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Former Muslims between narratives of belonging and secular convictions in the Netherlands and the UK

Maria Vliek

Colofon Neither in nor out. Former Muslims between narratives of belonging and secular convictions in the Netherlands and the UK – Maria Vliek ISBN: 978-94-6375-807-9

Copyright © 2020 Maria Vliek All rights reserved. No part of this thesis may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any way or by any means without the prior permission of the author, or when applicable, of the publishers of the scientific papers.

Cover design by Ibn Eulim Layout and design by Elisa Calamita, persoonlijkproefschift.nl Printing: Ridderprint BV | www.ridderprint.nl

2

Neither in nor out

Former Muslims between narratives of belonging and secular convictions in the Netherlands and the UK

Proefschrift

ter verkrijging van de graad van doctor aan de Radboud Universiteit Nijmegen op gezag van de rector magnificus prof. dr. J.H.J.M. van Krieken, volgens besluit van het college van decanen in het openbaar te verdedigen op

vrijdag 3 april 2020 om 12.30 uur precies door

Maria Vliek

geboren op 30 april 1988

te Wierden

3 Promotoren: Prof. dr. C. van Nieuwkerk Prof. dr. G.J. van der Heiden

Manuscriptcommissie: Prof. dr. F.J.S. Wijsen Prof. dr. M.W. Buitelaar (Rijksuniversiteit Groningen) Prof. dr. H.Y.M. Jansen (Universiteit van Amsterdam) Prof. dr. M.S. Berger (Universiteit Leiden) Dr. M.J.M. de Koning

4 Neither in nor out

Former Muslims between narratives of belonging and secular convictions in the Netherlands and the UK

Doctoral Thesis

to obtain the degree of doctor from Radboud University Nijmegen on the authority of the Rector Magnificus prof. dr. J.H.J.M. van Krieken according to the decision of the Council of Deans to be defended in public on

Friday, April 3, 2020 at 12.30 Hours by

Maria Vliek

born on April 30, 1988

in Wierden, the Netherlands

5 Supervisors: Prof. dr. C. van Nieuwkerk Prof. dr. G.J. van der Heiden

Doctoral thesis committee: Prof. dr. F.J.S. Wijsen Prof. dr. M.W. Buitelaar (University of Groningen) Prof. dr. H.Y.M. Jansen (University of Amsterdam) Prof. dr. M.S. Berger (Leiden University) Dr. M.J.M. de Koning

6 The Cover

Islam is usually described as one of the world’s great religions. However, the Western word ‘religion’ does not do it justice. Many Muslims refer to Islam as their Dīn. The concept of Dīn encompasses much more than just religion, it is a total way of life. Many Muslims find Hadith (saying and teachings of the Prophet) to guide every aspect of daily living; the manner in which they groom themselves, the manner in which they conduct their intimate relationships, the manner in which they drink a glass of water.

Some may find the totality of Islam can structure their life. But, for anyone with a modicum of independence and the desire to think freely, Islam can be utterly constraining like no mere religion can be.

My journey leaving Islam has been a painful but rewarding experience. Losing the lens Islam had given me to see the world left me stumbling blindly and unable to orient myself. But ultimately, I found a new and deeper way of looking at the world. I found a world, full of scientific curiosities and mysteries, more than can be explained by a few ancient texts. It is a world of culinary, sexual and intellectual wonder. I see a complex world, but one filled with possibility and freedom beyond the narrow confines of Islam.

I painted the image that is now the cover of this book during an art therapy session at the Council of Ex-Muslims of Britain. While it lacks technical merit, I do think it captured the feeling of my world opening out into something so much bigger and better. The green and black section show the tiles of a mosaic. The tiles are strictly laid out without aberrations, but the strictness cannot hold, and must give way to colour and freedom.

Ibn Eulim – London, 22 January 2020

7 Table of Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS ...... 8

PREFACE ...... 11

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ...... 12

NOTE ON TRANSLATION AND TRANSLITERATION ...... 15

INTRODUCTION ...... 16 ISLAM AND ‘APOSTASY’ – WHAT ...... 18

INTERLOCUTORS – WHO ...... 23

THE NETHERLANDS & BRITAIN - WHERE ...... 26

SCHOLARLY TRADITION - DIALOGICAL SELF, THE MATERIAL TURN, AND NARRATIVE ...... 29

RESEARCH OBJECTIVES AND QUESTIONS ...... 33

RESEARCHER SUBJECTIVITY – SOME REFLECTIONS ...... 35

CHAPTER OVERVIEW ...... 38

CHAPTER 1 ...... 43

RELIGION, SECULARISM, AND THE PRODUCTION OF DISCOURSE ...... 43 INTRODUCTION ...... 43

DISCOURSE ...... 47

‘THE MULTICULTURAL DRAMA’: SECULARISM AND ASSIMILATIONISTS IN THE NETHERLANDS ...... 52

BEING ‘POST-RACE’ AND THE CONSTRUCTION OF ‘MUSLIM OTHERNESS’ IN BRITAIN ...... 61

GENDER, SEXUAL FREEDOM, SECULARISM, AND ISLAM ...... 71

DUTCH ‘SEXULARISM’ AND ITS BRITISH OTHER ...... 72

VEIL DEBATES IN BRITAIN AND THE NETHERLANDS ...... 79

HONOUR-CRIME, MULTICULTURALISM, ASSIMILATION, AND POLICY ...... 82

BRITISH AND DUTCH PRESS – MEDIA REPRESENTATIONS? ...... 86

MUSLIMS ‘IN’ OR REPRESENTED BY THE MEDIA? ...... 88

CONCLUSION ...... 93

CHAPTER 2 ...... 96

“WHEN I FINALLY HEARD MY OWN VOICE” DIALOGICAL ARTICULATIONS OF SELF-MAKING WHEN MOVING OUT OF ISLAM IN THE NETHERLANDS ...... 96 INTRODUCTION ...... 96

8 DIALOGICAL SELF THEORY: THE MEANING OF POWER AND SELF-MAKING ...... 99

PUBLIC DEBATE, “EX-MUSLIMS”, AND ISLAM ...... 103

YAGANA’S STORY AND WORKING THE SELF: THROUGH INCREASED RELIGIOSITY TO NON-BELIEF ...... 106

PROBLEMATICS OF BEING: COMING OUT? ...... 110

CONCLUDING REMARKS ...... 114

CHAPTER 3 ...... 117

CHALLENGING SECULARITIES, CHALLENGING RELIGION: ‘SECULARIST EX- MUSLIM VOICES’ IN THE BRITISH DEBATE ON ISLAM AND FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION ...... 117 INTRODUCTION ...... 117

MULTIPLE SECULARITIES ...... 119

MULTIPLE SECULARITIES IN THE NETHERLANDS ...... 122

BRITISH SECULARITIES: THE ORIGINS OF CHURCH-STATE RELATIONS AND RELIGIOUS PLURALISM ...... 124

CONTESTATIONS OVER RELIGIOUS ACCOMMODATION: THE DANISH CARTOON AFFAIR AND FREE SPEECH ...... 128

THE CELEBRATION OF BLASPHEMY, APOSTASY, AND FREE SPEECH ...... 130

CONCLUSION ...... 137

CHAPTER 4 ...... 140

‘IT’S NOT JUST ABOUT FAITH’: NARRATIVES OF TRANSFORMATION WHEN MOVING OUT OF ISLAM IN THE NETHERLANDS AND BRITAIN ...... 140 INTRODUCTION ...... 140

STATE OF THE ART ...... 142

DIALOGICAL SELF: SELF-UNDERSTANDING IN A HETEROGENEOUS WORLD ...... 146

THEMATIC ANALYSIS ...... 148

DISCUSSION ...... 163

CONCLUSION ...... 165

CHAPTER 5 ...... 168

(RE)NEGOTIATING EMBODIMENT WHEN MOVING OUT OF ISLAM: AN EMPIRICAL INQUIRY INTO ‘A SECULAR BODY’ ...... 168 INTRODUCTION ...... 168

MOVING OUT OF ISLAM AND THE SEARCH FOR A SECULAR BODY ...... 169

RELIGIOUS UPBRINGING, PERFORMING (NON-)RELIGION, AND QUESTIONS OF BELONGING ...... 172

THE BLURRY LINES OF MOVING OUT: ‘DO I HAVE TO BECOME COMPLETELY WESTERN NOW?’ ...... 177

CONCLUSION ...... 186

9 CHAPTER 6 ...... 188

“SPEAKING OUT WOULD BE A STEP BEYOND JUST NOT BELIEVING” - ON THE PERFORMATIVITY OF TESTIMONY WHEN MOVING OUT OF ISLAM ...... 188 INTRODUCTION ...... 188

TESTIMONY AND (DE)CONVERSION ...... 190

CONCEALMENT OF CONVICTIONS AND SPEECH AS PERFORMANCE ...... 195

PRIVATE DISCLOSURE: SPEECH AS DEMARCATION ...... 199

NEW IDENTITIES? CLAIMING SPACE THROUGH PUBLIC PERFORMANCE ...... 205

CONCLUSION ...... 211

CONCLUSION ...... 214

BIBLIOGRAPHY ...... 223

CODE BOOK ...... 252 CODES – VOICES ...... 252

CODES – I-POSITIONS ...... 255

CODES – THEMATIC ...... 256

DATA MANAGEMENT PLAN ...... 258 DATA LIFE CYCLE: PLANNING RESEARCH ...... 259

DATA LIFE CYCLE: COLLECTING DATA ...... 260

DATA LIFE CYCLE: PROCESSING AND ANALYSING DATA ...... 262

DATA LIFE CYCLE: PRESERVING AND GIVING ACCESS TO DATA ...... 265

SUMMARY ...... 267 RESEARCH METHODS AND ANALYTICAL FRAMEWORK ...... 270

BETWEEN SECULARITIES AND RELIGION ...... 270

NEITHER IN NOR OUT ...... 272

NEDERLANDSE SAMENVATTING ...... 274 ONDERZOEKSMETHODEN EN HET ANALYTISCHE RAAMWERK ...... ERROR! BOOKMARK NOT DEFINED.

TUSSEN SECULARITEITEN EN RELIGIE ...... 278

NIET ERBIJ OF ERBUITEN ...... 280

10 Preface

Having finished my BA, my boyfriend and I had set our sights on Kenya, and for 5 years I lived and worked in the port town of Mombasa. During this time, religion played no significant role in my own life, but more so for the surroundings I was in. Kenya being a majority religious country, either Christianity, Islam, or Hinduism was always quite prominently part of even my own daily life. Furthermore, Mombasa specifically and Kenya as a whole had in the past couple of decades suffered from violent attacks perpetrated by Somali based Al Shabaab, which reached its height between 2010 and 2015, the time I was there. Working for a company owned by Muslims whilst living in a town that officially supported a 50/50 division of Christian and Muslim population who collectively rejected Al-Shabaab ideology, religion started to puzzle and interest me more and more. When my contract finished, I simply needed to know more about religion, how it plays a role in people’s lives, and how it may even support such violent ideologies like Al Shabaab disseminates. I went back to university in my favourite Dutch city, and started my MA course in religious studies. For my MA thesis, I went back to Mombasa to talk with young Muslims about their daily lives and how they negotiate the complex discourses of crime, drugs, marginalisation, and even Al Shabaab whilst maintaining a certain religious piety and identity. Having returned to Europe, my interests quickly geared towards identity and how religion shapes people’s lives in heterogeneous societies. Having been given the opportunity to pursue this further by talking with people who have moved out of Islam in my home country and in the UK, this dissertation is the result of all that curiosity into other people’s (non-)religious lives, inspired by those experiences with the people of Mombasa.

11 Acknowledgements

So here we are. This is the place, at the beginning of every dissertation, book, research project, or thesis where gratitude is expressed to all those involved in one way or another, and I’d like to take the opportunity to humbly do so. In some quite intense three and a half years, I have had the pleasure and privilege to embark on this project. When I started in the winter of 2015, in hindsight I think had truly no idea what I was getting myself into, and it has been a journey that has not only led to the book that is now here, but also to my own growth as a researcher and as a person, and I could not have done it alone.

First and foremost, this dissertation would not have been possible without my inspiring and supportive supervisors Prof. dr. Karin van Nieuwkerk and Prof. dr. Gert Jan van der Heiden. I could not have wished for a better team by my side. Your insights from your different disciplines have shaped me and this project in very unique ways. I am indeed very grateful for your guidance, invaluable feedback and insights, unwavering support, making me keep my eye on the ball, teaching me the ropes, and your positive encouragement. Thank you also for your trust in letting me develop my own ideas and approaches, and to grow as a scholar.

My colleagues from the department of Islam Studies at the Radboud University. Thank you for welcoming me in your small but fantastic group. Nicolet Boekhoff-van der Voort, for showing me the teaching ropes. It has been tremendous fun, and you’ve taught me so much! Jan Hoogland, for being such a great ‘roomy’ for two years and Lieke, for being such a wonderful neighbour. Martijn de Koning en Roel Meijer, thanks for the many corridor or cigarette chats! And of course, Gert Borg, for your kindness and always having your door open.

Jamilah, Fitria, and Asad especially for your comments on earlier research plans, chapters and ideas. For the coffee and making me feel not so alone in trying to accomplish this all. You have been great, and I am going to miss you dearly!

Then, the amazing people from the NWO project at the University of Utrecht: “Beyond ‘Religion vs Emancipation’: Gender and Sexuality in Women’s Conversions to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam in Contemporary Western Europe”. Prof. Dr. Anne Marie Korte, for welcoming me so warmly in your ‘circle’ as one of your own and your inspirational insights

12 on the study of conversion. Lieke Schrijvers, Mariecke van den Berg, and Nella van den Brandt for including me in your projects and the invaluable knowledge that I’ve gained from all our chats and meetings. You have all been truly inspirational! Also thanks goes to Jelle Wiering, for so generously inviting me to the NOSTER reading group and extending that invite to contribute to the book, I have really enjoyed the cooperation!

Sadiq Bhanbhro at Sheffield Hallam University, thank you for helping me delineate the field. Our long chat gave me some grip on concepts and phenomena that had alluded me in the UK. I hope you enjoy the outcomes!

This dissertation is dedicated to all my interlocutors. Their stories, big and small, their experiences, their optimisms, pessimisms, their sense of humour, sometimes their sadness, sometimes their happiness, and their overall generosity in sharing this with me, have truly humbled me. Thank you, thank you all so much for your contributions and insights, the coffees and beers we all shared; I hope I have done your stories justice. This dissertation is the result of my interactions with you, the amazing people I have had the privilege to meet. We have written this together.

Special thanks goes to the welcoming and courageous people of the Council for Ex-Muslims in Britain. Sadia Hameed and team, for welcoming me during some of your events, your own insights, and helping me find my way in Britain, thank you. Aliyah Saleem from Faith to Faithless, for our chats and helping me get in touch with others. The London meet-up group for having me over, and the Humanistisch Verbond in the Netherlands, especially Paulien Boogaard, for including me in your meetings, keeping in touch, and your general kindness. Lastly here, the mostly anonymous people from the many online Facebook groups who have generously welcomed me and let me ‘read along’, and get in touch with their members.

From the MA program in Groningen, two friends have consistently, although sometimes physically distantly, been by my side. Niki Haze, thanks for being my friend. Your passion for research has always been infectious, and really inspirational. Keshia Theobald-van Gent, your ‘non-passion’ for the academy has been the perfect balance to this! The stories from your career, you listening to mine, have been a great support. You have somehow always believed in me, and I thank you for that!

13 Lin, Dave, and Sam. Thank you so much for your unconditional love and welcoming me in your home to let me ‘do’ my research. You have put up with me without question and I am so grateful to call you my family.

Mijn paranimfen. Ten eerste Zusje, wat zou ik toch zonder je moeten! We hebben de afgelopen jaren van elkaar geleerd en je bent echt mijn steun en toeverlaat geweest, om te klagen, huilen, vieren, juichen. Al het kleine en grote was je bij, je tips and tricks, je ervaring en wijsheid, je oneindige humor en heerlijke koffie. Ik hou van je! Anna, mijn beste en liefste vriendinnetje al zo lang. Je bent er altijd voor me wanneer ik je nodig heb, en herinnert me dat ik mezelf niet voorbij moet schieten. I am too lucky to have you!

Pap en Mam, ik kan jullie niet genoeg bedanken voor jullie liefde en dat jullie mij het nieuwsgierige mens hebben gemaakt wat ik vandaag ben. Rug recht, neus in de wind. Door al mijn grillen heen blijven jullie van me houden, en mag ik altijd thuiskomen. Ik hou oneindig veel van jullie.

Ben, my love, for putting up with it all. For our crazy adventures, for our homely life, for being everything I need at the end of the day and for the rest of my life.

14 Note on Translation and Transliteration

Throughout this dissertation, originally Dutch conversations, interviews, field notes, expressions, and texts have been translated into English. I have done this myself, in order to incorporate not only the ‘literal’ translations but also the context. Wherever necessary, I have included a footnote to explain the choices I have made therein. Occasional Arabic terms and words have been italicised and their conventional British spelling has been used. Where deemed necessary explanations or translations have been provided in the text.

15 Introduction

Somewhere in central London the tiny basement is lined with chairs wall to wall, which are themselves covered in books. I sit at the back, and some familiar faces trickle in, some unfamiliar ones too. I am at the first ever ‘coming out party’ hosted by the Council for Ex- Muslims in Britain [CEMB]. It is April 2018, and I attend the gathering in light of my research among people moving out of Islam in the Netherlands and Britain. During this particular meeting, people are invited to come up and receive their ‘apostasy certificate’. It is a special occasion for many, since it is an informal recognition – but a recognition nonetheless – of something that is often not acknowledged or accepted: the ceasing of adhering to Islam. Sadia and Maryam, spokesperson and founder of ‘the Council’ respectively, host the event with short speeches, but emphasise it is about the attendees tonight. One by one—all rather nervously, mostly with laughter, but often little words—people come forward and receive their certificate of unbelief. One of the girls who I had extensively spoken with a few weeks earlier leans back, grins at me, and whispers: “Look! It’s official”. As she hands it over she points to the header, which reads the first words of the shahada: There is no God.

I open the door of our apartment in Groningen, the Netherlands. My former classmate towers over the girl standing next to him and grins widely: “Good afternoon!”. I am moving to a different city which means finding tenants for the old apartment. Having found the one (my former classmate) he is now showing it to others to potentially share the place with. This is prospective tenant number two, and she sticks out her hand with a decisive ‘hi!’. I ‘put the kettle on’ and after having shown her around we sit down for a chat. She finished her psychology degree a while ago, and is now working as a researcher for a private company. I had finished my own degree in religious studies some time back myself, and explain that I am now working on my PhD researching people who are born and raised in the Netherlands and Britain with Muslim backgrounds, but who no longer believe in God. She looks up from her coffee in surprise: “Really? Is that actually a thing? I guess that includes me!” and she bursts out laughing. Three weeks later she opens the door to me, for more coffee and a long conversation about her experiences of moving out of Islam.

These two anecdotes, both derived from my field notes jotted down during my study examining moving out of Islam in Britain and the Netherlands, to me capture the vast variety of people

16 that I have encountered, the vast attitudes that have been presented to me, the beautiful diversity of human experience of religious change that have coloured the research that I have conducted over the past four years. These anecdotes both touch upon issues of (non)religious identity, national religious and secular discourses, speaking out about (non-)belief, and potential relationships to one’s former religion, but in each other’s contrast, they also show the potential differences in experience. From a need for a formal recognition of one’s non-belief, to a certain unawareness of ‘being’ something in the first place, this dissertation will thoroughly examine these varieties of experiences whilst considering them in their religious, secular, and national contexts. The first ‘context chapter’ is specifically designed to provide some background information to the study at hand as a whole. The other five chapters have been written for academic publication; their style is therefore different. So far, four of them have been accepted and published (Journal of Muslims in Europe, Journal of Religion in Europe, and Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations for the first three articles respectively),1 the fourth article has been accepted to be published as a chapter in a book,2 and the final article has been accepted and published in the journal Religions with Prof. Dr. Peter Nissen as special editor.3 In this dissertation, slightly modified versions of these articles have been bundled in the form of chapters. This introduction will serve as justification for some of the decisions I have made in light of the various challenges I encountered, both methodological and theoretical. I will first address questions of ‘what, who, where?’ in which I will outline some central concepts, the approach to my fieldwork, and decisions made therein. I will then continue with the question ‘how’ in the theoretical and methodological embedding. I will further provide some reflections

1 Vliek, M. (2018). Challenging secularities, challenging religion: ‘Secularist ex-Muslim voices’ in the British debate on Islam and freedom of expression. Journal of Religion in Europe, 11(4), 348–377; Vliek, M. (2019a). ‘When I finally heard my own voice’: Dialogical articulations of self-making when moving out of Islam in the Netherlands. Journal of Muslims in Europe, 8(1), 85–107; Vliek, M. (2019b). ‘It’s not just about faith’: Narratives of transformation when moving out of Islam in the Netherlands and Britain. Islam and Christian- Muslim Relations, 30(3), 323-344. 2 Vliek, M. (Forthcoming) (Re)negotiating embodiment when moving out of Islam: An empirical inquiry into ‘a secular body’. This article has been accepted for publication in the forthcoming book Transforming Bodies: Religions, Powers, and Agencies in Europe. Edited by: M. van den Berg, L. Schrijvers, J. Wiering & A. de Korte. Routledge. 3 Vliek, M. (2019c). “Speaking out would be a step beyond just not believing” - On the performativity of testimony when moving out of Islam. Religions, 10(10), 563-583.

17 on my own subjectivity in conducting this research and last, give a brief overview of the chapters. This introduction will chiefly function as a guide and background to this dissertation and is by no means conclusive of neither the project as a whole nor its theoretical points of departure, which will be extensively elaborated on the chapters themselves.

Islam and ‘apostasy’ – What I just think it is the belief around it. That whole, ‘the apostates’, the way the Qur’an speaks about apostates, and the way that Muslims believe apostates… That they believe that they… There is no worse thing. That’s what it comes down to, and yeah, you’re ruined by the devil. I can understand why Muslims see it that way and that’s why you don’t really want to identify as one. But I know the whole theory behind it. Like that’s one of the reasons I’m leaning towards ‘moving away from the religion’. – Murtaza, London, February 2018

The central and guiding question of this research project is how do people experience moving out of Islam in Britain and the Netherlands and how do they negotiate both religious and secular contexts in which they live? It thereby aims to investigate how people experience religious transformations in a post-migration context from an interdisciplinary perspective. It takes into account both the contextual as well as the (inter)personal, and their interaction, by analysing narratives and experiences of people who have grown up with Muslim backgrounds in both the Netherlands and Britain, who no longer subscribe to Islam and have not converted to another religion. The spheres such research is conducted in are not uncontested or neutral and this section will briefly reflect on the various societal, political, and theological discourses surrounding ‘moving out of Islam’ and how this dissertation relates to them. Critics of Islam routinely point to the contested nature of ‘apostasy’,4 of turning away from one’s faith, within the Muslim tradition. There is no such thing as freedom of religion, or so the argument goes, since in some Muslim majority countries, descenders are being put to death (BBC, 2014; Salih, 2015; McKernan, 2017; United Nations Human Rights Office of the High Commissioner [OHCHR], 2018; International Humanist and Ethical Union [IHEU], 2018). On the other side of the argument are those who vehemently claim there is no punishment for apostasy, since there is evidence in the Qur’an for absolute freedom of religion (i.a. Saeed & Saeed, 2004). From a substantive point of view, when turning to the scriptures

4 I will refer to the process of moving out of Islam as ‘apostasy’ only when religious perspectives are concerned.

18 that most Muslims hold as their guidance in life—i.e. both the Qur’an and hadith—these arguments can both be upheld. First, the often-quoted hadith that underscores lethal punishment translates as follows: ‘He who changes his religion, kill him’,5 whilst the often-quoted Sura which supposedly argues freedom from religion reads: “And say, ‘The truth is from your Lord, so whoever wills - let him believe; and whoever wills - let him disbelieve.’” (Quran 18:29, Saheeh International Quran Translation), or “There shall be no compulsion in [acceptance of] the religion. The right course has become clear from the wrong” (Quran 2:256, Saheeh International Quran Translation). According to this reading of the texts, disbelievers will only be punished in the hereafter and there is no evidence for earthly punishment available in the holy scripture (Amirpur, 2016). Indeed, various scholars of Islam agree that within the Qur’an, there is no evidence that states explicitly that those who have lost their belief in Islam should be killed (e.g. Hallaq, 2011; Saeed & Saeed, 2004). However, there have been fierce debates over what exactly constitutes apostasy, and other offences for which earthly punishments have been stipulated. For example, besides apostasy, there are also cases of and punishments for ‘heresy’, ‘hypocrisy’, ‘blasphemy’, and non-believers in the scriptures. How are we to distinguish one from the other? Even within theological debates, these matters remain highly contested. Today, individuals are indeed being prosecuted for alleged blasphemy or apostasy in a number of

Muslim majority countries (IHEU, 2018). Göran Larsson (2018) has argued that the apostate in particular has been regularly interpreted as one who ‘turns renegade from religion and leaves the group’ (p. 4). He further noted, historically religion has been a powerful tool to unite large groups and that religion thereby is capable of punishing those who violate social codes and norms. Indeed, it seems logical then that from a functionalist perspective in the early days of Islam, the charge of apostasy or blasphemy was used to eliminate political opponents (Saeed & Saeed, 2004). However, during the 20th century in the West via inter alia the acceptance of the United Declaration of Human Rights in 1948, it became widely acknowledged that religious affiliation was a personal matter of choice, rather than a functional tool to bind people under one religious dogma. Larsson (2018) argued that in cases where the state is weak, however, this function of religion may stay in place. It may provide stability where the state may not, especially in times of hardship. Any threat to this order, particularly when it is perceived to be from the inside, then, should be punished. Of course, it follows then that it is up to the legislators what precisely

5 Bukhari, Sahih al-. Book # 52, Hadith # 260/Vol. 4

19 constitutes apostasy, heresy, or blasphemy, and what its according punishments should be. Through various readings of Islamic scholars, Larsson noted that “accusations of apostasy go hand in hand with rebellion: that is, when a person changes his religious affiliation, he is also likely to join the enemies of the state” (p. 9). Political scientist and human rights activist Elham Manea (2016) has argued that in some Muslim majority countries blasphemy laws are indeed used for political survival, and in that perspective, are a tool for oppression, rather than a symbol of cultural and religious difference. To further illustrate the (legal) complexities of apostasy, Maurits Berger, in his analysis of apostasy court cases in Egypt between 1950 and 1990 distinguishes between the act and its legal consequences. He observed that these cases were all primarily concerned with inheritance i.e. the legal consequences, rather than with the ‘vile act’ of apostasy itself, which in and of itself was hardly scrutinised. Berger noted that even the infamous case of Nasr Abu Zayd, where his behaviour was a central issue, it still was not so much about him ‘turning away’ from religion, but rather that the case was initiated by his university colleagues who were after his position. This does not mean that blasphemy and apostasy laws are not affecting people’s daily lives, but rather that there is often more at stake than persecution for a lack of religious conviction of the individual (Berger, 2003). From a more social-relational point of view, these interpretations of apostasy and blasphemy as alleged political betrayal are not only made by Islamic scholars or threatened politicians. Rather, as my interlocutors noted, perceptions of becoming a non-believer as betrayal to one’s community are sometimes also highly ingrained among Muslim minorities in the West, on which I will elaborate in the last chapter. These perceptions are not only informed by Islamic scholars and their fatwas, rather, there are also the prominent cases of so-called ‘ex- Muslims’ speaking out about their non-belief and often criticising their former religion, both at home and abroad (e.g. Salman Rushdie, Ayaan Hirsi Ali, Ali A. Rizvi).6 Thereby, such ‘ex- Muslims’ have supposedly created a discourse of those who leave their religion as also

6 Salman Rushdie is the Indian-born author of the contested novel The Satanic Verses. In 1989, Iranian Ayatollah Khomeini pronounced a fatwa in response to its publication, sparking fierce international debate on the freedom of speech and Islam. Ayaan Hirsi Ali was a Somali-born Dutch politician (she is currently residing in the United States), who left Islam after having moved to the Netherlands (also see her autobiography Infidel). Elected as a member of the House of Representatives in 2003, she advocated for Muslim women’s self-determination, actively criticising Islam. Pakistani born Canadian writer Ali A. Rizvi is the author of The Atheist Muslim, an autobiography of leaving Islam, as well as a critique as to why and how Islam should be reformed and enlightened.

20 simultaneously vehemently attacking Islam and are therefore considered to have betrayed their own community by siding with the so-called ‘secular enemy’. Furthermore, the contested status of Muslims and Islam in contemporary Europe has not only created a rift from the perspectives of secularist who view Islam as inherently incompatible with modern democracy, but also from the perspective of certain Muslim corners, where the attacks by right-wing politicians and conservative media outlets, among others, have created division between religious minority selves and secular majority others. Esra Özyürek (2015), in her ethnography on German converts to Islam, has noted the underestimated influence of that ‘contested status’ on religious affiliation. Crossing the religious and secular divide—in the case of converts to Islam in the opposite direction of the secular and modern expectations of people to become less religious—opened up questions of race, religion, and belonging in Germany. In the case of those moving out of Islam, both these factors of on the one hand Islamic theology, politics, and doctrine, as well as the contested status of Islam in Europe, have contributed to the potential perception of apostasy within these communities as being problematic. As further elaborated on in the sixth chapter, when the formerly religious openly profess their non-belief, the so-called apostate can be viewed from both a theological as well as a social perspective as having betrayed the former in-group. So where does this contested status of apostasy within Islam leave us when we study those who become non-religious? Larsson (2018) critically noted that when studying such contested topics, as researchers we are at a constant risk of either our work being picked up by those wishing to criticise Muslims or Islam, especially when documenting human rights violations and their circumstances, or we run the risk of being accused of being apologetic of Islam when pointing out the vast differences in opinions and practices: “This is especially the case in the world of today, where questions about Islam and Muslims (especially in the West) are charged with political connotations, and Islam and Muslims have become a dividing line that is often used to promote and uphold political divisions within society” (p. 20). I wish to add to this the risk of such research being appropriated by religious authorities wishing to point out the unlawfulness of those turning away from religion. The contested status of ‘apostasy’ within religious traditions in general, and Islam in particular, has complex theological, social, and political roots, as noted above. Nonetheless, some religious authorities such as religious leaders or Islamic scholars have been keen to point to the alleged moral depravity of those turning away from Islam and it is true that many of my interlocutors did negotiate various old and new moral or ethical (embodied) frameworks, such as experimenting with different clothing or their sexuality. Being aware of these issues and risks that are

21 involved, my intentions with this research have been to present my interlocutors’ experiences as considerate as possible. My goal here is not to provide any exclusive or definite answers to questions of ‘why do people leave Islam’, ‘is there freedom of religion in Islam’, or ‘are those leaving Islam morally depraved’. Rather, in this dissertation I wish to present the ambiguous nature of moving out of Islam in contemporary Europe, and to open up further investigations into this evolving social phenomenon in relation to the supposed secular age we live in. At the top of this section I have included a quote from one of my interlocutors, Murtaza, in which he touches upon the various approaches to ‘apostasy’ and Islam (i.e. substantive, functionalist, and social-relational) as outlined above. We met in Shoreditch for lunch. With all the important City people rushing by outside the Pret a Manger, and the loud inside hustle of what a Pret a Manger should sound like over lunch, we talked. Or rather, he talked. True to London’s style he had only an hour and a bit, and we managed to address various issues in depth, although not exhaustively. When I asked him about his childhood and religion, he explained that it played ‘kind of a big role’ especially with regards to ‘being a good person’: “Always it was like God was watching everything you do”.7 The rules and especially breaking those rules made him feel quite guilty, instigating phases of religiousness, repenting, and good behaviour. The excerpt above is indicative of his story, which referred to both Islamic doctrine (substantive) and his upbringing (social-relational) regularly. For Murtaza, ‘apostasy’ as a religious term therefore made sense from a religious perspective. However, he described the fluctuations of religiousness and breaking rules throughout his childhood and early adulthood as ‘movements’, which also made him term his own experience as having eventually, and at the time of our conversation permanently, moved away from Islam. Murtaza’s explanation of identifications or use of terminology in light of the various approaches to ‘apostasy’ is but one example of how my interlocutors dealt with the different denominators for the transformative process they all went through. Others reckoned they ‘lost their faith’, ‘fell off their religion’, ‘became an atheist’, ‘religion stopped playing a role’, ‘apostatised’, and so on and so forth. To emphasise ongoing transformation processes in religious change, this dissertation has opted to follow Karin van Nieuwkerk, who, in her recent edited volume, has argued for ‘moving out’ as analytical category to encompass all empirical descriptions and self-definitions encountered, despite their functional, substantive, or social- relational implications (Van Nieuwkerk, 2018).

7 Personal interview with Murtaza, London, 6th February 2018. All names have been anonymised, unless indicated otherwise.

22 My approach to terminology, narrative models, and religious trajectories in the study of moving out of Islam will be extensively discussed in chapter 4, where I explore the analytical categories and how these relate to empirical realities with regards to processes of religious transformation. I differentiate between theological and sociological terminology, as well as the empirical classifications I came across. Furthermore, I refer to the various models, analyses, and labels that have been previously coined in the study of moving in and moving out of religion. These studies have been fundamental for my own work that I present here, especially with regards to the narrative themes that I discovered among my interlocutors when they talked about moving out of Islam. However, one of my main concerns with previous literature has been the centrality of negative religion. In this dissertation, I suggest to explore the relative weight of religion in the complex life-worlds in which my interlocutors negotiated not only religious, but also social, political, ethnic, and gendered discourses in a search for self and identity.

Interlocutors – Who A whole different world suddenly opened up for me. And it was as if I had been living in a parallel universe or something. I thought that that world was right, and actually that world was not serving me at all. (…) It was a complete new start, I was a new person, I had a new identity. (…) Even talking about it is really strange. Like how did I talk myself into such mental bind… —Helen, Durham, October 2017.

This study is about people who move out of Islam, but not about all people who move out of Islam. Helen (her real name) was one of the first people I met in Britain who had left the religion behind. Actually, she had also ‘converted’, or ‘reverted’ as she preferred to call it then, to Islam before moving out, which is what her reflections above refer to. We met at the International Conference on Freedom of Conscience and Expression in the 21st Century organised by the Council for Ex-Muslims in Britain in the summer of 2017, where we shared a table and a sense of humour on the first day. Our motivations for attending were, of course, rather different. Whilst for me it was part of my fieldwork, she considered it a place to find an alternative sound on a societal and political level, with people who, like her, could relate to inside knowledge of Islam. Four months later I travelled to Durham to stay with her and her daughter for a few days. Her stories of moving in and moving out told a deeply personal journey

23 of searching for a way to live a life that had betrayed her. When Islam ‘presented itself’ to her, she perceived it as a ‘whole different world’ that she had been meant to live by, but never knew existed. It was ‘a new identity and a new start’, but the realities of what she called ‘Islamic life’ later made her turn away from the communities and, eventually, her religion. Helen and other former reverts have, apart from briefly here, not been included in this project. Mona Alyedreesi (2016; 2018), in her study exploring female converts to Islam in Britain, did include some interlocutors who had also moved out of Islam, like Helen. Her comparison showed some interesting themes occurring throughout five of her interlocutors ‘conversion’ and ‘deconversion’ trajectories, chiefly relating to religious doctrine and biographical crises. Whilst some have argued that so-called ‘deconversion’ and ‘conversion’ are two sides of the same coin (i.a. Bromley & Shupe, 1986; Fazzino, 2014; Gooren, 2010; Pauha and Aghaee, 2018; Streib et all., 2009), I would argue that there are some caveats in analysing them in tandem. At the start of my fieldwork I was open to the idea to include a group of so-called ‘former reverts’ to and from Islam in my study. In light of religious transformation, they seem and probably are a particularly relevant group, having vacillated between Islam, secular life- worlds, and potentially other religions. However, the reason not to have included others like Helen was that the processes and the people involved in them, whilst undoubtedly related, at times revolved around rather different issues. The first clue as to their relatedness, but fundamental difference can be found in popular and academic terminology. Van Nieuwkerk (2018) has noted in her introduction to the edited volume Moving in and out of Islam, that contextual, religious, secular, political, and historical elements play a crucial part in how this terminology around these transformative processes is constructed. There is ‘conversion’ for those moving in, but ‘deconversion’, ‘apostasy’, ‘atheism’, ‘religious disaffiliation’, or ‘ex- Muslim’, in this case, for those moving out. Thereby, whilst moving into religion is often perceived and categorised as a positive process, moving out is often negatively connoted, both from religious perspectives as well as in academic literature (also see: Cragun & Hammer, 2011). Second and relatedly, there are matters concerning the public and personal perception of these movements in and out of religion that should be taken into account. Whilst Özyürek (2015) explored how people embracing Islam in Germany face various issues of being stigmatised for converting to a racialised minority religion, Simon Cottee (2015; 2018), on the other hand, has pointed to the issue of stigmatisation from Muslim families or communities towards ‘apostates’. The inclusion of all these matters was simply too much for the case at

24 hand. Last and perhaps most importantly, in the stories I encountered, various elements chiefly relating to being born into the religion, as well as questions of not wanting or being able to ‘now become completely Western’ (chapter 5) pointed to specifics of a category of people which did not include former reverts to Islam. Having been born and raised in a stigmatised minority religion, with particular migratory backgrounds raised different issues than converting to that religion out of majority religion or the secular, and then moving out. Whilst particular issues surrounding the moving in and out of Islam by single individuals would undoubtedly raise some serious questions about religious, secular, racial, and national belongings, it was a field too large to tackle and has therefore been excluded. During my fieldwork, I realised that when looking for people who have moved out of Islam there were other factors to take into account, too. Not only did I meet ‘reverts’, but also people who had migrated to the Netherlands or the UK at a later age. From the onset, it was rather difficult to find people, especially in the Netherlands, and the decision was made to include anyone who was able to speak the respective national language. This meant that anyone who was a ‘new’ Dutch or Brit, but who was able to be interviewed in either Dutch in the Netherlands or English in Britain could be included as well. Language proficiency was then an extra parameter. As with the reverts, it turned out, however, that there were some very specific contexts at play for those who had grown up in Muslim majority countries and had experienced migration. In the group that I have interviewed, however, three ‘new Brits’, and three ‘new Dutch’ have been included. The reason behind this was partly discursive: in both countries, references were made to international political issues surrounding Islam and apostasy, and the right to the freedom of religion. Whilst wholly acknowledging the vast socio-political differences that migrants and sometimes refugees face with regards to ‘apostasy’, the perspective that they brought to the table was valuable for understanding transnational movements and national social belongings. Whilst these have not been explicated in this dissertation as such since its focus is on the personal process of moving out of Islam in Europe, as interlocutors they were often particularly well versed in reflecting on matters of ‘Islam in Europe’ and the debate on freedom of speech and freedom of religion. Furthermore, and perhaps more importantly, as a ‘control group’ (three in each country have been included in the interviews), they also confirmed much that was experienced by interlocutors who were born and/or raised in Europe. Therefore, when they speak in this dissertation, only when relevant has their migratory history been explicated.

25 This project includes both men and women and did not discriminate on ethnicity. Whilst again, partially this was because I did not have the luxury to turn down anyone who I met willing to be interviewed, it was more so because research into people moving out of Islam is relatively ‘young’. Therefore, it stands to reason to first broadly approach the subject, before refining the questions further. Assuming beforehand that, for example, issues surrounding moving out of Islam are gendered by selecting only men or women, seemed premature.8 The same argument goes for ethnicity. Whilst fully realising that discursively, matters are rather different for a Dutch-Turkish man from the countryside in the Netherlands than for a British- Pakistani woman from Blackburn in Britain, an inclusive approach was considered necessary before being able to delve into these specifics. It should be noted, however, that these biographical and intersectional qualities have always been taken into account and carefully considered wherever possible and relevant. Causal relations on the basis of such characteristics, however, have not been suggested since this project did not have the scope nor the scientific parameters to do so.

The Netherlands & Britain - Where After entering the huge Victorian hall, I sit down at one of the round tables arranged in front of the podium. The ceiling is overwhelmingly white and ornaments are scattered from the centre on out. There is an excited buzz going through the crowd which is gathering at the start of the Conference. On my way in I had spoken to Fauzia who I met before at an event in the Netherlands, and Sadia, spokesperson for the Council for Ex-Muslims in Britain. The first thing I write down is: ‘How far removed is this from those I met in NL [the Netherlands]’. Field notes, June 2017

This dissertation moves in and out of comparisons between the Dutch and the British contexts. In designing this project, there was a strong desire to adopt such a European perspective and incorporate a comparative element. This was mainly formulated in response to various studies into Muslim minorities in Europe which had chosen to take a single country as their vantage point. These studies rightfully argue that individual countries have specific histories of colonial projects, political developments, migratory movements, media responses, and so forth, and therefore deserve separate attention. Moreover, it could be argued that a ‘European’ approach is simply too broad for a study looking into religious change in a post-migration context.

