higher sense of national belonging. If this is true, then how did a lack of religious activity affect their conception of themselves? My fieldwork revealed the vast majority of Muslims I classified as ethnically orientated tended to be South Asian and the largest subgroup were those that settled from Pakistan. My demographic data revealed this subgroup had settled in the lower-working-class areas of Dundee. Interestingly, this clustering was not driven by racial or ethnic discrimination. This also appeared to contrast the narratives of early ethnic

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migrants to the East End of London, who were forced to cluster in innercity wards due to structural constraints and racial discrimination. It is relatively clear that religious activity did not play a significant role in the socialisation of ethnically orientated individuals, especially those from Pakistan. This is supported by those theorists who assert beliefs and practices are principally determined by parental religiosity (Hood et al., 2009). Moreover, beliefs and practices are usually transmitted through modelling of parents’ behaviours (Cornwall, 1988). Therefore, if parents are ethnically orientated, then it is fair to assume their children’s values or lack of will resemble their parents’ dispositions (Dudley and Dudley, 1986). Focusing on the effects of non-religious parents is of course highly complex and not easy for a survey of this kind to elicit information on. So, I tried to ask several respondents detailed questions about these matters. Most respondents suggested that during their upbringing they never gave much thought to religion, as their parents were culturally orientated to their ethnic identity. As a result, religion was not considered necessary to their identity and daily life. Thus, it is essential for my study to focus on the context or situation in which the respondents adopted an ethnically orientated identity. It is clear that the role of parents in the transmission of religious beliefs and practices was minimal amongst those who declared minimal religious activity. This means minimal religious socialisation took place within the family setting of ethnically orientated Muslims. In contrast, those Muslims who were religiously orientated tended to acquire their religious values from family socialisation, usually in the early formative years. This allowed them to categorise and identify themselves with the wider Muslim community. The Muslim population in Dundee is relatively small, making up just 5 per cent of the total Scottish Muslim population. This means approximately 15,400 Muslims are living in Dundee. However, unlike Glasgow and other parts of the UK, the Muslim population residing in Dundee is more ethnically diverse. Only 50 per cent are of Pakistani origin, which means the rest comprise of non-Pakistani ethnic groups. Arab Muslims, for instance, make up 15 per cent of the total Muslim population. My fieldwork revealed the vast majority of Muslims I classified as ethnic-orientated tended to be South Asian and the largest subgroup were those that settled

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from Pakistan. In keeping with previous studies, my demographic data revealed that this subgroup had settled in the lower-working-class areas of Dundee (McDermid, 2013). Interestingly, this clustering was not driven by racial or ethnic discrimination, as suggested by some theorists (Lentin, 2011). This also appeared to contrast the narratives of early ethnic migrants to the East End of London, who were forced to cluster in inner wards due to structural constraints and discrimination. The first documented encounter between Muslims and the city of Dundee was in 1969 when early migrants established a small mosque on Erskine Street. This was a small dwelling, accommodating only a few dozen worshippers. Due to its small size, early migrants managed to secure a larger site, and after a year the mosque moved to its new home in Hilltown. For over twenty-seven years the mosque remained a permanent feature in the heart of Hilltown, enabling the sporadic formation of pockets of Muslim owned shops and businesses. As a result, the Hilltown area became a beacon to the small number of ethnic minorities living in Dundee. The hosting of ethnic minorities meant the social landscape gradually changed and eventually became somewhat disproportionate. The Hilltown in the 1970s and 1980s housed a variety of ethnic groups in Tayside. When I first came to Dundee, I was surprised by the ethnic diversity of the Muslim community. Muslims from the Indian sub-continent did not dominate it. In other parts of the UK, the disproportionate disparity between Muslim ethnic groups is evident, as Muslims from South Asia form the majority. Trying to approach this issue in the Dundee context was difficult, as I was not sure about who precisely is segregated from whom because no visible enclave exists in the city. What became apparent was the diverse landscape of Muslim-ethnicity in Dundee, which made it incumbent upon me to examine ethnic groups as separate entities, comprising of different features, which form the collective community. Then generalisations can be plausibly made across a selection of contrasting sub-groupings in the city. Baumann supports this view in his study of the ‘discourses of identity’, in which he conducted extensive research among the Southall community. His study uncovered that respondents classified themselves as members of several communities. This cross-selection categorising represents the social

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reality of ethnically diverse communities, with a host of different cultures and religions existing, forming common social identities that of ‘Asian’. Furthermore, the social reality of Dundee makes it problematic to merely focus on one ethnic grouping, such as Pakistanis, because this generalisation cannot be extended to encompass the entire Muslim community in Dundee. The Pakistani community is formed of different Islamic orientations making them a distinct ethnic-cultural group, with internal sub-divisions, which cannot be representative of the wider Muslim community in Dundee. Therefore, my study will focus on ethnic-Muslims from all sub-groupings, as they collectively form the Muslim Dundee community. These sub-groups exhibit varying levels of adherence to religion and thus display different degrees of affiliation to the Muslim community. From my fieldwork, it was clear that ethnicity was a persistent source of identity for Muslims in Dundee. However, the levels of identification varied across ethnic groups based on age and religious affiliation. So, I set about trying to record and measure the levels of ethnic affiliation in order to determine why some Dundee Muslims held onto ethnicity while others appeared to abandon it for religion. This switching of identity markers is some ways grounded in the migration process. In particular, when early migrants came to Dundee, they tended to retain their ethnicity, which became fused to the settlement period. As I discovered, those ethnic groups that displayed minimal religious commitment showed less inclination towards segregation. Instead, those who seemed to give-up their ethnicity for religion displayed stronger segregation characteristics. Religiously active members of the Dundee Muslim community were less likely to identify themselves through their ethnicity. They went to greater lengths to assert their religious identity at the communal level. This makes identifying whether a geographical space is an ‘ethnic’ or ‘religious’ enclave is extremely difficult to determine. My fieldwork determined that ethnic-based respondents displayed more overt signs of dissolving national differences. In order to maintain consistency, I only studied ethnic groups in Dundee that had two generations of geographic presence, as this allowed me to mitigate variations in duration of migration amongst ethnic groups.

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The usage of ethnicity as an identity marker amongst the Muslim community in Dundee was highly inconsistent. As mentioned, for some Muslim-Dundonians it was an essential component of their identity formation, but were these Muslims choosing ethnicity above religion? It was clear from my fieldwork that an equal split existed between those who either identified themselves as Scottish-Pakistani or Scottish-Muslim. This meant for most individuals the centrality of their identity is an elective choice, an expression of self-agency. According to Weeks (1990, p. 88), ‘identity is about belonging’. This suggests it is about forming associations with people based on a sense of commonality and difference. Forming a bond based on ethnicity reflects a shared ethno-cultural history, which also acts as a point of distinction from those who do not share the same heritage. However, identity formation is an extremely complex process that entails a wide range of other social identifiers, such as religion, class, age and gender. I discovered those Muslim-Dundonians who prioritised ethnicity seemed to fashion their own ethnic identity against the backdrop of religion. In other words, they looked to assert their identity in opposition to the dominant society labelling them as a Muslim community. More significantly, I noticed a correlation between religious inactivity and a higher propensity to identify themselves through the matrix of ethnicity. This meant those who chose to assert their ethnicity over religion displayed stronger social attachment, which meant they were seeking social acceptance and belonging in the wider society.

Age and Generational Divides In trying to consider the dynamics of my target population, I was aware that the Dundee Muslims were not homogenous. However, I still wanted to analyse my data in multiple ways, for example, differentiating between classes, ethnicities, age groups, and so on. After each survey, I  would briefly reflect on the information given by the respondents in order to pick out possible themes for further investigation. One very noticeable

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theme that emerged from my surveys illustrated a relatively equal split between religiously orientated and ethnically orientated. The data showed that 48 per cent of young people felt they were religiously orientated, attending the mosque and engaging in religious-communal activity on a regular basis; while, 39 per cent expressed having little or no religious engagement. What is interesting about this distribution of data is the correlation with belongingness. The religiously orientated displayed a higher tendency to identify with Islam and Muslims in relation to their social identity, placing it higher than national belonging. 96 per cent of those who were religiously orientated felt Islam was their primary social identity. In contrast, 71 per cent of the non-religiously orientated felt their ethnic and national identity was their primary identity. Therefore, religiosity should not be taken for granted, because it has a powerful effect on the way some young Muslims see themselves and others. This means segregation is not a phenomenon affecting a particular age group; instead, it appears to cut across the intergenerational gap. So, why do young people appear split between ethno-nationalistic and religious belongingness? Some social theorists believe that identity is an unstable collection of perceptions in which age grapples with other social imperatives like ethnicity, religion and class ( James and James, 2004). In some respects, age is tied to identity, which shifts over time. Trying to understand this process is extremely difficult. Cote (1996) formulated a theory, which ties identity shifts to historical, cultural markers. This suggests that identity-formation needs to account for the social embeddedness of the individual, which will differ according to context. Thus, an individual exposed to religious socialisation in early childhood may in adulthood adopt similar patterns of religious activity. This is why 90.5 per cent of the 48 per cent of religious-orientated respondents stated that their religious understanding and practice was learnt from their parents. The vast majority of the first generation of Dundee Muslims migrated from rural parts of South Asia. They did not have a strong intellectual connection with Islam. Instead, their religious indoctrination focused on religious practice, which had a tendency to be fused with ethno-cultural rituals. As a result, on the one hand, they demonstrate a firm emotional link to Islam, but on the other hand, they have inherited a basic understanding

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of Islamic thought and doctrine. This appeared more critical, as I spoke to younger Muslim practitioners. They revealed that their parents taught them how to pray and took them to the mosque, but as they matured, they wanted to increase their religious understanding of Islam. During this religious ‘seeking phase’, the young practitioner sought to increase their religious literacy away from home. During this separation stage, respondents experienced a sense of detachment from their parents’ religious socialisation, which some deemed to be overtly ‘traditional’ and tied to the cultural context of South Asia. The search for new sources of Islamic knowledge often occurred on the internet and through social media. In particular, the respondents I interviewed looked suggested they felt their understanding of Islam started to become dissimilar from their parents have they increased their knowledge of Islam, creating a sense of disconnection from their family’s religious understanding. Hutnik (1985) found that identities are often crafted to maintain distance from others. In the case of the young Muslim-Dundonians, this was not surprising, as the older generation had found it difficult to impart the traditions of the subcontinent to the newer generation. From my discussions, it was clear that respondents sought not to be represented by their parents’ traditionalist identities. This somewhat negative identity formation pointed to a more confused identity ambivalence, which was usually directed to their parents’ culture and ethno-religiosity. However, despite this intergenerational conflict, those young people that adopted a religious disposition shared their parents’ affirmation to Islam as the primary social identity. So, for the vast majority, having an understanding of Islam that is different to their parents has not resulted in a reduction of religious activity and community engagement within the Muslim community in Dundee. The most notable difference between the two generations related to mindset. The first generation arrived in the early 1950s to fill the labour shortage in Dundee. As a result, they never envisaged permanent settlement; instead they believed in returning home (Anwar, 1979). This belief allowed the first generation to transfer the values of the homeland, which legitimised a separation from British culture. Therefore, this generation has been strongly influenced by a transitory or migrant mindset. As the prospect of returning home diminished, the first generation sought to

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establish a religious base that would transport their morals and values in opposition to those of the receiving culture. However, this mindset could not be passed on to the newer generation, as they found it difficult to adopt the beliefs and lifestyles of their parents. The second generation is born and educated in Dundee, giving them direct access to the majority culture. This has enabled them to experience two distinct social worlds, which have inspired some to challenge the traditionalist values of their parents; attitudes and behaviours that have been transplanted from the subcontinent. In particular, the rejection of these cultural mores is evidence of a different mindset. The younger generation has adopted a different way of living in Dundee, reflecting a symbolic separation from their parents, who were economic migrants. When young people are in the transition stage, they are in a state of interruption, separated from their previous roles and not yet incorporated into the new one (Paul and Kelleher, 1995). The transition to new social settings can be extremely unsettling, especially for minorities who are more vulnerable to rejection. The transitional stage can be usefully applied to the experiences of some young Dundee Muslims at varying points in their life cycle. Young people often struggle during adolescence, because this stage of development is perhaps the most disruptive. During this stage, young people are greatly concerned with the perception of others (Erikson, 1950). Many of the respondents I spoke to failed to understand how they ‘fitted-in’, which resulted in them developing a disconnected identity. As a result, many of the respondents suffered from role confusion, meaning they were uncertain about their position in the social world. The transition stage is a period when young people ought to learn the appropriate behaviour for the new stage they are entering (Turner, 1990). However, identity problems are prevalent during adolescence, as young people naturally struggle to contend with the changes that take place. Therefore, the most critical transition for the respondents appears to be encountering likeminded young people in the mosque or on social media. In the Dundee context, a large number of religiously active young people appeared more inclined towards getting involved with Islam in the mosque. This is because the mosque was seen as a natural social space for young people to actively learn and grow, and prepare them to become good Muslims.

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How members move between social locations is often age-related, for example, leaving home to go to university. This is a crucial rite of passage for young people, as it allows them to discover themselves. I discovered that some respondents often emerged from childhood as incomplete social actors, which contributed to their perceived separation. This makes young people the most sensitive age group in society, especially when their aspirations and needs are not satisfied. Therefore, the final stage of incorporation takes place when the respondent is formally admitted into the new role. Joining the youth sub-groups in Dundee Central Mosque, for instance, provided some young people with the opportunity to adopt a new and different identity, which has been stimulated by earlier transition and separation rites. Although the rites of passages are essential, there are more practical issues that relate to age. The British Muslim community, for example, has the youngest age profile of any other religious group (Ethnicity facts and figures UK, 22 August 2018).

Social Class and Relative Deprivation Dundee as a city has undergone significant and rapid change in recent years. The large tower blocks that dominated the skyline when I  lived there have been demolished and replaced with low-rise buildings to stimulate social and economic regeneration. Historically, the city steadily grew in the wake of the Industrial Revolution, mainly due to the cheap importation of jute. Dundee is situated on the River Tay, giving it easy port access, which helped trade. Thus, the creation of jute mills in Dundee attracted poor and unskilled workers from the rural areas. To put this urban migration into numerical context, in 1801 the population of Dundee was 2,472 by 1921 it had risen to over 168,784 (Watson, 1990). The life-line of the city was rooted in the jute industry, as the vast majority of Dundee’s working population were employed in the jute mills. When it became cheaper to manufacture and process jute in India the mills in Dundee began to close. The collapse of the jute mills had a dramatic impact on

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the socio-economic makeup of the city, which was to be expected as Dundee’s economic fate was dependent on the jute industry. The jute mills once employed thousands of people across the city, but with the demise of these mills economic growth rapidly slowed and unemployment became a significant problem. Since the collapse of the jute mills, the unskilled labour force has not successfully shifted to the service sector in Dundee. Added to this, the perceived lack of opportunities appears to have fuelled an array of social problems, such as substance abuse, criminality and other forms of anti-social behaviour. In simple terms, like most de-industrialised cities in the UK, Dundee has struggled to adapt to the changing global market, which has meant some have been left behind. When I moved to Dundee in 2010, I witnessed the rather grim reality of concentrated poverty. This poverty appeared to be centred on the highrise tower blocks that littered the city. Hilltown, located on the periphery of the city centre, had six large high-rise flats, four of which were locally known as the ‘Alexander Street Multis’ (BBC, 31 July 2011). Over seventy years ago, Hilltown was at the epicentre of the Jute industry and thus provided housing for many of the mill workers (Tomlinson et al., 2011, p. 162). By the 1970s the jute industry had been eradicated, and as a result of the once bustling Hilltown gradually became a deprived residential area. When I returned to Dundee in 2018 to carry out further fieldwork, I decided to visit Hilltown. This was something I seldom did when I lived here because it had a slightly unfavourable reputation. I decided to walk up the central shopping concourse that ran through the heart of Hilltown. To my surprise, most of the shops lay closed and abandoned. Nearly seven years have passed since most of the tower blocks in Hilltown were torn down, but little has changed. So, from an economic perspective, Dundee has remained stagnant, but how does this gloomy social reality affect the Muslim community in Dundee? Socio-economic and political discontent is often exacerbated by the realisation that the gap between what British Muslims expect to obtain from society and what they get is entirely different. The socio-economic reality of Muslims in Dundee is bleak. There is high unemployment and low academic attainment amongst the Muslim population, which can stimulate a sense of disaffection and frustration. In theory, it is the socio-economic

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condition that pushes segregationist tendencies. However, as my fieldwork in Dundee has demonstrated, formulating such a causal link between segregation and deprivation is somewhat problematic. My data has shown that despite the fact Dundee Muslims languish at the bottom of the economic spectrum, segregation is often triggered by broader social and structural circumstances. For instance, a high percentage of Dundee Muslims positioned amongst the ranks of the professional middle classes, firmly undermined the blanket assertion equating segregation with socio-economic deprivation. In particular, I discovered that 84 per cent of middle-class professionals were religiously active (e.g. regular contact with religious intuitions). Although, British Muslims appear economically dislocated, generating a direct correlation with segregation is difficult because individual backgrounds and experiences significantly diverge. Deprivation as a direct catalyst for segregation is difficult to substantiate, but I must acknowledge in some cases relative deprivation is a magnifying factor. In this regard, a lack of social mobility and perceived inequalities seem to exacerbate a sense of exclusion, weakening Muslim attachment to the state (Ferrero 2005, p. 200). Regarding socio-political dislocation, British Muslims appear politically under-represented within British society. In general, there seems to be an unequal representation of Muslims within government, making it difficult to identify with the political system. This somewhat lack of political connectedness creates less integrated Muslim citizens, as they feel they are unable to voice their political concerns. The sense of political marginalisation experienced by some Muslims can nurture a wider feeling of not belonging. The 2001 riots in the North of England, for instance, illustrated Muslim grievances were unlikely to be addressed. This episode emphasised some of the stark differences between Muslims and non- Muslims in British society. In my interviews across the UK, British Muslims would highlight how some British values do not appear consistent with Islam and Muslims, creating a clash of values. At the communal level, the Rushdie Affair inspired Muslim segregation, as the Muslim community felt the state did not interfere to protect Muslim beliefs. This lack of state intervention seemed to push Muslims away from the state, becoming more dependent on the Muslim enclaves. During this period, Muslim religious belief and practice saw an upsurge, as Muslims felt victimised. This sense of attack on Islamic

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faith also triggered an upsurge in rededication to Islamic values and identities in the public sphere. In Dundee, Muslim political activism has been greatly influenced by global events. Beyond the national setting, Dundee Muslims have aligned with the political left in Scotland against the actions of the Zionist State. In particular, Arab Muslims in Dundee have held regular activities in an effort to promote the plight of the Palestinian people. The British government’s refusal to condemn the policies of Israel has animated the local Muslim community in Dundee. However, this activism does not necessarily encourage mainstream political integration, as Dundee Muslims feel the British government employs a double standard in dealing with the Middle East conflict. As a result, a large number of Dundee Muslims voted for Scottish independence in the 2014 referendum. This sense of political disillusionment with the British political system has made it easier for some Dundee Muslims to merge their ethnonational identity with Scottish national belonging and identity. As I mentioned, Dundee Muslims have experienced very few instances of Scottish racism, and thus the lack of discrimination has made adopting the Sottish national identity easier. Therefore, the form of segregation occurring in Dundee appears directly inspired by religiosity and not negative social experiences. In other words, In Dundee, segregation provides Muslims with an idealised sense of society and the good, while explaining that their problem is the consequence of the British state in Westminster and its unequal power structures. Thus far, I have spoken in a very general sense about the social condition of British Muslims; it is now vital to engage in more detail with how social class impacts the Dundee Muslim community. In the paragraphs above, I eluded to the fact that a high percentage of middle-class MuslimDundonians displayed a religious-orientation. But this does not mean much until I map out the class positionality of the wider Muslim community. Social positionality has been suggested as a critical variable in the segregation process, but this must be seen from a more comprehensive social perspective that includes social background. According to Warner (1949), social class should be isolated within a socio-economic framework that relates to fixed properties, such as income, education and wealth. In line with this analytical approach, the 2001 census, and a separate Labour

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Force Survey conducted in 2004, has indicated that British Muslims are one of the most deprived social groups in the UK (The Muslim Weekly, 15 October 2004). Huntington (1996) believes that large-scale unemployment among young people provides a likely source for social detachment. However, in the context of Dundee, it was found that the majority of the population occupied a less than average social status. For instance, 82.6 per cent of the sample classified themselves as working class. Most Dundee Muslims claimed working-class status, even though they seemed somewhat unaware of its precise meaning and application. This has made it very difficult to pin down how much respondents overestimate or underestimate their socio-economic status and positionality, making it unsuitable to let respondents assess themselves as working or middle class. Furthermore, individuals do not always evaluate themselves in precisely the same manner. I needed to find a way of classifying the socio-economic position of Dundee Muslims, before trying to understand the role of class. After consulting the extensive literature on social class, I defined working and middle class using four key criteria: occupation, income, property and education (Davis and Moore, 1970; Parkin, 1979). Most social theorists tend to study class stratification through these distinct variables, which allowed me to assess the class demographic of the Dundee respondents fairly. Firstly, questions related to occupation revealed a large grouping of manual labour, skilled and unskilled, who occupy relatively low positionality. There was a particularly strong focus on manual occupations among the respondents, giving them a disadvantage in the labour market (e.g. compared to skilled non-manual workers). Nonetheless, some social theorists would argue that this lack of mobility is artificial and short-ranged, due to a social and cultural ‘buffer zone’ between the middle and working classes (Parkin, 1979, p. 56). This view assumes that movement from manual to non-manual occupations occurs superficially, and thus workers are employed at the lower levels of the work hierarchy (Goldthorpe et al., 1987). This appears consistent with the data I collected in Dundee; the respondents occupied lower-level positions in the labour hierarchy, providing them with limited opportunities for upward social mobility. With gender, which I do look at in more detail in the next chapter, the occupation of female respondents fell into three key groupings. The most

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common is that of homemaker, but the proportion of female professionals is considerably lower than that of male respondents. The second largest categorisation is that of the unskilled manual worker, which was indicated by 26 per cent of female respondents. About some of these gender inequalities; it is worth noting that many female respondents suggested that they wanted to have children, and thus maintaining a career alongside this goal seemed far too challenging. Secondly, a respondent’s household income tends to be lower than the national average. A  large number of the male respondents were self-employed, which seemed to constrict their economic capital. This income differential between occupations was somewhat apparent between those employed in the public sector, compared with the members in the private field. The income distribution among the respondents showed that only 5.8 per cent were located in the highest income categories. Thirdly, I was not surprised by the relatively large number of respondents who lived in social housing. This is because many of the respondents were manual labourers, making it difficult to enter the property ladder. As Parkin (1968) acknowledges, property ownership provides access to economic power and thus is a crucial feature of the division of labour. Moreover, from my discussions with respondents, I realised that their parents had placed vital importance on acquiring social housing, repeating the social pathway of their parents. According to Cannadine (1999), middle-class families have greater financial resources, placing them in a better position to assist their children in purchasing a home or passing on their property. Thus, inherited property only accounted for 0.95 per cent of the sample. Fourthly, higher education did not appear important for the majority of respondents, as it seemed the younger generation were repeating the social patterns of their parents, which means they remain embedded within the working-class social structure. As Cooper (1979) explained, most professionals are graduates, thereby allowing them to move into higher income categories. For example, evidence from the sample revealed only 8 per cent of respondents graduated from a higher education institution. This directly correlates with the low number of respondents who occupy a place in the higher income brackets. This is not surprising since respondent’s parents

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have similar academic backgrounds, which helps to duplicate class status across generations. Relatively few respondents had higher education qualifications, indicating the lack of propensity to gain professional employment. More significantly, in Scotland, there are minimal obstacles in going to university, as higher education is free for all Scottish residents, substantially limiting any financial burden for their parents. Therefore, the lack of higher education is undoubtedly a defining feature of the respondents’ working-class disposition. It is worth noting; however, that social theorists have struggled to agree upon a precise and coherent understanding of the working class. For example, some theorists believe that culture is a defining feature of the working class (Cooper, 1979). Then again, as Roberts et al. (1977, p. 107) have insisted, it is no longer possible to define a core working-class culture because within the blue-collar strata no coherent set of values exists. If one assumes, like Goldthorpe et al. (1987), that social classes are groups characterised by shared income, lifestyles and cultures, then the respondents do not necessarily comprise a homogenous grouping. The data gathered from the sample indicates that social mobility has not been achieved or maintained through occupation, education and wealth (property and income). Throughout this section, I have used the term ‘working class’ to define the social composition of Dundee Muslims. However, it is not entirely precise, as Parkin (1968, p. 175) points out, ‘it lacks the analytical precision necessary for considering issues which cannot be posed in terms of class polarisation’. Parkin (1968, p. 176) is referring here to comparisons made between blue-collar groups. In relation to my fieldwork, I noticed very early on that the respondents seemed to be drawn from specific occupational fields. This identification is important as research has shown that the immigrant working classes are more inclined to ‘left-wing politics than those of similar social status’, because they have seemingly experienced social disadvantage and discrimination (Parkin, 1968, p. 178). Secondly, the respondents’ occupations were grounded within more unskilled and semi-skilled work. When I started to give this greater thought, I remembered from my discussions that most respondents appear greatly influenced by the patterns of education and employment of their parents.

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The disproportionate number of working-class respondents is consistent with the social and economic positionality of Muslim in the wider UK. The Labour Force Survey (2004) found that British Muslims were most likely to be economically inactive and 31 per cent of Muslims in work had no formal qualifications (Labour Force Survey, 2004). These rather bleak figures are not surprising when compared to the socio-economic position of Dundee Muslims. According to Parkin (1968), the family plays a key role in positioning individuals at certain stages in the class structure. Moreover, respondents’ families sought to ensure that their children gained employment immediately in order to assist the household financially. It appeared that Dundee working-class Muslims assigned higher value to employment. Thus, the younger Dundee Muslims appear to be inheriting a strong working-class ethic that prioritised employment over education. This lack of academic tradition is inhibiting the access to better employment opportunities. More significantly, two very different sets of value orientations exist in the middle and working classes (Cannadine, 1999). The majority of Dundee Muslims have not secured a stable economic lifestyle through their class position, which may mean they are more occupied with welfare related politics. In theory, the working class place greater emphasis on material security. This theory places individuals within a continuum of needs, with economic survival being a primary need while the pursuits of religious and political ideals are considered secondary. Thus, as Lewis (1994) noted, South Asian Muslims constituted the underclass of the male working class. The Labour Force Survey (2004), for instance, has estimated that South Asians have the highest rates of unemployment among any minority group. Therefore, it is fair to assume that the values placed on economic security are proportional to one’s class position. Working-class Muslims, for example, are more likely to suffer from economic deprivation. Thompson’s (1988) study of working-class Asians in Coventry indicated that children begin to contribute to family income at a very early age due to economic need. Therefore, the young Muslims whom I spoke to appeared to have a very similar work-orientated ethos. The vast majority of Muslims in Britain live under deplorable social conditions, which is often a reflection of their social class and limited education.

