Terror and the Dynamism of Islamophobia in 21st Century Britain: The Concentrationary Gothic (Palgrave Politics of Identity and Citizenship Series) 3030729486, 9783030729486

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PALGRAVE POLITICS OF IDENTITY AND CITIZENSHIP

Terror and the Dynamism of Islamophobia in 21st Century Britain The Concentrationary Gothic Madeline-Sophie Abbas

Palgrave Politics of Identity and Citizenship Series

Series Editors Varun Uberoi, Brunel University London, London, UK Nasar Meer, University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh, UK Tariq Modood, University of Bristol, Bristol, UK

The politics of identity and citizenship has assumed increasing importance as our polities have become significantly more culturally, ethnically and religiously diverse. Different types of scholars, including philosophers, sociologists, political scientists and historians make contributions to this field and this series showcases a variety of innovative contributions to it. Focusing on a range of different countries, and utilizing the insights of different disciplines, the series helps to illuminate an increasingly controversial area of research and titles in it will be of interest to a number of audiences including scholars, students and other interested individuals.

More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14670

Madeline-Sophie Abbas

Terror and the Dynamism of Islamophobia in 21st Century Britain The Concentrationary Gothic

Madeline-Sophie Abbas School of Social and Health Sciences Department of Criminology, Investigation and Policing Leeds Trinity University Leeds, UK

Palgrave Politics of Identity and Citizenship Series ISBN 978-3-030-72948-6 ISBN 978-3-030-72949-3 https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72949-3

(eBook)

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover credit: Melody Songer/Alamy Stock Photo This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Acknowledgements

I would like to sincerely thank my immensely inspirational participants, without whom this work would not have been possible, who have taught me so much and provided such insight, and whose voices I hope to have done justice. I would particularly like to thank my father, Saadi, whose heritage I share, and which contributes to the multiple, intersecting positions from which this research speaks from. My amazing mother, Joanna, and brilliant brother, Louis, deserve special acknowledgement for all their encouragement and faith throughout this project. I would also like to thank my great friend, Dr. Ala Sirriyeh, and colleagues Professor Hilary Pilkington and Professor Bridget Byrne for their helpful feedback on earlier chapters, Dr. James Rhodes for being such a supportive mentor, and Dr. Nadim Mirshak, Dr. Kathryn Telling, Dr. Owen Abbott and Dr. Alina Rzepnikowska-Phillips for always being there through the trials and tribulations of academia.

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Praise for Terror and the Dynamism of Islamophobia in 21st Century Britain

“Using Concentrationary Gothic as a theoretical framework in engaging with the narratives of British Muslims in Bradford and Leeds, the author provides a distinct lens through which these experiences are explored. The project makes an important theoretical contribution to the scholarship on Muslims in Britain, with conceptual implications for research on Muslims in the “Global North.” —Tania Saeed, Assistant Professor at Lahore University of Management Sciences, Pakistan “This book makes an important contribution to our understanding of Islamophobia and what it means to live as a Muslim in Britain in the context of the ‘war on terror’. It provides a rich analysis of how the racialisation of Muslims, enveloped in a climate of fear, can be conceptualised through ideas of the gothic monster.” —Bridget Byrne, Professor of Sociology and Director of the Centre on the Dynamics of Ethnicity (CoDE), University of Manchester, UK

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Contents

1 2

Introduction: The Emergence of the Concentrationary Gothic Environment Nation Construction and Affective (Un)Belongings

3 The Gothic Technology of the Monstrous Muslim 4

1 71 191

(In)Securitisation of Everyday Spaces: State of Exception, Spaces of Terror

301

Fracturing Muslim Relations: Producing ‘Internal Suspect Bodies’

379

6 The Terror of Voice(lessness): Restrictions to Freedom of Speech and Political Engagement Within a Culture of Fear

451

7 The Promise of the Concentrationary Gothic: Advancing a New Visual Schema

553

5

ix

x

Contents

Bibliography

599

Index

681

1 Introduction: The Emergence of the Concentrationary Gothic Environment

On 4 July 2017, Peter Scotter, 56, was sentenced at Newcastle Crown Court for racially aggravated assault by beating after ripping the niqab off a young Muslim woman’s face whilst she was out shopping with her nine-year-old son. The force made her almost fall to the ground and she was left fearing going into town. The incident is symptomatic of a violent racist nationalism that has been reinvigorated in Brexit Britain (Abbas 2020, 2019; Valluvan and Kalra 2019; Virdee and McGeever 2018), indicated by Scotter’s alleged pronouncement to his victim: “You are in our country now, you stupid f***ing Muslim” (The Independent 4 July 2017). After his arrest, he told police “she could have been a bomber” (The Independent 4 July 2017), illustrating how conditions of (in)security concerning counter-terrorism and Islamophobia contribute to a culture of fear for Muslims in Britain. Even when subjected to violence from white nationalists, Muslims’ association with a threatening presence within the ‘war on terror’ context enshrouds them, troubling the terms of belonging for British Muslims to live peaceably in contemporary Britain. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M.-S. Abbas, Terror and the Dynamism of Islamophobia in 21st Century Britain, Palgrave Politics of Identity and Citizenship Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72949-3_1

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Issues of identity and values of British Muslim communities have been at the forefront of the development of key policies and legislation concerned with managing the ‘Muslim problem,’ implicitly in community cohesion (Cantle 2001), and ostensibly in the case of counterterrorism measures such as Prevent (HM Government 2011a), which have contributed to the image of Muslims within the national consciousness as the new ‘enemy within’ (Warsi 2018; Kundnani 2014; Thomas and Sanderson 2011: 1029; Fekete 2004). The plethora of anti-terrorism legislation produced in the UK since the events of 11 September 2001 in response to the threat of terrorism, including the Anti-Terrorism Crime and Security Act 2001, Prevention of Terrorism Act 2005 (repealed 14 December 2011), Terrorism Act 2006, and Counter-terrorism Act 2008 and more recently, the Counter-Terrorism and Security Act 2015 and Counter-Terrorism and Border Security Act 2019, have legislated increasingly stringent restrictions to civil liberties and have criminalised Muslims in Britain (Kapoor 2018; Tufail 2015; Tufail and Poynting 2013; Fekete 2004, 2009; Poynting and Mason 2006). The 7 July 2005 terrorist attacks in London (often referred to as 7/7), which culminated in 56 fatalities (including the four bombers) and more than 700 people injured, were particularly significant for producing Muslims as an internal threat to Britain. This conception has regained momentum in the wake of Islamist terrorist attacks undertaken by British citizens in the name of Islam that include Whitemoor Prison (2020), Streatham (2020), London Bridge (2019), Westminster (2018, 2017) and the largest since 7/7, the 2017 Manchester terror attack which claimed 22 lives, including that of an eight-year-old girl, and left 59 injured. Following these events, Muslim populations have been subjected to intensified monitoring and intervention from crime and security agencies (Pilkington and Acik 2020; Breen-Smyth 2014; Mythen et al. 2009), which have constructed Muslims as a ‘suspect community’ (Hillyard 1993). Paddy Hillyard coined the term in his examination of the impact of the Prevention of Terrorism Act 1974 on Irish communities (see Chapter 5). The category has subsequently been developed by Christina Pantazis and Simon Pemberton (2009: 649 also 2011) in studies on Muslim communities who address how a number of factors such as race,

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ethnicity, religion, gender, class, language, accent and political ideology may affect suspect treatment and invite state attention (see Chapter 5). As I develop later, the increased (in)securitisation of Muslims within the state of exception that comprises the ‘war on terror’ context requires that we understand such practices within an ongoing racialised history of terror in which religion has functioned as an important marker of difference and subjugation in colonial and subsequent systems of domination and states of exception. For Muslims in Britain, there has been a seismic shift concerning how to be Muslim emanating from restrictions to performing a ‘visibly’ Muslim identity that is not confined to the state management of Muslim identities, but has infiltrated all levels of social experience. This book engages with in-depth qualitative interviews conducted in Leeds and Bradford with 26 Muslim males and females during the period of 2010– 2011 to examine how Muslims construct their identities in the ‘war on terror’ context of Britain. It explores the governing practices, both state and non-state, that shape how British Muslim identities come to be lived in the post-9/11, 7/7 context of Britain.

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Background to the Research Contexts

Analyses of South Asian Muslim communities in Britain must be located within the colonial history of Britain (Ali et al. 2006; Brah 2006: 3; Hall 2000; Hesse 2000) which contributes to the power hierarchies involved in the governance of Britain’s internal racial colonies and characterises the politics of national identity (see Hesse 1999: 206) (Chapter 2). Migration of labour from the ex-colonies during the 1950s to work in unskilled jobs marked the encounter between South Asians and the dominant white population by ‘colonial precedents’ (Brah 2006: 36) that inform current racial dynamics. Many settled in northern towns to work in the textiles industry, including Bradford.1 The size of Bradford’s South Asian population has contributed to its ‘visible’ presence (McLoughlin 2006: 112) which is concentrated within 25 square miles of the city centre and along several major roads within the district of Manningham (Nasser 2003: 9). Remarking on the 2001

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Census, Seán McLoughlin (2006: 112) observes that the concentration of the Pakistani community in the inner city is ‘especially marked’; a figure which has increased from 14.5% to 20.4% in the 2011 Census (Office for National Statistics 2013). The high concentration of Pakistani Muslims within certain areas of Bradford has contributed to contestations concerning space (Chapters 2 and 4) and perceived ‘Asianisation’ of space. McLoughlin (2006: 110) further describes how Bradford has been ‘written’ as connected to the ‘Asianisation’ of geographical, social, economic and political spaces within postcolonial Britain. Due to these concentrated spatial patterns, Bradford is understood locally as less cosmopolitan than Leeds which masks the heterogeneity of Muslim South Asian communities concerning cultural traditions, social classes, migration patterns and denominations (Nasser 2003: 9). According to the 2011 Census, there are 140 ethnic categories in Leeds but 81% are White British (Office for National Statistics, ONS 2013) compared to 71% in Bradford with around 68 languages spoken in Bradford. These figures contest representations of Bradford’s lack of diversity in comparison with other cities, including Leeds. This conception is perhaps attributable to Bradford having the greatest percentage of the total population in England from Pakistan of 20.4% (2011 Census cited in City of Bradford MDC 2017). The vast majority of Pakistanis in Bradford are also Muslim. 82% of the total Bradford Muslim population are Pakistani, compared to 65% in Leeds, meaning Muslims are predominately racialised as ‘Asian looking’ or more specifically, of Pakistani heritage, within these contexts. Muslims’ presence in Leeds is not as pronounced, comprising 3% (2011 Census) of the population compared to 12% in Bradford. Phillip Lewis (1994: 24) contends that ‘Muslim communities from South Asia have largely dictated public perceptions about Islam in Britain. In this regard no city has featured so centrally and consistently in shaping such attitudes as Bradford.’ Bradford’s prevalence in debates within media, policy and academic arenas on Muslims’ presence in Britain has been growing since the 1980s (Hussain and Miller 2006; Modood 2005; Modood et al. 2005) following the Honeyford Affair 1984 (see Bolognani 2009: 64–66), Rushdie Affair 1988–1989, and the 1995 (Burlet and Reid 1998) and

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2001 disturbances (Bagguley and Hussain 2008). Debates have centred on social cohesion and the causes of the disturbances (Rhodes 2009; Bagguley and Hussain 2005a, b, 2008; Dwyer and Uberoi 2009; Kundnani et al. 2001; Statham 2003; Macey 1999, 2002; Burlet and Reid 1998), community cohesion (Fortier 2008: 67, 69; McGhee 2005, 2006, 2008) and official reports into the disturbances (Denham 2002; Cantle 2001; Ouseley 2001; Bradford Congress 1996) of which Bradford has attracted the most attention out of the northern towns affected. AnneMarie Fortier (2008: 67, 69) observes that Bradford has been central to issues of national identity and culture that have centred on ‘spatial and physical proximity’ in localised understandings to the success of ‘community cohesion’ agendas (Chapter 2). These concerns are reflected in local reference to Bradford as ‘Bradistan’ as well as academic writings on Bradford such as Phillip Lewis (1994: 49, 24), who describes Bradford as ‘Britain’s “Islamabad.”’ Due to the spotlight which has been placed on Bradford, which has primarily focused on Pakistani and Bangladeshi communities (Darlow et al. 2005), other sections of the population have not been subjected to the same level of scrutiny. This disparity has overemphasised the ‘problems’ of these communities and neglected the significance of practices of racialisation to social tensions. Max Farrar (2002a: 2) notes that the 2001 disturbances need to be considered within the context of over twenty years of violent urban protests involving the African-Caribbean and Asian communities with dominant white communities and the police. The effect has been to write out the legacy of racism as endemic to the histories of both Leeds and Bradford. Bradford for example has an established history of support for far-right parties traceable to the National Front (NF) in the 1970s. Writers who do engage with this history recognise the presence of the British National Party (BNP) as a significant trigger of the 2001 disturbance in Bradford (Rhodes 2009; Bagguley and Hussain 2008; Kundnani 2002) (Chapter 6). Although Leeds has not attracted the same level of research interest as Bradford, it has also been marked by racial tensions that have included violent protests between black youths and the police in Chapeltown in 1975 and 1981 (see Farrar 2002a, b, 2009). Leeds (specifically the area of Harehills), along with Bradford (7 July), Oldham (26 May) and

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Burnley (23 June), was one of the northern towns which experienced disturbances in 2001 (5 June). The Leeds ‘riot’ did not receive the same coverage as Bradford, but it nonetheless contributed to representations of South Asian men as violent criminals (Farrar 2002a: 4). The event was reported in the local newspaper, the Yorkshire Evening Post (6 June 2002: 4 cited in Farrar 2002a: 4), as comprising ‘barbaric episodes of rioters’ who were blamed for the breakdown of community cohesion. This conception further entrenched spatial divisions in local knowledge between the ‘Asian area’ and ‘white area’ of Harehills in Leeds. The BNP capitalised on the perceived spatialised racial division following the Leeds ‘riot,’ choosing the Harehills ward as its only target seat in the council elections of May 2002 (Farrar 2002a: 10). The discourse of ‘parallel lives’ (Cantle 2001: 9) which was provided as the main factor for the 2001 disturbances has contributed to charges of self-segregation of British Muslims and their perceived failure to actively engage in wider society (Phillips 2006: 25). The parallel lives discourse has also infiltrated academic research on Bradford (Carling 2008, 2012; Varady 2008; Singh 2002). Representations of Bradford’s Muslim communities as problematic and characterised by an ‘inexorable separatism’ (Simpson et al. 2009: 1995) within community cohesion policy agendas and academic research into Bradford have contributed to claims that multiculturalism has failed (Lewis and Neal 2005: 431) and the subsequent shift towards a more assimilationalist approach around core values (McGhee 2008; Kundnani 2007: 24). A further development in the post-7/7 context is the connection that has been drawn between segregation and the threat of terrorism. This connection was made explicit by Trevor Phillips, then Chair of the Commission for Racial Equality, in a speech delivered in September 2005 entitled: ‘After 7/7: Sleepwalking to Segregation’ as well as by then Prime Minister, David Cameron’s (2011) infamous ‘state multiculturalism has failed’ speech delivered at the Munich Security Conference on the 5th February 2011. Cameron’s speech was delivered at the same time that around 3,000 far-right activists from the English Defence League (EDL) gathered in Luton, the largest demonstration in the organisation’s history (Guardian 5 February 2011). Whilst focus has been placed on the role of far-right groups and sensationalist media in propagating Islamophobia,

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less attention has been paid to mainstream politicians’ part in fostering Islamophobia (Mossavi 2015; also Warsi 2018; Ekman 2015), what Tina Patel and David Tyrer (2011: 43) refer to as a ‘mainstream mood’ in which the far-right has exploited fears of the Muslim Other that has been encouraged by the media and the state in the ‘war on terror’ (Afshar et al. 2005: 263) context. As Jocelyne Cesari (2004: 41) contends, ‘Islamophobia reaches all the way up to the highest levels of government[s].’ A case in point has been recent allegations of Islamophobia within the Conservative Party, including senior politicians such as current Prime Minister, Boris Johnson MP, that have led to repeated calls for an independent inquiry into Islamophobia by the Muslim Council of Britain and supported by former co-chair of the party, Baroness Warsi (The Independent Online 19 June 2019), and suspension of Conservative Party members over allegations of Islamophobia (BBC News 2 March 2020). The singling out of Muslim communities as the principle threat to national harmony has contributed to the culture of fear experienced by them in Leeds and Bradford following from heightened hostility and (in)securitisation of Muslim populations. Although the revised Prevent strategy (HM Government 2011a) acknowledged other forms of extremism, including far right extremism, it still emphasises Islamist2 extremism as the principle national threat. This is despite visibly aggressive anti-Muslim protests being held by far-right extremists, the English Defence League (EDL), up and down the country, including Leeds and Bradford during the time of this research (Chapter 6). Britain has witnessed radical right populism moving centre-stage (Wodak 2015; Ford and Goodwin 2014; Wodak et al. 2013; Goodwin 2011; Mudde 2007) and a significant increase in far-right extremism (Mudde 2014, 2019, Lambert 2013; Merkl and Weinberg 2003), which counter-terrorism police have described as ‘the fastest-growing UK terrorist threat’ (Guardian 19 September 2019). The Global Terrorism Index states that Britain faced 12 far-right terrorist attacks in 2017, which included the Finsbury Park mosque attack that killed one Muslim male, Makram Ali, and injured nine others. Home Office (2020a) figures for individuals who received Channel support aimed at safeguarding those identified as vulnerable to extremism reported that of the 697 individuals, the most common referrals were due to concerns about

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right-wing radicalisation (43%, 302 cases) compared to 30% (210 cases) for Islamist radicalisation, illustrating that we need to re-think racialised conceptions of who an ‘extremist’ is. Alongside the rise of the far-right, there has been an upsurge in hate crime experienced by Muslims in Britain, further mobilised by racist divisions which have become the hallmark of Brexit Britain (Abbas 2019, 2020; Valluvan and Kalra 2019; Virdee and McGeever 2018). The UK Islamophobic monitoring charity, Tell MAMA, reported a 326% increase in Islamophobic incidents in 2015, almost two-thirds of which were perpetrated against Muslim women (Guardian 29 June 2016). The particular targeting of Muslim women in Britain highlights the significance of the ‘Muslim question’ (Mandaville 2017; Selby and Beaman 2016) for understanding reformulations of imaginaries of belonging in Brexit Britain. Since Muslim women are often ‘visibly Muslim’ by veiling, they are symbolic signifiers of an Islamic culture increasingly viewed as incompatible with ‘Britishness.’ Recent Home Office 2019/20 (2020b: 2.1) data has revealed a 8% increase in hate crime in England and Wales, with half of all religiously motivated hate crime targeted at Muslims (50% of 3,089 offences). Ongoing struggles experienced by local South Asian Muslim communities in Bradford and Leeds from persistent racism and institutional failures to provide protection from racial victimisation (Rhodes 2009: 3.4; Bagguley and Hussain 2006, 2008: 340) (Chapter 6) contribute to how the culture of fear is experienced by Muslims within the research sites and affects their place within the national community more broadly. This research contributes important insights into the ways in which the culture of fear experienced by British Muslims is transmitted through both state practices and everyday interactions with ordinary citizens and comes to shape their lived experiences, including how they resist its negative impacts. The key question that the research asks is: How do British Muslims construct their identities in the context of the ‘war on terror’ of 21st Century Britain?

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The main research question is subdivided into the following exploratory areas: • How might constructions of British Muslim identities be informed by practices of race3 /racialisation? How might these contribute understanding to Islamophobia? • What are the wider social implications for relations in the national context: (a) between Muslims and non-Muslims? (b) within Muslim communities?

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Conducting Research Within a ‘Culture of Fear’

The environment in which the research was undertaken was characterised by a culture of fear (Sanghera and Thapar-Björkert 2008; Dwyer et al. 2008) emerging from the increased securitisation of Muslim identities (Saeed 2016; Spalek 2011). During my research, the Coalition Government issued its revised Prevent strategy (HM Government 2011a), the preventative strand of the UK Government’s counter-terrorism strategy, CONTEST (HM Government 2011b), which identified Leeds and Bradford as two of twenty-five cities designated ‘priority areas’4 for tackling terrorism under the strategy (see Chapter 4). Reports in the local media following the release of Prevent that Leeds is a ‘terror hotspot’ (Yorkshire Evening Post 8 July 2011) and Bradford is ‘at risk’ (Bradford Telegraph and Argus 7 June 2011) from ‘Islamic’ extremists were significant for understanding how the culture of fear was experienced within these places. The culture of fear operated in different ways in Leeds and Bradford because of their distinct histories. The emergence of the subject position of the ‘home-grown-terrorist’ following 7/7 has particular salience to how the culture of fear operates in Leeds (particularly the area of Beeston) following its connection as the home-place to three of the suicide bombers, including the leader, Mohammed Sidique Khan. In

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Leeds, increased counter-terrorism presence post-7/7 meant that organisations/individuals were unwilling to be involved in the research or undertook internal surveillance as protective measures to avoid state targeting. Negotiating the culture of fear involved being very careful about how I framed my research. I was advised by my Leeds-based gatekeeper not to make any mention of the ‘war on terror’ as Muslims had been warned not to speak on these issues for fear that their organisation was being ‘bugged.’ One centre which I tried to make contact with had been under intense scrutiny following 7/7 through claims that it had been used as a meeting place by Khan, which contributed to their reluctance to be involved in my research. When making contact with a Leeds-based organisation, I was treated as ‘suspect’ and ‘checked up on’ despite being transparent about my research (see Chapter 6). Had it not been because one member was friends with a fellow sociologist at my university, I might not have built trust as successfully. How my body was (mis)read contributed to my suspect treatment as someone who might be making contact in an undisclosed, official capacity. My Leeds-based gatekeeper told me people are “probably suspicious of a ‘white girl’ coming in and asking questions.” This experience highlighted how I also unwittingly contributed to the culture of fear affecting Muslims; further, that the body is an inadequate rubric for judging alliances. The body is nonetheless significant to suspectification (see Chapter 5). I decided to disclose my identity as half Iraqi and half English with Muslim heritage, which was important for gaining trust. I was an insider as someone of Muslim heritage and shared concern of the impact of the ‘war on terror’ on Muslims’ experiences, including my own family on my father’s side living in Baghdad, Iraq, some of whom have been displaced since the Iraq War 2003 and subsequent instability in the region and have sought asylum in the UK and US. A number of my relatives have witnessed the horrors of war, including bombings, interrogation and the violent deaths of close friends and neighbours. At the same time, I was also an outsider as a non-Muslim who could ‘pass’ as ‘white English.’ As I was not expected to know about Islam or being Muslim, participants provided detailed explanations of religious observance which enriched accounts.

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Interestingly, how I was ‘seen’ racially shifted. The different ways in which my body was categorised by my participants made apparent the practices of (mis)recognition in which the racialised visual regime operates (see Pugliese 2006) (Chapter 3). At different points during the interviews I was identified as ‘white,’ ‘English,’ ‘European,’ ‘Spanish,’ ‘Portuguese,’ ‘South American,’ ‘olive-y skinned,’ ‘pale’ and ‘Jewish’ on account of my ‘curly hair.’ Whilst it is not possible to know the implications that these different categories had for how participants related to me, what it did show was the importance of understanding the contingent, unstable and constructed nature through which racialised inscriptions operate to affect how identities are constructed inter-bodilyrelationally, encompassing categories which we do not use to position ourselves but which nevertheless affect how our bodies are related to by others. Challenges undertaking research in Bradford were related to its longer history as a site of research interest as indicated. In addition to the culture of fear, Bradford is ‘research weary’ (Sanghera and Thapar-Björkert 2008: 544); a perspective shared by my key Bradford gatekeeper. Increased scrutiny of Muslim communities had significant implications for the research process, particularly in relation to trust, access and gate-keeping (also Sanghera and Thapar-Björkert 2008: 544, 552; Dwyer et al. 2008) that are connected to Bradford’s ‘controversial and contested political history’ (Sanghera and Thapar-Björkert 2008: 544). Nonetheless, I was able to build contacts more easily in Bradford through my research placement with a racial justice organisation that was networked locally to another key Muslim organisation focusing on issues affecting Muslim women. One contact/participant referred to me as ‘legit’ in an email sent to her networks which showed the importance of trust-building when researching within a culture of fear. Counter-terrorism policy also posed research challenges. Under Prevent (HM Government 2011a: 3) universities are instructed to report to police ‘potentially aberrant behaviour.’ I was required by my University Ethics Committee to state on my participant consent form that confidentiality would be breached where ‘criminal or other disclosures requiring action take place during the study.’ My Leeds-based gatekeeper described the form as ‘scary’ because he perceived that it criminalised

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Muslims as terror suspects from the outset. I decided to remove the clause because it caused participants harm which I felt contravenes ethical practice (see Massoumi et al. 2020). Further restrictions have been introduced since I conducted my research. Notably, the introduction of the Prevent duty (Home Office 2021) as part of the Counter-Terrorism and Security Act 2015, which places a statutory duty on higher education institutions to monitor academic research.

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Methodology

The research is based on 26 in-depth interviews with Muslim men and women aged 18–46 living in Leeds or Bradford in 2010–2011. Sampling combined purposive, snowball and opportunistic techniques. As mentioned, the Bradford-based sample developed from a research placement with a racial justice organisation. The Leeds-based sample was built from my involvement with a local Stop the War group, and contacts made with the Leeds University Islamic Society and other university colleagues which helps explain why 15 of the Leeds-based participants were aged 18–30. This enabled me to explore particular challenges facing young Muslims within spaces associated with extremism such as universities and ISAs. Respondents were recruited from any denominational, ethnic or national background, both Muslim males and females, aged 18 or above (for ethical reasons). This enabled me to explore how individuals’ experiences, including of counter-terrorism, may differ (Choudhury and Fenwick 2011: vi). Half were from the Pakistani diaspora and a further six from other South Asian regions reflecting official statistics where 82% of the Bradford Muslim population are Pakistani and 65% in Leeds (DCLG 2009: 31). However, these categories mask important distinctions regarding culture, denomination, language and patterns of migration (Nasser 2003: 9). The remaining six were of Iraqi heritage (reflecting the growth of a sizeable Leeds-based Iraqi community following the first Gulf War) or white British converts in equal numbers. 24 were British, 17 of which were British-born. A notable absence from the sample was black Muslims despite a sizeable presence of Somali Muslims in Leeds.

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Nonetheless participants’ accounts provided useful insights concerning (anti)-blackness that are important for understanding internal differentiations operating within the category ‘Muslim’ and complexities concerning intersections of whiteness/racism/racialisation to experiences of Islamophobia and suspect treatment and colourism within Muslim communities. An equal number of men and women were interviewed. The majority of women were Bradford-based reflecting mobilisations following the 1995 and 2001 disturbances involving Pakistani Muslim women ‘(re)defining intra- and inter-community relationships’ (Burlet and Reid 1998: 270) (see Chapter 5). Only one woman did not wear hijab; three wore both hijab and jilbab, enabling me to examine how Islamic markers contributed to (gendered) practices of identity construction, how these changed during participants’ life-courses and how dress impacted familial and community relations, both within Muslim populations and in respect to wider society. However, I did not speak to women wearing the face veil or niqab which would have diversified the sample. One participant wore the niqab occasionally but did not classify herself as a ‘niqabi.’5 Nonetheless, references to the niqab featured in participants’ accounts, which highlighted important contestations concerning religious identity performances and navigating these with the demands of life in contemporary Britain. For the male sample, one participant wore a topi (Islamic cap) and had a beard; another two adopted what they described as a ‘light beard’ (Moustafa) and ‘Islamic beard’ (Qader) but the remainder did not adopt Islamic markers except during prayer. Participants were predominately well-educated with all but two participants educated to degree level or were completing their university studies, and a further 9 had or were undertaking masters or PhDs.

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Inter-bodily-Relational

The research is underpinned by what I term an ‘inter-bodily-relational’ (IBR) theoretical framework and model of subjectivity that approaches identity as constituted through a ‘network of relations’ (Foucault 1977: 26), both state and non-state, involving affective, psychic, temporal,

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embodied, spatial and vocal subjects situated within intersecting contexts (local, national and international). The IBR builds from relational approaches that seek to draw connections between experiences of race/racism across time and space (see Goldberg 2009; also Meer 2013a, b). A relational approach sensitised me to the difficulties of researching a ‘suspect community’ (see Sanghera and Thapar-Björkert 2008; Spalek 2011), including how I could be positioned as both challenging and reproducing the culture of fear (Hunter 2009: 185) experienced by Muslims in Britain as discussed earlier. Methods included developing a participatory social map which took participants’ situated positions as the starting point of inquiry and oriented in-depth qualitative interviews lasting between 1.5 and 4 hours. The maps explored the different contexts comprising participants’ social worlds (religion, family, work and so forth), relations formed within them and their meaning to participants using three key words/phrases, which provided important insight of intra- and inter-community relations, including community work and the role of religion. I chose not to use an interview schedule because I did not want to pre-empt the significance of the ‘war on terror’ context onto participants’ lives. As indicated, interviewing within a culture of fear posed ethical challenges. Participants reported threatening incidences which, in keeping with a relational approach, required empathetic engagement. The methods adopted a relational approach to voice (see Hunter 2005) that understands interviews as co-constructed (Hunter 2005; Alldred and Gillies 2005; Mischler 1991) between embodied and emotional/affective subjects (Walkderdine et al. 2003). Voice does not provide access to ‘reality,’ but ‘“mediates” identity and experience, where neither is fixed or stable’ (Hunter 2005: 13). Participants’ accounts provided important insights of the complex negotiations they were engaged in and how these contributed to the dynamic ways in which identities and relations are (re)constituted within diverse arenas. Alongside interviews, I undertook extensive fieldwork throughout the research. I constructed my own ‘map’ of the research contexts to aid my understanding of the different organisations and issues that were being talked about at the grassroots level, the types of mobilisations that

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were being undertaken, and the difficulties and challenges that organisations/participants experienced. I attended various events, meetings and protests, both as part of my fieldwork and in a personal capacity as a member of a local anti-war group and local resident which required negotiation and reflection to ensure transparency and manage expectations and relations in the field. I attended monthly meetings with the Leeds-based anti-war organisation as well as protests against the War in Afghanistan including on one freezing cold November day in 2010 in Trafalgar Square having set off from Leeds at 6am on a coach booked for the event, as well as representing the group at the national Stop the War membership annual meeting held in London. I also attended a number of related events addressing issues of racism and Islamophobia, the impact of funding cuts to the charity and voluntary sector on BME communities, and events for Muslim women such as the inaugural Daughters of Eve event held in May 2011 by the Bradford Muslim Women’s Council in partnership with the Islamic Society of Britain which explored religious practice and scholarship (entitled ‘Muslim Women: Critically Thinking the Past, Present Future’), and a workshop on political participation focusing on some of the challenges facing Muslim women to engage in politics that was facilitated by labour MP, Baroness Janet Royall. During my fieldwork an event was held in Bradford to mark 10 years since the Bradford disturbances in 2001, which illustrated the legacy of this event to Bradford’s history and which shaped current responses to political mobilisation around race hate, media representation, and policing of South Asian Muslim communities (see Chapter 6). By attending these diverse events, I was able to get a sense of what was happening ‘on the ground’ which informed the types of questions that I was able to ask and to build trust and rapport. For example, during my research the English Defence League (EDL) were organising a demonstration in Bradford. As I had attended the meetings leading up to the ‘multicultural celebration’ of ‘peace and unity’ which had been organised by the We are Bradford community campaign as a counter to the EDL presence, as well as the event itself, I was able to share my experiences with participants and ask more informed questions, particularly concerning participants’ community/organisational roles and activism (see Chapter 6).

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Data analysis examined how participants are embedded in various intimate and wider social relations (Abbott 2020; Gilligan 1982) which impact identity construction. Analysis focused on the forms of governance involved in managing Muslim identities and how these traverse state, group (intra- and inter-), and individual levels of social experience. What emerged through the analyses were the diverse ways in which participants’ experiences were shaped by a culture of fear that the ‘Concentrationary Gothic’ framework delineates as I move on to discuss.

5

The Concentrationary Gothic: A Framework of Racial Terror

From my findings and in response to my research questions, I advance a conceptual framework that I term the ‘Concentrationary Gothic’ to explicate the dynamic ways in which the culture of fear is experienced by British Muslim men and women in contemporary Britain. This framework is concerned with exploring how Islamophobia functions as a form of racial terror involved in the governance of Muslims within the ‘war on terror’ context of Britain. It extends previous work on the concentrationary system (Pollock and Silverman 2011a, b, 2014a, b; Pollock 2015; Sunderland 2013; Chare 2011; Fings 2010; Cohen 2005; Bauman 2000; Sofsky 1997; Arendt 1996; Rousset 1946) and the normalisation of the state of exception (Dingli and Purewal 2018; Martins 2017; Sahin 2015; Pugliese 2013; De Larrinaga and Doucet 2008; Razack 2008; Devetak 2008; Kruger et al. 2008; Rygiel 2008; Aradau and van Munster 2007; Puar 2007; Osuri 2006; Mummery 2006; Wadiwel 2006; Agamben 1998, 2005; Diken and Laustsen 2002, 2005; Butler 2004; Mbembe 2003) by considering the ways in which whiteness institutionalises itself and reproduces its dominance via the Gothic. I develop the concentrationary as a conceptual tool in conversation with the Gothic. This enables me to examine how features of the Gothic—hauntings and the spectral, monster and monstrosity, and abjected states—intersect with the state of exception that marks the current juridical-political paradigm. I argue that the concentrationary as a prism for understanding the operation of racial terror in states of

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exception and other structures of domination (Pollock and Silverman 2011a, 2014a: 14) works in conjunction with practices of Gothicisation in support of white dominance (Abbas 2013). The Concentrationary Gothic framework emerged from participants’ accounts as a means of organising how the culture of fear within the ‘war on terror’ context operates for Muslims. Participants located their understandings of the current treatment of Muslims in relation to the histories of terror experienced by racialised and religious Others at different historical moments from colonialism to the ‘colonial present’ (Gregory 2004) of the ‘war on terror.’ I approach terror therefore as racialised and as having a racialised history that is endemic to the formation and enactment of whiteness (Abbas 2013). I outline the key concepts that I engage with to develop my framework.

Whiteness In keeping with an inter-bodily-relational subjectivity, whiteness is approached as a ‘fundamentally relational category’ where, ‘To speak of whiteness is…to assign everyone a place in the relations of racism’ (Frankenberg 1993: 231, 6). This helps support examinations of the mutual entanglements of relations vis-à-vis the dominant group and other racialised groups so as to move beyond reductive black/white binaries and instead delineate complex ‘interferences’ (Haraway 1997: 184) involving racial interiors and exteriors (Virdee 2014, 2017a, b, 2019; also Higginbotham 1992). Whiteness has important structural advantages (Frankenberg 1993: 1) captured well by Cheryl Harris’ (1993: 1709, 1715) examination of ‘whiteness as property’ in which whiteness becomes the ‘basis of racialized privilege,’ a ‘type of status in which white racial identity informs the allocation of societal benefits both private and public in character’ (Chapter 4). These benefits are ratified and justified in law as a form of property status. Legal legitimations of power and control are naturalised over time so that they become settled expectations of the status quo, masking white privilege and dominance and the forms of racialised

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exclusions on which these structures are premised. The power described here is, as Steve Garner (2007: 14) writes: …an unchecked and untrammelled authority to exert its will; the power to invent and change the rules and transgress them with impunity; and the power to define the ‘Other’, and to kill him or her with impunity. The arbitrary imposition of life and death is one end of the spectrum of power relations that whiteness enacts, across the parts of the world where white people are preponderant in positions of power.

The terror of whiteness as seen from the standpoint of non-whites told for example, by George Yancy (2008), Frantz Fanon (1986), bell hooks (1992) and Toni Morrison (1987), highlights the interplay of symbolic and material violences to which racial Others are subjected arising from the powers of the hostile white gaze to name, define and make decisions on their lives. An important means of justifying such terrors is by escaping framings of terror/ist. These absences are not merely gaps in knowledge, but comprise a ‘knowing ignorance’ (Tate 2014: 2477, original italics; also Sullivan and Tuana 2007: 2) that are actively reproduced based on racialised stereotypes (as I explore through the notion of ‘premediated ignorance’ in Chapter 4) involved in the governance of internal racial colonies, and are enacted through institutional structures, processes, practices and affect. Within institutional spaces, as predominately ‘white spaces’ (Ahmed 2007), the white body functions as the ‘unmarked norm’ (Dyer 1997: 1). Conversely, the non-white body is produced as ‘out of place’ and subjected to ‘super-surveillance’ (Puwar 2004: 61) which works to maintain the racial nomos. This book is concerned with exploring how whiteness operates as terror as shown through British Muslims’ accounts of their experiences of the terrors of counter-terrorism. I am concerned with disrupting the civiliser/terroriser binary operating within the ‘war on terror’ context of Britain, which is captured well by hooks’ (1992: 174) insights of the racialised workings of framings of terror/ist in which whiteness escapes association with terror:

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I think that one fantasy of whiteness is that the threatening Other is always a terrorist. This projection enables many white people to imagine there is no representation of whiteness as terror, as terrorizing.

In addressing the absence observed by hooks (1992: 174), my aim is to advance an alternative visual schema in which whiteness is figured as terror/ist within the ‘war on terror.’ To assist my development, I draw from work concerned with conceptualising the workings of terror through both systems of governance and representational strategies.

Concentrationary David Rousset (1946) coined the term ‘concentrationary’ in his analysis of the system described by him as ‘the concentrationary universe’ that comprised the ‘political/industrial/military complex which underpins totalitarian rule’ (Pollock and Silverman 2014b: xvi). For Rousset (1946: 141), the concentration camp system ushered in a new epoch for conceptualising terror in which ‘everything is possible’ but which was, he observed, the extension of a logic that was already present in which its victims are vanquished of social humanity but are not confined within it (Pollock and Silverman 2011a: 18). It is a term therefore that has been ‘freighted with a history of political terror and need for continual vigilance’ (Pollock and Silverman 2014a: 1) from its inception. As such, it provides a useful tool for interrogating how legacies of terror inform current configurations. The concentration camp is emblematic of the concentrationary universe, but it also references the society of which the camp is an instrument (Pollock and Silverman 2014a: 3). Political uses of terror to accomplish social coercion are a significant strategy within the concentration camp (Pollock and Silverman 2011a, 2014a; Fings 2010; Sunderland 2013; Sofsky 1997; Arendt 1996). Griselda Pollock and Max Silverman (2014a: 3) argue that the concentrationary exemplified a system that was both political, preoccupied with power and seeking dominance, as well as anti-political, striving to undermine citizenship and democratic political participation. What is less developed in their account, are

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the racialised distinctions concerning restrictions to political engagement that the Concentrationary Gothic contributes; a point I return to. The concentrationary provides a ‘historical and conceptual tool’ (Pollock and Silverman 2011a: 3) that is useful for drawing (dis)continuities between systems of terror and how they are racialised. Explicitly realised in Nazi Germany, the concentration camp has precedents within colonial contexts and the plantation system (Mbembe 2003: 21), as well as subsequent manifestations that require that we be vigilant to signs of its recurrence (Pollock and Silverman 2011a: 13; Mbembe 2003; Gilroy 2000; Arendt 1996). The concentrationary is coextensive with the politico-juridical development of the normalisation of the state of exception (Agamben 1998; also Razack 2008; Mbembe 2003). The Concentrationary Gothic is situated therefore within the terror formation in which the concentration camp is the ‘nomos of the modern’ (Agamben 1998: 166, original italics), but which exemplifies a persistent logic of terror. That is to argue that it provides a: Socially constructed ordering of experience which achieved an explicit realization in the actual camps of the Nazi epoch, but which exceed that historical actuality, having both precedents before 1933 (the infamous British concentration camps for the Boers during the Second Boer War of 1899-1902) and subsequent incarnations that infiltrate contemporary social experience globally. (Pollock and Silverman 2011a: 13–14)

A substantial body of work has emerged that engages with the state of exception for explaining the juridico-political framework of the ‘war on terror’ (Dingli and Purewal 2018; Martins 2017; Sahin 2015; Pugliese 2013, 2011; De Larrinaga and Doucet 2008; Bhattacharyya 2008; Razack 2008; Devetak 2008; Kruger et al. 2008; Rygiel 2008; Aradau and van Munster 2007; Puar 2007; Osuri 2006; Mummery 2006; Wadiwel 2006; Agamben 2005; Diken and Laustsen 2002, 2005; Butler 2004; Mbembe 2003). For Giorgio Agamben (2005: 39), the state of exception is ‘the force of law without law’ where extraordinary powers to suspend citizenship rights are legitimised in cases of declared national emergency in so-called democratic states so that, as Bülent Diken and

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Carsten Laustsen (2002: 291) surmise, ‘discipline, control, and terror coexist in today’s imaginary and real urban geography.’ My analyses are not confined to historical specificities of actual camps but rather in keeping with an Agambian (1998, 2005) theorisation, to a ‘logic of the camp’ (Pollock and Silverman 2011a: 14, original italics; also Diken and Laustsen 2002, 2005, 2006) attentive to a recurrent logic of power. This logic is discernible within the political-legal development in which the state of exception is normalised, located at the threshold between democracy and absolutism (Agamben 2005: 3). For Agamben (2005: 2), the state of exception involves the establishment of a ‘legal civil war that allows for the physical elimination not only of political adversaries but of entire categories of citizens who for some reason cannot be integrated into the political system.’ Yet race remains remarkably absent in his theorisation, requiring that we adopt different conceptual modes to understand the place of race within systems of terror, as I move on to consider.

Race Thinking and Racial Terror The establishment of race thinking under modernity to frame conceptions of rationality and irrationality (Gilroy 2000: 55) has been central to governing practices premised on ‘civilising’ ‘barbarous Others.’ Paul Gilroy (2000: 72) invites us to consider how terror formations are framed as ‘rational, legal, or acceptable’ options to justify performances of terror under the guise of advancing ‘civilised’ forms of governance. The reworking of terror formations across time/space illustrates the centrality of racial terror to the development of modernity, not an aberration (Bauman 2000; Gilroy 2000); a point I develop later. As intimated, a number of writers have observed that the premise of terror within the Nazi concentration and death camps had its precedents in the plantation and the colony in the context of imperialism and colonialism and the development of the nation-state (Rothberg 2009; Razack 2008; Gregory 2004; Mbembe 2003; Gilroy 2000; Arendt 1996). Building from these theorisations, the Concentrationary Gothic advances an inter-bodily-relational approach to racial terror (Meer

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2013a, b; Goldberg 2009; Gunaratnam 2003) that is concerned with exploring how racial configurations and conditions from one context ‘interact with conditions and expressions tried and tested elsewhere’ (Goldberg 2009: 1273). As such, it considers how ‘race’ as a means of differentiating bodies into categories of sub/human coalesces with the rise of modern terror (see Mbembe 2003; Gilroy 2000 also Gregory 2004) that supports analyses of how previous histories of racial terror contribute to the culture of fear experienced by British Muslims in contemporary Britain. Sherene Razack (2008: 8, 175) provides an apt description of what the Concentrationary Gothic is concerned with exploring: ‘the place of race in the concept of a modern world menaced by a premodern one, a world of camps.’ She describes the re-emergence of the state of exception within the ‘war on terror’ as a place where ‘the law has determined that the rule of law does not apply,’ (Razack 2008: 6) that informs how the logic of the camp (Pollock and Silverman 2011a, 2014b; Pollock 2015; Diken and Laustsen 2002, 2005, 2006) has been extended through the eviction of Muslims from law and the political community. An important contribution has also been Derek Gregory’s (2004) delineation of the ‘colonial present’ in his examination of contemporary wars in Iraq, Afghanistan and Palestine that traces the enduring history of British and American involvement in the Middle East. His analyses reveal that colonial forms of power continue to haunt current geopolitics of the ‘war on terror.’ Unsurprisingly, Gregory (2004: 4, original italics) dismisses claims that we have moved into a postcolonial epoch as arrogant, instead reminding us that ‘every performance of the colonial present carries within it the possibilities of reaffirming and even radicalising the hold of the past on the present or of undoing its enclosures and approaching closer to the horizons of the post colonial’ (also Bhabha 1997: 212–235). He draws our attention to a connective logic between colonial modernity and the ‘architecture of enmity’ (Gregory 2004: 20) that constitute Self/Other divisions and the conditions of possibility for (re)imagining the Muslim Other as threatening within ‘war on terror’ framings. How categories of the human are constructed are central to understanding how terror can be sanctioned. Judith Butler’s (2004, 2009)

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examinations of the ‘war on terror’ are particularly useful for understanding how the question of ‘who counts as human?’ (2004: 20) contribute the conditions under which Muslims’ lives are made ‘precarious’ following from their exclusion from the category of ‘human’ (also Bhattacharyya 2008; Razack 2008; Puar 2007; Gregory 2004; Mbembe 2003; Puar and Rai 2002). In a similar vein, Razack (2008: 6) draws attention to the division operating within the category of human. She contends that race thinking, which she defines as ‘the denial of a common bond of humanity between people of European descent and those who are not,’ frames the ‘war on terror’ context. Such a division can usefully be explored through the Gothic.

Gothic I draw on Robert Mighall’s (1999) historical approach to the Gothic. Mighall (1999: xviii, xxv) understands ‘Gothic’ to represent the culture which carries the stigma of being ‘uncivilized, unprogressive or “barbaric.”’ This representation shifts depending on the current sociopolitical and cultural attitudes so that at particular historical junctures, places, institutions and people are ‘Gothicized’; that is, ‘they have the Gothic thrust upon them’ and by contrast, the ‘civilized self ’ (Punter and Byron 2003: 5) is defined. The power to project terror onto the bodies of racialised Others through the Gothic enables whiteness to escape representations of terror (hooks 1992: 174) as terror-inducing and allows its association with ‘civilisation’ and humanness to be maintained. The re-emergence of what Richard Devetak (2005: 621) refers to as the ‘Gothic scene’ of international relations post-9/11 illustrates how terror functions as a political weapon through the Gothic to mobilise fears of the Muslim Other as a figure which ‘terrorise[s] the civilised, human world’ (Devetak 2005: 621). The Gothic’s concern with what is uncivilised or barbaric as a means through which to define the values of civilisation (Punter and Byron 2003: 5) is re-worked by the ‘clash of civilizations’ (Huntingdon 1996) ideological thesis which constructs Muslims as an importunate threat to Western civilisation (see Razack 2008: 173). As David Punter and Glennis Byron (2003: 5) note, the

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Gothic ‘remains the symbolic site of a culture’s discursive struggle to define and claim possession of the civilized, and to abject, or throw off, what is seen as other to that civilized self.’ It thus provides a significant site for interrogating the civiliser/terroriser binary operating within the ‘war on terror.’ Through the Concentrationary Gothic framework, I explicate how the Gothicisation of Muslims as ‘terrorist-monsters’ (Puar and Rai 2002; also see Razack 2008; Puar 2007) works to legitimate the state of exception experienced by Muslims. This juridical-political context informs the culture of fear expressed by participants where the ability of whiteness to exert its power with impunity through surveillance, detention and even death (Mbembe 2003a) haunts Muslims’ experiences, both materially and symbolically. In the next section, I develop how racialised bodies come to be associated with conceptions of terror at particular historical junctures by exploring connections between productions of race and the Gothic.

Gothic(isation) and Racial(isation) The Concentrationary Gothic extends analyses of the state of exception by exploring how the Gothic provides a powerful intelligibility for examining the extra-legal spaces of law (see Punter 1998: 200; 2007; Chaplin 2007; Devetak 2005; Valier 2002: 333; also Moran 2001) operating within the ‘war on terror’ and the racialised workings of terror informing the governance of Muslim subjects (Sentas 2014). The Gothic’s concern with the extra-legal extends analyses of the violences enabled by law for those produced as outside the category of ‘human’ and which allocates them an unequal position within law (Razack 2008) (Chapter 4). Historically, the Gothic has been preoccupied with the ‘breaching of established spatial entities and categories’ (Valier 2002: 319) that focuses attention on the in-between. As such it provides a useful extension to examinations of the state of exception which is locatable on the ‘threshold of indeterminancy between democracy and absolutism’ (Agamben 2005: 3). Terror invoked by cultural representations, case law and penal practice concerning terrorists/terrorism relate to the horrors of what

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contests boundaries, epitomised by the Islamist terrorist who breaches spatial boundaries through globally diffused terrorist networks (Valier 2002: 322), both domestically (captured by the category ‘home-grown terrorist’) and internationally (‘the foreign fighter’); a figure which is both within yet conceived as external to Britain/the West. The terror threat invokes an important re-staging of the conflict of civiliser/terroriser which has not only been used as a means of justifying the state of exception, but illustrates, as Claire Valier (2002: 321) reminds us, how Gothic tropes are ‘embedded in the practices of the institutions of crime control and punishment themselves.’ Likewise, Jasbir Puar and Amit Rai (2002: 117, 118) contend that monstrosity has come to ‘organize the discourse of terrorism’ which links representations of the modern terrorist to historical accounts of racial and sexual monsters of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. My engagement with the concentrationary focuses on its potential for invoking ‘the past haunting the present’ that can enable us to ‘read its signs and counter its deformation of the human’ (Pollock and Silverman 2014b: xvii). I extend these analyses through incorporating the Gothic as a conceptual frame for exploring how representations of racialised bodies are made to correspond to particular notions of terror at certain historical junctures. Importantly, my concern is to develop how these constructions precipitate terroristic practices being enacted against these racialised Others. A number of writers have drawn connections between productions of race and the Gothic (Wester 2012; Khair 2009; Gibbons 2004; Anolik 2004; Davison 2004; Halberstam 2000; Mighall 1999; Goddu 1997, 1999; Hurley 1996; Malchow 1996; Arata 1990; Brantlinger 1988). Links have also been drawn between the Gothic and the Oriental (Kelly 1989) and the development of a perceptible Oriental Gothic (Kabir 2006). These analyses illustrate overlaps between the Gothic and Orientalism’s influence on constructions of race. The significance of the Gothic compared to Orientalist frames for understanding how racial terror operates is that it is principally concerned with exploring how ‘images of otherness have been made to correspond to particular notions of terror ’ (Smith and Hughes 2003: 4, my italics).

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Whilst acknowledging my debt to Edward Said’s (2003) Orientalism for understanding how European constructions of the colonised as inferior served purposes of domination, I argue that ‘racial gothic’ (Malchow 1996: 2) provides a more useful vocabulary for exploring racial and cultural difference as unnatural. This is because it draws from parallel discourses of the human sciences, anthropology and biology to articulate how categories of (sub)human are constructed and contested and are tied to registers of hygiene and circuits of affective repulsion (Abbas 2019) that are cogently expressed through Gothic tropes of hauntings and the spectral, the monster or monstrous, and abjected states (Hurley 1996). The shift to the Cartesian subject as ‘the measure of all things’ (Smith and Hughes 2003: 1, 2) in Enlightenment thought relied on ‘defining the human in relation to the seeming non-human’ which facilitated constructions of racial hierarchies that underpinned colonialism. Racism, H. L. Malchow (1996: 3) contends, required a ‘demonization…of difference.’ The Gothic, as a ‘narrative of terror’ (Khair 2009: 132), provides a more useful set of conceptual tools for exploring how terror operates and its connections to productions of racial configurations than an Orientalist frame can enable. This is because the Gothic genre has historically offered a language that could be appropriated and reworked by racists in a powerful ‘reiterated evocation of terror, disgust and alienation’ (Malchow 1996: 4) to express experiences of cultural conflict and the violent expansion of European nationalism and imperialism, and which in part constructed it. As Malchow (1996: 3) observes, ‘the gothicisation of race and the racialization of the Gothic’ are interrelated processes. Following Malchow, I approach the Gothic as inseparable from practices of racialisation. My concern is to explore how racial configurations have been re-worked within Islamophobic discourses through the redeployment of the Gothic. The politics of Islamophobia are intimately connected to discourses of the nation which are in part mediated through Gothic conventions. This is present for example in discourses of ‘Islamification’ which reiterate the fantasy of reverse colonisation where national space and identity is taken over by barbarous forces (Arata 1990; Brantlinger 1988: 229) (Chapter 2). Islamophobia must thus be understood as playing a particular role in defining national identity. Writers

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have drawn a comparable argument to the deployment of anti-Semitism and the ‘Jewish question’ to practices of nation construction (see Abbas 2019; Tyrer 2013: 160–168; Davison 2004) that further illustrates the racialised history of terror in which Gothic representations of racialised Others are reworked at different historical moments. Exploring historical interdependencies between the Gothic and the production of racial discourses (Goddu 1999: 136) assists a historical approach to the Gothic advocated by Mighall (1999; also Halberstam 2000: 6). This involves exploring the discursive and socio-political factors that contribute to making Gothic representations credible at particular historical junctures. In this regard, the Gothic is approached in this book as a process that is actively constructed such that bodies (as well as places, institutions and epochs) can be ‘Gothicized’ (Mighall 1999: xxv) which I argue later, are supported by what I term ‘visual technologies’ of monstrosity. The Concentrationary Gothic extends analyses of how racial terror operates through the redeployment of the Gothic in the ‘war on terror’ context that supports examination of how earlier racialisations are reworked to suit the current socio-political contexts in keeping with a relational approach to race (Meer 2013a, b; Goldberg 2009) that seeks to make connections across time/space. As such, the Concentrationary Gothic is attentive to the dynamic workings of racial terror that are not confined to the historical context in which they are articulated, but draw from previous histories of racial configurations to make them resonant in the present. These representations correspond to transmutations in terror formations that illustrate how whiteness reproduces its dominance via the Gothic that include contexts of British imperialism (see Brantlinger 1988 and his discussion of ‘imperial Gothic’); American slavery (e.g. see Webster 2012; Goddu 1997 for examinations of the links between American Gothic and the historical context of slavery); and the camp (see Davison 2004 for a discussion on the links between the Gothic, anti-Semitism, and the Nazi Regime). The Gothic’s portrayal of religious Others as anachronistic vestiges of troubled pasts that includes Europe’s Catholic Other (Hoeveler 2013; Purves 2004; Wein 2002; Mighall 1999: 6; Tumbleson 1998; Tarr 1946; Summers 1938) as a counter-point to progressive Protestantism or

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perceived as trapped by superstition such as Irish Catholics (see Gibbons 2004), and Jews (see Smith 2004; Davison 2004; Halberstam 2000) embodying the threat of ‘Judaizing’ England, illustrate how the Gothicisation of bodies is not confined to biological markers of race. Similarly, Islamophobia operates through both racial and religious categories and intersects with other markers of identity such as gender, nationality, geography and age. David Theo Goldberg (2006) provides an important critique of the black/white binary for understanding what ‘race’ has meant within Europe. By examining the shift in Europe’s fixation from the figure of ‘the Jew’ prior to World War II to ‘the black’ to ‘the Muslim’ he illustrates that ‘race’ is not confined to skin colour, nor is it oppositional to religion. Adopting a comparable line of inquiry, Étienne Balibar argues that it is ‘racism without race’ (1991: 23) that shapes current ‘regimes of representation’ (Pugliese 2009: 11). This is a ‘culturalist’ or ‘differentialist’ racism (of which anti-Semitism is another example) since it is not underpinned by biological inferiority or ‘scientific’ accounts such as eugenics. Rather, this racism marks ‘a seemingly intractable and irreducible line between the superior Western subject and its inferior Other’ (Pugliese 2009: 11). This hierarchical division along cultural lines facilitates the ongoing recoding of biological racism, accompanied by unequal relations of power, which as Joseph Pugliese (2009: 12) writes, is ‘revamped under a differentialist guise.’ These analyses enable us to consider how race has always been more complexly intertwined with ‘the set of views, dispositions, and predilections concerning culture’ (Goldberg 2006: 349) that are significant for understanding how race is recentred in classifications of Muslims within the current context (see Tyrer 2010: 96). Debates surrounding definitions of Islamophobia have centred on whether Muslims are discriminated against because of their skin colour, ethnic origin, religion or a combination (López 2011: 556–557), and therefore if it corresponds to a form of religious intolerance or a form of racism, whether ‘new racism’ (Barker 1981) or ‘cultural racism’ (Modood 1997). The Concentrationary Gothic adopts the notion of a technology of monstrosity to address how Muslims are produced as monstrous bodies through intersectional identity categories.

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Technology of Monstrosity Whilst a number of writers have adopted Orientalist frames for examining constructions of Muslims within the ‘war on terror’ (Zine 2006; Meer 2014), postcolonial critiques of Orientalism (e.g. Fulford et al. 2004) have argued that Said (2003) sets up an immutable polarisation between East and West that entrenches binary oppositions rather than considers the complex entanglements through which relations are (re)configured and are intersected by a number of identity categories. This suggests that frameworks need to be developed which move beyond binary thinking to capture these complex entanglements. One such example is Judith Halberstam’s (2000: 88) adoption of a ‘technology of monstrosity’ in her examination of the Gothic and discourses of modern anti-Semitism. The technology of monstrosity serves two functions that are also crucial for understanding how Muslims are positioned in the current juncture: firstly, as a threat to Britain’s core values and secondly, as a threat to national security. She argues that Gothic monsters ‘produce monstrosity as never unity’ but an aggregate of identity categories such as race, gender and class, which ‘condenses as many fear-producing traits as possible onto one body’ (Halberstam 2000: 21). Adopting the notion of a technology of monstrosity supports engagement with the contested terrain in which discourses of Islamophobia operate that is attentive to how visual and embodied markers interact to comprise how Islamophobia is performed and experienced in diverse and dynamic ways. The technology assists relational analyses of race (Meer 2013a, b; Goldberg 2009; Hunter 2009; Gunaratnam 2003; Frankenberg 1993; Fanon 1986) that are sensitive to how complex histories of colonialism have meant that identity categories have been ‘marked by and constituted through race’ (Gunaratnam 2003: 20), such that race functions as a ‘metalanguage’ (Higginbotham 1992: 22) which lends meaning to a range of expressions and ways of being through which Muslims are produced as antithetical to Englishness. The technology locates the supposed ‘clash of civilizations’ (Huntingdon 1996) thesis underpinning representations of Muslims within the Gothic as involving a site of struggle to ‘claim position of the civilised’ (Punter and Byron 2003: 5) that accompany ‘civilising’ practices imposed upon ‘barbaric

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Others.’ Further, it supports examination of the racialised history of terror where ‘colonial distinctions of signification’ (Hesse 2007: 643) continue to organise Muslim bodies within the ‘war on terror’ context. Adopting a technology of monstrosity provides an important corrective to Orientalist accounts of Islam and Muslims as predominately Arabo-Persian and thus non-white and non-black (Escalante 2019: 180), which fails to address (anti-)blackness in thinking on Islamophobia and makes absent the relationship between Islam and Africa which has had a presence since the seventh century (and aids understanding of the presence of Islamist groups, Boko Harem in West Africa, and AlShabaab in East Africa). Not only does addressing this omission enable us to locate Islamophobia within a longer history of the transatlantic slave trade (Escalante 2019: 181) in shaping Euro-American attitudes towards Islam, but it recognises the place of Islam within the experiences of Africans and de-Africanisation, providing important nuances in discussions of the relationship between race and Islamophobia (see Chapter 3). There are important connections to be drawn concerning performances of racial terror by looking to the legacy of the transatlantic slave trade and persistence of anti-blackness within the policing of black bodies, including black Muslim bodies, as well within Muslim communities (Chapter 3). The latter is important for delineating how the concept of ‘human’ is racially ordered vis-à-vis the dominant group and other racially marked groups (Higginbotham 1992). Taking to task writers such as Razack (2008), Délice Mugabo (2016: 165, my italics) argues that speaking of the Muslim subject in abstract terms in accounts of the state of exception fails to grasp that black people, ‘Muslim or not, are always already cast outside the categories of the human and the citizen.’ It is important therefore to consider intersectional approaches to identity (Vakulenko 2007; McCall 2005; Brah and Phoenix 2004; Burman 2004; Hill Collins 1998; Crenshaw 1989, 1991) that are attentive to ‘multiple, intersecting sources of subordination/oppression’ (Denis 2008: 677) in order to understand the complex, overlapping ways in which identity construction operates, and the networked forms of governance to which individuals are subjected, as I move on to discuss.

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Governance as Networked The Concentrationary Gothic foregrounds how Gothic discourses are used to support racialised biopolitics involved in practices of governance and dominance that as this book examines, comprise nation construction and exclusion (Chapter 2), racial profiling and screening/surveillance practices (Chapter 3), spatial control and dominance (Chapter 4), production of internal divisions within the oppressed group (Chapter 5), and restrictions to freedom of speech and political engagement (Chapter 6). These governmental strategies are enabled by the establishment of the state of exception which marks the current juridical-political structure. Following Michel Foucault (2000: 211), I approach governance as encompassing ‘a range of multiform tactics’ which is not restricted to the imposition of law but more broadly, ‘of disposing things: that is, employing tactics rather than laws, and even using laws themselves as tactics…’ Extending our understanding of traditional government enables us to account for the capillary ways in which state-directed tactics are retransmitted by non-state actors so as to infiltrate everyday lifeworlds. In the context of the war on terror, non-state actors are enlisted in surveillance activities as ‘surveillant citizens’ (Salerno 2017) informing a shift observed by Reginald Whitaker (1999: 29, original italics) of ‘surveillance state’ to ‘surveillance society.’ Important to my theorisation is how the emergence of modern forms of governance occurred alongside Western racism (Hesse 2007; Hesse and Sayyid 2006: 7; Lewis 2000: 26-27) and found their initial expression within the colonies. Emphasis on the regulation of bodies and the rise of biopower involving practices of classification and categorisation is central to a regime of normalisation which coincides with discourses of racism (Foucault 2004: 62; also Macey 2009). As such, the body is central to the political field, subsumed within racialised power relations that have ‘an immediate hold upon it; they invest it, mark it, train it, torture it, force it to carry out tasks, to perform ceremonies, to emit signs’ (Foucault 1977: 26), that requires attention to the symbolic, discursive and material ways in which bodies are subjected to practices of governance across a number of contexts.

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As described earlier, the Concentrationary Gothic’s advancement of an inter-bodily-relational model of subjectivity addresses how terroristic practices permeate the multidimensions of social experience with affective, psychic, temporal, embodied, spatial and relational subjects whose experiences mediate and are mediated by voice (Hunter 2005: 153), and which traverse state, group (inter- and intra-) and individual levels of experience. Strategies of governance are understood therefore to operate through a ‘network of relations’ (Foucault 1977: 27) that is attentive to how racial terror affects British Muslim identities situated within both intimate and wider connections (Hunter 2009, 2012; Tucker 2011; Pedwell 2008; Urry 2002; Tronto 1995; Jordan 1993; Ruddick 1989; Deleuze 1988; Gilligan 1982). Writers adopting a relational ontology (Abbott 2020; Burkitt 2014, 2016, 2018; Gergen 2009; Gergen and Gergen 1988; Slife 2004) have noted that it enables us to challenge rigid categorisation and sensitises us to the overlapping, complex networks through which identities are produced as ambivalent and dynamic. The body is of central significance to interactions discussed in these accounts, as captured by the concepts of ‘intercorporeality’ (Merleau-Ponty 1964, 2004; Weis 1999) and ‘interembodiment’ (Ahmed and Stacey 2001: 6, 1). The latter term, according to Ahmed and Stacey (2001: 6, 1), describes ‘being-with and being-for’ in which skin is understood to become meaningful in relation to other bodies and as such, is not inert, but is ‘always open to being (mis)read and (re)read.’ By destabilising the equation of ‘Muslim’ and ‘terrorist,’ the Concentrationary Gothic framework exposes how terror circulates between bodies (see Puar 2007: 205). This phenomenon is captured well by the ‘inter-bodily-relational’—a site where the power of whiteness to define Muslims as ‘monstrous’ creates conditions in which Muslims experience themselves as threatening to, and at risk from, whiteness (Abbas 2013).

Racialised Visual Technologies The Concentrationary Gothic examines a number of visual technologies that underpin racialised surveillance (Selod 2018, 2019) practices used

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to govern Muslims. Approaching all knowledge as socially constructed shifts the focus from concerns of ‘truth’ to that of power, which as Donna Haraway (1991: 192) observes, requires a ‘semiotic-material technology to link meanings and bodies’ that underpin visualising practices. By ‘visual technology’ I refer to the racialised perceptual frameworks which organise how bodies come to be ‘seen’ and in turn, how they are related to by other bodies through governing practices, both state and non-state. I argue that these technologies comprise misreadings which function to keep conceptions of the ‘monstrous Muslim’ in place. Further exemplifying a racialised history of terror, Thomas Richards (1993: 111–112) notes the colonial roots of the nexus of knowledge/power and formation of the archive (see Foucault 1989: 142–150) informing surveillance and representation. He argues that ‘procedures of perception’ (Richards 1993: 12) were central to the apparatus of the British Empire. For example, knowledge was placed under state control and used as military intelligence to consolidate British hegemony in British India (Richards 1993: 12). As Richards (1993: 111–112) surmises, ‘Knowledge itself had become a weapon in the Empire’s arsenal…’ but it was always foreshadowed by the dangers of ‘information control’ and its insufficiencies or incompleteness. My project is located within postcolonial and feminist epistemologies that acknowledge how a ‘politics of positioning’ (Haraway 2004: 90) affects the status of knowledge produced and the interpretative claims that can be made. Key theorists which I draw on such as Jacques Derrida and Louis Althusser were born in Algeria, and Michel Foucault spent a significant time in the former French colony of Tunisia, meaning that the impact of colonial Africa and the postcolony helped define French poststructuralist and postmodern thinkers (Ahluwalia 2010: 597, 598), and thus requires that we challenge predominate conceptions that their contributions only emanate from Eurocentric thought and experiences.6 Knowledge is approached as ‘situated,’ ‘partial,’ ‘embodied’ and ‘unfinished’ (Hill Collins 2009; Haraway 1992, 2004; Hartsock 1998; Harding 1986, 1991, 1992) relating to racialised power struggles over ‘how to see’ (Haraway 2004: 91, original italics). The Concentrationary Gothic approaches knowledge therefore as racialised and racialising; such racialised distinctions are supported by

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a Gothic mode preoccupied with revealing the supposed workings of the ‘“pastness” in the present’ (Mighall 1999: xviii). In the case of Muslims, as Salman Sayyid (2003: 1) argues, they are often considered to be ‘out of time: throwbacks to medieval civilizations who are caught in the grind and glow of “our” modern culture.’ Since the politics of position determines, as Rosi Braidotti (2011: 163) remarks, ‘one’s approach to time and history,’ an alternative visual schema is required that can enable Muslims to occupy a shared present. This is comparable to Gurminder Bhambra’s (2014) articulation of a ‘connected history’ that seeks to redress postcolonialism as a ‘failed historicity’ (Ahmed 2000: 10, original italics) founded on a ‘denial of coevalness’ (Fabian 1983: 121) in which the subject is persistently and systemically placed ‘in a Time other than the present.’ A central objective of postcolonial theory is to contest Eurocentric understandings of modernity (Young 1995, 2001; Chakrabarty 2000) that privilege ‘civilisational’ progression above ‘barbarous cultures’ premised on ‘European time’ (McClintock 1995) and facilitate conditions for colonial forms of ‘racial rule’ (Goldberg 2002) to be redeployed. Such a project requires decentring the West/Rest binary (Hall 1992). As noted by postcolonial theorists such as Suki Ali (2007: 193), language practice is one of the ‘key sites of intervention’ concerned with ‘the power to name, the problems of translation and the role of language in the production of subjectivities.’ The Concentrationary Gothic builds from the concentrationary’s concern with the ‘politics of representation’ (Pollock and Silverman 2011a: 8) involved in witnessing and archiving terror as a means of mitigating its recurrence. It focuses on delineating the terms under which Islamophobia is articulated within the current juncture. Its aim is to advance an alternative visual schema of racial terror by bringing the mechanisms through which whiteness operates as terror involved in the governance of Muslim identities in Britain into view, as the example expressed by Zanaib in the next section illustrates.

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Contributing an Alternative Visual Schema of Racial Terror

Through delineating the culture of fear experienced by Muslims within the ‘war on terror’ context, the Concentrationary Gothic develops an alternative visual schema for conceptualising racial terror. By intervening in dominant constructions of the Muslim as a ‘threatening Other’ (hooks 1992: 174), terroristic practices experienced by British Muslims as endemic to the performance of hegemonic whiteness can come into view. As noted, the project is located within postcolonial epistemologies that agitate against the ‘the unequal and uneven forces of cultural representation involved in the contest for political and social authority’ (Bhabha 1997: 171). To illustrate the approach to racial terror that the Concentrationary Gothic advances, I use a powerful excerpt from Zanaib.7 We shall hear more from her within the chapters, but for now it is important for the reader to know that Zanaib is a Muslim woman in her early thirties of Pakistani heritage from Bradford who wears the hijab. Her account constructs the Concentrationary Gothic environment in which she locates the current challenges facing Muslims concerning performing their religious identities within a historical legacy of terror enacted against racialised and religious Others, in this case Jewish populations under Nazism. Zanaib draws attention to how previous concentrationay terrors haunt the present and relate to the politics of representation involved in defining Islamophobia: Somebody said to me that the … Muslims are the Jews of the 21st century and I said what do you mean? And they said with everything that is happening you know it’s incredible, we’re almost you know in the lead up to whatever you know, what happened during the Second World War you know, the genocide and the rest of it. But you know what we’re seeing is a lot of the Muslims around the world are you know, and Europe especially are going through similar things before that – we’re seeing the banning of things, we’re seeing all these sorts of things and we have to be wary of that. But at the same time I think the big mistake that the Muslim community can make is by coming across as being victims. I think you can be very strong and say that Islamophobia exists, you can

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be. You can say look let’s not shy away from using that term because it’s, it’s there…

In keeping with a relational approach (Goldberg 2009) to elucidate the workings of racial terror, Zanaib constructs her understanding of her position in the world through her relations with others, occupying ‘multiple, intersecting histories’ (Hunter 2009: 182) where meaning, because it is relational, is ‘dialogically constituted and contested’ (Hunter 2005: 184; also Brown 1998). Through her encounter with the anonymous interlocutor, she interrogates her perceptions of the current treatment of Muslims in relation to the history of terror experienced by the Jews in the lead up to World War II that invites important comparisons between Islamophobia and anti-Semitism (see Abbas 2019; Meer 2013a, b; Meer and Noorani 2008; Goldberg 2006, 2009). Whilst anti-Semitism, as featured here, is understood as ‘paradigmatic of racism in Europe,’ anti-Muslim attitudes have been viewed as ‘less self-evidently racial in orientation’ (Meer and Noorani 2008: 195; also Goldberg 2006). This distinction is reflected in British legal and policy conceptions in which Jewish minorities in the UK are considered an ethnic or racial group within Race Relations legislation and thus legally protected in a way that Muslims have not (Meer 2013a: 511; 2008). Yet if we follow Goldberg’s (2009) insistence on adopting relational methodologies, as Zanaib invites us to do here, we can decipher a ‘shared essence’ between the Jew and the Muslim8 as ‘racialised religious subjects’ (Renton and Gidley 2017: 7, my italics). This addresses an important oversight observed by Junaid Rana (2007: 150) concerning ‘the place of the race concept in relation to religion,’ which requires that we consider the role of religion within race thinking. Articulating anti-Semitism and Islamophobia in relation to one another is required to explain how discrimination draws upon race, culture and belonging simultaneously in ways which are not reducible to religious hostility alone, but which requires us to locate religion as tied up with concerns of identity, stereotyping, community, political conflict, and socio-economic location and so forth (Meer 2013a: 511–512; also Modood 2005). Interrogating the ways in which Muslims can be articulated as “the Jews of the 21st Century,” whilst not conflating these histories, facilitates

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drawing historical continuities that are productive for understanding how racial terror is reworked in the current juncture (also Egorova and Ahmed 2017: 295). By making this connection, Zanaib draws attention to practices of racial terror as the historical legacy of Europe (Bauman 2000; Gilroy 2000), whilst simultaneously providing a language for organising current understandings of terror experienced by Muslims. This is comparable to Pollock and Silverman’s (2011b: 2; also 2014a: 1–2) engagement with the concept of concentrationary memory as providing ‘a vocabulary of terror and power, a prism through which to interrogate other politically-enacted breaches of humanity under other…states of exception, or institutionalized terror in colonial and other relations of domination.’ The Concentrationary Gothic provides a useful framework for interrogating the ‘mutual implication of modernity and barbarism’ (Cohen 2005: 3) that have historically accompanied ‘civilising’ practices (also Gilroy 2000: 66). Comparison with the Jewish experience supports examination of how shifts in Gothicisation have occurred alongside historically specific articulations of Otherness. The Nazi camps provide a paradigm for recognising current configurations of terror involving a ‘common logic’ (Pollock and Silverman 2011a: 15) that can be traced back to previous sites of terror—the situation, as Zanaib describes, in which Europe is going “through similar things before that.” That is, by tracing the formations which led up to the extremity of the Nazi genocide, Zanaib makes an important intervention for exposing the logic of terror operating within the current moment for Muslims. Giorgio Agamben (1998, 2005) and Zygmunt Bauman’s (2000) work argues that the Nazi death camps present a ‘logical extension of western civilisation rather than its abnegation’ (McVeigh and Rolston 2009: 5). The concentration camp is the juridical-political formation that marks the ‘nomos of the modern’ (Agamben 1998: 166, my italics) rather than an atavistic return to the premodern therefore. Whilst Zanaib’s description of the “the genocide and the rest of it” etches the death camps9 as the principle site of terror, she also illustrates the importance of bearing witness to the precursory signs in which such formations are made possible. Generating awareness relates directly to the concerns of a concentrationary memory of being ‘monitory and vigilant’

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(Pollock and Silverman 2014a: 4). As Pollock and Silverman (2014a: 4) explain, the horror of the camps is not confined to a historical time and place, but produces ‘heightened awareness’ from the actual occurrences of concentrationary terrors that have come to haunt the everyday life through remembrance of their actuality. Zanaib wants us to see “banning” practices as precursory restrictions experienced by Muslim populations. She highlights the importance of monitoring these signs as preliminary indicators of the terror formation of the concentrationary system in order to defend civil liberties and freedom. Banning practices have included the burqa in France and minarets in Switzerland, which illustrate state governmental strategies of consolidating a racially structured world that privileges European cultural forms by regulating how Muslims perform their identities within a white hegemony (Hesse 1997; also Patel and Tyrer 2011: 17). The technology of monstrosity adopted in this research engages with how the Muslim is produced as a threat through a racialised ordering (see Hesse 2004, 2007; Razack 2008: 6) that is not confined to the corporeal, but comprises assemblages of difference that mark the Muslim as less civilised, less human, as an organising principle inherited from colonial distinctions. If left unchecked, such forms of subjugation could lead to the establishment, by means of the state of exception, to the exclusion of Muslim citizens in cases where it is deemed that they can no longer be accommodated within the political community (Agamben 2005: 2). The concentrationary provides a ‘heuristic device for revisiting the politics of representation’ (Pollock and Silverman 2011a: 8) that is theoretically useful to the Concentrationary Gothic’s objective of developing an alternative visual schema. Zanaib’s repetition of “what we’re seeing” is an attempt to set the grounds following Haraway (2004: 91, original italics) of ‘how to see’ that supports the concentrationary’s concern with the need for vigilance (Pollok and Silverman 2014a: 1) and monitoring that can agitate the present to the possibility of the terrible event of the genocide against the Jews from being repeatable—the possibility of Muslims actually becoming “the Jews of the 21st Century.” In his poignant commentary on the testimony of survivors in Remnants of Auschwitz, Agamben (1999) adopts the emotive term ‘Muselmann’ to describe the most wretched camp inhabitants who had

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left life behind them but had not yet succumbed to death (Goldberg 2006: 346). Whilst the etymology of the term is contested, Agamben (1999: 45) contends that one possible explanation comes from the literal meaning of ‘Muslim’ as ‘one who submits unconditionally to the will of God.’ The figure of the Muselmann is a being that is too far gone from life to be able to speak of terror, one that has seen the Gorgon where, as Agamben (1999: 54, original italics) describes: The Gorgon and he who has seen her and the Muselmann and he who bears witness to him are one gaze; they are a single impossibility of seeing.

The Muselmann thus represents the impossibility of bearing witness to terror and the ultimate disintegration of the human—a bare life that is divorced of all human capacities, including speech. The link between the malnourished Jew on the point of death within the camp and the epithet of Muselmann or Muslim (Agamben 1999) denotes ‘a shared process of othering’ (Rana and Rosas 2006: 224). It marks an important juncture for the ‘rationalization of religion as race in European modernity’ (Rana and Rosas 2006: 224) that provides a useful context from which to explore important interconnections between practices of terror underpinning anti-Semitism and the current juncture of heightened Islamophobia, as well as highlighting important silences concerning colonial histories of terror for understanding current racial violences. The epithet ‘muselman’ at Auschwitz coincided simultaneously according to Jill Jarvis (2014: 709) as a ‘juridical category of exception’ used by the French in Algeria since around 1848 when Algeria was annexed to France as a means of classifying bodies that the French imperial state would protect and those which could be disposed. Recognising European colonial violence, here state terror performed10 by the French against North Africans, challenges the singularity and centrality of the European Holocaust that is important for understanding racialised histories of terror. The failure for Agamben ‘to think the colonial encounter as biopolitical event’ (Rothberg 2009: 62–63) relies, as Jarvis (2014: 710) critiques, on ‘foreclosing “muselman” subjects of European colonial violence from the scene’; such histories of racial terror must be reintegrated in accounts of modern state violence therefore.

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Bringing together concentrationary and Gothic frames extends the possibilities of interrogating current affinities with past terrors. Both concepts disrupt divisions between past and present. However, whilst the concentrationary focuses on monitoring the signs of the logic of the camp occurring in the present, the Gothic provides important tools for ‘haunt[ing] back’ (Goddu 1999: 138) that can develop the concentrationary’s potential. The ‘return of the repressed’ (see Khair 2009; Clemens 1999; Botting 1996; Brantlinger 1985) that is a staple of the Gothic further illuminates concentrationary terrors as comprising ‘the underside of the modern state, the violent condition for the existence of sovereignty’ (Aradau and van Munster 2009: 688) within regimes that present themselves as liberal democracies (see Diken and Laustsen 2005). Zanaib’s reference to the Nazi genocide disrupts European claims to civilisation that figure the Muslim as monstrous. Her account thus engages with the possibilities of ‘haunting back’ (Goddu 1997, 1999; also Gibbons 2004) in which the oppressed group challenges being demonised by drawing attention to the dominant group as ‘inhumanly and frighteningly monstrous’ (Anolik 2004: 5). Whilst the figure of the Muslim has come to represent the ‘fear of violent death’ (Goldberg 2006: 346) in its present incarnation, exploring how the Muslim has also been tied to the terror of Europe’s death threat invites reconsideration of the terms under which terror is perceived as the preserve of the ‘threatening Other’ (hooks 1992: 174). Current analyses of the state of exception highlight the importance of engaging with frameworks which can articulate terror effects. The Gothic provides such a prism. It has at its disposal notions of haunting and the spectral and abjected states that have seeped into analyses of the ‘war on terror.’ Jasbir Puar (2007: 87) speaks of the ‘ghost detainees’ held at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay. Butler (2004: 59, 61) refers to the ‘ghostly and forceful resurgence of sovereignty,’ and how the ‘war on terror’ ‘reanimates a spectral sovereignty.’ Achille Mbembe (2003: 39, 40, original italics) develops the concept of ‘necropolitics’ (Chapter 4) for examining the ‘contemporary forms of subjugation of life to the power of death’ that locates subjects within ‘death-worlds’ which confer on them the ‘status of living dead .’ The return of the living dead within these analyses of the ‘war on terror’ invokes the figure of the Muselmann as the epitome

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of the human reduced to living dead within the camp. These terrifying representations of the destructive potential of racial terror illustrate the importance of recognising how the past haunts the present in order to bear witness to the redeployment of concentrationary terrors in order to ‘counter its deformation of the human’ (Pollock and Silverman 2014b: xvii). Andrew Smith (2000: 1–2) acknowledges that one of the striking features of the Gothic is its challenge to post-Enlightenment claims to certainty that are approached through the Gothic’s concern with narrative fragmentation and fascination ‘with boundaries and their collapse’ (Halberstam 2000: 23; also Valier 2002: 319). As such, the Gothic supports theorisation ‘on the potent effects of flows and the inbetween’ ( 2002: 320) that is productive for challenging binary thinking which separates bodies into categories of sub/human, civilised/barbarous, terrorised/terroriser. Such dismantling assists the advancement of an alternative visual schema that can conceptualise whiteness as terror and Muslims as terrorised within the ‘war on terror’ context of Britain, as well as recognising that whiteness is internally differentiated so as to move us away from a reductive black/white binary in accounts of race/racism. Achieving this requires critiquing the visual technologies that are used to produce Muslims as monstrous bodies. This involves resetting the terms of Islamophobia so that they can offer a meaningful framework in which to examine the terrorising practices experienced by Muslims. Being able to name phenomenon relates to issues of believability concerning oppressed groups since subjugated knowledge can easily be ‘disqualified’ (Foucault 2004: 7). Or, whose historical contents have been obscured by hegemonic epistemological and structural orderings. The Gothic’s concern with narrative fragmentation and epistemological uncertainty (Halberstam 2000: 23; Smith 2000: 2) provide useful tools for interrogating the epistemological practices, or what I term ‘visual technologies,’ that work to keep the monstrous Muslim in place. By exposing the terrorising practices experienced by Muslims as a result of how they are represented in hegemonic knowledge frameworks, the Concentrationary Gothic can advance an alternative visual schema for understanding racial terror. This requires negotiating the terms under which racial practices experienced by Muslims in the current moment

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can be named. Central to the politics of representation is defining Islamophobia as a particular form of terror for Muslims. AbdoolKarim Vakil (2010: 23, 25) notes the conceptual difficulties involved in naming Islamophobia in his provocatively titled chapter ‘When is it Islamophobia time?’ He challenges us to consider not when the term was coined, but, more importantly, the political discourse necessary to make the concept ‘Islamophobia’ meaningful. What is significant to his analysis is that he understands the practice of naming Islamophobia as the converse of victimhood. This is because, he contends, Islamophobia is about contestation over setting the legal grounds for recognition of its effects and the conditions of its enunciation. Contra to being a passive victim of Islamophobia, Zanaib instructs Muslims to take an active role in its enunciation, and thus the terms of its constitution by “not shying away from using that term.” She instructs Muslims to speak out about the conditions through which it becomes meaningful for them because, as she observes, “it’s there.” Through naming Islamophobia, Zanaib attempts to assert ownership over its meaning in order to challenge the conditions under which it is injurious to Muslims. Being able to speak of terror so that its effects are made recognisable in knowledge frameworks is necessary to contest them. Whilst terror has the potential to produce victims, it also produces forms of resistance, exemplified by the possibility of constructing a “strong” Muslim identification, as Zanaib reminds us. For the discourse of Islamophobia to be useful for articulating terroristic practices experienced by Muslims, what is required is ‘re-working the gothic’s conventions’ (Goddu 1999a: 136) that produces Muslims as monstrous bodies. This involves intervening in the discourse that articulates Muslims as threatening Others, as terrorisers, captured by the term ‘Islamist’ intent on ‘Islamification’, which gives saliency, even legitimacy, to the subject position of Islamophobe who enables Islamophobia to thrive. Such an intervention requires (re)setting the terms of Islamophobia to enable Muslims to articulate ‘independent self-definitions and selfvaluations’ (Hill Collins 2009: 270) that are essential for developing an alternative visual schema for conceptualising racial terror that the Concentrationary Gothic advances.

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Identity is approached in this research as a site of contestation that is ‘connected to power relations through which identifications are brought into being’ (Gunaratnam 2003: 110). Further, identity is a process through which multiple and shifting subject positions are made intelligible (Brah 1996; C. Hall 1996; S. Hall 1996). The focus of this research is exploring networks where individual and collective identities intersect and are transformed, where power and inequality restrict subordinated identities, but also contribute the conditions for resistance (Alexander 2006: 269). I do not make claims to ‘truth’; rather, through participants’ words, I delineate the partial, conflicting and dynamic ways in which they experience being Muslim in contemporary Britain that contribute significant, alternative articulations to hegemonic representations of Muslims within the ‘war on terror’ discursive frame. This book opens up an important neglected area of the multifarious practices of terrorisation experienced by British Muslims in the ‘war on terror’ context and ways in which they are negotiated and even resisted. It is the contestations over identity formations experienced by Muslims within the culture of fear experienced by them that structures the Concentrationary Gothic environment that the rest of this book examines.

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Chapter Summaries

Each chapter draws from a set of detailed participant narratives. As participants’ backgrounds are important for locating their experiences, I provide biographical information of the participants who will be central to that chapter as they are introduced, providing additional detail where further aspects of their lives are told to enhance the insights and relevance of the narratives for the reader. The Concentrationary Gothic framework of racial terror that I am advancing is summarised in Fig. 1. Each chapter focuses on an aspect(s) of the IBR, governance strategy and level(s), and visual technology to explicate the Concentrationary Gothic framework of racial terror. Chapter 2 engages with the Gothic trope of haunting to explore how (post)colonial terrors affect current experiences of (un)belonging for British Muslims, focusing on Pakistani Muslims and the affective,

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Concentrationary Gothic A.INTER-BODILYRELATIONAL

B.GOVERNANCE STRATEGY

C. GOVERNANCE LEVEL

D. VISUAL TECHNOLOGY

Affec ve Psychic Temporal Embodied Spa al Rela onal Vocal

Na on construc on

State Inter-group

Historico-racial

Racial profiling Spa al control Co-op on/informing Freedom of speech

Internal Individual

(In)visibility/(mis)recogni on Premediated ignorance Subjec on Silencing/misrepresenta on

Fig. 1 Concentrationary Gothic framework of racial terror

psychic, and temporal dimensions of national (un)belongings. It explores how affect and emotions such as disgust infuse practices of abjection involved in nation construction and exclusion through which Muslims experience themselves as conditional citizens, as ‘bodies out of place.’ The chapter engages with Frantz Fanon’s (1986: 111) concept of the historico-racial schema to show how Muslims are produced as Gothic Others unable to meet the requirements of modern British values, focusing on three stereotypes: the immigrant woman, the imperilled Muslim woman and the dangerous Muslim man, through which the European subject is constructed as the antithesis (Razack 2008). These stereotypes legitimise neo-colonial forms of ‘civilising’ the Muslim Other that illustrate continuities in tactics of racial terror involved in nation construction transposed from the colony to the metropole. Chapter 3 explores the profile of the terror suspect or extremist as conceived through a ‘technology of monstrosity’ (Halberstam 2000). It explores the uses of racial profiling and surveillance informing the governance of ‘Muslim-looking’ bodies and the racialised power asymmetries of visual technologies of (in/hyper-)visibility and (mis)recognition through which the Muslim body is produced as the target of discipline and control. It extends analysis of the workings of Islamophobia by exploring the racialisation of religion as involving differences

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in experiences for Muslims depending on their location within the racial terrain and spectrum of moderate/extremist. The production of racialised Others as threats functions as a strategy of governance that is reflected in changes in penal practice involved in the policing and (in)securitisation of ‘Muslim-looking’ bodies within the ‘war on terror’ context. Meanings ascribed to racialised bodies are informed by practices of Gothicisation that illustrate how representations of ‘monstrous bodies’ have moved across differently racialised bodies (black to South Asian), from ethnicity (the figure of the ‘Paki’) to religion (Islam), and across differently gendered bodies (Muslim males to Muslim females) in response to changes in the socio-political context. The chapter examines racialised and gendered surveillance practices through which Muslims are (in)securitised and advances the stereotyped of the ‘imperil/led Muslim woman’ to address how Muslim women simultaneously feature as victims and agents of terror. The final section suggests an alternative to the racialised power hierarchies of seer/seen in which ‘the look’ functions as an invitation rather than imposition. Chapter 4 focuses on racialised practices of spatial control and dominance performed during the ‘war on terror’ in the production of (in)securitised and (un)safe spaces affecting Muslims in Britain. These underpin spatial divisions between the normative population to be protected and Muslims made the hyper-visible target of state surveillance. The chapter examines how state counter-terrorism measures of stop and search, home raids, detention and imprisonment, both real and imagined, transform everyday spaces such as the street and the home into sites of terror for Muslim populations. I advance the visual technology of ‘premediated ignorance’ that, within the context of preemptive counter-terrorism, enables information about Muslims to be actively reworked to fit ideological frames that they are the terrorist body that is claimed. The Concentrationary Gothic extends analyses of the state of exception by exploring how the Gothic provides a powerful intelligibility for examining the extra-legal spaces of law through which violences are concealed but enabled by law. The ‘powers of horror’ (Valier 2002) associated with terrorism/terrorists supports an agenda of penal severity that informs the culture of fear experienced by Muslims. The chapter advances the notion of whiteness as a spectral terrorist

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to address how fear operates for Muslims under these circumstances through the possibility of being apprehended without having committed a crime, and where accountability for miscarriages of justice is denied within law. I argue that spaces are (in)securitised for Muslim populations during the ‘war on terror’ through complex interferences of different spatial registers (discursive, material and affective), scales (local, national, global) and dimensions (horizontal and vertical geopolitics) that include performances of necropolitics and necropower (Mbembe 2003). Chapter 5 explores the reproductive effects of the terrors of counterterrorism as they are internalised by Muslims and retransmitted within the ‘suspect community.’ This chapter focuses on the effects of terror on relations at the intra-group level (Muslim communities and families) and perceptual framework of subjection (Butler 1997). I develop how subjection operates as a visual technology in cases where the discourse of extremism is used as a means of judging and disciplining Muslims by other Muslims and through which what I term the ‘internal suspect body’ is materialised. This figure is made possible by internal surveillance practices (both real and imagined) of co-option, spying and informing that contribute to fear and suspicion within Muslim communities and families. I focus on two key situations to explore how this figure operates: firstly, co-option of Muslims under the government counter-terrorism strategy Prevent (HM Government 2011a), contributing to fears that Muslims are being enlisted to spy and inform on other Muslims. Secondly, within Muslim families where parents have been instructed to look for ‘telltale’ signs of extremism that is underpinned by a Gothic populist account of young Muslims being turned to extremism and, more terrifyingly, turning others. Internal surveillance is also a means of protecting family members from state targeting. The chapter illustrates how counter-terrorism measures comprise a network of relations that infiltrate the depths of society, including the intimate relations between family members of the suspect group. I conclude with a case study of locally-defined solutions as a means of empowering Muslim communities by providing a counter to top-down and divisive state-led approaches. Chapter 6 examines restrictions to freedom of speech and political engagement experienced by British Muslims that comprise the contested discursive terrain of Islamophobia and terrors relating to voice(lessness).

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It examines the politics of representation structuring voice concerning visual technologies of silencing and (mis)representation. These restrictions inform the conditions of possibility for hate speech to be enunciated and the limitations experienced by Muslims to counter its practice and importantly, to contest hegemonic framings of Muslims as terrorists within ‘war on terror’ discourse through fear of being named a terrorist or extremist. The chapter explores contradictions in UK legislation between recognising the need to protect Muslims from a virulent Islamophobia through the development of the Racial and Religious Hatred Act 2006, whilst simultaneously restricting freedom of expression for Muslims through pre-emptive legislation in the Terrorism Act 2006 relating to offences of incitement of terrorism. The chapter explores how the production of Muslims as predisposed to extremism, supported by developments in anti-terrorism legislation, has meant that the discursive space has opened up for Muslims’ words to be interpreted by others as evidence of extremism. This has meant that words come to mean different things when uttered by Muslims which has precipitated practices of self-surveillance to be undertaken by them. These comprise not only self-silencing, but decisions not to present a ‘visibly’ Muslim identity through Islamic dress or the beard. These strategies suggest that voice must be understood as bodily and relational that is mediated not only by the body that speaks, but by the body that interprets what has been said that are located within racialised power asymmetries. The chapter also examines strategies of resistance undertaken by Muslims that include forging political alliances with non-Muslims and acting as ambassadors for their religion in which they actively take responsibility for developing their own self-definitions. The conclusion returns to address the research questions originally posed concerning how British Muslims construct their identities in the ‘war on terror’ context of Britain and outlines the key research findings. It examines the utility of the Concentrationary Gothic as a framework for exploring racial terror involved in the governance of Muslims in the ‘war on terror’ context of Britain and its contribution to work on racialisation and Islamophobia. It advances a nuanced understanding of Islamophobia by exploring the complex ways in which it interacts with practices of race

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and racialisation. This involves interrogating the extent to which Islamophobia is a distinct phenomenon. It considers whether Islamophobia offers a useful discourse for articulating the particular discriminations Muslims face or if the intrusion of ‘Islamification’ within its discursive terrain limits its scope for Muslims to name their experiences of terror qua Muslim and more pressing, for them to be recognised, and the broader implications this has for relations between Muslims and non-Muslims in Britain. Of central concern is the negative impact of counter-terrorism measures on Muslim communities and families and I consider productive ways in which Muslims have responded to these challenges and the importance of devising locally-defined solutions. I conclude by engaging with the research’s objective of advancing an alternative visual schema for conceptualising how racial terror operates in the ‘war on terror’ context of Britain and the utility of the Concentrationary Gothic to achieving this project.

Notes 1. The decline of the woollen-textiles industry in Bradford since the 1970s has contributed to the economic struggles of the city. Dave Byrne (1998: 713) found that deprivation was particularly experienced by the Pakistani community with 80% located in the ‘deprived’ cluster (1991 Census) compared to 30% white, 33% Indian and 67% for black categories. Comparably, Leeds has been more successful at regenerating in the postindustrial age (McLoughlin 2006: 112). According to the Indices of Deprivation 2019, Bradford District is ranked ‘5th most income deprived and 6th most employment deprived local authority in England’ (Indices of Deprivation cited in Bradford City Council 2019). 2. I use the term ‘Islamist’ rather than ‘Islamic’ to refer to groups which I am emphasising are not following Islamic principles but are using extremist religious ideology to achieve political change through the use of violence (also Loken and Zelenz 2018). 3. Although I have not included the term race in quotation marks, I approach race, as with other identity categories, as socially constructed. 4. Prevent Duty Guidance (Home Office 2021: sec.49, 25) states that the Home Office will ‘continue to identify priority areas for Prevent-related

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5. 6.

7. 8.

9.

10.

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activity’ and ‘monitor and assess Prevent delivery in up to 50 Prevent priority areas.’ Priority areas now receive grants for a Prevent Coordinator to oversee a citywide approach to tackling extremism (see Chapter 5). The term ‘niqabi’ was used by participants to refer to Muslim women who wear the niqab (face veil). It was during Foucault’s time at the University of Tunis that he wrote the Archaeology of Knowledge ([1969] 1989) amid witnessing the reverberating effects of colonialism which featured in student demonstrations such as pro-Palestinian protests during the Arab-Israeli War of 1967 (see Ahluwalia 2010: 599). All names of research participants are pseudonyms to protect anonymity. A relational approach is also useful for understanding possible antagonisms between both groups. Yulia Egorova and Fiaz Ahmed (2017: 295) note that some members of Jewish communities have security concerns relating to the history of persecution experienced by Jewish populations, whilst Muslims are ‘struggling to shed the image of foreign, racialised others, who are seen as the victimiser of Jews and a constant security threat.’ Such mistrust is symptomatic of how minority groups in the UK are treated and perceived as an effect of the ‘hierarchy of minorities’ (Egorova and Ahmed 2017: 296) that the system of racism engenders. Pollock and Silverman (2011a: 12, 11, 10) draw an important distinction between the small number of extermination or death camps created after 1941 with the sole purpose of industrialised killing of targeted Jewish and Romany populations comprising ‘the genocidal face of the Holocaust’ (at Chelmno, Treblinka, Sobibor and Belzec) and the system of concentration camps. Within these latter sites of slave labour, inmates did indeed die and were subjected to living in permanent anxiety and uncertainty in which psychological destruction and severe deprivation was the usual state of affairs, but death was not their sole objective. The first concentration camp in Germany, Dachu, was founded in 1933 with the conquest by the National Socialists of the German political system leading to the suspension of the Weimer Republic constitution and establishment of a one party state and dictatorship. The vast network of concentration camps comprised more diverse inmates: German political prisoners, social undesirables, homosexuals and common criminals, Jehovah’s Witnesses and deported political prisoners arising from occupied German territories during World War II. Jill Jarvis (2014: 709) notes that juridical distinctions were drawn between ‘“les citoyens français” (bearers of full citizenship rights) and “les sujets

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français” (subject to military conscription, forced labor, and a disciplinary system that included concentration camps) in order to facilitate redistribution and exploitation of Algeria’s immensely profitable arable land.’

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This chapter examines how affect, principally terror and disgust, is mobilised within the Concentrationary Gothic through the Gothicisation of Muslims as threats to national identity and values. I approach affect as a complex informing the inter-bodily-relational model of subjectivity that I am advancing that is connected to psychic, temporal, embodied, spatial, relational dimensions and mediated by voice (Abbott 2020; Burkitt 1991, 1999, 2014, 2016, 2018; Gergen 1994, 1995). Affect is characterised within the Concentrationary Gothic by its dynamic quality and intensity (Massumi 1995: 88, 2002; Deleuze 1997), enabling it to ‘stick’ (Ahmed 2004a: 79) to certain bodies as well as be transmitted between bodies (Abdel-Fattah 2018: 128–158; Brennan 2004; Tomkins 1963). I make a distinction between affect and emotion in this chapter. Emotion is understood as ‘when affects are articulated within discourse as recognisable signifiers’ (Solomon 2012: 907). My concern is also to examine how affect works to manage bodies such that it has material effects that are not reducible to discourse. Through an © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M.-S. Abbas, Terror and the Dynamism of Islamophobia in 21st Century Britain, Palgrave Politics of Identity and Citizenship Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72949-3_2

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examination of the dynamics of affect, this chapter challenges hegemonic accounts of Muslims as productive of terror within the ‘war on terror’ context. I argue that affect operates as a mechanism through which the normative subject exerts its dominance over both national and bodily space that comprise acts of terrorisation for Muslims and through which they are designated as ‘out of place.’ The Concentrationary Gothic is attentive to the ways in which racial terror operates through nation construction and its exclusions that locates nationalist practices within a racialised history of terror present in colonial contexts and other states of dominance that are networked through both state policy and everyday performances undertaken by normative citizens. In her discussion of the Nazi regime, Maja Sunderland (2013: 66) observes that it was ‘not simply a dictatorship from top to bottom, it was a social practice’ in which the ‘native’ population involves themselves in the reproduction of practices of division and persecution of the group constructed as a threat to national identity. The Concentrationary Gothic foregrounds how Gothic discourses are used to consolidate national identity (Davison 2004: 160; Schmitt 1997; also Wein 2002) and its exclusions. Cannon Schmitt’s (1997: 3) Alien Nation explores how the Gothic persistently puts to work fears of national identity being undone and the displacement of the English following from the admittance of Otherness such that England itself becomes an ‘alien nation.’ For Schmitt (1997: 2), nationality ‘organizes much of what is characteristically Gothic,’ whereby the Gothic constructs notions of Englishness through representing that which is un-English as posing a threat to national unity. Important to my theorisation are the ways in which racial and religious Others have been Gothicised at different historical moments as a means of excluding them from national belonging. For example, a number of writers have explored links between the Gothic and anti-Semitism as a vehicle for articulating wider socio-political concerns of Jewish immigration ‘Judaizing Britain’ (Davison 2004: 4; also Smith 2004; Anolik 2004; Halberstam 2000; Malchow 1996). Carol Davison (2004: 2) contends that Gothic representations of the Wandering Jew1 as a threat to national identity were utilised in Nazi propaganda to consolidate national identity and further entrench anti-Semitic sentiments. The Concentrationary

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Gothic is concerned with how the Gothic performs a similar function through Islamophobic discourses to construct ‘a national cultural sensibility’ (Davison 2004: 27) which presents Muslims as antithetical to core ‘British’ values (see McGhee 2008, 2010). Within this national narrative, Muslims are understood to pose a threat to ‘our way of life.’ Issues surrounding British identity and perceived failure of multiculturalism have often coalesced around the ‘Muslim question.’ Muslim communities are charged with bearing social ills of threats to national security and identity through self-segregation or ‘parallel lives’ (Cantle 2001) post the 2001 disturbances in the north of England. More recently, Muslims have been accused of harbouring ‘regressive attitudes’ (Casey Review 2016: 128). This articulation illustrates intersections of Gothic and racial discourses by associating Muslims with retrograde religious practices deemed incompatible with ‘modern Britain’ (Abbas 2019: 6). The Islamophobic discourse of ‘Islamification,’ where the nation is taken over by Islam, can be understood as a reiteration of the fantasy of reverse colonisation (Arata 1990) that express anxieties of the erosion of Britain’s imperial hegemony and the ‘ease with which civilization can revert to barbarism or savagery’ (Brantlinger 1988: 229; also Abbas 2019; Arata 1990). As Patrick Brantlinger (1988: 229) contends, this narrative is characteristic of ‘imperial Gothic’ in the late nineteenth century which reflected anxieties emerging from the decline of British imperialism. The association of Muslims with a premodern subjectivity incapable of meeting the requirements of modernity (see Razack 2008: 174; Sayyid 2003: 1) means that their presence within Britain signifies the ‘imputation of anachronism as source of disorder or fear’ (Mighall 1999: 249) which characterises the Gothic. To develop how the Gothic operates to produce the monstrous Muslim, I draw from Frantz Fanon’s (1986: 111) concept of the historico-racial schema. This schema supports analysis of how the Muslim body is subjected to a misreading that denies their ontology and inaugurates them within a European framework that ensures that they are principally seen in relation to the colonising white gaze as occupying a different temporality, which posits Muslims as less civilised, less human, and thus requiring ‘civilising.’ I am concerned

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with explicating how such ‘civilising’ measures subject Muslims to terroristic practices that accompany nation construction where within the Concentrationary Gothic, Muslims are treated as lesser nationals. To develop my conceptualisation of affective (un)belongings, I adopt haunting as an analytic tool that troubles the linearity of the colonial and postcolonial. Haunting is a trope associated with the Gothic’s concern with exploring the ‘pastness in the present’ (Mighall 1999: xviii) and has often featured in postcolonial theory as a means of drawing awareness to past histories of colonialism to revise understandings of the contemporary nation and cultural relations (O’Riley 2001: 48, 2007; Gunew 2004; López 2001: 65–84). I draw from Avery Gordon’s (2008: 8) engagement with haunting as affective, a ‘seething presence, acting on and often meddling with taken-for-granted realities’ which, she argues, draws us into a ‘structure of feeling.’ For Gordon (2008: 8), the ghost is not simply dead, but a ‘social figure’ that can agitate a ‘transformative recognition.’ As such, I am interested in how what haunts us may also shape our ‘(im)possible futures’; what Debra Ferreday and Adi Kuntsman (2011) term ‘haunted futurities’ (also Back 2011; Gordon 2011). Haunting’s analytic utility can be strengthened through its articulation with ‘concentrationary memory’ (Pollock and Silverman 2011a, b, 2014a, b; Pollock 2015); a term which also agitates us to look to the past to prevent future terrors by monitoring for signs of their recurrence, which Griselda Pollock and Max Silverman (2011b: 1; also 2011a: 3; 2014a: 1) describe as: At once a way of learning from the actual historical instance of what has taken place which is now part of the vocabulary of terror and power, and a prism through which to interrogate other politically-enacted breaches of humanity under other dictatorships, states of exception, or institutionalized terror in colonial and other relations of domination.

This chapter is divided into four key sections. Firstly, (post)colonial hauntings explores how colonial terrors seep into current experiences of (un)belonging for British Muslims, focusing on the experiences of Pakistani Muslims, and the affective, psychic, and temporal dimensions of national belonging. Secondly, I explore the culture of fear affecting

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Muslims concerning conditional citizenship linked to the question of Muslim loyalty (McGhee 2008: 43) and perceptions that Muslims’ transnational connections pose a challenge to national security (Khan 2006: 182–187). Thirdly, I explore practices of Othering and scapegoating whereby Muslims are Gothicised as ‘demonic Others’ unable to meet the requirements of modern British values. The final section examines four manifestations of the ‘technology of monstrosity’ (Halberstam 2000) through which Muslims are produced as ‘undesirable national object[s]’ (Hage 1998: 47): the immigrant woman (Lewis 2005, 2006), the dangerous Muslim man (Razack 2008; also Tufail and Poynting 2016; Tufail 2015; Bhattacharyya 2008; Dwyer et al. 2008; Puar 2007; Hopkins 2006; Alexander 2004, 2006; Puar and Rai 2002), the imperilled Muslim woman (Razack 2008; also Macey and Carling 2010; Williamson and Khiabany 2010; Khiabany and Williamson 2008; Afshar 2008; Macey 1999; Lutz 1991; Kabbani 1986) and imperil/led Muslim woman (also see Chapter 3). Collectively, these figures contribute to the Gothicisation of Muslims as members of an ‘uncivilized, unprogressive or “barbaric”’ (Mighall 1999: xviii) culture through which the European subject is constructed as its antithesis (see Razack 2008). Important here is examining how disgust is linked to performances of dominance involving nationalist practices of exerting rights over resources, spitting, ripping the veil, and expressed desire for the removal and even eradication of the Muslim Other from national space. These nationalist practices, I argue, comprise neo-colonial forms of ‘civilising’ the Muslim Other and, as such, illustrate continuities with terror tactics involved in nation construction transposed from the colony to the metropole.

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(Post)colonial hauntings map onto wider debates concerning the presence of British Muslims within the national imaginary and disavowal of Britain’s imperial past for understanding contemporary terms of belonging in Britain (Hesse 1997). The postcolonial condition which marks participants’ experiences in contemporary Britain, what Stuart Hall (2000: 217) terms the ‘untimely appearance of the margins in

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the centre,’ agitates the multicultural question. Their presence invokes ‘multicultural transruptions’ (Hesse 2000: 15–17) by calling into question the national story of Britain as homogeneous until post-war migrations; here I focus on the (post)colonial hauntings of British Muslims from South Asia, principally Pakistan. Following Hall (2000: 213), the accounts in this section show that ‘postcolonial’ does not mark a chronological break since the problems and traumas of colonialism have not been resolved, but seep into the present. As Homi Bhabha (1990: 1) observes, ‘nations, like narratives lose their origins in the myths of time and only fully realize their horizons in the mind’s eye.’ So produces the ‘ambivalence that haunts the ideas of the nation…’ (Bhabha 1990: 1), which is particularly pronounced in the case of Britain and its ongoing failure to come to terms with its postcolonial Others; what Bhabha (1990: 2, 4) captures well as the ‘unheimlich terror of the space or race of the Other’ who occupy the ambivalent, marginal spaces of the nation. In this section, I focus on the psychic costs of coloniality (Fanon 1986; also Oliver 2004) that refer to enduring patterns of power derived from colonialism which ‘define culture, labour, intersubjective relations, and knowledge production’ (Maldonado-Torres 2007: 243) that survive colonialism (Quijano 2007). I focus on how feelings of inferiority that have marred the colonised are internalised and racialised, what Fanon (1986: 13) terms ‘epidermalization – of this inferiority,’ that in turn shape how nationhood and its exclusions are experienced by British Muslims through interrelations of psychic, temporal, affective, embodied, spatial and relational dimensions informing the IBR. The psyche is thus approached as inherently social (Oliver 2004) since its formation rests on its relationship to wider social relations and cultural influences, both past and present. Articulated variously as racist oppression, psychic impacts or traces, these past histories provide a reference point for South Asian British Muslims to orientate themselves in the present, both as a means of speaking to past histories of dominance, inferiorisation, and marginalisation that shape their place within contemporary Britain, as well as framing their understandings of racial violences present in neo-colonial wars during the ‘war on terror’ affecting Muslim populations. These hauntings are important for understanding how racial terror is endemic

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to performances of whiteness. Whiteness is approached as a fantasy position (hooks 1992: 174) and, as I develop later in my discussion of the ‘Irish question’ or ‘internal colonisation’ (Gibbons 2004: 12; Curtis 1997: 115), as internally differentiated (see Twine and Gallagher 2008), which complicates boundaries separating Self/Other, civilised/terrorised (Abbas 2013). I begin with Farooque, a 44-year-old British Muslim who was born in Kashmir, where he completed his university education in English before immigrating. Leaving his family behind, he came to England in 1986. He works in finance in Leeds where he lives with his (white) English wife and two young adult sons. His narrative provides important insight of the psychic impact of colonialism on the colonised and its enduring racialised effects. He describes his late father as a “subservient 1947 type, you know British Raj type mentality, yes sir, no sir, you’re right because you’re white.” To illustrate, Farooque gives the example of when he argued with a bus driver in Leeds who was racist towards him. His father, shocked at such daring, “told a guy back home my son had a fight with a white guy!” (Post)colonial hauntings are also present in the unstable ways in which home features in his narrative as unheimlich (Freud 1919: 2; also Punter 2007: 130; Gunew 2004: 95; Bhabha 1990: 2). Farooque holds British, Kashmiri and Pakistani nationalities. However, he requires a visa to travel to Kashmir or Pakistan because, as he tells me, “they classify me as British.” Despite having a British passport and having spent years living in Britain, Farooque nonetheless feels “you’re still not British, officially maybe, but people are not going to accept it.” Nonetheless, he sees himself as “more British now” because when he goes back to Pakistan people tell him he has become “lighter than us” and “you’re brain has gone white,” meaning he uses more English words having lost some of his native language. Whiteness is important for understanding how Farooque positions himself in Britain and informs (post)colonial hauntings that shape both the postcolonial subject in the metropole and the previously colonised context in which their family members reside, as Farooque’s description of his sisters who live in Pakistan reveals. As mentioned, Farooque

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gained British citizenship and classifies himself as “Asian British” (previously he would say he was “Kashmiri British”) because, as he explains, “I live in Britain” but “I’m not going to be English, English because the colour of my skin is not white enough,” which illustrates how whiteness is associated with Englishness and shapes how British Asians locate themselves, and feel excluded from, certain (racialised) classifications of national identity. He discloses that in his mind, ‘English’ conjures up the image of “Caucasian with blond hair, blue eyes, pale skin.” To his sisters who live in Karachi, Pakistan, however, Farooque is known as “gora,” meaning “white guy,” on account of his paler skin having lived for years in Britain and importantly, his fluency in English. He describes how one of his sisters who is darker skinned was called “negru,” a derogatory term for ‘black,’ which motivated her to use skin bleaching products and dye her hair fair: “brother, don’t I look gori? Don’t I look white?” She asks her brother for validation. As Farooque explains, “it’s a mark of respect if you’ve got whiter skin,” illustrating (post)colonial hauntings whereby inhabiting darker skin has psychic effects resulting from the symbolic power of whiteness underpinning racialised beauty standards, instilling an “inferiority complex,” he confides, as I develop later. The effects of racialised distinctions on people’s lives that underpin classifications of sub/human and which are founded on degrees from whiteness, are thus acute to Farooque’s personal history. It also helps to explain his decision to join Stop the War (see Chapter 6) which offered him a peaceful means of protesting against what he saw as injustices following the wrongful invasion by Western forces during the ‘war on terror;’ a stance he took “for humanity” he declares passionately. He provides a compelling argument that racial hierarchies central to British colonial rule during the Raj2 are re-staged in the ‘colonial present’ (Gregory 2004) of the ‘war on terror’: Farooque: I said besides power [the ‘war on terror’ is] a war against nonwhite people because … you white people don’t think non-white people are human beings – you treat them subhuman – that’s the sublime of your philosophy that’s instilled in your brain, that we whites are the superior beings … our brains are superior … we are good … Madeline: This idea that whites are superior …

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Farooque: Because it was in the textbook … all the things were printed by white people … because of the Raj … [British] history is marred with colonising people and marginalising them, taking away their languages – that’s the reason English is well spoken because they took away the language and culture and you were made inferior when you wore shalwar kameez3 … you were made superior when you wore trousers.

Farooque interrupts the ‘“progressive” myth of modernity’ (Bhabha 1997: 240) by re-presenting past histories of colonial oppression and persistence of racial violence through neo-colonial wars during the ‘war on terror’ as premised on similar logics of race and the pursuit of power (see Gregory 2004) that characterised colonialism during the British Raj. His account supports my argument that the ‘war on terror’ should be located within a historical continuum of racialised terror against (those racialised as) non-white, enabling us to understand white terror as institutionalised rather than an aberration. Farooque describes how the ‘war on terror’ is premised on a racialised distinction between whites and non-whites, founded on a further division between humans and subhumans, what Paul Gilroy (2005: 60, 100) refers to as the ‘infrahuman’ who simultaneously bears the ‘discomforting ambiguities of Empire’s painful and shameful but apparently nonetheless exhilarating history,’ that perhaps explains the ease with which violence is revisited in the pursuit of global power during the ‘war on terror.’ Central to these binaries is the ‘differential privileging of whites as a group in respect to nonwhites as a group’ explored by Charles Mills (1997: 11, 18) in his notion of the Racial Contract. For Mills, the Racial Contract underpins a white supremacist system ‘in which the human race is racially divided into full persons and subpersons’ (Sullivan and Tuana 2007: 2). The significance of this Contract is that it enables the ‘fantasy of whiteness’ (hooks 1992: 174) as beyond representations of terror to persist through ‘cognitive dysfunctions’ (Mills 1997: 18) that blind white people to the unjust racialised structures that they have been complicit in creating. This cognitive dissonance is evidenced by Farooque when he says “that’s the sublime of your philosophy that’s instilled in your brain.” As such, the Racial Contract:

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Prescribes for its signatories an inverted epistemology, an epistemology of ignorance, a particular pattern of localized and global cognitive dysfunctions (which are psychologically and socially functional), producing the ironic outcome that whites will in general be unable to understand the world they themselves have made. (Mills 1997: 18)

Mills (1997) and bell hooks (1992) thus draw attention to the constructed, epistemological fantasy of whiteness that is perpetuated through control over representational economies4 as a means of ‘disciplin[ing] the colonized’ (Smith 2002: 68) and enables the social conditions under which whiteness is experienced as terror by non-whites to persist. Edward Said’s (2003) account of the European construction of the Other is useful here. For Said (2003: 3), Orientalism involves a ‘will to power’; ‘a Western style for dominating, restricting, and having authority over the Orient.’ Cultural hegemony is secured through control over knowledge. Here, Farooque notes that textbooks were “printed by white people,” meaning colonised subjects are divorced from their own histories and are indoctrinated into their subordination. As Linda Tuhiwai Smith (2002: 64) observes, the ‘idea’ of the West is made a reality when it was ‘re-presented back’ to natives through colonialism and given the weight of truth by privileging the coloniser’s perspective and silencing other histories (Abu-Lughod 1989: 118). To be relegated to infrahuman on raciological grounds as Gilroy (2005: 32) notes, is to be ‘cast outside of both culture and historicality,’ preventing colonised subjects from narrating their own histories. These ‘epistemic violences’5 (Spivak 1988: 295) of imperialism have lasting effects on postcolonial subjects, expressed later by Salma who is unable to re-suture the traces of colonial histories which she senses are integral to shaping contemporary relations between British Pakistanis and normative white Britons. The account highlights that the boundary separating civiliser/terroriser is artificial, where whiteness must constantly work to conceal its practices of terror to maintain its pretence of being ‘civilised.’ This includes projecting terror onto the bodies of its Others—a performance which continues during the ‘war on terror’ via the Gothic, as I develop later in this chapter.

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Through this fantasy position, British identity has developed synonymously with the notion of ‘civilisation’ which encompasses a normative perception of superiority over ‘barbarian cultures’ that is central to colonial rule and its justification. Farooque presents colonial rule under the British Raj as an important context through which practices of white supremacy are performed. Whites could occupy the position of “superior beings” perceived as having greater propinquity for rationality: “our brains are superior,” Farooque narrates. Under the pretext of ‘civilisation,’ practices of terror could be enacted against colonial subjects and importantly, legitimated, therefore perpetuating the association of whiteness with intrinsic moral superiority: “we are good.” Farooque’s depiction of British rule contests the civiliser/terroriser divide informing the system of whiteness by highlighting how the dominance of European cultural forms involves practices of terror against colonial subjects through “marginalising them, taking away their languages” and making colonial subjects “inferior” when wearing traditional dress.6 Such practices are significant for understanding the racialisation of Muslims and contestations over British identity within the Concentrationary Gothic environment. The rise of English as a ‘world language’ is connected to performances of colonial regimes in ‘“disciplining” the English language and its speakers’ (Fortier 2018: 1256; Gunew 2017; Pennycook 1994, 1998), as Farooque’s account shows us. Anne-Marie Fortier (2018: 1254) writes of the legacies of ‘linguistic imperialism’ (also Phillipson 1992) which produced hierarchies of language that are reproduced through contemporary language requirements for immigrants, what she terms ‘linguistic racism.’ As will be developed in Chapter 6, language is embodied, what Ranjanna Khanna (2003: 110) describes as the ‘materiality of language in the colonial encounter’ whereby language is ‘the manifestation of undecidability’ through which ambivalence is acted out. The colonised is tasked with emulating the manners and behaviours of normative white Britons, not only to be accepted within the nation, but more profoundly, but to be seen as human, as Fanon (1986: 18) recounts: Every colonized people – in other words, every people in whose soul an inferiority complex has been created by the death and burial of its

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local cultural originality – finds itself face to face with the language of the civilizing nation; that is, with the culture of the mother country. The colonized is elevated above his jungle status in proportion to his adoption of the mother country’s cultural standards.