8 In chapter 5 gendered issues surrounding embodiment do come to the fore.

26 However, I contend that it is in comparison that we can discover these different national trajectories and specificities of each (chapter 3) as well as how this may influence personal experiences of religious transformation (chapter 4). Before deciding on Britain and the Netherlands to be both included in this study, in the first weeks of designing the project I was mainly ‘throwing out my net’. I turned on ‘google alerts’ for specific search terms, such as ‘apostasy’, ‘ex-Muslim’, ‘deconversion’, and so forth, in order to receive any media attention relating to my ‘key words’ so to say, in my inbox. Furthermore, I conducted an extensive internet search on already existing media clippings such as newspaper articles, human interest stories, documentaries, Reddit-pages, Facebook groups, older forum discussions, television debates, books, online testimonies, blogposts, vlogposts, political debates; basically, anything in written, spoken, or video form related to moving out of Islam in the non-academic spheres. Something remarkable surfaced: in the Netherlands, I found some online/public presence of my research topic, but not much. Of course, between 2003 and 2006, Ayaan Hirsi Ali had stirred up public debate surrounding Islam in the Netherlands, by utilising her story of leaving Islam behind and politically addressing issues relating to what she called ‘a suppressing religion’. In recent years, attention to the topic had diminished somewhat, and only some opinion pieces were to be found on the topic, as well as a few human-interest stories (i.a.: Ezzeroili, 2013; Groen, 2013; 2016; Landeweer, 2016). I heard that a documentary from the Humanist Society9 was to be released later that year titled Non-believers: Freethinkers on the Run10 (Forma, 2016) which was to address the stigmatised position of atheist refugees in the Netherlands. Comparatively, in Britain so-called ‘ex-Muslims’ were much more visible. This is not to say that it was a ‘hot topic’ in general, but that there was simply more ‘going on’ with regards to moving out of Islam. I quickly found the CEMB, which hosted an online forum on which hundreds of people shared their experiences, talked about thorny issues, and generally created an online community. There was the organisation Faith to Faithless which organised various real-life events, such as meet-ups, lectures, and drinks. Channel 4 had released a documentary titled Islam’s Non-Believers in 2016 (Khan, 2016), the BBC Newsbeat had a segment ‘I’m an ex-Muslim’ from 2015 (BBC Newsbeat, 2015), as did BBC on the trending hashtag #exMuslimBecause in 2016 (Tomchak & Brosnan, 2015), VICE published a video and accompanying article on the matter (Cottee, 2014; VICENews, 2016), and the list goes on. This

9 Dutch: Humanistisch Verbond 10 Dutch: Ongelovig: Vrijdenkers op de vlucht

27 overwhelmingly obvious discrepancy made me wonder how this could be, and what had led to such a difference. One of the research questions was subsequently developed to interrogate this particular contextual difference and I address these matters extensively in the third chapter, which was inspired by my attendance of the abovementioned conference organised by the CEMB in the summer of 2017 in London. It was during this event that I started to see hints of what could be the underlying currents of discourses that could have led to that difference in prominence of moving out of Islam in the public sphere. The comparison between the Netherlands and Britain, throughout this dissertation, is chiefly a contextual one, taking into account the particular national histories of migration and secularity where appropriate. As will become clear, this comparison does not feature prominently throughout all the chapters evenly. Partly, this has to do with the limitations of writing a dissertation based on articles that are to be featured in academic journals or books, and the restrictions of scope and space that the author is thereby bound to. But more importantly, some of the issues relating to moving out of Islam in Europe appeared to be relatively similar to one another. For example, matters of family and a sense of belonging and how this was experienced by my interlocutors often transcended national boundaries (chapter 5). Furthermore, considerations over speaking about one’s religious transformation either privately or publicly were also rather similar, even though in Britain, platforms for public speech were perhaps more readily available (chapter 3 and 6). Where due to lack of space I have not been able to ‘connect the dots’, so to speak, relating to this comparison in the chapters themselves, where relevant I will return to this in the concluding chapter. As noted above, in Britain I found a ‘community’, initially a virtual one and during my fieldwork a real life one, among which I could ‘do’ fieldwork. In the Netherlands, however, such a community was relatively absent.11 From the outset, this presented me with some methodological questions. First, I was rather unsure how to even start my search for interlocutors in the Netherlands (also see the sixth chapter). Indeed, it took time, effort, and patience to find people who had not only actually moved out of Islam, but also, were willing to (anonymously) talk about it with a researcher. Extensively utilising my own primary and secondary network, as well as addressing Facebook groups which were rather conspicuously named or ‘hidden’, I managed. In Britain, this process was a bit easier. Although I am living

11 It should be noted that some events have been organised around moving out of Islam by for example the Humanist Society and small online initiatives for ‘meet-ups’ are present. The scale and publicness however, are rather different.

28 and working in the Netherlands and my network is not as strong there as it is at home, within eight weeks I had completed the ‘interview’ part of my fieldwork (as compared to eight months in the Netherlands). The manner in which I found my interlocutors directly relates to questions of context: people who have sought support from organisations such as Faith to Faithless, an informal London based group, or the CEMB are likely to have had a different experience than people who have never had any need for support. Second, groups tend to produce ‘group-narratives’ (also see chapter 4), which may influence the way they present the stories they tell me, a researcher. In order to balance such factors, I was careful to also find people in Britain who were not affiliated or sometimes even familiar with such groups. In both countries, my interlocutor groups who formal interviews have been conducted with, consisted about half of people found in ‘groups’ – in the Netherlands these were online groups called ‘Freethinkers’, ‘Moroccans without religion’, or the Humanist Society,12 for example, in Britain these were online forums from organisations mentioned above, or real life meetings – and the other half was found through my own offline network and consecutive snowball effect. In the fourth chapter I address how these factors may have influenced the analysis and outcomes of the narrative constructions and themes in each respective country.

Scholarly tradition - Dialogical Self, The Material Turn, and Narrative This research has taken a dialogical approach for the close-reading of narratives as well as the analysis of the entire dataset. Dialogical Self Theory was originally developed by Hubert Hermans primarily for clinical diagnostic purposes (Hermans, 2002; 2008; 2012; Hermans & Gieser, 2012; Hermans & Hermans-Konopka, 2010), but has since been utilised by various scholars as an analytical and theoretical tool for the discussion of the development of the constitution of the self in an increasingly heterogeneous post-secular society. Sunil Bhatia (2002), for example, deployed a dialogical model of acculturation in order to explain and analyse the “psychological complexities, contradictions and cultural specificities involved” (p. 55) in the experiences of diasporic communities in Europe. Through his analysis of Edward Said’s autobiography, Bhatia showed how a dialogical approach can unveil the reworking of heritage and ethnicity in a context of simultaneously feeling ‘assimilated, separated and marginalized’. With regards to religious transformation, Marjo Buitelaar (2013a) showed how

12 In Dutch, among others: ‘Vrijdenkers over Turkse Shizzle’, ‘Vrijdenkers 2.0’, ‘Marokkanen zonder religie’.

29 specifically a religious diasporic self was constructed dialogically in the case of Muslim women in a post-migration context. By recognising the respective continuation or discontinuation of parental voices, Buitelaar illustrated how the levels of parental support “play an important role in the women’s appropriation of the Islamic heritage and their construction of exclusive or inclusive religious selves” (p. 269).13 However, thus far Dialogical Self Theory has not been applied to the trajectories and experiences of people moving out of Islam in contemporary Europe. In the second chapter, I undertake a detailed analysis of a long conversation I had with one of my interlocutors. It aims to illustrate the benefits of a dialogical approach as methodological tool for the analysis of narratives of people moving out of Islam in a post- migration context, and thereby wishes to broaden the function of Dialogical Self Theory. Furthermore, in chapter 4, I reflect on the elaborate coding process that has led me to the thematisation of narratives presented there. It shows the relative weight of the religious voice in narratives of people moving out of Islam, rather than assuming its centrality. Using Dialogical Self Theory and considering the self as a society of mind has greatly aided me in coming to grips with the multi-layered narratives that people have shared with me. It allowed me to analyse each and every narrative, not only on the basis of what it said and reflected upon, but also to view them in the larger web of (significant) others, political, social, and religious discourses, internalised voices, and arrays of I-positions.14 It has functioned as a form of ‘mapping’ narrative, in order to see through stories as only linear trajectories out of faith. Rather, the liminal spaces inhabited by my interlocutors became more and more evident: rational knowledges versus emotional attachments, embodied practices still engrained, other secular knowledges not embraced, social ties that one did not want to cut, or refusal of secular expectations to speak out about one’s transitions in life, all these findings became evident through dialogical analysis. The past fifteen years have seen a turn to material experience of religion in religious studies. There has been a shift from a focus on belief, to the religious experience including material objects, one’s body, and ritual practices. This material approach further assumes “the acknowledgement that the practitioners’ appeals to the supernatural, god(s), the sacred, or the holy have powerful material consequences for how they build their identities, narratives,

13 Other dialogical analyses in the humanities include: Aveling & Gillespie, 2008; Buitelaar, 2006; 2010; 2013b; 2014; Gregg, 2013; Pitstra, 2013; Zock, 2010; 2013). 14 See Appendix 1 for codes based on Dialogical Self Theory.

30 practices, and environments” (Vasquez, 2011, p. 5). David Chidester (2005) for example noted on the place of the body in religious and cultural studies: “As material site, malleable substance, and shifting field of relations, the body is situated at the center of the production and consumption of religion and popular culture” (p. 25). Since this realisation of one’s body and experience being central to the religious subjectivity, earlier prominent concerns “with religious beliefs and doctrines” have been supplemented by an increased interest in embodiment and the material. Dick Houtman and Birgit Meyer, in the introduction to their edited volume from 2012, held that this recent turn to materiality in the study of religion was a welcome corrective to the previous subjective Protestant focus on belief alone. Whilst not abandoning the interest for the place and importance of personally held beliefs and existential convictions, they suggested that from this dimension, scholars could take as an entry point objects, such as relics, dress codes, and the written word, feelings and sensory experiences, or bodily performances in the form of gestures, but also ritual and festivals. In the anthropology of Islam, there has also been ample attention to the materiality of religious experiences, following prominent scholars such as Talal Asad, Saba Mahmood, Charles Hirschkind, and others. This dissertation, like many others, is greatly indebted to the influential work of Saba Mahmood. Whilst much scholarship has followed since and has been in dialogue with the publication of Politics of Piety in 2005 (and before that her work on the anthropology of agency and ritual, specifically salat, in 2001), it still stands as one of the pivotal contemporary works in the anthropology of Islam. In this ethnographic analysis of women in the piety movement in Egypt, Mahmood described their ethical self-formation through embodied practices, as well as how such work can contribute in the making of subjects and the creation of distinct social and political imaginaries. In the preface to the second edition, Mahmood responds to both praise and criticism that the book has received: some hailed the work for its alleged ‘restoration of agency’ of those religiously devout Muslim women who so often have been portrayed as (faceless) victims of patriarchal religion. Others criticised it for a rather similar reason, that it allegedly ignored the patriarchal system that these women themselves upheld and that she had failed to criticise them for it. She responds to these criticisms by explaining that Politics of Piety and the vivid conversations and debate that were produced by it, solving this argument or supporting either side had not been its purpose. Rather what Mahmood has offered us, is indeed perhaps an expose of agency of religiously devout Muslim women, but also an engagement with how such forms of resistance have the power – through its embodied and self-reflective practices – to transform and grapple with forces of power.

31 In the fifth chapter, I address issues of embodiment in relation to moving out of Islam and attempt to answer questions of embodied belonging and resistance, to both religious as well as secular life worlds. Following from, among others, Mahmood’s work, in larger discussions over Islam’s relationship with the secular, scholarship has gone beyond the idea of ‘the secular’ being an institutionalised power of the nation-state and how it wishes to shape its relation to religions. In line with Mahmood’s analysis of the transformative power of resistance in embodied and reflexive practice, the secular has started to be studied in light of being entangled with affect, emotion, and embodiment itself, especially in its relationship to Islam (Amir-Moazami, 2013; 2016; Asad, 2003; 2011; Cannell, 2010; Wiering 2017). In 2011, Charles Hirschkind, then, posed the question whether there actually is a ‘secular body’. In line with Monique Scheer, Nadia Fadil and Birgitte Schepelern Johansen (2019), in chapter 5 I attempt to answer the call for the empirical inquiry that can make such a body visible or perhaps recognisable, by mapping not only concerns over religious beliefs and doctrine, but also the bodily experiences my interlocutors had when moving out. This included, for example, the resistance of their bodies to stop certain habits, to adopt others, to perform non-religion, or to continue religious practices. Whilst beliefs and doctrines have of course not been displaced, the material experience of religion, spirituality, and non-religion, will be thoroughly interrogated. One of these bodily acts is speech. In the context of the debate on Islam in Europe, it has been suggested that the so-called ‘freedom of speech’ stands in fundamental opposition with religious – i.e. Muslim – sensibilities. This was especially visible in the world-wide discussions in the wake of the Salman Rushdie Affair, or more recently the Danish Cartoon Affair, and the debate that unfolded after the Charlie Hebdo attacks in Paris. In such debates, ‘freedom of speech’ is hailed by some as a Western value which should allow for at least the critique, and if possible the ridiculing of religious dogma. Islam and its advocates – Muslims and non-Muslims alike – are impeding on this freedom, evidenced by the visible uproar caused by these affairs, and therefore the religion is conceived as incompatible with the modern European nation-state. Or so the argument goes. In chapter 1 and 3, I extensively address how differences in these debates in the Netherlands and Britain have been historically produced, in which there have also been vocal former Muslims who have critiqued their former religion. Furthermore, as can be read in the introduction to the sixth chapter, early on in my fieldwork I became aware of the weight that speech and its potential performance may carry for my interlocutors as well. Often in light of such public debates and the contested status of Islam in the West, my interlocutors regularly found themselves in an ‘in between’ position, of

32 wanting to address certain issues they saw with religion or religious communities, but not wanting to ‘feed into the anti-Muslim narrative’, or their own narratives to be appropriated by ‘secular crusaders’.15 In this final chapter, I explore how my interlocutors balanced various factors when it came to ‘speaking out’. I depart from the concept of testimony in relation to conversion and deconversion narratives, and secular expectations over modern subjectivity, especially with regards to freedom of speech. Presenting some of my interlocutors’ contemplations over both privately and publically speaking out about non-belief, I explore how speech can be considered an ultimate performance of non-belonging and was often neither possible nor desired. Moreover, when people did speak out either privately or publically, they mostly did so with careful consideration of the risk of discursive appropriation of their narrative, as well as their familial relationships.

Research Objectives and Questions The objective of this study is to further our understanding of moving out of Islam in a post- migration context. It thereby aims to build on existing theory on various analytical concepts and how they relate to empirical realities. The central focus of this study is thereby on the narratives and experiences of my interlocutors as well as the meanings that are produced around Islam in the Netherlands and the UK in relation to broader social and political discourses. To do this, this project has taken a comparative perspective between these two countries, and I look at how people have experienced moving out of Islam in these specific contexts.

The following question has guided this study: How do people experience moving out of Islam in the UK and the Netherlands and how do they negotiate both religious and secular contexts in which they live?

In order to unpack this question, the following sub-questions have been formulated:

1. How can Dialogical Self Theory further our understanding of moving out of Islam in a post-migration context?

15 This term is borrowed from Nadia Ezzeroili’s comments in de Volkskrant in 2013: “I rarely speak about it. Outside my circle of friends. About my apostasy. Not out of fear for Dutch Islamists [Dutch: polderislamisten] who wish to behead me. No, what I have tried to avoid is that I, as an ex-Muslim, will be hijacked as spoils of war by the fanatical secularists, in their crusade against religion” (Ezzeroili, 2013, my translation).

33 2. How have secularities in both the UK and the Netherlands developed over the past decades and how has this affected the presence or absence of ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ in the public debate? 3. How do people in the UK and the Netherlands narrate their trajectories out of Islam? 4. What are the embodied aspects of moving out of Islam, and how do presupposed characteristics of both religious and secular bodies inform religious transformation? 5. How do people, both publically and privately, negotiate religious and secular discourses when contemplating testimony, coming out, and speaking out when moving out of Islam?

The above sub-questions have guided the chapters collected here. They aim to bring together the personal and the contextual, by carefully considering them in each question. The second chapter is chiefly a methodological one, and argues for the dialogical understanding of the self in transformation. Dialogical Self Theory has provided a framework for understanding the self as a ‘society of mind’, thereby laying the groundwork for considering the self’s situatedness at all times throughout this research. The first and third chapters looks at the public, political, and societal discourses in each country. By taking as a case study the conference organised by the Council for Ex-Muslims in Britain in chapter 3, it questions how the presence of such ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ in Britain and the relative absence of these voices in the Netherlands can be explained. The answers are found in these countries different developments of secularities. Both chapter 1 and 3 aim to provide the contextual backgrounds my interlocutors live in, whilst in chapter 3 analysing a very specific aspect of my interlocutor group: the discourse of ‘secularist ex-Muslims’. The fourth chapter then, aims to unravel the ways in which people narrate their trajectories out of Islam. It focusses on lives lived, rather than discursive structures. This does not mean they are absent, rather they surface as experience rather than as the locus of analysis. Chapter 5 looks at the intersections of religious and secular bodies (presupposed characteristics of what a religious or secular body ought to look like or behave), and what my interlocutors’ bodies actually did, when moving out of Islam. It sheds light on the material experiences of moving out and the demarcations of belonging within discursive power structures over behaviour, knowledge, and dispositions. The last chapter then, looks at what was described as ‘the ultimate step’ of not believing: speaking out or testifying of non-belief, both privately and publically. It will answer questions over how personal choices and negotiations are influenced by larger discourses of Islam and so-called ‘ex-Muslims’ in the public and political spheres.

34 Taken together, the chapters will collectively give insight into the specific experiences of people moving out of Islam in two post-migration contexts. The comparison between the two countries will be made where possible and relevant, and serves to show how people function and negotiate the worlds we live in.

Researcher subjectivity – Some reflections I notice that I’m very opiniated, and that I struggle to distance myself. — Field notes, October 2017.

Another thing he said: “Maria, the idea of ‘values’ is Christian, we are raised with rules”. —Field notes, November 2017.

As with any study examining self-making, identity, religion, politics, gender, and racial intersections, some notes on the researcher are warranted. My own religious trajectory and transformation as well as how I have come to study others’, undoubtedly has influenced the conversations I had with all my interlocutors. To start, one has to consider the inevitable so- called interviewer effects. These are variables that co-constitute the relationship the interviewer and interviewee build, as well as how much an interviewee decides to share. Besides the level of rapport that needs to be built, there are always certain power dynamics and preconceived ideas of who one is as a person as well as the position one holds as a researcher which are brought to the table. This is important to realise, since it considerably impacts what is said, and what is left unsaid. For example, being white, being a woman, being an ‘outsider’ perhaps, has allowed many of my interlocutors to tell their stories freely. Under the cover of anonymity, some told me that they felt they could share more than they had previously done on this particular subject. On the other hand, there were also topics that I may not understand as well, having perhaps grown up in an entirely different environment. My own history and experiences of course have also impacted my behaviour in meet ups, and the conversations I had there with people. As for example one of my interlocutors remarked, I had assumed that ‘values’ were relevant as a category, but according to him, it had been about rules rather than such ‘Christian’ musings. I am a thirty-something, white, Dutch woman, born and raised in a farmer’s family, where Christianity was always present. My parents, my sister, and myself attended what was then called the Gereformeerde Kerken in Nederland [The Reformed Churches of the

35 Netherlands].16 I attended a Protestant Christian primary school, attended Sunday school with some irregularity, and picked up on my parents’ flexibility with church attendance. For me as a child though, religion was important. Interest increased during puberty, when I explored scripture, attended bible study groups, and regularly visited Taizé, an ecumenical Christian monastic fraternity in France. During my early university years, I was less interested in the protestant church than I was in the church some of my friends attended: the Mennonite church in Groningen. Through the years, however, I realised that I went to their talk groups rather for seeing my friends than my own spiritual fulfilment. From here on I gradually ‘moved out of religion’. This current project has had me confronted with sides of religious dogma, communities, and institutions, that I had not encountered before. Sometimes, stories were recognisable: religion stopped playing a role in people’s lives, and other times they were heart-breaking biographies of physical and emotional abuse in which religion was invoked as ‘making it OK’. Somehow, especially during my second time in Britain, where I was mostly on my own and solely focussing on conducting interviews and attending meetings, events, and socials, I noticed myself becoming increasingly anti-religious. Continuously listening to people’s grievances about and against their former religion as well as the stories of structural issues in certain religious communities, sometimes had me angrily and frantically typing my field notes. How is anyone still religious? How can these dogmas and conservative ideas still find support in our 21st century? Having lived most of my life with a soft spot for religion and religious people, I was overwhelmed by this deeply personalised ‘dark side’ that was presented to me. I struggled with the harshness of anti-religious sentiments at times, and I developed (temporary) critical thoughts about religion myself. Coming back to the Netherlands and having taken some distance from my fieldwork, I eventually sat down to transcribe the interviews. Interestingly, what I heard now was not the overshadowing narrative of complaint or victimhood, but the honesty of people struggling to find their way in times of religious transformation, whilst attempting to hold on to their loved ones that may not understand. What happened to me during my fieldwork, is possibly the result of having grown up in a rather protected, privileged, upper middle class environment, receiving rather leftist ideas from my parents, and ample education. Religion was a part of that, but never

16 In 2004, the ‘gereformeerden’, the ‘hervormden’ [both meaning ‘reformed’ and in Calvinistic tradition] and the Evangelical-Lutheran Church united as the Protestante Kerk Nederland (PKN), a denomination still in place today.

36 forced. Having this rather positive image of religion continuously shattered during my fieldwork among those moving out of Islam, I think naturally, did not leave me unmoved. As researchers, we inevitably take some of our own histories and outlooks with us when conducting research and writing about our experiences in the field. For example, considering I utilised much of my own extended network to find my interlocutors, many of them were (university) educated. I believe that this has also affected the reflexive design of the structuring of the interviews. Learning how my own interests in certain aspects of moving out, such as the effects of doubt and uncertainty, triggered more self-reflexive dialogue with my interlocutors than for example theological matters, has generated data that was specific to both myself and my interlocutors. In addition, the cycle of the data collection and the order of interviews conducted was of course arbitrary, however, it undoubtedly has had an effect on how I conducted interviews and what narratives I elicited from my interlocutors. For example, coming home at 2AM after my very first (5-hour long) interview with Omer in Groningen, the Netherlands, I noted down how different it had been from my expectations: I realise how different his story was from my expectations of moving out, or even of being Muslim. For example, I had expectations of praying in a ‘traditional’ sense, perhaps not regularly but as ritual. But for him, prayer was about asking God for that girl to fall in love with him. Furthermore, he said he felt Muslim, but never in a religious way. Not believing was a footnote in his narrative. These reflections already show specific preconceived ideas I brought to this interview about moving out of Islam, and more importantly, how these were then immediately challenged. Whereas I had assumed religion to be central to Omer’s identity and narrative of moving out, he showed me how it was actually an accumulation of his life history in which religion simply had no place anymore. The reflexive analytical cycle has ensured that such challenges have, as much as possible, enhanced this research, rather than hampered it. Lastly, the people I met were in some ways relatively similar to myself: often well- educated, European, non-religious people. In other ways, it could be argued that there were radically different ontologies at work: people were raised with Islam, had migratory backgrounds, had been part of a (stigmatised) minority for most their lives, and simply had had very different life histories. These similarities and differences inevitably produce a unique set of dialogues. By being reflexive of such processes, not only here but throughout the duration of this project by means of field notes, I have aimed to be as methodologically and theoretically open as possible.

37 Chapter Overview Over the course of these chapters, I set out to approach the topic of moving out of Islam in contemporary Europe from various angles. I take into account the experiences of my interlocutors, their orientations, narratives of transformation and religious change, their negotiations over belonging and believing, and situatedness in their own discourses. I further pay ample attention to not only what is left behind, but argue for an approach taking into account the relative weight of religious meaning and the spaces this opens up for a positive approach to moving out of Islam. A brief explanation on the form chosen for this dissertation is warranted. It is not uncommon for the academic field that I am in, to write a monograph to obtain a doctoral degree. However, I have chosen to publish articles with academic journals and bundle these to collectively form my dissertation. The main reason for this is that it allowed me to conceptualise a complex and multi-faceted phenomenon from five different angles. It opened up spaces for me to approach different topics that surfaced as relevant from different theoretical perspectives, and to be in dialogue with different (overlapping) disciplines. This interdisciplinary approach is, in my opinion, a very fruitful one for understanding religious change in post-secular societies. Not only are discursive sociological matters addressed (chapter 3) but also psychological ones (chapter 2 and 4), and more anthropological ones (chapter 5 and 6). In chapters 2 – 6 I have applied five distinct theoretical approaches, of Dialogical Self Theory, Multiple Secularities, Narrative Analysis, a Secular Body, and (De)conversion Testimony. I believe such an interdisciplinary approach to be fruitful for contemporary religious studies. In chapter 1, I situate this entire study into the two recent histories of the Netherlands and Britain, specifically with regards to Islam in Europe. This functions to provide the discursive background in which my interlocutors moved out of Islam. By descriptively outlining historic, political and influential events, both global and local, prominent participants in the debate and media representations, it will sketch the backgrounds to which this research has taken place. Without going into the analysis of the specific production of secularity (which will be done in the chapter 3) it does provide the more discursive lay of the land and will in detail help to understand certain knowledge production as well as contemplations over behaviours, and speaking out. It has not been written for publication, and has therefore a different style and status as the other five chapters. It rather functions as the background to this dissertation which refers back to such discourses regularly.

38 In the second chapter I argue for a dialogical approach to the analysis and interpretation of moving out narratives. The purpose of this is to expand on Dialogical Self Theory and to illustrate its benefits for the analysis of narratives of leaving Islam in a post-migration context. With leaving one's religion, complex mechanisms of doubt, uncertainty, and ethical self- making come to the fore. Being in a post-migration context raises additional issues of intersectionality. Dialogical Self Theory is well-suited for the close-reading and in-depth analysis of such trajectories out of Islam, because it firstly considers the actual voices and their interaction in self-narrative. Secondly, Dialogical Self Theory allows for the recognition of the complex embeddedness of these voices in discursive power-structures. Thirdly, it considers self-making agentic properties. The particular usefulness of this theory will be exemplified by applying its analytical tools to one such trajectory. This chapter aims to give a methodological grounding to this research project as a whole, which, throughout, considers the self as dialogical and a ‘society of mind’. It has been particularly useful in the in-depth analysis of both individual narratives as well as the dataset as a whole, by taking into account the plurality of voices and I-positions, rather than assuming a centrality of religion or being (non)Muslim. This chapter has been published as a research article in February 2019 with Journal of Muslims in Europe. Chapter 3 grasps back to the first chapter in its contextual nature, but more specifically uses the interpretative device of ‘multiple secularities’ to interrogate the presence of ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ in the British debate on Islam and freedom of expression. By contrasting Britain with the Netherlands, where these voices are currently relatively absent, it specifically examines ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ as expressed at the International Conference on Freedom of Conscience and Expression in London, July 2017. It argues that these voices have surfaced here due to Britain’s particular history of secularity for the sake of accommodating diversity. They challenge institutionalised levels (state-church relations, multiculturalism, and communitarianism) and social and cultural forms (debate on freedom of expression and Islamophobia). These voices are relatively absent in the Netherlands due to its dominant secularity for the sake of social/national integration. Due to the particular histories of secularity, reference problems that surface in Britain have less bearing on the Dutch situation. This chapter brings together the broader contexts of this research, and as mentioned above, the analysis of the specifically British phenomenon of ‘secularist ex-Muslims’ as well as their relative absence in the Netherlands. It has been published in December 2018 with Journal of Religion in Europe.

39 Chapter 4 investigates my interlocutors’ narratives. Rather than to focus primarily on ‘leaving faith’ (i.e. a predominantly negative and religiously centred approach), it presents four types of thematic trajectories which consider the broader life-worlds and experiences of my interlocutors. These themes illustrate the relative weight of the religious voice in trajectories, rather than to presuppose centrality of religion in one’s (former) identity. It thereby displays a broader understanding of their experiences as being in a negative relation to religion alone: religious, but also political, social, ethnic, and gender boundaries provided the contexts in which people moved out of Islam. The themes (religious break, social break-away, the entrance, and unconscious secularisation) are illustrated by four case studies. A fifth case is presented to illustrate the potency of the intertwinement of the themes. This chapter aims to shed light on the particulars of experience in narration taking a chiefly emic perspective and was published as a research article with the journal Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations, online June 2019, and in print later that year. The fifth chapter looks at the particulars of embodiment when moving out of Islam. It refers back to discursive productions of religious and secular boundaries in both Britain and the Netherlands, and how in turn, individuals negotiate such seeming dichotomies, especially when they cross them. Indeed, the Muslim identity and its bodily performance is highly contested in European public spheres. Both religious and secular discourses ascribe certain features to what it means to be Muslim. Religious voices may do so to demarcate the contested ‘own’ and secure a sense of belonging, whilst the secular may do so to demarcate what is ‘other’ and thereby implicitly self. In light of these discourses, this chapter explores what happens when these alleged boundaries and demarcations become blurred, by analysing how bodily expressions and performances may change or remain unaltered. In the narratives of moving out of Islam, questions of believing and belonging became particularly salient in light of the bodily practices that either ascertain or terminate one’s membership to the religious or secular environs. Whilst (internalised) discourses may have particular expectations of what a certain body ought to look or behave like, my interlocutors (re)negotiated these expectations as to form their own sets of bodily ethics in very individualised ways. First, how did performances of ‘knowledge, practice, and embodiment’ change or remain unaltered when moving out of Islam? Second, how did the ‘distinct modes of power’ of a secular and religious body play a role in how people negotiate ideological and existential conviction with a very practical being in the world? This chapter has been submitted with the book project Transforming Bodies, a collective effort from a reading group which was organised by the Netherlands School for Advanced Studies in Theology and Religion (NOSTER).

40 The sixth and last chapter, which has been published in 2019 with the journal Religions for the special issue edited by prof. dr. Peter Nissen, focusses on the potential performance of non-belief in the form of speech. By critically examining the function of testimony in conversion and deconversion narratives, this chapter problematises the assumed boundaries of belief, non-belief, and the function of the performance of identity. It does so by investigating contemplations over private and public performances, since the performance of speech was thought to have different effects in both spheres. Whilst public discourses on leaving Islam and speaking freely were always weighed, in private these were related to familial bonds, love, and belonging. On the other hand, considering speaking out in public was often contextualised with reference to potential secularist appropriation of their stories as ‘native testimonial’. As such, my interlocutors show that testifying of one’s religious transformation in the case of moving out of Islam was neither central nor conditional. Speech was mostly considered a ‘step beyond’ not believing. Within the larger project, this chapter specifically sheds light on the discursive power of certain political, social, and public debates on individual behaviours when moving out of Islam. It shows the ‘inbetweennes’ of my interlocutors, neither fully secular, neither fully religious, not necessarily wanting to pledge allegiance to either, even though this was sometimes expected or desired by public or private, religious or secular environs. Taken as a whole, this dissertation will answer the question of how people experience moving out of Islam in the UK and the Netherlands and how they negotiate both religious and secular contexts in which they live. These five angles have been specifically designed to uniquely approach the subject of ‘moving out of Islam’, whilst being in constant dialogue with one another. The concept of ‘multiple secularities’, for example, is only specifically mobilised in the third chapter in order to critically unpack the discursive and historic production of the situation that has given space and rise to ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’. However, whilst not mentioned explicitly elsewhere, the outcomes as well as the scholarly tradition are incorporated in the fourth, fifth and sixth chapters too. Furthermore, as explained above, Dialogical Self Theory is only explicitly referred to in chapters 2 and 4, however, it has been fundamental for the entire analysis and conceptual framework of this project. By analysing the self as inherently dialogical with oneself and one’s surroundings, by recognising a plurality of identity which may exist simultaneously, its application has contributed to all the main conclusions of this project. The final two empirically oriented chapters are both detailed descriptive results of what it means to move out of Islam in very practical and lived ways. The fifth chapter then, utilises the concept of ‘a secular body’ in order to bring together the individual experience and the simultaneous situatedness of that

41 experience. The last chapter shows in detail, how the complex negotiations over speaking out about moving out of Islam in both the Netherlands and the UK is inherently equally discursively situated, again bringing together the individual experience in religious and secular contexts. Hereby I hope to have given a brief overview of what is to come, as well as how a perhaps seemingly disjointed approach of published articles has contributed to a unique yet encompassing analysis of moving out of Islam in the Netherlands and the UK.

42 Chapter 1

Religion, Secularism, and the Production of Discourse

Introduction This chapter aims to outline the discursive production of the socio-political public debate with regards to ‘Islam in Europe’ in both the Netherlands and the United Kingdom. This is relevant because my interlocutors, by moving out of Islam, often had to navigate religious and secular spheres by crossing over the alleged divide on a daily basis. It has been widely observed that the position of religion in Europe has become increasingly contested over the last few decades. Religion, and Islam in particular, seems to have become the contested ‘other’ for the secular subject as well as the secular state. In the dominant Euro-American societal discourse, political secularism is perceived as a pillar of modernity. It is also from this secularist context that some so-called ‘ex-Muslims’ have been provided with or have found a platform to voice their motivations, opinions, experiences, and often, victimhood. Their specific (political) positionality will be extensively elaborated on partially in this chapter and more extensively in chapter 3. Previously, the secular was conceived as merely that which remains when religion is stripped of public and private life all together. In recent years, it has become increasingly contested how ‘the religious’ and ‘the secular’ function in private and public life; the supposedly binary opposition and clear distinction between the two has been called into question. As Graig Calhoun, Mark Juergensmeyer and Jonathan Van Antwerpen (2011) so aptly state in their critique of secularism: “The very use of the term ‘secular’ signifies that we are buying into a secular/religious distinction that in some way defines not only the secular sphere itself but also the realm of the religious” (p. 5). Furthermore, the celebrated ‘secularisation theory’ which claimed modernisation would inherently imply secularisation and a disappearance of religion all together has been refuted. For example, the phenomena of the Islamic Revival in the contemporary Middle East (and beyond) as well as the increase of New Age religion in the Euro-American context and the increasingly prominent role of religion (and most notably Islam) in the public debate, started to invalidate the claimed universality and inevitability of the theory (e.g. Von Stuckrad, 2013). Rather, many contemporary scholars have pleaded for the ‘one cannot do without the other’ approach: religion and secularism are intrinsically interwoven and interdependent. From this line of thought, further calls for a careful scrutinisation of secularism have been heard: rather than defining it negatively as ‘what is left

43 after religion’, it “is something, and is therefore in need of elaboration and understanding” (Calhoun, Juergensmyer & Van Antwerpen, 2011, p. 5, emphasis in original). Whilst an extensive discussion of ‘an anthropology’ or a genealogy of the secular or religion (Asad, 1993; 2003) is beyond the scope of this chapter, it is worth noting their mutual dependence and production. For now, it suffices to say, indeed, that I follow Saba Mahmood in that the secular “is not the natural bedrock from which religion emerges, nor is it what remains when religion is taken away. Instead, it is itself a historical product with specific epistemological, political, and moral entailments” (Mahmood, 2016, p. 3). For the sake of clarity, the term secularisation, then, refers to the ‘process of differentiation’, which includes the decline of religious belief and participation, as well as the dwindling mutual influences of the social and the religious (Asad, 2003; Casanova, 2009). When I use the term secularism, I refer to a more ideological content, expressed as political secularism which encompasses the ways in which the state governs and regulates religion (and thereby itself) (i.a. Berg-Sørensen, 2013; Cady & Shakman Hurd, 2010; Soper & Fetzer, 2007). It refers to the ideological program that strives to complete separation of religious and secular domains as well as their co- constitution. Secularists then, are its advocates. This is often conflated with the social practices and institutions that abide by these ideologies. I do distinguish between the two, by in chapter 3 explicitly looking at ‘secularity’—a concept which includes the analysis of both the institutional forms as well as the social and cultural arrangements such as public debate which contest and regulate such ideological demarcations. In this current chapter, I turn mostly to the societal contestations over what is deemed appropriately religious and how images of secular self and religious other have been foregrounded, as well as the specific sexual politics that have often underlined them. Saba Mahmood (2016), in her recent work on religious minorities in contemporary Egypt, argued that the modern state produces religious minorities and has a pivotal role to play in polarisation and transforming pre-existing religious difference “and making religion more rather than less salient to minority and majority identities alike” (Mahmood, 2016, p. 2). She pointed out that if indeed religion and secularism are conditioning one another in the modern period, “then the question is not so much how modern society can expunge religion from social life (…) but how to account for its ongoing power and productivity in material and discursive terms” (p. 15). Furthermore, she argued that two paradoxical notions underlie ‘secular political rationality’. First of all, the modern state, which claims religious neutrality, has become extensively involved in the regulation and management of religious life and praxis “thereby embroiling the state in substantive issues of religious doctrine and practice” (p. 2). Secondly,

44 modern secular governance explicitly transforms interfaith inequalities by allowing them to freely develop in society “and hence for religion to striate national identity and public norms” (p. 2). Mahmood questions how these paradoxes have helped produce the particular shape and form that the interfaith relations have taken in modern Egypt. Whilst focussing on a geographically different discourse, it is this line of thought that this chapter wishes to pursue, by asking questions of how and in what different manners a secular discourse produces its religious minorities. How is religion, and in particular Islam, discussed by politicians, activists, the public, and the media?17 Furthermore, it is worth realising that in addition to the production of religious minority discourse, by defining the religious space, the secular also defines and produces its majority secular ‘default’ discourse and spaces (also see: Amir-Moazami, 2013; 2016). This chapter will aim to discuss this particular sphere as well, in and by which religious practices and their place in society are chiefly discussed. An illumination of the production of these discourses by discussing political and historical events, the influence of the media, and specific gender issues, may provide insights into the relative place and presence of my interlocutors in the different socio-political realities of the Netherlands and Britain.18 Whilst Mahmood was primarily concerned with political secularism and its sovereign powers to reorganise substantive features of religion and religious practices, I will rather focus on secularist discourse: that which is produced by political secularism. With this I refer to the product of the discursive operation of power: the spheres of the public, private, political, and religious, their boundaries and content, as well as that what is considered a natural environment by its inhabitants. This chapter will seek to illuminate the differences and similarities between the United Kingdom and the Netherlands in their production of both secular and religious practices. Rather than following the majority of contemporary scholarship that seeks to overcome the perceived binary of the secular vs. the religious, I will focus on the characteristics and nature of the production of such a binary, especially considering that much of the social debate and confrontation seem to centre around it. In the third chapter of this dissertation, I turn to the histories of secularity of the Netherlands and Britain in comparative perspective. I do so with the help of the concept of

17 I will not so much concern myself with legal preoccupations of the status of Islam or other religious minorities per se, however, it may prove to be salient to consider prominent court cases, and in particular the discursive impact they may have had on public debate. 18 I refer to ‘Britain’ when it concerns my interlocutors, since I did not include Northern Ireland in my fieldwork. However, when discussing political secularism, I may refer to the United Kingdom due to its history of secularity which politically does include Northern Ireland.

45 ‘multiple secularities’ in order to explain the relative presence of certain ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ in the British debate on Islam and freedom of expression. It touches on similar themes of secular governance, multiculturalism, free speech, and other contestations over the ‘appropriate’ position of religion in the secular (public) sphere. This current chapter aims to lay the groundwork for that one, in that it extensively discusses how Islam and religion have been delineated by and featured in public life and debate over the past decades. It stays ‘closer to home’ so to speak, in that it extensively describes the workings and contestations in public spheres over ‘Islam’ and the ‘Muslim other’. The third chapter touches on these matters too, but incorporates an emphasis on the particularities of national secularisms – i.e. it also traces the histories of governance of religious life and praxis through law and state policy. Furthermore, the contribution of this particular chapter is that it has the space to extensively contemplate the academic and public debates that have unfolded over the past decades in which my interlocutors lived and moved out of Islam: it explicates the boundaries and contents of the religious and secular which they crossed on a daily basis. In order to do so, this chapter will firstly interrogate the two national discourses on the ‘Islam debate’ in Europe: the Netherlands and the United Kingdom. It will firstly explore its historic and political developments as well as influential events, both global and local, prominent participants in the debate, and media representations. This analysis will cover each country from around the late 1980s, since this is when in many other Western European countries, the ‘multicultural debates’ emerged, either through the Rushdie affair, or in France, for example, through the veil-debates. Furthermore, Sarah Bracke (2013), among others, noted that 1989 can be considered a symbol for “the fall of the communist bloc and the subsequent emergence of a new hegemonic geopolitical power, i.e. the ‘clash of civilizations’” (p. 211). Whilst I consider such events and perceived ‘new’ visibility of Islam as symptoms rather than as causes of a ‘new era’, for the purposes of this chapter I will limit myself to a description of the debates and forming of discourse (i.e. public body of knowledge and understanding considered accessible and true) since the late 1980s. As noted above, a further elaboration on the larger constitutive formations of (secular) governmentality in each country will follow in chapter 3 where the distinct histories of secularity – and thereby including the particulars of national political secularism – will be elaborated on from the mid 16th century. This current chapter’s descriptive investigation will be mainly based on secondary literature when it concerns the interpretation and analysis of certain events and prominent figures, as well as their

46 relevance for the production of their secularity.19 Secondly, this chapter will further explore the roles of sexuality, gender, and the media intersecting in these discourses in both the UK and the Netherlands comparatively, especially because they are referenced by my interlocutors when moving out of Islam, both as public discourse to relate to, as well as affecting personal negotiations over embodiment and belonging. But first, the following paragraphs will outline some more general European trends and phenomena that have been witnessed and analysed in the past decades, in particular the dominant discourses, new realism, and the post-racial contemporary.

Discourse When discussing and outlining a ‘public debate’ or ‘public discourse’, it is worth considering the implications and meanings of such terms. First of all, sociologist of religion Sipco Vellenga, a leading scholar on the Dutch political debate on immigration and Islam in the Netherlands, has noted that a discussion of a public debate cannot be held in terms of Jürgen Habermas’ definition, which states that it is always a rational and open debate, open to all and free from power. Instead, Vellenga (2008b) reckoned that such an ideal situation simply does not exist in the world, and that a public debate, specifically the debate on Islam, is never free from power or influence.20 Therefore, “this debate needs to be analysed as a forum of power struggles on issues of representation and identity in a multicultural and multi-religious setting” (p. 23). Furthermore, he states that the public and political debate, despite having a separate focus, are thoroughly interwoven, interrelated, and influence one another. Politicians participate in the public debate, and the contents of the public debate partially determine the political agendas. Public debate is therefore informed by different discourses. The Islam/immigration debate in both the Netherlands and the UK has been dominated by the pro-multiculturalist or pluralistic discourse on the one hand and the pro-assimilation discourse on the other (Also see: Jansen, 2013, p. 20-38; Vellenga, 2008a).21 Very broadly

19 I.e. governance and socio-cultural productions of delineating religious spaces. See Wohlrab- Sahr & Burchardt, 2012 and chapter 3. 20 For criticism on Habermas’ theory on the public sphere also see: Rita Felski (1989) Nancy Fraser (1990) who have argued for a plurality of spheres and counter publics. 21 In chapter 3 I take up the concept of ‘multiple secularities’ (Wohlrab-Sahr & Burchardt, 2012) in order to analytically unpack the particulars of each country. These two dominant discourses of multiculturalism and the assimilationists as described here are related, but different analytical categories. Whilst these two discourses primarily have a descriptive function in unpacking the two nations’ situations in recent history and current events – which

47 speaking, multiculturalism22 as a political theory was conceptualised in response to modern or liberal conceptions of equal citizenship, the same conceptions on which Habermas based his theory of the public debate. However, during the 80s it was critiqued by philosophers and scholars that it would be unjust for members of society to have to abide by a standard of normalcy based on the white, heterosexual, able-bodied male (Kymlicka, 2002, p. 327), and its adaptations would deny any form of variety on that model. Multiculturalism therefore argued that equal citizenship should instead refer to ‘differentiated citizenship’ (Young, 1989). Multiculturalism assumes that there are various power relations between dominant groups and minority groups at work at all times and that the minority groups should be actively incorporated into society. Individuals can belong to several groups at the same time and boundaries are blurred (Jansen, 2013). Assimilation on the other hand, can be understood as a homogenising process which expects minority groups to unquestionably assimilate into the core group or dominant culture. Minorities and migratory groups are more or less forced or at least expected to shed their cultural background and practices whilst simultaneously adapt the cultural and civic competences of the dominant group. However, members of an out group are ‘allowed’ to express their cultural and/or religious background in the private sphere, as long as one is capable of participating in public life like the dominant majority group (Jansen, 2013). Whilst the multiculturalist theory was developed in response to an assimilationists understanding of citizenship prominent in the 1970s in Europe, the pro-assimilation advocates have re-entered the public domain and have been representing the dominant discourse (i.e. supporters of this discourse have chiefly set the agenda to which others are forced to respond) since the 1990s in the Netherlands (de Koning, 2016a; Jansen, 2013; Lucassen & Lucassen, 2015; Vellenga,

is the purpose of this chapter – the analytical tool of ‘multiple secularities’ offers an extra layer: it does not only describe, but also identifies levels of contestations, i.e. so-called ‘reference problems’. The reason that I have taken up a different terminology here, is that I wish to primarily sketch the dominant discourses in which my interlocutors operate, rather than to include the full-fletched political policies and legal contestations that may accompany that. Whilst policy and law-making are not absent from this chapter, it is by no means a systematic undertaking, and will only be referenced to when considered relevant in discursive productions. 22 See Rita Chin’s (2017) elaborate work on multiculturalism in Europe for a more extensive and nuanced elucidation on the plethora of meanings of ‘multicultural’, ‘multiculturalism’, and its alleged ‘crisis’.