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So, does this working-class tendency influence their religious activity, and thus orient them towards segregation? Unfortunately, I discovered that social class does not have a clearly defined relationship with religious activity. In simple terms, there was a relatively equal split between those working-class Dundee Muslims that identified themselves as either ethnicorientated or religious-orientated. However, 97 per cent of middle-class Dundee Muslims identified themselves as religious-orientated. In theory, the middle class are not driven by economic need, nor do they seek exclusive rewards for their specific subgroup, unlike the working class. These two sets of value orientations provide both groups with divergent economic and cultural strategies. Thus, one of the critical traits of the working classes is their dependence on local territory and their local community for a sense of identity (Thompson, 1978). It might seem to be too simple to say that the social position of working-class Muslims limits or increases their religious activity, but the sociological data indicates a class divide.

Conclusion This chapter made a twofold contribution to the issue of Muslim enclaves, the first being its identification of a correlative link between religious identity and a lack of national belongingness. As the data showed, only 8.2 per cent of religiously orientated Muslims prioritised their national identity. Therefore, with few exceptions, segregation in Dundee continues to be a selective choice of religiously orientated individuals. In contrast, the absence of ethnic-based segregation suggests that ethnicity may help dissolve social boundaries. Ethnic-orientated Muslims appear to hold Islam as a nominal aspect fused to their ethnic identity, forming a culture-based identity. This is a fluid construct, allowing the individual to merge aspects of this identity to the social setting around them. From the interviews I carried out with the ethnically orientated, the vast majority asserted they did not experience racial harassment and discrimination in Dundee. More significantly, they felt it easy to associate with their

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Scottish identity, as it was socially formed in opposition to ‘Englishness’. The recent politicisation of national identity in Scotland has contributed to the fostering of anti-English sentiments, which in Dundee seemed to minimise racial discrimination. In theory, this has given some ethnic minorities in Dundee the opportunity to embrace aspects of Scottish nationalism. As Khalid explained, ‘we don’t have racism in Dundee like you have in England. We are Scottish; we feel Scottish and society accepts us as Scottish’. From this it is apparent Muslims in Dundee contend with an array of issues concerning their identity, but it seems the ethnically orientated appear more willing to adapt their ethnic identity to Scottish nationality. In Dundee, there is no real public debate about whether Muslims are willing to be integrated into Scottish society. The same cannot be said about England, where the debate continues to grow. In England, two identifiable conditions are commonly cited as catalysts for segregation: discrimination and deprivation. Dundee, like the north of England, suffers from widespread socio-economic deprivation, which is visible across the racial divide. What is somewhat unique about Dundee is the lack of racial tensions. The white, working-class and Muslim population appear to co-exist together, occupying the same residential spaces comfortably. Dundee as a city does not appear to suffer from concentrated ethnic or religious enclaves. However, I have documented the early formation of clustering. The ethnically orientated clustering in the city is driven by structural and material conditions (e.g. social housing). As a result, 70.4 per cent of ethnically orientated Muslims associated their primary identity with an ethno-nationalistic identity hybrid. In contrast, religiously orientated Muslims displayed mobility and selective residential clustering around mosques and Islamic shops. I believe these pockets are rudimentary enclaves in formation and with a population; the boost could quickly develop into fully fledged enclaves. This suggests religious identification may fuel self-segregation more than other forces.

Chapter 4

Small-town Segregation in Bangor

I moved to North Wales over five years ago, eventually ending up in Bangor. Although classed as a city, Bangor is one of the smallest cities within the United Kingdom. In the 2011 census, the population of Bangor was recorded as 18,808. This does not include the large transient population of students, whose presence radically alters the social landscape of the city. In essence, the lifeblood of the local economy is dependent upon students at Bangor University, making the city predominantly a university town. During the post-war industrial boom, it was mainly a mining town. It also attracted a large number of white English and Welsh tourists during the summer period, as Bangor is nestled between the beaches of Anglesey and the mountains of Snowdonia National Park. The rapid decline of domestic tourism and the closure of the slate mines triggered a drastic economic slump. Unemployment remains above the national average, stimulating migration to larger cities in the UK. So, what can this tell us about Muslim segregation in Britain? On the surface, Muslim segregation may not be noticeable in the small city of Bangor. This does not mean segregation is not present in Bangor. The third largest single-housing estate in Wales is located in Bangor. This white enclave has physical boundaries that separate it from the wider city, cultivating spatial and residential segregation.

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Maesgeirchen: White, Working-Class Welsh Enclave The Maesgeirchen, commonly referred to as the MaesG by locals, is a large council estate located on the periphery of Bangor. This predominately all-white housing estate has over 4,000 inhabitants, making it one of the largest social housing estates in Wales. Over the years, the MaesG has developed a highly notorious reputation for crime, drugs and other forms of anti-social behaviour. As Susan, a former resident, described, ‘I was born and raised in MaesG, now I live in the US. I was sad a few years ago when I  was home to see how bad some of the streets have gotten. People no longer take pride in their property. When I was a kid it was a great place to live, now you couldn’t pay me to live there’ (BBC Wales, 21 February 2012). Another resident, Kevin described it as ‘a complete dump. It’s a good example of how the police in the area are afraid to confront anyone, they are awful. And as for those who walk round thinking they’re gangsters, get a job, get a life. MaesG represents the state of this country’ (BBC Wales, 21 February 2012). Across the UK, social housing is beset with an array of inherent social and economic problems. However, when social housing was introduced, during the post-war era, it was not attributed to a social disorder as high employment rates helped maintain socio-economic equilibrium (Boughton, 2018). In contrast, deprived inner city housing estates were associated with high crime rates and limited social mobility. This suggests the correlation between criminality and social housing is a relatively modern phenomenon. This explains why the vast majority of MaesG residents who lived in the estate over forty years ago described it as a radically different place. The social condition of the MaesG started to change by the 1980s rapidly. Two identifiable problems fostered the shift: (1) the destabilisation of council estates after the 1980 Housing Act; and (2) the collapse of industry and rise in unemployment. Some MaesG residents took advantage of the ‘right-to-buy’ scheme, enabling long-term tenants to buy their council house. In due course, after the rise of unemployment, those who bought their council-owned house in the MaesG came to be at risk of crime. During this turbulent period, those who did not live in the MaesG

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experienced less property crime, prompting the employed skilled working classes to move away from the MaesG. This departure contributed to the quickening of spatial segregation of residents. The MaesG is set apart from the wider Bangor community. Its geographic location and economic dislocation reinforces inter-generational poverty and deprivation. There is extremely high unemployment among the residents, and it is generally considered an undesirable place to live. When I first moved to Bangor, I was politely warned by my Estate agent not to look for housing near the Maesgeirchen estate. I naturally asked why? After struggling to provide a politically correct answer, he said ‘coloured people don’t survive long there’. He explained that it is predominantly a white, working-class council estate that is considered a ‘no-go area’ for non-white people. In recent years, the MaesG has not seen the white population take flight to larger neighbouring cities in search of economic opportunities. There are two distinct reasons for this lack of outward migration. Firstly, the white inhabitants are seemingly entangled socially and economically to the bottom of the class spectrum. This is not a unique condition; instead, it is a noticeable by-product of contemporary social division, which creates differences in wealth distribution amongst members of society. Unfortunately, in Bangor, the gaps between rich and poor are evident. As a result, moving to the suburbs of Anglesey and Conway are considered aspirational for those wanting social mobility in North Wales. In reality, very few inhabitants of the MaesG have gained upward mobility, forcing them to remain socially, geographically and economically cut off. Secondly, at the geographic level, the MaesG is physically separated from the main population hubs, as it is located on the edge of the city. There are limited transport links to the estate, with only one road entrance and exit. Locals have lodged numerous complaints about the lack of suitable public transport infrastructure, as this limits their sense of connectivity with the broader area. This geographic dislocation reinforces the MaesG’s isolation and segregation as a white enclave. Although at the local level, the MaesG inhabitants appear segregated, this does not necessarily translate into cultural segregation. In other words, there is not an ideological or cultural disconnect with British values and cultures. Thus, the MaesG is

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an illustration of spatial confinement through social and economic structures, creating localised marginalisation. In simple terms, the MaesG has suffered from prolonged underinvestment. However, when resources are channelled away, it can create opposition and discrimination. In Bangor, as is the case across the UK, the existence of welfare housing estates has fostered an array of social and economic problems. The MaesG has a high concentration of economically deprived white residents, who are geographically cut-off from the wider Bangor community. To the average Bangor local the MaesG represents a social blemish, it has acquired a poor reputation for crime, drugs and social disorder. All this is true, and there are widespread social problems in the MaesG estate, which cannot be easily solved. To generate renewal, Gwynedd city council provided social housing grants to residents. However, these grants were a superficial gesture designed to change the aesthetics of the estate, providing residents with new windows and door. These initiatives failed to address the socio-economic conditions that seemingly foster deprivation and social disorder. I found it quite disappointing hearing some of the comments from non-MaesG residents living in Bangor, as one local stated: ‘they’ve [MaesG residents] been given the same chances as all of us, but they’re happy to be louts, drug addicts and benefit scroungers’. Unfortunately, this sentiment fails to recognise the social embeddedness of the MaesG residents, who are not merely able to freely move away. The socio-economic deprivation anchors most residents to the enclave, making it difficult to gain upward mobility and escape the MaesG. As a consequence, the residents of the MaesG have endured significant social stigmatisation for living in an estate seemingly rampant with a host of social disorder problems. The social conditions experienced by the residents are considered very deprived. As mentioned, the demographic structure of the MaesG started to change with the collapse of the slate industry. It is not surprising, therefore, that the MaesG is regarded as the least desirable housing in Bangor. Also, very few households in the MaesG can move out, as they are unable to sell or rent their property. The unwillingness of newer residents to move to the MaesG has strengthened the phenomenon of residential segregation.

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In other larger cities in the UK, economically deprived neighbourhoods often attracted newly arriving immigrants. Over a lengthy period of settlement, the demographic landscape of these areas would radically change, often triggering ‘white-flight’. The ethno-racial composition of these communities gradually transformed into immigrant enclaves. However, this did not occur in the MaesG. Firstly, the residents of the MaesG are socially embedded and cannot exercise residential preference. In other words, most households in the MaesG are not able to move out due to the social and economic conditions, which keeps them bond and segregated. This means there are limited houses available for new residents. More significantly, the extremely high levels of racial harassment and violence directed to ethnic minorities have made the MaesG a no-go area for non-white people. This has meant newly arriving immigrants avoided settling in the MaesG, choosing to move across the city and nearer to Bangor University. This indicates an immigrant settlement in Bangor was partly influenced by the social attitude of the white Welsh residents, as well as the residential preferences of the Muslim immigrants. The question I need to resolve is which kind of residential behaviour has influenced Muslim settlement and segregation in Bangor.

The Muslim Demographic: Class, Ethnicity and the Mosque As mentioned, the residents of the MaesG are viewed in extremely negative terms, leading to ‘territorial stigmatisation’ (Wacquant, 2013). The MaesG has developed a poor reputation, primarily related to crime and social disorder. As a distinctly non-Muslim enclave, the MaesG illustrates that segregation does not necessarily have to be exclusively attributed to religion and ethnicity. The socio-economic composition of the MaesG has been stimulated by the social conditions faced by some white, lowerworking-class residents. The Muslim presence in Bangor has not been

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influenced by the post-war labour shortage; instead, other pull factors drew some Muslims to the small city. The Muslim community in Bangor is comprised of two distinct demographic groupings: (1) educated, middleclass immigrants from the Arab world, and (2) uneducated, working-class immigrants from Bangladesh. Trying to understand the residential preferences of Bangor Muslims must account for the socio-spatial and residential division between the Arab and Bangladeshi population. The class division between these two groups has not resulted in a residential settlement in concentrated areas. In recent years, there are gradual signs that some middle-class Arab Muslims are choosing to buy housing in more affluent areas, such as Y Bae and Goetre Uchaf. The Arab community in Bangor is predominately middle class. It is challenging to quantify this group because they are made up of transient and settled residents from an array of different Middle Eastern countries – most of whom are enrolled as students at Bangor University. However, the two primary industries employing the Arab settled residents are Bangor University and Gwynedd Hospital. Most settled Arab residents claimed middle-class status; yet, as in Chapter 3, respondents were not fully aware of how to evaluate their social class status. In stark contrast, the Bangladeshis that settled in Bangor are predominantly uneducated, working-class immigrants, who migrated from rural Sylhet. The Bengali immigrants had limited education, forcing them to take low-paid menial jobs mainly in the food sector. Eventually, the early immigrants used family networks to establish Indian restaurants across the region. They called on the extended family from Bangladesh to provide a cheap workforce. The migration of early Bangladeshi settlers to Bangor mimicked, albeit on a microscopic scale, the migration patterns of Bangladeshi immigrants to the East End of London. On the surface, the Muslim community in Bangor appears unified around the mosque, which acts as a unifying social and communal force. Outside the mosque, the ethnic divisions seem more pronounced and visible. The Arabs tend to choose properties in more middle-class areas; while the Bangladeshi community are less able to express residential preference due to limited financial resources and mobility.

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Small-town Segregation in Bangor Table 3:  Occupational Activities of Muslims in Bangor Occupation

Arab

Bangladeshi

Other

Average (%)

Professional

11

0

2

16.24

Intermediate

8

0

1

10.44

Skilled (non- Manual)

2

4

0

6.96

Manual Partly Skilled

1

17

1

22.04

Unskilled

0

38

0

44.08

Unemployed

0

3

0

3.48

Student

15

2

13

34.8

Total

34

64

17

115

Table 3 illustrates a significant clustering of highly qualified professionals who occupy relatively privileged positions. There is a particularly strong focus on non-manual occupations among the Arab community, giving them a significant benefit in the pursuing professional employment opportunities. By moving into professional posts, the Arab community in Bangor has gained long-range upward mobility. Indeed, as Littler (2017) suggested, Britain appears to have become a meritocracy, which means the emphasis is placed on achievement and this determines the position in the occupational hierarchy. The occupation of Bangladeshi residents falls into four key groupings. The most common is that of unskilled, but the proportion of Bangladeshi professionals is considerably lower than that of Arabs. The second largest categorisation is that of manual partly skilled, which was indicated by 22 per cent of Bangladeshi respondents. Concerning some of these inequalities, it is worth noting that many Bangladeshi residents suggested that they wanted to gain mobility, but felt they did not possess sufficient education to pursue professional employment, and thus establishing a business offered them better opportunities for gaining social mobility upward. The Bangladeshi working-class Muslims

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I spoke to suggested they had to seek out employment immediately to support their families financially. There is some pragmatic truth to this view, as Bangladeshi working-class communities in other parts of the UK encourage their children to follow similar employment patterns, assigning greater emphasis to work. Consequently, those young Bangladeshis inherit a working-class tradition from their migrant parents, making them less likely to enter into higher education (Abbas, 2013). Access to university gave middle-class Arabs the opportunity to gain upward mobility. Such socialisation patterns, therefore, clearly impacted the social pathways of second-generation Bangladeshis. The data conclusively supports my initial observations that the Arab community in Bangor is mainly comprised of educated, middle-class residents. This identification is essential, as Parkin (1968) asserts, the educated are more likely to be socially prompted into moving to middle-class residential areas. In order to understand the ethnic difference of class in Bangor, one must look more closely at the social positionality of Muslim residents. To start with, the Arab community in Bangor are often the progeny of mostly middle-class parents, originating predominantly from affluent families in the Arab world. Ali, a doctor at Gwynedd Hospital, explained that his father was also a doctor in Iraq. This meant he went to the best schools and was able to study abroad. His middle-class background provided him with an advantage, as a vocational qualification ensured him a successful career pathway. According to Parkin (1968), the family plays a crucial role in positioning individuals at certain stages in the class structure. Moreover, Arab families sought to ensure that their children gained a considerable advantage through education in their country of origin. Their parents relied on their academic qualifications to gain upward mobility, which motivated them to impart to their offspring a similar ambition. In contrast, most Bangladeshi working-class families assigned more significance to work (Panday, 2013). Consequently, the Arab community inherited a firmly middle-class ethos that championed educational accomplishment. This academic tradition provided them with greater possibilities and access to better employment opportunities in the UK. The Bangladeshi working-class household developed a negative attitude towards education, which bored out of the practical need to secure employment and support the homestead. As a result, two very different

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sets of value orientations exist among the middle-class Arabs and the working-class Bangladeshis. The Arab residents have fortified their economic position, giving them more significant opportunity to seek out housing that matches their class position. In contrast, the working class place greater emphasis on material security. Thompson’s (cited in Wali, 2013) study of working-class Asians in Coventry indicated that children begin to contribute to family income at a very early age due to economic need. Therefore, the Arab community who live in Bangor tend to differ from the Bangladeshi community. They seem to have emerged from very different social conditions. The vast majority of Bangladeshis in Bangor live under relatively poor social conditions, which is often a reflection of their social class. Conversely, most Arab residents can be characterised as middle class. Despite these socio-economic differences, the experience of being socially marginalised is genuine for both groups. So, why does it appear that both ethnic Muslim groups have been unsuccessful in assimilating into British society? This class divide between the Muslim residents of Bangor has meant limited residential clustering has taken place. At the communal level, both groups appear to be actively dissolving the class and ethnic boundaries by promoting a shared religious identity. This would suggest both ethnic groups assert and negotiate their religious identity in a similar fashion, irrespective of class and ethnicity. As Mohammed explained, It is obvious Muslims are not liked here; we are peaceful people, but they see us as terrorists. So, we make our community separate from them. We are a community of Muslims. It doesn’t matter where you were born, what language you speak, if you declare there is no God but Allah, then you are Muslim and part of this community. I spent a few years in London, where each community has its mosque, Pakistanis, Somalis, Bangladeshis and so on. We don’t want this here. We are one Muslim community, and the mosque is not just for the Iraqis or Pakistanis, it is for all Muslims, all ages, races and genders. We have something special here, and we want to keep it.

In some ways, as this revealing comment suggests, the different aspects of ethnicity are subdued in the mosque. This means the religious boundaries and mosque membership provide a way to build Muslim community cohesion. According to the views of the respondents, this merging of religious identity across diverse ethnic groups was driven by the white Welsh backlash towards the Muslim presence in Bangor. Without such

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perceived hostility, the boundaries of ethnicity may have become more pronounced leading to multi-ethnic religious diversification. Dundee is equally a small city, for instance, but it has witnessed a proliferation of mosques and Islamic centres. These have formed to cater to distinct ethnic groups and sub-groups. These communities demonstrated higher tendencies to fuse ethnicity with religion. As Geaves (1996, 53) asserts, subcontinent ethnicity embraces a broad mixture of core religious symbols. In Dundee, the ethno-religious identity of the Pakistani community, for example, was made up of separate strands of religious thought, namely Deobandi and Barelwi. The prevalence of these different Islamic stands meant that theological differences influenced the proliferation of mosques, and thus ethnic differences were not the cause of separation. In Bangor, the ethno-cultural divisions do not manifest at the theological level. There was no evidence of Deobandis, Barelwis, Tablighi-Jamaat or Jamaati-Islami, having any presence in Bangor. In simple terms, it was a Muslim community without the theological baggage of the Indian subcontinent. As a result, I observed in Bangor, a communal effort to build a collective religious identity. The mosque became the focal point of religious fellowship ascending from membership of the Bangor Muslim community. As Mohammed explained, ‘the Muslim community here is great, we have people from all over the world praying together, opening their fast together and there are no tensions’. This would suggest the shared religious identity appears to transcend ethnic differences. The strong shared faith and identity I witnessed in Bangor were somewhat unique, especially regarding my own experiences within different Muslim communities. The commonality of regular religious activity and involvement provided a powerful reinforcement of a shared Muslim identity. The mosque acted as the hub for community consolidation, establishing clear boundaries between Muslims and the indigenous population. When the outside world became more hostile or was perceived as such, this reinforced a sense of Muslim segregation, behind the veil of the mosque. The Arab and Bangladeshi residents have emerged from different social worlds; yet, despite the class divide both groups identify with the struggles of being a Muslim in a non-Muslim country. This ability to empathise with the reality of Muslim life has meant both ethnic groups have developed religious solidarity. As Musa explained,

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the Muslim community has the same problems wherever they are in the UK, here we are much less, but we all face the same problems … I am a husband and father; I worry about raising my children in a non-Islamic environment that’s why the Masjid [mosque] is so important to us … we can teach our kids Islam.

This suggests religion plays a crucial role in fostering communal spirt that transcends ethnic and class boundaries, giving a sense of Muslim community and belonging.

Belongingness, Hostility and Muslim Segregation Despite differences in ethnicity and class, the Arab and Bangladeshi communities in Bangor are identified as Muslim by the white Welsh population. Importantly, both ethnic groups are dependent on the mosque and their local community for a sense of identity. According to Hussain, ‘there are Muslims from all over the world living in Bangor, but we’re still small. We need one mosque, making a separate Bengali mosque will only weaken us’. This would suggest that it serves a utilitarian purpose for the diverse ethnic groups to function collectively, under the banner of Muslim identity. However, it might be too simplistic to assert white Welsh hostility pushed the two ethnic groups together, because other contextual factors may have played a role. The Bangladeshi community settled in Bangor before the 1990s; while, the Arab community primarily arrived after the 1990s. Before the Arab community settled, the Bangladeshi community lacked any Islamic leadership and community religious activity. The handful of early Arab settlers provided a welcome source of knowledge and expertise. The mosque served as a neutral space to build an Islamic centre for learning and religious activity. This would suggest hostility started to take place as both communities began to grow. As a result, mutual religious need generated cohesion between Bangladeshis and Arabs, uniting the two groups around the mosque. Yet, in the minds of the current Muslim residents, the reason for the ethnic cooperation still lies in the hostility of the white Welsh population. As

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one local explained, ‘if we [Arab and Bangladeshi] lived in separate communities, then we’d be vulnerable’. There may be a general lack of Muslim residential clustering in Bangor; however, this does not necessarily mean that segregation is not occurring. The Bangor Muslim community only have one mosque, making it the central religious institution for all ethnic Muslim communities in the area. The mosque acted as a cultural barrier between Muslim cultural life, as maintained and housed within the Central Mosque, and the broader British culture. The mosque is the physical symbol of the Muslim community and cultural life, providing a safe place for local Muslim practitioners. Understanding the perceived hostility of the white Welsh population provides insight into the cultural segregation taking place within the Bangor Central Mosque. As the Bangor Muslim community is spatially distributed across the wider city, with only small signs of residential concentration, the mosque functions as a focus point for communal identity. The sense of community is framed around the mosque, which is a public symbol of Muslim identity. For this reason, when the mosque becomes the focal point of white Welsh hostility, then this triggers Muslim segregation tendencies. The mosque is located in a central location, on Bangor High Street. This heightened visibility has often intensified local reactions, which have been extremely negative and disruptive. The mosque is naturally seen as a physical symbol of the Muslim presence in the small relatively homogenous Welsh city of Bangor. The adverse reactions of the white Welsh population, as I discovered in Chapter 1, can fuel immigrant marginalisation – the issues that have provoked a negative reaction from locals centre on a series of recurring ordinary and everyday issues produced as a result of large religious gatherings. However, there was strong opposition to the development and expansion of the mosque. The mosque sought to build a significant extension, expanding into the adjacent property. There was a relatively vociferous objection to the plans from the white Welsh population. These objections focused on practical concerns, such as overcrowding and noise and so on. The Muslim population perceived this opposition as a broad attack on their religious identity and community, as manifested in the symbolism of the mosque. Added to this, increased reports of Islamophobia were reported, which some local

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Muslims attributed to the mosque expansion. However, this is somewhat unlikely, as the incidents reported occurred in the aftermath of a series of ISIS inspired terrorist attacks across the UK and Europe. Therefore, it would be difficult to ascertain a correlation between either. After 2015, the local Muslim community did appear to become more marginalised as several reports surfaced of veiled Muslim women being verbally abused and attacked along Bangor High Street. In the wake of these attacks, I had a chance to speak to several Muslim locals, whom all voiced their concern at the seemingly growing anti-Muslim sentiment in Bangor. As Shakib explained, ‘we [Muslims] have to remain vigilant as a community, it is obvious these people don’t like us or want us here’. Lajuddin raised similar issues, ‘our mosque is important to us, not just for prayer, it gives our families a place to go and be with other Muslims’. The perceived hostility of the white Welsh population pushed Bangor Muslims to become insulated, choosing to socialise in the mosque as a means to preserve and protect a sense of Muslim identity in Bangor. This gradual process of withdrawing into the mosque, due in part to a heightening of Islamophobic consciousness among ethnic Bangladeshis and Arab minorities, has accelerated communal Muslim segregation. The role played by Muslim religious institutions in Bangor shapes the perception of Muslim community belongingness and segregation. During my fieldwork, I observed how the Central Mosque in Bangor reinforces the Muslim sense of community, influencing how Muslim residents perceive their place in society. The mosque acted as a vehicle to heighten Muslim collective consciousness. In particular, the Muslim perception of Islamophobia is often amplified by the mosque. The weekly sermons often highlight and draw attention to incidents that have occurred in the city, even if the actual rates of Islamophobia are minimal. I discovered that such perceptions helped play an important role in driving Muslim self-segregation in Bangor. As a result, the Muslim community in Bangor appeared more defensive than any other Muslim community I had encountered in the UK. Muslim residents commonly cited the need to protect the ‘mosque, community, and Muslim youth’. This seemingly collective need to protect the Muslim community from the encroachment of non-Muslims provides the community with a sense of purpose and identity. However, this community defensiveness

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reinforces segregation, as the Bangor Muslim community adopt a combative attitude towards the other. I did notice powerful loyalty bonds amongst the Muslims in Bangor to their community, which was strengthened by a common purpose (e.g. to protect the community). The defensive composition of the Bangor Muslim community was primarily created in opposition to the perceived external threat posed by the white Welsh population. There were several commonly cited threats attributed to the white Welsh residents. Firstly, the mosque became a focal point for community defence. Since its construction, the Central Mosque has received considerable complaints from non-Muslim locals, who have logged complaints regarding large gatherings, noise, loitering after prayer and so on. The mosque has had its windows smashed, and Islamophobic graffiti has often been smeared on its walls. For the Muslim community in Bangor, the mosque has become a central symbol. It represents the physical manifestation of Muslim community identity, and thus any form of attack against it is perceived as an attack against the wider Muslim community. The process of joining together as a community against a common threat helps foster a sense of community belongingness and segregation. This would suggest that the Bangor Muslim community view themselves as a stigmatised group, pushing them to collectively defend and protect the physical, religious symbols in their community. Importantly, I discovered that the extent to which Muslim locals feel duty-bound to take action to protect their mosque against the majority population hinges on their levels of involvement with the mosque. Those Muslims that identified themselves as regularly attending Bangor Mosque scored higher on the scale for defensiveness. This means they felt more connected to the Muslim community, through the mosque, and thus felt compelled to protect the mosque from outside forces. These Muslims had fused their identity with the community identity. The synthesis between the individual identity and the community identity shaped the way some Muslims engaged with the dominant culture, looking to retreat within the mosque. In simple terms, what I noticed in Bangor is the early formation of Muslim enclavisation. Bangor Mosque serves an important function, providing the Muslim community with a sense of religious and communal identity continuity. This is made more vital considering that

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the vast majority arrived after immigration. In the context of diaspora, Bangor Mosque provides a set of stable values and identities that enable the Muslim residents to navigate the wider society, which is often seen as hostile to Islam and Muslims. Bangor Mosque, located on the high street, is not a purpose-built building; instead, it is a converted nineteenth-century semi-terraced house. It caters to a wide range of activities, such as religious ritual and worship, education, welfare and so on. This makes Bangor Mosque an essential symbol for the community, providing residents with a safe place to practise their faith and meet fellow practitioners. For this reason, Bangor Mosque is not merely a place to pray. As one practitioner explained, ‘the Masjid [Mosque] brings us [Muslims] together, building a community’. This suggests Bangor Mosque provides a host of communalbased activities that are designed to build a sense of Muslim community identity and spirit. Interestingly, Bangor Mosque does not have a specific designated Imam. Its intellectual leadership functions cooperatively, enabling different members of the community to deliver weekly sermons. Mustafa, a senior mosque official, explained the ethos behind this approach: ‘our community is full of Muslims from different parts of the world, it is a multi-ethnic community. So, we didn’t want just one community to be represented. This mosque is not for just Bangladeshis, Iraqis or Syrians. It is for all of us’. This somewhat novel approach means no single ethnic group has control over mosque function. For this reason, all Friday sermons are delivered in English, and not in an ethnic language. This allows sermons to be absorbed by the entire congregation. This also applies to the mosque committee. In other mosques around the UK, mosque committees are an elected group who wield community power. In reality, as Raza (1991) discovered, these committee members often look to secure and increase their own economic and political interest, especially for their biradari [patrilineal descent group]. As Modood (2005) explains, UK mosques face considerable internal sectarian and ethnic communal division and fragmentation. To avoid these communal tensions in Bangor, an agreement was forged that adopted a multi-ethnic cooperative approach. The mosque is not meant to be a separate building; instead, as the Prophet Mohammad instructed, it is a vehicle to engage with the social

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world. The separation of the mosque from the world around it goes against the fundamental purpose of the mosque. The Prophet Mohammad established the first mosque in Medina, and it did not just provide a venue for congregational prayer. Instead, it functioned as a communal hub for a wide range of social activities, such education, military training, political meetings and so on. This suggests the mosque did not represent a sacred space separated from the everyday activities of the social world; instead, it acted as a bridge between the supernatural and every day. In this respect, the mosque sought to harmonise the devout Muslim into the world around him or her. The mosque in Bangor is seen as a sacred institution that stands apart from the non-Islamic world that exists outside its doorsteps. The mosque has become an involuntary institution, where second-generation children are born of parents who take them to the mosque from an early age to introduce them to a social culture opposed to the dominant culture. This negates self-agency, as children do not actively choose to be members; instead, the mosque indoctrinates them as involuntary members. This means most Muslims, especially the youth, know very little about Islamic belief and practice. They are nominal members, drawing their cultural identity from membership of the Muslim community.