The body betrays the process of similitude however through its difference from the somatic norm, which contributes the conditions for inferiorisation, as Moustafa describes. Moustafa, a 27-year-old British Muslim of Pakistani heritage, was studying medicine at Leeds University at the time of interview. He was born and spent his early years in Bradford before moving to Cardiff at the age of nine. He spoke of his neighbourhood as “mixed but with racist elements” and as marked by economic depression in the early 90s. As with Farooque, his family history of colonialism during the British Raj comprises (post)colonial hauntings that have psychic effects on him and his family in Britain. He speaks of his father as wearing “Pakistani clothes” and having “broken English that he thinks he’s charming with!” (I noted an element of derision). His father also features as a “British Raj subservient type” (Farooque) in relation to the British who are described as living in beautiful homes with servants, appearing “like royalty to us.” Moustafa describes the “insecurities” and “inferiority” of his parents’ arising from the postcolonial condition when they came to Britain: “they’ve still got that mentality in their head,” meaning they put white people on a peddle stool, he explains, which has had a profound affect on him and his siblings. Moustafa internalises these negative psychic effects, confiding that growing up, you think “you’re not as special.” Britain is viewed by his parents as offering a superior education and judicial system. The extent to which postcolonial subjects are actually able to benefit from these perceived institutional advancements is part of the insecurity which Moustafa exhibits. Feelings of inferiority were compounded during his primary school education in Bradford, where he tells me that for Pakistanis, getting a ‘D’ was considered “exceptional.” He equates low educational achievements with the low expectations his teachers had of those from Pakistani backgrounds, explaining that growing up in a Pakistani house and English not being his first language, meant that he is seen by his teachers as someone to “feel sorry for” rather than someone

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who could excel. It is not until he moves to Cardiff that he learns to read and write properly. Still marked by a lack of self-esteem, he discloses that he “had a bad attitude all my life” until he was about 22. Although he knew that he could achieve better, he would never take the risk because he was “scared of failure,” noting that no one in his community tried because you were expected to do well, but not too well , “because our parents never did it,” he confides. As with Farooque, Moustafa reveals the (post)colonial hauntings of whiteness, its symbolic power in terms of status and beauty and its material effects on intra-familial relations, as well as the prevalence of skin lightening products among Asian women. He describes that he was the “lighter in my family,” which earned him a privileged position; his sister, by contrast, attracted negative treatment from his parents because “she wasn’t light enough.” Colorism has had negative psychic effects on his sister which he tells me she has “been really damaged by,” leading to her developing body dysmorphic disorder, a psychological disorder where sufferers have a distorted view of how they look and are severely anxious about their appearance. Preference for lighter skin has been passed through the generations, which Moustafa claims has already “destroyed the confidence” of his six-year-old niece. In the following extract, he speaks of the “inferiority complex” which has marked Pakistani communities in Britain, whereby the inferiorisation of the colonised is internalised and retransmitted: In the seventies, eighties and even early nineties … it was more like an inferiority complex there in our communities. It was always like the white man has done so much for you, Britain has done so much for you. You’re here, you’ve been brought here by them … back home you’re glad not to be back home – it’s poor, there’s nothing back home, no jobs. Now here we get good money and everything. And they’re so good in their manners and their behaviour. Kinda as a kid growing up it kind of demoralises you because you’re looking in the mirror and you’re not the same.

Moustafa provides a comparable picture of the plight of the colonised depicted by Fanon (1986: 13, my italics) in Black Skin, White Masks

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whose ‘internalization’ of his inferiority is connected to the racialisation of the body: ‘the epidermalization – of this inferiority.’ Reminiscent of the Lacanian mirror stage in which the subject is alienated from itself (Lacan 2006: 75–81; also Seshadri-Crooks 2000), Moustafa’s visible difference from the somatic norm is key to his feelings of inferiority which demoralises him: “you’re looking in the mirror and you’re not the same.” Khanna’s (2003: 170) summation of Fanon (1986) is relevant here, which she argues deals with the ‘psychical damage performed through colonialism’ and ‘the psychical work that goes into nation building.’ The gaze comprises ‘an act of aggression’ (Khanna 2003: 111) arising from the conflict of being-for-others and the psychical work involved in nation construction and its exclusions and divisions. Here the body image is experienced as irreducibly Other; the ‘not-self – that is the unidentifiable, the unassimilable’ (Fanon 1986: 161; also Khanna 2003: 182) that renders the postcolonial subject ‘split’ (Khanna 2003: 187), neither here nor there, belonging or not, both Self and Other to one-self. Unable to experience himself as ‘the body at home’ (Ahmed 2007: 153) despite Britain being his home-place, Moustafa’s relationship to his body is comparable to W. E. B. Du Bois’ (1969: 45) notion of ‘double consciousness’ (also Thomas7 2020; Meer 2019; Yancy 2008: 85–86) described in The Souls of Black Folk as: …this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his twoness, – an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body…

Read through the ‘eyes of others’ (Du Bois 1969: 45), Moustafa experiences his body as abject following recognition of its racial difference from the body in place. Moustafa highlights how somatic norms informing racialised distinctions of superior/inferior, coloniser/colonised are signs of what Kelly Oliver (2004: 28) terms ‘the colonization of psychic space’ (also Fanon 1986; Mannoni 1966), whereby values of racist imperialism are transmitted through the skin (Oliver 2004: 51) to comprise feelings of unbelonging in the present. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (1999:

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5) argues that the civilising mission rests on rejecting affect which is projected onto the colonised, who in turn bears the ‘affective burden’ (Oliver 2004: 93) of the dominant culture. Importantly, Moustafa has not directly experienced colonialism, but, as Eva Hoffman (2010: 411) deduces, for the second generation the ‘shadows are inherited but not the experience.’ The psychic effects of colonisation can thus be developed through the analytic of haunting which, as Moustafa’s account highlights, comprises ‘transgenerational haunting’ (Abraham and Torok 1994; also Castricano 2001: 16) so that they are retransmitted within families by parents and internalised by their children to affect their psyches in the present. Belonging within the nation is thus ‘inflected by the past, our own and others,’ (Kabesh 2011: 6) which proposes a different orientation for the postcolonial subject to the normative subject as one founded on inferiorisation rather than inclusion. The re-staging of the ‘white man’s burden,’ described here as “the white man [who] has done so much for you,” is transmitted within Pakistani communities as they travel from former colonies to the metropole. ‘Britain’ has a ‘double inscription’ (Bhabha 1997: 108; also Hall 1996b: 247) since it both denotes the coloniser: the British Empire, and the national context of the postcolonial subject, which helps to explain the ambivalence of “home” within the account. Moustafa refers to Pakistan as “back home” despite never having lived there, highlighting how he is made to feel out of place in Britain amid everyday challenges to call Britain home unequivocally. A crucial feature of the inferiority complex is the unequal status it affords postcolonial subjects to belong. Here they feature as guests who have been allowed entry by their benevolent benefactors as dependents: “you’ve been brought here by them.” This helps to explain why some British Muslims feel that despite having been born and brought up in Britain their citizenship is conditional on the will of the British government, as discussed later. The most profound conflict Moustafa discusses during the interview concerns being able to claim his British identity. As Sara Ahmed (1999: 341, original italics) explains, ‘home’ is intimately related to affect: ‘being at home is…a matter of how one feels or how one might fail to feel .’ Contrastingly, important to understanding Moustafa’s relationship

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to home is that it is not a failure to feel, but a failure of the normative citizen to recognise his feelings, his desire to be at home in Britain. Ahmed (1999: 341) refers to being at home as ‘inhabiting a second skin’ to capture the permeability between self/home, home/away. Moustafa presents a more troubling account whereby it is his skin which marks him as Other, thereby proposing a barrier rather than permeability; the racialised workings through which nation construction and its exclusions rest. Instead, “back home” functions as another facet of double consciousness whereby Moustafa identifies as British, but is not recognised as British by others. He tells me that he feels British but constantly has to “prove it,” illustrating how the normative subject retains the power to determine who (un)belongs irrespective of British Muslims’ desires and attempts to integrate. This other home signifies all that Britain is not: poor, no jobs, which provides a stark contrast to Moustafa’s comparatively elevated socioeconomic position in Britain and importantly, secures the image of the coloniser as a civilised and benevolent benefactor who has improved the prospects of the colonised. This conceptualisation erases the violences of Empire and locks the postcolonial subject within their inferiority and importunate desire to emulate the “white man” as the embodiment of civilisation: “they’re so good in their manners and their behaviour” Moustafa is told. Fanon (1986: 12) recounts a comparable motivation for black men to ‘prove to white men, at all costs, the richness of their thought, the equal value of their intellect,’ posing the question: ‘How do we extricate ourselves?’ The most enduring weapon of colonialism is the enforced internalisation of a value system that as Farooque notes earlier, renders the colonised subhuman and incapable of rational thought or morality (Oliver 2004: 30; Fanon 1986). In the next extract, Salma, a 43-year-old British Muslim woman of Pakistani heritage who wears hijab, sheds further light on the ‘coloniality of the psyche’ (Oliver 2004: 21). Salma grew up in Manchester, but moved to Bradford when she was about 21. She found the contrast quite stark initially, describing Bradford as “quite stifling” and not as cosmopolitan as Manchester. Over the years her outlook has changed, and she sees Bradford as her home that has “huge potential.” Salma is highly accomplished professionally and she has been involved with

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various groups in leadership capacities encompassing housing associations, governing bodies, as a member of the council for Bradford University, and developing leadership skills with young people and in communities. She has worked extensively with communities around community cohesion and in particular, creating access and opportunities for BME women and their families, with an emphasis on building self-esteem and confidence. When asked what the biggest challenge was for the women she works with, she replied “their own self-belief,” noting, as with Moustafa, that their potential may not have been brought out at school, which is further compounded by economic disadvantage faced by Pakistani Muslim communities in the Bradford locale. Salma describes the subconscious ways in which traces of colonial histories shape current social exchanges in Britain: Madeline: You were saying about the colonial history, do you think that plays out still? Do you think that has some kind of residue if you like? Salma: Um I think um it probably does but we’re not always conscious of it, I think that’s the difference. I think there’s so much history and so much exchanges that happened, cultural exchanges, social exchanges you know that it’s become part and parcel of our lives, everyday lives, that we’re not even aware of it. Or even just think about the language and how a lot of the words from you know Hindi and Urdu have come into the language. Madeline: You mean into the English language? Salma: Yeah within the English language without us even questioning it really. So I think there are things like that. I think they’re some things that we take for granted.

Whilst Farooque describes how English was imposed on native populations, Salma describes how Hindi and Urdu words have survived colonial suppression to haunt the English language in unacknowledged ways: “without us even questioning it really.” This is akin to Bhabha’s (1997: 86) articulation of colonial mimicry which necessarily produces ‘its slippage, its excess, its difference,’ connected to the emergence of ‘other Englishes’ which challenge dominant English (Chow 2014; also Brutt-Griffler 2002). Salma alerts us to a shared history, the ‘mutually entangled colonial histories’ (Huggan 2009: 1; also Bhambra 2007a, b; Subrahmanyam 1997) of South Asians and normative Britons

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signalled by the collective “our” through which coloniser-colonised histories continue to shape “our … everyday lives” in contemporary Britain in often unconscious ways, as Salma further develops: Madeline: I was wondering if you think [the colonial history] plays out in relations between Muslims and non-Muslims still? Salma: I don’t think on a conscious level, no. Maybe on a subconscious level. Madeline: In what sense subconscious do you think? Salma: I think um, I think culturally we’re probably more compliant with aspects because of that postcolonial history. Madeline: In what sense? Salma: Um, I think just accepting things more without question um so rules, regulations all of that. I think we are much more indoctrinated – but I don’t mean it in that sense, but I think it’s much more in our psyche.

As Mary Pratt (1992: 4) argues in Imperial Eyes, rather than viewing imperialism solely as the enforcement of power upon another nation, it is more useful to see it as involving cultural collisions, what she terms ‘the contact zone,’ ‘social spaces where disparate cultures meet, clash and grapple with each other, often in highly asymmetrical relations of domination and subordination.’ For Salma, these exchanges occupy a ‘spectral aura’ (Prakash 1997: 496) concerning subject positions which cannot be fully restored: “we’re not even aware of it,” thus comprising another facet of the ‘coloniality of the psyche’ (Oliver 2004) through which the colonial past shapes the present. Asked if the colonial history “plays out” in relations between Muslims and non-Muslims, Salma assents that responses operate at the “subconscious level”—those aspects of our mental worlds which are repressed or cannot be fully recovered, which proposes a complex relationship between cultural values and agency (Oliver 2004: xxii). Kelly Oliver (2004: 88) observes that: ‘colonization of psychic spaces works through silencing the effects of oppression. First, those othered within mainstream culture [as Farooque explores] are excluded from the world of meaning except as abject or inferior [as Moustafa surmises]. Then their exclusion is silenced,’ including by them, as it becomes sublimated

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within the subconscious as Salma describes. Similar to Farooque and Moustafa, the enduring effects of postcolonial histories (note Salma’s use of “postcolonial” rather than “colonial” which highlights the difficulties in disentangling these historical moments) on colonised subjects are subordination, noting that culturally “we’re probably more compliant,” and further, are “indoctrinated,” thereby constituting the psychic conditions through which subordination is reproduced. As well as being a professional woman, Salma is also a mother with teenage children. She placed great emphasis on using her education and skills to improve the opportunities for her children and is hopeful that the positive aspirations that she has for Bradford, and which she has tried to implement through her work, if not realised in her lifetime, will be in her children’s. Yet she also expresses how Pakistanis’ postcolonial history haunts how her children come to understand national belonging in contemporary Britain: Salma: …I’ve never said to [my children] you’re English but somehow maybe I don’t know because of the post – well the colonial era, that identity of belonging to Britain and being part of Britain – that’s more kind of ingrained in us … I don’t know which one’s the factor that gives us the sense of the identity that we have, whether it’s our parents and the postcolonial history … Madeline: Right ok Salma: That gives us that sense of being British or whether it is a subconscious message that to be English you’ve got to be white.

Salma describes the exclusions her children feel from being able to occupy the category “English” as premised on whiteness, noting by contrast, that the colonial history of being part of Britain has been “ingrained in us,” that is, sedimented through past histories that retain their effects in the present. As with Moustafa’s account, Salma highlights the psychic effects of ‘transgenerational haunting’ (Abraham and Torok 1994) as transmitted via her parents and previous generations to her children that include non-conscious domains (Hoffman 2010: 408). The terms of British identity have been subject to considerable debate and variation (Byrne 2012, 2014, 2017; Fortier 2008; Grillo 2007;

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Condor et al. 2006; Samuel 1998), including as both an enforced category of Empire (Parekh 2000a, b) and self-identity (Banton 2001). Britain’s imperial history profoundly influences British national identity and its association with greatness and its global position (Hall 1996a). Uncovering Britain’s imperial past is thus crucial for understanding British Muslims’ orientation to, place within, and exclusions from, contemporary Britain. Partial histories of colonial encounters also inhibit normative white Britons from understanding the presence of postcolonial subjects and their contribution to, and stake in, Britain. These exclusions from the national imaginary mobilise current hostilities to non-white immigrant populations as Samrina, a 43-year-old British Muslim of Pakistani heritage who wears the hijab and jilbab examines. Samrina was born in Leeds but grew up in Birmingham. She decided to move back to Leeds where she had been living for around 12 years at the time of interview with her now grown-up son and daughter. Her religion is of central importance to her, telling me it “is my life,” and she would identify as a Muslim woman before she would identify as a Pakistani woman, conceding that her only link to Pakistan is through family members whom she does not know well; she views England as “my country.” As with Moustafa, Samrina experienced educational disadvantage through being treated differently to her normative white peers which damaged her self-esteem. She confides that it was only through her professional work, achieving senior-level positions as well as being asked to undertake consultancy work and lecture at university, and her qualifications (she had a Masters degree) and professional training that she has realised her potential. She described several incidents of institutional racism during her career. These experiences also explain the distance which she feels between herself and her brothers and sisters. She describes her family as successful professional people which “non-Muslim people would like about them.” Unlike her however, rather than challenging the status quo, she perceives that her siblings “conform to society’s expectations” which does not reflect her values. By contrast, she is “more blunt about things” in terms of pushing an agenda of equity in her professional life; a stance which has not always been met favourably by those who want you to “reinforce that culture” of institutionally white spaces

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which keeps non-white immigrants in subordinate positions, as Samrina narrates: … the immigration problem is linked to people of colour, but actually they’re not a significant number – they’re not as big as the number of immigration that comes from white-faced countries. But we don’t talk about those people because we want those people because they bring skills and you people are all off-loading, whereas this country is built on the back of our country’s wealth. And our families, generations of them, have invested in the foundations and sustained things like the NHS but they – in Leeds they might employ the largest number of ethnic minorities but the percentage at the bottom are where they’re employed – very few – the percentages as you climb up the ladder to the top is much smaller and it’s not equitable.

Samrina describes the overriding desire for the nation to maintain its whiteness (Hesse 2000) so that despite larger numbers of immigrants coming from “white-faced countries,”8 their presence does not incite the hostility predominately reserved for non-whites and, importantly, maintains the “problem” of immigration as one indelibly linked to “people of colour.” This narrative is maintained through the association of nonwhites with inferiority, as lacking the skills that their normative white counterparts possess, and silencing the role of postcolonial subjects in the formation of modern Britain, meaning that they continue to be perceived as the ‘white man’s burden’ in the metropole. Gurminder Bhambra (2016: 188) notes that ‘postcolonial’ is understood as beginning with the immigration of the non-European ‘Other’ rather than as ‘constitutive of Europe’s own self-understanding – or as legitimate beneficiaries of the postwar social settlement – emerging from its history if colonialism…’ As Hall (2000: 218) surmises: In the wake of decolonization, and masked by a collective amnesia about, and systematic disavowal of, ‘empire’ … this encounter was interpreted as ‘a new beginning.’ Most British people look at these ‘children of empire’ as if they could not imagine where ‘they’ had come from, why, or what possible connection they could possibly have with Britain.

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Failure to address Britain’s colonial past prevents Britain from addressing its postcolonial present, ensuring postcolonial subjects are viewed as an ‘external intrusion’ (Bhambra 2016: 188) to British society and polity. The dynamics of racial interiority and exteriority are significant for understanding differences in performances and experiences of exclusion as I discuss later. Importantly, Samrina draws attention to postcolonial subjects as a ‘misimagined community’ to rework Benedict Anderson’s (1983) inscription, who despite being written out of the ‘imagined community’ of Britain have been instrumental in building Britain both through Empire: “this country is built on the back of our country’s wealth,” and the investment of postcolonial subjects in Britain’s key institutions such as the NHS within the metropole: “our families, generations of them have invested in the foundations…” Although part of the fabric of Britain, postcolonial subjects have not been afforded the same stake in Britain, either symbolically in terms of national belonging (see Fortier 2008) or materially. Samrina highlights how structures of inferiority are reproduced through inequitable socio-economic positions, noting that the “percentage at the bottom are where they’re [postcolonial subjects] employed.” The reproduction of positions of subordination within the metropole attests to the ‘ongoing and unfinished history’ (Ahmed 2007: 149) of whiteness, helping to ensure institutions remain white (Ahmed 2007: 157) by delimiting how non-white bodies can ‘take up space’ and what they ‘can do’ (Ahmed 2007: 149) within predominately white spaces (also Hunter 2015; Puwar 2004; Lewis 2000). Samrina agitates for a different national story cognisant of Britain’s imperial past in order to understand postcolonial subjects’ presence in the present and right to call Britain home. These affective attachments are simultaneously economic, social, and familial, and rightly contest the ‘fantasy of whiteness’ (Hage 1998: hooks 1992: 174) that underpins hegemonic conceptions of modern Britain. Such a re-working is comparable to the project of ‘connected histories’ (Subrahmanyam 1997) advocated by Gurminder Bhambra (2007a, b):

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These are the histories that do not derive from a singular standpoint, be that a universal standpoint, or the standpoint of any particular identity claimant. Instead, connected histories allow for the deconstruction of dominant narratives at the same time as being open to different perspectives and seeking to reconcile these perspective systematically, both in the incorporation of new data and evidence and in terms of the reconstruction of theoretical categories. (Bhambra 2007a: 879)

By deconstructing ‘dominant narratives’ (Bhambra 2007a: 879) of nation, categories of belonging can be rethought. Failure to re-suture severed ties means that British-born Muslims experience their place in Britain differently to the dominant subject, whose right to belong and inclusion within the national imaginary is taken for granted. The next section explores the culture of fear experienced by some British Muslims concerning their citizenship being revoked. In Chapter 4, I explore how the state of exception has legitimised the zoning of spaces as (in)securitised and (un)safe through state counter-terrorism practices of stop and search, home raids and detention. Here I focus on the ways in which citizenship is experienced as conditional and the role of racial terror to such imaginings within the ‘war on terror’ context.

3

Conditional Citizenship Within a Culture of Fear

Nationhood is constructed on the basis of Othering or alterity through which postcolonial subjects are located within the marginal spaces of the nation. The postcolonial perspective draws attention to differences in how national belonging is understood and experienced and its distinction from citizenship. The racialised nature in which these differences operate help to explain why participants felt unable to identify as ‘English’ which they associated with whiteness, but could claim to be British (although not unequivocally) because of their passports (as long as they are accepted as genuine, which for Muslims profiled as terror suspects cannot be guaranteed, as I explore in Chapter 4). There is an important distinction between belonging to the ‘imagined community’ (Anderson 1983)

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premised on a shared culture and kinship, and citizenship secured by legal status. Racialised distinctions which designate who does/not belong means that citizenship was in some cases something participants feared could be revoked. This suggests that British Muslims experience dual citizenship status (Kapoor and Narkowicz 2019; Kapoor 2018; Choudhury 2017; Razack 2008) within the state of exception comprising the ‘war on terror’ context. The threat of being “kicked out” of Britain manifested in different ways in participants’ accounts, but in all expressed cases it was framed by histories of terrors affecting racial and religious minorities. These included the partition of India, the Bosnian War, Chechnya, the first Gulf War and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan during the ‘war on terror,’ as well as terrors visited upon other racial and religious minorities such as Jewish populations during the Holocaust and Irish populations. I am not suggesting an equivalence between these diverse contexts of terror, but rather that a connective logic of domination and violence visited upon racial and religious minorities that I am advancing as the Concentrationary Gothic, shapes how Muslims articulate terror connected to practices of nation construction within the ‘war on terror’ context. These observances require that racial terror be understood as a historical continuum endemic to performances of hegemonic whiteness. Apart from Zanaib’s father, none of these previous terror contexts had been experienced directly (and Zanaib is recounting her father’s experiences), but they have nonetheless come to shape the conceptual framework through which participants conceptualised the culture of fear affecting Muslims in the ‘war on terror’ context concerning citizenship and national (un)belongings. I have argued that the nation must be understood in relation to Empire. Despite the demise of the British Empire, Britain’s place on the global stage means that British Muslims’ position in Britain is affected through interrelations of local, national and international contexts that have particular significance within the global ‘war on terror’ for British Muslims. As I have argued elsewhere (Abbas 2019: 7), in Britain, focus on Muslims as an internal security threat, most cogently depicted by the ‘home-grown-terrorist’ category has dictated public expressions of terrorism since the 2005 London bombings. However, questions of

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Muslim loyalty have shifted during the Syrian conflict as British-born Muslims have travelled to fight alongside the Islamic State (IS) or Daesh (Awan and Guru 2017; Silverman 2017) including, as with the Manchester bomber, Salman Abedi, returning to enact violence at home having received training in Syria. The Muslim Other invokes the Gothic’s concern with the disruption of spatial boundaries through association with globally diffuse terror networks’ (Valier 2002: 322). Contemporary examinations of racial politics require paying attention to the particular ways in which Muslims are positioned as threatening bodies, both within the nation’s borders and transnationally, through a chain of signification which draws together anxieties concerning the immigrant, the refugee, and the terror suspect (Weber and Bowling 2004). I move on to discuss Zanaib’s account of her father’s experiences of partition following the division of British India into two separate states, India and Pakistan in 1947, and being forced to move to independent Pakistan. Zanaib is a 33-year-old British-Pakistani Muslim from Bradford who wears hijab. Her father, as a first generation Pakistani Muslim, has had to adapt a lot to life in England. His relationship to his children of which Zanaib is the youngest, has significantly changed over time. Zanaib is clearly fond of her father but describes him as a “bit of a dictator” growing up. He worked seven days a week, which meant that he was often not able to spend time with his family and she believes that he feels like he missed out on her older sisters growing up. Over time, Zanaib describes how her father has “changed a heck of a lot” and has mellowed in terms of the rules and regulations which he had previously set down, particularly in terms of gender roles. Zanaib described a defining moment in their relationship when her father saw her speak at a public event where she was the only woman, and he witnessed her being given a standing ovation which showed him a different side and made him want to support his daughter in her professional work and public facing roles and he felt extremely proud of her. A big question in her household is whether the next generation are going to speak Urdu or Punjabi. The main concern is that the loss of their heritage language would also mean the loss of values which come from that culture, noting that if you do not learn the language of your forefathers you are removing elements of the values that come with that

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language and culture. She reasons that we cannot let that hinder us, and those values can still be taught even if the language is not. Her biography shows important insight of the negotiations that postcolonial subjects undertake in the metropole inter-generationally. Zanaib has had markedly different experiences having been born in Britain compared to her father, but which are nonetheless interwoven, such that her heritage influences her, and she has in turned shaped how her father sees life in Britain. Crucial to her narration is how (post)colonial hauntings shape her father’s understanding of current terrors affecting Muslims according to his daughter and importantly, the encroachment of these terrors within European spaces that requires thinking more complexly about categories of interior/exterior not as binaries, but as entanglements through which racial terror reworks itself to preserve hegemonic whiteness: … I was talking to [my father] a couple of years ago you know after … 9/11 and it was the first time that I really talked to him about his experiences in India and then having to move to independent Pakistan. And he said look he said one of the things that you haven’t you know, as my daughter living here, being brought up here, one of the things that you haven’t experienced is real struggle … you may have experienced real struggle in a different sense i.e. you having to deal with you know the prejudice and whatever here, but what we experienced was er war, we experienced having to move, we experienced a life where we had real poverty, where we had to literally pick everything on our backs because there was a war and we had to move from our home to another place that was alien to us which was independent Pakistan. When I see things in Bosnia and Chechnya, what I see is that this could happen to us in the UK he said, because I’ve experienced it and I’ve seen what has happened in Bosnia and Chechnya, it’s in Europe, who’s to say …? And it was funny because only the other week I was sat down chatting to him … and he said oh Switzerland because he listens to the news, you know local Asian news, and he says oh you know Switzerland, this was when it all happened [the banning of the minarets] and he said you know about Switzerland … it’s getting closer you know and he had heard you know when there was a whole debacle about Nick Griffin going on Question Time he was watching … what he was saying was that all of these things

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are happening and yet you know he said one of the reasons that I had a home built in Pakistan was because in the event that in the UK they want us to get out then we have somewhere to go to …

Zanaib moves from discussing 9/11 with her father to his experiences of partition, illustrating how past histories of conflict and violence affect how British Muslims perceive current threats facing Muslim populations in Britain. Acts of terror do not exist in isolation therefore, but must be understood as matrices that are not merely vestiges of the mind, but are socially produced and retransmitted. The account illustrates how terror travels and transmutes across time and space that fits with a relational approach to race and racism (Goldberg 2009) that is attentive to connections (Meer 2013a, b). Terror is both ‘real’—based on actual events experienced by Zanaib’s father, but also ‘imagined’—the possibility of future terrors is based on remembered experiences that haunt the present. Again, haunting disrupts temporal and spatial logics and functions as ‘haunted futurities’ (Ferreday and Kuntsman 2011; also Back 2011; Gordon 2011), that although emerge from the past, speak as much to the future. Priya Kumar (1999: 201) writes of the ‘past-in-presentness of partition’ as a history that ‘refuses to be past’ but rather, continues to affect the present of its survivors, provoking important questions about bearing witness to violence. As with Farooque and Moustafa, traumatic memories of empire and its demise are transmitted generationally, meaning they defy closure (Kumar 1999: 203). The trauma of war leading to Zanaib’s father being forced to leave his home and move to an “alien” place shapes how he perceives current threats to Muslim populations. Perhaps because he has experienced violence within the place that he once called home, the possibility of being displaced haunts his understanding of home; an uncanniness or unheimlich (Freud 1919: 2; also Punter 2007: 130; Gunew 2004: 95; Bhabha 1990: 2) understanding of home that is foreshadowed by the possibility of being un-homed, which mobilises him to build a home in Pakistan in case he is forced to return. Gordon’s (2008: xvi) description of haunting is useful for explicating how the original trauma of war and its subsequent revisitings contributes to the unheimlich ways in which

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home is experienced within the account as ‘those singular yet repetitive instances when home becomes unfamiliar, when your bearings on the world lose direction, when the over-and-done-with comes alive, when what’s been in your blind spot comes into view.’ Comparably, Ahmed (1999: 343) notes that migration involves both a spatial and temporal dislocation that draws attention to the affective quality of home which, like the unheimlich, is inescapably tied up with estrangement and loss through which: The past becomes presentable through a history of lost homes (unhousings), as a history which hesitates between the particular and the general, and between the local and the transnational … Acts of remembering hence are felt on and in migrant bodies in the form of a discomfort, the failure to fully inhabit the present or present space. Migration can hence be considered a process of estrangement, a process of becoming estranged from that which was inhabited as home.

Although Muslims in Britain have been depicted as harbingers of terror through their presumed association with transnational terror networks (Valier 2002: 322), it is the normative European characterised by whiteness and Christianity that is the embodiment of terror for Zanaib’s father. Crucial to this articulation is that terror tactics are enacted against Muslims within European spaces, most marked by the systematic genocide of Bosnian Muslims during the Bosnian War of 1992–1995. The account draws attention to the importance of the racialised interior (Virdee 2014, 2017a, 2019: 15–19) to performances of hegemonic whiteness and the violences through which it is secured. Not only does this suggest important continuities in practices of terror performed within Europe against those racialised as Other and who phenotypically can be ‘white,’ such as Bosnian Muslim populations (and as I discuss in the next section, Irish and Jewish populations), but the significance of religion or more precisely, the racialisation of religion, to these exclusions. Whilst it is useful to speak of the colonial context of the British Raj as involving violences against an external Other, following partition, ethnic cleansing was undertaken in Punjab. At the end of 1947, all traces of a

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Muslim presence were eradicated in the Indian East Punjab apart from a small remainder in the state of Malerkotla (see Ahmed 2012). This perhaps explains Zanaib’s father’s preoccupation with the Bosnian case as another context in which ethnic cleansing occurred against Muslims within areas that had hitherto been inhabited as shared national spaces. Such events illustrate that boundaries between the interior and exterior are unfixed with sometimes violent consequences in the (re)making of nationhood. Having escaped the violences of partition, here what is terrifying for Zanaib’s father is that such violences could be enacted within Europe, that the presumed boundaries protecting the Other within Europe are being eroded. For the Muslim in Europe, it is the proximity of terror that is most troubling: “it’s in Europe,” it “could happen to us in the UK .” Of course the boundary separating Europe from its violent, non-European Other pertains to the lie of whiteness as civilised (Abbas 2013). It is not that white people are devoid of horrific acts of violence, only that they have largely been reserved for non-whites, or in the case of Irish colonialism, those racialised as not quite white (see Hickman and Ryan 2020; Walter 2011; Garner 2004, 2009; McVeigh and Rolston 2009; Gibbons 2004; Hickman and Walter 1997; Curtis 1968, 1997; Hickman 1995). As Aimé Césaire (2000: 36) incisively recounts, a study of the Christian9 bourgeois would reveal ‘without his being aware of it, he has a Hitler inside him… that Hitler is his demon…’ that at once highlights violence as intrinsic to the formation of Europe, not an aberration (also Bauman 2000), and since such performances are not acknowledged, reaffirms the lie of whiteness as distinct from terror (hooks 1992: 174; also Abbas 2013; Yancy 2008: xvii; Garner 2007: 13–16). The proximity of terror—“it’s getting closer”—is therefore significant and questions the association of Europeanness with civilisation, tolerance. Freighted with histories of racial terror, the racialised Other must remain vigilant to signs of its recurrence in keeping with the demands of a concentrationary memory as: …an agitated, agitating, anxious memory, heavy with fears that a terrible event initiated a repeatable possibility in human history … It is a memory that purposively erodes divisions between past and present, using

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specific histories to become a constant probe with which to interrogate the present for any current affinities with absolute horror and aspirations towards total domination … It is neither a particularized memory, nor blandly universalizing. It is attentive and speculative, particular and general, perpetually alert to the changing configurations of that menace to the social and political foundations of plurality, spontaneity and creativity. (Pollock and Silverman 2014a: 1–2, original italics)

Having escaped war to seek refuge in England, Zanaib’s father prepares for the possibility of returning to Pakistan where he may in future be safer. Having been brought here “by them” as Moustafa has intimated, the postcolonial subject remains a guest, whose right to belong and more importantly, safety, risks being revoked. “Home” is not just where he currently resides, but a place where he might be forcibly returned to, and thus which he remains invested in, both psychically, affectively, and materially through the home he has built in Pakistan. Important to this dual positioning of home is that he understands his place in Britain as conditional on the will of the state, where the desire for removal constitutes a possible affective politics of power premised on a logic of Othering: “in the event that in the UK they want us to get out.” In assessing the likelihood of this actuality, Zanaib’s father monitors signs of terror being re-enacted against Muslims in Europe. This involves attentiveness both to the past—“I’ve experienced it ”—those hauntings of terror which characterised the movements of (post)colonial subjects following the demise of the British Raj, and to the present by looking for signs that highlight current intolerances towards Muslims. He emphasises the importance of bearing witness (Sontag 2004; Agamben 1999) to such performances: “I see things” in Bosnia and Chechnya he tells his daughter, as well as being believed : “these things are happening.” Navigating these frames of terror is important for detecting signs of terror. Here “local Asian news” provides an important, trusted intervention to dominant media accounts which he perceives normalise far-right perspectives epitomised by Nick Griffiths, then leader of the far-right British National Party, who featured on a mainstream news programmes (BBC’s Question Time 22 October 2009 also 27 January 2012). The rise of the far-right within mainstream politics (Patel and Tyrer 2011: 42–46)

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and intolerance towards Islamic markers within European spaces indicated by the banning of the minarets in Switzerland in 2009 that Zanaib’s father alludes to, comprise similar precursory logics of domination and exclusion experienced by Muslims in Bosnia and Chechnya, troubling his sense of safety and belonging in Britain. Having been subjected to a different historical trajectory, one of prejudice but not of war and displacement as her father reminds her, and as a second generation British-born citizen, Zanaib has a different understanding of the terms of belonging affecting Muslims in Britain post-9/11 to her father. Zanaib describes herself as a “pioneer” in her family. She broke the mould by travelling, going to university, and focusing on her professional career, leaving marriage until her 30s. She admits that she was made to feel guilty for setting herself apart not only by her parents, but by her siblings, particularly her sisters. Their reaction, she surmised, was because she had opportunities to do things that they did not, like travelling back on the train late at night and marrying someone that she had chosen. Nonetheless, she describes her mother and sisters as strong women who are her “inspiration.” Zanaib described growing up in a “fearful household” in which she had many unanswered questions. She says that she rebelled at around the age of 14, after her older siblings had got married in Pakistan. She felt like she wanted to do more in life than just get married, to make a difference, and she instead focused on her studies. Both of her parents are illiterate and she tells me that they equated university education with forgetting your identity. She described finding a way of “meeting my parents in between” by proving to them that she could have “a mixture of both.” As intimated, her parents’ views have changed, including on marriage, and she recounts how her father defended her decision to choose to marry someone from the UK, the first in her family to do so: “there is no one compatible for my daughter in Pakistan so leave her alone, she’ll marry whoever she wants!” Zanaib describes that the first generation conformed more to fit in with the expectations of British society, perhaps seeing themselves more as guests having not been born in Britain. Now young Muslims are “far more self-critical,” noting that they have questions and “are not just following blindly” which can

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be a challenge to the first generation, but which she sees as a “comfort.” These inter-generational differences help to explain the divergent understanding that she has in terms of her position in Britain to her father: …whereas for me it’s a very different way of looking at a situation because whereas for me I was born here. I’m not as radical as my dad and I don’t think that I’m going to be thrown out or whatever. I see my future here and when I go back to Pakistan I don’t necessarily see er, I don’t see myself living there.

Having been born and brought up in Britain, Zanaib feels that her right to belong in Britain is secured: “I don’t think that I’m going to be thrown out …” The use of “radical” is significant here. She describes her father as “radical” for fearing that he could be kicked out of Britain. This illustrates how the terms of belonging are politically charged for British Muslims. Muslims’ political proclivities have been used as a means of judging their ability to belong where deviation from the ‘moderate Muslim’ subject position potentially places Muslims at risk of state attention. What is significant here is that a radical position emanates from fear of state exclusion, not as a means through which to challenge state power. Unlike her father who keeps alive the possibility of returning to Pakistan, Zanaib sees her future in Britain and Pakistan as a place that she visits but does not see as home. The temporal is thus important for framing understandings of home. Home is not only experienced in the present but through past orientations as well as ‘haunted futurities’ (Ferreday and Kuntsman 2011): “I see my future here;” a statement which is in part derived from her past experiences of “go[ing] back to Pakistan” that have secured her feelings for Britain as her home and Pakistan as a place which she associates with violence, where the possibility of there being a bomb when you go out in the city or on the bus is a fear that is experienced every day, she recounts. However, for some British Muslims, being born in Britain is not a guarantor of security, as the following accounts from Ali and Salma show: Ali: I think what if one day I did get kicked out of England where would I go?

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Madeline: Right Ali: So I try and you know keep in contact with Pakistan– try to go there, visit there. So I don’t you know, think I’m totally British because Britain can kick me out you know. Like I’m British one day and the next day they could take my passport and say I’m not British anymore. Yeah so there’s a bit of fear there.

Unlike Zanaib, Ali, a 20-year-old British-born Muslim male of Pakistani heritage from Leeds, believes he could be “kicked out” of England. Ali has a degree in civil engineering and works in the highways department for a company in north Leeds which is located in what he describes as a “completely white area.” He attends mosque regularly and undertakes charity work. He is an active sportsperson and plays football, including organising football tournaments at work, has competed in 10 K runs and the Leeds half marathon, and plays squash and badminton. Despite being seemingly well-integrated with his fellow citizens in terms of work and his hobbies, he speaks of a foreboding insecurity concerning his position in Britain amid the negative representation of Muslims due to their association with terrorism; such concerns transcend national borders since most of his family live in Pakistan. Speaking of the instability in the region where they reside, he tells me he is haunted by the threat that his “loved ones could die tomorrow,” illustrating how fears concerning his citizenship status intersect with wider geopolitical events to affect how he experiences and thinks about both his home-place and place of heritage. He states that his citizenship is secured as long as his passport is accepted, which suggests that belonging is a legal matter rather than based on belonging to the ‘imagined community’ (Anderson 1983). Removing his passport would ensure that he is “not British anymore” despite other markers of national belonging such as speaking English with a Yorkshire accent, his cultural knowledge and personal history having been brought up and educated in England. The state of exception of the ‘war on terror’ introduces feelings of fear and (in)security for British Muslims, limiting them from benefitting from secured citizenship status enjoyed by normative citizens. The culture of fear concerning nationhood experienced by British Muslims in part derives from the possibility of their citizenship being revoked therefore.

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Restrictions to citizenship rights have been extended to British Muslims through the Counter-Terrorism and Security Act 2015 which empowers police ‘to seize and retain passports’ (c.6 Part 1. Chap. 1) and tickets from those suspected of terrorist involvement and impose a Temporary Exclusion Order to ‘disrupt and control the return to the UK of British citizens who have engaged in terrorism-related activity abroad.’ Measures include cancelling travel documents and placing individuals on a ‘no fly’ list, as well as enforcing restrictions on their return. Such measures are emboldened by a Gothic narrative of the Muslim Other terrorising the civilised world expressed through the ‘specter of returning fighters’ of IS or Daesh (Joppke 2016: 728–729). The Gothic occupies the site of discursive struggle for societies to claim possession of the civilised by abjecting what is considered Other to the civilised self (Punter and Byron 2003: 5), which is evident in the arena of civil rights surrounding counter-terrorism measures. The Home Office (2018a: 4, my italics) states that restrictions are ‘necessary in a democratic society’ for national security, illustrating that Britain’s claims to democratic (i.e. civilised) virtues are used to legitimise (in)securitising Muslims. Increased powers to deprive citizenship of those suspected of terrorist involvement and removing procedural safeguards creates a ‘hierarchy among British citizens’ (Choudhury 2017: 225), specifically Muslims (Fargues 2017: 984–985). As Tufyal Choudhury explains: Muslims are at best ‘Tolerated Citizens’, required to demonstrate their commitment to British values. Muslims holding unacceptable extremist views are ‘Failed Citizens’ while the ‘home-grown’ radicalised terrorist suspect is conceived of as the barbaric Other to British values, whose failure as a citizen is severe enough to justify the deprivation of citizenship.

Invocations of Muslims as Britain’s ‘barbaric Other’ or what Jasbir Puar and Amit Rai (2002) term, ‘terrorist-monsters,’ enables Gothic spaces of law where violence is simultaneously concealed within, yet performed by, modern law (Valier 2002: 333). These measures are evident of a ‘conditional order of hospitality’ (Honig 2006: 112) for Muslims fundamental to Britain’s contemporary ‘racial formation’ (Kapoor 2013: 1029; also

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Kapoor 2018; Kapoor and Narkowicz 2019), that privileges normative citizens’ security above equality. The recent example of Shamima Begum, the schoolgirl who travelled to the Islamic State aged 15 in 2019, who has been stripped of her British citizenship in a decision issued by former Home Secretary, Sajid Javid, on the 19 February 2019, and whose newborn baby boy, Jarrah, died of pneumonia whilst she resided in a refugee camp in Syria hoping to return to the UK, is a case in point for exploring citizenship and its limits. By no means am I condoning support for the Islamic State which has in part contributed to the displacement of my own family members from Iraq, but rather, that the case prompts interrogation of the figure of the ‘immigrant woman’ (Lewis 2005, 2006) to analyses of nation construction. As I develop later, this figure is the symbolic signifier and transmitter of culture, and, as such, is treated more harshly where she transgresses social and cultural norms, both her ‘own’ and that of the nation she has immigrated to. One could read the ‘jihadi bride’ category as a recent manifestation of ‘threatened femininity’ which as Schmitt (1997: 2, 3, original italics) notes, has historically stood in ‘metonymically for the nation itself ’ in Gothic narratives with ‘imperial and domestic consequences.’ Such supposed threats he continues, ‘provided the perfect casus belli for imperial aggression’ in the presence of a violent exteriority. Gail Lewis (2005: 536) writes that the ‘immigrant woman,’ ‘simultaneously embodies the possibility of assimilation into and destabilization of the nation and the national,’ which in this case, through her association with Islamist terrorism, marks Shamima with the latter, and legitimates the revoking of her citizenship as a means of punishing her transgression and securing her exclusion from Britain. Importantly, citizenship deprivation10 has not been presided equally for returning ‘jihadi brides’ or ‘foreign fighters,’ highlighting how citizenship is contested and enacted in both racialised and gendered ways (Yuval-Davis 1997; Anthias and Yuval-Davis 1992).11 Under the British National Act 1981, the Home Secretary can revoke British citizenship where it is deemed ‘conducive to the public good.’ In accordance with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) Convention on the Reduction of Statelessness 1961 and the Council of Europe’s 1997 European Convention on Nationality, these powers can only be enforced if they do not make a person stateless. In

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Begum’s case, the Home Office believes she is entitled to Bangladeshi citizenship on account of her heritage which legitimates her exclusion despite the reported risk that she ‘would face [the] death penalty in Bangladesh’ (BBC News 3 May 2019). As intimated by Zanaib’s father’s decision to build a home in Pakistan, and Ali’s active preservation of familial ties with Pakistan in case his citizenship is revoked, the postcolonial subjects’ heritage contests the boundaries of the nation state, but may also be the place they will need to look to in order to secure a home-place. Muslims’ transnational identification exceeds national borders (Khan 2006: 182–187), meaning the liberal state must contend not only with the domestic arena, but the ‘broader geopolitical structure of liberal hegemony’ (Adamson et al. 2011: 848) arising from Britain’s global position in the ‘war on terror.’ These concerns are not new, but have featured in earlier global conflicts involving Muslim populations. In the next extract, Salma highlights how wider socio-political contexts involving conflicts between British and Muslim nations, here the First Gulf War 1990–1991, questioned young British Muslims’ “sense of belonging” in Britain: When we had the Gulf War and talk about can Muslims stay in this country, is the war making things difficult for Muslims in this country now? And I heard young people saying, does that mean that we have to go back to Pakistan or Bangladesh? You know and it’s almost like we don’t belong here even though they were third generation, some of them had never been to Pakistan or Bangladesh. Their view was does it mean we can’t stay here anymore? So that sense of belonging and right didn’t seem to be as embedded or ingrained in them. They were questioning that themselves so I think you know – and maybe just isolated incidences, but I think it does question how um strongly people feel for England. And they’ll be others who I’m sure will say it doesn’t matter what happens, this is my home and I’m staying here.

On the face of things, it would seem that Muslims’ presumed allegiance to a transnational Muslim umma supercedes their loyalty to Britain (Khan 2006 also McGhee 2008: 29–49), and thus questions their ability to belong in Britain. This perhaps explains why British Muslims of

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Pakistani and Bangladeshi heritage felt that as Muslims, they could be tarnished as not belonging, as enemies within the nation, despite never having been to Pakistan or Bangladesh. This is of course a simplistic summation which says much about the frames of war (Butler 2009), their eclipses, absences, and insufficiencies. Britain acted as part of a transnational coalition against Iraqi forces that included Pakistan and Bangladesh in support of Kuwait (an overwhelmingly Muslim nation), but which appears to have been inaccurately simplified as a war between the West/Britain against a Muslim enemy. The nation state can exceed territorial boundaries according to politico-economic-military power under the semblance of defending against an aggressor nation (Pugliese 2006: 40), thus ensuring that the integrity of the state and its (normative) citizens are kept intact, whilst simultaneously providing a context in which practices of Othering are reinvigorated, leading to British Muslim’s attachment to Britain being questioned, even by themselves. Fears affecting British Muslims that their citizenship is conditional are not new to the ‘war on terror’ context therefore, but are experienced at moments involving geopolitical conflicts framed as against Muslim populations that when probed, highlight the deficiencies of the borders separating the West/rest, citizen/non. These borderings nonetheless work to maintain the semblance of bodies that are in/out of place premised on a ‘fantasy of whiteness’ (Hage 1998; hooks 1992) and (mis)recognition of the (racialised) body as ‘out of place,’ meaning British Muslims’ loyalty to Britain is unfairly questioned. As with Moustafa’s earlier account, feelings of home are not secured, but are conditional on the ‘nationalist mood’ (see Sutherland 2017: 24). Despite their long history with Britain, South Asian Muslims’ sense of belonging is yet to be “embedded or ingrained” according to Salma, leading to them questioning their right to belong in Britain. Salma highlights that belonging is affective and its security is connected to the intensity to which Muslims feel they can claim belonging and importantly, for such claims to be accepted, which shifts depending on the wider socio-political context. Similar to Zanaib, Salma shows that there are divergent responses to belonging where she notes that some will claim Britain as their home no matter what happens elsewhere: “this is my

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home and I’m staying here.” Such claims must nonetheless be negotiated and are subject to challenge and denial as I move on to discuss. In the next section, I develop how practices of Othering and scapegoating construct boundaries of (un)belonging and the significance of Gothicisation to these practices, that is, the processes by which Gothic representations of the culture which carries the stigma of being ‘uncivilized, unprogressive or ‘barbaric” (Mighall 1999: xviii, xxv) are ‘thrust upon them.’

4

Othering and Scapegoating: Muslims as “Demonic Other”

Practices of nation construction are exclusive by definition, involving processes of Othering which ‘inferiorise’ (Anthias 2010: 227; also Anthias and Yuval-Davis 1992; Balibar 1991) those defined as not belonging. I engage in this section with the ways in which Othering operates through a mode of monstrosity by which Muslims are Gothicised as barbaric, uncivilised Others that pose a threat to national identity and security, comprising intersections of race, religion, gender and sexuality. I show how through this Gothic ‘technology of monstrosity’ (Halberstam 2000: 21–22), Muslims are produced as scapegoats within the ‘war on terror’ context that are blamed for the failures of multiculturalism and threat of terrorism. Whilst Muslims currently feature as the antithesis of Englishness, I further develop how such exclusions must be understood within a historical trajectory of racial terror whereby race is a means through which imaginings of nationhood are constructed (see Goldberg 2002; Omi and Winant 1994; Anthias and Yuval-Davis 1992; Balibar 1991; Gilroy 1987) that, I argue, comprises the Concentrationary Gothic. An important gap within studies of colonialism and racism has been the ‘Irish question’ (Carr and Haynes 2015; Walter 2001, 2011; Hickman et al. 2005; Gibbons 2004; Garner 2004; R.M. Douglas 2002; Hickman and Walter 1997; Thapar-Björkert and Ryan 2002; Mac an Ghaill 2000; Hickman 1995). Addressing this gap is important for understanding enactments of hegemonic white identities in

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Britain (Walter 2001, 2011) as socially constructed and performative, the boundaries of which shift at different historical moments (Roediger 1991, 1994, 2005; Bonnett 1998a, b, 2000; Frankenberg 1993, 1997), as well as mapping more effectively the role that religion, specifically, the racialisation of religion, has played both to nation formation and its exclusions, and as a means of justifying colonialism (McVeigh and Rolston 2009: 3). Such colonial legacies, as I have argued through the analytics of haunting, inform the policing of ‘terrorist bodies’ and the culture of fear affecting British Muslims in contemporary Britain. I begin this section with Abrah, a 29-year-old British Muslim of Bengali heritage from Keighley, a former mill and market town in the City of Bradford. Abrah’s background is in youth work and he had been involved in a national leadership development programme with young people. At the time of interview, he was working for a racial justice organisation based in Bradford where I was undertaking a research placement. He described the significant role that Islam has to him, underpinning all aspects of his life in a “positive way,” including his choice of work, hobbies, dress and inculcating respect for his parents and elders based on Islamic teachings and etiquette. He also spoke of the shift in focus on Muslim identity and change in societal attitudes that he had witnessed in his lifetime post-9/11 amid Muslims’ association with terrorism, which he chronicles as comprising a particularly “dangerous form of racism.” He draws an important parallel between the treatment of Irish and Muslim populations as ‘terrorist bodies’ within Britain as a means through which exclusions within the nation are enacted: Abrah: …unfortunately I don’t think Muslims will ever shake this terrorist, terrorism – well I say never but never say never – the Irish were the terrorists until the Muslims took the kind of baton … I’m not sure whether the Irish stuff was just within this region or whether it was a global thing at the time … the parallel I would say is the Irish were treated – I mean there was a time in this country … where there was ‘no blacks, no dogs and no Irish.’ Madeline: The sign …? Abrah: Yeah who weren’t allowed in certain places – so just the way in which Irish – because of the acts of you know groups and individuals the entire community was you know demonised. So the parallel that I would make is the same now you know, you’ve got instances happening

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the other side of the world and yet you know Muslims here are being locally, and on so many different levels, just being sort of um demonised for it, and therefore you’re getting that kind of treatment.

Abrah’s account further exhibits a relational approach to race that ‘seeks to connect racial logics’ (Meer 2013a: 501, original italics). Shifts in Gothicisation at different historical junctures between racialised populations have occurred in Britain in response to ‘alien invasions’ such as from the influx of Irish immigration following the Great Famine12 of 1845–1849 (e.g. Garner 2004; Gibbons 2004), nineteenth-century Jewish immigration (see Davison 2004; Cohen 2002; Halberstam 2000; Malchow 1996; Feldman 1994; Holmes 1979), black post-war migrations largely from the Caribbean (Andrews and Palmer 2016; Alexander 1996; Gilroy 1987, 1993; Goulbourne 1993; Hall 1992; James and Harris 1993; James 1986), and later migrations from South Asia (Werbner 2002, 2004, 2013a; Modood 1992, 2010; Ali et al. 2006; Peach 2005, 2006; Alexander 1998; Brah 1996), whereby bodies are produced as in/out of place through the control of, and exclusion from, everyday spaces of the nation. This latter shift is significant for understanding how racialised histories inform current perceptions of Muslims in the wider national context of Britain, as well as the local contexts of Bradford and Leeds where my study was conducted. Here, Abrah draws parallels between the experiences of Irish and Muslim people (see Hickman and Ryan 2020) through their treatment as suspect and the importance of the Gothic to these articulations, whereby the group under suspicion is actively “demonised” through their association with acts of terrorism. Importantly, Abrah situates this articulation within a broader trajectory of racism against black and Irish13 populations that were overtly excluded from everyday spaces of the nation, as exhibited by the sign prohibiting their access to rental housing. In her discussion of the sign that Abrah alludes to, Bronwen Walter (2011: 1301) remarks that the coding of Englishness with whiteness also excluded Irish people (also Lennon et al. 1988: 142), arguing that these exclusions hark back to longer histories of racialisation in England that have been ‘erased by the recent regrouping around the black/white divide’ (Walter 2011: 1302; Mac an Ghaill 2000: 139, 141). Stephen

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Arata (1990: 633; also Carr and Haynes 2015: 23; Garner 2009: 45–46; Rattansi 2007: 39. 45) similarly draws connections between the racialisation of the Irish and the savage, noting that Britain’s subjugation of Ireland was ‘marked by a brutality often exceeding what occurred in the colonies’ and the stereotype of the ‘primitive…dirty, vengeful, and violent’ Irish coincided with that of the ‘savage’ (Curtis 1968 cited in Arata 1990: 633). Whilst there are important historical (and racialised) differences in the experiences of colonialism affecting black and Irish populations, the sign betrays the connective colonial logics through which blacks and Irish are produced as infrahuman, placed on the same level as dogs.14 These intersecting experiences of exclusion provide further explanatory power of the role of race to the formation of nationhood and its colonial histories, and important to my analyses, the colonial antecedents of the state of exception as an organising principle for understanding the ‘war on terror.’ Irish populations have been subjected to a similar ‘dual criminal justice system’ (Hillyard 1993) as insightfully charted by Paddy Hillyard’s study of the experiences of Irish populations affected by the first Prevention of Terrorism Act introduced in 1974. This situation provides further support to my argument that the colonial vestiges of Britain’s relationship to Ireland require that we attend to the colonial hauntings that shape current experiences of racial terror (McVeigh and Rolston 2009) operating within the ‘war on terror’ that the Concentratonary Gothic advances. As Farooque details in his discussion of colonialism under the British Raj at the beginning of this chapter, Irish people experienced similar practices of subjugation involving the taking away of their language and culture, meaning that there are important connections to be drawn between British colonialism within India and Ireland (O’Malley 2011; Wright 2007; Foley and O’Connor 2006; Thapar-Björkert and Ryan 2002; Bartlett 1997; Holmes and Holmes 1997; Candy 1994). Shereen Ilahi (2016: 1; also Thapar-Björkert and Ryan 2002) notes that despite differences in size, economics, and distance from England, Ireland and India ‘shared important dynamics in national development, including identities based on religion and vernacular language’ (predominately Hindi and Urdu in India and Irish Gaelic in Ireland), presenting useful

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parallels between contemporaneous anti-colonial struggles and violent acts of aggression by British colonial powers to appease anti-colonial rebellions during the Anglo-Irish War for Independence 1919–1921 and imposition of Marshal Law in 1919 in the Indian Punjab province (see Ilahi 2016). Sarmila Bose and Eilis Ward’s (1997) study evidences communications between Irish and Indian nationalist leaders concerning their campaigns against British rule. Similarly, Suruchi Thapar-Björkert and Louis Ryan (2002: 302) note that there were parallels concerning the strategies, symbols, and rhetoric applied by nationalist movements in both countries, and two of the most noted political leaders, Eamon de Valera in Ireland, and Jawaharlal Nehru in India, venerated one another. Both places experienced militant nationalism which was frustrated by internal opposition groups largely across religious lines: the largely Protestant union minority sought to maintain union with Britain and opposed nationalism, whilst the Muslim League in India representing the minority Muslim population pursued a separate state. In both cases, independence was gained at the ‘cost of partition’ (Thapar-Björkert and Ryan 2002: 302). Importantly, the Irish case also contributes further explanatory power to the racialisation of religion which to date, where it is discussed at all, has primarily focused on discussions of anti-Semitism and Islamophobia (Renton and Gidley 2017; Meer 2013a, b; Werbner 2013b; Rana 2007), but has failed to adequately account for the Irish question and antiCatholicism as connected to expressions of racial inferiority (Hickman and Ryan 2020; Walter 2011; Garner 2004, 2009; McVeigh and Rolston 2009; Gibbons 2004, Hickman and Walter 1997; Curtis 1968, 1997; Hickman 1995). The Irish case highlights how the racial interior (see Virdee 2014, 2019) has historically been integral to the formation of Europe and British identity. Luke Gibbons (2004: 38, original italics) is one theorist who traces the historical complexities of intersecting racial Othering and religious intolerances, arguing that the Gothic provided a useful mode for articulating these sensibilities because of its preoccupation with ‘invisible adversaries, and fantasies of corruption, infiltration, and pollution from within.’ He maintains that the virulent expression of the shift from epidermal to epidemiological threats in the twentieth century expressed

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through pathological accounts of the Jewish threat to the Aryan civilisation, and their association as pollutants and disease carriers (Abbas 2019: 17; Gibbons 2004: 38; Bauman 2000; Halberstam 2000: 14, 78, 95–98; Pick 1996: 174–175; Gilman 1992; Mayer 1990: 92–107, 342–343), had its antecedents in the demonisation of the Irish and Celts as internal threats to the white Caucasian race that were articulated through intersections of religious prejudice and racial pathology during the Victorian era. Irish colonialism involved the systematic subjugation of an entire population racialised as subhuman within the boundaries of Europe. As such, whilst not collapsing these divergent contexts, the Irish case provides further weight to the argument proposed by Zygmunt Bauman (2000; also Rothberg 2009; Goldberg 2006; Hesse 2004; Césaire 2000; Gilroy 2000) that the Holocaust involving the genocide of European Jews was not an aberration, but extant to the formation of Europe. Whilst connections between the Irish and the Jew illustrate how the racial interior is integral to formations of Europeanness and whiteness; a point I develop later; the Irish case is also important for developing how the racialisation of religion is integral to colonial subjugation under the English and thus nationhood.15 As L. P. Curtis (1997: 115) observes, historians have often disregarded questions of race or colonialism when discussing the Irish question but ‘cling instead to the more academically respectable charge of anti-Catholicism.’ Important here is how articulations of domestic threats are foreshadowed by ‘colonial spheres of otherness’ (Stocking 1987: 234). H. L. Malchow observes that: …popular culture … had long invested the outsider, particularly the Celtic outsider, with a demonic, primitive and dangerous aspect. Popular responsiveness to the racialization of cultural difference by the midVictorian intelligentsia had its roots, not only in the conjunction of social-evolutionist ideas, colonial expansion, and the creation of an urban industrial proletariat, but in folk myth and long standing domestic prejudice directed against gypsies, Jews, and especially in England, Celtic vagabonds.

Gibbons (2004: 11) similarly contends that both colonisation and hostility against Catholicism were integral to the ‘subjugation of the

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Celtic periphery’ from the early modern period, with Ireland being placed ‘outside the domestic boundaries of Britain.’ Gothicisation of the Irish as uncivilised, barbaric and preoccupied by superstition justified a long history of ‘civilising’ as ‘central to English colonialism’ (McVeigh and Rolston 2009: 2). The Irish case necessitates a more nuanced understanding of the performance of whiteness as terror, or perhaps more precisely, hegemonic whiteness, to constructions of nationhood. As discussed, the sign signals how despite being phenotypically ‘white,’ the Irish were racialised (see Walter 2011) as not-belonging, that as Twine and Gallagher (2008: 6) contend in their exposition of the ‘third wave of whiteness,’ requires that we approach whiteness as a ‘multiplicity of identities that are historically grounded, class specific, politically manipulated and gendered social locations.’ Exclusion of the Irish from English national space observed by Abrah: “who weren’t allowed in certain places,” constituted Irish immigrants as members of the English ‘underclass’ (e.g. see studies undertaken of Irish migrant settlements by Kerr 1958 and Spinley 1953). The forgetting of the English underclass as not fully English, as belonging to a different race (Bonnett 1998a, 2000),16 privileges class distinctions. Concomitantly, the ascendency of the black/white binary introduces limitations when conceptualising class positions as also raced, meaning the working class is predominately imagined as white that unhelpfully pits class against race (see Abbas 2020; Eddo-Lodge 2017: 201; Jones et al. 2017; Tyler 2013); a logic which has been reanimated within Brexit Britain (Abbas 2020: 14). A more nuanced understanding of whiteness and its intersections with other categories of exclusion is therefore required to address these complex experiences of deprivation. By troubling the boundaries of whiteness, the Irish case draws attention to whiteness as socially constructed, a fantasy position which requires work to maintain ‘a white racialized ideal’ (Hunter et al. 2010: 410) which, since it is premised on ‘contingent hierarchies’ (see Garner 2007, 2010: 121–123), means that those located on the racial margins can be ‘whitened’ (Hunter 2010: 454, original italics) at different historical moments involving intersectional categories of race, gender, sexuality, class and I would add religion. As Anoop Nayak (2007: 738) notes, ‘some people are “whiter” than others, some are not white enough and

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many are inescapably cast beneath the shadow of whiteness.’ Attending to these ‘gradations of whiteness’ (Dyer 1997: 12) helps ensure that we do not collapse differences in experiences of racialisation and their historical specificities, but supports intersectional ways in which subjects may simultaneously occupy positions of privilege and oppression in complex and shifting ways which defy us/them logics (Abbas 2020: 15; Nash 2008), but instead involve entanglements of racialised interiors and exteriors through which hegemonic whiteness is articulated. The distinction that Abrah attempts to draw between the treatment of Irish and Muslims populations is that he locates the ‘Irish problem’ within “this region”—as a domestic threat beyond the boundaries of England, but nonetheless contained within the borders of Europe. Comparably, he perceives that Muslims are depicted as a global threat that pits ‘the West’ against ‘the rest’ (Hall 1992), and thus which pertain to differences in racialisation. The category ‘Muslim’ as with ‘Irish,’ troubles the black/white binary (Goldberg 2006; also Tyrer and Sayyid 2012), but I would argue in most cases from a position of exteriority to whiteness rather than gradations within because of the predominant racialisation of Muslims as brown bodies within Britain (see Chapter 3). Whilst it may be possible for the Irish to be ‘whitened’ (see Ignatiev 1995) and to occupy a place within England as white ‘but not quite,’ the ‘dangerous brown man’ (Bhattacharyya 2008) is marked as a different type of threat based on an Orientalist logic as ontologically different to the Western/European (Said 2003) and thus an external Other. By drawing this distinction I am not discounting the acts of horrific state violence that have been perpetrated by the English against the Irish, that include the brutal killing of twenty-eight unarmed civilians protesting against internment in 1972 notoriously known as ‘Bloody Sunday.’ One could argue that in the case of Ireland, the racial interior operates to secure the boundaries of hegemonic whiteness whilst helping to obfuscate performances of white terror performed at the periphery of whiteness. This helps to explain the blind spot in racial theory for addressing Irish colonialism and racism (Hickman and Ryan 2020) but also within the British public imaginary of ongoing control measures imposed on Ireland.17

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Nonetheless, there is an important distinction concerning how counter-terrorism has been dealt with post-9/11, notably the move towards pre-emptive counter-terrorism legislation based on a problematic account of ‘new terrorism’ (Kurtulus 2011; Spencer 2010, 2011; Mythen and Walklate 2006, 2008; Tucker 2001). This narrative emerged in the 1990s (see Laqueur 1999; Guelke 1998; Hoffman 1998), but gained political currency following the events of 9/11 to encapsulate the sentiment of a threat from an adversary, the magnitude of which had never been encountered (Burnett and Whyte 2005: 2). Its principle features are ‘religious motivation, networked organizational structures, tendency to launch mass casualty attacks and possible use of weapons of mass destruction’ (Kurtulus 2011: 476). In response, pre-emptive counter-terrorism enables intervention before an offence is committed, rationalised on the grounds that in the case of the ‘Muslim threat’ the government is dealing with a different type of terrorist subject; a conceptualisation that reworks Orientalist inscriptions to address the purportedly newfound threat that the Islamist, racialised as brown (Bhattacharyya 2008), embodies (Chapter 3). For example, in oral evidence provided to the Defence Committee on 28 November 2001 examining the threat from terrorism, then-Secretary of State, Geoff Hoon MP (cited in Defence Committee 2001: Qu 290), stated that Britain is used to dealing with ‘rational hijackers’ from IRA terrorism. British authorities understood the terms of the game in which there was a ‘potential exchange’ with demanding, but essentially rational opponents. For Matt Hancock MP (cited in Defence Committee 2001: Qu 287), Islamist terrorists by contrast are people who have no fear for their own lives, which alters the terms of the game when your ‘enemy’ has ‘no known weak spot’ and implies that a different course of action is required. Sir Tim Garden, MP (cited in Defence Committee 2001: Qu 162) similarly argues that the IRA threat, although difficult to handle, had ‘a degree of restraint on the part of the terrorist,’ which implies that IRA terrorists had a degree of self-control or rationality that differentiates them from Islamist terrorists who are wholly uncivilised. The threat posed by Islamists is therefore understood as a greater evil with a purpose to ‘kill as many people as possible’ (Garden cited in Defence Committee 2001: Qu 162). Consequently, Garden (cited in

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Defence Committee 2001: Qu 162) concludes that Islamist terrorism constitutes a different category of threat requiring a different, more stringent approach to previous counter-terrorism measures that fits with new terrorism narratives. The location of the Muslim within Europe disrupts the boundaries of Otherness, meaning that “instances happening the other side of the world” affect Muslims locally. Read alongside the experiences of Irish and black populations, a more nuanced mapping of how nationhood is constructed attentive to the complex matrices of racialised interiors and exteriors (Virdee 2014, 2019) in the production of (racialised) outsiders is required. Nationhood, as Abrah remarks, is enacted through “different levels,” or spatial registers, both past and present, through which Muslims construct their understanding of their place within the ‘war on terror’ context of contemporary Britain. Such an intersectional, or what I am advancing as an ‘inter-bodily-relational’ subjectivity, can support what I discuss elsewhere as a ‘politics of connectivity’ that is attentive to intersecting experiences of privilege and oppression as well as how ‘oppressed groups may also oppress others’ (Abbas 2020: 15; also Nash 2008); a situation I examine through the ‘internal suspect body’ category in Chapter 5. Further exemplifying the utility of the Concentrationary Gothic for addressing how Muslims conceptualise their exclusion from national belonging during the ‘war on terror’ context, and the importance of the racialisation of religion to these practices, the figure of the Jew was a recurrent trope within participants’ accounts, as examined by Hamida. Hamida is a 25-year-old British Muslim from Bradford of Pakistani heritage who wears the hijab and jilbab. She tells me that where she grew up in Bradford there is a large Muslim community, but that she affiliates more with Britain than Pakistan or Kashmir where her family are from. The latter she classes as her ancestry and ethnicity. For her, being British is “who I am,” noting that her culture is British television and film which she sees as “part of me.” Contrastingly, she does not associate with Asian culture “because I don’t understand it.” As with Jacinta’s decision to wear hijab discussed later, Hamida’s personal biography also contests stereotypes of Muslim women as ‘imperilled’ (Razack 2008). She describes herself as “a bit gobby” and counter to conceptions

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of Pakistani Muslim families being oppressive to women, she comes from a family that allowed her “to have my own life” and pursue her education and career. Her father is described as being particularly supportive in this regard, having taught her to “stand on your own two feet” and imparting practical DIY skills onto his daughter. Hamida is university educated, having undertaken a degree in social work at Bradford University. She does not see any conflict with being Muslim and British but she is made to feel that there is and this is something that deeply troubles her, as she discusses: I think that’s what the government seems to feel that that’s what it means, that if I follow Islam, anyone who’s different means the Muslim community are allowed to go out and attack them and I think that’s where that extremism comes from – it’s ok as a Muslim to. That’s why we’ve got to counteract Islam or why we’ve got to erm dilute and make it normal because their opinions are too extreme, and therefore they’re just going to go out and attack the rest of the world and we want to implement Shariah law wherever we go … The way I see it is everybody’s a scapegoat and I think unfortunately we’re that scapegoat and therefore everything that we do is going to be wrong erm in the same way that the Jewish community were the scapegoat for Nazi Germany … obviously it’s not an extreme situation like that but I think you’ve always got to have a scapegoat and I think unfortunately Islam is that scapegoat at the moment, and therefore anything we do, anything we say, any way we do it, even if we’re doing it peacefully, it’s just going to be seen as us doing something that contradicts being British and what epitomises to be British, and therefore we need to be changed.

That the Jewish experience might shape current articulations of the treatment of Muslims is perhaps not surprising since as Goldberg (2006: 346) notes, ‘So much has the figure of the Muslim been tied to Europe’s horror of death’s threat that the ‘Muselmann’18 became the name for those Jews in the Holocaust camps that had left life behind but had not yet given into death.’ I am not claiming here that the situation of Muslims post-9/11 is equivalent to the horrors leading up to the Holocaust affecting European Jews under Nazism, but rather that images of

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the concentrationary are part of the cultural landscape for organising Muslims’ experiences and articulations of racial violence. Whilst Hamida differentiates the current situation facing Muslims from the Jewish experience, she uses this example to structure her understanding of racial terror where the figure of the Jew represents the dangers of racialised violence when taken to its most horrific “extreme.” Her account illustrates how manifestations of the concentrationary seep into present accounts of racial terror. The Concentrationary Gothic framework sensitises us to how current racial configurations operating within the ‘war on terror’ context19 and their interrelation with Gothic tropes draw from earlier terror formations. In support of a relational approach to race and racism (Goldberg 2009; also Meer 2013a, b), the Gothic draws attention to how representational frameworks shift depending on which group is charged with harbouring uncivilised or barbarous tendencies that make them unsuitable for inclusion. Racial conceptions and racist practices, although local in terms of their resonances and meaning, nonetheless exhibit ties to wider circulations of meaning across time and space (Goldberg 2009: 1273). Hamida and Abrah draw attention to how the shifting parameters of the Gothic can help us to understand the historical operation of racialisation, which transmutes not only from ethnicity to religion, but between differently racialised groups. Hamida tells us that “you’ve always got to have a scapegoat,” where scapegoating shifts across bodies at different historical moments. The circumstances leading up to the Holocaust in Europe were in part supported in the British context. Jewish minorities were portrayed as scapegoats of racial decline in fin-de-siècle Gothic discourses in Britain (see Abbas 2019; Davison 2004; Halberstam 2000; Malchow 1996). The Aliens Act 190520 was enforced in January 1906 which restricted further Jewish immigration and illustrates how scapegoating functions to exclude certain populations from the political community and is enforced through law. Debate has ensued concerning the relationship between anti-Semitism and Islamophobia and ‘the place of… race in relation to religion’ (Rana 2007: 150; also Abbas 2019; Renton and Gidley 2017; Meer 2013a, b; Cousin and Fine 2012). Current depictions of the Muslim Other

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invading Europe demonstrate historical continuities with anti-Semitism and Gothicisation of the figure of the Jew. The trope of invasion, and its semantic association with the parasite present in anti-Semitism in nineteenth century England, was reflected in Gothic narratives of the time and the figure of the nationless Wandering Jew (Davison 2004; Halberstam 2000; S. Shapiro 1997) emblematic of the Jewish question. Central to the shift to Islam as the current scapegoat observed by Hamida is that Muslims are perceived to be incompatible with life in Britain, underpinned by the ‘clash of civilizations’ thesis (Huntingdon 1996). This thesis frames Muslims’ actions so that even when acting “peacefully,” as Hamida describes, they are seen as a threat. Since Muslims are positioned as beyond the boundaries of the normative white Briton, they must “be changed” and brought in line with the dictates of British society. Here, Muslims represent the loss of national identity (Gelder 1994: 11) that evoke anxieties of ‘reverse colonisation’ (Arata 1990: 623; also Abbas 2019; Brantlinger 1988) whereby the ‘civilised’ nation is ‘vulnerable to attack from more vigorous, “primitive people,”’ figured here by the aggressive Islamisation of Britain by Muslims charged with “implement[ing] Shariah law wherever we go,” as Hamida narrates. As with Abrah’s articulation of the Muslim as a “global” threat, Muslims are again imagined as occupying a transnational presence which denies their rootedness to Britain. This nomadic inscription (“wherever we go”) denies Muslims’ belonging in Britain by perpetuating their association with unassimilable cultural values and in turn, incites a legitimated desire to control Muslims’ presence in Britain. This involves subjection to methods of governance which rework Muslim identities in normative terms comprising the ‘moderate Muslim’ subject position that must differentiate itself from the violent excesses of the Islamist extremist. The moderate Muslim category thus functions as part of the racialisation of Muslims that extends governmental control by defining the parameters under which Muslim identities can be performed in Britain. The effect is to make Muslims ‘more easily governable rather than more “British”’ (Tyrer 2008: 62–63). Whilst theorists such as Claire Alexander (2006) have argued that the racialised Muslim male has become the principle target, as will be revealed later, my research shows that conceptions of the Islamist terrorist also encompass Muslim women (see Loken and

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Zelenz 2018; Saeed 2016; Rashid 2016; Williamson and Khiabany 2010; Brunner 2007; Franks 2000: 924). The mechanisms through which the scapegoat operates within the national imaginary are significant for understanding how racialised communities can be excluded from the political community under the state of exception, which Giorgio Agamben (2005: 39) defines as ‘a force of law without law.’ This requires treating Muslims as a ‘different order of humanity’ (Razack 2008: 7) incapable of meeting the demands of modern Britain through their perceived allegiance to Shariah law characterised as premodern and barbaric and as quintessentially anti-British as Jacinta, a 30-year-old British Muslim woman of Pakistani heritage who wears hijab and lives in Bradford, further elaborates in her discussion of her active involvement in interfaith work at her local mosque. Jacinta works for a guidance centre for young people in Bradford and tells me she loves what she does, in particular, helping young people and face-toface work. She is a warm and exuberant character and says about herself that she can be “really immature and funny and have a laugh” with her friends and family, but tells me she tones it down when she does interfaith work which involves presenting in front of groups in case people do not get her sense of humour! She was a volunteer at an event called ‘Connecting Cultures’ which was a large and successful two-day event that involved speakers and open days targeted at non-Muslims, predominately non-Muslim schools, to encourage young primary school children to have a tour of the mosque and find out about Islam. It culminated in an evening event targeted at professionals. On the back of the event, and other successes such as their committee structure and facilities for women, their mosque was awarded model Mosque of Britain. They have developed a steering-group that encompasses an inter-faith group, library group, and adult education classes that are open to the whole community, not just worshippers at the mosque or Muslims. The objective was to open up debate. She admits that amid people pointing fingers at Islam and its association with radicalisation, such activities offer an opportunity to “defend ourselves.” Her account highlights the importance of having “a voice to say look…” in order to challenge non-Muslims’ negative perceptions of Muslims and Islam; I discuss the role of voice further in Chapter 6. Most non-Muslims she says may have no contact with

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Muslims, so it was an opportunity for them to find out about Islam and Muslims in an environment where they are explicitly encouraged to “ask us any questions, don’t feel anything is taboo,” in order to challenge derogatory inscriptions. Her account begins where she is telling me about the kinds of questions she gets asked; these highlight well the stereotypes within the dominant public imaginary that British Muslims face: Well go back home then you know, we’re British and we don’t want this, you need to go back home etc. So we got a lot of well do you think that’s right as well? And it was like no they’ll not going to impose like stoning women to death and chopping people’s hands off, is that what you think? We don’t have Shariah law in Muslim countries, do you think we’re going to have Shariah law in Britain? You know, it was a bit like, come on! But it’s just scaremongering and I think that happens a lot you know um because if you can make it seem like everyone’s against Muslims, or you can make the Muslims seem like they’re against everyone – they’re against women, they’re against gay people, they’re against everything you know, then you can isolate them … They’re the Other – it’s that demonic Other isn’t it that we’ve always had …

Jacinta further elaborates how affective (un)belongings are articulated through the mode of monstrosity; that is, Muslims are produced as Gothic Others whose association with uncivilised, barbarous, and premodern cultures mark them as unsuitable for inclusion in modern Britain. As with Hamida’s account, the threat of Muslims imposing Shariah law onto Britain constitutes a re-staging of the Gothic discourse of reverse colonisation (Abbas 2019; Arata 1990; Brantlinger 1988), whereby ‘a terrifying reversal has occurred: the colonizer finds himself in the position of the colonized’ (Arata 1990: 623) through the imposition of retrograde practices imposed by barbarous Others. Historically, Islam was depicted as heretical21 and thus antithetical to Christianity which was associated with morality (Goldberg 1993: 202). As Said (2003: 59) observes: Not for nothing did Islam come to symbolize terror, devastation, the demonic, hordes of hated barbarians. For Europe, Islam was a lasting

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trauma. Until the end of the seventeenth century the “Ottoman peril” lurked alongside Europe to represent to the whole of Christian civilization a constant danger, and in time European civilization incorporated that peril and its lore …

The resurgence of Islam, here depicted by the purported fear of Shariah law being imposed in Britain, represents a “demonic,” ‘spectral’ (Sayyid 2003: 1) phenomenon that has haunted the West, identifying the Muslim presence with a ‘hauntology’ (Derrida 1994: 10; also Sayyid 2003: 1) that aligns Muslims with ghosts (Tyrer and Sayyid 2012). Modern anxieties of national borders and their transgression have historically been dramatised by the Gothic, which is linked to current fears within the globalised world of an increasing network of terror units which subvert and remake boundaries. Valier (2002: 323) argues that the moral panic logic involves local, momentary panics, which entail a period of restoration of the social order. Muslims, conversely, occupy a haunting presence in Western popular imagination as Jacinta tells us. Valier’s (2002: 319) framework of gothicism22 is more useful therefore for understanding the Muslim presence. This is because it acknowledges ‘repetitive themes of haunting and dereliction’ (Valier 2002: 319) informing the dichotomy between an ‘us’ which is threatened by a ‘them,’ and complex configurations of ‘in-betweens.’ Comparably, Jacinta draws attention to the troubling spatial politics that accompanies the articulation of Muslims in Britain as that “demonic Other” that “we’ve always had ,” in which the Muslim occupies a haunting presence as simultaneously outside and of Europe (the “we” here also aligning Jacinta with Europe/the West). Since the history of the West is the principle narrative, and that narratises Muslims’ experiences, Muslims remain outside the historicity of the West (Young 1990), which relegates them to a different world, ‘the Muslim world,’ that is out of temporality with the West. The persistent ‘myth’ of Islam is that it is ‘in its very nature incompatible with change’ (Foreign and Commonwealth Office 2003: 4:29). Muslim populations are thus understood as inhabiting moribund societies that are unable to progress within the modern world and which are anachronistic at best, and antagonistic at worst in respect to Western civilisations.

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Here, Muslim populations feature in the white nationalist’s imaginary as violent aggressors engaged in barbarous acts of stoning women to death and chopping people’s handsoff. Similar to Hamida’s account, Muslims are constructed as embodying the antithesis of British values, incapable of upholding gender rights or sexual equality (“they’re against women, they’re against gay people, they’re against everything”) that attests to a ‘technology of monstrosity’ described by Halberstam (2000: 21–22), whereby monsters feature as ‘meaning machines. They can represent gender, race, nationality, class and sexuality’ (and I would add religion) that condenses multiple fears into one body. Through these intersecting categories, the Muslim is produced as an ‘undesirable national object’ (Hage 1998: 47): “we [normative Britons] don’t want this.” The white nationalist takes up the position of ‘civiliser’ or what Ghassan Hage (1998: 17) terms, ‘governors’ of the nation with the right to ‘worry’ about the nation and to treat British Muslims as people they can make decisions about, as ‘objects to be governed.’ As Hage (1998: 46) notes, these ‘governmental belongings’ are not the remit of formal state power, but are enacted by those who perceive themselves as legitimately placed to make decisions on who (un)belongs. Concealed within the sanctification of British values are racialised perceptions of what comprise ‘civilised’ behaviours which, as Fortier (2008: 6) notes, are seen as ‘ruling the lives of “ethnic” minorities,’ and which descend into a moral politics in which the Muslim Other fails to live up to modern British values. Such views have framed recent reviews into integration such as the controversial Casey Review (2016: 15, 16, my italics) through their association with ‘regressive religious and cultural attitudes.’ This articulation illustrates intersections of Gothic and racial discourses by associating Muslims with retrograde values and practices deemed ‘harmful’ to the nation. In response, the nationalist occupies the position of moral authority unquestionably equipped to interrogate and discipline the Muslim Other: “do you think that’s right…?” The politics of abjection, however, constitutes a ‘counter-spatial politics’ (Tyler 2013: 41) intent on reclaiming spaces of the nation that have been denied. Jacinta refuses to accept such moralising, thereby contesting her treatment as abject: “is that what you think? … It was a bit like come on!”

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Central to these performances of nationhood is the mobilisation of fear, “scaremongering,” as Jacinta notes, illustrating how affect is an instrument of governance (Hunter 2012, 2015; Burkitt 2005; Ahmed 2004a, b: 134) through which racial divisions central to national exclusions are invigorated: “then you can isolate them [British Muslims].” Yet I would argue that desire for removing the Other is articulated from a position of privilege and dominance, a ‘fantasy of domination’ (Hage 1998: 186), even when it professes to emanate from fear of national decline. Desire is an important affective mechanism for structuring who is wanted and who can be excluded and, as such, is connected to dominance since it is premised on the presumed right to make legislative decisions about who (un)belongs. Here, the desire to maintain British values is premised on abjecting what is considered a threat, articulated through the invocation for Muslims to “go back home.” This phrase highlights how national belonging is racialised, based on a ‘white nation fantasy’ (Hage 1998) that refuses to see Britain as British Muslims’ home. Their presence is temporaneous, foreshadowed by the possibility of, and desire for, their return: “We’re British” [indicating that British Muslims are not] … you need to go back home …” thereby constructing British Muslims as irremediably Other. Imogen Tyler’s (2013: 21) account of social abjection as a means of thinking through intersections of ‘subjectivity and sovereignty’ is useful here. She argues that the abject functions as a means of creating distance between the ‘body politics proper and those excluded from the body of the state’ (Tyler 2013: 41). The “demonic,” haunting presence Muslims have occupied within the European imaginary discussed by Jacinta means that Muslims easily become the “bogeyman” post-9/11 that harbours blame for current acts of terror enacted against Europe/the West, as Moustafa recounts: …I think when something difficult happens everyone likes to blame someone. Everyone likes the bogeyman. I think it’s like we become a scapegoat.

Moustafa also uses the mode of monstrosity to articulate how Muslims are Gothicised as a ‘threatening Other’ (hooks 1992: 174). The bogeyman is an imagined monstrous figure which is projected onto the

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Muslim Other in response to the wider socio-political context of 9/11 and ensuing ‘war on terror’: “when something difficult happens.” There is an important paradox at play here—despite the fearful place that the bogeyman occupies, it is a figure that also incites pleasure or enjoyment: “everyone likes the bogeyman,” which signals the important work that this figure does. The monster attracts as well as repels (see Shildrick 2000, 2002). How can this be the case? One explanation is that everyone likes being able to blame an-Other. Scapegoating Muslims is a means of relinquishing complicity for the terrors that have been inflicted during the ‘war on terror’ and perhaps more troubling, as a causal factor for terrorist attacks visited upon Western states. This is a less positive reading of the ‘promises of monsters’ offered by Haraway (1992). She discusses how ‘inappropriate/d others’ (Haraway 1992: 299–300, 303; Minh-ha 1986/1987, 1989) that could speak to the place of Muslims in Britain, are those that cannot occupy categories of ‘self ’ or ‘Other’ within modern dominant Western narratives of identity and politics. As such, rather than absorption or containment into dominant systems of representation, their presence calls for rethinking social relations and thus the possibility for a transformative politics in which the monstrous Other ‘mak[es] potent connections that exceeds domination’ (Haraway 1992: 300). For Haraway (1992: 306), this constitutes an ethical stance, a ‘politics of hope in truly monstrous times’ in which pleasure and responsibility are interdependent (Shildrick 2002: 128). Here, however, it is the power to project monstrosity onto the Muslim Other as a means of devolving responsibility that Moustafa depicts, that not only constitutes the conditions for blame, but reaffirms the structures of dominance that produce the Muslim as a monstrous Other that cannot be accommodated within the nation. Margrit Shildrick (2002: 3) observes that it is those that are considered monstrous which function as scapegoats carrying ‘the taint of all that must be excluded in order to secure the ideal of an untroubled social order.’ Shildrick (2002: 1) is useful here since she draws together concepts of vulnerability and monstrosity to trouble the ‘binary structure of the western logos.’ For her, vulnerability is ‘an existential state that may belong to any one of us, but which is characterised nonetheless as a negative attribute, a failure of self-protection, that opens the self to the

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potential for harm’ (Shildrick 2002: 1). What is missing from her analysis is the function of power which renders certain bodies more vulnerable at particular historical junctures; an aspect that the Concentrationary Gothic addresses. I move on to discuss four instances in which British Muslims are terrorised by exclusionary, racialised practices of nation construction performed by the normative white nationalist. I focus on the role of disgust that as with desire, I argue functions as a mechanism of dominance within nation construction; a simultaneity that reveals the ‘paradox of the monster’ (Wright 2018) as one that both represents fear and incites pleasure in reaffirming boundaries of (un)belonging.

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Disgust and Dominance

The Limits of Tolerance: The ‘Immigrant Woman’ as Undesirable National Object In the first example, I explore the stereotype of the ‘immigrant woman’ (Lewis 2005, 2006) who embodies the site of conflict concerning assimilation and its failure. I draw from Zanaib’s discussion of a focus group that she ran in a small West Yorkshire town near Bradford with the local “white community” (as termed by Zanaib) shortly after the 2001 disturbances to explore their perceptions of the decline which they felt had occurred within their community. Zanaib is a prominent, wellrespected community figure and role model who has been instrumental in promoting British Muslim women’s issues and addressing wider concerns of community conflict and cohesion. She is a highly accomplished professional woman in her own right and highly educated, having completed a masters and is now undertaking a Ph.D. Due to her position as a “key person” and extensive knowledge of grassroots issues and experiences of talking to people of different faiths and backgrounds she has been involved in a number of research projects and other prominent events, of which this is one example. Through such work she pioneered the notion of “safe space” which was regarded as good practice and has been taken up in a variety of contexts.

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The focus group provides a microcosm for practices of nation construction, allowing us to examine how the normative white subject makes governmental decisions about which bodies have the right to belong. The account illustrates the limits of tolerance enacted by the white community through their treatment of Zanaib as ‘the immigrant woman,’ whose presence at the focus group embodies ‘the possibility of assimilation’ and simultaneously, the ‘destabilization of the nation and the national’ (Lewis 2005: 536). The affective nature in which spatial management practices operate examined by writers such as Hage (1998: 46) and Fortier (2008: 11) is my focus here. Zanaib begins her account by recollecting how she experiences herself as a ‘body out of place’ (Ahmed 2007; Puwar 2004) when she enters the room where the focus group is to take place with her colleague, Alfred: I remember me and my colleague, he’s white, middle class, and I’m you know clearly Asian you know female … headscarf-wearing … we come into the room and Alfred is sitting down because I’m taking the lead and … everyone was kind of looking at him, expecting him to stand up and they made it explicit – they said first of all we weren’t expecting you to be kind of erm leading the focus group so they were taken aback by that…

Zanaib is aware that her bodily difference from Alfred who is nonMuslim, “white,” “middle-class,” and male, to herself as “clearly Asian,” “female,” and “headscarf-wearing,” differentially affects how they are received by the focus group. This treatment is not only because of her visible difference to the white male body as the somatic norm (Mills 1997), but informs how her presence is managed according to the stereotype of the immigrant woman that ‘looks like her’ that precedes her. These distinctions do not only relate to corporeal differences, but to the historico-racial schema (Fanon 1986: 111) that gives them meaning. As Lewis (2005: 546–547) explains, such bodies retain their distinctiveness through their visibility which means that they cannot represent the nation/national but ‘can only provide the terrain upon which the “host” nation can make its claim to tolerance, civilization and indeed modernity itself.’

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Spatial management thus does not only comprise the physical space that Zanaib’s body occupies, but the non-physical relationships comprising what Fortier (2008: 7) terms the ‘spatial social imaginary,’ which involves the management of ‘physical, cultural, emotive (namely identificatory) proximities between inhabitants.’ These practices of nation construction are derived from imperial and colonial legacies that delimit multicultural intimacy and shape perceptions of Zanaib and Alfred as in/out of place. As Barnor Hesse (1999: 207) surmises: [the] racialised logic of modernity that projects through its Western circulation an ontological distinction between ‘Europe-whiteness-masculinity’ and ‘Non-Europe-non-whiteness-femininity’… where the former reflects singular normativity and the latter comparative pathology.

I move on to discuss how corporeal distinctions which mark Zanaib as a body out of place within the context of the focus group inform the different ways in which she and Alfred are able to ‘take up’ space (Ahmed 2007: 150). As Ahmed (2007: 150) observes, whiteness is ‘an effect of racialization, which in turn shapes what it is that bodies “can do.”’ Affect is not only an expression of an ‘inner’ feeling (Ahmed 2004a; Burkitt 1999: 113), but is involved in the management of bodies as forms of governance (Hunter 2012, 2015; Cowen and Gilbert 2008; Ahmed 2004a). In this regard, emotions do not reside in individual experience, but are political and cultural practices that are ‘constituted by and constitutive of social relations’ (Ahmed 2004a: 10). It is the interplay between affect and these other social processes informing nation construction which is crucial for understanding how Zanaib is managed by the group. Nirmal Puwar (2004: 33) writes that historically-embedded relations informed by gendered and racialised conceptions mean that bodies understood as belonging to ‘other’ places are treated as ‘space invaders’ where they appear in spaces not understood to be ‘theirs.’ There are two dynamics which Puwar (2004: 11) describes as intrinsic to understanding the affective regulation that such bodies experience: disorientation and amplification. We can see how disorientation operates in

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Zanaib’s account. It informs how the group treat Alfred as the facilitator despite Zanaib’s attempts to signal to the group that it is her that will be running the session by how she uses the space. Puwar (2004: 59) discusses the ‘burden of doubt’ that accompanies the out of place body. She notes how the unmarked body (Alfred) is ‘illuminated as able, intelligent and proficient, as having the temperamental qualities of leadership’ (Dyer 1997: 14). In this way, not being the standard of the universal human, women and non-whites are ‘highly visible as deviations from the norm and invisible as the norm’ (Puwar 2004: 59). Following Puwar (2004), we can see that the difficulties Zanaib faces to be acknowledged as the facilitator are not because Alfred has taken control of the space. Rather, it is because he is already recognised as in place. This conception retains dominance regardless of how Zanaib takes up space. Alfred’s movements—sitting down, leaving Zanaib standing, should signal Zanaib’s leadership, but instead only strengthen the intensity of the disorientation felt by the group who all continue to look at Alfred expecting him to stand up. By collectively refusing to acknowledge Zanaib’s leadership, the group subject her body to a misreading that keeps the historico-racial schema (Fanon 1986: 111) based on hegemonic understandings of the immigrant woman in place, for whom the burden of stereotyped assumptions of the South Asian women as subservient, and thus out of place in public spaces, are imposed. As Ann Pellegrini (1997: 92) writes, whiteness ‘produces itself as the unmarked, universal term by projecting the burden of difference onto other bodies.’ Trapped within the white gaze, the non-white body is always ‘only a representative type of her or his group’ (Pellegrini 1997: 92, my italics), such that their individual identity ceases to exist. Zanaib cannot be there as the facilitator since this would accord her a position of greater authority than Alfred that the stereotype denies. Thus it is Alfred who retains their focus. Unable to contain their confusion, the group make it “explicit” that they were not expecting Zanaib to be running the session. Their open acknowledgement of their felt disorientation towards Zanaib illustrates the different ways in which we can understand how affect works to manage bodies and its distinction from emotion. As noted, emotion is the result of the articulation of affect within discourse as ‘recognisable

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signifiers’ (Solomon 2012: 907). This definition implies that affect has effects without being verbally acknowledged, which differentiates it from emotion. Emotion and affect thus pertain to different experiences where affect, as an undisclosed feeling state, gives the encounter an augmented sense of uncertainty. Whilst emotion provides experience a social ‘reality’ through its articulation, affect requires different means to uncover its effects. This is not to argue that emotion is coterminous with discourse, nor that affect is the reserve of drives, but rather that attaching an identifier to a feeling provides a degree of orientation to the encounter that helps direct subsequent responses. Before the group make their feelings explicit, affect is nonetheless present and is instrumental in shaping the encounter. Unable to substantiate the group’s feelings towards her, Zanaib must navigate the encounter based on her sense of how the group feels towards her. Her bodily difference from Alfred provides her with a means to orientate herself. This is because she anticipates how the group will feel towards her based on how she perceives they will read her body based on past experiences. As such, acknowledgement of her bodily difference not only draws attention to the embodied nature in which affect operates, but how affect is culturally and historically shaped. Crucially, it illustrates how the historico-racial schema is taken on by her such that it comes to structure her consciousness of her body in the presence of the normative white subject (Fanon 1986: 112). Fanon’s (1986) description of the ontological difficulty facing the black man’s being is useful for understanding the negotiations Zanaib undertakes. Not only ‘must the black man be black,’ he writes, but importantly, ‘he must be black in relation to the white man’ (Fanon 1986: 110, my italics). Zanaib’s account similarly shows that her identity and how it comes to be lived becomes meaningful through how it is constructed in relation to the normative white body. Although the group make their feelings explicit, affect remains central to understanding the group’s reaction towards Zanaib. This is because language as a medium for understanding social reality does not account sufficiently for how it is experienced through the body (Lacan 2006: 671–702). She observes that they were “taken aback”—an affective response—shock—that is accompanied by a spatial dislocation—a moving backwards, a recoiling from her. Zanaib thus draws attention to

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the affective management of her body as an unwelcome intrusion into the group that has taken up space that they expected to be filled by Alfred. This helps to explain why rather than her now known position as the facilitator affording Zanaib greater status and power to direct the group, she is instead subjected to further management by them as a body out of place: The discussions opened up and they started by saying ‘your community’ so I was you know an independent facilitator, but I became the target – so you know your community are taking over resources, your community you know people like you have taken all the jobs. So I got it all – so it was – and the idea behind the open discussion was you get things off your chest. I’m quite robust you know, I’m made of stronger stuff. So all of a sudden you have all this coming at you. And it was about trying to unearth where some of this blame comes from, where the stereotyping comes from, what is it? What are some of the myths?

In keeping with the immigrant woman stereotype, Zanaib remains the site of struggle upon which national belonging is fought (Lewis 2005, 2006). The boundary marker of “your community” functions to separate their social space from hers. Managed according to the historico-racial schema, which, by being made ‘responsible at the same time for my body, for my race, for my ancestors’ (Fanon 1986: 112), Zanaib is assigned the role of representative of her community through which she is produced as an ‘undesirable national object’ (Hage 1998: 47) and made a “target” for them to project blame for the perceived decline of the nation onto. Charged with the ‘theft of the nation’ (see Žižek 1993: 201–211)23 associated with her community, Zanaib is subjected to further terrorisation by the group. The account shows how affect is dynamic, involving ‘swells of intensities’ (Gregg and Seigworth 2010: 2) as it passes between bodies (Brennan 2004). The discussion revolves around the group “get[ting] things off [their] chest,” requiring that Zanaib be “quite robust” to withstand the affective burden placed upon her, which, I argue, recalibrates the group’s position as pertaining not to victimhood, but to aggressor. This presentation of affect follows Melissa Gregg and

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Gregory Seigworth’s (2010: 2, original italics) approach as being ‘synonymous with force or forces of encounter.’ Zanaib draws attention to the force of affect that is directed towards her by the group such that it is impressed upon her: “all of a sudden you have all this coming at you.” Fanon (1986: 110–111) presents a useful portrayal of how affect can impress itself onto the body through the hostile gaze of white eyes. Despite no words being exchanged, Fanon (1986: 110, my italics) feels the affective charge of the encounter, its hostility upon his body: ‘An unfamiliar weight burdened me.’ This burden draws his body into an affective state in which consciousness of his body becomes ‘soley a negating activity’ (Fanon 1986: 110) as it becomes enveloped by ‘an atmosphere of certain uncertainty’ (Fanon 1986: 110–111). Comparably, the unexpected, unspecifiable nature in which affect operates, and the speed with which it can accumulate “all of a sudden” and coalesce around the targeted body, is significant for understanding the practices of terrorisation that Zanaib experiences as a body out of place. The account illustrates the material effects of affect that require Zanaib endure its presence as a felt, bodily experience, one that if she were not “made of stronger stuff,” she could be crushed by. In this way, whilst emotion can be understood as functioning as the signifier attached to affect (Solomon 2012: 908), to understand how affect operates and comes to be felt requires that attention also be paid to its effects that are not reducible to discourse. This is not to impose an unhelpful distinction between the discursive and the non-discursive, but rather to draw attention to the material effects of affects as embodied experiences. As a “target,” Zanaib is objectified as some ‘body’ for the group to project their anger onto. Read through the historico-racial schema, she is overdetermined as an undesirable national object by being made responsible for the perceived wrongs done to them by people who look like her. Ahmed’s (2004a: 7) understanding of emotion provides a useful way of thinking about how the target works here. She contends that emotions are ‘intentional,’ meaning that ‘they are “about” something: they involve a direction or orientation towards an object’ (Parkinson 1995: 8). Following Ahmed, whilst it is clear that there is an intentional link between the emotions that the group feels and their orientation

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towards Zanaib as the object of blame, what is important for understanding the nature in which this orientation operates and the ways in which it impresses on the body, is the different (racialised) power relations that are involved. Being made a target involves being subjected to constraints which contrast starkly with the group’s ability to extend their dominance over space and control over the affective impulse as the discussion “open[s] up.” The force with which the group direct their blame onto Zanaib is accompanied by the second dynamic observed by Puwar (2004: 48, 49): amplification. Puwar (2004: 48) notes that the number of bodies that are out of place are amplified so that they appear to ‘threateningly fill the space’ in much greater numbers than they actually do. Central to the dynamic of amplification is a ‘terror of numbers, a fear of being swamped’ (Puwar 2004: 49). We can see a comparable situation in Zanaib’s account. As she begins to unpack the group’s grievances, she recognises that they are premised on a terror of insignificance, of being “taken over.” Amplification of these effects is present in the group’s claim that they have “taken all the jobs” implying that nothing is left for them. Ahmed’s (2004a: 42–61) description of hate is useful here. She examines how hate works to align bodies against others through how hate produces its object as a ‘defence against injury’ (Ahmed 2004a: 42). This involves producing a subject that is threatened by ‘imagined others whose proximity threatens not only to take something away from the subject (jobs, security, wealth) but to take the place of the subject’ (Ahmed 2004a: 43). Adopting this position means that the normative white subject makes a claim of ownership over the nation and its resources. Such practices mobilise hatred towards the group identified as ‘taking away’ the nation. Malchow (1996: 160) notes how in the nineteenth century, the language of ‘gothic monstrosity and infective danger’ functioned to ‘gothicize the problem of the alien immigrant.’ In England, the image of the Jew as a threat was related to the larger socio-political context of Jewish immigration expressed by a narrative of reverse colonisation. Halberstam (2000: 14) notes how within nineteenth-century anti-Semitism, the Jew ‘was marked as a threat to capital…and to nationhood,’ as parasitic on the nation’s resources (also Virdee 2017b: 361).

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From Zanaib’s account, we can see how the fantasy of reverse colonisation is reworked in articulations of the threat of being taken over by the Muslim presence such that the nation is made unhomely. This conception informs how Islamophobia is mobilised in discourses of nation within the Concentrationary Gothic through fears of the ‘Islamification’ of national space. Whilst Muslims are often presented as an external Other, Muslims in Britain are positioned as posing a comparable internal danger that as present here, is associated with exhausting job opportunities and taking over spaces perceived to be ‘ours.’ However, it is the imagination of the Muslim as threat that informs the power of affect and thus its ambivalence. Zanaib notes that conceptions of South Asian communities as responsible for changing national space so that it is no longer recognisable to the normative white subject are sustained through “myths” that mobilise blame. Fortier (2008: 11, original italics) observes that to gain a ‘sense of the nation’ requires paying attention to two interconnected processes: ‘the structuring of feeling, and the formation and sustenance of a national fantasy,’ which requires projecting blame onto bodies that are identified as interrupting the fantasy of the nation premised on whiteness and Christianity. Where the presence of Others are perceived as preventing the normative white subject from feeling ‘at home,’ a ‘spatial-affective aspiration’ (Hage 1998: 42, original italics) emerges founded on an imaginary nation that the nationalist wants to go back to, a ‘white nation fantasy’ (Hage 1998). The nation made unhomely by the presence of Muslims follows from the destabilisation of boundaries separating metropole and periphery. Sigmund Freud’s (1919: 2) examination of the uncanny reveals that feelings of unhomeliness, the ‘unheimlich,’ converge with that which is seemingly oppositional, ‘heimlich’ (also Punter 2007: 130). Similarly, the presence of Muslims within ‘our spaces’ provides a troubling convergence with Britain’s disavowed colonial past, meaning the presence of South Asians within Britain appears strange. Zanaib describes how affect is mobilised in current national struggles concerning the Muslim presence through interconnected policy concerns of community cohesion and the terror threat:

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Zanaib: And er it was incredible and by the end of it, when we’d kind of unpacked where some of these things were coming from … they had all these concerns about areas and you know these ‘Bin Ladens’ taking – that was their use you know these ‘Bin Ladens’ are taking over … Since 2001 you had the community cohesion agendas, you had the anti-terror … there has been about seven different anti-terror laws. Madeline: Yeah it’s confusing. Zanaib: Very confusing – so you know you had all of these sorts of, just an incredible amount – the conversations I’ve had with different types of communities, because you know Maddy the work I do is local, but it’s national and it has been international as well. And erm you almost see the different layers of, of attitudes and beliefs … But you know the myths the – you know what was happening in local communities was fascinating you know this separation, this divide, the divisions you know the focus groups, some of the things that were coming up you know the myths, the incredible myths about they get all the money, they have the housing, they’re taking over, the rise of the BNP. Europe now I mean recently with the banning of the minarets, you know the banning of the burqa in France … Europe is worried you know, you have the visible presence of Muslims – this isn’t an academic thing, this is very real for people living in the UK.

The account draws together threats concerning terrorism and community cohesion captured by the descriptor “Bin Ladens taking over”; a further example of the reverse colonisation narrative (Arata 1990; Brantlinger 1988). This figure is mobilised by an affective impulse already felt within the ‘white community’ from the dangerous Muslim male as ‘rioter’ (McGhee 2005: 60) following the 2001 disturbances. The emergence of community cohesion policy frameworks after the 2001 disturbances emphasised the presence of ‘parallel lives’ in official reports (Cantle 2001: 9) as the principle cause of breakdown in relations between South Asian and white communities. Central to this perspective is the contention that people of South Asian origin, particularly Muslims, have failed to participate in wider British society (Phillips 2006). Fuelling charges of self-segregation and isolationism is the link made with ethnic clustering (Carling 2008; Husan 2003), and thus the perceived “taking over” by the South Asian community of what is

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perceived as ‘white community spaces’ as described here. The figure of “Bin Laden” as a terrorising figure supports the fantasy of whiteness observed by hooks (1992: 174) that ‘the threatening Other is always a terrorist,’ a projection which, she argues, ‘enables many white people to imagine there is no representation of whiteness as terror, as terrorizing.’ This fantasy position enables the normative white subject to take up the position of terrorised by a threatening Other that has made the nation unhomely for them, threatening to undo it from within, which obscures practices of spatial management undertaken by whites. Critiques argue that the parallel lives thesis over-emphasises the selfsegregation of Asians whilst ignoring processes of ‘white flight’ involving segregation by whites (Karla 2002) and the fear of racial harassment (Kundnani 2001). The presence of Muslims is mobilised in the popular imaginary as fracturing the cohesiveness of the nation premised on a particular type of subject—Western/European, white and Christian (Hesse 2007: 643), where the figure of “Bin Laden” represents the antithesis of Europeanness. Hesse (2007: 656, original italics) argues that it is in the presence of a ‘radically incommensurable corporeal “non-European” subject that a governmental racialization emerges.’ This governmentality is concerned with regulation and administration of the criteria required for admission to ‘European’ understandings of humanness and thus which makes explicit the deficiencies of the non-European Other as not quite human and unsuitable for inclusion within the national or European community. Bin Laden, as a foreign body, illustrates Muslims’ association with a transnational presence that destabilises national boundaries. The breaching of spatial categories present in Gothic populism examined by Valier (2002: 322) feature in terrorist networks that are both ‘diffused globally’ (such as ‘foreign fighters’) and which launch attacks from within the nation’s borders against fellow citizens (‘home-grown terrorists’), which illustrates how the Muslim can simultaneously present an internal and external threat to the security of national space. There is an important contradiction at work in the account: Muslims are blamed for both “divisions” and “taking over.” Fortier (2008: 87) presents a useful description of this ambivalence as comprising a ‘fantasy

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of multicultural intimacy’ which, she argues, is premised on ‘relationships that are imagined in the ambivalent spatial terms of obligations to and dangers of proximity.’ Belonging thus involves a complex interplay between desire and revulsion; a desire for closeness whilst maintaining a ‘proper distance’ (Sharma 2006: 106). The Muslim performs a comparable function to Gothic monsters in national narratives as ‘other than the imagined community and as the being that cannot be imagined as community’ (Halberstam 2000: 15), which delimits their inclusion. Whilst I have discussed the intensity of affect, here Zanaib highlights the scale of affect, interpenetrating local, national and international contexts. In order to understand how concerns play out in the local context, Zanaib must attend to how national and international contexts feed into the “different layers… of attitudes and belief ” that in part shape and are shaped by the policy context—the plethora of anti-terrorism legislation and community cohesion agendas devised since 2001. Affect is dynamic; it has scale—both breadth and depth—and can move across multiple contexts, what Gregg and Seigworth (2010: 2) describe as an ‘ever-gathering accretion of force-relations.’ The scale of affect is therefore connected to its intensity. It is through affect’s ability to draw from an elsewhere that its presence is intensely felt in the present location. Through her description of Europe as “worried,” Zanaib takes on the threat of the Muslim presence and internalises it as her own. In effect, she maintains the ‘structuring of feeling’ (Fortier 2008: 11) required to sustain the fantasy of Europe as centred on whiteness. Bhikhu Parekh (2006: 179) notes that it is widely maintained that the presence of over 15 million Muslims in Europe ‘pose a serious cultural and political threat.’ Central to what Parekh terms ‘European anxiety,’ (2006: 179– 185) is the widely held argument that Muslims, unlike other immigrants, have ‘failed to integrate’ (Parekh 2006: 179; also see McGhee 2008, 2010). Further, that they do not show any loyalty to Europe’s democratic institutions and undermine its liberal freedoms. In a similar vein, Matt Carr (2006: 1) writes of the influential intellectual tradition that is emerging which presents Europe as a ‘doomed continent’ that is being ‘transformed into an Islamic colony called “Eurabia.”’ He argues that this term, first coined by the British-Swiss historian, Bat Ye’or (2005), has

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become a dangerous Islamophobic fantasy that is edging towards mainstream circles. Muslims’ perceived inability to integrate within Europe is maintained by a Gothic technology of monstrosity premised on a fundamental division between Europeanness and non-Europeanness (Hesse 2007). The historico-racial schema works to produce Muslim people as incapable of modernity by relegating them to a historicity that maintains the civilisational progression of Western/European states (see Fabian 1983). Conversely, Muslims are unable to catch up with these taken-for-granted advancements. Importantly, Zanaib presents the Muslim threat as operating through its capacity to affect and for the normative white subject to be affected. This affective condition is not one which can be adequately represented in knowledge since, as Zanaib notes, “this isn’t an academic thing.” Bruce Fink (2004: 51) writes that affect is ‘essentially amorphous’ and thus cannot be immediately represented in discursive systems of meaning (Solomon 2012: 918). This contention helps us to understand the difficulty which Zanaib finds to be able to explain what the “worried” state in which Europe finds itself actually is and further, what meaning it has for the national context. The unrepresentable nature of affect within discursive frameworks does not mean it fails to have an existence of course. As Zanaib contends, it is “very real” for people living in the UK and thus has a material existence beyond language (Tucker 2011: 150). In this regard, we can understand affect as ‘doing things,’ affecting bodies (see Ahmed 2004a, b, 2007). Drawing from Jacques Lacan (2006), Solomon (2012) argues that discourse and affect are not synonymous. Rather, certain discourses are ‘more likely sources of affective investment by audiences than others’ (Solomon 2012: 908). This suggests that Zanaib’s assessment of Europe as “worried” might pertain more to the success to which political uses of affect have been put to sustain fear of the Muslim threat in order to legitimise governmental practices of dominance. If as Zanaib has already argued, the blame towards Muslims is founded on myths and stereotypes, the “worried” state of Europe to which she refers can be understood as another means through which the myth of a threatening Muslim Other is rehearsed.

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Zanaib identifies the ‘Muslim problem’ as coalescing around a central problematic: “the visible presence of Muslims.” Yet as Ann Laura Stoler (2002: 84) reminds us, physiological differences ‘only signal the nonvisual and more salient distinctions of exclusion on which racisms rests.’ She argues that contemporary discourses of cultural racism do not comprise a ‘new’ form of racism, but are ‘familiar colonial conventions’ (Stoler 2002: 97) that connect race, culture and nation. The banning of the minarets in Switzerland and burqa in France, provide two examples of governmental practices aimed at managing the visible presence of Muslims and illustrate the limits of civil society to tolerate the presence of Muslims within Europe. As Lewis (2005: 546) notes, the assimilated can only occupy the place of ‘cultural symbol of the nation (and its enduring qualities of tolerance)’ where they demonstrate normative performances of national culture. I move on to discuss perhaps the most threatening articulation of Muslim identity: the ‘dangerous Muslim man.’

Spitting: Terror/ising the ‘Dangerous Muslim Man’ The ‘dangerous Muslim man’ (Razack 2008; also Bhattacharyya 2008; Britton 2019; Tufail and Poynting 2016; Dwyer et al. 2008; Puar 2007; Hopkins 2006; Alexander 2004, 2006; Puar and Rai 2002) embodies the threat of violent, irrational, and irredeemably patriarchal Muslim males to the nation and its values. This figure has particular purchase in Bradford and Leeds. Studies undertaken in Bradford have explored the criminalisation of British Asian youth, specifically Muslim males, following from the 1995 and 2001 disturbances and concerns around gang culture in Bradford (Bolognani 2009; Bagguley and Hussain 2008; Din and Cullingford 2006; Goodey 2001; Kundnani 2001; Burlet and Reid 1998). Marie Macey’s (1999, 2002, 2007) work in particular supports the association of Pakistani Muslim males in Bradford with violence through control of women (Macey 1999) (which endorses conceptions of Muslim women in Bradford as ‘imperilled’) and political radicalism (Macey 2007). The 2005 London bombings (7/7) and more recent Islamist terrorist attacks in London (totalling seven incidents between 2017–2020), Whitemoor Prison (2020), Manchester (2018, 2017), and

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Reading (2020), have contributed to the Gothicisation of the ‘dangerous Muslim male’ as not just an emblem of social disorder, but as associated with ‘gruesome injury and trauma’ (Valier 2002: 320). Visceral reactions prompted by 7/7 support Valier’s (2002: 320) thesis of the ‘raw emotions’ involved in demands for retribution surrounding practices of public protection to manage the terror threat, providing an important context in which to explore the role of affect to nation construction and its exclusions. The emergence that the 7/7 suicide bombers were ‘children of Britain’s own multicultural society’ (Kepel 2005) who had been born and educated in Britain and were outwardly integrated into British society, reanimated debates concerning the ‘politics of belonging’ (Yuval-Davis 2006: 207) and their emotional charge. I draw from an evocative account from Moustafa to explore how affect is mobilised by the imposition of the ‘dangerous Muslim male’ onto his body. Moustafa recounted a number of incidents of racism that he experienced growing up in Cardiff. He described the area outside the city centre as “a really hostile environment” which as he got older, he got “hardened to.” Hostility from normative whites was not something that was new to him therefore. Particularly pertinent, he described that if people “expect you to be some kind of animal,” you “end up being that,” illustrating how he has felt dehumanised through negative inscriptions which have been imposed upon him; a situation which has worsened following the focus on Muslims post-9/11. He describes an incident when he is walking down the street in London with his girlfriend shortly after 7/7, and is accosted by who he describes as an “old white woman” who blames him for the attacks. Whilst we might explain her treatment of him as emanating from ‘the Muslim threat’ which permeates the psyche of the normative white subject in the post-7/7 context, I examine how the account draws attention to the practices of terrorisation that Moustafa is subjected to by her. She takes up the position of manager of national space who makes legislative decisions over his bodily space, further illustrating the material effects of affect to ‘do things,’ to move bodies (see Ahmed 2004a, 2007). The account begins at the point where Moustafa is walking down the street, just before he is made aware of the presence of the old white woman: Moustafa: I was in London after 7/7 walking down the street. I was with … a girlfriend of mine at the time, and we were walking down the street

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and this old [white] woman – someone else said she tried to spit at you. All I saw was an old woman looking at me … No shush she tried to spit at you and we walked down a little and she caught up to me and she goes how can you justify yourself? How can you stand here after what you did? What do you mean what I did? She goes what you did to all those little babies and all those people that died. I go: are you serious? She goes yeah, you killed all them people. And this was a genuine … Madeline: So she was blaming you? Moustafa: Yeah she was blaming me. I was shocked but I got really defensive and said get away. Then I thought I’d carry on walking and let’s get out of here quickly before this can escalate. Madeline: How did that make you feel? Moustafa: I just thought, she just looked at me and she just thought ‘Muslim.’ That’s what she thought, nothing else. You know brown person – I looked like everyone else who was on that … I’ve got a light, little beard, right age you know … Automatically include me. That was purely on the way that I looked, she didn’t know nothing about me or where I come from.