48 2008b) and since the late 2000s in the UK (Goldberg 2013; Vellenga 2008a).23 This criticism of or backlash against ‘multiculturalism’ argues that Islam is now ‘taking over our European way of liberal life’ and that the Leftists who have set the agenda for multiculturalist policy throughout the 70s and 80s have been in bed with the Islamists and accommodated their alleged take-over. Alana Lentin and Gavan Titley (2012) observed that this (European) narrative is rarely in response to specific policies, but rather a racist rejection of difference.24 The different appropriations of multiculturalism and assimilationist discourses in both the Netherlands and the UK as well as the perceived discursive dichotomies that have emerged will be extensively discussed below. However, first a brief theoretical and more general description of the characteristics of the contemporary European dominant (assimilationist) discourse is in place. ‘New realism’ is a term coined to describe the phenomenon of reversed political correctness that rose in the Netherlands during the 90s and to a lesser extent in the UK during the late 2000s: instead of moderation and discussion, it was now time to ‘say it as it is’. This is a discourse that is prominent throughout Europe today. New realism, according to Baukje Prins and Sawitri Saharso (2008) can be identified by five features: 1) new realism emphasises that the political elite should listen to ‘ordinary’ citizens i.e. the ‘autochtonous’ suburban lower classes: “The ordinary people deserve to be represented because they know from daily experience what is ‘really’ going on in society, and because they are not blinded by ‘politically correct’ ideas” (p. 367). 2) New realists believe that they are ‘telling the truth’ to the political establishment, breaking taboos, and thereby despise ‘political correctness’. In summation, politically correct is the new politically incorrect and vice versa.25 3) New realism argues for the break of the political elitist power which supposedly dominated the public realm for too long. It is thought that the lax policies of toleration of the past have allowed for a fading of purportedly ‘Western’ values, and now call for an affirmation of national values over and against Islam. 4) New realism also calls for a reaffirmation of a national identity and renewed

23 For an examination of how the ‘backlash’ against multiculturalism is shaping current forms of popular racism in Europe, see Lentin & Titley (2012). 24 It should be noted that critique on multicultural policy most certainly does exist, but that that operates under a different category. In the UK, for example, political anti-racist activists have always regarded actual top-down multiculturalist policies as suspect and challenged them for that (Orenstein & Weismann, 2016). Also, see chapter 3. However, the pro-assimilationist discourse referred to here, does not refer to concrete policy but rather castigates ‘an attitude’ and imagines policy for rhetoric’s purposes only (Uitermark, Mepschen & Duyvendak, 2013). 25 For further reading on the ‘end of political correctness’ see: Allen & Nielsen (2002) and Van Stokkom (2009).

49 patriotism, witnessed in the public discussion of terms such as ‘Britishness’ and ‘Dutchness’. 5) New realism is highly gendered: the fact that Muslim women are considered to be suppressed is used to confirm the new realists’ own superiority over Islam. Indeed, an historic tracing of the socio-political development of the public debate in the Netherlands and the UK will show many aspects of this categorisation in the dominant discourse. Secondly, the concept of ‘the postracial contemporary’ deserves elaboration since it has been shaping the Islam debate in both the Netherlands and the UK today.26 Furthermore, it may provide insight into the particular position some former Muslims have taken in the socio- political discourse as well as how my interlocutors relate to it and negotiate its boundaries. The postracial contemporary has been primarily discussed in America after Barack Obama was elected President, and refers to a presumed state of being of a nation that claims not to see racial difference. Cultural theorist and political activist Stuart Hall noted in the 70s that racism is always present, but that the form which it takes depends on the historicity and “the cultural and ideological traces which are deposited in a society by previous historical phases, it always assumed specific forms which arise out of the present – not the past – conditions and organisation of society” (Hall, 1978, p. 26). According to Goldberg (2013), today’s postracial paradigm has its roots within the post Second World War romance with racelessness, and more importantly, it resonates with the ideals and characteristics of neoliberalism (also see: Lentin & Titley, 2012). Neoliberalism assumes responsibility and development of the individual: people are responsible for their own actions, not their group’s. Furthermore, responsibility is never assigned to an entire racial group for the actions of the individual. According to Goldberg, the self-minded individualistic condition of neoliberalism allows for the postracial condition to flourish:

[R]esponsibility for racist expression is reduced to individualised account, to a bad apple, a rogue element, denying responsibility to structural conditions or larger social forces. For neoliberal postraciality, racism is anomaly, the mark of a past historical moment, an irritating residue to be gotten over as quickly as possible, or even simply recreational (‘I was just kidding’). It remains merely a stain on the social fabric now, to be washed away as quickly as possible. (p. 18)

26 This is not to say that it is exclusively present in the UK and the Netherlands.

50 The result of such a state of being, is that by denying that there is any form of racism present in society or within the individual, racism can flourish. An example in the British press that exhibits these characteristics was former BBC Today’s programme editor Rod Liddle’s reply to the question that was posed by the Evening Standard, of whether or not Islam was good for London:

Islam is masochistic, homophobic and a totalitarian regime. It is a fascistic, bigoted and medieval religion. I have plenty of friends who are Muslims and I know other Muslims I don’t get along with. I may be Islamophobic but I am not against the religion. As long as we’re able to say what we think about Islam and Muslims without fear of censorship, being accused of racism, or having our heads cut off then we’re heading in the right direction. (Liddle, 2007)

Liddle starts off with a characterisation of Islam being a regime in opposition to his beliefs, by describing it negatively and conflating the religion into a monolithic ideology and regime. Secondly, he continues to deny that he is racist or is generalising people negatively, by claiming he knows Muslims whom he gets along with, and Muslims that he does not get along with, implying that it ‘is nothing personal’ but rather something that ‘he simply believes’. He concludes his response by claiming that the statements that he makes should be allowed to be uttered uncritically, because he aspires the right to freedom of speech: we, British (white) critics, should be able to say what we want about them, Muslims. Hence, by removing the possibility of any criticism on racist claims by simple denial, and the common accusation of one ‘being politically correct’, Liddle exemplifies what Goldberg (2013) has described as the postracial contemporary:

The Postracial Contemporary, then, is the instantiate – the instancing of and instant recurs to – the racial while denying that it adds up to racism or indeed that racial characterisation is being invoked. And denying the denial. It has become – it has been made – the default mode of globalisation’s neoliberalising political rationality, the seams of its social logic. (p. 24)

What Goldberg here refers to as the ‘default mode’, I would refer to it as a ‘dominant discourse’. Nonetheless, we can easily recognise the commonalities with the discursive genre of ‘new realism’ (Prins & Soharso, 2008). Many characteristics that have been attributed to

51 new realism can be discovered in the description and reality of the postracial contemporary, and it could be argued that indeed new realism as a political strategy is a product of neoliberal postracial individualism prominent in the Euro-American context today.27 I will elaborate on the contested link with the Islam in the public sphere and the postracial contemporary below when I discuss the racialisation of Muslims. The following section will illustrate the development of the position of Islam in the Netherlands, first by briefly describing the political and social history since the 1970s and 80s of immigrants and responsive policy, as well as its (adverse) outcomes. Furthermore, it will continue by assessing certain national and international events from 1989 onwards, as well as prominent voices and opinion makers that have influenced the debate significantly. In particular, and among others, the analyses of Martijn de Koning (2016a) of the discursive influence of Pim Fortuyn on the racialisation of Muslims in the early years of the 21st century, as well as Vellenga’s (2008b) and Lucassen & Lucassen’s (2015) informative examinations of the ‘death of Dutch tolerance’, will prove insightful. Their descriptions of and inquiries into events such as the Salman Rushdie affair, the murders of Pim Fortuyn and Theo van Gogh, the simultaneous rise of new realism, and the strong polarising political discourse the Netherlands finds itself in today will be outlined. Themes or so-called values that will continue to resurface throughout this national narrative are sexual liberties, the status of freedom of expression, and identity politics, which meanings have changed and have been appropriated differently over time.

‘The Multicultural Drama’: Secularism and assimilationists in the Netherlands It was estimated in 2015 by the Dutch Central Bureau for Statistics (Centraal Bureau voor de Statistiek, CBS) that there were approximately 850,000 Muslims above the age of 15 in the Netherlands, about 4.9% of the population based on survey research (Schmeets, 2016). The vast majority of this populace is of Turkish or Moroccan origin or descent.28 The number of people who no longer identify with Islam is unknown. However, it has been observed that among Iranian communities who moved to the Netherlands after the Iranian revolution in 1979, disaffiliation with Islam may be more common.29 The first significant influx of Muslim

27 Other examples in the Netherlands are the debate on ethnic profiling and the Black Pete debate. See: Balkenhol, Mepschen & Duyvendak (2016). 28 There are no data available on this, since the CBS does not register people on their ‘country of origin’ once naturalised. 29 Also see: Kamerman & van Twillert (2007) in NRC Handelsblad.

52 immigrants came after the Second World War, during the 1950s, chiefly from former colonies Suriname and Indonesia. Their numbers increased drastically during the 1970s and 80s when the Dutch government announced the independence of Suriname, as well as allowed for an increase of migrant ‘guest workers’ (gastarbeiders) from Turkey and Morocco in response to the mass emigration of Dutch nationals to former (British white settler) colonies and the degraded infrastructure due to WWII. The intention was that they would only stay as long as they were required, but this is not what happened: many of the guest workers stayed permanently, using their worker rights to bring in their families (Lucassen & Lucassen, 2015).30 Furthermore, at the end of the 1970s various political refugees and asylum seekers entered the Netherlands from, among others, Iran, Iraq, Somalia, and the former Yugoslavia. In response to this immigration influx, policy wise, the 70s and 80s were characterised by the slogan ‘integration with the preservation of identity’ (De Koning 2016a, p.18).31 This slogan

30 The leftist ‘multiculturalist’ policies of the Dutch government during the 70s and 80s has been often blamed by various commentators in the years to follow. However, it is a misunderstanding that the Netherlands ever pursued a multiculturalist agenda. The aim of Dutch policy on immigration and integration was always to prevent minority formation, by incorporating minority representatives and associations in governance (Uitermark, Mepschen & Duyvendak, 2013). Furthermore, opinions on the causes of mass-immigration in these years differ widely. Lucassen & Lucassen (2015) make a distinction between those that stress “the unintended and built-in effects of liberal democracies and welfare states” and those that reckon that the Left had consciously opened the borders by being too soft on immigration under the banner of multiculturalism (p. 77). They note however, that this latter popular assumption throughout the 90s does not match the facts. In response to the first oil crisis in 1973, the government had put an immediate stop on guest workers entering the country. Most political parties across the spectrum agreed that the guest workers already present would have to leave in due time. However, simultaneously the workers that were already present should have been treated with as much equality as ‘native’ Dutch labourers. “This meant that even guest workers who had entered the labor market illegally, outside the official recruitment procedures, should be given the chance to regularise their status”, which was referred to by the Dutch government as ‘regularization’. Some 15,000 illegals (mostly Turkish and Moroccan) regularised. As soon as one would now leave the country, their chances of being let back in were minimal: they started exercising their right to bring their families. “The policies of the centre-left government, therefore, did indeed stimulate immigration, but in a very different way from that the integration pessimists had assumed” (Lucassen & Lucassen, 2015, p. 79). 31 In this context, integration pessimists often complain about the lack of language education for this group of guest workers. Contrary to popular belief, this was not because the government wanted to stimulate ‘multiculturalism’, on the contrary, the government did not provide any language or integration education in the assumption that these guest workers would have less

53 was, however, not uncontested among the political establishment of the 80s which led to a compromise stressing equality without assuming a danger of migrant culture. This group approach changed in the late 80s to early 90s, when individual responsibility and participation in society were expected from the immigrant. Religion and culture were gradually ought to be relegated to the private sphere (p. 19). From the early 1990s in the aftermath of the Rushdie affair which had spread images of violent Muslim men eager ‘to kill the animal Rushdie’ (Andere Tijden, 2004) for the first time in the Netherlands, the political establishment started questioning the presence of ethnic, and specifically Muslim, minorities. Considered a national landmark in Dutch history with regards to multiculturalism, in 1991, Frits Bolkestein, a prominent member of the Liberal Party (VVD) delivered a speech at the Liberal International Conference in Luzern (Bolkestein, 1991). During this speech, he effectively links the fall of the Soviet Union as a new geo-political moment, and the national debate on immigration and multiculturalism (Bracke, 2013, p. 214). Subsequently, he published an article in one of the country’s leading newspapers de Volkskrant, elaborating on a debate on immigration and integration policy. Instead of ‘integration with preservation of identity’ he called for full blown integration. He was considered the first person to challenge his competition in the integration debate that had previously consisted of a ‘pragmatist discourse’, which was “characterised by technical sophistication, and [pragmatists] argue there is a need for moderation and management rather than passion and drama” (Uitermark, Mepschen & Duyvendak, 2013, p. 238). Prins and Saharso (2008) have marked this intervention the beginning of what the previously introduced “‘new realist’ approach to immigration in the Netherlands” (p. 367). Bolkestein’s commentaries were echoed almost a decade later by Paul Scheffer’s influential and controversial publication ‘The Multiculturalist Drama’32 (Scheffer, 2000). In this opinion piece, Scheffer castigates the leftist elite for closing their eyes to the problematics of unemployment, criminality, and school drop-outs among immigrant groups, which, according to Scheffer, was the sole responsibility of the ‘poldermodel’, the culture of Dutch politicians to govern through compromise and deliberation. Much like Bolkestein, he argued that Islam, due to its refusal to accept the separation of church and state, was fundamentally irreconcilable with Western democracy, and therefore, Dutch society. Scheffer indicated that

reason to stay. Indeed, this policy was chiefly designed not to integrate migrants in the hope that they would leave. 32 Dutch: ‘Het Multiculturele Drama’.

54 immigrant policy should be more proactive in integrating these groups through, for example, Dutch language, history, and culture lessons. After the 11th of September 2001, a new player entered the political scene: critical columnist Pim Fortuyn. In the same vain as Bolkestein, he believed that migrant culture, and more specifically Islam, was not compatible with Modern Dutch society (De Koning, 2016a, p. 31). Pim Fortuyn was murdered on the 6th of May 2002, just over a week before the national parliamentary elections (he was convincingly leading the polls at the time of his death). His murderer turned out to be a lone environmental activist who was apprehended soon after the attack. His motives remain unclear to this date, but his deeds were triggered by the politician’s sudden populist rise (Snel, 2013, p. 128). Fortuyn was one of the first politicians to publicly directly attack the ‘backward religion of Muslims’ “and the threat Islam posed, according to him, to Western values” (p. 128), such as gay rights, and gender equality. His convictions were particularly motivated and endorsed by an anti-immigrant agenda and the national and international media portrayed him as racist and sometimes even fascist. He differed from previous right-winged political parties, by being openly gay and favouring Israel and Judaism. Furthermore, he endorsed values of emancipation and individualism which were previously considered ‘progressive’: “In that sense, Fortuyn presented his populist, conservative, and anti- immigrant movement with a more progressive agenda, the one that has continued to dominate Dutch politics ever since” (p. 128). Johan Snel (2013) noted, that in order to justify his at times offensive criticism Fortuyn invoked the phrase ‘freedom of expression’ as a successful political slogan, a slogan that has now become the flagship of ‘modern secularist society’. The second murder that shaped the Dutch discourse for years to come was the assassination of Theo van Gogh on the 2nd of November 2004 by a young Muslim who had recently joined a group of radical Islamists. He declared in court that he had wanted to punish van Gogh for the production of his film Submission which he made with Somali born (and former Muslim) politician Ayaan Hirsi Ali. The film openly criticises Islam’s treatment of women, and has been regarded as highly provocative by Muslims and non-Muslims alike worldwide. Again, the theme of freedom of expression became relevant, because van Gogh and Hirsi Ali defended their right to express their opinions. Snel (2013) observed that no-one in the Dutch media had opposed Islam with the freedom of expression until the murder of van Gogh: “From now on, however, this idea turned into an almost nationally held conviction” (p. 130). Many media articles, online blogs, public debates, columns and so on now explicitly described Islam as being the ultimate opposite of, and threat to, the so-called freedom of expression.

55 In 2006, Hirsi Ali published her autobiography Infidel.33 Hirsi Ali was born on 13th of November 1969 in Mogadishu, Somalia. After a troublesome childhood, she fled to the Netherlands via Germany where she applied for and obtained refugee status. She worked and improved her education; first social work and later enrolled as a student at Leiden University, acquiring a Master’s degree in political science, after which she started working for the Wiardi Beckman Foundation, a research bureau for the Dutch Labour Party (PvdA). In 2001, after 9/11 she became actively involved in the integration debate, Muslim women’s rights, and voiced strong criticism on the multicultural tolerance of Muslim practices in the West. She particularly addressed the ‘superior Enlightened’ status of Western thought and philosophy, and the need for Islam to undergo the same process of Enlightenment in order to be able to integrate into Western society. With her rising popularity, so also rose her unpopularity, and she started to receive death threats. Hirsi Ali ran for the parliamentary elections in 2002 for the Liberal Party (VVD), and became a member of parliament on preferential votes in 2003. As mentioned above, in 2004 she and Dutch filmmaker Theo van Gogh produced the controversial movie Submission which displayed Muslim women as physically and psychologically abused due to the laws set out in the Quran. It was found highly offensive by Muslims and non-Muslims alike from around the world and Theo van Gogh was consequently murdered on 2nd November 2004. His body was found with a long threatening letter addressed to Hirsi Ali in the style of a fatwa knifed to his body, and for security reasons she spent most of her time under guard in the United States until May 2006. When Hirsi Ali made public that she had lied on her refugee status application that summer, she forced immigration minister Rita Verdonk of the Netherlands to revoke her citizenship. Although this decision was overturned by pressure of the Dutch parliament, it sped up her permanent departure to the United States. Since then, she has worked for various think tanks and is now connected to the Kennedy School of Harvard University. Hirsi Ali’s autobiography and her political utilisation of her ‘native testimonial’ (Mahmood, 2009a) in order to criticise Islam have proven rather influential on the Dutch political spheres. As Snel has noted above, not only did for the first time ‘freedom of expression’ become diametrically opposed with ‘Islam’, Hirsi Ali mobilised this by drawing from her own experiences with ‘Dark Africa and Islam’ and telling this ‘story from within’ to the Dutch public. These were highly effective strategies. Mineke Bosch (2008) argued that the ‘orientalist’ approach as well as the structure of the plot of both her autobiography and her

33 Dutch: Mijn Vrijheid or My Freedom.

56 telling of the story (male, liberal) as addressed to a predominantly Western audience, have greatly contributed to the success and effect of her testimony. Firstly, her depiction of the Muslim woman as abused, beaten, suppressed and helpless (in her testimony as well as her movie) “links up seamlessly with the orientalist images and stories about Islam that are inscribed in Western culture” (Bosch, 2008, p. 144). Secondly, the Enlightenment plot reinforces the idea of Western superiority over the backward Muslim other, a plot that a certain audience could quite easily identify with. Mahmood (2009a) further notes that the power of this narrative, and others like it, lies specifically in the Muslim woman author to embody both the character of ‘insider’ and ‘victim’ simultaneously whilst claiming high levels of veracity. Whilst Mahmood argued against the rhetoric of this genre by debunking its main tenets, it is worth noting the mediation of selves that Hirsi Ali presented. Marc de Leeuw and Sonja van Wichelen (2005) have analysed these selves and roles that Hirsi Ali has adopted in the presentation of her narrative and testimony. They make a distinction between ‘the mediated self as “other”’ and the ‘mediated self as “one of us”’. The former represents “the female exotic other, as insider expert, and as victim of Islamic violence” (p. 330). They note that specifically the media have aestheticised and exoticised her in various photographs and references to her African beauty. She has been represented as pure and innocent. Furthermore, the media (and she herself) have represented her as an expert with inside knowledge of the evils of Islam. The status of victim gives her “an authoritative and powerful voice in resisting the source of that violence” (p. 330). The latter (self as ‘one of us’) represents the liberated, free convert and women’s right activist. “By dedicating her ‘mission’ to being the spokeswoman for ‘silenced’ (…) women, she gathers the support of many people who were disillusioned by earlier Dutch ‘uncommitted’ and corporate ‘consensus’ politics (…)” (p. 330). They add that, lastly, her move from the leftist PvdA labour party to the more right winged liberal VVD party gave her a legitimate voice against the political establishment: “she could legitimately state her discomforts with the way in which the politics of the left have handled the issue of multiculturalism in the past” (p. 330). The political stances portrayed above of Frits Bolkestein, Pim Fortuyn, and Hirsi Ali resonate in the work of other contemporary politicians and critics, most notably Geert Wilders, a right winged politician for the nationalistic Freedom Party (PVV). Wilders has declared on multiple occasions that democracy and Islam are irreconcilable. Despite there being many counter voices in the public and political arena, the dominant discourse remains that of the assimilationists. We may recall that Vellenga (2008b) noted: “We speak of dominance when the representatives of a particular discourse are able to set the agenda of the debate, and other

57 participants are forced to respond to their contribution” (p. 23) and this remains the case today, both in parliament as well as in the (print) media. Vellenga (2008a), in an informative article comparing the public debates developing after two major events (the 7/7 London bombings and the murder of van Gogh in the Netherlands), reckons that the nature of the Dutch debate is ‘more open’.34 Most likely, he is considering what Prins & Soharso referred to as ‘new realism’: “If we ask ourselves whether there is any correspondence between the shifts in the public debate and policy plans, the answer is clearly ‘yes’. New realisms [sic] insistence on Dutch culture as Leitcultur and the reaffirmation of Dutch national identity and values thus achieved a clear translation into public policy” (Prins & Soharso, 2008, p. 371). Uitermark, Mepschen & Duyvendak (2013) labelled the general tendency of opinion makers and politicians to critique the old ‘poldermodel’ or pragmatist discourse, which supposedly “lacked flexibility and was burdened by too many consultative and regulatory structures” (p. 240), as ‘neoculturalism’. “Neoculturalists challenge an entrenched liberal tradition of pragmatist policy and moderate language by marshaling [sic] and organising audiences through affect, focussing on a fear of Islam and distaste with mass immigration” (Uitermark et al., 2013, p.242). Whilst these scholars have coined the term ‘new realism’ in response to the Dutch context, the characteristics mentioned here are visible throughout contemporary Europe, which will be elaborated on later. Another perspective and commentary on the discussion of Islam in the Netherlands as well as social and political developments and debates surrounding this, has been proposed by anthropologist Martijn de Koning. In his somewhat controversial essay35 ‘Een Ideologische Strijd met Islam’36 (2016a) he elaborates on the pivotal role of Pim Fortuyn in the sharpening of the debate and the emerging of ‘new realism’, and more specifically on what he calls ‘the racialisation of Muslims’. Since this idea of ‘racialising religion’ is not only controversial among scholars but also among some of my interlocutors, a word on its uses is warranted. Critical scholars of ‘race’ and racisms, Steve Garner and Saher Selod37 (2014) situate

34 Vellenga’s terminology that the Dutch debate, due to new realism, is rather ‘open’ is somewhat troublesome classification considering that moderate voices in fact may be struggling to be heard, or do not speak out at all anymore. 35 For criticisms see i.a.: De Ruiter (2016), Van het Reve (2016). 36 English: ‘An Ideological Struggle with Islam’. 37 Much has been written in the past decades on ‘Islamophobia’ and ‘racialisation’. I refer to these scholars here now because they give a good overview of the ‘religion is raced’ vs. the ‘religion cannot be raced’ logics, and connect this meaningfully to contestations over ‘Islamophobia’.

58 “racialization as a way to explain and understand Islamophobia, as racism towards a Muslim population”, they continue: “Embracing [racialization] means giving up the conjoined twin false binaries underpinning the fixation that religious affiliations are never to do with the body, and that ‘race’ is only to do with the body” (p. 11, emphasis in original). They argue that historically, racism is not just to do with phenotype as it is often understood these days, but rather, that it has always been comprised of three elements: 1) a set of ideas that assumes that you can ‘divide’ the human race into other ‘races’, 2) a historical power relationship in which certain groups become racialised. That is: “treated as if specific characteristics were natural and innate to each member of the group” (p. 11), and 3) racism comprises forms of discrimination, ranging from limited access to for example the labour market, to genocide. Indeed, as Garner and Selod note, the crux of the problem of the discussion around the terminology of ‘Islamophobia’ and ‘racialisation’ is that its opponents solely base their definition of racism on phenotype. Therefore, religion cannot be raced, or so the argument goes. But if we follow the above trifold definition, we can see that race and racism are not historically based solely on one’s looks, but also on other cultural characteristics, such as religion. Garner and Selod (2014) thereby also point to the way in which this logic now sidesteps the problem of whether a phobia can be directed at a religion (as in, Islamophobia). They summarise: “people (physical bodies) are the ultimate site of racism, even if the path toward those bodies lies through cultural terrain” (p. 12). I paraphrase them when I agree that acknowledging ‘racialisation’ opens up spaces for looking at certain phenomena in real life, such as the experiences of non-Muslims who suffer from Islamophobia (also see, for example: Awan & Zempi, 2018). “Relying on the ‘religion can be raced’ logic, it is the relationship between people, culture and religious observance that constitutes Islamophobia, while racialization provides a concept that enables an understanding of the process of linking them” (Garner & Selod, 2014, p. 14). In the Netherlands, De Koning (2016a) described this process of racialisation through three aspects. Firstly, he observes the idea that lives among politicians and policy makers that migrant cultures form a threat to society and states that this is partially a threat to social peace and cohesion, but increasingly this threat is also related to ‘terrorism’ and violence. Secondly, De Koning recognises the fact that politicians and policy makers make a perpetual distinction between ‘autochtonous’ and ‘allochtonous’ Dutch people which, according to him, concerns a neo-colonial and paternalistic approach between the dominant white majority and certain

59 minorities. Thirdly, De Koning noted that the role and place of religion in society has changed over time. In the recent decades (post-Fortuyn/post-9/11) a change of dominant discourse in relation to categorical assumptions has been witnessed in the form of new realism, as discussed above. In the Netherlands, Haleh Ghorashi (2013) observed that despite the above described trends, there remains a strong resistance towards the term ‘racism’. She further noted that there is a parallel with the 80s. Within the pillarised society, tolerating the other was not so much about respecting and understanding the other’s existential beliefs, rather, it was about tolerating the borders between groups; there was no need for mutual interaction. The same applied to migrant minority groups: they were distantly tolerated but not to be interacted with. After events such as 9/11 and the murder of Theo van Gogh, this distance became a negative distance and Muslims were perceived as a potential danger. The historical indifference about migrants has been, according to Ghorashi, the basis of the categorical thought, and therefore also the justification of contemporary disgruntlement with migrants (own translation/paraphrases). Lastly, those who practice such exclusionary rhetoric outlined above, view themselves as victims and not as perpetrators. They believe they defend what is rightfully theirs, making it unacceptable for them to be accused of racism contributing to the rise of the earlier discussed postracial contemporary. As Ghorashi concludes: “Within this frame of thinking, the discriminatory acts and words towards migrants are legitimised as a natural defence mechanism, making it impossible for them to be viewed as racist. Rather, the use of the term ‘racism’ is viewed as a defence of ungrateful and spoiled migrants and their supporters” (p. 196, my translation). What we see here is how historic and political developments have contributed to the emergence of the postracial contemporary in the Netherlands. The above has shown how racist assumptions about, and discriminatory practices towards, migrant groups have entered the Dutch public spheres, and how in recent years this has primarily become aimed at Muslims and Islam as a group of negative reference through the process of racialisation. In addition to rather openly and dominant anti-Muslim sentiments among politicians and within public debates, other voices are of course responding and partaking in the debate too. I wish to highlight one example here due to their recent engagements with so-called ‘ex- Muslims’ and the Council for ex-Muslims in Britain. VrijLinks38 is an online platform established in 2018 by the means of the publication of a manifesto in response to what they

38 ‘Vrij’ both meaning ‘free’ and ‘rather’, ‘links’ meaning ‘left’.

60 consider the ‘failing regressive left’. Calling for “free and unrestricted debate, a religiously neutral state, secular education for all children, and re-evaluation of individual freedom” (Aynan, Lakerveld, Terstall & Yücel, 2018, my translation), they have copied the responses of British activists who castigate the ‘racism of lowered expectations’ with regards to the approach of the state and specifically the political Left to ‘protect non-Western Dutch’ and who allegedly keep certain (religious or cultural) practices out of the public debate: “Not a single idea, religious or profane, is above critique in the free world. Ideas have no rights, citizens have rights” (Aynan et al., 2018). VrijLinks advocates for what they consider ‘neutral’ absolute secularism: they want to abolish the constitutional right to the freedom of religion, arguing that when secularisation is under pressure, so are personal freedoms, and homophobia, gender inequality and pressure to believe can flourish. By abolishing religion or religious practices from governance and policy, they claim to stand for the absolute equality of all human beings. VrijLinks is a small platform, but one that interestingly adopts rhetoric from British secularists (see chapter 3) and specifically challenges the alleged accommodation (i.e.: ‘racism of lowered expectations’) of Islam, Muslims and ‘non-Western Dutch’. Furthermore, since its conception in July 2018, at the time of writing they had published 18 articles relating to ‘ex-Muslims’, a number of which are explicitly about the British CEMB and other international activists.

Being ‘post-race’ and the construction of ‘Muslim otherness’ in Britain According to the most recent survey by the Office for National Statistics [ONS] (2017), there were around 3.2 million people in England and Wales who identified as Muslim, constituting around 5.7 percent of the population in 2017. This survey also indicated an increase of 1 percent between 2011 and 2017 of those affiliating with Islam. Muslims were also identified to be the largest minority religious group, with the highest representation in London (Tower Hamlets and Newham in particular, with a representation of 40.3 and 43.1 percent Muslim respectively). Other areas with a Muslim population higher than 20 percent included Blackburn with Darwen, Birmingham, Bradford, and Luton. The most recent data on the ethnic composition of British Muslims dates from 2001, when 42.5 percent were of Pakistani descent or origin,16.8 percent Bangladeshi, 8.5 percent Indian, and ‘other white’ 7.5 percent. This last category includes those of Turkish, Arabic, and northern African descent, as well as Eastern Europeans. 6.2 percent of the Muslim population identified as black African, 5.8 percent as ‘other Asian’, and 4.1 percent as British. The ONS 2011 census only registered ethnicity and religion of the non-UK born population in England and Wales.

61 Although historic perspectives on the presence of Muslims in Britain vary, the first consistent settling patterns of Muslim immigration emerged during the 18th century (Ansari, 2004), particularly within certain areas such as Manchester, Liverpool, and some areas of London. From the early 19th century until the end of the Second World War, Muslim immigration was fairly limited and uncoordinated. However, not unlike patterns in the Netherlands, after World War II increasing demands for labour prompted workers to come to the UK (Rehman, 2007). Economic migrants to the British Isles mainly originated from various post-independence Commonwealth countries, and in particular from the South Asian subcontinent. They were mostly unskilled workers who by the 1980s faced problems of unemployment “and more significantly braced alarmingly high levels of racism and social exclusion” (p. 844).39 Whilst the new immigration policy of 1971 led to a drop in migrant workers, in addition to family and marriage resettlement programs, the higher birth rates among immigrant communities and conversions to Islam have contributed, and continue to contribute, to a growing British Muslim population (Orenstein & Weissman, 2016, p. 4).40 Multiculturalism in Britain has had many meanings over the years. From the 60s onward, the island was home to a prominent social movement that advocated minority (and in particular multi-ethnic, anti-racist) citizenship rights “that South Asian, African and Caribbean settlers had due to the legacy of the British Empire, and by the existence of anti-colonial politics in these regions” (Kundnani, 2012, p. 156). These social movements identified ‘black’ people as a political minority and included (and attempted to unify), anyone who had a different cultural history and shared politics of anti-racism. During this time, multiculturalism was either seen by the political establishment as a demographic way of describing a new reality, or as a way of living that was perceived as a reaction to post-War anti-fascism. During the 1980s, large-scale urban disturbances prompted the government to come up with new policies to manage these new multi-ethnic realities rather than merely observing them. As opposed to the Netherlands where multiculturalism remained a descriptive retrospective term rather than an active government policy41 in the UK multiculturalism was

39 Rehman (2007) notes that besides social exclusion, these migrant communities also faced prejudice and discrimination from certain government policies. The Immigration Act of 1971, which established favourable rules for UK citizens with parentage from the British Isles, was criticised as being overtly racist and exclusionary. 40 For an elaborate discussion of the history of Muslims in Britain, see: Ansari (2004). 41 Duyvendak & Scholten (2012) have deconstructed the idea of Dutch multiculturalism, arguing that it has never been a single, coherent or consistent model. Rather, Dutch policy has

62 now implemented as a political ideal to manage cultural diversity. Minority groups were supposed to have ‘cultural outlets’ for their activities. Indeed, in the course of the 80s and 90s, government policy gave considerable autonomy and support for minority groups, passed anti- racism laws, and allowed for education programs to provide sensitivity to cultural diversity: “While never officially formalised by the British government, multiculturalism became, in the words of one specialist, ‘an unwritten constitution’” (Orenstein & Weismann, 2016, p. 4). Kundnani (2012) observed that by the end of the 80s two different interpretations of multiculturalism could be identified: that of top-down multiculturalism which was primarily about managing communities and that of the bottom-up political struggle of minority groups.

For the former, culture and ethnicity were the main ways in which minority identity was conceived, while blackness as a positive political identity was seen as problematic. For the latter, the growing focus among the intellectual Left of the 1980s on cultural and ethnic differences as key sites of liberatory struggle led to the notion of a shared black political identity increasingly coming to be seen as passé. (p. 157)

In addition, Falkenhayner (2014) noted that the ‘black activism’ movement pleaded for racial equality: “Nevertheless, demands for the acceptance of cultural difference took precedence over demands for political equality by the mid-1980s” (p. 14). The discourse of universal citizenship as giving everyone in society the same status, thereby linking it to equality, had become criticised (also see: Young, 1989).42 In contemporary society, Falkenhayner contends, instead of a collective socio-political ‘black’ minority, in the past decades it has become the British Muslim who can be identified as a distinct quasi-ethnicity or political collective identity (p. 14). What changed, and more importantly, how could this change occur? According to Falkenhayner, dominant identification markers such as ethnicity or religion change over time, and with media events which can function as catalysts. One of such events was the Rushdie affair. Whilst disagreement with

been characterised by “problem framing, frame-shifts and frame conflicts” (p. 266) which point to the shifting focus of integration politics since the 1970s depending on periods of relative stability or instability. They argue that Dutch policies have not only been incoherent over time, but also contradicting each other. 42 Also see Orenstein & Weismann (2016) on ‘British Secular Muslims’ and their critique of multiculturalism for creating “mutually hostile communities controlled by conservative religious leaders” (p. 1).

63 multicultural policies had already come under scrutiny before 1989, it was not until the publication of Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses in ’88, the Muslim reaction that followed in the form of protests worldwide, including the Netherlands, culminating in the Bradford Bookburning in 1989,43 and finally the fatwa pronounced by Iranian leader Ayatollah Khomeini, that prominent MP’s and commentators collectively attacked Muslims as a minority and criticised multiculturalism for allowing ‘fundamentally different anti-liberal’ people (i.e. Muslims) to live and thrive in Britain. Jill Tweedie (as cited in Orenstein & Weismann, 2015), liberal commentator for The Independent, stated that the multiculturalist philosophy:

was predicated on the expectation that the minorities would also demonstrate tolerance, and the implicit belief that all manifestations of cultural diversity would be benign. It is becoming disturbingly apparent that this is not the case. The time has therefore come for an examination of how a tolerant, multi-cultural society should handle the intolerant behaviour on the part of a minority. (p. 4)

The Rushdie affair, the media attention it was given, the Bradford book burning, and the consequential depiction of a ‘new’ minority group in the press allowed for the recognition or even creation of the figure of the British Muslim. Of course, the construction of social representations can only take place through history and its players. In the case of the British Muslim, the previous distinctive categories of race, ethnicity, and religion to describe the ‘other’ had become collated into ‘religion’ (Falkenhayner, 2014). That is, in an effort to diversify race from its post-colonial history and interpretation, figures of ethnicity were constructed. However, to even further diversify these figures, (e.g. Asian into Indian, Bangladeshi, Pakistani), religious divides were made, especially since Muslims had become visible as a minority group after the Rushdie affair. Paradoxically, after the Rushdie affair and Bradford Bookburning, all figures or representations of ethnically and racially diverse people were grouped into a single religion, Islam (Modood, 2013). As briefly discussed above, in the Netherlands, the Rushdie affair had a similar effect by for the first time showing images of violent Muslim men burning books, which according to commentators indicated the

43 After the publication of The Satanic Verses, some British Muslims became increasingly angry about its contents, leading to a group of men to burn copies of the book in the City of Bradford in January 1989. The pictures that were taken gained international attention, outraging liberals and stirring strong sentiments among Muslims.

64 irreconcilability of ‘modern’ Western values of freedom of speech with non-Western Islamic values of blasphemy.44 Another event that led to a wave of commentary regarding the multiculturalist discourse in the UK were the Bradford Riots in July 2001. In reaction to a far-right march in the centre of the city, Muslims took the streets and violently protested, leading to the injury of various policemen and considerable damage to property. This instigated the debate concerning ‘integration’ as well as the adaptation of a policy strategy that promoted ‘community cohesion’ and ‘inter-communal interaction’ (Cantle, 2001). Also, the concept of ‘Britishness’ was introduced; questions about what British values were and what citizenship meant were raised. Not long after the riots, the 9/11 attacks in the United States put increasing strain on Muslim and non-Muslim relations world-wide, but especially in the UK due to the country’s active participation in the US led ‘War on Terror’ in the Middle East. Rehman (2007) notes that:

[t]he deficit of maturity, foresight, and transparency in British foreign policy since the 11 September 2001 has antagonised all segments of Muslim minority communities. Anger and infuriation have been translated into demonstrations, protests, and violent dissent and were a contributing factor behind the 7 July bombings. (p. 857)

After the 9/11 attacks, the American Bush administration was committed to retaliation against Al Qaeda which led the coalition of the US, the UK, and their allies to proceed with the bombings of Afghanistan on the 7th of October 2001, less than four weeks after the 9/11 attacks. Consequently, back in the UK “the allied aerial campaign accompanied by evidence of indiscriminate bombardment and civilian casualties, presented an unfortunate development for the Muslim minorities of Britain” (p. 859). Indeed, many British Muslims (and non- Muslims) opposed the military operations even before the extent of the atrocities and human rights violations had become fully apparent.

44 It should be noted that whilst considerable significance is given to the Rushdie affair in constructing images of ‘Muslims’ in the media and public discourse, its actual propelling power should not be overestimated. In my opinion, instead of the affair being a producing event, it was rather a symptom of tensions already in the making through larger macro structures such as the fall of communism and the ‘East’ as the unifying enemy, as well as the rise of the Islamic Revival. However, the images propelled in the affair’s wake are noted for their symbolic power and are considered constitutive and contributive of the stereotyped imageries found in media and political discourses.

65 The second war that had come under scrutiny from the British public, was the invasion of Iraq in March 2003. It is now known that the justification of the invasion that Saddam Hussein was in the possession of Weapons of Mass Destruction was fallacious. Furthermore, arguments that human rights were violated by Hussein and that the population should therefore be ‘liberated’ was considered a double standard, since it had not been raised as an issue up to this point. Additionally, the national policy in light of the 9/11 attacks consisted of considerable ‘draconian measures’, including the incarceration and detention of individuals without trial. Numerous terror suspects in the UK were held for years without trial by the authorities, in violation of international human rights laws leading to anger and vexation among the British populace in general, and the Muslim community in particular. These phenomena and events are closely interrelated in the discursive production of secular and religious spheres. However, whilst they received plenty media coverage and were publicly discussed, did not influence the public discourse in the Netherlands as much, since the Netherlands were not part of the coalition that invaded Iraq. One last event and its aftermath are particularly relevant for the UK context. On the 7th of July 2005 (more commonly referred to as 7/7), four ‘backpack’ bombs exploded on a bus and on the London Underground, killing 52 people and injuring over 700. Four suicide bombers were later identified as Mohammad Sidique Khan, Germaine Lindsay, Hasib Hussain, and Shehzad Tanweer. Three out of four terrorists were born in the UK, one was a Jamaican born convert, and none had previous records with the authorities. This event, its perpetrators, and its historic situation allowed for the conceptualisation of ‘an enemy from within’.45 What had previously been a foreign stranger posing a threat to British society, such as the communists during the Cold War or Osama bin Laden in Afghanistan, had now become an unseen enemy that was ‘living among us’46 although in the immediate aftermath, politicians did make a distinction between ‘Muslim terrorists’ and the vast majority of Muslims who

45 Peter Oborne, journalist and broadcaster (2008), commented on this phenomenon in The Independent, noting how the narrative of demonising Muslims within has become entrenched in British media and public debate since the terrorist attacks of 9/11 and 7/7. 46 For example, Max Hastings, commentator for the Daily Mail, in his 2013 article exemplifies the trend of describing the threat from within. He published his opinion piece after the Lee Rigby killing by two men who had lived ‘in the midst of our peaceful, decent society’ for years (Hastings, 2013).