Muslim Youth in Bangor: The Second Generation It was difficult for me to understand precisely how second-generation Bangladeshi Muslims in Bangor construct and express particular forms of religiosity and how this, in turn, affects their sense of belongingness. As I did not gain the level of insight, I desired at the start of my fieldwork amongst second-generation Muslims in Bangor, so I  accept that there may be gaps in my knowledge. With this in mind, I seek to present my observations regarding second-generation Bangladeshi youth in Bangor. As mentioned earlier, it became a necessity for the Arab and Bangladeshi communities to transcend their ethnic and class divisions, in order to safeguard the Muslim community. Periods of tension with the

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white Welsh population has periodically heightened Muslim segregation. However, the Bangladeshi community in Bangor has longer standing roots in the city extending for at least two generations, which means they have a larger youth population. In Bangor, what I found somewhat surprising was the high youth involvement in weekly religious activity. So, why were young people more involved in Bangor? The Bangladeshi youth are the offspring of working-class immigrants. They appear to be restricted in their access to the social world. They may attend state schools, but the significant emphasis is placed on retaining traditional religious values. Ninety-seven per cent of the second-generation respondents, for instance, spoke Bangladeshi in their home and cited it as their primary language. This indicates the home environment from which these young people emerge was greatly influenced by preserving Bangladeshi cultural identity. Reinforcing this sub-continent inspired socialisation patterns suggests youth in Bangor do not appear to be shifting their self-identity to incorporate the dominate culture; rather, this aspect is actively being undermined. Bangladeshi youth in Bangor demonstrated similar levels of religious commitment to religious observance, which appears to influence their antagonism to British culture and society. However, in Bangor, there was not the same level of rededication displayed to the Islamic identity marker as I witnessed in other parts of the UK. In the East End of London, for example, some of the second generation seemed to reject the first generation’s imported version of cultural Islam. The second generation consciously adopted a more orthodox brand of Islam, which stripped away the subcontinent cultural baggage. Yet, amongst the Bangor youth, this was not evident or visible. As Tamin explained, ‘Our parents taught us Islam; how to pray and do wudu [ablution], they taught us halal and haram [permitted and forbidden] … I will teach my children the same things I learnt from my parents’. This would suggest the second generation in Bangor view the culture-based Islam imported from Bangladesh as authentic and thus have not felt the need to challenge its cultural influences. Why have second-generation Bangladeshi Muslims in Bangor not challenged, or rejected, the imported culture-based version of Islam established by their parents’ generation? There appear to be several factors that

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may provide insight into this question. Firstly, the geographic location of Bangor has meant it is culturally cut-off from the larger mainstream Muslim communities across the UK. As a result, the Muslim community has maintained an insulated disposition. In other parts of the UK, the second generation appears to be engaging and developing different ways of practising Islam in daily life. The way these young people articulate Islam has created division between the generations, which has given rise to newer identity options. In contrast, the second generation in Bangor does not appear to be expressing different forms of identity. A primary reason for this lack of Muslim diversification may be linked to limited space to manifest religious identity. The mosque and the home inhabited by young Bangladeshis in Bangor are the only spaces available to manifest religious expression, which limits young people’s ability to form new expressions of faith. The mosque offers limited access to alternative conceptions of Islamic practice, as it is influenced by the traditionalism of the first generation. This lack of exposure has meant the first generation has been successful in propagating their culture-based Islamic teachings to their offspring. For this reason, the vast majority of young British-born Bangladeshis in Bangor appeared to hold religion as an active element of their identity. This religious identity is firmly embedded in a culture-based religious expression that has survived the migration process. It still provides a source of meaning to the younger members of the Bangladeshi community, as they find it culturally accessible and applicable. The applicability of this culturebased Islam is facilitated by the creation of specific spatial locations, namely the home and the mosque. Added to this, socialisation provides a way for the young Bangladeshis to learn about their religious heritage, enabling them to become active members of the Bangor Muslim community and thus perpetuating religious affiliation for newer generations. I have been somewhat perplexed by the expressions of identity displayed by the second generation in Bangor. Some young Muslims I encountered, namely in the East End of London, found it hard to traverse between the home and the social environment. In a general sense, these young Muslims struggled to adjust their identity when exposed to different, and often challenging, values and norms. This is to be expected as the Bangladeshi respondents encountered two distinct forms of cultural

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socialisation. In the home, they are exposed to their parents’ imported value-system and identity, which stands in opposition to the social world around them. In Bangor, when young Bangladeshi children go to school, they experience a social environment in opposition to their culture. Added to this, schools in Bangor are disproportionately Welsh-native, making the social encounter more combative as some face social rejection. The transition to forming a distinct national identity can be hampered by these adverse social experiences, placing the young person at odds with the world around them. Some of the young Bangladeshis I spoke to felt exposed in the school environment, and thus the mosque and home provide a sanctuary from the wider society. This suggests young people often feel overwhelmed by the social field, as they struggle to overcome rejection and perceived cultural incompatibility. I observed this sense of incompatibility widely across the population of Bangor Muslims, which is extremely serious and problematic. If Bangor Muslims feel their cultural identity is perceived as incompatible with the social environment, then they will seek out separation. This is why there appeared a heightened sense of isolationism and segregation amongst the Bangor Muslims. They created cultural spaces, like the mosque, as a way to preserve and express their religious and cultural identity. As a result, the Bangladeshi population retained strong ethnocultural ties to their parents’ country of origin. In simple terms, they felt the version of Islam propagated by their parents’ generation was an accurate representation of Islamic faith and practice. This culture-based Islam was a fusion between Bangladeshi and Islamic tradition. This resulted in the centralisation of identity into a core structure, which seemingly provided balance to the other disjointed identities. Trying to frame the second-generation Bangladeshi identity within a discreet and essentialist framework is hugely problematic, as identity construction is repeatedly negotiated within different periods of the life cycle. The centralisation of a culture-based religious identity was contingent on the interchange between individuals recurring encounters and experiences within Bangor. On the surface, the second-generation Bangladeshi identities I encountered appeared to be stabilised by a relative core identity structure. Somewhat confusingly, it did not appear growing up in Bangor generated ‘hybrid-identities’ among Bangladeshi youth. Why had these

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young Bangor-born Bangladeshis not been influenced by exposure to different forms of identity within different social settings? As I discovered, the answer was somewhat linked to the unique cultural environment created by the white Welsh population in Bangor. According to the 2011 national census, 65.4 per cent of the residents in Bangor speak Welsh (Gwynedd Council, 2017). Most primary and secondary schools in Gwynedd are taught in the medium of Welsh. Yet, 97.6 per cent of the respondents did not speak Welsh. Despite growing up in Bangor, the vast majority of Bangladeshi youth could not speak Welsh. In theory, this inability to speak the language may have facilitated cultural isolationism. My research focused on young people aged from 12 to 25 who were born and raised in Bangor. It was vital for me to understand whether a lack of language proficiency played a role in their insular identity construction. According to Shakib, ‘at school my parents wanted me to learn English only, my first language was Bengali, and Welsh is pointless and useless’. Similarly, Golam explained, ‘Welsh is a language distinct to the Welsh people, I am Bangladeshi, and so I speak Bengali not Welsh’. Both these comments illustrate a cultural disconnect, as the Bangladeshi community appear to associate Welsh with a distinct cultural identity. Learning the Welsh language was attributed to the potential erosion of Bangladeshi language and culture. The results of my fieldwork in Bangor showed that young Bangladeshis appeared to oppose the Welsh national identity. This was extremely surprising, in Dundee, I witnessed minority groups actively aligning their ethno-religious identity with ‘Scottishness’. In contrast, Bangladeshi youth in Bangor lacked hybrid identifications, opting to identify with their ethno-religious heritage. The predominance of the Welsh language in Bangor may have acted as a cultural barrier for Bangladeshi youth. As Golam mentioned, ‘it was difficult growing up here, it is Welsh. But that made it easier for us to build our community, I never really had Welsh friends … I just kept Muslim friends, their [Welsh] culture is theirs, and we have ours’. This would suggest that Golam and others actively kept apart from the white Welsh population. This conscious detachment from the Welsh culture and people seems to reinforce negative attitudes amongst the Bangor Muslim community, which

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helps foster a sense of division and segregation. This would indicate that a lack of commonality exists between the Bangladeshi and white Welsh community, as both uphold distinct cultural identities. The social space in Bangor, like the rest of the UK, offers individuals and communities the opportunity to construct different types of identity, enabling the preservation of distinct cultural heritage. In some ways, the Bangladeshi rejection of Welsh restricts the interactions possible in the public space in Bangor. It seems the Bangladeshi community fear that engaging with the Welsh language will in some way undermine their own cultural identity, especially transferring their culture to future generations. In this respect, the Welsh language is firmly tied to Welsh culture and nationalism, making it difficult for young Bangladeshis to identify with it. Therefore, in Bangor, it appears Muslims are choosing to live parallel lives from the white Welsh population, underlying serious social divisions. It is not an exaggeration to assert that the Muslims I observed in Bangor made extraordinary steps to preserve their cultural identity, often using the mosque as a distinct space to assert their ethno-religious identities. According to Salman, ‘Muslims in North Wales are an isolated community, that’s just a fact. We are not Welsh … I am a Bangladeshi-Muslim, do you think the Welsh see me as one of them?’ From this sentiment, it seems that some young Muslims in Bangor are contextualising their identity in opposition to the ‘other’. As a result, Bangor Muslims see the white Welsh population in antagonistic terms, posing a threat to Bangladeshi-Muslim cultural heritage and identity. The broad struggle of young Bangor Muslims to navigate wider society as a minority is compounded by perceived hostility from the white Welsh population. As discussed earlier, the perceived public vilification of Muslims has led to introverted responses by the Bangor Muslim community. This heightened sense of white Welsh hostility has created a communal mind-set in which the Bangor Muslim community feel they must ‘close their ranks’. This inward approach perpetuates segregation and it is not surprising to hear Bangor Muslims express the need for cultural separation in order to preserve Muslim identity. As a result, I observed a high rate of religious dedication in Bangor. This is because Bangor Muslims perceive their ethnoreligious identity to be under constant threat in the public space.

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The examination of ethno-religious affiliation and identity amongst young Muslims in Bangor has its inherent problems. One could miniaturise Bangladeshi youth to one single identity-type, namely their religious makeup. This is quite dangerous as second-generation identity in Bangor is bound to different ethno-cultural threads. Therefore, identifying a clear relationship between an increase in religiosity – regarding religious practice – and as a source of identity is not easy and highly complicated to determine. It is clear from the fieldwork amongst the second generation in Bangor that Islam and ethnicity remains a salient feature of identity construction, but does this lead to an increase in segregation. The significance of the ethno-religious identity marker is vital for second-generation Bangor Muslims, as it helps them make sense of themselves. It is crucial, however, to ask to what extent these young Bangladeshis can choose their identities, especially within the national and communal context. When I spoke to young people in Bangor, they seemed happy to select identities that emphasised their ethno-religious heritage. In most cases, the respondents preferred to designate their identity as ‘BangladeshiMuslims’. This suggests the complete centrality of the ethno-religious identity. However, in reality, the range of identities available to them is greatly limited by the social constraints of family and community. These limitations shape and influence their choices. I encountered, during my interactions and fieldwork with the Bangladeshi youth in Bangor, some respondents who seemingly struggled to find a sense of belonging. In particular, they could not develop a coherent connection with the social field that existed beyond the local. Identity, in a broad sense, is fused to belonging; the young people I spoke to were influenced by the people around them. In simple terms, the first generation sought to impart a sense of local community identity based on imported religious markers. The goal was to inculcate the young into the ethno-religious practices of the country of origin. As a result, they adopted a social identity constructed around ethno-religious commonality and differentiation. In other words, the identity they adopted created distance with those who did not share the same ethnic and religious characteristics. This suggests space plays a crucial function in this differentiation phase of social development, Bangladeshi

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parents’ actively took their children to the mosque, where young people encountered similar identities. Encountering the familiar allowed the Bangladeshi youth to develop a sense of belonging within a safe space and environment. The social relationships and interactions fostered were significantly limited to specific social spaces, namely the home and the mosque. The ethno-religious markers provided identity axes that pushed young people to seek out the familiar in these social spaces. For this reason, the identities I witnessed in Bangor were strongly influenced by space. The mosque, for instance, provided a safe place to encounter the familiar, which was contrasted by the ethno-religious hostilities perceived outside the mosque. The conscious decision to select the ethno-religious identity type provided a sense of communal identity and belonging. The mosque manifested a social space conducive to reinforcing ethnic and religious based identities, providing young Muslims with the tools to resist the hostility of the dominant society. In the broader Bangor context, recognition of Welsh identity and culture is considered highly valuable. This has meant some local Welsh communities have vigorously attacked immigration. The arrival of ethnic minorities is viewed with deep cynicism, as it is felt Welsh cultural identity will be eroded. This was aptly illustrated on a Friday, outside Bangor Mosque, as a local man crudely ranted: ‘we are getting swamped by you people’. This racist rhetoric reflects a wider perceived fear amongst the white Welsh population that people of different cultures will ‘swamp’ local culture. This attitude has helped fuel ethnic division within the community. Despite the little number of ethnic minorities in Bangor, the local population believe their cultural homogeneity is under threat. This cultural difference affirmed by the white Welsh population has triggered a sense of marginalisation amongst the ethnic minorities in Bangor. In part, this marginalisation is due to the fact the local landscape has seen an upsurge in Welsh nationalism and racism. Added to this, the Bangladeshi and Arab ethnic groups in Bangor are not just seen as a distinct ethnic group, but instead, they are labelled as a distinct and separate religious group. The Muslim respondents I spoke to seemed to hold the consensus view that the white Welsh culture was premised upon notions of cultural superiority and inferiority. This somewhat subjective and biased perception

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of the Welsh culture reinforces the cultural gap between social groups in Bangor. As Reza explained, ‘it’s how they see us … we are not white and so we’re not Welsh’. This comment from Reza, a 20-year-old born and raised in Bangor, appears to frame the social division in Bangor along racial faultlines. Notions of race and nation are essential identity markers in the local Welsh context. However, trying to premise the current social divide on racial triggers might be problematic. There may be undertones of some locals considering themselves superior on the virtue of their racial composition. Yet, for the majority, Welshness is not bound to distinct racial or hereditary characteristics. Instead, the cultural aspect seemingly defines Welsh national identity. Therefore, where race is predicated on biological difference, while culture relates to a shared heritage that may often transcend race. In other words, a Bangladeshi Muslim born in Bangor may identify with Welshness, as a distinct cultural and geographic identity. However, if Welshness is attributed to a distinct ethnic heritage, then it becomes harder for ethnic minorities to associate with it, as they have their own ethnic identity. The level of Welshness seems to depend on how it is defined and applied. As Gruffudd (cited in Baker and Brown, 2011) notes, there is a tendency to divide Wales into individual categories of ‘more Welsh’ and ‘less Welsh’ based on perceived geographic variations. As a result, Bangor is regionally considered a more Welsh region. In reality, the seemingly clear distinctions between ethnicity, race and culture become blurred, as these categories are subjective and thus have no fixed meaning. This means individuals construct meaning with these labels.

Belongingness: ‘Living Islam’ in Bangor I have already suggested Bangladeshi Muslim youth in Bangor are inclined to construct identity within a religious and ethnic frame; however, this may have underplayed the challenges and struggles experienced by these young people in wider society. For most young people, identity formation

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constitutes a volatile period, as they try to grapple with different environments and influences. For the respondents I spoke to, Islam and identity interweaved, making it difficult to separate in different social settings throughout their social encounters. Trying to document this process was extremely difficult. As I struggled to understand the social dynamic between identity and religion in the Bangor context, I encountered the idea of ‘living Islam’. This notion was extracted from several interviews conducted with young Bangladeshi respondents, one of whom declared: ‘the mosque is a place where we can live Islam’. This notion of ‘living Islam’ concerned the ways Bangor Muslims expressed their religious identity inside the mosque, the clear space offered a sanctuary. The reverse implication may imply they could not express the same level of religiosity outside of the mosque. The idea of living Islam is more about constructing barriers of separation between communities. The ethno-religious identity of secondgeneration Bangladeshis in Bangor is adopted in the family context; parents instil identity, which is then reinforced in the mosque through their peers. Beyond these safe environments, the individuals confront different and hostile social worlds, like school. Somewhat surprisingly, and in many ways contrary to the vast literature, the respondents I spoke to asserted they did not experience culture conflicts at school. As one young respondent explained, ‘there wasn’t a clash when I went to school, I knew who I was, and I didn’t struggle with the way of life of non-Muslims. We have Islam, they don’t’. This suggests the ethno-religious identity adopted in the home and mosque are designed to help young Muslims to understand their purpose in society. As a result, when they went to school, the respondents did not experience a deep sense of detachment from the value system of their home and community, because it was a non-fixed relationship. As Iqbal explains, ‘I’d go to school because I had to, it wasn’t about socialising, it was about getting an education, and then I’d go to the mosque that’s where I’d see my friends’. When the respondents left the safety of the family home for school, they did not see it as a clash between cultures, because they were firmly indoctrinated within their ethno-religious identity. The survey I conducted on the school and home environment revealed that most respondents did not feel disconnected from their family’s ethno-religious mores.

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This suggests that identities form to maintain distance from others. In the case of the respondents, this is not surprising, as they adopted a seemingly stable identity-type in the home and mosque. From my discussions, it was clear respondents were comfortable negotiating with wider society with their adopted identity, which did not unravel when they went to school. This positive identity reinforcement pointed to a more stable identity that manifested in the home and the mosque; however, it actively sought to build boundaries of separation between white Welsh and Muslim populations. The most notable similarity between the two generations relates to mindset. The first generation arrived in Bangor during the late 1970s to locate employment opportunities. In contrast, to other first-generation migrants in the UK, they sought a permanent settlement. This belief allowed the first generation to transfer the values of the homeland, which legitimised a separation from British culture to their offspring. The first generation sought to establish a religious base that would transport their morals and values in opposition to those of the receiving culture. This oppositional mindset eventually passed to the newer generation. The second generation is born and educated here, giving them direct access to the majority culture. However, exposure to two distinct social worlds has not triggered a culture conflict or identity predicament; instead, second-generation Bangladeshis have adopted their parents’ ethno-religious identities; attitudes and behaviours that have been transplanted from the subcontinent. The younger generation has not seemingly adopted a different way of living in Britain. How young Bangladeshi Muslims move between social locations in Bangor strongly relate to self-segregation tendencies. Leaving home to go to school, for instance, is not about self-discover because young people have already acquired their identity from home. As a result, the respondents appeared to emerge from childhood as complete social actors, helping them, negotiate non-Islamic social contexts. This makes young Bangladeshis a somewhat stable social group in Bangor. Therefore, the final stage of identity incorporation takes place when the young people are formally socialised in the mosque. The mosque reinforces the socialisation received in the home, as individuals are introduced to the shared aspect of their identity. Transition to the communal identity provides a sense of belong and collective identity strengthening. As a result, the Muslim youth in Bangor seem

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happy to exist on the social periphery of the city, choosing to build social cohesion within the boundaries of the mosque. Thus, the mosque provides a social space that facilitates open divisions between the white Welsh and Muslim populations. Consequently, religion and ethnicity appear to be a significant criterion for differentiating between the residents of Bangor.

Segregation without Enclaves I found my fieldwork in Bangor very challenging, principally because the Bangor Muslim community appeared highly insular and relatively resistant to perceived outsiders. Firstly, as stated in the chapter, there are little physical signs of Muslim residential clustering, and thus this lack of concentration into a specific area makes it difficult to draw out significant conclusions. Secondly, I witnessed among the Arab and to a lesser extent the Bangladeshi population, tendencies to feel dislocated by inheriting minority status in the UK. In other words, the first generation of Arabs grew up in social contexts in which Islam was the majority culture, trying to negotiate society as a minority has been extremely testing for the Arab population. As Mustafa explained, We [Muslims] are commanded to live our lives based on the commands of Allah and his messenger, but there are no clear guidelines in the Quran and Sunnah on how to live in non-Islamic countries where Shariah is not implemented. This is a challenge for our community; do we surrender our deen [religion] to be accepted? Of course not! We were born Muslim and inshallah [God willing] we will die Muslim.

