After the Riots

Last Friday I joined a group of women after prayers at a North London mosque to learn how the racial violence in July and August had affected their lives. The riots had started with false claims that the killings of three children in Southport were committed by a Muslim immigrant. The rioters attacked mosques and hotels where asylum seekers were housed. I sought out women from two communities targeted by the violence – Muslims and refugees – to hear their views.

Most of the women I met at the mosque were members of the women’s halaqa (literally ‘circle’), a group for religious study that’s often also an informal network for social support and sharing information. All of them wore hijabs, and the attacks had made them all worried about leaving the house.

A twenty-year-old woman, who was born in London, told me that she was too scared to go into her retail job: ‘I called my manager and told him I couldn’t come. He hadn’t heard anything by then, so he thought all the Muslim staff were lying or joking. Then he realised what was going on and gave us the week off.’ Most of the time, she said, she had been on her phone, getting and sending videos, ‘on what was happening, where it was happening’. She watched TikTok for updates, she said, ‘because the news channels were downplaying what was happening so much, not even calling it Islamophobia. I trust social media more than I do the news.’

An older woman sitting next to her, who moved to London from Pakistan 36 years ago, told me she didn’t feel scared because she lived in an affluent area. She thought that her predominantly white neighbours were even more appalled at the violence than she was. ‘But I drive everywhere, I don't have to walk around or take the bus, where I could be singled out because of how I look,’ she said. She was reminded of the atmosphere after the attacks of 7 July 2005. ‘At that time I used to travel by bus, and felt it more. You could never be sure how people would react to you being around.’

Like all the other women in the room, she told me that ‘nothing had happened to her.’ Like all the other women in the room, she had avoided leaving the house while the violence was going on. ‘I didn't go anywhere alone,’ another woman told me. ‘The first juma [Friday] after the riots, I didn’t come to the mosque, though we had our class. Even to go shopping, I waited for my husband or son to come with me.’ She has lived in London for more than thirty years and had never done that before. ‘So many people were calling or sending messages on the phone,’ she said. ‘They were all worried about us. You don’t expect these kinds of images here. Everyone was shocked.’

The previous week, I had spoken to Bibi Rabbiyah Khan, the president of the London Islamic Cultural Society in Haringey. ‘There is a feeling in the community that whatever we face is not seen as important. There is a lot of fear and judgment about us, and politicians and the media don’t help.’ Watching the news when the violence broke, she was worried first about the security of the mosque. At first she relied on volunteers. Later, the local council helped her apply for security for a limited period; I had seen guards at the gates when I walked in. I heard the imam ask the congregation to report any incidents that happened to them. If they didn’t want to approach the authorities, they could tell the mosque, which would pass on the information.

The war in Gaza and the labelling of Palestine solidarity protests as ‘hate marches’ had also had an impact, Khan thought. ‘You cannot separate what’s going on abroad with feelings here. They said it was a Muslim and a refugee [who was responsible for the stabbings in Southport]. Why? To get at the people feeling angry at this community.’

A young Afghan refugee who had been evacuated from Kabul in 2021 and lived in a hotel on her arrival in the UK told me she had been puzzled to see security guards on the premises. ‘I had thought, we are in England now, what is the need for this? At the time, I had thought this place was like paradise, there were no problems here. But now I understand.’ Watching the videos of the arson attack on the Holiday Inn Express in Rotherham had left her deeply shaken. ‘If the police had not been there, they would have killed those people. What’s the difference between them and terrorists?’

Since then, she has avoided staying out late after work, and cancelled a camping trip to the seaside with her friends. ‘Imagine if I was attacked in Bournemouth, not in Kabul.’ She hadn’t shared her feelings on the riots with her white colleagues or friends. ‘I don’t even dare to talk about it to British people. That freedom is not for us, it is only for them.’

It isn’t only Muslim refugees who feel vulnerable. An asylum seeker from El Salvador, who lives with her mother in a hotel on the outskirts of London, told me: ‘It’s a small place, and when I take the bus to or from the town, I see people look at me like they realise I am from outside.’ I asked if she knew anyone at the hotels that were attacked. ‘While we were watching the news, my mother got a call from her friend who was crying, because she used to live there.’ In her own accommodation, staff had asked them not to open the windows or go out. ‘We went to sleep dressed, with our backpacks ready with all our documents, in case we had to leave.’

Arta Shiroka, the chair of the charity Fences and Frontiers, is a former refugee herself. ‘Hotels are difficult spaces to live in,’ she told me, ‘and being outside in parks or libraries is an important part of the way asylum seekers can connect to the community around them.’ In the days after the attacks, Fences and Frontiers, which leads walks and museum visits across London, cancelled its events and outings because of security concerns. ‘The anger we saw can turn on anyone,’ Shiroka said.

Since the beginning of August, the women at the halaqa told me, fear had given way to wariness. ‘I am not scared,’ one said. ‘But it’s always at the back of my mind, I am aware, I stay alert, that anything can happen.’ I asked what could be done that would make them feel safe again and there was silence.

‘Alhamdullilah, in London, nothing happened,’ someone said. The right-wing groups ‘threatened charities and mosques, but didn’t dare to do anything’. The large counter-protests in Walthamstow, Finchley, Harrow and elsewhere came up in the conversation. ‘We are many,’ one of the women told me. ‘Everywhere in London is multicultural, immigrants are working as doctors, in banks. London is busy, there are always people around, and we will help each other.’

Khan told me that she worried about her children and grandchildren. Her family had moved to London in the 1960s, when she was eight years old, and she recalled her father joining efforts against racism. ‘At the time it was the National Front.’ The events of this summer, she said, are a wake up call for the community: to overcome divisions and fear, and draw on the support of interfaith groups, local authorities and anti-racism groups. ‘That's what saved London – people stood up. There’s a tree in the mosque courtyard that was donated by our Jewish brothers and sisters: it’s a testament to our need to come together.’

Before I left the halaqa group, a woman who had lived in London for 56 years told me she had been scared to leave the house until she saw the official response of arrests and court dates. More than 1300 people have been arrested so far in connection with the riots. ‘It made me feel like they were doing something,’ she said. After that, she began going out as usual. ‘I had things to do. We have to live life.’