66 detested the attacks and any form of violence or terrorism.47 Then Prime Minister Tony Blair as well as London Mayor Ken Livingstone responded in the same spirit and called for unity among British citizens. However, “[t]he London Underground bombings (…) were another blow to non-Muslim-Muslim relations, confirming the image of the latter as a security threat that required monitoring and surveillance” (Orenstein & Weismann, 2016, p. 4-5). Indeed, media and politics continued to position Muslims as ‘the other’, a conception which rested on two arguments: first, the increasing realisation or perception that Muslim demands for certain policies and values were irreconcilable with British values or ‘Britishness’, and second, the rise of Islamic extremism and violence. Orenstein and Weismann (2016) observed that multiculturalism was often not only seen as the cause of social unrest and political disagreements, but also as a cause of security issues and threats to British society. Whilst critiques on the multiculturalist policies have existed since before the Rushdie affair, not in the least from the ‘black activist’ movement itself, multiculturalism had been continuously implemented as a proactive, and in more recent years, inclusive policy of Britishness. Blair’s and Brown’s New Labour government, which was in power from 1997 until 2010, remained convinced in both speeches and policy that the multiculturalist approach was the right way forward. One and a half years after the 7/7 attacks, on the 8th of December 2006, Blair deepened his convictions and analysis in a lecture, defending multiculturalism in the UK. “He stated that the problem of the terrorist attacks in London was not a function of ‘a flawed theory of multicultural society’ but of a ‘a particular ideology that arises within one religion at this one time’” (as cited in Vellenga, 2008a, p. 460; Osler, 2009). As noted above, the Prime Minister’s approach was criticised for ignoring the connection of the terrorist threat and home-grown Islamism with the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan, and secondly because it failed to reject multiculturalism. Many critics, such as British scholar Gurharpal Singh (2005), American commentator William Pfaff, and French scholar Gilles Kepel noted that with the 7/7 bombings, multiculturalism had officially died (also see: Vellenga, 2008a; Orenstein & Weismann, 2016). From within Blair’s own government, Trevor Phillips, Chair of the Commission for Racial Equality [CRE] at the time, warned in response to Blair’s lectures that Britain was “sleepwalking (…) to segregation. We are becoming strangers to each other, and we are leaving communities to be marooned outside

47 See Margaretha A. van Es (2018; 2019) for an elucidation on the responsibility placed on Muslims by the secular majority that in order to be considered ‘good’ or acceptable’, one has to actively renounce terrorist violence perpetrated in the name of Islam.

67 the mainstream” (as cited in Osler, 2009, p. 89). He argued that the denial of the elite to recognise that society was still highly segregated only reinforced inequality. He, along with Tony Blair and later Gordon Brown, argued for a focus on ‘common values’ that bind society; diverse lifestyles are compatible with common values that are fully accepted within British society, according to him. Audrey Osler (2009) has noted, that a backlash of his critique was that media commentators and the public alike, utilised his claims to back an argument for assimilation, and moreover, used this approach to portray Muslims as a homogeneous group threatening ‘our values’ (p. 90). The strongest opposition to Tony Blair and the then dominant pro-multiculturalist discourse came from the far right British National Party [BNP] led by Nick Griffin. The BNP has a strong nationalist and anti-immigrant (and more specifically anti-Islam) focus. In a leaflet, they described Islam as a threat to ‘mainstream’ society and ‘British culture, heritage and ways of life’ (BNP, 2005). The BNP was heavily opposed by most mainstream parties for being xenophobic and hate preaching. However, Vellenga (2008a) has noted that the dominant discourse in the aftermath of the 7/7 bombings in London was that of the multiculturalists, pleading for the transformation of British multiculturalism, a policy of inclusion, and a re- establishment of ‘Britishness’ through the education system. However, this debate was commonly considered one sided: any criticism on the multiculturalist approach of inclusion was ignored or corrected by the political establishment, in particular members of the ruling Labour party. As opposed to the Netherlands where by now ‘new realism’ was a political reality, so-called political correctness was still considered a virtue in the UK, “and kept alive by prominent figures in British society” (p. 462). However, various cases that were linked to the multiculturalist ‘politically correct’ paradigm had come under public scrutiny, which, according to prominent policy makers, were considered problematic; almost always these were cases associated with Muslims or Muslim customs (Kundnani, 2012). For example, women’s veiling practices were publicly criticised, a discussion which reached its height when cabinet minister Jack Straw in 2006, a year after Phillips’ remarks, commented on the fact that a Muslim woman wore the niqab to a meeting in his constituency. He expressed his discomfort with speaking to a person who covered her whole face. He described the veil as: “visible statement of separation and difference” (Straw, 2006). This notion is an example of how, according to some, ‘Britishness’ and Islam are irreconcilable. Although I will elaborate on issues of gender and sexual politics below, for now it suffices to say that after the 7/7 bombings, the discourse regarding integration, and specifically Muslims, began to change from a uniform multiculturalist approach to one that

68 questioned this policy and philosophy, particularly in light of the perceived problematic of reconciling or including Islam with ‘Britishness’. As noted above, criticism of the multicultural discourse and policy increased after the London Bombings and was acknowledged by the new Conservative Prime Minister David Cameron who had won the national elections in 2010, ending 13 years of Labour governance. Cameron announced in February 2011 that multiculturalism had failed. According to Cameron, British society now consisted of segregated communities which lead to an increasing number of young Muslims to be attracted by violent Islamist extremism. He suggested that in order to counter this, new policies should be implemented which were to promote British values in all sectors of society, whilst respecting and tolerating other religions and cultures. (Orenstein & Weismann, 2016, p. 5; also see: Meer, Dwyer & Modood, 2010). This inclusionary policy that sought to renew British identity or ‘Britishness’ was not entirely new but despite its prominence and attempted implementation in the late New Labour years under Gordon Brown, it was not until the Tory government was elected that it had become the dominant discourse especially within schools.48 The promotion of Britishness remains contested; its opponents find that the concept of Britishness, as much as the concept of Englishness, is heavily racially biased. The Commission on the Future of Multi-Ethnic Britain [CMEB] summarised:

Britishness, as much as Englishness, has systematic, largely unspoken, racial connotations. (…) Britain confronts a historic choice as to its future direction. Will it try to turn the clock back, digging in, defending old values and ancient hierarchies, relying on a narrow English-dominated, backward looking definition of the nation? (CMEB, 2000)

It has been argued, not only by the CMEB, that the new policy of inclusion in combination with the postracial contemporary has resulted in a juxtaposition of that what is non-Muslim and good, with that which is Muslim and bad, or that what is a British national identity with multiculturalism (Meer, Dwyer & Modood, 2012, p. 94; Osler 2009, p.90-91; Smith, 2016; Uberoi & Modood, 2013). In recent years, other terrorist attacks such as in Manchester and London in 2017 have increased anxieties towards and among British Muslims. Furthermore, the election of Donald

48 For early commentary see: Andrews & Mycock 2008. For a recent evaluation of the construct of ‘Britishness’ as policy and exclusionary force especially in education see: Smith 2016.

69 Trump in the United States, the Brexit vote, the international rise of extreme right groups (Hungary, Austria, and Germany are but a few examples) have created spaces for an increase in Islamophobic hate crime that has been unprecedented since 9/11 (Awan & Zempi, 2018). Imran Awan and Irene Zempi have recently empirically investigated the racialized position of Muslims, in their analysis of the narratives of non-Muslim men suffering from Islamophobic hate crime in the post-Brexit era. Their interlocutors indicated they saw a drastic increase since the Brexit vote, as one of them commented: “On Facebook, someone wrote on my timeline ‘Shouldn’t you be on a plane back to Pakistan? We voted for you being out.’” (Awan & Zempi, 2018, p. 8). Their interlocutors further identified Trump’s election and ‘ISIS inspired terrorist attacks’ as triggers for Islamophobic hate crime geared towards them. Not only do these findings indicate a more violent climate towards Muslims, but also, they confirm the racialized nature of the figure of ‘the Muslim other’ in Britain. In sum, whilst indeed the contemporary dominant discourses in the Islam debate both in the Netherlands and in the UK is the pro-assimilationist, anti-multiculturalist, new realist, postracial contemporary discourse, the previous sections have attempted to describe the different trajectories and particularities of each country towards such a paradigm. It is important to note that this discourse did not become dominant (again) until the late 2000s in the UK, whilst in the Netherlands it has been a more common feature of politics since the 1990s. These dominant discourses become more pronounced when considering gender specific issues in the debate. Nisha Kapoor and Virinder S. Kalra (2013) in their introduction to The State of Race summarise rather crudely but illustratively the construction of the Muslim other in Europe as follows:

Much work was done to construct the figure of the ‘terrorist threat’ which encompassed drawing on age-old notions of the oriental Muslim; the male simultaneously barbaric, pre-modern, hyper-aggressive and hyper-sexualised, whilst also displaying homophobic and patriarchal tendencies denying the Muslim woman - veiled, submissive and without her own agency - the rights and freedoms deemed the foundations of liberal, democratic civilisations. (p. 2)

To illustrate the importance of gender specific issues in the debate on Islam in general and the racialisation of Muslims in particular, the following section will comparatively elaborate on sexual politics, veiling practices as well as the debates surrounding them, honour crime, and gender specific policies in both the UK and the Netherlands.

70

Gender, Sexual Freedom, Secularism, and Islam With regards to the different discourses concerning the public, political, and media Islam debate in both the UK and the Netherlands, the gendering and sexualising of these discourses should be discussed. Oskar Verkaaik and Rachel Spronk (2011) note that sexuality and religion “may be called mirror discourses of the authentic to the extent that the most heated identity politics revolves around these issues” (p. 86). Considering the discursive production of religion by the secular, we may similarly consider the secularist discursive production of how citizens ought to think about sexuality, especially because of its political appropriation in policy. It will become clear that, whilst there is a similar tendency of both countries’ discourses to discuss these matters in terms of gendered stereotypes, there are also significant differences in the manners in which these are appropriated. Lila Abu-Lughod, in her influential book on the question of whether Afghan women ‘need saving’ (2013), observed the neo-colonial tendency of politicians and feminists alike to utilise the alleged aim to liberate Afghan women from their shackles of the Taliban regime and the veils that were symbolic of this suppression, as an excuse to invade the country. The construction of the Muslim woman as a victim of oppression was indeed a key argument in the invasion of Afghanistan after the 9/11 attacks by the US, the UK, and their allies. This image of the suppressed female Other has penetrated European national contexts and public debates: the bodies of women are now contested over, and juxtaposed with ‘modernity’ and national identity. Heidi Safia Mirza (2013) argued:

[I]n the virulent discourses of Islamophobia and multiculturalism in contemporary Europe, the banning of the face veil does not represent a concern with the Muslim women’s human rights and social conditions, as is often invoked. Instead, it constitutes a post-modern reworking of the heroic colonial stance, only now ‘White men and women are seen to be saving Muslim women from Muslim men!’ (p. 100)

Mirza referred to the famous, rather cynical words of Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (1988), who described neo-colonial practices as ‘white men saving brown women from brown men’. In contemporary Europe, the dominant discourse surrounding the veil debates have shifted from an international neo-colonialist tendency, which wishes to liberate the Oriental Other, to a

71 desire that claims to liberate Muslim women by forcing them to unveil.49 Now, “the debate about the hijab is effectively no longer about ‘liberation’ – despite the claims of some liberal feminist journalists – but a reflection of the anxiety over perceived threats to ‘national culture’, ‘our way of life’ and the very future of the nation” (Williamson & Khiabany, 2010, p.93). Whilst these topics are extensively discussed throughout Europe, there are national particulars to these debates, both historically as well as politically. The following sections will attempt to elaborate on sexual politics and gender-specific discussions in both the UK and the Netherlands. Firstly, it will discuss ‘the sexular’, the role of homosexuality and alleged sexual freedom and how, particularly in the Netherlands, it has been utilised to emphasise the supposed irreconcilability of Islam with secular liberalism. Secondly, it will provide some examples of how especially in the UK the bodies and gender specific characteristics and conflations of Muslim men and women have been created to juxtapose Islam with national identity. Lastly, it will examine the role of policy making concerning gender specific issues in minority Muslim communities by exemplifying how the secularist discourse simultaneously defines itself as well as the religious spheres, in name of sexual equality and freedom. It is a desire to define itself, which goes hand in hand with a desire to mould, change and define the religious (i.e. Muslim) other and the confines of its spaces.

Dutch ‘sexularism’ and its British other An elaborate historic explanation of the normalisation of gay sexuality, emancipation, and sexual freedom in both the Netherlands and the UK is beyond the scope of this chapter. However, it is pertinent to note their recent utilisation by neoculturalist and populist politics, especially in the Netherlands. Furthermore, the defining of sexual freedom as an intrinsic ‘modern’ value often at the expense of religious freedom should be examined since it may be a prominent theme in the motivations for former Muslims to have left their faith (Cottee, 2015; chapter 5). Sexual politics have been touched upon a few times in the previous sections, however, it is worth elaborating on the subject considering the univocal stance of the Dutch political spectrum as well as the position of the public and politics in the UK on issues of gender, sexual freedom, and emancipation.

49 As noted before, some of the motives to make Muslim women take of the veil are to reassert ‘Britishness’, to protect what is ‘ours’ and to secure ‘our values’. Also see Shirin Amir- Moazami’s (2013; 2016) work on how the constitution of what is deemed appropriately religious by the secular simultaneously defines what secular spaces (and bodies) ought to look like.

72 In 2009, Joan W. Scott coined the term ‘sexularism’ to point to a particular constellation of sexuality and secularism (Scott, 2009; also see Scott, 2017). In what is to follow, I will give a brief overview of the recent scholarship that has appeared in the past decade on especially Dutch ‘sexularism’. Jelle Wiering (2017) convincingly and empirically illustrates a particular formation of a ‘sexular body’ which he traces back to the 1960s, in which not only cultural secularisation and depillarisation (also see Bracke, 2013) took place, but also that this went hand in hand with the ‘sexual liberation’ movement (Verkaaik & Spronk, 2011). This is a dominant narrative in the Dutch conscience which is prevalent until today, and the effects of which will be outlined below. Uitermark, Mepschen & Duyvendak (2013) argued that sexual politics have come to play an increasingly important role within identity politics, new realism, and neoculturalism: “Discourses of feminist and sexual progress have been pivotal to the ascent and growing entrenchment of neoculturalist perspectives in the Netherlands” and “Muslim immigration is delineated as a threat to the stability of the Dutch progressive and moral order” (p. 242). As Judith Butler (2008) noted, the claim that (sexual) freedom is appropriated by state discourses as being privileged to the modern nation, is done so “to produce distinct notions of sexual minorities and distinct communities of new immigrants within a temporal trajectory that makes Europe and its state apparatus into the avatar of both freedom and modernity” (p. 2). Uitermark et al. (2013) similarly commented that the neoculturalists have positioned the liberal, progressive, and Dutch cultural and sexual freedoms against a ‘knowable’ other, the conservative, restricted, fundamentalist, traditional Muslim. These classifications and terminology bind the neoculturalists discourse with pro-gay activism and feminist progressive politics, whilst by doing so, associating any solidarity with Muslims with homophobia and conservatism. Interestingly, the Netherlands are quite unique in doing so as Jan Willem Duyvendak explained:

Where in other countries the autochthonous public and political opinion itself is heavily divided on issues of gender and most definitely (homo)sexuality, in the Netherlands the entire autochthonous political spectrum supports progressive values. Political parties that thus far had not stood out by their support of women’s or homosexual emancipation, now pose as the champions of equality on the basis of gender and sexual preference. (as cited in Van Stokkum, 2009, p. 156, my translation)

73 However, neoculturalists in the Netherlands have successfully claimed the values of sexual progress and emancipation as their own, and more importantly, have bombarded ‘Islam’ to be equal to fundamentalist and traditionalist Islamic views on sexual freedom, homosexuality, and gender (in)equality. As mentioned above, the politician Pim Fortuyn capitalised sexual progress as an essential Dutch value, by being openly gay whilst actively opposing Islam and describing Muslims as ‘backward’. It was this combination of conservative views on immigration and progressive sexual values that reshaped the Dutch political climate. Fortuyn’s approach gave way for a definition of who ‘we the Dutch’ were, as well as a definition of who ‘they, the cultural and threatening other’ were. Anthropologist Peter van der Veer summarised: “Fortuyn capitalized on the trope of sexual freedom as inherently Dutch and was pivotal in ingraining it deeper into the Dutch self-image” (as cited in Mepschen, Duyvendak & Tonkens, 2010), thereby shaping the dominant assimilationist discourse. One example that had deepened the divide in the Netherlands, paved the way for Pim Fortuyn, and helped place the issue on the political and public agenda, is the case of Imam Khalil El-Moumni. El-Moumni proclaimed on Dutch national television that homosexuality was dangerous and a disease in 2001: “[t]he imam had trodden on one of the cornerstones of Dutch cultural self-representation” (Mepschen et al., 2010, p. 967). This affair led to increased public interest of the issue, with a wave of commentaries from politics and publicists, as well as public polls, as noted by Baukje Prins, indicating that 91 per cent of respondents agreed that ‘newcomers should tolerate our tolerance or should leave’ (Prins cited in Mepschen et al., 2010, p. 967). In the commentaries that followed, simplistic comparisons were made in which allegedly basic Dutch values of tolerance and liberalism were opposed to El Moumni’s views.50 Muslims were afforded no place in this debate on homosexuality, whereas several prominent Dutch publicists51 had previously publicly opposed ‘public display of queerness’ whilst in 2001, after El-Moumni’s statements, many purported that gay rights were exemplary of Dutch

50 However, Mepschen et al. (2010) note that only three years before this controversy, public homosexuality was not at all commonly accepted by (white male) Dutch commentators (p.967). 51 E.g. Sylvain Ephimenco and Gerry van der List, both columnists, both in 1998 openly opposed man to man love (see Ephimenco’s columns in De Groene Amsterdammer that year whilst Gerry van der List controversially published his column ‘Een Amsterdamse Orgie’/’An Orgy in Amsterdam’ in De Volkskrant in August ‘98), but in 2001 both openly criticised Muslims, and in particular El Moumni, who condemned homosexuality. According to Ephimenco, ‘Islam is now a disease’ (Ephimenco, 2001).

74 traditional values.52 Commentators popularly wanted to make it appear that with the appearance of Pim Fortuyn and new realism on the political stage, in fact homophobia in the Netherlands had factually disappeared from the wider (non-Muslim) society. Of course, what such changes in public representation of opinion merely highlight is simply how in the dominant discourse it was no longer accepted for opinion makers and commentators to express homophobic sentiments. Since Fortuyn’s death, sexual politics have continuously been invoked when discussing issues relating to immigration. Ayaan Hirsi Ali addressed what, in her eyes, were the problematics of gender inequality in Muslim culture in the Netherlands and beyond, and Geert Wilders insists on the causal relationship between anti-gay violence and Moroccan culture and cultural diversity. “It has become almost impossible to discuss lesbian and gay emancipation without it being associated with migration and the ‘problem’ of multiculturalism” (Uitermark et al., 2013, p. 245). This has led to the problematic that “taking up the defence of lesbian and gay rights and public gayness comes to be associated with Islamophobia, while solidarity with Muslims against Islamophobia is represented, especially by the populist right, as trivialising or even supporting ‘Muslim’ homophobia” (Mepschen et al., 2010, p. 965; Also see: Butler, 2008).53 However, it should be noted that ‘Dutch’ society is still rather homophobic itself, and the framing of homophobia as merely a Muslim or migrant problem is indeed unfounded. Of course, within the political sphere there are voices that attempt to combine the pragmatist views with sexual progressive values, however, they appear to respond to the neoculturalist dominant discourse of ‘Muslims as backward and against sexual liberties’, indicating the assimilationist, new realist, neoculturalist discourse remains dominant (Mepschen, 2018).

52 These examples are an interesting illustration of Butler’s (2008) discussion of the problematic of ‘time’ in discussing sexual politics: “there can be no consideration of sexual politics without a critical consideration of the time of the now” (p. 2). She believes that all our conceptions of progressive narratives are informed by spatial and temporal presuppositions which “inform various parochial, if not structurally racist, political optimisms of various kinds” (p. 2). Indeed, as we can witness with the commentators in 1998 vs. their commentary in 2001, the circumstances that inform their opinions are evident: “What is happening now is bound up with a certain geo-political restriction on imagining the relevant borders of the World” (p. 2). 53 An interesting development in this regard is the alignment of the Council for Ex-Muslims in Britain with the LGBTQ+ movement in the UK and beyond, as well as the charges of ‘Islamophobia’ made against them for their yearly appearance at London Pride since 2017. Their signs reading ‘Allah is Gay’ and ‘There is no God but Allah Love’ for example, were considered to exclude Muslims from the inclusive character of PRIDE London.

75 Butler (2008) has noted that the appropriation of values of freedom as being intrinsically part of a modernity project leads to the coercion of immigrants, and in particular Muslims, to abide by such values. She exemplified the immigration policy of the Netherlands in particular, in which a test is given to those wishing to apply for citizenship, which explicitly asks how one should behave when witnessing two men kissing.54 The respondent is asked whether this is thought to be offensive, or whether they are understood to express personal liberty, and whether the respondents would be acceptant of such practices. Butler rightfully asked the question:

Does the exam become the means for testing tolerance or does it carry out an assault against religious minorities, part of a broader effort on the part of the state to demand coercively that they rid themselves of their traditional religious beliefs and practices in order to gain entry into the Netherlands? (Butler, 2008 p. 5, emphasis added)

This type of policies show that it is not merely the neoculturalists who have appropriated the values of sexual freedom in order to establish a dominant and superior culture over the ‘backward’ Muslim other. Coercively, the state demands its new citizens to adopt a set of values before they acquire rights of citizenship:

Within this framework the freedom of personal expression, broadly construed, relies upon the suppression of a mobile and contestatory understanding of cultural difference, and that the issue makes clear how state violence invests in cultural homogeneity as it applies its exclusionary policies to rationalize state policies towards Islamic immigrants. (p. 5)

Butler therefore noted that first of all, a certain paradox becomes evident: the struggle for sexual freedom will be at the expense of certain religious freedoms. Secondly, the uncritical domain of culture of liberal freedoms rely on a hegemonic understanding of a culture called ‘modernity’. Whilst Butler further argues for overcoming these mutual exclusions, for now it

54 This was a question in the first versions of the ‘Inburgeringsexamen’ or citizenship test that was approved in 2007. Currently, gender equality and freedom of religion are more prominent, to which the preferred answers are that one actively promotes such values in conversation and social situations. For recent demonstrative examples, the reader can take a mock citizenship- test online here: http://www.oefenexamensduo.nl/portal/appmodules/examen/navigeer.ctrl

76 suffices to take note of the policies and assumed hegemonic understanding of sexual freedom and modernity over religious freedom and ‘Islam’ apparent in the Dutch context. In the UK, the relationship between sexual politics, secular freedom, and Islam is different from that of the Netherlands described above, on three levels. Firstly, sexual freedom or LGBTQ+ rights have not been priority spear points on political parties’ agendas or manifestos. In other words, sexual politics have not as prominently entered politics in the UK as they have in the Netherlands. Chaney (2013), in his examination of party manifestos for general elections in the United Kingdom between 1945 and 2011 has observed that although parties had become increasingly aware of LGBTQ+ voters and, therefore, court them more in their electoral programs, they do so in a limited and reductive manner. Chaney concluded that elements of institutionally homophobic practice are still common in contemporary electoral politics in the UK. According to him, international human rights laws and statutes are limitedly recognised by electoral programs. Secondly, because progressive sexual politics have not prominently entered the political arena, being pro sexual freedom and gender equality is not necessarily the default mode of politicians and party members. Whilst a slow turning of the tide can be witnessed,55 the voting records of, for example, the candidates to take over the conservative leadership from David Cameron after the Brexit vote, on certain gay rights laws were openly both pro and con.56 Indeed, some of those conservatives who affiliate with certain Christian or evangelical churches, may have voted in the past and continue to vote today, against issues such as gay marriage and equality rights (Roberts, 2013). Thirdly, homophobia is not primarily associated with the Muslim community, rather, it appears on and is associated with most levels of society. Whilst studies show that homophobia in British society is declining (e.g. Clements & Field, 2014), it also shows, for example, that in 2013 18% of Brits reckoned that ‘homosexuality is a way of life that should not be accepted by society’ (p. 528). The study, which compares polling data on British attitudes towards

55 Theresa May, whilst having a track record of voting against gay and equality rights in the past has more recently publicly declared her commitment to LBGTQ issues (Mortimer, 2017). 56 Boris Johnson, who took over Conservative Leadership from Theresa May in July 2019 shows a similar track record. Whilst recently having voted in favour of, for example, the equal marriage act, some 20 years ago he wrote insultingly about “tank-topped bumboys” and publically opposed and ridiculed Labour policy which sought LGBTQ+ inclusive curricula in schools (Tatchell, 2019). These changes in conceptions are similar to the Dutch conservative columnists.

77 homosexuality over the past decades, further found that in 2012 26% of the population would feel fairly to very uncomfortable if a homosexual individual would become prime-minister (p. 535). In the case of the UK, homophobia is generally associated with various parts of society such as sports,57 conservatism, right winged political parties, conservative Christianity, and indeed also, Muslims. However, when it is associated with the Muslim community, it is mostly self-directed homophobia. As Tim Stanley has noted in an opinion piece in The Telegraph, “Islam does have a problem with homosexuality, but so do Western conservatives” (Stanley, 2016). The reasons for these differences with the Dutch discourse are threefold. First of all, in the Netherlands, whilst not free of societal non-Muslim homophobia, sexual freedom became a political spear point when Pim Fortuyn gained popularity and he introduced the association of homophobia with Islam. This lead to an assumption of irreconcilability of the ‘own’ Dutch values with ‘their’ Islam. Secondly, the above-mentioned policies that have been implemented in the Dutch immigration process are an indication of an intrinsic desire to assert the assimilation of the religious spheres in terms of sexual freedom. Thirdly – and in contrast – in the UK, opposition of sexual freedom and homosexuality are contested within the political domain and are associated not only with Islam, but for example also common in Christian circles, within the conservative party, and in the sports arena. In sum, whilst sexual politics are also discussed in the UK within the Islam debate, the emphasis is somewhat different than the univocal stance of Dutch politicians and opinion makers on sexual freedom and values. In the UK, the discussion gravitates more towards the debate on policy and multiculturalism as well as media representations of supposedly oppressive Muslim men and submissive Muslim women in opposition to ‘Britishness’, rather than the juxtaposition of particular beliefs or values of the Muslim ‘other’ with secular liberal ideas of sexuality and freedom. The following section will provide some examples in which the opposition of gender specific characteristics with Britishness has been expressed by politicians, media, and opinion makers. Abu-Lughod (2013) and Mirza (2013) have analysed the neo-colonialist desire to ‘save’ Muslim women from Muslim men. In the UK, this phenomenon has shifted from an international critique on the Afghanistan invasion (Abu-Lughod, 2013) to a national concern of supposedly Muslim women being vulnerable and submissive and in need of liberating from the barbaric, suppressive, aggressive, and medieval Muslim man. In the Netherlands, whilst

57 A parliamentary report in 2012 found that the primary form of racism on the football pitch is homophobia. House of Commons Culture, Media & Sport Committee (2012).

78 similar topics have been discussed in the public sphere, the tone and concerns were more geared towards a desire for religious neutrality in public spaces.58

Veil debates in Britain and the Netherlands In order to illustrate how hegemonic and often dogmatic understandings of gender have informed the public debate on Islam in both the Netherlands and the United Kingdom, this section will briefly elaborate on one particular discussion that has taken a prominent position within the public discourse throughout Europe: the veil debate. Firstly, as mentioned above, in the UK the debate transitioned from an international concern over the liberation of Afghan women to a national debate in 2006 when on the 5th of October 2006 Jack Straw published his weekly column in the Lancashire Telegraph. He openly discussed his reservations with the veiling practices of some Muslim women who visited his office, which were twofold. The first was interpersonal: the removal of the face-veil would allow him to engage more effectively, since conversations held with a woman wearing the face-veil could not be ‘face to face’. The second reason was on a societal level: face veils were “a visible statement of separation and difference” that made “better possible relations between the two communities more difficult” (Straw, 2006).59 According to Meer, Uberoi & Modood (2015), Straw’s comments seemed to have legitimised and encouraged journalists and critics to portray certain members of the Muslim community (i.e. veiled women) to not be able to be British: “This was because of the apparent incongruity between the signals which indicate common bonds – the entirely English accent, the couple’s education (wholly in the UK) – and the fact of the veil” (Straw, 2006). His comments were some of the first that strongly differentiated between Muslims and other Brits, and utilised the veil as a contested signifier of this difference and irreconcilability (Also see: Kilic, 2008). Audrey Osler (2009), in her examination of the Labour Government’s (under the leadership of Tony Blair and Gordon Brown) political discourse on patriotism, citizenship, and multiculturalism contended in her review of representations of Islam in Britain:

In this discourse, both multiculturalism and the niqab are associated with ‘separation’ and with problems of ‘communication’ between communities. Muslims, and especially

58 An exception to this was former Muslim and politician Ayaan Hirsi Ali, who between 2003 and 2006 did vividly express concern and advocated for the ‘enlightenment’ of Muslim women in the Netherlands, not in the least through the short film Submission. 59 The original column in the Lancashire Telegraph is no longer available on the paper's own website. The Guardian had republished it a day later though, a webpage that is still accessible.

79 Muslim women, are seen as isolating themselves; multiculturalism and Islam (through specific symbols) are both blamed as causing us to live ‘parallel lives’ (p. 91).

The debate on the face veil has intensified over the past decade in the UK and for some has come to signify the irreconcilability of Islam with Britishness: the veiled Muslim woman challenges certain values of perceived freedoms that are prominent in a culture that is referred to as ‘British’. As Sara Ahmed, writer and independent scholar, explained: “She becomes a symbol of what the nation must give up to be itself, a discourse that would require her unveiling ignored to fulfil its promise of freedom (2004, p. 132)” (as cited in Mirza, p. 103). In their extensive analysis of representations of Muslims in the British media between 2000 and 2009, Baker et al. (2013) noted that the veil or lexical collocates had been the most associated word with Muslim women. They concluded that the British media collectively represented veiling as an oppressive Islamic practice towards women, contradicting human rights. Whilst the face veil had come under political scrutiny and calls for a ban were heard, regulations against the niqab or face veil proved to not only be unconstitutional under British law and irreconcilable with the church and state establishment, but also under Article 9 of the European Commission of Human Rights (Kilic, 2008). The only potential restriction that has been implemented is that schools can device their own policies on their students’ dress code.60 Dutch policy makers, on the other hand, have partially restricted the wearing of certain face-covering garments. Following various court cases during the early 2000s in which veiling in public office was discussed, it appeared that there is considerable differentiation between offices and their allowance for expression of religion. The Commission on Equal Treatment (Commissie Gelijke Behandeling), the general advisory body that is consulted on these matters, ruled that in schools there can be no discrimination on the basis of religious belief, and therefore the headscarf should be allowed for both teachers and students. For example, in 2011 the commission judged that a catholic secondary school had been guilty of religious discrimination for not allowing a student to wear a headscarf (ANP, 2011). However, in other cases, such as the wearing of the headscarf whilst serving the judiciary or on the police force, the Commission ruled more strictly. In court, it is now not allowed for public officers to express any form of religious belief (i.e. no headscarf, but also no crosses), and the same code has been

60 A recent poll has indicated however, that a majority of the British public does support a ban of the full faced veil or ‘burqa’ (Stone, 2016). On the conflation of terminology of different veils (burqa, face-veil, veil, niqab) see: Al-Saji, 2010.

80 implemented for those serving on the police force or in the army in 2011 (Opstelten, 2011; Haakman, 2011). Furthermore, in 2015 the Dutch liberal government proposed a restrictive policy on any full-face cover in certain public spaces (Back, 2015). The most recent development is the actual passing of this legislation ‘partial prohibition of face covering’61 as proposed in 2015, and enforced from the 1st August 2019 which states face covering is prohibited in certain situations and locations: on public transport, education and health care facilities, and governmental buildings. Whilst face coverings such as balaclavas and full-faced helmets are officially included in the ban, it was designed in response to public debates with regards to Muslim women’s face-coverings, according to an explanatory memorandum (Tweede Kamer der Staten-Generaal [TKSG], 2015). In the Netherlands, therefore, conflicts over the veil were generally (legally) decided in favour of Muslim women, however, rules in recent history have become less in favour of them and have been particularly designed from a desire to protect public ‘secular’ spaces. The debate generally centres around the equality and non- discrimination principle and religious freedom is acknowledged. However, when public spaces such as government institutions are concerned, the state and legal bodies wish to ‘retain religious neutral ground’. The public debate surrounding the veil, as Saharso and Lettinga (2008) have analysed, contained various frames. They concluded that initially (that is, up until about 2003), the most salient frame was the open neutrality and freedom of religion frame, in concordance with the dominant multiculturalist discourse of the time. With the rise of neo-culturalists and new realists such as among others Pim Fortuyn, Ayaan Hirsi Ali, and later Geert Wilders, the more dominant frame or discourse became that of Islam as a threat and consequently victimisation. It is worth noting that in comparison with the United Kingdom, the veil debate rarely or very limitedly became a gendered discourse in which the Muslim woman was supposedly suppressed, in need of saving, and of which the veil was the contested signifier (Saharso & Lettinga, 2008, p. 472).62 They argue that this is mainly due to the fact that in the Netherlands gender roles are not as strongly contested, as well as the long tradition of religious freedom in a pillarised society. However, as in the UK, the veil did become a symbol of alienation and of the presupposed incompatibility of Islam with Western democracy.

61 Dutch: Gedeeltelijk verbod gezichtsbedekkende kleding. 62 Again, with the exception of Ayaan Hirsi Ali who did frame the case of veiling as ‘the suppression of Muslim women’ (Chorus, 2004).

81 In conclusion on the veil debate in both countries, both show similarities in the way the veil has been utilised to stress the supposed irreconcilability of Islam with Western society, especially in the public debate. However, there are marked differences in the approach of politicians and implemented policy. Whereas in the UK there have been no restrictions on the wearing of the veil, apart from the fact that schools may decide on their dress codes for students, the Netherlands have imposed a restrictive ban on the wearing of the full faced veil in certain public spaces. Indeed, in the Netherlands, the national veil debate has also been utilised to demarcate the religious spheres as well as define secular spaces and its contents. In the UK however, no such demarcation has taken place, rather, the internal debate has focussed on the veil’s symbolic challenge of Britishness and national identity. Lastly, it is worth noting that in the UK, the veil has been a signifier of Muslim women’s supposed suppression. To understand this claim more thoroughly, the following section will elaborate on the gendered stereotypes that have been ascribed to Muslim men and women.

Honour-crime, Multiculturalism, Assimilation, and Policy Another theme that has gained particular attention throughout Europe in a similar vein as the veil, is honour crime, a term invoked when ‘honour’ is said to be the motive to justify male violence against women. This does not mean that these acts are in fact ‘honourable’, rather, they point to crimes that are said to have taken place in response to (male) honour that has allegedly been damaged. Even though human rights agencies have stated that these so-called honour killings occur across cultures and religion, the immediate association that the European press has often invoked, is that it is chiefly a Muslim problem as blogger Melanie Philips exemplified: “the elephant in the room … is that ‘honour killings’ are largely a Muslim phenomenon” (as cited in Fernandez, 2009, p. 278). Mirza (2013) when discussing the UK context, elaborates: “honour crimes are often sensationalised in the press, which engages in a ‘pornography of violence’ focusing on the individual family and their barbarity and senselessness” (p. 101). This sensationalisation of crime, Mirza argues, leads to negative stereotyping of certain groups, in this case, Muslims. Because the term ‘honour’ is only invoked when within religious minorities men commit violence against women, it has become highly gendered and laden with implications. It is worth pointing out the Islamisation of so- called honour crime because the ethnicisation of this type of gendered hostility contributes to the dominant assimilationist discourses and anti-Islam sentiment.

82 Fernandez (2009) argued that the association of ‘honour violence’ with Islam is actively constructed by the British media, giving examples of headlines such as “Muslim Cut his Daughter’s Throat for Taking a Christian Boyfriend”, “Cousin Stabbed Muslim Woman in Honour Killing”, and “Father Gets Life for Murdering Daughter who Rejected Islam” (p. 279). I shall expand on the specifics of the role of the media in the construction of ‘the British Muslim’ below. For now, it suffices to note that the gender roles and sexual relationships of Muslim men and women have been construed differently than that of non-Muslim men and women. In the UK, Muslim gender roles are often portrayed as women being submissive, and men being aggressive or even violent, which may result in a feeling of superiority of the liberal subject over the Muslim Other. Indeed, the contestation over religion and race in contemporary UK is often fought out over gender equality, implying that neither Islam nor any different race or out-group can offer the equality the secular can. The media and politics create and profess an understanding of gender equality on the bases of so-called honour crime, which can build a sharp boundary between the in-group and the out-group. Gökçe Yurdakul and Anna C. Korteweg (2013) in their comparative analysis between the Netherlands, Germany and Britain, on debates on honour killing and forced marriages note, that although a comprehensive and cohesive policy was underway in under the New Labour government in the early 2000s, these developments were interrupted by a turn towards the above-mentioned constructions. This eventually led to a turn in policy and the criminalisation of certain practices (e.g. forced marriages), thereby cutting back on protection and prevention (p. 212). Although the Dutch press and public debate are not unfamiliar with this type of gendered stereotyping, the political discourse is somewhat different. Gender equality issues are much less discussed for the purpose of the Islam debate and policy has been more inclusive of immigrant minorities and gender equality issues. Yurdakul and Korteweg (2013) have noted that in contrast to the UK, the Netherlands have subsidised minority civil rights groups and women’s movements in order for them to address the issues of gender based domestic violence within their own communities. Immigrant communities and organisations themselves place the issues on the political and social agenda in the first place, and simultaneously applied for funding to find pragmatic solutions. For example, they argued on the bases of equality that immigrant communities had the same civil rights to protection as their non-immigrant counterparts. Much of their work went into informing communities of their rights to civil services. The result of such an approach was that so-called honour-based violence was not seen as the necessary outcome of immigrant cultural practices, which may have slightly decreased the sharp distinction of us vs. them in the debate on honour crime. The recent coalition

83 government, in line with the dominant assimilation discourse and the tendency to exclude Muslims from society, formulate general domestic violence in gender-neutral terms and contrastively, they primarily foreground the gender dimension when discussing violence in immigrant communities. Yurdakul and Korteweg reckon that this may be at the cost of stigmatising these communities, and an inclusion policy therefore remains tentative (p. 208). When considering religious minorities themselves in the UK, Mirza (2013) pointed out a problem with multicultural policy when considering gender: it never recognised gender specific issues within a multicultural society, since its premise was that of non-interference in minority lifestyles, and its insistence was on community consultation. These community consultations for, among others, women in trouble, were often chaired by self-appointed male community leaders who may not always have had the women’s best interest at heart. Another issue that arises is that after migration to and settlement in a foreign country, individuals often experience uncertainty: traditional structures and hierarchies are no longer in place, and patriarchal or traditional practices may therefore be amplified to provide structure. Mirza (2013) observed: “[w]hen this happens, as in the context of the discourse on Islamophobia, we witness a resurgence and persistence of fixed and regressive notions of ethnicity and nationalism underpinning traditional beliefs” (p. 104). As noted above, with the New Labour government (i.e. the government under Tony Blair and Gordon Brown between 1997 and 2010) came new politics: there was a shift from multiculturalism to civic integration. This was a shift towards ‘inclusion’ of minorities to remind them of their ‘Britishness’ whilst preserving the multicultural society. Interfaith and cultural understanding were to promote citizenship and nationhood. However, as Mirza noted, this shift to a faith-based approach has had serious implications for the human rights of Muslim women. One example is the rise of unelected and unofficial Sharia law courts, often attached to mosques. Scholars and feminist activists Pragna Patel and Hannana Siddiqui noted: “These unofficial quasi legal bodies which are sanctioned within the multicultural state draw on the knowledge of unelected male elders in their conservative interpretation of Islamic law” (as cited in Mirza, 2013). This means that a conservative interpretation of Islamic law decides the fate of women who have been the victim of human rights violations, meaning that, for example, rape victims would not be protected but punished or forced to marry their aggressor. Whilst there have been various women’s groups campaigning for minority and Muslim women’s rights – such as Pragna Patel’s Southhall Black Sisters – under the new integration policies they have struggled to survive, because there is no longer any government funding for specifically ethnic issues. We can therefore see a dual problematic with minority gender

84 specific issues in the UK: “In vulnerable and racialised Muslim communities there are tensions between protecting men from the racism of state agencies and negative media representation on the one hand, and the need to raise the issue of gendered violences and protect women’s rights in the communities on the other” (Mirza, 2013, p. 110). To conclude, a comparative examination of sexual politics and gender in the Islam debate in the Netherlands and Britain shows that first, in the Netherlands, sexual freedom and in particular LGBTQ+ rights have been appropriated by the political spheres signify the progressive free West as opposed to suppressive un-free Islam. Contrastively, in the UK gay rights and sexual freedom have not as such come to play a role in the Islam debate, since homophobic sentiments are still (admittedly) common throughout society. Note that these differences are chiefly about (self-)presentation of the dominant spheres. Whereas in the Netherlands dominant secular self-imagery, whether accurate or not is that of hyper- progressive LGBTQ+ inclusiveness and sexual liberty, in the UK this image of a ‘sexular’ self is less prominently present. Secondly, although the matter of the wearing of the (face-)veil by Muslim women has been discussed throughout contemporary Europe, in the Netherlands it has been particularly utilised to demarcate certain secular and religious spaces, as well as to signify Islam’s supposed irreconcilability with liberal secularism. In the UK, on the other hand, the veil has been mostly appropriated for the latter; it has been utilised to stress what is not ‘British’. Lastly, in both countries gendered stereotypes of Muslim men and women have been common, especially when discussing so-called honour crime. However, when policy dealing with such issues has been concerned, the UK has occasionally implemented top-down counter- productive measures such as allowing for Sharia courts, which have been highly contested not in the least from minority rights feminist corners, such as the Council for Ex-Muslims in Britain and the organisation ‘One Law for All’, both founded by former Muslim Maryam Namazie. In the Netherlands, policy towards minorities has been more bottom-up since minority groups themselves historically have taken initiatives to counter gendered violence within their communities. In the third chapter, I will elaborate further on the various contestations over religious and secular practices which are often in response to particular histories of secularism and sexuality as outlined here, with relation to (gendered) public policy towards religious and ethnic minorities. Furthermore, the sexual and sometimes gendered nature of what is appropriately religious (and thereby secular) will return in my interlocutors’ contemplations

85 over very personal embodied negotiations of knowledge, practice, and behaviours when moving out of Islam in chapter 5.