From this statement, it is noticeable that first-generation Muslims are uncomfortable adapting to a minority position because this reflects a power imbalance concerning culture and authority. This is a position entirely foreign to them. As Abdullah mentions, I am a Muslim parent; when I send my children to non-Islamic schools, where they learn it is ok to be gay, for example, then this challenges the values I teach them. They are taught things that contradict Islam, and I cannot protect them. This is why the

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There are several key points raised by Abdullah that illustrate the insular nature of the Muslim community in Bangor. Adapting to minority status is difficult as Muslim parents in their country of origin had a greater sense of authority and control, knowing their children would encounter little contradictory values in their Islamic society. However, in Bangor, they feel socially powerless. They fear their children will become assimilated into the western culture, losing their religious faith and identity. This sense of powerlessness has promoted a very reactionary response to the host culture, as first-generation parents seemingly overcompensate against the perceived insecurity of not being able to transfer their religious values and ideas to their children. As there are no specific concentrated Muslim residential enclaves in Bangor, the mosque signifies the physical enclave. The Central Mosque in Bangor embodies a physical and symbolic representation of Muslim distinctiveness in Bangor. Therefore, I firmly believe the Muslim community in Bangor have adopted a very rigid siege mentality, something I did not observe in any other part of the UK. The small Muslim population and presence in Bangor certainly plays a primary factor in developing the isolationist mindset. In other parts of the UK, the Muslim communities have sought protection within the broader physicality of the enclave space. At one level, Muslims see the enclave as a physical space that acts as a defence against the processes of host assimilation. The sense of powerlessness and insecurity I witnessed in Bangor is somewhat expected as a reactionary response of newly arriving immigrants in the UK, who subsequently experience a deep sense of dislocation from their country of origin. The transition to the new land can have a broad disconcerting effect on the individual psyche. The migrants had to leave behind points of cultural and religious significance that provided them with a sense of identity. Consequently, the fear of not being able to transfer their religious identity to the newer generation becomes a greater fear, especially as the vast majority of second-generation Arabs in Bangor are incredibly young. They are in their formative years, in which they are leaving home and encountering different patterns of host socialisation. In this respect, the Arab community have relied on the somewhat more stable Bangladeshi

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community in Bangor. Despite having significant cultural differences, the Arabs have sought out social unity with the Bangladeshi community. This unity has occurred exclusively through the Central Mosque, which to some extent dissolves ethno-national and economic differences. Although, I firmly assert this association is extremely pragmatic and once the Arab community grows it will lose the need for the Bangladeshi community. On the surface, the real distinction between ethnicity and religion amongst the Bangor Muslim population appears minimal. This may be the case in the mosque, where there are no overt signs of ethnicity overriding Islamic communal bonds, but I did observe some variations related to self-identity outside the mosque. The central Bangor mosque has been used as a social tool to consolidate religious identity, which seemingly supersedes ethnic divisions amongst Arabs and Bangladeshis. However, both sets of communities voiced their collective desire to preserve their unique ethnic heritages. As Abdullah asserted, ‘I want my children to grow up knowing who they are. Yes, they are Muslim, first and foremost, but they are also Iraqi. I don’t want them to lose their connection to Iraq’. Similarly, Soumya echoed the same ethnic sentiment, ‘I come [from] Bangladesh, my children born UK [they] don’t know Bangladesh. I take [them] when they get old, they like too much. They see family and Bengali people. I say to them: “you Bangladeshi and must be proud”’. These statements reveal first-generation Muslims in Bangladesh seek to create a strong ethnic awareness amongst their children, as they fear they will grow up detached from their ethnonational cultural heritage. When I tried to explore this in more detail, I began to observe significant signs of communal separation and distinction. Bangor Mosque may be the central hub for religious activity and public involvement, generating a sense of faith and identity. But it is also a shared ethnic space. This is observable every Friday when the religious practitioners complete their prayers large groups form outside the mosque. These groupings illustrate the ethno-national divides amongst the worshippers. Outside the mosque, there is little ethnic cross-boundary homogenisation, especially among the first generation. Arabs, and even Arab sub-groups, and Bangladeshis congregate in separate spaces in order to greet and meet their friends and family. In some ways, as the individual practitioner crosses the threshold of the mosque, their ethno-national identity is symbolically

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dissolved, adopting their common religious identity. However, as soon as they leave the mosque, they resurrect their ethno-national identities. This is natural, as, beyond the religious component, these ethnic communities share little in common. They have radically different customs and values that have given rise to different experiences and traditions. Therefore, it would be challenging for a Bangladeshi migrant, who grew up in rural Sylhet, to understand the social world of an Arab who spent his upbringing in urban Bagdad. These two individuals have emerged from very different social contexts and backgrounds, making it difficult to form any shared bond beyond the religious context. Thus, the mosque fosters diverse ethnic groups to come together under the religious banner. As mentioned earlier, another salient trigger for social cooperation between Arabs and Bangladeshis is the negative attitudes from the host society. The white Welsh population in Bangor does not distinguish between Arab and Bangladeshi. They only see a unified Muslim community. Other social dynamics seem to stimulate ethnic divergence. I discovered the Bangladeshi migrants in Bangor are organised around a few local families who have immigrated from the same assemblage of neighbouring towns and villages in Bangladesh. As a result, the Bangladeshi community in Bangor share village kinship ties, which means they are strongly influenced by family networks. In contrast, the Arab community is exceptionally diverse, comprising of multiple ethno-nationality groups. Thus, the Arab grouping is less homogenous and is often split by tribal and nationalistic subdivisions, giving rise to diversified affiliations. Added to this, the Arab community occupy a radically different social position, as they often comprise of educated professionals. In recent years, this higher status has started to influence internal interactions and the structure of the mosque. It should be noted the Arab community before migration were stratified as middle class in their country of origins, and this status was not adversely affected when they entered the UK employment market as they secured professional positions. Therefore, the economic position of the Arab community in Bangor is higher than that of both the white Welsh and Bangladeshi population respectively. The Bangladeshi community is mostly comprised of self-employed or unskilled labourers, which means

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they suffer disproportionately from unemployment compared to the Arab community. However, there are a few Bangladeshi families in Bangor that have successfully begun local business enterprises, catering to the needs of the Muslim population in Bangor. Thus, the Muslims community in Bangor is localised, mostly detached from the debates taking place within the national context concerning British Muslims. Although the white Welsh population has labelled the Arab and Bangladeshi communities as a homogenous faith community, the reality is much more complicated. Therefore, at one level, the Bangor Muslim community functions as a seemingly unified community, with the physical and imaged space of the mosque. However, beyond the mosque, there is evidence that the Muslim community is fragmented along ethnic fault lines. However, it is difficult at this stage to determine the impact on second-generation Muslims in Bangor. There is a distinct age gap between the Arab and Bangladeshi second-generation demographic, which means it is less likely that affiliation will be extended beyond the mosque dynamic. However, some situations and incidents appear to unify the two diverse ethnic groups. In particular, localised incidents of hostility towards the Muslim community have stimulated spikes in insularisation. Thus, irrespective of ethnic differentiation, when Arab or Bangladeshi women are singled out by the white Welsh population because of being Muslim, then this invariably leads to the Muslim community collectively closing their ranks. It is clear external forces have pushed the Arab and Bangladeshi communities together. As this chapter has shown, segregation can come about in different ways. The mosque in Bangor is a single building; yet, it represents a focal point for religious activity. The mosque symbolises a collective space that reinforces community bonds and shared religious experiences, but it does not constitute an enclave in the traditional sense. The academic literature views ethnic enclaves as physical spaces dominated by a particular ethnic group, whose concentration has made it a culturally and economically distinct location (Peach, 2005). As I documented, the only residential enclave in Bangor is the white, working-class MaesG estate, as this area represents a spatial difference from the wider city. However, as I have explained in the course of this chapter, Bangor mosque represents a spatial point of

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differentiation between the white Welsh and Muslim population. It upholds a religious identity at odds with the social space around it. Thus, the mosque is a closed space, open only to its Muslim residents. This excludes the non-Muslim residents from this space, providing Muslims with a closed safe space to actualise and preserve their religious identity. Ultimately, I believe the mosque stimulates the process of segregation. In essence, the mosque functions as a social tool that actively segregates Muslim residents. As a result, the mosque pulls Muslims together, binding them into a collective faith community.

Chapter 5

Gender Segregation

Wade and Souter (1992) asserted that Muslim women are unable to lead a normal, functional life because of religious and cultural constraints. This implies that Muslim women cannot pursue educational and career interests, as they are bound to a patriarchal culture. Before I began my fieldwork across the UK, I had a relatively skewed view of Muslim women as powerless. Unfortunately, this image bolstered when I  encountered first-generation Muslim women, who willingly surrendered their self-agency to patriarchal tradition and culture. However, trying to understand the picture of second-generation Muslim women presented a significant challenge. I discovered within Muslim enclaves that second-generation women displayed a higher propensity to adopt traditional and religiously orientated identities. It would be simplistic, however, to assume women growing up in enclaves are not pursuing education and career paths. Recent data does suggest that Muslim women are more adversely affected by communal constraints, as well as experiencing higher rates of discrimination (Elshayyal, 2018). These negative structural forces limit education and employment opportunities compared to other ethno-religious minority groups. Therefore, on the surface, it seems women are growing up inside Muslim enclaves with fewer opportunities, which translates into lower rates of professional employment. As I tried to examine these broad issues, I discovered most of the females born in enclaves had strong commonalities – regarding age, education, ethnicity, socioeconomic status and background. Painting a picture of this mostly unknown subject requires insight into the influences within the home, school and broader society.

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Locating Muslim Women Idealistically, when I began to write this book, I chose to look at male and female enclave residents together. However, after consulting the literature on Muslim women (Contractor, 2012), I  realised that a combined approach would reduce the importance of gender. In this regard, I wanted to focus on the complex non-economic aspects of gender differentiation visible in Muslim enclaves. In particular, do Muslim women in the enclave choose different identities, or are they embedded in male-dominated cultural power discrepancies. The perceived male dominance of the enclave means men can impose their definitions and categories of identity upon the social world of the enclave. In somewhat blunt terms, I observed a verbal exchange between a Muslim married couple in the East End in which the husband stated:  ‘I tell you how to behave because I  am the man’. At the superficial level, it may appear men exert power over women in the enclave, and as argued by Bhatty (1988), this reinforces cultural and religious norms and values. It is easy to see male power manifested across the social landscape of the Muslim enclave, with men assuming positions of authority in religious and occupational institutions. As a result, differences in religious and culturally inscribed gender roles affect the role and identity of women in the enclave. These gender differences are bound up with social identities of gender to such an extent that I could not easily separate them when observing gender dynamics in the enclave. Therefore, this chapter explores ways in which differences in gender have been conceptualised inside enclaves. Initially, when I started my fieldwork in the East End, I found it challenging to locate female respondents willing to contribute to my study. I initially interpreted this unwillingness as an adverse symptom of the patriarchal nature of the enclave. However, I eventually discovered this was not necessarily the case; I had begun my fieldwork near religious institutions. This meant I was predominately encountering Muslim women who overtly expressed a religious-based identity. They were reluctant to discuss openly in these social spaces as they feared to defy the perceived enclave cultural norm that men and women should not freely talk in the public

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sphere. However, when I moved away from religious intuitions, I was able to encounter a wide range of Muslim female respondents willing to talk about their social experiences of living in the East End enclave. For this chapter, my approach to data collection had to change because of the segregation between the sexes. I decided to set up a series of focus groups because this would allow me to study female members in a more natural and comfortable setting than that offered by individual interviews. I conducted a succession of focus group discussions, which allowed me to gain a more comprehensive understanding of the women’s shared experiences of everyday life and the influences within different social settings. The focus group provided a rich source of data, which allowed me to find out why particular issues were salient. I did encounter some problems with this research method; however when talking about ethnic and religious identities. The responses of participants tended to be overly dominated by religiously orientated females. These dominant voices slightly skewed the early discussions I held about identity. As I held more diverse and homogenous focus groups, I was able to gain a more comprehensive picture of female identity positionality across the enclave. In order for the focus groups to be effective, I had to spend considerable time planning how to set up and implement the discussion. I eventually convened over fourteen separate focus groups with Muslim women within the East End enclave, which meant eighty-two respondents participated. Unfortunately, owing to unforeseen events, four focus groups were cancelled and were not rescheduled. As Powell and Single (1996) observe, I had to be very careful in selecting neutral and accessible venues. I chose public and social spaces (e.g. coffee shops, libraries and mosques) because I was keen to avoid any negative connections with the location (e.g. private dwellings and rented facilities). Trying to identify female respondents was extremely difficult and complicated. After several months of advertising and contacting different organisations, and with existing networks, I was finally able to secure several focus group discussions. Initially, I was slightly unhappy with the composition of the early groups because it seemed too homogeneous and I feared that diverse experiences and views might not be aired. However, as I held further discussions, this did not prove to be a significant problem, as the women appeared eager to communicate their

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experiences and thoughts. As a result, this chapter provides a wide array of thematic issues raised from the focus group discussions. Another part of my fieldwork, especially in the East End of London, entailed accumulating personal female narratives. I managed to collect several detailed accounts in which first- and second-generation women shared their past and present experiences and narratives with me. Many recurring themes emerged from these personal narratives, but one particularly vivid and consistent issue emphasised by most, if not all the respondents, concerned ‘agency’. At the heart of the debate about Muslim segregation is whether or not male and female members are free agents in the enclave. According to Sen (1985, p. 204), agency relates to ‘what a person is free to do and achieve in pursuit of whatever goals or values he or she regards as important’. In this sense, the agency is general, applying to individuals in different social settings. I do not wish to be bogged down further by trying to conceptualise agency in more depth, as there is little agreement amongst scholars on this debate, as human ‘agency’ is a highly complex phenomenon (Mahmood, 2005). Dreze and Sen (1995, p. 104) believe that participation within the social field is a direct expression of human agency. The agency of female members of the enclave relates to their capacity to make choices and to implement those choices. In other words, are female members socially obliged to follow the ethno-cultural and religious norms of the enclave? As I discovered, structural forces play a crucial role in influencing female identity and behaviour within the enclave. Some women insisted Islamic practice dictated their actions, and thus one has no choice but to comply with Islam in the social space. In reality, structural strains do not exclusively determine female pathways, despite being contained within a relatively closed social system that imposes a cultural and religious worldview onto them, because they still control their choices. Therefore, a balance between structure and agency exists (Bourdieu, 1990). Structural forces may influence identity, but Muslim women are capable of removing themselves from the social structures they are embedded within. According to Giddens (1984), the ‘duality of structure’ means the social structure is the process and the result of social action. In other words, human agents are embedded within structural systems (e.g. norms or culture), but the

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agent is capable of consciously changing his or her seeding in the structural makeup of society. In particular, as the narratives in this chapter will show, the women I spoke to took time grappling with their identities, and in some cases choose to leave the enclave. Within the enclave, however, common forms of agency are often constructed, in which an enclave member builds his or her identity in conformity with the social world around them. However, the East End enclave is more than the sum of its parts (e.g. the members that make it up). In this chapter, I construct a picture of female enclave members, which substantially reduces the phenomenon to a specific demographic constituency. In theory, identity should play an essential role in female definition and expression. In other words, enclaves cannot be fully grasped unless one accounts for the development of a person’s identity. Members of the enclave are seen as free agents, who may or may not act on rational choices. This analytical approach tends to reduce the rational characteristics of free agents to the wider social group, as group goals are seen through the narrow perspective of collective rationality. This approach ignores the individual, which should be the primary measure of analysis, primarily if one seeks to understand how some women frame their identity. Identity and agency, if one goes beyond the social group, should play a role in keeping women constrained within the enclave. A salient feature of attachment to the enclave is the creation of a ‘we’ versus ‘them’ dichotomy. From a social context, it is beneficial for people to seek out attachments to social groups because groups offer protection in unfamiliar and hostile settings. In this respect, religious and ethnic orientated Muslim women may be more inclined to the enclave to secure specific social needs when compared to non-religious Muslim women. During my experience in the East End enclave, I often encountered young people seeking to return to the enclave, as they had often failed to attain specific social needs from the wider society, and thus they had become frustrated. As I continually discovered, enclave members swiftly developed a distrust of non-Muslims and began breeding a hostile identity towards them. The construction of ‘we-ness’ gives an enclave resident recognition that beyond the enclave is a ‘they’ that reflects the majority culture. This creation of ‘otherness’ between themselves and the larger society allows

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the Muslim enclave to shape members’ identities and behaviours, which plays a significant role in the very being and functioning of segregation. In other words, members adjust their sense of identity – their thoughts and behaviours – to match the collectively defined social norms of the enclave.

Tradition, Culture and Religion After conducting extensive fieldwork in the East End, I was able to observe how some young Bangladeshi women constructed their individual and communal identities. It became apparent that some parts of the East End enclave displayed higher instances of religious-based identities. Within these overtly religious dominated spaces, women were expected to conform to rigid religious codes of practice. As Barsha noted, ‘where I  live a Muslim girl can’t go out without wearing her hijab’. In this respect, young women have to conform within this social space, forcing them to adhere to a set of religious norms and expectations. However, there did not appear to be a religious authority that enforced these expectations; instead, they were governed by social norm. Defying these religious norms in the social space may warrant adverse and negative social reactions. As Barsha explained, ‘if for instance, I  didn’t wear my hijab then my mother would hear about it from the community. You have to conform’. This communal influence suggests young women in some parts of the East End enclave are quickly socialised from a young age to obey the socio-religious ideals established by the community. The social world they encounter, and subsequently embedded within, is strongly influenced by a set of standardised religious norms and ideals. I found it extremely difficult to deconstruct the foundation of these norms, as in some parts the ideals appeared to be a fusion between Bangladeshi culture and traditional Islam. In some places, it seemed to be centralised around religion as an all-encompassing system. This meant the women I encountered across different parts of the East End experienced different social worlds with the same enclave. It appeared

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that crafting an identity for must young women entailed navigating through a fragmented social world. This would suggest proximity and location had a crucial role in the levels of religious or cultural embeddedness experienced by young women. The social identity had a strong influence over the women I spoke to, as it dictated the rules and norms that young women must adhere to within the social space. So, it was not a surprise, to hear a common theme echoed in more religious-orientated spaces related to the social importance of being a practising Muslim. When I spoke to women, who identified their upbringing and surroundings as overtly religious, collectively asserted the need to develop an Islamic personality that centralised Islam. This idealised identity-type was considered a critical social goal, something to be crafted and manifested in the social space. According to Nilima, ‘becoming a practising Muslimah [Muslim women] is vital, it is about your relationship with Allah and knowing why you are here, and you need to know the society around you either helps or detracts from this goal’. Similarly, Ayesha asserted ‘our goal is submission to Allah that means when you walk out your front door you don’t forget your goal of submission … so what you have called a Muslim enclave is just a safe place to worship and submit to Allah’. This would suggest that some of the women believe the enclave performs an important social function, and it provides a space that allows members to develop and follow their selected religious identity. In particular, this space allows Muslims to practise and reinforce Islamic ideals. Thus, the enclave acts as a social space that exemplifies Islam. The members of the enclave collectively uphold the rules and practices deemed vital. This would mean that some young Muslim women view living and practising their religion in the enclave as an essential duty. As Rifah explained, ‘I would not live in a non-Muslim area because I don’t think I’d be able to practise Islam properly and I’d feel unsafe’. This again reinforces the idea that the enclave is viewed as a social space synonymous with upholding Islamic tradition and faith. It also underscores the negative perception some young women hold regarding the ‘Other’. It should be noted that the religious-orientated identity is not homogenous, as I encountered equal numbers of young women who crafted their identities in different ways. There were competing identities readily

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visible and apparent across the enclave. Most notably, the ethnotraditional identity appeared equally prominent in the civil space. The assumption second-generation Bangladeshi Muslims in the East End sought to dissolve their ethnic heritage and identity was not accurate. The culture based identity-type seemed at odds with the overtly religious identities prevalent in some parts of the enclave. In this respect, there were large spaces in which young Bangladeshi women wore traditional, and fusion-style, dress; rather than Islamic dress. The migration process did not mean the ethnotraditional ideals and customs were not transmitted to some secondgeneration women. Instead, the enclave acted as a vehicle for the entrenchment of tradition, as Bangladeshi cultural identity was reinforced in some places. Therefore, I witnessed a fragmented enclave, split between competing conceptions of religion, tradition and identity. There was a consensus between both sets of women, namely those expressing a religious or ethnotraditional orientation, that particular social practices were deemed unacceptable. As summarised by Zainab, ‘our religion and culture do not allow us to have boyfriends, have sex before marriage, go to pubs and clubs and drink alcohol’. It is somewhat difficult to separate the ethno-orientated and religious-orientated identities because they appear to have common ground. So, the issues mentioned by Zainab are cultural taboos, but they originate from religious ideals. Thus, Bangladeshi tradition and culture have naturally been fused with religion. The commonalities form the basis of the social culture that seems solidified within the social space of the enclave. Most young Bangladeshi women are not openly prepared to challenge or publically defy the ethnotraditional and religious cultural norms established within the enclave. For this reason, it seems the East End enclave cultivates a social space that pushes young women to either a religious or ethnic-traditional identity type. I have acknowledged a difference between the ethnotraditional and the religious identity-type, in large part, because some young Bangladeshi women actively seek out a distinction. Therefore, I began to see the enclave as the medium through which female members surrendered their social self to an aspect of the enclave identity. This makes it essential first to try to explore how initially female identities are learned and developed.

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I have already suggested the enclave imposes a common viewpoint on individual members, but it is equally important to investigate the home environment. Here I want to focus on how some young Bangladeshi women crafted their identity within the home. This will allow me to see the functionary role of tradition and religion. As I discovered, the home environment is unique and reflects different individual and family experiences. The women I spoke to highlighted different aspects of their early socialisation – a common theme that emerged from this discussion related to gender-based cultural differences. Traditional Bangladeshi families tend to be strongly patriarchal; this assumes that women perform the housework, while men are the economic providers. All the women in some capacity cited experiences were gender adversely affected their socialisation, especially when compared to male member’s experiences. This gender-based discrepancy was attributed to ethno-cultural ideals imported from Bangladesh. As Sara suggested, ‘our parents were born and raised in Bangladesh, where women are seen as vulnerable’. This vulnerability fundamentally relates to izzat [family honour]. In simple terms, izzat is often socially connected to female members and can affect the public perception and status of the family unit within the social space of a community. Within this social dynamic, the process of female socialisation takes place. In which a girl inculcates into the culture of society. This process in the enclave is radically different as it occurs within a traditional ethno-Islamic setting. Outside the Muslim enclave, for instance, girls develop self-autonomy, which emphasis freethinking and self-sufficiency. In contrast, the East End enclave encourages ‘conformity’ to cultural and religious practice, as dictated by religious and ethno-cultural mores. In this social setting, girls are expected and forced to obey and conform to the opinions, values, and instructions of parents. Parental control plays a crucial role in Muslim female development, as girls are expected to conform to the strict limits placed on their behaviour. These restrictive controls do not only manifest during childhood; instead, Muslim girls remain within the extended family unit into adulthood, and thus adult girls must conform to the directives and demands of their parents. Thus, to be deemed a good Muslim daughter, it is mandatory to obey one’s parents. This aspect of Bangladeshi Muslim tradition is considered

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a fundamental part of the enclave. As Waheeda explained, ‘growing up in the East End was difficult for me because I thought progressively, I wanted to go out without any restrictions like my brothers … but the rules applied differently to me only because I was a girl’. In respect to Waheeda, it seems that she grew up within a traditional Bangladeshi family, and thus was raised to obey the family hierarchy, as a social institution. This meant she had no option but to conform to the decision-making powers of her family. At the core of this authoritative relationship dynamic is the notion of family ‘honour’ [izzat], which resides in the virtue of its womenfolk; constant surveillance is necessary to ensure females do nothing to bring ‘shame’ on their kin. According to Bhatty (1988), Muslim children are socialised to prioritise family loyalty above individual interest. In other words, girls are expected to value the family above any other social relations in society. These culture-based ideals were imported during the migration and settlement period. Cultural ideals, like izzat, are used as social controls to police female behaviour in the enclave. Firstly, a high rate of secondgeneration Muslim women living within enclaves appeared to resist the ethno-religious traditionalism of the first generation. Most of the women I spoke to in enclaves, asserted the importance of constructing their identities from pure and authentic sources. These alleged pure sources had to be detached from ethnic and nationalistic tendencies and extracted exclusively from Islam. In other words, Muslim women in enclaves actively sought to differentiate themselves from the tradition, culture and religion of their parents. Religious-Orientated Women: Rejecting Culture There is a common assertion by some academics that the second and third generations of British Muslims seem to uphold a radically different religious disposition than that of their parents’ generation ( Jacobson, 1998; Roy, 2004). This claim premised on the notion that the newer generation rejects the cultural aspect imported from the country of origin. This is only a partial truth. Among religious-orientated women there was a

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conscious effort to construct an identity exclusively on ‘authentic’ religious sources, rejecting the traditionalism of the subcontinent. In contrast, there were women also choosing to frame their identity around the cultural identity transmitted to them by their parents, and thus no arbitrary distinction between culture and religion was made. It was apparent from my fieldwork in the East End that large numbers of second-generation Bangladeshi women had become socialised into an ethno-cultural identity-model. From a superficial perspective, this was evident when walking down the streets of the East End, as I was confronted with different modes of Islamic and cultural dress. This was indeed not a homogeneous space. The Bangladeshi women I spoke to across the East End provided a principal source of insight, but I struggled to make sense of the differences between religious-orientated and culture-orientated female identities. These were women living within the same enclave; yet, they had adopted somewhat different and competing forms of identity. The contrast between these two seemingly distinct groups has made it difficult to understand why such sharp distinctions exist. Although my samples were relatively small compared to the overall population of Muslim women in the East End, I was able to observe one recurring theme. It seemed that religious-orientated women were using the core tenets of Islam to challenge the role and function of Bangladeshi culture and tradition. Often the social practices rooted in traditionalism are seen as incompatible with authentic Islam, for instance, denying women education. According to Roy (2004), young Muslims living in the west that make distinctions between religion and culture are often expressing an Islamist disposition. This is interesting and somewhat problematic, as the women who displayed a religious-orientated identity would be classified as an Islamist by Roy (2004) because they actively seek to centralise their identity around an all-encompassing view of Islam. Attributing Islamism to women seeking out a non-traditional version of Islam is highly problematic. According to Rodinson (cited by Burgat 1988, p. 14), ‘if one chooses this term (Islamism), the reader may become confused between an excited extremist who wishes to kill everyone and a reasonable person who believes in God in the Muslim manner, something perfectly respectable’. The term is extremely ambiguous: modern theorists have defined Islamism in many

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different ways. Some examples include: ‘political philosophy’ (Spencer, 2006); ‘new Muslim movements’ (Lapidus, 1984) and ‘ideological protest’ (Butko, 2004). Secondly, the boundaries of the term are continually modified, allowing it to become aligned with acts of extremism and militancy. For instance, Pipes (2001) described Islamism as a totalitarian ideology, equating it to a dangerous form of fascism. In this respect, Islamism has become attributed to acts of violence, but in a British context, ‘only a small minority’ is devoted to a programme of violent confrontation (Ansari, 2007). Islamism is very general in its description of Islamic identity, which some have suggested limits its usefulness (Roussillon, 2001). In 2007 David Cameron, for example, declared that the Muslim Council of Britain (MCB) espouses Islamist ideals (The Telegraph, 31 January 2007). This magnifies the contextual problems of Islamism because it is often used to describe a wide array of heterogeneous identities. Roussillon (cited by Kramer, 2003, p. 68) argues that theorists in effect make ‘Muslims into exceptions and postulate one truth of Islam that supposedly defines Muslims from one end of the Islamic world to the other, creating a confusion between Islam and Islamism, which reduces the analysis of contemporary Muslim societies to the discourse and practices of their most radical and marginal components’. I remember having a lengthy discussion before a focus group meeting with Nazia, a 23-year-old student and member of the Muslim Council of Britain (MCB), about the 2017 London Bridge Terror Attack. Amid the discussion, she suggested ‘Islamism is a term used by liberal Muslims to separate their beliefs from politics’. Some Muslims find this view of ‘Islamism’ rather troublesome because it offers an excessive partition between ‘Islamism’ and ‘Islam’, which some find difficult to acknowledge. For instance, during the same discussion, many Muslim spectators interrupted. Ayesha proudly claimed that ‘Islam was a complete Deen [way of life] … [And] Islamism implies a deviation from Islam’, while another Muslim female suggested it was wrong to define those who advocate living according to the legal, social and political principles of Islam as Islamist because most Muslims hold these principles. In essence, they were trying to say that one could be a Muslim without being an Islamist. For instance, Ayesha advocated greater political participation and more extensive identification with British culture. However, the ideas put forward by them

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still appear somewhat Islamist, according to the academic literature, as they believe Islam has a political and ideological bearing on their social life. These contextual problems need to be resolved before trying to develop a broad understanding of Islamised identities. According to Burgat (1988), the term Islamism covers: 1) quite a variety of institutional forms, be they local groups or international networks, 2) very different political forms, underground as well as tolerated, in opposition, and 3) very different methods of action, ranging from encouraging conversion from within the mosques to more radical social action and this also includes violent action. (Cited in Pederson, 1999, p. 16)