Moustafa provides a powerful and intense account of how he is terrorised by the old white woman through her repeated attempts, not only to mark him out as a body that is ‘out of place,’ but one which must be tracked down, disciplined, and expunged. There are two key aspects of nation construction which I discuss: firstly, spitting as a nationalist act and secondly, spatial domination. The woman’s attempt to spit at Moustafa makes disgust present because it is felt as a bodily reaction, both from the person who spits and its intended target. The uncertainty surrounding the act of spitting contributes to the unease Moustafa experiences as he learns that his is a body that is singled out as some ‘body’ to spit at. Spitting, because it is some ‘thing’ that can be forcibly ejected from the body and directed at another body that comes to feel its presence, enables feelings of disgust to be materialised. It is a deliberate tactic by the spitter to implicate themselves in a hostile exchange comprising ‘an intense bodily dialogue’ (Wise 2004: 153). Spitting functions as a nationalist practice that designates boundaries separating bodies that are in/out of place. As such, it is an act of dominance communicating ownership of space. Through its

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symbolic association with pollution, spitting works to identify Moustafa as a contaminatory body, as abject and thus out of place. In this regard, feelings of undesirability are ‘simultaneously social, bodily, spatial’ (Pile 1997: 90). I move on to discuss spatial dominance which dictates how the body in place can exert their authority whilst the out of place body’s presence is constrained. Moutafa is advised to “shush” as if to contain his presence. Ahmed (2004a: 69) writes that fear ‘involves shrinking the body’ such that the body takes up less space. Anticipating further hostility, Moustafa withdraws, deciding to “walk down a little.” Comparably, the old woman extends her presence by catching up to them and interrogating Moustafa. Instead of terror dissipating, it is further intensified. Sianne Ngai (2005: 337, 335) writes of disgust; it is ‘urgent and specific.’ Having missed her target, she chases up to Moustafa, encircling him, preventing him from escaping her admonishment. By treating Moustafa as a dangerous Muslim man, one would take this to mean that his is a body that is terror-inducing. That he incites in the eyes of the old woman someone capable of killing little babies is terrifying indeed. Yet it is her that initiates the encounter by spitting at him, running up to him, and subjecting him to intense interrogation. These actions are not those of someone who is fearful of Moustafa. Rather, her actions can more accurately be understood as enactments of terror that use the production of Moustafa as ‘dangerous’ to legitimate the conditions under which he can be subjected to management, disciplined and terrorised. Moustafa’s account proposes a different formulation to how Ahmed (2004a: 82–100) understands disgust. She argues that disgust makes bodies ‘“recoil” from their proximity’ (Ahmed 2004a: 83). Here, disgust brings the woman in close proximity to Moustafa’s bodily space as a means of exerting ownership of space that contests his treatment as a dangerous Muslim man. In response, it is Moustafa who recoils from the old woman in an attempt to escape further harm from her: “get away” he tells her, and becomes “really defensive” in a protective attempt to impose distance between them in order to reduce the intensity of the encounter. The potential for the situation to “escalate” if he were to remain in proximity to the old woman indicates how the situation would

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be dangerous for him. This is because the historico-racial schema locates Moustafa within a historicity of endemically violent males that restricts him from being able to protest without being inscribed as a dangerous Muslim male. In Fanon’s (1986: 111–112) famous ‘Look, a Negro! I’m frightened!’ episode in which he experiences himself as inducing fear in the child that looks and points at him, what is crucial to understanding how affect operates is that it is the encircling of the body subjected to the conditions of the historico-racial schema which animates terror for them, where, as Fanon (1986: 112) discloses, the circle can be drawn ever ‘tighter.’ Here, it is the normative white woman who wields the power to determine the intensity of the encounter since her capacity to occupy the position of defender of the nation means that her presence is protected and qualified. Comparably, Moustafa is not afforded such protection because he is already imagined as a threat to national security. Moustafa is materialised as an object of disgust by the normative white subject through the erasure of his being as an individual. The body subjected to the schema is made absent so that he/she ‘disappears in his lineage’ (Fanon 1986: 126). Moustafa experiences a comparable re-historicisation that demands he be made accountable to the white woman for the actions of other Muslims involved in the 7/7 terrorist attacks. He is called upon to “justify” his existence and importantly, his right to occupy national space: “how can you stand here after what you did?” His body is classified in accordance with the violence and inhumanness associated (by her) with his ‘race.’ In an attempt to reassert his presence as an individual he demands that she explain “what do you mean what I did?” The old woman refuses to accept him as an individual however and continues to subject him to the schema through which he appears to her as an interchangeable ‘type,’ and thus just as guilty as those who would commit such atrocities that look like him (to her). Unable to contest the terms under which he is produced as a ‘terroristmonster’ (Puar and Rai 2002) made responsible for the attacks, he experiences a psychic disruption: “I was shocked” resulting from the dislocation between his experiences and the false historicity imposed upon him.

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Since the ‘historico-racial schema’ (Fanon 1986: 111) is connected to the racial-epidermal schema (Fanon 1986: 112), Moustafa’s treatment as a terrorist is informed by his corporeal existence through which she identifies him as “Muslim.” The historico-racial schema does not remain a historical ascription based on a white mythos, but becomes “naturalised” as a condition of the skin’ (Weate 2001: 10) which “automatically includes” Moustafa within the terrorist category. Moustafa shows that it is not just the skin that works to efface his identity and replace it with the facticity of the terrorist body, but a combination of visual and embodied markers: “brown person,” “little beard,” “right age,” that collectively comprise the profile of the dangerous Muslim man. Significantly, it is not that she looks at him and thinks ‘terrorist.’ Moustafa believes that his Muslim identity is enough for her to treat him as a terrorist body—“nothing else.” The old woman’s accusation provides a legitimate entryway for her to take up the role of nationalist with the right to occupy space. The gendered nature in which she undertakes her role illustrates continuities with colonial practices of nation building and the ‘technologies of violence’ (McClintock 1995: 353) that underpin them. Nira Yuval-Davis and Floya Anthias (1989) note that women are involved in nationalism as biological reproducers of members; a fantasy position that the old woman adopts by constructing Moustafa as responsible for killing the nation’s children that legitimises her active participation in his exclusion. Child-killing is a feature of the Gothic that as Malchow (1996: 195) notes, is associated with primitive cultures. The allegation appeals to articulations of the Muslim as an ‘intrinsically savage, pre-modern’ (Razack 2008: 19) that have been reworked to deny Muslims’ inclusion within the nation following from their exclusion from the category of ‘human’ (see Butler 2004; also Gregory 2004). Dilan Mahendran (2007: 201) explains that the historico-racial schema prevents ‘human recognition’ and thus ‘negates the possibility of intersubjectivity’ premised on reciprocity. Moustafa reports that his personal history and feelings of attachment towards Britain as his homeplace are not recognised: “she didn’t know nothing about me or where I come from.”

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As Ngai (2005: 335) notes, ‘disgust strengthens and polices’ the boundary separating subject and object and which ‘explicitly blocks the path of sympathy.’ Knowing “nothing” about Moustafa is integral to how the historico-racial schema works to erase the historicity of the racialised body and for his exclusion from a shared history of the national community to be forcefully denied. Moustafa can only be seen by the old woman as a terrorist-monster that cannot be tolerated within the space of the nation, in her social space, and which she must hunt down like the monster she sees him to be. His account challenges hegemonic dynamics of terror/ising framing the ‘war on terror’ by detailing how he experiences terror from the hostile white subject, illustrating that disgust is connected to dominance rather than emanating from fear, as the next example also shows.

“It Makes Me Sick!”—Unveiling the ‘Imperilled Muslim Woman’ Using this example, I examine how disgust operates through the expressed desire by the white nationalist to rip the veil from Muslim women’s faces. My concern is to explicate how the Muslim woman is materialised as an object of disgust through the historico-racial schema that subjects her to a misreading based on the stereotype of ‘imperilled Muslim woman’ (see Razack 2008; Martino and Rezai-Rashti 2008; Khiabany and Williamson 2008; Stabile and Kumar 2005). This figure is associated with the presumed violent patriarchy of the ‘dangerous Muslim man’ that requires that the normative white subject ‘civilise’ Muslims, thereby keeping conceptions of the Western/European woman as civilised in place (Razack 2008: 5, 20; also Williamson and Khiabany 2010; Khiabany and Williamson 2008; Bhattacharyya 2008; Puar 2007; Ramji 2005, 2007; Naber 2006: 248; Gressgård 2006; Moallem 2005; Stabile and Kumar 2005; Macey 1999; Sahgal and Yuval-Davis 1992). The veil has a contentious place within the ‘war on terror’ context concerning the ‘limits of tolerance’ (Fortier 2008: 96) of Muslim women and illustrates continuities with the colonial desire to unveil the Muslim woman (Macdonald 2006; Mahmood 2004: 54; Abu-Lughod 2002;

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Bullock 2002; Ahmed 1993; Mohanty 1991). This contention is well illustrated by Jacinta’s account of an incident with a white non-Muslim British woman when she is travelling on a coach back from London. She is with an exchange group from Poland and some of her British Muslim friends (both male and female). It is important to give more background detail about Jacinta for the reader to see how the stereotype of Muslim women as ‘imperilled’ (Razack 2008) and enforced to wear the hijab is incongruous to Jacinta’s personal biography. Jacinta did not grow up in a religious household and as I discuss further in Chapter 5, began looking into Islam when she was about 19. She describes her family as “open and accommodating” and although she says people get “het up” about the notion of being torn between two cultures, her parents have just “let [her] be me,” and consequently, she has never felt pressurised or pushed into anything which has enabled her to “always see the fun side of culture.” The issue of veiling is particularly revealing in terms of Jacinta’s personal agency in becoming a veiled Muslim woman. She tells me that as a woman, she really looked into Islam in terms of “what is means for women” and their rights. She says about the hijab that initially she could not bring herself to wear it because she felt that she would be perceived differently or people would point and stare at her. She described standing in front of her bedroom mirror for ages, putting it on, taking it off, trying a different way of wearing it, joking that it did not help that she did not like pins! She admitted that she “didn’t have the guts” and felt “paranoid” about wearing it as this stage. One day she was out with a close friend and they were eating pizza in the park when they were supposed to be at university, and her friend told her about a dream that she had where Jacinta had come to her and asked her how to put the headscarf on: “how amazing is that?” she recites. Following this revelation, she thought to herself “what am I waiting for?” She chose her birthday as the day when she would wear it for the first time and narrated how she went downstairs, “worried about what my family’s reaction was going to be” and “snuck outside” all day to test what people’s reactions would be. To her surprise, people in Bradford did not stare like she expected and so she decided to go home and “face” her family, describing how “they just looked at me - oh please she’s going through a phase!” Clearly highlighting that her choice to veil was her own and not her family’s,

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she concludes that she is still going through that phase and laughs! When asked what Islam means to her, she tells me it is “appealing to me in every aspect” and nothing has made her happier or more content. She is still able to do all the things that she wants to do—education, volunteering, rock climbing and abseiling and socialising. She teaches martial arts and has a black belt which, she amuses, contests stereotypical ideas of Muslim women. In contrast to her lived experiences, the following account shows how Jacinta is constructed by the (non-Muslim) white woman as an ‘imperilled Muslim woman.’ This representation is kept in place by the historico-racial schema that locates Jacinta within a historicity in which she is denied agency to veil and excluded from modernity because of her perceived inability to meet the requirements of gender equality and emancipation supposedly enjoyed by Western women. The excerpt begins at the point where the white woman makes her first intrusion, exerting her dominance over Jacinta’s bodily space: She leaned forward, tapped me on the shoulder and said what’s this [pointing to Jacinta’s headscarf ]? … And I said to her it’s a headscarf and she went – and she leaned back and then she prodded me again and she goes, it’s just, why do you wear it? And then I, I tried to explain it to her and I said it’s sort of a sign of modesty and also the Prophet said you know differentiate yourself from non-Muslims in a way so you know you can be recognised as a Muslim. So it was teaching you to be proud of your religion and your beliefs … and also it’s to show that you look at a person more deeply than their beauty … And I was giving her little anecdotes … And then tap again, and she was like, oh it just makes me so mad all that time that you know women fighting for freedom and you know fighting for emancipation, and then these women out there wearing those veils with their faces covered, it makes me sick! I just feel like going to them and ripping it off their faces!

As with Zanaib and Moustafa, Jacinta is read through the historico-racial schema that denies her individual ontology and is subjected to spatial dominance whereby the normative white subject maintains the affective intensity of the encounter. The role of bodily capacity to how affect is experienced is usefully described by Gregg and Seigworth (2010: 2) as:

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A gradient ... a supple incrementalism of ever-modulating force-relations – that rises and falls not only along various rhythms and modalities of encounter but also through the troughs and sieves of sensation and sensibility… Hence affect’s always immanent capacity for extending further still…

What is missing from Gregg and Seigworth’s (2010: 2) description is consideration of the power relations that determine which body has the capacity to shape the ‘force-relations’ of the encounter. Again it is the white woman who determines the contours of affect and its intensity through her physical movements. By leaning forward and tapping Jacinta, the white woman imposes on Jacinta’s bodily space and demands that she not only meet her gaze, but respond to her questioning so that Jacinta becomes the object of interrogation: “what’s this [pointing to Jacinta’s headscarf ]?” “Why do you wear it?” The white woman classifies Jacinta as a member of a group ‘who [has] to be trained or corrected, classified, normalized, excluded, etc.’ (Foucault 1977: 191), thereby asserting authority over her that is both racialised and gendered. Instead of causing recoil, disgust again functions as a mechanism of spatial dominance, both material: the physical movements towards Jacinta, and symbolic: the expressed desire to rip the veil from Muslim women’s faces. Returning to the ‘paradox of the monster’ (Wright 2018), the veil both attracts the subject through obsession to unveil and repels the subject because its association with patriarchal subjectivity disturbs the supposed achievements of an enlightened West. This ambivalence helps to explain how the veil functions as object of disgust for the white woman; a sickening object that she is nonetheless drawn towards in order to chastise the wearer for bringing it within her social space. William Miller (1997: x) provides a useful explanation of this ambivalence writing that, ‘Even as the disgusting repels, it rarely does so without also capturing our attention.’ However, whilst Miller (1997: xi) contends that such attention arises because what repels ‘imposes itself upon us,’ what we see from Jacinta’s account is a different orientation where the white woman imposes herself upon Jacinta’s body. In this way, disgust is connected to spatial dominance rather than withdrawal. Imposing on the

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bodily space of the object of disgust thus comprises an act of aggression, a terrorising practice. Despite Jacinta’s attempts to appease her interrogator by providing positive accounts of veiling, the intensity of the encounter builds to a crescendo when the white woman expresses her revulsion towards the face veil: “it makes me sick!” Julia Kristevan (1982: 1) notes that abjection is experienced where dark revolts of the being occur following the proximity of a threatening object, one which has fascinated desire, but which since it cannot be assimilated, desire is overtaken by the intensity of disgust to expel it: ‘sickened, it rejects.’ Kristevan thus draws a close relationship between abjection and ‘bodily affect’ (Tyler 2009: 80) resulting from disgust and revulsion. Whilst Kristevan locates disgust as emanating from a threat posed by the abject through its opposition to ‘I,’ I argue that this position does not adequately describe what work the feeling of sickness towards the face veil does in this account. Ripping the veil from the Muslim woman’s face constitutes an act of terror that challenges the conception of the abject posing a threat to the self. As Hage (1998: 38) argues, ripping the veil from Muslim women’s faces is a ‘nationalist practice, a practice of nationalist violence or of nationalist exclusion.’ This practice must be understood therefore, as an act of terror emanating from a desire for dominance rather than from the threat of difference, which is central to understanding dynamics of terror experienced by British Muslim women that deny their inclusion not only within the nation, but modernity. The Concentrationary Gothic proposes a development to Orientalist frameworks for understanding how European superiority is constructed through distinctions between ‘us’ Europeans and ‘those’ non-Europeans (Said 2003: 7). The Gothic’s concern with the threat to ‘civilisation’ by the possibility of atavistic reversion assists analyses of performances of national (un)belongings. As presented here, the veiled Muslim woman in ‘our’ spaces represents the threat of reverse colonisation symbolised by her association with patriarchal oppression that locates her outside the ‘progressive’ history of the West and its associations with female emancipation. The white woman refers to “all that time” that has gone past where Western women have been actively fighting for “freedom” and “emancipation” which constructs Muslim women by contrast, as Gothic

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Others, as anachronisms who have not progressed at a comparable rate (Mighall 1999: 135). Muslim women are subjected to a ‘denial of coevalness,’ which Johannes Fabian (1983: 121) defines as a ‘persistent and systematic tendency to place the referent(s) of anthropology in a Time other than the present of the producer of anthropological discourse’ that re-centres global history around European time (McClintock 1995: 11; also Sayyid 2006: 3). The historico-racial schema facilitates the conditions for bodies to ‘“preserve” affect’ (Munro and Belova 2008). The bodies of veiled Muslim women are made affective by not only how they appear in the present, but on how they carry the past on their bodies that is usefully developed through the analytic of haunting as comprising an affective condition that draws together past, present and future (Gordon 2008). Ahmed (2000: 8, original italics) explains that encounters with the Other ‘reopen the prior histories of encounter that violate and fix others in regimes of difference.’ By remaining “out there,” their proximity affords a return to regressive gender relations a reality that informs the affective impulse towards these Gothic bodies that bring the ‘pastness in the present’ (Mighall 1999: xviii). The persistence of the Gothic within ‘modernist and modernising idioms’ observed by David Glover (2001: 41), relates to ‘the terror of being locked outside the self-renewing temporality of progress’ that the anachronistic presence of the veiled Muslim woman signifies to the white woman. In response, their presence reanimates colonial forms of governmentality where the veiled Muslim woman encroaches upon European spaces. It is perhaps not surprising therefore, that it is at this point in the account where the woman’s sickness towards these women incites the colonial desire to unveil the Muslim woman. Meyda Ye˘geno˘glu (1999: 46, 47) writes of the European obsession with unveiling (also Macdonald 2006; Abu-Lughod 2002; Ahmed 1993; Bullock 2002; Mohanty 1991) as involving ‘civilizing,’ ‘modernizing,’ and thereby ‘liberating’ the “backward” Orient and its women, making them speaking subjects.’ Unveiling the Muslim woman places her within reach as an object that can be looked at and made available to the Western gaze, securing its dominance. I develop how Jacinta is subjected to further management by the white woman who sustains the misreading of Muslim women as imperilled:

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I says to her oh ok then but they might be wearing it out of choice, so why do you feel that they’re oppressed? No, their fathers make them wear it you know, and their husbands, and I just think it’s awful! I feel so sorry for them! And so I says to her well I chose to wear this because I wanted to wear it and it’s, it’s a sign of modesty … it’s just so that you’re not judged by your body and you’re not seen as exotic. And then she grabbed one of the Polish guys and said well I think it makes you look more exotic and then she says to him, would, would you be more attracted to her or would you be more attracted to a girl walking past in a mini-skirt you know with flesh showing and stuff? And he just sort of giggled and he goes, you know obviously I know her but in all honesty, physically, and as a male … I think that I’d go for her, you know the woman who’s got more flesh showing and stuff, just because it’s more noticeable. And then she sort of went ‘ppheww’ well I think it’s disgusting, you shouldn’t have to be forced to wear it and you know it’s just wrong! … I do feel sorry for you and then she turned round and said to one of the Muslim lads and goes I just think it’s awful you know these ignorant, down-trodden Muslim women … And then [one of the Muslim males], he looked at her and he pointed at me and says well you know her who you were speaking to, she’s um doing a postgraduate diploma so as far as ignorant and downtrodden – and she’s on the coach on the way back from London and she’s got none of her brothers or her father or anyone looking over her and it’s you know half ten at night you know. I don’t think she’s ignorant or down-trodden or oppressed or locked up or anything like that. Well I still think it’s disgusting and she sat back in her seat.

In order for the historicity that constructs Muslim women as premodern subjects without freedom over their bodies to be maintained, Western frameworks of emancipation based on exposure of the female body must retain dominance. Jacinta’s reading of the veil as a “sign of modesty” proposes an alternative conception of emancipation. As Saba Mahmood (2004: 15) argues, Muslim women are locked within a reductive binary of resistance/subordination which fails to take seriously Muslim women’s active role in piety and potential for rethinking gender relations as they are popularly envisaged within Western frameworks. By averting the male gaze, Jacinta contests the objectification of women’s bodies as sexual objects which potentially affords her a freedom

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not available to white Western woman whose conception of femininity depends on the judgement of the male gaze (see Bullock 2002: 187). To assert the dominance of Western frameworks of femininity, the white woman rehearses normative conceptions of Western heteronormative desire where ‘successful’ femininity is based on securing the male gaze. Puar and Rai (2002: 17) note that Muslim women’s dress ‘invites an aggressive heterosexual patriotism’ illustrated here by the white woman who forcefully “grab[s] one of the Polish guys.” The white women’s compulsion also exposes the fragility of Western frameworks which helps to explain her relief when the Polish male privileges sexualised Western femininity above the modest femininity of Muslim women as the object of his desire: “ppheww.” This aggressive display by the white woman is accompanied by her refusal to accept Jacinta’s reading of the veil which involves fixing her as an “exotic” object of the colonial gaze that requires that she be looked at. Myra Macdonald (2006: 20) similarly observes that the ‘revival of colonial anxieties, post-9/11, continues to depend on an exoticisation of the “Muslim other,” fuelled in turn by an ongoing failure to “speak to” Muslim women.’ The exoticisation of Jacinta effectively silences her by denying her voice to articulate another reading of her body, one that would intervene in the historicity of the West as the model of female emancipation. This entails managing the Muslim woman according to the historicoracial schema that fixes her presence as imperilled by denying alternative readings of the veil that would afford her agency. The inability for Jacinta to challenge how the white woman sees her illustrates how the historicoracial schema works through an ontological violence in which as Fanon (1986: 112) describes, the body is ‘battered down’ by the historicity which determines how she appears to the white subject. In this regard, the schema annihilates the presence of ‘Jacinta.’ Thus whilst Jacinta tries to reassert her presence in the encounter: “I chose to wear this because I wanted to wear it,” she is unable to challenge the stereotype of the imperilled Muslim woman that the white woman imposes onto her body, and through which Jacinta’s individuality and agency is erased. Importantly, it is due to the white woman’s outright refusal to accept Jacinta’s agency to veil that her ‘imperilled’ status comes into being, not how she is treated by her Muslim male companions. Read through

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this schema, the veil can only be seen by the white woman as a signifier of patriarchal or female oppression: “their fathers make them wear [the face veil] you know, and their husbands.” As Jasmin Zine (2007: 27) argues, Muslim women in the ‘war on terror’ context experience a ‘gendered Islamophobia’ derived from historical representations of backward, oppressed women requiring rescuing and liberating by socially progressive white Western women. The veil is positioned as a ‘signifier of patriarchal oppression’ (Martino and Rezai-Rashti 2008: 417); a ‘threatened femininity’ (Schmitt 1997: 2) that has been a central feature of the contested site of both nation and national subjects within Gothic accounts of nationhood. Colonial narratives of white European women saving Othered women have a long history (Abu-Lughod 2002), which have been reanimated to support the imperial project of the ‘war on terror’ to liberate Muslim women from supposedly dangerous Muslim men (Fluri 2009; Bhattacharyya 2008; Razack 2008), captured by Spivak’s (1988: 296) infamous phrase ‘white men saving brown women from brown men.’ In fact, it is Jacinta’s Muslim male friend who actively challenges her treatment as imperilled, albeit unsuccessfully such is the strength of the white women’s conviction, by highlighting Jacinta’s educational achievements and freedom to travel late at night without the presence of her male family members. In so doing, the stereotype of the patriarchal Muslim male begins to unravel, exposing that it is racialised gender expectations conceived within a Western framework that constitute the conditions of oppression for Jacinta. Rather than proposing a threat to the white woman’s existence, Jacinta’s presence provides an opportunity for the white woman to assert her dominance. The oppressed Muslim woman presents what appears to be an ambivalent situation for the white woman as someone that incites feelings of unpleasantness: “it’s awful,” as well as someone to “feel sorry for.” Yet feeling sorry is also a way of managing the Muslim woman by producing her as an object of pity that the white woman can feel superior to. In this regard, the white woman requires that the Muslim woman be oppressed for her to maintain her dominance. The white woman enacts the superiority of her culture by taking up a moral position in which her disgust towards veiling is linked to an overt moral aversion to its practice as “just wrong.” As Miller (1997: 180, 181) notes, the ‘idiom of disgust has certain virtues for voicing moral assertions.’

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Feeling sorry does not comprise an expression of empathy therefore, but an occasion for reinforcing the superiority of Western culture centred on whiteness. Disgust is connected to the white woman’s desire to civilise “these ignorant, down-trodden Muslim women,” which helps to explain why Jacinta captures her attention. Aurel Kolnai (2004: 42) contends that what is disgusting is not threatening but must be ‘put out of the way.’ In this regard, whilst fear requires retreat from one’s surroundings, disgust requires a ‘cleaning up,’ a ‘weeding out of what is disgusting therein’ (Kolnai 2004: 42). Importantly, disgust causes a disturbance, that as Kolnai (2004: 42) continues, incites a ‘turning-outwards and a certain “seizing” of the object’ to re-establish social order. From this perspective, disgust works to manage bodies premised on perceived dominance of the one who feels disgust towards the object requiring removal and which entails an aggressive moving towards, a closing down of space, social and bodily, physical and symbolic. In the next extract, I explore how disgust and dominance come into relation through the expressed desire for eradication of the Muslim Other.

Desire for Eradicating the Muslim Other: Producing the ‘Imperil/led Muslim Woman’ So far, the accounts in this section have shown how the Muslim incites the desire for removal from national space expressed through spitting and ripping the veil. Here, the desired outcome is not removal, but annihilation—the death of the Muslim Other. Moustafa reports a mundane altercation in a supermarket car park between a (non-Muslim) white woman and a young Muslim girl which quickly escalates to a violent declaration by the white woman in which she expresses her desire to purge the nation of Muslims (see Nayak 2017): There was this girl who was parking her car up in Asda … she arrived there and there was an incident with her car with a white lady … she said I will move my car now and they got into a slanging match. And then the white lady said you’re all terrorists and all this and that, just out of a simple car … She said you’re all terrorists, why don’t you just go back

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home and kill yourselves. The girl was really offended, but you know it’s more of a shock.

The account shows how everyday spaces of the nation become potential sites of racial violence (Chapter 4) in which borders defining who (does not) belong are destabilised. Under such conditions, abjection works to separate ‘unlivable’ and ‘uninhabitable’ zones of social life (Butler 1993: 3). Classifying someone as ‘out of place’ and who should thus “go back home,” is based on three interconnected nationalist practices examined by Hage (1998). These include ‘an image of national space,’ ‘an image of the nationalist himself or herself as master of this national space’ and ‘an image of the ‘“ethnic/racial other” as a mere object within this space’ (Hage 1998: 28). Here, the white woman attempts to achieve ‘mastery over the nation’ (Hage 1998: 18) by turning the Muslim girl into an object that can be removed from national space. In accordance with Kristevan (1982: 1) abjection, the Muslim made abject has ‘only one quality… that of being opposed to I.’ Unable to be assimilated into the social space that the white woman inhabits, the girl’s legitimacy to belong is called into question through the invocation for her to “go back home.” This banishment is not enough since the abject recurs because it resists expulsion. By being reinscribed as a terrorist, she poses a perpetual threat to the nation which must be continuously resisted, hence the use of the plural “kill yourselves.” Yet whilst Kristevan abjection posits the abject as posing a threat to the subject, the ontological violence to which the Muslim girl is subjected by the white woman comprises an act of terror. The Muslim girl’s exclusion is based on a denial of common humanity, where the “you’re,” “you” and “yourselves” operate to mark a symbolic boundary between the white woman and the Muslim girl that ensures that exclusion progresses to extinction—the death of the Muslim Other. The Muslim girl is produced as an unlivable life that must be annihilated, not as a form of protection, but to enable the white woman to assert her dominance. As with Moustafa, the Muslim is made interchangeable with the terrorist body that in this case, encompasses both Muslim males and females. Read as a terrorist body, the account challenges the category of ‘imperilled’ as one based on oppression discussed

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earlier. I thus advance the category of ‘imperil/led Muslim woman’ (also Chapter 3) to capture how Muslim women are treated as both objects and agents of terror. In keeping with the historico-racial schema, the Muslim girl’s ontological existence is annihilated, ensuring that she can only be seen through the hostile ‘white gaze’ (Fanon 1986). The scene provides a compelling rejoinder to Fanon’s (1986: 114) articulation of ‘All this whiteness that burns me’ through being reconfigured as a suicide bomber fatally destined to be blown to pieces, a fatalness which, as with Moustafa, engenders a psychic dislocation that goes beyond being offended: “it’s more of a shock,” to affect the very essence of her being. Claiming all Muslims are terrorists prevents them from occupying the position of vulnerable which is reserved for the normative white subject. Shildrick’s (2002: 1) argument that vulnerability can ‘belong to anyone of us’ is inadequate for understanding vulnerability where lives are deemed unlivable therefore. As Judith Butler notes (2004: 43), vulnerability requires recognition for it to ‘come into play in an ethical encounter.’ It legitimates a violent policing of social space to demarcate (un)livable and thus (un)grievable lives (Butler 2009) as examined here. What is required is an alternative knowledge framework that recognises terrors experienced by British Muslims resulting from exclusionary practices of nation construction operating within the Concentrationary Gothic.

6

Conclusion: Re-historicising the Muslim Other

This chapter has explored terroristic practices experienced by British Muslims involved in nation construction within the Concentrationary Gothic. The management of Muslims within national space comprise ‘governmental belonging[s]’ (Hage 1998: 55) where the normative white subject feels entitled to make managerial decisions about the presence of Muslims who are perceived as lesser nationals, as bodies ‘out of place’ (see Ahmed 2000, 2007; Puwar 2004). I have shown that within the Concentrationary Gothic, these governmental practices are supported by

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the deployment of the Gothic as a means through which to consolidate national identity and values. This chapter has explored how affect and emotions are mobilised as ‘instrument[s] of governance’ (Cowen and Gilbert 2008: 50; also Hunter 2012, 2015; Ahmed 2004a) involved in the management of social and bodily space that affect how Muslims ‘take up’ space and in turn, what they ‘can do’ (Ahmed 2007: 149). I have explored how emotions and affect are relational practices that align subjects with one another and generate proximities and distances (Fortier 2008; also Hunter 2012: 14) that account for the dynamic ways in which terror operates by moving between bodies, and which are connected to power relations that work to separate subjects from not-quite subjects (see Butler 1993: 3). These exclusionary practices are significant for understanding the contested terrain in which Islamophobia operates. Whilst providing a language for Muslims to articulate the particular terrors they face qua Muslims, articulations of Muslims as a threat to the nation work to entrench Islamophobia within the national consciousness. The construction of Muslims as agents of terror within the ‘war on terror’ provides the conditions for the nationalist to take up the position as threatened by the presence of Muslims. The Concentrationary Gothic proposes a different trajectory of terror by exploring how the treatment of Muslims as objects of disgust is a strategy of dominance rather than emanating from fear and which approaches stereotyping, Othering, and scapegoating as racialised strategies of exclusion, as nationalist acts of terrorisation. By drawing connections to previous contexts of racial terror that accompany ‘civilising’ practices (see Gilroy 2000: 66; Bauman 2000: 28), the Concentrationary Gothic challenges the binary of civiliser/terroriser operating within the ‘war on terror’ discursive frame. I adopted the analytic of haunting to explore how Britain’s imperial past seeps into the postcolonial present and informs the culture of fear affecting British Muslims concerning their ability to belong in contemporary Britain. As such, I showed how national (un)belongings are constituted through affective, psychic, and temporal dimensions that mean that for British Muslims ‘home’ can be experienced as ‘unheimlich’ (Gunew 2004: 95; Bhabha 1990: 2 also Punter 2007: 130) and citizenship as conditional

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(Abbas 2019; Kapoor and Narkowicz 2019; Kapoor 2018; Choudhury 2017; McGhee 2008, 2010). I explored the importance of thinking beyond binaries to account for complex interferences between racial interiors and exteriors, including how whiteness is internally differentiated. These distinctions can enable us to draw connections for example, between the colonisation of Ireland and India without collapsing differences in degrees of belonging experienced by postcolonial subjects as they move from the colony to the metropole, that are geographically and temporally shaped. Participants drew important connections to previous contexts of terror and dominance experienced by those deemed unsuitable for inclusion within the national community that included Irish, black, Jewish and Bosnian Muslim populations, to frame their understandings of the present state of exception affecting Muslims during the ‘war on terror.’ As such, these past histories comprise ‘haunted futurities’ (Ferreday and Kuntsman 2011; also Back 2011, Gordon 2011) arising from fear of their recurrence. Further, they highlighted the need to locate nation construction within racialised histories of terror, as well placing importance on monitoring precursory terror tactics present in managing Muslims’ presence, captured by Pollock and Silverman’s (2014a: 1–30) term ‘concentrationary memory.’ Through the ‘technology of monstrosity’ (Halberstam 2000: 21–22), I examined how British Muslims are constructed as ‘undesirable national object[s]’ (Hage 1998: 47) involving intersecting categories of race, religion, gender, sexuality, and nation. I explored how stereotypes of the immigrant woman, the dangerous Muslim man, and the imperil/led Muslim woman stage the fantasy of reverse colonisation where civilisation is perceived to be undone by the atavistic return of primitive people (Arata 1990; Brantlinger 1988; also Gilroy 2000: 57) that is foundational to the Gothic’s concern with representing what is ‘uncivilized, unprogressive or “barbaric”’ (Mighall, 1999: xviii), and which in turn, mobilises the white nationalist to ‘civilise’ the Muslim Other. The stereotype of the ‘immigrant woman’ replays Gothic representations of the alien immigrant that is parasitic on the nation’s resources (see Halberstam 2000: 15). Occupying the position of the immigrant woman in its latest Muslim incarnation (Lewis 2006: 93), Zanaib embodies

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the site of struggle over the terms of national belonging between ‘her community’ and ‘theirs’ (the dominant white community). The ‘dangerous Muslim man’ contributes to the Gothic’s concern with ‘threatened femininity’ (Schmitt 1997: 11) as a contested site in discourses of nationhood present in Moustafa’s encounter with the old white woman who is tasked with disciplining the monstrous Muslim, killer of the nation’s children. His account provides a vivid demonstration of the interrelation of the Gothic and race for understanding how Muslims are produced as monstrous in the current juncture. In this instance, Moustafa is interjected into an iconography of racialised images of terror where, as observed by Malchow (1996: 195), child-killing has been a staple of the Gothic that had ‘overtones of cannibalism and ritual murder.’ These representations illustrate how the Gothic, as a narrative of terror, contributes understanding of how terror is racialised; further, legitimates terroristic practices to which Muslims are subjected following from their construction as agents of terror within the national imaginary. By maintaining this misreading of Moustafa, the old white woman performs the role of legitimate protector and nurturer of the nation, its values, and its children. Who Moustafa actually is, where he is from, is a relation that is never entered into. The ‘dangerous Muslim man’ is also connected to the threatened femininity of the ‘imperilled Muslim woman’ whom he is understood to retain control over, and thus which symbolises the atavistic return of oppression gender relationships which in turn, are perceived to threaten the ‘advanced’ femininity of the Western woman. Jacinta can only be seen by the white woman as oppressed which, by denying the historically specific contexts in which the veil acquires meaning (Mohanty 1991: 67), refuses the multiple ways in which veiled Muslim women construct their subjectivities (Odeh 1983: 5). As with Moustafa, the white woman’s refusal to accept Jacinta’s choice to veil and alternative conceptualisations of female emancipation and agency constitutes a refusal to enter into a relation with the veiled Muslim woman (see Ahmed 2000: 166). Perceived through the historico-racial schema underpinning the Gothic technology of monstrosity, Muslims are denied entrance into modernity by the white (non-Muslim) subject who enlists the ‘civilisational’ progression of Western/European history to treat Muslims as

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‘anachronistic subordinates as if they belonged to the past’ (Gilroy 2000: 57). As Gilroy notes, racialisation is most effective where historicality becomes the exclusive characteristic of the dominant group. In this regard, the Gothic’s concern with exploring fears of the ‘imputation of anachronism’ (Mighall 1999: 249) illustrates the interdependence of practices of racialisation with Gothicisation that is useful for understanding how Islamophobia functions as a form of racial terror involved in nation construction within the Concentrationary Gothic. Postcoloniality is revealed to be a ‘failed historicity’ (Ahmed 2000: 10, original italics) because of its dependence on European time (also Bhambra 2007b; Chakrabarty 2000; Fabian 1983) as the means through which civilisational progress is measured, and which supports the conditions for colonial forms of ‘racial rule’ (Goldberg 2002) to be redeployed. Trapped within the colonising white gaze, the historico-racial schema (Fanon 1986: 111) fixes Muslims as community bodies that can only be representative types (Pellegrini 1997: 92), responsible at once for their body, their race, their ancestors (Fanon 1986: 112). As participants’ accounts have shown, the effect is that ‘the individual-as-such does not exist’ (Pellegrini 1997: 92). This has important implications for the type of identifications that British Muslims can take up and the restricted prism through which their identities are constructed by non-Muslims, which in turn, detrimentally restricts the forms of nation belonging that can be entered into between subjects. The significance of the Concentrationary Gothic for understanding nation construction within the ‘war on terror’ context of Britain is that it explicates how the normative white subject’s attempts to exert dominance over the social and bodily space of Muslims depicted in participants’ accounts challenges representations of the threatening presence of Muslims within the public imaginary. Rather, it draws attention to acts of terrorisation British Muslims experience through their treatment as bodies ‘out of place.’ Exclusionary nationalist practices encompassed contestations over resources, spitting, ripping the veil, and the expressed desire for Muslims to ‘go back home’ or even to be killed. In the next chapter, I develop how the technology of monstrosity underpins the profile of the terror suspect or extremist as the principle target in the ‘war on terror’ context.

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Notes 1. In the European worldview, the Wandering Jew has been the emblem for articulating the ‘Jewish Question’ in Europe since the formation of the Spanish Inquisition (Poliakov 1975: 352) when Jewish refugees were dispersed throughout Europe after expulsion from Spain. Most notably, this figure was cursed to immortality for mocking Christ as he carried the cross and thus represents a ‘transgressive antichrist’ (Davison 2004: 2). 2. British rule in the Indian subcontinent between 1858 and 1947. 3. Traditional dress worn by men and women in South and Central Asia. It is the national dress of Pakistan. 4. Thomas Richards (1993: 1) argues in The Imperial Archive that empire is partly fiction and by default ‘a nation in overreach.’ He observes the obsession with the ‘control of knowledge’ rather than the ‘control of empire’ (Richards 1993: 1), highlighting how knowledge is essential to power. It is no surprise therefore that Gothic novels such as Dracula (1897) ‘equate knowledge with national security’ (Richards 1993: 5) as a means of overcoming threats to empire. 5. Spivak (1988: 283, 287, 295) makes a distinction between history and historiography, the latter referring to the narrative of a construction of the past. Epistemic violences must therefore be understood as active constructions in support of the project of imperialism rather than as mere presentations of ‘facts.’ 6. Said (2003: 31–49) makes a similar comparison in his discussion of the British occupation of Egypt. He describes how ‘the Oriental’ is produced through a nexus of knowledge and power; ‘in a sense obliterating him as a human being,’ (Said 2003: 27) that involves prohibiting the Egyptian from speaking for himself (Said 2003: 33). 7. James Thomas (2020: 1333) makes an interesting intervention to theorisations of double-consciousness, asking ‘whether and how the spectre of nineteenth century Western Europe’s “Jewish question” haunts W. E. B. Du Bois’s concept of double consciousness.’ He argues that Du Bois’ time studying at the University of Berlin sensitised him to the intellectual and political origins of nineteenth-century German anti-Semitism, which subsequently informed his conceptualisation of black double consciousness in the US context. Such a comparison supports a relational approach to race (Goldberg 2009) advanced by the Concentrationary Gothic that

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is attentive to connections between anti-black racism and Western European anti-Semitism rather than treating these as distinct racial projects. Comparably, Fanon (1986) also makes a notable contribution concerning the location of the “Jewish question” within understandings of race/racism. He cites Jean-Paul Sartre’s (1960: 95 cited in Fanon 1986: 115, my italics) observation in Anti-Semite and Jew that the Jews are ‘overdetermined from the inside’ through fear that their conduct will be judged by the stereotypes others have of them. Fanon draws an important distinction between the Jewish and black experience. He observes that apart from some ‘debateable characteristics’ (Fanon 1986: 115), ‘the Jew can be unknown in his Jewishness’ (Fanon 1986: 115, my italics) and, as such, can otherwise occupy the position of a white man. By contrast, as a black man, Fanon (1986: 116, my italics) is ‘overdetermined from without. I am the slave not of the “idea” that others have of me but of my own appearance,’ which means that there will always be a ‘white world’ separating him (Fanon 1986: 122). Yet Fanon (1986: 122) later concedes that although ‘At first thought it may seem strange that the anti-Semite’s outlook should be related to that of the Negrophobe,’ the Jew is nonetheless ‘my brother in misery,’ since inevitably the anti-Semite is anti-Negro, suggesting that despite external differences, there are connective logics between anti-Semitism and antiblackness after all. Such a positioning enables us to see the Holocaust as an extension of existing racist practices rather than as an aberration of European progress and modernity (also Rothberg 2009; Goldberg 2006; Hesse 2004; Bauman 2000; Césaire 2000; Gilroy 2000). 8. It is important to note that there are of course differences in how ‘white’ immigrants are treated. Anti-Eastern European sentiment has been welldocumented (Rzepnikowska 2019, 2020; Fox 2013; Fox et al. 2012; Nowicka and Krzy˙zowski 2016; McDowell 2009). Following the EU Referendum result, an attack on a group of Polish men in Harlow, London, resulted in the death of one of the men, Arkadiusz Jó´zwik on 27 August 2016. 9. ‘Christian’ needs to be qualified here in order to address sectarian divisions. For example, when addressing the Irish question, as Gibbons (2004: 13) notes, the ‘otherness of Irish Catholicism’ contained an ‘ineradicable ethnic component’ which contributed to articulations of their racial inferiority. 10. The number of people who have been deprived of their British citizenship rose by more than 600% in 2017 (The Independent 20 February 2019). Shamima Begum is one of 150 British citizens subjected to the measure since 2010 purportedly for the ‘public good.’ According to a report

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conducted by then Independent Reviewer of Terrorism Legislation, Lord Anderson QC (2016: 12), ‘citizenship deprivation power has been characterised as an ineffective and counter-productive weapon against terrorism.’ Nonetheless, citizenship deprivation dramatically increased from 14 people in 2016 to 104 in 2017 (HM Government 2018: 27). Whilst we can surmise that the rise in IS-related terrorism has contributed to this increase, the Home Office has refused to confirm how many cases have been deemed IS members or provide transparent justifications for individual cases (The Independent 9 February 2019). An official ‘transparency’ report with statistics on citizenship deprivations due to be released in the summer of 2019 has been forestalled meaning recent figures remain elusive. Decisions are also racialised since, as a Home Office spokesperson reports: ‘Depriving a dual national of citizenship is just one way we can counter the terrorist threat posed by some of the most dangerous individuals and keep our country safe’ (cited in The Independent 9 February 2020). This stance reinforces British Muslims’ position as conditional citizens for whom their British citizenship, unlike normative citizens, can be legitimately deprived and thus which reaffirms their dual citizenship status, enshrined by British law. 11. The UK Government (House of Commons Library 20 February 2019) estimates that 900 people have travelled to Syria and Iraq to participate in terrorist groups, 40% of which have returned. Debate has ensued concerning how to deal with returning foreign fighters and the threat they pose to Britain’s security and even whether they should be allowed to return at all. The Counter-Terrorism and Security Act 2015 introduced temporary exclusion orders (TEOs) to enable the Home Secretary to prevent those suspected of engaging in terrorist-related activity outside the UK to return unless they agree to certain specified terms. A TEO invalidates an individual’s British passport and requires that they apply for a permit to return to the UK, and which may require other control measures to be imposed such as regularly reporting to the police station, attending a deradicalisation programme or other initiatives required to reintegrate them into mainstream society such as Jobcentre Plus. The CounterTerrorism and Border Security Act 2019 introduced a new offence of ‘entering or remaining in a designated area’ to address difficulties in ascertaining evidence of activities engaged in abroad by making it an offence to travel to a proscribed area without the need for evidence of terrorist-related activity being established (House of Commons Library 20 February 2019).

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12. The ‘Great Famine’ in Ireland in 1845–1849 has been attributed to a natural event, namely the potato plight that infected groups across Europe during the 1840s. However, studies (e.g. Garner 2004; De Nie 1998; Curtis 1968, 1997) have argued that not only did the British government fail to address the crisis, but it was actively involved in exporting food crops and livestock which contributed to the large-scale starvation that claimed the lives of over a million (around 20% of the population) and led to around two million refugees. A useful comparison can be drawn between The Great Famine of 1876–1878, also known as the Madras famine of 1877, in southern India which took an estimated 5.5 million lives examined by Mike Davis (2001) in Late Victorian Holocausts. Although the Great Famine was in part caused by drought leading to crop failure, the export of grain by the colonial government, cultivation of alternate cash crops and commodification of grain significantly contributed to its severity. 13. Gibbons (2004: 13) quotes the example of ‘Ode to the Irish Elections’ during the Famine in 1848 featured in the British weekly satirical magazine, Punch XXIII (1848: 82 cited in Lebow 1973: 11), which overtly racialised the Irish and drew comparisons to ‘Sambo’ (a derogatory name given to black people during the slavery era). 14. It is important to note that some Irish people were also involved with the Atlantic slave trade involving black Africans between 1660 and 1815, including like William Ronan, holding prominent positions in the Royal Africa Company. Some Irish people by contrast were indentured servants under the British Empire, including in the British West Indies such as Jamaica, as well as British North America and later Australia. Indentured servants were granted passage to ‘the New World’ after providing seven years of labour but who may well have worked alongside enslaved Africans, suffered punishment at the hands of their masters, and had a poor diet (Hogan et al. 2016; Beckles 1990). During the Cromwellian conquest and settlement of Ireland 1649–1653, thousands of Irish people were transported to the Caribbean or ‘Barbadosed’ involuntarily, which predominately consisted of political prisoners, vagrants, or people defined as ‘undesirable’ by the English state. Similar practices continued through to the Victorian period during which time Irish political prisoners were transported to imperial British colonies in Australia. The Irish case thus troubles black/white, coloniser/colonised classifications, illustrating more complex dynamics through which whiteness operates vis-à-vis non-whites and other whites (and in relation to other categories such as religion, class, nation), meaning Irish people occupied diverse positions of power and privilege,

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colonisation or servitude, both ‘voluntary’ and enforced. Nonetheless, it is important to draw a distinction between indentured or colonial servitude to slavery, the former providing few rights and harsh terms but the latter by contrast, ‘was perpetual and hereditary with subhuman legal status,’ (Hogan et al 2016: 19) illustrating important racialised differences concerning European servitude and African enslavement. Timothy White (2010: 2; also Gibbons 1996: 172) makes an important argument about the ‘impact of the coloniser on the relationship between religious and national identity of the colonized.’ There is an interesting parallel to be made concerning the role of religion to nationhood in the treatment of British Muslims within the ‘war on terror.’ The ‘moderate Muslim’ category can be understood as means by which the state sets the terms for how British Muslims perform their religious identity in Britain. This category has been met with disapproval by some Muslims because it is seen as an externally imposed category rather than based on Islamic teaching (see Morsi 2018; Cherney and Murphy 2016; Moosavi 2015). One account from the Saturday Review (1864 cited in Bonnett 2000: 34) describes the ‘Bethnal Green poor’ as occupying a different ‘race’: ‘a caste apart, a race of whom we know nothing, whose lives are of quite different complexion from ours.’ For example, McVeigh and Rolston (2009: 2) refer to compulsory poppywearing as a ‘symbolic ritual humiliation that continues to be imposed on nationalists in Northern Ireland’ which, they argue, ‘shows that the Irish are still required to prove their “civilisation.”’ Whilst the etymology of ‘Muselmann’ is contested, Agamben (1999: 45) argues that a possible explanation comes from the ‘literal meaning of the Arabic word Muslim: the one who submits unconditionally to the will of God.’ This meaning, he continues, ‘lies at the origin of the legends concerning Islam’s supposed fatalism, legends which are found in European culture starting with the Middle Ages’ (Agamben 1999: 45). See my article (Abbas 2019) which explores the conflation of the Muslim refugee and terror suspect categories emerging from similar processes operating within counter-terrorism and asylum regimes in the context of the Syrian refugee ‘crisis.’ The Aliens Act 1905 introduced immigration controls and registration for the first time in Britain. It provided the Home Secretary with overall responsibility for addressing concerns relating to nationality and immigration. Its main objective was to contain Jewish immigration from Eastern Europe.

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21. See Said (2003: 68–71) for a discussion on the representation of ‘Maometto’ (Mohammed) as belonging to a ‘rigid hierarchy of evils’ (Said 2003: 68) in Dante Alighieri’s (1472 cited in Said 2003: 68–72) Inferno, the first part of his epic poem, The Divine Comedy. 22. Claire Valier (2002) does not capitalise ‘gothicism.’ Although I have opted to capitalise Gothic and Gothicisation, since this term was introduced by Valier, I have kept it as lower-cased. 23. Here Slavoj Žižek (1993: 201–211) discusses the nation’s fantasies and investment in the Other as a threat to national identity.

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to reveal how many extremists they have stripped of British citizenship. The Independent. The Independent. Accessed 9 June 2020. The Independent. 2019. Shamima Begum: Number of people stripped of UK citizenship soars by 600% in a year, February 20. Available at: Shamima Begum: Number of people stripped of UK citizenship soars by 600% in a year. The Independent. The Independent. Accessed 9 June 2020. The Independent. 2020. Ministers refuse to reveal how many extremists they have stripped of British citizenship, February 9. Available at: https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/isis-syria-syria-sha mima-begum-uk-citizenship-terror-a9312226.html. Accessed 11 May 2020. Thomas, J. 2020. Du Bois, double consciousness, and the “Jewish question.” Ethnic and Racial Studies 43 (8): 1333–1356. http://doi.org/10.1080/014 19870.2020.1705366. Tomkins, S. 1963. Affect, Imagery, Consciousness, Volume 11: The Negative Affects. New York: Springer. Tucker, D. 2001. What is new about the new terrorism and how dangerous is it? Terrorism and Political Violence 13 (3): 1–14. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 09546550109609688. Tucker, I. 2011. Sense and the limits of knowledge: Bodily connections in the work of Serres. Theory, Culture & Society 28 (1): 149–160. Tufail, W. 2015. Rotherham, Rochdale, and the racialised threat of the “Muslim Grooming Gang”. International Journal for Crime, Justice and Social Democracy 4 (3): 30–43. https://doi.org/10.5204/ijcjsd.v4i3.249. Tufail, W., and S. Poynting. 2016. Muslim and dangerous: “Grooming” and the politics of racialisation. In Fear of Muslims? International Perspectives on Islamophobia, ed. D. Pratt and R. Woodlock, 79–92. http://doi.org/10. 1007/978-3-319-29698-2_6. Twine, F.W., and C. Gallagher. 2008. The future of whiteness: A map of the “third wave”. Ethnic and Racial Studies 31 (1): 4–24. https://doi.org/10. 1080/01419870701538836. Tyler, I. 2013. Revolting Subjects: Social Abjection and Resistance in Neoliberal Britain. London: Zed Books. Tyler, I. 2009. Against abjection. Feminist Theory 10 (1): 77–98. https://doi. org/10.1177/1464700108100393. Tyrer, D. 2008. The unbearable whiteness of seeing: Moderated Muslims, (in)/visibilities and Islamophobia. Thinking Thru’ Islamophobia/A Symposium, 48–53. Available at: https://d1wqtxts1xzle7.cloudfront.net/306 57868/Islamophobia_Symposium_Papers_e-working_paper_%283%29. pdf?1361906150=&response-content-disposition=inline%3B+filename%

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3DOn_conceptualising_Islamophobia_anti-Mus.pdf&Expires=159628 6839&Signature=BZfz2sfyzqGkljB~VYvDyyliyn3my624A2JQTiJZAq94qp NLdXSWghM-snu20RW5P-llUs85O0z0vfTov3cPft40lguQVS1Fs-~rff62k Uah~T5T3RdQzYyKeikXYNm5HFs1NhL2PI4lm8zNwytHmcRrzPboy s6cI7uXCwjxsjGyfH1EpXM0JSyU2~k-5ezEhuoOMfu-7Kw2VCbxO6bi vFv1-8NWsVi4bS5aoOPdFUtxGcfxKcQeJdAIElejrO68wZvQKYTxFPi0 wfy22jS8hPggPEtjFMgSuBVVrGO8y1AcoPH7B2089Qx~1MTQWj--I7F ~Jroam24d0q7aQkvBrw__&Key-Pair-Id=APKAJLOHF5GGSLRBV4ZA. Accessed 1 August 2020. Tyrer, D., and S. Sayyid. 2012. Governing ghosts: Race, incorporeality and difference in post-political times. Current Sociology 60 (3): 353–367. Valier, C. 2002. Punishment, border crossings and the powers of horror. Theoretical Criminology 6 (3): 319–337. Virdee, S. 2014. Racism, Class and the Racialized Outsider. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Virdee, S. 2017a. The second sight of racialised outsiders in the imperialist core. Third World Quarterly 38 (11): 2396–2410. http://doi.org/10.1080/ 01436597.2017.1328274. Virdee, S. 2017b. Socialist anti-Semitism and its discontents in England, 188498. Patterns of Prejudice 51 (3–4): 356–373. https://doi.org/10.1080/003 1322X.2017.1335029. Virdee, S. 2019. Racialized capitalism: An account of its contested origins and consolidation. Sociological Review 67 (1): 3–27. https://doi.org/10.1177/003 8026118820293. Walter, B. 2001. Outsiders Inside: Whiteness, Place and Irish Women. London and Routledge: Routledge. Walter, B. 2011. Whiteness and diasporic Irishness: Nation, gender and class. Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 37 (9): 1295–1312. https://doi.org/ 10.1080/1369183X.2011.623584. Weate, J. 2001. Fanon, Merleau-Ponty and the difference of phenomenology. In Race, ed. R. Bernasconi, 169–183. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Weber, L., and B. Bowling. 2004. Policing migration: A framework for investigating the regulation of global mobility. Policing and Society 14 (3): 195–212. https://doi.org/10.1080/1043946042000241802. Wein, T. 2002. British Identities, Heroic Nationalisms, and the Gothic Novel, 1764–1824. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Werbner, P. 2002. Imagined Diasporas Among Manchester Muslims. Oxford: James Currey.

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3 The Gothic Technology of the Monstrous Muslim

1

Introduction

My concern in this chapter is to examine how terror under the terms of the Concentrationary Gothic has found its principle expression in the body identified as ‘Muslim.’ As a component of the inter-bodilyrelational model of subjectivity that I am advancing, I approach the body as both affective and affecting, psychic, temporally (Chapter 2) and spatially shaped (Chapter 4), as constituted through its relations to others (Chapter 5), and as mediated by discursive regimes meaning the body and the vocal are interdependent (Chapter 6). The aspect of the Concentrationary Gothic that this chapter examines is the uses of racial profiling and surveillance informing the governance of ‘Muslim-looking’ bodies. These strategies are underpinned by racialised power asymmetries of (in/hyper-)visibility and (mis)recognition between seer/seen through which the Muslim body is produced as the target of discipline and control. Attention to these visual technologies is important for understanding the differential ways in which Muslims are branded as terrorists depending on how far they (are perceived to) correspond to the profile © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M.-S. Abbas, Terror and the Dynamism of Islamophobia in 21st Century Britain, Palgrave Politics of Identity and Citizenship Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72949-3_3

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of the terror suspect or extremist. Visibility is understood as a ‘political practice fundamentally bound up with the exercise of power’ (Tyrer 2008: 59; also Brighenti 2007: 324). The notion that criminality could be ‘mapped onto the body’ (Wagner 2012: 75, 77) emerged from Enlightenment rationality and scientific progress which characterised modernity. This idea emphasised the key role of visual recognition to the construction of knowledge and the body as the instrument of discipline. Researchers have argued that policing British racial minority communities is an extension of colonial policing transposed to ‘domestic colonies’ (Fryer 1984; Sivanandan 1982). Joseph Pugliese (2010), for example, charts the use of biometrics in the service of Empire and the use of science in developing taxonomies for the classification, monitoring, surveillance and disciplining of populations to contemporary applications of biometrics within the ‘war on terror’ to secure ‘identity dominance’ (Pugliese 2010: 17; also Browne 2015). Similarly, counter-terrorism doctrine can be traced to counterinsurgency practices developed by the French and British military to combat nationalist struggles against colonial rule (McCulloch and Pickering 2009; Schlesinger 1978). The pre-emptive aspect of current counter-terrorism measures is rooted in criminalisation that is aligned to a ‘colonial rationality of difference’ (McCulloch and Pickering 2009: 637; also Brown 2005: 44). Central to these practices are how conceptions of race have been deployed in the control of bodies that have supported the ‘rise of modern terror’ (Mbembe 2003: 21). This chapter focuses on how the body is made intelligible through its interpellation within a hierarchical racialised order. Shifts in interpellation affecting British Muslims from ‘dirty Paki’ to ‘enemy Muslim’ reveal the instability of the body (Grosz 1994). Following Michel Foucault (1977: 26), I approach the body as the primary site in which discipline operates and as both productive and subjugated by the tactics used to govern Muslim populations within the ‘war on terror’ context. I follow Saher Selod’s (2019: 557, original italics; also 2018) approach to ‘racialized surveillance,’ defined as ‘the monitoring of select bodies by relying on racial cues’ which is ‘guided by gender’ for understanding the different types of surveillance endured by Muslim men and women post-9/11. An important gendered distinction is how ‘visibly Muslim’ women are

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particularly targeted ‘for transgressing cultural norms’ (Selod 2019: 564). I adopt a networked approach which examines how racial profiling and surveillance operate across state and non-state levels performed by ‘citizen surveillants’ (Salerno 2017: 82; also Selod 2018: 75–98, 2019: 557– 559). Terror is derived from the power to superimpose the profile onto Muslims’ bodies through which they are (mis)recognised as threats. Chapter 2 engaged with the Gothic trope of haunting. This chapter focuses on the monster or monstrosity, what Jasbir Puar and Amit Rai (2002) term the ‘terrorist-monster.’ Puar and Rai (2002: 117) argue that knowledge used to construct contemporary understandings of the terrorist has a history that links the modern terrorist to the racial and sexual monsters of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. They chart how the monster has featured in Foucault’s (1997: 51–52) classification of the ‘abnormals’ in which the category of monstrosity has historically been used as an ‘index of civilizational development and cultural adaptability’ (Puar and Rai 2002: 119). Discourses of monstrosity as ‘a screen for otherness’ (Puar and Rai 2002: 119) are also involved in ‘circuits of normalizing power’ (Puar and Rai 2002: 119) that suggests that the monster figured as racial Other and the person to be disciplined are closely connected or, in this case, the terrorist-monster figured as Muslim is subjected to control through racial profiling and surveillance. I develop how the profile of the Muslim as a terror suspect or extremist is produced through a ‘technology of monstrosity’ (Halberstam 2000: 21–22) that supports examination of how processes of Gothicisation and racialisation interact (Malchow 1996: 3) through a number of identity categories that include race, religion, gender, nation, geography and age. Historical accounts of the Gothic such as Judith Halberstam (2000: 6; also Mighall 1999) note that ‘Monstrosity (and the fear it gives rise to) is historically conditioned rather than a psychological universal,’ that is useful for understanding how Muslims are constructed as monstrous within the ‘war on terror’ context. I explore how markers of monstrous bodies have moved across differently racialised bodies (black to South Asian), from ethnicity (the figure of the ‘Paki’) to religion (Islam), and across differently gendered bodies (Muslim males to Muslim females). This latter shift challenges conceptions of the terrorist-monster (see Puar 2007; Bhattacharyya 2008; Puar and Rai 2002) as always a male body

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by examining how this category can also include Muslim women1 (see Rashid 2016; Saeed 2016: 57–84). I propose a development to the stereotype of ‘imperilled Muslim women’ (Chapter 2) to ‘imperil/led Muslim woman’ to examine the shifting ways in which Muslim women can be stereotyped as both objects of terror at the hands of violently patriarchal Muslim males, and its subject as ‘terrorists’ and ‘extremists.’ By drawing attention to both visual and embodied markers, the technology of monstrosity extends examination of race that is productive for considering how Islamophobia functions ‘beyond corporeality’ (Hesse 2007: 643). That is, as ‘signifying colonial distinctions between assemblages of “Europeanness” and “non-Europeanness”’ (Hesse 2007: 643). This is important for understanding differences in performances of Muslim identities across the spectrum of (in/hyper-)visibility (Tyrer 2008). Racialisation is an important tool for understanding performances of Islamophobia (Zopf 2018; Maira 2016; Garner and Selod 2015; Meer 2013a, b; Kibria 2011; Rana 2011; Cainkar 2009) because it is attentive to how Muslims are transformed into racialised Others through both dress and other visible physical markers, meaning Islamophobia is experienced differently depending on how Muslims are located within the racial terrain and the spectrum of moderate/extremist (Tyrer and Sayyid 2012: 358; Tyrer 2008). I discussed in Chapter 2 how Muslim women, through veiling, signify the threat of misogynistic Muslim men and the retreat of gender equality and feminism. In this chapter, I develop the negotiations which Muslim women engage in to perform their religious identities and navigate practices of (in/hyper-)visibility that broadly correspond to performances of piety, protection and resistance, but which, I argue, never fully occupy either position and may move between them. These performances are also shaped by the culture of fear affecting British Muslims. Strategies of invisibilisation may function as a means of ‘fitting in’ and averting the gaze of state surveillance and being disciplined by fellow citizens. Contrastingly, adopting a hyper-visible Muslim identification, where the face-veil or niqab worn by Muslim women is the most contentious, may be read as signifying either resistance to British social norms, proclivities for terrorism or extremism, or piety. These perceptions are not exhaustive, nor do they fit neatly within a Muslim/non-Muslim or indeed

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gender divide. Rather, they highlight contestations occurring both within wider society and within Muslim communities, but which cannot be divorced from the culture of fear affecting Muslim populations within the ‘war on terror’ context (Chapter 5). In this regard, I argue that Islamophobia operates as an instrument of governance that draws from racial practices (see Tyrer 2010b: 95–96) through which Muslims are managed within a racialised governmentality, specifically, a hegemonic ‘white governmentality’ (Hesse 1997: 98). Since Muslims can also be white, I argue that we must also approach whiteness as racialised and as internally differentiated. As I introduced in Chapter 2, attention to racial interiors and exteriors has important implications for understanding how Islamophobia is differentially experienced as well as how divisions are produced within the oppressed group vis-à-vis both other ethnically marked communities and the normative population. These ‘interferences’ (Haraway 1992: 299, 300) further highlight the instability of categories of self/other, civilised/barbaric, terrorist/terrorised. Writers on the Gothic have drawn attention to the ‘ontological liminality’ (J.J. Cohen 2007: 201) of monsters that exist ‘across multiple categories of being’ (Hurley 1996: 24). In her excellent discussion of finde-siecle Gothic, Kelly Hurley (1996: 3) notes its obsession with ‘the ruination of the human subject,’ where in place of a stable, bounded human subject, is instead the ‘spectacle of body metamorphic and undifferentiated.’ The Gothic maps an alternative trajectory to the certainties of science for determining the presence of criminality and thus securing the subject imagined as the Muslim terror suspect ‘whose potential indetermination poses alarm’ (Abbas 2019: 2461). This figure embodies an important departure between the Gothic and Enlightenment science described by Wagner (2012: 75, original italics) whereby ‘In contrast to scientific faith in the transparent body,’ the body is represented in the Gothic as ‘an untrustworthy source of information about the self.’ The discourse of degeneration (Byron 2000: 132) present in fin de siècle Gothic texts is concerned with defining the contours of a culture ‘in crisis.’ It provides a counterpoint to scientific rigour and certainty by articulating fears of the ‘dissolution of the nation, of society, of the human subject itself ’ (Byron 2000: 133) and by contrast, the desire to ij

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identify and contain what is considered as an ‘unfixed, transgressive other and threatening’ (Byron 2000: 133) by demanding there ‘be a boundary’ (Glover 1996: 71, original italics). By refusing to be contained by the normative grammar of race based on a black/white binary (Goldberg 2006), the ‘Muslim’ troubles attempts to classify and order bodies (Wagner 2012; Hurley 1996) and secure national borders, exposing the limits of scientific technologies of surveillance and biometrics for locating the terror suspect. Such attempts nonetheless persist as mechanisms of racial terror through which the power to get it wrong is precisely how the culture of fear operates; it is only by ‘looking Muslim’ that individuals are put at risk, whether Muslim or not, terrorist or not, involving a series of (mis)recognitions that reveal the instability yet persistence of race as a means through which terror is performed. This chapter is organised into three key sections: firstly, interpellation of the ‘Paki’ within the racialised epidermal schema, secondly, the racialisation of religion underpinning the (in/hyper-)visibility of the Muslim through which Muslims are (mis)recognised, and thirdly, racialised and gendered surveillance exploring the (in)securitisation of Muslims resulting from the production of the terrorist-monster as ‘Muslim-looking.’ The final section examines the possibility of developing a new visual schema by reworking the racialised power differentials of seer/seen by inviting the look as a means of forging empathetic forms of relationalities between bodies based on mutual recognition.

2

Interpellation

“Look, a Paki!” Racism was … what drove a lot of people back in them days ‘cos you’d be walking down the streets and you’d get it. I remember when I was 10, no about 12, 14, and there was a little kid with his mum and he says: ‘mum look, Paki!’ The mum looked shocked, but where else is the kid

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going to get it from? He must have only been about three. You think, fair enough. (Moustafa)

Moustafa describes the environment in which he grew up in Cardiff as mixed but as “racially hostile,” particularly on the outskirts of the city. He experienced racism from an early age and it affected his everyday life, citing the example of a kid on the school bus who head-butted him. Seeing the incident from the window, he describes how his dad came running out of the house. Wearing his “Pakistani clothes,” he took his son into the local pub which by contrast was inhabited by “all white men.” Moustafa recounts how everyone was looking at them upon entering as ‘bodies out of place’ (Puwar 2004) whilst they made their way to the back of the pub where there was a boxing club. Upon entry, his father asked the trainer in his “broken English” to train his son to box so that he could protect himself, illustrating how Moustafa is socialised from childhood into the violences of racism. Moustafa’s account draws attention to the affective, mobilising, hostile force of racism, which he describes “drove a lot of people”; a force that has structured Pakistanis’ everyday experiences in Britain and shaped their relations with others, and thus which ‘orientates bodies in specific directions, affecting how they “take up space”’ (Ahmed 2006: 111). The imposition of skin hierarchies derived from colonial regimes ‘defines the visibility of the body, and also territorialises the body’ (Pile 2003: 264), present here in the disruption Moustafa experiences when going about his daily routine: “you’d be walking down the streets and you’d get it.” Moustafa describes how difference functions at the level of the body. The presence of the out of place body can always been called into question informing how spaces are racialised (Chapter 4). Subject to the hostile white gaze, the potential to be called out as not belonging is ever present and constitutes the conditions of racial terror for him. Following Louis Althusser’s (2001: 85–126) famous depiction of interpellation, the subject is hailed within language through being called a name (also Butler 1997b: 2), here the derogatory term “Paki.” Its usage regulates the racialised order by marking Moustafa as ‘Other’ and subordinate. In her discussion of subject formation, Judith Butler (1993a: 225–226) argues that the:

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…discursive condition of social recognition precedes and conditions the formation of the subject: recognition is not conferred on a subject, but forms that subject. Further, the impossibility of a full recognition, that is, of ever fully inhabiting the name by which one’s social identity is inaugurated and mobilized, implies the instability and incompleteness of subject formation.

Indeed the term “Paki” precedes Moustafa and interpellates him within a racialised order in which he experiences himself as a body out of place, as visibly Other. This term simultaneously comprises a (mis)recognition since it is a term that Moustafa recognises, but which is not of his own choosing. Interpellation is ‘double-edged’ (Haraway 1997: 50) in its capacity to call subjects into existence. Butler (1993a: 226) also draws our attention to the ‘incompleteness’ of subject formation which helps to explain shifts in interpellation from “Paki” to “enemy Muslim,” as discussed later. For Moustafa, interpellation provides an important rejoinder to the mirror scene explored in Chapter 2. Both involve misrecognition, or at least a disconnect between the body and the body image, where in the mirror scene it is Moustafa who sees himself as visibly different from the somatic norm (Chapter 2); in this instance comparably, it is the white gaze that draws Moustafa into the racial epidermal schema (Fanon 1986: 112) so that Moustafa recognises himself as corporeally different from the body in place. Hailing comprises a split between the gaze and self-identity that works in conjunction with how speech divides the Lacanian subject between speaker and subject of enunciation (Khanna 2003: 111). Contrastingly, the little white boy’s privileged status as belonging is secured from birth. Despite his age, he is already socialised into the privileges of whiteness. Whilst Butler’s (1993a: xvii) treatment of interpellation has been criticised for its lack of engagement with materiality in its analysis (Burkitt 1999: 94), Frantz Fanon (1986) helps flesh out the centrality of racialisation to interpellation. Moustafa’s account is reminiscent of Fanon’s (1986: 112) famous ‘Look, a Negro!’ scene (also see Chapter 2). Subject to the hostile white gaze, the Negro is inscribed within a racial epidermal schema which he subsequently internalises. As examined in

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Chapter 2, Moustafa’s individuality is denied as he comes to represent those contained within the category “Paki” whereby the body functions as a boundary marker. In his analysis of Fanon, Steve Pile (2003: 264) notes that, circumscribed by stereotypes and myths that his body signifies, ‘he is simultaneously visible and invisible, marked and erased, certain and uncertain…’ Racial interpellation comprises symbolic violence (Fassin 2011: 423; also Bourdieu 2000) since it reduces the individual to his skin and the negative attributes associated with it: ‘I wanted to be a man, nothing but a man’ Fanon (1986: 113) describes. Instead, as depicted here, Moustafa is just a “Paki,” which implies a moral judgement of an inferior being that, as revealed later, mobilises stigmatisation, discrimination and oppression. Similar to Fanon’s (1986) portrayal, the brown body is ‘incorporated into a system of racialized meanings’ (Pellegrini 1997: 100) involving a ‘“double process” of inferiorization and epidermalization,’ most exemplified by the category “dirty Paki” discussed later. Donna Haraway (1997: 50) argues that those who (mis)recognise themselves within the discourse ‘acquire the power, and responsibility, to shape that discourse.’ Here however, Moustafa resigns himself to the interpellative order which secures his subordinate position: “you think, fair enough,” the use of “fair” ironically fixes the encounter as one premised on the historico-racial epidermal schema (Fanon 1986: 111) in which his failure to be fair-skinned seals his fate as a body out of place. The look of shock on the mother’s face appears to offer a way out of the symbolic violence of the racist encounter. Shame expressed by the white onlooker, as George Yancy (2008: 17) observes, may offer the ‘beginning of a new narrative’ by allowing the victim of racism a moral victory and means of reversing the gaze. Yet Yancy (2008: 18) concedes that shame is ‘no substitute for the real struggle ahead, the honesty to examine and reexamine the residual habits of racism…’ Moustafa presents a similarly dismal picture. He sees the look of shock displayed by the mother as a feigned response, a form of bad faith in its intent to deceive since he believes that it is through the parents’ already inculcated position within the racialised schema that the child learns racial meaning: “where else is the kid going to get it from?” Moustafa asks rhetorically. The shock displayed arises from a desire not to appear racist. This does not mean

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that she or her progeny are not actually racist, or at least, complicit in a racist system. As Bridget Byrne (2006: 74) found, white women know that it is a ‘bad thing’ to appear racist. White terror is comparable to the ‘monster as mask’ described by Susan Ruddick (2004: 31) involving a ‘kind of false civility concealing a deep perversion.’ The only ‘mistake’ the child makes therefore is revealing the racist workings of society, that like his mother, he too will learn to uphold and importantly, conceal. The child as in Fanon’s (1986: 111–112) account ‘is both effect and vehicle of racism; indeed he is the orientation of white epistemic practices’ (Yancy 2008: 72, original italics) vis-à-vis the brown Other. The terror of the gaze is augmented because it demonstrates that racism has permeated the innocent, not just that of the white child as in Fanon’s well-known account, but Moustafa’s childhood, who, at the age of 12 or 14, and probably earlier, is subjected to what Erica Burman (2016: 79) describes as the ‘violent imposition and constitution of racialized subjectivity,’ as Samrina’s account shows. When Samrina was a teenager working with her father on a market stall in Birmingham, she witnessed a violent racist attack involving members of the BNP, decked in green bomber jackets and big boots, which left her father on the floor bleeding and gasping for breath. The incident had a profound effect on her and strengthened her resolve in terms of “who I am and my identity.” She felt let down by the police whom she described as “pretty racist in those days,” but also by other Asians who were family friends who “just let it happen,” she recounts disappointedly. She describes how the BNP would pick on South Asian women who wore traditional dress. In those days she did not wear hijab but did wear Pakistani clothes. BNP members would stand around trying to intimidate her and were surprised when she reproached them in English. She explains that she fitted the image of the immigrant woman but “I’ve been born and brought up here,” and laughs that she would often be told by people in the market: “oh you speak better English than me!” Racism comprises a “familiar” structuring of the social therefore, as Samrina further exemplifies:

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I was discriminated against before I looked like this because I’ve got a skin tone that’s not white so I’m familiar with it. I’ve had racism all my life, discrimination all my life…

Like Moustafa, racism is a structuring condition of Samrina’s lived experiences and opportunities. As someone of Pakistani heritage, her skin colour already marks her as a ‘body out of place,’ meaning she was subjected to racism before she chose to adopt a ‘visibly Muslim’ identity by wearing the hijab and jilbab. Samrina highlights the significance of regimes of (in/hyper-)visibility to experiences of racism and discrimination where her skin colour, and later, Islamic dress, are central to its enactment. Her account illustrates that racism cannot be divorced from accounts of Islamophobia and supports theorists who argue that religion must be understood as racialised (Meer 2013a, b; Tyrer and Sayyid 2012) which, in the British context, is significant for understanding the racialisation of Muslims as predominately Pakistani. We can surmise from Samrina’s account that continuities in practices of racism contribute to current racialisations of the terror suspect as South Asian, principally Pakistani, in the British context. In the next section, I examine how the racialised figure of the “dirt Paki” contributes to the Gothicisation of the “enemy” Muslim within the national imaginary.

The ‘New Face of Racism’: “Dirty Paki” to “Enemy” Muslim Post-9/11, findings have shown that Muslims experience higher incidents of racism and discrimination on the grounds of their religion than racial, ethnic or cultural identity (Sheridan 2002), provided by a ‘new visibility for the Muslim body’ (Bhattacharyya 2008: 100; Alexander 2004, 2006; Allen 2004, 2005; Peach 2005). Chris Allen (2005) similarly notes that the ‘identifier’ for this new episode of racism was defined more by one’s (perceived) religion. Tariq Modood and Fauzia Ahmad (2007: 187) corroborate that following the ‘political crises featuring Muslims rather than Asians’ from the Rushdie Affair in 1988–1989 to the First Gulf War in 1991, 11 September 2001 and ensuing wars in Iraq and

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Afghanistan, and the 2005 London bombings, ‘the term “Asian” has ceased to have much content as a political category.’ This interpellative shift was reflected by a number of participants who recounted the change post-9/11 from being targeted on account of their race, from the “dirty Paki,” to religion, the “enemy Muslim,” as Moustafa discusses: I think the faith came in later on, you know after the whole September 11th and all the rest it became massive. Before that it wasn’t, before that you were just a Paki … You weren’t a Muslim, you weren’t a raghead, before that you were just a simple-arse Paki … just a dirty Paki. But after September 11th, you became an enemy then, not someone they could bully and pick on, someone they actually despised and disliked … It was a massive kind of turning point because people were like look at these Muslims causing trouble … and it’s hard brandishing a whole billion people because of a few. But it was … you know, and I think the way the media portrayed it created such an enemy.

Moustafa’s words show us how the Gothic operates visually. As I have discussed, the racialisation of Islamist terrorists in the British context draws on previous encounters with ‘brown bodies’ informing the ‘Paki’ identity. Prior to being identified as a Muslim, Moustafa was ascribed the derogatory label of “dirty Paki” and as such, identified as a (racialised) body that is already recognised as ‘matter out of place’ (Douglas 2002: 44). Dirt here renders the “Paki” a monstrous being, that as Magrit Shildrick (2002: 54) observes, does not simply represent Otherness, but ‘reminds us always of what must be abjected from the self ’s clean and proper body.’ The subordinate status of the “Paki” indicated by the prefixes “just a” and “simple-arse” that located him within the ‘received schemas for racialised classification’ (Tyrer 2008: 48) as less advanced than whites enables the hegemonic status of whiteness to remain in place. Yet because the monster cannot be completely vanquished, it remains as an ‘undecidable absent presence’ (Shildrick 2002: 54) that refuses to be completely externalised, reappearing in the guise of the “enemy Muslim.” Moustafa’s account supports David Theo Goldberg’s (2009) relational approach to racial conceptions and racism. For Goldberg (2009: 1273), these are not just ‘deeply local in the exact meanings and resonances they exhibit,’ which for Moustafa relies on the hegemonic racialisation

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of Muslims as ‘Pakis’ in the British context to his negative treatment, but are ‘almost always tied to extra- and trans-territorial conceptions and expressions, those that circulate in wider circles of meaning and practice.’ As evidenced here, Moustafa is brandished as an “enemy Muslim” (see McGhee 2008: 29–49; Naber 2006: 236; Allen 2004: 137) through his association with Muslims globally, which in turn affects how he is treated locally. David Tyrer (2008: 48) argues that being categorised as Muslim reworks ‘the language of “race”’ and thus the ‘strategies of white governmentality’ (see Hesse 1997) as they are applied to the governance of Britain’s internal racial colonies. This informs how the shift from ‘Paki’ to ‘Muslim’ is also paralleled by the movement from ‘victim’ to ‘aggressor’ status (Alexander 2004, 2006: 266, also Parmar 2007, 2015; Bowling et al. 2008; Hudson 2007; Sheridan 2006; Goodey 2001). Emerging from a subordinate status within the social order, Moustafa narrates how he is now perceived as “not someone who [non-Muslim Britons] could bully and pick on” which posits him, along with other Muslims, as a threat to the social order. Tyrer (2008: 48) observes that attempts to recentre race inform the persistence of the power of whiteness to represent the Other. Moustafa illustrates that the racialisation of the Muslim terrorist operates through the Gothic iconography of the “raghead” as a symbol of uncivilised and barbarous Muslim populations that is activated through a ‘racialised regime of visuality’ that ‘effectively constitute, regulate and determine what it is we see’ (Pugliese 2006: 7)—“look at these Muslims causing trouble.” It is important to note that the hypervisibility of the turban as a dominant ‘visual identifier’ (Allen 2004: 135) for Muslim men has contributed to misrecognitions of Sikhs as Muslim (Jhutti-Johal and Singh 2019; Sian 2010, 2017; Allen 2004: 135) based on an inability to differentiate between religions as well as ethnicity, as I discuss later. Hyper-visibility of the enemy Muslim denotes the performative power of whiteness to ‘produce the phenomena that it regulates and constrains’ (Butler 1993a: 2). This representational power is augmented by sustained media images of the Muslim as “such an enemy” which rely on racialised visual iconography to make them salient. Exhibiting Claire Valier’s (2002: 319) account of gothicism characterised by ‘menacing shadowy

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figures’ as a perceptible feature of discourses of public protection and vengeance, the enemy is abstract and depersonalised (also Hardt and Negri 2006: 15), “an enemy,” that can attach itself to anyone pertaining to the image of ‘Muslim.’ The body features in Moustafa’s account as (dis)embodied; haunted by a body image of the phantasmatic terrorist, what Claire Colebrook (2000: 27) describes as the ‘incorporeal gap’ that separates perceptions of the body from the physical body, but which nonetheless structures how the body is ‘seen’ and lived. The ‘terroristmonster’ (Puar and Rai 2002) figured as Muslim operates through twin mechanisms constituting the Other observed by Elaine Scarry (2002: 48) of ‘monstrosity and invisibility,’ ‘the one overly visible and repelling attention’ (the “raghead”), ‘the other unavailable for attention and hence absent from the outset.’ The latter includes those Muslim populations killed during the ‘war on terror,’ their invisibilisation only serving to prop up the hyper-visibility of the Muslim as terrorist-monster. In effect, Muslims are “brandished” en masse as trouble-makers, as described here. Moustafa’s account highlights that skin colour presents an arbitrary signifier since the meanings it invokes shift in response to wider cultural meanings, but which are nonetheless etched within asymmetrical racialised power relations that propose detrimental outcomes for him, and those that look like him. Mary Bloodsworth-Lugo and Carmen Lugo-Lugo (2008: 275, 281) use the term ‘browning’ to describe the processes by which bodies are ‘transformed’ into threats through discourse which ‘extends beyond skin color or racial/ethnic heritage to mark a marginalized, yet threatening, position’ to the nation and its citizens and, as such, comprises ‘a racial project.’ I move on to discuss how racial profiling has historically been used as mechanism through which racial minorities in England have been criminalised and disciplined, focusing on the impact that shifts in penal practice concerning countering terrorism and extremism have had on Muslim, principally South Asian, populations. I draw from Samrina’s words. She begins her account by contextualising the current treatment of Muslims within a continuum of racism experienced by racial minority groups in England. As such, her account illustrates how terror has a racialised history (Abbas 2013) which enables us to understand practices

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of racial terror within the Concentrationary Gothic as fundamental to the structure and enactment of whiteness, not an aberration: I think in the climate that we’re in today we’re a threat … It’s more blunt – you know the history we’ve had in this country of racism being blatant, it’s much more blatant for Muslims today than it is for other minority groups.

Samrina draws attention to racism as a structuring condition of the experiences of minority groups in Britain. She highlights the centrality of ‘race’ for the ‘war of position’ (Lewis 2000: 4, 6) involved in deciding which bodies can be included in the national imaginary. The connection which Samrina draws between the “history” of racism to the current treatment of Muslims as postcolonial subjects requires that we examine how previous configurations of ‘race’ are reshaped to suit the current socio-political context involved in the governance of England’s internal racial colonies. That visual differences can operate differently across time/space illustrates how the body is a ‘dynamic material domain’ as Linda Martín Alcoff (2006: 65) acknowledges, not just because of the different ways in which it can be ‘seen,’ but because of the ‘volatile’ (Grosz 1994: x) nature of the materiality of the body itself. Grosz (1994: x) observes that the body is ‘re-presented’ in response to historical, social and cultural exigencies. Salman Sayyid (2004: 153) contends that ‘colonial governmentality is re-tooled to provide the regulatory regimes which police the ethnically marked populations of the excolonies.’ A relational account of race is therefore important since it alerts us to histories of logics of oppression underpinning state formations and their effects upon current relational ties (Goldberg 2009: 1275–1276). This perspective supports work that has deliberated upon the continuation of categories informed by unequal power relations between Europeanness and non-Europeanness (Goldberg 2009; Gregory 2004, 2007, 2008; Razack 2008; Hesse 2004, 2007; Gilroy 2000) and redeployment of governmental practices that privilege whiteness (Hesse 1997; also Patel and Tyrer 2011). Barnor Hesse (1997: 99) explains that a white governmentality is operationalised where

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‘race’ is defined as a ‘problem of government’ that focuses on resolving the threat by relying on ‘technologies of the body’ (also Foucault 1977). Racial ascriptions placed on those defined as threats function as disciplinary measures that delimit what they can do. Samrina differentiates between the current experiences of Muslims and other minority groups emerging from Muslims’ visibility as a “threat” through their association with terrorism. This production is related to the socio-political context, the “climate,” that makes such representations credible in keeping with historical accounts of the Gothic described earlier (Halberstam 2000: 6; Mighall 1999). That bodies can emerge as threatening under particular conditions illustrates that there is no ‘real’ material body but rather, as Elizabeth Grosz (1994: x) contends, ‘representations and cultural inscriptions quite literally constitute bodies and help to produce them as such.’ In this regard, bodies are mobile and dynamic and thus what bodies signify is contingent upon the forms of relationality that they are mediated by. Importantly, Samrina draws our attention to how being made visible as a threat is accompanied by heightened visibility of racism as “more blunt” and “blatant.” That the body produced as a threat experiences heightened violence interferes with dominant notions of the threatening body as aggressor. How might we explain this incongruity? The connection between vision and violence is made explicit by Haraway (2004: 90), observing that ‘Vision is always a question of the power to see – and perhaps of the violence implicit in our visualizing practices.’ She suggests that the visual provides the conditions for violence to be enacted by the seer against its object by determining how bodies are ‘seen.’ Butler’s (1993b) examination of the Rodney King case of police brutality suffered at the hands of Los Angeles Police Department Officers on 3 March 1991 provides a useful illustration of the connection between violence and the production of racialised bodies as threats, in this instance a black male of only 26 years of age. Butler (1993b: 16) describes how what she terms ‘inverted projections of white paranoia’ produces the recipient of violence as the subject of violence by signifying an impending danger. This projection legitimates violence being done to the body deemed dangerous to curtail the threat that they are perceived to pose. Following Butler, current projections of Muslims as dangerous (Bhattacharyya 2008; also

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Butler 2004: 59) help to explain heightened racism experienced by them as Samrina recounts. Producing bodies as threats to the social order illustrates the interdependence of practices of racialisation and Gothicisation (Malchow 1996: 3) that importantly, legitimates the violent disciplining of such bodies. The processes through which Muslim bodies are produced as threatening require examination of how they mediate distinctions, not only between whites and racial ‘Others,’ but between other racial minority groups (Frankenberg 1997: 20, 21). The change in visibility experienced by Muslims through being ascribed the category of “threat” differentiates them from other racial minority groups with the potential to reconfigure relations vis-à-vis one another. The current emphasis on Muslims observed by Samrina reconstitutes racism as a shared experience between racial minority groups to institute divisions between them, as I move on to discuss.

Re-focusing the Target: Black Bodies to (South Asian) Muslim Bodies The notion that the body could be a source for detecting vice and criminality is a prominent feature of modernity emerging from Enlightenment rationality and scientific progression (Wagner 2012: 75, 76). These theories have always borne the hallmarks of racial discrimination and the Gothic. As Hurley (1996: 131) writes, theories of criminal ‘atavism’ and ‘degeneration’ are Gothic renditions of scientific faith in which the potential ‘indifferentiation and changeability of the human species’ (Hurley 1996: 10) exposes the body as an inaccurate rubric for discerning criminality. The persistence of racial profiling means that the body remains a key site of discipline involving independent practices of racialisation and Gothicisation. Research has demonstrated longstanding discriminatory stop and search practices used against ethnically marked populations in the UK (Long 2018, 2021; Bowling and Phillips 2007) and the inadequacy of codes of conduct such as ‘reasonable suspicion’ and vague drafting of extensive police powers (Long 2018; Lennon 2015; Quinton 2011;

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Sanders and Young 2008; Bowling and Phillips 2007). My concern in this section is to delineate the perceived2 shift in the policing of Britain’s African-Caribbean settlers to Muslim (predominately South Asian) groups (Alexander 2007: 117; Chakraborti 2007: 109) due to their association with terrorism and extremism. Commentators have argued that the visibility of black criminality through moral panics concerning ‘Rastafarian drug dealers,’ ‘black rioters,’ ‘muggers’ and ‘Yardies’ from the 1970s onwards (Alexander 1996; Gilroy 1987; Hall et al. 1978) has lessened following the 1995 and 2001 disturbances which predominately involved young Asian men and 7/7 that has Gothicised Muslims as the ‘enemy within’ (Bolognani 2009; Dwyer et al. 2008; Hudson 2007: 163; Alexander 2004, 2006, 2007; Webster 2004; Kalra 2003; Goodey 2001). Claire Alexander’s (2000a, b: 129–130) work on ‘the Asian gang’ for example examines how the ‘new visibility’ of young Asian males as criminal figures reworks earlier racialised discourses of young black men in a ‘culturally specific format’ that incorporates the same ‘symbolic markers and discourses of dysfunction.’ Interestingly, Alexander draws attention to how Asian communities were previously contrasted to black communities. The former were associated with family breakdown, cultural conflict and social disorder, whilst Asian communities by contrast were characterised as having a strong family unit and were largely absent from public discourses of social breakdown. As I develop in Chapter 5, Muslim families, particularly South Asian/Pakistani families, are pathologised in discourses of extremism. The profile of the terror suspect produces bodies as ‘visible’ targets of discipline and is connected to the enactment of power (see Bhabha 1997: 79). I illustrate how racial signification is a socio-political process in which categories of race are deployed to differentiate between groups (Winant 1994: 271). I explore how perceived changes in the (racialised) body made visible as the target of penal practice affects relations between members of differently racialised minority communities. To make this argument, I use Samrina’s account of her conversation with her friend Maggie in which they are discussing changes in penal practice concerning the policing of black bodies:

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I mean I was out with a black friend of mine … we went out for a meal and we were talking about the climate and stuff, and she goes Samrina – because she’s also a magistrate – she goes, when I saw how they were changing the tactics of how they were treating the Muslims I thought, thank God! That’s the pressure off the black community! And I said, Thanks very much! But she’s right – she’s absolutely right, because the black community who have been stopped and searched and treated with discrimination and been the target, are no longer the same target, don’t have the same pressures, and don’t have any sympathy for us because of the fact that they’ve experienced it.

Samrina sets the scene as a meal between two friends who are having an amiable chat about the current state of affairs. As a black non-Muslim female and also a magistrate, Samrina uses Maggie to authenticate her claims about the changes in criminal proceedings and the detrimental impact that they propose for Muslims. Her account illustrates the complex interplay or ‘interferences,’ to use Haraway’s (1992: 299, 300) term, between visual technologies of (in/hyper-)visibility that are important for understanding the divergent ways in which bodies come up against each other, and are divided from each other, as an effect of their reclassification as threats within (racialised) penal practices. Vision, as Haraway (2004: 90) notes, requires paying attention to the ‘politics of positioning.’ This is important for understanding how Maggie is positioned by Samrina as having access to knowledge that is unavailable to her. It is Maggie whom Samrina entrusts with bearing witness to changes in criminal proceedings because of her status as a magistrate and a member of the community previously targeted which, she implies, enables her to ‘see’ the changes: “I saw how they were changing the tactics,” Samrina quotes Maggie as saying. As Gargi Bhattacharyya (2008: 96–97) observes, ‘Racial myths evolve so that the demonised figure of the “dangerous black man” becomes the “dangerous brown man”…with “brown” here signifying a difference that can be depicted as cultural, non-essential, beyond the horrific histories of violence against Africans and yet enabling a continuance of the link between bodies and social meaning’ (also Sentas 2014). In keeping with the Concentrationary Gothic, connective logics of racialisation and Gothicisation

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are discernible in the criminalisation and policing of racial Others at different historical moments therefore. Yet Maggie’s purported ability to ‘see’ the shift in targeting presents a deficient visual technology through its reliance on the ocular as a means of validating evidence. On closer examination, there is a more complex struggle over the power to ‘see’ in operation here which is significant for understanding the (racialised) relations of power that inform such rule changes. (Perceived) changes in penal practice must be understood in relation to the unmarked (white) body, the disembodied “they” that Maggie alludes to that has the power to change policing tactics; a ‘conquering gaze from “nowhere”’ which Haraway (2004: 86) has warned us about, that further exemplifies the relationship between vision and violence. This is a gaze that has the power to mark bodies as “targets,” ‘the power to see and not be seen, to represent whilst escaping representation’ (Haraway 2004: 86) and importantly, accountability, as the shooting of Jean Charles de Menezes starkly demonstrates, as I discuss later. We can propose that continuities in racial profiling illustrate the hegemony of whiteness as a structure of governmentality (see Hesse 1997) within penal practice, where race still functions as a means of ordering and categorising bodies as ‘threatening.’ Stop and search practices discussed here are premised on marking out bodies that can be stopped whilst securing the power of the ‘eye/I’ to designate ‘risky subjects’ and importantly, by following procedure, to avoid accusations of racism. Samrina contests this diversion strategy however. She contends that stopping and searching is accompanied by being “treated with discrimination” and therefore as endemically racist since the body that is stopped is unfairly delayed passage. This perspective is supported by Sara Ahmed (2007: 161) who observes that stop and search is ‘of course a technology of racism’ that functions as means of ordering bodies through its uneven distribution. For Ahmed (2007: 161), such disciplinary practices leave impressions on the body, ‘affecting those bodies that are subject to its address.’ Similarly, Samrina refers to the “pressure” that is imposed, meaning the body is made the site of discipline (Foucault 1977: 138). Constraints on the body are not only physical, but affective, whereby the

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body becomes the ‘site of social stress’ (Ahmed 2007: 161). The pressure imposed on the body made target helps to explain the extent of relief to its removal which Samrina reports that Maggie demonstrates: “Thank god!” I want to move my analysis of this excerpt in a slightly different direction to examine the effects that the perceived shift in police targeting and penal practice under counter-terrorism has on the micro-context of the relationship between Samrina and Maggie, and in keeping with a networked approach to racial terror that the Concentrationary Gothic advances, what this might tell us about wider relations between black and Muslim communities and understandings/experiences of suspect treatment. In particular, I am concerned with interrogating the persistent absence of blackness to understandings of Muslimness and thus Islamophobia, that invisibilises black Muslims’ experiences and more disconcertedly, potentially risks reanimating anti-black logics. Tensions between the two women begin to emerge when changes in criminalisation are discussed as affording divergent outcomes for their respective communities, where Maggie’s overt relief is met with a sarcastic retort from Samrina: “Thanks very much!” This response can be understood as a pejorative rejoinder to the lack of empathy that her friend has shown towards her as a member of the group who is faced with the brunt of the change in penal practice which Maggie is openly pleased to have relinquished according to Samrina. Samrina uses Maggie’s response towards her to structure her understanding of wider relations between “the black community” and Muslim community as premised on an absence of compassion. Despite commonalities in experiences of racialised policing, whereby Samrina acknowledges that the black community have been “stopped and searched and treated with discrimination,” the perceived shift to Muslim bodies reconstitutes how she understands relations between these two communities as characterised by division rather than shared compassion. Samrina argues that it is precisely because the black community has experienced the “same pressures” that they “don’t have any sympathy” towards Muslims as the group perceived to have taken their place. Since Samrina has alerted us to the strain which accompanies being a member of the targeted community, we could propose that the lack of sympathy which

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she claims has been shown by the black community is an effect of the sustained pressure to which they have been subjected and emotionally drained from as a result, and, perhaps, by distancing themselves from Muslims as the ‘new suspects,’ might help them to cultivate an improved social position. Samrina commits her own strategies of invisibilisation however to construct her argument. She does not specify who she is including in her categorisation of the “black community.” Her inability to make distinctions means that she generalises the experiences of the black community that obfuscates internal differences comprising this classification and how they might interrelate to other categories of experience such as gender, age, class, nation and of course religion. In so doing, she augments the difference between the black community and Muslims by treating their experiences as divergent in order to make her case of the particular targeting of Muslims, despite the fact that Muslims can also be black. Randa Abdel-Fattah (2017: 400) warns of the ‘false dichotomy between “black” and “Muslim.”’ This can lead to the underrepresentation of experiences of black Muslims (Islam 2018: 3) and their lack of visibility in public debate, including within Muslim groups, and thus ability to seek protection qua Muslim (Mugabo 2016). Understandings of Islamophobia are centred on Orientalist inscriptions of non-white and non-black bodies (Escalante 2019: 180; Mugabo 2016: 162), principally brown bodies in the UK context, which ‘universalizes the Muslim subject’ (Mugabo 2016: 165) and importantly, risks ‘enacting anti-Black modes of thinking’ (Mugabo 2016: 165), as I develop later. Samrina’s account prompts us to consider how relations between differently racialised communities must be understood in terms of contestations around ‘race’ and interrogations of difference (Modood 1997, 2005, 2006; Hesse 2000; Werbner 1997; Abrah 1996; Hall 1992b). What we see from Samrina’s account is not a simple substitution between groups, but a more complex differentiation of social positionings. Evelyn Brooks Higginbotham (1992: 253) explains how reformulations of category constructions lead to the repositioning of groups in relation to another. She argues that race is a ‘highly contested representation of relations of power between social categories by which

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individuals are identified and identify themselves’ (Higginbotham 1992: 253). Controversies over the usage of the category ‘black’ to designate common experiences of African-Caribbean and South Asian groups in post-war Britain (Brah 1996: 96) and their ability to form political alliances to resist racism have been complicated by the divergent forms that racism takes that are also important for understanding differences in how Islamophobia operates vis-à-vis practices of racism and racialisation. Tariq Modood (2006: 66, 67) notes that using a colour-based racism as a form of mobilisation for those experiencing racial discrimination ‘falsely equates racial discrimination with colour discrimination,’ which overlooks the significance of cultural difference to disadvantage. Arising from these contestations, Rahsaan Maxwell (2006: 736) observes the shift in ethnic minority politics in Britain from the late 1980s from ‘“black” politics of inclusion and equality to Muslim and South Asian demands for distinct religious and cultural rights’ (also Abbas 2020; Ansari 2005). As we have seen from Samrina’s account, racism ‘violates selectively’ (Werbner 1997: 242, original italics) depending on which group is (perceived to be) targeted. Differential treatment can drive a wedge between racialised groups because of the divergent outcomes it proposes. Pnina Werbner (1997: 243) refers to the ‘paradox of racism’ which not only unites, but divides victims culturally (see Sivanandan 1990: 77–123; Anthias and Yuval-Davis 1992: 7; 132–156; Brah 1992). Recent Black Lives Matter protests have brought to the fore contestations concerning racism and Islamophobia, both intersections as well as divisions. As minorities within Muslim communities in the UK in terms of numbers but also, more importantly, ‘political and societal influence’ (MEND 2020), black Muslims face particular challenges, both in terms of structural inequalities in respect to wider society and within Muslim communities. Newer communities such as Somali Muslims and Gambian Muslims may not be welcomed by established Muslim communities from the South Asian disapora and mosques are often divided along ethnic lines (see Chapter 5). In a statement of ‘solidarity’ issued by the Muslim Council of Britain (2 June 2020) in tackling anti-black racism in the light of Black Lives Matter protests following the unjust

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killing of an African-American man, George Floyd, on the 25 May 2020 during an arrest by a white police officer, the organisation also recognised the need to address anti-blackness within Muslim communities. The statement thus demonstrates important attempts at building political allegiances between black and Muslim communities as well as the presence of intra-community differences concerning experiences of racism, including police brutality, and negative treatment of black Muslims by non-black Muslims. The shift in police tactics concerning stop and search does not mean that black populations are no longer subject to discriminatory policing (see Bashi 2004). Samrina notes that they are “no longer the same target,” not that they are not a target at all. Despite the perception of suspect treatment offered in Samrina’s account, black individuals remain hyper-visible within policing. Differences in the policing of black communities vis-à-vis Asian Muslims can be more accurately understood in terms of the legislation under which searches in England and Wales are conducted. The majority are conducted under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984 (PACE) which had a peak of over 1.5 million in the period 2008/9 (Clark 2019), compared to 256,000 under Sect. 443 of the Terrorism Act 2000. In 2018/19, there were 383,629 stop and searches under PACE (Clark 2019), accounting for 97 per cent of all stop and searches in England and Wales, with Sect. 60 of the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act accounting for the remaining 3 per cent. Stop and Search under the Terrorism Act 2000 for the same period show that there were no stop and searches under Sect. 47A (Gov.UK 9 June 2020), down from 149 the previous year, and 685 stop and searches under Sect. 43 of the Terrorism Act (TACT) 2000. Legislative distinctions in the use of stop and search powers for example between PACE, which is primarily used to find stolen or prohibited articles such as drugs, compared to TACT which is used to disrupt terrorist activities, reflect racialised differences concerning policing and criminalisation. A report by the Equality and Human Rights Commission (2010: 10) on the use of stop and search powers in England and Wales states that PACE is consistently ‘used more disproportionately against black people than those conducted under the Terrorism Act.’ This is reflected in Home Office (2019: 15) figures for stop and search under PACE for the year

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ending March 2019, which report that ‘those who identify as Black or Black British were 9.7 times as likely to be stopped than those who identify as White,’ and 2.8 times for Asian people. Black people also face the highest stop and searches for Sect. 60 of the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act used to prevent violence involving weapons such as knife and gun crime, amounting to 4,858 compared to 1,827 involving Asian people in 2018/19 (Gov.UK 9 June 2020: 5). Comparably, if we look specifically at stop and searches under Sect. 43 of the Terrorism Act 2000, Home Office (2012: 48) figures reported on September 2012 for 2011/2012 during the time of this research show the highest number for Asian/Asian British of 302 compared to 296 for white, and 75 for black/black British individuals. Drawing out these distinctions helps us to see that black people are disproportionately subject to police targeting above other ethnic groups, whilst also recognising the increased focus on Asian individuals concerning counter-terrorism policing post-9/11. Since the relational ties that produced the black body as a criminal figure have not been entirely severed, the conditions of possibility remain for focus to be placed on them, particularly since black bodies can also be Muslim bodies.4 Haraway’s (1992: 300) metaphor of diffraction provides a useful way of rethinking the visual through being attentive to the ‘mapping of interferences.’ This practice supports exploration of how people’s lives are subjected to ‘multiple, intersecting axes of differentiation and power’ (Moser 2006: 537). Byrne (2006: 24) similarly observes that questions of (in)visibility are crucial for understanding the perceptual practices of race and their connection to power and relationality, such that visibility operates differently depending on how subjects are positioned within the racial schema. The profile functions as a mechanism of power precisely because it can be attached to different bodies depending on which racialised ways of seeing that constitute the body as threatening within penal practice are made hegemonic. Importantly, visual practices operate as defective technologies that highlight how our perceptions misconstrue what we ‘see’ founded on (mis)recognition of who a Muslim is, and by extension, who a terror suspect is; (mis)recognitions that are also to be found within Muslim communities that further highlight complex entanglements through

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which the category ‘Muslim’ is both conceived and lived and in turn, the importance of considering Islamophobia in relation to practices of racialisation. In the next section, I explore racialised distinctions through which ‘Muslims’ are (mis)recognised and the challenges this proposes for conceptualising Islamophobia.

3

Racialising Religion: (Mis)Recognising Muslims

In this section, I examine the divergent ways in which Muslims are racialised. I build from theorists who argue that racialisation is an important concept for understanding how Islamophobia operates (Garner and Selod 2015; Moosavi 2015a, b; Meer 2013a, b) because it is attentive to internal differentiations concerning being Muslim arising from Muslims’ divergent positions within the racial terrain. Since the category ‘Muslim’ disrupts the normative racial grammar of black/white (Tyrer and Sayyid 2012; Goldberg 2006), who is ‘seen’ as Muslim operates through complex processes of (in/hyper-)visibility and (mis)recognition. In the British context, the hegemonic racialisation of Muslims as (those that ‘look’) Pakistani means that Muslims who do not fit this visual inscription may be subjected to misrecognition, meaning they may escape identification as Muslim (but not necessarily racism), and those who are not Muslim may be misrecognised as Muslim because they are racialised as Pakistani (even if they are not). I explore how Muslimness is connected to racialised understandings of whiteness, blackness and brownness, which trouble categories of ‘race’ and ‘religion’ and contribute to important debates concerning in/voluntary identities (Meer 2008) surrounding religious expression. I thus elucidate internal differences operating within the category ‘Muslim’ concerning experiences of Islamophobia, racism and colourism vis-à-vis Muslims and other racial minority groups and the dominant group, which requires adopting a relational understanding of race/racism that is attentive to shifting local resonances and wider geopolitics (see Goldberg 2009).

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a. (In)Visible “English Muslims” : Whiteness as privilege and/or abjection In the first example, I draw from Abrah, a 29-year-old British Muslim male of Bengali heritage who is from the historic mill town, Keighley, in West Yorkshire, but was working in Bradford at the time of interview. He describes how what he terms “English Muslims” (coded as white) occupy the place of hidden or invisible Muslim where they do not adopt visible markers of Islam (through dress or the beard), meaning they can be misrecognised as non-Muslim, including by other Muslims; an invisibility that despite not wearing Islamic dress (except during prayer) or having a beard, Abrah cannot inhabit on account of his brown skin. Importantly, what Abrah terms the “visuality of race” that undergirds the racialisation of Muslims proposes significant differences in treatment between English Muslims and Asian Muslims due to their different locations within the spectrum of (in/hyper-)visibility: …you have to be a Muslim to realise the kind of animosity against Muslims. Um, sorry I know that’s quite a bold statement. You might turn round and say well actually you can be a non-Muslim and realise that, but the visuality of race is such an important factor you know. I could be an English Muslim without a beard and not dress as a Muslim and I could walk past and I could be a Muslim Asian and there’s a very you know … there’s a lot in the kind of visability of race.

Abrah highlights dependency on the racialised visual regime (Pugliese 2006: 7) for structuring power relations of (in/hyper-)visibility which propose different outcomes for Muslims depending on their visible difference from the somatic norm and perceived location within the racialised terrain. His account supports theorists who argue that racialisation is important for understanding Islamophobia (Garner and Selod 2015; Moosavi 2015a, b; Meer 2013a, b; Meer and Modood 2010). Steve Garner and Saher Selod (2015: 12, 13; Halliday 1999) observe that people ‘read Muslim-ness onto individuals by using a combination of ideas about culture and appearance’ that involve ‘markers of Islam

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such as the hijab, jilbab, Muslim name, nation of origin etc.’ Similarly, AbdoolKarim Vakil (2010b: 276) surmises: ‘Religion is “raced,” and Muslims are racialized.’ This helps to explain the misrecognisations that can ensue, meaning white bodies can avoid being seen as Muslim, as described here. Since whiteness can escape attention as a racial category, the “English Muslim” retains the privilege to “walk past” where they do not adopt visible markers of Muslimness. As Goldberg (1997: 83; also Puwar 2004: 57; Dyer 1997: 1) surmises, whites are ‘racially invisible – the ghosts of modernity, whites could assume power as the norm of humanity, as the naturally given. Unseen racially, that is seen as racially marked – or seen precisely as racially unmarked – whites could be everywhere.’ “English Muslims” are therefore not subject to the same technologies of surveillance or experiences of anti-Muslim racism as ethnically marked Muslims or those ‘seen’ to be Muslim who are racialised as non-white. Abrah highlights the contestation at the heart of racial politics concerning who is able to make claims on the presence of racism and whose account is believed (Hill Collins 2009: 270) (see Chapter 6). He draws our attention to racialised differences of positionings which affect how “animosity against Muslims” is conceived. That there are different ways of understanding the world depending on one’s positionality is at the heart of Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s (2004: 73, my italics; also Yeatman 1994: 30) assertion: ‘The world is not what I think, but what I live through.’ The body, as the vehicle through which one experiences the world, is of central importance, as Abrah reminds us. He refuses to accept that those not subject to racism, the racially unmarked, can ‘see’ how racism operates because they have not experienced it. His stance is comparable to Haraway’s (2004: 86) support for approaching vision as embodied that contests the ‘conquering gaze from nowhere’ of the unmarked body who claims to see whilst remaining unseen. Yet Abrah cannot dislodge the power differentials which determine how he is seen. He can only agitate for recognition that such visual practices are not benign, but are driven by “animosity.” Whether “English Muslims” are privy to the hostility that non-white Muslims experience depends on whether they choose to disclose their identity; a choice which Abrah

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perceives is not present for him since he will be ‘seen’ as Muslim regardless of whether he is wearing Islamic clothes or has a beard on account of his brown skin. The ability to be bodies ‘in place’ is therefore related to belonging to whiteness. Abrah’s use of “English” as a metonym for ‘white’ is striking since it locates English Muslims as belonging to the nation in a way that “Muslims Asians” cannot. For the Muslim Asian, despite being born and bred in England, he/she is not seen as English since this term is reserved for white English citizens. The capacity for “English Muslims” to pass-by is because, when misrecognised as non-Muslim, they otherwise occupy a normative position within the nation. As Val Colic-Peisker’s (2005: 615) study of the resettlement of Bosnian refugees in Australia during the 1990s following the Bosnian War 1992–1995 shows, their ‘whiteness’/‘Europeanness’ enabled them to remain largely ‘invisible’ since they were perceived as ‘white Australians’ despite other barriers such as language and importantly, attracted more sympathy from the West than ethnically marked populations from other war-torn countries.5 Whiteness must be understood therefore as a contested category that has been mobilised as a means of discriminating against non-European Muslims, including current exclusions experienced by Syrian Muslim refugees from Balkan Muslims intent on securing European borders from Syrian Muslims Gothicised as barbaric Others, as ‘foreign “jihadist and Islamist” intruders’ (Rexhepi 2018: 2217). Whilst the ability for “English Muslims” to walk past can be understood as a privilege, it also means that they may escape protection on account of their Muslim identity resulting from the persistent misrecognition of Islam as a non-white religion (Moosavi 2015a: 41). The white Muslim presents an interesting case for understanding whiteness as ‘contingent hierarchies’ (Garner 2007: 63–79; also Watson et al. 2019: 465, 451; Hughey 2010) related to the racialisation of religion. As I began to map in Chapter 2, racial interiors are important for demarcating groups. Experiences of Islamophobia are shaped by Muslims’ particular racial positioning, where in the case of white Muslim converts,6 they risk being seen as ‘race traitors’ (Moosavi 2015b: 1922, 1923; Franks 2000: 923–924) disloyal to whiteness. This is reflected by Samrina who describes how some of her English Muslim friends are “treated on the

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street like traitors - they’re called traitors,” which differentiates their experiences of Islamophobia from her other Muslim friends who are nonwhite, whether South Asian or black. This form of hostility comes from adopting a religion which is seen to contradict the hegemonic status of whiteness. By making themselves ‘visibly Muslim’ through veiling, white Muslim converts contest their position as the human norm which may invite hostility (Franks 2000: 917, 918; also Moosavi 2015b; Alam 2012; Maynard 1994: 21), as Meredith’s account of her conversion to Islam illustrates. Meredith is a 34-year-old white Muslim convert who was born and raised in the USA. She is university educated with a Bachelors degree in English and is a qualified teacher. She is a mother of four and works at a primary school in Bradford, which her children also attend. She identifies as American but has leave to remain in the UK. At the time of interview she has been a practicing Muslim for just over three years and she wears hijab and the jilbab. As with Clementine, who I discuss later, she had been a practicing Christian and was active in her Church. Her family still reside in the US and her parents and sister are committed Lutherans. Unlike her family, she confides that Christianity “didn’t give me my comfort that I needed.” Instead, after looking into a number of religious pathways, she found that the practices of Islam such as praying five times a day give her peace. A concern for her is being able to practice Islam on her own terms. She tells me that born Muslims where she lives in Bradford often try to instruct her on Islam. Rather than accept their guidance blindly, she prefers to look into things herself, noting that there is often confusion between religion and culture; a distinction that she would like to maintain as someone who does not share the cultural norms of born Muslims residing in her community who are predominately British Pakistanis. The issue of culture was a significant conflict experienced by Meredith that illustrates how conversion to Islam for white, Western Christians poses specific challenges by disrupting settled conceptions of white culture. For Meredith, she refuses to give up “Western traditions” such as celebrating her children’s birthdays with presents and cake that, she confides, incites judgement from other Muslims which troubles her. The threat of having to give up her culture in order to be a ‘good Muslim’ is

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part of her parents’ fears for her also. As a white Christian American, they fear that converting to Islam will mean that their daughter is “going to lose herself,” further demonstrating how for the white Western Christian, conversion to Islam is linked to abjection. Meredith reports that her mother received the news that she had converted from Christianity to Islam as a “personal attack.” Choosing to adopt a visibly Muslim identification alters how she is seen by her mother by challenging racialised perceptual frameworks that associate whiteness with Christianity and white culture with rationality (Hesse 2007: 644). Her mother experiences her daughter becoming a veiled Muslim woman as a personal injury: “when she sees me wearing hijab – I can see in her eyes that she’s hurt you know. She’s not furious at me, she just feels hurt – she doesn’t understand the reason why I do” because she no longer subscribes to the norms of whiteness. Whiteness can be linked to abjection (Hurley 1996: 80) where the white body is made liable for engaging in practices, such as those associated with Islam, that are perceived as a threat to the wider social body, as Clementine’s story of her conversion reveals. Clementine is a 32-year-old white British Muslim woman convert who wears hijab. She is originally from Northern Ireland where her family still reside. At the time of interview, she had been living in Bradford for around eight years with her husband who is a British Pakistani Muslim and their baby boy. She described Islam as her “core,” explaining that if she lost everything else she would always have her faith. Her husband is a born Muslim but did not always practice. When they met, she inspired him to become more observant by offering him a “fresh look” which made him realise, she surmises, that he had being taking his faith for granted. Clementine has an active role in their local mosque which has involved opening it up to visits from university students, school children, Church groups and so forth, providing them with tours and explaining the history of the mosque and basics of Islam and inviting people to ask questions. Tellingly, she described culture as the “least important to me,” questioning whether there was such a thing as “British identity.” When asked about her Irish identity, she told me that it’s very family-oriented, such as sitting around the table together for dinner. Clementine narrates that she is from a Christian background and was brought up in the Church

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of Ireland which is the Anglican faith. At the age of 21 she felt that she needed to change her religious path and became a born again Christian, what some people, she says, call “happy clappy Christian.” In Northern Ireland, she tells me, there is only Catholicism or Protestantism and everyone is familiar with the stories of the Bible, even those that do not attend Church—“it’s very strong in you,” illustrating the presence that Christianity plays in Irish people’s identity and culture. At this point in her life, she describes herself as a “staunch Christian, nothing would sway me - I was anti-Islam, not anti-Muslim but Islam, I thought it was from the Devil, I thought it was Satan’s way of deceiving people.” When questioned why she thought this, she explains that it is because Islam does not recognise Jesus as the son of God, which she saw as a means of deceiving people from having the opportunity of heaven. Such was her conviction that she actually tried to convert her Muslim friends to Christianity. To assist her quest, she sought knowledge of Islam (she tells me the term ‘ikra’ is the first word revealed in the Qu’ran meaning ‘read’). It is here that she started her Islamic journey, the deciding factor was her realisation that she “wasn’t forsaking Jesus” as she previously believed. Embarking on a new religious quest, she got involved with the local mosque, undertook a future leaders course and joined the Leeds New Muslims group to learn about her newfound faith, which was further cemented by meeting her now husband. When asked how she was accepted by other Muslims, she tells me that initially she did not wear her hijab because she wanted to ensure that she had a “strong foundation” first, meaning “nobody else could see” that she was Muslim, further evidencing the invisibility of white Muslims where they do not adopt visual markers. Conscious that she would be asked questions about her faith and judged once she put on the headscarf, she waited until she was ready and equipped with answers. When she had her son, she decided it was the right time to perform a modest appearance by wearing the headscarf. When seen by other Muslims wearing the headscarf they praise her choice, crying “mashallah,” meaning ‘God likes’ or ‘what God has willed.’ Conversely, when she is seen by non-Muslim “white people,” she is met with disdain. She tells me they often “take a double-look” at both her

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and her son, explaining that because he’s “pale” they assume that she has a white husband which does not fit with seeing her in a headscarf, which then makes them question if she has married a South Asian person: “and then they see [her son is] white and they’re like er what?” Whilst this reaction to her son is also displayed by South Asian people, indicating the significance of whiteness to how Muslim identity is ‘seen’ racially by both Muslims and non-Muslims, it is her treatment by normative whites which is most disconcerting for her. This is because their reactions are a glaring reminder that she has moved outside the world that she once inhabited and she feels judged for her treachery. Looking into her eyes she sees them asking her “how can this girl get it so wrong ?” She tells me that she was treated by her former Christian friends as if she had been “possessed by the Devil,” resulting in her being cast out by her social group when she disclosed her conversion to Islam. Clementine’s account is important for highlighting that abjection from whiteness is linked to her perceived betrayal of Christianity. Here possession suggests the ‘seductiveness of Islam’ (Fortier 2008: 68); a reworking of Islam’s association with oppression for Muslim women to reflect the particular conditions of the white Muslim female convert who is perceived to have been tricked into following an iniquitous religion. This sense of “bewilderment” shown by a lot of Christians when they find out that she used to be a practicing Christian but is now Muslim incites a crisis of subjectivity, which makes it a “struggle…seeing them.” She admits that she avoids them and does not contact old friends, in part because she is scared that news will get back to her family. Her conversion has brought her much peace and happiness as her family life in Bradford clearly exhibits. Yet moving away from Christianity has also caused a major disruption to how she is seen by those she once saw as friends and how she perceives that her family in Ireland will see her. Unlike Meredith who has disclosed her identity as a visibly Muslim woman, Clementine has chosen to “protect” her family from hurt by keeping her conversion a secret, confiding that her mum would feel that she had “failed her;” an outcome which is not far from how Meredith’s mother views her daughter’s choice when Meredith confesses her conversion. Disquietingly, Meredith’s mother feels that she has “lost [her daughter] forever,” indicating that conversion to Islam may be understood by

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non-Muslims as disrupting the ways in which white people conceive of themselves, others and society (Frankenberg 1993: 1). Effectively made abject, normative whites may actively distance themselves from the veiled white Muslim convert, or in the case of Meredith’s mother, feel that they are inconsolably separated from them. By crossing the boundaries of whiteness, the veiled white Muslim body is made ‘grossly corporeal and changeful’ (Hurley 1996: 80) that like the monster, defies easy categorisation within received racial classification. Abjection from whiteness is not the reserve of veiled Muslim women— Muslim male converts may also experience abjection where they adopt visible markers of Muslimness, as Reza’s narrative shows. Reza is a 43-year-old white English Muslim convert who was “born and bred” in High Wycombe. He comes from a military family and was brought up in Singapore and describes his family as quite affluent with its “own Coat and Arms.” He returned to the UK in 1972. Although he is from a white English family, having spent years abroad, he describes his appearance on his return as “black as an ace of spades,” apart from his hair which was bleached blond by the sun. His mother rather tellingly called him “blond Paki” and he informs me that he used to associate more with foreigners than with English people. His abjection from whiteness at an early age perhaps helps to explain his identification with Islam later on where he feels able to fit in with the Muslim community in Leeds, which is largely South Asian (predominately Pakistani), in a way that he never did with normative white English people. He told me that walking down the street in Leeds he would get more acknowledgement from “Asians, foreigners” than “white people,” attributing this to his brown skin which meant by contrast, that white people did not want to “mix” with him. His journey into Islam began because he wanted to know why it had become associated with terrorism, he tells me. Reza has lived a chequered life and was not representative of those I interviewed in terms of his life experiences or educational background but who nonetheless gave important insight of converting to Islam. He had worked as a paint sprayer and grit worker, at one point he owned his own business and had a property in the New Forest and a “beautiful wife” he reminisces, but he has since lost everything. He was living in Beeston, a suburb of Leeds,

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since 2003, in an area which he describes as “run down,” having served a custodial sentence. He used his time in prison to continue studying Islam and felt that he received a lot more guidance and support from his “fellow Islamic brothers” in prison and the imam. Having not received the support he needed from the probation services following his release, his Islamic brothers are his support network. His conversion to Islam sealed his abjection from whiteness as exhibited by being called “white Paki” and treated as disloyal to Britain and his fellow citizens amid the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan (also Franks 2000: 922, 927), including being sent hate mail from someone who had lost a brother fighting in Afghanistan. Similarly, Leon Moosavi (2015a: 41) argues in his study of Muslim converts in Manchester that white converts to Islam are ‘re-racialized as “not quite white”, or even “nonwhite,”’ because of the racialisation of Islam as a non-white religion. Although for Reza, he finds peace through Islam, to normative whites his conversion is equated with radicalisation and thus a threat to British society: “I get things like terrorism,” he tells me, which he attributes to his visibly Muslim appearance—his beard and topi. He tells me he does wear “Western clothes” but he always wears his topi and has a long beard, meaning he is visibly Muslim. At the interview he wore shalwar kameez which demonstrates his sense of belonging with the Pakistani Muslim community. Contrastingly, he is “shunned” by his white English friends who term him “Paki lover” and he feels ostracised from the white community where he previously lived, further indicating that conversion to Islam may be understood as a betrayal by normative whites, and similar to the notion of possession described by Clementine, as a form of seduction. As a result, those he now interacts with are “all Muslim” and tellingly, he was the only one of the three converts I spoke to who chose to give up his birth name. By disrupting the superior status of whiteness within racial hierarchies, the white Muslim convert poses what Shildrick (2000: 308, my italics) terms ‘the risk of indifferentiation’ present in her theorisation of the monster as ‘not simply a signifier of otherness, but an altogether more complex figure that calls to mind not so much the other per se, but the trace of the other in the self.’ As the incongruous descriptor of “white Paki” shows, the white Muslim convert troubles the borders of

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whiteness but cannot be fully abjected. In the next section, I explore how (anti-)blackness troubles binaries of (in/hyper-)visibility, self/other within racialised classifications operating within the category ‘Muslim.’ b. (Anti-)Blackness and Muslimness: Othering Somali Muslims Drawing from Moustafa, the next account further interrogates misrecognitions that can arise due to the principle racialisation of Muslims as brown bodies within the UK context. The previous extract looked at the role of whiteness and how it can pertain to differential experiences of privilege and/or abjection for “English Muslims” undergirding practices of (in/hyper-)visibility. Here I explore how the relationship between (anti-)blackness and Muslimness proposes important racialised differences concerning the treatment of black Muslims compared to South Asian Muslims, including by Muslims themselves, and thus the role of colorism within Muslim communities. In the next example, Moustafa draws racialised distinctions between himself as a British Pakistani Muslim and British Somali Muslims. He tells me that he grew up and went to school with Somali Muslims whom he describes as “really confident and outgoing.” The issue of skin colour marked interactions between the two communities that reveal important racialised differences operating within the category ‘Muslim.’ Growing up he recounts that his father told his older brother not to hang around with people who are lighter skinned than you. Based on this advice, his parents were happy for Moustafa to be friends with Somali people because they were darker skinned, which made him appear lighter. However, he would not be allowed to date a Somali girl because “you’ve made associations,” he explains, that further illustrates discriminations concerning the type of relations that can be engaged in with black Muslims. Although he notes that in the 1980s it was more racially divisive and now Somali and Pakistani Muslims attend the same mosque, he concedes that anti-blackness is still an issue. His account further interrogates the relationship between race and religion and visual practices and misrecognitions on which they are based, where the role of agency invites important considerations for (re)thinking their operation:

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Madeline: Do you think that you’d get identified more as being Muslim than say a Somali would? Moustafa: Definitely I think so – you can’t get away with this no matter what – people see me and automatically presume I’m Muslim. Madeline: Right Moustafa: …Even if I try to look any other way I can’t because I’m automatically a Muslim even if I wasn’t … the Somalis do all this conception thing with the beard.