British and Dutch Press – Media representations? A discursive factor that has received little attention so far is the role and function of the media. Whilst this is not a reflection on media studies and associated potential social and political implications, it is worth noting its significance in the shaping and determination of a public debate.63 In particular, the media has an important role to play in the creation of the contents of the representations and therefore, has a part in how people appropriate these figures to their interpretations of the inhabitants of the real world. This section will therefore elaborate on the constructed representations and potential conflations of Islam and Muslims in both the Dutch and British press. In his extensive review of the British print media and representations of Islam and Muslims, Allen (2012) concluded that the role of the media in creating ‘Islamophobia’64 is problematic. He observes that the overwhelming majority of print media reporting on Muslims and Islam is negative which inscribes and underwrites the presumed otherness of Muslims and irreconcilability of Islam with ‘Britishness’. He also notes, that “given that 64% of the British public claimed that what they know about Muslims and Islam is acquired through the media, […] it could be that such a stream of negativity goes some way to feeding, creating and justifying a form of order about who we are, or more precisely who we are not being created in the minds of the general public” (p. 10). The aim of his review was to assess the role of the media in allowing for the stigmatisation and marginalisation of Muslims. He observes that whilst the media may not be the sole cause, it propagates the rise of Islamophobia and discriminatory and exclusionary practices: “In other words, it almost undeniably creates a form of order about both who we are and who we are not, and so would almost certainly feed into an ideological understanding of Islamophobia” (p. 11). As will be shown below, a similar trend has been observed in the Dutch media over the past decades. In order to gain greater understanding of the above, it is worth considering the particularities of the British Press in contrast with the Netherlands. First of all, newspapers in

63 For an extensive overview of theories on the influence of the media on the public and vice versa see: Laughy (2007). 64 The term ‘Islamophobia’ is not uncontested. Former Muslim Rumy Hassan has extensively criticised the utilisation of such a term in his book “Multiculturalism: Some Inconvenient Truths”. Above I have explained my stance on the term.

86 general are not mere representations of day to day happenings around the world. Rather, “they have the role of constructing ideologically motivated versions of reality, which are aimed at persuading people that certain phenomena are good or bad” (Baker, Gabrielatos & McEnery, 2013, p. 3). The British media, and in particular newspapers, consciously attempt to influence the public socially and politically, whilst simultaneously reflect the views of their audiences. Different newspapers publicly and openly favour certain political parties. In the Netherlands, on the other hand, whilst the editors may have specific political preferences, they will only elaborate on this in a personal capacity through an op-ed article, or it will be explicitly stated that an article reflects the opinion of the newspaper in general. Contrastively, the British press does not shy away from political affiliation with either the left or the right to the extent that: “[n]ewspapers declare allegiance to particular political parties and urge their readers to vote accordingly” (p. 8). However, this does not mean that these political preferences are static, especially since newspapers may agree with leftist economic policy whilst simultaneously supporting rightist immigration proposals. However, the fact that the various papers are politically vocal and attempt to convince their readership of their stances is relevant in the analysis of media influence on the public debate. It implies a different language and function of newspapers in general as well as subjective approaches of these media houses, a subjectivity which is not viewed as problematic. Whilst they may contest one another, the subjective approach itself remains undisputed. In contrast to the Netherlands, newspapers in the UK are more generally bought on a daily basis, rather than being delivered to peoples’ homes via subscriptions. This means that the newspaper system is much more vulnerable to losing customers, and therefore has to actively remain attractive and constantly consider its audience. As Sparks phrased it rather dramatically: newspapers “do not exist to report the news… they exist to make money” (as cited in Baker et al., 2013, p. 5). Within such a framework, Baker et al. (2013) noted that various academic studies have shown that the newspapers indeed have considerable influence on public opinion. Of course, newspapers present a version of reality, but these representations are a construction made by, especially in Britain, politically and ideologically tainted corporations. Furthermore, papers have a certain audience that they wish to please, which implies that the readership co-authors the contents of the papers. If they fail to do so, Gibson (as cited in Baker et al. 2013) has observed that profits may plummet. The example he reminds us of is the Daily Mirror’s anti-war stance to invade Iraq in 2003, which may have influenced the rapid dropping of their sales below 2 million: “[n]ewspapers thus construct society and the

87 identities of their readers, but if they wish to be successful they must also construct themselves in relationship to their readers” (Baker et al., 2013, p. 6). Another characteristic of British (and to a certain extent Dutch) newspapers is the distinction between so-called tabloids and broadsheet papers. First of all, they can be distinguished on format; tabloids have shorter news stories with more or larger imagery, focus more on celebrities and national news stories as well as sports and entertainment. Broadsheets on the other hand, have more texts, in depth analyses, focus on politics and international news, and use a more formal style of writing. Their public differs as well. Whereas the tabloids are traditionally read by the working class, the broadsheets’ public mainly consists of the middle classes. Of course, these distinctions are not clear cut but gradual, and overlap sometimes (Baker et al., 2013, p. 7). Baker et al. note that another qualification to describe the different modes of news reporting in the papers are the terms ‘popular’ and ‘quality’ (as gradual rather than binary terms as well), in which popular refers to populist reporting, and quality refers to a more serious approach to journalism. Whilst perhaps not as categorical as in the UK, In the Netherlands such a distinction exists as well. There are some papers that could be considered tabloid in style and public, and others that are more likely to be qualified as broadsheets.

Muslims ‘in’ or represented by the Media? Considering the importance of the media figurations for the interpretation of the real world, the following section will elaborate on how these were created by the media in both the Netherlands and the UK. In 2008, the European Commission against Racism and Intolerance (ECRI, 2008) claimed that in the Netherlands Muslims have become subject to stigmatisation and stereotypical media reporting, to which they partially attribute the tense relationship between Muslims, policy, and non-Muslims (Also see: Shadid, 2009). Wasif Shadid (2009) noted that media may even contribute to racism, in the same sense that de Koning (2016a; 2016b) described racialisation: a group is considered inferior not on the merits of biological race, but based on its culture or religion. Various scholars and studies have noted the negative reporting on Muslims in the (Dutch) media, however, Shadid emphasised that the larger picture is ambiguous and complex: “All newspapers and current affairs reporting regarding Islam or Muslims are sometimes less careful and are sometimes guilty of sensationalising and stigmatisation” (Shadid, 2009, p. 174, my translation, italics in original). In his analysis of the Dutch media (re)presentations of Muslims, he concludes that this largely happens through four

88 distinct negative frames.65 Firstly, the ethnocentrism-frame aims to familiarise the media user with an us vs. them attitude (p. 177), in which the former is valued higher than the latter. He notes that the Dutch press fails to recognise that the groups that are described or labelled actually belong to ‘us’, however, they still prefer to refer to certain MP’s as ‘Turkish’. Secondly, the stigmatisation frame represents Muslims and ethnic groups as problematic. Quantitative research has shown that in media reporting on ethnic minorities in the EU, the majority of the articles and news items would concern insecurity, crime, or religious fundamentalism (as cited in Shadid, 2009, p. 178). The aforementioned ECRI report notes that excessive generalisations in the media such as “Islam is violent” and “Muslims flood the Netherlands” contribute to actual negative migration policies. Thirdly, the ‘layman frame’ (‘lekenframe’) is characterised by the fact that Muslims and ethnic minorities are relatively silent in the debate, and if they are speaking out, they are often represented as layman and not as expert. This frame also includes the relatively low number of ethnic minority actors on Dutch fictional television. Lastly, the cultural generalisation frame represents ethnic minorities or Muslims as one homogenous group, rather than recognising individual differences. A dangerous consequence of this may be that viewers and readers consider individuals as representatives of one ethnic or religious minority group, something these individuals by definition cannot be. Shadid (2009) noted these frames are not the only way in which Muslims or ethnic minorities are (re)presented in the media in the Netherlands. However, it is worth realising that media outlets do significantly contribute to public opinion, as well as political debate. As mentioned above, Baker et al. (2013) have studied the ‘creation of the British Muslim’ as popular imagery in newspapers between 2000 and 2009. Although this does not include any ‘up-to-date’ observations of the last decade, the results of this study should be able to indicate a trend. Considering the nature of the previous sections of this chapter, for illustrative purposes of the representation of Muslims in the British newspapers I will discuss how the veiling controversy and grooming cases have been portrayed in the media. First of all, various studies have shown the media’s disproportionate negative reporting on Islam and Muslims. Sian, Law and Sayyid’s (2012) analysis provides a good example of this trend: of 68 articles collected over a three-month period, 70 per cent were hostile, 15 per cent were inclusive and 15 per cent were neutral. Secondly, of the same data set, 80 per cent did not contain a minority news actors voice, 10 per cent represented a medium voice, 5 per cent a weak voice

65 For references to literature empirically examining these frames, see: Shadid (2009).

89 and 5 per cent a strong voice: “These figures signal that the press coverage representing Muslims is largely hostile and that Muslim voices remain marginal” (p. 234). Allen (2012) found that even 91% of reporting in newspapers presents Muslims and Islam as negative. Sian et al. further note that although not a new phenomenon, specifically since 9/11 Muslims have been constructed with an orientalist gaze, contrasting Islam, oppression, backwardness, and violence with the enlightenment, secularism, and freedom of the West. On a national level, Baker et al. (2013) noted that in addition to these constructions of the external ‘terrorist’ other, and the ‘treat from within’, the British press has also actively situated Muslims as explicitly not British by opposing the two terms and implying incompatibility, with headlines such as: “Muslims tell British: Go to hell” (Twomey & Dixon, 2010). Other generalisations were made in the reporting on the so-called Grooming Cases. The Rochdale ‘grooming’ case refers to the sentencing up to 19 years imprisonment of nine men from Rochdale and Oldham in 201266 for a variety of offences including rape, against seven teenage girls, as young as 13 years of age. In the media reporting that followed the case, the fact that the offenders were of Asian descent and Muslim played a significant role. As Waqas Tufail and Scott Poynting (2016) note in their analysis: “Indeed, media commentators suggested that ethnicity and religion were of central relevance in explaining why these crimes occurred and that the response in preventing such crimes in the future should take these factors into account” (p. 80-81). Certain newspapers stated that such crimes were of a specific ‘Asian’ nature: the brown sexually aggressive Asian/Muslim man lures the innocent white British girls into forced prostitution. One article in the Daily Mail, for example, headlined: “Asian paedophiles who preyed on hundreds of vulnerable white girls were racially motivated as PM brands it ‘abuse on an industrial scale’” (Robinson, Chorley & Baker, 2015). During the trial leading up to the convictions in May 2012, various skirmishes against shops that were affiliated with the ‘grooming’ case, broke out. Around 200 youth destroyed property whilst allegedly shouting ‘EDL! EDL!’ (which refers to English Defence League, a far-right group formed in 2009). EDL, whilst claiming to be supportive of the actions of the rioters, distanced themselves from the disorders. After the trials, various hate-crimes against Muslims were reported. In June 2012, for example, the self-proclaimed leader of the EDL and some of his followers gathered outside the Rochdale Town Hall, threatening to burn the Qur’an he was holding and declared that the protest was against ‘Muslim paedophiles’ (Tufail &

66 In April 2016, ten men connected to the Rochdale circle were sentenced to up to 25 years in prison each for similar crimes (Perraudin, 2016).

90 Poynting, 2016, p. 81). Furthermore, the case received much attention from other commentators such as, again, Jack Straw, who stated that “there is an issue of ethnicity here which can’t be ignored” and he continued that “in terms of group grooming, there is an ethnic dimension to this which is Asian men and white girls, and that has to be faced by the Asian community” (as cited in Prince, 2012).67 In sum, in reference to the Rochdale case, the Asian Muslim man was at times portrayed as fanatical, sexually aggressive, dangerous, and not having assimilated into the society that embraces gender equality. Tufail and Poynting (2016) conclude on the matter that “sexual exploitation and violence were racialised as characteristic of whole cultures and entire ethnic and religious populations, at the same time as the sexual exploitation and violence of the ‘mainstream’ were rendered invisible” (p. 90). Indeed, the Rochdale grooming case is an example of the representation of the British Muslim through gender specific characterisations and conflations. A last example that has also been discussed above is how various newspapers reported on another key gender issue, that of veiling. Baker et al. (2013) generally found that women were written about as victims, whilst young Muslim men were consistently discussed as aggressors and in a context of radicalisation. Furthermore, “[a]pproximately 42 per cent of the time, wearing the veil was represented as either a form of oppression or a (fairly unreasonable) demand, as opposed to a right or a choice” (p. 257). They noted that whilst in tabloid newspapers a ‘horror discourse’ was referenced in relation to the veil (describing women as zombies), the broadsheets were conflicted, often concerned with ‘women’s rights’ whilst simultaneously not willing to support a ban on veiling explicitly. Baker et al. analyse the veil debate as both representative of the changing role of women in the late 20th century in Britain as well as in Muslim societies (p. 257). Various studies have noted that the approach of specifically tabloid newspapers in the UK mimic Huntington’s ‘Clash of Civilisations’ (e.g. Saeed, 2004, p. 72; Saeed, 2007). Baker et al. (2013) observed the referral to Muslims via collective nouns, such as ‘community’ and ‘world’, which implies that Islam is a monolithic concept. Furthermore, “the Muslim community and those who were deemed to represent this collective, Muslim leaders, were both viewed as hostile, easily angered and undeserving of the title leader” (p. 256). This

67 Meanwhile, the Muslim and Asian communities were constantly asked to distance themselves from these individuals. This kind of expectations did and do not exist for Christian or non-religious offenders and the religious or other communities that they were associated with.

91 trend was most noticeable in the tabloids. Increased Islamophobia is not solely to blame on generalising media reports: “rather the media is an institution which reflects and shapes the discourse of society and not vice versa, it certainly reinforces Islamophobic logics, but the media itself does not create it as it is interrelated with other social institutions and practices” (Sian et al., 2012, p. 235). Of course, these characterisations cannot be solely blamed on British (or any other for that matter) media constructions. For example, Muslim women and girls in the 90s in the UK complained about “the involvement young Muslim men in ‘discos, drink, drugs and white women’ in contravention of cultural and religious codes and, at the same time, to male insistence that their own female relatives stay at home and behave as ‘good’ Muslim women” (Ansari, 2004, p. 22). The media is not necessarily ‘making stuff up’; lethal Islamic extremist attacks and the propaganda machines of, for example, Islamic State also contribute to the construction of images of Muslims as aggressors and suppressors; but it is the overtly collectivised, negative, and stereotyped representation of certain images of Muslim men and women that should be considered contributing to and as a result of, the assimilationist discourses. Lastly, considering the impact that (print) media have on the public discourse and political debate, the opportunities that have come with the internet allowing the public in turn to respond to these discourses are relevant. As we have entered the 21st century, social media have developed at an astounding rate. With our increased online presence, infinite possibilities have opened up for any mundane individual to voice his or her opinion and find an audience. Blog posts, discuss applications, comment sections, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and the like, all provide platforms for the anonymous sharing of, quite literally, anything and everything. In the first decade of this century, various scholars noted that online posting and reacting was different, not only in its occurrence, but more importantly in its contents, from the way in which the public used to respond to the socio-political debate. John Suler already in 2004, most famously has called this ‘the online disinhibition effect’. Dissociative anonymity, invisibility, asynchronicity, solipstic introjections, dissociative imagination, and minimisation of authority, all contribute to this effect.68 Whilst these phenomena are highly interesting, for here it suffices to say that this inhibition effect has taken root online. It represents and (at least partially) explains the hardening of voices, the rude, often racist views of certain members of the public that have been argued to accompany ‘new realism’ and the post-racial contemporary in politics,

68 See Suler (2004) for an elaborate description of these concepts.

92 and the racialisation of ‘others’ in the media.69 The online disinhibition effect, it could be argued, is a ‘contributing symptom’ of a polarising society. By this I mean that it is both symptomatic of the turn towards ‘new realism’ and the racialisation of Muslims, as well as contributing to their continuation and the polarisation of society. With regards to former Muslims in the media, Nadia Ezzeroili already noted above that there she calculated a risk of her narrative of moving out of Islam being appropriated not so much by ‘polderislamisten’ (Dutch Islamists), but rather by ‘secular crusaders’. Indeed, these were also concerns my interlocutors had. Various prominent so-called ‘ex-Muslims’ have presented themselves or have been presented by the media as insiders, who now speak out against their former religion, the secular’s contested other. I will elaborate on these matters further in the chapters 2, 4, and 6.

Conclusion In this chapter, I have laid bare the construction of dominant discourses on Islam and Muslims in both the Netherlands and the UK, the two countries this dissertation concerns itself with. I have done so through an analysis of public debates, discourse shaping events, and prominent politicians in each country, before intersecting these with gendered contestations over Islam and Muslim ‘others’ in public debate and the media. This chapter departed from the assumption that the secular’s constitutive power in delineating what is appropriately religious in secular environs, is as much an implicit formation of what the secular itself ought to behave and look like in shared spaces. I have demonstrated the two recent histories of each country to bare significant similarities, but also considerable differences when it comes to how these issues have been contested, debated, and shaped with regards to religion (i.e. Islam) in the public sphere. Firstly, the Dutch situation since the late 80s has been elaborated on. Events such as the Salman Rushdie affair, the murders of Pim Fortuyn and Theo van Gogh, the simultaneous rise of new realism, and the strong polarising political discourse the Netherlands finds itself in today were outlined. Themes or so-called values that resurfaced throughout this national

69 Also see De Leeuw & Van Wichelen (2005), who have also noted that it was precisely new realism that allowed specifically also ordinary citizens to voice their discontent, and express what they really feel. “It also created a space for people to vent their fear and anxiety of the cultural ‘other’ in a public domain that would now, not accuse them of racism or xenophobia” (p. 334). I would argue that new realism, the online spaces and the inhibition effect that it carries have greatly contributed to one another.

93 narrative were sexual liberties, the status of freedom of expression, and identity politics, which meanings have changed and have been appropriated differently over time. Since the 1990s and with the rise of Pim Fortuyn, a dominant assimilationist discourse has shaped the Dutch public sphere. In the UK on the other hand, the multiculturalist dominant discourse in public debate remained dominant for much longer. Whilst many what could arguably be considered ‘multiculturalist policies’ are still firmly in place today, public contestations over what is appropriately religious (and thereby implicitly secular) have shifted in the past decade to a more prominent assimilationist discourse as well, as also evidenced by some policy shifts focussing ‘Britishness’, especially in education programs. Second, in order to illustrate the constructions of secularism and demarcations of what is deemed appropriately religious in each country further, this chapter investigated how gendered and sexual constructions have informed the debate and public discourses on Islam and Muslims in each country. As noted before, these contestations of what is deemed appropriately religious are as much an affirmation or formulation of what the secular self is or at least (th)ought to be. In the Netherlands, through a brief analysis of prominent politicians’ stances and integration policies, it became clear that a particular sexual liberty is part and parcel of a ‘Dutch’ secular image, including a presentation of a national self as sexually progressive, at all times embracing LGBTQ+ rights: homophobia is constructed as a solely ‘Islamic backward’ problem. In the UK on the other hand, these ‘sexular’ constitutions are left much more implicit. There are, however, some ‘secularist ex-Muslims’ who have recently aligned themselves actively with LGBTQ+ interests, by joining the London Pride since 2017. Their, according to some, provocative contributions have not remained uncontested and have been labelled ‘Islamophobic’. The difference between the two countries is clear: whilst in the Netherlands the equation of homophobia and Islam is almost a nationally held conviction by the dominant discourse, in the UK mere allusion to this is already a highly contested and sensitive matter. Third, the divide between the religious and the secular in the construction of the ‘Muslim Other’ has been elaborated on through a brief analysis of the role of the media. In both countries, the papers and online distribution of those papers have contributed to a highly gendered, stereotyped, and racialised image of the other. This has been traced to certain racial representations in for example the Rochdale grooming case, or the incessantly negative and passive role of Muslims in the Dutch press. The above has illustrated there are considerable overlaps in the construction of ‘an Other’ in both countries. In the coming chapters, my interlocutors navigate these spaces, and

94 they do so sometimes similarly to one another in each country, connecting religious and secular dominant frames through their awareness of alleged Muslim otherness in their respective secular societies. However, there are also significant differences between interlocutors in each country, which relate back to the discursive productions of what is appropriately religious or deemed properly secular (for example through embodiment in chapter 5, or public speech in chapter 6) by creating different spaces, or subverting certain dominant frames. One detailed example of such navigations of religious and secular discourses will be given in the following chapter, in which I investigate the narrative of a Dutch student who has moved out of Islam, Yagana.

95 Chapter 270

“When I finally heard my own voice” Dialogical Articulations of Self- Making When Moving out of Islam in the Netherlands

And that’s when I fell off my [faith]. (…) But it took about a year before I could admit [that] to myself (…) I did not dare say it to myself. Because I was afraid that I might be wrong: (…) “am I going in the wrong direction? Is this my voice? Or perhaps this is the devil whispering this in my ear right now”. So, you have a lot of doubts. (…) You grow up with the idea that everything that is bad will eventually bring you to hell, or the devil has whispered it to you. [It] is very difficult to get rid of that idea. To think: “that is not hell, or the angel (…) but this is just me! I am talking to myself”. That I learn to trust myself, my own voice. Not subscribing it to all sorts of other things around me. And when I finally heard my own voice, like: “I actually do not believe it”, that’s when I really thought: “No, I am no longer Muslim.”71

Introduction Over recent decades, secularised72 societies such as the Netherlands have become increasingly pre-occupied with religion. Public and political discourses have shifted from a focus on ‘the immigrant other’ in the 1990s, to a heated discussion from the early 2000s onwards over the

70 This chapter is a slight modification of the article which has been previously published as: Vliek, M. (2019a). ‘When I finally heard my own voice’: Dialogical articulations of self- making when moving out of Islam in the Netherlands. Journal of Muslims in Europe, 8(1), 85– 107. 71 This excerpt will be referred to throughout this chapter. It describes a pivotal moment for the interviewee in her process of leaving Islam and is therefore included here. The interview was conducted in Rotterdam, the Netherlands, on the 24th April 2017 in Dutch. All excerpts presented in this chapter are derived from this interview and have been translated by the author. 72 Notions of ‘the secular’, ‘secularization’, and ‘secularism’ have been extensively discussed by, among others, Jose Casanova (2011) in his influential essay “The Secular, Secularizations, Secularisms”. Although I am aware of the complexity of such terminology, it is not the primary focus of this paper and for a lack of space will not be elaborated on here. Nevertheless, these terms will be handled with careful consideration throughout this chapter.

96 ‘religious Muslim other’,73 who is primarily perceived to be a threat to modern secular values. Secular assumptions over the religiosity and ‘otherness’ of Muslims have soared post 9/11 into generalisations such as: “Muslim women are suppressed”, “Muslim men are violent”, and “Muslims support terrorism, unless they state otherwise”. In a process of painting the other with one brush, both peripheral and fundamental differences within a large group may be ignored; intersectional identities such as ethnicity, culture, religiosity, politics, or even gender are not always recognised. Whilst prejudice and ‘racialisation’ of the Muslim other74 have found their way into the public sphere in the Netherlands, difference and diversity, of course, have too. Contrary to public opinion or belief, a study of the inheritance of religiosity among Muslim immigrants in the Netherlands has noted that the younger generation, both with and without a migratory background, is in fact becoming less religious. Identification as ‘Muslim’ remains strong but, compared to their parents, adolescents consider religious beliefs and practices to be less important (Van de Pol & Tubergen, 2014). While Jasper van de Pol and Frank van Tubergen’s study focussed on religiosity, there are indications75 that there are also people who have grown up in Muslim families but who no longer believe in Allah, and no longer identify as ‘Muslim’ at all. An example of such an individual is Yagana, a 26-year-old Dutch student with Afghan roots. The quotation at the beginning of this chapter is taken from an interview I conducted with her early 2017 about her moving out of Islam. In this quotation, she identified (and sometimes failed to identify) certain voices, illustrating her doubts until she “fell off” her religion, as she called it. To understand this particular trajectory of leaving Islam, various factors should be taken into account: religion, non-religion, being Dutch with Afghan roots, gender, going through adolescence, politics, friends, and so forth: intersectional factors that contributed to the complexity of her experience. Dialogical Self Theory was developed by Hubert Hermans in the early 1990s in response to and as part of the debate on the constitution of the self and construction of identity in a globalising world. Hermans has since developed this theory mainly as an instrument within personality and clinical psychology, his field of expertise. Dialogical Self Theory allows the

73 A more thorough discussion of the public debate concerning Islam in the Netherlands will follow below. 74 On the concept of racialisation, see Martijn de Koning, 2016a; 2016b. 75 See various newspaper articles and human interest stories, opinion pieces and so forth (i.a.: Groen, 2016; Landeweer, 2016; Ezzeroili, 2013; Anthony, 2015).

97 analyst to consider first, the actual voices present in self-narratives, second, the complex embeddedness of these voices in discursive power-structures, and third, the self-making agentic properties of the self (Hermans, 2012). The concept has also been taken up by sociologists, anthropologists, and the humanities in general as an analytical and theoretical tool for the discussion of the constitution of the self within an increasingly heterogeneous post- secular world. These analyses have specifically utilised Dialogical Self Theory in order to reflect on specific forms of self-making, doubt, and uncertainty regarding the positioning of intersectional identities in post-migration contexts (i.a.: Aveling & Gillespie, 2008; Bhatia, 2002; Buitelaar, 2013b; 2014; Buitelaar & Zock, 2013; Gregg, 2013; Pitstra, 2013; Zock, 2013). Considering the excerpt above, which presents various internal voices and external discourses, as well as certain agentic properties of the self, it is proposed that Dialogical Self Theory is also highly appropriate for the close-reading and analysis of narratives of those leaving Islam in a post-migration context. Furthermore, various anthropological studies have utilised the Foucauldian approach to view the self as constituted through power and history, whilst maintaining agency in the self- fashioning of piety: the so-called “piety-movement” in the anthropology of Islam (i.a.: Hafez, 2011; Hocke, 2014; Mahmood, 2005). According to this approach, power structures and discourses shape the agentic power of the subject in constituting the self. The study of so-called ‘ex-Muslims’, however, may place too much emphasis on agency in subjectivity, such as, for example, narrower rational choice accounts of agency that argue that the search for (non- )religiosity is like a marketplace in which the individual chooses the most beneficial existential belief system available (Iannaccone, 1990; Franks, 2001).76 This approach to the self as being a purely agentic subject capable of choosing without constraint, ignores the situatedness of the individual within complex discourses. This chapter will therefore propose that within the dialogical self, existing power structures and contexts, as well as the subject’s agentic capacity, are all considered to contribute to self-making in times of doubt and uncertainty. Dialogical Self Theory aims to give voice to the agency that acts and constitutes the self, whilst considering the individual’s situatedness in power and history.77 The value of this approach will be illustrated with an analysis of Yagana’s narrative of moving out of Islam.

76 For further elaboration on specifically psychologically framed tensions, see: Adam, 2009. 77 This chapter focusses on the usefulness of Dialogical Self Theory in the analysis of these specific trajectories. It does not primarily aim to discuss the extensive and impressive body of literature that is relevant for deconversion processes and religious disaffiliation per se. My purpose here is to specifically expand on Dialogical Self Theory and its benefits for the analysis

98 This chapter will argue that considering the self as dialogically constructed within and in relation to the discourses from which it emerges provides insights into both the internal and external processes that constitute self-making in times of doubt and uncertainty. Thereby, the purpose of this chapter is to expand on Dialogical Self Theory and to illustrate its benefits for the analysis of ‘leaving narratives’ in a post-migration context. In order to do so, I will first elaborate on the main tenets of Dialogical Self Theory, power, and selfmaking. Second, various external discourses relevant to the subject of study will be discussed. Lastly, I will address issues of dialogical self-making within and in relation to these discourses by dialogically analysing Yagana’s experiences when moving out of Islam in the Netherlands.

Dialogical Self Theory: The Meaning of Power and Self-making The utilisation of Dialogical Self Theory for the analysis of intersectional narratives has been a recent development in social sciences and is based on the concept of the self as ‘a society of mind’. The self is not merely alone; rather it is populated by others in the environment. These others become apparent in a multiplicity of dynamic I-positions between which dialogue and monologue may emerge (Hermans, 2012; Hermans & Gieser, 2012; Hermans & Hermans- Konopka, 2010). For example, the choices one would make from the position of ‘I-as-a- daughter’ are heavily influenced by one’s parents, but can be challenged by choices one wishes to make when in the position of ‘I-as-a-woman’. Other examples of I-positions are ‘I-as- professional’, ‘I-as-religious’, ‘I-as- Afghan’, and so forth. Examples of external voices could be friends, siblings, political debates, religious values, and God. These various positions and voices are both spatially and temporally organised in order to help the development of the self. The benefit of such an approach when analysing narratives in a post-migration context, and in this case, when leaving Islam, is that it allows for the recognition of various intersectional (self- )identifications as well as for the particulars of complex discursive and external influences on the individual. The following sections will unpack these concepts as well as elaborate on those benefits. Dialogical Self Theory has been developed as a response to the increasing globalising and localising powers and shifting identities in contemporary society due to, for example, migration patterns, and the uncertainty this produces for the individual. Jeffrey Arnett (2002) has argued that people are challenged to adapt to globalising effects of migration and the

of “leaving narratives” in a post-migration context. For further reading on deconversion and religious disaffiliation, see inter alia: Streib et al., 2009; Gooren, 2010.

99 formation of a global society. He noted that adolescents in particular may have to develop “a bicultural identity: part of their identity is rooted in their local culture, and another part is attuned to the global situation” (p. 777, emphasis in original). A hybrid identity may also be developed in which elements from both the local and the global are combined, which carries the risk of identity confusion. From this point of departure Dialogical Self Theory has been developed. The narratives of those leaving Islam in Europe are particularly well-suited to illustrate its benefits, since these individuals have to consider multiple, often shifting identities of, among others, ‘hyphenated identity’,78 gender, religion, and a secular environment. Hubert Hermans and Agnieszka Hermans-Konopka (2010) have formulated three main reasons why such global and local connections actually require a dialogical approach as follows: first, there is an increasing multiplicity of self and identity in a globalising world. Second, this brings with it the need to develop a dialogical capacity. Lastly, therefore, the necessity of recognising the alterity of another person within the self arises, with whom dialogical contact should be made. I shall elaborate on these reasons briefly. First, Dialogical Self Theory argues that intercultural processes lead to the formation of multiple cultural positions within the self. The different identities that one has to develop are represented by different voices or positions, as part of the heterogeneous self. Hermans and Hermans-Konopka (2010) stated that: “[i]n other words, the global-local nexus is not just a reality outside the individual but is rather incorporated as a constituent of a dialogical self in action” (p. 30). The different cultural positions are then required to be in dialogue with each other for the self to be liveable, for the self to comprehend and deal with the differences, contrasts, tensions, ambiguity, and uncertainties that emerge from an increasing heterogeneous world. For example, Yagana, a young Dutch woman with Afghan roots who no longer identified as ‘Muslim’ had to negotiate between the Afghan-Muslim identity of her parents and community, and the atheist identity she subscribed to herself. She had to consider various positions within and outside herself when navigating these heterogeneous contexts. Second, therefore, Dialogical Self Theory considers the self as decentralised, multi- voiced, and dialogical. The dialogical self is described in terms of a “dynamic multiplicity of I-positions or voices within the landscape of the mind, intertwined as this mind is with the minds of other people” (Hermans & Hermans-Konopka, 2010, p. 31). Positions are both internal and external. An internal position might be “I-as-Muslim”, whilst an external position might be ‘the Devil’, or ‘my father’. Dialogue may take place between these positions: “The

78 E.g. Afghan-Dutch, Moroccon-Dutch

100 dialogical self is not only part of the broader society but functions, moreover, itself as a ‘society of mind’ with tensions, conflicts, and contradictions as intrinsic features of a (healthy functioning) self” (p. 32). Third, Dialogical Self Theory consequently proposes that otherness, difference, and even opposition are part of the intrapersonal realm: “In this way, alterity can be found and experienced not only between the self and the actual other, but also between different I- positions within the self” (Hermans & Gieser, 2012, p. 8). External others are entered into the self and are expressed by different voices of actual others, imagined others, authoritarian others, and various versions or voices of the self. Considering the constitutive power of the other in the self, questions of social dominance and difference should be addressed. Dialogical Self Theory recognises that dominance plays a role in any social situation (Hermans & Gieser, 2012). Therefore, dialogue cannot be understood without some conceptualisation of institutional and ethnographic contexts. This obvious notion of social power in dialogue within social structures seems to be absent from many theories of the self: “as a consequence, they lack insight into the intense interplay between power relations in the society at large and dominance relations in the ‘mini- society’ of the self” (Hermans, 2012, p. 4). Hermans (2012) argued that antagonistic unities, such as male–female, black–white, and religious–secular are social distinctions that are not only reflected in one way or the other in the hierarchical organization of the self, “but also answered and addressed both in external and internal dialogues” (p. 5). In addition, Hermans noted that it is not only individual voices that are represented, but rather that collective voices from groups, culture, institutions, organisations, and so forth are also present in a multi-voiced self. They may represent ideologies, languages, or social circles. The power differences that exist outside the self are similarly represented within the society of mind and may struggle and argue with each other. For example, in the quotation at the beginning of this chapter Yagana mentioned the voice of the devil, an identification that emerged from an Islamic discourse and upbringing. Another example she gave in narrating her difficulties with her surroundings in relation to her non-belief, were voices of prejudice from within the Muslim community against those who leave Islam, or voices of anti-Muslim sentiments that emerge from a secularist community. Indeed, whilst these voices are the subject of analysis within Dialogical Self Theory, in order to comprehend and situate such voices it is critical to examine and explicate the power- structures and discourses that provide means of expression for these various external positions within the society of mind.

101 However, not all applications of Dialogical Self Theory explicitly contextualise the voices that come to fore in the individual from these external hierarchies. Whilst power and hierarchy are recognised within the analysis of dialogue between voices, the complex discourses from which these voices can actually emerge—and in which individuals function— are not always carefully scrutinised within the dialogical analysis of self-narratives. Therefore, it will be taken into account that recent studies into the piety movement in both Muslim majority countries and Muslim minority countries have taken the Foucauldian approach to power and ethical self-formation (Hafez, 2011; Hocke, 2014; Mahmood, 2005). This considers that formation of the self can only be possible through the conditioning surroundings that are established through certain power-structures. Reflexivity of the subject, according to Foucault, can only be framed within these structures. These relations of strength are always embedded in certain socio-historical contexts. Furthermore, Foucault specified this reflexivity with his concept of ‘technologies of the self’, which he defined as the means that:

permit individuals to effect by their own means or with the help of others certain number of operations on their own bodies and souls, thoughts, conduct, and way of being, so as to transform themselves in order to attain a certain state of happiness, purity, wisdom, perfection, or immortality. (Foucault, 1988, p. 18)

Foucault would indeed argue that the act of internal dialogue as outlined by Hermans qualifies as a ‘technology of the self’, a form of practising and developing ethics, especially in the light of religious conversion and seeking religious or non-religious ‘truth’ or wisdom. Furthermore, it should be noted that, throughout Yagana’s narrative, various technologies, besides her dialogical self, came to the fore. Foucault’s conceptualisation of power in relation to self-practices is relevant since it recognises that the self is constituted by both internal and external structures. In particular, Foucault addressed the relevance of elaborating on the socio-historical formations of such structures outside the self. Dialogical Self Theory resonates with Foucauldian themes of power and ethical self-making. Indeed, Dialogical Self Theory not only recognises active and agentic self-formation and the discourses in which this may emerge, but also gives voice to the technologies of self-making Foucault described. In addition, Dialogical Self Theory then provides the possibility of analysing self-formation in action; it explores (and emphasises) the ‘how’ of becoming. Considering the relevance of power as reflexive and its relation to the forms of self-practices and ethical self-formation as argued above, the following sections will

102 elaborate on three socio-historical constructions of external discourses from which various voices in Yagana’s society of mind arose.

Public Debate, “ex-Muslims”, and Islam Dutch Public Debate From the early 1990s the political establishment started questioning the presence of ethnic, and specifically Muslim, minorities. In 1991, Frits Bolkestein, a prominent member of the Liberal Party (VVD) published an article in one of the country’s leading newspapers, De Volkskrant, calling for a debate on immigration and integration policy. Instead of ‘integration with preservation of identity’ he called for “full blown integration” (Bolkestein, 1991). The phrase ‘integratie met behoud van eigen identiteit’ first appeared in Dutch policy documents in the 1970s in response to the presence of increasing number of guest workers and their families. It was designed to integrate people, while giving them an opportunity to retain their ethnic, religious and cultural identity, especially in light of the prevailing idea that these guest workers were only staying for a limited amount of time. Not allowing for assimilation was designed as a motivation for the ‘gastarbeiders’ to return to their countries of origin. Later, when most of the migrant workers chose to stay in the Netherlands, these policies were often accused of cultural relativism. Bolkestein was considered the first person to successfully challenge his opponents in the integration debate. Bolkestein’s commentary was echoed almost a decade later by Paul Scheffer’s (2000) influential and controversial article ‘Het Multiculturele Drama’ (The Multiculturalist Drama). In this opinion piece, Scheffer castigated the leftist elite for closing their eyes to the problematics of unemployment, criminality, and school drop-out among immigrant groups, which, according to Scheffer, was the sole responsibility of the ‘poldermodel’, the Dutch political culture of governing through compromise and deliberation. Much like Bolkestein, he argued that Islam, because of its refusal to accept the separation of church and state, was fundamentally irreconcilable with Western democracy, and therefore with Dutch society. Scheffer indicated that immigration policy should be more proactive in integrating these groups through, for example, Dutch language, history, and culture lessons (Scheffer, 2000). After 11 September 2001, critical columnist Pim Fortuyn entered Dutch politics. Like Bolkestein, he believed that migrant culture, and more specifically Islam, was not compatible with modern Dutch society (De Koning, 2016a). Fortuyn was murdered on 6 May 2002, just over a week before the national parliamentary elections (he had a convincing lead in the polls

103 at the time of his death). His murderer was a lone environmental activist who was apprehended soon after the attack and whose motives remain unclear to this day. Fortuyn was one of the first politicians to publicly directly attack the ‘backward religion of Muslims’ and to allege that Islam posed an imminent threat to the West and its values, such as gay rights and gender equality (Snel, 2013). He thereby endorsed values of emancipation and individualism, which were previously considered ‘progressive’: “In that sense, Fortuyn presented his populist, conservative and anti-immigrant movement with a more progressive agenda, the one that has continued to dominate Dutch politics ever since” (Snel, 2013, p. 128). Johan Snel noted, that in order to justify his at times offensive criticism, Fortuyn invoked the phrase ‘freedom of expression’ as a successful political slogan, a slogan that has now become the flagship of ‘modern secularist society’ (p. 129). The second murder that shaped Dutch political discourse was the assassination of Theo van Gogh on 2 November 2004 by a young man who had recently joined a group of radical Islamists. He declared in court that he had wanted to punish van Gogh for his film Submission, which van Gogh made with Somali born (and former Muslim) politician Ayaan Hirsi Ali. The film openly criticised Islam’s alleged treatment of women, and has been regarded as highly provocative by Muslims and non-Muslims alike worldwide. Again, the theme of ‘freedom of expression’ was invoked by van Gogh and Hirsi Ali to justify their ‘offence’. Snel (2013) noted that from then on, opposition to Islam on the basis of freedom of expression “turned into an almost nationally held conviction” (p. 130). The political stances of Bolkestein, Fortuyn, and Hirsi Ali portrayed above resonate in the work and thought of other contemporary politicians and critics, most notably Geert Wilders, a right-wing politician of the nationalistic Freedom Party (PVV). Wilders has declared on numerous occasions that secular democracy and Islam are irreconcilable. Despite there being many counter voices in the public and political arena, the dominant discourse setting the agenda for the debate and to which others are forced to respond has been that of the assimilationists and this remains the case today (Vellenga, 2008b).

‘Ex-Muslims’ in the Netherlands A second—though related—discourse from which voices in Yagana’s narrative emerged, is that of ‘ex-Muslims’, or ‘Islamic atheists’, which is constituted by people who have left Islam, and are now (publicly) speaking out against their former religion. In the Netherlands, this discourse originates with Hirsi Ali, but has extended to other prominent names such as the legal scholar Afshin Ellian, and later the founder of the briefly existing Dutch Committee for Ex-

104 Muslims, Ehsan Jami. These voices that are now speaking out against their former religion have been identified as ‘voices from within’ (De Leeuw & van Wichelen, 2005; Mahmood, 2009a). This term implies that, because ex-Muslims have been ‘in the fold’ and are now part of the ‘Enlightened secular’, they have the experience and authority to criticise their former faith. This is often perceived to be in line with the anti-Muslim sentiments of right-winged nationalists.79 This discourse is particularly relevant for those leaving Islam, since it does not only construct prejudiced images within the Muslim community of ‘apostates’, but also calls for the consideration of identifications of those who no longer believe, such as Yagana.