This view of Islamism provides a more succinct way of looking at this phenomenon because it encompasses the whole political field. As Ansari (2007, p. 3) notes, ‘What these trends have in common is that they derive their source of legitimacy from Islam’. This, as Fuller (1991) believes, allows Islamists to provide an alternative way of ordering modern society. In this respect, much of the confusion surrounding Islamism is to do with its perceived monolithic properties. According to Ansari (2007, p. 4), ‘it is necessary to challenge this simplistic assumption in order to appreciate the complex character of Islamism properly’. In the context of Britain, for example, there exist numerous Islamic groups with divergent viewpoints and objectives. With a few exceptions, most of these groups have non-violent aspirations. However, telling these groups apart is difficult, because they all vigorously contest how Muslims should live and the sorts of government that they should support in Modern Britain. From this discussion, it may seem that the religious-orientated could be categorised as Islamists. However, I feel this may distort the fluid identitytypes I observed in the East End enclave. In the enclave, some young women were adhering to ethnotraditional identity-types; while, others selected overtly religious identity-types. As a result, I witnessed tensions between different identity-types. In particular, those young women who adopted a de-ethnicised identity believed they were adhering to an authentic and pure version of Islam. In contrast, those following traditional versions were in some way less pure, as they had become contaminated by ethno-cultural

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practices and traditions. This would suggest the enclave is a fragmented space, as competing conceptions of identity exist. I am reluctant to attribute Islamism to religious-orientated identities because for the majority of women I spoke to assert the centrality of Islam only related to the individual. This means they did not advocate imposing an all-encompassing conception of Islam onto others. This standpoint emphasises an individualistic framing of the Islamic faith, exclusively impacting and shaping individual behaviour and practice. In a sense, as Khaleda described, ‘Islam is about changing the inner you, it is about transforming the inner so that it matches Allah’s will – submitting to his will’. This suggests the religious-orientated seek to shape their disposition according to Islamic faith and practice. This process of religious seeking is about conceptualising Islamic ideals that are crafted through self-agency, making the religious self an autonomous entity. For this reason, this process of transforming the religious self has nothing to do with the political ideology of Islamism. This self-seeking religious exercise is driven spiritual idealism, as young Bangladeshi women are rededicating themselves to authentic conceptions of the Islamic faith. The process of seeking out the pure and authentic renders traditionalism utterly redundant, especially in the process of identity construction. The rejection of Bangladeshi traditionalism was a salient feature of religious-orientated women. They felt Bangladeshi cultural norms, such as izzat, had adversely corrupted aspects of Islamic faith and practice, primarily related to the treatment of women. It was interesting to hear how these women took influential figures from early Islam as examples of Muslim female empowerment. As Nasreen explained, ‘women in Islam commanded armies, governed, and were scholars and saints … only when Islam encountered other civilisations did the image of women change’. This is why the women strongly proclaimed that Bangladeshi culture had been mixed with non-Islamic traditions and customs. Thus, the quest to reclaim an authentic Islamic identity meant actively turning away from Bangladeshi traditionalism. The process of rejection does not necessarily mean the religious-orientated are a homogenous grouping. In this regard, Islam is a discursive tradition that means it is always subject to situational change,

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which means variations in Islamic understanding are a natural by-product of interpreting the divine sources. For this reason, it is natural to encounter religious-orientated women with different conceptions of Islam. From a juristic standpoint, the divine law (Shari’a) permits different Islamic rulings and opinions. Muslims are used to following different scholars with different opinions, such as Hanafi, Shaafii, Maliki and Hanbali schools of law. This naturally gives rise to divergent viewpoints and interpretations. The religious self-seeking observed amongst some young Bangladeshi women in the East End needs to be slightly broadened out. In particular, it should be noted that ethno-religious groups popular in some parts of the UK, namely the Barelwis, Deobandis, Tablighi Jamaat and Jamaati Islam (Geaves, 1996, p. 50), had no relevance or acknowledgement in the process of religious seeking among the female respondents. Therefore, these movements had no intellectual bearing on the religious rededication process in the East End enclave. This lack of influence may be understandable as these movements are mainly dominant among first-generation Pakistani communities. They chiefly appeal to those inclined to traditional Islam, as it is rooted in the ethno-religious heritage of the Indian sub-continent. The religious-orientated women I interviewed were challenging the traditional images of Muslim womanhood, as imported by these Islamic movements. In particular, 81 per cent of religious-orientated female respondents had some form of higher education qualification, and 62.8 per cent were pursuing some form of employment. This statistical data indicates that exposure to education has potentially triggered some women to evaluate their identity. Increased access to Islamic knowledge has meant young women can study the core Islamic sources, and thus construct a new image of the self. As Ayesha explained, ‘when I began to study the deen [Islam] I realised there were many contradictions between Bangladeshi culture and Islam, especially about women … women in Islam are not meant to be submissive to men’. It appears from this statement that culture is deemed the source of female oppression; while, Islam seemingly acts as a liberating force. In particular, Ayesha stressed how Bangladeshi culture created gender inequality by creating a power imbalance between men

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and women. She firmly believes Islam has liberated her from the bondage of Bangladeshi culture. In some ways, exposure to western education has had an indirect effect on this religious self-discovery, as it encourages in-depth investigation and speculative assessment. The significance of education cannot be underplayed. According to Nina, ‘my parents were not well-educated; my dad came here as a labourer, and my mum still can’t speak English’. Most second-generation Bangladeshis emerged from homesteads in which their parents had relatively low standards of education. They grew up in low-status households, which meant their parents due to their lack of education, have struggled to gain upward mobility and thus remain in the lower economic group. British universities are designed to develop critical thinking among students. As mentioned above, 81 per cent of religiousorientated women have received some form of higher education, enhancing and developing their speculative and critical thinking abilities. As a result, it seems that they have employed this approach to understanding their religious identity better. This deeper approach to understanding Islam has enabled these young women to better analyse the core sources of Islam (e.g. Quran and Sunnah) and apply them to their social reality. This critical approach has also illustrated an array of discrepancies between how their parents’ generation have fused Islam with cultural practices imported from Bangladesh. As Nina explains, ‘our parents follow a lot of corrupt practices, thinking it is Islamic, but it often has nothing to do with Islam … our generation has studied Islam and made sure we only follow what Allah and his messenger have commanded’. This rather bold statement suggests the first generation often do not base their social practices on the study of the core Islamic sources; assuming instead that their parents have blindly adopted from Bangladesh a culture-based version of Islam. By tracing social practices to the core Islamic sources, these young women believe they can follow an authentic conception of Islam. This somewhat idealised thinking has created inter-generational conflict, as the newer generations believe their parents are rigid in the way they practise the Islamic faith, clinging blindly to Bangladeshi traditions and customs.

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Ethno-traditional Women: Still Visible? When the first generation of Bangladeshi women arrived in the UK, reuniting with their husbands, they were often subjected to stricter codes of practice. This enforced subjugation was justified as a migratory necessity. It was felt that young Bangladeshi women arriving in the UK for the first time would be adversely affected by western culture. Hence Bangladeshi men actively sought to limit their wives exposure to the receiving culture, as a way to repeal western cultural influence. According to Nigar, a first-generation Bangladeshi migrant, ‘when I come UK, my husband say you no work, he say I don’t know how these [English] people behave, I be like them. In Bangladesh, I work as teacher, but here I no go out, I just home’. This would suggest many first-generation women were given less autonomy than in the country of origin. The restrictions placed on first-generation women were substantially motivated by the fear of moral contamination from the host society. Thus, it was deemed they should be protected from exposure, as this would somehow challenge their traditional ideals. In many ways, male Bangladeshis feared female self-agency. In Bangladeshi, they had seemingly been inculcated to obey male authority, adopting a submissive and conformist disposition. In the UK, after migration and settlement, the first-generation women were forced to conform to the purdah [seclusion] in a much more rigid and authoritarian manner. In essence, the women were expected to employ purdah in public, denying them access to the social world around them. As a result, a large number of first-generation Bangladeshi women still have inferior language skills, as they were denied access to education and employment. Added to this, the host was perceived as hostile and morally corrupt. As Khadija explained, ‘it was prison … I would scream from my window because I don’t speak anyone. I stay in one bedroom flat; I met no one, I see no one, I feel alone, I cry. I say to my husband take me back Bangladeshi, but I get pregnant’. Many other first-generation Bangladeshi women described similar experiences, as they often described the first several years as a prison. In some regard, this sentiment is true, as the women were denied open access to the outside world, and thus remained captives in their homes and flats. However, things started to change when the East

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End started to undergo drastic demographic shifts. The increased concentration of Bangladeshis in small geographic clusters meant husbands were increasingly prepared to let their wives engage in the local community. As Nigar explained, ‘I go shops, I no speak English. When my daughter born she speak for me … I no need English’. The early female migrants struggled to adjust and engage the social world, as they were often denied the opportunity to interact with the white English population. However, they gradually became emboldened when the East End developed into an ethnic enclave, providing a closed environment. In this respect, the enclavisation of the East End empowered early female migrants as it helped them escape the home and engage the social word. It was somewhat different for Bangladeshi men, who encountered the host society through employment. More significantly, women were often denied access to religious education and institutions. As Nigar mentioned, ‘in Bangladesh, I go with sisters to Masjid [mosque] and learn Quran, we very busy, it was fun, I enjoy too much! But in England nothing’. It was clear that early female migrants were not given space in the local arena as it was feared they would encounter the immorality of the host society, but it is less clear why they were denied access to religious spaces within the enclave. The first-generation women were socialised to obey their male counterparts; thus never challenged the traditional practices that seemingly restricted their agency. However, their offspring challenged this gender discrepancy by participating fully in the public sphere (e.g. school and employment). It was asserted by several religious-orientated actors that they rejected traditionalism because their mothers often did not know, or were unable to explain, basic aspects of the Islamic faith and practice. Some second-generation women seemed to adopt similar patterns of behaviour as their mothers. They were inculcated into Bangladeshi traditionalism. Despite going to school and receiving a western education, these second-generation women appeared to adopt ethno-cultural traditionalism. They were unwilling to challenge their parental authority, and as such were socialised in similar ways to their parents in their country of origin. Their parents had somewhat successfully transferred their ethno-religious identity to their children, albeit with minor variations. Also, it seemed from my discussions, and the ethnic-orientated

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women displayed relatively little awareness of the intellectual discourse around separating Islam from Bangladeshi-culture. As Fahima elaborated, the beliefs and practices in Bangladesh are rooted in Islam, the Bangladeshi people don’t see a difference between traditions and Islam because they are fundamentally the same thing … Islam taught us you couldn’t have boyfriends and that is now Bangladeshi custom. Our traditions are fused with Islam.

Clearly, from this statement, some second-generation Bangladeshi women view religion and culture as identical, and thus indistinguishable. Why adopt ethno-culture, when supposedly second-generation Muslims are documented as rejecting the ethnocentricity of their parents. Well, as I have illustrated, second-generation women are adopting the cultural identity of their parents. However, trying to understand why, is difficult. According to Sanjida, Our culture doesn’t allow us to do things considered normal in English culture, what I do will reflect on my family and community. So, I won’t have a boyfriend because it goes against what I have been taught. Our honour is a virtue that we protect and guard that’s what my parents have taught me and that’s what they have been taught and so on.

This is a fascinating statement as it emphasises the notion of izzat [honour], a socio-moral mechanism predominately employed in Bangladesh to control female behaviour. Thus, it was vital for me to determine the salience of this moralistic ideal among second-generation Bangladeshis in the East End. In early 2014, I returned to the East End of London to start preliminary fieldwork amongst female respondents, and I was shocked to hear about a young Bangladeshi girl that had been beaten by her older brothers for trying to elope with her college boyfriend. I tried to see if any other similar incidents had occurred. According to several residents, this was not an isolated incident; instead, it was alleged honour violence was relatively common in the enclave. I was told about several similar incidents in the local area, and it became a persistent theme of my fieldwork. The purported honour crimes taking place in the East End seemed to be concealed behind the cultural veil of the enclave. While conducting my fieldwork, I spoke

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to dozens of residents, all of whom described some incident or instance of honour crimes. A common feature of these rumours appeared to be the alleged public nature of these incidents, occurring in public spaces and in front of residents. It seemed these acts were taking place with community compliance. I eventually realised that the instances of honour crimes reported by locals in the East End enclave tended to be exaggerated and embellished. It became difficult to substantiate these reports; I struggled to corroborate the vast majority of reports as no such reports had been lodged with law enforcement agencies. In fact, despite hearing several dozen reports of different incidents, only one single incident could be confirmed. Therefore, although only one single incident occurred, rumours persisted in the enclave of dozens of incidents, which I found to be adaptations of the original case. As White (2000, p. 83) explained, rumours can provide a source of stability related to intergenerational anxiety. In other words, older members of the enclave seemingly used honour crime rumours as a way to police female members of the enclave. The East End enclave is predominantly comprised of Bangladeshi Muslim households; within these households, the biradari system and izzat plays an important role. In practice, this honour-based system is tied to female members, which means women’s behaviour can adversely upset the community perception and status of the family. In simple terms, the ethno-religious inclined generally adopted their parents’ traditionalist version of Islam, in which young women are indoctrinated into social practices designed to conform. In particular, from a young age girl are taught to obey parental authority, as dictated by religious and ethno-cultural values. For this reason, the ethno-religious women I spoke to made no clear separation between Islam and Bangladeshi traditionalism because they seemingly represent the same thing. The fusion of religion and culture forms a distinct identity disposition that centralises social practices like izzat, as they are considered ethno-religious ideals, which are bound to Bangladeshi religious and cultural heritage. This means these social mores hold noticeable influence, and those second-generation women who are inculcated into these socio-cultural customs are unwilling to challenge these established cultural and religious norms. As Waheeda explained, ‘I wouldn’t dare to

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have a boyfriend growing up because I knew it would destroy the reputation and izzat of my family’. Therefore, throughout the life cycle of a Bangladeshi female, they are inculcated continuously with Bangladeshi traditions and Islamic values of the enclave. According to the enclave culture, parents in a family unit occupy a unique place, and thus girls must be indebted to one’s parents. However, as one female respondent strongly affirmed, the only limitation to parental authority is Allah. The Quran (31:15) states that the father cannot ask his children to associate with ‘false gods’. Therefore, in some religious matters, obedience to God can override parental authority. Given the structure of the enclave, younger women are not only supposed to be dependent on their parents to provide for them materially but also to obey them in all social matters. Throughout their life, it is expected that a female will be under the protection of a parental guardian. A female without a family unit is open to various forms of disapproval. It is therefore perceived to be in most women’s interest to retain intact their familial networks. The need for parental obedience, therefore, gives them a substantial stake in maintaining a cooperative rather than a conflictual relationship within the household. Thus, women occupy a distinct role within the social make-up of the enclave. The most pertinent factor of such roles, for our purposes here, is the intrinsic obedience Bangladeshi women must display in all spheres of life. In such circumstances, women who disobey their parents are at risk of attracting social disapproval and economic disparities. It is highly likely that the resulting social alienation caused by a lack of family may lead to accelerated poverty and certain social stigma. In a culture that values and prioritises notions of ‘honour’ and ‘social status’, and where such values are manifested through the character and behaviour of its womenfolk, any female failing to honour such normative expectations will be subject to social strife and alienation. The fact that some young enclave girls chose to elope without the consent of their family will be the subject of profound stigma and exclusion. According to Bangladeshi social culture, marriages without family approval constitutes an act of family dishonour, and thus a girl that elopes in such a manner may face a real threat of violence. According to the BBC, police recorded 759 honour violence offences and 265 forced marriages in

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London between 2015 and 2017. Somewhat shockingly, it was reported that many honour crimes do not get reported, as they are kept secret by family members (BBC, 28 October 2017). Karo-Kari [honour killing] is the intentional murder of a member of a family or community member. The act is often committed in response to the assertion that a victim has brought ‘dishonour’ upon the family, community or caste. Historically, in the Indian sub-continent, karo-kari was figuratively applied to the mutually respective ‘adulterer and adulteress’ (Khan 1999, p. 40). Today, karo-kari has become strongly associated with forms of perceived immoral behaviour, which warrant murder. Honour killing is an act in which an individual is murdered for his or her alleged ‘immoral behaviour’. Once a woman in Bangladeshi society has been branded as a kari, then her family members are considered socially and morally authorised to kill her and the co-accused (karo). This is all designed to restore family honour, which has been seemingly lost through the actions of male and female family members. Relationships outside of wedlock are taboo in the enclave for both sexes. Family honour is indicated by the virtuosity and sexual modesty of female members, those who are perceived to have violated or failed to honour such social expectations (e.g. marital infidelity, refusal to consent to an arranged marriage, demanding a divorce and so on) are heavily sanctioned in both their private and public life. As mentioned above, the ‘honour’ of a given family in the enclave is based on the conduct and character of its womenfolk. A girl that seemingly fails to act in conformity of what is expected of her can bring ‘shame’ on her and, by extension, to her entire family. The consequences of bringing shame are severe. In some cases, entire kinship groups become stigmatised and even excommunicated from the enclave. The issue of izzat [honour] is embedded within the social structure of the enclave. Members of a scandalised family may be jeered and abused if seen in public and are generally considered to be objects of ridicule and insult. Like in all Muslim enclaves, it is tough to escape the cultural embeddedness of izzat. The social reality of forced marriage in the East End enclave is very complicated. As mentioned, the social structure of the enclave is dictated by ethno-cultural and Islamic values. In combination, these two value

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systems restrict the social behaviour of couples in public space. Thus, the behaviour of Muslim women in the enclave appear socially controlled by ethno-religious norms that, for instance, make free mixing and dating socially taboo. In such circumstances, women who disobey their parents are at risk of attracting social disapproval.

Age: The Dividing Line between Ethno-orientated and Religious-orientated Trying to understand the different identity positions of my female respondents has been immensely difficult. I  could not understand why some second-generation women opted for de-ethnicised religious identities; while others happily adopted ethnic identities. This contrast was challenging to make sense of though interviews. As I  collected more demographic data, I noticed patterns starting to emerge that highlighted discernible differences related to age. Age, in particular, became the salient point of departure. In simple terms, those who seemingly adopted ethnic-based identities were markedly older than their counterparts. The data suggests 72.8 per cent of ethnic-orientated women were aged 40 and above. While nearly 66 per cent of religious-orientated women were aged under 40, this is a stark deviation, but can it explain why Muslim women appear split between ethnicity and religion in the East End enclave. The general trend related to increased religiosity suggests that younger people are less religious than older people (PEW, 2018). Those young women that have committed to their religion at an early age have done so on their own, signifying the importance of the self-seeking aspect. In other words, young women were not generally brought up in an overtly religious environment. As Ayesha explained, ‘I would not call my upbringing Islamic; rather, it was cultural. Only when I went to university did I start looking to Islam’. This means Ayesha does not consider her parents’ version of Islam as authentic, and thus she felt her upbringing took place in a closed ethno-traditional setting. The lack of religious education in early childhood

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seemingly triggered an interest to study Islam at University. Although Ayesha is only 25 years old, her religion has become an important aspect of her daily activity and identity. Before going to university, she did not wear the hijab [veil], only after reading the core texts did she devote herself to Islamic practice. A number of the religious-orientated women I spoke to cite a sense of estrangement from their family’s culture-based religion. They felt the social practices imported from the village in Bangladesh had no relevance to their social life. It hindered their ability to negotiate their identity within the East End. However, it seems that must young women began to explore alternative forms of identity construction at university, perhaps because this offered them an opportunity to enter a new social setting beyond the influence of their parents. The vast majority of religious-orientated women experienced an intensification of religiosity at college or university. In particular, it gave them independence from their parents. Within the home environment, the girls were actively policed according to Bangladeshi custom and tradition, making it difficult to challenge their family’s cultural mores. This suggests that identities are often crafted to maintain distance from others. In the case of the religious-orientated women, this is not surprising, as they felt disconnected from the tradition-based identities of the first generation. From my discussions, it was clear that the young women sought not to be represented by their parents’ identities. For the ethno-cultural women, they seemingly adopted the identities of their parents. The data cited earlier suggests that this demographic group is considerably older than the religious-orientated group, which suggests they had to negotiate their identity in a different social environment. As Sanjida explained, ‘when I grew up in the East End it was different, we lived right next to an all-white estate. There were always racist attacks against us, not because we were Muslim because we were Bangladeshi. We were targeted because of our brown faces. I never hated who I was because someone hated my skin colour. I am proud of my Bangladeshi identity’. This rather powerful statement indicates that identity development is largely situational. Sanjida’s experiences of racism seem to reinforce her sense of difference, which she redirected in a positive way towards her ethnic identity. This meant she was open to ethno-cultural identity transfer. The

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first generation was able to seemingly transfer the values of the homeland to children born during the 1970s and 1980s. The racism that the second generation experienced during this period in some ways legitimised a separation from British culture. Therefore, this generation has been strongly influenced by the ethnic identity of their parents. Another important factor relates to the age of the religious-orientated concerning their parents period of entry into the UK. I discovered that their parents arrived in the UK much later than the parents of the ethno-religious. Mostly, the parents of the religious-orientated arrived in the UK during the late 1980s, while the second-generation ethno-orientated were growing up. This means the timeframe of the parents of the religious-orientated and the upbringing of the second-generation ethno-orientated overlaps. Primarily, two key points can be extrapolated. Firstly, the religious-orientated are predominately made up of young people born after 1990, which means they represent the shift from ethnic to religious in the East End. Secondly, the ethno-orientated demographic group is mainly declining, as anecdotal evidence suggests their children are adopting more religious-orientated forms of identity. It should be noted that the second generation as a broad grouping is not homogenous. Even the periods I have identified reflect different experiences. Some second-generation Bangladeshi women born before the 1990s, for example, rejected the ethnic-cultural identities of their parents. It is complicated to make generalisations about a demographic group that has such extensive and diverse variations regarding experiences. For instance, some young women suggested they opted to construct a westernised identity because they could not resolve the contractions of living within two distinct social worlds. This inspired them to challenge the conservative values of their parents; attitudes and behaviours that have been transplanted from the subcontinent. In particular, the rejection of these religious and cultural mores is evidence of different identity position. However, those young women that represented this position were extremely low, namely less than 2 per cent of the sample. I can only conclude that second-generation Bangladeshi women in the East End have adopted different ways of living in Britain.

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I do believe during identity development, the Bangladeshi women I spoke to experienced various degrees of identity dislocation and confusion during their early formative years. In particular, transitional stages in the life cycle can be isolated as periods of disruption, experiencing identity separate from their previous roles (Paul and Kelleher, 1995). The transition to new social settings seemed to be extremely unsettling. According to Sanjida, when she transitioned to secondary school, she struggled as she encountered racism and prejudice. Ethnic minorities that encounter difficulty in early life cycle transitions are more vulnerable to rejection, and thus shifts in identity formation. The transitional stage can be usefully applied to the experiences of ethnic-orientated and religious-orientated respectively at varying points in their life cycle. Young people often struggle during adolescence, because this stage of development is perhaps the most disruptive. During this stage, young people are greatly concerned with the perception of others (Erikson, 1950). Many of the ethnic- orientated respondents talked about how they struggled to ‘fitted-in’, which resulted in them developing closer associations to their ethnic identity. As a result, many of the respondents suffered from role confusion, meaning they were uncertain about their position in the social world. The transition stage is a period when members ought to learn the appropriate behaviour for the new stage they are entering (Turner, 1990). However, identity problems are widespread during adolescence, as young people naturally struggle to contend with the changes that take place. Therefore, the most critical transition for the religious-orientated women appears to be to college and university. Some social scientists believe that young people are more inclined towards getting involved with movements concerned with protest and rejection at university (Russell and Miller, 1977). This is because a university is seen as a natural social space for young people to actively learn and grow, and prepare them to become independent actors. Newcomb and Feldman (1994) researched identity shifts during life transitions, focusing on students going to university. They concluded that young people become unsettled by leaving home and struggle to form new identities, which can often lead them to discover alternative identities.