Moustafa highlights the misrecognitions which can occur arising from the assumption that brown bodies are “automatically” Muslim. Hopkins et al.’s (2017) study of young people in Scotland similarly found that young Sikhs, Hindus and other South Asian young people were routinely misrecognised as Muslim. Interestingly, whilst Moustafa perceives that he is more likely to be identified as Muslim than Somalis, Hopkins et al. (2017) found that black and Caribbean young people were also mistaken for being Muslim, which illustrates that whilst the hegemonic racialisation of Muslims is brown bodies, the category ‘Muslim’ can transcend the normative grammar of race based on a black/white binary (Tyrer and Sayyid 2012; Goldberg 2006). This situation proposes important differences concerning the extent to which Muslims of different ethnic backgrounds can assimilate into the body politic that requires a more nuanced understanding of the dynamics of race and religion. For Moustafa, the idea that brown bodies are Muslim means that even if he tried to, imprisoned by the facticity of his brown skin, he is unable to “look any other way.” Comparably, Moustafa observes that Somali males actively construct a more visibly Muslim identity: “the Somalis do all this conception thing with the beard” as a means of foregrounding their religious rather than racial identification and to counter misrecognition as non-Muslim. Similarly, Kristine Ajrouch and Abdi Kusow (2007: 90) found that Somali Muslim immigrants to Canada used ‘an Islamic appearance’ to ‘enhance a Somali “ethnic” identity, while distancing themselves from a black identity’ in order to disrupt classifications based on skin and thus mitigate racism from wider society and colourism within Muslim communities. Moustafa gives the example of when his father went on Hajj, an annual

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Islamic pilgrimage to Mecca, Saudi Arabia, which despite being the holiest place of all for Muslims, some Saudis would not let Africans pray with them “because of the colour of their skin.” Rinaldo Walcott (2011) draws an important distinction between Muslim black people to their Arab co-religionists that he locates within the context of African enslavement. Religion, as a marker of the human, was denied to enslaved black people which marked them as less than human in respect to fellow Muslims who, despite being denigrated within Western culture through Orientalist framings, have nonetheless remained intelligible as human in respect to black subjects on account of their religion. Such hierarchical racialised orderings of the human are reflected in negative treatment experienced by black Muslims, including by other Muslims, and which may help to explain why religious identification may be chosen above racial inscriptions for black Muslims as a means of re-humanising black subjectivity. Moustafa highlights important racialised differences operating within Muslims communities. He reports that in the British context, Pakistani Muslims “look down” on Somalis on account of their skin colour. He stressed that the presence of anti-blackness within Muslim communities (also Abdel-Fattah 2017: 400) is a “cultural” attitude that contravened Islamic teachings, citing that one of the Prophet’s first disciples was Bilal, an African slave who converted to Islam and was later freed for his loyalty. My study revealed that white privilege is present in the treatment of white Muslim converts. For example, Clementine expressed that as the “token white person” she receives “extra special care” from South Asian Muslims in Bradford. Comparably, Moosavi (2015b: 1119) found in his study of white Muslim converts living in Manchester that ‘lifelong Muslims rarely welcome black converts in the same way that they welcome white converts.’ Differences in Muslims’ experiences, both in terms of Islamophobia and treatment within Muslim communities, relate to degrees from whiteness which supports a relational understanding where, as Ruth Frankenberg (1993: 6) argues, ‘to speak of whiteness…is to assign everyone a place in the relations of racism.’ Contra to Somali Muslims, Ajrouch and Kusow (2007: 90) found that Lebanese Muslim immigrants to the US accepted their racial classification as white because it afforded them hegemonic status. As Alistair Bonnett (1998b: 1034)

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traces, the term ‘white’ has historically been used in some geographical contexts to encompass Middle Eastern peoples and differentiate them from ‘darker skinned others,’ which illustrates how racial and religious categories and their interaction are geographically shaped and shift historically. Moustafa’s account proposes an interesting intervention to ‘politics of voluntary and involuntary identities’ (Meer 2008) that have plagued discussions of Islamophobia and the protection afforded to Muslims qua Muslim. Nasar Meer (2008) discusses the potential disadvantages that ensue because the category ‘Muslim’ disrupts the normative grammar of race that questions the material, legal basis by which Muslims can be protected. This has meant that their discrimination has been taken less seriously than other groups. Meer (2008: 63) argues that the dichotomy between racial as involuntary, ‘natural’ identities and therefore worthy of protection, compared to religious identities as voluntary and thus not qualifying for protection, is ‘empirically unsustainable.’ Moustafa intimates that in the case of (those that look) Pakistani, their identification as Muslim may not be voluntary (especially if they are not actually Muslim); further, whether Somalis are principally defined by their race or religion may not be wholly down to personal choice but relies, to some extent, on how they are ‘seen’ by others. What Moustafa’s account suggests is that the contours of race are also permeable, where one’s racial identity as the principle interpellative schema may be more or less visible depending on the hegemonic racialisation of religion and ways in which racial identities interact with being ‘visibly Muslim’ within the particular geographic context. Since we know that ‘race’ is not a biological truth, but a social classification, Moustafa’s account shows that claiming that race can be separated from religion, or that racism is distinct from Islamophobia, is unsustainable. Thus I would argue that both religious and racial identities are to some extent involuntary since they are in part determined by the ‘racialised regime of visuality’ (Pugliese 2006: 7) that precedes them and its insufficiencies as a means of reading race from the body. As Byrne (2006: 74) reminds us, ‘Acts of seeing and being seen as racially different are far from simple or inevitable’ and are subject to context.

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c. Homogenising brown bodies: Muslimness and brownness There is growing scholarship exploring experiences of misrecognition as Muslim (Jhutti-Johal and Singh 2019; Birk et al. 2015; Puar 2007) resulting from the ‘homogenisation of brown bodies’ (Birk et al. 2015: 97). There are two crucial, interrelated misrecognitions that have emerged within the post-9/11 context which highlight how Muslims are racialised, as well as the failure of the visual regime to ‘spot the Muslim’ and by extension, the terror suspect. As with the case of the first killing in a ‘revenge attack’ following 9/11, Balbir Singh Sodhi, a Sikh turbaned man in Arizona who was mistaken for being an Arab Muslim shows, brown Muslims are misrecognised as terrorists, and non-Muslim brown bodies are misrecognised as Muslim (and by extension, terrorists), which exemplifies the instability of categories of ‘race’ and how they intersect with religion, ethnicity, nation and geography. Moustafa’s account adds credence to the emergence of a new construct of ‘Muslim-looking people’ (Amin 2010: 10) of which Sikhs, what Katy Sian (2017: 43) terms the ‘crypto-Muslim,’ are the most prominent example. This suggests that the logics of racism founded on a knowable Other is unsustainable but its mischief nonetheless constitutes subjects as suspect and subject to a racialised governmentality (Kapoor and Narkowicz 2019; Miah 2017; Sian 2015; Patel and Tyrer 2011; Tyrer 2010). In the next extract, Abrah discusses being misrecognised as Pakistani rather than Bengali due to the hegemonic association of brown bodies as Pakistani in the UK context. As a result, he is subjected to a stigmatised identity resulting from what Tania Saeed (2016: 119) terms ‘Pakophobia’: Madeline: So do you think Muslim becoming a primary identity do you think that has changed how you are being perceived by people? Abrah: Um, no because actually being a Pakistani – I’m classed as being a Pakistani when I’m nothing to do with Pakistan. Madeline: Right Abrah: It’s a whole different country all together but because of my skin colour I’m a Paki aren’t I? Um, like an Indian or a Sri Lankan – we’re different people completely in our own rights but we’re all Pakis. Um, that wasn’t exactly the best of identities to have anyway you know …

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When I say it wasn’t the best of identities to have as in there’s nothing wrong with that identity to have being Pakistani, but what I’m saying is it had a lot of stigma attached to it and people oppressed you because of it.

Homogenisation of brown bodies as “Pakis” comprises a series of misrecognitions that cut across categories of race, religion, nation and geography. Waqar Ahmad and Venetia Evergeti (2010: 1698) note that one corollary of the shift to ‘Muslim’ as the predominate category is the ‘racialization of Muslimness’ which has meant communities separated by denomination, ethnicity, linguistic heritage and regional background are homogenised, ‘now seen as akin to an ethnic or racial group with presumed deterministic values diametrically opposed to, and threatening the values of, the civilized West’ (also Kundnani 2007). Misrecognition arises from racialised power asymmetries that undergird the visual regime, which not only determine how Abrah is seen and treated, but importantly, negatively judged. Skin colour marks Abrah as a “Paki” because of received classifications of what a “Paki” looks like. Although skin provides an unstable border, the primacy given to skin colour means it is ‘fetishised’ (Ahmed 1998: 45), affecting how the body is lived and ‘marked by differences’ (Ahmed 1998: 45) involved in the policing of boundaries. In her theorisation of transsexual embodiment, Jay Prosser (1998: 72) describes the skin as the ‘surface mediating “inside” and “outside” the body’; it presents itself as ‘the point of contact between the material body and body image, between visible and felt matter.’ Important here is the relationship between how the skin is read to the formation of body image. Based on a fundamental misrecognition, Abrah experiences a psychic dislocation between his self-identity and how his body is read by others (see Ahmed and Stacey 2001: 2). If we understand the skin to be the ‘surface upon which is projected the psychic representation of the body’ (Prosser 1998: 72), captured by Didier Anzieu’s (1989) concept of ‘skin ego,’ falsely revealing Abrah to be a “Paki” through a misreading of the skin induces psychic discomfort since it traps Abrah in the ‘wrong body’ (Prosser 1998: 72), that of the “Paki.” The Gothic trope of being trapped in the wrong body is locatable

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within what Hurley (1996: 223, my italics) describes as the ‘indifferentiation of the monstrous body,’ ‘an indifferentiation that serves most notably to defamiliarize human identity,’ which in Abrah’s case causes psychic anguish. Rather than providing comfort, the skin betrays him, as not only Other, but Other to himself, precipitating an un-homeliness of the body (see Gunew 2004) resulting from the ‘gap between seeing and being’ (Ahmed 1998: 63). Since skin can betray identity, biographic details (Ali 2004: 83) are required to challenge skin’s hegemonic status as a means of identifying bodies: “I’m classed as being a Pakistani when I’m nothing to do with Pakistan,” Abrah insistently tells me. The skin can expose the body to harm since, as Ahmed (1998: 52, original italics; also Ali 2004: 76) observes, it is also: …a site of crisis and instability, of the difficulty (if not impossibility) of being-in-the-world and of the constant slippage between the phantasy of being (I am inside my skin) and the fear of not being [or indeed, being misrecognised as who one is]. The skin deconstructs the opposition between being and not being, as the impossible boundary between different forms that appear living.

The erroneousness of ‘race’ as a biological category accentuates rather than reduces its power to oppress ethnically marked bodies, encircling and homogenising different groups under the banner of “Paki” as a means through which to stigmatise and oppress them, a phantasmatic version of the “dirty Paki” that Moustafa discussed earlier. Étienne Balibar (1991: 19) contends that racism’s reliance upon ‘visible evidence’ betrays a pseudo-scientific logic which mirrors scientific discursivity in which ‘visible facts’ reflect ‘hidden causes,’ but which function through misrecognition and ‘a violent desire for immediate knowledge of social relations.’ Johannes Fabian (1983: 106) similarly argues that when the ‘ability to visualize a culture of society almost becomes synonymous with understanding it,’ we are dealing with visualism. Visualism involves reducing race and ethnicity to physical properties so that ‘ways of looking’ become ‘ways of being’ premised on the desire to

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know the Other, not in the ethical sense, but as a mean of defining and disciplining the Other through a process of racialisation. In contradistinction to the certainties of science, Gothic accounts reveal the body to be an ‘untrustworthy source of information’ (Wagner 2012: 75, original italics) that proposes a particular source of terror for the racial Other because of the primacy placed on the body to define them. Denied specificity, Abrah is forced to inhabit a body that is indifferentiated yet unmistakeably material, racialised. He reconciles himself to the fact that on account of his skin colour, he becomes fixed as a “Paki”: “because of my skin colour, I’m a Paki aren’t I ?” As explored earlier with reference to Fanon’s (1986: 112) racial epidermal schema, Abrah’s individuality is erased and replaced by the facticity of his brown skin which prohibits rights to self-determination and instead homogenises a whole range of populations: “we’re all Pakis.” Nancy Fraser (2000: 113–114) observes that encountering misrecognition ‘is not simply to be thought ill of, looked down upon or devalued by others’ attitudes, beliefs or representations,’ rather, it involves being ‘denied the status of a full partner in social interactions, as a consequence of institutionalized patterns of cultural value that constitute one as comparatively unworthy of respect or esteem.’ Not only is Abrah denied the right to be identified by his heritage, but he is forced to bear the ‘bodily signs’ (Goffman 1990: 11) of stigma that constitute the restaging of colonial logics faced by Pakistanis in Britain: “people oppressed you because of it,” he tells me. Abrah thus faces a ‘double bind’ observed by Saeed (2016: 118) of ‘ethnic-religious connection’ in cases where ‘both identities are caught in a wider socio-political narrative of insecurity’ which results ‘in a form of hyper-securitization.’ Saeed uses the term ‘Pakophobia’ to describe the position of Pakistani Muslims, or in the case of Abrah, those misrecognised as Pakistani Muslims, which she describes as a: …type of Islamophobia, which is interspersed with both the ethnic (Pakistani) and religious aspects of the individual’s identity. It is not a phenomenon that is different from Islamophobia but, rather, is situated within the same category, where the specific ethnic characteristic

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of a Pakistani may often be the defining feature of the discrimination experienced, rather than the religious aspect alone.

Pakophobia is a useful term for understanding the particular experiences of Islamophobia for my participants who were principally of Pakistani or perceived to be of Pakistani heritage. As with Moustafa, Abrah provides important insight concerning how interpellations of ‘Paki’ and ‘Muslim’ interfere: Madeline: So do you think that those kind of events led to you know Pakistani identity, that being a negative and a derogatory identity getting replaced by the Muslim identity? Abrah: It gets amalgamated onto. Madeline: So you think that everything that was negative about the Pakistani identity becomes even more so when mixed up with the… Abrah: Yeah with the Islamic identity. If you’re a Muslim you’re a Paki aren’t you?

In the previous extract, Abrah is concerned with being misrecognised as a “Paki” on account of his skin colour: “because of my skin colour I’m a Paki aren’t I?’ Here, the focus is on the conflation between categories of “Muslim” and “Paki” in the British context: ‘If you’re a Muslim you’re a Paki aren’t you?” Abrah’s identification as Pakistani (which as discussed is based on a misrecognition of his actual heritage) associates him as both non-European and non-white, which makes the boundaries separating race/ethnicity and religion difficult to disentangle (see Meer and Modood 2009a; Meer 2008; Meer and Noorani 2008; Dunn et al. 2007; Werbner 2005). Regardless of whether Abrah is Pakistani or not, he is judged by the meanings attached to this category. These predominant, twin racialisations mean that those with brown skin can be misrecognised as Pakistani and Muslim whilst actually occupying neither category, which further illustrates that Islamophobia cannot be divorced from accounts of racialisation and racism. As such, whether or not we can draw boundaries between racism and Islamophobia misses the point since the classifications used by the perpetrator to identify their victim may well be based on empirically inaccurate details.

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For Abrah, all that was signified by “Paki” is “amalgamated” with his Muslim identity, comparable to the monster described by Halberstam (2000: 92) that is produced through fragments of Otherness into a single ‘all purpose’ body. As such, interpellation as Muslim does not constitute a break from previous articulations of “Paki” (also Mac an Ghaill and Haywood 2015: 103). Rather, the two terms are (re)constituted through their interrelation. This situation reflects Jacques Derrida’s (1981) account of ‘differénce’ as comprising both difference and deferral. Derrida (1981: 33, original italics) claims that every signifier has a trace of the Other that although marginalised, is not erased to defy closure: In the extent to which what is called ‘meaning’…. is already, and thoroughly, constituted by a tissue of differences, in the extent to which there is already a text, a network of textual referrals to other texts, a textual transformation in which each allegedly ‘simple term’ is marked by the trace of another term, the presumed interiority of meaning is already worked upon by its own exteriority … Only on this condition can it signify.

The Muslim is thus overlaid, overdetermined by entanglements of what the terms ‘Paki,’ ‘Islam,’ ‘Muslim’ collectively signify that like the monster in Jeremy Cohen’s (2007: 199) account, ‘signifies something other than itself: it is always a displacement, always inhabits the gap between the time of upheaval that created it and the moment into which it is received, to be born again.’ The boundaries of meaning are fluid since they refuse to be contained by a single term. Shildrick (1997: 104, 151) notes that such ‘leaky logos undermines ontological and epistemological closure,’ which disturb the unity of the subject and ensure that meaning is always provisional. This situation is reflected in contestations surrounding defining the contours of Islamophobia and the ways in which it is simultaneously parasitic upon yet distinct from racism, with important implications for defining the grounds under which protection can be afforded to Muslims qua Muslim. Since Muslims cannot be classified by a community of descent, they reveal the limits of racial categories used to organise Britain’s internal racial colonies (see Tyrer and Sayyid 2012). Importantly, the instability

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of ‘Muslim’ as a racial category means that it not only moves across differently racialised bodies, but ensures that those identified as Muslim will be judged by the actions of Others occupying this category, wherever in the world they may be found, as Abrah continues: …you could be Yemeni, Saudi, Syrian, whatever, you can be any Muslim in the world but it’s Muslims. And it’s you know you could be from anywhere in the world, you could be from Iran, Iraq, Turkey, Tunisia, all the Muslim countries, um and the actions of particular parts will have an effect on you because it’s your identity you know. So I think it’s a difficult one because it’s almost a feeling of so what? And also a feeling of anger towards the minority group that’s creating it you know. But then it’s also anger towards society for jumping on the bandwagon.

Abrah highlights a further, particularly troubling misrecognition implicit in his account—the Muslim misrecognised as an extremist or terrorist. Shirley Tate (2007: 306) describes misrecognition as presenting an ‘uneasy sense of standing under a sign to which one does and does not belong.’ In this case, Abrah’s belonging to the category ‘Muslim’ means that he is judged by the actions of the minority who commit acts of extremism or terrorism in the name of Islam. Abrah illustrates the affective nature of politics (anger), which engenders divisions between Muslims and non-Muslims resulting from an inability for Muslims to disassociate themselves from the “minority group”; a privilege which is reserved for whites who are judged by their individual actions, not those of their group (Dyer 1997: 10). Writing on the US context, Kelly Welch (2016) notes similarities between criminal stereotypes applied to black and Hispanic males (Simon 2007; Cole 2003a), but argues that ‘those who look Arab or Muslim’ have become the ‘new racial other’ (Grewal 2003: 541, 546; also Merskin 2004) who are often equated with ‘terrorist’ (Cole 2003b: 49). Since the terrorist category is not contained by race, ethnicity, nationality or religion (Chen 2010), the profile of the terrorist can easily move between bodies but importantly can attach itself to those who are ‘neither Middle Eastern, Arab, nor Muslim’ (Welch 2016: 118; Kaplan 2006).

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Abrah’s account further supports a relational approach to race (Goldberg 2009) that is attentive to how local contexts are related to broader geopolitical contexts. Abrah suggests that in the post-9/11 context, ‘Muslim’ functions as a master signifier: “it’s Muslims” by which the actions of members of this group will be judged; a situation which enables (those perceived to be) Muslim to be substitutable for one another. The indifferentiation of the monstrous body observed by Hurley (1996: 23) must be understood as relating more profoundly to contestations concerning the human and seemingly un-human or lesser human; a projection which is used to justify necropolitical powers involved in ‘fixing’ the identity of the Muslim Other inscribed as a terror suspect. The visual schema and its insufficiencies to ‘see’ Muslims raise the question of ‘Who do we call Muslim?’ (Roy 2004: 21) and by extension, ‘What is a terrorist?’ (Triparthy 2010) central to performances of ‘racialised surveillance’ (Selod 2019) within the ‘war on terror context.’ I move on to discuss racialised surveillance through which ‘Muslimlooking’ individuals are (in)securitised as terror suspects.

4

Surveillance and (In)Securitised Bodies

In this section, I discuss racialised and gendered surveillance practices through which ‘Muslim-looking’ bodies are (in)securitised. I discuss important distinctions concerning how (mis)recognition can operate, whereby the capacity to determine how others are seen and importantly, the power to get it wrong with impunity is central to the operation of terror involved in racial profiling and surveillance. I examine how (mis)recognition within the ‘war on terror’ context has coincided with necropolitics (Mbembe 2003) (Chapter 4) whereby being misrecognised as Muslim, and by extension a terror suspect, can result in death, as Samrina and Leila reminds us.

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“Police Terrorism”: Shoot-to-kill Policy First I will introduce you to Leila who we have yet to meet, a 29-yearold veiled British Muslim woman of Pakistani heritage from Leeds. Even from a young child she tells me she “mixed with people from different backgrounds.” She always cared about social issues and she has worked with disenfranchised communities from diverse ethnic backgrounds on a range of issues such as homelessness and unemployment. In terms of dress, she describes wearing “all sorts,” a mix of Asian and Western clothes as long as they are modest, and she is wearing a purple hijab when interviewed held in place loosely with a decorative pin. She tells me she did not always wear the veil, explaining that even though her family were Muslim, “it wasn’t really taught that much.” This changed when she made friends with young Muslims from Iraq who had come to England after the First Gulf War as asylum seekers. She learnt from them about Islam and decided to wear hijab as part of a modest religious identification. Initially she admits feeling reluctant and pressured by her friends. However, when she started wearing it she liked it for herself and “agreed with the principles.” Now she would not be without her hijab, although she says she does not wear it “strictly” and notes that there are a variety of ways in which it can be worn that are geographically and culturally shaped. I draw from Samrina and Leila to discuss the contentious wrongful shooting of Jean Charles de Menezes, a 27-year-old Brazilian male working in Britain as an electrician who was shot dead under the shootto-kill-to-protect policy as a suspected terrorist on 22 July 2005, shortly after the 2005 London bombings on the 7 July: …it’s like that Menezes guy who got shot – how bad was their information? How incompetent were they that they can’t even get communities right? (Samrina) …that guy that was killed in London, that South American guy – he was killed because they thought he was a Muslim. And he was a victim of terrorism himself – police terrorism. He was killed because they thought he was a Muslim … Probably thought he was Middle Eastern. You get

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South American Muslims as well who were originally from Lebanon or the Middle East – and they probably thought he was you know, either Middle Eastern or that and he wasn’t and that’s why he was killed – because they thought he was Muslim, not because he was a terrorist or they thought he was a terrorist, but because he was Muslim. Just because you know, they wanted to kill a Muslim. (Leila)

The killing of Menezes by counter-terrorism police provides an important example of how state terror is enacted through racial profiling. The shoot-to-kill-to-protect policy, which provided police powers to shoot suspected suicide bombers in the head to prevent the possibility of them triggering a suspected bomb, has been the most contentious with regard to the racial underpinnings of surveillance/counter-terrorism policing. Official confirmation of racial profiling was provided in an interview with then Chief Constable of the British Transport Police, Sir Ian Johnston, on the use of ‘intelligence-led stop-and search’ practices: Mr Johnston made it clear he would not shy away from targeting those groups likely to present the greatest threat – most obviously young Asian Men. He said: Intelligence-led stop-and-searches have got to be the way,’ adding that there were ‘challenges for us in managing diversity as an issue’ but that we should not bottle out over this. We should not waste time searching old white ladies. (Johnston 2005 cited in Wolmar 31 July 2005: 9)

As Samrina’s account reminds us, intelligence does not necessarily lead to reliable identification. Central to the operation of white terror is the ability to make mistakes with impunity due to control over information and knowledge practices which underpin state measures of surveillance and criminal justice proceedings: “how bad was their information?” Samrina admonishes. She highlights that if profiling is about “get[ting] communities right,” then race is being used as a proxy of risk; that is, profiling actively constructs the terrorist body through predetermined racialised notions of what constitutes a terrorist body, as I discuss further in my advancement of ‘premediated ignorance’ in Chapter 4.

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Chris Allen and Jørgen Nielsen (2002) note that the major determinate of vulnerability to Islamophobia is visible identity as Muslim, noting that whether or not victims were Muslim was less important than whether they were perceived to be so. Writing on the shooting of Menezes, Pugliese (2008: 53) observes that ‘racial profiling enables the hallucinogenic reconfiguration by the police of the attributes of the target subject: in the London police shooting, Menezes morphed into a “South Asian,” and was invested with a padded jacket trailing wires when in fact he wore a light jacket that had no protrusions.’ As with the case of the killing of Rodney King discussed earlier, despite investigation, their killers escaped accountability, protected by the white supremacist system in which the police officers’ actions were framed as protecting the white populace from a threat signified by the ethnically marked body perceived as a threatening Other. For Muslims, particularly males, they can be placed in a position of danger, and in the case of Menezes, reduced to a bare life, the life of homo sacer ‘who may be killed and yet not sacrificed’ (Agamben 1998: 8, original italics) because his place within the juridical order is only one of exclusion, ‘its capacity to be killed’ (Agamben 1998: 8). It could be argued that the mistaken identification of Menezes was because, since Muslims do not constitute a ‘bounded racial group’ (Tyrer 2009: unpaginated), they defy easy classification; further exposing the artificiality of the classificatory schema used to define and thus contain the ‘terrorist-monster’ (Puar and Rai 2002). Misrecognition can only be understood as such if we assume that racialised differences can be empirically substantiated. The case points to a more central issue that ‘race’ is socially constructed, meaning that there are no clearly bounded racial “communities” as Samrina appears to suggest. The issue is not that the officers got communities wrong, but rather that they used the inadequate rubric of race, and the insufficient visual technologies on which it is based, as a means of identification. One could argue that in fact, Menezes’ killing was not mistaken, since as Tyrer (2009: unpaginated) argues, ‘racism always targets the other, even if this means that it makes spurious and empirically incorrect reference to a range of assumed traits and resemblances and cynical appeals to hegemonic tropes along the way.’

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Tyrer (2009: unpaginated) makes a distinction between ‘(mis)recognition’ and ‘mistaken identity,’ arguing that ‘all racisms emerge from a primary (mis)recognition, but none truly involve mistaken identity.’ This takes us closer to understanding the mechanisms by which practices of racial profiling operate to inscribe the ethnically marked subject within a racist system in which they are placed at risk arising from the possibility of being branded as a threat. As Tyrer (2009: unpaginated) continues, ‘even when the victim is a Muslim, the racism involves a mistaken identity. And yet, it doesn’t for the error is central to racism itself.’ The killing of Menezes is no more a mistake than where Muslims are misrecognised as terrorists or Sikhs misrecognised as Muslims. In a similar vein, Puar (2007: 187) observes that ‘“mistaken for” is not a mistake, insofar as it is the very point.’ Profiling has proven to be highly controversial and problematic (Hoffman 2006: 7; Harris 2002: 1), and no statistical links have been established between ‘psycho-sociological features, nationality, birthplace’ (Hayes 2005: 37) and the risk of terrorism. Despite reviews into the effectiveness of counter-terrorism measures adopting racial, ethnic and religious profiling since 9/11 finding no positive results in identifying potential terrorists (Goldson 2006), these categories are still used as proxies of risk within counter-terrorism frameworks (Tufail and Poynting 2013, 2016; Glaser 2015; Pugliese 2010; Cole and Dempsey 2006: 219–238; Ansari 2005), which privileges the security of the normative population at the expense of Muslim communities. Pre-emptive counter-terrorism relies on anticipating risk or threat which is inevitably accompanied by profiling. Importantly, Jude McCulloch and Sharon Pickering (2009: 635) contend that while ‘maintaining the veneer of scientific objectivity’ these practices are actually ‘animated through the lens of prejudice’ which in turn ‘fortifies the imaginary border between the community to be protected and those they are to be protected from’ (also Zedner 2007: 267–268). As writers on the Gothic have noted (Mighall 1999; Hurley 1996; Richards 1993: 45–72), science masks the violences that its authoritative status enables. In keeping with the Gothic discourse of degeneration, rather than progression to a higher status of civilisation, racial profiling more closely resembles ‘the perils encountered by bodies caught up in the violent, gendered field of the

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gaze’ (Law 2006: 975). The need to ‘fix’ what is purportedly threatening, to enforce a border (Glover 1996: 71) in place of uncertainty, actually contributes to the dissolution of society and its values, and in the case of Menezes, ‘the human subject itself ’ (Byron 2000: 133). Conceived as an enactment of police terrorism, Leila troubles the category of “terrorist” hegemonic in accounts of the ‘war on terror’ as Muslim, exposing how whiteness is linked to terror. For Leila, the terrorist-monster is not vanquished by the shooting but, paradoxically, made present through the shooting in the guise of the counter-terrorism officers. As such, the terrorist-monster is interior to our culture, troubling the ‘borders of the civilized world in part through human desire or failing’ (Ruddick 2004: 28). The shooting exposes the powers of whiteness described by Garner (2007: 14), ‘to define the “Other,” and to kill him or her with impunity.’ Not only was Menezes’ killing legally sanctioned, his killers were not made accountable for his death, but instead presented as bastions of civilisation responsible for protecting society from the monstrous Muslim Other (Vaugh-Williams 2007; Pugliese 2006). Police terrorism features as the ‘civilised’ face of racial violence, of necropolitics; those violent excesses of society which are projected onto the phantasmatic Muslim Other imagined as a terrorist-monster (see Chapter 4). This spectral figure is not wholly Other therefore, but rather the monster within, what I am terming whiteness as a spectral terrorist that haunts the ‘civilised world,’ occupying a comparable position to the terror of whiteness expressed by hooks (1992: 176) present ‘in the black imagination.’ For Leila, the shooting centres on a paradox at the heart of racism: whether or not Menezes was a terror suspect was incidental; he was killed because “they wanted to kill a Muslim.” The shooting fits well within Valier’s (2002: 119) theorisation of gothicism as ‘typified by gruesome injury and trauma’ within ‘discourses of public protection and vengeful punishment.’ The Muslim imagined as a terrorist-monster following 7/7 invites retribution, that as Valier (2002: 329, 333) continues, require that we look at ‘points of merging between the discourses of crime prevention, public protection and vengeful punishment’ informing ‘slippage’ between ‘retribution (the legal infliction of pain and suffering) and revenge.’ Leila believes that the fatal shooting happened because the

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police wanted to enact revenge for 7/7. The (mis)recognition was that Menezes was not Muslim, not that he was not a terror suspect, since if he were Muslim he would have been treated as a terror suspect whether he was or not. This conclusion is also reached by Samrina who argues that the counter-terrorism officers “got communities wrong,” not that they failed to spot a terrorist. Although ‘race’ has been revealed to be a chimera, the continued focus on the body as a source of identity (Pugliese 2008, 2010) means that there is greater scope for those (mis)recognised as Muslim to be put at risk and in the case of Menezes, killed. Misrecognition functions as a mechanism of terror since where “mistakes” are made, they can easily be explained away as inadequate knowledge rather than discriminatory practice. For Samrina, such incompetence functions as a ruse for exerting control over Muslim communities as she develops: This is the kind of people that are making decisions about our lives and if they’re making these kind of dramatic mistakes and not acknowledging the level of mistakes that they’re making – they don’t want to learn from it – it’s the power and the control – and you people need to fit in with us. And the way that they oppress us through the government and the media – all these things which are not being controlled, it’s all about making sure that we dilute our identity. And some people are because they’re fearful and they’re not strong in their religion, and erm some of us think you know what, you can do what you like, it’s not going to change how we identify ourselves.

Samrina locates the shooting within a racialised governmentality, or more specifically, a hegemonic white governmentality involved in the management of Muslim identities through the government and media within ‘acceptable limits’ (see Tyrer 2010): “you people need to fit with us.” Subjected to a ‘normalising gaze’ (Foucault 1977: 184), Muslim populations adopt different strategies concerning how they perform their identities along the spectrum of (in/hyper-)visibility (see Tyrer 2008). These strategies can heuristically be conceived as piety, protection, resistance, the boundaries of which I argue are not discrete, and are related to

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the conditions of possibility informing the culture of fear which participants understand themselves to be located within the ‘war on terror’ context. Samrina’s decision to adopt a visibly Muslim identification is not without hardship. She describes how she has found it increasingly difficult to do her job amid the “assumptions” that are made about her which she “struggles with,” and which have had psychological and socioeconomic costs on her livelihood and family life. She confides that she would like to leave work and be a mum full-time, safe within the sanctuary of her home, but her son, as a visibly Muslim man, has been unable to relinquish the financial pressures from her due to the discrimination he has faced to find work and establish himself as an electrician: “he’s got a beard….it’s obvious he’s Muslim,” she explains. Having previously not understood the discrimination that his mother has experienced, he has now come face-to-face with it himself, a hurt which Samrina internalises as her own as she witnesses it in the eyes of her child and, as I develop in Chapter 5, which also incites fear that her son could be made the target of state counter-terrorism police. To avoid such harms, Samrina discusses how some Muslims in Britain are choosing to “dilute our identity” in order to fit in with the dictates of British society, essentially adopting a strategy of invisibilisation (also Harris and Hussein 2018: 4; Hopkins 2011: 161) as a means of protection, which further demonstrates the significant role of the visual to performances of safety/risk. This strategy supports the twin logic of monstrosity and normality present in Western discourses historically that have been reworked in contemporary discourses on terrorism observed by Puar and Rai (2002: 118). Trapped within ‘circuits of normalizing power’ (Puar and Rai 2002: 119), the Muslim is disciplined to downplay their ‘Muslimness’ to avoid state surveillance. Pugliese (2010: 57, original italics) describes how biometric technologies are linked to normalising practices, arguing that they are ‘infrastructually calibrated to whiteness. That is, whiteness is configured as the universal gauge that determines the technical settings and parameters for the visual imaging and capture of a subject,’ meaning that their punitive effects are related to degrees of deviance from whiteness.

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For Samrina, practices of invisibilisation do not only function as protective strategies, but are linked to performances of piety, noting that they are undertaken where Muslims are not “strong in their religion.” Saba Mahmood (2004: 5–25) notes that Muslim women’s identity performances are often defined within Western frameworks in binary terms of oppressive/resistant that fail to adequately address piety. Samrina withstands the culture of fear by refusing to sacrifice being ‘visibly Muslim.’ She frames her decision in terms of her personal desire to maintain a pious Muslim identification through religious dress and practice rather than as a means of resisting British social norms/values. Indeed, Samrina tells me of a number of experiences in which she has proudly contributed to key British institutions such as the NHS through her work and improved the equity of service-users, including for disenfranchised white Britons. Rather, her decision to adopt a ‘visibly Muslim’ identification resists the misrecognition of religious observance as extremist that plagues current framings of Muslim identity performances. I am not suggesting here that performances of Muslim identity can be separated from the political so that they can only be seen as pious or private experiences, but rather that the significance of religion to Muslims’ personal lives needs to be taken more seriously and considered beyond the limited remit of state definitions of moderate/extremist. This binary oppresses Muslims by denying them agency to perform their religious identities on their own terms (see Chapters 5 and 6). Samrina draws attention to how racial profiling functions as a mechanism of racial terror, delimiting how Muslims can perform their identities and disciplining those who fall outside the boundaries of acceptable ‘Muslimness’ defined by state institutions. Whilst state actors retain the power to define the boundaries by which Muslim identifications are seen as acceptable, the white gaze can escape admonishment even where “dramatic mistakes” are made as Samrina warns, and which the contentious case of Menezes gravely shows. This suggests that keeping hegemonic whiteness in place is the ultimate goal of racial profiling. In the next section, I further explore the role of the racialised visual regime for (mis)recognising Muslims as terror suspects as conceived through a technology of monstrosity.

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“Fit[Ing] the Bill of a Terrorist” Abrah: The more dangerous stuff are the things that we don’t have a choice over you know. I might fit the bill of a terrorist at the moment, I probably do actually. Madeline: Why’s that? Abrah: Because of my age, my race, and my religion, because of my background, because of my skin colour unfortunately I’m you know … I’m not far from the kind of terrorist individual, you know profile. And I think because of that, because of this kind of categorising people um, there’s a lot of policy that – there is a lot of policy that is driving racial attitudes. Madeline: Being seen as a terrorist? Abrah: Yeah absolutely. Unfortunately Muslim men – if you’re Muslim you could very easily fall into the terrorist branding. Now that’s, that is systematic, it’s within the whole policies.

As with Moustafa’s reference to brandishing, Abrah’s use of “branding” draws attention to the materiality of the body to the production of the profile that is externally imposed onto the (Muslim-looking) body. This term locates the racialised body branded as a terror suspect within a history of racial terror used to exert dominance over the bodies of racial Others, notably the practice of branding slaves such as performed during the trans-Atlantic slave trade (Keefer 2019; Browne 2015: 89– 130; Patterson 1990: 59) and by the Spanish in the sixteenth century on Aztec slaves (Fehrenbach 2000: 74). Whilst there are important distinctions to be drawn between ‘the making, marking and marketing of blackness as commodity’ (Browne 2015: 91) in which the slave is produced as an object to be sold and owned, Simone Browne (2015: 109) argues that these practices comprised forms of ‘social sorting’ (also Lyon 2005a: 1) that prefigure contemporary surveillance practices and biometric technologies and ‘digital epidermalization’ (Browne 2015: 108, my italics) through which race is imposed onto bodies, and thus the importance of drawing connections between histories of (anti)-blackness to contemporary forms of racialised surveillance and Islamophobia (Dahir 2017).

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Branding has historically left a physical mark on the body. Comparably, the profile as a means of branding, or “categorising” individuals as terror suspects comprises a form of biopower which as Pugliese describes (2010: 8; also Lyon 2005a: 1), ‘effectively colonises the body, overlaying it with calculatory grids and mathematically inscribing it with formulae that will transform it into an object of knowledge and power.’ Branding can thus be understood as an effect of power to address the problem as posed by the US government following 9/11: ‘What does a terrorist look like?’ (Engle 2007). As Mary Gordon (2001: 4) writes, following the attacks, ‘to have an enemy with no name and therefore no face, or even worse, a name and face that can only be guessed at, is the stuff of nightmares.’ The faceless terrorist troubles the racialised workings of power in which as discussed, the white gaze holds dominance (Haraway 1997). The threat of the ‘nonfaced’ requires that the terror suspect is given a ‘face’ (Agamben 1993: 86), whereby the ability to represent Others is central to state power (Engle 2007: 398). Branding operates here in a comparable way to Mary Bloodsworth-Lugo and Carmen Lugo-Lugo’s (2008: 274) term ‘browned,’ whereby Muslim-looking bodies are ‘“transformed” into threats’ via particular discourses. These discourses enable racial profiling to escape charges of racist practice by masquerading as security concerns premised on responsible state governance to protect ordinary, decent (normative) citizens. This semblance of respectability offers a means through which white supremacy (Gillborn 2006) is maintained, described by Abrah as “systematic, it’s within the whole policies.” These strategies are not neutral, but are politicised and enacted through government policies therefore. Pugliese (2013b: 571–572, my italics) refers to ‘statist regimes of visuality’ as ‘discursively mediated ways of seeing enabled by the state and its laws’ that comprise ‘embodied discursive practices’ determining, ‘not only what one sees, but also what one does.’ Abrah tells me for example, that he would have to add extra time onto his journey if he were to travel abroad, especially to the US, in case he was detained at the airport on account of his appearance. Racial profiling subjects those deemed to fit the “bill of a terrorist” as Abrah intimates, to suspicion, disruption and humiliation (Gillborn 2006: 323) through a

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technology of terrorist-monstrosity to develop Halberstam’s (2000) term, comprising categories of race, religion, gender, age7 and background that are externally imposed and geographically shaped. Importantly, being branded ‘risky’ comprises the conditions of dangerousness for Abrah. He risks being placed under the glare of state surveillance regardless of whether he engages in terrorist offences. For Abrah, whether Muslim or not, terrorist or not, the profiled body is at risk because racism is systemic. He argues that it is “racial attitudes” which are driving such policies rather than the threat of terrorism. Since these attitudes are already part of the system of racialised governance, their scope is more far-reaching than addressing terrorist activities but rather, are intent on governing a particular type of subject. That Abrah feels the gaze of state surveillance upon him without having committed a crime suggests that surveillance is not limited to crime control, but rather, is about disciplining the racially marked subject. It comprises ‘racialized social control’ (Glover 2008: 255, also 2009) that involves exploiting popular conceptions of Muslims’ links to terrorism as a means of legitimating powers to control them. As Shamila Ahmed (2015: 2) notes, counter-terrorism policing ‘reflects a form of policing where due process is not prioritised and this is of central importance given that due process prioritises fairness, justice and liberty – which are vital components of citizens’ legal status.’ The move towards pre-emption has encouraged racial and ethnic identities to be used as risk indicators which have been translated into profiling Muslims as described here, subjecting them to discriminatory police treatment and invasive surveillance (Pilkington and Acik 2020; Monaghan and Molnar 2016; Ahmed 2015; Eroukhmanoff 2015; Breen-Smyth 2014; Croft 2012a, b; Lakhani 2012; Parmar 2011; Thomas 2010; Pantazis and Pemberton 2009). Comparably, Abrah is subjected to racialised state surveillance which he has “no choice over,” comprising a ‘compulsory visibility’ (Foucault 1977: 187) that works in conjunction with the permanent invisibility of the Panopticon: ‘He is seen, but he does not see; he is the object of information, never a subject in communication’ (Foucault 1977: 200), the foreboding omnipresent eye from nowhere (Haraway 2004: 86).

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Vague definitions of what comprises ‘terrorism’ or ‘extremism’ enable the category ‘terror suspect’ to be misapplied with ease, sustained through Orientalist, racist and Islamophobic logics (Sian 2015: 190– 201). For example, the European Union recommended member states construct ‘terrorist profiles’ (De Schutter and Ringelheim 2008: 361) using characteristics including nationality, birthplace, age, education, ‘psycho-sociological characteristics’ (De Schutter and Ringelheim 2008: 361) or family situation to identify terrorists before striking. Unlike other criminal profiles, they are not based on existing crime but have a ‘predictive function’ (De Schutter and Ringelheim 2008: 362) that encourages generalisations about groups to be made. Under such circumstances, racial profiling, although not formalised policy, may take a ‘de facto, informal, practice, based on officers’ subjective memories of significant experiences or assumptions about the typical features of offenders’ (De Schutter and Ringelheim 2008: 362). Abrah’s account challenges postracial approaches such as offered by Paul Gilroy (2000: 108) who claims that technological innovations ‘mean that the individual is even less constrained by the immediate forms of physical presence established by the body.’ Instead, I follow Pugliese’s (2008: 49) critique of such postracial renditions who argues that the use of biometric technologies helps to ‘secure identity dominance’ by providing ‘signatures of essentialised corporeal features, behaviours and practices’ that are delimited by ‘the immediate forms of physical presence established by the body.’ Although Abrah does not have a beard or wear Islamic dress except when attending mosque, he nonetheless sees himself as fitting the bill of a terrorist. As Pugliese (2008: 53) ominously writes, the beard may signal a ‘Muslim suicide bomber’ but shaving one’s beard may ‘expose oneself as a Muslim suicide bomber attempting to pass as a Western civilian.’ This suggests that through being racialised as Muslim on account of his skin colour, Abrah inescapably risks being seen as a terror suspect, regardless of whether he displays visible markers of Muslimness. Uncertainty surrounding how the terrorist category is interpreted, “I might fit the bill,” and the instability of this category which “at the moment” encircles Abrah, but which may pass by, comprises how terror is connected to powerlessness to affect state policies (Dillon 2003: 124).

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As I have discussed, the criminalisation of racialised bodies works on the body such that the body becomes the site of power (Foucault 1977: 138–139). The unstable ways in which the profile operates, rather than exposing its insufficiencies, exemplify its power to ensnare bodies with impunity. As Ahmed (2004a: 79, original italics) explains, it is ‘this could-be-ness, this detachment’ through which the signifiers of ‘Muslim’ and ‘terrorist’ circulate which enables restrictions to be imposed on the movement of bodies that are ‘read as associated with terrorism.’ In contrast to faith in scientific methods, the Gothic, as Wagner (2012: 85) observes, exposes the dangers of ‘reducing the person to a sum of his or her parts’ as present in racial profiling. Since the profile of the terror suspect or extremist draws from visual and embodied markers, it troubles constructions of ‘race’ which privilege colour, but which nonetheless relies, as Samrina examines, on a particular racialisation of the Muslim body in the current British context: the South Asian(-looking) Muslim. In the next extract, Samrina discusses how the profile operates to produce a “visibly” Muslim body which works to invisibilise other Muslim bodies: And I think, I mean if you’re a black Muslim you’re doubly you know – but actually it’s the South Asian Muslims that they’re picking up because there are English Muslims – there are Muslims from every walk of life in the world today, particularly in this country. But it’s the Muslims who are visibly, erm noticeable as Muslims – the ones with the beards, the ones with the hijabs, and the ones who are young and South Asian I believe are the ones that are really the ones that they’re looking to er focus on – and do focus on.

The problematic ways in which racialised visual regimes have operated in the policing of Muslim bodies have been well discussed (Selod 2019; Tufail and Poynting 2013, 2016; Tyrer 2013; Tyrer and Sayyid 2012; Tyrer 2008, 2009, 2010; Pugliese 2006, 2008, 2009, 2010; Amoore 2007; Puar 2007: 166–202). Central to these examinations is the tension between how the category ‘Muslim’ disrupts racial taxonomies. Nonetheless, the governance of Muslims continues to involve attempts to ‘fix’

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what Muslims, and by extension, terror suspects, look like based on racialised inscriptions. Samrina’s account explores the complex interplay between practices of (in/hyper-)visibility and the operation of the profile. Importantly, she argues that there is a particular racialised profile of the Muslim which she believes is the predominant target. To formulate this claim, Samrina makes a significant change in the direction of her argument. She begins to contend that the shift from black bodies to Muslim bodies as the principle target means that black Muslims are “doubly” affected, such that when the additional identity of ‘Muslim’ is projected onto their already criminalised bodies, they are subjected to a double force of discrimination. However, she stops short from taking up this position before significantly changing the direction of her argument: “but actually it’s the South Asian Muslims that they’re picking up.” By making an explicit distinction between the treatment of South Asian Muslims compared to other Muslims, Samrina strengthens her contention that terror is more acutely felt by this group because they correspond to the hegemonic profile of the terror suspect. Samrina’s claim is significant since it exposes the insufficiencies of the profile to locate the Muslim. Rather, she draws attention to the practices of power informing the technologies of (in/hyper-)visibility that enable a particular body to be made visible as a terror suspect and thus the target of penal practice. Terror is not experienced homogeneously by Muslims therefore, but depends on how the body is read as a sign through the profile. In this way the profile, by differentiating between bodies not/to “focus on” in penal practice, affects relations not only between Muslims and other groups, but within Muslim communities (see chapter 5). Samrina also illustrates that the category ‘Muslim’ complicates how our knowledge about who is Muslim relates to ‘received schemas of racialised classification’ (Tyrer 2008: 57) according to a black/white binary. This is because the language for classifying bodies according to phenotypal difference cannot easily be reconciled as a means of identifying Muslims. Like Abrah’s description of the “visuality of race,” Samrina’s account further illustrates that Muslims can be positioned and position themselves differently along the spectrum of (in/hyper-)visibility

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depending on whether they adopt visual markers of Islamic dress or the beard, such that their identity as ‘Muslim’ might not be ‘seen’ at all where they do not correspond to received understandings of what a Muslim should look like. The racialisation of the terror suspect does not only encompass embodied features, but other “visibl[e]” Islamic markers: “the ones with the beards, the one with the hijabs.” In this regard, understanding the racialisation of Muslims requires extending analyses of race which focus on skin as the boundary marker (Ahmed and Stacey 2001; Shildrick 2001; Tate 2001; Prosser 2001; Ahmed 2000; Bhabha 1997: 78; Fanon 1986) to consider how investment in the meaning of skin interacts with other indicators such as dress. This is not to propose that embodied differences are equivalent to other visual signs that can be detached from the body. What I am arguing here is rather that visual markers such as dress can alter how the body comes to be read and invested with meaning (see Moosavi 2012, 2015a, b; Mahmood 2004; Franks 2000; Dwyer 1999; Eicher 1995; Barnes and Eicher 1992). As discussed, Hesse (2007: 643, 666) proposes an expansive definition of ‘race’ that incorporates visual and embodied distinctions and the cultural differences that they signify that is important for understanding the particular terrors faced by “visible” Muslims in Samrina’s account. These form the basis of a governmental racialisation that for Hesse (1997: 98) is based on whiteness as the legitimate source of culture contrasted against the non-white/non-European as ‘variously a threat, a resource, a fantasy or an epigone to be regulated by that culture’ (also Said 2003; Mudimbe 1994, 1988). This contributes to the differential ways in which Muslims are managed depending on their differentiation from other bodies, including other Muslim bodies based on degrees from whiteness that are not confined to conventional racial hierarchies based on skin colour. That Muslims can also be white (Samrina also uses the metonym of “English”), exposes, as Eugenia DeLamotte (2004: 17) writes, that ‘behind the fears of dark, racialized others on which the Gothic construction of whiteness hinges’ is the ‘unspeakable Other of that construction: the fear that there is no such thing as whiteness, or even race.’ Tyrer and Sayyid (2012: 354) observe that Muslims’ presence within the hegemonic

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imaginary is ‘somehow phantasmatic’ (Daulatzai 2007: 135; Sayyid 2003: 1–2). This condition emerges from the interruption to processes of racialisation to which minorities are subjected that the Muslim proposes since the expression of Muslim identities affords them an agency not usually present for racialised groups. Further, by displacing ascribed racial categories in favour of religious identifications, Muslims expose the limits of the racial imaginary for governing racialised populations (Patel and Tyrer 2011). Nonetheless, the power of hegemonic whiteness to ascribe labels remains implicit in Samrina’s account as a means through which to enact dominance. It informs how Islamic markers contribute to the signification of the body as a problem of governance. Further, the profile of the Muslim made target still relies on racalised classifications of ‘South Asian’ and affixes racialised categories to visible markers of ‘Muslimness’ such as the beard and the hijab that afford differential outcomes, including for white Muslims. Kalpana Seshadri-Crooks (2000: 20) explains that the structure of racial distinction is premised on whiteness as a ‘master signifier’ which produces ‘a logic of differential relations.’ ‘Race’ is structured by ‘who is seeing and who has the ability to assert what is seen and how it is seen’ (Byrne 2006: 171, original italics), providing the conditions for the Muslim that is looked at through the profile to be “pick[ed] up” and “focus[ed] on,” as Samrina recounts. Whilst emphasis has been placed on the racialisation of South Asian young men as the focus of punitive action (see Alexander 2007: 17), Samrina contests this gendered construction. She argues that both South Asian Muslim males and females can be targeted. The hijab and beard both function as a means of differentiating “visibly” Muslim from other Muslim bodies, which affords them different outcomes in terms of the forms of governance to which they are subjected. This helps to explain how the profile can move across differently gendered Muslim bodies such that it collects more densely around certain Muslim bodies (Ahmed 2004a: 79; also Puar 2007: 186) because of the meanings with which these visual markers have been invested and come to signify. In this regard, being “visibly” Muslim must be understood as connected to the management of Muslim bodies within normative terms (see Tyrer 2008, 2010). Samrina’s account provides further evidence of how racial

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profiling operates as a mechanism of normalising the monstrous Muslim by implicitly undergirding an index of civilisational development (Puar and Rai 2002: 119) of embodied and visual markers through which categories of ‘good’/ ‘bad’ (Mamdani 2004; also Jackson 2017: 31– 58), moderate/extremist Muslims are produced, the latter more closely calibrated to that of the terrorist-monster. In the next extract, I further interrogate gendered differences within racialised surveillance. I draw from Samrina’s account of her experiences of investigations undertaken by counter-terrorism officers of Muslim male staff at her place of work in Leeds shortly after 7/7. She highlights important gendered distinctions concerning how profiles of ‘risky’ subjects are produced and which pertain to differences in surveillance strategies as she recounts: …when I was working at one of the agencies when 7/7 happened you know er, there was a lot of men who were being – I sat in on a lot of interviews that the police had with the staff in that building – just because the staff wanted me there – they wanted me to evidence what was happening … so I saw the pictures that they were showing, I saw the questioning that they had, I saw how they dealt with people …

Samrina is asked by her male colleagues to act as a witness when being questioned by counter-terrorism police as part of the investigations following 7/7. It is important to note that none of the Muslim males being questioned had any association with the perpetrators. The questioning was more of a ‘fishing expedition’ in which counter-terrorism officers were interviewing a number of Muslim males in the local area. Bearing witness to the machinations of the visual regime through which Muslims are produced as terrorists (“I saw the pictures they were showing”) provides an important counterpoint and potential means of evidencing the discriminatory conduct of counter-terrorism officers. She provides insight of state counter-terrorism policing and its racialised and gendered performances through which the visual regime is operationalised as a means of classifying subjects as ‘risky.’ Her intervention is reminiscent of hooks’ (1992: 115–131) ‘oppositional gaze,’ which offers a ‘critical gaze,’ one that ‘“looks” to document, one that is oppositional’

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(hooks 1992: 116). Samrina challenges counter-terrorism officers’ interpretations and in so doing, resists hegemonic ways in which Muslim males are ‘seen’ as terrorists. Whilst Muslim males are the targets of interrogation as potential terrorists, Samrina escapes such questioning. Yet she is still subject to surveillance in “different formats” by counter-terrorism officials as a potential accomplice and source of information but, importantly, otherwise subsidiary to the terrorist propensities of her Muslim male counterparts, as Samrina continues: Samrina: What was really interesting to me is that they never questioned me. They never interviewed me – but I was a big part of what was going on – I find it quite strange. They followed me in different formats. When I went to the next organisation the head of, one of the key officers from MI5 was in the building talking to one of my staff about something and when I walked in – I didn’t recognise him, I didn’t know him – but he knew me! Madeline: Really? Samrina: Um – he said to my colleague, he said, she said – oh this is my manager Samrina and he said yes I know who she is! And that told me a lot – because I often thought that I’d been followed a few times by some officers.

Here, being recognised illustrates asymmetrical power relations of (in)visibility emanating from an inability to know that the ‘eye/I’ of surveillance is watching you. She tells me that she suspects that she has been followed by state officials. The fear of being watched comprises an ‘internalization of the gaze’ (Puar 2007: 115) as a mechanism of ‘disciplinary containment’ (Puar 2007: 115) by circumscribing her everyday movements and reveals psychic costs that accompany suspect treatment. Indeed, Samrina was right to be wary, but she is unable to confirm her suspicions until a member of M15 discloses his identity to her at her place of work. By alerting her employees that he knows who she is, he implicates Samrina as an accessory with blatant disregard for the possible impact that this revelation might have on her work context and how she is seen by her colleagues, with potentially damaging consequences for Samrina.

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Whilst Samrina’s everyday movements are carefully monitored, the ‘eye’ of surveillance remains unseen. Subject to the white male gaze, Samrina is made “known” to the officer comprising a re-staging of the colonial encounter and visual politics of seer/seen (Mohanty 1991), where again it is the Muslim woman who is objectified. Importantly, the officer retains the power to choose when to make himself visible and without risk, interrupting Samrina’s world without warning, as well as deciding what actions are to be taken based on the profile he has compiled about her. Although Samrina is treated as auxiliary to the investigation, she, like her male counterparts, is treated as suspect based on her Muslim identity. Samrina experiences a disturbing situation in which she is haunted by herself, or more precisely, the profile that is constructed about her. As Felix Stalder (2002: 120) observes, ‘Our bodies are being shadowed by an increasingly comprehensive “data body.”’ However, this shadow body does more than follow us. It does also precede us, lurking as an ‘informational doppelganger’ (also Puar 2007: 155–156, 175), which explains why the officer claims to know Samrina before he has even met her. Her profile precedes her as a monstrous double: “I didn’t recognise him, I didn’t know him – but he knew me.” The motif of the double features in the Gothic as the repository of the self ’s uncivilised proclivities that are usually kept hidden (Punter 2000; Botting 1996; Williams 1995: 25–79; MacAndrew 1979). Comparably, the profile functions as a means of fixing the ‘true’ nature of the culprit by exposing their hidden terrorist inclinations. Yet as Halberstam (2000: 84–85, my italics) observes, ‘tales of doubled monstrosity,’ ‘call into question the project of interpretation that seeks to fix meaning in the body of the monster’ that instead reveals language or representation itself as the ‘place of monstrous affect.’ Transposing this theorisation onto the profile, how knowledge of the Muslim is interpreted will determine whether they are judged to be terrorist-monsters, which perhaps tells us more about the terror tactics of racial profiling and surveillance than the terrorist proclivities of those under investigation. I develop my analysis of gendered surveillance and how questions of (in/hyper-)visibility are mapped onto the moderate/extremist binary, focusing on the veiled

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Muslim woman. The next section also delineates the capillary effects of state surveillance where racial profiling is conducted by ordinary citizens.

The ‘Imperil/led Muslim Woman’ Discourses concerning Muslim identity have been informed by what Derek McGhee (2008: 95–96) describes as a ‘re-gendering of “the Muslim problem”’ involving a refocusing from young Muslim males as the purported ‘Muslim problem’ to cultural practices, particularly around veiling, of Muslim women. His account fails to capture however, how the Muslim woman can signify both the problems of cultural difference and extremism. My concern in this section is to examine how the Muslim woman occupies an ambivalent position concerning her relationship to terror within the Concentrationary Gothic. This is because she can shift from the position of vulnerable informing the ‘imperilled Muslim woman’ (Razack 2008) stereotype discussed in Chapter 2, to that of aggressor when identified as an extremist or terror suspect (see Saeed 2016). To address these ambivalences, I advance the category of ‘imperil/led Muslim woman’ to account for the interplay between victim/aggressor, terror/ising operating within contemporary constructions of Muslim women through which they are (mis)recognised as threats, both to British values/identity and security. Muslim women’s dress has attracted significant academic interest (Zempi 2016, 2020; Tarlo 2010; Martino and Rezai-Rashti 2008; Afshar 2008; Mahmood 2004; Franks 2000; Dwyer 1999). These studies have drawn attention to dress as a ‘contested signifier’ (Dwyer 1999: 5) that requires sensitivity to the multiple meanings that are ascribed to dress, including an extremist identity. Drawing from Saba’s words, a twenty-four-year-old British Muslim woman of Pakistani heritage who lives in Bradford, I examine how her decision to adopt the veil and the jilbab at the age of 19 altered how she was treated during encounters with ordinary (non-Muslim) citizens. Saba’s personal journey into Islam and her decision to adopt a visibly Muslim identification by first wearing the hijab and then the jilbab provides

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important insight concerning changes in how she is treated by nonMuslims, including her friendship group (as well as by her family as I discuss further in Chapter 5). Saba was born in Germany and lived in a completely non-Muslim community. Her immediate family are Muslim, but are not religious, and Islam did not have much presence in her household growing up, meaning she did not know much about Islam. As the “only coloured people” she felt like the odd one out in Germany. When she moved to Heaton, a suburb of Bradford, she lived in an area which was predominately white. At school she again felt out of place and did not have any Muslim friends. In her youth she was avidly involved in martial arts and had a black belt. When her instructor left she felt like she needed to find a purpose and like most teenagers, she rebelled and tried out different pursuits. At one point she was “seriously into” hip-hop and break dancing and wore “trackies” and had dreadlocks, she looked into Buddhism and at another stage saw herself as an atheist, before looking into Islam (at this time still sporting her hip-hop attire!). As I discuss further in Chapter 5, her decision to become religiously observant was not favoured by her family, illustrating how Islamic practice can incite strong, negative emotions in both Muslims and nonMuslims. Importantly, like a number of my participants, her account shows that piety is a personal choice that involved a lot of research and thought and was decided upon through a process of rationalisation not radicalisation. Sadly, the latter is often suspected to be the motivating factor, such is the predominance of the discourse of extremism surrounding visibly Muslim identifications, including within Muslim families, particularly where religion does not have a strong presence. Following her decision to practice Islam, Saba tells me her friendship group narrowed a lot. This made her realise who her true friends were, but also showed the misconceptions and hostility non-Muslims have of veiled Muslim women which negatively affected how she comes to be seen by them. In the following extract, Saba is discussing the reactions she receives from non-Muslims who, despite her decision to adopt a visibly Muslim identification being a personal choice which actually goes against her family’s expectations, nonetheless treat her as if she is being oppressed at home:

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I think sometimes when people see hijab – either they assume that you’re like really extremist or they assume that you’re vulnerable and you’re being beaten at home – maybe forced to wear it …

I explored in Chapter 2 how the stereotype of the ‘dangerous Muslim male’ (Razack 2008; also Tufail and Poynting 2016, 2013; Tufail 2015; Bhattacharyya 2008; Dwyer et al. 2008; Puar 2007; Hopkins 2006; Alexander 2004, 2006; Puar and Rai 2002) is interrelated to the ‘imperilled Muslim woman’ (Razack 2008; Martino and Rezai-Rashti 2008; Khiabany and Williamson 2008; Stabile and Kumar 2005). What I am terming the ‘imperil/led Muslim woman’ is materialised through a chain of signification informing the ‘technology of monstrosity’ (Halberstam 2000) that incorporates the ambivalence of the hijab as signifying both a “vulnerable” and “really extremist” Muslim identity through entanglements of discourses of integration and radicalisation, enabling the Muslim woman to function as both subject and agent of terror, as Saba’s account illustrates. Although these positions appear to be antithetical, if we explore how the discourse of extremism is interwoven with racialised ascriptions, we can see how the profile of the hijab-wearing Muslim woman can incorporate both guises in one body. Tyrer and Sayyid (2012: 362) contend that the discourse of extremism ‘has been articulated with other discursive elements to stabilize its meaning relative to the possibilities provided by the racial imaginary.’ Extremism is conflated with pathologies of South Asian communities as characterised by insularity and culturally bound acts of criminality. The hijab signifies cultural violence: being “beaten at home” and having the hijab “forced” upon them, which presents Muslim women as “vulnerable” and thus devoid of agency. Claudia Brunner’s (2007: 958, 964) exploration of the social construction of the female suicide bomber presents a comparable account, noting that this figure is ‘embedded in a logic that situates women terrorists within the racedgendered confines of orientalized patriarchy.’ The profile of the female suicide bomber, as with the hijab-wearing “extremist” in Saba’s narrative, is conflated with the cultural confines of a violent patriarchy believed to characterise Muslim cultures. This depiction produces the Muslim as a Gothic Other associated with premodern, uncivilised and irrationally

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violent cultures in contrast to the rational and enlightened Western subject. The emergence of extremism in the 1990s reflects the shift in representation of Muslim populations as rooted in sub-continental or Middle Eastern religious adherences to concerns over the governance of the postcolonial Muslim presence in the West. Tyrer and Sayyid (2012: 361) argue that this depiction explains why concerns regarding extremism often descend into examinations of ‘difference, loyalty to nation and integratedness.’ In a similar vein, Gholam Khiabany and Milly Williamson (2008: 71, 2010) argue that constructions of the veil as a refusal of the British way of life contribute to the linkage of ‘tyranny of a “culture” imposed by a minority’ that links veiling to the threat of terrorism. The veiled Muslim woman proposes an expansion to the ‘threatened femininity’ (Schmitt 1997: 11) narrative within Gothic discourses of the nation by not only signifying patriarchal violence, but as posing a potential threat to other women (and males) through terrorist violence and loss of national identity. As discussed earlier, in the case of white women converts, the veil may exemplify Islam’s association with deception, falsehood and rebellion (Fortier 2008: 68), as Clementine’s account of possession by the devil revealed, that correspond more to anxieties concerning radicalisation rather than patriarchal oppression when adopted by South Asian Muslim women. These differences highlight contested meanings of veiling that situate Muslim women differently within discourses of Islamophobia depending on their position within the racial terrain and importantly, relationship to whiteness. Williamson and Khiabany (2010: 88) observe that in the current socio-political context, Muslim women are reformulated from passive victims to visible signifiers of extremism that contribute to the wider demonisation of Muslim populations. In this way, the categories which comprise the technology of monstrosity reproduce racialised hierarchies through fixed assumptions of the incompatibility of Muslim women with reason or self-determination. Saba’s use of the second person indicates that “vulnerable” and “extremist” are ascribed rather than chosen categories: “you’re like really extremist,” “you’re vulnerable,” “you’re being

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beaten at home.” Nonetheless, these misrecognitions structure how nonMuslims act towards her based on what she signifies to them as a veiled Muslim woman. In the next part, Saba develops how the body incites affective responses (also Abdel-Fattah 2018: 4); the intensity of which shifts depending on Muslim women’s location within wider circuits of surveillance: I’ve had women say to me hijab makes me uncomfortable … And things like that um and I would just kind of question why and try and break down the rationale behind it because I think sometimes it is an emotional response and I understand that.

Saba illustrates that gendered surveillance is shaped by both the subject and object of the gaze. She notes that she incites particular discomfort for non-Muslim women by signifying an oppressed female subjectivity. Yet she is aware that what the body incites and self-knowledge may be incongruous, informing her desire to question her onlooker and challenge their misgivings by presenting a different rationale on which to base their judgements. Nonetheless, the hegemonic articulation of Muslim women as oppressed means that they are subjected to racial profiling as a means to secure the wider populace from the encroachment of Muslim women within the nation. Instead of praying being seen as an act of piety, it instead appears as evidence of extremism, particularly within spaces associated with terrorism such as train stations and airports, as Saba continues: …especially at train stations and airports people – if you start praying people are like [puts on a voice] what are they planning? [Both laugh]. And you can tell that because people start watching you and then sometimes it’s like – especially, I think it was Chicago airport with my friends, cos like a group of us were praying and you could see like in the corner of your eye more and more security people coming in and watching and just making sure which is quite funny.

The extremist subject position invites surveillance that is connected to regimes of affect and tactility. As Puar (2007: 187) argues, these regimes ‘conduct vital information beyond the visual’ that inform the move from

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‘looks like’ to ‘feels like’ a terror suspect, but which expose visibility as an ‘inadequate rubric’ for locating the terrorist. Saba is treated as a terror suspect based on an asynchrony, of a possibility that has not actually happened: “what are they planning ?” The profile is not founded on visual evidence of extremist activity therefore, but instead comprises a structuring of the visual that is based on a fundamental (mis)recognition arising from what the body incites in the onlooker rather than what the body actually does. Its insufficiencies as a visual technology contribute to its power to make Muslims more governable (Tyrer 2008: 63) precisely because it works on the basis of an absence, where it is the possibility that Muslims are terror suspects or extremists that validates its operation. In this regard, the visibility of the terrorist works on the premise of an invisibility of an actual terrorist, but which legitimates its (mis)recognition because the Muslim is constructed as already a potential threat. Tyrer and Sayyid (2012: 362) explain that whilst ‘a suspected criminal can always be innocent,’ a ‘potential criminal can always be assumed likely to pose a threat.’ From this viewpoint, distinctions between Muslims who are terrorists and those who are not are incongruous because Muslims are already considered potential terrorists, whether actual or not. This position informs how Saba is ‘seen’ as a terror suspect despite not having done anything that would constitute terrorist activities (except wear the hijab and jilbab and praying). As Ahmed (2004b: 126) contends, ‘The other is only read as fearsome through a misrecognition,’ not despite it. Read through the prism of security, piety is viewed as evidence of extremism, contributing to the profile of the terror suspect that, as Saba shows, also includes Muslim women. Her account highlights the importance of religion to understandings of Islamophobia since here it is religious practice which invites suspect treatment. Pugliese (2008: 52–53) similarly notes that racial profiling operates along ‘religio-ethnic lines,’ citing the example of six Muslim imams who were removed from a commercial flight in Minnesota following accusations of ‘suspicious activity’ but which was revealed to be merely them reciting an evening prayer. Here, profiled as a terror suspect, Saba is distracted from praying having attracted the gaze of ordinary citizens and security guards, forcing her to watch what is unfolding “in the corner of [her] eye.” She highlights the importance of being able to read visual cues in order to assess the

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risk: “you can tell” she confides, when you are being treated as suspect. The situation causes a familiar practice for Muslims—praying—to be made unfamiliar when accompanied by suspect treatment: “which is quite funny (i.e. strange).” In the next extract, Hamida explores perhaps the most contentious visible expression of Muslim identity: the face veil or niqab (see Zempi 2016, 2020; Rashid 2016). Hamida locates restrictions concerning dress as a means of governing Muslim populations within a racialised history of terror in which groups are marked for removal: …people stood and said well we don’t need to get involved with that conversation because it doesn’t affect our lives. And it was a guy who said to me if it doesn’t affect your life because you don’t wear it, but they’ll come for that and then they’ll come for something else and next it will be the hijab, then what are you going to do? And it always reminds me of that quote of the man who said they came for the Jews and it didn’t involve me so – and that’s what it reminds me of. And so for that reason I will stand up for it because I might not believe it’s an obligation, but Muslims should not shy away and think well if I don’t get involved with that conversation … and say oh it’s not part of my faith … then it makes me sound a bit more liberal or a bit more normal because I don’t agree with covering your face. But the point is if a Muslim makes that decision – because at the time of the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, some of the women did wear it – it wasn’t an obligation, but some did and therefore if a woman makes a choice to do that, there’s nothing wrong in it. Don’t feel afraid to stand by your religion erm because when it does come to the hijab then it’s gone too far because this is an obligation and if someone asked me to take it off I’m not going to take it off erm. But it will be too far if we don’t defend everything else.

Important to my development of the Concentrationary Gothic is how Hamida articulates the culture of fear concerning being ‘visibly Muslim’ within a concentrationary frame by referencing terrors visited upon Jews under Nazism as a warning to Muslims in situations where religious groups are deemed unsuitable for inclusion within the national community. The poem that Hamida references is the post-war confession poem by the German Lutheran pastor, Martin Niemöller (1946), which draws

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on themes of persecution, guilt and responsibility following the Nazis’ rise to power in the lead up to World War II and ensuing failure to protect groups marked for expulsion. The poem also refers to ‘political dissidents’ including communists, socialists and trade unionist, illustrating how restrictions to freedom of speech are terrors tactic that, I argue, also comprise the Concentrationary Gothic (see Chapter 6). This helps to explain the importance which Hamida places on voice. She contends that “being involved with that conversation” concerning how Muslims can identify themselves is crucial to combatting disciplinary measures that, if undefended, could lead to the subjugation of Muslim identities altogether; as her comparison to the Jews within the context of Nazism hauntingly reminds us. Hamida illustrates the interdependence of the visual and vocal to influencing the ‘politics of representation’ (Pollock and Silverman 2011: 8) affecting performances of Muslim identities (Chapter 6). In the post-9/11 context, participants reported that what Muslims wear has become politicised, meaning decisions are read through a restrictive moderate/extremist binary (Tyrer 2013). As Farooque tells us in Chapter 2, a degree of protection was afforded to colonial subjects who adopted “English clothes.” Comparably, participants reported that adopting traditional clothes such as the shalwar kameez or Islamic dress such as the niqab, jilbab or even hijab has meant that they risked being seen as extremist or un-British, potentially subjecting them to state targeting or racist hostility. There are complex entanglements concerning the pious/protective/resistant triad that affect how Muslims relate to nonMuslims, as well as informing differences within Muslim communities that cut across gender divides. The most contentious hyper-visible Muslim subjectivity discussed by participants was the ‘niqabi’ (a term used by participants in Bradford to refer to Muslim woman who wear the niqab or face-veil). Participants reported that the niqabi was more visible in the post-9/11 context and was described in both pious terms, such as by Zanaib as exhibiting “advancement” in their faith, an object of fear because “I can’t see their face” (Clementine), or as oppositional to British norms. Some participants, both male and female, saw the niqab as a “barrier” for integration (e.g. Mohammed, a 46-year-old

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Muslim male who was born in Iraq but has lived in Leeds for over twenty years) or as “causing offence” (Zanaib) to non-Muslim Britons, informing questions concerning being Muslim in Britain: “how do you make that [i.e. wearing the niqab] fit? How do you grapple with that in terms of living in the UK you know? Is it necessary?” (Zanaib). The general consensus was that Muslim women should be allowed to wear the niqab where it was their personal choice, but that British society was not at a point where it was acceptable to do so. Thus participants, both Muslim males and females, questioned whether wearing the niqab could be detrimental to Muslims’ overall ability to be accepted within British society. Performances of (in/hyper-)visible Muslim identities cannot be separated from the culture of fear affecting British Muslims. The issue of defending visible expressions of Muslim identities is prohibited by fear, but which also mobilises Hamida’s affirmative stance: “don’t be afraid.” The body thus features in her account as both productive and subjected (Foucault 1977: 26). Hamida highlights two opposing but interrelated strategies of (in/hyper-)visibility operating within the culture of fear affecting British Muslims. These tactics are also connected to distance/proximity (both internal and external to the oppressed community). Firstly, “standing up,” making oneself hyper-visible as a resistance strategy, and secondly, “shy[ing] away,” where invisibilisation functions as a protective strategy. This involves moving away from defending the niqab or those that wear it, and in turn, placing themselves in closer proximity to normative society by presenting a “more normal” Muslim identification, the ‘moderate Muslim.’ This latter approach is comparable to the demands placed on Muslims to “dilute their identities” that Samrina discusses earlier. Internal divisions may be engendered within Muslim communities emerging from the culture of fear surrounding being visibly Muslim (Chapter 5) that are connected to wider concerns of agency and governance of Muslim populations (Tyrer 2013). I have discussed the issue of in/voluntary identities concerning religious expression (see Meer 2008). Hamida presents a complex picture concerning agency that furthers the debate. Although she does not see the niqab as compulsory, she believes that it is important to defend

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Muslims’ right to religious expression. She makes an important distinction between the niqab and the hijab, where the former is a choice and the latter is an obligation within Islam, which constitutes the dividing line for her as a Muslim woman8 : “when it does come to the hijab then it’s gone too far ” because she feels it would prevent her from following Islamic principles of modesty. The use of “when” rather than “if ” suggests that Hamida perceives further regulations imposed upon Muslims to be a real possibility, a ‘haunted futurity’ (see Ferreday and Kuntsman 2011; also Back 2011, Gordon 2011). Importantly, Hamida sees restrictions to performances of Muslim identity as a strategy of control which, if not held in check, could move from disciplining Muslims to “be a bit more normal” to persecution: “it will be too far if we don’t defend everything else.” Restrictions to visible expressions of Muslim identities are precursory therefore to more extreme terrors. As presented here, the threat is that performances of Muslim identities will be undermined bit by bit, instituting a culture of fear around being visibly Muslim and encouraging fractures within Muslim communities (see Chapter 5), where those adopting what is perceived as more ‘extreme’ versions of Islamic dress such as the niqab and jilbab are viewed as problematic, including by Muslims themselves, and distanced from. The importance of challenging the racialised visual regime which views Muslims through a restrictive moderate/extremist binary is thus crucial for improving the position of Muslims within British society, as Hamida discusses in the next section.

5

Inviting the Look: Developing a New Visual Schema

Practices of interpellation, such as conceived by Butler (1993a: 121), are compelling powers that ‘constitute[s] us in subjection and compliance’ (Davis 2012: 884) derived from law. Yet as Foucault (2004: 29) insists, subjects are ‘never the inert or consenting targets of power,’ but are also active agents engaged in forms of resistance; I focus here on looking practices drawing from Hamida’s experiences. After 9/11 happened when Hamida was 14, she felt compelled to reflect more on her religion and

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to understand it more. Having been brought up to think that Islam is about “accepting everybody,” she was concerned that her faith was being maligned by people killing others in the name of her religion, which she felt contradicted everything that she had been taught and believed in. As she felt she had a “very basic understanding” of her faith, she was motivated to find out more and to prove to others that that was not what Islam stood for, or what she stands for as a Muslim. Through her research she developed a greater understanding of Islam and a stronger engagement with it, which led to her deciding to wear the jilbab at the age of 20 or 21 (she made the personal choice to wear the hijab at 9). She sees her religious observance as going hand in hand with her charity work and desire to help people, joking that before she went to university she thought she could change the world and then realised “it’s a lot harder!” (we both laughed). For Hamida, being visibly Muslim is important for representing her faith, explaining that for her, there is a convergence between inner and outer practice. This is because once she puts on her hijab and jilbab, people “automatically know I’m a Muslim” which has an affect on her mindset because she is more aware of her actions and mannerisms and is imbued with a sense of responsibility to “represent Islam properly.” Her account illustrates the importance of acquiring control over how she is seen, whereby the visual and the vocal are interdependent to this reformulation. She is describing her decision to actively present a more “positive image” of Islam: …it was part of yeah me wanting to be a better Muslim but also me wanting to also say well actually look this is what Islam is, please look at us, don’t look at what you see you know in, what’s happening in Afghanistan, in Iraq, or whether it was 9/11 or 7/7. Don’t see that as my faith, look at us. Look at the walking and talking ones on the street that you see on a regular basis. We’re the representations – focus on us, don’t focus on the negative that is a minority.

Whilst I have explored the harms of looking practices, the hostile gaze, the look that can kill, here Hamida is inviting the look: “please look at us,” as a means of disrupting hegemonic representations of Muslims within the ‘war on terror’ frame. The invitation to be looked at is a means of

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resetting the terms or ‘politics of representation’ (Pollock and Silverman 2011: 8) that requires a new visual schema; one which contests existing racialised power differentials through which Muslims are branded as terror suspects or extremists. It is important to note that Hamida wears the jilbab and hijab which may not correspond to ‘moderate’ conceptions of Muslim identity, especially outside of her home-place of Bradford and its high density of Muslim populations compared to other UK cities. Being seen as normal and non-threatening requires dismantling the moderate/extremist binary to allow for a broader scope of performances of Muslim identities to be accepted that would enable visual markers such as the jilbab to function as signifiers of piety rather than extremism. Hamida reveals the disciplinary measures placed on Muslims where the onus to be a “better Muslim” is internalised as a means of contesting negative representations that essentially politicises acts of piety. Yet the account also comprises a call to action for non-Muslims to see Muslims differently. Although here again it is Muslims that are the objects of the gaze, since looking comprises an invitation rather than an imposition, reconstituting racialised power differentials of seer/seen is made possible. Rather than the subject being hailed comprising a performance of power as in Althusser’s (2001) classic account of interpellation, here Hamida calls on the normative subject to turn around. This is not to argue that power imbalances are overturned. Indeed, such an invitation relies on the will of the onlooker not only to see, but to re-see; that is, to alter their (racialised) perceptual frame: “look at the walking and talking ones,” Hamida instructs. The body is crucial to reworking the politics of representation. Hamida recognises the importance of ordinary, embodied encounters in everyday spaces, “those on the street that you see on a regular basis,” in order to disrupt Muslims’ distorted association with violent conflict and terrorism made hyper-visible within political and media framings. Speech and the body are thus inescapably intertwined (Chapter 6), where the invitation to look is met by the opportunity to speak: “wanting to… say well actually look this is what Islam is, please look at us.” Noting how the ‘interpellation-gaze’ constitutes power asymmetries in colonial spaces, Daniele Lorenzini and Martina Tazzioli (2018: 78,

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original italics) argue that it is by returning to the point at which the subject is ‘gazed upon… through performative acts of interpellation – that the colonized strives to twist the language of the colonizer and to escape his or her fixing gaze.’ Such a project is required to subvert power asymmetries and facilitate ethical encounters with the Other. Emmanuel Levinas (1985: 87–88) similarly argues in Ethics and Infinity that facing the Other cannot rely solely on the visual, but must account for how the visual regime is made possible through language: The authentic relationship with the Other… is discourse and more exactly, response or responsibility… The saying is the fact that before the face I do not simply remain there contemplating it, I respond to it… It is difficult to be silent in someone’s presence.

Following Levinas, the look comprises not just facing the Other, but responding or taking responsibility for how you ‘see’ them. Such an ethical response requires understanding the Other on their own terms rather than subjecting them to the violences of misrecognition in which they are figured as extremists, terrorists or threats to national identity and social cohesion. Whilst we can interpret the desire to be seen as normal as an effect of power, for Muslims, the deviant Muslim imagined as an extremist or terrorist is the means through which terror operates for them. Being seen as normal can thus be a protective or even a resistance strategy, not only a disciplinary mechanism. Visibility is thus double-edged; it can function as a mechanism of social control and conversely, a means of social recognition and empowerment (Brighenti 2007; also Shams 2018: 75), and even a vital component of resistance (Gordon 2002). This is because one’s (in/hyper-)visibility can be managed to resist imposed ways of seeing (Shams 2018: 78) that importantly, may not fit univocally within either category (Brighenti 2007). Hamida attempts to reclaim the frame—“focus on us”—away from the negative minority made hypervisible in accounts of the ‘war on terror’ to the detriment of ordinary Muslims. Her strategy is comparable to Haraway’s (1992: 300) political stance for realising the ‘promises of monsters’ in which otherwise ‘inappropriate/d others’ can provoke new social relations by rethinking

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the visual, captured by her metaphor of diffraction, in which the effects of difference are not merely reproduced, but are reconfigured anew to produce an alternative visual schema and politics of relationalities.

6

Conclusion

This chapter has examined the ways in which state surveillance and racial profiling comprise tactics of racial terror within the Concentrationary Gothic connected to asymmetric racialised power asymmetries of (in/hyper-)visibility and (mis)recognition. These practices produce the body as a target and affect how it comes to be lived within a culture of fear. The body is made the site of conflict arising from contestations ‘over the power to see’ (Haraway 2004: 90), whereby violences are engendered by racialised visual practices. These include symbolic violences resulting from interpellation within the racialised order which produces the Other as out of place and subordinate, such as captured by the derogatory term ‘Paki,’ and racial profiling and surveillance, both state and non-state. The profile functions as a monstrous double, enabling (those perceived to be) Muslim to be branded as terror suspects or extremists, comprising the conditions of dangerousness for them, and in extreme cases, death, and which are connected to powerlessness to shape how (racialised) policies are framed and enacted. The Concentrationary Gothic demonstrates continuities with racial profiling and surveillance as a means through which racialised Others are Gothicised as threats at particular historical moments within colonial contexts that have been transposed to police domestic colonies. Participants’ accounts have shown how Muslims are Gothicised through various identity categories in the ‘war on terror’ context: ‘threat,’ ‘enemy,’ ‘raghead,’ ‘vulnerable,’ ‘extremist,’ ‘terrorist.’ These categories function to legitimate the profiling of Muslims by producing them as threats to the nation, both through associations with extremism or terrorism, and to the hegemony of cultural practices centred on whiteness. I focused on the Gothic trope of the monster to examine how the profile of the terror suspect or extremist is produced through a ‘technology of monstrosity’ (Halberstam 2000: 21–22) that cuts across

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categories of race, religion, gender, nation, geography and age. The monster, as a figure which troubles taxonomic categories for ordering bodies (Shildrick 2002), provides an apt analytic for exploring the ways in which the identifier ‘Muslim’ disrupts racial classifications, as well as exposes the artificiality and instability of categorical integrity. This chapter has shown that attempts to fix the meaning of ‘Muslim’ exposes the insufficiencies of the racialised visual regime since Muslims are not a bounded racial group (Tyrer and Sayyid 2012; Tyrer 2008). How Muslims are identified alters depending on how their bodies fit within received classifications of who is Muslim which means that racialisation is important to conceptualising Islamophobia (Garner and Selod 2015; Moosavi 2015a, b; Meer 2013a, b) and informs differences in suspect treatment. Participants examined how the profile moves dangerously across bodies and in particular, the racialised and gendered ways in which surveillance operates to produce its target. For example, participants drew distinctions between how South Asian Muslims are treated in penal practice compared to other Muslims, including ‘English’ (coded as white) Muslims and black Muslims because of the hegemonic association of ‘Muslim,’ and by extension ‘terrorist,’ with brown bodies (principally Pakistani) within the UK context. This hegemonic racialisation underpinned a series of misrecognitions whereby Pakistanis are assumed to be Muslims, brown-skinned individuals are presumed to be Pakistani and Muslims are misrecognised as non-Muslim where they do not ‘fit’ received visual registers, particularly ‘English’ Muslims who do not adopt visible markers. Most detrimental was misrecognition as a terror suspect or extremist for those who fit the profile of the Islamist terrorist or in the case of Menezes, perceived to do so. The accounts illustrate the importance of exploring interactions, or ‘interferences’ (Haraway 1992: 299, 300) between racial interiors and exteriors that are attentive to complex (re)positionings of groups vis-àvis one another (Higginbotham 1992: 253). Samrina spoke of divisions which are engendered between black populations and South Asian Muslims resulting from perceived changes in penal practice. Internal differentiations operating within the category ‘Muslim’ propose different outcomes depending on the extent to which Muslims are ‘visibly

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Muslim.’ Perceptions of heightened targeting of South Asian(-looking) Muslims can work to invisibilise other Muslims’ experiences, including black Muslims, which means that they are underrepresented in accounts of Islamophobia (Mugabo 2016). Whilst the targeting of South Asian Muslims has increased due to their association with terrorism, this does not mean that black populations are no longer targeted. As black bodies have already been Gothicised as threats to the social order, they do not occupy a comparable place to white Muslims who, if they do not wear Islamic markers, may not be targeted. Yet the picture changes if we bring the issue of white terror into the frame. The proportion of white people arrested for far-right extremism, such as members of National Action,9 accounts for 48% of arrests compared to 34% of terrorist-related arrests for those of Asian ethnic appearance, and 8 per cent for those of black ethnic appearance (Home Office 2021: 2.5). For the third consecutive year, white people arrested for terror offences outstrips those of Asian appearance (Home Office 2021: 2.5), having not previously done so since March 2005 (Home Office 2020: 11). These figures suggest that we need to rethink racialised understandings of what a terrorist is and shift focus away from Islamist extremism as the principle terrorist threat in Britain. The far-right terrorist exemplifies how whiteness cannot be separated from conceptions of terror (hooks 1992: 174), and further, signifies the return of racial terrors involved in white nationalism and extreme violences of Nazism, ethnic cleansing and genocide that haunt Muslims’ experiences in contemporary Britain. Whiteness remains central for understanding performances of racialisation and how these interact with Islamophobia, comprising important differences concerning privilege, abjection and the likelihood of protection being afforded within legislation qua Muslim. As I argued in Chapter 2, attention needs to be paid to how whiteness is internally differentiated. Since whiteness’ hegemonic position can be destabilised, such as in the case of ‘visibly white’ Muslims (Moosavi 2015b; Franks 2000), whiteness is revealed to be a fantasy position (Hage 1998; hooks 1992: 174), but one which is fiercely policed. Following this contention, this chapter has explored how Muslim identities are managed according to a hegemonic white governmentality where racial labels underpinning

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the profile are ascribed as a basis for policing Muslim populations (also Tyrer and Sayyid 2012: 356). Differences in suspect treatment were not only due to skin colour therefore, but other ‘visible’ markers such as Islamic dress or the beard. I interrogated the complex ways in which Muslims are located, and locate themselves, along the spectrum of (in/hyper-)visibility, which are in part governed by state definitions of moderate/extremist, as well as differences in religious interpretation and responses to the culture of fear affecting Muslim communities. Religious performances are shaped by three key aspects: piety, protection, resistance, the boundaries of which are not discrete and may shift. The culture of fear has encouraged strategies of invisibilisation such as ‘diluting’ Muslim identity as a protective measure, as well as producing forms of resistance such as defending Muslims’ right to choose how they perform their Muslim identities, including hyper-visible identifications such as wearing the niqab. The body is revealed as both productive and subjugated (Foucault 1977: 26) therefore, and networked across state, group (inter- and intra-) and individual levels. Importantly, where the culture of fear is internalised by the oppressed group, divisions may be engendered (Chapter 5). The desire to protect oneself may leave other Muslims open to risk, captured by Hamida’s reference to the terrors visited upon European Jews who were left largely undefended by the national community under Nazism. Her account highlights the importance of voice to the ‘politics of representation’ (Pollock and Silverman 2011: 8) and in turn, how the body comes to be lived (Chapter 6). Monitoring precursory tactics of racial terror and subjugation is necessary to prevent disciplinary practices from leading to more extreme forms of persecution in keeping with a concentrationary memory (Pollock and Silverman 2011, 2014a, b). Participants also reported important gendered differences underpinning surveillance and racial profiling (also Zempi 2016, 2020; Selod 2019; Saeed 2016; Zempi and Chakraborti 2014). In the case of Samrina, she was seen as subsidiary to counter-terrorism investigations to which her Muslim male colleagues were subjected. Nonetheless, as a witness, she potentially played an important role in evidencing racialised

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workings of suspect treatment performed by counter-terrorism officers, thus offering an ‘oppositional gaze’ (hooks 1992: 115–131). Muslim women were simultaneously (mis)recognised as oppressed and potential extremists or terrorists which highlights important intersections of racialised and gendered surveillance relating to both the object of the gaze and the viewer. I advanced the category ‘imperil/led Muslim woman’ to capture how Muslim women occupy an ambivalent position as both subject and object of terror. This figure is connected to the dangerous Muslim man (Chapter 2) and further exemplifies the utility of the technology of monstrosity (Halberstam 2000: 21–22) for conceptualising how Muslims are Gothicised as ‘threatening Others’ through a number of identity categories. The insufficiencies of the racialised visual regime for ‘spotting’ the Muslim and by extension, the terrorist or extremist, are the means through which whiteness operates as terror, through not only the power to subject (those perceived to be Muslim) to the gaze of surveillance, but to be able to get it wrong with impunity, as the case of Menezes gravely reveals. Contra to claims of the immediate legibility of the terroristmonster that validates the use of racial profiling and surveillance, these terrorising practices reveal the interiority of the monster, hidden behind the hostile white gaze, that is systematised through such policies which put Muslims at risk. The monster is located at the site of contestation between civilisation/barbarism (see Ruddick 2004: 32). State terrorism operates as a monstrous double, the legitimate face of terrorism, responsible for the self-same horrors that it claims to be fighting. The insufficiency of the profile to locate the terror suspect heightens the culture of fear affecting Muslims since it can be applied in the absence of an actual terror suspect—‘looking like’ a terror suspect is enough. Like the monster which defies classification, it is precisely the instability of the profile and thus its capacity to be reworked to fit hegemonic ideological frames that enables it to function as a mechanism of terror through penal practices of discipline and control; practices which everyday citizens are also encouraged to perform within everyday spaces that reproduces them as sites of terror as I develop in the next chapter.

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Notes 1. Home Office Figs. (2013: 2.8) reported on 13 September 2012 state that since 11 September 2001, 93% of all persons arrested for terrorismrelated offences were male. Similarly, males comprised 94% of the total of terrorism-related charges. Although the majority of those arrested for terrorism-related activities are male, the proportion of women arrested has increased, particularly since 2015, with females accounting for 16 per cent of arrests in the year ending September 2015 at its peak according to Home Office figures reported in December 2015 (Home Office 2016: 3.4). Since data collection began in September 2001, females have accounted for 9% of arrests (Home Office 2020: 11), but a significant proportion have occurred since 2015. The increase in numbers of females being arrested is mainly due to international-related terrorism connected to the Islamic State or Daesh. 2. It is important to note that as Tina Patel and David Tyrer (2011: 18) observe, the ‘mugging legacy remains,’ reflected in UK stop and search Figs. 2018/2019 (Gov.uk 9 June 2020) which report, for example, that black people account for the highest percentage under Sect. 60 of the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act 1994 (37% of 13,083). 3. Controversial Sect. 44 powers under the Terrorism Act 2000 enabled police officers to conduct searches without requiring grounds for reasonable suspicion that the person searched may be involved in terrorism (House of Commons Library 2020: 15). Section 44 was repealed by the Protection of Freedoms Act 2012 and Sect. 47A of the Terrorism Act 2000 was subsequently introduced which requires that an authorising officer must now ‘reasonably suspect that an act of terrorism is going to take place and consider that the authorisation is necessary to prevent any act from occurring’ (House of Commons Library 2020: 6–7). 4. Two examples support this possibility: the Woolwich case on 22 May 2013 in what has been described as an Islamist terrorist attack (Rayner and Swinford 2013) involving the murder of the soldier, Lee Rigby, by two Nigerian men, Michael Adebolajo and Michael Adebowale, and one of the perpetrators of the 2005 London Bombings, Germaine Lindsay, who was a Jamaican convert to Islam. As Goldberg (2006: 352) writes of the cases of homegrown British bombers of Jamaican heritage, ‘The ghosts of racial pasts return to haunt the master’s house in unpredictable variations.’ 5. The Forced Migration Review (2000 cited in Colic-Peisker 2005: 616) reports that the ‘European Union emergency to the former

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Yugoslavia in 1999 was four times the amount given to the seventy Africa/Caribbean/Pacific states.’ Whilst a number of writers (Moosavi 2012, 2015b, c; Franks 2000) use the term ‘convert,’ the three participants I spoke to preferred the term ‘revert’ which they felt more adequately described their experiences of undergoing a return to Islam. Nonetheless I use ‘convert’ here since this term is more popularly used in both scholarship and public and political discourse. Since the number of converts interviewed was very small and there were differences in country of origin, I am unable to make generalisations from their experiences, but their accounts still provided useful insights concerning whiteness and the racialisation of religion which I have briefly included here. Home Office Figures (2012: 2.8) state that ‘Since 11 September 2001, 47% of persons arrested were aged over 30 years and 42% were aged between 21 and 30. Arrest to charge rates were similar across all age groups, ranging from 20% for persons aged 30 and over to 24% for persons aged between 18 and 20 years.’ Recent Home Office (2020: 11) figures for the year ending March 2020 report that the number of arrests has decreased for all age groups apart from the ‘30 and over,’ which increased by 9 (140–149) from the previous year. Similar to previous years, the ‘30 and over’ age-group accounted for the most arrests (57%). There were differences in Islamic interpretation concerning whether wearing the hijab is compulsory, as expressed by one participant that “hijab is within,” meaning that Islamic principles of modesty can be followed even where the headscarf is not worn. Hijab has a broader meaning as involving behaviour and outlook as well as dress for both males and females. Participants noted that wearing the headscarf did not necessarily mean that modest principles were being followed; further, that modest dress was not just about wearing the headscarf but also meant not wearing tight or revealing clothing (for both Muslim males and females). The issue of dress was complex and participants exhibited a broad spectrum of attire that was shaped by intersections of religious/denominational, ethnic, cultural and national identities and often involved a combination of influences. Participants reported that their attitudes concerning dress changed during their life-course in response to both intimate relations—family, friends, peers and the wider socio-political context, both local, national and international. National Action is a far-right, neo-Nazi terrorist organisation based in the UK that was founded in 2013. It has been proscribed under the Terrorism

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Act 2000 since 16 December 2016 and was the first far-right group to be proscribed in the UK since World War II.

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4 (In)Securitisation of Everyday Spaces: State of Exception, Spaces of Terror

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Introduction: Spaces of Terror

This chapter focuses on racialised practices of spatial control and dominance performed during the ‘war on terror’ in the production of (in)securitised and (un)safe spaces affecting Muslims in Britain in the post-9/11, 7/7 context. It examines how state counter-terrorism measures of stop and search, home raids, detention and imprisonment, both real and imagined, transform everyday spaces such as the street and the home into sites of terror for Muslim populations. In his insightful examination of the intricate workings of terror within the concentration camp, The Order of Terror, Wolfgang Sofsky (1997: 47) explains that ‘The ordering of coercive space is not merely a material fact; at the same time it generates social and symbolic significations’ which affect how spaces are lived. As such he argues that an analysis of space requires more than topography, but must also explore how ‘symbolic meaning of the sites in space [are made] intelligible’

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M.-S. Abbas, Terror and the Dynamism of Islamophobia in 21st Century Britain, Palgrave Politics of Identity and Citizenship Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72949-3_4

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(Sofsky 1997: 47–48). Understanding how space is constituted therefore requires sensitivity to different spatial registers and their connection to terror. Following Sofsky, I examine how pre-emptive counter-terrorism measures reconstitute how everyday spaces are experienced by Muslims as symbolic sites of terror through the possibility of state targeting. These symbolic terrors nevertheless have material effects such that terror produces its own structuring principle for how spaces come to be lived. The Concentrationary Gothic extends analyses of the state of exception by exploring how the Gothic provides a powerful intelligibility for examining the extra-legal spaces of law (see Punter 1998: 200; 2007; Devetak 2005; Valier 2002: 333; also Moran 2001), what Sue Chaplin (2007: 86) terms the ‘law’s Gothic space.’ The Concentrationary Gothic is located within a historical trajectory in which terroristic practices have been ‘concealed within, yet at the same time enacted by, modern law’ (Valier 2002: 333, original italics). In particular, I explore how spaces within the nation are made unhomely for Muslims through their association with terrorism which accompanies Muslims’ relegation to the law’s extra-legal spaces. The ‘powers of horror’ (Valier 2002) associated with terrorism/terrorists offers a politically useful rhetoric for fuelling an agenda of public protection and penal severity through producing a culture of fear in which ordinary citizens risk becoming victims of terrorism. Racialised divisions are instituted between the normative white corpus of the nation to be protected and the Muslim as the hyper-visible target of state surveillance (Pugliese 2006: 15; also Mythen and Walklate 2016: 1111). Chaplin (2007: 84) provides a useful description of this condition as arising from an ‘uncanny relation to the nation and its Law.’ The reorganisation of space along racial lines illustrates the extension of practices which characterised the governance of racial populations within colonial territories and the zoning of coloniser/colonised spaces. It follows then that the state of exception imposed by the juridico-political practices of whiteness will have differential effects on those defined as outside the category of whiteness. Cheryl Harris (1993) provides an excellent genealogy of the performance of white terror through law. She explains how white identity

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operates as a form of property that defines social relations that are legitimated within the law as ‘a type of status property’ (Harris 1993: 1714). A central feature of this practice is to deny those defined as non-white from the privileges of whiteness. In this regard, the state of exception involves deploying whiteness as a resource to protect the property rights of whiteness (Harris 1993: 1734) where legally sanctioned exceptions can be made. As Sherene H. Razack (2008: 174) explains, ‘it has long been held [that the law] does not apply to barbarians.’ In this respect, the Gothicisation of British Muslims as premodern subjects unable to meet the requirements of modern British law supports practices of the zoning of space and state surveillance as strategies of social coercion (see Sofsky 1997: 47) that illustrate the extension of the logic of the camp (see Agamben 1998, 2005; Diken and Laustsen 2002, 2005) as the ‘biopolitical paradigm’ (Agamben 1998: 181) for organising national space. These measures exclude British Muslims from rights as full citizens. By means of the ‘force of law without law’ (Agamben 2005: 39) operating within the state of exception, boundaries separating private/public, legal/extralegal, are traumatically contravened, most clearly demonstrated by the use of home raids within Muslim communities. Pre-emptive counter-terrorism frameworks reconfigure boundaries separating legal from the extra-legal (Valier 2002: 333) where Muslims can be picked up without having committed a crime. This situation illustrates how the law can function as a ‘haunted space’ (Chaplin 2007: 84) that in turn organises how material spaces come to be haunted by the spectre of counter-terrorism officials. I argue that the production of Muslims as spectral terrorists comprises the underside to how whiteness is experienced as terror, or to use the same analogy, as a spectral terrorist for Muslims through fears of being made indiscriminate targets of state counter-terrorism measures. I expand my use of ‘haunted futurities’ (Ferreday and Kuntsman 2011; also Back 2011; Gordon 2011) discussed in Chapter 2, to capture how pre-emptive counter-terrorism measures based on an imaginary (Muslim) terror suspect informs the culture of fear experienced by Muslims through anticipatory terrors of state targeting. Epistemological uncertainties that are a recurring feature of the Gothic invite consideration that, as David Punter (1998: 3) reminds us, ‘the law

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is not absolute, it is a way of seeing things.’ To develop this contention, I explore how exclusions within law are supported by the visual technology of what I term ‘premediated ignorance’ to address how knowledge about Muslims is actively reworked to fit the profile of the terror suspect. Richard Grusin (2004) uses the term ‘premediation’ to describe the post-9/11 cultural landscape where the ‘future itself is… already mediated’ (also Bolter and Grusin 1999). Marieke de Goede (2008: 159) develops this term to explore how ‘terrorist futures are imagined’ where risk management involves mapping a range of futures that are ‘creative’ in their imagining. My use of ‘premediated ignorance’ draws from these approaches to premediation, but focuses more explicitly on the active construction of ignorance as a means through which to exercise power within law. My focus is on how the profile of the terror suspect is produced as a means of justifying terrorising practices involved in preemptive counter-terrorism within a state of exception that comprise a dual criminal justice system for Muslims, which in turn troubles boundaries separating legal and extra-legal and categories of perpetrator, victim, accused. The significance of this type of ignorance for understanding how hegemonic conceptions of the terrorist are reproduced is that it is substantive in effect, thus perpetuating power relations (Feenan 2007: 510). I focus on state institutions in this chapter, principally those relating to law and criminal justice. I argue that predominant political, legal and cultural framings of the terrorist/terrorism are reproduced through racialised policing and penal practices. This chapter is divided into four sections: firstly, it explores the production of ‘suspect spaces’ (de Goede 2014) through counter-terrorism legislation under Prevent (HM Government 2011a), arguing that it has instituted a culture of fear for British Muslims as the principle target of these measures; Section 2 focuses on how everyday spaces of the street and the home are experienced as sites of symbolic terrors under pre-emptive counter-terrorism policing following from Muslims’ treatment as terror suspects or ‘spectral terrorists,’ which in turn means Muslims are haunted by the possibility of being targeted by state officials; Section 3 delineates the Gothic spaces of law focusing on two cases involving the stop and search and detention of Ibrahaim, and the home raid and subsequent imprisonment of Hassan. The final section explores

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performances of necropolitics and necropower (Mbembe 2003) present in the ‘war on terror’ through both domestic and foreign policies, and the ways in which wider geopolitical contexts shape everyday spatial encounters between Muslims and ordinary citizens to trouble boundaries separating local/global, war/safety. I argue that spaces are experienced as sites of terror within the ‘war on terror’ through complex interferences of different spatial registers (discursive, material and affective), scales (local, national, global) and dimensions (horizontal and vertical geopolitics) through which spaces are (in)securitised for Muslim populations during the ‘war on terror.’

2

‘Suspect Spaces’: Counter-Terrorism Measures and the Culture of Fear

The naming of cities such as Bradford and Leeds as ‘priority areas’ for tackling terrorism under Prevent (HM Government 2011a: 97–98) has helped to produce city spaces as spaces of exception because of the greater risk from terrorist activity perceived to operate within certain cities. In this regard, spaces are Gothicised through their representation in counter-terrorism policy as susceptible to terrorist activities based on an ‘aggregate of different information and policing indicators of terrorist activity’ (HM Government 2011a: 97). There are important distinctions concerning Bradford and Leeds and their production as ‘suspect spaces’ (de Goede 2014) which affected how the culture of fear was experienced by Muslim populations within these cities. I discussed in the introduction that, as other researchers have found, Bradford’s ‘contested political history’ (Gurchathen Sanghera and Suruchi Thapar-Björkert 2008: 544) has shaped local responses to current counter-terrorism measures. Comparably, Leeds has a shorter history but gained prominence as a suspect space following the 7 July 2005 London bombings (Hussain and Bagguley 2013a, b) and emergence of the ‘home-grown terrorist category’ as home-place to three of the four perpetrators of the terrorist attacks. In 2008, Leeds became the new secret base of the West Yorkshire Counter Terrorism Unit comprising 400 counter-terrorism officers and staff. As I develop further

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in Chapter 5, initial funding to counter radicalisation was distributed to 70 local authorities in England with a five percent or more Muslim population via the Preventing Violent Extremism Pathfinder Fund, supporting the suspect community thesis that being Muslim is enough to compel state attention, as the next section develops through the notion of persecution.

Prevent: Witch-Hunting Muslims In the following excerpt, Zanaib discusses how Prevent (HM Government 2011a) has produced certain cities as ‘suspect spaces’ (de Goede 2014). She uses the analogy of the McCarthyist witch-hunt1 to illustrate how Muslims within these spaces are criminalised and made indiscriminate targets of the (normative white) gaze in keeping with a pre-emptive counter-terrorism framework: I just think it’s been 10 years of real intensity and I think the UK is … I think with this new you know having this 25 cities that they’ve got to be wary of it’s almost like, it’s a different type of McCarthyism, so you have the witch-hunts er you know the enemy is a different enemy but it’s still a witch-hunt.

Distinctions between who can be protected and acknowledged within law inform how whiteness is intimately connected to the enactment of law and its exclusions (Harris 1993: 1709, 1714). The zoning of places, and subjects within those spaces, is significant for understanding how social control is connected to spatial organisation within spaces of exception (see De Larrinaga and Doucet 2008: 521). Space and Law are interconnected such that social space ‘is the locus of prohibition’ (Lefebvre 1974: 201). It follows then that representations of spaces within legislation will have a coercive effect on how spaces are experienced. Sofsky (1997: 47) explains that social control ‘demands an internal structuring of space.’ This structuring extends not only to spatial boundaries, but affects the operation of social relations therein. Whilst Sofsky is discussing extreme instances of the transformation of space into absolute spaces of coercion within the camp, he nonetheless

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draws attention to the organisation of space as central to the enactment of power, where the zoning of space is a fundamental tactic within the Concentrationary Gothic. Zanaib’s account illustrates a comparable spatial organisation under Prevent (HM Government 2011a). The strategy contributes to the production of the “enemy” Muslim as transmitters of terror within these geographical contexts that “they’ve [non-Muslims] got to be wary of.” Whilst designating certain areas under Prevent (HM Government 2011a) as ‘at risk’ is a “new” initiative, it is premised on existing racialised representations of these spaces as having greater proclivity for harbouring terror. Such (racialised) zoning of space is thus connected to the regulation of bodies within these spaces premised on a Schmittian distinction between friend and “enemy” (see Gregory 2004: 49), whereby the securitisation of spaces insecuritises those deemed suspect. De Goede (2014: 49) notes that pre-emption ‘hinges on the problematisation of mundane, urban, social spaces as incubating “environmentalities” of violent action’ (Anderson 2011), as reflected here. Representations of spaces within legislation, policy and media discourses (re)constitute how they come to be lived. David Harvey (1973: 206) notes how ‘space and the political organization of space express social relationships but also react upon them.’ Such representations draw on affect for their efficacy. Zanaib’s use of “intensity” highlights the accumulated effects that state practices have had on Muslim communities. It draws our attention to how whiteness ‘infuses state making’ (Hunter et al. 2010: 409) such that it is acutely felt by those outside of whiteness who are at the receiving end of its measures. The plethora of counter-terrorism measures enacted in Britain since 2001 is testament to how the political mobilisation of terror seeps into policy-making to produce its own political efficacy (see Massumi 1993, 1995). Reports in the local media following the release of the 2011 Prevent agenda which identified Leeds as a ‘terror hotspot’ (Igbal 8 June 2011) and Bradford as ‘at risk’ (O’Rourke 7 June 2011) from Islamist extremists contribute to the Gothicisation of city spaces as sites of terror and Muslim residents as the principle national threat. These discursive representations contribute to the culture of fear experienced by Muslims

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comprising real and imagined harms from both state targeting through counter-terrorism measures and racist violence from fellow citizens. Projecting terror onto Muslims obscures other forms of terror. Prevent (HM Government 2011a) targets Islamist terrorism as the principle national threat despite aggressive anti-Muslim protests being held by far-right (predominately white) extremists, the English Defence League (EDL), throughout the country, including Leeds and Bradford (see Chapter 6). Gabe Mythen and Sandra Walklate (2016: 1114) observe that targeted intervention has occurred in Muslim communities despite evidence of increasing far-right extremism (McGhee 2010).2 Intervention operates according to a premediated ignorance where assumptions are made based on ‘(at best incomplete and partial knowledge) that certain behaviours and/or religions are problematic and that these problematic characteristics may lead to radicalization’ (Mythen and Walklate 2016: 1114). The emergence of the subject position of the ‘home-grown-terrorist’ following 7/7 epitomises the internal threat which Muslims are understood to present to the nation which, as mentioned, has particular significance for understanding how the culture of fear operates in Leeds. This category connects the Gothicisation of spaces and bodies since it refers both to the body of the Muslim and his/her spatial location within the nation’s borders. It exemplifies the Gothic’s preoccupation with the collapse of boundaries (Valier 2002: 319; Halberstam 2000: 23). The attacks were reported as having been carried out by seemingly integrated ‘cleanskins’3 who ‘plan[ned] the assaults from the cover of outwardly unremarkable existences’ (Valier 2002: 322). The production of the monstrous Muslim as an ‘omnipresent enemy who could be anywhere, and strike at anytime, and who in fact could be “among us”’ (Crandall and Armitage 2005: 20) is central to the operation of white terror within the Concentrationary Gothic environment. This production draws on predicates of the Gothic where, as Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri (2006: 30) argue, there is ‘something monstrous in this abstract, auratic enemy.’ Importantly, the haunting presence of an elusive yet ever present enemy functions to ‘prop up legitimation [of practices of white terror] where legitimation has declined’ (Hardt and Negri 2006: 30).

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Historical practices of witch-hunts that Zanaib’s analogy draws from prompt us to consider how extra-legal procedures have been used to substantiate unfounded accusations against groups constructed as a threat by the state under the pretext of protecting the welfare of the wider population. The aim of such practices is not to find culprits that have broken the law, but excluding a particular type of subject from the national community. As such, they comprise terrorising practices that pertain not to justice, but to persecution. The turn towards pre-emptive counter-terrorism measures imagines a subject where there is no subject since there is no crime, and yet there is a spectral body that haunts the scene where ‘imaginary future harms’ (McCulloch and Pickering 2009: 2) are committed by Muslims. The spectral terrorist that precedes the offence is always already Muslim. This situation, as David Tyrer (2009: unpaginated) argues, underpins the ‘racist’s fantasies about the other,’ where the conflation of one Muslim with all others is ‘central to racism itself.’ Such policies contribute to the fracturing of community relations as boundaries of inclusion/exclusion are reconstituted, as I move on to discuss.

Producing Suspect Spaces I explore how ‘suspect spaces’ (de Goede 2014) are produced through discursive representations that include policy such as Prevent (HM Government 2011a) and in this example, local media. I develop how Bradford’s association with extremism is transmitted by both political and media discourses, contributing to the production of Muslims and the spaces in which they reside, as suspect within the popular imaginary. Zanaib discusses an incident in which she discovers that a photograph of her father, taken without his knowledge whilst he was casually walking with his friend near where he lives in Bradford, had featured in an article on extremism in the local newspaper, the Telegraph and Argus 4 : Zanaib: [Bushra] was saying … have you come across the recent Prevent report and what they’re saying and how Bradford is one of the 25 …? And I thought yeah, yeah I’ve heard about it because someone forwarded me this stuff and I looked on the table and there were some

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articles from the T & A [Telegraph & Argus] that Bushra had and I looked at one of the headings … you know city this – something to do with extremism or whatever, and my Dad’s photograph was on it! Madeline: What?! Zanaib: It was so hilarious! I mean they would – they obviously had just taken snap-shots of [an area of Bradford] you know where I live and my Dad was probably walking and I still have to write the T & A a letter because what is that saying? And he’s probably one of the most peaceful people. Madeline: But that’s not – legally that’s not right. Zanaib: Exactly, so I’m in the process – I’ve just been too poorly and it’s been too hectic … And he is there with his friend just walking casually up the street and so you’ve got this image and the worst thing is the title … Madeline: What is it? Zanaib: It’s city – I should have brought the article actually … I’ve got a photocopy of it … but erm something about extremism and the city being whatever and then you’ve just got a little line under the pictures which says erm shoppers in [an area in Bradford] or whatever. But what is that saying? …. Do you see? … And you know my Dad’s photograph there blatantly you know. And it’s the fact that they’ve put shoppers in so it’s kind of like they’re trying to cover their backs … Who’s gonna read it when you’ve got a big caption which says that? And it’s the image you know – he’s dressed in shalwar kameez, so the assumption behind it is that people who dress in a particular way, of a particular area, because [area of Bradford] has got a raw deal anyway … because of the riots, so people when they think of that area, they associate it with all things negative anyway you know. Madeline: So it just feeds back into those stereotypes. Zanaib: Stereotypes – this is it.

