Keir Starmer is going to make British Muslims like me less safe

When I read that the government looks set to drop the word ‘Islamophobia’, in favour of the phrase ‘anti-Muslim hostility’, my first reaction wasn’t shock or confusion – it was a sinking feeling of utter resignation.

In recent years we have seen Islamophobia (yes, I will still call it that) parroted by certain politicians, peddled in sections of the media and woven into policy.

And ministers now appear to accept the argument that the term potentially risks curbing free speech. 

But considering the far-right riots, flag-painting hordes and normalisation of anti-migrant sentiment that we have seen in recent months, for many Muslims like me, it feels like a formal definition is needed now more than ever. 

So it hurts that  the support and advocacy that Labour appeared to have extended to British Muslims when they were in opposition has all but dissipated now that they are in power.

In 2019, Labour backed the All-Party Parliamentary Group’s definition of Islamophobia – ‘Islamophobia is rooted in racism and is a type of racism that targets expressions of Muslimness or perceived Muslimness.’

Though concise, at least this firmly established Islamophobia as a racist phenomenon on par with other forms of racial discrimination.

In fact, in the past, many of the same Labour figures that are now in government accused the Tories of failing to act decisively in addressing the rise in anti-Muslim sentiment across the UK. 

Keir Starmer himself even previously criticised past Conservative governments for watering down efforts to tackle Islamophobia, particularly their refusal to entrench a formal definition of the term.

Now, his own government’s refusal to call Islamophobia what it truly is, is just the latest betrayal.

Our everyday lives consist of politicians vilifying us on live TV and our fellow Britons vandalising our homes and places of worship

The preferred term, ‘Anti-Muslim hostility’ is defined as ‘engaging in or encouraging criminal acts, including acts of violence, vandalism of property, and harassment and intimidation whether physical, verbal, written or electronically communicated, which is directed at Muslims or those perceived to be Muslims because of their religion, ethnicity or appearance.’

Supporters of it posit that the new definition is far more comprehensive than previous iterations, but to me, this new term, and therefore the refusal to specifically entrench the word Islamophobia in law – as well as in the public consciousness – seems like a nefarious attempt to deliberately downplay the pervasive harm done to Muslims.

It suggests a passive, subtle, personal dislike for people like me, and conjures images of someone with a mild and harmless grievance at best, like a distaste for a certain brand of tea.

But this is not the reality for Muslims right now in the UK.

What we experience isn’t just hostility. Our everyday lives consist of politicians vilifying us on live TV and our fellow Britons vandalising our homes and places of worship with flags: today’s ultimate nationalist symbol. 

We are fearing for our children in the street, hiding our hijabs under hoods and taking the long way home to avoid certain areas. We are being attacked in public places, discriminated against in the job market and branded as terrorists for holding any political opinion that threatens the status quo.

In a climate like this, when it feels less safe than ever to be visibly Muslim in the UK, refusing to cement our treatment in non-negotiable, crystal-clear terms feels like yet another continuation of the Islamophobia we face.

For any other minority community, discrimination is formalised and entrenched in law and the public imagination – and rightly so. 

We wouldn’t say that a corporation firing a woman for going on maternity leave was expressing ‘anti-woman hostility’. It would be clear-cut, indisputable sexism.

If a politician stood on a public stage and claimed that people from a certain religious or ethnic group were incompatible with Britain, we wouldn’t talk in terms of hostility and sentiments. We would call it out for what it is: racism. 

And can you name one other religious group that are forced to relinquish their legal right to protection simply so that others have the right to criticise their beliefs?

You can’t, because we would never say that the right to criticise and even offend Christianity, Judaism or Hinduism should come at the cost of the personal safety of their adherents.

So why is it then, that when it comes to Muslims, formal clarity suddenly becomes so impossible, dangerous or even anti-British? Why is it that our experience, our discrimination, is too messy, too political, too uncomfortable to name properly?

For those with no skin in this game, it may seem like a debate over nothing. What does it really matter whether it’s termed ‘Anti-Muslim hostility’ or ‘Islamophobia’? But language matters. Words shape what we see, what we record, and what we act on.

Besides, Islamophobia isn’t just ‘hostility’, it’s a specific form of prejudice that targets people because they are Muslim, or perceived to be Muslim, and it operates socially, politically and structurally. 

Islamophobia is the hijab being ripped off in the street, the mosque vandalised with pig’s blood, the flag graffitied on the local Muslim primary school. The suspicion, the profiling and the constant, endless, need to justify our existence.

Calling this ‘anti-Muslim hostility’ doesn’t make the sickness behind these incidents clearer; it makes it smaller. And when it’s smaller on paper, it matters less.

When the government hesitates to even name Islamophobia for what it is, it sends a signal far beyond Westminster – that Islamophobia in fact doesn’t really exist, or at the very least, that it isn’t a real problem when it really is.

It’s like giving a stamp of approval to the wave of far-right vitriol that we have been constantly bombarded with in recent years. It feels like telling us that our genuine fear is unwarranted, our experiences not just invalid but too politically awkward, too inconvenient to properly acknowledge.

And what’s more, it tells perpetrators that this hatred and discrimination we face is negotiable, debatable and up for interpretation. 

But let’s be clear, this isn’t an academic debate or a detached discussion about the technicality of language.

It’s about whether the country we call home is willing to name the hatred we face, or whether it would rather sidestep it entirely, masking the damage it poses to our lives behind cold semantics.

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