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Muslim Women and Segregation in the East End My fieldwork in the East End reinforced one overriding conception that the Muslim population should not be viewed as homogenous. This was most evident amongst the second-generation Muslim women, I observed in the East End, who appeared to be actively framing their identities in different ways. This diverse crafting of identity provoked my interest in trying to determine the relationship between framing localised identities and the process of segregation. Trying to provide insight into this issue has been challenging. In the course of my fieldwork, I documented two prominent forms of identity-orientation, which I  catalogued as ethnic and religious based. In essence, I needed to determine whether crafting these distinct identity-types stimulated separatist tendencies. In other words, once the female respondents adopted an identity-type, did this push them to voluntarily remain within the enclave space and disengage with wider British society? In order to answer these questions, I asked all my female respondents a host of questions related to the levels of belonging they have to the local (enclave) and national context. Somewhat surprisingly, the vast majority of the women felt they could not maintain their ethno-religious identities outside the enclave. According to the women, wider British society does not support ethno-religious empowerment for Muslim women. Out of eighty-two respondents, 96 per cent agreed that they felt they could not comfortably practice their ethno-religious identities beyond the East End enclave, because of perceived hostility from the wider society. As a result, the majority of ethnic-orientated and religious-orientated women opted to solidify their social connections within the enclave; rather, then live outside it in non-Muslim residential areas. As Ayesha explained, ‘if you wear hijab you stand out, if you are brown skinned you stand out, I’d rather live amongst Muslims, then to live with people that hate me’. This suggests the enclave provides its female members with a safe social space to manifest their chosen identity. In British society, the women felt vulnerable and felt remaining attached to the enclave would limit religious prejudice. Consequently, living within the enclave offers a sense of security, but it can

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adversely hinder their economic opportunities. Several women felt British society established cultural barriers that are firmly underpinned by the host society’s negative attitudes toward Muslim women. When talking about segregation, the women suggested they did not feel segregated. They assumed segregation related to the economic and political sphere, which they did not feel disconnected from, as several worked in the city. However, at the socio-cultural level, they acknowledged disconnection with British society. The question is how space contributes to this cultural separation. The enclave affects social connectivity, which may adversely impact a sense of national belongingness. Thus, 64 per cent felt they did not consider themselves British, despite being born and raised in Britain. This indicates that the enclave is socially influencing tendencies of segregation amongst some Muslim women in the East End. The perceptions and experiences of the female respondents growing up in a Muslim enclave directly influenced the way they crafted their sense of identities. As I already cited, many of the women expressed the enclave was a space to practise their identity. In simple terms, the women have associated their personal experiences with the enclave, making it a nonthreatening social space. Therefore, the type of identity constructed becomes secondary to the social space. The enclave is substantially saturated with ethnic and religious spaces that enabled the women to craft their preferred identity-type safely. Thus, religious-orientated and ethnic-orientated women seemingly relate to the enclave in similar ways, carving out distinct spaces and mixing within shared spaces. In order to work out if the women I surveyed are opting to remain segregated within the enclave requires understanding their life motivation. In a broad sense, what they want to achieve and how they think this can be actualised. As I quickly realised, however, women do not have similar motivations, and they often conceptualise their ambitions differently. I was able to categorise some correlations with selected identity-types. So, the vast majority of religious-orientated women asserted that it was vital for them to be practising Muslims. In a practical sense, this means to live according to Islamic precepts in daily life, bringing their inner and outer self into alignment with ‘God’s Will’. This religious view is in keeping with Islamic philosophical understanding that the Islamic faith is manifested through

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practice, as it is an action-orientated religious system (Brown, 2003). This means to be considered a devout Muslim requires following what God has seemingly commanded. In order to achieve this, space becomes a key variable. Living within the East End enclave supposedly facilitates the process of Islamic practice, as Muslim women can manifest their activities in the social space without the fear of negative reaction. A common theme began to emerge from the data I collected; the women expressed a sense of safety within the enclave, as opposed to the perceived threat from outside. Over 95 per cent of the women felt they did not feel safe living outside the Muslim enclave. From a social context, the women feel it is beneficial to seek out attachment to the enclave because the enclave offers protection in unfamiliar and hostile settings. In this respect, female members are drawn to the East End enclave to secure specific social needs. Amongst these fundamental needs are recognition, security and identity. The process of becoming segregated from wider British society is strongly dependent on the social settings in which the women lived and grew up within. In this respect, understanding how the female respondents reacted to the other, often by stereotyped views, is of great significance. The accounts of my female respondents showed me how they were adversely affected by non-Muslim perceptions and responses to them. As a result, many of the female respondents experienced substantial difficulties in forging long-lasting relationships during their early experiences, leading them to manifest a host of confusions concerning their identity. Although the women grew up in a Muslim enclave, they were fully aware that beyond the enclave was the majority. As a result, the respondents emerged from a distinct minority mindset; because of this, they struggled to contend with the broader society. This directly affected their sense of belonging, provoking a higher propensity towards segregation. Consequently, they felt that they did not belong to British society, leading to their socio-cultural withdrawal from mainstream society. When the respondents were denied security and belonging, they withdrew from those situations to seek safety within the boundaries of the enclave. I need to look at why the enclave affected the female respondents so strongly and how their identities were formed. In order to examine

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these issues, one must consider the minimal group studies of Tajfel and Turner (1979), because they identified three key components that transform identity in a social setting; ‘categorisation, identification and comparison’ (Tajfel, 1981). Within the enclave, the female members adjusted their sense of identity, their ideas and their dispositions to harmonise with the collectively defined attributes of the enclave. In effect, the women took on the enclave characteristics, making them their own, which conditioned the women towards enclave conformity. Besides, the women’s self-esteem becomes firmly attached to the fortunes of the enclave, seeking to achieve positive and negative value connotations, to differentiate their in-group from a comparison out-group (Tajfel, 1981). This search for ‘positive distinctiveness’ shapes the individual’s sense of identity. In the enclave, this real distinction applies to non-Muslims, who become less relevant sources, as they represent the out-group members – those who do not belong to the enclave. Turner (1982) links this to self-stereotyping, which involves enclave members stereotyping themselves when they identify with their social group. I witnessed a good example of this in practice while meeting a group of female respondents at a local cafe. As I arrived, a drunken non-Muslim man stumbled into the café, and some of the women appeared to have a relatively pleasant conversation; but, as soon as he had left, the respondents furiously berated him: ‘dirty Kuffar [disbeliever]… he shouldn’t be here’. This situation demonstrates the process of ‘self-stereotyping’, in which a person may have very different responses to people at different times. For instance, the respondents responded to the non-Muslim regarding their identity, but in my presence, they switched to their enclave identity. The enclave appears to be a recurring feature in the segregation process, as it provides a sense of belonging, a feeling of self-importance, and the freedom to fashion an ethno-religious identity. The social setting within the enclave, for example, is strongly governed by the collective identity, which allows the female member to adopt the characteristics of the enclave. The transition from personal identity to enclave identity is achieved, firstly, by building social attachment on a specific idea that serves as the bond linking the individuals to the enclave. Secondly, behavioural alignment occurs through gradual socialisation. This natural social process requires

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that enclave members adapt their behaviour following the enclave ethnoreligious norms. Once the members have attained this shared sense of collective identity, it becomes the basis for their more extensive identification (Sherif and Sherif, 1969). The enclave identity that emerges from social interaction often gives rise to a deep feeling of empowerment, increasing a member’s sense of confidence and self-worth. Living within the enclave allows individuals to become gradually integrated into the cultural norms of the enclave. Most importantly, the enclave exploits the need to belong within the female member, providing her with a feeling of self-identity. As the segregation process deepens, the female respondents are gradually conditioned to accept the moral supremacy of the enclave. This provides the individual with an array of identity options and a role in the enclave, albeit a negative one, which, in a passive sense, imposes conformity. In simple terms, those women whose only sense of significance comes from being an enclave member cannot be forced to give up attachment to it, for to do so would be to lose their very sense of identity.

Conclusion

Muslim Segregation in Modern Britain

The term ‘enclave’ has become a popular label to describe the concentration of Muslim communities in the UK. Despite constant usage, the enclave remains a problematic term. The result is that no one is entirely sure what is meant by such a vague term, which has become increasingly politicised. In history, enclaves have always existed, in some shape or form, and they will continue to do so because people seek out social familiarity and security. The enclaves that have popped up across modern Britain, however, are not as clearly defined as the walled enclaves of the past. In particular, the lack of geographic boundaries and multi-ethnic communities make isolating specific enclaves difficult. Southall in west London, for instance, has a large concentration of South Asians, but it would be problematic to define it as a Muslim, Hindu or Sikh enclave. It is not a religious enclave, as multiple religious communities share the same geographic space. Instead, it is an ethnic enclave. Enclaves do not remain the same. The East End of London has seen cycles of different ethno-religious transformations. Most notably, the East End from 1960 to 1980 was an ethnic enclave, comprising a mixed ethno-religious space. However, after the 1980s it gradually evolved into a Muslim enclave. The process of locating enclaves is arduous, and the focus of this book has not been a theoretical exercise to locate Muslim enclaves in Britain. Instead, I have sought to understand the relationships between residents of alleged enclaves and their immediate social surroundings, and the diverse forms of identity and sense of belonging that manifests. So, naturally, my discussion on Muslim enclaves has evoked considerable discussion on

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identity-formation processes amongst British Muslims. To understand Muslim enclaves, and the unique position the residents of enclaves occupy, I have tried to comprehend the interplay between enclaves and cultural segregation. Trying to appreciate this relationship is essential, as my research uncovered. The Muslim communities I explored were of different sizes and population; yet, I was reluctant to label all these social settings as Muslim enclaves. As the Dundee Muslim community revealed, sporadic clustering does not necessarily entail cultural segregation and enclave formation.

Belonging and Segregation The first significant assertion this book makes relates to how Muslim enclaves reinforce social identities, which can stimulate cultural separation. During my fieldwork across the UK, I  often asked my respondents a simple question: ‘Do you consider the wider British people your people?’ Although this question is somewhat reductionist, loaded and overly simplistic, the answers I received provided insight into the national level of belongingness; while, illustrating the disconnection experienced by some Muslims. In essence, the responses provided a picture of how some British Muslims view the majority population. More significantly, the data generated from this question illustrated a large geographic split. In the East End of London, 82 per cent of male and female respondents felt the wider ‘British people’ (the non-Muslim majority) did not constitute their people. This included first- and second-generation respondents. This suggests that the majority of the East End respondents construct their sense of belonging from ethno-religious sources of identity. As a result, I believe it is apt to describe the Muslims residing in the East End enclave as segregated. By not identifying with the wider society, their sense of peoplehood is exclusively constructed around an ‘us and them’ division, creating a gap between Muslim and non-Muslim in British society. Why does answering no to this question have such negative consequences? Well, the problem with not viewing the other as your community indicates that the Muslim

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respondents restrict community, local and national, to themselves. It suggests they do not feel British because they seemingly derive their sense of identity and belonging from different sources, which are often deemed incompatible with the majority ethnicity, religion and culture. The Muslims I spoke to, who shared their social experiences, expressed how they always felt British society (the non-Muslim majority) made them feel different. In the enclave, this sense of difference is non-existent, as Muslim individuals can merge with the enclave identity. As a result, Muslims retreat to the enclave, as it offers protection and security. The Muslim community has voiced its fear of the overwhelming influence, and ultimate power, of the majority society. Within the enclave, the power of the majority seems mitigated, and thus individual Muslims prefer to remain in the enclave where they can manifest different identity-types. Thus, the enclave from a national standpoint represents a significant problem; Muslim enclaves allow residents to withdraw from British society. My respondents often stated that they felt vulnerable outside the enclave, as they have little social influence in the majority society. The Muslim population in the East End have acquired social comfort by building a community that exists behind a cultural veil. This suggests the enclave offers social security and positionality, which they feel they cannot guarantee outside the boundaries of the enclave. In simple terms, the social characteristics of the enclave result from the high concentration of Muslims living together in a defined space in order to protect and maintain their cultural distinctiveness. The East End enclave reflects prolonged collective mobilisation into a specific geographic space. As the population of the East End enclave grew, it became a social space that enabled individuals to adopt the ethno-religious norms and identities of the enclave. In this respect, the enclave has a dominant culture, which influences the social space individuals interact within. Therefore, the social life experienced by individuals living and growing up in the East End enclave becomes attached to the ethnic or religious identity orientation. The first generation’s fear of identity dislocation aggravated these two identity-types, fearing the inability to transfer these identities to their children. As a result, for the children growing up in the East End enclave, social encounters and exchanges with the non-Muslim majority living outside the enclave can be extremely limited and infrequent.

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In general, Muslim enclaves in Britain represent social spaces that seemingly immunise the residents from the wider culture. It is alleged some Muslims chose to separate from the host society, which in some parts of the UK has triggered segregation between the Muslim and host population. However, residents of enclaves cannot totally cut themselves off from British society. Residents of the Muslim enclave interact with wider society at some level, and the wider culture penetrates the enclave through socialisation of children at school, television and online media. In Chapter 1, I suggested segregation from the white majority began as soon as the first migrants arrived and settled in the UK, as a direct outcome of white English hostility and rejection. However, the newer generations growing up within the enclave environment experienced less instances of discrimination; yet, they also maintained separation from the wider society. A critical factor in the recent period has been the desire to preserve identity, as the enclave offers a social space for young people to practise their faith. This has become increasingly salient as the wider society has developed growing hostility towards Islam and Muslims. This has stimulated a trend towards religiousbased isolationism amongst the enclave residents, enabling them to assert their Muslim and ethnic identities in a safe space. Somewhat surprisingly, ethnic-orientated second-generation residents equally feel the social need to remain within the enclave. As I discovered in Chapter 2, age and context played a crucial role in maintaining this demographic tied to the enclave. In short, the ethnic orientated identity appeared to be expressed by older second-generation residents, who grew up during a period of racial remapping and thus experienced significant physical abuse and violence from the host society. This social group felt disconnected from the host society and the white English population, opting to solidify their ethnic bonds within the enclave. As a result, the enclave allowed them to preserve their ethnic and cultural identity. The surveys I conducted in England, Wales and Scotland revealed some second-generation British Muslims selectively opt to reside in enclaves rather than live amongst the majority population. They actively chose to live in areas that seem segregated, promoting cultural isolationism. The enclave offers residents a safe space in which members form close ties with fellow Muslims, preventing their exposure to the majority culture

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that is seemingly at odds with Islam and Muslims. This is why middleclass members appear to remain within the enclave, despite residential properties being somewhat old and rundown. The enclave provides them with a safe social space to raise their children, enabling them to inculcate the next generation with an ethnic and religious identity. In many ways, the patterns of identity formation I witnessed in the enclave environment reinforce self-segregation tendencies, as enclave members can construct their identity without discrimination. This means Muslim self-segregation is at least partly influenced by a social desire to avoid interacting with the host culture. Nationhood, Segregation and Enclaves Trying to determine the levels of national belonging in the UK context can be extremely difficult, especially when relating this to British Muslims. This is because the formation of national identity amongst Muslims cannot ignore the diasporic migration process. In this respect, British Muslims adopt multiple ethnic and national affiliations, which means identity deviations exist as some seek to assert one type over the other. From Chapters 1 and 2, it appeared that British Muslims in the East End were reluctant to abandon their ethnonational identity for ‘Englishness’. In this regard, the image I constructed of Muslim identity in the East End was somewhat bleak, as second-generation British Muslims appeared to uphold the identity patterns of their immigrant parents. The Islamicorientated actively challenged the ethnic basis of communal identity, but this social demographic also upheld the enclave boundaries, seeing it as a social space to preserve their religious identity. In Dundee, I observed different identity patterns form with national identity. From the fieldwork conducted in Dundee, it appeared ‘Scottishness’ was a more inclusive identity than ‘Englishness’. The data I collected indicated that Muslims in Scotland were more likely to identify with Scottish national identity. Strikingly, this association was not merely constructed around securing welfare and social entitlements; it also appeared to be culturally embedded. The vast majority of Muslims

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I spoke to in Dundee actively framed their identity around three distinct elements, namely Scottishness, Islam and ethnicity. They felt settled identifying their social level of self to a specific geographic location, adopting the national symbols and norms into their identity structure. This suggests the significance of thinking and acting in alignment with national identity means that enclave formation is not necessarily promoting cultural segregation in Dundee. In simple terms, I witnessed a firm link between the everyday social activity of Muslims in Dundee and national belonging. This became evident when discussing British foreign policy in the Muslim world. The coalition invasion of Iraq, for example, instigated widespread debate about Britain’s foreign policy. In particular, the military occupation of Muslim countries triggered questions about Muslim loyalty. Interestingly, the Dundee Muslims I spoke to voiced concerns regarding British and US foreign policy, which made it difficult for them to associate with Britishness as a result. As Ali explained, ‘UK foreign policy is decided in Westminster, and it always goes against the interest of the Scottish people. This is why I support Scottish independence’. I found it insightful that Ali, and many other Dundee Muslims, think and identify themselves in purely Scottish terms at the national level. This allows them to draw on Scottishness, while, ignoring and rejecting their Britishness. This suggests that Scottishness is a form of national identity that allows Muslims to absorb the cultural symbols and behaviours of the local and national context. Importantly, it gives them the ability to generate familiarity with the social customs practised around them. In essence, they feel that Scottish culture is accessible. It was clear Dundee Muslims felt a sense of belonging in Scotland. This was made evident from the way they spoke about issues, as they referenced their Scottishness continuously in everyday life. This implies geographic location plays a role in cultivating national identity, especially among the Muslim population who construct meaning from the national context. This means Scottish Muslims can participate in shared cultural practices, making them feel connected to the nation. When I asked some of my respondents to define what they mean by ‘Scottishness’, they struggled to pinpoint precisely what defines the term. This is not surprising, as there are a variety of particular factors that shape the way Scottish identity is defined. For instance, the vast majority

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of second-generation Scottish Muslims, who were born in Scotland, felt they are Scottish. My fieldwork has revealed that British Muslims define themselves in different, and often conflicting, ways. The essence of this identity divergence is somewhat rooted in the social encounters that shape individual and communal experiences. Some of these social experiences can be extremely negative, reinforcing Muslim opposition to the broader society. However, it is essential to understand the different impact identities have on the way British Muslims construct a sense of belonging. As Subir explained, ‘I was born in Britain, but I can’t just cut out my Bangladeshi heritage. I am a British Bangladeshi, so I belong to two both’. The phenomenon of migration from different nation-states has complicated the question of national identity and belonging. For most Muslims. It is challenging to construct a sense of national belonging around a single national culture. As Subir’s comment above illustrates, most British Muslims feel they belong to dual national cultures. This duality can provoke the claim of split loyalties, as many young British Muslims struggle to frame their identity exclusively around British culture. In particular, I encountered many British Muslims, who broke down national identity and belonging in terms of entitlement and heritage. I found this split somewhat unusual, as it revealed the different ways some British Muslims construct their place in British society. The vast majority of Muslims I spoke to in the East End of London, for instance, constituted national belonging within a legal framework, centred on entitlement, which gave them membership and rights as a UK citizen. This gave them the entitlement to access a wide range of state institutions and secure welfare benefits. This pragmatic connection negates cultural attachment to the state, which is gradually stripped away as belongingness is simply reduced to a set of legal entitlements. This suggests that British Muslims do not necessarily adopt the shared values and attitudes of the wider British society, especially those things that go beyond the legal institutions. This begs the question of whether this lack of cultural connection can be attributed to different sources of heritage. White-native members of the British state may have deeper connectivity with the state, as they draw their cultural origins from the state, or extract their identity from a

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shared British heritage. In contrast, most British Muslims draw their cultural heritage from their ethnic lands of origin. British heritage and culture are not easily understood, especially at the ethnic level as the British Isles have been historically fused with a rich and diverse ethnic brush. However, at the ideological level, a core set of political values are often cited as the cornerstone of British values. In particular, individual autonomy plays an important social function in British society and culture. However, as the fieldwork in the Muslim enclaves has shown, British Muslim culture seemingly rejects any view of the individual being separate from his or her community. Instead, the individual in Muslim enclaves is considered subordinate to the will of the community. Thus, Muslim communities are built around group conformity, making them social spaces that actively resist individual autonomy. British Muslims are embedded in a social setting rooted in conformity to family, community and enclave. As a result, second-generation British Muslims are socialised to think and act by their religious and ethnic identities. At the social level, British Muslims appear insulated from British society, as they seemingly only need to interact and reside with spaces that uphold Muslim cultural values. Another significant factor adversely affecting Muslim national belongingness relates to the extreme far right, who have used nationalistic symbols and rhetoric to further their racist agenda. The prolonged activities of racist and Islamophobic organisations have only reinforced the view among some British Muslims that the majority population does not want them. When far-right organisations appropriate nationalistic symbols, it becomes complicated for ethnic minorities not to equate nationalism with the extremist ideology of the far right. In particular, the ideology of the far right continues to emphasise racial and religious differences, which reinforces boundaries between social groups. In simple terms, British Muslims, especially in England and Wales, feel Muslims are singled out as different from the white Christian majority. The social attitude purported by the far right that constructs the Muslim demographic as ‘outsiders’ has a detrimental effect on creating a sense of belonging and inclusion. I have documented the bitter experiences of Bangladeshi Muslims as they arrived in the East End of London, the adverse racism they collectively encountered

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prompted their desire to seek out geographic spaces that were secure from the hostility of the host society. In contrast, Muslims settling in Dundee experienced minimal conflict with the host society, allowing them to feel a sense of belonging. This acceptance allowed Muslims in Dundee to gain social recognition and build a Muslim community that was not at odds with the world around it. During my fieldwork in the East End, I regularly encountered a commonly held assertion about self-identity, which was primarily purported by second-generation enclave members. The notion of a primary identity component deemed essential to social life in the East End. This aspect was identified as Islam. This meant irrespective of the levels of religious affiliation and commitment, Islam should be considered the defining aspect of self-identity. I found this assertion interesting, as there was a social expectation that members of the enclave must emphasise Islam as opposed to any other aspect of identity as the most salient. This was deemed a public exercise, which meant in practice individuals did not have to maintain religion as central to one’s daily activities, but it should be seen as the most definable aspect. In simple terms, an enclave member’s religious identity in the social sphere should take precedence over their ethnic, national or other identities. This expectation I found tended to skew collectively acquired data, as it seemed one had to report Islam as the most crucial aspect of their identity. During several focus group discussions, for instance, some ethnicorientated female respondents would often be rebuked for asserting their Bangladeshi identity over religion. As Fahima mentioned to me privately after a focus group discussion, ‘I find it difficult to say “I’m Bangladeshi” because the other women seem obsessed with Islam and they think ethnicity is not real’. It is somewhat clear that some members of the enclave can be subject to forms of identity prescriptiveness whereby ethnic-orientated members may feel pressured to identify themselves in terms of only one identity-type, namely Islam. For the second generation, religious identification has become increasingly important, which makes some sense as they have seemingly grown up and been socialised within a religious enclave. In the contemporary context, I find it surprising some second-generation enclave members view ethnicity in negative terms because the enclave in which they currently reside

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began life as an exclusively ethnic enclave. I suggested at the beginning of this book, the physical landscape of the East End stands out as a distinct Muslim enclave, the shops and people dominate the space. More significantly, religious norms also appear to influence the social space, which can be seen with the high frequency of women wearing the hijab [veil]. Several women, for instance, told me there were many women-only hair salons, which men are not permitted to enter. Therefore, on the surface, religion has carved out a distinct space of its own in the East End, as Muslims seek to reinforce their religious practices in the public sphere. The popular press often depicts British Muslims as a significant source of social and political dysfunction. In other words, the Muslim population is seen as a source of social decay, because they selectively seek out segregation from British society. At the heart of this supposed separation is Islam. The fact that Muslims dwell in isolated communities in deprived areas across the country does not necessarily mean that Islam can be easily attributed to the phenomenon of segregation. This is because a single collective Muslim identity is a myth; it is somewhat artificial and inaccurate to think about British Muslims as a homogeneous group. In fact, despite the extensive social change and upheaval brought about by migration, identity construction is still a fluid process that relies on a range of different sources. Consequently, post-modern theory contends that sources of identity can no longer be interpreted into fixed homogeneous classifications. This is supported by the ‘hybridisation’ of Muslim identities that have fragmented into various social categories. To facilitate this notion, one must assert that the Muslim population in Britain is heterogeneous, making generalisations about a single Muslim identity difficult to substantiate. Ansari (2004, p. 2) explains that because ‘of this diversity, British Muslims at the start of the twenty-first century are neither ethnically nor ideologically homogeneous’. Enclaves Post-9/11 The phrase Muslim enclave encompasses a complex social world. The residents of these enclaves appear embedded in a social space cut off from British society and culture. As I documented, the first generation

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established ethnic enclaves as a means to preserve their ethnonational and religious identities, as well as to seek out safe zones from the hostile white English population. In order to safeguard their children, the first generation felt it was appropriate to limit their children’s access to the host society. This approach has meant that some young Muslims have grown up in parallel communities, separated from the majority culture by spatial and cultural segregation. What is clear is that the first generation created a social space in which ethnicity and religion were fused to the enclave. As I discovered in the course of writing this book, some young Muslims are framing their identity around Islam, or as they perceive it ‘authentic Islam’, as a way to challenge the traditional mindset of their parents’ generation. However, this does not disentangle the young person from the social separation of the enclave; instead, it reinforces there attachment. This attempt to rebrand Islam could be a manifestation of growing up in a religious enclave. It did become somewhat apparent that the enclave experienced deeper insulation after the 2001 War on Terror campaign, in which the Muslim community began to be viewed as a potential source of terrorism. My respondents, especially in the East End of London, cited incidents of increased harassment, violence and abuse in the aftermath of terror incidents over the past few years. Importantly, these reported incidents transpired outside the boundaries of the East End enclave. The perceived increase in Islamophobia in the wake of Islamic inspired terrorism has only perpetuated the isolation of the Muslim community in the UK. The data I collected seemingly does contradict other academic research, for example, a survey conducted by the Eastern Eye showed that 87 per cent of Asian people polled considered themselves loyal to Britain (cited in Ansari, 2004, p. 391). There are a few contextual problems with this survey. Firstly, it was conducted in 2001; the rise in anti-Islamic sentiment has rapidly increased since this period. Secondly, the respondents are not identified, and thus ‘Asian’ is a broad identity description, encompassing a wide range of different religious groups and peoples. For this reason, the data I collected indicated a general lack of belonging and association to Britishness amongst the Muslims interviewed.

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Today, in modern Britain, the reality of most Muslims is that they reside in concentrated multi-ethnic religious communities, some of which are enclaves. Those in large ethno-religious enclaves have shown signs of cultural and spatial segregation from the majority culture. These enclaves as I discovered reflect a social space grounded by a set of parallel ethnoreligious norms and values that set them in opposition to the broader social landscape. British Muslims, as Ansari (2004, p. 394) asserts, ‘are quick to claim the entitlement of citizenship that being British gives them; but while they may reject aspects of Britishness’. This suggests the ‘belongingness’ question seemingly stands as the bridge between integration and segregation. In the aftermath of the 7/7 terror attacks, the issue of national belonging was debated, and in particular, British Muslims were seen as a distinct group displaying less national cultural capital. This negative view of British Muslims has perpetuated the Muslim perception that they are maligned as not being ‘truly British’ (Mansoor, 2008). From my fieldwork, it seemed apparent that some British Muslims had weaker levels of belonging. As I have constantly tried to illustrate throughout this book, the social map of Muslim enclaves is not homogenous, sub-groups based on ethnicity and religion are quite visible. Much of my work has focused on understanding the nature of identity distinctions amongst these social groupings. I gradually began to realise distinct social patterns existed in the Muslim enclaves. There appeared to be a link between religious affiliation and identity with belonging. Those British Muslims that identified themselves as religious-orientated displayed lower levels of national belongingness and stronger ties to the Muslim community. The religious identity positioned the individual at odds with the social world around them, which fuelled segregation from the majority. The religious identity developed a stronger associative bond with fellow Muslims, often manifesting in specific social spaces within the enclave. In the case of the religious-orientated, they defined their identity as an unconditional extension of the Muslim enclave, and thus their sense of belonging was tied to the community and not to the state. The notion of preserving the Islamic faith featured as a critical trigger for segregation. This means British culture was perceived as a threat to the Muslim community. This cultural disassociation with British values makes

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it difficult for them to think of themselves as British. This relates to the cultural sphere, as some religious-orientated Muslims see their relationship with the state as an extension of their legal rights as citizens, which means they can adapt their cultural viewpoint and identity. From the fieldwork, social rejection played a crucial narrative in the low belongingness exhibited by religious-orientated respondents. This is why some Muslims I encountered actively sought to exclude themselves from British society. I noticed during my discussions with religious-orientated respondents that they would often employ the term ‘we’ to refer to Muslimness, rather than Britishness. The consequence of this verbal reference enables the user to distance themselves from the other. Thus, religiosity and identity in the enclave are used as powerful instruments that maintain a communal boundary between Muslim and Non-Muslim. This sentiment reflects the view that most Muslims residing in enclaves feel out of place beyond the boundaries of the enclave.

Identity in the Muslim Enclave My study of Muslim enclaves has ranged across different parts of the UK, which has provoked a series of questions. My task in this final chapter is to retrace my journey through Muslim enclaves and make sense of the different identities I observed. From a traditional sociological perspective, the study of enclaves might focus on the social structures and networks that exist, to explain how they function. In this approach, the goal is to locate how the enclave, as a distinct social system, meets social needs. My approach may have begun with this in mind, but gradually evolved to focus on sense-making and cultural belonging. This has helped because the enclaves I explored are not demarcated, but the inhabitants do seek communal isolation, making them visibly stand out from the wider culture. This cultural difference has created a sense of opposing social worlds, which makes it essential to understand how British Muslims construct their identities within these seemingly parallel communities.