Islamic Discourses Last but not least, a complex discourse that should be addressed is that of the Muslim community, both in the Netherlands and in global developments surrounding Islam, as well as Islamic doctrine. The theology and morality with which one was raised (‘who was God’) should be considered. Matters of international Islamic extremism and violence or, for instance, the Palestinian–Israeli conflict, may affect the individual. Whilst an analysis of ‘the Islamic world and doctrine’ is clearly not possible here, it is worth noting that the way individuals are raised with religion and what concept they have of God, as well as the extent to which they consider international developments and politics in relation to Islam and Muslims, are factors that are highly influential on the way they cope with doubt, uncertainty, coming out to friends and family, and being out as a non-believer in the world. The particulars of Yagana’s Islamic discourse and Muslim community will be elaborated on in the analysis of her narrative. The analysis of 22 interviews conducted in the Netherlands in the framework of the larger project has shown that, even though personal narratives may differ, discursive voices of the Dutch national debate, ‘ex-Muslims’ and the Islamic discourse are present throughout. How these internal and external voices, as well as various I-positions may act in dialogue with one another, will be exemplified by one of my participants, Yagana. However, rather than

79 It should be noted that ex-Muslims engaged in this discourse vehemently claim not to be a part of the anti-Muslim bigotry that has coloured right-wing nationalist agendas. For example, the Council for Ex-Muslims in Britain [CEMB] stresses that they advocate against Islamism as a political doctrine but not against religion or Muslims per se. However, by advocating free speech in sometimes provocative ways, they have been accused by Muslims and non-Muslims alike of offending and excluding Muslims. A recent example is the CEMB’s press release after the International Conference on Freedom of Conscience and Expression, July 2017 (CEMB, 2017).

105 presenting a final analysis on what leaving religion entails, this chapter aims to illustrate the usefulness of Dialogical Self Theory as a tool for close reading, as well as for the analysis of the complexity of narratives of leaving Islam in a post-migration context.

Yagana’s Story and Working the Self: Through Increased Religiosity to Non-belief Yagana came to the Netherlands in 1998 at the age of seven. When I interviewed her, she was 26 years old, attending university, and living with her fiancé. Her narrative was, like that of many ‘leavers’, complex. Coming to terms with the fact that she indeed was ‘no longer a Muslim’ was difficult. She first ‘came out of the closet’ to one of her siblings in 2012, who was not as supportive as she had hoped; her Muslim friends, on the other hand, were. Coming out to her parents was not by choice; someone else had told them. They were angry and disappointed at first, but later accepted her existential beliefs. The stories Yagana told me were full of self-reflective ponderings, which showed an awareness of not only her own agency and self-making, but also of the various power-structures and discourses that surrounded her in the past and present. Through extensive internal dialogues and monologues, which she presented from different positions in time and space, she constructed her narrative dialogically and reflexively.80 Yagana told me that, before losing her religion, she first became “a lot more religious, I even started praying on my own accord”. She gave two reasons for this: first, the public debate surrounding Islam in the Netherlands had become more pronounced. As elaborated on above, from the mid-2000s onwards people such as Fortuyn, Hirsi Ali, and later Wilders took prominent stances against ‘the Islamisation’ of the country. She explained:

And yes, you show it more then, instead of keeping it to yourself. All of a sudden it becomes a public debate, of which you are a part as well, and then you want to show it. Whilst previously it was something private. For my parents as well (…) I wanted to show it, I wanted to show others like: “Hey, I am OK, and I also believe.” I was also open to engage in the discussion.

80 As mentioned above, this interview is part of a body of 44 interviews. This particular interview relates to the others in the sense that whilst trajectories such as Yagana’s described here, may vary, a fairly consistent body of ‘voices’ and ‘I-positions’ was found in the analysed data. Yagana’s story was particularly suitable to illustrate the usefulness of Dialogical Self Theory, since she presented a great variety of these voices.

106 Yagana felt attacked personally when the public debate centred around Muslims and their religion, illustrating the external influence of the public debate on her as an individual. She felt compelled to enter into discussions. Her awareness of being an acting and responding subject within complex discourses, coloured Yagana’s narrative. Above, she narrated the internal dialogue between the external voice of ‘the public debate’ and her I-position of I-as- Muslim. She felt that her being simultaneously “Muslim” and “OK” was perceived by the secularist discourse as contradictory and that she was therefore challenging the stereotype that was presented by this dominant discourse. Consider the following excerpt, which illustrates further the intrinsic consequences of this initial increased interest in Islam for her ethical self-making:

I wanted to bring more discipline to my life. By practising more, (…) by following certain rules I thought, well, the structure, and that makes me stronger as a person. (…) It felt like it was a mess in my life. And I really wanted to bring more structure.

Yagana summarised how her initial move to religiosity was partly motivated by public debate and her desire to be able to say: “I am OK as a Muslim”, and to meaningfully partake in this debate. However, she then realised that religion could also be a tool to give more structure and discipline to her life, and this was her second reason for becoming more religious. It is worth noting, that, during this period of her life, Yagana felt that practicing religion made her stronger as a person, which Foucault would consider a ‘technology of the self’ (Foucault, 1988). A discursive power of stigmatisation of Muslims and Islam in wider society woke Yagana’s desire to become more religious, through internal dialogue. By becoming more religious, she also became eager to attend the mosque, which is unusual for women in her Afghan community. Her I-as-woman in search of answers discussed with her parents and family that, according to her, this inequality does not make sense:

I didn’t go to the mosque; it’s not common for Afghan women to do so. I wanted to, because it was also a sort of change in me: “women should be going to the mosque!” I suggested this at home: “Hey, this is inequality! Women should be going to the mosque, why don’t we do that?” Like I said, in the Afghan community, culture is much more important than religion and I used Islam to argue against inequalities.

107 As she mentioned, within her community culture is considered more important than religion and deviation from the cultural norm is frowned upon. Yagana indicated that she utilised Islam as well as her increased religiosity to address matters of feminism and inequality, matters that were generally not discussed because “it is culture”. One of the technologies of self-making that Yagana practised was that of questioning both religious and cultural doctrine. In her understanding, questioning and investigating religion and God’s work was part of practising piety and giving attention to his creations. From her I-position as a critical Muslim thinker, asking such critical questions “showed how strong my connection was with God”. But she continued:

So I didn’t take everything at face value, but because everything became stronger by asking those critical questions (…) I found it pleasant to ask those questions. Until at some point it became a little problematic [laughs]. But in the beginning, I considered myself a critical thinker.

She considered herself a critical thinker, an identity and dominant I-position she had been comfortable with her whole life. Asking questions, entering into a dialogue with herself and God, was a part of showing her devotion and love for God’s work. However, she found it increasingly harder to find satisfying answers to these questions. A confusion of identifying internal voices that inhabited her society of mind emerged. What she thought was the voice of I-as-critical-thinker was now complicated by the notion of an external voice of the devil, whispering to her in terms of doubt, uncertainty, and questioning her faith altogether. Her I-as-critical-thinker developed but found it ultimately unsatisfying to “take everything with a pinch of salt”:

At a certain moment, I had questions. I tried to make things alright: “I don’t believe in that, I’ll take that with a pinch of salt.” I took everything with a pinch of salt. And at a certain moment I thought: “I’m taking everything with a pinch of salt, but are you then still a Muslim? And I don’t practise either? Are you then still…?”

The quotation at the beginning of this chapter pinpointed the moment of “falling”, as Yagana described it. Even though she knew she no longer actually believed the texts were sacred or in the existence of Allah, she was yet to admit this to herself. To describe this process, Yagana identified the various voices that constituted her doubt. Questions and voices were confusing;

108 where did they come from? What did they say? Who was talking? Were they internal or external? She not only assigned her own doubt to her religious beliefs, but also questioned her own agentic validity: Is this voice my own, or is it the voice of the devil? She described the process from doubt to certainty as one that required her to learn to trust herself:

[It] is very difficult to get rid of that idea. To think: “that is not hell, or the angel (…) but this is just me! I am talking to myself.” That I learn to trust myself, my own voice. Not subscribing it to all sorts of other things around me.

When she still believed, she already considered herself to be a critical thinker; a quality in herself that she then ascribed to her devotion to God. Questioning and discussing one’s beliefs, she felt, shows how strong one’s connection is with God “until it became problematic”. Moreover, she had always been able to trust her questioning as being her own dominant voice until her doubts became so strong that she could no longer in good conscience self-identify as Muslim. Indeed, she eventually could not reconcile or answer her questions with “taking things with a pinch of salt” and not practising anymore: “are you then still…?”.

And when I finally heard my own voice, like: “I actually do not believe it”, that’s when I really thought: “No, I am no longer Muslim.” I dared to admit it to myself: “I am no longer Muslim.”

She described this as “hearing her own voice”. Her internal voices of questioning, of I-as critical-thinker, which she feared to be the voice of the devil for a while, were eventually overshadowed, or their dominance was taken over, by what she recognised to be her own voice: “You know what, I actually don’t believe it.” She characterised this as a moment of clarity, which was still questioned for some time:

What makes you a Muslim? This. What does not make you a Muslim? This. I do not believe in the God that Islam prescribes. Or any other religion. I do not believe that. So those are the main preconditions crossed off. And when I admitted that to myself, here I am. That’s when I realised I still had to live with it. How are you going, how are you going to pray? I prayed five times a day. How are you going to pretend? (…) That was the hard bit. I struggled with that for a long time, perhaps I could just stay?

109

However, from this moment on, she answered these questions from a dominant non-believing I-position, rather than from the previously dominant I-as-Muslim position. She described her journey out of faith as learning to trust and listen to “who she really is”. Yagana constructed her story as a journey of discovery of her self. She did so through a question and answer dialogue, interchangeably informed by external and internal voices, as well as various I-positions. Through workings of dialogue, dominant and submissive voices changed hierarchy; they silenced one another at times. She gave the floor to the voice that she wanted to trust and by giving this voice more space, dominance and hierarchy shifted. It was an active journey to believe in being able to look further, to dare to be something else, a search for wisdom, to listen to difference and alternatives in order to find her truth. This active dialogical search for wisdom and ethics in Foucaultian terms is a complex self-examination or a “scrutiny of conscience” that serves as a technology of the self (Foucault, 1988, p. 37-38; Mahmood, 2005).

Problematics of Being: Coming Out? In order to illustrate the extensive workings of external discourses of history, society and politics on the individual and their dialogical self, this section will elaborate on the ‘problematics of being’, and the various voices and I-positions that informed Yagana’s considerations when contemplating ‘coming out’.81 The process centred around the various external voices that have emerged from discourses such as public debate that surrounded Muslims in the Netherlands, ‘ex-Muslim’ narratives, and the Muslim community, as elaborated on above. She constructed dialogues between these discursive structures and her own various I-positions:

They think that I think I am different, I am no longer ‘the Muslim’. That people would treat me better or something, that I felt much better if I would say I did not belong to them. To the Muslims. Because very often, that can be traced back to figures like Ayaan Hirsi Ali and stuff, they make a break, and consider themselves to be better than [Muslims], that’s how they see it: “I am better Enlightened, it is a very backward people,

81 For language use and an elaboration on the appropriation of LGBTQ+-terminology among ‘ex-Muslims’, see Cottee, 2018; Sidło, 2016)

110 those who still believe that.” So that’s the idea she [her sister] had with that. That I was very selfish, and irresponsible towards others. If I would come out of the closet. Because I also do notice that if you are a Muslim yourself, that people then, Muslims amongst themselves can honestly express their critique and doubts, but not towards someone who is in another group, or is an atheist. (…) And I get it, that’s why for me it was hard to acknowledge that I was an atheist too.

In the above excerpt, the impact of pre-existing discourses in the political realm and public debate on internal dialogue and self-making years after the actual events becomes evident.82 Not only has it influenced the opinion and stigmatised views that some Muslims had of those leaving Islam, but the image also inhabited Yagana’s subjectivity. Furthermore, she made a distinction between those who ‘break’ with Islam and those, including herself, who merely stopped believing. Those breaking with Islam tended to turn against their former religion; traumas may have developed and given individuals reasons to advocate for freedom of religion, or rather freedom from religion. She considered herself to be different: external and collective voices of her community tell her “that I am selfish”, “that I am enlightened”—voices informed by the anti-Islam narrative of, for example, Hirsi Ali, which were qualifications that she strongly disagreed with and she desired to convince others of the invalidity of these voices when they would have been ascribed to her. The theme of ‘being different’, apparent in the words “I am different, I am no longer the Muslim”, coloured much of Yagana’s narrative. Her constant struggle between being a self- identified atheist and simultaneously wanting to belong to her community, both ethnic and religious, was driven by the external (internalised) voices of her family and community, and in this particular case, her sister. When Yagana ‘came out’ to her sister, the first person to know that she no longer believed, Yagana did not receive the support that she desired. On the contrary: her sister told her to be quiet and not harm the family. Her sister believed that Yagana would do so since her ‘coming out’ as an atheist would be equal to openly saying she was now an outsider, she was better than her parents and siblings, she was ‘Enlightened’—the presumed characteristics of Muslim-becomes-Atheist. Therefore, for a long time, Yagana actively attempted to resist this ascribed identity as an atheist. It was an imagined I-position that she

82 Ayaan Hirsi Ali, for example, was prominently present in the public debate between 2003 and 2006.

111 knew she may have had to adopt eventually but because of external voices, both real and imagined, it took effort to acknowledge that indeed this label represented her beliefs. However, she (self-)dialogically attempted to contest this identity: “And my father thinks: ‘She now thinks that religion is inferior.’ But I say: ‘No! Not at all!’ But you do not have that discussion with your father.” As this quotation shows, although not actually having discussed this matter with her father extensively, his voice, as presented by her above, impersonated the collective voice of the Muslim community that informed her conflicting feelings of leaving Islam and becoming an atheist. This collective voice, of her father but also of the wider Muslim community in the Netherlands, which according to Yagana said that those that leave Islam are “vindictive, violent, and out to hurt the faith and Muslims in general”, continued to inform her political and personal stance on the position of Islam-leavers and Islam in general. In her opinion, it was indeed this imagined other, i.e. the image of the ‘Islam-bashing ex-Muslim’, that continued to shape the convictions of parts of the Muslim community. In terms of Hermans, in this brief anecdote of dialogue within Yagana’s society of mind, we see how she hierarchically answered to power-structures outside the self. She recognised the hierarchical difference between herself and the collective voice of the Muslim community as represented by her father. Because of this hierarchy, both patriarchal as well as societal, “you wouldn’t go into discussion”: it remained an internal dialogue within her society of mind. It was characteristic of Yagana’s narrative that she continued to show great respect for familial and communal values, as exemplified by the internal dialogues above. Not only did this become clear in her current existential beliefs (“I kept the good stuff”), but she also respected the external voices that not she herself but her parents had to deal with. Her parents accepted her ‘apostasy’ but they continued to urge her to keep this to herself. They enjoyed a respectable position within their community and Yagana did not want to jeopardise this. In order to come to terms with her parents’ wishes, she voiced the internal dialogue her parents may have experienced:

But I say: “Mom, what you are actually saying is that I cannot stand on my own two feet, that I can’t this and that”, [we have had] whole discussions. And then she agreed with me. But the community (…) doesn’t like it. And that has always been the bottom-line of every discussion about that: “But the community, they won’t appreciate it.” So yeah, it is not really their opinion, it is mainly the community (…), ties are after all strong.

112 Yagana described the conversation she had with her mother about leaving the house and living alone as an unmarried woman. Whilst her mother eventually came to terms with her daughter’s independence, according to her mother, the community would not. “What would they say?” is a question her parents kept asking themselves, one that was answered by external voices in terms of “being the black sheep”, “being looked at differently”, and “losing respect”. Out of love for her family, Yagana therefore complied with their desire to keep both her existential beliefs as well as her ‘Dutch’ fiancé hidden from the community. At the time of the interview, Yagana was contemplating her move to break with the community (by marrying her fiancé) but to keep her ties with her own family strong. The negotiations within herself became evident in dialogical form and indecisiveness of which I- position (I-as-loving-daughter vs. I-as-fighting-for-freedom) to grant the stage. In her mind, there were two options: she could either wait for her parents’ approval of her fiancé, which may take time, or she could simply move forward (i.e. get married) without their consent, thereby hurting her parents. However, she knew from her previous experience of coming out as an atheist and moving out of the house, that “nothing happened until I took matters into my own hands” (i.e. letting the I-as-fighting-for-freedom take the stage), but this hurt her parents:

So now I am contemplating this, should I make this decision myself, and wait for them to follow, or do I wait, and keep talking and keep talking until I can convince them of it. So the first option is more painful, yes, much more painful, because you also have to break, make people sad. And you also lose a part of [their] trust. Every time you do something like that.

She found her situation at the time of the interview highly troublesome and it hurt her not to be able to be open and honest with her parents about her fiancé. She found that especially the aforementioned gender inequality was holding her back unfairly, a phenomenon that she chiefly blamed her community’s culture for, but she also saw the position of women within Islam as “quite shit”.83 Yagana noted that at times she considered herself to be a free-thinker breaking taboos for girls of her generation in her community. For example, she told me that her younger sister had also moved out of the parental home but had not experienced any pushback from her family or community, even though she also was “an unmarried woman

83 Translated from “bagger”, in Dutch.

113 alone”. She reckoned: “The fact that it is no longer a big deal, that is a relief.” However, when I asked her if there was anything she would want to change in the future, she answered:

That there is more openness. That is the most important. Not only [within] religion, but that people can just be and do what they want. Yes, that’s the only thing. That’s being done now for boys, [for them] it is allowed. For women, it is still an issue (…) People really have to work at that.

Such contemplation on her own different (I-)positions, as woman and as freethinker, exemplified the complexity of self-making situated in various discourses and power-structures. Leaving Islam has only been one part of her journey in life so far, which has been embedded in a larger narrative of desires of becoming. By dialogically engaging with doubts and uncertainty, as well as with external and internal voices, Yagana has made sense of the multi- layered facets of her life, eventually providing some level of structure for her self. It should be noted that these processes of self-making described above are, of course, a life-long practice, and Yagana’s narrative will change over time. New reflections and dialogues will change her perception of who she was and is.

Concluding Remarks Although Yagana’s story is, of course, but one example of a narrative of someone leaving Islam in a post-migration context, this chapter has aimed to illustrate the specific benefits of Dialogical Self Theory for the analysis of such a trajectory. From her narrative, in which Yagana presented a multiplicity of voices, the question arose of how these various voices and external discourses may inform agentic self-making and a search for ‘truth’ and wisdom. This chapter has aimed to broaden the use of Dialogical Self Theory to the analysis of such trajectories. It is particularly well-suited, since Dialogical Self Theory has been developed as a bridging theory between the self and its surroundings, whilst maintaining the agentic capacity of self-making. It has argued that considering, first, the actual voices and their interaction in a self-narrative, second, the complex embeddedness of these voices in discursive power-structures, and third, the self-making agentic properties of a dialogical self, opens up new spaces for the comprehension of complex trajectories out of Islam. In order to come to such an understanding, this chapter first outlined the main tenets of Dialogical Self Theory, which recognises that the self is not alone, but rather is populated by

114 actual and imagined others as well as complex discourses such as religion, culture, social groups, and the political realm. Dialogue may then take place between different external others as well as various I-positions, in which what Hermans calls ‘the society of mind’. Second, considering the importance of various hierarchical external voices in Yagana’s narrative, the discourses from which these have emerged were elaborated on. This provided a framework in which to situate certain (internal) dialogues as well as to understand the emergence of external voices and imagined I-positions, such as ‘Islam-bashing-ex-Muslim’ or the specific hesitations Yagana had with ‘I-as-atheist’. To understand a dialogical self, living, acting, and making in the world, these discourses are highly relevant. This elaboration opened up space to situate and analyse Yagana’s story and dialogical self. Through a careful—though not exhaustive— examination, it has become clear that complex internal dialogues and monologues were utilised for her ethical self-making and search for wisdom and ‘truth’. It has been shown that changes in the hierarchical positioning of different voices, as well as shifting identifications of different I-positions, informed by the power-structures of political debate, personal Islam, community and family, and the ‘ex-Muslim’ discourse, have co-constructed, in Yagana’s words, her journey to recognise and trust ‘her own voice’. The dialogical process of leaving Islam, for Yagana, was marked by the confusion of identifying various voices and I-positions, as well as struggles to assign dominance within the multiplicity of voices in her society of mind. Furthermore, Yagana’s careful reflexivity on herself and her consideration of her surroundings have shown that she acted dialogically in the world. Through internal dialogue, she doubted, hesitated, considered, and ‘became’ in an increasingly polarised and secularist country. Having crossed lines of faith and unbelief, she found herself in the uncommon position of simultaneously wanting to fight for young Muslims right to freedoms beyond their faith and community, whilst wanting to defend other Muslims from the dominant assimilationist discourse, which aspires to minimalise the presence of (Muslim) religion in the public sphere in the Netherlands As a final note, the prominence of (non-)religion in Yagana’s life at the time of writing should not be overestimated but considered in the wider context of time and space that characterises the human experience. As outlined above, Yagana has indeed left Islam: she has struggled with doubts and uncertainties, being forced to come out towards her family, while remaining silent towards the community. However, apart from now identifying as a free- thinker and atheist, it has also become clear that her struggles at the time of the interview were predominantly informed by her fiancé, her relationship with her parents, and the wish to break free from a tight-knit community. For Yagana, losing her religion has been part of a life-long

115 journey of self-making that will always be perceived in the context of the specific social and historical environment in which it is lived.

116 Chapter 384

Challenging Secularities, Challenging Religion: ‘Secularist Ex-Muslim Voices’ in the British Debate on Islam and Freedom of Expression

Introduction

We make no apologies. We will not live on our knees. We are the tsunami that is coming.85

These were the final words with which Maryam Namazie opened the International Conference on Freedom of Conscience and Expression in London, on 22 July 2017. Her words referred to the growing number of ex-Muslims and atheists from Muslim communities who speak out against Islam. The conference marked the tenth anniversary of the Council of Ex-Muslims in Britain [CEMB] and aimed to bring together secularists and freethinkers from all over the world. At the conference, panels consisted of people such as Deeyah Khan, film maker of the documentary Islam’s Non-believers (2016), scientist and atheist Richard Dawkins, spokesperson for the campaign One Law for All Gina Khan, co-founder of Ex-Muslims of North America Sarah Haider, LGBT ex-Muslim activist Jimmy Bangash, author and broadcaster Kenan Malik, director of the Centre for Secular Space Gita Sahgal, and many more. Issues such as Islamophobia, apostasy and blasphemy, communalism and multiculturalism, secularism, and identity politics were discussed. Although many opinions were shared, the general atmosphere and rhetoric is best described by Namazie’s own agenda. Namazie is, among other things, the founder and chair of the Council of Ex- Muslims in Britain. She has criticised Islam and, in particular, what she refers to as ‘Islamism’—political appropriation of Islam. She has frequently referred to apostates and blasphemers in Muslim majority countries who are being persecuted for asserting their right to freedom of conscience. Consequently, she has castigated British left-wing parties and public figures for siding with Islamists by only recognising values of liberty when it concerns themselves but not when it

84 This chapter is a slightly modified version of the article previously published as: Vliek, M. (2018). Challenging secularities, challenging religion: ‘Secularist ex-Muslim voices’ in the British debate on Islam and freedom of expression. Journal of Religion in Europe, 11(4), 348– 377. 85 All excerpts from the Conference presented in this chapter were accessed via the YouTube channel of ‘Nano GoleSorkh’.

117 concerns Muslims (Namazie, 2014a). This so-called regressive left, according to Namazie, has imposed de facto blasphemy laws in the West by the accusation of Islamophobia when it concerns public criticism of Islamic doctrine. These controversial opinions have led to accusations from Muslims and non- Muslims alike of racism and siding with right-wing populists, which Namazie has refuted (i.a.: Namazie, 2014b). During the conference, panellists and speakers stressed time and again the ‘incommensurable divide’ between Islam and secularism (Mahmood, 2009b). They asserted their authority to do so by claiming to be ‘a voice from within’—a voice that assumes that since one has been ‘inside’ Islam has thereby the knowledge (often through victimhood) to now speak out against it (Mahmood, 2009a). My larger research project focuses on people who could potentially take up such roles: they have Muslim backgrounds, they are from the Netherlands or Britain, and they no longer believe in God nor have they converted to another religion. I attended the Conference mentioned above in the middle of my fieldwork, and I jotted down various occasions that ‘multiculturalism,’ state appropriation, and legal incorporation of religious sensibilities seemed to be what participants of the Conference argued against. I also noted, that these were themes that at the time were not particularly present in the Dutch debate nor were ‘voices from within’ currently contesting such issues. A prominent ‘voice from within’—or what I will now refer to as ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’—did, at one point, surface in the Netherlands, that is Ayaan Hirsi Ali who entered politics in 2001 with the Dutch Labour party (PvdA) and got elected to the House of Representatives in 2003 running for the Conservatives (VVD). The Somali-born was the first Dutch politician to confront issues of Islam in the West by stressing her intimate knowledge of the ‘darkness’ of her former religion. Islam was, according to her, threatening the ‘Enlightenment values’ of the Netherlands. Although she left the country in 2006, Dutch right- wing politics have since been dominated by like-minded politician Geert Wilders who pursues a nationalist, anti-Islam, anti-Europe agenda (Poole, 2012). In this light, my research interlocutors from the Netherlands who I interviewed with regards to their loss of faith often thought that what Namazie calls “the celebration of apostasy and blasphemy” was more harmful rather than helpful toward the plight of those that wish to leave Islam (GoleSorkh, Maryam).86 Besides not necessarily feeling much resentment towards Islam or Muslims, many of my interlocutors in the Netherlands feared that if they were to speak out then their narratives could be utilised by Geert Wilders or other populist politicians, aiming to exclude Muslims. So

86 On injury and blasphemy, see also Christoph Baumgartner (2013) on blasphemy as violence.

118 why do these particular activist and political voices currently emerge and assemble in Britain, but not in the Netherlands? I argue that ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ have recently emerged in the public debate in Britain and not as much in the Netherlands because of these countries’ respective histories of secularity. The way the state treats its religious minorities as well as the social and cultural meanings that define and contest religious and secular spaces have raised particular problems that ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ currently contest in Britain. I contend that because of the particular developments of secularities in the Netherlands and the reference problems these produce, this voice has not surfaced there in recent years. Because Britain has been predominantly marked by a secularity that seeks to accommodate religious diversity, ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ criticise both policy as well as the cultural norms it produces, which allegedly accommodate Islamism. In order to shed light on why ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ currently surface in Britain but are relatively absent in the Netherlands, this chapter will first elaborate on the theoretical concept of ‘multiple secularities’ (Wohlrab-Sahr & Burchardt, 2012; 2017). Second, an analysis will be provided on the particulars of dominant British secularity and its contestations on institutionalised levels and the policies it has produced. Third, in order to explore the social and cultural domains of secularity in Britain, the reception of the Danish cartoon affair in 2006 and the aftermath of the Charlie Hebdo attacks in 2015 by the British press and commentators will be elaborated on. Last, in order to unpack the ‘secularist ex-Muslim discourse’ and its particular surfacing in Britain, a case study concerning the above-mentioned conference will be presented. Throughout this chapter, the Dutch situation will be utilised as a contrast against which the British situation becomes particularly salient.

Multiple Secularities Over the past decades, academic discussion over sociological processes, such as ‘modernisation’ and ‘secularisation,’ have spread worldwide. Their assumptions of universality and natural occurrence as a result of a liberal market economy and social welfare have been questioned. While an extensive overview of these debates is beyond the scope of this chapter, it is worth noting that out of the discussions over the universality of modernisation theory, came a new orientation which has found positive reception: the idea of ‘multiple modernities’ (Eisenstadt, 2000). Shmuel N. Eisenstadt suggested that the idea of a unifying concept of modernity is required and should be maintained, however, diversity of

119 ‘developmental paths’ within the concept is accepted and even assumed (Eisenstadt, 2000; Wohlrab-Sahr & Burchardt, 2012). Monika Wohlrab-Sahr and Marian Burchardt (2012) argued that a similar debate has developed over the assumed universality and inevitability of ‘secularisation’. Initially, attempts were made primarily to design a general model (e.g.: Martin, 1978). These different attempts suggested that there could be various paths to ‘secularisation.’ However, opponents of secularisation theory argued that, like with modernisation theory, it was based in Western bias, assumed universalism, and was perceived as an inevitable civilisational process. Recent critiques of secularisation theory were thereby often sympathetic towards religion to counter the ‘secularisation theory’ to the extent to what Wohlrab-Sahr and Burchardt (2017) have analysed as a risk towards inversion. As a contribution to these debates, they have therefore introduced the concept of ‘multiple secularities’ (Wohlrab-Sahr & Burchardt, 2012). Before expanding on this further, a word on terminology is warranted. Like Wohlrab- Sahr and Burchardt, I will follow José Casanova (2009; 2011) and Talal Asad (2003) in their definitions of ‘secularism,’ ‘secularity,’ and ‘secularisation’. The term ‘secularisation’ refers to the ‘process of differentiation,’ which includes the decline of religious belief and participation, as well as the dwindling mutual influences of the social and the religious. The term ‘secularism’ refers to the ideological program that strives to complete separation of religious and secular domains as well as their co-constitution; ‘secularists,’ then, are its advocates. Furthermore, recent work on secularism has considered a variety of European ‘secularisms,’ depending on specific (national) historic and religious trajectories. Various scholars compared these different types of secularism (i.a. Berg-Sørensen, 2013; Cady & Shakman Hurd, 2010; Soper & Fetzer, 2007). Secularism, then, is defined by its political ideology that attempts to differentiate between religious and secular spheres, which is often conflated with the social practices and institutions that abide by these ideologies. ‘Secularity’ denotes both the institutional anchored forms as well as the social and cultural arrangements, such as public debate that defines religious and secular demarcations (Burchardt & Wohlrab-Sahr 2013; Schuh, Burchardt & Wohlrab-Sahr 2012; Wohlrab-Sahr & Burchardt 2012; 2017). This distinct definition of ‘secularity’ is aimed to not only capture official demarcations of religious and secular spheres—i.e., ‘secularism’—but also specifically the cultural and implicit forms of ‘demarcating religion.’ It goes beyond previous analyses of ‘the secular’ and ‘secularism’ as mere institutionalised relations or an ideological project (i.a.: Birt, Hussain & Siddiqui, 2011; Chapman, 2016; McLean & Peterson, 2011). This definition of ‘secularity’ thereby recognises both institutionalised forms of distinction between what is

120 religious and what is deemed non-religious, as well as the guiding ideas legitimising them in society (Wohlrab-Sahr & Burchardt, 2012, p. 886-887). Wohlrab-Sahr and Burchardt (2017) have argued that secularity is considered a social construction that is “the outcome of contestations over the ways in which religion is culturally defined, socially and legally delimited, politically regulated and spatially as well as temporally arranged” (p. 6). Inspired by Eisenstadt’s (2000) ‘multiple modernities’ and this particular understanding of secularity, they have coined the concept of ‘multiple secularities’ (Wohlrab-Sahr & Burchardt, 2012). The approach of ‘multiple secularities’ assumes that secularity takes different shapes at different times in different contexts. Furthermore, these secularities may respond to a range of societal problems that arise from them, as well as offer solutions. Such societal problems arise at different frequencies at different times. Wohlrab-Sahr and Burchardt (2012) have identified four types of such ‘reference problems’: (1) the problem of individual freedom vs. dominant social units, such as groups or the state; (2) the problem of religious diversity and potential or actual conflict; (3) the problem of social or national integration and development; and (4) the problem of independent development of institutional domains (p. 887). When a problem arises, processes of interpretations of these problems, as well as their potential solutions, are negotiated from specific power relations and historical experience in a given society and its religious and political tradition. These problems provide motives for institutionalising religious and non-religious demarcation. They can coexist and compete with one another, however, one of them may become dominant and, thereby, push the other motives to the background (p. 888). By ‘dominant’ I mean, following Sipco Vellenga’s (2008a) definition of dominance in public debate, “when the representatives of a particular discourse are able to set the agenda of the debate, and other participants in the debate are compelled to respond to their contributions” (p. 451). As Wohlrab-Sahr and Burchardt (2012) noted, dominance, then, depends on specific histories of both the institutionalised forms of distinction as well as the social and cultural forms (p. 892). The above types of reference problems provide the motives for ideal-types of secularity or logics from which people argue (Wohlrab-Sahr & Burchardt, 2012; 2017). They uncover four types of ‘secularity for the sake of,’ which have a particular focus, as well as definitions of what the social ought to look like. Type 1 is secularity for the sake of individual liberties, with the guiding principles of freedom and individuality. Type 2 is secularity for the sake of balancing/accommodating religious or ethnic diversity, with the guiding ideas of toleration, respect, and non-interference. Type 3 is secularity for the sake of social integration/national development, and its guiding ideas are progress, enlightenment, and modernity. Type 4 is

121 secularity for the sake of the independent development of institutional domains, with the guiding ideas of rationality, efficiency, and autonomy. These ideal-types were designed as a ‘guide to empirical work,’ and it is my intention to analyse ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ and their emergence in Britain (Wohlrab-Sahr & Burchardt, 2012, p. 905). These theoretic concepts are designed to analyse empirical situations, like, for example, Cora Schuh, Burchardt, and Wohlrab-Sahr (2012) have done for the Netherlands.87 I will provide a brief summary of their query, the reasons for which are twofold. First, it will illustrate the concepts outlined above. Second, the particular Dutch emergence and transformations of secularities may provide clues as to why ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ are currently relatively absent from the public debate there, which will provide the contrast against which the British situation becomes particularly salient.

Multiple Secularities in the Netherlands Reference problems regarding secularity have been present in the Republic of the Netherlands since its conception in 1581. The Dutch rebellion against the Spanish Crown was largely provoked by the problems of power claims by the Spanish monarchs as well as the Catholic inquisition. After the rebellion, bridging confessional divides was prioritised, an effort complicated by new (Reformational) strands of philosophy. The management of this confessional diversity was geared towards ensuring individual intellectual liberties, while maintaining group order and pacifying conflict, that is, type 2, secularity for the sake of accommodating diversity. After the Second World War, the steady secularisation of the nation as well as the liberalisation of cultural values, such as homosexuality, resulted in an intermittent period of dominant type 1, secularity for the sake of individual liberties. This was first geared towards orthodox Christianity and later towards what was seen as ‘outside religion’ or Islam (Schuh, Burchardt & Wohlrab-Sahr, 2012). The Netherlands have often been described as frontrunners of the ‘true multiculturalist model’ especially in the 80s and 90s of the twentieth century. These presumed multiculturalist policies have also been fiercely criticised on a national level in public and political debate. Jan Willem Duyvendak and Peter Scholten have proposed to deconstruct the existence of such models by interrogating the various frames through which these models are viewed

87 For other examples of empirical applications of ‘multiple secularities,’ see Marian Burchardt, Monika Wohlrab-Sahr, & Matthias Middel (2015).

122 (Duyvendak & Scholten, 2012). They have shown that, in fact, there has been very little continuity in the development of integration policy since the 1970s in the Netherlands. The contestations in both debate as well as active policy have centred around two concerns: the socioeconomic participation of migrants and the social-cultural distinctiveness of such groups. While in the 80s, official policy was to accommodate cultural diversity for the sake of social integration, during the 90s, policies were geared towards the economic independence of individuals: participation would lead to social integration. On the local and more practical level, group specific measures have been driven by pragmatism rather than ideological concerns over multiculturalism: “recognizing cultural groups is often more a means for conducting effective integration policies than an attempt to institutionalize diversity” (Duyvendak & Scholten, 2012, p. 279). Since the turn of the century, however, social cultural distinction has become increasingly contested again, especially in light of a turn towards the importance of national unity and Dutch identity, in line with secularity for the sake of social integration/national development. Assimilation has become the spear point of discursive and political debate: socio-cultural distinctiveness on the basis of ethnicity, or, increasingly, religion, has become perceived as an obstacle for socio-economic participation. In recent years, the public debate that evolved after the murder of Theo van Gogh in 2004 has awoken the old themes of religious plurality and tolerance in opposition to individual liberty. This reference problem, according to Schuh, Burchardt, and Wohlrab-Sahr (2012), was viewed through three different frames: the pluralist frame, the secular frame, and the secular progressivist frame. The pluralist frame was only supported by Christian political parties and argued for tolerance and secularity for the sake of accommodating diversity. Schuh, Burchardt, and Wohlrab-Sahr noted that there has been a considerable shift in dominance of the ‘secular progressivist’ frame since this debate, which is most prominently represented by politician Geert Wilders. This frame drives on the dualism of Enlightenment, progress, and the West versus the darkness of religion, more specifically Islam. Currently, the aspiration of national unity is dominant in both Dutch politics as well as in law making and public debate, which constitutes type 3, secularity for the sake of social integration/national development. Of course, as Schuh, Burchardt, and Wohlrab-Sahr noted, this secularity remains highly contested. My Dutch interlocutors who I interviewed in light of their loss of faith often referenced the current political climate and public debate as a reason not to speak out against Islam or to testify to their religious trajectories of leaving their religion. They told me that they did not feel begrudged towards Islam per se, and, more significantly, they did not want their narratives to be utilised by ‘the likes of Geert Wilders’ or, in more theoretical terms, by secularity for the

123 sake of social integration/national development often combined with motives from secularity for the sake of individual liberties, when ‘freedom of speech’ is invoked in order to exclude or offend Muslims. Furthermore, I will show that, due to these different histories of secularity, certain reference problems that are addressed by ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ in Britain have less bearing on the Dutch situation. I wish to contrast the British situation with these particular Dutch contestations, which will shed light on why ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ have surfaced in Britain and what they aim to unsettle. I will argue that ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ are contesting multiple motives for secularity and desire to challenge (and alter) the dominant status quo. According to Schuh, Burchardt, and Wohlrab- Sahr (2012), the purpose of such analytical work is to understand and uncover why nations differ from one another. As they have tried to understand the specific Dutch case, my goal is to understand how Britain is different from that of the Dutch situation and to explore the unique conditions in which ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ emerge as well as how they challenge dominant secularities.

British Secularities: The Origins of Church-State Relations and Religious Pluralism Linda Woodhead (2013) has defined the current British situation as ‘neither religious nor secular’. Gladys Ganiel and Peter Jones (2012) have similarly argued that due to the intrinsic intertwinement of religion in law in Britain “it is simply misleading to conceive of the UK as a straightforwardly secular state” (p. 299). Woodhead’s analysis covered both social and ethical identification as being simultaneously religious and secular, a status that she called “a complex post-Christendom, partially plural situation” (Woodhead, 2013, p. 155). While identification as Christian remains strong, belief and practice have thoroughly declined. Secondly, she addressed the institutionalised forms: the state’s links with religiosity as well as the continuing importance of religion in social and political spheres. The establishment of the Church of England by Henry VIII in 1534 created autonomy of the state from religious institutions, but religious institutions, in turn, have limited autonomy from the state, a situation the Church is rather content with (Ganiel & Jones, 2012). Woodhead observed that many formal linkages remain today, such as the Anglican bishops in the House of Lords and prayers before Parliament (Also see Ganiel & Jones, 2012, p. 300). Other intertwinements extend into public life and concern primarily education and social welfare. For example, there are thousands of state-funded faith schools, the majority of which are Christian, but there are Jewish and Muslim faith schools too. Furthermore, faith-based organizations hold particular sway over public

124 funds through service provision and grant-making, which the government actively engages for service-delivery and the promotion of social cohesion (Woodhead, 2013, p.149). Woodhead (2013) noted that, as a result of such a ‘neither religious nor secular’ situation, many minority religions have been able to win concessions and privileges from the state. As J. Christopher Soper and Joel S. Fetzer (2007) also observed, Britain’s church-state model has served as an important institutional and ideological resource for religious minorities: “Far from opposing state accommodation for religious groups, British Church-State policy makes significant allowances for it” (p. 936). Initial calls for minority religions’ equality were not a binary contestation over religion vs. secularity, but one of pluralism and of the accommodation of plural religions in public life, i.e., type 2, secularity for the sake of accommodating diversity. Like Woodhead, Paul Weller and Sariya Cheruvallil-Contractor (2015) noted that this quest for not only recognition of the minority religions (and, in particular, the Muslim community and its desires), but also for equality, has been very much an active mission from below as well as a top-down policy implementation. They further argued, that while the Muslim community has carved out a significant piece in a plural and ‘multicultural’ Britain, especially since Tony Blair’s Labour government from 1997 onwards, anti-Muslim sentiments, which will be outlined below, have also increased over the past decades (also: Ganiel & Jones, 2012). These more recent developments should also be considered in light of so-called ‘multiculturalism’ and its implications for religious minorities as well as its contestations. Multiculturalism has had many meanings over the years in Britain. During the 1960s and 70s, it was largely seen as a way of either demographically describing a new migrant reality or as a cultural way of living, which was considered a manifestation of post-war anti-fascism (Chin, 2017; Kundnani, 2012). Rita Chin (2017) traces the bedrock of ‘multiculturalism’ in Britain back to the 1965 Race Relations Act, which was the first of its kind in Europe to outlaw discrimination on the basis of race and ethnicity. It was also the first piece of legislation to overtly accept race and ethnicity as valid categories. This act was not recognised as ‘multiculturalism,’ but it was designed to both control immigration, as well as combat discrimination. Critically, Chin noted, a follow up to the 1965 bill, the Local Government Act of 1966, “extended the possibility of central government funds to local authorities,” especially aimed at those local authorities dealing with substantial numbers of “immigrants from the Commonwealth” (respectively: Chin, 2017; Local Government Act, 1966). Furthermore, large scale urban disturbances in the 1980s prompted the government to design new policies to manage the new multi-ethnic realities rather than merely observing

125 them. In the course of the 80s and 90s, government policy provided considerable autonomy to and support for minority groups, passed anti-racism laws, and allowed for education programs to provide sensitivity to cultural diversity. “While never officially formalized by the British government, multiculturalism became, in the words of one specialist, ‘an unwritten constitution,’” for dealing with diversity (Orenstein & Weismann, 2016, p. 4). The Conservative government under Margaret Thatcher took an approach of differential treatment to ethnic minorities, as these were presumed to present their own challenges to British society that would require different government response. In the 80s, resources were specifically allocated to poor urban communities where most ethnic minorities resided (Chin 2017, p. 99- 100). These funds were not distributed by the central government directly but channelled through local pre-existing agencies that were, in turn, administered by local and city governments. Chin noted, that even though the Tories were in power, it was actually Labour who had a major role in the development of urban renewal since they held most local offices in the poor urban communities: “it was precisely these localized programs, especially the ones that relied on ethnic leaders to represent their communities, that would later be described as the first state-sponsored forms of ‘multiculturalism’ in Britain” (Chin, 2017, p. 101). This is a marked difference with the Dutch situation of multiculturalism described above: in the Netherlands, despite critics claiming otherwise, throughout the past four decades, policy has never specifically implemented preferential (financial) treatment to cultural, ethnic, or religious minorities. While initially multiculturalism was conceived as a plight for racial, cultural, and ethnic equality, in contemporary society in Britain, it has become primarily linked to government policy towards the British Muslim. Central and symbolic for this shift was the Rushdie Affair (Falkenhayner, 2014). Although multicultural policies had already come under scrutiny before, it was not until the publication of Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses in 1988 that the subsequent Muslim reaction came to be in the form of worldwide protests, culminating in the Bradford book-burning in 1989, and, finally, the fatwa pronounced by Iranian leader Ayatollah Khomeini, that prominent members of parliament and commentators collectively attacked Muslims as a minority. They criticised multiculturalism for allowing ‘fundamentally different anti-liberal’ people (i.e., Muslims) to live and thrive in Britain (Chin, 2017, p. 185-187). Other events that led to further scrutiny of both ‘the British Muslims’ and multiculturalism were the various terrorist attacks in the United States and Europe from 2001 on. Despite increased criticism on multiculturalism, Blair’s and Gordon Brown’s New Labour governments, which were in power from 1997 until 2010, remained convinced, in both

126 speeches and policy, that the multiculturalist approach was the right way forward (Orenstein & Weismann, 2016; Vellenga, 2008a). During this time, the strongest opposition to Blair and other pro-multiculturalists came from the far-right British National Party (BNP) led by Nick Griffin, which had a nationalist and anti-Islam focus. However, during the ruling of the Labour party, so-called political correctness was still considered a virtue in the UK “and kept alive by prominent figures in British society” (Vellenga, 2008a, p. 462). Although criticism of multiculturalism increased after the London bombings in July 2005, it was not acknowledged by the government until the new Conservative Prime Minister David Cameron won the elections in 2010. He announced that “multiculturalism ha[d] failed” (Kuenssberg, 2011). In order to counter segregation, highly contested new policies were to be implemented, which were supposed to promote ‘British’ values in all sectors of society, now on a national level rather than the previous local approach. It should be noted that although it has been declared by prominent ruling party members that ‘multiculturalism has failed,’ and that the current government is certainly less preoccupied with accommodating religious plurality, it is often the institutionalised forms of type 2—secularity for the sake of accommodating diversity—that are still in effect. At the time of writing, political nationalist party UKIP most prominently challenged the institutionalized forms of secularity for the sake of accommodating diversity. After their successful lobby for the UK to leave the EU by means of the Brexit referendum in 2016, they found themselves without a cause. However, leading up to the elections in 2017, they actively and distinctly positioned themselves against multiculturalism and as anti-Islam.88 They have defined their program in terms of type 3—secularity for the sake of social integration and national development—challenging the state policies for religious accommodation (UKIP 2017). They have argued for a total ban on (Muslim) veiling, a moratorium on new Islamic faith schools, and higher priority of prosecution when ‘honour’ is involved (UKIP, 2017). Their significance currently in British politics is debated considering the heavy losses in English local elections in May 2018. The ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ claim to contest both what they call ‘the regressive left,’ as well as ‘anti-Muslim bigotry.’