Here media discourse constructs a particular narrative of Bradford based on stereotyped racialised framings of ‘problematic’ local Muslim populations. The image of the Pakistani male wearing shalwar kameez is used to signify the threat of extremism within particular spaces in Bradford where such communities reside. The purposive use of the photograph taken of Zanaib’s father whilst he is “casually” walking up the street with his friend is unnerving in its everydayness; its reproduction reimagines

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the space as populated by extremists, which reaffirms conceptions that the locale is in need of intervention and control. The image is an example of premediated ignorance through its active misuse to orchestrate a misrepresentation of the space, and Muslims (particularly males of Pakistani heritage) within it, as suspect. Zanaib tells us how her father and his friend are labelled as “shoppers” beneath the image as a deceitful means of “[journalists] covering their backs” to avoid accusations of misrepresentation. This description is overlaid by the “big caption” about extremism meaning that the overriding message is that Pakistani Muslim males dressed in shalwar kameez are suspect bodies to be wary of and whose presence breeds extremism within Bradford, whilst simultaneously absolving the reporter of accountability for the potential damage caused to Zanaib’s father, and local Muslim communities more broadly, from such misrepresentations. This narrative fits with existing representations of Bradford, particularly the area that her father inhabits, through its historic connection to ‘problematic’ South Asian Muslim males following its association with the 2001 disturbances and ensuing debates on the ‘failure of multiculturalism’ (Werbner 2009). These events mobilised concerns around community cohesion and ethnic segregation of urban space (Hussain and Bagguley 2013a: 29; Bagguley and Hussain 2008; Finney and Simpson 2009; Cantle 2001). South Asian Muslim communities were charged with self-segregating from mainstream British society; accusations which have intensified through the introduction of government counter-terrorism policies (Husband and Alam 2011; McGhee 2008; Brighton 2007) and their focus on particular areas (i.e. those with high Muslim populations) as susceptible to extremism within Prevent (HM Government 2011a) policy. David Parker and Christian Karner (2010: 1452) refer to ‘reputational geographies’ comprising ‘social imaginaries defining areas as “good” or “bad”, safe or volatile, “no-go” or peaceful.’ These symbolic and material boundaries around places function as indicators of status, memory and affect, which can have important emotional and socio-economic impacts for local residents. Muslims’ association with extremism contributes to the (in)securitisation of everyday spaces as hostile, both materially and symbolically, as I develop in the next

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section through examination of the use of home raids within Muslim communities.

3

The Spectral Terrorist: The Haunted Muslim

Home Raids: Home as Unhomely Following 7/7, heightened fear experienced by Muslims of being subjected to police surveillance and home raids despite not having committed an offence haunted participants’ experiences as an impending possibility, a ‘haunted futurity’ (see Ferreday and Kuntsman 2011; also Back 2011; Gordon 2011). Drawing from Leila’s words, a 29-year-old British Muslim woman living in Leeds of Pakistani heritage who wears the hijab, I explore how the threat of home raids being visited upon her alters the symbolic significance of her home so that it becomes a site of terror, as unheimlich (Freud 1919; also Punter 2007: 130; Gunew 2004: 95; Bhabha 1990: 2), where she finds it difficult to sleep: Madeline: Is this fear [of your home being raided] something that you live with every day? Leila: There was a time when I felt really scared and I even felt quite scared from the police because they were raiding into people’s homes and just dragging them away in the middle of the night. And I was really frightened that that could happen to anyone at any time. Because they were randomly going into Muslim people’s homes that were no risk at all and just maybe, you know, attended a demonstration and as a result of that they were getting victims – you know, targeted as being a terrorist, and you know their homes were raided. And a lot of people have been kidnapped in the middle of the night and that made me very frightened for a time. Madeline: How does that make you feel? Leila: Very frightened to be honest – I remember a time when I was really frightened – at night time thinking it can happen to anybody. Madeline: Did you find it difficult to sleep? Leila: Yeah – I can remember at that time that I found it really difficult to sleep – and that’s honest.

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Leila provides a poignant account of how the space of the home comes to be experienced as a site of symbolic terror through its association with home raids5 that have been carried out within Muslim communities. Her narrative invites us to interrogate the interplay of symbolic and material effects of terror on the constitution of the space of the home and how it is lived (Sofsky 1997: 47; Lefebvre 1974: 39). Ghassan Hage (1998: 40) describes how the home refers more to a ‘structure of feelings than a physical, house-like construct.’ As discussed in Chapter 2, Hage (1998) refers to the feelings of un-homeliness which occur where the white nationalist feels that national space is no longer recognisable because of the presence of Others. In such cases, the loss of familiarity means that national space can no longer be engaged with in the same way by them. What we see from Leila’s account comparably is how the nation is made unhomely for Muslims under the state of exception, where the home itself becomes the site of terror following from the possibility and actuality of home raids. Her account illustrates that Muslim women, particularly ‘visibly Muslim’ women, also fear being targeted as terror suspects. To develop how the home is experienced as a site of symbolic terror, I examine how the Concentrationary Gothic can extend our inquiry into the workings of the state of exception. The haunting fear of being dragged away “in the middle of the night” draws together elements of the Gothic and the concentrationary. The concentrationary imaginary comprises bodies being taken against their will and made indiscriminate targets of racial violence. In conjunction, darkness has historically featured in Gothic texts as the repository of fear where social order is transgressed and humanity’s baser instincts which are ordinarily repressed in the light of day are revealed through torment, punishment and corruption (Cavallaro 2002: 27). In the context of white supremacist governance ‘night’ can be understood as carrying a ‘racial charge,’ as Joseph Pugliese (2007: 3, 2) examines in his discussion of the torture of Iraqi prisoners at Abu Ghraib. He refers to the ‘white mythologies that the west never tires of telling itself: of the temporary descent into darkness… that is always ready to be redeemed by the white light of official procedure, investigation and reports’ (Pugliese 2007: 3), providing an

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important example of how white terror is able to disassociate itself from accusations of terror. Darkness is the locus of unrepresentability which accompanies the secret violence of home raids carried out at night and which can easily be covered up where mistakes are made. The absence of reports of home raids prevents the extent of this practice from being known, which only heightens the terror of such practices occurring with impunity (see Sentas 2014; Brittain 2009). Whilst it is the case that terror raids experienced by white non-Muslim extremists are also carried out at night to maximise the chances of suspects being at home, darkness is an important Gothic trope for understanding the hidden ways in which such violences are embedded in crime control and punishment, what Claire Valier (2002: 321) describes as the ‘horror of that which breaches boundaries’ of public/private that occur during home raids. Leila suggests that the terror of home raids is not confined to a small number of the Muslim populace, but has happened to “A lot of people” (see Choudhury and Fenwick 2011: 74–87). Fear results from the inability to anticipate or control the risks from white terror. Tufyal Choudhury and Helen Fenwick (2011: 77) note that the release of individuals without charge after a raid is ‘a source of anxiety, leading to feelings of vulnerability and insecurity’ resulting from Muslims identifying with other innocent Muslims and fear ‘that anyone who is innocent can find themselves entangled in a counter-terrorism measure,’ which Leila displays here. As Michael Gunder (2008: 194) contends, it is from the ‘non-space of nonrepresentation’ that those subjected to (the fear of ) white terror experience ‘the effect of fear and anxiety [which] arises and causes psychic pain’ (also Naber 2006). Whilst feelings of insecurity and vulnerability are intensified by the circulation of inaccurate information concerning police powers to arrest and detain (Choudury and Fenwick 2011: 77), the fear experienced by Leila is nonetheless real, such that it prevents her from sleeping. The importance of bearing witness to the effects of such terror tactics is indicated by the assurance Leila feels compelled to offer that her account is “honest” and thus that it will be believed. Pre-emptive counter-terrorism measures operate according to a different temporal logic to traditional criminal justice that commence

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from the presumption of innocence and progress through a number of stages of investigation (McCulloch and Pickering 2009: 5). Instead, Muslims are ‘bad’ before they are proven to be ‘good’ (Mamdani 2004: 15) which enables them to be detained under suspicion that they might be a threat. Leila describes how home raids are “randomly” carried out, informing her haunting sense of fear that “it could happen to anyone at any time,” that is anyone profiled as Muslim. As I develop, what appears to be random can be understood as racialised forms of policing. Terror under such conditions functions as a spectral phenomenon that troubles spatial-temporal boundaries since, as Sarah Ahmed (2004a: 65) discusses, it ‘impresses upon us in the present, as an anticipated pain in the future,’ analogous to ‘haunted futurities’ (Ferreday and Kuntsman 2011; also Back 2011; Gordon 2011). Disruption to spatial-temporal boundaries that pre-emptive counter-terrorism measures propose can usefully be explored by Jacques Derrida’s (1994: 7, original italics) examination of how the spectral works through law: This spectral someone other looks at us, we feel ourselves being looked at by it, outside of any synchrony, even before and beyond any look on our part … Here anachrony makes the law. To feel ourselves seen by a look which it will always be impossible to cross, that is the visor effect on the basis of which we inherit from the law. Since we do not see the one who sees us, and who makes the law, who delivers the injunction.

Derrida’s (1994: 7) description is helpful for understanding how terror is generated for Leila from a fundamental unknowing of who might be looking at her. The unknown someone occupies a spectral presence (comparable to the disembodied white gaze examined in Chapter 3) since she is aware that Muslims are being looked at, and further, that being looked at is enough for their homes to be raided and for them to be taken. Pre-emptive counter-terrorism measures disrupt chronology pertaining to the anachrony of the law to which Derrida (1994: 7) refers. Pre-emption not only determines who can be treated as a terror suspect, but determines future treatment based on this construction, here experienced as ‘haunted futurities’ (Ferreday and Kuntsman 2011; also Back 2011; Gordon 2011). Derrida (1994: 7) identifies the powers inherent

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in the ‘visor effect’ as a look that is ‘impossible to cross’ since it makes us subject to the law which already has precedent. This informs the Gothic nature of the law observed by David Punter (1998: 43) that is premised on its ‘reliance on an archaism and point of origin which is always beyond current recall.’ What is missing from Derrida’s (1994: 7) account is the differential impact that the visor has depending on how the spectral someone looks at us. In this regard, Derrida (1994: 7) arguably presents a universal understanding of the spectral presence of the law that does not account for its differential impact on Muslims. Having demonstrated that terror is racialised, it follows that the state of exception imposed by the juridical-political practices of whiteness will have asymmetric effects on those defined as outside whiteness (Harris 1993). A central feature is the ability to exclude non-whites from the privileges of whiteness and assigning them ‘a separate and unequal place in the law’ (Razack 2008: 150). In this case, the home and the body are both made into sites of terror (see Shirlow and Pain 2003: 23) during home raids. Yet if we take Harris’ (1993: 1777) argument that the ‘law masks what is chosen as natural; it obscures the consequences of social selection as inevitable’ which enables injustices to be naturalised, then the visor effect described by Derrida (1994: 7) can be understood as part of how whiteness operates as a spectral terrorist through law to produce Muslims as “victims.” This is because whiteness perpetuates injustices that are inherited through law, but which are rendered almost invisible such that they occupy a spectral presence that resists representation in knowledge, at least what we think we know by knowledge (Derrida 1994: 6). Muslims can be treated as terror suspects as a legally sanctioned practice under the state of exception—an inequality that not all subjects inherit, but which is premised on (racialised) social relations that are inherited by all. The ambiguous and enduring state of being at risk overturns the boundaries of material and symbolic fears since the feeling of fear in the absence of an object of fear is nevertheless experienced as a physical reaction in the present. That Leila has so far avoided becoming a victim of home raids does not mean that the fear dissipates since the possibility remains, which she experiences as a persistent affective state: “that made

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me very frightened for a time.” As Martin Heidegger (1962: 179–180) discusses: That which is detrimental, as something that threatens us, is not yet within striking distance, but it is coming close … As it draws close, this ‘it can, and yet in the end it may not’ becomes aggravated. We say, ‘It is fearsome.’ This implies that what is detrimental as coming close by carries with it the patent possibility that it may stay away and pass us by; but instead of lessening or extinguishing our fearing, this enhances it.

In situations where adhering to the law is no protection from the force of law, and where pre-emptive measures are legitimated against those (Muslim) bodies profiled as terrorists, there is always the risk that being targeted as a terrorist is within ‘striking distance’ (Heidegger 1962: 180). The mobility of fear, drawing closer in certain situations only to pass by, heightens rather than reduces fear. This is because by passing by, fear ‘can no longer be contained by an object’ (Ahmed 2004a: 65), but remains a spectral presence within the everyday lives of Muslims within the Concentrationary Gothic environment. The physicality of Leila’s description nonetheless retains an abstract quality because it is divorced from a particular occurrence of home raids and thus a particular body, but which nevertheless haunts Leila’s experiences as a possible happening, a haunted futurity, to produce new forms of subjectivity whereby ‘spatial performances of identity and (in)security become linked to how subjects internalize fear’ (Coaffee et al. 2009: 493). This paradox of the (in)corporeal is comparable to the ‘ghostly moment’ described by Derrida (1994: 126) as involving a ‘return to the body, but to a body that is more abstract than ever.’ Since the body that is targeted can be any ‘body’ identified as Muslim, state surveillance attests to incorporeality even whilst it is premised on the profile of a particular type of body. The profile of being Muslim precedes Leila, enabling her to be subsumed under the rubric of ‘risky Other’ based on racialised ways of seeing, ensuring that the boundaries of (in)secure spaces are redrawn. Figures from 2011/2012 (Home Office 2012: 7) during the time of the research report that from a total of 206 arrests for counterterrorism offences, 116 arrests were made of Asians (56%) compared to

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42 white (20%) and 28 black (14%). The percentage of arrests resulting in charge for terrorism offences is 20% for Asian compared to 19% for whites and 11% for blacks. This suggests that there is a much larger discrepancy in the percentages of unfounded arrests for Asian (36%) compared to whites (1%) and blacks (3%), suggesting that the profile of the ‘Muslim-looking’ terrorist means that they are more likely to be deemed suspect despite no evidence of having committed terrorist offences. The vast majority of those in custody are categorised as Islamist extremists (75% of 209) compared to 20% (Home Office 2021b: 4) classified as holding far-right views, meaning Islamist extremism remains the principle type of extremism represented within the prison system. The decision to arrest is made by the police where information points to ‘reasonable suspicion’ that a person is a terrorist. Importantly, information on which decisions to arrest are based is not the same as admissible ‘evidence’ put forward to the court (Choudury and Fenwick 2011: 74). Decisions are not subject to the same levels of scrutiny therefore, potentially facilitating prejudicial judgements to be made in arrest decisions. As Judith Butler (2004: 77) notes, although categorising somebody as dangerous ‘is considered a state prerogative… it is also a potential licence to prejudicial perceptions and a virtual mandate to heightened racialized ways of looking and judging in the name of national security.’ Terror comes from the arbitrary and unpredictable application of power where the profile functions as a marker of criminality. Marking out bodies conceived as dangerous under pre-crime measures mobilises racial prejudices. Leila observes that it is not the actions of particular Muslims who are the target, but anyone pertaining to the profile of ‘Muslim’ (male and female) which enables the police to raid Muslims’ homes who “pose no risk at all.” The police feature not as figures of protection, but as operatives of the system of white terror who put Leila and other Muslims at risk, as the next section further substantiates.

Stop and Search: The Street as a Site of Terror Hamida’s words provide important insight into how stop and search practices visited upon Muslim communities have meant that everyday

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spaces of the street are experienced as sites of symbolic terror in which being apprehended by counter-terrorism police comprise a haunted futurity: Too many people are scared of there being a backlash because you hear of so many stories of you know people who – guys they know who’ve just been picked up at train stations or people who have been walking down the street and stopped and searched for doing absolutely nothing and if that’s the case then anything can happen to us. But I think that’s something that we shouldn’t fear, we should still carry on with our lives and you know if you’re living honestly then why fear that? … But I think people just live in fear which is quite sad.

The impact of counter-terrorism policing powers to stop and search individuals in the street under the Terrorism Act 2000 has attracted important criticism for producing British Muslims ‘en bloc as a risky, suspect population’ (Mythen et al. 2009). Post-9/11, the number of Asian people that have been stopped and searched under anti-terrorism laws in the UK rose by almost 400% (Mythen et al. 2009: 3; see Morris 2004). Following 7/7, there was a sevenfold rise in the number of Asian people that were stopped and searched by the British Transport police (Dodd 2005). Choudhury and Fenwick (2011: 30; also Human Rights Watch 2010; Liberty 2005, 2008) refer to these practices as ‘a significant intrusion on an individual’s liberty.’6 Hamida’s haunting words provide a poignant reminder of the terrors of the concentrationary. Griselda Pollock and Max Silverman (2011a: 13–14; 2014a, b) adopt a comparable position, arguing that we need to be attuned to the possibility of terror recurring that informs their use of the concentrationary which, they argue, relates to a system enacted in a particular time/space, but which is not confined to that moment; a position which Hamida’s account invites us to consider. She echoes David Rousset’s (1946) description of the post-Holocaust period where ‘everything is possible’ explaining that in the present context experienced by Muslims “anything can happen to us.” As Primo Levi (1989: 186), an Italian Jewish partisan and Holocaust survivor reminds us in The Drowned and the Saved , the possibility for further terrors is ever present

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since we know that they have already been made possible: ‘It happened. Therefore it can happen again… It can happen everywhere,’ even within the heart of Europe. Hamida’s account suggests that in order to understand how city spaces have become sites of terror for Muslims requires that we be attentive to how the concentrationary has become a structuring principle within current socio-political formations. Giorgio Agamben’s work (1998, 2005) on the camp provides a significant contribution to this project. He examines how the state of exception comprises a permanent spatial arrangement that is external to the normal workings of law. In this example, spaces of the street are reconstituted as sites of terror under the state of exception as evident in the (mis)use of stop and search practices described by Hamida. Power imposed upon the Muslim body as an effect of these practices, where people have “just been picked up” without warning and without doing anything wrong, comprise terror tactics that are characteristic of the concentrationary system emerging from powerlessness. Everyday spaces are (in)securitised for Muslims through pre-emptive counter-terrorism practices as legally sanctioned measure (see Saeed 2016; Croft 2012a, b; Hussain and Bagguley 2013a, b; McCulloch and Pickering 2009; Mythen et al. 2009). Hamida describes how forms of immobilisation have emerged as an effect of “living in fear.” This situation illustrates the reproductive effects of terror as they are internalised by the oppressed group and retransmitted. Nadine Naber (2006: 240) similarly describes the ‘internment of the psyche’ to explain how the culture of fear experienced by Muslims in the aftermath of 9/11 in the United States creates a ‘sense of internal incarceration’ resulting from fears of being picked up, detained or disappeared at any moment. Terror under these circumstances becomes immobilising, which bears similarities to the functioning of terror within the concentration camp system described by Sofsky (1997: 47, 48) in which ‘Terror leaves its imprint on space, transforming it into a medium of itself.’ Spaces can be experienced as sites of terror in the absence of ‘real’ or physical terrors. The state of exception marks the limit of the law where the terror experienced by Muslims comes not from fear of punishment following disobedience of the law, but ‘from knowing that there is no law to transgress’ (Diken and Laustsen 2002: 291). It is this

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situation which redefines how spaces are experienced by Muslims as sites of terror within the Concentrationary Gothic environment. Pre-emptive targeting of Muslims as terror suspects is thus intimately connected to how terror permeates social space. Hamida’s account helps to explain how spaces are reconstituted as sites of terror due to the pervasiveness with which terrors of counter-terrorism can permeate Muslim communities through both actual experiences and discursive accounts. She describes how “Too many people are scared” because “you hear of so many stories” of Muslims being picked up. Hamida supports an Agambian position of the normalisation of the state of exception (Agamben 1998: 166) that marks the current terror formation of the Concentrationary Gothic, noting that terrors are not confined to a small number of the Muslim populace under state attention as critics of the suspect community thesis (e.g. Greer 2008, 2010, 2014) argue (see Chapter 5), but have become the normal state of affairs for some Muslims. These stories illustrate how spaces are constituted through an interrelation of symbolic and material terrors that have social significance for the terrorised community. Within the context of a “backlash” against Muslims that has infiltrated legislative practices, terror can be attached to Muslim bodies whilst the terror of whiteness as the initiator of these measures remains ‘an unnameable or almost unnameable thing’ (Derrida 1994: 6). Hamida contests collusion with the culture of fear however, arguing that Muslims should “carry on with their lives.” Yet she concedes that even when “living honestly” the possibility remains for Muslims to be picked up (see Diken and Laustsen 2002: 291). It is important to note contextual factors which affect the impact of counter-terrorism measures on Muslim communities. Choudury and Fenwick’s (2011: 11) detailed study notes that in areas where the number of arrests are significant, there was heightened awareness and concern exhibited by Muslims. Non-Muslim groups in their study from the same local areas displayed less knowledge of arrests and were therefore not affected in the same way. They also found that the impact of arrests varied within local Muslim communities depending on whether those arrested were perceived to be part of their local community. These included cases where there was a shared ethnic and cultural background and individuals had lived for a long period of time within the local

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community. Arrests involving prominent individuals whose families were well-established within local Muslim communities had greater impact as they were more known to the local community. Arrests are likely to be felt in cities such as Bradford due to the ‘close-knit sense of community’ (Qasim 2018: 29) that characterises settled Pakistani Muslim communities, which helps to explain the prevalence with which the terrors of counter-terrorism measures are felt by Bradfordians such as Hamida. I develop in the next section how terror also adopts a material form through the physical enactment of stop and search and home raids. Whiteness continues to operate as a spectral terrorist however through its ability to distort legal process, where premediated ignorance is an instrumental mechanism for aiding miscarriages of justice.

4

Terror Within Law: The Gothic and the State of Exception

To develop my explication of the workings of whiteness as terror within law, I draw from two cases involving Ibrahaim and Hassan. It is important to note that these accounts are not reported by them, but are mediated by Hamida and Samrina. Whilst their reporting impacts on the reliability of the accounts, these examples nonetheless provide powerful illustrations of how the profile works to criminalise these men in advance of any wrong-doing. Central to both of these accounts is how a premediated ignorance is sustained through the application of the profile which legitimates the suspension of due process by reworking evidence to justify their treatment as terror suspects who require detainment (Ibrahaim) and imprisonment (Hassan). These accounts contribute evidence of ‘the law as a site of the production of a Gothic intelligibility’ (Moran 2001: 91) where horrendous breaches of the normal workings of law are central to understanding how the state of exception reconstitutes how spaces are experienced by Muslims as sites of terror within the Concentrationary Gothic. These concern both the physical topography (the street, the home, the prison and the courtroom) and the discursive spaces of law

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through which terrors can be sustained through repeated court appearances and denial of appeals following from how subjects are constructed within law and criminal justice proceedings.

Prison as a Camp Space: The Case of Ibrahaim In the first example, Hamida describes how Ibrahaim, a brother of one of her friends, is stopped and searched and detained in prison for almost a day. Her report illustrates that terror does not just have symbolic significance for how spaces are experienced, but can assume a physical form that is manifested here by the counter-terrorism police officers who detain Ibrahaim: Madeline You were saying about stopping and searching … do you know people that that has happened to? Hamida I do yeah – a friend of mine’s [Ibrahaim] brother got stopped – well he didn’t get stopped and searched, he got stopped and taken erm because he allegedly looked like someone else erm. And they erm basically said you know er you are this person. And he said no, I’ve got a passport, I’ve got my driving licence, I can show you. And they were like no you can change that. And they did and they took him and they kept him for I think it was practically a day, erm, and they, you know, all they gave him was a bit of water. They wouldn’t feed him, they wouldn’t let him pray. And these are the sort of things that happen to people – everybody knows somebody who this has happened to.

Hamida’s account illustrates the limits to citizenship experienced by Ibrahaim which contribute to how the space of the street is made unhomely for him following the explicit refusal of the police officers to accept his identity as a British citizen and thus right to reside. The account evidences the concerns Ali articulates in Chapter 2 that Muslims are ‘conditional citizens’ (McGhee 2008: 37). Unlike normative citizens, official documentation cannot guarantee proof of identity or right to reside, meaning the possibility of British Muslims’ citizenship rights being revoked is ever-present (see Chapter 2). State surveillance functions under the state of exception to define citizenship, separating those who

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are watching from those made suspect who are watched and monitored (Butler cited in Puar 2007: 198). The disparity operating in the account between who Ibrahaim is and the terror suspect that the police officers claim he is, can be usefully explored through the visual technology of premediated ignorance. It is Ibrahaim’s “alleged” visual likeness to a terror suspect that the police officers are targeting that enables evidence about him to be reworked to justify his detainment. In this instance, information acquired from state surveillance is purposefully used to justify pre-emptive measures. Michel Foucault (1977: 200) warns in his discussion of the panopticon that ‘Visibility is a trap.’ The spatial organisation of the panopticon that makes it possible to always be seen works in conjunction with the profile. Karen Glover (2008: 243) explains that the ‘permanent visibility of race as a functioning marker of criminality’ is similar to the panopticon which induces a permanent visibility of always being under suspicion. State surveillance, rather than rendering the racialised identity of the body to be targeted redundant, becomes a means through which to interpellate subjects as terror suspects in advance. What is important to note here, is the differential power relations between seer/seen (see Chapter 3). Conforming to the expectations of the profile of the Islamist terror suspect facilitates a premediated ignorance whereby Ibrahaim is made interchangeable with the terror suspect that the counter-terrorism officers claim him to be by ‘effectively maintaining ignorance of the subject’ (Feenan 2007: 510; also Cohen 2001). Ibrahaim’s identity, as evidenced by his passport and driving licence, is actively ignored. Instead, a premediated ignorance is sustained through the racialised narrative that precedes him of the deceitful, untrustworthy Orientalist that presupposes that he “can change that.” The profile of the terror suspect is superimposed onto his body: “you are this person,” which premediates his treatment as a would-be terrorist. Linda Martín Alcoff ’s (2007: 39, 47, my italics) discussion of ‘wilful ignorance’ is useful here. She argues that ignorance should not be considered a negligent epistemic practice, but rather a ‘substantive epistemic practice in itself that differentiates the dominant group.’ Following Alcoff (2007), we can see how ignorance works to sustain Ibrahaim’s differential status as a citizen and thus within law. This follows Leti Volpp’s (2002: 1575)

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observance that the racialisation of groups identified as terrorist figures means that they are ‘disidentified as citizens,’ which helps to explain how national space is reconfigured to exclude Ibrahaim from belonging. The subject is in effect made absent since what preventative policies address is not individuals, but an aggregate of information to produce what Jasbir Puar (2007: 175) terms ‘data bodies.’ Within a pre-emptive framework, it is enough to display characteristics of what is purported to constitute a risk factor to attract suspicion. The interrogation that Ibrahaim is subjected to illustrates how whiteness, as Harris (1993: 1734, 1731) observes, can move from being a passive characteristic of a person’s identity to take on an active force in the exercise of power. In this way, whiteness functions as a form of property that can be deployed with an expressed function of excluding others from its rights and privileges, in this instance, denying Ibrahaim’s citizenship rights to inhabit national space without apprehension. Proving identity is connected to regulating mobility where those deemed a threat experience restrictions to their movements in social space (see Rygiel 2008: 146; Ahmed 2004a: 64). The practice of stop and search institutes a ‘politics of mobility’ (Ahmed 2007: 162) that separates bodies which are able to move with ease from those whose passage can be interrupted. In this way, the use of stop and search contributes to what Joseph Pugliese (2006: 23) describes as a ‘spatialisation of race,’ where the racialised visual regime informing state surveillance and monitoring of individuals that fit the profile of the would-be terrorist reconstitutes national spaces as spaces of unhomeliness that hold radically different outcomes for Muslims than for the ‘self-evidently “native.”’ The rights afforded to the body by citizenship delineate the terms under which sovereignty can impose jurisdiction over the body within the space of the nation (Wadiwel 2006: 11). The denial of Ibrahaim’s citizenship rights is connected to the coercive practices to which he is subjected that culminate in his detainment. Kim Rygiel (2008: 162) explains that human rights are rendered meaningless where individuals are unable to exercise their citizenship rights. This informs how bare life is experienced by Ibrahaim within the space of the prison—a space which is ‘neither external nor internal to the juridical order’ (Agamben

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2005: 23) due to his exclusion from national space. Within the prison, the body also becomes the site of terror. Ibrahaim is denied food and prevented from praying and only given water as sustenance. Hamida’s account supports Agamben’s (2005: 6–7) contention that the state of exception has increasingly become a ‘technique of government rather than an exceptional measure’: “everybody knows somebody who this has happened to” she tells us. Ibrahaim’s case contributes further evidence of how city spaces are experienced by Muslims as extensions of camp spaces (Diken and Laustsen 2002; Agamben 1998) where citizenship and human rights can be denied to them. Kruger et al. (2008: 100) explain that the state of exception ‘creates and guarantees the spaces and situations law needs for its own validity’ (see Agamben 1998: 16), as the next case further highlights.

Home as Unheimlich: The Case of Hassan In the following account, I develop how premediated ignorance functions as a ‘substantive epistemic practice’ (Alcoff 2007: 39) which actively reworks evidence to substantiate claims that Hassan is a terror suspect. Samrina managed Hassan when he was working as a caretaker in the same organisation. He also happens to be the husband of a good friend of hers which brought her in close proximity to the case and she supports the family, both emotionally and legally, from the outset. She narrates how Hassan, a British-Pakistani Muslim male and father living in Leeds, is charged with intention to commit acts of terrorism under the Terrorism Act after two of his friends undertake a family trip to Pakistan. On their return, the two men are charged with training for terrorism (Terrorism Act 2006 c.11 s. 6). Due to Hassan’s friendship with them, he is also treated as a terror suspect, leading to his home being raided and subsequent detainment in the highest security prison, Belmarsh, for two years before finally being exonerated. His case provides another example of legally sanctioned terror where legal boundaries are breached and due process is suspended without recourse for the detrimental impact that is inflicted not only on the accused, but on their family. By violating public/private boundaries, the home raid most

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clearly exemplifies how Muslim families are (in)securitised by counterterrorism measures. Samrina discusses Hassan’s case from the point where his home is raided: They raided his house and took him … they accused him of … intention to commit acts of terrorism and they accused the other two for going for training … When they couldn’t make that stick they changed it – because he went for an appeal … He had a trial … He wasn’t freed and then it went to a second trial or an appeal … They changed the angle of how they accused him – they had very little evidence, they were using things like personal letters him and his wife had written to each other before they got married … that they wanted a large number of children and … they wanted them to be … practising Muslims – they were using this kind of information to imply… this is your agenda … Well you can do that with anything if you want to – that’s how weak the evidence is. It was really weak. He was completely exonerated, you know freed … but he’s had two years of his life taken away … It’s damaged that family in so many ways … What they get away with is horrendous … The current laws around terrorism, the current laws around how they’re interpreted – they’re pretty ignorant about the facts … These are the kind of people that are making decisions about our lives, and if they’re making these kind of dramatic mistakes and not acknowledging the level of mistakes that they’re making – they don’t want to learn from it – it’s the power and the control – and you people need to fit in with us … it’s all about making sure that we dilute our identity.

The raiding of Hassan’s home means that it is no longer a place that he shares in private with his family, but becomes a site of insecurity and terror. Hassan is traumatically removed from his family without warning or knowledge of what will happen to him and subjected to repeated court appearances, meaning children and families are ‘retraumatised’ (Brittain 2009: 5; also Ahdash 2018; Ashencaen Crabtree 2017; Stanley et al. 2017; Ragazzi 2016: 735; Sentas 2014; Guru 2012; Choudhury and Fenwick 2011). Home raids provide an important illustration of how whiteness functions as a form of property (Harris 1993: 1714) that determines the right to space and which is defined by suppression and exclusion. As Brooke Neely and Michelle Samura (2011: 1944) explain,

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‘The places whites control materially and symbolically require the unjust (dis)placement of people of colour.’ Here, the control of spaces within law substantiates the ‘unjust (dis)placement’ (Neely and Samura 2011: 1944) of Muslims, both the accused and their family, from their homes. Hassan’s imprisonment has significant implications for how the home is subsequently experienced by his family. The devastating impact of home raids upon Muslim communities (see Ahdash 2018; Ashencaen Crabtree 2017; Stanley, Guru and Coppack 2017; Ragazzi 2016: 735; Sentas 2014; Guru 2012; Choudhury and Fenwick 2011; Pantazis and Pemberton 2009; Brittain 2009) prompted the Association of Muslim lawyers to produce A guide to anti-terror raids for Muslim communities (Nawaz and Warraich 2007) to prepare families. Homes are subject to a Police Search warrant meaning family members are denied access to their home and belongings following arrest (Choudhury and Fenwick 2011: 75), bank accounts are frozen and transport seized. During home raids and subsequent arrests, the house is no longer the property of its inhabitants but becomes the site in which sovereignty has jurisdiction, overturning the distinction between public/private. As Harris (1993: 1709, 1726) contends, whiteness affords the basis for societal benefits which encompass ‘all of a person’s legal rights,’ both private and public in nature. Removal of personal objects from the privacy of the home where arrests have been made provides further evidence of how the space of the home is violated as an effect of counter-terrorism measures. In this regard, the law is not confined to one aspect of a person’s status, but includes all aspects to which one attaches value (Madison 1792: 174 cited in Harris 1993: 1726). Pre-emptive frameworks contribute the conditions for Muslims to be apprehended based on ‘anticipatory risk’ (Walker 2008: 300; also Mythen et al. 2009: 2) of future terrorist attacks. This enables Hassan to be detained on the basis of his supposed “intention to commit acts of terrorism”7 as Samrina reports. “Intention” is the operative term here since it refers to an offence that has not happened, and indeed may never, but the possibility of it occurring is enough for intervention. The other two men are also detained because of their perceived potential to commit acts of terrorism. Both accusations are premised on the profile which is produced about these men that reworks their behaviours as “plans”

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to commit terrorist offences that, I argue, is supported by premediated ignorance. The reworking of knowledge to suit ideological frameworks underpinning the profile of the Islamist terror suspect enables a family trip to Pakistan to become an occasion for terrorist training, and where friendships between Muslims, particularly males of Pakistani heritage, comprise a terrorist cell. In Ahmed’s (2004a: 79) depiction, fear ‘sticks’ to bodies associated with terrorism as a means of managing the threat that they are understood to pose. What we see from Samrina’s account however is the active imposition of the label ‘terror suspect’ onto Hassan’s body. These sticking practices do not emanate from fear, but comprise acts of terror in themselves through the wrongful and deliberate construction of Hassan as a terror suspect in keeping with a premediated ignorance. Under counter-terrorism frameworks, due process premised on the presumption of innocence, including the right to a fair trial and presiding in favour of bail rather than prolonged detainment have been considerably undermined (McCulloch and Pickering 2009: 6; also Cole and Dempsey 2006; Lynch and Williams 2006). As Samrina observes, the inability for the original accusation to be sustained does not lead to Hassan’s release. Instead, it is “changed” following his appeal, illustrating the power of whiteness to falsify legal outcomes. Samrina illustrates how legal process is premised on a presumption of guilt—or more accurately, legal process operates through a premediated ignorance in which evidence is actively orchestrated to fit a particular outcome, thus undermining legal principle, enabling even “weak evidence” to be reworked to deny Hassan his freedom despite two appeals. Samrina draws attention to the active processes by which information about Hassan is compiled and “us[ed]” by the prosecution to imply “this is your agenda.” The inability for Hassan to challenge the epistemological practices that support his construction as a terror suspect enables the label to “stick” to his body, prolonging his detainment. Steve Garner (2007: 14) writes of the power of whiteness to ‘invent and change the rules and transgress them with impunity.’ This supports Harris’ (1993: 1778) contention that whiteness retains an ‘exclusionary character’ through its ability to ‘distort outcomes of legal disputes by favouring and protecting settled expectations of white privilege.’ Hassan’s desire to have a large family of

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practicing Muslims is used as evidence of his terrorist ambitions, illustrating how racialised constructions of (Pakistani) Muslim families as risky are propagated within the criminal justice system. Wives and children of suspected terrorists become ‘invisible victims of state protection of the political and civic body’ (Ashencaen Crabtree 2017: 261) that as Samrina laments, “damages” Muslim families “in so many ways.” To support the family, Samrina puts herself within the gaze of counter-terrorism by acting as a character witness and driving Hassan’s wife and children to Belmarsh so they can visit him. Samrina would do the driving for her so “she could have a break,” further illustrating the psychological costs of terrorism cases on the accused’s family. As a consequence of helping the family, Samrina is also interrogated at her home by counter-terrorism officers which demonstrates why families placed under state suspicion may become ostracised within Muslim communities through fear of association. The eventual exoneration of Hassan does not mean that the terror of being accused no longer sticks to him. Not only has he had two years of his life taken from him, but his release is not met by a public acknowledgement or apology for his wrongful detainment. Choudhury and Fenwick (2011: 74) report that of the 1,834 terrorism-related arrests made in Britain between 2001 and 2011, ‘over three-quarters of those arrested are released without charge and only 13% have been convicted of any terrorism-related offences.’ Whilst they argue that these figures must be understood in the context of the different ‘evidential requirements’ (Choudhury and Fenwick 2011: 74) of arrests compared to convictions, these statistics paint a stark picture of the extent to which unfounded arrests are made. The imbalance between coverage of arrests and raids, and the silence around individuals who are released without charge (Choudhury and Fenwick 2011: 82), is part of how premediated ignorance perpetuates power relations that justify the targeting of Muslims by presenting the threat as greater than it actually is. Whilst there have been publicly visible cases of contentious policing, notably the killing of Jean Charles de Menezes and the Forest Gate raid (see Mythen 2008: 311; Mythen and Walklate 2006; Pugliese 2006), there are many more which are undocumented and invisibilised through their absence from media headlines,

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and which do not attract the public attention that vaunted operations of disruption to terrorist cells are given.8 Hassan’s case provides another example of an undocumented, invisibilised instance of injustice. The horror expressed by Samrina following violation of the law and the absence of retribution supports Valier’s (2002) thesis of the Gothic workings of law. Valier (2002: 333) explains that rather than rescue from horror following the restoration of justice, terror is retained through ‘repetitive themes of haunting and dereliction.’ Such unacknowledged miscarriages of justice contribute to how whiteness operates as a spectral terrorist precisely because “what they get away with is horrendous” as Samrina voices. Where retribution is eluded, the terror of whiteness within law cannot be ‘known,’ that attests to the ways in which within spaces of exception ‘sovereign power may operate without legal restraint’ (Kruger et al. 2008: 100). The absence of a clear definition of what constitutes terrorism (Choudhury and Fenwick 2011: 83) and its excessively broad remit (Article 19 2006: 4) facilitates a premediated ignorance through its inherent flexibility to be used to criminalise activities that are lawful. It follows then that the law enacts its own privileges through how it is interpreted that can alter outcomes depending on how knowledge is used. As Samrina observes, it is those with the power to “interpret” laws around terrorism and the uses to which they are put that are the ones who can make “decisions” about Muslims’ lives. Premediated ignorance is substantive in effect by perpetuating the power of the dominant social group (Alcoff 2007: 47–48). This helps us to understand the paradoxical situation which Samrina describes where people are “ignorant” about the “facts.” She implies that as with Ibrahaim’s case, ignorance is perpetuated by purposefully distorting or impeding evidence (Rouse 1987: 13) about Hassan that would otherwise prove his innocence. Charles Mills (1997: 18–19) explores how racial inequalities are sustained through ignorance. As I discussed in Chapter 2, Mills (1997: 18–19) argues that the epistemology of ignorance that keeps white supremacy in place is due to ‘cognitive dysfunctions’ that ‘precludes selftransparency and genuine understanding of all social realities.’ However, his argument is insufficient for exploring the active practices of ignorance

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that operate in Samrina’s account. Alcoff ’s (2007: 50) account of ignorance provides a closer fit. She argues that not only are normative whites involved in harmful epistemic practices, but they have limited motivation to identify their mistakes and correct them. Similarly, Samrina contends that the active refusal to learn from their “dramatic mistakes” comprise the mechanisms through which “power and control” is perpetuated such that the law enforces boundaries and reproduces existing ‘regimes of power’ (Harris 1993: 1730). The power to wrongfully accuse is part of how whiteness operates to maintain white supremacy, further strengthened by rendering these privileges normative and thus invisible. As with Hamida, Samrina’s account illustrates how the law is connected to the governance of national space according to a white supremacist order which requires that Muslims adapt their behaviours to “fit in with us” (i.e. the normative white, non-Muslim subject). Samrina draws attention to how whiteness functions as a form of property through law that by defining who is white and who is non-white, and thus who is treated as a full citizen and those for whom exceptions can be made, whiteness is policed and ‘jealously guarded’ through law (Harris 1993: 1726). The perceived requirement as Samrina observes for Muslims to “dilute their identity” illustrates the coercive effects of counter-terrorism measures for Muslims to avoid the panopticon gaze, suggesting that visible markers of ‘Muslimness’ are used as ‘evidence’ to construct the profile of the terror suspect (see Chapter 3). Such constructions are substantiated through a premediated ignorance where information is deliberately produced about Muslims to fit ideological frames by state actors in the policing of terror suspects, with significant implications for how spaces come to be experienced, affectively, discursively and materially as sites of terror within the Concentrationary Gothic. The Gothic nature of the law is starkly exemplified by monstrous police powers. These include ‘shoot-to-kill to protect’ practices under Operation KRATOS9 that have introduced necropolitics (Mbembe 2003) into everyday city spaces (also Chapter 3). I move on to discuss how such practices exemplify how the ‘war on terror’ is brought home, informing how the terrors of war infiltrate how everyday spaces are experienced as sites of terror for ‘Muslim-looking’ populations.

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333

Necropolitics: ‘Unlivable’ Bodies, ‘Uninhabitable’ Zones

In this section, I explore participants’ articulations of necropolitics and necropower (Mbembe 2003) present in the ‘war on terror.’ Current hostilities towards British Muslims draw from pre-existing racist impulses that have shaped how everyday spaces are lived as potentially hostile or violent. Importantly, some participants perceived that state responses to the ‘war on terror’ have sanctioned everyday violences against Muslims, both state and non-state; the interference of these different scales comprises an expansive ‘wilful geographic violence’ (McKittrick 2011: 948; Mbembe 2003; Campbell et al. 2007; Graham 2004a, b, 2006; Goonewardena and Kipfer 2006; Hewitt 1983) that requires attentiveness to how the ‘war on terror’ is experienced at home. British Muslims drew important connections between necropolitical practices used by US and UK forces during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and increased hostility against Muslims in Britain, affecting how domestic spaces are understood as sites of terror.

Spaces of Racist Hostility Differences concerning how Muslims experienced being Muslim in Leeds compared to Bradford contribute important understandings of the significance of space (see Gale 2013; Dwyer 1999) to identity performances, the types of negotiations that individuals undertake in different places, and how they advance understandings of the racialisation of space involved in practices of spatial dominance, control, and the zoning of space performed through both state measures and everyday encounters with ordinary citizens. The spatial concentration of the Pakistani community in Bradford contributes notable differences in how being ‘visibly’ Muslim affected participants’ experiences. A discernible distinction was made between feeling comfortable in Bradford because wearing hijab was described as being “normal” (Hamida), compared to Leeds where it is less common to wear hijab. Hamida discussed feeling more “visible” in Leeds because

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she was more likely to be stared at and to feel out of her “comfort zone” which she associated with greater risk of racial hostility. I begin this section with Leila’s account of how she experienced racism in the area in which she grew up in Leeds through being interpellated as “Paki.” Although she details that from a young age she always interacted with people from different backgrounds and cared about social issues affecting “English people” like unemployment, which is reflected in her community work, her convivial sentiments were not always reciprocated. Leila makes it clear that some English people will actively “go out of their way to be nice” to her and offset feelings of “discrimination and disenfranchisement” which makes her feel comforted within everyday spaces, citing an example of overhearing a conversation within a local shop where English people were questioning why Iraq was being attacked. Nonetheless, such genial performances are undercut by the overriding association of Muslims with terrorism which she believes mobilises racism. She describes how racial hostility performed by ordinary citizens within everyday spaces has heightened for Muslims in the current moment amid the sanctioning of anti-Muslim sentiment: Leila: When we were growing up we used to get racism from English people – not all of them – but some of them … Madeline: Can you give me an example of how you experienced racism? Leila: Yeah, they used to victimise you, throw things at you, call you Paki and just being really rude. I remember when I was growing up we used to have those kinds of issues. I think with this Islamophobia whipping up those kinds of people are becoming more confident – there’s that element as well in English society. They’re not representing all English people – a lot of English people condemn that type of behaviour … That element of society’s getting more confident now though because racism has also increased. You know we were looking at the positive effects of people coming together, but it’s also people using that as an excuse now and getting confident to carry out their racism and their discrimination. You know, some are getting misled, but some are like that anyway and that’s making them more confident. You know, the rise in the BNP and Nazis – the right wing – there’s that element too.

The culture of fear experienced by British Muslims within the ‘war on terror’ context draws from an affective spatialisation of racism (see

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Nayak 2017; Pugliese 2006; Hesse 1997) that is already present within cityscapes as sites of hostility, terror and unsafety for brown bodies. As Zeus Leonardo and Ronald K. Porter (2010) argue, the existence of safe spaces for people of colour cannot be assumed. Rather, they advocate a ‘“risk” discourse’ concerning race that ‘acknowledges that violence is already there’ (Leonardo and Porter 2010: 139, original italics). In Leila’s account the ‘Paki’ is insecuritised in everyday spaces by the normative white subject through racist victimisation, both symbolically, through racist slurs, and physical violence—having objects thrown at them. Leila’s account supports Anoop Nayak’s (2017: 289) description in his study of British Bangladeshi Muslim women in the North East town of Sunderland of the ‘visceral aspects of race as it is summoned to life in live encounters where it is lived on the body, bleeds into the locality and congeals around imaginary ideas of the nation state.’ For Nayak (2017: 289), these ‘antagonistic encounters’ work to designate British Bangladeshi Muslims as ‘Other,’ but also perform a larger role: ‘purging the nation, detoxifying it from encroaching multicultural intimacies and stabilising it as white.’ Leila draws our attention to the mundanity of violences of the everyday, comparable to what Hannah Arendt (1963) has infamously termed the ‘banality of evil.’ In such instances hostility is not restricted to racist fanatics, but is executed by ordinary people, and, as I discuss later, may exemplify precursory conditions for exceptional or exemplary violences. Leila’s account evidences continuities between racism experienced by British Pakistanis that structured the lived spaces in which she grew up, and Islamophobia in the contemporary context. However, she perceives that Pakistani Muslims have been further insecuritised following the shift in focus from ‘Paki’ to ‘Muslim’ amid the “whipping up” of Islamophobia, meaning Muslims have become the principal target of religious hate crime (see Chapter 6). Home Office data from the year ending March 2020 (Home Office 2020b: 2.1) where the perceived religion of the victim was recorded shows that half (50%) of religious hate crime offences target Muslims (3,089 offences). This figure is a much greater proportion than that of the population of England and Wales who identify as Muslims, which in the 2011 Census was 4.8%. The next most targeted group were Jewish people (19% or 1,205 offences) who

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comprise around 0.5% of the population in England and Wales (2011 Census). Similarly, data from the Crime Survey for England and Wales 2015/2016 to 2017/2018 (cited in Home Office 2018b: 25) evidences that Muslim adults were more likely to be a victim of religiously motivated hate crime (0.8%), and adults with an Asian ethnic group were more likely to be victims of religiously motivated hate crime (1.1%) than Black adults (0.6%) or White adults (0.1%). Since it is acknowledged that hate crimes can be motivated by multiple factors (e.g. race and religion) (Home Office 2018b: 7, 12), it is important to consider how hate crimes are recorded and what this may tell us about the relationship between Islamophobia and racism. Leila highlights an important distinction concerning (in)security for Muslims compared to “English” (coded as white) people who have been granted legitimation, “an excuse,” to enact racism against Muslims with impunity. Her account demonstrates how spaces are produced through racialised encounters (symbolic and material), involving complex entanglements of proximity and distance (Fortier 2008), where the possibility of positive convivial encounters (“people coming together”) can be severely undermined by racist hostility. Racism is pernicious, productive and performative; it can spread through diverse spaces by “misleading others,” epitomised by the rise of the far-right (Mudde 2014, 2019; Lambert 2013; Mwerkl and Weinberg 2003) and radical right populism moving centre-stage (Wodak 2015; Ford and Goodwin 2014; Wodak et al. 2013; Goodwin 2011; Mudde 2007) in the UK and across Europe, to affect how everyday spaces are experienced as (un)safe. These developments attest to the significance of race to the (re)constitution of unsafe spaces, as the next part develops.

State Terror: Race, Space and Necropolitics Importantly, Leila locates the current treatment of Muslims within a racialised history of terror enacted against racialised groups including “Hispanics and blacks,” which supports Achille Mbembe’s (2003: 18, 21) argument that the rise of modern terror needs to account for slavery and colonial imperialism as precursory instances of the state of exception:

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Leila: …the Hispanics and blacks have always been discriminated against and seen as second-class citizens – and the loss of lives of Muslims don’t even count you know with people who are committing these atrocities and those that are supporting them. Madeline: Why do you think that is? Leila: It’s racism. Madeline: Do you think it’s something you can put down to skin colour or culture …? Leila: Everything – whether it’s your skin colour, your religion, or your culture, they’re not as good as the other person … and it’s alright to take their resources and what belongs to them.

Farooque described in Chapter 2 that racism is crucial to the performance of the ‘war on terror’ and its legitimation. Similarly, Leila locates the ‘war on terror’ within a white supremacist system whereby the normative white subject occupies the position of fully human with the power to rule over ‘the rest,’ reducing natives to “second class citizens” and taking away their resources in keeping with colonialism. Leila’s account depicts how necropolitics and necropower are deployed to produce ‘death-worlds,’ which Mbembe (2003: 40, original italics) defines as ‘new and unique forms of social existence in which vast populations are subjected to conditions of life conferring upon them the status of living dead.’ Racism designates the biological caesura. As Arendt (1996: 157) observes, ‘race is, politically speaking, not the beginning of humanity but its end,’ heralding a ‘politics of death’ (Mbembe 2003: 17; also Foucault 2004: 254–255) that functions to legitimise, even inivisibilise Muslims’ eradication, meaning the “loss of lives of Muslims doesn’t even count,” as Leila testifies (see Butler 2004). Racism is thus a fundamental technology for deciding upon death and legitimising the state’s murderous functions (Foucault 2004: 228). Leila perceives that racist behaviours have been sanctioned by the actions of the state, informing a necropolitics (Mbembe 2003) that presupposes Muslims’ ultimate insecuritisation—death: Madeline: So you think it’s starting to get worse again? Leila: Yeah it’s getting worse again. Basically the government’s already doing what they’re advocating. They’re already killing Muslims, that’s what they’re saying – which is right.

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Mbembe’s (2003: 12) account of necropolitics invites us to imagine ‘politics as a form of war’ (see Foucault 2004: 239–263), posing the question: ‘What place is given to life, death, and the human body (in particular the wounded or slain body)? How are they inscribed in the order of power?’ Similarly, Leila articulates sovereignty as a means of ‘exercising the right to kill’ (Mbembe 2003: 12) where, in this instance, Muslims’ lives are deemed ‘unlivable’ and/or ‘ungrievable’ (Butler 2004): “[the government is] already killing Muslims,” which illustrates how a logic of war permeates modern politics through security principles (Spieker 2011: 187). Importantly, for Leila, state terror undergirds the precarity (Butler 2004) that Muslim populations experience, both domestically and globally: Leila: [Muslims are] just the target now with police shootings. It just shows that society’s not safe. And it’s not a safe world. And even when Palestine was attacked back in 2009 – no one’s been prosecuted after that – there’s just been vicious genocide and they’ve been massacred, it was on television and no one’s been prosecuted. It just shows that there’s no justice. Madeline: This idea of safety – you actually feel unsafe? Leila: Yeah. It shows that it’s an unsafe world. And people can be killed, attacked viciously and there’s no prosecution. No one to bring them to justice because it’s been supported by the people who are in the most powerful position whose responsibility is to protect.

As I discussed in Chapter 2, abjection works to separate ‘unlivable’ and ‘uninhabitable’ zones of social life (Butler 1993: 3). The fatal shooting of Jean Charles de Menezes on the 22 July 2005 after he boarded a train at Stockwell station in London that Leila refers to here exemplifies how necropolitics shape counter-terrorism measures through both domestic and foreign policies within the ‘war on terror’ context (also Chapter 3). Such measures reflect Garner’s (2007: 14) articulation of whiteness as terror and supremacy in which ‘the arbitrary imposition of life and death is one end of the spectrum of power relations that whiteness enacts.’ As with stop and search measures discussed earlier, such necropolitical policies are operative of a ‘spatialisation of race’ (Pugliese 2006: 23) that affect which spaces can be safely traversed in the course of the day. Police shootings underscore a racialised distinction observed by Pugliese (2006: 15) between the ‘normative white corpus of the nation’ to be protected

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and the ‘racialised target of hyper-surveillance’ who is positioned in ‘an other space’ even whilst they live and work within the ‘civic spaces of the nation.’ Those targeted as terror suspects experience everyday spaces of the nation in a radically different way therefore to the self-evident ‘native’ so that civic spaces become ‘spaces of uncivil danger’ (Pugliese 2006: 24). The killing involved producing Menezes as a terror suspect through a ‘police fantasy’ comparable to what I am advancing as a premediated ignorance, where, as Pugliese (2006: 4) contends, information was ‘disseminated and reproduced as “fact”’; a transmutation which exemplifies a ‘violent exercise of power’ that works in conjunction with practices of spatial control and dominance. As Nick Vaughan-Williams (2007: 177, my italics) admonishes, lack of accountability is ‘symptomatic of systemic features of Western politics’ that importantly are the means through which sovereign power ‘secure[s] the spatial and temporal borders of the sovereign political community.’ The extension of the logic of war within non-war zones through integrating local knowledge practices and transnational security initiatives reconfigures everyday lifeworlds (de Goede and Simon 2013: 317). Louise Amoore (2009: 55–56, original italics) argues that data-led security practices, which she terms ‘algorithmic war,’ ‘[reinscribe] the imaginative geography of the deviant, atypical, abnormal “other” inside the spaces of everyday life.’ Central to Leila’s account is the production of Gothic spaces of law within spaces of exception where horrendous violences (Valier 2002) occur without accountability because they are sanctioned by the state. Arianna Vedashi (2018: 877, 924–925) similarly discusses the ‘dark side of counter-terrorism,’ noting that the shift towards secrecy in counter-terrorism practices enables concealment of government wrongdoings which is inconsistent with the rule of law, meaning as Leila notes, that the “responsibility to protect” is overturned. Violations of human rights performed by public officials or intelligence agents are not called to account. Instead, security concerns are prioritised over personal freedoms or human rights with particular dangers for Muslim populations as the principle target of these measures. Expansion and revision of law in a declared state of exception erodes due process that safeguards suspects’ rights within conventional criminal justice proceedings. The extension of legal and administrative measures

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for dealing with terror suspects shield prosecutions. As Kelly Welch (2007: 136) observes, the ‘notion of impunity’ is significant because it ‘insulates state and executive power from accountability and the rule of law, enhancing the likelihood that such abuses will persist in an endless “war on terror.”’ For Leila, feelings of unsafety are not confined to Britain, but comprise the geopolitical arena of state terrors enacted against Muslim populations globally: “it’s not a safe world .” Significant socio-legal transformations post-9/11 have prompted inquiry surrounding state impunity (Welch 2007) and lack of accountability for government actors. Considerable state crimes such as the unlawful war in Iraq (see Kramer and Michalowski 2005), torture and war prisons in Guantanamo Bay (Butler 2004: 50–100) and Abu Ghraib (see Pugliese 2007, 2013; Butler 2009; Bhattacharyya 2008; Puar 2007) have been conducted under the auspices of counter-terrorism strategies. Spaces are produced as (un)safe for Muslims through horrific re-stagings of colonial violence comprising contemporary wars and occupations in Iraq, Palestine and Afghanistan, what Derek Gregory (2004) terms the ‘colonial present.’ Leila cites Palestine as another context in which Muslims are subjected to terror with impunity through colonial occupation, which Mbembe (2003: 27) describes as ‘the most accomplished form of necropower.’ Decisions to kill, legitimised on the basis of securing the life of certain populations, involve a ‘spatial reconfiguration of war’ (de Larrinaga 2011: 314) that extends ‘beyond the battlefield’ (de Larrinaga 2011: 313) in which racism functions as a ‘relationship of war’ (Foucault 2004: 255). As participants’ accounts have shown, the ‘matrix of war’ (Jabri 2006: 55) involves discursive and institutional mechanisms which target (Muslim) bodies/populations that are enacted in diverse locations. The interference of local/global spheres articulated by Leila suggests that the ‘distant roar of battle’ (Foucault 1977: 308) is felt within disciplinary, carceral and violent practices of government (Jabri 2006: 55) within spaces of the everyday. Terror is networked, transmuting across geographical boundaries to collapse distinctions between local/global, as well as traversing state and non-state relations. The ‘war on terror’ is not just a war against Muslims elsewhere therefore,

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but by infiltrating the places of the everyday, brings the ‘war on terror’ home, as the next section develops.

The ‘War on Terror’ at Home Madeline: Do you think there’s a link between what is happening in Iraq and Afghanistan and how people are behaving on the street? Leila: Oh yeah definitely – like I say it’s not everybody, but the people who are already racist who just need an excuse and the people who are misled as well – they’re thinking the government’s doing that, why can’t we do it? Before they might be restrained by the police, but once they realised that they’re going to have the green light from the police and the government there’s nothing to stop it. We saw ethnic cleansing in Bosnia, in Rwanda – places like that – it can happen.

Leila highlights important intersections between local and geopolitical contexts for affecting how everyday spaces for Muslims are (in)securitised in Britain (also Hussain and Bagguley 2013b: 720). Doreen Massey (2004: 3) notes the importance of ‘Thinking space relationally’ in order to conceptualise how space is produced through interactions involving both ‘local’ and ‘global’ contexts (Tolia-Kelly and Crang 2010; Amin 2004; Thrift 2004a; Massey 1994). Leila’s account similarly supports a ‘multi-scalar analytic’ (Christian et al. 2016: 64) within feminist geopolitics that addresses intertwining complexes of intimate/global that is theoretically useful for understanding how everyday spaces of the nation are affected by the geopolitics of the ‘war on terror.’ Her account provides a useful intervention for addressing Rachel Pain’s (2009: 466) critique of the focus on the ‘globalized fear’ metanarrative which neglects the way in which fear is ‘felt, patterned and practiced in everyday life’ as described here. Leila’s account shows us that focus needs to be placed on how wider geopolitics affecting Muslim populations is interconnected to what is happening simultaneously on the streets of Britain. State racism present in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan has capillary effects, constituting the conditions of possibility for racism to be performed within everyday spaces of the nation with impunity according to Leila: “the government’s doing that, why can’t we?”

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Within the state of exception, police constraints can be overturned more easily. The police feature here as enablers of racism through their failure to act rather than as figures of protection. As such, the police are part of the state apparatus that enables racist violence and further impedes such violences from being apprehended: “there’s nothing to stop it,” meaning extreme terrors such as ethnic cleansing in Bosnia and Rwanda are subsumed within the culture of fear experienced by Leila as a possibility, a haunted futurity. By referencing other instances of violence, Leila draws our awareness to the spatio-temporal nature of violence inscribed not in a singular moment, but a momentum (Springer 2012: 138) which draws together ‘both the past and the future possibilities the moment contains.’ She reminds us that social relations are defined both by ‘their own pasts and future possibilities’ (Hartsock 2006: 175–176). Yasmin Hussain and Paul Bagguley (2013b: 728) report a growing identification with ‘the global Muslim diaspora’ exhibited in particular by British South Asians because their histories of anti-colonial struggles in the Indian subcontinent shape how they understand issues in Iraq, Palestine and Afghanistan. They cite key moments such as the First Gulf War (1990– 1991); genocide in Bosnia (1993–1996); conflicts with the Taliban in Afghanistan (1997–2002); and Iraq War (2003) for producing a ‘transnational Muslim solidarity’ (Hussain and Bagguley 2013b: 728). This suggests that violence cannot only be understood as a material manifestation since this would ignore the entanglements of social relations that give violence meaning, that in this example underpins shared identification as Muslim with past victims of the Bosnian genocide, as well as future moments, what Carolyn Nordstrom (2004) terms, ‘the tomorrow of violence,’ that for Leila: “could happen here,” as expressly captured by Simon Springer (2012: 138): When we bear witness to violence, what we are seeing is not a ‘thing,’ but a moment with a past, present and future that is determined by its elaborate relations with other moments of social process. The material ‘act’ of violence itself is merely a nodal point, a snapshot of oppressive social relations, and one that has an enduring tendency to be marked with

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absolutist accounts of space and time, when in fact, violence is temporally dispersed through a whole series of ‘troubling geographies’ (Gregory 2006).

Crucial to Leila’s articulation of these ‘troubling geographies’ (Gregory 2006) is how contexts of exceptional violence may be performed by ordinary people within everyday spaces, particularly where terror is sanctioned by state actors. Returning to Arendt’s (1963) infamous inscription of the ‘banality of evil,’ everyday acts of racist violence operate alongside exemplary violence. It is beyond the scope of this chapter to discuss the circumstances of the Rwandan genocide to which Leila refers, but for my purposes in delineating historical continuities of terror formations from the colony to the camp (Mbembe 2003; also Gilroy 2000) it is important to note Mahmood Mamdani’s (2001: 13) tracing of historical connections between the genocide of the Herero population under German colonialism and the Nazi Holocaust to the Rwandan genocide. German colonialism introduced ‘race branding’ which Mamdani (2001: 13) argues made it ‘possible not only to set a group apart as an enemy, but also to exterminate it with an easy conscience.’ His analysis further supports continuities between terror formations during colonialism to current performances of racial terror that the Concentrationary Gothic advances. Leila’s reference to the Rwandan genocide is significant since massacres were not state-led but performed by civilians against their neighbours, illustrating how disturbingly, ordinary people, on a mass scale, can engage in extreme forms of violence against a group perceived to be a threat to their existence. In the next account, Leila likens where she is living in Leeds in the aftermath of 7/7 as a war zone in which she and her sister may be “under attack” from ordinary citizens due to the increasing threat of, and legitimation for, racist hostility against Muslims in Britain: Madeline: Were you in Leeds when 7/7 happened? Leila: Yeah I was in Leeds. I can remember that I was in [an area of Leeds] at that time … me and my sister … and we were both frightened. I remember we were getting some funny looks by some English people. And we both felt frightened that we might be under attack because of that. I can remember we were in the Burley area and we was getting

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pointed at by some English lads – so it rose. Like I said – we weren’t responsible – and when Iraq gets attacked we don’t go you know, killing English people in the street – it’s ok for them to start attacking us – it’s when the racist elements start to happen. Madeline: So they actually pointed at you? Leila: Yeah – I think they just used that as an excuse. It’s just an excuse really. Madeline: How did that make you feel? Leila: We were frightened. Madeline: Did you think that something could happen … Leila: Um, that we could be attacked – yeah.

Leila’s account further illustrates the importance of examining spaces relationally in keeping with a feminist geopolitics which approaches the co-constitution of categories such as public/private, war/peace, civilian/soldier and the intimate/global (Christian et al. 2016: 66; Pain 2009). Here, banal processes of nationalism (Billig 1995) that communicate ownership of space such as being “pointed at” and subjected to “funny looks” comprising a ‘stigmatising gaze’ (Hussain and Bagguley 2013a: 30) interfere with the geopolitics of the Iraq War. Leila highlights the inseparability of the local, everyday, body and emotions (principally fear), from the realm of geopolitics (Dowler and Sharp 2001; Hyndman 2001). Embodiment is important for understanding how lived spaces are made unhomely through intersections of race, religion and gender. As ‘visibly Muslim’ women, spatial encounters are made more dangerous for Leila and her sister because they are blamed for 7/7 due to their group membership to Islam; as signifiers of (Islamist) terrorism they are subsequently terrorised. Although participants, including Leila, reported positive ways in which non-Muslims and Muslims “came together” in the aftermath of 7/7, these events also had a negative impact on the ‘reputational geographies’ (Parker and Karner 2010) of Leeds and the surrounding locale through its association with the 7/7 bombers (see Hussain and Bagguley 2013a: 37; Seidler 2007). The culture of blame contributes the conditions for “racist elements” to occur (see Pugliese 2006: 6) so that Leila and her sister feel insecuritised in the place where they are living. In

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the three weeks following 7/7, the number of reported religious hate crimes increased more than 600% from 40 in 2004 to 269 (BBC News Online 4 August 2005). Although subject to surges, racism features here as an ever-present, latent threat, which is affectively mobilised by wider socio-political events. For Leila, these racist elements are connected to state terrors enacted during the Iraq War that propose an asymmetrical necropolitics or necropower where, as mentioned, race legitimises the right to kill (Mbembe 2003: 17). Pugliese (2006: 12) similarly writes of the ‘violent asymmetries that operate in the differential valuation of human lives’ between civilian casualties killed by coalition forces during the Iraq War whose deaths are unmarked and unknown, denoted by a stark discrepancy in the anonymous digitising of civilians reported (the numbers of which are thus inescably incomplete) to be killed by military intervention in Iraq on the database Iraq Body Count, that serves as an electronic mass morgue (and which continues to be enumerated as Iraq remains in a state of war), to those killed in 9/11 whose deaths are individuated and accurately recorded and memorialised. Likewise, for Muslims in Britain, Leila argues that there is greater propensity for racist violence to be enacted against them because, she argues, violence against Muslims is sanctioned in a way that the deaths of English people (coded as white, non-Muslim) are not.10 This means that Leila and her sister can be blamed for the terrorist attacks despite not being responsible but “English people” are not held accountable for the deaths of Iraqis during the Iraq War 2003. Necropolitics is reserved for those bodies deemed expendable whilst the lives of English people are protected. The besieged or brutalised Muslim body emblematic of the Iraq War 2003 affects relations between Muslims and non-Muslims in Britain, illustrating how the ‘war on terror’ is experienced at home. Images of war are used to frame Muslims’ insecuritisation within Britain as Leila depicts: It just makes you more aware that the potential is there – it’s just like a bomb shell maybe waiting to explode. We can’t be complacent.

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The concentrationary shapes how everyday spaces are experienced as sites of terror exhibited by Leila’s use of images of war, the “bomb shell…waiting to explode.” This metaphor epitomises the potential threat of racial hatred if it were to reach dangerous levels, and thus the need for ‘constant vigilance’ (Pollock and Silverman 2014a: 1) in keeping with a concentrationary memory in order to escape such violences from becoming reality: “we can’t be complacent,” Leila warns. Existing racist hostility present in everyday spaces of the nation means that the descent into extreme violence is ever present. Springer (2012: 141) speaks of the ‘looming spectre of the “banality of evil”’ that potentially resides within ordinary English citizens as featured in Leila’s narrative. The bomb shell exemplifies the imposition of power by dominant members and in turn, the ‘ontological insecurity’ (see Croft 2012b) to which Muslims may be subjected where their place within the social order, their very existence, is threatened (see deRaismes Combes 2017: 128). Whilst Mbembe’s (2003) account of necropolitics focuses on Muslim majority countries, here necropolitics is imagined as being perpetrated against Muslim populations within the cityscapes of Britain. As with Zanaib’s father’s account presented in Chapter 2, the culture of fear experienced by Muslims in Britain is articulated through reference to earlier terrors enacted against Muslim populations. The Bosnian case illustrates the threat felt by Muslims within European spaces in which racist hostility among ordinary citizens, the rise of the far-right, and sanctioning of state practices of necropolitics and necropower against Muslim populations, both domestically and globally, coalesce to affect how spaces come to be experienced as unsafe. Such fears precipitate spatial management practices to be undertaken as protective measures, as I move on to discuss.

(Un)Safe Spaces: Spatial Management as Strategies of Protection Extreme fears of genocidal violence being visited upon Muslims in Britain invoke a concentrationary memory that is ‘monitory and vigilant’

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(Pollock and Silverman 2014a: 4; also Rousset 1947: 173). Although the threat of genocide is an imagined fear, the culture of fear arising from Muslims’ perception of being “at risk” nonetheless shapes how Leila moves through space, precipitating practices of self-surveillance: Madeline: How does it make you feel that there is this kind of threat there? Leila: It makes you feel you know, afraid, and also aware that you are at risk. Madeline: Has it made you change your behaviour in any kind of way? Leila: You just have to be a bit more vigilant don’t you? Madeline: Vigilant in what sense? Leila: More aware that you know, that is the case.

Through pre-emptive counter-terrorism measures Muslims are placed “at risk” as Leila tells me. Gabe Mythen et al.’s (2013: 383, original italics) study of young British Pakistani Muslims living in the North-West of England similarly details the process of ‘risk subjectification’ resulting from ‘institutional labelling’ of Muslims as risky subjects. These labelling practices legitimate racist hostility which affects how everyday spaces are experienced as risky, requiring vigilance according to Leila (“you just have to be a bit more vigilant don’t you?”) or ‘self-surveillance’ Mythen et al. (2013: 383) as protective strategies (also Hussain and Bagguley 2013a: 40). Practices of spatial management are mobilised to alter how Leila moves through space and importantly, informs her decision to avoid spaces associated with racism, as she continues: Madeline: Have you ever, because of this fear and increased awareness, has it ever made you not do something? Leila: Yeah – you have to try and get to know the person first I think or maybe not go into certain areas or at certain times. Madeline: What kinds of areas would you avoid? Leila: Areas that are well-known predominately as being racist or really white.

Securitisation concerns connected to the presence of ‘outsider’ populations have often been framed around patterns of spatial segregation of British cities (Phillips 2006) notably, the ‘parallel lives’ (Cantle 2001)

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thesis which framed explanations of the 2001 disturbances in Bradford, Oldham and Burnley. Residential clustering of South Asian Muslim communities has been constructed as Robina Mohammed (2013: 1802) writes, ‘on the one hand as isolating and insular, and on the other as static and homogenous, sites which foster alien values threatening to national security.’ Leila however draws attention to the threat of racism within predominately white spaces, intimating that spatial segregation may result from fear of racist violence. Indeed, a number of critics (see Rhodes 2009; Bagguely and Hussain 2008; Kundnani et al. 2001) of the parallel lives thesis have argued that racist victimisation has been overlooked in accounts of the 2001 disturbances (see Chapter 6). Participants discussed various experiences of intimidation and physical violence. The trope of the brutalised body of the racial Other circulated participants’ narrations of spaces that affected how spaces were produced symbolically and discursively comprising ‘mental maps’ (Mohammed 2013: 1804) through which spaces become attributed with risk. These narratives structure spatial mobility and patterns of spatial segregation along racial lines (Mohammed 2013; Phillips et al. 2007). Arun Saldanha (2006: 18) uses the term ‘viscosity’ to capture the ‘continuous but constrained dynamism of space.’ Important to his theorisation is how ‘bodies become viscous, slow down, get into certain habits, into certain collectivities’ (Saldanha 2006: 19) that affect how cities and social stratum become racially structured. This is useful for understanding the spatial constraints Leila feels which, by avoiding certain spaces, keeps the predominance of white bodies within such spaces in place. Spatial management practices are undertaken as protective strategies (also Hussain and Bagguley 2013a: 40) against racism. Leila avoids places that are “well-known” to be racist through their association with white spatial dominance (and hence where she would feel out of place) which may not be places where she has personally encountered racism. Fear thus places restrictions on spatial mobility (Bannister and Fyfe 2001; Mehta 1999; Pain 1997) through both symbolic and material registers that are connected to the racialisation of space. To mitigate risk, Leila emphasises the importance of “getting to know the person first” before entering a space that is associated with racial threat can be considered safe. This further highlights that spaces

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are inseparable from bodies (Ansaloni and Tedeschi 2016: 16). Relations between bodies affect how spaces come to be lived as spaces of conviviality or racist hostility and are shaped by wider socio-political contexts. Everyday spaces of the nation are made unhomely where the threat of being attacked comprises a haunted futurity, leading to some British Muslims questioning whether it is safe to remain in Britain, as Leila continues: …And then a lot of people say shall we leave the country and go back to our own country? But then the problems are in all countries whether it’s Somalia, Pakistan, America – ‘cos we’re infiltrating in those countries, interfering in those countries so it’s not safe anywhere.

As explored in Chapter 2, citizenship is perceived by some British Muslims as conditional and contested rather than taken-for-granted (Abbas 2019; Kapoor and Narkowicz 2019; Kapoor 2018; Choudhury 2017; McGhee 2008, 2010). Navigating (un)safe spaces has important implications for how and where ‘home’ and belonging are constituted. For those positioned outside the ‘corpus of the nation’ (Abood 2001), ‘home’ remains an insecure place where the terms of belonging can be reconstituted, reintroducing the requirement to “go back” home as a safety measure. That Leila refers to the country of her heritage as “our own country” reveals her inability to call Britain ‘home’ due to the national exclusions to which she is subjected despite it being her place of birth and where she grew up. Yet Leila also highlights that state terror tactics that comprise the ‘colonial present’ (Gregory 2004) of the ‘war on terror’ have seeped into a number of countries, thus limiting the potential for safety to be found for Muslims elsewhere. Mythen and Walklate (2016: 1109) observe the ‘salience of the local/global nexus in both generating and sustaining instability and violence.’ They trace contemporary responses to conflicts in Iraq and Syria and geopolitical impacts of IS or Daesh to the ‘politics of fear’ (also Amoore 2014: 3; Aradau and van Munster 2009) that has mobilised state security policy post-9/11.

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Adding support to Leila’s claim that the world is unsafe for Muslim populations, Moustafa discusses how violent intrusions by coalition forces during the global ‘war on terror’ have insecuritised Muslim populations “back home” in Pakistan: Moustafa: You know I think what happened you know when people got scared of the war you know when all the pictures starting coming back of the war and you saw people on the floor, bloodied. God I remember this one picture that had such an impact on me, on the front page of the Independent – it was, there was a Muslim guy and he was on the floor, he had his trousers pulled down and they shot him in his private area … and you thought is this what we do? Madeline: How did that make you feel? Moustafa: I felt so – it made me drop inside – I felt so horrible and I thought that’s not something that I could live with – because I come from that region of Pakistan, on the border, seeing all the war and the turmoil. And I’ve seen so many people who are – look just like someone from my family and it just makes you feel like – it really hits home.

Michael Shapiro (2007: 291) writes of the ‘new violent cartography’ where, through photographic and cinematic technology, remote wars can come ‘into view.’ Shapiro (1997: ix) argues that violent cartographies comprise the ‘historically developed, socially embedded interpretations of identity and space’ which produce the ‘frames within which enmities give rise to war-as-policy.’ Important to Moustafa’s description is how the violent cartography of the ‘war on terror’ troubles categories of identity and space, safety and security, and frames of enmities. He recognises the site of violence as the region where his family is from, which complicates the binary separating ‘us’ and ‘them,’ ‘friend’ and ‘enemy.’ As a British citizen, Moustafa feels complicit in the violence enacted against Pakistan: “is that what we do?” Simultaneously, as someone of Pakistani heritage and with family in Pakistan, he also identifies with the victims of violence. This ontological conflict is felt as a bodily reaction that links him to the ‘ontological insecurity’ (Croft 2012b) faced by Pakistani Muslims in the region where he is from: “it made me drop inside,” further evidencing the ‘spatial politics of affect’ (Thrift 2004b).

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As with Leila, Moustafa highlights the importance of race to performances of war and production of bodies that (do not) matter. This is because race functions in necropolitics as a technology for legitimising the right to kill (Mbembe 2003). Racialised ways of seeing are therefore important to how ‘frames of war’ (Butler 2009) or more specifically, frames of terror, are conceptualised and consumed as they traverse spatio-temporal boundaries, in this case entering people’s homes through mediascapes. Importantly, “home” again features as unheimlich (Punter 2007: 130; Gunew 2004: 95; Bhabha 1990: 2; Freud 1919), a site of pain rather than safety, as simultaneously the locus where extreme violence is perpetrated, and where the horrifying realisation of what your home-place has perpetrated against your place of heritage collides: “it really hits home.” Since spaces are performed, their outcomes are not fully determined, meaning their performances create the possibility of ‘newness’ (Bhabha 1997: 7) to enter the world on the horizon of the postcolonial. Yet the performance of the colonial present also carries a troubling reminder— a reaffirmation of past harms of colonial violences that have haunted the region of Pakistan that are replayed in the current moment of the ‘war on terror.’ For Moustafa, born too late to have experienced the traumas of colonialism that Zanaib’s father remembers (Chapter 2), he is nevertheless scripted into the imaginative geography in which such violences are enacted against those who look like him in the ‘colonial present’ (Gregory 2004) of the ‘war on terror.’ Moustafa’s account provides a powerful reminder that as Gregory notes (2004: 307; also Graham 2006), ‘imaginative geographies are never merely representations,’ but are performances of space in which sites of colonial violence persist. In Edward Said’s (2003: 54) original description, imaginative geographies involve a series of spatialisations that dissolve distance into difference by partitioning ‘same’ from ‘other’: ‘designating in one’s mind a familiar space which is “ours” and an unfamiliar space beyond “ours” which is “theirs.”’ These imaginations are materialised as ‘architectures of enmity’ (Gregory 2004: 18; also Graham 2006) whose inhabitants are made legitimate targets for colonial or military power. The body of the victim becomes a site of terror. The ‘enemy’ Other is rendered a brutalised, “bloody” body; the locality transformed into a

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war zone characterised by “turmoil” that Moustafa recounts makes him “feel horrible.” The sensation of horror is located, as Valier (2002: 327) observes, ‘at the boundary between psyche and flesh’ that approaches emotions as ‘embodied practices.’ Adriana Cavarero (2011: 8) draws an important distinction between ‘terror’ which mobilises flight instinctively and ‘horror’ which inhibits movement, in which its victim is ‘gripped by revulsion in the face of a form of violence that appears more inadmissible than death.’ She argues that what is unbearable, unwatchable, is the ‘spectacle of disfigurement’: As its corporeal symptoms testify, the physics of horror has nothing to do with the instinctive reaction to the threat of death. It has rather to do with instinctive disgust for a violence that, not content merely to kill because killing would be too little, aims to destroy the uniqueness of the body, tearing at its constitutive vulnerability. What is at stake is not the end of a human life but the human condition itself…. (Cavarero 2011: 8)

The corporeal reaction that Moustafa displays, the feeling of “drop[ping] inside,” that constrains him from moving, is not in response to death, but to the dismemberment of the body; the destruction of the victim’s private parts11 invokes disgust at the extremities of vulnerability to which this Pakistani Muslim male, who looks like him, is subjected, that is almost unbearable to witness. The gaze is an important weapon, comprising an important affinity between horror and vision, between the unbearability of the scene and the repugnance it incites in the onlooker. However, Moustafa’s disgust proposes an important distinction to Cavarero’s (2011: 8) depiction since it is not founded on hostility or desire for dominance (as I argued in Chapter 2) but empathy—a recognition of the face of the Other rather than a distancing from them because of their shared position within the racial terrain; a proximity (ontological rather than geographical) that was missing from encounters between the hostile white subject and the Muslim Other discussed in Chapter 2. This familiarity forces him not to look away but to fixate: “I’ve seen so many people who… look just like someone from my family.” In the next extract, Reza, a 43-year-old white English Muslim convert, provides

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further evidence of the ways in which state terror enacted by coalition forces during the war in Afghanistan renders the home and the body the site of absolute terror.

Space and ‘Vertical Geopolitics’: Drone Strikes What are they doing in Afghanistan? … You know what I mean? What are they doing there? And like some of the stories that I’ve heard you know like … [from] fellow Islamic brothers … what’s happened to their families … they’ve been sat at home and all of a sudden a rocket’s gone into their house and just wiped them out you know, and they’ve lost their fathers, their mothers, their sisters, their brothers, uncles, nephews, nieces, just totally wiped out. But the Americans say oh you know and there’s these cover ups …

Although drone strikes did not feature extensively in participants’ accounts, they are part of the imaginings of war which a number of respondents reported upon. I have included Reza’s account because it provides an important dimension to understanding how spaces are produced as (in)secure and (un)safe for Muslim populations during the ‘war on terror.’ Reporting on the events suffered by a “fellow Islamic brother,” Reza describes an extreme instance in which the home is insecuritised for Muslims through drone strikes conducted in this example, by American forces during the war in Afghanistan. Here, the home is transformed from a place of safety and comfort to the site of absolute terror, war, destruction; the locus of necropolitics where an entire family can be killed with impunity. Central to state necropower is the capacity to “cover up” culpability in the deaths of civilians. Reza’s account reflects Mbembe’s (2003: 30) description of the workings of necropower in contemporary wars as ‘hit-and-run-affairs’ that comprise a ‘new moment’ that cannot be interpreted through earlier typologies of ‘just’ or ‘unjust’ wars. Instead, they feature ‘overwhelming or decisive force’ (Mbembe 2003: 30) whereby military-technological advances enhance the capacity for unprecedented

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destruction. Under such conditions, the home is annihilated; its inhabitants “wiped out.” This ‘necropolitical logic of destruction’ (Espinoza 2018: 376) present in drone programmes comprise state terrorism which terrorises civilian populations placed under surveillance (Coll 2014; Saif 2014; Salama 2013, 2014; Pugliese 2011, 2013; Cavallero et al. 2012; Gibson 2012) comprising ‘a colonial and racialised confrontation’ (Espinoza 2018: 381; also Allinson 2015; Baggiarini 2015). Such violences are not altogether new; race remains the founding logic for ascribing civilian populations who have done nothing wrong with negative characteristics, which legitimates their destruction. Performances of terror require a rethinking of space not only as scale as I have discussed, but as volume. Writers such as Peter Sloterdijk (2009a, b) cite examples such as the Holocaust gas chambers, aerial bombardment and missile attacks (also Elden 2013; Gregory 2011; Grosscup 2006; Graham 2004b) as sites in which terror have been transmitted. Paul Virilio (1989: 35) similarly argues that the advent of aerial warfare requires a spatial transformation from battlefield to battlespace where ‘Distance, depth, three-dimensionality…space became a training-ground for the dynamic offensive and for all the energies it harnessed.’ These spatial configurations comprise ‘vertical geopolitics’ (Graham 2004b; also Elden 2013) as a means of exerting domination, an ‘aerial supremacy’ (Elden 2013: 36) used by states to terrify civilian populations below. Such practices are present in aerial assaults like the ‘Shock and Awe’ initiative enacted by the US following the 2003 Iraq invasion. Reza’s account shows the existential vulnerability that aerial imperialism proposes for civilians. As Foucault (2007: 170) observes, ‘the vertical is not one of the dimensions of space, it is the dimension of power.’ This chapter has chartered how the home is made unhomely through state practices such as homes raids and racist violence, both real and imagined, the mediated carnage of violence being transmitted into the home from ‘back home,’ and here, the ultimate expression of sovereignty: the annihilation of the home and all family members residing within. Despite active silencing around such atrocities enacted against civilians during the war in Afghanistan, knowledge of their deaths circulate among surviving family members through diverse spaces across time and place. These “stories” articulate the spectral terrors of whiteness that

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refuse to be silenced. In this way, these accounts are comparable to postcolonial hauntings discussed in Chapter 2, or comprise instances of ‘haunting back’ (Goddu 1997, 1999; also Gibbons 2004), which I develop further in Chapter 6. Their retelling challenges the boundaries separating living/dead, local/global, discursive/material spaces. Despite the material annihilation of the physical space of the home, traces remain, discursively transmitted through other spaces through the retelling of such terror tactics to haunt the present.

6

Conclusion

This chapter has explored the division that has been instituted between the public to be protected, the ‘normative white corpus of the nation’ (Pugliese 2006: 15), and the Muslim as terrorist-monster (Puar and Rai 2002: 118) made the principle target of counter-terrorism measures. The zoning of space, and the zoning of subjects within those spaces under Prevent (HM Government 2011a), is underpinned by a dual criminal justice system (see Hillyard 1993: 261) that separates those who are full subjects from those whose citizenship rights can be revoked, including their protection from law. This division facilitates the extension of the logic of the camp within city spaces (Diken and Laustsen 2002, 2005, 2006) such as Leeds and Bradford involving spatial control, zoning and surveillance (see Sofsky 1997: 47), which constitute the culture of fear experienced by British Muslims within everyday spaces. By adopting a concentrationary lens, I showed how necropolitics and necropower (Mbembe 2003) present in both domestic and foreign counter-terrorism initiatives during the ‘war on terror,’ notably the shoot-to-kill to protect policy leading to the fatal shooting of Menezes in London in 2005, and military offenses during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, collapse boundaries of local/global, war/safety, that illustrate continuities in performances of racial terror characterising colonial violences and the ‘colonial present’ (Gregory 2004) of the ‘war on terror.’ I argued that a multi-scalar (Christian et al. 2016: 64; Tolia-Kelly and Crang 2010; Amin 2004; Thrift 2004a; Massey 1994) approach to space is required that is also attentive to ‘vertical geopolitics’ (Graham 2004b;

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Elden 2013) to understand complex spatial tactics of terror and production of (un)safe, (in)secure spaces, including how the ‘war on terror’ is brought ‘home.’ Legislative preclusions for inhabiting civic spaces perpetuate the racialisation of space where those who are self-evidently ‘in place’ experience the nation in a significantly different way to British Muslim citizens (Pugliese 2006; also Neely and Samura 2011; Ahmed 2007; Hesse 1997). The (in)securitisation of British Muslims reconstitutes everyday spaces of the nation such as the street and the home as sites of terror, as unheimlich through counter-terrorism practices of stop and search, home raids, detention and imprisonment, both real and imagined. Spaces are racialised through the interaction of discursive registers comprising ‘reputational geographies’ (Parker and Karner 2010: 1452) of spaces that are associated with racism, as well as physical incidents of racist violence that both precipitate spatial management practices. These protective measures, which include avoiding certain places or choosing not to live in areas that are associated with racism or are densely populated by normative white communities, perpetuate spatial divisions along racial lines. The production of ‘suspect spaces’ (de Goede 2014) associated with the threat of terrorism further supports racial divisions by reaffirming conceptions that Muslims are threats to the nation, both domestically as epitomised by the home-grown terrorist figure, and globally, through the more recent focus on the foreign fighter category (see Pokalova 2019; Benmelech and Klor 2018; Malet and Hayes 2018; Awan and Guru 2017; Dawson and Amarasingam 2017; Malet 2015) that troubles established spatial categories (see Valier 2002: 319) separating ‘us’ and ‘them.’ Within the state of exception, a ‘legal civil war’ (Agamben 2005: 2) is sanctioned in which certain categories of citizens are deemed unsuitable for inclusion within the national imaginary. The witch-hunting practices that Zanaib argues characterise Prevent (HM Government 2011a) are part of the process of regulating Muslim populations through persecution rather than finding culprits that have broken the law. In this regard, it is not the terror suspect that is the focus of state surveillance, but the management of a particular type of subject. This contention is supported

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by Leila who tells us that it is not Muslims that pose a threat that are the ones that are being targeted, but anyone who is Muslim. She proposes a different nexus of victim/perpetrator where it is Muslims that are made “victims” through being targeted as terrorists. The possibility of racist hostility reaching extreme levels mobilises an agitative, monitory sensibility characteristic of a concentrationary memory (Pollock and Silverman 2011a b, 2014b) such as exhibited by Leila. She is actively attuned to the possibility that genocidal horrors enacted against Muslim populations at home such as during the Bosnian War 1992–1995 could reoccur within spaces where racist hostility and the far-right presence is on the rise. Necropolitical governmental policies during the ‘war on terror’ help sanction an environment of racist hostility by protecting the safety of normative white Britons whilst legitimating the insecuritisation of Muslim populations, both at home and globally. Muslims are located within intimate and wider networks, whereby state practices can infiltrate how spaces of the nation, the home and the body come to be lived (see Shirlow and Pain 2003). In response to these terrorising conditions discussed by participants, the Concentrationary Gothic advances a different conceptualisation of the perpetrator of terror to be imagined within the ‘war on terror’— whiteness. Whiteness confers a privileged sense of belonging and claim to space (Neely and Samura 2011: 1944). Comparably, British Muslims are excluded from the right to reside within the nation unimpeded which affects how the nation is made unhomely for them, both affectively, symbolically/discursively and materially. The absence of whiteness from hegemonic frameworks of terror perpetuates representations of Muslims as ‘terrorist-monsters’ (Puar and Rai 2002), what I am articulating as the operation of whiteness as a spectral terrorist. Advancing this category extends inquiry into how the state of exception operates within the Concentrationary Gothic through a Gothic intelligibility that exposes how the terrors of whiteness are concealed within law. It informs how the law functions as a ‘haunted space’ (Chaplin 2007: 84) through obfuscating practices of terror as central to its constitution. Further, how pre-emptive counter-terrorism frameworks comprise the condition for spaces to be haunted for Muslims emerging from the possibility of being

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targeted as terror suspects, comprising ‘haunted futurities’ (Ferreday and Kuntsman 2011; also Back 2011; Gordon 2011). The identity category of terrorist-monster (Puar and Rai 2002) is actively produced through the visual technology of what I term ‘premediated ignorance.’ This term addresses the situation where within pre-emptive counter-terrorism, the terrorist category can be imposed onto Muslims despite no terrorist offences being committed. Premediated ignorance relates therefore to the reworking of knowledge about Muslims by state officials to substantiate their identification as ‘terroristmonsters’ (Puar and Rai 2002), which not only legitimates exceptions to be made within the law, but prohibits accountability for such injustices. The production of this monstrous figure is premised on a particular (racialised) body which comes to occupy a Gothic space that, as Chaplin (2007: 84) contends, is the location of ‘complex legal, epistemological and ontological haunting.’ As such, it comprises another epistemological practice which functions to keep the technology of monstrosity in place. By exposing the practices of identity reconstruction which go into producing the figure of the terrorist-monster, we can see how whiteness functions as a form of ‘property’ (Harris 1993) where those defined by law as ‘dangerous’ (McCulloch and Pickering 2009: 8; Collyer 2005: 293; Butler 2004: 71) to the property rights of whiteness works to legitimate their (in)securitisation. White terror can take a manifest form where it is physically enacted by state officials who intrude into the lives of Muslims, removing them from the street, raiding their homes, detaining and imprisoning them. These physical manifestations are nonetheless supported by discursive constructions which have implications for how spaces come to be lived depending on how bodies are framed within political, legal and media discourses. Uncertainty experienced by Muslims surrounding arrest for terrorismrelated offences is confounded by the control of (white) spaces within law through which criminal proceedings are determined. Hamida’s account of Ibrahaim’s detainment has shown that the identity category of terror suspect can be assigned interchangeably to subsume those who could-be terrorists through a process of ‘racialization of religion’ (Puar 2007: 38).

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The application of this category is accompanied by a denial of citizenship rights of the accused that enables the effects of being identified as a ‘terrorist-monster’ (Puar and Rai 2002) to come into being. The production of Muslims as terror suspects is actively sustained through distorting legal outcomes which is testament to horrendous breaches of law. Absence of accountability means that the perpetrators of terror against Muslims are not named which enables the label of ‘terrorist’ to stick to Muslim bodies. Harris (1993: 1791) provides an apt description of the spectral terrors that accompany the enactment of whiteness in legal spaces as ‘a ghost that has haunted the political and legal domains in which claims for justice have been inadequately addressed for far too long.’ As Samrina notes, Muslims occupy an unequal position within law since it is the normative white subject that retains the power to determine outcomes through how they interpret the law that may detrimentally affect Muslims’ lives and their families. To mitigate risks, some Muslims undertake practices of self-surveillance to “dilute their identities” to avoid being targeted as a terror suspect. In this regard, space enacts prohibitions that restrict how identities are lived in space within the culture of fear experienced by British Muslims. In the next chapter, I explore how being a member of the suspect group produces new forms of subjectivities emerging from terror of loved ones being subjected to the gaze of surveillance or being lost to the insidious grips of extremists such that they come to surveil other Muslims, illustrating how the terrors of counter-terrorism are internalised by Muslim communities and families and retransmitted by them.

Notes 1. Liz Fekete (2009: 102) also uses the analogy of McCarthyism to discuss the current treatment of Muslims. She argues that this development replaces the ‘“red scare” of Communism with the “Islam scare”’ whereby Muslims are understood as ‘secretly allying themselves to an equally evil and totalitarian fundamentalist empire: the Umma of global Islam’ (Fekete 2009:

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102). Central to this narrative is that traditional security measures are inadequate to safeguard against this unprecedented threat which legitimises extreme measures to be taken. Amid growing concerns of the threat from far-right extremism, police focus has shifted in response. Home Office figures (2021b: 2.5) have shown that for the third consecutive year, arrests of White people (48%) have exceeded the proportion of Asian people arrested (34%) for the year ending December 2020. This phrase gained currency in Britain following 7/7 to denote that the bombers did not fit the expected terrorist profile and were thus unknown to security services. Local newspaper for Bradford. The Association of Muslim Lawyers define an anti-terror raid as ‘action taken by the police and intelligence services, upon receipt of intelligence, resulting in arrests and searches of premises and property against individuals/organisations suspected of directly or indirectly encouraging the commission, preparation, or instigation of acts of terrorism or to disseminate terrorist publications’ (Nawaz and Warrich 2007: 9). There has been controversy regarding the extension of stop and search powers, including the extension of detention without charge and the right to determine guilt from subject’s silence (Mythen et al. 2009: 3). The period of detention without charge has been extended by successive acts from 48 hours to 7 days under the Terrorism Act 2000, from 7 to 14 days by the Criminal Justice Act 2003 and from 14 to 28 days under a contentious provision in the Terrorism Act 2006. Current counter-terrorism laws allow police under specified conditions to make arrests without warrants who are ‘reasonably suspected of being terrorists’ (Terrorism Act 2000 c.11 s.41). Following repeal of the powers within the Terrorism Act 2006, pre-charge detention has returned to 14 days under s.41 of TACT 2000, except where circumstances require extension to 28 days in accordance with the Draft Detention of Terrorist Suspects (Temporary Extension) Bills (HM Government 2011c). The Terrorism Act 2006 (c.2 s. 5) includes offences of ‘Acts preparatory to terrorism,’ including intention to commit acts of terrorism. Kearns et al.’s (2019) study of news coverage for all terrorist attacks in the United States between 2006 and 2015 (totalling 136) found that on average, attacks by Muslim perpetrators received 357% more coverage (controlling for target type, fatalities and being arrested). Muslims are persistently presented as extremists (Chuang and Roemer 2013; Sides

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and Gross 2013; Mahony 2010) and linked to terrorist acts in the news (Ahmed and Matthes 2017; Satti 2015; Gerhards and Schäfer 2014). Crucial to understanding differences in representation are biases in labelling whereby the label ‘terrorist’ is more readily attributed to violence committed by Muslims than non-Muslims (West and Lloyd 2017). A number of UK studies have similarly found that negative media representations produce a distorted, hyper-visible portrayal of Muslims as a threat to the wider national community (see de Rooij 2017; Bleich et al. 2015; Baker et al. 2013; Sian et al. 2013; Richardson 2004; Poole 2002). 9. Operation KRATOS was a national police policy developed by London’s Metropolitan Police Service post-9/11 which ‘justif[ies] use of lethal force’ (Independent Police Complaints Commission 2007: 41) against a suspected suicide bomber. The term is not currently used, although similar tactics remain in force. 10. It is important to note that English people were of course killed in 7/7, as were British Muslims such as 20-year old, Sahara Islam. 11. Gargi Bhattacharyya (2008: 91, 128; also Puar 2007) notes significant connections between racism and sexualised violence within the ‘war on terror.’ What she describes as the ‘horrific use of sexual torture and violence’ (Bhattacharyya 2008: 91, 128) at Abu Ghraib is perhaps the starkest example.

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5 Fracturing Muslim Relations: Producing ‘Internal Suspect Bodies’

1

Introduction

In this chapter, I extend my inquiry of the terrors of counter-terrorism experienced by Muslims following from their construction as a ‘suspect community’ (see Pilkington and Acik 2020; Breen-Smyth 2014; Nickels et al. 2012; Hickman et al. 2012; Choudhury and Fenwick 2011; Pantazis and Pemberton 2009, 2011; Kundnani 2009; Poynting and Mason 2006; Hillyard 1993). Premised on fear and suspicion, internal surveillance practices of co-option, spying, and informing (both real and imagined) have contributed to the fracturing of relations within Muslim communities and families by engendering a breakdown in trust. As such, I approach the effects of terror as operating through ‘a network of relations’ (Foucault 1977: 26) that are not restricted to relations between state and citizens, but are dispersed through social relations as prohibitions are taken on by the subordinated group and (re)transmitted to produce what I term ‘internal suspect bodies’ within Muslim communities and families.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M.-S. Abbas, Terror and the Dynamism of Islamophobia in 21st Century Britain, Palgrave Politics of Identity and Citizenship Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72949-3_5

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My advancement of the ‘internal suspect body’ addresses diverse ways suspectification operates depending on how the body is read by other Muslims. As I have shown so far, I locate my analysis within the Concentrationary Gothic framework of racial terror (also Abbas 2013). This framework addresses how terror affects the multidimensions of subjects’ experiences in keeping with an inter-bodily-relational model of subjectivity (as emotional/affective, psychic, temporal, embodied, spatial, relational and vocal actors), across state, inter- and intra-group, and individual levels (i.e. terror is networked), and is shaped by racialised perceptual frameworks or ‘visual technologies.’ This chapter focuses on the effects of terror on relations at the intra-group level (i.e. Muslim communities and families) and perceptual framework of subjection (Butler 1997). Analyses of concentrationary systems delineate how co-option of members of the subordinated group (Sofsky 1997: 13–44) and the ‘pressure to conform’ (Fings 2010: 113) are key terror tactics for ensuring subjection to the system. As Judith Butler (1997: 2) contends, subjection ‘signifies the process of becoming subordinated by power as well as the process of becoming a subject.’ The moderate/extremist binary frames Muslims’ judgements of other Muslims and precipitates internal mechanisms of control on religious activities, political views and relations with Muslim organisations through fears of association with extremism in order to avoid state targeting. In particular, I explore detrimental effects that state co-option (actual and suspected) of Muslim individuals/groups under Prevent (HM Government 2011a) has on relations within Muslim communities (see Ragazzi 2016) by producing the internal suspect body as informer. There are two key ways in which the internal suspect body is materialised that this chapter explores. Firstly, I explore co-option, both real and imagined, of Muslims under Prevent (HM Government 2011a) where groups are encouraged to inform state authorities on the activities of Muslims within their communities. Terror is reproduced following concerns that Muslims will be spied on and thus produced as suspect, as well as from having to be wary of other Muslims who are suspected to be acting as informers on Muslim community members. Secondly, I examine how the internal suspect body is produced within Muslim

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households where family members fear that their children are demonstrating signs of extremism, leading to parents checking up on their activities and imposing restrictions on how they perform their religious identities. I conclude that locally-defined solutions that bridge policy and community voices, provide safe spaces for Muslims to articulate a range of identities and build relations locally, are central to effective community engagement and provide an important counter to top-down and divisive approaches such as Prevent (HM Government 2011a).

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Context: Suspect and Subjection

Following the July 2005 attacks and recent Islamist terror attacks in London (2020, 2019, 2018, 2017, 2013), Manchester (2018, 2017), Reading (2020) and Glasgow (2007), Muslim communities have been subjected to intensified monitoring and intervention from crime and security agencies which have constructed Muslims as a ‘suspect community’ in Britain (Pilkington and Acik 2020; Cherney and Murphy 2016a; Breen-Smyth 2014; Hickman et al. 2012; Pantazis and Pemberton 2009, 2011; Kundnani 2009; Mythen et al. 2009). Previous studies on Muslim communities have examined the detrimental effects that membership to a suspect community has on relations with the police (Pantazis and Pemberton 2009: 660) and the wider community, where targeting specific groups through counterterrorism policing provides a ‘permission to hate’ the group under scrutiny (Poynting and Mason 2006). Less attention has been paid to the divisive effects produced within the suspect community. Paddy Hillyard’s (1993: 262) study exploring the effects of state counter-terrorism on the Irish community which coined the term ‘suspect community’ remains the most comprehensive examination of the ‘terror of prevention.’ Key aspects include co-option of informers and stigma generated from within the suspected community where members are interrogated by counter-terrorism agencies. Hickman et al.’s (2012: 93) comparative research of representations of Irish and Muslim ‘suspect communities’ in Britain contends that ‘suspectification’ (the practice of making an individual or a community suspect)

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whilst initiated by state authorities, is reproduced by a range of individuals/groups, including within the community under suspicion. Internal divisions are engendered (Hickman et al. 2012: 99) from internal surveillance and responsibilisation of Muslim citizens to counter-extremism within their communities (Thomas 2017; McGhee 2010; Mythen and Walklate 2006). However, there remains a paucity of research exploring how divisions are created and experienced within the suspect community within the context of preventative counter-terrorism measures which this study contributes. In keeping with the Concentrationary Gothic framework which I am advancing, I argue that there are important historical links between colonialism and counter-terrorism. Hillyard’s (1993: 262, 261) valuable study on the devastating impact that the Prevention of Terrorism 1974 legislation had on Irish communities argues that this legislation was predicated on historical representations of Irish people as dangerous under colonialism which justified the creation of a ‘dual system of criminal justice’ in Britain. Also writing on the Irish context, Robbie McVeigh and Bill Rolston (2009: 3, original italics) contend that an important element of ‘civilising’ the natives under British colonial rule involved transforming them from ‘resisting natives into unresisting subjects’ and finally their recruitment as ‘actively co-opted citizens.’ Co-option is a key racialised terror tactic in producing internal divisions within the subjugated group as a means of containing dissent. Practices derived from colonial Ireland were instructive to the system of policing within the British Empire and provided a counter-insurgency model to deal with resistance and disorder (Ellison and O’Reilly 2008: 397, 401; also McCulloch and Pickering 2009; Schlesinger 1978). Lessons of counter-insurgency have been redeployed within the arena of global insecurity post-9/11 by current and former Northern Irish police officers during the ‘war on terror’ such as in the context of transitional government in Iraq (Ellison and O’Reilly 2008: 408). Ireland’s prominent role historically within imperial administration as well as contemporary policing within the ‘war on terror’ context provides a further racialised dimension to co-option that complicates easy distinctions between colonised/coloniser, civiliser/terroriser, further highlighting the

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complexities of racial hierarchies and the role of whiteness to such configurations. As Graham Ellison and Conor O’Reilly (2008: 401) surmise, given that the ‘Irish were at least White, it was considered entirely without contradiction (or irony) that they should be recruited not only to administer colonial territories overseas but also to play a prominent role in the organization of police force there.’ Drawing historical links between colonialism and counter-terrorism further highlights how racial interiors and exteriors are (re)produced in complex ways which extends analyses of the figure of the Irish vis-à-vis the Muslim terrorist discussed in Chapter 2. As explored in previous chapters, suspect treatment operates differently in Bradford and Leeds due to their different social, political, and historical contexts (see Chapters 1 and 4). I detail in this chapter for example, community responses undertaken by Bradfordian Pakistani Muslim woman that began in the aftermath of the 1995 and 2001 disturbances in order to contest the negative emphasis placed on South Asian males. The UK’s counter-terrorism agenda has had a significant impact on civil society by enlisting communities to combat terrorism (O’Toole et al. 2016; Spalek 2010). To reiterate, Prevent (HM Government 2011a), the preventative strand of the UK government’s counter-terrorism strategy, CONTEST (HM Government 2011b), is premised on ‘mobilising communities to oppose the ideology of violent extremism’ (Kundnani 2009: 6). Initial funding for ‘community-based approaches’ to counter-radicalisation came through the Preventing Violent Extremism Pathfinder Fund distributed by the Department for Communities and Local Government (DCLG) to 70 local authorities in England with a five per cent or more Muslim population, contributing to the suspect community thesis that simply being Muslim requires state attention. As ‘priority areas’ for tackling terrorism under the revised Prevent strategy (HM Government 2011a: 97–98), across 2008–2011, Leeds City Council and Bradford Council received £686,341 and £1.02 million respectively through Prevent (DCLG 2011). Since 2012, funding has been available from the Home Office for project work. Bradford received around £46,000 annually between 2012 and 2015 and delivered seven projects (Bradford City Council 2015: 5). Bradford-based initiatives comprise the Future Leaders project that

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trained 500 young people on leadership skills, and work with the Bradford Council of Mosques to ‘build the capacity of Imams, increase safety in buildings and engage in interfaith work’ (Kundnani 2009: 19). These projects illustrate Prevent’s (HM Government 2011a) attempts at capacity-building, encroachment on Muslim spaces and particular focus on ideological and youth counter-radicalisation initiatives (O’Toole et al. 2016: 162). Recent policy has expanded the remit of the ‘suspect community.’ In particular, the Prevent duty introduced under the Counter-Terrorism and Security Act 2015 places statutory duty on local authorities, alongside a range of sectors, to have ‘due regard to the need to prevent people from being drawn into terrorism’ (HM Government 2020: 6), and the ‘Extremist Community Trigger’ which places a legal duty on police and local authorities to respond to complaints concerning extremism. Amid concerns of young Muslims travelling to join IS, the number of Prevent priority areas increased to 46 in June 2015, including nearby Dewsbury, home to Talha Asmal, Britain’s youngest known suicide bomber who detonated a vehicle with explosives in Baiji, Iraq, after joining IS. Latest Prevent Duty Guidance (Home Office 2021: 49, 25) states that the Home Office will ‘continue to identify priority areas for Preventrelated activity’ and ‘monitor and assess Prevent delivery in up to 50 Prevent priority areas.’ Priority areas now receive grants for a Prevent Coordinator to oversee a citywide approach to tackling extremism. Prevent (HM Government 2011a) has attracted important local criticisms centring on contradictions of community engagement being framed by anti-terror measures. Adoption of community cohesion policy following the 2001 disturbances framed communities, especially religious and ethnic minorities, as threats to social cohesion rather than sources of social integration (Cantle 2001). Charles Husband and Yunis Alam’s (2011) research in West Yorkshire found that Muslim staff risked jeopardising community relations through association with Prevent which had generated hostility within Muslim communities. As Basia Spalek and Alia Imtoual (2007: 185) surmise, Muslims must negotiate ‘a tenuous path between being a “good” Muslim community member and/or being a “good” citizen.’ Pressures arise within British Muslim communities through treatment ‘as both problem and solution’

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(Spalek and McDonald 2009: 128). Local Prevent delivery continues to focus on communities to counter extremism. The Bradford District Prevent Action Plan (Bradford City Council 2015: 4) approaches Prevent as a ‘shared responsibility’ with community engagement a ‘top’ priority. Similarly, Leeds City Council (2015: 3) emphasises the important role of faith institutions and communities, but argues ‘there is still a great deal of work to be done to ensure that vulnerable individuals are safeguarded from being drawn into terrorism.’ Despite measures by Bradford City Council to increase transparency and accountability through a Prevent Community Reference Group and making the Prevent Action Plan publicly available, Prevent remains ‘divisive’ according to Bradford Council Labour Leader, David Green (BBC News 12 August 2015). A leaked Home Office (2015) document of ‘vetted’ organisations receiving 1.2 million in Prevent funding (Cage 2017) posing as grassroots initiatives, including national campaign Inspire which has delivered workshops in Leeds, and Bradford-based initiatives, Choices: Alternatives to Extremism and Choices: Mainstreaming Prevent Education, have furthered mistrust within Muslim communities. Perceptions that Prevent is a ‘toxic brand’ retain credibility within Muslim communities (Guardian Online 9 March 2015). The first part of this chapter explores empirical analyses of internal divisions produced within Muslim communities within the context of government counter-terrorism measures through co-option of Muslims to spy and inform state authorities on Muslim community members (Cherney and Murphy 2016a: 491–492; Spalek and Imtoual 2007: 185). It addresses two key limitations of existing work on suspect communities: firstly, its state-centric focus, and secondly, failure to adequately address internal differentiations within the ‘suspect community.’ Connected to these domains is complicity of members of the suspect community in reproducing the conditions of being suspect. I advance the category of ‘internal suspect body’ to elucidate how terror is reproduced within Muslim communities from two intersecting situations: fear of suspected extremists and fear of suspected informers operating within Muslim communities. I approach ‘community’ as an unfixed category constructed interdependently by the state and individuals (Alexander 2007).

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Suspect Community as Networked and Internally Differentiated This section discusses my theoretical contribution of the suspect community as networked across state, group (intra-, inter-), and individual levels; further, as internally differentiated arising from heightened policing of suspected ‘extremist’ identities, including by other Muslims. In so doing, I shift the focus from state attention which has plagued debates concerning the utility of the suspect community thesis (Pantazis and Pemberton 2009: 649). The main critic, Steven Greer (2010: 1186), argues that whilst some Muslim individuals/organisations have attracted official suspicion, there is no empirical evidence of systematic or Islamophobic targeting of the majority of Muslims or that being Muslim is sufficient for arousing state surveillance. More usefully, Adrian Cherney and Kristina Murphy (2016a: 481) note that the term has been applied to capture ‘the outcome of the cultural, political and ideological discourses that combine to define and consolidate Muslims as the “enemy within”’ (Breen-Smyth 2014; Sentas 2014). Marie Breen-Smyth (2014: 244) argues that effects of the suspect community are more pervasive than the minority under ‘official suspicion.’ For her, the suspect community does not just involve those targeted by counter-terrorism policing, but comprises a ‘securitised imagination’; ‘the suspect community is no longer conceptualised as an embodied community, but an imagined one, created in the imagination of a suspicious public’ (Breen-Smyth 2014: 223–224). Whilst I support Breen-Smyth’s departure from state-centric accounts, I do not suggest that the suspect community is no longer embodied; rather, the body is crucial to suspect treatment (see Chapter 3). Further, instead of focusing on non-members, I advance a networked approach that addresses how terrors of counter-terrorism are internalised by members of the suspect community and retransmitted with divisive effects. This approach challenges distinctions between non/suspects suggested by Breen-Smyth (2014: 230), since those who suspect may also be members of the suspect community. Instead, I show how the suspect community is perpetuated through real and imagined terrors of state targeting that structure Muslims’ relations with other Muslim

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community members and have psychic, emotional and ideological effects notwithstanding state targeting. My study builds on work such as Hickman et al. (2012: 93, 99) which engages with ‘the full range of everyday encounters in which an individual might become aware of being “suspected,”’ that are not confined to state policing, although this may be part of it, in order to address internal differentiations operating within the suspect community. The utility of the term ‘suspect community’ has also received criticism from Greer (2008: 169) for not acknowledging differences within the Muslim community, arguing ‘it is extremely doubtful if there is a “Muslim community” in Britain in any meaningful sense.’ Research has shown that Muslims’ experiences, including of counter-terrorism, differ depending on ethnic, religious and gender differences, suggesting greater discrimination is faced by ‘visibly’ Muslim individuals (Choudhury and Fenwick 2011: 8; Sheridan and Gillett 2005). My research shows that Muslim women are increasingly securitised, reflected in current fears of British Muslim women joining IS or Daesh to become ‘jihadi brides’ (Saeed 2016: 1). Recognising how certain groups are subjected to greater state surveillance, Christina Pantazis and Simon Pemberton (2009: 649) present a nuanced definition of suspect community as: …a subgroup of the population … singled out for state attention as being ‘problematic.’ Specifically in terms of policing, individuals may be targeted, not necessarily as a result of suspected wrong doing, but simply because of the presumed membership to that sub-group. Race, ethnicity, religion, class, gender, language, accent, dress, political ideology or any combination of these factors may serve to delineate the sub-group.

This definition highlights how divisions may be created within the suspect community where members correspond more closely to ‘problematic’ Muslim identities. Whilst this definition focuses on state attention, my advancement of the ‘internal suspect body’ addresses diverse ways that suspectification operates depending on how the body is read by other Muslims. Hickman et al. (2012) note that effective engagement requires changing how certain communities are perceived as ‘suspect.’ Ordinary Muslims’ perceptions of religious observance are often missing

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from public and political debate (Mythen 2012: 418–420). In the next section, I draw from participants’ experiences to explore how suspectification operates through intersectional identity categories.

3

Policing Muslim Identities Within a Culture of Fear …putting the attacks to one side there are different types of fears on different types of levels – fears in terms of … what mosques can and can’t do … Fears in terms of Muslim women who are walking down the street … having to be vigilant, fears in terms of if you’re a young Muslim man you can be stopped and searched … There’s a heck of a lot of fears. —Zanaib, 30-year-old Pakistani-heritage Muslim woman who wears hijab, Bradford

Fear operates through both actual and imagined consequences of membership to a suspect community. The body is central to suspect treatment: religious, racialised, gendered and age-related categories intersect, producing heterogeneous experiences. Speaking as a ‘visibly Muslim’ woman, Zanaib describes differences in how Muslim women’s bodies are (in)securitised by heightened Islamophobia (Zempi and Chakraborti 2014), urging them to be “vigilant,” and ways in which state practices of stop and search invade Muslim males’ movements. Islamic spaces are (in)securitised as well as Muslim bodies, illustrating how distinctions need to be drawn between ‘suspect community’ and ‘suspect body.’ Muslims are (in)securitised regardless of involvement in terrorism (“putting the attacks to one side”) in keeping with pre-emptive counterterrorism frameworks (Mythen and Walklate 2006) and heightened Islamophobia (Breen-Smyth 2014). Fears of being targeted encourage internal disciplinary measures, as Saba discusses: …there’s certain people within the Muslim community who are scared themselves and like in a gossiping way they’ll be like … you can’t do this or talk about this because they’ll come and raid your house … And it’s

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true, people’s houses do get raided and they don’t tell people because … it’s embarrassing and it might leave a mark, and people make assumptions, and it is you know more common than it should be … But I think that amongst ourselves … we spend more time talking about that and scaring ourselves. —23-year-old Pakistani-heritage Muslim woman who wears jilbab and hijab, Bradford

Saba describes how terrors of counter-terrorism affect Muslims’ everyday practices (“you can’t do this or talk about this”). Muslims become complicit in their own subjection and reproduce the culture of fear arising from being suspect by policing how members perform their Muslim identities. Restrictions comprise practices of ‘regulatory power’ (Butler 1997: 19) to mitigate dangers of state targeting by meeting requirements of ‘acceptable Muslimness.’ Saba speaks at other points (as I develop later) how following her decision to wear the hijab and jilbab, she is subjected to internal controls by her family to display a ‘moderate Muslim’ identity. Fractures occur where community members resist conforming to recommended sanctions which might put other community members at risk. Important here is how state counter-terrorism practices invade intra-communal relations. Internal suspect bodies materialise where, even when innocent, those accused are “brandished” within the Muslim community, highlighting important distinctions between ‘suspect community’ and ‘suspect body’ categories. Erving Goffman’s (1990: 11) description of ‘stigma’ as ‘bodily signs designed to expose something unusual and bad about the moral status of the signifier’ is useful for understanding how the accused, contaminated through the label ‘terror suspect,’ is treated as an internal suspect body. By making “assumptions” about those subjected to state targeting, members reproduce suspect treatment so that it is “more common than it should be,” as Saba decries. Tufyal Choudhury and Helen Fenwick (2011: 76) similarly observe that even when innocent, individuals face stigmatisation and alienation from the wider Muslim community. Psychic effects of subjection (Butler 1997: 19) are produced where shame of being (wrongfully) accused is internalised, precipitating selfsurveillance measures to avoid suspectification by fellow Muslims. Not

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telling others of their ordeal illustrates how trust is compromised. The Association of Muslim Lawyers notes that anti-terror raids can lead to ‘communities falling out within themselves due to the huge pressure that surrounds the community’ in the aftermath (Nawaz and Warrich 2007: 7).