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I have tried to understand the collective world of Muslims residing in enclaves, but representing the social norms and identities has been challenging. At the start of my journey, it was clear that enclaves shaped the behaviour of individual enclave members. This is a very broad assertion, and it does not account for the diversity in the enclave. The enclaves I encountered do not simply uphold a single form of identity-type, namely the religious. Preferably, the enclave offers its members the opportunity to choose, and even mix and match, identities. In theory, the enclave provided a social space in which members could make sense of themselves, adopting an identity that incorporates their individual preference. However, as I went deeper, it became apparent that the enclave strongly influenced the self-identification process, questioning the notion of choice and self-agency. I discovered that the social norms of the enclave strongly influence the extent an individual member can select their identity preference. In essence, some constraints push individual’s to adopt an ethnic or religious identity. The enclave is a distinct social world, and if individuals want to gain a sense of belonging within the social structure of the enclave, then they must conform to the dominant identity-types. It is challenging for individuals to seek out alternative identity-types, especially if they contradict the enclave culture. Therefore, the enclave preserves ethno-religious commonality, making differentiation difficult. At the basic level, the Muslim enclave provides the member with a sense of geographic grounding and social ties to individuals that share similar identity dispositions. This provides members with a sense of personal location, giving them a feeling of belonging. The ability to select one’s identity-type is not merely a personal choice; instead, the individual must negotiate identity in the social space they occupy. The early formation of ethnic enclaves, for example, was rooted in host discrimination. It was difficult for the first generation of Muslim immigrants to move away from race and ethnicity because British society had seemingly rejected them based on these physical attributes. Thus, ignoring racism in the narrative of early immigrants does not help me understand the development of Muslim enclaves and segregation. In modern Britain, something has changed. On the surface, the enclave has solidified a communal identity that transcends race. The enclaves I encountered appeared to manifest religious identities as the primary social tie, which suggests

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enclaves experienced a shift from ethnic to religious. As a result, these religious social spaces seek to preserve religious identity. However, religious identities are not merely exercised, or even constructed, in a homogenous manner. For some, religion is simply a cultural component that merges ethnicity and traditional Islam. While, others seek to form a new Islamic identity detached from the subcontinent cultural baggage, making Islam the central focus for their behaviour and identity. Thus, to understand Muslim enclaves today requires understanding the diversity in Muslim enclaves, as well as the reasons for their formation in new and old settings. Those categorising themselves as religious-orientated in the enclave has grown amongst second- and third-generation residents, indicating that this form of identity has become an increasingly salient feature of Muslim enclaves. The early enclaves attracted individuals from non-white ethnicities; however, when ethnicity became somewhat defunct, the religious identity was used to keep social life connected. This means that understanding the positionality of enclave residents has moved beyond ethnic group identification. Although the term ‘Muslim’ is a broad social category, the enclave has become a symbolic space designed to preserve and reinforce the common features of the Islamic faith, irrespective of ethnic difference. However, this may be how the media portray Muslim communities across modern Britain, but in reality, the social construction of identity is much more complicated. The residents of Muslim enclaves have distinct life histories, which have been shaped by their migration and settlement experiences. These experiences provide insight into the complex nature of identity formation within the social space of enclaves. There appeared to be a disparity in identity preference related to age. In simple terms, the data showed that older second-generation members of Muslim enclaves retained higher levels of identification with their ethnic-based identity. Whereas, younger residents asserted religion as their identity preference. This age-based gap illustrated two key further vital differences. Firstly, the ethnic-orientated displayed lower levels of religiosity, constructing their religious activity within an individualistic framework. This meant they felt religion did not have to be asserted in the social sphere; instead, it was to be expressed as a set of cognitive beliefs. The identity-type of ethnicorientated respondents in some ways was an ideological mixture between

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traditionalism and secularism. The imported traditional identities and values of the subcontinent brought over by early immigrants were merged with the identity construct of older second-generation respondents. This identity-type sought to preserve the value system of the country of origin, emphasising ritual and cultural practices. In many ways, this identity provided the respondents with a value system capable of dealing with the social hostility they encountered when interacting with the white English population. Tradition provided them with a connection to their ethnic group and heritage, which became significant when the white majority rejected them. The capacity of immigrant groups to recreate their self-images and identities provides them with the tools to counteract the dominant culture and promote a sense of self-determination. Secondly, there appeared to be a disparity in the levels of belonging expressed by both religious and ethnic-orientated social groups. In Chapter 2, I explored different enclave sub-groupings of second-generation Muslims. The religious-orientated displayed lower levels of national belonging, highlighting a gap between Muslim and non-Muslim. In this respect, the enclave provides its inhabitants with different social space and experience, limiting their interaction with the perceived hostile wider society. The religious-orientated who are often younger are growing up with limited exposure to the other, the schools they attend and the public spaces they occupy are predominantly Muslim. These are for them ‘Muslim spaces’ in which they encounter safety and cultural similarity, which means they have limited interaction with non-Muslim youth. This means older secondgeneration, ethnic-orientated Muslims have slightly different social experiences, as they were socialised in less religious orientated spaces. However, their exposure to non-Muslims was incredibly harmful, encountering racial prejudice and discrimination. Therefore, both groups feel protected within the enclave space, which perpetuates a gap with the wider society. Preserving Identity Tradition, religion and culture play an important function in the daily lives and activities of British Muslims. However, the cultural transition

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after the settlement period created a sense of identity discontinuity, especially for second-generation British Muslims. For the first generation, they arrived in the UK with a fully formed identity structure that was harvested in the country of origin. When they left the Muslim world to resettle in Britain, Muslim immigrants did not leave behind their ethnoreligious cultural identity. Instead, they sought to implant their culture within the UK, preserving their identity in the host society, to maintain a connection with their country of origin. This meant they brought with them their value system and cultural practices, which they tried to transmit to their children. In Bangor, North Wales, the Muslim presence is relatively in its infancy. The challenges they are currently experiencing provided me with insight into how some Muslim communities have actively tried to preserve their ethno-religious identities. I presented a case study of Muslims living in Bangor, in Chapter 4, showing how they construct social spaces as a way to keep their identity separate from the wider society. The Bangor Central Mosque, for instance, became a communal symbol that resisted acculturation process. For this community, the mosque functioned as a vehicle that upheld Muslim values and identities amongst distinct ethnic groups. The mosque operated as a diverse enclave providing shared commonality, in which different ethnic groups performed common practices, creating a sense of community. This suggested Bangor Muslims were not submitting to the wider social context; instead, they were actively choosing to construct their lives and identities in a manner that resisted the dominant culture. Thus, despite class and ethnic differences, religious identity emerged from a pragmatic need to form a community. In this respect, the Bangor Muslim community created symbolic boundaries of separation, assigning collective identities in the mosque that formed the basis for similar patterns of social interaction. Enclave formation, in a spatial sense, did not form in Bangor due to the small Muslim presence in the city. The mosque functioned as a de facto enclave. Thus, an enclave does not necessarily have to consist of population clusters; it can be a single building. It should be stated that this enclave mentality was provoked by perceived white Welsh hostility, as well as an attempt to safeguard Muslim identity.

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In Dundee, I noticed significant differences. The respondents were open to adapting their ethno-religious identity to the national context. I began to realise that some Scottish Muslims viewed engagement with Scottish society in a non-combative manner, seeing it as an extension of their new host identity. Therefore, Scottish Muslims felt comfortable identifying with Scottish national identity, adopting it with their cultural identities. This mode of acculturation contrasted with those of other Muslims in England and Wales. The Muslims I observed in the South appeared very resistant to absorbing Englishness and Welshness into their identity construct. However, as I discovered in Dundee, those who considered themselves religious-orientated displayed less inclination towards constructing national belongingness outside of Islam and the Muslim community. As the data revealed, segregation in Dundee persists in being a selective choice of religiously orientated individuals. In contrast, the lack of ethnic-based separation proposes that ethnicity may aid the thawing of social boundaries. Ethnic-orientated Muslims seem to embrace Islam as a culture-based identity. From this, it is evident that Muslims in Dundee struggle with an assortment of concerns relating to their identity, but it seems the ethnically orientated adapt their ethnic identity to Scottish nationality.

Parallel Social Worlds The notion of parallel communities has gained significant currency in the media, especially as it is often claimed a growing spatial gap exists between Muslims and non-Muslims in modern Britain. Consequently, there is an attempt to purport a view that young British Muslims are increasingly growing up in social spaces cut off from the wider British society and culture. This notion of parallel community has not been adequately explained or defined, so what constitutes a parallel community? Meyer (2003, p.  1), who tried to define the term parallel community, suggested a set criteria can be employed that consist of: ‘ethnic-cultural

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or cultural-religious homogeneity; almost complete everyday, civil social and economic segregation; almost complete duplication of the institutions of the majority society; formal, voluntary segregation; and segregation in living quarters or social interaction’. From this criterion, it would be difficult to argue that Muslim enclaves represent parallel communities, as they are not completely separate worlds. Instead, these communities are connected to the social, political and economic institutions of the wider society. At the cultural level, however, the enclaves I encountered may constitute separate worlds. The values and norms shared among enclave members enable them to preserve a culture and engage in practices that uphold distinct identities. The enclave offers a social space in which members behave and interact in a way that resists outside identities and cultures. These socially constructed cultural norms and values do not exist outside the enclave, whether this space is a mosque or a sizeable geographic concentration such as the East End enclave. The social space becomes an extension of the home environment, and as a result, the cultural identities that are formed within the enclave do not promote assimilation into the wider cultural context. The cultural norms established in Muslim enclaves include ethnic and religious. Not surprisingly, in the enclave setting, these values and norms overlap, but the radius of these identities does not transcend the cultural domain. The identities and cultures found in the enclave do not go beyond the political and the economic, providing the enclave member with the opportunity to engage with British civil society. Trying to frame Muslim communities and enclaves into separate cultural worlds is somewhat problematic, as Meyer (2002) asserts a parallel community must be culturally homogenous. The Muslim enclaves I explored in the course of this book are not exclusively homogenous spatial territories. Instead, they reflect spaces comprised of different ethno-religious cultures and identities, which manifest differently depending on socialisation patterns, age group and experiences. Individuals may voluntarily retreat to these shared social spaces, but not necessarily adopt similar identity-types. For this reason, the enclaves I witnessed are incomplete social formations. In other words, I observed signs some enclaves are gradually becoming more homogenous, especially as generational identity differences become

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less salient, creating greater coalesce around distinct identity-types. In the East End of London, for instance, there was some indication that younger Muslims were adopting non-traditional religious identities. However, I am still extremely reluctant to suggest the East End Muslim enclave is a homogenous space, as age-based differences persist, making it culturally diverse. There is a general lack of understanding related to why Muslim enclaves form, as I suggest it would be problematic to view them as parallel communities. The Muslim enclave is not necessarily a new phenomenon, depending on how you define enclaves as I illustrated in Chapter 1, enclaves formed in the post-war period as a direct response to white hostility. The rejection experienced by early immigrants severely scared there social interaction, pushing them to seek out safety in ethnic enclaves. These spaces offered social and communal protection from the violence and hostility of the white majority. If the UK government took an active role to protect and prevent racial violence, then perhaps enclaves may not exist today. The early ethnic enclaves became a magnet for immigrants, which gradually evolved into distinct cultural spaces. The settlement process shifted the immigrant desire to preserve their cultural identity, wanting to pass their identity and values to their offspring. As these enclaves solidified, gaining recognition and status, segregation from the majority gradually deepened. However, as I have continually asserted, these so-called parallel communities are not homogenous spaces. They are culturally diverse and distinct. The East End may have a disproportionately high concentration of Bangladeshi Muslims, but they share the social space with other ethnic and religious groups. Assuming the East End is a parallel community ignores the rich cultural diversity that makes it a vibrant and cosmopolitan social space. If one hears media reports about the East End, one might think it a non-Muslim no go area. There are often biased media portrayals that depict the East End as a ‘Shariah zone’ where Islamic law is applied, suggesting Islamic social and economic segregation. During my fieldwork, I encountered minimal evidence of Islamists in the East End, which included religious spaces. The lack of Islamist presence does not mean no Islamists are operating in the east end; instead, I could not uncover any evidence of their influence on enclave members. There was no overt physical presence of

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their activities, especially concerning promoting Shariah Law or fostering greater Islamic separation. This suggests the creation and maintenance of Muslim enclaves serves a social function that supersedes skewed ideological agendas. Firstly, from a historical perspective, enclaves offered protection and insolation from the host society and culture, gradually mitigating host violence. Secondly, they enabled communities to preserve diverse aspects of their ethnic and religious identities.

Insider Perception: Life in a Muslim Enclave The residents of Muslim enclaves see life within it differently to those who live outside it. Within the enclave, members construct identities of themselves as members of an imagined and real community. The Muslims in Bangor, for example, from an empirical standpoint do not reside in a spatial enclave, but if you speak to the residents, they believe they are part of a Muslim community, in a local and global sense. This means that members construct symbolic images that keep the community bound together. In Bangor, the mosque is the symbolic space used to construct identities and a sense of belonging. Trying to understand this symbolic self-association in belonging to a community or enclave is sometimes confused with membership. Active membership may allow some Muslims to belong by sharing common beliefs and practices, but this requires participation. On another level, it can create dysfunction. In Chapter 1, for example, I presented some narratives of early immigrants who felt exploited in the enclave economy. They felt senior immigrant members exploited their labour, which in turn, developed into negative feelings about membership instead of positive association. To participate without real access to power structures can create a feeling of disenfranchisement. Similarly, in the current context, I encountered some young Muslims who may be classified as false members. These young people actively opted to disengage in the values and norms of the enclave, choosing instead to partake

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in non-Islamic activities (e.g. consume alcohol, drugs and have sexual relations outside of wedlock). In Bangor, the members of the Muslim community constructed strong attachment to the central Mosque, which becomes a source of communal belonging. When I spoke to senior community members, they suggested there was a deep sense of community as everyone knew each other. This sense of knowing the community manifested amongst a core group that considered themselves static and attached to the mosque. However, Bangor is comprised of a large transient student population, which presents a problem to the idea of a static community. In the case of Bangor Mosque, the problem is aggravated by the residents who draw their sense of identity and belonging from the mosque while transient members do not. Instead, they hold affiliations to other places, traditions and settings. Thus, Bangor functions as an enclave for permanent members, who know each other, adding a sense of community belonging. In a Muslim community, members seek to maintain their religious and ethnonational cultural identities, as they acquire a sense of collective acceptance by upholding and sharing beliefs and practices. In this way, small and large Muslim enclaves offer members a secure social space to form a collective identity. However, when enclaves are small, like the early ethnic enclaves that formed in the East End of London, there is a slight tendency for a few dominant individuals to shape and bend the values and norms of the group members. In addition, as mentioned, not all Muslims actively participate or identify with the enclave as a whole. I encountered some young Muslims that did not wish to associate with the Muslim enclave collective culture. They sought to rebel against the rigid values and norms upheld by the enclave, finding them to be incompatible with wider British society. Unfortunately, these young Muslims were not collectively visible. Instead, in the East End, for instance, when I asked the majority of my respondents if they regarded the East End as a distinct Muslim space, they confidently replied ‘yes’. These dominant voices asserted similar justifications for why they held such opinions, citing common religious values as a key factor. Similarly, in Bangor, the mosque became the centre of daily life activities, making the mosque the dominant space. Thus, those individuals that participated in mosque activities felt strongly connected to the Bangor

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Muslim community, creating their sense of belonging from the mosque. While, as I discovered in Dundee, those who had limited interaction with the mosque showed less connectivity to the local Muslim community. Instead, they drew their sense of identity from the wider social and national context. This suggests the problem with enclaves in modern Britain relates to the religious-orientated member. Those dedicated to religion begin with the view that Islam is the sole focus and most important aspect of their social identity. As a result, those harbouring a religious-based identity found it challenging to accept values and norms from the dominant culture, seeing them as conflicting with Islamic faith and practice. For them, the enclave provided a distinct social space, cut off from British society, enabling them to preserve their religious identity. Within the enclave, those committed to asserting their religion in the public space defines their sense of belonging differently, choosing to extract their belongingness from the local and global Muslim community. In contrast, ethnic-orientated respondents limited their membership to cultural and ethnonational representations, which meant they displayed less connection to outward forms of religiosity. This allowed them to develop a sense of belonging from more extensive social sources, drawing on ethnonational and traditional markers. Ethnic-orientated members tend to circumvent religious institutions, holding onto nominal forms of social membership. This difference can be an internal source of conflict in the enclave, as some members view the nonaffirmation of religiosity in the public sphere as theologically erroneous. I found ethnic-orientated actors to be more willing to form wider social connectivity. However, this willingness to integrate into British social life ended when they encountered racial discrimination, opting to revert to their ethnic ties in the enclave. However, as I mentioned in Chapter 2, the older second-generation members selected ethnic-based identities because they experienced intense hostility from the white population. Perhaps, if they did not develop a skewed view of the white population, then they may have integrated into British society. What is less clear is why younger second-generation members who experienced less discrimination adopted religious-based identities.

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The enclave provides a common perception of the outside world, both the religious and ethnic-orientated, see those outside the enclave as culturally different. In simple terms, they view outsiders as non-Muslim or non-ethnic. This sense of difference creates cultural based barriers with the outside world. I was somewhat surprised by the general lack of Muslim interaction with non-Muslims, especially with those living outside the enclave. It is difficult, therefore, to see enclaves disappearing as a result because they provide members with a valuable social need. Without the enclave, the member could not acquire a sense of collective identity and belonging. Thus, enclaves will remain segregated social spaces that are culturally separated from wider British society.

Future of Muslim Enclaves To determine the future of Muslim enclaves in modern Britain is extremely difficult, as currently the idea of Britishness is not clearly defined nor understood. Until there is an attempt to construct a broader framework of national identity that accommodates ethnic and religious diversity, then Muslim segregation will remain unresolved. The far right claim Muslims cannot consider themselves ‘English’, even though most were born in the UK. This makes it difficult for British Muslims to build a cultural connection with the broader society as they are reluctant to shed their ethnonational identities. The Muslim enclaves I visited are primarily the by-product of the overt racism and discrimination of the white population. Even where Muslims make up a small fraction of the population, like Bangor, the white Welsh population feel their cultural identity is threatened. It is felt that Muslims belong to a distinct cultural heritage, making them incapable of associating with British culture. So, what makes British Muslims seemingly not compatible with Britishness? Is it there supposed unwillingness to absorb British Culture fully? Some theorists assert that a lack of Muslim integration is caused by inhabiting closed enclaves (Murray, 2017). In theory, the size and

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concentration of Muslims in these enclaves shield them from absorbing British culture. This would mean where there are few Muslims, like in Bangor; the pressure towards integration would function more effectively because of the small size and general lack of residential clustering and segregation. The smallness of the Muslim community in Bangor has not resulted in their social assimilation into the wider Welsh or British culture. Unfortunately, it appears migrant Muslims and their children have not gradually spread out of their enclaves and settlements. The reason why they have struggled to develop closer relationships with the wider population is due in part to racial discrimination and Islamophobia. In Chapter 1, the early migrants to the East End narrated their encounters with the local white population. They described in vivid detail how they were subjected to physical and verbal abuse. Initially, the white English population feared competition in the job market, as migrants were prepared to accept lower wages. The rejection and lack of acceptance they experienced halted the acculturation process, as predicted by Park (1969). If the white population had accepted the Muslim migrant, then amalgamation of culture may have occurred. Instead, migrants were forced to secure refuge in ethnic enclaves. Across the UK, the Muslim community have struggled to gain social acceptance from the host society, which has fostered a low sense of national attachment to the British state. However, this is not necessarily the case among Scottish Muslims. The Dundee Muslim community, for instance, displayed higher levels of national belongingness. The difference is apparent, Scottish society has accepted Muslim migrants, and thus Scottish Muslims are willing to identify as Scottish; while Muslims in the south find it difficult to identify themselves as English or Welsh. First- and second-generation Muslim residents of the East End, for example, narrated countless instances of racism and discrimination, which established a very negative view towards the host society in England. In simple terms, they believe whatever their degree of integration the white English population will not accept them, because of racial and cultural differences and prejudice. This is why Bhabha (1994) asserts that British citizenship does not guarantee social acceptance or inclusion in the dominant culture. Thus, the relationship some Muslim residents have established with the British state is exclusively based on legal rights associated

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with their citizenship. At the socio-economic and political level, most British Muslims are connected to the state through mutual entitlement, giving them access to public services and funds. On the cultural level, they actively opt out of British society. This somewhat unhealthy relationship with British society and state seemingly evolved out of the host intolerance to the Muslim presence, facilitating the process of segregation. From a historical perspective, segregation is partially the outcome of the host society’s unwillingness to accept the cultural difference of Muslim migrants. As a result, the Muslim enclaves that popped up across the UK have fostered a cultural gap between the host society and the Muslim community. According to Hiro (1991, p. 304), data revealed that only 12 per cent of white respondents accepted people of Asian origin. More recently, in 2017, research revealed that 52 per cent of the UK population believe Muslims are a threat and should not be allowed to migrate to Britain (HOPE, 2017). The report also identified a sharp rise in attacks on Muslims between 2011 and 2017. In particular, after the Brexit vote, hate crimes against Muslims increased by 23 per cent (The Independent, 30 August 2017). As this data shows, the white British population is not prepared to negate the cultural difference between Muslim and non-Muslim, making integration appear unachievable in a British context. As one English woman stated, ‘they [Muslims] don’t make an effort to adopt our values that’s why they’ll never be British’. This negative sentiment is based on the idea that British society and culture is homogenous and thus those arriving in the UK must immediately adopt British values. This view held by some of the white population ignores the brutal treatment immigrants experienced from the indigenous population when they arrived, pushing them to seek security in ethnic enclaves. A general trend I noticed, when speaking to British Muslims in different enclaves across England and Wales, related to the reluctance to seek social acceptance from the white majority. As Subir explained, ‘English people don’t consider us English because we are the wrong colour and have the wrong religion’. This sentiment was often expressed by secondgeneration Muslim enclave residents. It highlights that race and religion seemingly still play a primary role in identity construction and actively prevents some Muslims from identifying with their English identity. Thus, clear

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physical differences between the white English population makes social acceptance difficult, as cultural distinctiveness seemingly triggers rejection and separation. This makes it impossible for British Muslims to become indistinguishable from the white English population, which some people expect from the immigrant community. As Bilal stated, ‘we’re not white Christians so we’ll never be seen as English’. As long as British Muslims feel Englishness is tied to race and religion, then it is implausible for them to identify with the discursive criterion of nationality and belonging. In the course of my fieldwork, I have spoken to hundreds of British Muslims who voiced concerns regarding British society, claiming racism and Islamophobia act as triggers for Muslim segregation. The government tends to divorce discrimination from segregation, which is somewhat naïve, but the issues or contexts that lie behind Muslim segregation cannot be reduced solely to discrimination. So, if discrimination is not the only contributing factor, then what seems to be fuelling Muslim self-segregation? In the preceding chapters, I have taken a glimpse into Muslim enclaves and the segregation process, but now these diverse strands need to be tied together to produce a relatively complete picture of Muslim enclaves. This means trying to highlight my findings and integrate them into the broader debates about segregation.

Last Thought In the broadest sense, this book has investigated the ways in which Muslim enclaves formed and function in modern Britain. When I began studying Muslim enclaves, I  found it immensely difficult to determine where the enclave started and ended – boundaries are generally obscure and continuously shifting. I quickly gave up trying to locate the boundary delineations. Instead, I focused on exploring the social world of Muslim enclaves by listening to the voices of different British Muslims, old and young. What stands out, after three years of extensive fieldwork, is the different ways enclave residents assert and negotiate their distinct identities,

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some of whom actively chose to segregate from British cultural life. In this respect, I began to notice distinct social patterns. In particular, the cultural walls members built could be seen in the public sphere in enclaves. These cultural walls restrained the interactions and behaviours of members, as well as binding them to the enclave social system. On the other side of the cultural wall, lies the majority who seemingly reinforce the boundary via holding different cultural values and practising discrimination. The cultural walls of the Muslim enclaves are designed to protect the members against cultural contamination. Therefore, the members inside, and the distorted perception of outsiders maintain the Muslim enclave. This should not ignore the self-segregation aspect, in which residents actively opt to reside in separate Muslim enclaves in order to sustain and protect their cultural identity. The wall I mention is of course imaginary, but other forces seem to keep Muslims embedded within the enclave social system. A lack of work opportunities, economic stratification and discrimination all play a functionary role in deepening Muslim segregation. Thus, deprivation, alone does not maintain the enclave structure; instead, preserving identity appears a salient feature of the enclave. However, just because some Muslims opt to assert their religious or ethnonational identities does not automatically mean the enclave represents a parallel community. Some Muslims may find themselves sharing nothing in common with other enclave members except religion or ethnic heritage. As a result, some enclave members find themselves sharing a standard set of social values developed from the conditions of living in a confined enclave. Both aspects increase their social tie to others but neither can constitute a communal separation from the wider society. Therefore, those who seem segregated are those who feel they hold value-systems incompatible with British society. If one defines the boundaries of Muslim enclaves by just religion, then this characterisation is a gross generalisation. No enclaves I visited can be simply reduced to a single denominator, namely religion. This means enclave boundaries are far too complicated to define and locate without exploring the internal social identities of the members. Equally, religion is much too complicated a phenomenon to serve as the basis of communal solidarity. Therefore, religion is a socio-cultural strand knotted into the broader fabric of Muslim social

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life, which can be worn differently. Therefore, as garments do not make the individual, nor does religion alone make a community. The enclave is far more than a shared value-system based on religion. The study of Muslim enclaves is very critical, because as my fieldwork demonstrated Muslim enclaves are not diminishing. Instead, second- and third-generation British Muslims are coming forward and resisting cultural integration into British society. This resistance forms a significant challenge for British policymakers, as they have to look for ways to generate social inclusion. The early enclaves that first formed in the UK have transformed into religious enclaves, preventing acculturation into the host society for new generations. This transition to religious-based enclaves illustrates that different social groups have formed periodically reflecting different experiences and contexts. In other words, the first and second generations were shaped by radically different social realities; yet, both groups continue to be embedded within the enclave social structure. The younger generations who have come of age behind the enclave do not seem dissatisfied with their lack of exposure to the majority culture. The enclave offers protection from the perceived hostility of the white English non-Muslim population. Thus, the enclave offers newer generations a secure cultural space to practise their religious identity. They can construct identities in the enclave distinct from the dominant culture. This is why the second and third generations of British Muslims are showing fewer signs of social integration into the dominant culture. It would be expected once the first generation inevitably demises that their ethnonational and religious value-systems would cease. This has not happened; the enclave is perhaps a key reason why British Muslims have not fully acculturated into wider society. The vast majority of British Muslims I spoke to felt discriminated against, especially in the public sphere. This sense of discrimination reinforces a feeling of ethno-religious difference between Muslim and non-Muslim. Somewhat contradictorily, they assert their Muslimness in the public sphere, which singles them out as different. This suggests that British Muslims are expressing forms of self-agency, as they chose to adopt enclave identities over national-based affiliations. This disparity became visible within the enclave, as British Muslims adopt different forms of identity. These identities are socially acceptable in the enclave

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space but do not necessarily conform to social expectations in British society. This is because these enclave identities promote belonging along a religious line, rather than national associations. For British Muslims, they will argue that there is no inherent consensus about what it means to be British. At the ideological level, Britain promotes self-autonomy, which means individuals have the right to be different. What can I conclude at the end of this book devoted to Muslim enclaves? If anything, it is simply that Muslim enclaves provide residents with a safe place to satisfy distinct social needs. Enclaves are a means by which Muslims are able to preserve their ethno-religious identities and live together. In the beginning enclaves helped ethnic immigrants to obtain a sense of economic and social stability, protecting them from the prejudice and hostility of the majority population. Gradually, for the newer generation, enclaves became a social space to express common ethno-religious values and norms. Thus, the enclave seemingly provides individual enclave members the social tools to manifest identities in a way they supposedly cannot in the wider society. Unfortunately, these enclaves do not provide a bridge to the wider society; instead, they create a greater gap between Muslim and non-Muslim. This is why segregation is a symptomatic part of Muslim enclaves. Said simply, enclaves function as separate cultural worlds in which Muslim residents will remain partial participants of British society.