88 The relative success of Geert Wilders in the Netherlands, as well as the UKIP and BNP in Britain, was partially made possible by the respective electoral systems in each country. While the Netherlands has a history of electing coalition governments, which opens up unlimited spaces for new political parties, in Britain the electoral system is effectively bipartisan (Labour and Conservative) and generally rules by majority vote, leaving less space for the success of other political parties.

127

Contestations over Religious Accommodation: The Danish Cartoon Affair and Free Speech While the previous section has concerned itself chiefly with the institutionalised demarcations of what are deemed religious and secular spaces, the following will address the social and cultural forms that secularity has taken in Britain by discussing the public debates that erupted after the cartoon affairs. First of all, the Danish cartoon affair raised reference problems that highlighted presumed differences between Islam and the West, especially expressed in the alleged opposition of freedom of expression vs. blasphemy, sometimes understood as the restriction of free speech. In Britain, the affair uniquely followed a controversy surrounding the amendments of the Public Order Act on inciting religious hatred in late 2005 (Lord Hansard, 2005). The amendments were designed to provide protection for religious minorities but were scrutinized for their far-reaching effects on, for example, satirists and comedians. The bill was passed eventually, stating that ‘intent’ was required (and not just the possibility) for “threatening words or behaviour, or displays any written material which is threatening” (Racial and Religious Hatred Act, 2006). Only months after the passing of the bill, the Danish cartoon affair unfolded. In Britain, media coverage was concentrated around February 2006, and the cartoons were published in neither the tabloids nor the broadsheets. Yet, “noticeable cleavages […] were apparent between the centre-right Daily Telegraph, which emphasised the ‘unreasonable’ reaction of Muslims, and liberal-left Guardian, which problematised the ‘provocative’ nature of the Cartoons” (Meer & Mouritsen, 2009, p. 339). By not publishing the cartoons though, the press tried to strike a balance between freedom of press and freedom of expression, while considering the sensibilities of a minority group. Nasar Meer and Per Mouritsen (2009) noted that even the tabloids, such as The Sun, refrained from publishing them, which was unprecedented for a newspaper that historically thrived on sensationalism (p. 342). In discussing the affair, the British press generally spoke out in solidarity with its Muslim minority, castigating the European mainland press for their provocations, which they saw as a failure of integration. In the Netherlands, the debate on freedom of expression had commenced years before the cartoon affair and reached new heights over the publication of the film Submission by Hirsi Ali and Theo van Gogh in 2004 and the consecutive murder of the latter by Mohammed Bouyeri. Prominent Liberal politician Jozias van Aartsen stated illustratively in 2004, “the attack on van Gogh touches the heart of our national identity, the

128 freedom of speech” (as cited in Schuh, Burchardt & Wohlrab-Sahr, 2012, p. 372). Furthermore, a dominant secularist frame championing the freedom of expression had been dominant for some time, as exemplified by the populist politics of Pim Fortuyn, Ayaan Hirsi Ali, and later Geert Wilders. As Schuh, Burchardt, and Wohlrab-Sahr (2012) noted, previous assumptions of Dutch type 1, secularity for the sake of individual liberties, were challenged by the recent increased visibility of the Muslim immigrant and what was perceived to be its plight for religious sensibilities at the cost of individual freedom of expression. Therefore, it was almost natural for the Danish cartoons to be published by most newspapers, since they wished to defend the formerly implicit values of Dutch secularity for the sake of individual liberties (also see: Dalgaard & Dalgaard, 2006). Contrastively in Britain, Meer and Mouritsen (2009) quoted Jonathan Steele (2006) from the Guardian who asked: “why should a progressive paper in Britain feel ‘solidarity’ with anti-immigrant Danish editors who made a major error of judgment rather than with British Muslims who universally deplored the cartoons?” (p. 345) Furthermore, the British press alluded to the fact that perhaps the UK’s long history of immigration and multiculturalism meant that one was more tolerant and accepting of one’s minorities in Britain. Meer and Mouritsen (2009) additionally noted that the cartoons were seen as potentially disrupting social cohesion between Britain and its Muslim minorities (p. 348). This idea, in turn, was criticised by, for example, the Daily Telegraph, which claimed that it was problematic that newspapers would restrain from publishing certain images out of fear for a small minority who could become violent. Readers in letters and commenters on websites castigated the papers for their restraint; there was a significant backlash on the controversy that (re)opened the debate on the compatibility of Islam with British values, as well as the limits of freedom of expression. Meer and Mouritsen alluded to the fact that the media’s and political elite’s restraint may have been merely a successful attempt to put the lid on a controversy that could have provoked populist reactions from across the nation. This resonates with British tradition of ‘let’s not offend,’ or, type 2, secularity for the sake of accommodating diversity. In the aftermath of the Charlie Hebdo attack in 2015, British newspapers again did not print the cartoons as published by the satire magazine. Although the newspapers and other media outlets were hesitant in publishing the cartoons, either out of fear for violent retaliation from the Muslim community or out of concern for attracting populist commentary, they did attract public backlash. In addition, the Tory government, which was in power by this time, sent out a letter to all Muslim leaders asking them to take responsibility in addressing issues of radicalisation.

129 The public debate on free speech has since taken a turn towards whether or not extreme right-wing politicians and opinion makers may publicly speak out. This was exemplified by the controversy over Geert Wilders being denied access to Britain in 2009. Should hateful speech still be allowed under the guise of free speech? Newspapers and the public alike castigated the British authorities for the ban heavily, claiming free speech should always be championed over the fear of hate (Poole, 2012). One commenter noted that the debate was rather a battle over the values that define the public sphere (i.e., religious and secular sensibilities) rather than one on freedom of speech (O’Hagan, 2017).

The Celebration of Blasphemy, Apostasy, and Free Speech This section will outline the particulars of the aforementioned International Conference on Freedom of Conscience and Expression in London, and the various ways in which ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ addressed reference problems, as well as the various solutions they offered. As the name implies, it was an international conference, platforming many international human rights and LGBTQ+ activists, ex-Muslims, commentators, feminists, and so forth. There were about sixty speakers and panellists, of which half would self-identify as ‘ex-Muslim’ and about half of those ‘ex-Muslims’ were British. It could therefore be argued that (1) this conference was not in response to the British national context per se, but rather it was in response to international human rights issues surrounding Islam, apostasy, blasphemy, and free speech; and (2) that it arose in Britain simply because of its international connections and Namazie’s residency there. These issues may have contributed to the broad contents of the conference, however, many elements that echoed throughout the conference were most certainly aimed at and resonated with the specific British situation, and it will be these elements and voices I will focus on. Namazie—host and organiser—opened the conference with the following words:

I think it is important for us to remind the world: rights do not only belong to the religious. The freedom of conscience includes, of course, the right to religion, but it also includes the right to reject religion. Freedom of expression is not just for believers, it includes the right to criticise religion, to make fun at it, and unmercifully. Expressing these beliefs is not a crime. It is a crime, though, to incite hatred, against apostates and blasphemers and LGBT, as [the] East London Mosque does in this country. And it is a crime to punish people with the death penalty, for leaving Islam, for criticising it. That is the crime. Not

130 the demand to live and think and love as one chooses. And, of course, we all know it is not bigotry. Islamophobia is a term that is being used in order to silence criticism, in order to impose de facto blasphemy laws, where none exist. Thank you very much, but we don’t need a lesson in racism. We live racism every day. For those of you who say— and I’m talking to the world outside—who say our criticisms are Islamophobic and racism [sic], you need a lesson in racism. […] This week, we want to tell the world that it is possible to fight on several fronts. We fight against racism, we fight against Muslim profiling, we can fight for the rights of refugees, we can fight for the right to leave and criticise religion, especially Islam, without fear, without threats, without intimidation. We call on the world to join us, to support us or step aside. Let us do our work. (GoleSorkh, Maryam)

Namazie identified the messengers, the message, and the intended receivers of those messages professed at the conference. First of all, ‘we’ refers to “apostates and blasphemers and LGBT,” those who ‘live and love’ as they choose. By stating “we all know,” she implied a shared knowledge, with the attendees, of the message she was about to spread to the rest of the world: to criticise Islam is not bigotry but a right, and ‘Islamophobia’ is a term which imposes “de facto blasphemy laws” by accusations of racism. Furthermore, Namazie wished to “tell the world,” but her plight seemed more specific. The fact that ‘we’ fight for the right to leave religion implies a message and declaration of intent towards religious (i.e., Islamic) institutions, individuals, or communities. She further called ‘on the world to join us,’ which was specifically directed at those who were not part of the previous us/them message, rather, it was aimed at ‘the secular.’ “[S]upport us or step aside” was a direct critique aimed at those whom the attendees would have expected to join forces with them in the fight against inequality and for the freedom of speech, that is the political ‘left’ which, in their view, has let them down. Namazie’s positioning of both her own arguments as well as those of the broader conference through this opening speech claimed a unique authority and positionality. Marc de Leeuw and Sonja van Wichelen (2005) analysed a similar positionality in Hirsi Ali’s popular rise in Dutch politics and public debate during the 2000s. They argued that through two frames of mediated selves, that is as ‘one of us’ and as ‘other,’ Hirsi Ali presented a linear narrative of becoming. Through victimhood and intimate knowledge of the terrors of Islam, she had now chosen to be liberated and be part of the enlightened West and could thereby claim authority.

131 Strategically she and others can use these selves to legitimate certain positions or to ward off criticism. In this respect the authoritative voice of the mediated self as “other” tends to close off dialogue and turn the viewer into a passive spectator. In speaking on behalf of Muslim women through her self [sic] as “other” (especially as victim “other”) she creates a moral closure for critical opponents. (p. 331, emphasis in original)

Either explicitly, such as Namazie did in her opening speech, or more implicitly by other speakers throughout the panels, it is through this mechanism of intimate knowledge of Islam, as well as their linear move to the dominant ‘secular,’ that ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ claim authority to challenge secularity for the sake of accommodating diversity that, in their view, had, to a certain extent, enabled or ignored their suffering by the hands of Islam. Participants of the conference claimed a third basis for authority, namely, their resistance to what they call anti-Muslim bigotry. Not all the panellists that I will discuss here would identify as ‘ex- Muslim’ per se. However, it is their simultaneous intimate knowledge of Islam, current identification as secular, and distancing oneself from anti-Muslim bigotry that provides them with the authoritative positionality that I call ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices.’ Furthermore, it could be argued that this was simply ‘a secular conference’ that was not unique to ‘ex-Muslims’ per se, yet it was framed as being ‘the largest gathering of ex-Muslims in history’ in celebration of the tenth anniversary of the Council of Ex-Muslims in Britain (CEMB 2017). I will therefore analyse two panels to illustrate two elements of secularity that have been addressed: firstly, the institutionalised forms and, secondly, the social and cultural meanings that are given to the demarcation of ‘religious’ and ‘non-religious’ spaces. The first panel primarily addressed institutionalised forms of the demarcation of religious and secular boundaries, titled “Identity Politics, Communalism and Multiculturalism” (GoleSorkh, Identity Politics). Kenan Malik, British author and broadcaster, opened the panel by discussing the history of multiculturalism and identity politics and his opposition to both. In his view, while identity politics started out as activism for equal rights from the bottom up, it has now morphed into policy that devises unequal rights for different groups, with the parameters based on ethnicity, race, or religion from the top down. “Therefore,” he said, “if we believe in universal rights, then we should take a strong opposition to identity politics” (GoleSorkh, Identity Politics, emphasis in original). According to Malik, the attempt to recognise minority struggles and broader struggles for social transformation have been ignored in Britain, and certain identities have become privileged. But this has only happened for certain institutions and their gate-keepers, specifically those who are often the loud, self-appointed

132 fundamentalists. By denying all groups equal rights and instead providing different rights based on ethnic, religious, or racial difference, communities and individuals suffer, and social cohesion is lost. He concluded:

The trouble with multiculturalism is that it puts people into boxes. You are black, Muslim, and it defines public policy according to the boxes in which you have been put [applause]. What multiculturalism has done is given institutional form to identity politics. That’s why I oppose it. I am for diversity, for immigration but I am opposed to multiculturalism and opposed to identity politics. (GoleSorkh, Identity Politics, emphasis in original)

The reference problem Malik identified with the accommodation of religious diversity was the disintegration of social cohesion. By accommodating different groups according to their own desires, rather than those of the state, uniformity and thereby citizens’ equality under the law evaporates. Furthermore, people are judged by their ethnicity, religion, or culture rather than as equal individuals, which causes rupture and legitimises inequality. His criticism focused on Britain’s history of communitarianism (localised funds for racial and ethnic minorities) and multiculturalist policies, as described above. While Malik castigated the discriminatory institutionalised differential treatment of ethnic and religious groups by the government, commentary in the Dutch context has predominantly centered around the discontents of ‘a failed multicultural state,’ referring to the ‘failed generations of immigrants,’ ‘incompatibility of Islam with the Christian religions in the Netherlands,’ and the ‘political culture of allowing’ (Scheffer, 2000).89 Commentary has centered less so on particular public policies of multiculturalism and communitarianism, which Malik referenced, since such policies in the Netherlands were never in the form of preferential (monetary) treatment of religious or ethnic minorities. Additionally, in recent years, ‘identity politics’ in the Netherlands has referred more so to the problematising of minority groups by right-wing politicians, as well as the critique of these nationalist politicians and commentators addressing equality activists and anti-discriminatory groups, rather than the systematic differential treatment of religious and ethnic minorities by (localised) government policies.

89 Scheffer’s essay was one of the first explicit commentaries addressing issues of immigration, Islam, and the failure of state policy. His rhetoric has been frequently echoed in public debate by the dominant discourse.

133 In her opening thoughts, Sahgal, the aforementioned director of the Centre for Secular Space, criticised the British state’s involvement in promoting and protecting Islamists. She primarily saw evidence for this in Saudi Arabia’s influence in British mosques and schools and, additionally, in the government’s active support of these Islamist institutions in Britain, such as the East London Mosque that is run by the Pakistani founded conservative Jamaat-e- Islami or “the South-Asian brother organisation of the Muslim Brotherhood” (GoleSorkh, Identity Politics). Her criticism of the British state and its policies did not end here. In answer to the question whether the empowerment of Islamism in Britain is perhaps an issue of ‘the deep state,’ she answered by elaborating on the British state apparatus and its overt involvement in supporting religious fundamentalism. She argued: “Britain, in terms of its society, is one of the most irreligious societies in the world, but it is a Christian state” (GoleSorkh, Identity Politics). An example she gave was of unequal treatment of groups concerned with same-sex marriage, which is allowed under state law, but, at the same time, the Anglican Church is allowed to deny same-sex marriage under religious law. In Sahgal’s view, allowing the “fundamentalist gate-keepers” of certain minority communities such as the Anglican Church or Islam to set a different set of rules for a minority, “is not only abusing [those] minorities, but [the state] is actually aligning itself with the worst of the fundamentalists” (Gole Sorkh, Identity Politics). The reference problem that Sahgal identified—the life-world related ideas and policies of multiculturalism stemming from the secularity of accommodating diversity—is causing tensions within type 4, secularity for the sake of independent development of institutional domains, which has the guiding ideas of rationality, efficiency, and autonomy (Wohlrab-Sahr & Burchardt, 2012, p. 890). Sahgal exemplified these tensions by elaborating on the involvement of the state with religious institutions and its willingness to allow for different legal systems for different groups. She took this one step further: allowing for religious institutions to have parallel legal systems naturally attracts the fundamentalists to become gate- keepers of these institutions. She viewed this as a direct result of a policy of an un-secular state which supports type 2, secularity for the sake of accommodating diversity. As Wohlrab-Sahr and Burchardt (2012) noted, certain constellations may restrict development of secularity: “problems in question are not ‘resolved’ in terms of secularity but through the imposition of religious authority” (p. 889). This is the process that is well underway in Britain, according to Sahgal. The solution she offered, is based in the guiding ideas of secularity for the sake of independent development of institutional domains: the complete dissolution of the state church. In comparison, the Netherlands has no state church. Although the Dutch constitution does not

134 explicate the separation of church and state, state neutrality is derived from Articles 1 and 6 of the Basic Law that guarantee the right to non-discrimination and the freedom of religion respectively (Schuh, Burchardt & Wohlrab-Sahr, 2012, p. 373). Therefore, this particular reference problem with regard to the state’s leniency towards religious institutions, which Sahgal traces back to the presence of a church-state in Britain, is less likely to surface in the Netherlands where neither the church nor any other religious institutions enjoy political or legal authority.90 The second panel, “Blasphemy, Islamophobia, and Freedom of Expression,” concerned itself with the other element of secularity: the social and cultural meanings of the demarcation of religious and secular spaces (GoleSorkh, Blasphemy). This panel focused primarily on freedom of expression and the ‘charge’ of Islamophobia. Richard Dawkins, one of the panelists, problematised his experience of being denied the opportunity to speak at the University of California, Berkeley, in June 2017, because he had ‘hurt and offended’ many Muslims in his recent comments on Islam. The local community powered radio station, KPFA, hosting the event claimed that while it supports free speech, it does not support hurtful speech. Dawkins stated that by commenting on Islam and more specifically Islamism, he does not utter ‘hurtful speech’: “I have always been critical of Christianity, but I have never been de- platformed for that. Why do you give Islam a free pass?” He further referenced British commentator Maajid Nawaz who has called this ‘the racism of lowered expectations’: liberals claim to be “militantly and correctly feminist, but when it comes to someone with brown skin who is misogynistic or homophobic, you give them a free pass. […] What a patronising, condescending thing to say” (GoleSorkh, Blasphemy). Benjamin David, Conatus News editor in chief, argued that the greatest limiter of free speech in the modern world are the accusations of Islamophobia. He asked, “But what really is Islamophobia?” “I have this definition: it is a word, created by fascists and used by cowards, to manipulate morons [laughter and applause]” (GoleSorkh, Blasphemy).91 He firstly blamed the media for perpetuating such a word merely out of ‘pure laziness’ and commercial interest. Secondly, he pointed to the effects of identity politics: “culture has become seen as a highly

90 In the Netherlands, controversy arose in the wake of a list that was leaked on the funding of Dutch mosques by alleged ‘Islamic non-free nation states’ by the government in April 2018. However, this did not problematise preferential treatment of religious institutions, but rather criticised limited control of intelligence services over foreign funding for social organisations and institutions. 91 Conatus News is a popular publication platform for ‘ex-Muslims’ and secularists.

135 abstractive form of practices of daily life, it is merely an ascription of certain values on [a] certain group. What this means in effect: Islamophobia has become the new racism.” But, according to David, Islam is not a race, ethnicity, or nationality, it is a set of ideas, “such as stoning adulterers, death for apostasy, ideas of paradise and martyrdom, which should never be confused, nor conflicted, with a unanimous people […] it is being used as a means of shutting down significant and important topics.” “[B]ut we will not be shut down!,” he added (GoleSorkh, Blasphemy). Haider, founder of Ex-Muslims of North America, commented:

It is extremely racist, to assume that Muslims are in some way tied down to a set of beliefs. That it is inherent in them, that it is a quality that they just catch of. […] And in that way, it dehumanizes them. Because it denies that they are thinking people, that they are rational people. (GoleSorkh, Blasphemy)

The panel did not deny that racism, or ‘anti-Muslim bigotry,’ is rife and should be addressed. As an appropriate response, she suggested to fight and protect civil liberties across the board when the situation calls for it. Her final words of the panel were:

Progress is not inevitable. We are not destined to a future where we will have greater liberties, or even the liberties that we have today. They require champions, who are willing to be in the trenches, are willing to fight, to make it happen. (GoleSorkh, Blasphemy)

The societal reference problems outlined above pertain to the domains of individual free speech (freedom) and the curbing of free speech for the sake of preventing potential conflict resulting from religious heterogeneity (Wohlrab-Sahr & Burchardt, 2012, p. 887). It was perceived by Dawkins that ‘the liberal community’ values the avoidance of potential conflict (a potential clash over Islamic and secularist sensibilities) over the perceived rights of the individual to speak and critique. But they took it one step further: ‘liberal institutions’ are successful in curbing critique by charges of ‘Islamophobia,’ a term that implies irrationality. Dawkins, however, turned the argument around and claimed that the assumption that one group needs ‘special protection’ under the secularity for the sake of accommodating diversity in order to avoid potential conflict is actually ‘racist’ and ‘condescending’. This was primarily an argument for type 1, secularity for the sake of individual freedom, i.e., freedom of expression, which was considered more important than tolerating or respecting religious sensibilities. But

136 Haider, in her final comments, took it even further, arguing not only that individual freedoms are curbed by concerns over religious sensibilities but also that ‘we’ are required to fight for greater liberties. This implied a greater fight than that of the individual—it suggested a vision for national and international development. Her solution to the conflicts she saw arising from accommodating (religious) diversity was that by pushing the values of the Enlightenment, modernity, and progress through our individual freedom of expression type 3, secularity for the sake of social integration/national (and international) development, may be achieved. It is a goal that transcends the individual and his/her desire for freedom; individual freedom is a tool to fight for the recognition of human rights on a global scale. As outlined above, in the Netherlands secularity for the sake of individual freedom has been dominant since the rise of prominent politicians Fortuyn, Hirsi Ali, and Wilders. Therefore, this reference problem of the curbing of ‘free speech by the charge of Islamophobia’ has mainly been employed by this dominant (right-wing) discourse when accused of hate speech or racism. The British situation regarding contesting secularities sketched in the earlier sections of this chapter described not only secularity for the sake of accommodating diversity but also outlined the most prominent political (UKIP) and social (racism and anti-Muslim bigotry) challengers of this secularity. In the media, ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ have been accused of racism and aligning with these challengers by both Muslim and non-Muslims alike. This accusation has been denied, claiming that they wish to challenge both the regressive left as well as right-wing extremism. At the conference however, while right-wing extremism was mentioned as a spear point during Namazie’s opening speech, none of the panels specifically or critically addressed this issue.

Conclusion The concept of ‘multiple secularities’ assumes that the complex matter of how religious spheres are linked to other social, political, and cultural spheres are determined by situatedness in time and space. The concept recognises beyond ‘secularism’ not only institutionalised forms of drawing boundaries between what is deemed religious and other spheres of practice but also that the social and cultural ways in which these contestations play out are part of the formation of secularity. Within the concept of multiple secularities, although spatial and temporary situations are always divergent, these situations do draw on specific ways of demarcating social spheres, ways which Wohlrab-Sahr and Burchardt have identified in the form of four ideal types of secularity.

137 In this chapter, the concept has been utilised to explore the surfacing of ‘secularist ex- Muslim voices’ in the public debate concerning religion and free speech in Britain, which has been contrasted with the relative absence of such voices in the Netherlands. I have tried to show that since in the Netherlands currently the dominant secularity is for the sake of social integration and national development with motives and also arguments taken from secularity for the sake of individual liberties, in recent years, this particular ‘secularist ex-Muslim voice’ criticising religious plurality and multiculturalist policy has been less likely to emerge. Prominent Dutch politicians such as Wilders, but also other liberal politicians, argue for less religious plurality, thereby challenging individual freedom of religion and the accommodation of diversity. My interlocutors in the Netherlands repeatedly stated that they did not necessarily wish to contribute to such narratives by openly criticising Islam, as demonstrated at the conference, since dominant Dutch secularity not only argues for less religious freedom for the sake of integration but simultaneously stigmatises Muslim people in the name of ‘freedom of expression.’ By contrast, I have argued that in Britain, due to its development of church-state relations, the introduction of multiculturalist policy and identity politics—as well as various legal and social contestations over religious diversity and secular demarcations, as illustrated by the debate on the Danish cartoons—has been marked by a version of type 2, secularity for the sake of accommodating diversity. I have further suggested that ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ are articulated as a response to secularity for the sake of accommodating diversity and to its reference problems on both institutional and social levels, as well as the ‘Islamism’ that type 2 allegedly accommodates. I have illustrated this with a case study on the international conference, during which various participants adopted motives, arguments, and solutions from the other three types of secularity when discussing various reference problems. I have also shown that these reference problems surface differently in the Netherlands due to its different history of secularities. Speakers of the panels, for example, problematised British church-state relations, which allegedly allowed for the inclusion of (extremist) religion in law and institutions. Furthermore, others pointed to the problematics of accommodating diversity as policy when multiculturalism and identity politics undercut the equality it aspires to. The social and cultural problematics of the demarcation of religious and other social spheres were illustrated by the effects of the Racial and Religious Hatred Act 2006, as well as the problems these may bring to freedom of expression, which was signified by the ‘charge of Islamophobia.’ As a final note, the arguments presented by ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ as described above are, naturally, contested too. My interlocutors from both Britain and the Netherlands

138 found that social integration of Muslims and the particulars of Islam were particularly salient issues to them, since they themselves have had to negotiate these boundaries on both societal as well as personal levels. However, during my fieldwork I encountered many people with Muslim backgrounds who no longer believed, in both the Netherlands and Britain, who disagreed with the arguments or rhetoric of prominent ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ as outlined here.

139 Chapter 492

‘It’s Not Just about Faith’: Narratives of Transformation When Moving Out of Islam in the Netherlands and Britain93

Introduction Whilst Hiranur was not the first of my interlocutors to elaborate on matters other than religion when talking to me about moving out of Islam, she was the first to articulate the sentiment that ‘it’s not just about faith’ so explicitly. She had told me about her extended family situation, wanting to belong to them, but struggling to do so without her inner belief or capacity to perform all the rituals properly, but she also spoke of the political environment in her parents’ country of origin, Turkey, and how her parents, her siblings and she herself were the only ones in the family who were not supportive of President Erdoğan. She told me about the problematics of leaving the parental home as a single woman to go to university, and about her love of psychology and her current research job. When I asked her about her doubts about the existence of Allah or leaving Islam behind, she responded: “You know, I find it hard to talk about religion, because it is not just about faith.”94 The role that religion plays in people’s lives has throughout history received the keen interest of sociologists and anthropologists alike. In recent decades, with regard to Islam, the works of Talal Asad (1986;1993, for example), Saba Mahmood (2005) and Charles Hirschkind (2006) in particular have inspired many scholars to investigate ‘Islam as a discursive tradition’ and how it informs the construction of religious piety through embodied practices. Samuli Schielke (2010), in response to this growing body of literature, has wondered whether this line of inquiry has overemphasized the importance of ‘Islam’ and ‘religiosity’ in the study of the

92 This chapter is a slightly modified version of the article previously published as: Vliek, M. (2019b). ‘It’s not just about faith’: Narratives of transformation when moving out of Islam in the Netherlands and Britain. Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations, 30(3), 323-344. 93 An earlier version of this chapter was presented at the 16th Annual Conference of the European Association for the Study of Religions [EASR] in Bern, 19 June 2018, as part of the panel ‘Debating, expressing and organizing non-belief among Muslims in Europe and the Middle East’. 94 Personal interview, Groningen, 5 April 2017. Translated from Dutch. Throughout this chapter, the interviews conducted with Dutch interlocutors have all been transcribed in Dutch and translated into English by the author. The interviews conducted with British interlocutors have been transcribed and all quotations are presented here verbatim.

140 anthropology of Islam, and whether it has neglected questions of ambivalence. Rather, he proposes adopting a broader focus on people’s lives and considering ‘the everyday’: in daily life, people negotiate a plethora of possibilities, not merely religious ones, when making decisions about being in the world.95 In much recent scholarship interrogating ‘the secular’, emphasis has been placed on the absence of religion in post-secular societies, i.e. that which emerges when religious diversity increases, as well as on the ideology of ‘secularism’ as a neutral method of governance to aspire to. Similarly, the study of what ‘being secular’ constitutes on an individual level has primarily focused on what one is in relation to religion (atheist, non-religious and so forth). This line of inquiry has departed from the logical view that the secular and the religious are mutually constitutive and therefore have always to be considered in relation to one another. However, this assumption has led to an implicit bias in religious studies towards the absence of religion in secular lives, rather than to a thorough investigation as to what such lives may in fact entail besides how one now relates to religion. Studies into ‘losing religion’ have similarly focused on what is left behind and how people narrate their trajectories ‘out of faith’ (see, among others Bromley, 1998; Bromley and Shupe, 1986; Cottee, 2015; Fenelon & Danielsen, 2016; Gooren, 2010; Sevinç, Coleman & Hood, 2018; Streib et al., 2009). In response, this chapter focusses on narratives of people with Muslim backgrounds in Europe, and their transforming lives when they move out of Islam.96 Rather than concentrating primarily on a predominantly negative and religiously centred focus, it will present four types of thematic trajectories that consider the broader life-worlds and experiences of my interlocutors. I have singled out these themes in the analysis of 44 in-depth interviews that I have conducted with born Muslims who have moved out of Islam in the Netherlands and in

95 In response, Fadil and Fernando (2015) warn against the exclusion of piety altogether from the anthropology of Islam by redirecting our focus to the ‘every day’. An extensive overview of these debates is beyond the scope of this chapter; however, their importance is noted. 96 Over a period of 18 months during 2017 and 2018, I conducted 22 in-depth interviews in the Netherlands, and 22 in Britain. The interlocutors roughly represented the ethnic composition of Muslims with migrant backgrounds in each country. There were no age restrictions and both genders were included. Furthermore, I attended numerous meetings and activities, during which I had many informal talks with participants. The people I met came from all over each country and no selection criteria were based on socio-economic status, education, profession, online presence or activity. Rather, about half of my interlocutors were found via social media such as (closed) Facebook groups; the other half were found through my own (secondary) network and snowballing.

141 Britain. I thereby aim to go beyond the traditional dichotomies of religious–secular, Muslim– non-Muslim and religious–atheist. Through a dialogical analysis of the interviews, it appeared that a plethora of matters were relevant for my interlocutors when they described their lives affected by religious change – matters to which scant attention has been given so far in descriptive narrative approaches to ‘deconversion’, ‘apostasy’ or ‘religious disaffiliation’. This chapter will provide insights from my interlocutors’ post-migration contexts and contemporary life-worlds and into how this has informed their lives, which were affected by religious transformation. The four thematic trajectories will display a broader understanding of their experiences as being in a negative relation to religion alone; religious, but also political, social, ethnic and gender boundaries overlapped considerably and provided the contexts in which they moved out of Islam. First, I shall outline the contemporary emphasis on (the absence of) religion in the study of ‘deconversion’ by discussing three aspects of the current interdisciplinary literature: terminology, exit-trajectories and narrative typology. Second, I shall provide a brief overview of the methodological lens through which I investigated people’s narratives, Hubert Hermans’s Dialogical Self Theory, and how this has provided a broader understanding of the self as acting in the world, rather than in relation to religion alone. Third, I shall present four thematic trajectories, each exemplified by a case study, which will show that the study of ‘moving out of religion’ is about more than religion or exiting alone. A fifth case will demonstrate the potency of intertwinement of these themes. Last, I shall interrogate the differences that arose between Britain and the Netherlands in the prevalence of certain trajectories in each country respectively. This is explained through the relative centrality of religion to one’s identity, discursive differences surrounding ‘ex-Muslim’ voices, and the relative presence or absence of support groups.

State of the Art Conversion has historically been a popular topic in the study of religion. There has been a particular interest in conversion to Islam in Western contexts (see, among others, King, 2017; Köse, 1994; McGinty, 2006; Özyürek, 2014; Roald, 2012; Wohlrab-Sahr, 2006; van Nieuwkerk, 2006; 2008). It has in turn been argued that the concept of ‘deconversion’ (see, among others, Barbour, 1994; Streib et al., 2009) should be utilised when people move out of religion, which Barbour (1994, p. 2) defines as simply ‘a loss of faith’. Streib et al. (2009) utilise the term in their extensive and insightful psychological study into ‘deconversion’, in

142 order to avoid religiously connoted terminology such as ‘apostasy’. The negative prefix was seen as beneficial, since it showed its potential relation to conversion studies. Furthermore, ‘deconversion’ has been taken up by numerous other scholars (see, among others, Fazzino, 2014; Pauha & Aghaee, 2018; Račius, 2018; Sidło, 2016). However, whilst I agree that ‘deconversion’ denotes an undoing of conviction, in my understanding it implies an undoing of ‘conversion’ in the first place. This is problematic for the study at hand since my interlocutors, and probably most Muslims, would claim that one is born Muslim rather than being converted to the religion during one’s upbringing. Furthermore, ‘deconversion’ defines the transition from one state of belief to another as an inherently negative shift in relation to religion, whilst this does not necessarily represent how my interlocutors narrated their lives.97 The problematics with using this terminology to describe my interlocutors’ experiences is thereby threefold: first, it refers to one side of a coin (deconversion), the other side of which (conversion) my interlocutors never experienced. Second, it is a negative description of transition, which, third, chiefly centres around one’s former religion, rather than including the complex life-worlds people inhabit.98 Other studies on the subject of ‘moving out of Islam’, or non-belief in Muslim communities, have adopted a more religiously inspired terminology, such as ‘apostasy’ (see, among others, Andre & Esposito, 2016; Bromley, 1998; Cottee, 2015; Larsson, 2018; Samuri & Quraishi, 2014; Sidło, 2016). The use of this term indicates a religion-centred approach and is therefore not suitable as an analytical description here. Furthermore, ‘apostasy’ and ‘apostates’ (Dutch: afvalligheid or afvallige) are theological terms for so-called ‘defectors from the faith’ and carry a religious judgement that was not applicable to my interlocutors’ (self- )identifications. Rather, if the term were to be interpreted, they referred to ‘apostasy’ as denoting the affront of speaking out against one’s former religion, rather than no longer adhering to it, or as the religious judgement they sometimes received. Relatedly, the term ‘ex-

97 It should be noted that Streib et al. (2009) do extensively discuss biographical and developmental perspectives of ‘deconversion’, shedding light on complexities that may also include ‘finding a new frame of reference’. I shall discuss this below. 98 It is for similar reasons that the term ‘religious disaffiliation’ (see, for example, Bromley & Shupe, 1986; Gooren, 2010) is inappropriate, since: (1) within Islam, official affiliation is neither possible nor required, (2) it is a negative description of transition presented as a counterpart to conversion, and (3) the terminology is predominantly related to ‘religion’. For an extended overview of pro-religious hegemony in terminology in the sociology of religion, see Cragun and Hammer (2011).

143 Muslim’ (Dutch: ex-moslim) is widely-used in both academic literature and the media. However, this is also problematic for addressing this group since only some of my interlocutors self-identified as such; by some it was considered a highly politicised term, whilst others simply did not want to ‘self-define as a negative’. Moreover, the term is indicative of both the negative and religion-centred ways in which ‘leaving Islam’, or ‘becoming a non-believer’, is approached. The term directly assumes both a mere binary potentiality of identity according to which one once identified as ‘Muslim’ but now does not, as well as the centrality of one’s former religious identity in relation to who one now ‘is’. The above is a short summary of issues encountered in the complexity of terminology in the study of religious transformation in the fields of psychology, sociology, and anthropology. Whilst I do not aim to settle this dispute, for this study I shall follow Karin van Nieuwkerk (2018, p. 2), who, in her recent edited volume, has suggested ‘moving in and moving out’ as terms that may denote ‘the ongoing nature of the religious transformation processes’. In my view, ‘moving’ as an analytical term may encompass experiences of moving in and out of both community and religion as well as an ongoing process of development. Furthermore, the concept of ‘moving’ is able to encompass both individual agency and positionality within larger discourses without necessarily assuming the centrality of religiosity. It is important to note in any empirical study how both the researcher’s selection criteria and the interlocutors’ self-definitions relate to the conceptual terms utilised in the analysis. For this study, the parameters for finding interlocutors were that they should be people with Muslim backgrounds, who were born and/or raised in Britain or the Netherlands, who no longer believe in an Abrahamic God. These parameters were set for my interlocutors to be classified under the analytical notion of ‘moving out of Islam’, whilst ensuring that no religious conversion had taken place, and to provide a European context with a potentially comparative perspective. In what follows, I set out thematic descriptions of my interlocutors’ transforming lives when moving out of Islam in contemporary Europe, in which there is space for all the (self )identifications I encountered. When ‘faith’ is mentioned, it refers to empirical descriptions of a potential part of the process of ‘moving out of Islam’ rather than to an analytical category per se. The process of ‘exiting’, as implied by the term ‘ex-Muslim’, has been explored by Helen Rose Fuchs Ebaugh. Inspired by her own experiences as a former nun, she published Becoming an Ex (1988), in which she describes the process of ‘role exit’, which may be about religion but might also be, among others, about gender transition, retirement, divorce, the death of a spouse or recovering from addiction. She distinguishes four stages of role exit: ‘Doubts’,

144 ‘Seeking Alternatives’, ‘The Turning Point’ and ‘Creating an Ex-Role’. Central to Ebaugh’s model is that becoming an ‘ex’ entails disengaging from a role central to one’s idea of self- identity, and that people take on a new role that includes their old identity as, for example, ‘ex- Muslim’. In line with this type of analysis of ‘exiting’, with regard to religion, Streib et al. (2009), on the basis of their extensive psychological, mixed-method study into ‘deconversion’ in Germany and the United States of America, discern six possible so-called ‘deconversion trajectories’: (1) secularising exits: complete disaffiliation from organised religion, (2) oppositional exits: adopting a completely new set of beliefs, switching to a higher tension religious group, (3) religious switching: switching to a different religious group with only marginal differences, (4) integrating exits: adopting a new set of beliefs, affiliating with a more ‘accommodated religious organisation’, (5) privatising exits: disaffiliation from religious institutions but continuation of private praxis and ritual, and (6) heretical exits: also disaffiliation from previous religious organisation, but with an unaffiliated appropriation of a new belief system. In this typology, the prominence of ‘exiting’ stands out. As with the terminology discussed above, the emphasis is again on a relatively negative shift. Notwithstanding the focus on ‘exiting’, with regard to individual experience, according to Streib et al. (2009), people have different ways of narrating these exits. The first way that they distinguish through narrative analysis is ‘pursuit of autonomy’, which is characterised by a long process of leaving behind the faith one was born or brought up in. It is a search for individuality and often occurs during adolescence or early adulthood. The second type of deconversion narrative that Streib et al. (2009) refer to is ‘debarred from paradise’. These people are often mid-life converts and this narrative is marked by the experience of disappointment with religion and the abandonment of earlier hopes. One may move to secularity or private practice, but there is no reaffiliation with organised religion. The third type of deconversion is ‘finding a new frame of reference’, which is marked by deconverts searching for and finding a higher level of intensity of religious experience, making this rather a type of reconversion. The last type is ‘life-long quests-late revisions’, which are characterised by life- long searches. These are often life-long searches for inner peace, a spiritual environment or coming to terms with trauma. The approaches of Ebaugh and Streib et al. to both exit-trajectories and exit-narratives have provided valuable insights into the experiences of people who move out of religion. However, what limits their findings for my case is that they pay little attention to matters outside of one’s former religion or identity and the relative weight given to religion in one’s

145 narrative. Both approaches emphasise a negative shift of exiting or leaving something, which then necessarily defines the individual in relation to his or her former faith. Whilst Streib et al. (2009) do refer, for example, to ‘finding a new frame of reference’ (p. 323), implying a move toward something rather than an exit, as well as the attention to ‘gains and losses’, the assumed relative centrality of religion in narratives of religious transformation is scarcely overcome. Both approaches thereby assume a binary potentiality of identity that evolves around religion: i.e. Muslim vs. ex-Muslim, or religious vs. non-religious. For my interlocutors, their experiences of moving out of Islam did not resonate with these identifications or classifications alone. Their search for identity and conviction was rarely merely a religious one; during the course of this research, other factors proved to be relevant for their stories and these are included in the thematic typology that I propose. In conclusion, the current terminology, description of exit-trajectories and narrative approaches all display – perhaps naturally so – the centrality of ‘negative religion’. They consider individuals always to be somehow in relation to their former religion, or a to new one. In the thematic typology that I propose, religion is not absent – far from it: my interlocutors have in common that they moved out of Islam, a move addressed in all narratives. However, I aim to explore the relative weight of religion in complex life-worlds in which my interlocutors negotiated not only religious, but also social, political, ethnic and gendered discourses in a search for self and identity.