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Suspect Treatment and the Body: Intra-community Differences

The body is a significant site for negotiating suspect treatment. Hamida speaks of how some Muslims choose not to be “outwardly Muslim” through fear of being stopped and searched; a practice which has had farreaching consequences on Bradford Muslim communities. According to Hamida, “everybody knows somebody” who has been affected, meaning many “just live in fear.” Only two participants did not mention the impact of the ‘war on terror’ context on Muslims’ experiences. All participants discussed how contestations concerning dress affected intracommunity relations and treatment by non-Muslims which played out differently in the research sites. These informed important distinctions between how the culture of fear operated in Leeds and Bradford relating to their different histories and patterns of migration. Bradford’s density of Muslim communities was also discussed as offering safety. As Hamida explains: In Bradford I feel very comfortable because I could be sat with a humungous backpack but nobody’s going to feel that I’m going to do something wrong – but even when we go to Leeds I sometimes feel a bit out of my comfort zone because it’s still not as common in Leeds to wear hijab. —24-year-old Pakistani-heritage Muslim woman who wears hijab and jilbab, Bradford

How the hijab is perceived is dependent, as Emma Tarlo (2010: 51) writes, on ‘sartorial norms prevalent in particular spaces.’ These are significant for understanding internal differentiations operating within

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the suspect community. Hamida highlights important geographical differences concerning suspect treatment relating to how the body is read, noting that in Leeds she would be treated with greater suspicion because the hijab is less common. Suspect treatment is differentially experienced depending on how the body is constituted through both state and individual relations which vary regionally, evidenced by Hamida’s ability to avoid making others “feel” she is threatening in Bradford even when displaying visual markers of a terror suspect (“a humungous backpack”). The events of 7/7 have shaped the culture of fear affecting Muslim communities in Leeds following increased state targeting, particularly in Beeston where the attacks were allegedly planned. It is worth reminding the reader that in 2008, Leeds became the new secret base of the West Yorkshire Counter Terrorism Unit comprising 400 counter-terrorism officers and staff. Samrina provides insight into how internal suspect bodies are produced in Leeds. Reporting on interviews by counterterrorism officers of Muslim male staff members following 7/7, which her colleagues asked her to witness, she observes how the officers used clothing as indicators of extremism. Samrina explains that if Muslim males decide to improve their lives by practising their religion and attending mosque, this will involve a change in their dress. Previously, they may have been hanging out on the street wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but when you go to mosque she tells me, you change your clothes to be more comfortable sitting on the floor praying and to abide by modest principles which Muslim males are also meant to follow. Alarmingly, her account shows how piety has become associated with extremism, meaning adopting “traditional dress” can attract state attention, as she describes: I heard them talking to some of the staff about the ‘apparent bombers’ and how they’d changed. One of the questions they were asking was around when did you notice his clothes change? When did he go from wearing Western clothes to wearing traditional clothes? And they aligned that with … extremism. —43-year-old Pakistani-heritage woman who wears hijab and jilbab, Leeds

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Samrina highlights how state intrusion and suspect treatment is differentially experienced depending on how the body is read or indeed reported, including by other Muslims, due to pressures placed on them to inform on those deciding to adopt “traditional clothes.” Essentially, Muslims are co-opted into regulating expressions of Muslim identities. Samrina describes differentiations within the ‘Muslim community’ between those “diluting their identity” to avoid state targeting by adopting Western clothes to blend into society, and ‘visibly Muslim’ men and women through Islamic markers and skin colour who she voices withdraw from society because “they’re getting treated so badly.” Through fear mobilised by counter-terrorism officials, Muslims become informers, complicit in producing internal suspect bodies to avoid becoming suspect themselves, as Samrina continues: I know how [counter-terrorism officers] had been operating in Beeston – they’d been telling people lies about what they could do to them and people didn’t know their rights, so people were then giving them information under fear of being arrested themselves – this is how deviously they behaved.

Muslim bodies are used by state officials to extend the scope of those under official suspicion with devastating effects on intra-community relations. Rafee similarly narrates how state counter-terrorism practices invade local Muslim communities. As with Saba, Rafee explains how the internal suspect body is produced through “guilt by association” where individuals are interrogated by counter-terrorism officers even if they have no links to terrorist activities, meaning that the effects of being suspect are more pervasive than those under official suspicion. He provides further support to Samrina’s account of the impact of counterterrorism investigations on Muslim communities in Leeds; in this case he speaks of the fears he felt for his father’s side of the family who are Muslim, originally from the occupied region of Kashmir (his mother is a white English secular Christian from Leeds). This is because his cousins happen to be very close friends with the manager of a community centre in Leeds which was at the “heart” of the 7/7 investigations. This situation, he confides, brought a “great deal of fear” to his family

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by making them the target of counter-terrorism police, comprising what he terms the “culture of fear” affecting Muslim communities following their treatment as suspect. He discusses how the Leeds-based community centre run by a close family friend is subjected to investigation by security services following claims that it was used as a meeting place by perpetrators of 7/7 in the lead up to the attacks: I’d been informed ‘off the record’ that the security services had questioned and bugged everybody in the building – people who I know very well and who are friends of mine so yeah it was a bit close to home. —32-year-old Kashmiri-English (non-practising Muslim) male, Leeds

Rafee shows how increased securitisation directly impacts his friends and, indiscriminately, community members attending the centre (by “bugging” the building). Tellingly, suspect treatment, having been “brought close to home,” means that (as Leila describes in Chapter 4) Rafee experiences his home as unhomely, as unheimlich, as a space in which the culture of fear operates. Under such conditions, family members and close friends are treated as suspect, and community relations are potentially fractured through fear and suspicion in order for members to protect themselves from state targeting. As a result, intra-community relations are detrimentally affected because pressures are not only placed on those subjected to official suspicion, but on the wider Muslim community through suspected association with terrorism. Not only are intra-community relations impacted, but Muslim communities risk hostile treatment from the wider non-Muslim community. He explains that these events “promoted” existing divisions between the local Muslim community and wider community. To counter suspect treatment, Rafee described how he and his friends organised a walk from Beeston to Leeds city centre to bring Muslim and non-Muslim communities together in the aftermath of 7/7. This event was important for Muslims to be seen locally as neighbours/friends rather than suspects who are also adversely affected by terrorism. Co-option of Muslim community members to counter-extremism under Prevent (HM Government 2011a) fuels Muslims’ treatment as suspect however, as the next section explores.

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Prevent: Co-opting Muslim Community Members

Four key criticisms of Prevent were raised: (1) poor funding allocation; (2) ineffective engagement with Muslim organisations (Husband and Alam 2011); (3) pressures imposed on Muslim communities to come up with solutions assuming they know where terrorists are and how to deal with them (Spalek and Imtoul 2007); and (4) branding ‘the Muslim community’ homogeneously as suspect (Pilkington and Acik 2020; Mythen 2012: 414–416); a situation which not only challenges state-centric accounts offered by Greer (2010: 1186), but creates conditions in which internal suspect bodies thrive. Prevent funding has prompted polarised responses in Bradford as Zanaib reports: rejection due to its “connotations” with extremism or opportunities to “build structures.” Following the decline of the woollentextiles industry since the 1970s, Bradford is the second most deprived city in the West Yorkshire and Humber district (Indices of Multiple Deprivation 2015). In exchange for Prevent funding, Muslim organisations are coerced into informing on attendees at local community events which exploits socio-economic inequalities in Bradford that have disproportionately affected Pakistani Muslim communities (Husband and Alam 2011: 6) and importantly, co-opts Muslims into producing suspect bodies internally, as Zanaib describes: …the police have said in terms of the Prevent stuff that we’ll give you funding but we want the names and contact numbers of all the people that attend.

Placing all attendees under the panopticon gaze of counter-terrorism (Mythen 2012: 414) detrimentally impacts intra-community relations because Muslims disengage from organisations through fear of being monitored, as Saba narrates: Saba: On the community level I was seeing the divides being created – so and so’s taken Prevent money, don’t talk to them … That was quite frustrating, especially when I’d seen some really good projects that were breaking down because of it.

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Madeline: Right. Saba: …And just the mistrust that was created within the community, like if you’re on Prevent then everyone’s who’s part of that project is going to be spied on and you can’t work with them … that was quite a problem…

Rather than facilitating effective partnerships, “mistrust” is generated internally through suspected complicity in state agendas. Organisations impose internal controls (“don’t talk to them”) on working with those in receipt of Prevent funding (Spalek and Imtoual 2007: 185, 193), meaning effective community projects collapse. Derek McGhee (2008: 79) argues that funding operates as ‘a “divide and conquer” rebalancing strategy’ (also Kundnani 2009: 26) reminiscent of racialised colonial hierarchies that engender internal divisions through competition for recognition and resources, reinforcing concerns that policy is directed at ‘controlling the expressions of Muslim identity’ (Spalek and McDonald 2009: 31; also Thomas and Sanderson 2011: 1030). The internal suspect body is a relational category produced through intersecting conditions: the suspected extremist who is “spied on” and the Muslim informer, illustrating how suspectification is networked across state and Muslim relations and encourages internal fractures. Pressures placed on Muslims, particularly males, to work for intelligence agencies evidences the coercive (and gendered) nature in which state authorities co-opt Muslims to spy, as Zanaib explains: Recently I had phone calls … from young men who said that they’d been followed by MI5 who wanted them to work for them … Someone rang me and said … we’re aware of a young man who is constantly being hounded by … MI5 and we know they’re MI5 because that’s what they say they are and they want him to spy. And he said look, this guy is more than willing to do whatever they ask, but it has to be legitimate, it has to be a contract. If they want him to work for MI5 do it … the way you would do with anybody else … do it properly – but they’re refusing to.

Zanaib describes how Muslim bodies are used instrumentally by intelligence agencies to inform on fellow Muslims. Failure to make contracts transparent illustrates how Muslims are used as political pawns rather

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than equal partners, placing Muslims in a compromised position within their communities because they are unable to verify the legitimacy of the operation. A recent government report (HM Government 2017: 33) states that covert investigatory techniques are ‘critical’ to countering terror threats, with M15 being one of nine agencies able to obtain an interception warrant. Whilst the pervasiveness with which such demands are made is unknown, Saba reports how a government advisory group placed similar coercive demands on her to inform. Here again, Muslims are not engaged with on equal terms or able to feed into policies affecting their communities. Saba was a youth worker and grassroots organiser in Bradford and at the time of interview, she was working for the same racial justice organisation as Hamida and Abrah on a youth project about political engagement. She had also been a member of the government Young Muslim Advisory Group involving Muslim young people aged 17–26 launched in 2008 funded by the Department for Communities and Local Government and Department for Children, Schools and Families. Its expressed function was to ‘work directly with the government to help deepen its engagement with young Muslims’ (Communities and Local Government n.d.) as part of Prevent’s (HM Government 2011a) shift in government relations with Muslim religious, civil and community organisations to engage directly with Muslim youth (O’Toole et al. 2016: 162). She tells me that she always really valued grassroots work and admitted that she had no interest in working with the government because she had “an issue with the system itself,” which is what drew her to issues of social justice and anti-fascism through her professional work and activism. Having not grown up in a religious household, when she joined the YMAG it was the first time, she tells me, that she had put “Muslim on my name” and it was a new experience for her to be around people who openly identified as Muslim. As part of her involvement, she attended a residential with Muslim youths from a variety of backgrounds. Prior to this, she recounts that she had never seen religion as “rational or practical,” but instead had always seen it “outside reality or today’s context.” When speaking to other Muslims she saw a different side, a different role that it could play in people’s lives and society more broadly, which

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instilled a profound personal change: “that changed my mind-set,” and provided a “wake up call,” she recites. Saba describes her motivation to educate herself more about Islam and feeling surrounded by people who did not judge her for coming to Islamic society classes, at that time, sporting dreadlocks and trackies but instead, engaged with her in a “different way than I’d ever experienced.” Following these encounters, she says “the more I learnt, the more changes I started making and it felt right and I just felt more at peace and I changed more and more” and she was keen to make a positive contribution to the lives of young Muslims, which she hoped membership to the YMAG would facilitate. Saba tells me she joined because she thought it was “fantastic” young Muslims were given a “voice.” As Naaz Rashid (2013: 592) argues in her study of the state’s attempt to ‘give voice’ to Muslim women through the National Muslim Women Advisory Group, initiatives to empower Muslims under Prevent are only comprehensible within a ‘wider policy trajectory in which an imagined, essentialized Muslim community is pathologized.’ Joining the YMAG brought some unanticipated challenges for Saba, which furthered her distrust in the government and media, or what she termed “the system.” She tells me that a story was released in the press that she had been part of the Socialist Worker’s Party and she was negatively named a “social extremist.” She felt that the media were purposefully targeting her and trying to damage her reputation which caused her and her family concern and which she felt she had no powers to rebuke or correct. Membership risks not only reproducing pathologised representations of Muslim communities, but constrains Muslims’ voices by co-opting them into preset agendas, as Saba describes: They just … used to have us at a conference sat there and just you know, ticking certain boxes to make sure that yeah here’s young Muslims and they’re advocating what we’re doing when we clearly weren’t.

Valérie Amiraux (2016: 44) writes that in liberal democracies, visibility is connected to ‘citizen participation and recognition,’ and equated with being allowed a voice. Conversely, Saba shows that young Muslims’ presence is tokenistic. Rather than providing space to contribute to Prevent, they are made inadvertent accomplices in its detrimental impact. Young

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Muslims’ presence presents a semblance of conformity and justification of government agendas which negatively affects their position within their communities because they are judged by the policies that are put forward despite disagreeing with them. In the next extract, Saba discusses her objection to the intrusive, disciplinary nature of Prevent, that she is not only unable to challenge, but is actively coerced by state actors to enforce: Madeline: What was it about the treatment of young people that you particularly…? Saba: I think the primary thing is just … the surveillance aspect … and thinking they can intrude into young person’s lives … They quite obviously said to us we want you to be key members within the community, you can inform us of what’s going on and people were like how in-depth is this inform-information? They’re like you’re interacting with young people you could easily make reports … This is a little bit too much…

Saba reports how group members became increasingly wary of expectations put on them to act as informers on their communities (Kundnani 2009: 6). Through being made into “key members,” these chosen young Muslims are well-placed by the government to undertake the ‘detailed work of terror’ by surveilling and reporting on their communities (Sofsky 1997: 130). Co-opting young Muslims to act as informers produces internal suspect bodies by reaffirming conceptions of extremism as endemic to Muslim communities as well as blurring the boundary between friend and accomplice; a tactic of terror that Wolfgang Sofsky (1997: 130) describes as characterising camp spaces (Diken and Laustsen 2002, 2005; also Boochani 2019).1 As Sofsky explains, introducing a ‘graduated power of delegation’ through internal surveillance prevents solidarity. Lack of transparency concerning information gathering highlights the coercive nature in which information under Prevent is compiled and explains the group’s unease: “how in-depth is this informinformation?” Requests are made “quite obviously,” illustrating how terror operates as paradoxically unashamed yet shrouded in secrecy. A report by the faith organisation, An-Nisa Society, identifies how information is obtained ‘from unsuspecting Muslims under false pretences’

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(Khan 2009: 20) and used by police and security agencies to identify ‘security risks,’ causing fear within Muslim communities. Revised Prevent Duty Guidance (Home Office 2021: sec.21) states that Prevent ‘must not involve any covert activity against people or communities.’ However, authorities are allowed to share personal information where individuals are ‘identified as at risk of radicalisation’ (Home Office 2021: sec.21). Whilst Saba joined the advisory group under the premise that she would have a voice to shape policies affecting young Muslims that would benefit them, she realises the unsavouriness participation entails which unsettles her: “this is a little bit too much.” Prevent’s disciplinary effects undermine grassroots workers’ relationships with young Muslims and importantly, hinders their ability to counter-extremism by closing down “safe spaces” for Muslims to engage that engenders both a culture of fear and culture of silence (see Chapter 6): Saba: As a grassroots worker, I think young people are entitled to have that privacy and that safe space to express themselves. Madeline: Sure. Saba: And they became very scared to do that. Madeline: Right. So did they actually say to you that they wanted you to inform? Saba: Yeah. Madeline: On the community? [Saba nods]

Using young Muslims to undertake covert surveillance of other young Muslims shows how state practices invade young Muslims’ lives, violating “safe spaces” for young Muslims to interact with one another through fear that their words will be misreported as evidence of extremism. An important shift in CONTEST 111 (HM Government 2011b) is emphasis on non-violent extremism as a central component for radicalisation (Coppock and McGovern 2014: 245). A core part of Prevent’s counter-ideological work is the Channel programme overseen by the Office for Security and Counter-Terrorism in the Home Office (HM Government 2020: 42) which relies on a number of actors, including youth workers, to report individuals ‘at risk of being drawn into

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terrorism’ (HM Government 2020: 36 sec.131). The programme is now a legal requirement under the Counter-Terrorism and Security Act 2015 and each local authority must have a Channel panel to decide on referrals (HM Government 2020). What is being asked of Saba contradicts her investment as a grassroots worker underpinned by an ethos of respecting young people’s entitlement to privacy and risks compromising relations she has built within Muslim communities. Khalida Khan (2009: 41), Director of the faith community organisation, An-Nisa, corroborates that enlisting grassroots workers in Prevent work ‘causes them to lose credibility and trust with the very groups the government wants them to engage.’ By self-silencing, young Muslims become agents in their own subjection (Foucault 1977: 203), illustrating the ideological and reproductive effects of terrors of counter-terrorism experienced within Muslim communities. This has contributed to ‘depoliticising young people’ (Kundnani 2009: 6) which is counter-productive for winning support above extremist groups (see Chapter 6).

Shifting the Focus: Discerning In/Authentic Islam Occupying a ‘moderate Muslim’ subject position is part of how subjection works; it functions as a ‘qualified Muslimness; a muted alterity’ (Tyrer 2008: 59). This category was treated with hostility by several participants (see Cherney and Murphy 2016b). Muslims are nonetheless co-opted into maintaining the moderate/extremist binary that not only reproduces the conditions under which they are made suspect, but restricts how Muslims can perform their identities and communicate with other Muslims, as Saba discusses: …this whole like moderate extremist thing – it’s dividing the Muslim community … What Prevent said is that it’s the Muslim community’s problem and we had to provide the solution … But it still had to be their solution, and it was a certain version of Islam … and it was just too … prescriptive.

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Saba argues that Prevent’s approach to community engagement is fundamentally flawed because it is premised on a restrictive and divisive conception of ‘acceptable’ Islamic interpretation which risks alienating Muslims from the state and each other. Partnerships can only be forged with those meeting ‘moderate’2 requirements. Internal divisions are engendered because communities are pressurised into countering extremism according to state requirements (“it still had to be their solution”) rather than locally-defined solutions which can empower members. The internal suspect body is located within what Moustafa (a BritishPakistani Muslim male aged 26) termed “internal politics” within Muslim communities concerning religious practice ‘among competing internal and among external representations’ (Brubaker 2013: 4). This is not to divorce the internal suspect category from the wider counter-terrorism context, but to highlight how suspectification traverses state/Muslim relations. Moustafa tells me that he associates more with his “Islamic heritage than my Pakistani past.” As with other participants, he draws an important distinction between religion and culture. When asked what it is about his Islamic heritage that he prefers, he tells me that it is “the simpleness of it, the straightforwardness,” expressing that he finds it less difficult to follow than cultural norms which he feels complicate religious teachings. The intrusion of culture places restrictions on his ability to perform his Islamic identity and which underpins his vehement rejection of the moderate Muslim label (as I develop in Chapter 6), which he feels is the imposition of Western/British cultural norms on Islamic practice; a situation which means that performances of piety, including his decision to have a “light beard” (as opposed to a longer beard) are shaped by a reductive moderate/extremist binary. Clothing and the beard help to determine ‘degrees of alterity’ (Tyrer 2010: 105) from acceptable performances of Muslimness in Britain. Abrah, a British Muslim male of Bengali heritage (aged 29) who does not have a beard and wears Western clothes (except at mosque), says he would be identified as a ‘moderate Muslim,’ but disagrees with the term since it involves “conforming to Western society” by placing British norms/state requirements above outward expressions of Islam: “giving in and shedding off to fit in.” Comparably, Mohammed, a 46-year-old Iraqi-born British

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Muslim male associates the “long beard” with problematic expressions of Islam that hinder “ordinary” Muslims from integrating. Mohammed came to England from Iraq when he was 16. He confides that at the time he did not believe in God because of the way he was brought up in Iraq under the dictatorship of Saddam Hussein (that he believed had been propped up by Western governments). Such rule he contended, had moved the country away from Islamic teachings that prioritised human life in favour of force in which human life was expendable. He came to England in 1980 due to political events, prompted by his brother’s fearful change in circumstances. After his brother finished university, he had to undertake compulsory military service. When the Iran-Iraq War broke out in 1980 (a war in which my father’s brother disappeared, never to be seen again), his brother was placed in imminent danger on the front line. As Mohammed was 16, only two years until he too would have to undertake military service, his family decided it was better to send him away to stay with his uncle who was doing a PhD at Leeds University at the time. Mohammed was looked after by his uncle until he was 18 and obtained his O-Levels and A-Levels before attending Braford University to study Business Studies. He completed two years of his university education before his visa expired and his embassy refused to renew it. Now an illegal immigrant, Mohammed was forced to leave university and decided to run away rather than face military service. He applied for political asylum which took around seven years to obtain and it was only after the First Gulf War 1990 that he was granted exceptional leave to remain. After four years, he applied for indefinite leave to remain and eventually achieved this in 1998, spending most of this time scared that he would be deported to Iraq where he feared for his life (a situation that my father also experienced—it was not until two years after I was born, his second child, and around 12 years after he entered the UK that my father moved from statelessness to be granted British citizenship in 1984, which made Mohammed’s story particularly compelling). Having gone through some challenging and traumatic situations, Mohammed felt that he had some unanswered questions about life which prompted him to read the Qur’an at the age of 21 or 22. He tells me that it was a “blessing” that he could read it in Arabic as he felt that a lot

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would be lost if it were translated into another language, and so began his Islamic journey to become a practising Muslim. When I asked him about the Iraqi community in Leeds, he tells me that there is a considerable number, estimated to be in the region of around 10,000 if Kurdish communities are included. He tells me that there are “two communities” (or denominations): Shia and Sunni, which he describes as “unfortunate.” Such divisions cannot be overcome he says regrettably, at least where the issue of religion is concerned he explains. Interestingly, this separation was not an issue when he lived in Baghdad, Iraq (something that my father who was born in Baghdad had also told me). Most of his friends were Sunni and he lived in a predominately Sunni area despite being Shia, but no one would ever question whether or not you were religious. He recognises that there is much in common between the two sects—they share the same Qur’an, the same Prophet. The schism happened following historical disputes over the succession to the Prophet Muhammed which has since led to differences in religious interpretation and practice. Within the Leeds-based Iraqi Muslim community, Sunni and Shia Muslims attend separate mosques and he tells me that it is rare for Sunnis to marry Shias (although this was commonplace in Iraq). He also concedes that it depends on the community, citing geographical differences among Iraqi communities in London and for those Iraqi Muslims who are not religiously observant. His account illustrates internal differences within Muslim communities concerning practice. For Mohammed, outward expressions of religious identity are not markers of Islamic principles as he explains: They call them you know with long beards and burqa … fundamentalists and … us ‘moderate Muslims’ … I’m sorry I’m the fundamentalist … I adopt the fundamentals of Islam – they adopt the outer surface …

Mohammed also rejects the “moderate Muslim” category which he argues misrepresents Islamic observance. Instead, he takes up the position of “fundamentalist” which for him means following authentic Islam. Importantly, he realigns fundamentalism with a non-extremist subjectivity defined by peaceful observance. Mohammed stresses that the body can be deceptive in expressions of Islam and is embroiled

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in conflicts within Muslim communities concerning external/internal religious observance (Bonino 2013). Being a ‘good Muslim’ for him means following Islamic principles rather than adopting outward expressions such as the beard (he is clean shaven) or burqa for women. Mohammed arguably reaffirms state logics governing Muslim populations by rendering certain visible expressions of Islam (the long beard and burqa) as extremist and incompatible with integration. Yet he also provides an important departure from the moderate/extremist binary dividing Muslim communities to deciphering in/authentic Islam; a repositioning which allows us to see commonalities between Islamic principles and values/norms of non-Muslim Britons: [Extremism] is … a disgrace to Islam – you are not representing Islam, you are not even Muslim in the first place because the Muslim has to be Muslim in principles not by name … I see Islam in a lot of non-Muslim people… The charities … and voluntary work … these are all Islamic principles … and I see them in non-Muslim people … They are closer to Islam than the Muslim people who claim that they are Muslim but they are so far away from Islam … They are sort of creating a barrier for the good Muslims to interact.

Within Mohammed’s framing, extremists are positioned as “not even Muslim in the first place” because they are not following Islamic principles. He distances himself from such individuals and aligns himself with non-Muslims whom he perceives as more closely following Islamic values such as charity. This repositioning highlights a more effective means of engaging with Muslims by taking seriously the threat posed by extremists to ordinary Muslims who are similarly perceived as ‘kafir’ (unbelievers).3 Recognising commonalities between Islamic principles and British values facilitates Muslims’ integration, which is beneficial not only for countering extremism, but for ameliorating alienating effects of suspectification. Part two develops examination of the terrors of counter-terrorism (Hillyard 1993: 262) by exploring Muslim parents’/family members’ roles in undertaking internal surveillance of young Muslims’ religious identities and Islamic spaces and networks in which they engage. In

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advancing a networked approach, I further examine how terrors of counter-terrorism traverse state/Muslim relations (Bonino 2013: 385) to infiltrate Muslim households and are retransmitted by the subjugated group (Foucault 1977: 27). As with part one, I thus shift analysis of the effects of counter-terrorism on the suspect community from state-centric approaches (e.g. Greer 2010, 2014) to explore how Muslims are co-opted into diverse positions of suspect/suspector that are unfixed.

6

Co-option of Muslim Parents in Countering Extremism

Context: Co-option and Gothicisation Young British Muslims have come under intense public scrutiny because of their perceived vulnerability to radicalisation (Robinson et al. 2017; Hosseini 2013; McDonald 2011; Shterin and Spalek 2011; Choudhury 2007). Sadek Hamid (2011: 247) notes that ‘In the popular imagination the words “Muslim” and “youth” together most often trigger associations with violent extremism.’ Such conceptions are stoked by a Gothic populist account of young Muslims being turned to extremism produced from a range of sources, including state actors. This narrative is premised on Islamist enemies of Western civilisations encouraging young Muslims to launch suicide attacks against their fellow citizens within Britain’s borders (Valier 2002: 322). For example, in 2006, former Home Secretary, John Reid, attended Leyton cricket ground to meet the East London Muslim community ‘to warn Muslim parents’ (cited in Travis 21 September 2006; also Lambert and Parsons 2017: 57) about the threat from extremism. Reid urged them to surveil their children for ‘telltale signs’ and confront extremism within their households: There is no nice way of saying this but there are fanatics who are looking to groom and brainwash children, including your children for suicide bombing. Grooming them to kill themselves in order to murder others … look for the telltale signs now and talk to them before their hatred

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grows and you risk losing them forever … in protecting our families we are protecting our community. (Reid cited in Travis 21 September 2006)

The warning spread through the media and sparked immediate protest among Muslims, including Ahmed Versi (cited in Travis 2006), editor of Muslim News, who argued that it was ‘farcical for him to ask parents to spy on their children and report them to anti-terrorist police.’ Reid’s account highlights political uses to which terror are put within preventative counter-terrorism and its pernicious effects by inculcating fear and suspicion of fellow Muslims, including family members, and the role of the Gothic in producing a narrative of terror of the civilised world being terrorised by barbaric Islamist extremists. Young Muslims are deemed vulnerable to radicalisation and Muslim parents, potential harbingers, making the (Muslim) household a suspect site. Nickels et al. (2012: 340) argue that construction of suspect communities in news discourse fosters a socio-political environment where state violations of civil liberties are permitted. Terrorism-related discussions dominate the ‘Muslim public sphere’ so that Muslim communities are not only ‘embroiled in the debate; they passively monitor the individuals around them and the events that affect their community’ (Spalek and Weeks 2017: 967). The security agenda has ‘crept into the ordinary and the mundane’ (Saeed 2016: 2), burdening families with preventing extremism (see HM Government 2020: 18, 31, 51). Focus is placed on Muslim families’ role in assisting security and law enforcement agencies by offering a ‘protective resource’ (Crown 2017: 1) such as self-esteem and belonging or ‘ethical anchoring’ (Huq 2017: 1045; Mattsson et al. 2016: 253) against radicalisation and terrorist recruitment to redress the tide of British foreign fighters travelling to Syria (Malet and Hayes 2018; Awan and Guru 2017; Silverman 2017) or daughters becoming ‘jihadi brides’4 (Pearson and Winterbotham 2017; Saeed 2016: 1, 2). A number of government-sponsored initiatives involving Muslim parents/families have been devised including Families Against Stress and Trauma (FAST), Educate Against Hate site portal (Department for Education and Home Office 2018) offering parental support to keep ‘children safe from the danger of extremism,’ and #MakingAStand campaign (Home Office

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2014) working with Muslim women, particularly mothers, to counterterrorist recruitment. The Prevent strategy (HM Government 2011a) places onus on parents to police their children, including removing their passports if suspected of travelling to join IS (House of Commons 2017: 27). Failure to intervene is regarded as Sara Ashencaen Crabtree (2017: 259–266) notes, as ‘complicity and irresponsible parenting as well as being guilty of failing to inculcate proper British citizenship values in progeny.’ Muslim parents are enlisted in countering terrorism, but are also deemed responsible for its allure. The Radical Awareness Network (RAN) (2017: 55; also Anderson 2016b: 126) argues families may provide ‘risk factors’ to reintegrating returned foreign fighters depending on their ideological influence or relationship to the returnee, citing the family as a potential ‘breeding ground’ for radicalisation. Family law has entered the realms of counter-terrorism to ‘safeguard’ children that have been taken to Syria and Iraq (Crown 2017: 15; Pearson and Winterbotham 2017). A notorious case was Bradford-based sisters Sugra, Zohra, and Khadija Dawood who travelled to Syria with their nine children in 2015. Tony Stanley and Surinder Guru (2015: 353; also Robinson et al. 2017) note the emergence of ‘childhood radicalisation’ as a new ‘category of abuse,’ that places the (Muslim) family under increased scrutiny from social workers, community workers, nongovernmental as well as security and law enforcement agencies involving psychological repercussions on children and families. A limited number of studies have documented the detrimental impacts of counter-terrorism measures on Muslim families (Ahdash 2018; Ashencaen Crabtree 2017; Stanley et al. 2017; Ragazzi 2016; Guru 2012; Choudhury and Fenwick 2011; Brittain 2009). Literature on the ‘suspect community’ notes how families are stigmatised within their communities following arrests or home raids (Choudhury and Fenwick 2011: 77). However, there remains a paucity of empirical research exploring Muslim parents’ role in countering extremism (Awan and Guru 2017). In addressing this gap, part two draws on participants’ accounts to explore how co-option of Muslim parents to combat extremism within their households produces ‘internal suspect bodies’

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through intersecting fears of the Muslim extremist groomer and Muslim youth at risk of radicalisation. Internal suspect bodies are produced within Muslim households where Muslim parents internalise external Islamic markers such as the hijab, jilbab, or Islamic beard as signifiers of extremism, precipitating internal disciplinary measures. Muslim parents/family members become complicit in governing young Muslims’ religious identities within the parameters of ‘moderate Muslim’ which works to domesticate Muslims (Tyrer 2008: 63) and, by extension, subjects them to the system of white dominance through fear of their children being targeted by state counter-terrorism measures. David Anderson QC (cited in the Joint Committee of Human Rights 2016: 4), former UK Independent Reviewer of Terrorism Legislation, found that Muslim parents fear talking about terrorism to their children in case they are referred by ‘half trained’ teachers under Prevent (HM Government 2011a). Subjection has ideological, psychic and emotional effects on both those that suspect and are suspected, creating intra-familial tensions. New subjectivities are nonetheless produced as relations are (re)negotiated. The next section contextualises how co-option of Muslim parents in countering extremism map onto wider challenges occurring within Muslim households. These concern the role of religion and its relationship to culture, which has meant young Muslims’ religious practices often differ from their parents’, raising important questions concerning parental responsibility to instruct on Islam that have increasingly become embroiled with countering extremist ideologies. I then discuss key findings to illustrate how internal surveillance is undertaken within Muslim families involving monitoring young Muslims’ religious identities and engagement in Islamic spaces through two key fears, firstly, becoming radicalised or indeed, radicalising others, and secondly, being targeted by state counter-terrorism police and the impact of these measures on Muslim families. I conclude that Muslim families are (in)securitised by counter-terrorism measures, legitimised by the Gothicisation of Muslim, particularly Pakistani Muslim families, as simultaneously a threat to national security and British values within narratives of extremism. It is important to note the methodological limitation of reading parents’ responses through their children’s accounts. However, the chapter also

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draws on parents’ accounts, providing a diverse picture of the impact of counter-terrorism measures on Muslim families. These include strategies young Muslims engage in to reject their treatment as internal suspect bodies and rebuild relations with their families.

Religious Revivalism A notable body of research since the 1980s has recognised increased salience of religion as a ‘marker of identity’ (Choudhury 2007: 3 also Robinson et al. 2017; Ryan 2014; Hamid 2011; Gillat 1996; Geaves 1995; Lewis 1994; Hutnik 1985) for Muslims. Researchers contend that religiosity or ‘new’ Islam is characterised by disassociation from culture towards ‘pure’ Islamic tenets (Kashyap and Lewis 2013; Sutton and Vertigans 2005) involving heightened reflexivity and questioning takenfor-granted assumptions concerning being Muslim (Kibria 2008: 245), particularly among Muslim migrant youth. Jessica Jacobson’s (1997: 238) ethnographic study of young British Pakistanis in London found that they made a ‘fundamental distinction’ between religion and ethnicity as identity categories. Parents were criticised for holding onto culturally bound interpretations of Islam leading to divergent religious practices between parent/child (also Kibria 2008: 246) that can strain relationships between Muslim youth and their parents and local community (Lynch 2013: 251). Louise Ryan (2014: 446) contends that young Muslims’ revived interest in Islam presents a means of ‘carving out space and identity in migratory contexts.’ Further, it supports a ‘critical stance’ in respect to both the ‘host’ society and ‘parental authority’ (Ryan 2014: 336) circumscribed by ethno-cultural norms. Religiosity is also gendered; a ‘strong’ Muslim identity offers a ‘sense of masculinity among young Muslim men’ (Choudhury 2007: 3). For women, religion provides a counter to parental and community constraints.

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Religious Leadership and Parental Responsibility Sara Ashencaen Crabtree (2017: 257) notes that trust in parenting as a ‘private domestic matter’ has been undermined by government bodies. Conservative and religious parenting, particularly Muslim parenting, is viewed with suspicion as potential seedbeds for Islamist extremism and separatist, regressive cultural values (Scourfield et al. 2013). Perceived failure for Muslim parents to answer young Muslims’ questions concerning religion (Abbas 2012: 350) or balancing mainstream and ethno-religious culture of their families with societal demands (Robinson et al. 2017: 268) has prompted concerns of their vulnerability to radicalisation. Pathologised accounts of parent/child relations, for example, Marta Bolognani’s (2007: 359) study of young Pakistani males in Bradford, which argues that the ‘generation gap,’ ‘scarce interaction between parents and children,’ parents’ ‘obsolete or inappropriate principles for dealing with the problems of urban Britain’ and delegation of ‘moral education’ to mosques and madrasas are to blame for young Muslims becoming radicalised. This view is reflected in former Prime Minister, David Cameron’s (2011), infamous ‘failure of state multiculturalism’ speech presented at the Munich Security conference in which he argued that in the UK, ‘some young men find it hard to identify with the traditional Islam practiced at home by their parents,’ that along with failure to identify with British values, makes them vulnerable to radicalisation. More recently, the controversial Casey Review (2016: 128–131) commissioned by David Cameron to review integration, details a litany of supposed challenges affecting Muslims including sectarian divisions, lack of formal hierarchy and English-speaking imams, and ‘need for clearer interpretation of Islam for life in the UK’ that present Muslim populations as Gothic Others through association with ‘regressive’ religious and cultural practices and thus a threat to social cohesion. Debates regarding religious leadership centre on young Muslims’ ability to determine ‘correct’ Islam (Cesari 2004) and are now bound with countering extremism. Concerns of Islamist extremism and estrangement from British society (Casey 2016; Alexander 2004; Cantle 2001) abound in policy and

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academia. Reporting on a survey examining Muslim religiosity, Policy Exchange (2007: 5) note, ‘religiosity amongst young Muslims is not about their parents’ cultural traditions’ but is ‘more politicized.’ This is evidenced by ‘asserting one’s identity in the public space, such as by wearing a Hijab’ (Mirza et al. 2007: 5). Since the government’s definition of extremism is ‘vocal or active opposition to fundamental British values’ (HM Government 2011a: 107), public performances of Muslim identities risk conflation with extremism (Brown and Saeed 2015), making it difficult for young Muslims to perform religiously observant identities without being suspected of extremism (see Morsi 2018). Stephen Lyon (2005: 90) corroborates that beliefs and religious practices are increasingly ‘scrutinised as potential indicators of “terrorist” sympathisers.’ There remains limited work exploring how young Muslims negotiate their religious identities with their families within the wider context of counter-terrorism that this chapter elucidates.

Surveilling Islamic Spaces Current religious activism is influenced by youth movements from the 1990s to 2000s (Hamid 2011). Organisations such as Young Muslims UK stimulated religious revivalism among second and third generations and influence contemporary debates concerning religious authenticity and authority and citizenship requirements. Spaces in which young Muslims access Islamic knowledge have come under scrutiny following the growth of militant Islamist movements and fears of young Muslims becoming radicalised (Saeed and Johnson 2016; Brown and Saeed 2015; Hamid 2011; Werbner 2004). Islamic Student Associations (ISAs) in particular have become ‘sites of suspicion by parents’ (Michael 2011: 212) following concerns of young Muslims becoming radicalised by militant or reformist movements that adopt teachings not shared by parents. ISAs have increasingly been framed by the security agenda. The Counter-terrorism and Security Act 2015 placed a statutory duty on public agencies (see Home Office 2021: sec.1), including universities, to report extremist activities (Saeed and Johnson 2016: 37). Lucy Michael

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(2011: 212) observes that constructions of Muslims as suspect by state and society have influenced how Muslims understand ‘risks within their own local worlds.’ Reports on campus recruitment to Islamist groups (Glees and Pope 2005) have caused difficulties for ISAs to recruit students. Pressure to monitor ISAs not only perpetuates young Muslims’ association with extremism and role of such groups in radicalising Muslim youth, but incites fears among Muslim parents of their children being targeted by state counter-terrorism measures (Saeed and Johnson 2016: 42–43). Dominance of the moderate/extremist binary means ‘visibly Muslim’ students face heightened securitisation. I move on to discuss findings from my study that explore religious revivalism among young Muslims and how they negotiate differences in religiosity with family members.

Religious Observance: Intra-familial Differences and Tensions In Bradford, participants reported that movements such as Young Muslims and adult branch, Islamic Society of Britain, have been influential for young Muslims, including women, since the 1990s. A significant change reflected in scholarship (Choudhury 2007: 3 also Brown and Saeed 2015; Ryan 2014; Hamid 2011; Gillat 1996; Geaves 1995; Lewis 1994; Hutnik 1985) has been the shift from ethno-cultural ascriptions to religion. As Zanaib, a 32-year-old Pakistani-heritage Muslim woman living in Bradford explains, ‘15 or 20 years ago people defined themselves far more with their ethnicity – Asian or whatever – now it’s more their faith.’ She narrates that she came from a household where there was “confusion” and “contradictions” around cultural factors which she disagreed with, but she had no “concrete answers” concerning her faith, making it difficult to disentangle cultural inscriptions and Islamic teachings. When she was a teenager, somewhere between the ages of 12 and 14, she felt like she had a lot of questions about Islam, particularly around veiling, or perhaps more specifically about the expectation for women to veil and the pressures she felt from male family and community members to do so. She confided that she “loved them to bits,” but aside from her older

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brother who struggled with his own “identity crisis,” she describes her male family members as “quite dictatorial” when she was growing up. Zanaib always wanted to know why, her mother telling her that why “leads to trouble” and she would say “why?” she recounts. Zanaib tells me that she did not grow up with the idea of different schools of thought and was never forced to pray as a child. She selftaught prayer because nobody in her family prayed at the time. The question of veiling had particular resonance for her and her relationship to the veil and understanding of veiling has changed during her life. She went through a phase of not wearing the hijab but felt bare without it because she was so used to it, yet she hated the idea of “your self being hijacked by a hijab”; an apt expression considering the negative association of conspicuous Islamic identities with extremism. Zanaib felt that when she started wearing the veil she did not “feel free on the inside” because she attached “too much weight” to it. When she came back to wearing the veil, it was because she felt comfortable and she knew that her decision was not because she felt pressured to do so. In her family, one of her sisters does not wear it and others wear it “culturally,” highlighting intra-familial differences concerning religious observance. For Zanaib, she was “in search of an identity” and wearing the headscarf provided her with an identity. Her account also highlighted how the veil cannot be reduced to a private choice or one that only affects Muslim households and communities, but also has wider political significance, observing that in the UK context what women wear signifies community cohesion, integration, identity. Yet she also recognises attempts by Muslim women to resist the politicisation of piety by “re-claim[ing] their own identity away from those things.” Nonetheless, she concedes that the politicisation of piety has marked a number of conflicts, giving the example of the Iranian Revolution 1979, further highlighting how personal choices concerning veiling are located within a network of relations, both intimate (comprising familial, religious and cultural values) as well as widersocio-political and geopolitical contexts. As a number of participants reported differences in Islamic practice to both their parents and siblings, this shows that generational division is not the only explanation for divergent understandings of Islam within Muslim families. Samrina describes that it was only when her

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older sister started to practice and “change her image and…lifestyle” that she realised that what their parents had taught them was not as accurate as they thought, but contained some cultural influences and “weak evidence.” Her sister’s decision influenced their family concerning their religious practice. Subsequently, Samrina made a “conscious decision” to practice more and expresses that it is her faith which defines her and if she wishes for anything it is to be a “better Muslim woman.” As with Saba, Samrina frames her newfound religious observance as a rational choice. Like a number of participants, Samrina describes herself as being on “a journey with her religion,” illustrating how faith shapes Muslims’ experiences throughout their lives. Participants explained that there was a gap in Islamic knowledge (Bolognani 2007) from their parents, as Ula also expresses: [My sisters and brothers] haven’t found answers through our childhood and upbringing from our parents so I think we’re all on our individual journey trying to find it ourselves. —26-year-old Indian-heritage Muslim woman, Bradford

Ula is well-educated, having completed a master’s in youth development. She chose to study her undergraduate degree at Liverpool University because, she tells me, she found it to be an inspiring place despite there being a large Asian community at her second choice, Birmingham University, where she might have felt “safer.” Having returned to Bradford where she was born and raised, she felt rather ambivalent, describing the “two faces of Bradford”: the positive face in terms of regeneration, and the other, a close-knit community which could be stifling and made privacy difficult to maintain. At the time of interview, Ula was working through personal issues concerning her faith and how she was going to “combine her two worlds”; that is, her creative world of theatre design and youth work and her forthcoming marriage. The concepts of “process” and “journey” appeared a lot in her account and she used the mapping exercise to think through these issues during the interview. Ula comes from a big family which she describes as comprising “very bold people” that she felt were rather overpowering and different to her. By contrast, she describes herself as the “dark horse of the family” having

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taken a non-traditional route away from science, maths, and accountancy to pursue the arts, and she had a particular interest in British Asian women’s stories. She feels conflicted by her relationship to her family and religion, or more precisely, the confusion between religion and culture, noting that she has been restricted in some ways by cultural pressures. Ula felt that she did not know a lot about how Islam had evolved and rather than accept what people were telling her, she felt it was more important to look into it herself. Like a number of other participants such as Saba, Hamida, Jacinta, Samrina and Zanaib, she undertook a personal religious journey of discovery. She told me that part of the challenge is disentangling culture and religion which is often where “misinterpretations” occur. The other issue is language—she gave the example of going to a lady’s house as a child to read the Qur’an in Arabic. Although she knew that it was an important book, the significance was lost because she could not understand what the words meant and thus felt unable to connect to it she admits. Ula was brought up by her parents to follow Islam and “be a good Muslim,” but she felt that their instructions were “quite contradictory” in some ways, for example, they had a family shop which sold alcohol. She explains that she and her sisters are all on their individual religious journeys, describing how her sister, who is a Religious Education teacher, spends her Saturdays sitting and praying with a group of womenwhich she finds fulfilment from and a way of connecting with her faith. Ula confides that she has only discovered that “revealing moment of religion and peace” more recently and she is the only female participant not to wear hijab. Religious differences may invite scrutiny from family members. Whilst emphasis is placed on Muslim males as susceptible to radicalisation, my research showed that Muslim parents also feared for their daughters (see Saeed 2016). I draw from Hamida to explore how fears of young Muslims being turned to extremism transmitted by state actors co-opts Muslim parents into looking for ‘telltale’ signs of extremism. Hamida is recounting when she started university at the age of 18. She decided to wear the hijab at the early age of nine, well before 9/11, which was a personal choice which seemed “right” to her and she never regretted her decision. Noone in her family wore a headscarf at that time; her

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mother wore what she described as “the Asian way of wearing it,” but they supported her choice. She decided to wear the jilbab when she was much older, about 20 or 21 which did not attract the same level of support. Prior to that she wore baggy jeans and t-shirts and her mum would call her “hippy Muslim!” (we both laugh). The first time she wore the jilbab was at a university event and it was one that she had borrowed from her mother’s wardrobe. At first she was really conscious of people and felt embarrassed to go out, but when she walked out, nobody reacted to it and she came to the realisation that she was “wearing it for my Lord,” and felt comfortable in it. Like Saba, wearing the jilbab helped her to focus and declutter because she was not worrying about what to wear. Also similar to Saba, the decision to wear the jilbab was met with resistance, particularly from her mother: “Oh I’d rather that you not!” she tells her. This is because her decision was at odds with the community she lived in and her mother commented that it might affect her marriage prospects. Her account illustrates how culture and religion affect how religious observance is viewed within Muslim households. When she spoke to her dad about wanting to wear it, which she explained was for pious reasons, he told her that he was “proud” because he reasoned that it was an “expression of your faith,” joking that it was better than her usual dress! Her account shows differences in religious observance between her and her parents and siblings and in this case, differences between how religious dress is viewed by her mother and father. Despite her father’s apparent approval, her transition prompts her parents to treat her as an internal suspect body amid other changes that occur in her life when she starts university, as Hamida describes: [parents were being asked to look for] signs that people were becoming radicalised … when young people start you know becoming a bit more reclusive, joining different – have different friends … which are symptoms of being a young person, but these are the things that my parents were hearing, and then they were realising that I was becoming a bit of a recluse because I was a young person and I just wanted to hang with myself and I didn’t want to sit with my family because they’re obviously not cool [both laugh]! Or the fact that I had a new group of friends because I’d gone to university … But these are the signs that the government were telling people to look out for and obviously for my parents

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they did kind of think ok so hang on does this mean that maybe our child is –? – ‘cos I’m the youngest as well, and ‘cos my brothers and sisters are very different to me and they just kind of got on with life … whereas I’ve gone down the more religious path … they were proud but at the same time they were wary of what was happening with me and who was influencing me because obviously the influence wasn’t from home, it was outside influence that they weren’t aware of – so it was that fear of – of the unknown – where is she getting this knowledge from? Who is she talking to? … What groups is she getting involved with? —24-year-old British Pakistani-heritage Muslim woman who wears hijab and jilbab, Bradford

Narratives of inter-generational tensions perceived as characterising Muslim communities (Lewis 1994) have bolstered claims of young Muslims’ vulnerability to radicalisation by fusing ideas about cultural pathology and identity conflict (Alexander 2006, 2004). Important here is how this narrative comes to frame interactions between Muslim parents and their children where young Muslims’ estrangement from their parents and desire for solitude are viewed through the prism of extremism. By looking for signs of extremism, Hamida’s parents are coopted into reproducing pathologised constructions of Muslim youth as vulnerable to extremism and thus suspect, and as fundamentally different from normative young people (Hamid 2011: 247). Khan (2009: 15) explains that singling out young Muslims limits understanding of ‘the wider picture of youth disaffection’ that is not specific to Muslims’ experiences. Normal life changes including attending university and making new friends are no longer seen as innocuous ‘symptoms’ of being a young person, with significant implications for relations within Muslim families. Internal surveillance involves disciplinary techniques; subjected to a ‘normalising gaze’ (Foucault 1977: 184), Hamida’s behaviour must be questioned and justification provided. Hamida highlights psychological effects on both the suspect and suspector. Her parents experience an internal conflict: they are “proud” yet fearful of their daughter’s religiosity arising from the possibility of Hamida becoming radicalised. Psychological costs of being suspected are indicated where even in Hamida’s retelling the word ‘extremist’ remains unsaid: “does this mean that maybe

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our child is …?” The internal suspect body is another example of pre-emption characterising counter-terrorism (McCulloch and Pickering 2009) where suspicion is enough for intervention. State definitions of moderate/extremist infiltrate Muslim households meaning Islamic practices are resignified as “signs” of extremism. Importantly, this binary encourages intra-familial divisions where choosing a “more religious path” singles Hamida out from her siblings as worthy of suspicion. Saba, also a Bradford-based Pakistani-heritage woman (aged 22), takes a comparable religious journey to Hamida. She becomes more observant whilst at university, deciding to wear the hijab two months later, and then the jilbab. For Saba, her piety has brought a positive change to her life by helping her to channel the frustrations that she experienced from feeling like the odd one out as a Pakistani first in Germany, and then in Heaton in Bradford, by providing her “more focus” and guidance. Her religious observance is met by resistance from her family however. No one else in Saba’s family wears the hijab. When she started wearing the jilbub, she tells me “that was a little bit more difficult for my family.” Her father, she explains, although has “a deep sense of faith,” also has an issue with religious practice. She describes her mother’s family as diverse. One of her aunties is a lesbian and has been in a long-term partnership with another woman ever since Saba was born. Saba was always really close to her aunt but her family worried that as soon as she wore the hijab and jilbab that “meant [their relationship] was going to change.” Young Muslims’ decisions to adopt a pious identity can have more farreaching consequences than concerns over extremism therefore, which in this case, extends to Islam’s Gothicisation more broadly as unprogressive in terms of gender equality and sexuality, affecting not just the immediate family, but extended family members. Saba’s decision to become more religiously observant within a secular Muslim family where Islam is not practised is comparable to Meredith and Clementine’s accounts of their conversion from Christianity to Islam (see Chapter 3). Like them, Saba notes that her parents viewed her decision as going “against the norm that they’ve set” and the “vision that they’ve set for who you are and how they want you to be.” As a visibly Muslim woman, Saba no longer appears to her family as they thought or indeed wanted her to be, which also raises concern that she is exhibiting

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an extremist Muslim identification, meaning she is treated as an internal suspect body: Madeline: You mentioned about this divide between moderate and extremist – how do you think that operates? Saba: To me it’s like really frustrating because like I had that … from my family. They were like ok yeah you can do the whole Islam thing but why don’t you just be a bit more moderate? The more changes that you make the more they kind of go – and then sometimes they come out with these words that they don’t really understand like ‘Wahhabi’ and it’s like ok let’s talk about what ‘Wahhabi’ is and they don’t actually know.

Saba’s account also shows that the moderate/extremist binary is not the remit of state governance (see Tyrer 2008), but structures how Muslims govern family members. The more religiously observant Saba becomes, the more restrictions she faces. Judged as having gone beyond the parameters of acceptable Muslimness, Saba is subjected to internal controls to “be a bit more moderate” and even told by her parents that she is not allowed to leave the house unless she changes out of her jilbab which Saba refuses to do, thus causing tension within the home. As with Hamida, internal surveillance involves bringing Saba in line with a normalised Muslim identity, the ‘moderate Muslim.’ Pantazis and Pemberton (2009: 646) observe that specific groups such as Salafists and Islamists are ‘singled out’ by police as posing a particular threat. Here, the internal suspect body materialises where young Muslims’ identities conform to dominant conceptions of ‘extremists’ such as Wahhabis. Saba’s family’s judgement is not based on Islamic knowledge, but subjection to state understandings of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ Muslims (Mamdani 2004: 15; also Jacoby 2017), indicated by her family’s use of “Wahhabi” without understanding its meaning, which frustrates Saba.

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Family Members Countering Extremism Within Islamic Spaces As shown, the category ‘internal suspect body’ emphasises the significance of the body to suspectification. I develop how this figure affects how Islamic spaces are viewed by Muslim parents as suspect spaces. Following Saba’s decision to become more visibly observant, she joins her university Islamic Society. Unlike the area of Bradford in which she grew up, she tells me that when she went to Bradford University there was a large Muslim peer group for her to make friends with. The Islamic Society was a way for her to develop her understanding of Islam with her Muslim peers. However, Islamic Societies, as with other Muslim spaces, have become associated with the threat of extremism, meaning membership can incite fears from Muslim parents. This is particularly the case when, like Saba, attendance coincides with adopting a visibly Muslim identification. As Saba illustrates, Muslim parents interpret young Muslims’ adoption of Islamic markers as signifiers of extremism and in turn, subject their children to surveillance and control: …when I was part of the [Islamic Society] I got a lot of girls and boys calling me and saying I started to grow a beard and my dad flipped out, he’s taken my phone off me, he’s looking through my phone saying I can’t go to uni tomorrow, you can’t go to Friday prayers ‘cos you’re turning to extremists … something as simple as the beard. If they’re waking up for morning prayers some parents do get quite scared because of the way we’ve been conditioned.

Saba describes how visual markers and religious activities are no longer interpreted through religious frameworks, but political categories of moderate/extremist. As Michel Foucault (1977: 26) notes, the ‘subjected body’ is also the ‘productive body.’ Muslim parents actively participate in governing young Muslims in accordance with state parameters of ‘moderate Muslim.’ Following Butler (1997: 2), subjection involves dependency on the discourse of extremism which is not of Muslims’ choosing but ‘paradoxically, initiates and sustains’ agency. Muslim parents become complicit in constructing young Muslims as suspect

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where the body is central to this production. Marat Shterin and Basia Spalek (2011: 148) contend that ‘emphasis on the conspicuous Islamic aspects of identity’ such as growing the beard or wearing the headscarf, ‘raises suspicion of alienation from and “radicalisation” against the rest of society.’ Subjection also has psychic effects (Butler 1997). Perceptual frameworks are altered so that the beard triggers fears of loved ones “turning to extremists” because parents are “conditioned” to equate visibly Muslim bodies with extremist bodies as Saba recounts. Psychic impact is demonstrated here by one father “flip[ing] out” after his son grew a beard and subsequently restricting his son’s communications and movements, particularly spaces associated with extremism such as the mosque.5 Parental responsibility to instruct Muslim youth on ‘correct’ Islam (Cesari 2004) is bound up with countering extremism, which as discussed earlier, shifts the focus from moderate/extremist to deciphering in/authentic Islam since participants associated extremism with inauthentic interpretation. This involves suspecting Muslims of being extremists and importantly, their children being radicalised by them. Farooque, a British Asian Muslim father born in Kashmir (aged 44), has two young adult sons who live with him and his (white) English, non-Muslim wife in Leeds. He tells me “I’m not a regular mosque guy” but he attends Friday prayers at the local Bengali mosque (where incidentally, he does not share the language of attendees). Farooque does not adopt Islamic markers in terms of dress or the beard. The street that his family lives on is predominately Bengali but there are also Polish, African and English families. He tells me that he and his sons have friends “from a variety of backgrounds” and his sons only speak English since, as Farooque and I share, fathers may be less likely to pass on their native language to their children. His sons also attend the local mosque, seemingly more frequently than their father who works full-time. He describes watching his son come out of the mosque and talking to other young Muslim males who appear to be religious figures, but he feels compelled to make sure that his son is able to differentiate between correct Islamic teaching and extremist views. Farooque highlights the complex network in which the internal suspect body operates as a relational and unfixed category that may be aligned to a

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particular community, here a local (Leeds-based) mosque, yet does not reflect a homogenous ‘Muslim community’ indicated by diverse claims to so-called Islamic interpretation in contention: I’m not denying that there are nutters – like I was saying to my son, you know he goes to local mosque and he used to come out and talk to other geezers who seemed like the religious figures you know, young lads. So I said … one thing that I want to make sure is that you understand we all are human beings … the problem is that people … tend to tell you the extremist view – I said look God says clearly in Qur’an [in Arabic first] ‘I have honoured the human beings, I’ve honoured the human race’ so I want them to learn that you don’t go on other versions of interpretation or what people want to make up … [My son] said and I have trusted him … it’s ok Dad I understand that – so I trust him – he’s not going to concoct a plan against certain individuals.

Suspecting “there are nutters” (internal suspects) compels Farooque to undertake internal surveillance of the mosque his son attends to “make sure” he is not being radicalised. Farooque treats the mosque as a suspect site, or ‘seditious space’ (Michael 2011: 212; also Werbner 2004: 906). He is unsure whether the presumed religious figures can be trusted, illustrating how suspicion infiltrates Islamic spaces amid lack of consensus concerning Islamic interpretation and fears of the dangerous uses to which teachings may be put. For Farooque, parental responsibility requires ensuring his son understands “correct” Islamic interpretation that is inclusive rather than closed characteristic of “extremist” viewpoints which involves keeping communication channels open with his son. Extremist views are treated as inauthentic interpretation (“what people want to make up”) with potentially violent consequences. As suspicion is premised on uncertainty, Muslims occupy unstable positions along the spectrum of suspector/suspect. Farooque’s suspicions are alleviated after checking his son has not been influenced by extremist ideology, enabling his son to move from suspected to trusted. Muslim fathers also have an active role therefore in countering extremism, which paradoxically involves treating young Muslims as internal suspect

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bodies to mitigate risks of radicalisation and in some cases, has encouraged Muslims to undertake active roles in preventing extremists from exploiting mosque spaces, as Shahid describes. Shahid is a 29-year-old British-Pakistani Muslim male and father of a six-year-old son. He is actively involved with the mosque in his role as a funeral director as well as helping to set up mosques for newer communities. Following successful planning permission, he helped set up fully functioning mosque spaces in Leeds for Iraqi and Somali communities within six months. At the time of interview, he was working with Gambian and Nigerian communities to achieve the same goals. His objective, he tells me, was so “we can then all sit round the table and decide on an equal footing.” His actions were not always favoured by his “own community” who he disclosed were not always forthcoming in granting help, financial or otherwise, to help other communities set themselves up. Ultimately however, he told me that his community came to the realisation that it was the best policy to support other communities to have a stake in how Islam was practised and understood in Britain. His account reveals internal divisions within Muslim communities that cut across religious, cultural, ethnic, geographic, and national lines. As discussed in Chapter 3, the presence of newer Muslim communities illustrates the importance of broadening conceptions of Muslims’ experiences in Britain beyond that of South Asian/Pakistani Muslims and to account for how blackness and whiteness (as well as brownness) shape Muslims’ experiences in Britain and suspect treatment, including their relationship to other Muslims. Alongside helping his fellow Muslims to practice their religion, Shahid discusses his fears of people entering a “new culture” with the intention of radicalising vulnerable young Muslims. He discusses internal surveillance he undertakes in his selfascribed role as “watcher” of a Leeds-based mosque in the wake of 7/7 due to fears of infiltration by extremists: … I watch them [attendants] … because I … believe … it takes one person who then entices other people … and it’s finding that one person … the last thing I want is somebody from my own immediate family … to be enticed … so when people go into … a new culture I like to have a better idea of them so that some young person isn’t hoodwinked …

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Like Farooque, Shahid treats the mosque as a suspect site which he actively watches to protect family members from being radicalised. He treats unknown attendees as internal suspect bodies until he can ascertain a “better idea of them.” Muslim families’ trust in the mosque potentially makes it a site for exploitation: … the way that many people are brought up, religion is the be all and end all … you can go to 100 houses in Leeds and drag the kids out at two o’clock in the morning – as long as the word ‘mosque’ gets mentioned, parents are quite happy you know.

In this imagined scenario, Muslim families are insecuritised through failure to recognise risks of extremists infiltrating the mosque and radicalising their children; a fear Shahid says is felt within the mosque he attends. Muslim parents also viewed university spaces as suspect sites. Radical groups like Hizb ut-Tahrir6 operating on campuses, including in Bradford in the 1990s, affected how Muslim parents interpreted their children’s current religious activities (Brown and Saeed 2015: 43; Hamid 2011; Michael 2011). Family members intervened to ensure young Muslims were not radicalised by groups operating on university campuses, as Jacinta’s account of her uncle’s concerns after she began performing a more religiously observant Muslim identification whilst at university shows us. She narrates that she grew up in a household that was not very religious. It was when she was around 19 that she became interested in religion, which she described as “the soul’s journey” that happened at a time when she was “looking for something” and at a “down-point” in her life. She describes sitting on the floor in the library close to tears and not wanting anyone to see her. She turned around and pulled out a book that happened to be from the Islamic shelf—and that was it, the “connection that I needed,” she recounts. Around this time, she needed somewhere to find more information and she became involved with the Islamic Societies of Britain and Young Muslim movement which a number of young Muslims, including other participants like Zanaib, were involved with. The intention was to put culture to one side and look into religion: “let’s find out about our Muslim identity.”

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Jacinta went to events and talks that they organised which were about balancing life in Britain as a Muslim and cultural pressures. These organisations tackled a number of important issues such as women in Islam. It was at this time that women like Zanaib and other women of her generation started to become prominent figures and have since done excellent work to develop their communities and have gained a lot of respect, not just as Muslim women but as professional women in their own right. Jacinta was really close to her uncle who had passed away at the young age of 45 around two years prior. She tells me that she really looked up to him and like her, he was a youth worker in the community and he ran a local café with her father. Her uncle was well-known and well-loved by a lot of people and she confides that she “always wanted to be something like him” and do something meaningful which inspired her to do voluntary work. When he realised that she was going to a number of different Islamic groups and talks about Islam he was the only family member, she tells me, who took her aside and warned her to be careful, voicing his fears that he did not want her to be “brainwashed” by anyone, as Jacinta explains: [My uncle] was concerned that there were a lot of Islamic groups up and coming then – he didn’t necessarily know what I was involved with … He just wanted to make sure that I was aware that they’re not all right … Most times you’ve got to follow your heart as well … and I think he was concerned that what if she does get in with the wrong one … and she’s radicalised or she just starts … believing the wrong stuff? —30-year-old Pakistani-heritage Muslim woman, Bradford

Crucial here, as with Farooque, is family members intervening to ensure young Muslims are able to distinguish between ‘correct’ Islam and extremism (“the wrong stuff ”) to protect them from radicalisation. Extremism is again positioned beyond the boundaries of Islam. Jacinta is treated by her uncle as an internal suspect body. This category operates relationally: those who are ‘risky’ (Islamist extremist groomers) and those who are ‘at risk’ of radicalisation (young Muslims like Jacinta) (see Heath-Kelly 2012: 78). Family members are co-opted into the ideological battle against extremism that evokes a ‘hearts and minds’ approach.

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Jacinta must “follow her heart” to ensure her religious journey takes the right path. Parental fears are centred on internal conflicts, not only between culture and religion, but between Islam and political Islam. Hamida must convince her parents that her Islamic Society “represents Islam, not political Islam,” and thus a non-threatening interpretation. She undergoes a “family intervention” with her parents and siblings to ensure that she is not becoming radicalised: Madeline: Did you feel that [your parents] were spying on you? Hamida: No thankfully my parents – they weren’t spying on me … But they had the conversation with me – I remember at one point I had a family intervention to make sure that I was alright and not doing anything wrong which made me laugh. But they like all sat down and my brothers and sisters and my mum and dad said look what are you doing? Can you please just explain to us what’s happening? Are you part of anything extreme? Is anything wrong, you know? And I was like no, I’m just part of the Islamic Society – nothing is happening, we just put on random events and that’s it! And then after them understanding what I was doing they were you know fine … But it was that fear of – she’s our youngest daughter, we don’t know what could happen, we don’t know who her friends are, we don’t know what she’s doing…

Although Hamida says that her parents were not spying on her, she is nonetheless materialised as an internal suspect body by them where intervention is required. In part, the intervention is a protective strategy to ensure that she is “alright.” More troubling, it also involves checking she is “not doing anything wrong.” This second motivation highlights how the internal suspect body operates through intersectional fears of young Muslims being turned to extremists and culpability in endangering others. That Hamida does not explicitly name “the conversation” indicates the pervasiveness with which conversations concerning radicalisation are being had within Muslim households. Her laughter at being treated as suspect contrasts starkly with the formality of the family intervention which is planned in advance to ensure all immediate family members are present. Hamida is the target of collective suspicion with potentially

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detrimental consequences for her relationship with her family. Mistrust concerning who might be influencing their daughter and the type of knowledge being inculcated, illustrates how Muslim parents are enlisted in the ideological battle to counter-extremism, that potentially involves parents closing down social spaces young Muslims engage into mitigate risks of radicalisation (Saeed and Johnson 2016; Michael 2011: 212). As ideological effects of extremism are difficult to detect, Muslim parents experience powerlessness and uncertainty: “we don’t know what could happen.” Their fears are compounded by Hamida’s gender and age. Gendered scripts concerning vulnerability to radicalism have been strengthened by cases of British Muslim women deemed ‘jihadi brides’ travelling to Syria to marry fighters, mother children, and propagandise (Pearson and Winterbotham 2017; Saeed 2016: 1). Nonetheless, as with Farooque, trust is recuperated where young Muslims reach an “understanding” with their parents concerning their religious views/activities.

Parents Protecting Muslim Youth from State Counter-Terrorism Initiatives So far accounts in part two have focused on internal surveillance Muslim parents undertake to ensure their children are not radicalised or radicalising others. This section explores another effect of heightened securitisation of young Muslim identities: parents’ fears that their children will be subjected to state counter-terrorism measures. Hamida tells me her parents did not want her to be part of an ISA, not only from fear of her being radicalised, but in case she is targeted by counter-terrorism police: …for my mum, it was not long after 7/7 and I’d become part of an Islamic society and she really feared that … It saddened me at first but I challenged my parents about it … They didn’t really want me to be part of an Islamic Society ‘cos they were like if you do that then they’ll monitor you and they’ll do all this stuff – and I was like Dad I don’t care … I’m not doing anything wrong, why should I fear being monitored? … I know we were monitored … but it didn’t bother me because I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

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Hamida accepts that subjection to state surveillance is part and parcel of membership to an ISA, meaning her parents’ fears are justified. Despite not having done anything wrong, she is caught within the panopticon gaze (Foucault 1977) indicating the pervasive scope of counter-terrorism measures that pre-emptively target those perceived as ‘at risk’ of radicalisation (McCulloch and Pickering 2009). Unlike her parents, Hamida refuses to allow her actions to be circumscribed by fear of state targeting. Emotional tensions are produced following her parents’ failure to support Hamida’s ISA membership, further evidencing how terrors of counterterrorism impact intra-familial relations. Unsurprisingly, Muslim parents are wary of their children becoming politically engaged because legitimate protests are often conflated with extremism (Lynch 2013: 249; Song 2012: 147). Parents are influential in depoliticising Muslim youth to protect them from state targeting, as Ali discusses: My parents are always saying … don’t join Stop the War and these other political things because they’ll take you away … They see that they should protect me because I’m only young and they see what’s going on and I’m thinking yeah I shouldn’t really get involved. And I think that’s most of the Muslim community like they’re keeping quiet because they don’t want to be locked away [laughs nervously]. —23-year-old British Pakistani-heritage male, Leeds

Ali’s parents intervene to “protect” him from terrors of state counterterrorism (“they’ll take you away”) emerging from heightened securitisation of young Muslims’ identities. Muslim parents and other potential role models within the Muslim community are complicit in reproducing the conditions of being suspect—a position which Ali internalises, resulting in a depoliticised Muslim subjectivity: “I shouldn’t really get involved” (see Chapter 6). Subjection operates here through self-surveillance involving self-silencing: “keeping quiet” to avoid state terrors of being “locked away,” exemplifying the ‘political logic of terror ’ (Pollock and Silverman 2014a: 11, original italics) which functions to exclude Muslims from the democratic system. This account is given just after Ali confides that in the current climate he does not

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feel comfortable having a beard, illustrating how suspect treatment is linked to visible performances of Muslim identity and internalised by them and, as I develop further in Chapter 6, connected to practices of self-silencing. The culture of fear permeating Muslim families and communities inhibits opportunities for young Muslims to engage with legitimate political processes where they can vent frustrations, potentially increasing their vulnerability to radicalisation (Kundnani 2009: 6). Having witnessed multiple interviews undertaken by counterterrorism officers with Muslim male staff members at her place of work following 7/7, Samrina, a 43-year-old British-Pakistani Muslim mother living in Leeds, notices that counter-terrorism officers align wearing “traditional clothes” with extremism which as she describes here, makes her particularly fearful for her devout Muslim son. Samrina narrates that she was brought up Muslim and did the 5 pillars when she was young. She says she always “loved Islam” and recognised its importance in her life but felt that she did not implement or understand it fully until she became a parent. When she faced personal challenges, she started to focus more on her religion which provided important guidance for her and what “saw her through” when her marriage broke down and she became a single parent. In terms of parental responsibility, although she tells me she cannot be accountable for other people, she believes that she has “done my duty to raise my children with guidance.” She emphasises that Islam is “a religion of peace and goodness,” “not a forced religion,” and although she still guides and teaches her children she tells me that “they’re adults now and they have to make their own choices and be accountable for them.” Through her experiences of counter-terrorism policing, she recognises that being accountable for your decisions does not mean that you can avoid suspect treatment however. As the mother of a pious Muslim male in his twenties whom she describes as having a “Muslim beard” and wears “traditional clothing” whilst at the mosque, her observations of the conduct of counter-terrorism police and ignorance concerning religious practice and dress raise personal concerns: My son, he goes to mosque and he’ll change his clothing – it’s about comfort because you’re sitting on the floor for a long time listening to

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sermons or praying … and it’s like, you need some training – can I offer you some training because I train on these issues? … And of course [the officers] don’t want training – they want to stay in that level of ignorance … some of the assumptions they make about Muslim, Pakistani families are amazingly inaccurate and ignorant and I think they get away with far too much because … they don’t want to improve on it … it’s the power and … control – and you people need to fit in with us and the way that they oppress us through the government and the media …

As with the case of Hassan discussed in Chapter 4, Samrina locates state counter-terrorism measures within a racialised trajectory of Gothicised Pakistani Muslim families (Alexander 2004) posing a risk to national security and British values that serve to legitimise state intervention. Households are treated as suspect sites based on racialised “assumptions” transmitted through government and media discourses rather than wrongdoing, which in turn (in)securitise Muslim families by purposely failing to discriminate between religious observance and extremist behaviours. Samrina shows that the association of piety with Islamist extremism within hegemonic framings functions as a means through which state control of Islamic religious expression is performed; piety is effectively Gothicised as a threat and subsequently securitised. Treating religious observance as a security concern is founded on ignorance of Islamic practice or more precisely, what I term premediated ignorance (see Chapter 4), whereby Pakistani Muslim males’ preconceived association with Islamist extremism premediates their treatment as suspect; a position which is actively maintained: “the [counter-terrorism officers] want to stay in that level of ignorance,” Samrina surmises as illustrated by their refusal to accept her offer of professional training that would provide a counter to their misperceptions. Subjection operates in conjunction with premediated ignorance as a means through which Muslims are oppressed. The choice is either to “fit in with us,” that is, abandon religious observance that falls outside the limited remit of ‘moderate,’ or risk state targeting since piety is inextricably connected to extremism within state definitions of moderate/extremist.

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Nonetheless, Muslims also resisted victim status by actively engaging in political and civic processes to contest negative treatment. In the final section, I provide a case study that exemplifies the constructive ways in which Muslim communities in Bradford have mobilised to address the challenges facing Muslims as a means of providing alternative, grassroots solutions to the (in)securitising gaze of government policies such as Prevent (HM Government 2011a).

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Case Study: Empowering Communities, “Locally-Defined” Solutions

In this final section, I focus on the Muslim Women’s Council (formerly Bradford Muslim Women’s Council) as an example of a successful community initiative to highlight the importance of locally-defined solutions for empowering communities. The emergence of the organisation was not without contestation, reflecting local intra-community tensions concerning Islamic practice and the role of women as well as external political pressures. The organisation initially developed from discussions with over 100 Muslim women as part of a Joseph Rowntree funded research project which culminated in a book on Muslim women’s narratives. By conducting a feasibility project, it was clear that there was a need for an organisation focusing on British Muslim women’s issues and also that there was something different that women can do/offer. From these discussions, five key areas were identified: parenting, education, creative, inter-faith and global solutions/global threats; the latter illustrating that Muslim communities occupy a highly politicised context meaning they are “facing a different type of challenge now” according to Zanaib, a central contributor to the initial project and subsequent vision of the organisation. Muslim women felt that what was lacking in the north of England was a strong structure which could articulate issues of relevance to Muslim communities. Although there were service-driven organisations, they lacked an organisation that could interface between community voices/issues and policy agendas. Zanaib observed that the task was daunting due to the level of responsibility involved, which in

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order to do it justice, could not be taken lightly. Its emergence was part of a “long-term vision,” emboldened by an impetus which was already present. Zanaib describes the “silent revolution” that was being undertaken by Bradfordian Muslim women following the 2001 disturbances (see Chapter 6). She described the incident as “a terrible experience,” that had placed a real emphasis on men and violence and had led to a number of young South Asian men, including people that Zanaib had grown up with, being put in prison. These events had a “huge impact” on the women in their families she tells me, their sisters, their mothers. In response, the women coped by “coming together” which meant that there were some “amazing things happening” in terms of how Muslim women were mobilising. A lot of women were “discreetly and in their own ways” she describes, working with families and communities and were having an impact in terms of supporting local Muslim communities and developing Muslim women’s visibility in public debates where traditionally men had acted as community representatives. Yet there was still a “lack of women’s voices and spaces,” Zanaib notes. Women expressed that when something of importance affects Muslim communities, the majority of the time it is the men that respond in terms of the media. Whilst mindful that she did not want the organisation to be seen as “bashing men,” at the same time she recognised the importance of being “bold” and challenging the status quo, even if that meant “put[ing] people’s backs up.” Annelies Moors and Emma Tarlo (2007: 136) note how dress plays an important role as ‘a visual intervention and medium of debate in the public sphere.’ As an accomplished veiled Muslim woman with an active role within the local Muslim community, Zanaib tells me that she was “thrust” into the public arena because she was “marketable” as a “role model” to “represent the community” whom she felt claimed “ownership” of her, but which also afforded her a “privileged” position. She felt particularly visible as a Muslim woman because there were only a few women speaking out, such as Salma Yaqoop, a British political activist and patron of the Stop the War Coalition UK. Zanaib remarked that people “wanted to put you on a platform” because you were helping the community which she was passionate about, but she also felt pressure

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and guilt at times by being treated as if she were representative of the community and had to manage people’s expectations, both within and outside the community. Established in 2009 to “represent Muslim women,” as intimated, the MWC developed from conversations with over 100 Bradfordian women, as Zanaib discusses: …you’ve got … a structure … that is locally-defined, that has women involved, that is able to say ok we know about all these issues but this is what we’re saying we want … in terms of power dynamics we’re coming to the table because we have something to offer…

Unlike government-funded organisations like the National Women’s Advisory Group and recently exposed, Inspire, that posed as a grassroots initiative but was actually a government-funded initiative (see Cage 2017; Home Office 2015), Zanaib argues that organisations must be “locally defined” so women are empowered to define outcomes (“this is what we want”). She describes how the MWC builds positive community relations: …we’re going to be nurturing that confidence, [Muslim women are] going to be able to … act as that bridge and have … impact.

By “nurturing” young Muslim women, including several of my participants, the organisation provides a counter to state co-option. Rather than enlisting Muslims as informers, they are empowered to bridge policy and community voices and shape outcomes in ways that will benefit local communities based on local knowledge and need. Building trust and confidence within Muslim communities is required to resist state intrusion, as Zanaib continues: …in terms of the policy side of things they have been saying … we want to use you, we want to tap into you and we’ve just had to … rein ourselves in.

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To retain integrity among local Muslim communities, organisations must withstand the exploitative pull of policy makers. An important component is devising Muslim-led spaces for intra- and inter-community dialogues, such as the MWC’s City Circle: The City Circle is something that is led by us … It’s literally you have speakers … open to all people but the issues that we focus on have been brought up by women … It’s a safe, open space … that is Muslim-led … but there are also spaces that are closed because internal conversations need to take place because it’s something that’s based on a premise, it’s about Muslim women, it’s about the political context, it’s about women saying there has to be a bridge between community voices and policy makers.

Where Saba reported self-silencing undertaken by young Muslims, here Muslim women are actively engaged in opening up safe spaces through Muslim-led conversations to build relations internally (“internal conversations need to take place”) as well as supporting relations intercommunally and with the state by acting as a “bridge.” The initiative facilitates a networked response to the culture of fear affecting Muslim communities that addresses internal differentiations within Muslim communities by supporting diverse expressions of Muslim identities and impact of state policy on Muslims’ lives/communities.

8

Conclusion: Preventing Terror, Resisting the ‘Internal Suspect’ Category

This chapter has shown the psychological, emotional, ideological and disciplinary effects of the ‘terror of prevention’ (Hillyard 1993: 262) within Muslim communities and households. Adopting a networked approach counters impoverished state-centric approaches (Greer 2014, 2010) which fail to address how state counter-terrorism practices affect micro-contexts of Muslim communities and households from both real and imagined fears and are retransmitted by the subjugated group (Foucault 1977: 27). The internal suspect body challenges neat

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categories of victim/oppressor emerging from intersecting (suspected) extremist/informer subjectivities. The body is an important site for negotiating suspect treatment requiring distinctions to be made between ‘suspect community’ and ‘suspect body’ categories to address how suspectification operates differently depending on Islamic comportment and regional variations. State counter-terrorism measures have encouraged a culture of fear and suspicion which has closed down dialogue within Muslim communities and with the state. Co-opting Muslims to counter extremism means community members become accomplices of state terror tactics (Sofsky 1997: 130–144; also Boochani 2019), reproducing conditions under which they are made suspect by policing Muslim identities and practices, stigmatising members who have been subjected to counter-terrorism policing, informing on fellow Muslims to avoid becoming suspect themselves, or monitoring Muslims’ activities under Prevent (HM Government 2011a) which, by engendering mistrust, is counter-productive for countering extremism or terrorism. Findings suggest that independently funded, locally-defined organisations which can bridge policy and community voices are more effective strategies because they support community empowerment and are trusted locally. Muslims should be able to determine outcomes beneficial to their communities based on local knowledge and need rather than being pressured into meeting state-imposed requirements which are often counter-productive for building community resilience to countering terrorism and extremism. An important component is facilitating ‘safe spaces’ which are Muslim-led where difficult conversations can be had without fear of being reported. Legal requirements placed on a range of agencies under the Prevent duty mean that alternative avenues need to be created where such critical engagement can happen. There needs to be a variety of spaces beyond the restrictive lens of security which address a broader spectrum of issues affecting Muslims in contemporary Britain such as (mis)perceptions, (mis)representations, and engagement to support individuals’ development and stake within British society. Further, to provide opportunities to build trust intra- and inter-communally and with policy makers.

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The study also contributes an important theoretical and empirical gap concerning detrimental impacts that state counter-terrorism measures have on Muslim families. Findings highlight how Muslim families are simultaneously (in)securitised through increased focus in government and media discourses on countering extremism within their households, engendering intra-familial tensions. I contribute the internal suspect body category to address how suspectification is undertaken by Muslim parents, involving surveilling their children’s religious performances and instructing young Muslims to adopt a ‘moderate Muslim’ identification in line with state prescriptions. This category is materialised where Islamic markers such as the beard and jilbab and religious practices are Gothicised as signifiers of extremism. Parental responses are connected to fears of their children becoming radicalised or indeed radicalising others, as well as to protect them from state targeting. By viewing their children’s behaviour that is typical of young people as they find out who they are and make new friends through the lens of extremism, Muslim parents perpetuate conceptions of young Muslims’ vulnerability to extremism and as fundamentally different from their non-Muslim peers. Terrors of counter-terrorism are networked across state and Muslim relations and are internalised within Muslim households and retransmitted (Foucault 1977: 27). Effects of being suspect are again shown to be more pervasive than those under official suspicion and prompt a range of subject positions to be taken up: suspected, suspector, trusted, which are unstable and relational. The study thus also contributes an important political argument of the need to move beyond state-centric accounts of the suspect community to understand how counter-terrorism measures pervade Muslim families and communities, not just those under official suspicion. Racialised framings of Muslim families, particularly Pakistani families, as seedbeds of extremism transmitted through policy and media discourses, legitimise state intervention and burdens families with countering extremism within their households. A shift in the narrative of Muslim households as suspect sites is required. Further, challenges facing young Muslims to navigate religious expression with societal demands need to be viewed outside the limited scope of extremism.

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As discussed, how the body is read affects practices of suspectification. Participants highlighted an important refocusing from moderate/extremist to in/authentic Islam which posits extremism outside the fold of Islam. Importantly, Islamic principles cannot be read off the body. External markers do not mean Islamic principles are being followed nor that Muslims adopting Islamic dress or the beard are extremist. However, emphasis on sectarian divisions shifts focus from the negative impact of state policies, both domestic and foreign, as a problem endogenous to Muslim populations that conceals Western influence (Jacoby 2017: 1658) and further subjects Muslims to delimitations of state governance. Rather, what is required is more acceptance of a range of Islamic identities that can enable young Muslims to belong in Britain and mitigate not only fears of state intrusion, but intra-group tensions that are produced as a result. Returning to Foucault’s (1977: 26) observation that the ‘subjected body’ is also the ‘productive body,’ this chapter also highlights practices of resistance undertaken by Muslims. Participants actively challenged subject positions of ‘suspect’ and ‘suspector.’ Saba’s decision to leave the government advisory group rather than be co-opted into undertaking internal surveillance provides one example of resistance. Since the internal suspect body is an unfixed and relational category, young Muslims can move from suspect to trusted by opening up communication channels with family members so that they can challenge, learn from, and ultimately accept their religious identities. In Jacinta’s case, she was instrumental in her parents’ decisions to become more pious, further strengthened by the death of her nephew at the tender age of three. Following this tragic event, she and her parents went on Hajj, the annual Islamic pilgrimage to Mecca, the holiest city for Muslims. This ritual is the final of the Five Pillars of Islam which comprise the core practices and foundations of Muslim life. A significant turning point in their relationship was when her parents asked her for religious guidance concerning prayer and fasting and she tells me that now everyone in her family pray. Similarly, Hamida’s mother was inspired to follow her daughter’s example by “representing our faith,” enabling parents and their children to occupy shared religious journeys that strengthened familial ties. Such interventions illustrate that effects of being suspect

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infiltrating the fabric of Muslim communities and households can be reconciled and positive engagements forged. The next chapter explores the challenges that Muslims face to perform their Muslim identities due to restrictions concerning freedom of speech and political engagement as well as the forms of resistances which they engage in to contest the ‘politics of representation’ (Pollock and Silverman 2011a: 8) affecting Muslim populations.

Notes 1. The Kurdish journalist, Behrouz Boochani (2019), uses the concept ‘Kyriarchal System’ to describe the system of oppression operating within what he terms, ‘Manus Prison,’ the notorious Australian-run detention centre (or ‘Regional Processing Centre’) on Manus Island in Papua New Guinea that was used to house asylum seekers arriving by boat within Australia’s territorial borders between 2001 and 2017, and where he was imprisoned in 2013 until its closure in 2017. As with other systems of terror and domination, a key governing principle that Boochani (2019: 124) observes is ‘to turn the prisoners against each other and to ingrain even deeper hatred between people,’ and thus prohibit solidarity and challenge against the ruling system. 2. Although contested, ‘moderate’ is usually associated with secular and liberal principles which present other performances of Islam as problematic (Moosavi 2015: 657–659). 3. Mythen and Walklate (2016: 1109) observe that whilst the ‘renewed desire to attack Western Christians in their homelands’ is a concern, the number of deaths of Muslims at the hands of IS in the Middle East is on a ‘different scale of magnitude,’ responsible for 8,493 Iraqi civilians deaths and a further 15,782 injured in the first eight months of 2014 alone (United Nations Office of the Higher Commissioner for Human Rights Report 2015). 4. Deputy Assistant Commissioner, Helen Ball (cited in Halliday 1 March 2015), stated that 60 women have travelled to Syria to join IS, 18 of which are youths. According to Anita Perešin (2015), the number of Muslim women from Western countries that have travelled to join IS exceeds 550. 5. The 2011 Prevent (HM Government 2011a: 64, 72) strategy identifies further education institutions and mosques as significant sites where radicalisation can occur and which therefore should have a ‘clear and unambiguous

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role’ in ‘safeguard[ing] vulnerable young people from radicalisation and recruitment by terrorist organisations.’ 6. Founded in 1953, Hizb ut-Tahrir is understood to be a fundamentalist or radical political organisation which describes its ideology as Islam. Its stated objectives are to unite the Muslim community (ummah) by re-establishing the Islamic Caliphate and implementing the Shariah. It is a pan-Islamist and international organisation with multiple local branches in Western, Arab and Central Asian nations. In the UK context, higher education campuses have been used as places to recruit members. Although banned in a number of countries, including in most Arab nations, the organisation is not currently proscribed in the UK.

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Guru, S. 2012. Under siege: Families of counter-terrorism. British Journal of Social Work 42 (6): 1151–1173. Hamid, S. 2011. British Muslim young people: Facts, features and religious trends. Religion, State and Society 39 (2–3): 247–261. Heath-Kelly, C. 2012. Reinventing prevention or exposing the gap? False positives in UK terrorism governance and the quest for pre-emption. Critical Studies on Terrorism 5 (1): 69–87. Hickman, M.J., L. Thomas, H.C. Nickels, and S. Silvestri. 2012. Social cohesion and the notion of “suspect communities”: A study of the experiences and impacts of being “suspect” for Irish communities and Muslim communities in Britain. Critical Studies on Terrorism 5 (1): 89–106. Hillyard, P. 1993. Suspect Community: People’s Experiences of the Prevention of Terrorism Acts in Britain. London: Pluto Press. HM Government. 2011a. Prevent Strategy. Cm 8092. London: The Stationary Office. HM Government. 2011b. CONTEST: The United Kingdom’s Strategy for Countering Terrorism. Available at: https://www.gov.uk/government/upl oads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/97994/contest-summary.pdf. Accessed 3 January 2017. HM Government. 2017. Transparency Report 2017: Disruptive and Investigatory Powers. Cm 9420. Available at: https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/ government/uploads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/593672/58597_ Cm_9420_HM_gov_transparency_report2017_PRINT.pdf. Accessed 23 June 2020. HM Government. 2020. Channel Duty Guidance: Protecting Vulnerable Young People from Being Drawn into Terrorism/Statutory Guidance for Channel Panel Members and Partners of Local Panels. Available at: Channel Duty Guidance: Protecting people vulnerable to being drawn into terrorism (publishing.service.gov.uk). Accessed 20 May 2021. Home Office. 2014. Theresa May joins Muslim women as they fight against ISIL, September 24. Available at: https://www.gov.uk/government/news/ home-secretary-supports-makingastand-campaign. Home Office. 2015. Local Delivery Best Practice Catalogue. Available at: https://powerbase.info/images/8/8c/OSCT-Prevent_catalogue-March_ 2015-OCR.pdf. Accessed 23 June 2020. Home Office. 2019a. Individuals referred to and supported through the Prevent programme, England and Wales, April 2018 to March 2019, December 19. Available at: https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/govern ment/uploads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/853646/individuals-

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Michael, L. 2011. Islam as rebellion and conformity: How young British Pakistani Muslims in the UK negotiate space for and against radical ideologies. Religion, State & Society 39 (2–3): 209–227. Mirza, M., A. Senthilkumaran, and Z. Ja’far. 2007. Living Apart Together: British Muslims and the Paradox of Multiculturalism. Policy Exchange. Available at: https://www.policyexchange.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/ 09/living-apart-together-jan-07.pdf. Accessed 2 August 2020. Moors, A., and E. Tarlo, 2007. Introduction. Fashion Theory 11 (2–3): 133– 142. Moosavi, L. 2015. Orientalism at home: Islamophobia in the representations of Islam and Muslims by the New Labour Government. Ethnicities 15 (5): 652–674. https://doi.org/10.1177/1468796814525379. Morsi, Y. 2018. Radical Skin, Moderate Masks. De-radicalising the Muslim and Racism in Post-racial Societies. London: Rowman & Littlefield. Mythen, G. 2012. “No one speaks for us”: Security policy, suspected communities and the problem of voice. Critical Studies on Terrorism 5 (3): 409–424. Mythen, G., and S. Walklate. 2006. Communicating the terrorist risk: Harnessing a culture of fear? Crime, Media, Culture: an International Journal 2 (2): 123–142. Mythen, G., and S. Walklate. 2016. Counterterrorism and the reconstruction of (in)security: Divisions, dualisms, duplicities. The British Journal of Criminology 56 (6): 1107–1124. https://doi.org/10.1093/bjc/azw030. Mythen, G., S. Walklate, and F. Khan. 2009. “I’m a Muslim but I’m not a terrorist”: Victimization, risky identities and the performance of safety. British Journal of Criminology 49 (6): 736–754. Nawaz, I., and S. Warrich. 2007. Information Guide for Muslim Communities in Dealing with Anti-Terrorism Raids/Arrests. London: Association of Muslim Lawyers. Nickels, H.C., L. Thomas, M.J. Hickman, and S. Silvestri. 2012. De/Constructing “Suspect” communities. Journalism Studies 13 (3): 340– 355. https://doi.org/10.1080/1461670X.2011.616412. O’Toole, T., N. Meer, D.N. DeHanas, S.H. Jones, and T. Modood. 2016. Governing through Prevent? Regulation and contested practice in stateMuslim engagement. Sociology 50 (1): 160–177. Pantazis, C., and S. Pemberton. 2009. From the “old” to the “new” suspect community: Examining the impacts of recent UK counter-terrorist legislation. British Journal of Criminology 49 (5): 646–666.

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6 The Terror of Voice(lessness): Restrictions to Freedom of Speech and Political Engagement Within a Culture of Fear

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Introduction

The aspect of the Concentrationary Gothic that this chapter explores is restrictions to freedom of speech and political engagement within the ‘war on terror’ context following the introduction of anti-terrorism legislation relating to incitement to terrorism. Exclusion of Muslims from the political community is a key terror tactic within the state of exception (Razack 2008) that has historical continuities with other systems of terror. In her discussion of the establishment of the legal foundation of Nazi concentration camps, Maja Sunderland (2013: 16) observes how restrictions to freedom of speech and the right to assembly were presented as preventative measures for ‘protecting the population from anticipated offences.’ A comparable situation has emerged within the ‘war on terror’ context in which justifications for restrictions to freedom of expression within anti-terrorism legislation have been made on the grounds of protecting the population from the threat of Islamist terrorism.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M.-S. Abbas, Terror and the Dynamism of Islamophobia in 21st Century Britain, Palgrave Politics of Identity and Citizenship Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72949-3_6

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Within the Concentrationary Gothic environment, the terror of voice(lessness) relates not just to how Muslims can be spoken about— as terrorists, extremists—but from how their speech can be interpreted by others as evidence that they are terrorist-monsters (Puar and Rai 2002). This situation has meant that words come to mean different things when uttered by Muslims, which has encouraged practices of self-surveillance to be undertaken emerging from a culture of fear, that in turn produces a culture of silence. These protective strategies comprise not only selfsilencing, but decisions not to present a ‘visibly’ Muslim identity through Islamic dress or the beard. These protective strategies suggest that speech must be understood in keeping with the inter-bodily-relational model of subjectivity that I am advancing as embodied through which subjects racialise and are racialised, and as relational, mediated not only by the body that speaks, but by the body that interprets what has been said. Visual technologies of silencing and misrepresentation explored in this chapter reinforce hegemonic representations of the Muslim as terrorist or extremist by delimiting Muslims from naming practices of terrorisation experienced by them, and which provide further evidence of the reproductive effects of racial terror. Freedom of speech is another arena in which the Gothic’s preoccupation with debating the values of ‘civilisation’ is fought. Free speech is understood as sacrosanct to Western liberal democracies. A number of events have contributed to conceptions that Muslims are incapable of upholding its principles. The Rushdie Affair 1988–1989 was a pivotal moment which constituted Muslims as a political minority identity in Britain (Modood 2006: 41–42; Sayyid 2006). Public expression of Muslim activism against the publication of The Satanic Verses (Rushdie 1988), including publicised burnings of the book in Bradford, constituted ‘Muslim’ as a politicised signifier, not just a religious category, and importantly, as contravening freedom of speech. The 2006 Danish cartoon controversy (Klausen 2009) and 2015 attacks on Charlie Hebdo (Titley and Freedman 2017) were also key moments which called attention to the racialised nature in which performances of language and what is designated as (un)sayable are (re)constituted. Following the Charlie Hebdo attacks on 7 January 2015 in which two Islamist gunmen, Saïd

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and Chérif Kouachi, killed 12 members of staff at the Paris headquarters of the satirical magazine, Charlie Hebdo, the phrase Je suis Charlie was adopted as a declaration of support for free speech and freedom of expression. The attacks were followed by a vaunted performance of the European (white, non-Muslim) subject. Pictured linking arms with thenPresident of France, François Hollande, and Chancellor of Germany, Angela Merkel, then-Prime Minister, David Cameron (cited in The Telegraph 7 January 2015, my italics), claimed freedom of expression and democracy as values sacrosanct to ‘our’ civilised European societies: …we must be very clear about one thing, which is we should never give up the values that we believe in and defend as part of our democracy and civilisation and believing in a free press, in freedom of expression, in the right of people to write and say what they believe.

Muslims, by contrast, are Gothicised as Europe’s uncivilised counterpart which threaten democratic values, including freedom of speech. Maleiha Malik (2011: 26) observes that ‘although liberal democracies guarantee freedom of religion and belief, they seem to do so from a position of superiority where the framework and terms of debate are unilaterally dictated by secular liberalism.’ My contention is not to debate freedom of religion and belief, but to explore how positioning Muslims as extremists unable to partake in the values of free speech has legitimised a dual criminal justice system concerning freedom of speech and political engagement. This chapter focuses on ‘linguistic violence’ (Ponzio 2018), specifically ‘linguistic racism’ (Leonardo and Porter 2010: 140; Derrida and Kamuf 1985: 292), as an important mechanism of racial terror. The focus on Muslims as threats denies them the ‘norms of civility’ (Waldron 2012: 200) that should accompany freedom of speech, enabling the normative citizen to espouse speech which is injurious to Muslims with impunity. I am concerned with the performative nature of speech; the ways in which speech acts ‘do things’ (Austin 1973). Much has been written about the challenges of defining what constitutes hate speech (Brown 2017; Lillian 2007: 731; Hamm 1994) and balancing freedom of speech and hate speech regulations, with some theorists arguing against criminalising hate speech claiming it prohibits

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the right to free speech and is damaging to democracy (Alkiviadou 2018; Heinze 2016; Simpson 2013; Baker 2012; Post 2009). An important paradox emerges within liberal thought whereby hate speech is perceived to challenge core values of freedom and equality whilst conversely, underlines freedom of speech on which such values are based (Brettschneider 2010: 1005). A key proponent of classical liberalism, John Stuart Mill (1859), articulated his ‘harm principle’ in On Liberty (see Bleich 2011b: 917–918) which comprised guidelines for speech that can be legitimately restricted by law. Prohibitions concerning freedom of speech have thus been foundational to the emergence of liberal thought and the basis of debates concerning the boundaries of permissible speech and restrictions justified where values concerning community cohesion, human dignity, public order and psychological harm are threatened. Scant attention has been paid to the restrictions faced by British Muslims to challenge speakers of hate. Those who advocate restrictions on hate speech argue that it is injurious to its targets (Waldron 2012; Butler 1997b; Delgado 1993; Mackinnon 1993; Matsuda et al. 1993; Greenawalt 1989) by violating their dignity and agency, reinforcing negative stereotypes, and detrimentally impacting health and psychological well-being, social cohesion, and democracy (Bonotti 2017; Brown 2015). Following Mary Kate McGowan (2009: 389, original italics), speech not only reflects but can ‘be an act of oppression’ (also Haslanger 2004; Young 1992; Frye 1983) that perpetuates racial hierarchies and exclusions and thus which makes hate speech objectionable politically, socially and morally (Richardson-Self 2018: 257; also Parekh 2017). Legislation introduced in Germany and Austria in the aftermath of World War II, for example, reflected the notion that anti-Semitic acts and racist speech are causally related, the former legitimating the latter (Bleich 2011a: 19–20; also Maussen and Grillo 2014: 178), suggesting that hate speech is an important mechanism through which racial terror is performed. Whilst Erik Bleich (2011b: 917) argues that laws concerning hate speech and hate crime ‘limit the freedom for racists to express themselves,’ my participants argued that despite legal protections concerning racial and religious hatred, they were not only more at risk from racist or Islamophobic speech (the contours of which were debated), but less able

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to challenge its enunciation. Ulrike Vieten and Scott Poynting (2016: 533) observe that a ‘spectre is haunting Europe’ epitomised by right-wing racist movements which, not for the first time, have mobilised across Europe. Whilst my study speaks to an earlier moment, my participants chart the troubling processes of Islamophobic, nationalist and antiimmigrant sentiments which have become the hallmark of Brexit Britain, illustrating their seething presence which the 2016 EU referendum and the so-called refugee crisis (see Abbas 2019) has since capitalised upon. Public and political speech is not impartial and public institutions are shaped by power configurations concerning access, opportunity, reception, and regulation, meaning social inequalities are produced by, and affect, performances of public speech (Maussen and Grillo 2014: 177). As Lord Bhikhu Parekh (2017: 934) concurs, the ‘market place of ideas’ is not neutral; rather, it is an expression of and expresses the ‘prevailing structure of power.’ Following changes to the legislative context post the 7 July 2005 London bombings, disputes concerning what is ‘sayable’ for Muslims relate to the precarious state in which they find themselves located within two interconnected set of circumstances relating to freedom of speech: firstly, the increased threat from hate speech, particularly Islamophobia; and secondly, developments to statutory offences in Sections 1 and 2 of the Terrorism Act 2006 on communications that indirectly encourage terrorism. As Derek McGhee (2005: 94) writes, contradictions in UK legislation have emerged in the post-9/11 context between recognising the need to protect Muslims from a virulent Islamophobia such as by implementing the Racial and Religious Hatred Act 2006, whilst also introducing state of emergency legislation premised on defending the UK from a pernicious ‘Muslim threat’ related to terrorist activities.1 These contradictions undergird the contested terrain of Islamophobia in which within the discursive frame Muslims can be both victims of hate and threats captured by the terms ‘Islamification’ and ‘Islamist,’ enabling the Islamophobe to justify their hatred whilst escaping charges of Islamophobia. Protection through legislative gains is thus undercut. Instead, the discursive space for Islamophobia to be espoused with impunity has opened up. This is because anti-terrorism legislation not only in part contributes to the legitimation of Islamophobia by reiterating Muslims

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as potential terrorists that require greater securitisation than the rest of the populace, but it places restrictions on Muslims to be able to challenge the speaker of hate due to fear that their actions will be interpreted as evidence of extremist behaviours. Importantly, Islamophobic speech is not confined to the street or the far-right, but is present in mainstream political and media arenas, for example, current Prime Minister, Boris Johnson’s (BBC News 6 August 2018), controversial rendering of Muslim women who wear the burka as ‘letter boxes.’ Central to understanding restrictions to freedom of speech is how The Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) defines violent extremism as: The demonstration of unacceptable behaviour by using any means or medium to express views which: • Foment, justify or glorify terrorist violence in furtherance of particular beliefs; • Seek to provoke others to terrorist acts; • Foment other serious criminal activity or seek to provoke others to serious criminal acts; or • Foster hatred which might lead to inter-community violence in the UK. This definition illustrates how violent extremism operates legislatively through a vague definition of ‘unacceptable behaviour.’ Language such as ‘foment,’ ‘justify,’ ‘glorify,’ ‘seek to,’ ‘provoke’ and ‘foster’ support pre-emptive frameworks that focus on incitement to commit offences rather than their actual perpetration. The difficulty this presents is that it requires interpreting the ‘mental element’ (Cram 2009: 99, 101) of proposed criminal offences of indirect incitement or glorification to determine whether an offence has been committed. This definition of violent extremism has attracted criticism because the prosecution is not required to establish if what was said expressly led to an offence. The Joint Committee on Human Rights (2007), for example, highlighted concerns surrounding interpretation of ‘expressions of understanding, explanation or commemoration on the one hand, and encouragement on the other,’ making legitimate protest difficult to engage in without fear of being interpreted as extremist. Concerns centre on establishing the

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intent of expressed views and whether articulating views can be claimed by others as encouraging terrorist activities from being carried out even if no act of violence has been committed. The Concentrationary Gothic is sensitive to the co-constituted nature in which ‘voice “mediates” between identity and experience, where neither is stable or fixed’ (Hunter 2005: 149). In this regard, voice is understood as ‘situated’ (Macdonald 2006: 15), meaning the conditions of possibility of enunciation alter in response to changes in the sociopolitical context. Further, what is said or remains unsaid is contingent on the audience and the power relations that structure the positions available for Muslim subjects depending on how they are represented in the discursive terrain. Contestations regarding voice have been central to postcolonial critiques of the representation of cultural Others within discourse and prohibitions to define their own identities (Macdonald 2006: 15). As Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (1988) has famously posed: ‘Can the subaltern speak?’ The Concentrationary Gothic offers a framework in which to intervene in hegemonic representations of Muslims as ‘terroristmonsters’ (Puar and Rai 2002). The Gothic’s preoccupation with the destabilisation of meanings and categories provides a useful framework for exploring contestations concerning voice and its potential for acting as a ‘mode of resistance’ (Goddu 1997: 155; also Gibbons 2004: 15). Anne Williams (1995: 67) reminds us that Gothic conventions ‘imply a fascination with the problem of language, with possible fissures in the system of the symbolic as a whole’ that is explored through narrative fragmentation and epistemological uncertainty (Smith 2000: 2). By signifying against the history in which Muslims are constructed as terrorist-monsters, the Gothic can be an ally for the ‘the very group it seems to terrorize’ (Goddu 1999: 137). Teresa Goddu (1999: 136) refers to this practice as ‘haunting back’ in which the oppressed group resists demonisation by figuring members of the dominant group as terrorisers. Through reworking the Gothic’s conventions, the potential ‘to intervene in the discourse that would demonize them’ (Goddu 1999: 136) is made possible. A comparable recuperative potential is present in the concentrationary as a prism through which to interrogate practices of bearing witness and

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the ‘impossibility of speaking’ (Chare 2011: 10) about racial terror. In particular, the concept of concentrationary memory has been used as a tool for supporting the potential for resistance by ‘draw[ing] attention to a political logic of terror and a radical threat to democratic society’ (Pollock and Silverman 2014b: 11, original italics). The drawing together of these conceptual frameworks within the Concentrationary Gothic provides a significant means of exploring restrictions to voice experienced by Muslims in the current state of exception of the ‘war on terror’ and the possibility of agitating the conditions under which terror operates for Muslims in contemporary Britain. This strategy supports the Concentrationary Gothic’s objective of advancing an alternative visual schema for understanding racial terror that can enable Muslims to name the practices of terrorisation to which they are subjected within the ‘war on terror’ context of Britain. This chapter engages with contestations concerning voice that participants experience and the possibility of reworking the conventions which Gothicise them as terrorist-monsters to enable the normative white body as terroriser to be brought into view. This chapter is concerned therefore with examining the ‘politics of representation’ (Pollock and Silverman 2011a: 8) involved in setting the terms of Islamophobia for British Muslims within the ‘war on terror’ context and the challenges facing Muslims to name and thus contest the practices of hate speech experienced by them. The chapter is divided into four sections. The first section focuses on Bradford to contextualise the culture of fear emerging from community cohesion agendas post the 2001 disturbances and counter-terrorism in the post-9/11 and 7/7 contexts that have obfuscated performances of racism, both in the events themselves and subsequent political framings; the second section explores restrictions to political engagement within the counter-terrorism context and encroachment on Muslim spaces; section three explores the culture of silence or silencing and its effects on everyday spaces, including how Muslims interact with non-Muslims and importantly, their ability to challenge hate speech. The final section explores strategies of resistance encompassing political mobilisation and challenging negative representations of Islam and Muslims. In Chapter 2, I discussed (post)colonial hauntings which shape British Muslims’ understandings of their place in contemporary Britain. Here I turn full circle to engage with the notion

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of ‘haunting back’ (Goddu 1997, 1999; also Gibbons 2004) as a ‘site of resistance’ (Kim 2014: 411).

2

Contextualising the Culture of Fear

Inciting Hatred: The Case of Bradford Restrictions felt by participants living in Bradford to voice challenges to a virulent Islamophobia which characterises the current environment must be understood in relation to the particular history of Bradford. Incitement of hatred towards local South Asian communities voiced by the British National Party (BNP) is understood in local knowledge as a significant trigger for the 2001 disturbances and subsequent community cohesion agenda (see Cantle 2001). This narrative, however, has largely been overlooked in reports which emphasise self-segregation (Rhodes 2009; Bagguley and Hussain 2008; McGhee 2005; Amin 2002; Kalra 2002) or ‘parallel lives’ (Cantle 2001) of South Asian communities from wider society as the principle cause. Writing on the 2001 disturbances, James Rhodes (2009: unpaginated) notes that unrest in Bradford was encouraged by an increasing far-right presence, ‘both in the riot events themselves and within the local political landscapes.’ Minimising the significance of racism for explaining tensions between communities perpetuates the conditions under which Muslims experience terror, not only from the speaker of hate, but from the lack of legal protection to be able to contest its enactment. The effect is to produce silences around the workings of terror experienced by racialised Others that contribute to its (re)production, as Rahina’s narrative highlights. Rahina lives in Dewsbury, a historic market town in West Yorkshire. She had moved to Nottingham to undertake her degree and then worked in Manchester for four years doing medical research before returning to Yorkshire to undertake her PhD. She is almost 28 and remarks that in her community it is almost unheard of not to be married at her age. For as long as she can remember, her grandfather had declared that his granddaughters would go to university and she remarks that if you look at her family, it is all the girls who are educated rather than the boys, with

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only one out of 17 female family members of university age without a degree. She is extremely close to her extended family who are “practically neighbours,” and she describes popping over to her aunts or uncles or grandparents whenever she is “bored at home.” Her family were originally from India but subsequently moved to Kenya. Her grandparents came to England in the 1960s when her parents were young children (four and six) meaning her parents grew up and were educated in England. Even before her grandparents came, her uncles were sent to Britain for their education. All her siblings are in Britain and she no longer has any family members in India or Kenya. Nearly all of her family live in nearby Batley, another historic mill and market town in West Yorkshire. She talks fondly of her family and she is clearly very close to them, physically and emotionally, having spent every Friday to Sunday at her grandparents with all of her brothers, sisters and cousins as a child, which she tells me she loved: “I never felt I wanted them to go away,” “I wouldn’t change it for anything,” Rahina says devotedly. Rahina lives in an all Muslim community, predominately comprising Indian Muslims but with a few Pakistani Muslims, which she describes as consisting of “all brown people” with absolutely no white people living there. Although she has lived predominately with Indian Muslims, she affectionately tells me “I don’t feel anything but British, it’s the only life I’ve ever known,” giving the example of her delight at watching the Royal Wedding and being part of other British events and traditions. When she goes to India, she does not feel Indian, “I’m somebody from Britain.” Although she would classify herself as “traditional” and loves Indian culture, for her British culture is her own culture, but she explains, it would perhaps be different to someone who identifies as being a white non-Muslim Briton rather than “me who is a Muslim brown Briton.” She describes herself as British-Indian and she wears hijab. Such is her identification with being British that she tells me about a letter which she had published in the Guardian newspaper which narrates how her family settled in Britain and has since worked in a number of British institutions such as the police, herself as a medical researcher, and as engineers, lawyers and so forth. She is proud to have four generations of her family in this country, finishing her narrative

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of her family history by passionately asking: “so how can you say I’m not British?” In the following extract, she takes us back to the Bradford disturbances which happened about 10 years prior and which had clearly made an impact on her. Her account of the Bradford disturbances in 2001 provides important insight into how silencing around racism operates. She examines the productive absence of BNP members as speakers of hate in narratives of the “riots,” which reinforces narrations of young South Asian men as the aggressors: When the Bradford ‘riots’ happened I was quite young then, probably about 18 and erm when they happened it was because the BNP came and they did this whole speech and then the young Bradford Muslims – actually it was Muslims and Sikhs – went and protested or demonstrated against BNP and what happened was the police used force on these young Muslims and Sikhs and that’s why they retaliated … I’m not excusing what they did, because what they did wasn’t right, but all you read in the papers was erm that it was the young Muslim kids who did this … but everyone forgets to mention that it was BNP who came and incited hatred, and it was the police that used force against the young Muslim, Asian population – it’s just Muslims terrorised it, Muslims destroyed their own backyard and the rest of it, but what about the other side?

Rahina contests strategies of silencing involved in the reporting of the 2001 Bradford disturbances and its omission of racism as a root cause of the outbreak of violence. Absence of subjugated standpoints from accounts of events has attracted significant critique from postcolonial scholars (Bhabha 1997; Spivak 1988) and black feminists (Hill Collins 2009; hooks 1992). Donna Haraway (2004: 88, 89) writes of the importance of subjugated knowledge for producing ‘transforming accounts of the world’ that involve ‘partial, locatable, critical knowledges.’ By denying victims of racism space to voice their experiences, alternative explanations for the disturbance are disqualified as ‘knowledge’ (see Foucault 2004: 7). Silencing reproduces a particular representation of young South Asian males as violent whilst removing speakers of hate, such as supporters of the BNP, from accountability. This practice masks technologies of power involved in perpetuating hate speech that are not confined to the extremist fringes of the BNP, but are taken up by a

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number of actors (see Patel and Tyrer 2011: 36–37), including within the media as discussed here and political framings such as subsequent community cohesion agendas (Cantle Report 2001; also Denham 2002; Ouseley 2001; Community Cohesion Panel 2004). Rahina describes how incitement of hatred by the BNP comprises a form of ‘community forgetting’: “everyone forgets to mention.” As Amanda Wise (2017: 255) argues in her discussion of the 2005 Cronulla Riots in Sydney between white and Arabic-speaking Australians, such silences underline existing ‘patterns of racism’ within the nation, providing little scope for considering “the other side,” as Rahina laments. Her intervention is an example of ‘haunting back’ (Goddu 1999: 138; also Gibbons 2004: 15) by resisting hegemonic misrepresentations of the oppressed group. Goddu (1999: 138) observes that the Gothic has been used by African-American authors to ‘resurrect and resist America’s racial history.’ This involves intervening in the discourses which demonise racial Others and advancing an alternative historicity which speaks of racial terrors enacted against them. Similarly, Rahina uses the language used to demonise young Muslims males who “terrorise their own back yards.” She both challenges articulations of young South Asian males as terrorisers and opens up discursive space for the BNP and police to be positioned as antagonists within the narrative. However, Goddu (1997: 2) also draws attentions to the limitations of the Gothic for reworking social relations. She notes that the ‘gothic may unveil the ideology of official discourse, but its transformative power can be limited’ because historical representations are constructed through a network which makes intervention difficult. Rahina’s use of “terrorised” simultaneously draws attention to the ongoing association of young South Asians, particularly Muslim males, with violence and criminality (Alexander 2004) and their links in the current national imaginary with terrorist violence. The internal threat that Muslims are understood to pose, captured by Rahina’s description that they performed their violence within their “own backyard,” draws connections to articulations of the Muslim following 7/7 as the ‘home-grown-terrorist’; a figure which is understood to launch attacks against its fellow citizens from within the nation’s borders. The Gothicisation of Muslims as terrorists means they

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are already understood to be perpetrators rather than victims of extremist behaviours. Nonetheless, her account refuses Gothicised representations of South Asian men as endemically violent by locating their actions within the socio-politico context in which racial hatred is a persistent, determining, and detrimental feature of their experiences, and which local South Asian communities believe they have limited means to counter from within the law. This perception is supported in academic research into the 2001 disturbances. Paul Bagguley and Yasmin Hussain’s (2008: 50– 63) detailed study, for example, provides a comparable trajectory of the history of antagonism between South Asians and the police in Bradford resulting from institutional racism and a perceived failure to protect the local South Asian community from racist victimisation traceable from the National Front (NF) in the 1970s to the English Defence League (EDL) established in Luton in 2009 (see Jackson 2017: 85–114; Busher 2016; Pilkington 2016; Busher 2016; Kassimeris and Jackson 2015). Rahina’s words highlight significant debates concerning legal sanctions of hate speech around intent and interpretation and the protection (and limitations therein) that they afford subjects. Whilst she does not excuse the form of retaliation which these young men engaged in, she nonetheless poses a significant challenge to dominant conceptions concerning which bodies comprise the injured parties in the narrative of the disturbances by identifying hate speech voiced by the BNP against the South Asian community as a form of injury and importantly, as having material, violent consequences. For Rahina, the intention of the BNP was to come and “incite hatred” against the South Asian community, thus constituting an offence where, according to the Public Order Act 1986 (c.64), racial hatred occurs if: A person who uses threatening, abusive or insulting words or behaviour, or displays any written material which is threatening, abusive or insulting, is guilty of an offence if— (a) he intends thereby to stir up racial hatred, or (b) having regard to all the circumstances racial hatred is likely to be stirred up thereby.

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That the BNP were able to come into Bradford and give a speech which had the effect of stirring up racial hatred leading to violent outbreak, raises questions concerning under what terms freedom of speech can operate. Further, it highlights the differential effects of incitement laws on differently racialised bodies and the implications these have in terms of protection afforded by the law and its enactment. The legislative definition offered here poses two caveats to the use of language: a) ‘he intends thereby;’ and b) ‘is likely to be stirred up’ which raise problems, both in terms of defining whether intent is present, and the causal relationship between the use of threatening, abusive, or insulting words or behaviour (which again raises problems concerning how such words or behaviour are to be defined and by whom) to the outcome of stirring up racial hatred. The ability to exploit such legal loopholes depends however, on the position of the speaker and the power that he/she has to avoid accusations of hate. Judith Butler (1997b: 13) observes that no definitive consensus is possible concerning the link between the words uttered and their putative capacity to injure. Importantly, definitions centre on ‘who does the interpreting of what words mean and what they perform’ (Butler 1997b: 13, my italics). How legislation regarding hate speech is enacted is thus inevitably linked to power relations concerning voice and the conditions of possibility of its enunciation. The subject positions that are available are connected to how bodies are defined in law. As I have argued in previous chapters, those defined as outside the category of whiteness are excluded from the privileges that the law confers (Harris 1993), that include freedom of speech. Jock Young (2003: 458) writes that these were young people who ‘had the same accents and expectations as the white youths… They scarcely needed teaching citizenship or English—they knew full well that bad policing was a violation of their citizenship…’ Young illustrates the centrality of language to citizenship and the assertion of rights that citizenship status is meant to afford. Yet despite sharing the same language, and even the same local accent that locates one to a shared place, the persistence of racism informs limitations for racialised subjects to be able to take up comparable positions within discourses of rights as their white normative counterparts. Rhodes (2009: unpaginated) notes how the disturbances

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were framed as ‘a rejection of citizenship rather than an assertion of belonging, a demand for full acceptance free from racist exclusion, or the “violence of the violated”’ (see Kundnani et al. 2001; also Bagguley and Hussain 2008; Amin 2002). By framing the disturbances in terms of self-segregation, the government provided credence to the BNP who spoke of the intolerable presence of South Asians to social cohesion. The Bradford disturbance provides an example of state sanctioning of hate speech against a racialised community therefore. Such silencing protects the speaker of hate from accountability for the detrimental impact that racism has for inter-community relations and misrepresents the victim of hate as the aggressor within the narrative of the “riot.” The EDL presents a different type of challenge in the contemporary moment, but one which must be understood as building from the set of circumstances following the 2001 disturbances that have contributed to current fears expressed by participants to oppose anti-Muslim hate speech. These fears centre on how to protest against incitement to hatred without the risk of being handed harsh prison sentences which comprise the legacy of the Bradford disturbances within the community memory of the many Muslim families that were affected, either directly or indirectly.2 I explore Rahina’s account of how the EDL overtly perpetrate hatred against Muslims during intense and often violent protests across the country, including in Bradford (2010, 2013) and Leeds (2009) during the period of my research: It’s like with the EDL coming – the EDL come and demonstrate and I know people … that go out and demonstrate against the EDL all the time and it’s them that gets the force used, not the EDL, even though it’s EDL inciting hatred you know. And EDL will openly tell you things and use ridiculous terms like ‘Islamification’ and ‘Muslimisation’ and whatever it is – terms that don’t even exist but to make you feel there’s a big issue, but there isn’t really you know. You could go and sit next to a Muslim in a coffee shop and they’ll say hello to you and you can have a conversation with a Muslim and it’s no different to having a conversation with a nonMuslim but they – like the term Islamophobia – what does it mean? It’s not even in the dictionary, but there is something that exists.