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Index

Abbas, T.   29, 82, 156 Adler, P.   42 Adler, P. A.  42 adolescence  138, 206 adulthood  74, 82, 105, 107, 112, 136, 189 age  46, 74, 89, 101–103, 125–127, 130, 134–136, 139, 146, 157, 164, 181, 186, 203, 205, 216, 227, 231–232 agency  98, 184–185, 198 Ali, Altab  61 alienation  201 Allah  73, 93, 95, 120 Allport, A.   91 Al-Muhajiroun (ALM)  93 al-Qada wal Qadar [divine fate]  129 America  22, 37, 39 Anderson, B.   34 Anglofied  82 Ansari, H.   81, 192–193, 222–224 Anthias, F.   20 anti-Islamic  223 anti-Muslim  127, 161 Arab  132, 142, 154–156, 158–159, 160–161, 164, 171, 175–179 community  116, 154–157, 159, 175–176, 178–179 world  154, 156 assimilation 22–25, 37, 70, 176, 231, 237 model  24 process  22 theory  22, 25 Bakri Muhammad, Omar  93 Balchin, P.   16 Ballard, R.   28, 131

Bangladesh  28, 49–53, 56, 58, 60, 64, 67, 72, 75, 81, 84, 90, 105, 110, 154, 165, 177–178, 189, 196–199, 204, 246 Bangor  7, 9, 149–179, 229, 233–234, 236–237 Bangor University  149, 153–154 Barelwis  158, 195 bari [home]  58 Barth, F.   104 BBC  12, 47, 140, 150, 201, 202 belonging  30, 33–35, 40, 44–45, 54, 57, 59–60, 74, 81–82, 86, 92, 94, 98, 111, 123–125, 135–136, 141–142, 159, 161–162, 164, 170–172, 207–209, 213–215, 217–219, 228 belongingness  9, 15–17, 32–35, 89, 120, 122–125, 129, 136, 147, 159, 161–162, 164, 172, 208, 214, 219–220, 224–225, 230, 235, 237 Bengali  49, 50, 53–54, 57, 73, 82–83, 102–104, 106, 109, 154, 159, 168, 177 Bhabha, H.   33, 237 Bhatty, Z.   182, 190 Biradri  59, 109–110, 163, 200 system  59, 200 Bosnia  11, 31 Bradford  29, 128 Brebbia, C. A.  17 British  11, 23, 49, 52, 54–56, 61, 64, 69, 74, 77, 79–81, 83–84, 86–87, 89, 91, 95, 103, 107–109, 111–112, 126–128, 130–131, 157, 160, 165–166, 174, 179, 190, 192, 196, 205

246 Britishness 33–34, 38, 218, 223–225, 236 Broomfield, M.   11 Buddhists  101 Caldeira, T.   17–18 capitalism  22, 96 Cameron, David  192 Cannadine, D.   144, 146 Carrillo-Rowe, A.   34 Casey, Dame Louise  12 Christian  33, 101, 220 citizenship  29, 30, 33–34, 118, 224, 237–238 Clark, A.   20 Clark, C.   17 class  22, 38, 40, 43–44, 46, 66–67, 69, 71, 87, 113, 120, 126, 142–143, 145–147, 153–154, 156–159, 164, 229 middle 17–18, 30, 38, 40, 60, 141–144, 147, 154, 156–157, 178, 217 working  38, 115, 118, 131, 133, 135–136, 143–148, 150–157, 165, 179 clustering  12, 14–15, 17, 19, 24–25, 48, 59, 64–66, 115–116, 118, 121, 128, 131, 133, 148, 154, 157, 160, 175, 214, 237 Cockburn, T.   27, 126 Cockney  47 Cohen, A.   87 Collins, P. H.  43 colonial  41, 56, 61, 104 colonialism  23 colonialist  61 colour line  39 community 26–27, 31, 33, 35–38, 40–41, 49, 50, 52, 59, 64, 66, 68, 70, 73–75, 79, 81, 94, 108, 116–117, 123, 125–127, 130, 137, 147, 157, 159, 170–171, 186, 215, 220 Arab  116, 154–157, 159, 176–179, 230–234, 241

Index Bangladeshi  59, 72, 154, 157, 159, 165, 169, 177–178 Pakistani  116, 134, 158 Welsh  169 conformity  83, 93, 101, 107, 185, 189, 202, 210–211, 220 conscious partiality  41–42 Cooper, Jilly  144–145 Cote, J.   136 cultural 12–13, 15, 17, 19, 20–23, 47, 50, 60–61, 64, 67, 70–71, 77, 79, 81, 83, 102, 112, 116–117, 120, 135–138, 143, 160, 165, 167–168, 170–172, 177, 181–182, 184, 194, 200, 202, 208, 215, 218–219, 228–229 identity  32, 39, 165, 167–169, 171, 188–189, 191, 199, 216, 229, 230, 232, 236 segregation  18, 38, 151, 160, 211, 218, 223 culture  13, 19, 23, 25, 34, 37, 39, 45, 51, 55, 64, 70, 74, 82–84, 87, 95, 104, 130, 145, 166–169, 172, 174, 181, 201, 215–216, 228–229, 231, 234 British  24, 80, 83–84, 89, 109, 137, 160, 165, 174, 192, 205, 219, 224, 236–237 class  145 conflict  174 dominant 14–16, 20, 32–33, 37, 39, 53, 66, 81, 92, 106–107, 130, 162, 164–165, 228–229, 237, 241 host 50–51, 81, 89, 102, 107–109, 112, 176, 217 majority  28, 54, 91, 108, 127, 138, 175, 185, 217, 223–224, 241 western  84, 91, 95, 98, 176, 197 Deen  175, 192, 195 Deobandis  158, 195 deprivation 29–30, 139, 141, 148, 152, 240 economic  38, 141, 146, 148, 152

Index relative  30, 139, 141 social  28, 30, 148 discrimination  21, 24–25, 28–29, 31, 34, 45, 49, 61, 64, 79, 82, 90, 102, 108, 118, 127, 131–133, 142, 145, 147–148, 152, 181, 216–217, 226, 228, 235–237, 239–241 Du Bois, W. E. B.   39 Dundee  7, 9, 43, 115–143, 145–148, 157–158, 168, 214, 217–218, 221, 230, 235, 237 East End  7, 12–16, 19, 21, 30, 32–38, 40, 47–78, 79–104, 106, 108–113, 115–116, 132, 154, 165–166, 182–186. 188–195, 198–199, 202–205, 207–209, 213–215, 217, 220–223, 231–232, 234, 237 education  21, 25, 31, 36, 53, 75–77, 80, 105, 112, 125, 142–146, 154–156, 163–164, 173, 181, 191, 195–198, 203 emancipation  70 employment  16, 21, 24, 31, 36, 51, 53, 56, 69, 104, 118, 121, 145–147, 150, 155–156, 174, 178, 181, 195, 197–198 empowerment  70, 194, 207, 211 enclave  7, 11–25, 27–30, 32–37, 47–49, 51, 53–57, 61, 111–113, 115–117, 127, 131, 133–134, 141, 147–149, 151–153, 175–176, 179, 181–182, 184–189, 195, 198, 200–203, 210–211 East End  49, 57, 65, 76, 82–83, 86–87, 92, 103–104, 106, 110–111, 183, 185–186, 188, 193, 195, 200, 202–203, 209, 214–215, 223 gated  18 non-physical  18 physical  17, 19 enclavisation  162, 198

247 environment  24, 49, 51–53, 55, 83–84, 98, 112–113, 123, 128. 159, 165–168, 171, 173, 189, 198, 203, 216–217, 231 England  13, 31, 33, 54, 64, 67, 127, 141, 148, 198, 216, 220, 230, 237–238 English  13, 21, 33, 37, 51–56, 61–63, 65, 71, 74, 79, 83, 84, 90, 104, 106, 148–149, 163, 168, 196–199, 216, 223, 228, 230, 236–239, 241 equality  16 Erikson, E.   45, 120, 138, 206 ethnic  19, 20–21, 23, 26, 57, 64–65, 73, 81, 87–88, 90–91, 111–112, 115–118, 122, 126, 131, 133–134, 147, 157–158, 160, 163, 171, 177–179, 188, 198, 203, 205–208, 213, 215– 217, 220–223, 226–229, 232–237 immigrant  48, 118, 242 micro-  57 Muslim  119, 133 religious  157 residential  247 ethno cultural 55–56, 81, 83, 85, 90, 102, 105–106, 109, 112, 116, 135, 158, 184, 189, 191, 198, 202, 204 nationalistic  20, 120, 135, 148, 177–178 religious  11, 16, 19, 34–35, 40–41, 47, 51, 59, 70–71, 79, 84, 89, 102, 104, 107, 112, 117, 124, 128, 131, 158, 170–171, 173–174, 181, 190, 195, 200, 205, 207, 210, 213–215, 230, 241–242 ethnography  44 exploitation  23, 49, 65–66, 68, 71, 76–77 extremism  192 extremist  191, 220 faith 24–25, 33, 129, 142, 158, 163, 166–167, 176–177, 180, 187, 194, 198, 208, 216, 224, 227, 235

248 family  20, 51, 53, 56, 58–59, 62, 69, 80, 98, 103, 105, 129, 132, 146, 154, 156–157, 170, 173, 177–178, 189, 190, 199, 201–202, 204 structure 58–59 values  106 female  58, 110, 112, 143–144, 181–185, 188–192, 194–195, 197–199, 201–203, 207–211, 214, 221 feminist  43 fieldwork  11, 14–15, 34–35, 41–42, 44–45, 87, 90, 101, 103, 106, 111, 122–124, 131–132, 134–135, 140, 145, 161, 164, 168, 170, 175, 181–182, 184, 186, 191, 199, 207, 214, 217, 224–225, 241 Flint, J.   15 foreign  27, 33, 51, 62, 175 policy  218 freedom  210 gang 61–62, 150 Gardner, K.   28 Geaves, R.   51, 90, 158, 195 Geertz, C.   26 gender  43, 46, 125–126, 135, 143, 144, 181–182, 189, 195, 198 generation first  19, 21, 37, 44–45, 49, 58, 74, 79, 174–177, 181, 195, 197–198 second 26–27, 29, 35, 43–45, 47, 67, 74, 79, 81–82, 86–89, 92, 101–102, 104, 109–110, 112, 115, 119, 121, 127, 138, 156, 164–167, 170, 191, 196, 198–199, 200, 203, 205, 216, 220–221, 227–229, 235, 237–238 third  19, 24, 27, 74, 190, 227, 241 ghor  58 Giddens, A.   184 Glynn, S.   72 God  68, 73, 85, 95–96, 100–101, 157, 175, 191, 201, 209

Index Goldthorpe, J. H.  143, 145 Gopinath, C.   19 Gordon, M.   22–23 group 12–13, 20, 26, 32, 34–36, 38, 55–56, 61, 63, 67. 82, 88, 91–94, 102–104, 116, 136, 139, 154, 162–163, 171, 174, 183, 185, 204, 210, 216, 220–221, 227, 231, 234 identity  55, 117, 119 peer  82 Gurr, T. R.  30 halal  19, 64, 82, 165 meat  64 Halliday, F.   116–117 haram [forbidden act]  99, 100, 165 Harding, S.   95 hell  62, 67 Hilltown 118–119, 133, 140 Hindu  56, 63, 101 Hiro, D.   51, 101, 238 history  47, 104, 213 life history  42, 227 Hogg, M.   83 Home Office  245 honour  50, 199, 201 crimes 199–200, 202 Hoque, Aminul  49 Hoque, Ashraf  27 household  36, 58, 79, 81–82, 85, 105, 144, 146, 156, 201 Housing Act  1980 16, 150 Hutnik, N.   131, 137 hukm [rule]  95–97, 129 ibahah [permissibility]  100–101 identity collective  38, 90, 93, 174, 210–211, 234, 236 construction 26–27, 29, 45, 47, 82–83, 87, 104, 126, 131, 167–168, 170, 194, 204, 222 crisis  81 dual  89, 101, 162

249

Index ethnic  20, 23, 35, 55–56, 101–103, 106, 122, 132, 135, 147–148, 162, 172, 204–206, 230 group  55, 117, 119 host  230 hybrid  109 Muslim 27–28, 31, 46, 57, 79, 87, 109, 119, 124, 127–128, 131, 158–159, 169, 217, 222, 229 personal  210 religious  16, 28, 35, 44, 51, 57, 60, 73–74, 106, 116–117, 123, 126–128, 130, 134, 147, 157–158, 160, 166–168, 170–171, 173, 176–178, 180, 187, 193, 196, 215, 217, 221, 224, 226–227, 230, 235, 241 social  58, 88, 90, 92, 106, 111, 116, 120, 124–125, 128, 130–131, 136–137, 187, 235 ideology  11, 84, 192, 194, 220 Ijtihad 95–96, 100 Iman [belief ]  129 immigrant  22–23, 25–26, 47–48, 51–59, 62–69, 71, 76, 79, 145, 153, 160, 217, 228, 232–233, 239 group  23 independence  53, 56, 77, 83, 107, 204 Scottish  142, 218 India  23, 28, 54, 61, 139 indoctrination  136 Inkpen, A.   52 insularisation  179 intersectionality 43–44 intolerance  238 Iraq  31, 156, 177, 218 Iraqis  157, 163 Islam  25–29, 74–75, 82, 84–85, 90, 93, 95–99, 106, 116, 122, 124–125, 127, 129, 136–137, 141, 147, 159, 163, 165–167, 170, 172–173, 175, 184, 186–187, 203–204, 216–218, 221–223, 227, 235

Islamic  24, 74, 83, 85, 90, 93, 95–96, 98, 100, 106, 109–111, 112, 123, 127, 129, 134, 137, 141–142, 158, 174, 176–177, 187, 191, 194–196, 198, 208, 223 identity  165, 192, 194, 227 law 95–96, 99, 100, 232 movement  195 school  98, 175 Islamist  11, 27, 86, 93, 191–193, 195, 232 Islamophobia  31, 42, 127, 160–161, 223, 232 Israel  142 izzat [honour]  50, 59, 189, 190, 194, 200–202 Jacobson, J.   25, 126, 190 Jamaati-Islami  158, 195 James, A.   32, 136 Jewish 36–37 Johannesburg  17 jughrafiyun [geographical]  24 jute  118, 139, 140 Kamali, H. M.  95, 97 Kantrowitz, N.   37 Karachi  17 kinship  59, 66–67, 69, 72, 76, 178, 202 Kroger, J.   248 Kucukcan, T.   91 Kuffar [non-Muslim/disbeliever]  92, 210 Kyoso, D.   26 Labour Force Survey (2004)  146 labour market  21–24, 66, 70, 76, 143 Labour Party  72 Lefebvre, H.   18, 59 Lewis, P.   28–29, 31, 127–128, 146 life cycle  26–27, 102–103, 105, 126, 138, 167, 201, 206 lobby  31 localism  50, 88

250 London 12–15, 17, 19, 21, 26, 32, 35–36, 38, 40, 47–49, 51–53, 56, 61–69, 72–73, 76–77, 80, 84, 86, 97–99, 101–102, 115–116, 126, 130, 132–133, 154, 157, 165, 184, 192, 199, 202, 213, 219, 223, 232, 234 Bridge Terror Attack (2017)  192 McGown, R.   130 McRoy, A.   30, 32 Maesgeirchen 150–151 majority culture  28, 54, 91, 108, 127, 138, 174–175, 185, 217, 223–224 Mamak, A. F.  41 Manning, R.   22–23 Massey, D.   20, 77 methodology 42–43, 96 Miami  76 Middle East  142 Mies, Maria  41 migrant  14, 18–21, 23–24, 61, 64, 68, 111, 115–116, 118, 137, 156, 178, 197, 237 migration  15, 19–20, 36, 38, 49, 55–56, 64, 79, 102–103, 134, 139, 149, 151, 154, 166, 178, 188, 190, 197, 217, 219, 222, 227 Miller, W. B.  206 mindset 137–138, 174, 176, 209, 223 Modood, T.   29, 30, 163 Moore, B.   143 mosque  19, 73–75, 98–99, 105, 123–125, 128, 133, 136–139, 153–154, 157–167, 171, 173–179, 198, 229, 231, 233–235 Al-Maktoum  124 Bangor 162–163, 171, 177, 179, 234 Dundee Central  124 Mahmood  124 Tajdar E Madina  124 mubah  101 multicultural  14, 38 Muslim British 23–24, 29, 34, 44, 79, 109, 139, 220

Index history identity 27–28, 31, 46, 57, 79, 87, 109, 119, 124, 127–128, 131, 158–159, 160, 169, 217, 222, 229 women  12, 32, 161, 181–185, 187, 190–191, 203, 207–209, 222 youth  26, 161, 164, 172, 174, 228 Muslim Council of Britain (MCB)  72, 192 national  38, 44, 48, 57, 59, 117, 119, 122, 125, 131, 134, 136, 142, 144, 147, 149, 170, 177, 207–208, 214–215, 217–221, 224, 228, 235, 237, 241 identity  13, 26, 34–35, 82, 108, 136, 142, 147–148, 168, 167, 172, 178, 217–218, 230, 236 nationalism  148, 169, 171, 220 nationhood  217 neutrality  41 Newcomb, T. M.  124, 206 Nightingale, C. H.  61 nikah 110–111 noya Chowdhury  60, 75 objectivity 40–42 Pakistan  28, 35–36, 53, 55, 62, 98, 120, 131–133 Pakistani  20, 34, 54, 79, 98, 116, 119–121, 132, 134–135, 158, 195 Parekh, B.   34 Parkin, F.   143–146, 156 participant observation  183 pathways  156, 184 patriarchal  81, 181–182, 184 patrilineage  110 Paul, E. L.  138, 206 Peach, C.   14, 25, 37, 179 peer  84 group  82, 84 Peterson, A.   43 Peucker, M.   34 Philips, Trevor  14

Index Phillips, Melanie  48 Pietsch, J.   20 politics  31, 39, 73, 75, 145–146, 192 population 22–23, 25, 33–34, 37, 45, 47, 51–53, 56, 70–71, 79, 86, 102, 112, 120–121, 132, 139, 148, 151, 154, 159, 165, 168, 171, 175, 179, 191, 198, 207, 228, 241 Portes, A.   22–23, 76 Powell, R.   183 poverty  140, 151, 201 prejudice  23, 51, 206–207, 228, 237, 242 Prophet Muhammad  163–164 psychological  92, 92, 117 psychology  91 purdah  60, 110 Quran  74, 85, 95–96, 100, 175, 196, 198, 201 race  14, 18, 33, 37, 39, 65, 90, 106–107, 112, 118, 120, 148, 157–158, 163, 172, 195, 225–226, 230, 238–239 racism  31, 42, 52, 61–64, 66–67, 72, 108, 142, 148, 171, 204–206, 220, 226, 236–237, 239 radical  12, 17, 27, 29, 80, 82, 98, 106, 150, 153, 178, 192–193 radicalism  29 Raza, M. S.  163 religion  17–19, 25–28, 34, 40, 43–44, 46, 51, 71, 73, 80–81, 87, 90, 92, 101, 105, 116–117, 119, 131–132, 134–135, 153, 158, 166, 173, 175, 177, 191, 199, 203, 215, 223–224, 227–228, 235, 238–239, 240–241 religiosity  24, 27, 29, 39, 85, 89, 105, 107, 125–126, 128–129, 132, 136–137, 142, 164, 170, 173, 203–204, 225, 227, 235

251 religious 11–12, 19, 23, 26, 33, 35, 50–51, 56–57, 60, 73–74, 79, 82–83, 103, 106, 109, 112, 116–117, 119, 134, 136–139, 147–148, 165–169, 178, 191, 194–195, 198, 200–201, 213, 217 residential  14, 16–18, 36, 38, 61, 64, 118, 120, 140, 148, 153–154, 156, 160, 175, 179, 207, 217 clustering  12, 14–15, 118, 148, 157, 160, 237 segregation  36, 40, 149, 152 Rhoden, M.   16 Riaz, A.   13, 53 riba [interest]  85, 97, 178 Robinson, F.   28 Roy, O.   81–82, 190–191 rukhsati  110 Runnymede Trust  21 Rydgnen, J.   13 Saeed, A.   26, 119, 131 São Paulo  17. Samad, Y.   28–29, 127, 131 Samaj  60 Schelling, T.   16, 38 Schumann, S.   27, 86–87 Scotland  12, 40, 119, 142, 145, 148, 216–219 Scottishness  168, 217–218 security  17, 22, 45, 52–53, 70, 92, 146, 157, 176, 207, 209, 213, 215, 238 segregation 11–12, 15, 22, 47–49, 61, 80, 89, 94, 111, 113, 115, 120, 127, 130, 134, 136, 141–142, 147, 149, 151, 160–162, 169, 175, 180, 181, 183, 186, 207, 210–211, 213–214, 216–217, 222–224, 226, 231, 237–239, 242 Muslim 11–12, 30, 33, 35, 38, 40, 44, 115, 120, 125, 141, 149, 158–159, 161, 165, 184, 213, 236, 239 residential  36, 40, 149, 152 structural  36

252 self  28, 32, 66, 83, 92, 103, 108, 111, 119, 188, 194, 208, 218 agency  12, 103, 108, 135, 164, 181, 194, 197, 226, 241 esteem  210 segregation  148, 161, 174, 217, 239–240 separation  17, 22, 25, 32–33, 38–39, 53, 55, 76, 117, 121, 137–139, 158, 164, 167, 173–174, 177, 200, 205, 208, 214, 216, 222–223, 229, 233, 239 Shariah law  129, 233 Sherif, C. W.  211 Sherif, M.   211 Sibley, D.   18 Sikh  63, 213 Single, H.   183 Snowdonia National Park  149 social class  87, 139, 142–143, 145–147, 149, 154, 157 exclusion  12 identity  58, 88, 90, 92, 106, 111, 116, 120, 124–126, 128, 130–131, 136–137, 170, 187, 235 mobility  20, 23, 36, 67, 118, 141, 143, 145, 150–151, 155 socialisation 26–27, 41, 44, 82, 93–94, 103–106, 108, 126–127, 132, 136–137, 156, 165, 174, 176, 189, 210, 216, 231 sociological  45, 120, 129, 147, 225 sociologist  45 Somali  130 South Asian  20, 28, 53–54, 59, 82–83, 130–132, 146 spiritual  73, 85, 194 Stack, J.   55 Stark, R.   129, 141, 154, 203 stereotypes  28, 32, 93 Stratham, P.   28, 127 stratification  16, 18, 25, 40, 93, 143, 240

Index structural  14, 16, 22, 32, 36, 87, 121, 132–133, 141, 148, 181, 184–185 students  149, 154, 196, 206 subculture  77 Sunnah  95, 175, 196 Sylhet  49, 53, 81, 154, 178 Syrians  163 Tablighi-Jamaat  158, 195 Tajfel, H.   36, 81, 91–92, 94, 210 Tatari, E.   72 Tausch, A.   12 Taylor, C.   33–34, 52 Teare, K.   62–63 terrorism  223 Thompson, P.   147 Tiebout, C.   17 Tower Hamlets  13–14, 53, 61, 63, 72, 104 tradition  26, 50, 76, 81, 83, 85, 110, 146, 156, 167, 181, 186–189, 191, 194, 204, 228 traditional  29, 41–42, 47, 50, 59, 73, 76, 81–83, 85, 106, 110–111, 137, 165, 179, 181, 186, 188–189, 191, 193, 195, 197–198, 203, 223, 225, 227–228, 232, 235 traditionalism  50, 166, 190–191, 194, 198, 200, 228 transition  102, 118, 138–139, 167, 174, 176, 206, 210, 228 Tsang, E.   52 Turner, J. C.  25, 32, 36, 82, 92, 94, 138, 206, 210 upbringing  41, 43–44, 105, 132, 178, 187, 203, 205 Ummah  35 unemployed  51, 155 United Kingdom  18–19, 25, 32, 40, 54, 149 urban  14–15, 17–18, 22, 25, 38, 48–49, 61, 102, 115, 118, 139, 178

253

Index Urdu  54, 57, 70, 104 usul al-Fiqh [roots of Islamic law]  95 Varady, D.   14 Vaughan, L.   15 veil  20, 32, 110, 158, 161, 190, 199, 204, 215, 222 Vice News  11 village  13, 49–51, 53, 58–59, 72, 76, 81, 109, 178, 204 violent 192–193 Wade, Barrie  181 Wales  12, 40, 127, 149–151, 169, 172, 216, 220, 229, 230, 238 Wali, F.   19, 25, 27, 31, 38, 81, 157 Ward, R.   118 Warner, W. L.  142 Weeks, J.   135 Welsh  149, 153, 157, 159, 160–162, 165, 167–169, 171–172, 174–175, 178–179, 229, 236–237

Welshness  172, 230 west  13, 19, 22, 83, 90–91, 191, 213 western  11, 41, 46, 83–84, 91, 95–96, 98, 100, 176, 196–198 lifestyle  83 westernised  84, 204 Whitechapel  67 whiteness  33 Wiktorowicz, Q.   31 Wilson, A.   76 Wright, J. E.  88 xenophobia  31 Young, M.   13 youth  26, 139, 161, 164–165, 167–168, 170–172, 174, 228 Yuval-Davis, N.   20 Zionist  142