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Rahina argues that unjust policing of incitement laws negatively impacts Muslims who protest against the EDL. Her account illustrates shifts from race to religion in the post-9/11 context as the ‘new face of discrimination’ (Allen 2005: 49–65; also McGhee 2005: 92–117). At the time of the Bradford disturbances, Muslims as a group were not protected on account of their religious identity (McGhee 2005: 104). Muslims have since been afforded legal protection as a religious group through the Public Order Act 1986, extended by the Racial and Religious Act 2006. However, this legislation also enables charges to be made against Muslims in a context in which the subject position of the Islamist extremist intent on imposing an Islamic state holds credence. Rahina presents a worrying trend of the discursive space which has opened up for the far right to “openly” voice their hatred towards Muslims. This discursive space is strengthened by the emergence of linguistic terms which support Islamophobia such as “Islamification”; a term which has been used by the far-right to damning effect as described here, and which has shaped ‘hostile public attitudes towards Muslims’ (Taras 2013: 418). Patricia Hill Collins (2009) writes of the difficulties for subordinate groups to have their knowledge claims validated. She argues that far from knowledge being apolitical, it is connected to power relations that ‘shape who is believed and why’ (Hill Collins 2009: 270), which in this scenario depends on whose case of harm—the victim of a threatening hatred towards anyone who is not Muslim that is implied in the term “Islamification,” or the victim of a virulent hatred towards Muslims on account of their religion—is believed. Right-wing political parties have gained strength through focusing on an ‘Islamic threat’ to the West (Ekman 2015: 1986). The EDL has consistently denied accusations of Islamophobia, presenting itself as a human rights organisation intent on preserving freedom of speech against ‘Islamic extremism’ (Kassimeris and Jackson 2015: 172), which illustrates the mutability of racism to reformulate whilst decrying its presence. There is a troubling convergence of far-right and ‘liberal intelligentsia’ (Khan and Mythen 2015: 4, 5), whereby freedom of speech is used as a mechanism for espousing Islamophobia whilst bypassing charges of Islamophobia. Open adoption of the subject position of ‘Islamophobe’ expressed by the well-known columnist, Polly Toynbee,

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in her article ‘I’m an Islamophobe—and proud of it’ (Independent 23 October 1997), which she reiterates in ‘Last chance to speak out’ (Guardian 5 October 2001), illustrates the sanction that Islamophobic speech has above other forms of discrimination (Allen 2005). The term ‘Islamification’ has an affective purchase within the current socio-political context so that non-Muslims come to “feel there’s a big issue,” as Rahina describes. Affect is experienced beyond the field of discourse but has an effect upon discourse (Solomon 2012: 907). This is because affect can be mobilised so that certain discourses are more likely to be invested in than others and in turn, shape what comes to be ‘known.’ Drawing from a poststructuralist approach, Chris Weedon (2003: 22, 21) contends that language does not reflect social ‘reality’ but constitutes it for us. This contention is significant for understanding how the use of words to describe a particular phenomenon can bring it into existence. Although Rahina debunks Islamification as “ridiculous,” the term provides this social phenomenon with a ‘reality’ which can be spoken of, such that it comes to shape people’s perceptions and the affective context in which relations between Muslims and non-Muslims are (re)constituted. As Rahina notes, the use of the terms “Islamification” and “Muslimnisation” produces the Muslim as a “problem” and contributes to conceptions that Muslims are a different type of subject, even a different type of being, that affects the forms of social organisation that are made possible between Muslims and non-Muslims. In response, Rahina emphasises the normalness of Muslim people, arguing that having a conversation with a Muslim is no different, which reasserts their place within the category of ‘human.’ By emphasising dialogue between Muslims and non-Muslims as a means of beneficial engagement rather than the occasion for hate speech, Rahina offers a potential challenge to the divisions that “Islamification” entails and its dependence on the production of a threatening Muslim Other that cannot be engaged with for its saliency. In this regard, voice ‘mediates’ between relations and experience that are unfixed (Hunter 2005: 153), but which are connected to wider configurations of power that determine which ways of seeing the world become hegemonic. Challenging the operation of Islamophobia involves contestations over its meaning and ‘the power to set the political vocabulary’ (Vakil 2010:

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24) of its enunciation and by extension, the subject positions that are available within the discourse. The significance of defining the terms of Islamophobia is highlighted by Rahina, informing her question: “what does [Islamophobia] mean?” As McGhee (2005: 93) argues, legislating against hate, particularly incitement, is a difficult process that requires ‘careful calibration of the reasonable and unreasonable, the lawful and the unlawful, to determine which actions or behaviours should, or should not, be legislated against.’ Rahina’s reference to the absence of Islamophobia from the dictionary highlights the difficulties that have beset defining Islamophobia whilst also suggesting that there is more to understanding Islamophobia and its effects than an official definition can alert us. Rather, it is something that is experienced, a “something” that “exists” but yet cannot easily be named. Not setting the grounds for redress has important implications concerning the extent to which Muslims can be protected from Islamophobic hate speech and informs current debates around devising an official definition of Islamophobia as an important means of safeguarding Muslims. A formal definition was offered by the All Party Parliamentary Group on British Muslims (APPG 2018: 11) that Islamophobia is ‘rooted in racism and is a type of racism that targets expressions of Muslimness or perceived Muslimness.’ However, the government has rejected the proposed definition because according to the Communities Secretary, James Brokenshire MP (cited in Dearden 16 May 2019), it was not in line with the Equality Act 2010. He argued it had ‘potential consequences for freedom of speech’ and further, that the coupling of race and religion would elicit ‘legal and practical issues.’ This illustrates how hate speech is intimately connected to freedom of speech, the boundaries of which are uncertain; further, reveals the racialised nature of speech and what is (un)sayable that affords differential protections depending on one’s location within discourses of Islamophobia. The government’s rejection has invited accusations such as from Labour MP, Naz Shah (cited in Dearden 16 May 2019), that it is ‘not serious about the safety and security of British Muslims,’ illustrating the contested political terrain concerning Islamophobia and its parameters among both political elites and the populace.

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Understanding the effects of Islamophobia not only requires examining the ways in which it operates as a form of speech, but how it works through silencing within a culture of fear concerning freedom of speech and political engagement experienced by British Muslims, as the next part examines.

Counter-Terrorism Post-9/11 and the Culture of Fear Following the 2001 disturbances and 9/11, there has been a convergence of community cohesion and counter-terrorism initiatives (Husband and Alam 2011; McGhee 2008) that frame Muslims as a threat to national security and British values. Somewhat paradoxically, legislation has simultaneously been introduced which protects Muslims qua Muslim, as Zanaib recounts: …there’s been a lot going on in the past 10 years about community cohesion, equality, the equality bill, you know religious discrimination, the acts that have come in – so it’s linked to all of that – and I would say global events definitely. So there’s a whole – and the emphasis on young women and young men and Muslim communities – so I think probably all of that and the Prevent stuff…

Zanaib speaks of policy emphases placed on young British Muslims that are informed by gendered inscriptions and intersecting local, national, and global contexts. British Muslims are treated as threatening Others to social cohesion and national security, informing community cohesion agendas and counter-terrorism policy such as Prevent (HM Government 2011a) and, simultaneously, in need of protection against religious discrimination and inequality. British Muslims thus occupy an ambiguous legislative position amid the development of legislation to legally protect Muslims from religious discrimination such as the Racial and Religious Hatred Act 2006 and introduction of the Equality Act 2010 which identifies religion as a ‘protected characteristic’ to help safeguard individuals from religious discrimination within the workplace and wider society.

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Such safeguards are of particular importance amid the growing threat from far-right extremism, which at this time, as Rahina also observes, is largely absent from accounts of extremism due to the emphasis placed on Islamist extremism. Zanaib describes her involvement with Bradford Women for Peace, which as with the We are Bradford campaign discussed later, had mobilised in lieu of the EDL marching in Bradford in August 2010. Whilst she was putting up green ribbons in the local area as symbols of peace, she was approached by a young lad of around 17 or 18 who disclosed to her that he was a member of the EDL and was planning to march the following day. He asked her whether all the Asian women were leaving Bradford, which is what he had heard, illustrating the silencing effects that can accompany performances of race hate due to fear. From what she described as a “wonderful conversation” with him, whom she spoke compassionately of, Zanaib witnessed how disenfranchised young white males had been “groomed” by far-right extremists and schooled in naming “extremist jihad” as a legitimate issue to be protesting against that, by naming Muslims as a threat, enables Islamophobic attitudes to thrive. Importantly, Zanaib notes that whilst emphasis had been placed on Islamist extremism, far-right extremism has been “flourishing”; a situation which is now reflected in statistics, with those receiving Channel support due to concerns of right-wing radicalisation (Home Office 2020a) now outstripping Islamist radicalisation (43 per cent compared to 30 per cent of the 697 Channel cases for the year ending March 2020). Zanaib’s account of events back in 2010 highlights that the signs were there, which as a member of the threatened group she was monitoring in keeping with a concentrationary memory, but which had yet to receive significant political attention. Such silencing helps facilitate Islamophobic attitudes and strengthens Muslims’ association with extremism whilst misrepresenting the threat of white terror, and indeed supports its pernicious ascendance. Despite legislative gains, participants spoke of the emergence of a “culture of fear” that has taken precedence within the counter-terrorism context, which offsets legal protections for Muslims as Rafee (a 33-yearold British male living in Leeds of English and Kashmiri heritage who is

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a non-practising Muslim) discusses. Having been subjected to a violently racist incident whilst at school, tackling racism was an issue that was close to Rafee’s heart. He describes his outlook as international, and this was one of his key values which was strengthened by his personal biography and his professional and activist work with asylum seekers. He described how his experiences of having travelled, being active in the community in terms of local, national, and international issues, and having met people who were really suffering through his work, had profoundly shaped him. He has friends “from across the spectrum” in terms of nationality, background, culture, religion and education he tells me. Significantly, Rafee identifies more with what he terms the “multicultural status” because he confides that he finds it easier to relate to those with that outlook. By contrast, he does not feel able to have a “full and relaxed and open debate” with what he terms, “the indigenous English people kind of perspective”; an outlook which he views as “alien” to him and in the presence of its subscribers would mean that he would have to carefully consider how he positioned himself, thus inducing a feeling of unease. In particular, he finds it difficult to engage with people who do not share his values of respecting other nationalities and cultures. Rafee was brought up in a mixed heritage family. His father is from the occupied region of Kashmir and his mum is “born and bred” in Leeds. He confides that he does not feel “English, English.” When his parents met, his mother was working in a library in Birmingham and his father was training to be a doctor and subsequently made it to the top of his profession. A decision was made, he tells me, on a coin toss of whether to set up in Canada or to join his uncle in Iran; the outcome was to go to Iran, shortly before the Iranian Revolution broke out in 1979. They stayed in Iran through some challenging times. His mother decided to return to Leeds when she fell pregnant with Rafee because she was unwell and the facilities were inadequate. Rafee was born and then taken back to Iran. When the revolution broke out, he was only 18 months old and they had to make an arduous journey to escape. During the toughest moments, Rafee was hidden under the floorboards of an ambulance when travelling to Tehran. Due to the violent unfolding of the revolution, the British Red Cross had to crash land. One of the Iranian fighters put a machinegun to his mother’s back. At the time she spoke

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fluent Farsi and she turned round to him, Rafee narrates, and said, “I loved your country, leave me alone!” The soldier let her go and she was airlifted with Rafee to Cyprus, and after a while, back to the UK. His mother told him that she was one of the last Western people to leave Iran at the time. For Rafee, his dual heritage gave him experiences of “two different sides of life” in terms of knowledge, culture, and religious practice, which he describes as “second nature” to him. When asked whether he was brought up Muslim (his father is Muslim but his mother is Christian), he explains that following his parents’ divorce when he was a young child, his mother instructed him and his sister that when they reached a point in their lives to make the decision for themselves they could choose their path. He says that by name he was brought up Muslim, but he would classify himself as someone with Muslim heritage rather than a practising Muslim. It is in the arena of political engagement that his dual heritage has particular significance. He reasoned that he had better insight and empathy of what is happening globally than native Britons, which enabled him “to have the arguments and all the points to be able to stand up and say what you need to say.” However, as the following account shows, the ability to speak out about political issues in the post-9/11 is challenging amid the “culture of fear” for those like him who support a multicultural outlook; a stance which he perceives runs counter to state responses and legislation characterising the ‘war on terror’ context: The culture of fear has obviously been as a direct result of the horrific events that happened on the 11th September 2001 and also the 7th July 2005. And obviously following those two terrorist attacks, which we all condemn erm, and which are absolutely horrific acts of murder erm – but rather than the authorities question the governments of both the United Kingdom and United States of America, the police forces, the local forces, rather than them actually addressing the true issues and not making, and not putting into place all these erm laws passed through Parliament, I think that’s brought about the culture of fear whereby… there have been so many acts passed whereby erm any group who gets together erm that doesn’t represent the mainstream ideas of peoples – in other words people like us who are against wars, who are in favour of peace, who are in favour

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of a multicultural society and a much better world, obviously we are put to one side and obviously a very easy target really for people to say oh well these particular grouping of people are subversive, and I think that the culture of fear is such now that erm groups like ours you know – let’s not make any mistake – will be erm you know, will be there for governments and authorities to watch.

Rafee articulates the ‘affective politics of fear’ (Ahmed 2004: 132) within the ‘war on terror,’ or what Ben Anderson (2009) terms ‘affective atmosphere,’ that sets the terms of political engagement and how terror/ism is framed within political discourse and legislation, that in turn, shapes performances of silence and speech (Markovi´c 2018: 127). Rafee is compelled to define the terrorist attacks of 9/11 and 7/7 as “horrific.” Writing on the US context, Robin Cameron (2007: 74) argues that ‘war on terror’ foreign policies have instituted a ‘permanent war mentality’ that facilitates suspicion of Muslim Americans to protect domestic security. This mentality encourages citizens to selfpolice such as by distancing themselves from the category of terrorist and stating 9/11 was an “horrific” event before critiquing US foreign policies’ (Cameron 2007: 74); a tactic which Rafee employs here. Comparably, Claire Valier (2002: 320) observes the ‘powers of horror’ within contemporary punitive populism comprising both political life and institutional practices. Silencing surrounding these events delimits political discussion, preventing alternative explanations for the attacks from being engaged with. Ruth Frankenberg (2005: 555) refers to the ‘instant ahistoricism’ of 9/11 (and I would include 7/7), suggesting that these are universal turning points where the white world felt the effects of a particular sort of terror which takes primacy over other contexts of terror (including the subsequent ‘war on terror’), and which function as ‘no fly zones around examination of its origins, its meanings and its consequences.’ Such silences keep hegemonic representations of the terrorist embodied as Muslim in place and sustain absences of state terrorism performed by Western governments from frames of terror/ism; a point I develop later. Here, Rafee is talking about his involvement in the Stop the War Coalition,3 a British group established shortly after the 11 September

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attacks to campaign against what it perceived as unjust wars such as the 2001 war in Afghanistan and Iraq War 2003. Ben O’Loughlin and Marie Gillespie (2012: 115) found that in a context of ‘creeping securitisation,’ negative political and media discourses, heightened religious and racial discrimination, and uncertainty concerning the possibility of multicultural citizenship, British Muslims have sought alternative arenas and forms of political engagement and debate. They use the term ‘dissenting citizenship’ which rather than reflecting disaffected citizenship, involves British Muslims working ‘critically within… [in order to] revitalise mainstream politics… to safeguard their citizenship status via local and translocal personalised forms of political action rather than engage in conventional forms of national party politics’ (O’Loughlin and Gillespie 2012: 115). However, Rafee highlights an important tension here concerning the power imbalances that underline demarcations of “mainstream” and “subversive” and the particular risks these propose for Muslim subjects which is missing from O’Loughlin and Gillespie’s (2012) study. An important political backdrop has been the retreat from state multiculturalism in favour of complying with ‘Britishness’ (Meer and Modood 2009b; McGhee 2008; Kundnani 2007: 6–7; Modood 2007: 47–48); a position which Rafee and his fellow activists as supporters of a multicultural society, forcefully oppose. Members of the local Stop the War group in Leeds that Rafee was part of were engaged in a range of anti-racist/fascist/Islamophobia campaigns that contested the assimilationist turn in government discourse. The demise of multiculturalism has become a mainstream position meaning that as Rafee articulates, those who are in favour of a multicultural society risk being seen as subversive. Writing on the Canadian context, Rafeef Ziadah (2017: 7) similarly observes that articulations of a ‘crisis of multiculturalism’ in favour of a national identity constructed around a set of Western ‘core values’ has entrenched a ‘marginalising politics’ that along with funding cuts (which have also marked the UK context), function to ‘discipline dissent’ within racialised communities. Whilst focus has been placed on the role of far-right groups and sensationalist media in propagating Islamophobia, less attention has been paid to mainstream politicians’ part in fostering Islamophobia (Moosavi 2015;

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also Warsi 2018; Ekman 2015), what Tina Patel and David Tyrer (2011: 43) refer to as a ‘mainstream mood’ in which the far-right has exploited fears of the Muslim Other that has been encouraged by the media and the state during the ‘war on terror’ (Afshar et al. 2005: 263). As Jocelyn Cesari (2004: 41) contends, ‘Islamophobia reaches all the way up to the highest levels of government[s].’ A case in point has been recent allegations of Islamophobia within the Conservative Party, including senior politicians such as current Prime Minister, Boris Johnson MP, which has instigated repeated calls for an independent inquiry into Islamophobia by the Muslim Council of Britain and supported by former co-chair of the party, Baroness Warsi, (Independent Online 19 June 2019). Significantly, framing failures of multiculturalism as a security issue has helped legitimise the curtailment of Muslims’ civil liberties. For example, during my fieldwork, then Prime Minster, David Cameron, gave his first speech as Prime Minister on radicalisation and causes of terrorism on 5 February 2011 at the Munich Security Conference in which he infamously argued ‘state multiculturalism’ has failed. Cameron’s (2011) speech invigorated far-right mobilisations that had gathered at one of the largest anti-Islam rallies in Britain staged by the EDL within hours of his controversial speech (The Observer Online 5 February 2011). Focus has been placed on Muslims as the ‘enemy within’ (Warsi 2018; Fekete 2004, 2009) charged with the failures of multiculturalism and in need of integration (Casey Review 2016; Moosavi 2015: 668). The raft of anti-terrorism legislation introduced since 2001 illustrates how security has become a ‘highly politicized arena’ and further, a ‘terrain on which politicians can exploit and manipulate for political gain’ (Pantazis and Pemberton 2012: 652). Christina Pantazis and Simon Pemberton (2012: 652, 654) identify the development of a ‘centre-right consensus’ that has enabled successive legislative moves towards authoritarianism concerning security concerns which has infringed Muslims’ civil liberties in favour of the ‘law-abiding majority.’ Although the question of civil liberties has been raised on occasion, such as the parliamentary vote on the Counter-Terrorism Bill 2008 involving a libertarian component of the Conservative Party and Liberal Democrats challenging New Labour’s provision to extend detention without trial

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from 28 to 42 days, the security consensus has been decidedly hegemonic, with important ramifications concerning political protest by legitimating certain perspectives whilst simultaneously ‘discredit[ing] and marginaliz[ing] alternative voices’ (Pantazis and Pemberton 2012: 655); a situation which Rafee knows all too well. Silencing works through protest groups paradoxically being made absent from the public arena and subject to heighted surveillance: “put to one side” i.e. ignored, comprising a failure to be heard, whilst simultaneously being made an “easy target” as Rafee reports. This latter strategy precipitates self-surveillance as a protective measure which prohibits legitimate challenges from being undertaken and encourages state terrors to be performed with impunity. Security measures work in conjunction with silencing by privileging a particular ‘frame of war’ (Butler 2009) to justify security measures, thus stifling critique. Silence is not outside of discourse (Foucault 1981: 27), but as Emanuel Boussios (2019: 119) argues, ‘discourses authorize who can speak, and what can be spoken about, how it is spoken about and what should be taken seriously,’ whilst also disqualifying other voices whose speech is foreclosed or vilified, in this case, by being interpellated as “subversion” and thus threats to the social and political order. The power to name groups as problematic is an important tactic in delimiting political dissent by instilling fear of reprisals for criticising government agendas. Indeed, a hallmark of authoritarian systems is to abolish political opposition (Pollock and Silverman 2011a; 2014a, b: 3, Pollock 2015: 17–19; Agamben 1998, 2005; Arendt 1996; Rousset 1946) whereby, as Charlotte Barlow and Imran Awan (2016: 7) contend, ‘the silencing of subordinate voices is a common way that institutional power operates.’ I am not claiming that political dissent is impossible, but groups which do not represent mainstream government agendas perceive themselves to be more at risk of state attention, as Rafee describes here, and as I develop later, such fears are more acute for Muslim members as the target of anti/counter-terrorism measures. Fears of being surveilled have encouraged activist groups to undertake internal surveillance measures of new members in order to protect themselves from being infiltrated by state informers; a practice which, initially

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unbeknown to me, I was subjected to when attending the Leeds antiwar group’s public meetings to ensure that my ‘story’ of being a doctoral researcher at Leeds University could be verified (see Chapter 1). In the following exchange, I am discussing the incident with Rafee, who became a key gatekeeper for my research and my final interviewee: Rafee: Sadly there has to be a vetting that takes place and you know me being a very open-minded, and you know naïve young person erm, that’s not necessarily the first thing that I would think of really erm. And I do feel quite bad inside that I have to—that there’s you know that I have to challenge my own perceptions about trusting everybody … But obviously people who have arrived have now gone through that vetting process [both laugh, he is meaning me!] and been vetted correctly and properly! Madeline: What do you fear could happen? What is the fear? Rafee: I think the fear is erm you know that there could be infiltrators like there have been in other groups. For example, the case that has been brought to light in the media in the last 2 months or so about the policeman working undercover in the, one of the—I think it was one of the environmental groups who was reporting back to the police … so you have to be a bit careful. Madeline: Is it the fear of being reported back? Rafee: Definitely Madeline: And somehow being misrepresented? Rafee: Well misrepresented, or even you know, circled in on by the authorities or the government or whatever—being put on a watch list or whatever they want to say. Madeline: So is it the fear of surveillance? Rafee: Yes I suppose so yeah. Madeline: This feeling that you might end up being watched? Rafee: Definitely.

Rafee speaks of the sadness he feels as a result of the culture of fear, further highlighting the affective nature of speech and silence. Being suspicious of others runs counter to Rafee’s trusting nature, but which he internalises as a protective strategy in order to mitigate risks of state terror tactics of infiltration, surveillance, and being reported on. He is alarmed when his mobile number is given out to a researcher by

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the national office for Stop the War, highlighting how Rafee positions himself differently in respect to the risks he faces compared to other members of the organisation, and thus the measures he needs to put in place to maintain his privacy. Writing on Muslim youth political engagement in New York, Arshad Imtiaz Ali (2016: 79) similarly found that the ‘gaze of state security’ ‘altered notions of trust, relationships, and social participation to limit the construction of political subjectivity.’ Importantly, these fears, whether real or imagined, institute forms of internal and self-surveillance, altering how members relate to new recruits and further illustrate the reproductive effects of terror as they are internalised by members of the subordinate group and retransmitted, negatively impacting political engagement and freedom of speech. The culture of fear thus constrains political alliances from being formed. It is important to note that Rafee’s fears were much more pronounced than his fellow white, non-Muslim members, indicated by his instigation and overseeing of internal “security checks,” suggesting that he considered himself to be more at risk if an infiltrator slipped through the net. Rafee further illustrates racialised power asymmetries concerning speech within the counter-terrorism context by potentially criminalising dissent against the ‘war on terror,’ as he explains: I think the environment, I think the culture of fear that we now have … the laws particularly that have been passed in Parliament, obviously of which there have been numerous over the past 10 years erm … particularly of the incitement laws that we have at the moment … it’s very difficult now to kind of stay on the right side of the law without you know getting into trouble really…

A key legislative development which has contributed to the culture of fear affecting British Muslims has been the Terrorism Act 2006 concerning incitement to terrorism which disproportionately affects Muslims because of their perceived association with terrorism. More recently, the Serious Crime Act 2015 provides further mechanisms for ‘policing of oppositional viewpoints’ (Khan and Mythen 2015; McGarry and Mythen 2015: 3.4). For Rafee, these legislative developments have

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contributed to a dual criminal justice system for Muslims and nonMuslims where for him, such restrictions make it harder to “stay on the right side of the law” if he were to criticise the government. The law here, rather than offering protection, is a means of silencing and containing dissent as a feature of the state of exception affecting British Muslims. Incitement laws are another example of pre-emptive counter-terrorism measures where it is not whether a terrorist act has been committed that is the focus, but more alarming, that a claim can be made of the intention to incite others. Key here therefore, is the power to interpret what constitutes a terrorist offence. As extremism is defined by Prevent (HM Government 2011a: 107) as ‘vocal or active opposition to British values, including democracy, the rule of law, including liberty and mutual respect and tolerance of different faiths and beliefs,’ political dissent and legitimate challenge risk being interpreted as illegal (Khan and Mythen 2015: 3.4). Since Muslims are already imagined as potential terrorists, the possibility for their speech to be misrepresented as incitement to terrorism comprises the culture of fear experienced by British Muslims where the possibility of “getting into trouble,” as Rafee describes, is a haunted futurity. Unsurprisingly, such fears have made some British Muslims wary of engaging in political protests like Stop the War or Unite Against Fascism demonstrations, as I discuss in the next section.

3

Restrictions to Political Engagement and Protest There was a time when I felt really scared and I even felt quite scared from the police because they were … randomly going into Muslim people’s homes that were no risk at all – and just maybe, you know, attended a demonstration, and as a result of that they were getting victims – you know, targeted as being a terrorist. (Leila)

I return to Leila’s fears of home raids being visited upon Muslim communities discussed in Chapter 4, this time to focus on the link that she

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makes between Muslims’ engagement in political activities and state targeting. Leila believes that for British Muslims, exercising their legitimate political rights to protest could attract state surveillance, leading to them being “targeted” as terrorists. This raises an important question about whether counter-terrorism measures are more about disciplining Muslims, including their political proclivities, turning them into ‘docile bodies’ (Foucault 1977: 135–169), rather than disrupting terrorism. For Leila, the police are part and parcel of state terrors arising from unjust policing of Muslim communities, which potentially delimits their freedoms to engage in legitimate political protest without fear of reprisals. Although Leila tells me that she does not know anyone that has experienced their home being raided, the culture of fear permeates Muslim communities as she discloses: Madeline: Did you know anyone that this [home raids] has happened to? Leila: No but it happened in Beeston and in London and on the tele and people were coming up and giving talks and saying it happened to my husband.

Terrors of counter-terrorism circulate Muslim communities as subjugated knowledges. In response, members of the oppressed group have mobilised in order to raise awareness of home raids by giving talks around the country, including in Beeston, a suburb of Leeds, which gained notoriety as the home-place and meeting point for three of the 7/7 bombers. These interventions illustrate how Muslim populations refuse to be silenced. However, these activities also illustrate how terror travels as both real and symbolic threats, meaning that terror is more pervasive than those directly subjected to state measures. The ability to bear witness, “saying it happened,” is nonetheless crucial to challenging silencing around home raids and potentially, their enactment. The account also highlights the gendered nature in which state terrors and silencing interrelate. State silencing of Muslim male voices through detention and imprisonment has placed increased importance on the role of Muslim women to speak out about state terrors endured by their husbands and other male family members resulting from injustices surrounding counter-terrorism policing. Stacey Burlet and Helen Reid (1998) chart the visibility of Muslim women within the public sphere

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in their discussion of the aftermath of the 1995 disturbance in Bradford involving male Pakistani Muslim youths protesting against alleged police brutality, what they term a ‘gendered uprising.’ As discussed in previous chapters, Muslim women occupy important and diverse roles within counter-terrorism—as witnesses, suspects and victims responsible for supporting families and community members affected, both their own and other Muslim community members. Intersections of race, religion, and gender are important for understanding the politics of representation and its complexities therefore. Here, Leila speaks of resistances to silencing around the terrors of counter-terrorism. By contrast, she also articulates the threat of depoliticisation as a corollary of the culture of fear: …I was really frightened at the time because I’d been on some demonstrations and I’d been active you know on some demonstrations and I thought this [her home being raided] could happen. And it was a real threat you know – it wasn’t like it was an unfounded threat – it [home raids] could happen to anyone. Because I believe they monitor you – they tap your phones as well – take your pictures when you go to UAF [Unite against Fascism] marches – you know I had my picture taken by the police and things like that.

The culture of fear frames British Muslims’ political (dis)engagement and induces feelings of being at risk. Leila’s account illustrates a ‘political logic of terror ’ (Pollock and Silverman 2014a, b: 11, original italics) that threatens democratic society characteristic of the concentrationary by placing restrictions on her ability to exercise her democratic right to protest peacefully. For Leila, although her home being raided is an imagined fear, she experiences it as a “real threat.” The unknowability of the threat, the disembodied gaze of state surveillance under pre-emptive counter-terrorism measures, means that she fears being targeted without doing anything unlawful. The body is made the site of political control (Foucault 1977: 139), illustrated here by the clandestine practice of taking pictures of Muslims engaged in legitimate political protest. As explored in Chapter 3, the Muslim body is haunted by the profile that may be produced about them by state officials, what Jasbir Puar (2007:

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175) refers to as ‘data bodies.’ This data double functions as an unknown locus of suspect activities that could potentially be used against Muslim individuals, but whose materialisation they are largely unable to influence. Despite knowing that her picture has been taken, Leila cannot prevent the photo from being used to produce her as suspect, illustrating how state terrors may work to sanction racist behaviours by prohibiting Muslims from challenging anti-Muslim hate speech. Leila’s sense that the rise of the far-right exemplifies precursory signs of more extreme terrors motivates her to become involved in demonstrations organised by the anti-fascist organisation, Unite Against Fascism (UAF), in order to disrupt fascist sentiment, particularly its current focus on Muslim populations. What is troubling for Leila therefore, are the restrictions which she experiences to be able to contest far-right groups such as the EDL without risking becoming targeted as a threat herself. Although groups such as the EDL fall within the remit of extremist, and are thus a threat to the social order, Muslims report that they are the ones that are over-policed during anti-fascist demonstrations when protesting against the EDL, as Rahina recounts in her discussion of her voluntary work with MPAC UK (the Muslim Public Committees Affair) which she had been doing for the past three years at the time of interview. The organisation was founded in 2002 to “empower Muslims” by involving them in the political system, media, as well as working with mosques to get them more involved in communities rather than just being places for prayer. Its objective was to support Muslims to build their own links and get involved in the non-Muslim community in order to improve their position and treatment in British society. Particular emphasis was placed on enabling Muslims to be “vocal citizens,” and Rahina made the case that Muslims are citizens of this country, and just because you’re Muslim does not mean that you should have “a quieter voice or anything.” Rahina thus illustrates the importance of voice to improving British Muslims’ opportunities and stake in Britain, and which requires Muslims being part of the political system. Rahina was vehemently opposed to anti-Muslim groups such as the EDL, which she perceived actively undermine the ability for British Muslims to live peacefully and prosperously in places like Dewsbury where she tells me they were marching that very same day, as she discusses:

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…because of the work I do with MPAC [Muslim Public Affairs Committee]4 that go out and demonstrate against EDL all the time [I know that] it’s them that gets the force used, not EDL, even though it’s EDL inciting hatred you know?

Rahina highlights the over-policing of Muslim anti-fascist protestors and in contradistinction, the protection afforded to groups like the EDL who incite hatred. Islamophobia is not only the remit of the far-right, but is present in the (differential) policing of extremism. The police thus in part enable performances of far-right extremism which exposes the institutionalisation of Islamophobia. Lack of protection afforded to Muslims when engaging in legitimate protest encourages a depoliticised Muslim subjectivity as Leila tells me: Madeline: Did it make you question about being a part of organisations and being active? Leila: Yeah—at one point I was thinking of disassociating—not because I didn’t believe in the principles, but because I felt scared that I might get tracked down and you know…

State targeting of Muslims limits their potential to engage in legitimate political struggles which promote positive social values of inclusion and acceptance of racial and religious minorities that are beneficial to social cohesion. For Leila, the risk of state targeting limits her political freedom and compromises her rights to live out her values within the public arena. Sadly, it is not because she has lost faith in the principles that she is fighting for, but rather that she is “scared” into disassociating from activist organisations which effectively depoliticises her. The possibility of being “tracked down” further highlights the significance of the body, or rather the body profiled as ‘Muslim,’ to political engagement and its restrictions. That Leila does not finish her sentence here is telling— what is left unsaid tells of the silences that are engendered arising from being at risk of state targeting for being politically active as a Muslim. Whilst Leila thinks of disassociating, Rafee refuses to give up his right to protest despite the excessive presence of police and security cameras at demonstrations:

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Rafee: …due to the amount of police that are there and the knowledge that there are going to be people undercover who are going to be watching in addition to the huge security cameras that are there … you know that you are being watched because the police, the authorities, make it very obvious – they film you as you walk past. Madeline: Sure. Would it put you off going to a demonstration? Rafee: No definitely not—I think the day that it does, that is the day to give up really—the right to march and the right to protest is a human right really. Madeline: Sure. Rafee: And it’s really important that we keep hold of those principles and of that right to protest. And as long as we do that in a right way, in a peaceful way, and a non-aggressive way, a non-violent way, I don’t see the problem.

Rafee perceives the right to peaceful protest as a “human right” that he refuses to give up despite the risks of state surveillance and over-policing at demonstrations. He highlights an interesting disjuncture between overt surveillance where it is known that you are being watched, and the use of covert measures such as undercover officers, which makes it difficult for him to ascertain the risks involved in participating in such events. Recent introduction of the contentious Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Bill 2021 (see Home Office 2021c) affords police chiefs powers to impose additional conditions on static protests, including imposing start and finish times, set noise levels and importantly, to criminalise protestors for failing to follow restrictions even where no direct order has been made. Although here Rafee presents political protest as a cornerstone of citizenship rights, he tells me later that he chose not to attend an event organised as a ‘peaceful multicultural celebration’ in response to the EDL descending onto the streets of Bradford in August 2010. The event was organised by the newly established We are Bradford campaign alongside trade unionists, faith groups, community groups such as Bradford Women for Peace and others, and supported by Unite Against Fascism (UAF). Having attended the community meetings leading up to the event and the event itself, I witnessed a number of obstacles that had to be

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negotiated with the local council and police in order for the event to go ahead. These hindrances frustrated local community members who felt that too many concessions were being made to the EDL despite their known intentions of inciting hatred against Bradfordian Muslims in their own town. Such contestations centred on the use of space and which are locatable within broader racialised understandings of the ownership of space (see Chapter 4). Despite not being from Bradford, mobilised by a ‘white nation fantasy’ (Hage 1998), EDL members felt that they had the right, sanctioned by the police and council (who despite opposition took the decision to allow the demonstration) to protest within spaces of the nation and in this case, govern Muslims’ presence by calling for their removal in their hometown. As the EDL is not a proscribed organisation, We are Bradford members knew that the protest could not be banned, but it was felt that restrictions could be placed on them in terms on the size and location of their demonstration. During negotiations over which sites would be allocated to the EDL demonstrators and We are Bradford event, one of the members of Bradford Women for Peace had expressed that they did not feel that the EDL should be allowed to come into the “heart of the centre,” naming Bradford’s urban garden as a “community site” which the EDL should not be allowed access to and instead, should be confined to a car park near Interchange station to ensure the safety of residents. Another member of We are Bradford expressed disdain at having been denied Centenary Square in the city centre to hold their event, stating that the council should have “loyalty with Bradford,” but instead, felt that they had “lost ground” in the meeting, prompting fears that the event would descend into violence because the police and council were not backing them. Another member declared “this is our town! Why should we be kettled on the outskirts in a car park where the EDL should be? I won’t feel safe walking around if the EDL are there.” As well as contestations over space, the We are Bradford campaign faced challenges concerning misrepresentation and silencing of their event. One member spoke of the “willful misrepresentation” of the event by the police, which he expressed was “creating a sense of tension” that people were becoming worried about, further exacerbated by active silencing by the local media, the “media block,” having had a news story

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of their planned multicultural event pulled from the Telegraph and Argus as a means of disassociating the paper from their campaign; a move that as with police and local council responses, thwarted the peaceful intentions of the campaign and inadvertently helped consolidate the harmful objectives of the EDL. To counter such misrepresentations, the campaign shifted how they represented their event by disassociating it from politics, instead choosing to name the event a “celebration” rather than demonstration, rally or protest. We are Bradford issued a statement to correct media reports that described the event as a ‘counter-protest’ (Unite Against Fascism 27 August 2010) by placing emphasis on peace rather than politics. One member described this decision as a “political act in itself,” illustrating that although the campaign had to negotiate the terms under which to engage in politics, the group were not altogether depoliticised. Indeed, the event itself had a strong political presence with speeches from UAF and local politicians tackling issues of racism and Islamophobia affecting British Muslims head on. The distancing of the event from politics was a strategic political move which although beneficial, nonetheless highlights restrictions faced by peaceful, law-abiding citizens to counter far-right attitudes and antiMuslim hate speech. In contrast to the peaceful ethos of the multicultural celebration event, the EDL protest purposely targeted Bradford as a place with a high Muslim population to frighten and antagonise local Muslim communities; a threat which depoliticised some individuals, including Rafee, thus helping to sanction far-right sentiments that are potentially damaging to British society, and Muslim communities in particular. In the next section, I develop how the culture of fear has developed in conjunction with a culture of silence, or what Mariam Alkazemi (2015: 30) terms a ‘spiral of silence,’ emerging from restrictions to freedom of speech.

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Silencing Muslim Spaces: The Mosque and Depoliticising Muslim Youth In this section, I discuss the culture of silence affecting Muslim populations which has depoliticised Muslims in some cases. A key contributing factor has been the encroachment of counter-terrorism measures within Muslim spaces (O’Toole et al. 2016) under Prevent (HM Government 2011a) which has co-opted Muslims into reproducing practices of silencing and political disengagement (also Chapter 5). The mosque potentially provides an important site for mobilising civic engagement and political involvement which fosters cross-community participation (Peucker and Ceylan 2017) and opportunities for young Muslims to engage with peers to address current challenges facing Muslims in Britain. Several of my participants were involved in interfaith activities which have been energised in the post-9/11 context to challenge negative conceptions of Islam and for different faith groups to learn from each other with a focus on similarities and productive exchanges (see Halafoff 2011). Here however, I explore the negative impact of state counterterrorism measures on the ability for mosques to provide spaces for political discussion on events affecting Muslims globally, as Ali’s account shows. He describes how he has emailed the mosque elders at the Leedsbased mosque that he attends on a number of occasions about political issues affecting Muslim populations. However, he never gets anything back from them and describes the mosque as “not very engaging” in this regard, which he has found troubling. He describes how his local mosque has been co-opted under Prevent (HM Goverment 2011a) to place restrictions on what attendees feel they can say, thus reproducing a culture of silence within Muslim spaces: Madeline: Why do you think that there is this lack of engagement from the mosque? Ali: Well, I think one thing they’re scared, like because obviously the 7/7 bombers were from Leeds and they’re probably under more scrutiny. And I know like some mosques—they only receive some money from the government if they don’t delve into these things, so that’s like trying to bribe them … I’m not sure what programme it is—but it’s like an anti-terrorist thing—there’s one mosque I know which gets it … it’s

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quite a lot of money I’ve been told, and they’ve been told to use it so then the youth don’t get out of control.

The encroachment of security agendas on Muslim spaces in the aftermath of 7/7 (O’Toole et al. 2016) limits what is sayable, epitomised here for Ali by the imam’s refusal to “delve into things” because the mosque and its attendants are subject to “more scrutiny.” Here, imams are co-opted into countering extremism that involves silencing dissent and disciplining young Muslims to ensure they “don’t get out of control.” Effectively, by internalising terrors of counter-terrorism imams become agents in depoliticising Muslim youth, as Ali continues: Ali: So like they had a national demo—the Stop the War had it and on that day they used that money [from Prevent ] to take all the kids to Alton Towers. Madeline: Right. Ali: … and they didn’t you know say anything about the war or anything—and even at their sermons, even if the country next door gets bombed they’ll never say nothing about it. So they become all neutralised because of money—you know very greedy [laughs] in my opinion.

Ali is disenchanted by the perceived co-option of his mosque through Prevent money to collude with the government’s counter-terrorism agenda in limiting the political voices of young Muslims to protest against the War in Afghanistan 2001. Depoliticised, instead of protesting against the war, young Muslims are taken to the theme park Alton Towers; an infantalisation of Muslim youth which prohibits their development as political subjects and trivialises the importance of the demonstration so that it instead becomes an occasion for childish amusement. Ali speaks of the silencing around foreign policy affecting Muslims globally where even when Muslim nations are bombed, nothing is said in the mosque: “they become all neutralised” rather than politicised he explains due to government financial incentives to prohibit young Muslims’ speech. Ali highlights the divisions which are engendered within Muslim communities where Prevent money is accepted, with potentially detrimental effects (see Chapter 5). As described here, young Muslims may

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become disengaged and disillusioned because the spaces for them to engage in legitimate political debate have closed down, not only within wider society, but within Muslim spaces where young Muslims would hope that they would feel safe to speak out without fear of being labelled extremist. Infiltration of security agendas within Muslim spaces such as Islamic societies and mosques exemplifies further prohibitions on freedom of speech and political engagement for Muslims in Britain. A worrying outcome is that the active co-option of trusted Muslim members of society such as mosque leaders and parents in countering extremism prohibits them from acting as role models for young Muslims, which potentially places young Muslims at greater risk of anti-Muslim racism, as Leila and Rafee lament: Madeline: And do you think that you know the mosques telling people to stay at home and things that that in a way it reduces the, you know, the political voice that Muslims might have to resist groups like the EDL? Leila: Definitely! … If nobody’s going to challenge them and everybody’s going to sit back and get scared that gives the green light as well. Rafee: …by staying silent you’re effectively saying well it doesn’t matter what people say you know, it’s open season really… And I don’t think that’s you know, as a friend of mine said, you either crawl under the bed and surrender or you stand up and fight.

Co-opting Muslims into undertaking practices of silencing and depoliticising other Muslims reduces the possibility for challenging anti-Muslim hate speech and reproduces the culture of fear affecting Muslim communities. Silencing sanctions hate speech, heralding “the green light” (Leila), and is linked to vulnerability: “it’s open season” (Rafee); a term which aptly denotes a period when it is legal to capture or kill prey otherwise protected by law. A number of writers have noted the harmful nature of hate speech (Ponzio 2018; Waldron 2012; Leonardo and Porter 2010; Butler 1997b; Delgado 1993; Mackinnon 1993; Matsuda et al. 1993; Greenawalt 1989) and argue that it functions as a precursor to violence (Mauseen and Grillo 2014: 178; Bleich 2011a: 19–20). Alexander Tsesis (2002) contends that an essential function of hate speech is to lay foundations for violence against the targeted group, which explains his support for criminalising hate speech where incitements to violence

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are probable. The difficulties are that causal links between speech and violence (actual or future) are difficult to establish (Buyse 2014a: 492; 2014b: 780). Whilst freedom of expression is a core value of democratic societies, the right to prohibitions on discrimination and violence are a necessary balance (Buyse 2014b: 796). In judging the harms of hate speech, distinctions can be drawn between constitutive and consequential harms (Gelber and McNamara 2016: 325; Maitra and McGowan 2012: 6); that is, harms resulting from the saying of hate speech and harms incurred as a result. Constitutive harms comprise harms to dignity and destruction to self-esteem as intimated by the first option which Rafee reports; “crawl under the bed and surrender” (i.e. retreat from public space) as a means of escaping harms of hate speech; a response which inadvertently perpetuates power imbalances underpinning hierarchies of race (Gelber and McNarama 2016: 325; Dunn and Nelson 2011; Bloch and Dreher 2009; Allbrook 2001). Failure or inability to challenge hate speech renders the body vulnerable to physical harm by keeping structures of oppression and subordination in place. Consequential harms involve ‘conditioning the environment’ (Gelber and McNamara 2016: 325, 337) so that the enunciation of negative stereotypes and facilitation of subsequent discrimination is normalised as illustrated here, whereby sanctions are overturned and discriminatory speech is granted consensus: the foreboding “green light” (Leila); a situation which prohibits targets of hate speech from participating fully in society and exposes the limitations of hate speech laws to ensure inclusion and equality. Central to the interplay of silencing and vulnerability are racialised differences between what is (un)sayable and power asymmetries that underline these distinctions. Whilst what Muslims say is stringently monitored and has perceptibly detrimental outcomes, such prohibitions are not perceived to be present for other citizens: “it doesn’t matter what people (i.e. the normative subject) say” (Rafee). Leila and Rafee recognise that “staying silent” entrenches Muslims’ vulnerability. By contrast, having a stake in discourse provides opportunities for countering vulnerability. The second response Rafee reports is to “stand up and fight,” where the body is central to the politics of recognition (also Pilkington

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and Acik 2020: 188). This stance is well-captured by Jean-François Lyotard’s (2004: 10) statement, ‘to speak is to fight, in the sense of playing, and speech acts fall in the domain of a general agonistics.’ Yet, as I explore in the next part, the relationship between speech and the body poses particular challenges for Muslims within the ‘war on terror’ context and is connected to the (in)securitisation of Muslim identities.

4

Speech and (In)Security

Speech(lessness) and Corporeality In Chapter 3, I examined practices of racial profiling and restrictions these engendered for Muslims to present a ‘visibly Muslim’ identification. In this part, I develop how restrictions to visual displays of ‘Muslimness’ have accompanied practices of self-silencing undertaken by Muslims. These practices illustrate how speech comprises a ‘bodily act’ (Butler 1997b: 12), where words uttered by Muslims come to mean different things because of their association with terrorism within ‘war on terror’ discourse. Being ‘visibly Muslim’ is connected to restrictions to freedom of speech arising from heightened (in)securitisation of Muslims, which affect what is (un)sayable for them within everyday spaces because of the capillary ways in which counter-terrorism measures have co-opted ordinary citizens into security agents on alert for anything suspicious (see Salerno 2017). I draw from Ali’s words. Although he says that he has good relations with everyone at work, it was not until he worked there for over a year that he felt able to ask for a prayer space during Ramadan. He recounts that he “asked someone quietly” and it is something which only two or three people at his work know about. Such silencing is linked to the culture of fear experienced by Muslims, admitting that he is a “bit scared” that if people found out, they could “easily fire me” if they do not agree with his beliefs. His religious practice is thus a secretive aspect of his work-life that he does not talk openly about with his colleagues, and which exemplifies self-surveillance practices that Muslims engage in to mitigate suspect treatment due to the association of piety with extremism. In the following account, he is talking about the difficulties he experiences post-9/11 to perform a recognisably Muslim identity at his workplace due to fear of how he will be perceived by his

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colleagues. His account begins where he is discussing the restrictions he feels to adopt visible Islamic markers such as the Islamic beard or topi5 (skull cap): Ali: It’s harder like before 9/11 I could have kept a beard and you know— I could have worn a hat, but now it’s like I have to think twice ‘cos they can, they can like question—what was it 30 days without charge or something? So work could say we think there’s something suspicious, ‘cos I heard some radio commercial saying that if you see something suspicious report it straight away, and I was thinking that that might happen to me, so I have to be careful. Madeline: So would you say you watch the way that you behave a little bit? Ali: Yeah, yeah, yeah. So I make sure I don’t yeah, say anything that may— that they can twist yeah. Madeline: So you think very carefully about what you say? Ali: Yeah, yeah … I watch what I’m saying.

Practices of self-surveillance undertaken by Ali in the post-9/11 context involve not only placing restrictions on what he says, but on his visual appearance. Ali thus draws a significant connection between speech and corporeality to the production of the terror suspect. There are two interconnected ways in which this relation operates which I explore. Firstly, he cites being interrogated under anti-terrorism law for 30 days6 without charge. Secondly, he fears that his work colleagues could voice suspicions about him. Importantly, it is enough for them to “think” there is “something suspicious” without concrete evidence. The urgency with which people are encouraged to “report [their suspicions] straight away,” with no consequences for getting it wrong or providing the accused opportunities to counter suspicions made of them unsettles Ali. The conditions of possibility for Ali to refute accusations are not present since suspicion is enough for him to be questioned and detained. Terrors of voice(lessness) centre on the power to interpellate Muslims as terror suspects based on suspicion therefore. Words come to mean different things when uttered by differently racialised bodies, which is why the dangers of misrepresentation are acutely felt by Ali. This is because Ali understands himself as the potential target rather than the

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beneficiary of such campaigns: “I was thinking that [being reported] might happen to me.” Voicing suspicions are sanctioned by counterterrorism initiatives. Here we see the infiltration of the Metropolitan Police’s 2011 campaign ‘if you suspect it report it’ into Ali’s work context via a radio commercial which illustrates how ordinary citizens have been co-opted into becoming ‘citizen surveillants’ (Salerno 2017) or ‘citizen-detectives’ (Vaughan-Williams 2008). His account illustrates how everyday spaces have become suspect sites that in turn, become ‘risky spaces’ for Muslims due to the pervasiveness with which ordinary citizens are co-opted into countering terrorism. Terror has material effects that are not reducible to discourse, but which affect the terms under which language is spoken or silenced. In response, Ali undertakes self-silencing to protect himself. He illustrates the reproductive effects of the terrors of counter-terrorism as they are internalised by the subjugated group so that he comes to experience his work context as a suspect site which inhibits how he communicates with his work colleagues. Earlier, I discussed the internal checks undertaken by Rafee within the anti-war group to guard against infiltration and misrepresentation. What is chilling here is Ali experiences a comparable fear within his workplace—an ordinary space of the everyday, not a self-evident politicised space where the risks of being labelled threatening are risks that activists such as Rafee have decided are worth taking. Ali, conversely, has no choice but to negotiate suspect treatment in his day-to-day lifeworld. Terror operates through uncertainty. In this case, Ali has to “think twice” about what he says or does to mitigate suspect treatment, illustrating the psychic effects surrounding freedom of speech and its prohibitions. Ali fears his words could be used against him to misrepresent him as a terror suspect due to the saliency of Muslims’ association with terrorism within the public imaginary. Karola Fing’s (2010: 111) discussion of the establishment of the camp system draws a comparable relationship between the ‘pervasive climate of fear’ and accommodating oneself with the regime rather than taking risks to protest against it. Voice is pernicious in effect, indicated by the potential for his colleagues to “twist” what he says. We can approach the relationship between speech and the body following Shoshana Felman (1983: 96),

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as a scandalous one, ‘a relation consisting at once of incongruity and of inseparability.’ As Butler (1997b: 10) corroborates, what the speaking body signifies is ‘not reducible to what such a body “says,”’ thus meaning cannot be guaranteed by the subject (Weedon 2003: 22). Who does the interpreting is thus crucial. Since there are particular conceptions of what a terror suspect is and what they look like, saying that “you see” evidence that corresponds to hegemonic knowledge frameworks means you are more likely to be believed (see Hill Collins 2009: 270). In the next extract, Hamida provides further evidence of the relationship between voice(lessness) and the body amid the particular challenges facing Muslims as a religious group: I think so many Muslims have come away from discussing their faith or, discussing you know, or looking Muslim, because if you do so people will alienate you. But I think you should be proud of what you are whether it’s Christian, Muslim, or non-faith, you should be able to stand up and say well this is what I am, and this is who I am. Accept me for what I am, I’m not doing anything wrong.

As with Ali, self-surveillance comprises self-silencing concerning matters of faith as well as not “looking Muslim” in order to avoid being “alienate[d].” Hamida highlights the importance of faith for understanding the particular exclusions facing Muslims. Important to challenging exclusionary identificatory practices is self -determination; that is, having agency to set the terms for how the Muslim subject is defined. As with Rafee, visibility is key, where the ability to “stand up” within the public domain and represent oneself is central to challenging the terms of exclusion and achieving acceptance. This means overturning articulations of Muslims as problematic by emphasising by contrast, that “I’m not doing anything wrong.” However, acceptance is relational and relies not only on the power to speak, but to influence how you are ‘seen.’ Predominance of the security context, however, conditions citizens to be on alert for ‘suspicious’ behaviours which open up the discursive space for Muslims to be interpellated as terrorist bodies that, in turn, insecuritises Muslims concerning performances of hate speech, as I move on to discuss.

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(In)Security and Hate Speech In this section, I develop how the security context shapes what is (un)sayable for Muslims. Hate speech can be performed under the guise of security concerns, particularly within spaces such as public transport that are associated with the threat of terrorism. Drawing from Leila’s words, I examine two instances in which she experiences hate speech by being spoken of as a terrorist body and the limitations that she feels to counter this interpellation. Leila spoke of occasions when white English people would purposively be “respectful” towards her in order to show her that “they’re not part of the Islamophobia” by ensuring that she felt included, which made her feel “comfortable” and able to “relax” knowing that some people were cognisant of the negative effects of media representations of the ‘war on terror’ on Muslim communities. Worryingly, she also noted that there were “racist ones” who wanted “any accuse to blame Muslims and attack them,” and she describes a number of incidents to illustrate such hostility. In the first example, Leila is describing the period following 7/7. She begins her account at the point where she is travelling on the bus into Leeds city centre and is reprimanded by another passenger for leaving her bag: Leila: When we went into town and don’t leave your bag there because a bomb’s happened—as if to say I’m going to leave a bag with a bomb! But when Iraq gets attacked I don’t say that to the normal English people— have you got a gun behind your counter, you know? So it’s just racism again, some people using that as an excuse to be racist against every Muslim and labelling them, demonising them. Madeline: So there was a fear of your bag? Leila: I think it was just a racist comment to be honest—an excuse to make a racist comment—yeah … They’ve got the green light to say racist things.

In the post-7/7 context, justification is present for speech aimed at securitising the Muslim body to be enacted, as Leila describes. The speaker legitimises their demand for Leila to remove her bag by reminding her that a “bomb’s happened.” This explanation excuses the speaker from accusations of hate speech and enables them to occupy the subject position of an active, responsible citizen on alert for anything suspicious.

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Further, the speaker can occupy the position of injured party in the presence of ‘threatening’ Muslims. Leila contests that the demand to move her bag is made out of fear however. For Leila, the comment is made not out of a desire for protection against an imminent threat, but as a means of injury towards her: “it was just a racist comment… an excuse to make a racist comment.” Rita Floyd (2018: 45, original italics) argues that even when securitising requests are not expressed using overtly racist language, they are analogous to hate speech because the ‘identification of a minority as threatening simply because of who they are changes the minority’s standing in society.’ Whilst Floyd (2018: 43) understands securitising requests as ‘calls on powerful figures/bodies to treat an issue in security mode’ to legitimate extraordinary measures to be used, what Leila describes are the capillary ways in which state security discourses interpenetrate everyday interactions between Muslims and non-Muslims, providing occasions for Islamophobia to become normalised within everyday spaces. The permissibility of anti-Muslim racism is facilitated by the power to name Muslims as terror suspects—“labelling them, demonising them.” Rae Langton (2016: 866, original italics) contends that hate speech has firstly, an illocutionary function when it denounces or labels certain people: it ‘accuses its targets’ of terrorism and ‘ranks them as evil, inferior or animal-like,’ which serves to both threaten the target and normalise and sanction hatred and secondary, has perlocutionary (see Austin 1973) effects on its hearers by ‘spreading racial hatred’ (Langton 2016: 867, original italics). Parekh (2017: 933) similarly argues that hate speech is dangerous because it ‘encourages an environment in which certain groups come to be demonized and their discriminatory treatment is accepted as normal.’ The violence contained in hate speech initially present in isolated, minor utterances garners momentum, contributing to a ‘moral climate’ (Parekh 2017: 933) in which harm is considered appropriate and outrage absent: “they’ve got the green light to say racist things,” Leila laments. The account examines the problematic ways in which interpellation operates for Muslims through their association with the subject position of terror suspect that they are coerced into assuming. Butler (1997b: 24, 25) writes that if we understand hate speech as constituting the

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subject through the injury of its utterance, then hate speech ‘exercises an interpellative function.’ Drawing from Louis Althusser’s (2001) famous description of subject formation, Butler (1997b: 25) argues that recognising the address of ‘hey you there’ by turning round ‘becomes an act of constitution: the address animates the subject into existence.’ Leila recognises that she is being addressed not to leave her bag, and that this address interpellates her as a terror suspect that might “leave a bag with a bomb.” Recognising that this address is directed at her does not mean that she recognises herself as a terror suspect however. Rather, the address makes her aware of the conditions of possibility in which she can be spoken of as a terror suspect and her dependency on being ‘recognizable’ (Butler 1997b: 5) as this subject, such that it structures her experiences. As discussed in Chapter 3, interpellation is founded on a fundamental (mis)recognition (Ahmed 2000: 23), but one which nonetheless constitutes the conditions of subjectivity for Leila. Sara Ahmed’s (1998: 114) discussion of interpellation provides a useful description of what Leila experiences here. She argues that the individual’s ‘recognition’ that they are being addressed initiates entrance into the authority of Law where ‘the potential for the subject to be suspected is inscribed in the possibility’ of being hailed (Ahmed 1998: 114, original italics). As such, Ahmed draws attention to the prohibitions and sanctions that accompany the act of interpellation where individuals are constructed as suspect, as is the case for Muslims, and the differential relations of power that hailing involves with regard to subjectivity and importantly, law. Due to her recognisability as a Muslim, and by extension, a terror suspect, Leila can be disciplined and even reported. As such, ‘speech does not merely reflect a relation of social domination; speech enacts domination’ (Butler 1997b: 18, original italics; see Matsuda et al. 1993; also McGowan 2009 on speech as oppressive). Significantly, the speaker does not need to explicitly name Leila as a terror suspect for this subject position to be inferred and for its implications to be felt by Leila, which illustrates the affective and psychic effects of hate speech (see Patel and Tyrer 2011: 36). These effects are heightened where the addressee feels unable to name the speaker as ‘racist’ because of the ease with which they can disprove accusations of the harmful intent of their speech. Leila notes that the demand is made “as

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if to say” she will leave a bomb without actually making this statement. Racist speech need not take an overtly racial epithet to cause injury. Butler (1997b: 2) contends that linguistic injury does not only involve the effect of words but ‘the mode of address itself,’ which raises difficulties defining what constitutes hate speech and thus legislating against it. As mentioned, legislation relating to religious and racial hatred in Part 111 of the Public Order Act 1986 (as amended by the Racial and Religious Hatred Act 2006, my italics) includes a loophole where the accused is not considered guilty of an offence if ‘he did not intend his words or behaviour… and was not aware that it might be, threatening, abusive or insulting’ (s.18.5). This concession is significant since it enables the accused to escape penalty by disputing the conditions of intent despite the injurious effects that their words have had on the victim. Importantly, offences relating to encouragement of terrorism in the Terrorism Act 2006 do not provide such a concession. An offence occurs if the accused is ‘reckless as to whether members of the public will be directly or indirectly encouraged’ (Terrorism Act 2006, c.11, pt.1.2b.ii, my italics) even if intent is not established. The use of ‘reckless’ to explain conduct as opposed to effects (the act of terrorism) means that a broad range of activities can be subsumed as comprising an offence (Cram 2009: 99). Such legislative (pre-)conditions comprise the culture of fear surrounding what is (un)sayable for Muslims and to whom. These racialised power differentials concerning voice(lessness) mean members of the normative populace have greater purchase to interpret Muslims’ speech as threatening whilst escaping accusations of hate. Mythen et al. (2013: 393) contend that one of the central difficulties with pre-emptive counter-terrorism offences such as ‘glorification of terrorism’ or ‘indirect encouragement’ is that their ‘inexact boundaries can lead to confusion’ rendering them open to interpretation by the prosecution (Zedner 2009: 132). They found similar examples of self-silencing as presented by Leila to ‘err on the side of caution and to restrict their views’ (Mythen et al. 2013: 393) due to uncertainty about what constitutes a legitimate statement in order to reduce the risk of being criminalised. Leila feels unable to speak of the terror enacted against Iraqi people that would challenge the axiomatic connection between ‘Muslim’ and

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‘terrorist.’ Although Leila recognises culpability of “normal English people” in atrocities committed during the Iraq War 2003–2011, due to the differential impact of incitement to terrorism legislation on Muslim populations, she feels unable to reprimand them. Leila’s use of “normal” is significant since it draws attention to racialised divisions concerning (il)legitimate speech where being part of the norm, i.e. the dominant (white, non-Muslim) population, affords greater freedoms concerning speech. Further, “normal” draws attention to how racist speech is not confined to a far-right contingent, but is undertaken by ordinary citizens. Silencing reproduces the conditions under which she is constituted as a terror suspect whilst maintaining the absence of white (non-Muslim) bodies from articulations of terror (hooks 1992) within accounts of the ‘war on terror’ (see Abbas 2013; Butler 2009; Thobani 2007; Frankenberg 2005). As experienced here, speech acts can prohibit freedom of movement as well freedom of speech (Ponzio 2018: 240; Butler 1997b), circumscribing how Leila occupies the space of the bus. In the next example, Leila describes an instance in which she and her female Muslim friends are overtly interpellated as “terrorists.” I examine the restrictions which she describes to counter this accusation because of the unequal position that she understands herself to occupy as a Muslim within law relating to freedom of speech: Leila: I remember I was on the bus once and some English youths walked down and one of them said they’re some terrorists sitting in front of the bus here. You know racist people, just any excuse. Madeline: What talking about you? Leila: A group of friends—yeah. Madeline: How did that make you feel? Leila: I thought they’ve got the damn cheek, so rude and racist. And it’s like I know there’s some racist white children walking down that have just come back from attacking Iraq—how would they like it if we said that? You know, it wouldn’t be acceptable would it? If a Muslim made a comment like that … they could be arrested for inciting—it’s a different erm, you know—and they dress with army gear—if a Muslim said anything like that they’d get arrested for incitement to terror—there’s a lot of double standards going on.

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Leila feels unable to name the white children as “racist,” nor to locate this address within the context of violence enacted against Muslim populations that would provide a counter to their interpellation of her and her friends as “terrorists” due to fear that she will be arrested for incitement to terrorism. Practices of self-silencing are undertaken because of the differential parameters concerning what is (un)sayable for Muslims compared to normative “English” citizens despite Leila’s age advantage: “It wouldn’t be acceptable would it?” Her use of “acceptable” draws our attention to how restrictions over language are defined in relation to the list of ‘unacceptable behaviour’ (CPS n.d.) constituting violent extremism referenced in the introduction to this chapter. Whilst calling Leila and her friends “terrorists” could be understood as an act of violent extremism under the category ‘foster hatred which might lead to intercommunity violence in the UK’ (CPS n.d.), the English youths feel able to make this comment without reproach. By contrast, Muslims experience “double standards” (also Khan and Mythen 2015) arising from a dual criminal justice system experienced by the suspect community (see Hillyard 1993: 261) concerning freedom of speech. In their critique of the prohibitions concerning ‘glorification’ and ‘justification’ of terrorism, the human rights organisation, Article 19 (2006), draw attention to the dangers that this legislation proposes to speech because of the subjective ways in which these terms can be interpreted to contain lawful statements, including expressions which look to interrogate the issues surrounding terrorism, as Leila’s accounts details. Practices of silencing enable accusations of terror to ‘stick’ (Ahmed 2004: 76) to certain bodies whilst remaining detached from white bodies. This is despite visual displays of militarisation, exemplified by the wearing of “army gear,” and its symbolic connection to violence. Butler’s (2009: 156, 25) Frames of War details the ways in which ‘justified violence’ is undertaken by states based on decisions made about populations ‘where lives and modes of life are worth defending by military means’ that serve to ‘maximize precariousness for others while minimizing precariousness for the power in question.’ For Leila, the army features as an embodiment of state terror that presupposes the dividing line between Western populations that can be protected and Muslim populations which can be killed. Although a victim of hate speech, Leila

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is unable to voice redress for fear of being accused of inciting terrorism by the very people who subject her to terror; a situation which encourages Islamophobic discourses to flourish, as Leila continues to discuss: I went into the market once and you know when you get low-life racist people – and there was a 10 year old boy and when he saw me he said I’m going to go and join the army so that I can kill Iraqis! So I reported him to the police and the police … went I can’t arrest him because he’s 10 and tried to turn it on me that I’d said this and that. So that’s what I mean – it’s that kind of racism and confidence that is growing amongst racist people who have got the potential – you know there are people in society who do have evil potential – for example the ethnic cleansing in Bosnia can happen here as well.

Leila’s account further evidences the interdependence of speech and the body where being identified as Muslim (“he saw me”) provides an occasion for hate speech. Significantly, Leila frames both incidents as acts of racism rather than Islamophobia. Racism can be understood following Brooks-Higginbotham (Higginbotham 1992: 253) as a ‘metalanguage,’ ‘since it speaks about and lends meaning to myriad aspects of life that would otherwise fall outside the referential domain of race.’ The encounter highlights important intersections of nation, gender and race (Managhan 2012; Puar 2007). Joining the army facilitates statesanctioned, nationalist, masculinist violence: to “kill Iraqis”; a threat which is intended to cause harm to Leila as a fellow Muslim, brown body, and as such, ejects her from national belonging. Leila’s use of racism highlights difficulties in defining Islamophobia since it may simultaneously obscure the particular challenges facing Muslims in the current moment compared to other racial minority groups whereby the reference to killing Iraqis may not elicit equal harm. Whilst we may excuse the speaker because he is a child, it is precisely because it is a child that is speaking of extreme violence that makes the exchange even more troubling. His childhood innocence already lost, he is already inculcated into hating Iraqis/Muslims. We know from Frantz Fanon’s (1986: 111–112) infamous ‘Look a Negro!’ scene discussed in Chapter 3 that children’s words can wound because they speak of

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the perniciousness with which racism is subsumed. For Leila, childhood innocence is replaced by “evil potential”; the possibility of isolated racist incidents permeating society reaching extreme levels captured by her reference to ethnic cleansing in Bosnia. Speech and violence are understood to reinforce each other. The young boy’s expressed desire to eradicate whole groups of people reflects how necropolitics (Mbembe 2003) present in the ‘war on terror’ permeates ordinary speech. The “growing” threat of racial hatred illustrates the pernicious, perlocutionary effects of hate speech in sanctioning racism by making the speaker of hate feel validated because they are not alone. In The Harm in Hate Speech (2012: 4), Jeremy Waldron argues that hate speech encourages a toxic environment: …an environmental threat to social peace, a sort of slow-acting poison, accumulating here and there, word by word, so that eventually it becomes harder and less natural for even the good-hearted members of the society to play their part in maintaining the public good.

Not only is Leila subjected to racist hate speech by ordinary citizens, but she faces institutional challenges to secure protection. The police officer maintains the power to interpret what has been said and the intent of the speech, forcibly disqualifying Leila’s account of the incident as an act of racism. Reporting the incident actually puts Leila at risk: “[he] tried to turn it on me,” demonstrating how words can be twisted (as with Ali’s account earlier) and purposefully used against Muslims to misrepresent them as problematic rather than in need of protection. Unable to bear witness to the harms she has suffered, Leila is effectively silenced. Failure, or in this case refusal, to prohibit hate speech exacerbates the culture of fear for British Muslims in which racism is granted impunity. Perhaps we should not be surprised since legislation is produced and importantly, enacted, within a racist society through which hegemonic whiteness is preserved. Sanctioning racist proclivities enables racists to gain in confidence, which Leila fears encourages extreme acts of racial terror to be performed against Muslim populations. The fear of being eradicated is linked to the failure of law and its agents to protect vulnerable groups from racial hatred and silencing reports of the harmfulness

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of racism. I move on to discuss purposive acts of silencing surrounding performances of state terror/ism committed by Western actors during the ‘war on terror.’

Silencing Terror/Ism Madeline: Is this threat [of being placed under state surveillance for engaging in political protest] something that not just you has? Leila: A lot of people—and they can freeze your bank accounts and take away your degree, put you in jail—you know there’s no justice—you can’t challenge it because people have been sent off to Guantanamo bay—look at Moazzam Begg—the one who was beaten up—he was sent off to America. There’s no justice.

Restrictions faced by British Muslims to exercise their political freedoms stem from fears of reprisals which could severely impact their livelihoods. As discussed in Chapter 4, Leila’s account supports Cheryl Harris’ (1993) examination of whiteness as property. Here, Muslim citizens can be stripped of what they have earned, both financially and educationally whereby, as Harris (1993: 1716, original italics) observes, the ‘interaction between conceptions of race and property’ serve to perpetuate ‘racial and economic subordination.’ Important here is how dominant frames of terror are reworked. Leila also discusses British and US culpability in state terrors. Offshoring terror through extraordinary rendition enables such violences to be concealed within law (Valier 2002: 333). For Leila, restrictions to political freedoms go hand in hand with the dual criminal justice system affecting Muslims within the context of counter-terrorism (Razack 2008; also Sentas 2014: 7, 28, 61). The state of exception not only legitimises extreme measures from being taken for those deemed suspect, but there is limited recourse for justice where miscarriages occur: “there’s no justice” Leila decries. This situation is central to the curtailment of political freedoms within the Concentrationary Gothic environment because legal protections may not be available for British Muslims: “you can’t challenge.” It comprises the culture of fear transmitted among Muslim communities so that, as Leila tells me, “a lot of people” are affected.

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Within the Gothic, what is ‘unspeakable’ becomes the centre of attention emerging from the ‘desire for trauma’ (Kli´s 2012: 99) to be spoken of, in this case, to subvert hegemonic framings of terror/ism in which whiteness is actively made absent from conceptions of terror (Abbas 2013; hooks 1992: 174), as Samrina voices: When they want to get you they fabricate something and I think what’s really interesting is the majority indigenous population in this country don’t recognise this – they’re so – so naïve about the way these things operate. And I think we can all be very naïve when it’s not affecting us – but when this – you just have to read Moazzam Begg’s book on his time in Guantanamo Bay and how the British Embassy and how evidence is coming out about the tortures – you know, we know these things are being done. We’ve known about it for years, but it’s like it can’t possibly be because we’re British! But let me tell you, the biggest oppressors in the world are the British and the Americans – so to me they’re the terrorists!

As with Ali, Samrina highlights the pernicious ways in which language can be used to misrepresent Muslims with the expressed intention to “get you.” This involves firstly, controlling representational frameworks, here making an absence present by actively “fabricat[ing] something,” and secondly, using these misrepresentations to legitimise state terrors such as extraordinary rendition, indefinite detention, and torture, as described here. Whilst Ali talks about the capillary ways in which state terrors of counter-terrorism infiltrate everyday interactions with his work colleagues, Samrina tells the other side—where state terrors shape public perceptions. Samrina intimates that knowledge is situated and embodied (Haraway 2004; also Yancy 2008; Stoetzler and Yuval-Davis 2002; Harding 1986; Hartsock 1983), meaning as a member of the subjugated group, she is positioned differently: “we know these things are being done.” Differences in representational perspectives arise from: …differences in the positioning of knowing subjects in relation to the historicity of interconnected relationships of domination and contestation. This idea of positioning is both relational and political: i.e., the positioning of the knowing subject is located with the time- and

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space-specific politics of particular relationships of contested domination (Yeatman 1994: 190, original italics).

Samrina’s use of “indigenous” (i.e. normative white citizens) highlights that ways of seeing are racialised, and importantly, denotes the privileged position occupied by the dominant group to ignore terrors because they are not personally affected. Failure to “recognise” their position and structures of privilege that support it, comprise what Donna Haraway (2004: 88) terms ‘irresponsible, knowledge claims,’ where ‘irresponsible’ entails being ‘unable to be called into account’ by claiming not to know. Terror, however, cannot escape the attention of those connected to it, either directly or through shared characteristics of the victimised group. As Aimee Rowe (2005: 20) contends: ‘that which is most often “invisible” to groups of privilege is often most visible to those who occupy marginalized standpoints.’ Speaking of white terror in the black imagination, bell hooks (1992: 341) argues that the ‘representation of whiteness as terrorizing’ emerges as a consequence of white racist domination, a ‘psychic state that informs and shapes the way black folks “see” whiteness.’ hooks draws attentions to racialised differences undergirding conceptions of terror and denigrates whiteness’ association with virtue. Comparably, Samrina notes that adopting a position of “naiv[ity]” functions to maintain innocence of state performances of terror. However, Samrina refuses to accept these failures as innocent since the very possibility of being unaware of such terrors is denied to the subjugated group: “we can all be very naïve when it’s not affecting us.” The position of naivety is actively assumed, indicated by Samrina’s use of “can” be naïve rather than are. If we understand naivety as actively chosen, it emanates from a lack of empathy or recognition of an-Other’s suffering. For Jelena Markovi´c (2018: 133; also Frevert 2011, 2016), empathy is ‘shaped by powerful mechanisms which determine the flowing or blocking of empathy.’ These reflect the ‘dominant politics of empathy’ (Markovi´c 2018: 133) of the time as captured by Butler’s (2009: 14) term ‘grievability’ which presupposes which lives do/not matter. Such wilful ignorance suggests that terrorist attacks visited upon non-Western Others elsewhere do not count (Butler 2004).

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Recognition of the Other’s suffering would introduce a crisis of subjectivity by contesting official ‘truths’ of Western state performances of terror within the ‘war on terror’ and what we understand to be ‘terrorists’ or ‘terrorisers’: “it’s like it can’t possibly be - because we’re British!” Samrina exclaims. US and British states maintain their association with being ‘civilised’ through twin practices of (mis)representation (the deliberate “fabrication” of Muslims as terror threats) and silencing (such as surrounding the use of torture) to justify state terrors used to discipline Muslim populations within the ‘war on terror.’ Inability or refusal to empathise silences those subjected to the violences of their governments, in some cases sanctioned by Western regimes. Priya Dixit (2016: 98–99) notes how the axiomatic equation of terrorists or militants with racial Others: …erases historical complicities of Western/US interventions in areas from which these “militants” emerge; second, by depicting violence as connected to individuals, these representations write out the state and its involvement in violence; finally, such representations exclude Muslims from the body politic of the (US) state, thus contributing to continued securitisation of people of colour, which can lead to increased discrimination and Islamophobia.

These racialised framings are not just symbolic, but have material consequences. As Samrina describes, they shape practices and behaviours at both state and non-state level and importantly, underpin legal and criminal justice proceedings which differentially affect British Muslim citizens. For example, Moazzam Begg referred to by Samrina, was indefinitely detained by the US for almost three years, much of it in solitary confinement, in Bagram, Afghanistan, and the US military prison, Guantanamo Bay in Cuba. Begg was accused of being an al-Qaeda operative before being returned to the UK without an apology or explanation in 2005. Of the seventeen British detainees (either citizens or residents of the UK), he has been the most outspoken opponent of US and UK counter-terrorism policies of Britons held at Guantanamo and details in his book, Enemy Combatant (2006), the 300 interrogations, death threats and torture, and killings of two detainees that he witnessed. In

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this regard, his text bares the hallmarks of ‘Gothic marginality’ (Kli´s 2012) that is concerned with ‘things marginal and marginalized’ (Kli´s 2012: 101; also Botting and Townshend 2004: 1) which are abjected from mainstream society. Practices of indefinite detention and torture operating within Guantanamo Bay violate the Due Process Clause of the Fifth Amendment of the United States Constitution (Just Security 4 November 2014) and have been deemed major breaches of human rights. In their 2005 report, Amnesty International (2005: I, 135, 270) refer to ‘ghost detainees’ (also Puar 2007: 113), those who are detained without recourse to the law, which they liken to other regimes of terror including the ‘disappearances’ used by Latin American dictators and Soviet repression, arguing that Guantanamo is the ‘gulag of our times’ (Amnesty International 2005: I; also Pollock and Silverman 2014a, b: 10). These comparisons further illustrate how Gothic and concentrationary frameworks interpenetrate that attest to connective logics of histories of terror involving anti-political and anti-democratic political conditions performed under systems of terror and domination (Pollock and Silverman 2011a: 19, b). In such cases, the denial of legal protection and political freedoms to speak out are the hallmarks. I have explored the relationship between speech and corporeality—here, the tortured body embodies the limits of speech. Torture presents an important paradox discussed by Gerald Posselt (2017: 18) concerning the relationship between violence and speech. The tortured body is a means through which sovereign power is communicated. Utilised as a method of interrogation, the body under such circumstances is pre-discursive because it is depoliticised (Shinko 2010: 743). Elaine Scarry (1985: 5) infamously argues in The Body in Pain that pain ‘shatters’ language and communication. As Posselt (2017: 18) surmises: …violence is both the condition of possibility and the condition of impossibility of speech. It is, so to speak, the condition of possibility of speech, insofar as neither sense nor meaning would be possible without an act of naming that makes something recognizable, identificable, or addressable as something in the first place. [….] It is the condition of

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impossibility, insofar as it undermines the very possibility of speech itself, namely, inasmuch as it aims at making us speechless, depriving us of the possibility of speaking out and being heard.

The counterpart to ‘ghost detainees’ (Puar 2007: 113; Amnesty International 2005) are the ‘ghosts of state terrorism’ (Jackson 2008: 4) that exemplify silences surrounding state terrorism performed by Western states such as state torture, strategic bombing, deaths of civilians, and sponsorship of right-wing terrorist groups. Western involvement in terrorism has a protracted history which has largely been unacknowledged but which encompasses official terror tactics instituted by colonial powers as forms of governance and social control (Curtis 2004; Beckett 2001; Herman and O’Sullivan 1989). The absence of accounts of state terrorism naturalise definitions of terrorism as comprising nonstate violence requiring solving by the state rather than as practices of state power (Jackson 2008: 14). This conception has ‘ideological effects’ (Jackson 2008: 24) so that dominant groups, as Samrina intimates, fail to recognise state actors as terrorists or indeed, their complicity in terrors performed by Western states against non-Western Others ‘in their name.’ Failure to name state terror legitimises terror tactics such as torture, military intervention, and extraordinary rendition, as justifications for fighting terrorism and sanctifies Western dominance and its ‘civilising mission.’ Although Muslims have been aware of state performances of terror “for years” as Samrina tells us, such knowledge is only accepted as evidence when taken up by those occupying positions of power to narrate victims’ accounts. Two recent reports by the Parliamentary Intelligence and Security Committee (ISC 2018a, b) document British intelligence agencies’ involvement in the torture and kidnap of terrorist suspects after 9/11. The reports reveal that UK intelligence links to torture and rendition were much more prevalent than previously reported. Importantly, they highlight active practices of disavowal, ‘deliberately turning a blind eye’ (ICS 2018a: 57, my italics; also Blakeley and Raphael 2019, 2020) despite MI6 and MI5 being aware that detainees were being mistreated. These decisions were excused as security measures: the detainees, as a ‘significant source of information’ (ICS 2018a: 4) served as collateral

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damage in order to protect the UK from possible attacks and to protect the ‘flow of intelligence’ (ICS 2018a: 4) and diplomatic relations with the US. The decision not to intervene highlights how silences are actively produced as a means of privileging the interests of the dominant group and ways in which the relationship between speech and corporeality relates to wider geopolitical configurations of power. The British government’s failure to acknowledge its culpability in atrocities committed during the ‘war on terror’ (Blakeley and Raphael 2019, 2020) maintains their association with civility whilst enabling acts of terror to continue without accountability; a silencing which highlights continuities between Britain’s colonial past and neo-colonial present (Gregory 2004). Refusal for evidence of torture to be buried however illustrates that silencing is never complete; like the ghost in Derrida’s (1994: xviii, 94) writings, the revenant returns to bring justice, epitomised here by the resurfacing of evidence of torture committed by Western governments during the ‘war on terror.’ Samrina ardently breaks the silence: “let me tell you, the biggest oppressors in the world are the British and the Americans,” and by doing so, reworks the terms of terror/ist: “so to me they’re the terrorists.” Evidencing torture contests official ‘truths’ of the absence of state terror by Western actors within the ‘war on terror.’ As Richard Jackson (2008: 17) observes, ‘discourses are never completely hegemonic; there is always room for counter-hegemonic struggle and subversive forms of knowledge.’ Yet even when damning verdicts such as extreme failures to minimise civilian causalities are decided upon, as presented in the ICS (2018a, b) reports, justice remains elusive. This suggests that mechanisms of accountability such as ICS are tokenistic, or worse, present the semblance of accountability which serves to prop up white supremacy and claims to democracy and civilised forms of governance whilst the Muslim Other can knowingly be killed, that like homo sacer (Agamben 1998: 71– 74), can be sacrificed but not mourned. The Chilcot report (House of Commons 2016) investigating Tony Blair’s decision to go to war in Iraq and subsequent occupation is a notable case in point. The inquiry revealed that only a ‘broad estimate’ (House of Commons 2016: 129) of the number of Iraqis that were killed was made by the Ministry of Defence. The government’s principle concern was to ‘rebut accusations

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that coalition forces were responsible for the deaths of large numbers’ (House of Commons 2016: 129) of Iraqis rather than to protect civilian casualties in Iraq. An inquiry (House of Commons 2011a: 115) into the violent killing of Baha Mousa, an Iraqi man who died in British Army custody in Basra, Iraq, in September 2003, evidenced that: The physical injuries recorded in respect of the Detainees show that a number of them must have been severely and forcefully assaulted…the generality of the medical evidence demonstrates beyond doubt that most, if not all, of the Detainees were the victims of serious abuse and mistreatment by soldiers during their detention in the TDF. (Temporary Detention Facility)

A large number of British soldiers assaulted detainees, and many, including officers, knew of the abuse, further illustrating that racial terror is institutionalised and a means through which white supremacy is performed. The report concluded that the death of Mousa was an ‘appalling episode of serious gratuitous violence’ and condemned the Ministry of Defence for ‘corporate failure’ (House of Commons 2011b: 1330). Yet again, recourse for justice remains elusive. Challenges remain concerning whether such accounts get heard and more importantly, acted upon. Nonetheless, as Michel Foucault (cited in Rabinow 1984: 245) contends, power produces resistance even within systems of terror, albeit not without restraint: No matter how terrifying a given system may be, there always remain the possibilities of resistance, disobedience, and oppositional groupings. On the other hand, I do not think that there is anything that is functionally … absolutely liberating.

I move on to discuss strategies of resistance that participants engaged in and their potential for achieving positive political and social gains for Muslims in Britain.

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Resistance: ‘Haunting Back’

In this final section, I examine the forms of resistance that participants engaged in, the tensions, negotiations, and limits experienced to perform their identities as Muslims, as citizens, as political subjects in Britain, and the importance that such interventions propose for developing an alternative visual schema that can subvert the Gothicisation of Muslims as ‘terrorist-monsters’ (Puar and Rai 2002). I approach resistance not as oppositional since this risks reaffirming Muslims as problematic, but rather as a means of resetting the politics of representation to support acceptance and inclusion, equality and justice.

Politicised: “Reawakening” Although participants reported instances of depoliticisation of Muslim subjectivities, immobilised by the culture of fear, they also spoke of ways in which Muslims have been politicised (Dobbernack 2019; O’Toole et al. 2013; Briggs 2010) in the post-9/11 context, as Zanaib describes: In terms of the Muslim community, I would say what’s happened around the world has had a massive impact. Young people have become far more politicised on the back of 9/11 and Iraq and Afghanistan … What I found is that people have become more conscientious – there’s a social consciousness as well … that goes beyond their own life and faith … this idea of a search for identity.

The geopolitics of the ‘war on terror’ has shaped the political proclivities of Muslim youth. Whilst Tahseen Shams (2018: 75) describes the post-9/11 as also a ‘Muslim moment,’ ‘a period of rising Muslim self consciousness,’ Zanaib speaks of a “social consciousness” to illustrate the importance of politics to young Muslims as they negotiate their position within British society and wider social relations. The emphasis on the “social” in Zanaib’s account is important since it challenges dominant frames that equate the politicisation of Muslim youth with the dangers of extremism and rejection of society. Here, it is about Muslims becoming aware of their negative treatment, both in the UK and globally, and the

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need to contest such practices in order to improve their social position and relations with non-Muslims. Another key facet is the “search for identity” whereby central to becoming more politicised and developing a social consciousness, is understanding who you are and how you ‘fit.’ Again, for Zanaib, this search cannot be reduced to silos of ‘moderate’ and ‘extremist’ expressions of religious identity. The search for identity is one which goes beyond “their own life” and is thus interconnected to how social relations are formed, both within Muslim communities and wider society, in the UK and globally. The events of 9/11 and the subsequent ‘war on terror’ have been a significant turning point for British Muslims, which has mobilised some Muslims and non-Muslims to engage in political protests who may not have previously been politically active. Zanaib gives the example of her sisters who, unlike her, were not engaged in political campaigns, but resided primarily in the private sphere of the family. Amid the imminent Iraq War, her sisters travelled from Bradford with their babies in tow to attend the demonstration held in London on 15 February 2003, described as ‘the biggest in the UK capital’s political history’ (BBC News 17 February 2003). Between six and 11 million people are believed to have taken part in up to 60 countries and in over 600 cities over the weekend of the 15 and 16 February 2003. Police estimated attendance in London was in excess of 750,000 people, but organisers claimed around two million attended (BBC News 17 February 2003): Zanaib: My sisters they’ve never ever been to London—it was only during the Iraq stuff that they got their pushchairs with their babies, got onto the coach and marched in London. Madeline: Right! [I laugh]. Zanaib: [My sister] has a real sense of what is happening around the world. Satellite television has brought it home you know … exposing what is happening … It’s almost that there’s a reawakening … that’s taking place.

Zanaib describes the palpable politics of the ‘war on terror’ which cannot be ignored for Muslims, “it’s in your face.” She intimates the embodied nature of politics/knowledge that affect the body—mobilising the body to act, to fight back, in this case, to travel to London to protest against

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the Iraq War 2003. As discussed in Chapter 5, my research documented growing activism among Muslim women (Lewicki and O’Toole 2017). Counter to the culture of fear and culture of silence, there has also been a “reawakening” according to Zanaib, attentive to what is happening both locally, nationally, and globally. Thus whilst terror can be immobilising, it also produces resistance following “expos[sure]” to the conditions of Muslims’ oppression through engagement in micropolitics to improve the situation for Muslims in Britain and globally. Although the protests were unsuccessful in preventing the UK invading Iraq in 2003, which contributed to some of my participants’ disenchantment with politics, others were comforted by the show of support from non-Muslims and continued to campaign against the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and related campaigns such as anti-racism and anti-fascism alongside both Muslims and non-Muslims, as the next section explores.

Coming Together: A Politics of Care A number of my participants were involved with a range of organisations encompassing community, political, charity, and faith concerns (which often overlapped). The activities of these organisations were diverse, but were largely premised on improving the situation for Muslims and society more broadly. Organisations’ activities and objectives intersected and coalitions were formed to address similar issues concerning antiwar, anti-fascism, anti-racism and anti-Islamophobia. Participants from various groups attended events and meetings which were organised principally to raise awareness of issues, recruit members and raise funds, as well as to protest on particular campaigns. Notably, activities involved ‘reaching out’ to non-Muslims. Despite reports of negative treatment, participants also spoke about how non-Muslims showed support for Muslims and the value of these performances for improving the situation for Muslims. For example, Leila observes that some non-Muslim English people have shown solidarity with Muslims through political demonstrations such as Stop the War and were questioning why Iraq was being attacked, describing the “fervour in their hearts” that such events

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had stirred. To develop this discussion, I return to Rafee’s account of his engagement with Stop the War. When asked how he got involved with the organisation, Rafee tells me that he had been involved in a number of activist groups such as Leeds no-Borders and Unite Against Fascism. He was drawn to these groups to channel some of the anger, of which the violent racist incident he suffered growing up was a significant contributor, as well as the despair he felt working with a client group who were “victimised day in and day out” during their claims for asylum in the UK. When he first joined, Rafee admits that he was sceptical about whether it would make a difference. However, when asked what joining the group has contributed to his life, he tells me “hope…amongst all the dismay.” His involvement has given him the chance to meet “some fantastic people” who he would otherwise never have dreamed he would have met, and who he describes, “put their entire lives in fighting for a better world and a better society and that’s really inspiring.” He gives the example of Joe Glenton, a former British soldier, who served a prison sentence because he did not believe in fighting in Afghanistan (who I also heard speak at an event that Rafee and I attended). As Rahina also observes, what is important for improving the opportunities and treatment of British Muslims is their involvement in the political system. Rafee is particularly struck by his acquaintance with Members of Parliament “who do stand with us.” These included George Galloway and Jeremy Corban who he tells me corrected him in a “nice way” when Rafee criticised his local MP and offered him advice on how to challenge politically in a “good way.” Although one could interpret this episode as patronising, even racialising, it highlights the role that elites can play in supporting and inculcating British Muslims into the political process and making them feel included; a point I return to. As a coalition between diverse actors, the Stop the War campaign provided an important outlet for Muslims to contest the ‘war on terror’ and to feel that there were nonMuslims of political standing as well as ordinary citizens who stood up for them (also Peace 2015; Geaves 2005: 73–74), as Rafee discusses: I think there’s a huge degree or level of fear in the Muslim community … but what I also think is that if Muslims see that there are groups out

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there that are of a mixed variety of people – English, erm you know and other people really, that do stand up and care for all communities… I think it’s extremely important that people who do feel disenfranchised, and you know despairing and lack hope and all those things, to you know, to join groups. I think it’s the most important thing to do in order to feel part of a wider group. And where you can get support and help, and actually erm learn how to channel those emotions in a positive way. And actually learn from other people erm you know … information. And learn how to maybe … challenge some of these things you know, and gain in your personal self-development really.

Rafee speaks of the culture of fear felt within the Muslim community—a possible counter is recognition that there are groups who do care for Muslims and importantly, are willing to stand up for them, comprising a politics of “care.” The “mixed” nature of membership is important for offsetting the disenfranchisement that some Muslims may feel resulting from negative media and political discourses that Muslims are a threat to British values. As Zeus Leonardo and Ronald K. Porter (2010: 147) note, racially homogeneous spaces may not be safe because they result ‘precisely from a violent condition: racial segregation.’ Achieving racial justice requires political solidarity premised on mutual relations of trust, commitment, and responsibility between members of a political community (Hooker 2009: 4). Yet as Juliet Hooker observes, the ‘contours of political solidarity continue to be indelibly shaped by race.’ It is important to note that none of the larger or more mainstream Muslim organisations were involved in the initial Stop the War campaign meetings, although some members attended in personal capacities (Phillips 2008: 102) and there was a lack of representation of Muslim participation at leadership levels (German in Massoumi 2015: 718). Anti-war activist, Atif Nazar (cited in Phillips 2008: 102), recounted that ‘white people’ represented ‘more than 9899 per cent of the demonstrations’ and ‘participation of the Muslims or ethnic minorities was really less… Muslims played a part, but it wasn’t a very big part…’ The most notable Muslim representation has been from the Muslim Association of Britain (MAB), a British Muslim organisation founded in 1997.

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That normative citizens have greater freedoms than Muslims to challenge government agendas without being labelled problematic presents an interesting conundrum concerning voice: who should speak for whom? Participating in public dialogue for people of colour can make them vulnerable targets (Leonardo and Porter 2010: 140). Rafee’s account suggests that because “English” members (coded as white, nonMuslim) have greater political freedoms to challenge without fear of reprisals, they can protect Muslims by taking on their causes on Muslims’ behalf. Yet one could argue that this situation is another means through which Muslims are silenced. Rafee reveals the negotiations involved concerning political (mis)representationand dynamics of risk/protection that pertain to the racialised nature in which speech and its restrictions operate, and the conditions of (im)possibility for Muslims to speak without risk of their speech being misrepresented. Rafee places importance on “channelling emotions.” These selfsurveillance practices are particularly pertinent for racial Others because of the comparative ease with which challenges made by them lay them open to charges of aggression based on racial stereotypes. Butler (1997b: 15) observes that the notion ‘excitable speech’ is applied in juridical language to designate testimonies that are untrustworthy because the witness was in an emotional state when they were uttered and the ‘language is out of control’ (Ponzio 2018: 237). The ability to control emotions is tantamount therefore to making a legitimate case and for it to be believed; this is particularly acute for racial Others when taking a political stance because they are already imagined as emotionally charged, as aggressors, which renders them unreliable witnesses. As discussed in Chapter 5, the demise of safe spaces for young Muslims to articulate their views and for them to be challenged is counter-productive for belonging and challenging extremism. Onus is placed on Muslims to join “wider” groups in order to be part of mainstream society. Comparatively, for English people, their majority status is already secured. This suggests that white privilege, as Leonardo and Porter (2010: 140) note, ‘is at the centre of most race dialogues, even those that aim to critique and undo racial advantage.’ Nonetheless, opportunities for capitalising on white privilege are present, enabling Muslims to feel part of a political community. Even if the terms of

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political engagement and freedom of speech are racially shaped and thus unequal, the opportunities to fight for improved conditions for racial/religious minorities is present. Dominant members of the political community thus have an important role in improving inclusion.7 Rafee reports that membership to political campaigns such as these had positive outcomes in terms of feeling part of a political community and for self-development by providing opportunities to learn from others about the political process in order to challenge political agendas more effectively. However, it is important to note that being part of the campaign, whilst providing an occasion for exercising rights to political engagement and protest, did not override restrictions to freedom of speech facing Muslims. It is because Rafee is part of a wider political group that includes white, non-Muslim members who can speak on his behalf that he feels able to engage in politics critical of the government’s agenda concerning the ‘war on terror,’ as the next part develops: …I think [being politically active] becomes easier because you think well actually I’m not by myself – you know I’m not going to get into trouble if I’m part of a bigger, wider group. And I think that’s really important – I think that’s a really important point to say well actually you’re protected by a bigger group really so you know so I think that’s really important.

For Rafee, developing relations with non-Muslims is central for him to campaign against the ‘war on terror’ without putting him at risk (“get[ting] into trouble”), but which also exposes the limitations he faces concerning political engagement and self-determination. Although group membership offers a means of supporting individuals in a collective cause which is beneficial for all members, not just Muslims, the racialised (and gendered) dynamic of protected/vulnerable is important for understanding what is (un)sayable for Muslims compared to normative citizens. Rather than risk being negatively labelled, Rafee limits his exposure by seeking protection from a wider group that includes nonMuslims. Shams (2018: 79) argues that this strategy could be perceived as a ‘weapon of the weak’ whereby subordinate members seek indirect means to challenge the dominant group rather than risk reprisals from outright confrontation (Scott 1985).

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The dangers of those who support Muslims not speaking out places Muslims further at risk because it enables the discursive space to be taken up by those that are vocal. This dilemma is summarised well by Samrina: ‘there’s a lot of people that you forget about who do support you as a Muslim and don’t believe the rubbish that is going on out there, but they’re not the ones that are vocal …’ Markovi´c (2018: 133) surmises that ‘the greatest danger posed by hate speech lies in the fact that the “silent majority” can become indifferent and desensitised to it or can be intimidated into silence.’ The importance for Muslims to take control over how they are represented is therefore critical, as I move on to discuss.

Responsibilisation: “Ambassadors” for Islam In order to contest negative representations, Muslims felt responsible for presenting an alternative articulation of Islam and being Muslim as the following account from Saadi, a 20-year-old British-Iraqi Muslim male explains: I think it’s erm a responsibility of all Muslims to represent it properly and to you know do that and to not shy away from having conversations about foreign policy and not, to not be afraid about having conversations that might sound a bit, a bit extreme in somebody’s eyes. But if you’ve got an opinion, have it it’s fine, as long as it’s not actually extreme, or you’re not going round telling people to kill people or start – rage war on people – if you’re just having a conversation about how you don’t agree with people being in Iraq or people being in Afghanistan or innocent soldiers dying or innocent people in this country dying – that’s not something to be scared about having a conversation about.

Saadi has lived in Guiseley, an affluent West Yorkshire town near Leeds, for the past eight or nine years having lived in Horsforth, another affluent suburb of Leeds, previously. He describes his area as a pleasant, “very white community” of a relatively high socio-economic group. His parents came over from Iraq in 1990 as adults because his father was undertaking a PhD in Leeds. Saadi was born in Leeds in 1991. They were planning to return to Iraq where his father was to finish his PhD but the first Gulf

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War happened meaning it was too dangerous for them to travel. At other times they thought of returning to Iraq, but for the sake of their children’s education having now had Saadi’s young brother and sister, they decided to remain in England. Both his parents now have British citizenship but Saadi says “a lot of what they feel is they are Iraqi,” meaning they have close, heartfelt ties with Iraq. The majority of their family are still in Iraq so like me, his family have been directly impacted by the Iraq War 2003. Saadi is politically invested and describes himself as having “strong feelings” in terms of foreign policy, which has made him question the Iraq War and other wars performed by Western states, also citing the examples of the War in Afghanistan 2001 and American involvement in Vietnam. He speaks Arabic with his parents and has learned a lot about Iraqi culture which he says has greatly influenced who he is. Saadi is studying mechanical engineering at Leeds University at the time of interview. He is also an active committee member of his University Islamic Society, lead representative of the national Islamic Unity Society organisation, and chairman of the youth activities committee at his local mosque. The latter has involved promoting English programmes at the mosque, recognising that for the younger generation who are British-born (rather than Iraqi-born like most of the elders) their first language is English rather than Arabic. The committee organises weekly discussion circles on Islamic topics which he describes as “interactive” and “youth oriented,” with an emphasis on practical application and young Muslims’ engagement with wider society. Through such activities, young Muslims such as Saadi have actively taken “responsibility” to be ‘role models’ (see Shams 2018: 82) for their religion. Whilst researchers such as Basia Spalek (2013: 76; also Thomas 2017; McGhee 2010; Mythen and Walklate 2006) speak of the ‘responsibilisation’ of Muslims within terrorism prevention, here responsibility emerges from Muslim communities as a means of taking control over how they perform their religious identities and interact with wider society. Saadi makes a distinction between Muslim as an identity and being Muslim through practice, describing Islam as a holistic religion which should inform all aspects of your conduct, particularly when Islam is “under the microscope.” He saw the importance of Muslims “opening up” to the wider non-Muslim community. Inter-faith events were part

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of this strategy and he talked about a panel and discussion and dialogue session to open up debate, enabling people from different faith backgrounds to learn and benefit from one another, even when they disagree. He saw young people as instrumental in advancing a positive image of Islam and Muslims, as well as the need for them to develop soft skills and confidence in public speaking to achieve this, further illustrating the importance of voice for improving opportunities for British Muslims. Whilst these responsibilities are not divorced from the ‘war on terror’ context, they are about responding to the needs from within the local Muslim community that go beyond tackling extremism. Saadi thus highlights the more pressing issues for young British Muslims concerning forging a stake in contemporary Britain as Muslims, as members of the political community, and developing positive relations with fellow citizens, both Muslim and non-Muslim. To improve the position of young British Muslims, Saadi advocates engaging in conversations with non-Muslims; a strategy which confronts the culture of fear and silence affecting Muslims which requires that Muslims are “not…afraid” to have conversations about foreign policy. He recognises that such conversations could “sound extreme” even if they are “not actually extreme” in intent, which highlights the risks involved for British Muslims and the racialised power struggles concerning freedom of speech centring on how Muslims’ speech is interpreted. Significant here is the different racialised visual schemas which are in operation, where the possibility of being labelled “extreme” depends on whether a statement appears to be so “in somebody’s eyes.” The racialised visual schema informing the terror suspect discussed in Chapter 3 is also present therefore when judging speech, further highlighting the embodied nature of language (Merleau-Ponty 2004; Butler 1997b: 5) underpinning racialised differences concerning what is (un)sayable for Muslims. Whilst participants’ accounts have shown that the desire to kill the Muslim Other has been freely expressed by normative citizens without retribution, Saadi (as with Leila) makes it undecidedly clear that it would be unacceptable for Muslims to make comparable statements without being seen as inciting terror. Saadi highlights the negotiations Muslims are compelled to undertake in order to legitimise their critiques of the

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wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Citing the needless deaths of “innocent soldiers” provides a useful means of critiquing these wars without being seen as extremist. However, the trope of the innocent soldier brings white bodies (see Ware 2010)8 as victims of the ‘war on terror’ into the frame, re-centring white non-Muslim populations as victims of terrorism rather than focusing on the deaths of innocent civilians in Iraq and Afghanistan at the hands of the military as the culprits of white terror (Abbas 2013) within a white supremacist system. In the next account, Leila asserts that dismantling hegemonic frames of terror/ism requires that Muslims represent themselves: …the media’s really biased and controlling and it’s just one-sided or tries to make negative pictures so I think that’s why we have to be you know, be ambassadors ourselves I think sometimes to break those lies in our everyday life with people and how we interact with them, to show them a different perspective from the lies that the media tries to perpetrate.

Aware that Muslims are subject to heightened scrutiny, like Saadi, Leila argues that Muslims must take responsibility for challenging misrepresentations by becoming positive “ambassadors ourselves.” These performances do not just have individual significance, but comprise wider responsibility for Muslim communities. Whilst we can understand these practices as forms of self-surveillance involving disciplinary measures emanating from a position of subordination, they also comprise forms of empowerment. Leila’s use of “ourselves” highlights that “ambassador” is a self-ascribed, agentic position; an active mobilisation against negative representations portrayed in the media in order to take back control and improve the lived experiences of herself and other Muslims. Participants frequently expressed the negative role of the media in shaping how Muslims are perceived. As Shams (2018: 76) argues, the mass media ‘helps to disseminate the political discourse against the alleged enemy’ (also Altheide 2006). Contesting these dominant frames requires intervening through everyday, micro-interactions with nonMuslims to “break those lies in our everyday life.” For Leila, mediated accounts can be challenged through embodied interactions where again,

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speech and the body are co-dependent in “show[ing] a different perspective” that might disrupt hegemonic racialised (mis)representations and forge more positive forms of relationalities between Muslims and nonMuslims.

Standing up …I think we’ve got to stand up and be more – Muslims have just become afraid and complacent and they just want easy lives and I think they’ve got to stand up and they’ve got to stand up for themselves and for their right to be a Muslim and accepted in that way (Hamida).

At the time of interview, Hamida was working along with Saba and Abrah, at the racial justice and human rights organisation where I was undertaking a research placement. She was attracted to working there because of the ideology of the organisation and its promotion of civil liberties, human rights and social justice, as well as providing her with an opportunity to engage in youth work. During the EDL protest in Bradford in August 2010, Hamida and other youth workers acted as what she termed “foot soldiers,” who tried to calm down the tensions that were building between the EDL and local South Asian Muslim communities. Amid the legacy of the 2001 disturbances, they were cautious that it could have “kicked off ” if such protective measures had not been put in place. If this were to happen, such acts of resistance against race hate would have particularly detrimental consequences for young South Asian Muslims judging by the harsh prison sentences which were distributed to this group following the 2001 Bradford disturbances, further illustrating how the legacy of these events shape current political mobilisations undertaken by British Muslims. For Hamida, what was disappointing was that there was no accountability for the EDL members, who had thrown rocket launches and smoke bombs, jumped over barriers, and caused disruption within the town. Although Bradford “came out better,” she suggests that little had changed in terms of the policing and media portrayal of race hate, notably, that as with the

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BNP before, there was silencing surrounding the EDL’s purposive role in inciting anti-Muslim hatred. Within this context, Hamida recognises that the path of resistance is not easy, but one which is necessary to effect change and to achieve the most important goal: acceptance. This requires refusing to be immobilised by fear since this reduces Muslims to “complacent,” ‘docile bodies’ (Foucault 1977: 135–169). Instead, they must risk their “easy lives” by becoming active agents who “stand up” for their rights, making the body visible, in order to achieve self-determination. The account is useful for examining the terms of ‘multicultural sociability’ (Romeyn 2017: 218) organised around a ‘politics of equal recognition’ (Taylor 1994). Charles Taylor (1994: 25) contends that the ‘demand for recognition’ is central to the politics of multiculturalism. Hamida highlights an important tension between the ‘politics of recognition,’ the “right to be a Muslim,” and ‘demand for equal citizenship’ (Taylor 1994; also Romeyn 2017), that is, to be “accepted” as a full member of society. The moderate/extremist binary has restricted Muslims’ ability to perform their identities on their own terms by resignifying ‘Muslim’ as a political rather than a religious category. This has made attempts for Muslims to speak as Muslims challenging since perceived failure to adopt a ‘moderate Muslim’ subject position can be read as oppositional which fails to recognise piety (Mahmood 2004), here expressed as the “right to be a Muslim,” as a positive standpoint within British society. Although legally Hamida has the right to be Muslim (although I have discussed the legislative challenges concerning how Muslim identities can be performed), acceptance as a Muslim would require a change in how the terms of belonging are constituted and enacted. This is what Hamida is campaigning for when she argues for the right to be Muslim not just as a legal technicality, but actual inclusion within the nation, which requires an expansive notion of ‘British’ that can accept Muslims on their own terms. The goal is not to overturn hegemonic norms but to recognise that being Muslim can fit within them. As Hamida tells me during the interview, there is no contradiction between being British and Muslim, just that the categories are politicised as antagonistic within current framings of Muslims’ place in Britain. What is required is re-presenting how words can be used and understood for Muslims, enabling them to move

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from a position of political and social antagonism to advocates of social justice and harmony within the public imaginary, as I move on to discuss.

Self-Definition: “Owning Words” Challenges concerning performing Muslim identities must be understood within broader debates concerning what it means to be Muslim in Britain and who defines its ‘acceptable limits’ (see Tyrer 2010: 104– 105; also Morsi 2018; Rashid 2011; Rabasa et al. 2007). As discussed in Chapter 5, participants expressed frustration towards the term ‘moderate Muslim’ (Morsi 2018; Cherney and Murphy 2016) which they perceived to be an imposed category that did not reflect how they defined their relationship to Islam or performed their Muslim identities, and which potentially silences Muslims politically (Shams 2018: 91) and delimits performances of piety. Limitations experienced by Muslims to represent themselves constitute the conditions of inferiority reminiscent of colonial encounters captured by Moustafa: It riles me up inside! What is a moderate Muslim? If you’re Muslim you’re Muslim! You’re putting Western words on a non-Western thing … you’re trying to control it … All of a sudden … I’m moderate because I don’t do this … It’s like yes boss, thank you boss …. Automatically we’re putting ourselves as an inferior person – I’m a moderate – we’re like you…

Moustafa fervently argues that the “moderate Muslim” category is an externally imposed label which subjects Muslims to Western dominance, thus functioning as an iteration of Orientalism that constructs Muslims as “inferior” people. Walid Abdullah notes (2017: 353) how Orientalism as a political project used to justify colonialism, has been internalised by Westerners and Muslims themselves. Moustafa’s description is reminiscent of G.W.F. Hegel’s (1977) master/slave dialectic (“yes boss, thank you boss”) where, as Butler (1997a: 3) observes, ‘the master, who at first appears to be “external” to the slave, re-emerges as the slave’s own conscience’ to occupy psychic reality—“we’re like you.” The moderate/extremist bind comprises the ‘challenge of speaking’ examined by Daniele Lorenzini and Martine Tazzioli (2018: 78) without

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being caught within the knowledge frameworks of the coloniser. State definitions of ‘moderate’ and ‘extremist’ classify and define Muslims according to a ‘good’/’bad’ (Mamdani 2004: 15) dichotomy, which David Tyrer (2008: 63) argues makes Muslims more ‘governable’ than ‘British.’ Shams’ (2018: 73) study with South Asian Muslims in Los Angeles found that Muslim Americans distanced themselves from the ‘Muslim’ label because of its associations with terrorism. They chose to self-categorise using the more benign ‘moderate’ inscription. However, this label could render them ‘politically passive’ (Shams 2018: 73). Being ‘Muslim’ is no longer a private experience, but a performance that can be regulated and controlled politically. Hence what it means to be Muslim has entered a different language game (Wittgenstein 1974)9 in which judgements of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ denote political identities rather than cultural or religious ones (Mamdani 2004: 15). Escaping this bind requires ‘disrupt[ing] the epistemic codes of the colonial regime of truth’ (Lorenzini and Tazzioli 2018: 79); that is, resisting the conditions of inferiority and reclaiming responsibility for how Islam is represented by Muslims themselves. Hamida’s account shows how language is a site of ‘social and political struggle’ (Weedon 2003: 23). Since meaning is contested, the possibility is present for terms to be resignified (Butler 1997b: 14) so that alternative subject positions can be made available, as Hamida illustrates in her discussion of “radical”: If I have an opinion on foreign policy or if I have an opinion on anything therefore I’ve got a radical opinion – so I guess it’s just, it’s just, it’s just common. You just kind of brush it off and walk away … My personal opinion is you know, the word ‘radical’ has been hijacked and it’s been used as a word that’s dirty now. But I think we should own words, words like that should be owned by everybody it’s not – radical can just mean change. People like Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, erm Nelson Mandela, they were radical, as was you know, Rosa Parks – these people were radical who stood up and did something, but we don’t see them as bad people … I think words like that need to be used as yeah I’m radical because I’m trying to change the way people are perceiving who I am and I’ll do it the radical way of standing up and saying this is me, this is

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who I am – that doesn’t mean that I’m therefore then going to become a terrorist.

Hamida’s words illustrate the restrictions she experiences concerning being able to talk about foreign policy without her opinions being misrepresented as evidence of her adopting a “radical” subjectivity. The pervasiveness with which this connection is made, “it’s just common,” demonstrates the closing down of discursive spaces for Muslims and the subject positions that are available to them. As with Ali’s account, Hamida examines how speech has effects on the body. Being treated as “radical” is something that she has to “brush…off,” as if its deleterious effects are imposed upon her body. Speech and its withdrawal both comprise ‘bodily act[s]’ (Butler 1997b: 12), demonstrated by her decision to “walk away” rather than engage in conversation. Language thus has material effects—it moves bodies and (re)constitutes (racialised) relations between them through not only the forms of speech that are engendered, but practices of silencing that accompany who can speak and whose account is believed. In order to challenge the ways in which she is spoken of as radical through her group membership as Muslim, Hamida must re-centre her identity as an individual. It is through voicing her “personal opinion” that she attempts to dislodge the association of radical with an extremist subject position. Hill Collins (2009: 270) speaks of the importance for oppressed groups to develop ‘alternative ways to create independent selfdefinitions and self-valuations and to re-articulate them through [their] own specialists.’ Central to this project is finding ways to produce and validate knowledge that adequately reflects experiences of the subordinate group. Hamida undertakes a comparable project. Her purpose is to reclaim the usage of the term “radical.” She notes how this word has been “hijacked”; an apt expression for how words in the post-9/11 context have been wrongfully taken over to become a means through which Muslims are articulated as threatening. Interestingly, Hamida locates her struggle within previous histories of anti-racism such as the Civil Rights Movement in the US through citing Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, and Malcolm X, and anti-apartheid in South Africa through referencing Nelson Mandela. The ‘success’ of

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these challenges provides hope for Muslims in the current moment and the importance of adopting a radical position to achieve social change. Nonetheless, invoking these figures also highlights the risks that political contestation involves. The assassinations of both Martin Luther King and Malcolm X and the imprisonment of Nelson Mandela are cases in point. At the time, these figures were judged to be ‘bad’ by state authorities and there were concerted attempts to curtail anti-racist mobilisations. Lewis Gordon (2008 cited in Leonardo and Porter 2010: 48, original italics) emphasises that although King is today heralded as an ‘apostle of nonviolence,’ at the time he was viewed by white Americans and the US government ‘as violent’ because, taking her cue from Fanon (2004: 27– 74), he was ‘actional’ in content but not in form. He aimed to liberate the oppressor and the oppressed which challenged white supremacy and consequently roused white violence (Bobo and Smith 1998). Hamida’s description of radical as a word “that’s dirty now” informs how words function to police Muslim bodies. As discussed in Chapter 3, dirt in Kristevan abjection signifies ‘matter out of place’ (Douglas 2002: 35). The ability for words to be made dirty when applied to certain bodies constitutes the conditions of abjection for Muslims. This is because Muslims are excluded from the symbolic domain of language following restrictions to contest the terms under which certain words can be used by them. Hamida also highlights the instability of the meaning of radical suggesting that negative articulations can be reformulated. Political agency emerges through acts of becoming which are also ‘an unbecoming’ (Bunch 2013: 39), where abjection from the social order mobilises critique and subsequent transformation. Butler (1993: 187) contends that what is constructed in discourse is unfixed so that discourse ‘becomes the condition and occasion for a further action.’ Hamida’s resistance occurs from within the very discourse that constructs her as radical. Hamida proposes an alternative meaning of radical—“change”—that affords her an agentic subject position actively engaged in transforming the social conditions under which Muslim identities are talked about in derogatory terms. Butler (1997b: 163) notes that name-calling is the site of injury but it can also be the ‘initiating moment of a counter-mobilization.’ In this regard, being called a name subordinates

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the addressee, but also provides the conditions for redress. Hamida challenges racialised differences by proposing a universal approach to language acquisition where words are “owned by everybody.” This would overcome the racialising effects of language where words mean different things when uttered by differently racialised bodies, enabling her to use the term “radical” without its tarnished association with radicalisation having negative affects upon her. It involves contesting the equivalence between Muslims and radicalisation that would correspond to a “dirty” usage and confirm their abject status. In this way, words that injure can also be used as a means of resistance through their redeployment. Hamida’s body is a central instrument in her resistance, which again establishes speaking as also a ‘bodily act’ (Butler 1997b: 12; Felman 1983). Unlike Ali, Hamida is not prepared to compromise on her adoption of a ‘visibly Muslim’ identification. She wears the hijab and jilbab and sees her dress as an important presentation of her identity. Challenging the terms under which she is spoken of as radical requires “standing up,” making the body central to her mode of utterance, as well as “saying this is me.” The intimate connection between the body and voice at once exposes the inescapable threat that language proposes to the existence of the body, as well as its dependency on language to alter the conditions under which it can be lived (Felman 1983: 96). The risk Hamida takes is that if her resistance is unsuccessful, it might confirm the very subject position that she is attempting to refute. Nonetheless, we can take from her account that the conditions under which she is put at risk by the initial address of “radical” makes the challenge worth taking. I return to Spivak’s (1988) question posed in the introduction to this chapter: ‘Can the subaltern speak?’ Spivak (1988: 90, 91) notes the dangers of speaking for the subaltern and privileges instead ‘speaking to’ and unlearning the epistemologies used to talk about the subaltern. Hamida similarly seeks to advance an alternative self-definition, one which unmoors the word “radical” from its connotations of a threatening Muslim subjectivity, to one which affords her agency to say “this is who I am.” The Concentrationary Gothic proposes that engagement with the Gothic can extend the possibilities of the concentrationary for naming

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the terrors experienced by Muslims within the ‘war on terror’ context. Hamida’s resistance strategy is comparable to the potential of the Gothic observed by Luke Gibbons (2004: 15) which, he argues, can be ‘turned, through acts of semiotic and narrative appropriation, against itself, thereby becoming a weapon of the weak.’ Hamida’s attempts to rework the meaning of radical involves challenging the terms under which it constitutes her as a terrorist body by locating it within a transformative politics in which “change” is possible. This requires contesting the link between language and the body that attributes her an unequal position in relation to non-Muslims and restricts the words that are available to her. Her account, as with Saadi, illustrates the challenges surrounding voice, but also the possibility for resistance to contest the axiomatic connection between ‘Muslim’ and ‘terrorist’ and open up the discursive space for Muslims to express themselves on their own terms by intervening in the discourse which demonises them (see Goddu 1999: 138). It is a strategy of ‘haunting back’ (Goddu 1997, 1999; also Gibbons 2004).

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This chapter has explored restrictions to freedom of speech and political engagement for British Muslims operating within the Concentrationary Gothic environment. It engaged with the ‘politics of representation’ (Pollock and Silverman 2011a: 8) involved in naming terror within the contested political terrain of Islamophobia. Participants’ accounts evidence that the discursive space for Islamophobia to be enunciated with impunity have opened up, comprising the culture of fear experienced by British Muslims. In response, British Muslims practice self-surveillance as protective strategies which include self-silencing and not presenting a ‘visibly Muslim’ identification. Practices of self-surveillance provide further evidence of the reproductive effects of the terrors of counter-terrorism that detrimentally affect how everyday spaces are experienced and relations formed within them. The meaning of words changes depending on the context in which they are said. For example, Leila being told not to leave her bag unattended has a particular purchase within the context of public transport

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because of its association within ‘war on terror’ discourse with the risk of terrorist attacks. Ali’s account by comparison illustrates how the terrors of counter-terrorism have seeped into spaces not typically associated with the threat of terrorism, in this case the office where he works. Precipitated by pre-emptive counter-terrorism measures, he experiences his workplace as a potential site of terror emerging from fear that his colleagues could interpret his words or appearance as ‘suspect,’ affecting both how he experiences his work context and his relationships with his colleagues. The Concentrationary Gothic supports examination of how terrors relating to voice(lessness) are constitutive of, and constituted through, a network of (racialised) social relations that are connected to power. These relations are shaped by legal frameworks that legislate what is (un)sayable and which affect the discursive positions which bodies can take up in material contexts (see Burkitt 1999: 71). This line of analysis illustrates that Islamophobia is not confined to extremist politics, but informs mainstream politics (Warsi 2018; Moosavi 2015). State actors and ordinary citizens are enabled to take up an anti-Muslim position in the exercise of hegemonic white governmentality (Patel and Tyrer 2011: 39) by policing Muslim bodies, including what they say, under the semblance of addressing security concerns. Anti-terrorism legislation concerning freedom of speech proposes more stringent restrictions for Muslims as the principle focus of these measures, where intent to incite others is enough for Muslims to be targeted in keeping with pre-emptive counter-terrorism frameworks. Definitional ambiguities of ‘glorification of terrorism’ and ‘indirect encouragement’ in the Terrorism Act 2006 mean that what constitutes an offence is open to interpretation (Zedner 2009: 132). Since the hegemonic construction of the extremist or terrorist is Muslim, Muslims are placed in a precarious position vis-à-vis the normative subject who is able to take up the position of responsible citizen with legislative power to report Muslims suspected of extremism. This is despite recognition as Leila discusses, that normative white bodies can also be terrorist bodies responsible for killing Muslims during the Iraq War—it is the inability to name such acts as terrorism that reaffirms the Muslim as the terrorist par excellence within the ‘war on terror’ discursive frame.

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Restrictions concerning freedom of speech illustrate the racialised and racialising effects of language and its prohibitions, and requires that we approach speech as a complex comprising the inter-bodily-relational as relational, embodied, affective, psychic and as shaped by spatial and temporal contexts that comprise the conditions of possibility of its enunciation. This chapter has shown how words have different meanings, and thus different effects, when used by differentially racialised bodies. Paying attention to both what is said and what is unsaid is important for understanding racialised relations of power concerning who gets to speak and importantly, who interprets what is said. This fits with a relational approach to whiteness offered by Frankenberg (1993: 6) in which everyone is allocated a position in ‘relations of racism.’ A central concern for mediating these relations is the issue of believability that are connected to racialised power relations underpinning epistemology (Hill Collins 2009: 270). Representations of Muslims as predisposed to violent extremism within the discursive framework of the ‘war on terror’ means that their claims of being victims of hate speech (that may also comprise acts of extremism) can easily be disqualified. Lack of protection that Muslims feel that they have within law to speak out against racial terror perpetuates the culture of fear. The security context (in)securitises Muslims by enabling hate speech to be subsumed by security concerns pertaining to a threatening Muslim Other which silences alternative accounts of terror/ism experienced by Muslims, directly or indirectly, in the UK and globally. This chapter also shows resistance to the culture of fear and silence. These include being “re-awakened” (Zanaib) to the conditions of oppression experienced by Muslims globally, and speaking out against state terrorism inflicted upon Muslim populations (Samrina), developing productive political alliances with both Muslims and non-Muslims comprising a ‘politics of care’ (Rafee), and engaging in strategies of responsibilisation for how Islam and Muslim identity is defined comprising being “ambassadors” (Leila, Saadi) for Islam and through selfdetermination by standing up against the culture of fear and reclaiming words which have been used to demonise Muslims such as “radical” (Hamida). Collectively, these comprise strategies of ‘haunting back’

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through which the oppressed group intervenes in dominant representations which demonise them (Goddu 1999: 138), that as this chapter has shown, involve political engagement and challenging silences around terror/ism performed by Western actors within the ‘war on terror.’ Through these interventions, the Concentrationary Gothic agitates for a new visual schema in which racial terror is brought into the frame of hegemonic whiteness to enable us, including normative whites, to ‘see’ whiteness as terroriser within the ‘war on terror.’

Notes 1. Further restrictions to freedom of speech have since been legislated by the Counter-terrorism and Security Act 2019 around viewing and streaming rather than downloading online content where it is considered ‘likely to be useful to a person committing or preparing an act of terrorism’ (Section 3.1– 3), unless a case can be made that they were carrying out work as a journalist or academic researcher, or at the time had no reason to believe that such material could be used in this way. 2. Since 2001, 282 individuals have been arrested in Bradford relating to the disturbances. 134 have been Asian males who have been given sentences of between 18 months and five years under the charge of ‘rioting’ (BBC2 16 December 2002). The Bradford disturbances were defined as a ‘riot’ rather than a violent disorder (which the Oldham and Burnley disturbances were classified as) which carries a harsher sentence. The average sentence in Bradford was five years, whilst sentences of two-three years were the maximum in the other towns affected. The Fair Justice for All campaign organised by families of those charged and other members of local Asian communities mobilised in Bradford to contest the ‘scorched-earth sentencing’ (McGhee 2005: 59) that were handed to mainly first time offenders, young males about to embark on their university education, or who were the main breadwinners in their familes. 3. The Coalition was launched following a public meeting of 2000 attendees at the Friend’s House, London, on 21 September 2001, shortly after the 11 September 2001 terrorist attacks, chaired by Lindsey Germaine. Its founding statement was: ‘The Stop the War Coalition has been formed to encourage and mobilise the largest possible movement against the war’ (Socialist Worker 1 October 2001). The elected steering committee consisted

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of representatives of the Labour Left Briefing and the Communist Party of Britain. The Coalition worked with the Muslim Council of Britain. From its inception, it was committed to countering racism, adopting the slogan ‘Against the racist backlash,’ asserting that the war against Afghanistan would be perceived as an attack on Islam and Muslims, or those perceived as such, putting Muslims in Britain at risk of racist attacks. However, the Coalition has faced critique for the lack of Muslim representation (Tarafder 2007 cited in Phillips 2008: 102) and dominance of the Socialist Worker Party (SWP), which Germaine was a member of. Set up in 2001, the Muslim Public Affairs Committee UK (MPACUK) is a grassroots civil liberties pressure group whose stated aims are to ‘expose and counter anti-Muslim narrative in mainstream media and politics’ and to ‘encourage civil engagement within the Muslim community at all levels in the UK’ (MPACUK undated). Topi is a form of taqiyah cap (a rounded skullcap usually worn for religious purposes) adopted in India, Bangladesh, Pakistan, and other regions of South Asia. It is often worn with salwar kameez (national dress for Pakistan). The Terrorism Act 2000 set pre-charge detention in terrorism cases at seven days. In 2003, the Criminal Justice Act 2003 extended the period to 14 days. In 2006, after failing to increase the period to 90 days, the Terrorism Act 2006 increased the period to 28 days subject to annual renewal. In 2011, the legislation was allowed to expire so that the predetention period reverted to 14 days, subsequently secured by the Protection of Freedoms Act 2012. 14 days still exceeds other democratic nations. For example, the USA is set at two days, Ireland seven days, Italy four days, and Canada only one day. Narzanin Massoumi (2015: 717) observes that different factions competed to have their voices heard and which reflected internal gendered, religious and political differences. Although many leftist movements celebrated Muslims’ involvement (Murray and German 2005: 57), others claim such alliances undermined leftist values, arguing that Islamic practices and values contradicted progressive leftist ideologies (Glynn 2012; Cohen 2007), particularly concerning the issue of gender equality. Thus whilst there is evidence of productive Muslim and non-Muslims alliances against the ‘war on terror,’ such spaces also risk reproducing Islamophobic sentiments that, I argue, perpetuate rather than challenge the imperialism that undergirds state performances of the ‘war on terror’ within the micropolitics of activist spaces. This is not to suggest that such political alliances fail to offer spaces for solidarity and resistance against negative treatment affecting

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Muslim populations, but rather that they are nonetheless caught within the matrix of racial politics that attests to the challenges of voice(lessness) and (mis)representations that Muslims must negotiate when engaging with activist groups. 8. See Vron Ware (2010: 313) for an important intervention concerning links made between militarisation and whiteness operating within imaginaries of the British nation, what she terms the ‘hypnotic ideals of national identity.’ She focuses on the category of the ‘soldier-migrant’ (Ware 2010) in the context of the Gurkha settlement rights campaign and employment of thousands of members of Commonwealth countries in the British Army to disrupt questions of citizenship, belonging, and race, and challenge the postcolonial melancholia (also Gilroy 2005) that is mobilised through war memories, including by right-wing groups such as the British National Party, as a way of sanctifying the connection between military service and the ‘indigenous “deserving” Brit’ (Ware 2010: 313), at the exclusion of postcolonial citizens from national identity. 9. Ludwig Wittgenstein (1974) contends that language is a sequence of games. Each language game has its own rules or acceptable moves. As with a Foucauldian understanding of discourse, within Wittgenstein’s theorisation, the world exists only through language and as such, determines the conventions for conceptualising experience.

References Abbas, M.-S. 2013. “White terror” in the “war on terror.” Critical Race and Whiteness Studies e-journal 9 (1). Available at: https://www.academia.edu/ 5057776/White_Terror_in_the_War_on_Terror. Accessed 7 May 2020. Abbas, M.-S. 2019. Conflating the Muslim refugee and the terror suspect: Responses to the Syrian refugee “crisis” in Brexit Britain. Ethnic and Racial Studies 42 (14): 2450–2469. https://doi.org/10.1080/01419870.2019.158 8339. Abdullah, W.J. 2017. Conflating Muslim “conservatism” with “extremism”: Examining the “merry Christmas” Saga in Singapore. Journal of Muslim Minority Affairs 37 (3): 344–356. https://doi.org/10.1080/13602004.2017. 1379690.

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7 The Promise of the Concentrationary Gothic: Advancing a New Visual Schema

1

Introduction

In this concluding chapter, I provide an overview of the key contributions of the Concentrationary Gothic framework. I then return to the questions that the research originally posed to delineate how the Concentrationary Gothic advances our understanding of how experiences and performances of British Muslim identities are affected by practices of race/racialisation and how they inform dynamics of Islamophobia. I then consider how the networked approach to racial terror conceived within an inter-bodily-relational model of subjectivity underpinning the Concentrationary Gothic contributes insight into the wider social implications for relations within the nation between Muslims and non-Muslims as well as within Muslim communities in the ‘war on terror’ context of Britain. The final section engages with the promise of developing an alternative visual schema premised on re-visioning the category of ‘human’ that would enable the Muslim to move from the subject position of ‘terrorist-monster’ (Puar and Rai 2002) to occupy the place of fully human. This requires challenging the civiliser/terroriser © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M.-S. Abbas, Terror and the Dynamism of Islamophobia in 21st Century Britain, Palgrave Politics of Identity and Citizenship Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72949-3_7

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binary operating within ‘war on terror’ discourse to conceptualise how we are mutually entangled in regimes of terror and importantly, involves bringing whiteness squarely within the frame of terror/iser.

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Key Contributions of the Concentrationary Gothic

I advanced the Concentrationary Gothic as a productive framework for explicating how whiteness operates as terror within the ‘war on terror’ context of Britain. It approaches Islamophobia as a form of racial terror involved in the governance of British Muslim men and women. I develop the concentrationary as a conceptual tool alongside the Gothic to examine how features of the Gothic—hauntings and the spectral, the monster/monstrosity, and abjected states—intersect with the state of exception, to advance a complex investigation of the culture of fear discussed by participants and its effects on their lives in contemporary Britain. The Concentrationary Gothic challenges claim to the possession of the civilised that is central to constructions of whiteness and its association with humanness (Dyer 1997: 2). Rather, it brings the pastness of terror operating within Britain’s colonial history on which claims to ‘civilised’ have been forged into the present. As such, the Concentrationary Gothic approaches terror as racialised and as having a racialised history that is endemic to performances of hegemonic whiteness (Abbas 2013). This corresponds to a relational approach to race (Goldberg 2009; also Meer 2013a, b) attentive to connective logics of racial configurations and conditions across time and space. Relational analyses help us to map important links between colonial subjugation, the racialisation of religion and the role of whiteness to racial terror. A useful example is the treatment of Irish populations which were also subjected to colonialism under the British and experienced suspect treatment during the troubles. Such a comparison highlights the important role of religion and disrupts the black/white binary to extend our understandings of suspect treatment. A more complex mapping of the mutual entanglements of racial interiors and exteriors that are attentive to the ways in which whiteness is

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internally differentiated is required, therefore, to understand how racial terror is (re)configured and shaped by the socio-political context of the time. An important distinction is made between the treatment of IRA terrorism compared to Islamist terrorism as exemplified by the ‘new terrorism’ narrative (Gunarathna 2010; Neumann 2009; Hoffman 2002; Laqueur 1999). Critics of the new terrorism thesis such as Ersun Kurtulus (2011; also Spencer 2010, 2011; Tucker 2001) argue that religiously driven terrorism, indiscriminate targeting and the use of weapons of mass destruction are not new. Divisions cannot be neatly drawn between IRA terrorism and anti-Western terrorism either. It is worth noting that former Libyan leader, Muammar al-Qaddafi, supplied weapons to the IRA during the troubles as part of an anti-imperialist struggle to oppose US interests in the Middle East by sponsoring paramilitary activities against the US and her allies in Western Europe (see Bell 1997: 556–571). The recent appointment of William Shawcross by the Foreign Secretary as Special Representative on UK victims of Qaddafi-sponsored IRA terrorism (Foreign and Commonwealth Office 2019) highlights ongoing political struggles to seek redress from the Libyan government and active involvement of the UK in UN-led efforts to ensure stability in the region. As with connections drawn between anti-colonial struggles undertaken by Ireland and India examined in Chapter 2, this situation further highlights complex entanglements in which (counter-)terrorism operates that contest West/Rest binaries and suggests that attention to continuities in political logics of opposing imperialism can aid our understanding of contemporary performances of terrorism. Nonetheless as Chapter 2 highlights, differences in how Islamist terrorism is framed in policy and political discourses in the UK context compared to IRA terrorism suggest that how bodies are positioned vis-à-vis whiteness affects the forms of governance to which they are subjected. I return to this point later in reference to differences in suspect treatment between white Muslims and South Asian Muslims due to racialised perceptions of what a Muslim ‘looks like.’ The Gothicisation of Muslims as ‘terrorist-monsters’ (Puar and Rai 2002) draws from earlier racialised conceptions of South Asian, particularly Pakistani cultures, as ‘out of place’ in Britain. Current treatment

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of South Asian Muslims must be understood within a historical trajectory of racial terror comprising colonialism under the British Raj which features in (post)colonial hauntings of South Asian Muslims in Britain (Chapter 2) and underpins shifts in interpellation from “dirt Paki” to “enemy Muslim” (Chapter 3). The Gothic trope of haunting comprised a useful means of understanding how past traumas of colonialism and other violences perpetrated against Muslim populations such as during the Bosnian War 1992–1995, seep into Muslims’ experiences in contemporary Britain. Haunting relates to past experiences that are transmitted generationally, approached as ‘transgenerational haunting’ (Abraham and Torok 1994; also Castricano 2001: 16) (see Chapter 2), that affect psychic formations in the present, as well as shape imagined futures or ‘haunted futurities’ (Ferreday and Kuntsman 2011). Whilst within ‘war on terror’ discourse Muslims feature as spectral terrorists who could be anywhere, I argue that we need to reconfigure the terms of terror to account for how whiteness functions as a spectral terrorist (Chapter 4) that haunts Muslims’ experiences due to fear of being targeted as a terrorist or subjected to other forms of racist violence or hostility, that include the increased presence of white terror embodied by the far-right terrorist that has become the principal terrorist threat in Britain (Home Office 2021b: 2.5). My development of whiteness as a spectral terrorist extends analysis of the operation of the state of exception by drawing from the Gothic’s concern with haunted spaces, including within law (see Chaplin 2007) and the extra-legal (Valier 2002; Punter 1998). This situation is captured by the condition expressed by Hamida (Chapter 4) of “living in fear.” Yet resistance is also made possible by ‘haunting back’ (Goddu 1997, 1999; also Gibbons 2004) in which the Gothic provides a tool for the oppressed by figuring members of the dominant group as terrorisers (Goddu 1999: 138). There are three key, interdependent aspects that the Concentrationary Gothic contributes to our understanding of the machinations of racial terror. Firstly, it illustrates how racial terror operates interbodily-relationally to affect the multi-dimensions of social experience of affective, psychic and temporal (Chapter 2), embodied (Chapter 3), spatial (Chapter 4), relational (Chapter 5) and vocal subjects (Chapter 6). Secondly, it explores how each of these dimensions is shaped by myriad

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practices of governance involved in the management of Muslim populations, both state and non-state, through which Muslims are terrorised. These include nation construction and exclusion (Chapter 2); racial profiling and screening/surveillance practices (Chapter 3); spatial dominance, control and zoning of (un)safe, (in)securitised spaces (Chapter 4); co-option and production of internal divisions within the oppressed group (Chapter 5); and restrictions to freedom of speech and political engagement (Chapter 6). What connects these different strategies of governance is that they pertain to the unequal position which British Muslims occupy within law and the national community. Priority is given to protecting the dominant group. Conversely, onus is placed on Muslims to fit in with the demands of ‘Britishness’—a demand which starts from the premise that being Muslim is antagonistic to British values despite Muslims’ desire to be accepted as British citizens on equal terms as recounted by a number of my participants. Thirdly, the Concentrationary Gothic illustrates the reproductive effects of terror which interpenetrate state, group (intraand inter-) and individual levels of experience. Importantly, the Concentrationary Gothic contributes understanding of the capillary ways in which state practices permeate the social body, in particular, how the terrors of counter-terrorism are internalised by the subjugated group and retransmitted. Adopting a networked approach disrupts binaries of victim/perpetrator, subject/object of terror/ism to illustrate how bodies are mutually entangled within systems of terror to produce divisions within and between differently racialised groups and the dominant group, as well as how new forms of engagement are mobilised. Fourthly, the Concentrationary Gothic comprises a number of what I term ‘visual technologies,’ that is, racialised perceptual frameworks or knowledge practices through which Muslims are Gothicised as terrorist-monsters and in turn, maintain the absence of whiteness from frameworks of terror. These visual technologies underpin practices of governance and surveillance used to manage Muslim identities and work to keep conceptions of the monstrous Muslim in place by obfuscating alternative framings. They include the historico-racial schema (Chapter 2), (in/hyper-)visibility and (mis)recognition (Chapter 3), premediated ignorance (Chapter 4), subjection (Chapter 5) and silencing

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and (mis)representation (Chapter 6). Exposing their operation highlights racialised asymmetric power relations concerning the transmission and (mis)uses of knowledge. A particular example is the use of what I term ‘premediated ignorance’ (Chapter 4) that elucidates how knowledge is actively misused to construct the profile of the terror suspect within policing and criminal justice proceedings, as examined through the cases of Ibrahaim and Hassan. This involves purposively maintaining ignorance about the subject despite insufficient evidence or more alarming, reworking innocuous documents such as personal letters between spouses to construct a particular profile based on premediated perceptions of what a terrorist is/looks like. Premediated ignorance therefore highlights the practices of knowledge construction through which the terroristmonster is materialised. Such epistemological practices are comparable to what Judith Halberstam (2000: 106) refers to as the Gothic’s ‘uncanny power to reveal the mechanisms of monster production.’ The imprecise nature in which the profile has been used to locate the Islamist terrorist is precisely how racial terror operates to produce the subject that it is allegedly seeking, helping to justify state practices of stop and search, home raids, detention, imprisonment and even death. In response, the Concentrationary Gothic advances an alternative visual schema for challenging hegemonic articulations of Muslims as terroristmonsters by bringing whiteness into the frame of terror/ist by exposing how each of these visual technologies comprises misreadings involving interdependent practices of racialisation and Gothicisation. Challenging the axiomatic connection between Muslims and terrorism reveals that the binary of civiliser/terroriser informing the ‘war on terror’ context is artificial and must be constantly maintained as the ‘fantasy of whiteness’ (hooks 1992: 174). I move on to explore my research findings in more detail by returning to the questions that the research originally posed: How do British Muslims construct their identities in the context of the ‘war on terror’ of twenty-first-century Britain? The main research question was subdivided into the following exploratory areas:

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1. How might constructions of British Muslim identities be informed by practices of race/racialisation? How might these contribute understanding to Islamophobia? 2. What are the wider social implications for relations in the national context: a. between Muslims and non-Muslims? b. within Muslim communities?

3

Part 1. Race, Racialisation, Islamophobia: Confluence or Confusion?

To explore how practices of race and racialisation are experienced by British Muslims and how they might contribute understanding to Islamophobia, I engage with the difficulties of defining Islamophobia (Allen 2010: 63; also APPG 2018; Garner and Selod 2015; Tyrer 2013; Sayyid and Vakil 2010). I then discuss the utility of Islamophobia as a discourse for addressing the particular terrors experienced by Muslims qua Muslim and the challenges it proposes for Muslims in contemporary Britain depending on the racialised ways in which subjects may be constructed as threats and/or victims. Since the category ‘Muslim’ does not comprise a bounded racial group, I propose a nuanced understanding of Islamophobia (Taras 2013; Tyrer 2013; Tyrer and Sayyid 2012; Allen 2010; Meer and Modood 2009) that is sensitive to internal differentiations operating within performances and experiences of Islamophobia. These distinctions are related to two interconnecting conditions: the location of Muslims within the racial terrain and their position within the spectrum of moderate/extremist involved in regulating the visible presence of Muslims. The nexus between these locations requires extending analyses of racialisation to account for how race and religion interact and are articulated alongside other identity categories as conceived through a ‘technology of monstrosity’ (Halberstam 2000: 21–22). Muslims are produced as monstrous bodies through intersectional categories that encompass race, gender, religion, nationality, geography and age. Adopting a technology of monstrosity is theoretically

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useful for considering how the profile of the terror suspect or extremist is produced through both visual and embodied markers; for example, how skin colour interacts with other signifiers of ‘Muslimness’ such as Islamic dress and the beard that ascribe Muslims (or those perceived to be) different positions within discourses of Islamophobia. In order to address the conceptual hindrance of deciphering distinctions between Islamophobia and race if such a proposal were tenable or even desirable, I argue that it is more useful to consider how the management of Muslim identities within the ‘war on terror’ context operates according to a white governmentality (Hesse 1997; also Tyrer and Sayyid 2012; Patel and Tyrer 2011; Tyrer 2008), or more specifically, a hegemonic white governmentality. This enables a more productive analysis of how Islamophobia is redeployed as part of an ongoing division between Europeanness and non-Europeanness (Hesse 2007; also Razack 2008: 6). Further, it goes some way to overcome difficulties in discerning whether markers used to discriminate against Muslims are indicators of racism or Islamophobia. Rather, it approaches ‘race beyond corporeality’ (Hesse 2007: 643) by situating embodied and other visual markers of ‘Muslimness’ such as the beard or hijab within assemblages of (non)Europeanness. The Concentrationary Gothic contributes understanding of the internal differentiations operating within the category ‘Muslim’ depending on how far subjects correspond to received understandings of the Islamist terror suspect or extremist. Visible markers of ‘Muslimness’ are judged in terms of differentiation from hegemonic whiteness as a ‘master signifier’ (Seshadri-Crooks 2000: 3). The category ‘Muslim’ challenges the terms under which white hegemony can operate since Muslim bodies can also be white bodies. As examined in Chapter 3, if Muslims do not display markers that will enable them to be identified as ‘Muslim’ they are unlikely to be subjected to regulatory mechanisms in the same way as ‘visible’ Muslims and which are dependent on context. Muslims are located along a spectrum of (in/hyper-)visibility that affords them different experiences of Islamophobia, strategies of governance and protection qua Muslim. As noted, Muslims are predominately racialised as South Asian in Britain which to some extent ‘invisibilises’ other Muslims. In Chapter 3, Samrina makes an explicit distinction

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between how South Asian Muslims are treated compared to other Muslims, including black Muslims and English (i.e. white) Muslims. In so doing, she troubles the binary of black/white that has organised discourses of racism. The category ‘visibly Muslim’ proposes a different means of organising racialised bodies that are connected to the ‘racialised regime of visuality’ (Pugliese 2006: 7) through which Muslims are profiled as Islamist terror suspects that is not confined to skin colour, but encompasses other gendered visual markers of ‘Muslimness’ such as the hijab, jilbab, niqab, shalwar kameez, topi or beard. The ‘visibly Muslim’ category is not divorced from articulations of race however. This research has shown that both racial and religious markers are used to “brandish” Muslims as terrorists (Chapter 3) that attests to the racialisation of religion, grouping together people who appear to be ‘Muslim’ (Puar 2007: 175). The mobility and instability of the terror suspect category highlight the spurious and empirically invalid ways in which racial tropes are redeployed in the construction of the profile of the Islamist terror suspect or extremist. Participants’ accounts reveal insufficiencies of the racialised regime of visuality for spotting the Muslim and by extension, the terrorist, yet persistence of race as a means of organising, governing and terrorising ‘Muslim-looking’ bodies. Chapter 3 explored a series of (mis)recognitions which cut across race, religion, nationality and geography. These encompassed Bengalis being (mis)recognised as Pakistanis, Sikhs being (mis)recognised as Muslims and most troubling, Muslims (or those perceived to be) (mis)recognised as terror suspects that in extreme cases, expose necropolitical modes of governance, as gravely exhibited by the shooting of Jean Charles de Menezes, a Brazilian male (mis)recognised as an Islamist terrorist that most clearly exemplifies how (mis)recognition operates through a confluence of racialised, religious and gendered identity markers. Findings suggest that we need to approach religious identity as subject to similar practices of racialisation and (mis)recognition that negate ideas of distinguishing between race and religion as either ascribed or chosen identities. Saba Mahmood (2004: 158) makes an important contribution to broadening our understanding of Islamophobia and its relationship to racialisation as involving visual practices of ‘Muslimness.’ She makes an

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explicit connection between veiling and corporeality which challenges distinctions between visual and embodied markers that are conventionally used to differentiate between race and religion. Mahmood (2004: 158) argues that veiling is a ‘bodily act,’ which is omitted if the veil is only considered as having symbolic significance. For her, the veil is part of the body which is not detachable in the same way that other forms of dress are. In this regard, she questions the extent to which our understanding of Islamophobia should be separated from the focus on the corporeal central to accounts of racism. Although Islamophobia disrupts categories of race, it retains dependence on this organising frame which keeps white hegemony in place. A conception of racialisation is therefore necessary to understand the different ways in which Muslims might be positioned within discourses of Islamophobia and subjected to different governing practices, both state and non-state, that impinge on how they perform their Muslim identities. This suggests that race and racialisation cannot be disentangled from performances of Islamophobia. Rather, their interrelation contributes to the tension British Muslims experience to name and thus contest the terms under which they experience discrimination. As David Tyrer and Salman Sayyid (2012: 354) corroborate, the re-centring of ‘race’ underwrites ‘the further, corrective racialization of Muslims’ involved in the governance of Muslims. I move on to consider whether Islamophobia can provide a useful discourse for Muslims to challenge the terms under which they are identified as threats within the ‘war on terror’ context of Britain and name the terrors to which they are subjected qua Muslim. This mission requires firstly dealing with the conceptual difficulties defining Islamophobia and secondly, involves negotiating the terms of its articulation, including the conditions under which (racialised) categories of victim and perpetrator are assigned.

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Islamophobia and/or Racism? Contestations regarding the meaning of Islamophobia can be understood as relating to ‘differences in how racisms get to be expressed ’ (Goldberg 2006: 350, my italics). A notable challenge was that there was no consensus among participants regarding how they used the terms ‘Islamophobia’ and ‘racism.’ These contradictions highlight conceptual problems surrounding defining Islamophobia as a particular phenomenon and questions whether Islamophobia can provide a useful discourse for articulating the negative treatment of Muslims in Britain. Difficulties in differentiating between experiences of racism and Islamophobia were in part related to my sample. The majority of participants I spoke to were racialised as South Asian, principally Pakistani, and spoke of incidents of racism prior to the events of 2001 on account of being categorised as ‘Asian,’ ‘South Asian’ or ‘Paki.’ This raises important questions concerning the particular ways in which the category ‘Muslim’ operates within the British context as primarily associated with South Asian communities. Scott Poynting and Victoria Mason (2007: 63) note that the fixation on the ‘Paki’ as ‘a key object of racial hatred’ in the UK is significant for understanding Islamophobia post-9/11 since ‘recognizable’ Muslims are perceived to be of South Asian ancestry (also Allen 2005: 52), which relates to difficulties in conceptualising Islamophobia as a phenomenon specific to ‘Islam’ or ‘Muslim.’ The danger is oversimplifying how the category ‘Muslim’ operates, including by Muslims themselves, which may obscure the dynamic and heterogeneous ways in which Islamophobia functions. Such reductionism may lead to the underrepresentation of black Muslims’ experiences who may be subjected to discrimination within Muslim communities, and white Muslim converts who may retain white privilege among Muslims, but may be re-racialised (Moosavi 2015: 41) as ‘not quite white’ by the normative white populace. Islamophobia must be considered in relation to racialisation and whiteness to trouble black/white binaries in which anti-blackness can also be performed by racially oppressed groups and where whiteness can be experienced simultaneously as privilege and abjection vis-à-vis other racially minority groups or the dominant group.

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It was hard to determine whether the use of the term ‘racism’ for describing current discrimination was because of how participants were positioned racially and thus whether their experiences were specific to ‘South Asian-looking’ Muslims or if there were commonalities between Muslims who are differently racialised. For example, in Chapter 6, Leila adopts the language of ‘racism’ when talking about two incidents that involve her being targeted by the normative white subject as a Muslim who, in one instance, assigns her the label ‘terrorist’ and in the other, disciplines her as someone who might leave a bag with a bomb. These incidents could be considered Islamophobic since they speak to particular forms of discrimination experienced by Muslims within the ‘war on terror’ context. Leila wears the hijab which marks her as ‘visibly Muslim.’ That Leila frames these episodes as examples of racism suggests, however, that there are important continuities between how she experiences discrimination arising from being identified as Muslim to previous instances in which she experienced racism. One explanation is that Leila is of Pakistani heritage. She spoke at other points about how she experienced racism when assigned the derogatory label of ‘Paki.’ In this regard, although the shift in interpellation from race to religion might have changed, the dynamics in which she experiences hostility might be felt by her in a similar way which is perhaps why she continues to use the term ‘racism.’ In other words, whilst the meaning for her being identified as a target of discrimination by the speaker of hate might have altered, how she experiences hostility from the white non-Muslim gaze might have a similar affective quality for her. Further, in both cases, how her body is read is an important determinate for being treated with discrimination. This suggests continuities with previous experiences of racial terror performed by the normative subject who retains the power to define her as an object of hate. Leila’s account illustrates conceptual difficulties concerning deciphering the particular contours in which Islamophobia operates. Whilst I do not agree that race and religion can be separated, developing the nuances within the category of ‘Muslim’ and how these interact with practices of racialisation and whiteness is important in delineating the diverse ways in which Islamophobia works for heterogeneous subjects and how these can change depending on context.

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Victim or Perpetrator? How Islamophobia gets defined is intimately connected to racialised power relations of voice and concerns regarding who speaks for whom, and whether the subaltern can speak (Spivak 1988), as examined in Chapter 6. This has important implications concerning the extent to which a discourse of Islamophobia can be used by Muslims to seek redress for the particular prejudices that they encounter as Muslims, or whether struggles over conceptual clarification mean that the discursive terrain is broad enough for the terms of its enunciation to be exploited so as to undermine the political, legal and social gains that mobilisation under the banner of ‘Islamophobia’ might enable for Muslims. Islamophobia comprises a contested political terrain which, as Abdoolkarim Vakil (2010: 24) contends, centres on the ‘power to set the political vocabulary and legal ground of recognition.’ Chapter 6 examined how developments to protect Muslims as a religious group through the Religious and Racial Act 2006, whilst seemingly according to Muslims protection against hate speech on account of being Muslim, is significantly hindered by the introduction of legislation relating to incitement to terrorism in the Terrorism Act 2006 (c.11, s.1) that proposes a broad remit of offences covering ‘glorification’ and ‘encouragement,’ effectively restricting freedom of speech and political engagement for Muslims in Britain. These legislative developments inhibit the spaces in which Muslims can challenge their treatment within the ‘war on terror’ context through fear of being labelled extremists or terrorists whilst opening up the discursive space for Islamophobia to be enunciated with impunity against such threatening Others. The conditions of possibility for British Muslims to challenge hate speech have therefore been accompanied by attempts to silence Muslims. In the introduction to this book, Zanaib examines the importance of being able to name Islamophobia. She equates naming Islamophobia with being able to take up a “strong” Muslim identification that can challenge the victim status that being Muslim within the culture of fear structuring the Concentrationary Gothic environment can engender. Her intervention supports the use of the term ‘concentrationary’ (Rousset 1946) described by Griselda Pollock and Max Silverman (2011: 8) as a

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‘heuristic device for revisiting the politics of representation’ (also Pollock and Silverman 2014: 9–14) involved in witnessing and archiving terror. Principally, the purpose of a concentrationary memory is to agitate the present to a ‘political logic of terror ’ (Pollock and Silverman 2014: 11, original italics) that poses a threat to democratic principles and bear witness to terror experienced by the oppressed group. Chapter 6 examines the conditions under which Islamophobia is made possible that exemplifies the precarious nature in which Muslim identifications come to be lived within the ‘war on terror’ context (see Butler 2004). Discourses of Islamophobia are located within wider socio-political contexts in which Muslims are Gothicised as terroristmonsters—a (mis)representation which legitimates the management of Muslim bodies as threats to national identity and security and opens up the discursive space for the concept of ‘Islamification’ to be enunciated. It is significant that Rahina’s (Chapter 6) questioning of the meaning of Islamophobia occurs within the context of anti-Muslim protests held by the far-right organisation, the English Defence League, against the alleged ‘Islamification’ of Britain. The ascendance of this Islamophobic term for articulating a threatening Muslim presence means that Rahina has to acknowledge Islamophobia as having an existence—one that, importantly, does not accord her a position of safety, but rather a place of contestation from which she must challenge the terms under which Muslims are named as threats within discourses of Islamophobia. This term has affective purchase by reiterating the Gothic discourse of reverse colonisation (Arata 1990; Brantlinger 1988: 227–253) associated with threatening Muslim populations intent on violently taking over the spaces of the nation and reversing Britain’s presumed civilisational advances, for example, by implementing Sharia Law. The narrative affords the subject position of the Islamophobe a supposedly legitimate space within the discourse of Islamophobia from which to speak from, further sanctioned by state obligations placed on ordinary citizens to report activities seen as suspect that help to justify the regulation, disciplining and (in)securitisation of Muslim identities comprising the culture of fear experienced by them within the Concentrationary Gothic.

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Teresa Goddu (1997: 10) notes that the Gothic ‘serves as the ghost that both helps to run the machine of national identity and disrupts it.’ Likewise, Islamophobia proposes a contested site for Muslims to articulate experiences of terror since the discourse also articulates them as terrorisers. The term ‘Islamification’ represents Muslims as disrupting national identity and thus provides grounds for reaffirming core values of ‘Britishness’ that exclude Muslims from belonging. Governmental practices are not confined to the political fringes of the EDL, but include state regulation of the Muslim presence. Concerns regarding the Muslim presence support work that has examined ‘European anxiety’ (Parekh 2006; also Taras 2013; Asad 2002) and the emergence of the ‘Eurabia’ myth (Carr 2006) which has seeped across the political spectrum to occupy mainstream status (see Patel and Tyrer 2011: 37; Allen 2005: 60–63). These dynamics are constitutive of the “worried” state of Europe described by Zanaib in Chapter 2 that connects a number of events including 7/7 and more recent Islamist terror attacks, the ‘veil rows’ (see Fortier 2008: 96), the ‘grooming’ Pakistani males (Cockbain and Tufail 2020; Patel 2018; Tufail 2018; Tufail and Poynting 2016; Cockbain 2013) and the ‘Sharia debate’ to name a few. These events trouble the terms under which Islamophobia can be used as a discourse to support Muslims’ case of discrimination because contestation over the assignment of victim/perpetrator subject positions is endemic to disputes over whose case of victimhood is believed—the Muslim as victim of Islamophobia or the Islamophobe as victim of perceived Islamification of national space and Islamist terrorism that also fails to recognise the threat that Islamist terrorism poses to Muslims in the UK and globally. What is important for understanding the dynamics of Islamophobia compared to racism, therefore, is that Islamophobia has acquired a legitimacy and acceptability (see Allen 2004: 142) that being racist does not grant. Islamophobia, by contributing the discursive space for the normative subject to take up the position of victim from a threatening Muslim subjectivity, contributes to the conditions for white supremacy to be re-established—which is the fundamental purpose of all forms of racial terror. White terror is present in necropolitical actions of the state during

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the ‘war on terror’ at home through the shooting of suspected terrorists and globally through wars in Iraq and Afghanistan that provide the “green light” for ordinary citizens to enact racism as Leila tells us (Chapter 6), meaning everyday spaces can become sites of terror (Chapter 4). The silencing of Muslims to contest the conditions under which they are discriminated against supports the continuation of the absence of terror from representations of whiteness (hooks 1992: 174) and Gothicisation of Muslims as terrorist-monsters that is endemic to the fantasy of whiteness of its intrinsic superiority, its humanness, and which attests to continuities in terror as a means through which to govern racial subjects.

4

Part 2.1. Implications for Relations Between Muslims and Non-Muslims

The Concentrationary Gothic’s advancement of an inter-bodilyrelational model of subjectivity for understanding experiences and effects of racial terror addresses the complex ways in which bodies are located within a ‘network of relations’ (Foucault 1977: 27) that are racialised. It develops work that approaches whiteness as a relational category (Byrne 2006; Frankenberg 1993, 1997; Fanon 1986: 110). Ruth Frankenberg’s (1997: 20) position is particularly useful for understanding the approach to racial terror that the Concentrationary Gothic advances. She writes that whiteness is ‘complexly and differentially deployed in mediating social relations, whether between whites and racial “others,” among whites, or within communities of color.’ Adopting an inter–bodilyrelational approach supports examination of how the construction of Muslims as threats within the ‘war on terror’ affects relations between Muslims and a number of social actors which are not confined to relations with the dominant community. In this regard, it is sensitive to the pernicious effects of terror that fracture relations between Muslims and a number of groups. In the first part, I focus on relations between Muslims and normative white citizens, including positive ways in which both groups come together. The second part explores divisions that can be engendered between racial minority groups, focusing on the

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‘black community’ and ‘South Asian Muslims’ as well as troubling these supposed categorical distinctions.

Relations Between Muslims and Normative Citizens As discussed, the Concentrationary Gothic engages with a technology of monstrosity (Halberstam 2000: 21–22) to explore how the stereotypes of the immigrant woman, the dangerous Muslim man and imperil/led Muslim woman signify the non-European against the supposed civilisational superiority of the European (see Razack 2008; also Bhattacharyya 2008; Lewis 2005, 2006). I explored how the historico-racial schema (Fanon 1986: 111) (Chapter 2) offers a racialised perceptual framework for maintaining a white nation fantasy by representing the out of place body of the Muslim as premodern requiring ‘civilising’ by the self-evident native that, I argue, illustrates interdependent practices of racialisation and Gothicisation. This supports work such as Sherene H. Razack (2008: 108) who argues that ‘the figure of the unassimilable Muslim’ ‘indulg[es] the fantasy of a culturally superior nation who must discipline and instruct culturally inferior peoples.’ The historico-racial schema operates to produce Muslims as community bodies where, as observed by Frantz Fanon (1986: 112), they are made ‘responsible at the same time for [their] body, for [their] race, for [their] ancestors.’ It involves subjecting Muslims to a misreading which denies their ontology as individuals in encounters with non-Muslims. By denying Muslims a shared present (Gilroy 2000: 57), they are prevented from occupying a place in the national community as equal citizens. The Concentrationary Gothic explores how affect circulates between bodies, moving bodies towards or away from each other (see AbdelFattah 2018: 128–158; Hunter 2012, 2015; Fortier 2008; Ahmed 2004a, b; Brennan 2004). Chapter 2 examined how dynamic emotional and affective processes operate as ‘instrument[s] of governance’ (Cowen and Gilbert 2008: 50; also Hunter 2012; Ahmed 2004a) involved in the spatial and bodily management of Muslims. Importantly, the normative white body is able to extend in space, constricting how Muslims are able to take up space, in terms of both the physical context of the encounter

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and the ‘symbolic spatial imaginary’ (Fortier 2008: 11). This involves designating boundaries of “your community” as insurmountably distinct from ‘ours’ (i.e. the ‘self-evident’ nationalist), as discussed by Zanaib in Chapter 2. Her account illustrates how the threat of terrorism and community breakdown converge in the presence of “Bin Ladens,” the Gothic bodies par excellence at the time. The Concentrationary Gothic advances how practices of abjection emanate not from threat posed by the Other to the Self, but through claims to dominance that comprise strategies of terrorisation undertaken by the normative white subject. This involves managing the symbolic and material space of the object of disgust that proposes another practice through which whiteness operates as terroriser and which enables the normative subject to take up the position of ‘civiliser.’ This supports David Punter and Glennis Byron’s (2003: 5) description of the Gothic as a site in which to define claims to ‘civilised’ and to abject what is represented as ‘Other.’ Engagement with performances of disgust (Chapter 2) provided important insights into the visceral practices of spatial management involved in nation construction and exclusion undertaken by the normative subject that contests hegemonic representations of the Muslim as a threat. Rather than disgust causing the normative subject to move away, it mobilises them to terrorise the Muslim body—spitting at them, wanting to rip the veil from their faces, blaming them for atrocities they have not committed—that comprises collective attempts to eject the Muslim subject from the nation by denying their existence as human on equal terms. These practices of spatial and bodily management comprise acts of terror where it is the terror of the normative subject that is made to ‘stick’ (Ahmed 2004a: 79) to Muslim bodies by denying their status as individuals, as belonging. These practices illustrate how disgust is linked to dominance rather than fear therefore. Performances of nation construction undertaken by the normative subject illustrate continuities with colonial logics of ‘civilising’ the Other, this time within the metropole. For example, in Chapter 2, Moustafa is identified as a ‘dangerous Muslim man,’ which facilitates the space for the normative white (female) subject to take up the gendered position of protector of

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the nation and its children. The terrorising practices that the normative white woman undertakes through this role reconstitute the terms under which the ‘dangerous Muslim man’ stereotype and its association with terrorism operate. Rather, it is the white woman who subjects Moustafa to terrorising practices of spitting, catching up to him, interrogating him and accusing him of killing his fellow citizens, including “little babies.” The effect is that danger is realigned such that she becomes dangerous to Moustafa. Unable to escape the profile of the dangerous Muslim male—“brown person,” “right age,” “little beard”—he can be identified as dangerous which restricts him from being able to challenge the white woman’s treatment of him. Prevented from occupying the same space as the normative white woman, he is forced to move away from her in order to protect himself. Similarly, the terms under which Jacinta (Chapter 2) is identified as an ‘imperilled Muslim woman’ (Razack 2008) through the normative white female subject’s (mis)reading of the veil as a signifier of Muslim male oppression ensure that the stereotype persists. This (mis)reading is supported by the historico-racial schema (Fanon 1986: 111) which excludes Muslim women from the historicity of female emancipation and equality that is considered the exclusive preserve of Western women. By denying Jacinta agency to veil, she is prevented from advancing an alternative reading of the veil to Western conceptions of female emancipation. In this way, it is the white woman, not the Muslim male, as her interrogator claims, who oppresses Jacinta through her attempts to ‘civilise’ her, thus reaffirming Jacinta’s subordinate position. Her account highlights continuities with the colonial obsession with unveiling the Muslim woman (see Ye˘geno˘glu 1999: 46, 47; also Macdonald 2006) reflected in the aggressive desire of the white woman to rip the veil from Muslim women’s faces (Chapter 2) and ongoing and refusal to speak to the Muslim woman on her own terms (Odeh 1983: 55). Instead, the Muslim woman is inserted into roles to support the ‘war on terror’ project including the re-staging of the narrative of the heroic West ‘saving brown women’ (Spivak 1988: 93) from barbaric brown men (see Razack 2008; Bhattacharyya 2008; Zine 2007; Stabile and Kumar 2005), that further entrenches divisions between a civilised ‘us’ and barbaric ‘them.’ The

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account illustrates interdependent practices of racialisation and Gothicisation through which Muslim women are produced as anachronisms unable to partake in ‘modern Britain.’ In particular, their presence reiterates the trope of ‘threatened femininity’ (Schmitt 1997: 2) present in Gothic narratives of nationhood (Wein 2002; Miles 2001; Halberstam 2000: 7–10, 14–18, 98–99; Schmitt 1997; Arata 1990; Brantlinger 1988) by contesting progressive gendered norms centred on equality perceived to characterise British society. The association of the Muslim woman with a barbarous, oppressive culture has important implications for understanding how she has come to occupy an ambivalent position within the discursive formation of the ‘war on terror.’ I reworked the stereotype of ‘imperilled Muslim women’ (Razack 2008) to ‘imperil/led’ to capture how Muslim women can be articulated as both oppressed by violently patriarchal Muslim males and threats as terrorists or extremists. The emphasis which Muslim males have been allocated in discourses of terrorism as ‘dangerous brown men’ (Bhattacharyya 2008; Razack 2008) also relates to articulations of the veiled Muslim woman as ‘part of the terrorist threat’ (Williamson and Khiabany 2010: 88; Khiabany and Williamson 2008; also Franks 2000: 924). An alternative visual schema is required to intervene in hegemonic conceptions of whiteness and its association with emancipation and freedom to enable Muslim women to articulate alternative readings of the veil that afford them agency and contest their subordinate status in dominant framings. The treatment of British Muslims as ‘out of place’ is linked to the racialisation of space and has important implications for relations between Muslims and non-Muslims. Spaces associated with racism, which David Parker and Christian Karner (2010) describe as ‘reputational geographies,’ are subject to spatial management practices such as avoidance or choosing not to live in certain areas which perpetuates divisions along racial lines. The ‘war on terror’ context has reanimated racist hostility which highlights the importance of ‘Thinking space relationally’ (Massey 2004: 3; also Tolia-Kelly and Crang 2010; Amin 2004; Thrift 2004a, b) to conceptualise how the global ‘war on terror’ affects local spaces, such that the ‘war on terror’ is brought home. This requires understanding space as ‘multi-scalar’ (Christian et al. 2016:

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64), attentive to how state practices of war have capillary effects on relations between Muslims and normative citizens by contributing the conditions in which violence against Muslim populations is permissible. Involving the nation’s citizens in exclusionary practices against the group constructed as a threat illustrates the extension of the logic of the camp (see Sunderland 2013: 17) within everyday urban spaces (see Diken and Laustsen 2002, 2005, 2006). The Concentrationary Gothic exposes racialised power asymmetries concerning who can name bodies as terror suspects or extremists (Chapter 6). The cultivation of the subject position of active citizen on alert for ‘anything suspicious’ (see Preston 2009) within the ‘war on terror’ context contributes to divisions between Muslims and nonMuslims by legitimising the disciplining of Muslim bodies by ordinary citizens. Chapter 6 examined how real and imaginary fears of being treated as terror suspects precipitate forms of self-surveillance. For Ali, these included making his Muslim identity less visible by not speaking about certain issues or adopting visible markers of ‘Muslimness’ such as the Islamic beard or hat (see Mythen et al. 2013). Language must be understood as an embodied practice which underpins racialised differences in freedom of speech depending on how subjects are constructed in dominant discourse as threats. Importantly, by internalising the terrors of counter-terrorism, Ali’s colleagues become potential threats to him, which reconstitutes his place of work as a site of terror and detrimentally alters how he relates to his work colleagues and possibility to form friendships with them. His account challenges conceptions of the Muslim as ‘threatening Other’ within ‘war on terror’ discourse by illustrating how he feels threatened within spaces of the everyday through counter-terrorism measures by his fellow (non-Muslim) colleagues/citizens. However, participants also talked about ways in which Muslims and non-Muslims came together comprising a politics of caring (Chapter 6). A notable example is the Stop the War national campaign. Nonetheless, the mixed membership of these movements did not negate the marginalisation of Muslims from the political community. Participation in such political campaigns still highlighted important racialised restrictions to freedom of speech where speaking out was considered more risky for Muslim members than for normative citizens. Whilst this situation

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perpetuates silencing experienced by Muslims in Britain, it nonetheless highlights the importance of forming productive alliances with the dominant group in support of Muslims and the important role that normative citizens can play in improving the place of Muslims in contemporary Britain.

Divisions Between Racially Marginalised Groups The Concentrationary Gothic contributes understanding of the divisions that can be engendered between racially marginalised groups where shifts in representations of groups comprising threats to the social order confer differential outcomes for how racial terror is experienced by them, particularly within law and criminal justice practices. I examined interdependent processes of racialisation and Gothicisation involved in the production of criminal types at different historical moments. The shift in Gothicisation from the racialised figures of the ‘yardie’ and ‘mugger’ (see Hall et al. 1978) as threats to the social order to the internal threat of the Muslim as ‘home-grown-terrorist’ and more recently, the ‘foreign fighter’ within the context of the Islamic State (Pokalova 2019; Malet and Hayes 2018; Benmelech and Klor 2018; Awan and Guru 2017; Silverman 2017), illustrates how constructions of terror associated with particular racialised bodies are reworked to suit current socio-political conditions. This supports a historical approach to the Gothic (Mighall 1999: also Halberstam 2000: 6) that is sensitive to how conceptions of race are made credible at different historical moments (Winant 1994: 270). Chapter 3 examined how the perceived shift in focus from African-Caribbean communities to Muslim (primarily South Asian) communities as the principal target of stop and search practices proposes a repositioning of relations between racialised communities (see Higginbotham 1992: 253). This finding supports work that has examined how differences in the forms of racialisation that racialised groups experience can undermine solidarity between them (Abbas 2020; Werbner 1997; Anthias and Yuval-Davis 1992: 7, 132–156; Brah 1992; Sivanandan 1990: 77–123).

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Divisions between black communities and South Asian Muslim communities that Samrina discusses (Chapter 3) are locatable within ongoing fractions following the disintegration of the category ‘Black’ as a banner for mobilisation against racism under the strain of difference and competing forms of disadvantage in Britain. A more complex understanding of how groups are (re)positioned vis-à-vis one another which refute binary distinctions is therefore required. The focus of Samrina’s account is the impact that heightened securitisation of Muslim populations in the context of counter-terrorism has on relations between the black and Muslim community. Her position commits its own invisibilisation by prioritising the perceived targeting of South Asian Muslims above other racial groups, including non-South Asian Muslims. This is despite statistics which still show that black populations remain the principal target of stop and search (Home Office 2021d)1 ; also Patel and Tyrer 2011: 18). Importantly, it is the disembodied gaze of whiteness through which these reformulations are enacted within legal institutions that define how groups are to be policed which remains unmarked and unnamed—known only through the descriptor “they” in Samrina’s account. Anne-Marie Fortier (2008: 37) writes of the ‘power of an unmarked whiteness,’ which occupies a disembodied silent presence because its position is not contested. Relations are (re)constituted between Muslims and the dominant group as well as between differently racialised groups therefore. The accounts included in this research talked about pivotal events affecting the (mis)representation of Muslims within the national imaginary. The events of 7/7 were an important means through which participants discussed heightened hostility from non-Muslims. Whether these hostilities will have an enduring effect on relations between Muslims and non-Muslims, particularly in the local contexts of Leeds and Bradford, cannot be determined. However, the research was carried out ten years after the Bradford disturbances and 6 years after 7/7. Both of these events were significant to how participants understood present contestations surrounding being Muslim in Britain and which have become part, not only of the legacy of Leeds and Bradford, but the position of Muslims within the wider national community. This is not to suggest

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that how these events are understood remains constant however. Contestations over how such events are remembered is part of the challenge Muslims face to take up a British Muslim identification that will enable their status as ‘British,’ and thus their membership to the national community, to be accepted on equal terms. These challenges are explored through the Concentrationary Gothic’s focus on contesting epistemological practices that obscure histories of racism (such as examined by Rahina in Chapter 6). By intervening in these histories, the Concentrationary Gothic advances an alternative visual schema for conceptualising how racial terror operates within the ‘war on terror’ context of Britain.

5

Implications for Relations Within Muslim Communities

The Concentrationary Gothic engages with the reproductive effects of the terrors of counter-terrorism as they are internalised and retransmitted by the oppressed group. It adopts a networked approach to racial terror that is attentive to how state discourses that underpin the moderate/extremist binary permeate Muslim communities and precipitate mechanisms of constraint and control from within. By locating Muslims within a complex network of relations, the Concentrationary Gothic supports exploration of how the effects of the culture of fear infiltrate the depths of social relations, including intimate relations between family members and within the suspect community. Analyses of the pernicious effects of racial terror illustrate continuities with the co-option of the victimised group within the concentration camp (see Fings 2010: 111, 113; Sofsky 1997: 130–144; also Boochani 2019: 124) that is theoretically useful for understanding how racial terror realigns itself to preserve the hegemony of whiteness. Subjection is a key visual technology adopted by the Concentrationary Gothic to understand the reproductive effects of terror on the terrorised group. Internalisation of the discourse of (Islamist) extremism and its reductive binary of ‘moderate’ and ‘extremist’ subject positions is important for understanding how subjection works by prescribing the norms

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through which Muslims’ behaviours come to be read and managed, including by Muslims. I advanced how the ‘internal suspect body’ is produced as result of subjection that is materialised in a number of contexts. The internal suspect body coincides with the Gothic’s ‘preoccupation with borders and their collapse’ (Valier 2002: 320; Halberstam 2000: 23) by troubling categories of victim/perpetrator and boundaries separating inside/outside, public/private. It proposes a significant contribution towards understanding how the Gothic affects how bodies come to be read as fearful by the oppressed community. This figure extends conceptions of the Muslim threat represented by the ‘home-grown-terrorist’ as an internal threat to other Britons, to a threat from within Muslim communities to other Muslims. As such, it exposes the limitations of the Gothic for being able to function as a strategy of resistance (Goddu 1997: 2). Teresa Goddu (1997: 40) warns that re-viewing the Gothic through the eyes of the oppressed requires ‘recognizing that the gothic itself is a dynamic and contradictory mode whose tropes and conventions can be used for a variety of ends.’ This can include contesting the history in which Muslims are constructed as terrorisers. The limitations of achieving this, however, are present where practices used to Gothicise Muslims as terrorists or extremists come to be internalised by Muslims and used as a means of governing the acceptable limits by which Muslim identities can be expressed and judged by Muslims themselves (Chapter 5). In such instances, Muslims become complicit in reproducing the conditions under which they are made suspect which hinders solidarity and the possibility of mobilising against their subjugation (see Boochani 2019). Co-option of Muslims to perform the terrors of counter-terrorism provides a significant example of the extension of the logic of the camp that is the organising principle of the terror formation in which the Concentrationary Gothic framework is located, where friends may be turned into accomplices of the terror tactics of the regime (see Sofsky 1997: 13–144; also Boochani 2019: 124). Muslims undertake internal surveillance within Muslim households and communities that comprise

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imposing sanctions on each other, including what they say and how they perform their Muslim identities. Subjection to the Gothic ‘telltale signs of extremism’ narrative such as populated by John Reid (cited in Travis 21 September 2006; also Lambert and Parsons 2017: 57) mobilises fear of the monstrous Muslim intent on turning young Muslims into extremists that contributes to the materialisation of the internal suspect body within Muslim households. Muslim parents/family members are co-opted into countering extremism within their households through intersecting fears of loved ones being radicalised or perhaps more terrifyingly, turning others, and state targeting. In such cases, visible markers of ‘Muslimness’ such as growing a beard are resignified as signs of Islamist extremism, particularly where young Muslims adopt religious practices not shared by family members. Saba and Hamida’s (Chapter 5) accounts, for example, illustrate the restrictions that are imposed on young Muslims’ religious identity performances by family members where they are perceived to fall outside the acceptable boundaries of ‘moderate.’ Both accounts illustrate how the discourse of extremism has infiltrated Muslim households and contribute to internal surveillance of Muslim identities by family members. As with the operation of the profile under state practices such as stop and search, the Muslim body becomes the site of discipline, this time by Muslims themselves. These management practices have involved banning young Muslims from attending spaces associated with extremism such as university and the mosque, and from having access to mobile phones (Chapter 5). Fractures between family members are reproduced in other Muslim spaces emerging from fears of young Muslims associating with extremists which work to depoliticise young Muslims (Chapter 6)—a point I return to. These internal surveillance practices have meant that young Muslims have to negotiate how they can perform their religious identities in respect to family members in order to challenge their treatment by them as internal suspect bodies. This involves renegotiating the terms under which Muslim identities are understood within Muslim communities to disentangle them from the wider political terrain in which they are filtered through a distorted prism underpinning the discourse of (Islamist) extremism.

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At the community level, alliances between Muslims have been hampered by the co-option of Muslim groups under Prevent arising from fears of being spied on by fellow Muslim community members (Pilkington and Acik 2020; Ragazzi 2016: 729; Institute of Race Relations 2010: 76; Kundnani 2009: 6; Spalek and Imtoual 2007: 185; Khan 2009). Saba (Chapter 5) describes the mistrust that is engendered where groups have accepted funding under Prevent due to suspicion that organisations will spy on other members of the community. This has led to the breakdown of projects beneficial to Muslim communities and reluctance for some groups to work together. Saba showed the tokenistic way (IRR 2010: 74) in which her membership to the Young Muslim Advisory Group was used to promote government agendas whilst ignoring recommendations offered by young Muslims. Exploiting Muslims in this way has fostered divisions within Muslim communities by misrepresenting the nature of their involvement in Prevent work. A further detrimental effect of counter-terrorism measures such as home raids on relations within Muslims communities is that the stigma of being targeted, even when innocent, can be reproduced within Muslim communities leading to the accused not telling others of their ordeal, as Saba describes (Chapter 5). In such cases, suspect treatment is reproduced from within the suspect community. The internal suspect body, as a suspect, can be a victim of being accused of perpetrating terrorism or extremism that challenges neat categories of ‘victim’ and ‘oppressor’ from being established. Rather, it draws attention to the mutual entanglements of these subject positions that comprise the conditions for relations between Muslims to be fractured that are (re)constituted through a number of relations, both state and non-state. Contestations concerning how to be Muslim within Muslim communities are connected to the culture of fear of being targeted by counterterrorism police, as well as being infiltrated by extremists which raises challenges not only regarding how to perform Muslim identities, but the very meaning of being Muslim. Muslim identity performances have undergone an important shift from a religious identification to a political category which paradoxically works to depoliticise Muslims. This is because young Muslims in particular are managed according to the

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demands of a ‘moderate Muslim’ identity which functions as a ‘qualified Muslimness; a muted alterity’ (Tyrer 2008: 59; also Morsi 2018). Occupying a moderate Muslim subject position is part of how subjection works. This category has been treated with hostility by some Muslims (see Cherney and Murphy 2016; also Morsi 2018) because it is seen as a means of restricting how Muslims perform their identities and their relations with other Muslims. Different responses have been undertaken by Muslims which include ‘diluting’ their religious identities to mitigate suspect treatment or becoming more ‘visibly Muslim’ (Chapter 3). The latter response requires an expansion of the moderate/extremist binary because it reduces religious performances to a subordinate/resistance framing that does not adequately account for piety. An important departure from the moderate/extremist binary dividing Muslim communities present in participants’ accounts is discerning in/authentic Islam. This reframing allows us to see how ordinary Muslims view extremists as outside the fold of Islam and as such, as threats to their ability to live peacefully in Britain by encouraging anti-Muslim hostility within the general populace and through terrorist violence. Muslim women’s dress highlighted important complexities concerning religious identity performances and the wider implications of these decisions regarding the place of Muslims within Britain. The niqabi woman in particular attracted diverse responses that cut across gender lines and which point to differences in religious interpretation within Muslim communities and debates concerning the role of agency. Being able to choose how they performed their religious identities was seen as important for protecting Muslims from further control. Others, however, perceived that if the face veil caused offence to the dominant group then this could be detrimental to the wider Muslim community and their ability to gain acceptance in British society. Although related to differences in religious interpretation, these concerns cannot be divorced from the culture of fear affecting Muslims in Britain. The Concentrationary Gothic engages with the different ways in which terror affects relations between Muslims. It explored how terror can be immobilising where Muslims “live in fear” as described by Hamida (Chapter 4). This situation illustrates the extension of the logic

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of the concentration camp system where, as described by Karola Fings (2010: 111), ‘the pervasive climate of fear’ aids the process of its establishment since it appears better to ‘accommodate oneself with the regime than to take risks which could not be calculated.’ A significant arena is freedom of speech and political engagement. As discussed, Muslims’ speech is managed according to a moderate/extremist binary including by other Muslims that, as Saba’s (Chapter 5) account describes, institutes a closing down of ‘safe spaces’ for young Muslims to express their views. These restrictions have been replicated in a number of Muslim spaces including community groups, Islamic societies and mosques. These restrictions to voice illustrate how the effect of being constructed as extremist in hegemonic articulations of Muslim identifications, further encouraged by the introduction of restrictive incitement to terrorism legislation, has meant that practices of silencing operate through networked relations comprising state, group (inter- and intra-) and individual levels of social experience. Connected to the culture of fear is the culture of silence which works to depoliticise Muslims, particularly young Muslims. These practices have been retransmitted within Muslim communities and spaces such as the mosque by parents, imams and other community members. Participants spoke of the lack of role models for young Muslims and as mentioned, the closing down of ‘safe spaces’ to discuss issues affecting them, including foreign policy, through fear of state targeting under counter-terrorism, as well as suspected co-option of Muslims to report on fellow Muslims under Prevent. For example, Ali (Chapter 5) discusses perceived restrictions to talk about foreign policy affecting Muslim populations because he believes that the mosque is colluding with the government through accepting Prevent money. The culture of silence risks perpetuating suspect treatment and inhibits political engagement. Onus is placed on Muslims to find other spaces in which to engage in political campaigns to improve the situation for Muslims in Britain and globally and to become positive role models or ambassadors for Islam (Chapter 6). Participants exhibited a number of strategies of resistance to suspect treatment. Hamida and Saba’s (Chapter 5) challenges to being treated as internal suspect bodies by their families illustrate that subjection to being

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suspect is not totalising—either for parents indicated by the doubt they experience concerning whether their children are actually demonstrating signs of extremism, or for young Muslims who resist being treated as suspect. Rather, my examination of the conditions under which subjection functions as a visual technology draws attention to struggles experienced by Muslims to perform their identities and the negotiations they engage in with family members and other Muslims within a number of spaces including the home, Islamic societies, community projects and the mosque. The Concentrationary Gothic also elucidates how terror produces resistance and challenge (see Chapter 6) therefore. Despite fractures in relations between Muslims, forms of mobilisation have also been galvanised. This is particularly the case for inter-faith work which has an important presence in Bradford and the surrounding locale, that a number of my participants were involved in, as well as campaigning and lobbying to challenge negative representations of Muslims that have gained credence in the ‘war on terror’ context. The Muslim Women’s Council (formerly Bradford Muslim Women’s Council) is one example of a successful community initiative and which highlights the importance of locally-defined solutions for empowering Muslim communities. The emergence of the organisation was not without contestation, reflecting local intra-community tensions concerning Islamic practice and the role of women as well as external political pressures. Nonetheless, it illustrates the ongoing mobilisation of Muslim women and visibility in the public sphere, particularly following the 2001 disturbances in Bradford. Findings show that independently funded, locally-defined organisations which bridge community voices and policy are effective strategies for supporting community empowerment and are trusted locally. An important intervention is facilitating ‘safe spaces’ which are Muslim-led where difficult conversations can be had without fear of being informed upon (Chapter 5). Under the Prevent duty, legal requirements placed on a range of agencies mean that alternative avenues need to be created where such critical engagement can happen, as well as to provide opportunities for nurturing and supporting Muslims’ development in order to improve their stake and opportunities within British society. A key aspect is reimagining the ‘imagined community’ (Anderson 1983) based on

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forging connected histories in which Muslims are part of the national story rather than antagonists within narrations of the nation. This requires reworking the terms of terror/ist to advance an alternative visual schema as the final section considers.

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Concluding Comments: Advancing an Alternative Visual Schema I think there is fear, there is definitely fear and it was so horrid what happened in 2005 but the sad thing is that even where the twin towers was concerned, people failed to acknowledge that there was a mixed bunch of people that died. There were a mixed bunch of people who died each of those instances, and I think sometimes people forgot that and people needed to be constantly reminded you know … I think for me … that has been the challenge for the [Muslim] community who on the back of 2001 became extremely apologetic - almost took on the guilt and the burden of what happened on 9/11. I actually found that really frustrating ‘cos I said to myself as a fellow human being … I remember when I was doing social work in Keighley and erm … they had a few minutes silence and I said if I’m going to take part in the silence it’s going to be to remember all those people who have died. Some people were shocked by that and er I and I told them why and the rest of it. And I don’t think they liked it too much, but I did feel strongly enough - this was a couple of years after, this wasn’t straight after you know … And I you know and I said to myself that you know this is about remembering an awful lot of other people, this isn’t me saying that I agree with what happened - it’s terrible what happened there, it’s awful er what happened there. But I think, I think it’s how we emphasise on something and not emphasise on others. —Zanaib

The importance of developing an alternative conceptualisation of the dynamics of terror operating in the post-9/11, 7/7 context of Britain is demonstrated by Zanaib in the opening excerpt to this final section.

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As examined, the Concentrationary Gothic engages with the concentrationary’s concern with developing a ‘politics of representation’ (Pollock and Silverman 2011: 8) that can support the witnessing and archiving of ways in which bodies are denigrated. By bearing witness to terror, the potential for intervening in its practice is made possible. Zanaib’s revisiting of these pivotal events for understanding the current culture of fear experienced by Muslims supports the utility of a concentrationary memory as monitory and vigilant (Pollock and Silverman 2014: 11). It requires that people do not forget but are “constantly reminded” of past events in order to challenge the hegemonic narrative of the ‘war on terror’ in which Muslims are constructed as terrorisers. Zanaib describes the culture of fear that has come to structure the ‘war on terror’ context of Britain. These events introduced a palpable sense of fear: “there is fear, there is definitely fear ” she tells us. Her use of “horrid” alerts us to the physical repugnance and distancing that these events can institute between bodies. Terrorist attacks comprise the ‘Gothic scene’ explored by Richard Devetak (2005: 621) which mobilise fears of terrorists haunting the civilised world. Claire Valier (2002: 320) similarly observes how scenes of ‘gruesome injury and trauma, and menacing shadowy figures’ invite a ‘fearful agenda of public protection.’ Through the guilt and burden placed on Muslims following these events, they are excluded from the community of mourning and made responsible for the terrorist attacks. Challenging such exclusions requires re-visioning categories of civiliser/terroriser to account for how Muslims are also victims of terrorist attacks in the UK and globally2 (see Mythen and Walklate 2016: 1109) and ‘systemic violence of the metropole’ (Connell 2007: 378) through wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Zanaib invites us to consider that a “mixed bunch” of people died in each of the terrorist attacks—a re-historicisation that positions Muslims within a shared community of national grief alongside normative citizens. Such a re-visioning enables vulnerability to be seen as an ontology that can unite rather than dividing people from each other. Silences surrounding the deaths of Muslims during the ‘war on terror’ is constitutive of the sadness Zanaib expresses following from an asymmetry of grief—a fatal distinction whereby not all bodies are accounted for as grievable (see Butler 2009). Zanaib states her position “as a fellow

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human being” as a means of contesting such divisions between bodies that (do not) matter. Her intervention is significant for understanding how we come to privilege some bodies by denying recognition of others and calls for the category of human to be rethought to include Muslims within its frame. Acknowledging the vulnerability of the Other is necessary, as Judith Butler (2004: 43) contends, for an ‘ethical encounter’ to come into being. It requires the adoption of a different frame of reference based on an inter-bodily-relational approach that can enable us to understand how our ontologies implicate us in the lives of others and are constitutive, and constitute, relations between us. Margrit Shildrick (2002: 4, my italics) takes this contention one step further in her ethical proposal that requires acknowledging vulnerabilities ‘in our own embodied being’ so that we can recognise that the monstrous ‘cannot be confined in the place of the other’ but is also the ‘other within.’ This inter-bodily-relational understanding of terror is crucial for challenging the asymmetries that would deny the existence of white terror as a significant presence experienced by Muslims in contemporary Britain. Such a stance is required in order for a Muslim life to have equal recognition to their Western non-Muslim counterpart. Zanaib’s challenge is not without restriction—she pragmatically makes her intervention a couple of years after the 9/11 attacks, illustrating the silencing effects of such events and further, requires that she be strong enough to withstand the animosity and shock that her standpoint inevitably invokes. Yet shock is felt where people are unused to alternative framings. As Zanaib instructs us, people need to be “constantly reminded” as I am doing here, in order for their perceptions to be altered. Extending the concentrationary through the Gothic supports the development of an alternative visual schema. This is because it contributes tools that can assist Zanaib’s resistance strategy of intervening in dominant knowledge frameworks. As noted, a number of writers have engaged with the Gothic’s potential for acting as a ‘mode of resistance’ (Goddu 1997: 155; also Gibbons 2004: 15; Wolfreys 2001). Its potential centres on its ability to contest the perceptual frameworks, or what I have been terming ‘visual technologies,’ that constitute how Muslims come to be represented as monstrous bodies. The Gothic’s

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engagement with narrative fragmentation and epistemological uncertainty (see Smith 2000: 2; also Halberstam 2000: 23) has the effect, as described by Julian Wolfrey’s (2001: 11), to ‘destabilize discourses of power and knowledge and, with that, supposedly stable subject positions.’ Zanaib’s account illustrates that achieving an alternative visual schema requires confronting strategies of ignorance involved in community forgetting and intervening in representational practices by making subjugated knowledges known. This requires reminding people of the absences of remembrance that have been produced, and which through their forgetting or failure to acknowledge, they are complicit in reproducing to the detriment of others. Her strategy of constantly reminding people of what has been left out of the narratisation of these events illustrates the potential of the Gothic as explored by Luke Gibbons (2004: 15) of ‘turn[ing], through acts of semiotic and narrative appropriation, against itself ’ so that it becomes a weapon of resistance for the demonised group. The utility of the Concentrationary Gothic as a framework for advancing Islamophobia as a form of racial terror experienced by Muslims in the ‘war on terror’ context of Britain is that it challenges the axiomatic equivalence of ‘Muslim’ and ‘terrorist’ by explicating the myriad ways in which terrorising practices are experienced by Muslims. An alternative visual schema requires challenging racialised visual technologies that judge Muslims by membership to their group rather than their individual actions, misrecognise Muslims as terror suspects based on a premediated ignorance that enables information to be reworked to suit ideological frames, subjects ‘visible Muslims’ to racist hostility which restricts their ability to perform their religious identities without duress, engenders divisions within Muslim populations through the guilt and burden placed on them to root out extremism as if it is the preserve of their communities, and silences Muslims’ experiences of terror within the ‘war on terror’ context which perpetuates misrepresentations of Muslims as terrorist-monsters and maintains the absence of whiteness as terror within dominant representational framings. By reworking the discourse in which Muslims are demonised as agents of terror, an alternative representation of history is made possible that can enable Muslims to be allocated a position within the national community

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on equal terms. This requires ‘haunting back’ (see Goddu 1999: 138) whereby Gothic tropes are reworked to intervene in discourses in which Muslims are produced as monstrous bodies by advancing an alternative visual schema in which whiteness can be named as terroriser within the discursive frame of the ‘war on terror.’ Understanding how bodies are constituted in relation to one another reconfigures the ethics of responsibility for one another as a means of foregrounding belonging to a shared community and accountability for its exclusions.

Notes 1. Home Office (2021d) figures for Police Officers of Statutory Powers of Stop and Search report that between April 2019 and March 2020, there were 54 stop and searches for every 1,000 Black people compared to 15 for every 1,000 Asian and only 6 for every 1,000 White people. The largest proportion of stop and searches is for the ‘Black other’ group at 157 for every 1,000 people. 2. According to the Global Terrorism Database, of the 26,445 global deaths from terrorism recorded in 2017, 95% occurred in the Middle East, Africa, or South Asia compared to just 2% of deaths in Europe, the Americas and Oceania collectively (cited in Ritchie et al. 2019). These figures starkly show that non-Western populations are significantly more vulnerable to terrorist attacks and Muslim populations in particular, since the three largest perpetrators of terrorist attacks are attributed to IS, the Taliban and Al-Shabaab with Boko Haram a close fifth (Plecher 2018; also see Mythen and Walklate 2016: 1109). Extensive coverage of terrorist attacks on Western populations compared to only cursory glances of terrorist violence elsewhere reaffirms Western states’ perceived vulnerability to terrorism amongst its publics. Mythen and Walklate (2016: 1109) give the example of the vaunted ‘Je Suis Charlie’ movement involving an estimated 3.7 million people who marched in a show of support in the aftermath of the Islamist terrorist attacks in France in January 2015 which claimed the lives of 17, whilst simultaneously, Boko Haram was engaged in massacring around 2,000 people in a coordinated attack in Baga, Nigeria (Shearlaw 2015), which was largely ignored.

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Index

A

Abject/ion, abjected 16, 24, 26, 40, 44, 84, 88, 104, 124, 125, 143, 150, 156, 202, 217, 221, 224, 226, 272, 338, 507, 527, 528, 554, 563, 570. See also Butler, J.; Gothic/Gothic scene English Muslims or Muslim converts 217, 219, 226, 250 Abu Ghraib 40, 313, 340, 361 Activism 452, 513 mobilisation 458, 521 political engagement 20, 46, 451, 453, 458, 473, 474, 478, 483, 489, 517, 529, 565, 581 Affect/affective 13, 18, 32, 43, 44, 46, 71, 72, 74, 76, 85, 92, 98, 100, 107, 122, 125,

128–136, 138, 139, 141, 144, 148, 149, 151, 158, 197, 210, 236, 261, 305, 307, 311, 316, 345, 467, 473, 477, 497, 564, 566, 569 emotion(al) 14, 44, 71, 129–131, 133, 141, 158, 261, 311, 352, 380, 408, 428, 515, 516, 569 Agamben, G. 16, 20, 21, 24, 37–39, 166, 240, 247, 303, 320, 321, 326, 476, 509. See also Bare life; Camp; State of exception Agency 153, 160, 226, 245, 253, 259, 265, 420, 454, 494, 527, 528, 571, 572, 580 choice/chosen 246 self-determination 494

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 M.-S. Abbas, Terror and the Dynamism of Islamophobia in 21st Century Britain, Palgrave Politics of Identity and Citizenship Series, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-72949-3

681

682

Index

Ahmed, S. 18, 85, 86, 92, 98, 125, 128, 129, 133, 134, 139, 143, 151, 157, 158, 161, 197, 210, 250, 253, 262, 315, 325, 329, 473, 497, 500. See also White, spaces Althusser, L. 33, 197, 268, 497. See also interpellation Anti-Semitism 27, 28, 29, 36, 39, 72, 112, 119, 120, 134, 162, 163. See also racism; religion

B

Bare life 39, 240, 325. See also Agamben, G.; Homo sacer; Muselman; State of exception Belonging(s) 75, 84, 85, 89, 93, 101–103, 106–108, 120, 125, 129, 138, 141, 159, 197, 198, 219, 325, 349, 465, 501, 516, 523, 567, 570. See also nation Bhabha, H. 22, 35, 76, 77, 79, 85, 87, 97, 158, 312, 351 Bhambra, G. 34, 87, 92, 161 Body/bodily 10, 18, 29, 31, 32, 44, 45, 47, 82, 84, 124, 125, 129–133, 141–145, 149, 152, 153, 161, 191, 192, 195, 197–199, 202, 204–207, 210, 218, 229, 231–233, 237, 243, 246, 247, 249, 251–253, 256, 259, 261, 262, 265, 268, 270, 273, 316, 317, 320, 324, 326, 351, 353, 380,

386–388, 390–392, 403, 420, 421, 435, 437, 452, 458, 481, 483, 490, 491, 493, 501, 507, 512, 522, 523, 526, 528, 529, 562, 564 corporeal(ity), incorporeal(ity) 128, 129, 198, 249, 317, 352 data 256, 325, 482 embodied, disembodied 145, 204, 210, 218, 252, 386, 452 out of place 18, 44, 72, 85, 107, 128–130, 132–134, 142, 143, 157, 161, 197–199, 201, 569. See also Nation Bradford 3–5, 6–9, 11–13, 110, 140, 264, 268, 305, 307–311, 322, 333, 355, 383, 385, 390, 391, 394, 410, 412, 424, 431, 433, 452, 458, 459, 461, 463–465, 484, 486, 575, 582. See also Community, cohesion disturbance ‘riot’ 2001, 1995 5, 6, 13, 73, 136, 140, 311, 348, 384, 432, 458, 461, 463–466, 469, 582 Rushdie Affair 1988–89 201, 452 Brexit 1, 8, 114, 455 British/Britishness 2, 3, 8, 12, 22, 36, 43, 78, 79, 85, 86, 91–93, 103, 105, 119, 120, 122, 136, 141, 260, 264, 265, 504, 557, 567, 572, 576 identity 73, 81, 85, 89, 112, 221, 257

Index

Muslim loyalty 75, 95 values (core) 44, 75, 104, 124, 125, 257, 404, 408, 410, 411, 430, 469, 479 Butler, J. 16, 20, 22, 40, 46, 107, 145, 156–158, 197, 198, 206, 266, 318, 324, 337, 338, 340, 351, 380, 389, 420, 464, 476, 491, 494, 496–498, 500, 505, 516, 524, 526, 527, 566

C

Camp 19, 21, 22, 27, 38–41, 301, 303, 306, 320, 323, 326, 343, 355, 398, 451, 493, 573, 576, 577, 581 colonial antecedents. See Colonialism concentration. See Concentrationary death 37, 39 Citizenship 20, 85, 93, 94, 103–106, 163, 164, 323, 325, 326, 349, 355, 359, 407, 411, 464, 465, 474, 484, 523 British Muslims 85, 93, 94, 104 citizenship deprivation 104, 105 revoked 94 conditional 44, 75, 85, 93, 107, 158, 323. See also Abject; Nation lesser nationals 74, 157 ‘Clash of civilizations,’ civiliser/terroriser binary. See Premodern Colonial/colonialism 3, 20–22, 26, 29, 30, 33, 37, 39, 72, 74,

683

76, 79, 80, 84–86, 89, 90, 98, 108, 109, 111, 113, 140, 145, 151, 154, 159, 192, 194, 197, 233, 256, 268, 302, 336, 337, 351, 354, 382, 383, 395, 508, 509, 524, 525, 554, 556, 570, 571. See also Terror internal racial colonies/domestic colonies 3, 18, 192, 203, 205, 235, 270 neo-colonial/‘colonial present’ 17. See also Gregory, D., 22, 44, 75, 76, 78, 79, 340, 349, 351, 355 see India; Ireland Community black 208, 209, 211, 212 African-Caribbean 5, 208, 213, 574 cohesion 2, 5, 6, 135, 136, 138, 311, 384, 454, 458, 459, 462, 469 Cantle Report (2001) 462 Casey Review (2016) 73, 124, 410 engagement. See Counter-terrorism, Prevent imagined. See Nation Muslim 2, 6, 7, 11, 35, 46, 48, 118, 195, 251, 265, 266, 273, 303, 307, 308, 321, 328, 330, 359, 379, 380, 384, 385, 388, 390, 392, 394, 397, 399, 400, 404, 417, 428, 432–435, 488, 489, 576, 579–582. See also Suspect, community

684

Index

Pakistani 4, 43, 74, 85, 228, 322, 394, 408, 430 South Asian 3, 8, 107, 135, 226, 250, 251, 259, 271, 522, 574 white 5, 136, 137 dominant 5 hegemonic 108, 243, 272, 530, 560 normative 81, 90, 332, 356 Concentrationary 16, 19, 20, 25, 34, 38, 40, 119, 313, 319, 320, 346, 355, 380, 457, 481, 507, 528, 554, 565, 584, 585. See also Pollock and Silverman Gothic 16, 17, 20, 22, 24, 27, 28, 31–35, 37, 38, 42, 43, 45, 47, 48, 71–74, 81, 94, 108, 117, 119, 135, 150, 157, 158, 161, 191, 205, 211, 257, 263, 264, 270, 302, 307, 308, 313, 317, 321, 322, 332, 343, 344, 357, 380, 382, 451, 452, 457, 458, 528–530, 532, 553, 554, 556–558, 560, 568–570, 573, 574, 576, 580, 582, 584, 586 memory 37, 74, 99, 159, 273, 346, 357, 458, 566, 584 Co-option 46, 379–382, 393, 405, 407, 408, 433, 489, 576, 577, 579, 581. See also Internal surveillance; Suspect, community Counter-terrorism 1, 2, 9–12, 18, 45, 46, 48, 93, 104, 116, 117, 192, 211, 239,

241, 248, 254, 273, 274, 301–309, 311, 314, 315, 319–323, 327–330, 332, 338–340, 347, 381–383, 386–389, 392, 394, 400, 404–408, 411, 412, 418, 427–429, 434, 435, 469, 470, 479–481, 487, 488, 493, 498, 503, 504, 529, 530, 557, 573, 575–577, 579. See also Surveillance, state; Terror Counter-Terrorism and Security Act 2015 2, 12, 104, 384, 400, 411 Prevent 2, 7, 9, 11, 46, 304, 306–309, 311, 355, 356, 380, 383–385, 393, 394, 396, 397, 400, 408, 487, 579 Terrorism Act 2006 2, 47, 565. See also Freedom of speech Criminal/criminalisation/criminality 2, 6, 11, 140, 192, 195, 204, 207–211, 215, 249– 251, 259, 262, 306, 318, 322, 324, 331, 456, 462, 478, 498, 558, 574. See also Policing; Racial profiling; Surveillance

D

de Menezes, J.C. 238, 330, 338, 561 Demonisation/demonised 26, 40, 99, 109, 110, 113, 122, 123, 209, 260, 457, 462, 479, 496, 529, 531, 586.

Index

See also Gothicisation; Monster; Othering Desire 75, 86, 100, 125, 127, 138, 146, 150, 153, 155, 161, 195, 199, 232, 245, 269, 502, 571. See also Monster Detention 24, 45, 93, 301, 304, 356, 475, 480, 504, 510, 558 imprisonment 45, 301, 304, 322, 328, 356, 358, 480 indefinite detention 504, 507 Diffraction 215, 270. See also Haraway, D.; Gaze; Look Discourse, discursive 31, 42, 43, 46, 47, 71, 124, 131, 133, 135, 139, 158, 198, 199, 204, 244, 247, 257, 259, 269, 305, 457, 464, 467, 468, 476, 490, 509, 527, 529, 530 media 6, 247, 268, 309, 358, 430, 436, 474, 515 of degeneration 195, 207, 241. See also Gothic political 42, 473, 515, 521, 555 Disgust 26, 44, 71, 75, 127, 142–144, 146, 149, 150, 152, 154, 155, 352, 570. See also Monster; Nation dominance 75, 127, 146, 155, 158, 570 repel 149, 204 revulsion 150 sick 146, 149, 150 spitting 75 disturbances 458, 460–466, 469, 522, 532 Double 256, 482. See also Gothic

685

doppelganger 256 doubled monstrosity 256, 270, 274 Double consciousness 84, 86. See also Psyche Drone strikes 353. See also Vertical Geopolitics

E

Epistemic violence 80. See also Spivak, G. Epistemological uncertainty 41, 457, 586. See also Gothic narrative fragmentation 41, 457, 586 Extra-legal 24, 45, 303, 304, 309, 556. See also Gothic; State of exception Dual criminal justice system/dual citizenship status 94, 111, 304, 355, 453, 479, 500, 503 Due process 248, 326, 329, 339 justice/injustice 46, 316, 358 Extraordinary rendition 503, 504, 508 Extremism 7, 12, 46, 47, 118, 204, 208, 236, 249, 257, 259–262, 270, 272, 310, 311, 318, 380, 381, 384, 391, 393, 398, 399, 401, 404–408, 410–412, 415, 417, 418, 420, 421, 425, 427–429, 436, 456, 479, 483, 500, 516, 531, 576, 578. See also Radicalisation; Terrorism

686

Index

F

Fanon, F. 18, 29, 44, 73, 76, 81, 83, 84, 86, 128, 131–133, 144, 153, 157, 161, 163, 198–200, 233, 501, 568, 569, 571 Fear/fearful/fearsome 23, 29, 45–47, 73, 103, 107, 123–127, 135, 139, 143, 144, 146, 155, 158, 159, 232, 243, 252, 262, 264, 313–317, 320, 329, 330, 341, 344, 347, 348, 379–381, 385, 388, 390, 392, 399, 406, 408, 412, 415, 417, 421, 426–428, 434, 436, 437, 456, 465, 476–478, 480, 493, 496, 501, 523, 530, 556, 565, 573, 577, 578, 581, 584 culture of 1, 7–11, 14, 16, 17, 22, 24, 35, 43, 45, 74, 93, 94, 103, 109, 158, 194–196, 244, 245, 263, 265, 266, 270, 273, 274, 302–305, 307, 308, 320, 321, 334, 342, 346, 347, 355, 359, 388–391, 399, 429, 434, 435, 452, 458, 469, 470, 472, 473, 477–481, 486, 489, 498, 502, 503, 511, 513, 515, 520, 529, 531, 554, 565, 566, 576, 579–581, 584 frightened 144, 312, 317, 343, 481 politics of 349, 473 scaremongering 122, 125

Foucault, M. 13, 31–33, 149, 192, 193, 206, 243, 248, 250, 265, 266, 273, 324, 337, 338, 340, 379, 400, 405, 417, 420, 428, 436, 437, 461, 476, 480, 481, 510, 523 Frankenberg, R. 17, 29, 207, 228, 531, 568 Freedom of speech/expression 46, 264, 451–456, 464, 466, 468, 478, 489, 491, 493, 499, 500, 517, 520, 529–531, 565, 573, 581. See also Misrepresentation; Silencing; Voice incitement to terrorism 451, 478, 565, 581

G

Garner, S. 18, 99, 108, 110–112, 217, 219, 242, 329, 338. See also Whiteness Gaze 39, 84, 149, 194, 199, 200, 210, 218, 247, 248, 261, 262, 268, 274, 306, 330, 352, 359, 564, 575. See also Look; Visual colonial 153 oppositional 254, 274. See also hooks, b. stigmatizing 344 white hostile 18, 157, 197, 198, 274 Gilroy, P. 20–22, 79, 80, 113, 158, 161, 163, 205, 208, 249, 343, 569

Index

Goldberg, D. 14, 22, 27–29, 34, 36, 39, 40, 97, 113, 118, 119, 122, 161, 163, 196, 202, 205, 218, 227, 237, 554, 563 Gordon, A. 74, 97, 151, 159. See also Haunting Gothic/Gothic scene 16, 23–27, 29, 31, 34, 40, 41, 43, 45, 72, 73, 80, 95, 108, 110, 119, 160, 195, 203, 259, 302, 303, 314, 322, 331, 358, 406, 452, 462, 504, 556, 558, 566, 567, 570, 572, 574, 577, 585–587. See also Abject/Abjection; Haunting imperial Gothic 27, 73 oriental Gothic 25 racial Gothic 26. See also Religion reverse colonisation 73, 120, 122, 150, 566 unheimlich 97, 98, 135, 158, 312, 351, 356 Gothicisation 17, 24, 26, 28, 37, 45, 71, 75, 108, 110, 114, 120, 141, 161, 193, 201, 207, 209, 303, 307, 308, 408, 462, 511, 555, 558, 568, 569, 572, 574. See also Demonisation; Monster, scapegoating Gothicism 123, 203, 242. See also Extra-legal; Valier, C. Governmentality 137, 151, 210. See also Foucault, M. hegemonic white 108, 243, 272, 530, 560 racialised 195. See also Hesse, B., 230, 243

687

white 195, 203, 205 Gregory, D. 17, 21–23, 78, 145, 205, 340, 343, 349, 351, 509 Guantanamo Bay 40, 340, 503, 507

H

Hage, G. 92, 107, 124, 125, 128, 132, 135, 150, 156, 157, 159, 313 Halberstam, J. 25, 27, 29, 113, 119, 124, 134, 159, 193, 206, 235, 248, 256, 274, 308, 558, 559, 569, 572, 574, 577, 586. See also Technology of monstrosity Hall, S. 3, 34, 43, 75, 76, 85, 91, 115, 208 Haraway, D. 17, 33, 126, 195, 198, 199, 206, 209, 210, 215, 247, 248, 269, 271, 461, 504, 505. See also Diffraction; Visual Harris, C. 17, 302, 303, 306, 316 Hate 134, 381, 455, 461, 464, 465, 498, 564 animosity 217, 218, 585 despise 202 Hate crime 8, 335, 336, 345, 454 hate speech 47, 453–455, 458, 461, 463–465, 467, 468, 486, 489, 490, 494–498, 500–502, 518, 531, 565 Haunt/haunted/haunting 16, 22, 24–26, 35, 38, 40, 41, 43, 74, 76, 85, 96, 97, 109, 123, 125, 151, 158, 204, 256, 303, 304, 308, 309,

688

Index

312, 313, 315, 317, 331, 351, 359, 455, 481, 556, 584. See also Gothic ghost/ghostly 40, 74, 123, 218, 317, 359, 509 haunted futurity/haunted futurities 74, 97, 102, 159, 266, 303, 312, 315, 317, 342, 349, 358, 479, 556 haunting back 40, 355, 457, 459, 462, 511, 529, 531, 556, 587 hauntology 123 transgenerational haunting 85, 89, 556 spectral terrorist. See Whiteness Hesse, B. 3, 30, 31, 38, 75, 113, 129, 137, 139, 163, 194, 203, 205, 221, 252, 560 Higginbotham, E. 17, 29, 30, 212, 271, 501, 574 . See also Race, as metalanguage Hillyard, P. 2, 111, 355, 381, 382, 434. See also Suspect, community Historico-racial schema 44, 73, 128, 130–133, 139, 144–146, 148, 151, 153, 157, 160, 161, 569, 571 . See also Fanon, F.; Haunting; Modernity; Premodern; Temporal/ History, historical 5, 6, 11, 19, 22, 34, 79, 92, 97, 98, 107, 145, 150, 154, 193, 457, 462, 577, 586 . See also Gothic; Haunting; Historico-racial schema colonial 80, 87–89, 111, 554

connected 34, 92, 93, 583. See also Bhambra, G. racialised history of terror 3, 27, 30, 33, 72, 263, 336 shared 87, 146 Home/place 45, 83–86, 92, 96–98, 100, 102, 106, 107, 122, 125, 145 Displaced/displacement 97 un-homed 97 Unhomely. See Unheimlich Home raids 45, 93, 301, 303, 312–317, 327, 328, 356, 407, 479, 480, 579 Homo sacer 240, 509. See also Agamben, G.; Bare life hooks, b. 18, 19, 23, 80, 92, 107, 137, 242, 254, 274, 505, 558, 568 Horror/horrorism 24, 38, 118, 274, 331, 352 ‘Powers of horror’ 45, 302, 473 Human/humanness. See also Bare life; Necropolitics condition 352 inhuman 40, 144 rights 325, 326, 339, 507

I

Identity 2, 13, 14, 16, 26, 28–30, 36, 43, 47, 73, 130, 131, 145, 198, 201, 218, 227, 232, 237, 241, 243, 245, 256, 350, 358, 409, 411, 417, 421, 474, 511, 526, 528, 531 Muslim. See Visibly Muslim

Index

national 3, 5, 26, 71, 72, 90, 108, 120, 158, 260, 269, 474, 566, 567 racial 17, 229 Ignorance 304, 324, 331, 430, 558, 586 epistemology of 80, 331 see premediated ignorance Imagined community 92, 93, 103, 138, 582 misimagined 92 India 33, 95, 99, 111, 112, 159, 342, 555. See also Colonialism British Raj 79, 81, 98, 100, 111, 556 Marshal Law 1919 112 partition of India 1947 94 Victorian Holocaust 165 Integration 124, 259, 264, 384, 404, 410, 413 Inter-bodily-relational (IBR) 13, 17, 21, 32, 71, 117, 191, 380, 452, 531, 553, 556, 568, 585 Interfaith 121, 384, 487. See also Religion Internal surveillance 10, 46, 379, 382, 398, 404, 408, 417, 419, 422, 427, 437, 476, 577, 578 . See also Cooption; subjection; Suspect, community inform/informer/informing 46, 379–381, 392, 394–396, 398, 435 infiltrate/infiltrators 477 internal suspect body 46, 117, 380, 385, 387, 389, 392, 395, 401, 418–421,

689

425, 426, 434, 436, 437, 577–579 Interpellation/interpellative 192, 196–199, 234, 235, 266, 268–270, 495–497, 500, 556, 564 Iraq War 2003–2011. See War Ireland 111, 112, 114, 115, 159, 382, 555 . See also Colonisation Anglo-Irish War for Independence 1919–21 112 Bloody Sunday 115 connections with India 111 Irish. See Racism; Religion Islam/Islamic 4, 10, 13, 45, 73, 118, 120, 122, 123, 193, 221, 228, 260, 266, 267, 344, 400, 402–404, 408–410, 419, 421, 425, 426, 437, 487, 524, 531, 563, 581 . See also Religion dress. See ‘Visibly Muslim’ moderate Muslim 102, 120, 265, 389, 400, 401, 403, 408, 419, 420, 436, 523, 524, 580 . See also Extremism revivalism 409, 411, 412 religious activism 409 Islamic groups/Islamic Society/Islamic Student Associations (ISAs) 12, 411, 412, 420, 425–427 . See also Space, as suspect Islamophobia, Islamophobic, Islamophobe 1, 6–9, 13, 16, 26, 28–30, 34–36, 39, 41, 42, 44, 46–48, 73, 112, 119, 135, 139, 158, 161,

690

Index

194, 195, 201, 212, 216, 217, 219, 228, 229, 233, 235, 240, 246, 249, 260, 262, 271, 272, 334–336, 388, 454, 455, 458, 459, 465–469, 474, 475, 483, 501, 506, 530, 553, 554, 559–567, 586 . See also Racial/racialisation; Racism; Terror gendered 13, 45, 105, 114, 129, 145, 149, 154, 192 Islamification 26, 42, 48, 73, 135, 455, 465–467, 566, 567 Eurabia 138, 567 reverse colonisation 26, 73 Pakophobia 230, 233

J

Jew 28, 35–39, 49, 94, 98, 113, 117–120, 134, 162, 163, 263, 264, 273. See also Anti-Semitism

K

Knowledge practices 18, 33, 41, 42, 76, 80, 139, 157, 192, 209, 232, 239, 243, 251, 256, 304, 308, 316, 329, 461, 505, 526, 585 . See also Epistemic violence; Ignorance subjugated 41, 192, 405, 434, 461, 480, 493, 586

L

Law 17, 20, 22, 24, 31, 45, 46, 104, 118, 119, 121, 266, 302, 303, 306, 315, 316, 320, 324, 331, 332, 339, 358, 359, 454, 478, 489, 499, 531, 557, 574 . See also Extra-legal court 327 criminal proceedings 209 penal practice 24, 45, 204, 208–211, 215, 251, 271, 274, 304 prison 318, 322, 323, 325, 326, 465 Leeds 3–12, 91, 110, 140, 305, 307, 308, 333, 343, 344, 355, 383, 385, 390, 391, 393, 422–424, 477, 480, 487, 495, 575 Linguistic imperialism 81 racism 81, 453 Look/looking 46, 83, 84, 91, 100, 128, 130, 133, 142, 144, 145, 199, 250, 262, 269, 316, 343 . See also Double consciousness ‘the look’ 45, 199, 266 mirror, mirror scene 83, 84, 198 seer/seen 45, 256, 268, 324

M

Mbembe, A. 16, 20, 21–24, 40, 46, 192, 305, 332, 333, 336–338, 340, 343, 345, 346, 351, 355, 502 . See also Necropolitics

Index

Mills, C. 79, 331 Racial Contract 79. See also Ignorance, epistemology of (Mis)recognition 42, 44, 107, 191, 196, 198, 203, 215, 219, 226, 227, 230–234, 236, 237, 240, 241, 243, 261, 262, 269–271, 561 Sikhs 203, 227, 230, 241, 561 (Mis)represent/(Mis)representation 311, 452, 462, 465, 477, 479, 492, 502, 504, 506, 516, 521, 526, 575, 586 . See also Politics of representation Modernity 21, 22, 34, 37, 73, 128, 129, 139, 148, 150, 160, 192, 207, 218 . See also Haunting; History; Temporal/Temporality European time 34, 151, 161 Eurocentric 34 see Premodern west/rest, Europeanness/nonEuropeanness binary 34, 99, 107, 139, 194, 205, 555, 560 . See also Hall, S.; Orientalism; Race, thinking Monster/monstrous/monstrosity 16, 25, 26, 28, 29, 32, 40, 41, 124–127, 138, 146, 149, 160, 193, 195, 200, 202, 225, 232, 235, 242, 254, 256, 270, 274, 308, 554, 557, 558, 578, 585 . See also Gothic bogeyman 125

691

scapegoat/scapegoating 75, 108, 118–121, 125, 126, 158. See also Gothicisation technology of monstrosity 28–30, 38, 44, 75, 108, 124, 139, 159–161, 193, 194, 245, 259, 260, 270, 274, 559, 569. See also Halberstam, J. terrorist-monster 24, 104, 144, 146, 193, 204, 240, 242, 254, 256, 274, 355, 358, 553, 555, 557, 558, 566, 568, 586 Mosque 384, 388, 410, 421–424, 429, 487–489, 581, 582 . See also Space, as suspect Multicultural/multiculturalism 6, 73, 76, 108, 474, 475, 523 failed/failure of 6, 311, 410 intimacy 129, 138 Muselmann 38–40, 118. See also Agamben, G.; Bare life; Camp

N

Nation, nationalist practices 9, 12, 21, 26, 76, 85, 91, 93, 94, 105, 124, 128, 135, 145, 160, 161 ripping the veil 75, 150, 155, 161 spitting 75, 142, 155, 161, 570 white nation fantasy 125, 135, 569. See also Hage, G. Necropolitics/necropower 40, 46, 237, 242, 305, 332, 333, 336–338, 345, 346, 351, 353, 355, 502 . See also

692

Index

Mbembe, A.; Shoot-to-kill; State of exception 9/11, September 11th. See Terrorism/terrorist

O

Orientalism 25, 26, 29, 80, 524. See also Gothic; Said, E. Other/othering/otherness 7, 18, 19, 24, 25, 27, 28, 37, 39, 72, 126, 207, 219, 225, 230, 232, 585 . See also Gothic; Gothicisation; Scapegoat; Stereotypes colonial/postcolonial 76 racial 17, 18, 210, 246, 462, 506, 516 religious. See Religion

P

Pakistan 4, 5, 12, 76, 85, 95–97, 100, 102, 103, 106, 107, 230, 329, 350 Pakophobia. See Islamophobia Panopticon 248, 324, 332, 394, 428. See also Foucault, M. Parallel lives 6, 73, 136, 137, 347, 348, 459 Penal practice. See Law Persecution 72, 264, 266, 273, 306, 309, 356 witch-hunting 306, 356 Police/policing 5, 7, 11, 146, 205, 207, 211, 239, 240, 248, 254, 314, 318, 319, 323, 324, 328, 341, 342, 382, 384, 394, 399, 406,

408, 419, 427, 472, 481, 501, 579 . See also Racial profiling; Surveillance police brutality 481 Rodney King 206, 240 Political (dis)engagement 481 anti-political 19, 507 (de)politicised 247, 264, 428, 452, 483, 486–488, 507, 511, 512 locally-defined solutions 46, 48 Politics of representation 34, 35, 38, 42, 46, 264, 268, 273, 458, 481, 511, 529, 566, 584 . See also Concentrationary, memory; Silencing believability 41 naming 42, 452, 507, 529 witness/witnessing 34, 273, 481 bear witness 37, 39, 41, 97, 100, 209, 254, 314, 342, 457, 480, 502, 566, 584 Pollock, G. 16, 17, 19, 20, 22, 25, 38, 41, 74, 100, 159, 273, 319, 346, 347, 357, 458, 476, 481, 529, 565, 584 Populations black 214 Postracial. See Race; Racism Power/powerlessness 18, 19–21, 24, 28, 32, 33, 43, 74, 79, 135, 192, 210, 244, 249, 331, 467, 476, 586 . See also Biopower oppress/oppression/oppressed 31, 40, 41, 88, 115, 117, 150, 152, 156, 160, 195, 199, 205, 320, 430, 454, 490, 526, 556, 576

Index

sovereign/sovereignty 325, 328, 331, 338, 354, 507 ‘Powers of horror’. See also Valier, C. Premediated ignorance 18, 45, 239, 304, 308, 311, 322, 324, 326, 329–332, 339, 358, 430, 558, 586 Premediation 304 pre-crime 318 pre-emptive counter-terrorism 45, 116, 192, 241, 302–304, 309, 315, 320, 347, 357, 481, 498, 530 Premodern 22, 37, 73, 121, 122, 152, 259, 303, 569 . See also Gothic; Haunting; History; Modernity; Temporal/temporality ‘Clash of civilizations’ 23, 29, 120 civiliser/terroriser binary 18, 24, 554 ‘denial of coevalness’ 34, 151 anachronism 73, 151, 161 Psyche 76, 85, 88, 141, 320, 352 coloniality of 86, 88. See also Fanon, F. inferiorisation 76, 82, 85 double consciousness 84, 86 psychic/psychicological 13, 32, 44, 71, 74, 76, 84, 85, 88, 556 Pugliese, J. 16, 20, 28, 107, 192, 217, 240, 243, 244, 247, 249, 250, 262, 302, 313, 325, 338, 340, 344, 345, 355, 561 . See also Racial profiling/policing, regime of visuality

693

R

Race 9, 14, 21, 22, 24, 25, 27–29, 36, 97, 119, 144, 196, 205, 212, 226, 237, 253, 336, 351, 560, 574 as metalanguage 29, 501. See also Higginbotham, E. as relational. See also Goldberg, D. 27, 29, 110, 119, 205, 237 thinking 21, 23, 36. See also Whiteness Racial/racialisation 8, 13, 20, 35, 36, 44, 99, 113, 115, 237, 250, 302, 316, 572 . See also Islamophobia; Racism interior 17, 92, 96, 98, 112, 113, 115, 117, 159, 195, 219, 271, 383, 554 see Religion; Terror Racial and Religious Hatred Act 2006 47, 455, 469, 498. See also Hate crime Racial profiling/policing 44, 191, 193, 204, 207, 210, 237, 239, 241, 245, 247, 249, 250, 254, 256, 257, 261, 262, 270, 273, 274 . See also Biopolitics; Biopower; Body; Criminal; Surveillance biometrics 192, 196 profile 44, 145, 161, 191, 193, 208, 215, 236, 246, 247, 250, 251, 256, 262, 271, 317, 324, 578 . See also body regime of visuality 203, 229, 561. See also Pugliese, J.

694

Index

Racism. See also Hate crime; Orientalism; Race, Racial/racialisation anti-Muslim. See Islamophobia anti-blackness 30, 228, 563 cultural 28, 140 new racism 28 far right 5–7, 357 radical right populism 7 right-wing 8, 455, 508 Irish 94, 99, 554. See also Colonialism; Whiteness anti-Catholic 112, 113 see Anti-Semitism Radical/radicalisation 8, 102, 259, 260, 306, 384, 399, 405, 406, 425, 426, 527, 528, 578 . See also Counterterrorism; Extremism; Terrorism childhood radicalisation 407. See also Suspect, community Razack, S. 16, 20–24, 75, 146, 257, 303, 316, 451, 503, 560, 569, 571 Relational 14, 32, 36, 71, 76, 97, 110, 158, 216 . See also Inter-bodily-relational Religion, religious 14, 28, 36, 39, 44, 47, 98, 114, 148, 201, 216, 229, 262, 409, 453, 561, 564 Christianity 98, 122, 135, 221, 223. See also Whiteness racialisation of 98, 108, 112, 113, 117, 219, 229, 554, 561. See also Islamophobia; Racial/racialisation; Racism see Anti-Semitism; Islam/Islamic

Resistance 42, 43, 47, 194, 243, 265, 266, 269, 273, 457, 481, 510, 513, 528, 529, 577, 585, 586 alliances 574 politics of care 513, 531 ‘standing up’ 265, 528 Risk/risky 32, 100, 196, 210, 239, 241, 244, 248, 254, 273, 305, 316, 318, 330, 359, 399, 427, 477, 482, 493, 517, 581 ‘at risk’ 9, 102, 241, 248, 347, 408, 425, 428, 478, 518, 528

S

Safety 100, 101, 305, 349, 350, 353, 355, 468 Said, E. 26, 29, 80, 122, 150, 351 . See also Orientalism Savage/savagery 73, 111, 145. See also Gothicisation barbaric 6, 23, 75, 104, 108, 114, 121, 159, 219, 571 uncivilised 23, 108, 114, 116, 119, 122, 203, 256, 259, 453 Scapegoat/scapegoating 108, 118– 121, 125, 126, 158 . See also Gothicisation blame 108, 125, 126 Security 102, 108, 137, 241, 247, 257, 261, 338, 339, 350, 399, 406, 475, 483, 495, 531, 566 hyper-securitization 233

Index

(in)security/securitise/ (in)securitisation/ securitising 1, 3, 7, 45, 93, 103, 104, 237, 301, 305, 311, 320, 335, 336, 341, 344, 353, 356, 388, 408, 424, 430, 491, 494–496, 531 national security 29, 73, 75, 104, 144, 318, 348, 408, 430, 469 ontological insecurity 346, 350 Segregation 6, 348, 459, 465, 515 . See also Community, cohesion 7/7, London bombings. See Terrorism/terrorist Self-segregation 6, 73, 136, 137 Shoot-to-kill-to-protect. See de Menezes, J.C.; Necropolitics Silencing 47, 80, 91, 354, 452, 458, 461, 465, 469, 473, 476, 479–481, 487–490, 499, 500, 502, 506, 509, 526, 568, 574, 581, 585 culture of 399, 452, 458, 486, 487, 513, 581 . See also Fear, culture of, Space, safe self-silencing 47, 400, 428, 434, 452, 491, 493, 494, 498, 500, 529 unspeakable 504. See also Gothic Silverman, M. 16, 17, 19, 20, 22, 25, 38, 41, 74, 100, 159, 273, 319, 346, 347, 357, 458, 476, 481, 529, 565, 584 Skin 28, 32, 84, 86, 145, 197, 199, 201, 204, 230, 231,

695

234, 252, 561 . See also Whiteness browning 204 epidermal 112 epidermalization/racial-epidermal schema 76, 84, 145, 199. See also Fanon, F. Space as sites of terror 45, 274, 301, 305, 307, 316, 320–322, 332, 333, 346, 356 as suspect, sites of suspicion 411 racial/racialised divisions, racialisation of space 6, 125, 333, 348, 356. See also white spaces safe 45, 335, 381, 399, 434, 435, 516, 581 freedom of speech 451, 453 Spatial control dominance 31, 45, 143, 148, 149, 333, 348 management 128, 129, 137, 346–348, 356, 570, 572 mobility 325, 348 registers 46, 117, 302, 305 scales. See Vertical geopolitics zoning 303, 307, 355 Speech, speak/speaking 39, 198, 268, 453, 473, 499, 502, 581 body, ‘bodily act’ 491, 526. See also Butler, J. hate 47, 453–455, 458, 461, 463–465, 467, 468, 486, 489, 490, 494–496, 498, 502, 531, 565 linguistic racism 81, 453 racialised/racialising 531

696

Index

Speech, speak/speaking (linguistic imperialism) 81 Spivak, G. 80, 84, 154, 457, 528, 565, 571 Spy/spying 46, 379, 385, 395, 406, 426, 579 State of exception 3, 16, 20–22, 24, 25, 31, 38, 40, 45, 93, 94, 103, 111, 121, 159, 302–304, 313, 316, 320, 322, 326, 356, 357, 451, 503, 556 . See also Agamben, G.; Bare life; Camp; Extra-legal Stereotypes, stereotyping 18, 36, 44, 122, 132, 139, 158, 236, 310, 516, 569 Muslim male 3, 7, 12, 45, 120, 140, 144, 255, 311, 352, 572 dangerous Muslim man 44, 75, 140, 143, 145, 146, 159, 160, 274, 569, 570 groomer 408, 425 Muslim woman 146, 154, 256, 572 immigrant 44, 75, 81, 105, 127, 128, 132, 159, 569 imperilled 44, 75, 148, 153, 160, 257, 259, 571 Stigma/stigmatised 199, 231–233, 381, 389, 407, 435, 579 Stop and search 45, 93, 207, 210, 301, 304, 318, 319, 320, 325, 356, 388, 574, 575, 578 . See also Policing; Racial profiling; Surveillance

Stop the War 428, 473, 474, 488, 514, 515, 573 . See also Activism Subject/subjectivity 5, 13, 14, 17, 18, 26, 28, 30–32, 34, 40, 42, 44, 71, 73, 80, 84, 86, 117, 144, 197, 235, 248, 261, 269, 316, 352 Subjection 46, 120, 266, 380, 389, 400, 408, 419, 420, 428, 430, 576, 578, 580, 581 . See also Butler, J.; Internal surveillance Surveillance 24, 31, 44, 45, 191, 192, 194, 196, 218, 239, 248, 355 gender/gendered 45, 237, 256, 261, 271, 273, 274. See also ‘Visibly Muslim’ internal/intra-group 10, 46, 379, 382, 398, 404, 408, 419, 422, 437, 476, 577, 578 . See also Co-option: Internal surveillance: informing, internal suspect body; Subjection; Suspect, community racialised 32, 237, 246, 254 self 47, 347, 359, 389, 428, 452, 476, 478, 492, 494, 516, 521, 529, 573 state. See Detention; Home raids; Shoot-to-kill; Stop and search Surveillant citizen 31 active citizen 573 Suspect. See also Counter-terrorism; Extremism; Internal surveillance

Index

community 381. See also Hillyard, P. terror suspect 12, 44, 95, 161, 192, 193, 195, 201, 208, 215, 237, 242, 243, 245– 247, 249–252, 257, 262, 268, 271, 274, 304, 313, 315, 316, 321, 322, 324, 326, 329, 339, 391, 497, 560, 573 treatment 3, 10, 13, 255, 262, 263, 271, 273, 274, 383, 386, 388–393, 435, 493, 554, 555, 579–581 suspectification 381, 387, 404 suspector 405, 417, 422, 436, 437 Suspicion 46, 247, 324, 325, 379, 406, 411, 418, 422, 426, 435, 436, 492, 579 . See also Suspect, community mistrust/mistrusted 385, 395, 427, 435 official 386, 392, 393, 436 Syrian War 2011-present. See War

T

Technology of monstrosity. See Monster Temporal/temporality 13, 31, 44, 71, 73, 74, 76, 97, 102, 123, 158, 314, 315. See also Haunting; History; Modernity; Premodern Terror/terrorisation/terrorised/ terroriser/terrorising/ terroristic. See also Colonial/

697

colonialism; Necropolitics; Violence; Torture; War as networked 340, 386, 557, 576 reproductive 320, 452, 478, 493, 529 racial history of 462 state, terrors of counter-terrorism 321, 322, 359, 379, 386, 389, 400, 404, 428, 480, 481, 488, 493, 529, 530, 573, 576, 577 . See also Extra-legal; Gothic; Policing; Racial profiling; Surveillance systems of Kyriarchal 438 Nazi/Naziism, European Jewish Holocaust 20, 27, 35, 37, 40, 72, 118, 263, 272, 273, 334, 343 slavery 27, 336 Terrorism/terrorist. See also Whiteness, as spectral terrorist attacks 2, 7, 126, 140, 345, 381, 472, 473, 505, 530, 584 far right 272, 556 IRA 116, 555 Islamist home-grown terrorism/terrorist 25, 137, 305, 356 new terrorism 116, 117, 555 police terrorism 242. See also Racial profiling; Surveillance, state Torture 31, 313, 340, 504, 506–509. See also Abu Ghraib

698

Index

U

Unheimlich 97, 98, 135, 158, 312, 326, 351, 356 . See also Gothic return of the repressed 40 uncanny 135, 302

V

Valier, C. 24, 25, 41, 45, 123, 137, 203, 242, 302, 308, 314, 331, 339, 352, 356, 405, 473, 556, 577, 584 . See also Gothicism; ‘Powers of horror’ Veil. See ‘Visibly Muslim’ Vertical geopolitics 46, 305, 353–355 Violence, violent 1, 18, 24, 45, 76, 79, 86, 94, 95, 97, 99, 206, 260, 333, 342, 345, 351, 462, 500, 506 . See also Concentrationary; Terror; War epistemic 80. See also Knowledge practices; Linguistic law 45, 104. See also Gothic; State of exception racial/racialised 119 Viscosity. See Spatial mobility ‘Visibly Muslim’ 8, 192, 201, 220, 221, 227, 229, 244, 245, 263, 265, 266, 272, 344, 388, 392, 412, 421, 491, 528, 529, 561, 564, 580 beard 13, 47, 142, 217, 249, 252, 403, 421, 437, 560, 578 dress Islamic dress 201, 249, 252, 264, 266, 273, 452, 560

Islamic markers 13, 253, 392, 408, 420, 436, 492 religious dress 245 (un)veil/(un)veilling, veiled Muslim woman 150, 151, 257, 260, 261 . See also Stereotypes Visual/visualism/visuality/visualize 29, 32, 34, 47, 194, 209, 217, 232, 252, 262, 269, 358, 553, 560, 572, 587 . See also Diffraction; Gaze; Look/looking (in/hyper-)visibility/visibilisation 44, 191, 194, 201, 216, 217, 226, 251, 256, 265, 270, 273, 560 dilute identity 243, 244, 265, 327, 332, 359 racialised visual regime 217, 245, 250, 271, 274. See also Pugliese, J.; Racial profiling statist regimes of visuality 247. See also Pugliese, J. Visual technologies 27, 41, 44, 191, 380, 452, 557, 558, 585, 586 Voice/vocal 14, 32, 46, 47, 71, 153, 264, 273, 397, 399, 434, 452, 457, 464, 466, 476, 480, 488, 501, 516, 528, 529, 581 . See also Freedom of speech; Silencing Vulnerable, vulnerability 127, 157, 257, 259, 260, 410, 417, 490, 502, 516, 517 brutalised body 348 victim/victimisation/victimhood 1, 8, 19, 35, 42, 45, 132,

Index

199, 240, 304, 348, 559,

203, 213, 241, 257, 312, 316, 357, 461, 567, 579

234, 260, 330, 466,

238, 302, 335, 498,

W

War 21, 94, 96–98, 100, 101, 106, 201, 332, 339, 340, 344, 345, 350, 353, 355, 473, 488, 513, 521 ethnic cleansing 98, 99, 272, 341, 342, 501, 502 genocide 272 frames of. See Butler, J. We are Bradford 484. See also Activism White Britons 80, 81, 90 English/Englishness 110 nation fantasy 125, 135, 569 normative 80, 81 converts 228 English Muslims 217, 219, 250 privilege 17, 228, 329, 516, 563 spaces. See Space

699

supremacy, supremacist 79, 81, 240, 247, 313, 331, 332, 337, 509, 510, 527, 567 . See also Mills, C. terror 79, 115, 200, 239, 272, 302, 308, 314, 318, 358, 505, 521, 556, 567, 585 Whiteness. See also Racial, interior; Religion, Christianity abject/abjection 217, 221, 224. See also White, converts as property 17, 303, 327, 332, 358, 503 . See also Harris, C. as spectral terrorist 45, 242, 303, 304, 309, 312, 322, 331, 357, 556 as terror 19, 41, 114, 137, 322, 338, 505, 532, 586. See also Garner, S.; hooks, b. as unmarked 18, 130, 210 somatic norm 82, 84, 128, 198, 217 fantasy of. See hooks, b. third wave 114 Witch-hunt/hunting. See Persecution World War Two. See War