Dialogical self: self-understanding in a heterogeneous world The analytical approach to the data was inspired by Hubert Hermans’s Dialogical Self Theory (Hermans, 2012; Hermans & Gieser, 2012). This theory assumes that the self is inherently dialogical in processes of self-making, and sees the self as a ‘society of mind’. This means that others in the environment have a voice within the self and its narration – so-called ‘external voices’. Furthermore, the self adopts certain roles or I-positions, such as self-as-daughter, self- as-Muslim or self-as-professional, from which various changing environments are negotiated dialogically. This dialogue, reflectively narrated by the individual, emerges between these various I-positions and external voices such as friends, parents, religious values, the Devil, communities and political discourses (see also Vliek, 2019a/Chapter 2). Whilst Hermans developed Dialogical Self Theory for clinical psychology, the concept has also been taken up by scholars in the humanities as an analytical tool for the discussion of religious self-constitution in post-secular and post-migration contexts (see, for example,

146 Aveling & Gillespie, 2008; Bhatia, 2002; Buitelaar, 2006; 2013b; Pitstra, 2013; Vliek, 2019a/Chapter 2). Self-understanding within Dialogical Self Theory does not relate to only one topic such as religion, but rather includes the external voices of individuals, groups, discourses, beliefs and practices that people engage with in their lives. Dialogical Self Theory recognises and utilises the potential of self-reflection by giving voice to the various ‘others’ that co- construct people’s narratives, and therefore their sense of self and identity and the different roles they take on when dealing with their changing surroundings. Dialogical Self Theory thereby allows for there not being only one nominal identity, such as ‘deconvert’, ‘ex-Muslim’, ‘professional’ or ‘activist’. Rather, these personas or I-positions can exist alongside one another and negotiate the realities and discourses around the self. This represents a different approach to the way people identify [terminology], move [trajectories] and narrate [narratives] themselves, as elaborated on above. By approaching the analysis of the data dialogically, I gained various insights that did not merely focus on religion or being Muslim, or non-religion and not being Muslim. It also laid bare shifts in self-understandings in relation to the outside world and inner belief as well as the interaction between these. This approach, then, allows for the recognition of the relative weight of religion in narratives, rather than presupposing the centrality of religion in one’s identity or trajectory. What makes Dialogical Self Theory unique as an analytical tool for life-narratives is that it recognises the organisation of different voices within self-narratives. It provides tools to analyse ‘how individuals speak from different I-positions within the self, switching between various collective voices and sometimes mixing them as they take different positions’ (Buitelaar, 2006, p. 262). Furthermore, it makes it possible to explore how memories, personal emotions, cultural or religious schemata and the basic narrative themes of agency and communion are organized. Analysing this from the various I-positions provides a way of dissecting the different ways in which people have arranged the world around them to make sense of their selves. The concept of the dialogical self has not been involved in the design of the semi- structured interviews or the participant observations that have been conducted. Rather, for this research I have collected the life-stories of adults who have moved out of Islam in either the Netherlands or Britain. Naturally, these interviews did not occur in a vacuum but were rather ‘in dialogue’ themselves. Whilst various interview techniques were employed to ‘give back’ control to my interlocutors (e.g. ‘could you tell me the story of… ’), narratives are inherently shaped by the audiences the interlocutor has in mind. To start, my own positionality as a white, non-Muslim, female, Dutch researcher, will undoubtedly have triggered either tacitly or

147 explicitly, the desire to subvert certain dominant discourses that potential readers of my research would have in mind. The dialogical self allows for the recognition of various I- positions in relation to the audiences they may address and these positions have been considered in the analysis rather than in the design. After data collection, I have utilised the concept of dialogical self both for the close reading of the narratives (Vliek, 2019a/Chapter 2) and for coding the entire dataset. First, I identified all the various internal and external voices of individuals, groups and discourses, as well as the multiple identities and roles people assume in different settings, and coded the type of dialogue they constituted. Thereby, stages in people’s experiences of transition and, eventually, four themes were identified. This analysis and thematic typology are not meant to be final and exclusive; they constitute a descriptive approach to data with specific parameters, which revealed the relative rather than absolute weight of the religious voice for those moving out of Islam.

Thematic analysis Through the dialogical analysis described above, and by critically examining the plethora of internal and external voices and I-positions, as well as what my interlocutors said, their interaction and how they were hierarchically organised (see Vliek, 2019a/Chapter 2), various non-chronological stages were laid bare. These were inspired by Ebaugh’s (1988) model of ‘role-exit’ as well as by the extensive analysis of voices and positions people described: ‘doubt’, ‘seeking alternatives’, ‘move to “the other side”’, ‘defining the new me’ and ‘negotiating difference’. These stages were formulated not only to include ‘exit roles’, but also to describe phases of self in transition that engage with other discourses than the religious alone. For example, the stage of ‘doubt’ may be about the existence of God or about matters of identity. What does it mean to be a Muslim, a daughter or a humanist? Who am I in relation to others, and how do I negotiate conflicting discourses from these different positions? Dialogically, this was expressed, for example, in self-dialogue between the I-position of I-as- Muslim and the internalised external voice of Allah, or perhaps in (imagined) I-positions such as I-as-atheist and external parental voices (‘how would my father respond if I were to say I am an atheist?’). Similarly, ‘seeking alternatives’ may be about existential belief or about other parts of one’s identity, such as being a woman, an activist or a professional. Seeking alternatives may happen even before one has doubts and may be a conscious or entirely sub-

148 conscious process only evident upon reflection. It may happen simultaneously with doubt and new self-definitions. The ‘moving out of Islam’ question is marked by the stage ‘move to “the other side”’, denoting the transformation of belief and non-belief, but also, after having identified as Muslim, being or becoming something else. This ‘move’ may take place at one moment in time or may be a more continuous struggle between rational knowledge and emotional attachment. Closely related is the stage of ‘defining a new me’, which refers to comparing the alternatives one finds with who one considered oneself to be: it is a positive process of (re-)identification, which often follows the search for alternatives. This may happen before the realisation that one does not believe in God. Does one construct an ex-role, an atheist worldview, a political identity or all of these at once? Which identities are finite or singular and which are continuous? Lastly, ‘negotiating difference’ relates to how one copes with one’s surroundings. Relevant factors may be differences with religious friends and family and potential withdrawal from community, but also negotiating the secular environment and its prejudices, when, for example, ‘being brown’ supposedly equates to ‘being Muslim’. This stage may be experienced from a very young age (‘I always felt different’), or one may have been happy to conform for most of one’s life but now has to renegotiate one’s roles in relation to family and former in-group members. All these stages were often expressed dialogically. These non-chronological stages manifested differently in my interlocutors’ narratives. Through the examination of these various manifestations and the relative weight of discursive and personal voices and identities, four themes surfaced: ‘religious break’, ‘social break-away’, ‘entrance’ and ‘unconscious secularisation’. I shall illustrate these ideal types and how the various non-chronological stages surface in these narratives by presenting four case studies. In order to illustrate both the relative weight of the religious voice and how narrative themes are often plural, I shall present a fifth case in which all four themes surface.

The religious break It is like switching between extremes every day: ‘I don’t think it’s true, but what if it is? Am I going to hell?’ So it was really tough to be able to say: ‘I’m not a Muslim anymore, I’m an atheist.’99

99 All quotes in this section are from a personal interview with Amin, conducted on the 2nd of February 2018 in Manchester.

149 Amin lived in Manchester, where he was attending university. He was born in a tight-knit Muslim community: “in a really small town, with at least eight mosques (…) and my high school was, I’d say, 90 per cent Asian Muslim”. His father was “like real, proper religious (…) prays five times a day, reads the Qur’an every night before he goes to bed. Been on pilgrimage a few times”. His mother suffered from “really bad depression and OCD [obsessive compulsive disorder] and things like that”. From the age of 5 until he was 14, he was sent to madrasa every day after school:

I hated it. Absolutely hated it. (…) I just found it boring as fuck. (…) And I don’t really agree with a lot of the things that were told. Like, we were told some pretty messed up stuff. When I look back it was like: “Woah. You shouldn’t have been telling that to kids”. (…) I think the reason Islam is such a powerful religion, it’s because they sort of knock it into you, the fear of God, and the fear of hell. It gets quite descriptive and explicit, when they talk about the punishments of hell. (…) It’s metal shoes that get heated up so much, when you step into them, your head explodes. (…) Being told that at such a susceptible age, it really knocks it into you. You do get scared.

The fear of hell and God was passed on to Amin from a young age at the madrasa, and at home: strict religious adherence was observed. His father worked as a manual labourer and his mother was at home because of her mental illness. As a child, he felt his little brother received most of the attention, whilst he was ‘a really hyper, happy dumb kid (…) getting the beatings and shoutings’. He reckoned that his hyperactivity frustrated his mother, and he concluded about his childhood: “[I’ve] never really been comfortable or happy in that house”. From a young age, Amin had had questions about religion, but no answers were provided, and he was told that questions or doubts are the devil whispering in your ear: “And one thing I was taught in mosque, was: ‘Don’t question Islam. (…) If you having these doubts, that’s not critical thinking, that’s not human analysis, that’s the literal devil whispering in your ear.’” But his home life was breaking him up and he was also very aware of the world news: “see lots of fucked up shit happening”. He therefore started doubting the omnibenevolence of God, but overcoming the idea of the devil was not easy: “Giving into the thought (…) switching between the extremes every day. Like, right Ok. This is for sure, not true. And then: WOAH! I was thinking like that! I probably committed a sin by doing that!” However, eventually he could say to himself: “Right, this is obviously bullshit”, and then the dominos started to fall:

150 If God is this omnibenevolent all loving being, then there doesn’t have to be any of this violence, any wrongdoings (…) One thing we’re told is that life is a test for the hereafter. But if God is really all-knowing, he’d know what’s going to happen before he even made this planet. (…) So that made me think that: “Right, that means that free will doesn’t exist. Because, if free will does exist, that means God doesn’t know everything”. So I just started spotting these contradictions everywhere.

He continued to seek alternatives, reading about philosophy “and the bigger picture just opened up for me”. The more he read, the more he “sort of fell off”. During this period, he had a best friend who lived around the corner whom he could talk to about these matters.

We just used to meet up every day and smoke weed, and we used to talk a lot about these sorts of things. And he started to agree with me a bit, and (…) we both came to the conclusion, I just said to him: (…) “You know, I’ve decided I’m not a Muslim anymore”, and he was like: “Really?” “Yeah.” “Same to be fair.” And that was it. It just felt really liberating.

Reflecting on these considerations of actually ‘not being a Muslim anymore’ – his ‘move to “the other side”’ – after he had “fallen off”, as well as the potential consequences of openly admitting to that fact he no longer believed, he pondered:

Considering it was like the equivalent of (…) murder or something (…) such a massive deal. The option is there, but it’s like, “Do I go for it? Is it worth the risk?” And after months on months of thinking and deciding, of putting pieces together, it was like: “I might as well take the risk, might as well see what happens, because I don’t want to live this life anymore”.

But the sacrifice he had to make was considerable. His father would have preferred him to leave the house and his extended family only saw the shame he brought on the family. He was blamed for his mother’s illnesses, and he experienced general isolation which, among other things, had an impact on his mental health. The theme of ‘losing one’s religion’ was dominant in Amin’s story, which is an example of a religious break. Typical is the sense that ‘being Muslim’ used to be central to one’s identity and sense of self, as well as to one’s surroundings. Religious doubt is often

151 prompted by an emotional event or trauma. For Amin, this was the ‘shitness of life’; his life at home was harsh and he was generally unhappy. He was physically abused at a young age, felt ignored by his parents and had a keen interest in the world, where he saw a lot of misery. Others who present a dominant theme of religious break may never stop doubting, or it may continue for a long time. Amin deliberately defined a ‘new me’: he went to his friend and told him, ‘I’ve decided I’m not a Muslim anymore’. It is common in this type of narrative, at least initially, that one’s new self is defined in relation to one’s former religion (e.g. atheist, ex-Muslim, agnostic). After having moved to the other side, the next stage that religious breakers find themselves in is to renegotiate their new-found beliefs and identity with their surroundings. This may be an arduous process of self-definition, denial or concealment. Characteristic of this group is that they often feel a need to share with others their newly found identities in relation to their former religion.

The social break-away It was almost like you were Muslim by default. Like you are born Muslim. (…) [But] I don’t think I ever said it in terms of: “I am not a Muslim anymore”. It was more like how Islam featured in my life in terms of it being the habits and rules that governed my life.100

The daughter of two doctors, Aarini grew up in Birmingham in a middle-class neighbourhood. She described her father as quite liberal and her mother as more observant of religious and cultural customs. However, religion in and of itself did not play a major role when she was growing up. She did not attend a madrasa, nor was she taught how to pray or recite the Qur’an. Elaborating on what sort of role religion had in her life as a child she said:

Very much a back seat. (…) my parents [both] do things religious in their conception. (…) Blessing you and saying ‘Bismillah’ before you eat and stuff. (…) But I never considered them religious. I always considered them like ‘this is just what parents do’.

The problems started for Aarini when she turned “12 or 13”, looking at her friends who mostly had liberal Western life-styles. Her parents, however, “governed” her life, and she therefore “conflated Islam with cultural rules, which are bound in relation to Islam”. These rules included

100 All quotes in this section are from a personal interview I conducted with Aarini on the 14th November 2017 in London.

152 her parents’ focus on dress, leaving the house, drinking, smoking and a particular emphasis on “different rules for men and women”. Her rebellion, as she called it, lasted throughout her teenage years. There was always a compromise to be fought over or, rather, difference to be negotiated. Whether it was about leaving the house or the clothes she was wearing, everything turned into a fight. She described this period as often resulting in situations that spiralled out of control. If her parents forbade her to go to town, she would respond by going out drinking.

It was a lot to do [with] the assumption: “You are a girl. Girls don’t do this”. Men have more freedom than women do, and yeah, it was like: “You are behaving outside what girls ought to do”, and that’s associated with Islam as well.

Negotiations and struggles over where boundaries were drawn ceased after her teenage years, more specifically after her attempted suicide: “It was like: ‘everyone should just calm down.’” From here on, her parents were less engaged in Aarini’s whereabouts, nor did she engage with them over her activities outside of the house and school. When she was a teenager, she would lie about the gender or names of her friends in order to hide the fact that she had male friends. These tensions gradually resolved after her suicide attempt. At the time of the interview, she was still concealing the fact she had a boyfriend:

Even though now my parents could not do anything about me living with someone, I am still so indoctrinated to, I am so into the habit of it being easy to lie and that it is easier to withhold information. I just do that because I have been doing it forever. My parents (…) if they thought about it, if they were really honest, they know that I do [have a boyfriend] (…) They probably know I do a lot of things. We don’t talk about it.

When turning to the topic of faith and her current existential beliefs, she was less clear on “what happened”. Aarini dissociated religion and God:

I don’t know how much I thought about God having anything to do with religion. Religion was all of these things that you did in your life. Whereas God was like, an idea. So they were separate, always. (…) God was like, someone who was looking out for me.

The relationship with God she had as a child, but also as a teenager, was a personal one. The religious rules did not come from Him, but from her parents’ religion and culture: “God and

153 Islam were divorced. Logically speaking, they couldn’t be married”, because God was supposed to be the ‘good guy’. Her doubts about her personal God, although not very clearly remembered, were initiated by her struggles in life:

Maria: Did you ever consciously doubt the existence of God? Aarini: I think probably when I was a teenager. I must have at some point have thought like: “If God exists, then how can I be living this life?” I think it was a mix of like: “God cannot be looking out for me, [so] there cannot be a God.”

These thoughts derived from her assumption that God was a personal God who was supposed to look out for her, but instead she felt abandoned. ‘Being Muslim’ for Aarini was never about belief in God per se; it was about religion and specifically its restrictive, gendered rules that were imposed on her. For a social break-away like Aarini, the main issues experienced throughout life are the socio-religious impositions and limitations that are enforced. Difference from one’s environment is often negotiated from a young age and may remain a constant factor throughout life. This difference is predominantly a social one, which in turn may prompt doubt about the existence of God. As in Aarini’s case, there is a search for alternatives, which is marked by a search for freedom that one lacks in one’s own environment. What is particular about this group is that leaving the parental home creates distance and can be a determining factor in the development of self and identity in relation to religion, culture and gender norms: one has the physical space to define a ‘new me’, away from social, cultural and religious impositions.

The entrance More and more I came to the conclusion that I shouldn’t be bothering myself with what I am not, because that has its limits. I wanted to see what I am.

Born in Morocco, Yedder moved with his parents to the Netherlands at the age of 11. As a ‘new’ immigrant, he initially struggled with the neighbourhood kids who called him an ‘illegal’ or: “illi, someone without paperwork, even though I had permanent status”.101 Finding friends

101 Statushouder, or someone with ‘permanent status’, in Dutch refers to immigrants who hold a permit that allows them to work or go to school.

154 and his place at school took some time, since he was ‘the new guy’. He felt like the outsider, especially among the Moroccan children in his school:

Not that I wasn’t religious or anything but I think it was just because I had experienced migration, that must have played a role. I was very aware that with regard to Morocco, I knew so much more than they (…) So to be accepted by that group or not, was not my priority. I don’t think I was that aware at the time, but it makes you stronger.

Religion had played a central role when he was growing up in Morocco, but according to Yedder this was less so in the Netherlands because of the religious and secular surroundings, respectively. His parents raised him relatively religiously according to Moroccan customs, but in the Netherlands religion was not necessarily central to his upbringing or sense of self. Feeling different on the basis of his migration status was more prominent. In 2004, when Yedder was about 17, an earthquake hit the region around Yedder’s home city of Al Hoceima. Over 500 people died and many more were internally displaced: “And a year later there were still no proper supplies or services, even though much aid went into the area”. There were protests in Morocco, which were forcefully dispersed, and then a protest was organised in The Hague:

And I went to that. And that made me even more aware of the marginalisation of the area. That’s how the ball started rolling. You attend more activities, debates and you shape yourself more and more. And it became part of my identity. But you quickly notice (…) that religion has always been sort of a liability.

By going to activities, Yedder explored the world of Moroccan activism and Amazigh cultural pride,102 unconsciously ‘seeking alternatives’. By doing so, he found information about certain

102 The Berber (Tamazight)-speaking areas of Morocco have historically been culturally neglected by the state, which has a nationalist discourse emphasising the links to a ‘highculture’ Arab-Islamic civilization. The cultural heritage of the Amazigh has thus been seen as a threat to Moroccan national unity (Silverstein and Crawford 2004). Whilst there have been significant reforms, such as Tamazight being allowed to be taught in the Berber regions to students in 2004, and the recognition of the status of the language as co-official in 2011 (Silverstein 2011), structural neglect and social injustices have not been overcome. In this discourse, Amazigh cultural pride and activism is associated with an anti-Arabization and anti-Islam discourse, since, so the reasoning goes, the Amazigh culture predates the introduction of Arab religion.

155 periods in the Amazigh history online. Under these pages of information there would be discussion threads: “[Religion] would go against certain cultural customs, against certain norms and unwritten rules in the Amazigh culture. That was around when I was 19 (…) It woke me up as it were”. Yedder explained that the activist world gave him ample space and support to explore his thoughts and doubts about the compatibility of religion and ethnic culture. The people he mostly spent his time with at this point were Amazigh activists, some of whom were religious, while others were not. They talked about anything, “also about religion if we had to, but not all the time, so it wasn’t forced (…) So that support, that security to discuss religion, to think about it differently was there”. Finding this new space forced him to think about the place of religion in his life and his convictions. He gave an example of how his cultural heritage and identity clashed with the religious values he was raised with:

Look at the woman for example. She has a rather important position within our culture. She was, the woman is always the person who would transfer culture. Whether it was language or rituals. And then automatically you search for the position of women within religion, and you notice that it has been a rather subservient position. Sometimes when you read between the lines, and sometimes very obviously. (…) And it makes you think.

This is when he eventually came to the conclusion: “I do not believe in a God”. But to Yedder, this was unsatisfying because he saw the limits of negative definitions of identity. He elaborated:

I do not believe in a God, so how does doing the right thing come about? I believe that it is about taking responsibility. And I came to that conclusion before I even knew about humanism. So you start searching (…) and you realize that many human rights activists are humanists, and things start to fall into place, you know, that your point of departure is people’s responsibility. (…) It is about creating your own vision. It was not like: “I am

Whilst some activists pursue an inclusive agenda stating that ‘personal religion is not an issue’ when fighting for social justice, in other milieus the separation between Muslims and non- believing activists is heavily debated (Ben-Layashi 2007).

156 not religious I have to figure out what I am” so that I thought: “humanism can fill that gap”, no. It was much more a process of gradually, how do I feel about these things?

His narrative of identity development and self-reflection was centred around positive thought processes. His aversion to negative identity became clear when he considered the media and so-called atheist Muslims: “Perhaps there should be a programme that focused on what we are rather than what we are not”. Later in our conversation, he reiterated the downside of negative identities when debating with Muslims about religion:

I notice in discussions, in conversations that when you start with what you are (…) I don’t say that I am not Muslim, I say: “I’m a humanist”. (…) Instead of saying why you are not a Muslim, or why you are not religious, you only have to explain what you are, and that is much easier, a much stronger position as well. Because when you explain why you are not something, you are on the defensive.

With regard to his family, at the time of the interview he fasted during Ramadan when he was at home, although he was pretty sure his parents knew about his unbelief, “after ten years they know how I work”. His mother sometimes still urged him to pray, fast and observe Islam, but there was no compulsion or any particular need to discuss the matter. For ‘the entrance’, entering one or multiple new identities is dominant. Exit from the Muslim identity and loss of faith does occur, but only after one has familiarised oneself with a different identity, as Yedder did with his Amazigh heritage, activism and humanism. Negotiating difference with the new and old in-groups is often a constant factor throughout this process, but it is often considered to aid one’s development of self and identity, rather than hampering it. For Yedder, his new group of friends were different from him; they had different views, but through active discussion and negotiations he was given the space to develop his own ideas and worldview. What is characteristic of ‘the entrance’ is that the new-found identity makes one doubt the Muslim identity and God: are these compatible? Of course, these processes may go hand in hand. Although new identities may be in relation to religion, they are often about matters outside of religion, such as ethnicity, politics or work.

Unconscious secularisation It’s just a way of life. It’s not like: ‘Look at me! I am this or that. I did it!’ No.

157 Amina was also born in Morocco where she spent the first half of her childhood. In Morocco, she received an Islamic education, since it was part of the curriculum, but: “I wasn’t raised very heavily religiously (…) It was cultural religion”. She came to the Netherlands at the age of 13 with her parents, four brothers and one oldest sister. Upon arrival, her religious devotion increased: “I was 13 and it was a new environment, I had no friends, I didn’t speak the language, so I struggled. So for the first two years or so, I started praying, you know”. She explained this as being due to feeling lonely and out of place. Although her brothers were around, she was the only daughter in the house since her oldest sister had already married: “Because of that loneliness, you return to faith a bit I guess”. Friends she made at school were multicultural but mostly Dutch. Like Yedder, she noticed differences between those who had grown up in Morocco and Moroccans who were born in the Netherlands: she thought the latter were quite ignorant of the privileged position they enjoyed growing up in the Netherlands, whilst the former had experienced struggles in Morocco. She also noticed that Dutch- Moroccans were more traditional in their experience and expression of religion than she and her family were. Amina had Dutch-Moroccan and Dutch friends, although she had less contact with the Dutch-Moroccan group. As she learned the language and entered puberty, her life ‘naturally’ developed:

I think at some point you start doing your daily things (…) which is why I simply wasn’t preoccupied with religion anymore, and the distance grew. Faith is also about practical things, your fasting, your praying. Yes, I actually started to roll, which is why the life that I chose became further removed from faith, from Islam. (…) Actually it just made sense that it grew this way. It’s not like I was thinking: ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with Islam, I’m taking some distance’, no. It’s like when you are young, you don’t like smoked salmon. And at some point, you develop [and] you will eat certain things. Yeah. It just happened.

She never delved into theology, nor did she ever have to convince herself that something did not actually exist. There was no struggle with God or the voice of the Devil, or with her family. Despite not defining herself as religiously devout since puberty, she continued to participate in fasting during Ramadan until she was about 28 or 29, when the days of fasting started to become quite long ‘which was kind of the trigger to start thinking about it’:

158 [Fasting] was just out of habit (…) At a certain point I started thinking: “Who are you doing this for? Is this a part of who I am? Do I want this? How do I think about this?” (…) And then yes, of course I knew it, but: “I do these things because you should, and it is sociable, you feed the poor”. But I didn’t really feel any of these things. And when I decided not to participate in Ramadan, that was a sort of breaking point, that other people know this.

For Amina, not participating during Ramadan (i.e. ceasing certain ritual practices), and for friends, family and colleagues to witness her embodied move to ‘the other side’, was a big deal. The responses she received varied. Her father had already passed away but her mother’s reaction surprised her:

So my mother [‘s reaction] was very striking. At the beginning of the Ramadan, the first one I didn’t participate, and I was home in the evening (…) So I said to my mother: “I have decided, I won’t fast”. Then she said: “Yeah, it’s your life, I completely understand”. The next day she was in the kitchen and she was making breakfast for me! [laughs] (…) It was so sweet. If you see her, you’re like: “that’s a traditional little lady”, but she is very open-minded.

Other physical aspects of her upbringing that were hard to renegotiate related to sex before marriage. She tried to stay a virgin, but realised:

‘Thát’s not going to happen’ [laughs]. But for a long time, I struggled with someone sitting on my shoulder, who says: “What are you doing!” (…) because it’s what they teach you from a very young age, and then that is gone, and then you have to decide for yourself.

She explained that the sexual morality she was raised with was no longer applicable, but it was not easily overcome. She had to argue internally (and dialogically) with the external voices of her upbringing. Her identifications at the time of the interview were not in relation to religion: “I don’t look at people’s religion as something that matters (…) I have become a citizen of the world

159 instead of a church-goer103…mosque-goer?” Why her life turned out the way it did, she related back to her friends, family and, most of all, her older brothers.

[Brothers] have everything to say about the baby sister, raise her protectively, and I had nothing of the sort. The first time I went out was with my brothers. And they kind of showed me the other side. (…) So I wasn’t raised protected, which is why I had to go out, discover things, get to know people, and not get stuck in one group. (…) I have friends from every walk of life. Young, old, any religion, non-religious, which is why I think I had to develop this way, because otherwise you can’t deal with different people.

She described this process as quite passive. The phrase ‘I think I had to develop this way’ showed her relative unawareness at the time; her surroundings allowed and almost forced her to develop into the “world citizen” she is today. As the term implies, ‘unconscious secularisation’ is marked by a lack of conscious doubt in the existence of God or (de-)identification as Muslim. Although religion plays a role in one’s life, it is not central to one’s sense of identity. For Amina, being Moroccan, especially in relation to second generation migrants, took precedence. Though considering herself to be Muslim for a long time, her faith had declined or rather, had stopped playing a role in her life. The move to ‘the other side’ is then a gradual process that has few religious connotations for one’s self-understanding, since one is often unaware. It is mostly an adolescent move, and shaping of one’s worldview is not primarily related to one’s parents’ religion. As Amina explained, religion simply stopped playing a role at some point; she had other things on her mind, such as learning the language, making friends and going out with her brothers. It should be noted that this theme is common among those who were raised in relatively secular environments, as well as those who migrated just before puberty (roughly between the ages 7 and 14). For them, religion is often something cultural from ‘home’, rather than something that needs to be cultivated in the new environment. Although matters of believing are overcome without any significant inner struggles, as in the other trajectories, certain (religious) values

103 The literal English translation of the Dutch kerkganger is ‘church-goer’, which is more commonly translated as worshipper. For Amina, it was a slip of the tongue though, since it is a Christian expression. She corrects herself by inventing the word moskeeganger – ‘mosque goer’.

160 may have to be (re)negotiated over time; these are values that are often embodied, such as in sexual morality or eating certain foods (Vliek, forthcoming/Chapter 5).

Combination of themes The themes discussed above do not solely rest on chronological stages. Rather, they describe how the themes of ‘religious breaking’, ‘social breaking’, ‘entering’ or ‘unconscious secularisation’ may be dominant in a narrative of moving out of Islam. The following case study will illustrate how these themes are related and may overlap in narratives, although one theme is generally dominant. Eléa’s narrative follows the pattern of a religious break, infused with themes of experiencing social pressure, entering a new identity at university and losing religion more gradually and unconsciously. Eléa was raised in a town in the east of the Netherlands where she had a “very Islamic upbringing”. Of Turkish descent, her parents wanted her to attend mosque every week and take Qur’an lessons:

After school, I had to go to [the Qur’an teacher] to attend classes, how you pray, all the ins and outs of religion. The five pillars. And the Qur’an, learn it by heart. I did it for a long time, I went alone. (…) But Saturday and Sunday, we all had to go to mosque.

She explained how she “really believed it, I really prayed (…) five times a day. I was very pious for a child”. Her image of God was a split one:

I had a positive image of God. I kind of assumed that God had to be nice and friendly. But in the mosque and my surroundings, God was a punishing entity, and God obviously saw everything, but always in a negative way.

These images of a punishing God, as well as the vivid descriptions of hell she heard, stuck with her and made her scared of the afterlife:

I thought everything was terrifying. Yes, not only God, everything was scary. They told us in detail what would happen if you would go to heaven, but more importantly, if you would go to hell. Hell was really a topic. That you had to walk across a wire, and snakes that slithered under it. A lot of stories like that.

161 Furthermore, from a young age she struggled with moral dilemmas that religion posed to her: “If you go to heaven because you lived well, you can take two people. ‘But who should I bring? My father and mother, but what about my little sister?’” Retrospectively, she was unsure of how scared of hell she was in day to day life; rather, it was something that was mentioned all the time, “so that there is an authority outside my parents”. However, the religious rules that were imposed regarding her dress and behaviour did impact her: “My mother did not allow me to wear trousers (…) and no short skirts, really long ones”. As pious and well-behaved as she was as a child:

The older I got the more I fought against it. Because I rebelled more. Because I really felt like an idiot at school. And at some point, I started to buy baggy trousers, not tight jeans or anything, that would be the worst I could wear. (…) every step was a small victory. (…) and at some point you think: “I’m stronger than you, you can’t do anything to me but scream and shout, it doesn’t hurt me anymore”. (…) So at some point, no more scarf and no more skirts.

This part of Eléa’s story resonated strongly with social break-away themes, which eventually culminated in her wanting to go to university. Her negotiations over where to attend were fierce; if her parents were to let her go, they wished her to move to a certain town where they knew the community so they could keep an indirect eye on her, which Eléa protested against loudly. She picked a university in a city where her parents did not know anyone, but where she remained ‘undercover’ for quite some time, avoiding the Turkish community, fearing they might know her family and report back about her behaviour. However, at this time: “I was still really religious. I remember having discussions with [a friend], conversations, and (…) I really believed in God and in Islam. I had stopped praying, I was not wearing the scarf, but I still believed”. At university, she met new people with whom she discussed religion, people who were ‘anti-religious’, as well as a Protestant Christian friend. These conversations made her doubt the role of religion and God in her own life. She conducted “thought experiments”, as she called them, concerning what religion meant to her and what difference it would make if she did not believe anymore.

At some point I thought: “You know, God (…) plays less and less a role in my life (…) if I say now that God doesn’t exist, I won’t get struck by lightning (…) The world won’t

162 stop moving, I won’t change, my life won’t change, the world won’t change”. (…) I could not find the value of believing in God. And I had discussions with my anti-theist friend. And at a certain point I thought it was such bullshit [laughs] what idiot still believes in God!

This thought experiment made her rethink the point of believing. She elaborated on feelings of betrayal that also contributed to her loss of faith:

[If I didn’t believe] I would go to hell. According to Islam. According to believers. According to my own family. I would burn in hell. I thought: “You can’t wish that upon your own child, can you? Just because I don’t believe in your God I have to burn in hell?” (…) Put mildly, that’s not very nice! And I thought: “Why? I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t rape anyone”. (…) That they wish you the worst possible, just because you stopped believing in their God. And I think because I was very religious, you respond very emotionally, to break away from it. So I needed the fierceness to shed my faith.

This ‘fierceness’ expressed itself in tense discussions with her religious relatives, especially her sisters: “I wanted them to explain (…) I constantly felt I had to explain myself, and perhaps I thought: ‘Why do I have to explain myself, why don’t you explain yourself!’” After having ‘socially broken away’ from her family and community by dressing the way she wanted and moving out of her parental home to a city without social control, Eléa entered a new life, with new people around her. However, she did not clearly describe this as a new identity (yet). New insights made her doubt her already fading faith. This is where her religious break went hand in hand with unconscious secularisation (‘It played less and less a role in my life’). By having moved away from a religious environment, other things like university and her new friends became more important, and religion faded. However, at this point in her narrative, she was still to come to terms with her unbelief and, more specifically, her ‘new me’ in relation to her family.

Discussion The ‘religious break’ and ‘social break-away’ themes were more dominant in Britain, whilst ‘the entrance’ and ‘unconscious secularisation’ were more dominant in the Netherlands. There were circumstantial differences between the respective countries that may help explain this.

163 First, in Britain there are various organizations for those moving out of Islam, such as the Council for Ex-Muslims in Britain [CEMB], Faith to Faithless, a London-based social group, various Facebook pages and so on and so forth. Events are regularly organised. In contrast, such groups and activities are relatively absent in the Netherlands.104 Although the Humanist Society (Dutch: Humanistisch Verbond) initiated a meet-up group for ‘new freethinkers’, the interest was limited and meetings have been suspended for the time being. Private initiatives to meet other former Muslims are sometimes undertaken, but no organization is currently doing this. Furthermore, Facebook-groups dedicated to the subject, whilst in Britain they would refer to ‘ex-Muslims’ in their names, in the Netherlands the terminology would be, for example, ‘Moroccan’s without religion’ or ‘freethinkers’. I suggest that the dominance of the social break-away and religious break in Britain on the one hand, and the dominance of unconscious secularisation and the entrance in the Netherlands on the other, has to do with the relative centrality of religion to one’s (former) identity and, relatedly, the presence of and need for support groups – or the lack thereof. This has directly affected how the majority of interlocutors were found for this research. First, people who have little or no issues with their loss of religion or for whom religion was not central to their identity (as often found in unconscious secularisation or entrance narratives) are less likely to search for support. In the Netherlands, whilst some reckoned they had had some need for support in the past, most concluded that other ‘freethinking’ groups had sufficed and that identification in relation to religion or Islam was not beneficial for their personal development. Furthermore, they argued that they did not want to identify as ‘ex-Muslim’ because of its political connotations with the secularist right (Vliek, 2018/Chapter 3). In addition, such groups were not widely available, so affiliation would be less of ‘a thing to do’. In Britain, on the other hand, more support groups were present, and so a search for (temporary) support would lead to specific ‘apostasy’ groups, such as the CEMB or Faith to Faithless. Furthermore, those who experience more psychologically taxing religious breaks or social breakaways are more likely to search for support. These differences in affiliation to support networks lead to a second reason for the differences in dominance of themes. Among affiliates of such groups, standardisation of narrative may occur. In meet-ups I attended, this became evident in the way people discussed matters of moving out of Islam. For example, ‘How long have you been an ex-Muslim?’ and ‘Are you out?’ were common

104 See Vliek (2018)/Chapter 3 for an in-depth analysis of the presence of ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ in Britain and their relative absence in the Netherlands.

164 questions one would ask one another. Another indication of this potential standardisation of narrative would be how some of the affiliated people that I interviewed, would be so at one with their identity as ‘ex-Muslim’, that they could no longer say ‘I’, but only narrated their story in the ‘we’ form, so as to tell ‘the ex-Muslim story’. Although religious breaks and social break-away themes were, of course, also present in the Netherlands, and unconscious secularisation and entrance themes were not absent from the British stories either, these particular phenomena regarding an emerging group narrative in which religion took centre stage were exclusive to Britain. A final methodological observation that emphasises these differences is that Simon Cottee (2015) found his interlocutors exclusively through the online CEMB forum. In his thoughtful study, most narratives resemble the social-breakaway and religious break themes described here. I suggest that this is because, first, those who experience religious breaks or social break-away themes are more likely to search for support and, second, standardisation of narrative may subsequently occur. In a similar fashion, the majority of my group of interlocutors in the Netherlands were found through snowballing, and a minority through Facebook groups and the Humanist Society. In Britain on the other hand, about half were found through organisations and online forums, whilst the other half were found through snowballing. This, along with the above discussion, may explain the differences between dominant themes in the countries in this particular data set.105

Conclusion Studies of ‘losing faith’ have, understandably, so far primarily focused on the negative (losing) and religious (faith) sides of changes in existential beliefs. In response, since my interlocutors’ narratives were ‘not just about faith’, I have proposed adopting a broader consideration of what constitutes self-making in times of religious change. My critique of the approaches to the subject taken so far was threefold. First, previous academic terminology did not resonate with my data with regard to either semantics or the self-definitions I encountered. Second, in the available descriptions of so-called exit-trajectories, little attention has been given to the life- worlds of people outside religion: its focus has chiefly been negative (exit) and religiously

105 Since this is not a study of Muslim communities in either country, I hesitate to speculate on the centrality of religion to identity being causally related to the composition of communities (e.g. ethnic, orthodox, secular, Shia, Sunni, socio-economic status, etc.). Further study is needed for conclusions to be drawn regarding these matters.

165 centred. Third, narrative descriptions did not apply to my interlocutors’ experiences for similar reasons: the focus has hitherto been on a negative approach to religion when it concerned moving out of religion. In contrast, the narratives I encountered included, besides religion, a plethora of social, political, ethnic, and gendered discourses. I have therefore proposed approaching the changing self not only in relation to religion, but rather as a ‘society of mind’. Dialogical Self Theory assumes the self is inhabited by external voices and different roles or identities that one assumes in different situations (I- positions), between which dialogue occurs in the negotiation of a changing life-world, especially upon self-reflection. This approach allows for the recognition of a self in transition in an ever-changing world, responsive to a multiplicity of discourses and roles one has to negotiate, and moves beyond the religious–secular, belief–non-belief, Muslim–non-Muslim dichotomies. It recognises the relative weight of the religious voice in narratives, rather than presuming the centrality of religion to one’s identity. I have presented four themes that emerged after dialogical analysis. For the ‘religious break’, ‘being Muslim’ and religion used to be central to one’s identity. Religious doubt is often prompted by an emotional event or trauma. It is common for this type of narrative to define one’s new self in relation to one’s former religion. Second, for the ‘social break-away’, the main issues are the socio-religious impositions and limitations that are enforced. Difference from one’s environment is often negotiated from a young age, which in turn may prompt doubt about the existence of God. Third, for the ‘entrance’, exit from the Muslim identity does occur, but only after one has familiarised oneself with a different identity. Negotiating difference is often considered to aid the development of self and identity, rather than hampering it. Characteristic of the entrance is that the new-found identity makes one doubt the Muslim identity and faith in God. Lastly, ‘unconscious secularisation’ is marked by a lack of conscious doubt about the existence of God or (de-)identification as Muslim. Although religion does play a role, it is not central to one’s sense of identity and therefore not key in self- development. I have presented a fifth narrative to illustrate the potential intertwinement of these themes. In describing these themes, I have not necessarily aimed to direct the focus away from religion all together when studying ‘losing faith’. Rather, I argue that we should be considerate of things besides ‘the negative’ and ‘what is missing’, and move beyond the assumption that people may exist or be described merely in relation to religion. Perhaps we may give a little more attention to the realities and discourses that people find themselves in besides religion, as well as to the ways in which people respond to them and reshape their sense of self. In Yedder’s

166 words: “Perhaps there should be [a focus] on what we are rather than what we are not”. The field of moving out of religion, especially in a post-migration context, is still relatively unexplored and the approach I propose opens up questions beyond what is left behind.

167 Chapter 5106

(Re)negotiating embodiment when moving out of Islam: An empirical inquiry into ‘a secular body’

Introduction Our bodies have the ability to communicate to the outside world what we stand for, believe in, or want to conform to. In singular form, they can be our personal canvas, or when viewed in plurality they can tell us something about a group, community, or society at large and the power these exert over us. We have expectations of what bodies of others ought to look like, and inscribe meaning to the exteriors of those we see around us. These expectations are strongly intertwined with whom we consider to be part of our in-group, or those we view as part of the out-group, a differentiation that has become particularly salient in the presence of Islam in contemporary Europe. In addition, the debates on the boundaries of what is secular, or more specifically, what is deemed appropriately religious in a secular environment, have in recent decades primarily focused on the presence of the ‘Muslim other’. These discussions in the public sphere often play out on the visible: the bodies present in our midst, the presumed ideology or values they stand for, and their alleged (in)compatibility with a secular system or values. When religious and secular boundaries are discussed (i.e. from both secular as well as religious perspectives), it is often the bodily praxis and behaviour that is referred to as being incompatible or at least fundamentally different: donning of a headscarf or face veil, prohibition or consumption of alcohol and pork, modest dress versus miniskirts, differences in sexual morale, debates surrounding circumcision, and hygienic custom. Indeed, ‘being Muslim’ and its bodily performance is highly contested in European spheres. Both religious and secular discourses ascribe certain features to what it means to be Muslim. Religious voices may do so to demarcate the contested ‘own’ and secure a sense of belonging, whilst the secular may do so to demarcate what is ‘other’ (and thereby implicitly self, see Amir-Moazami, 2013; 2016). During my fieldwork, which was aimed at investigating

106 A slightly modified version of this chapter will be published as: Vliek, M. (Forthcoming). (Re)Negotiating embodiment when moving out of Islam: An empirical inquiry into ‘a secular body’. In M. van den Berg, L. Schrijvers, J. Wiering, and A. de Korte (Eds.), Transforming bodies: Religions, powers, and agencies in Europe. Routledge.

168 people who have grown up in Muslim communities but now no longer believe in Allah in both the Netherlands and Britain, it quickly became quite clear that ‘moving out of Islam’ in fact entails more than ‘faith’ alone. As I explore elsewhere, (Vliek, 2019b/Chapter 4) matters of social, political, ethnic, and gendered intersections in addition to religious ones, play a role in narratives of transforming lives affected by a loss of faith. In light of these intersections, this chapter will explore what happens when the alleged boundaries and demarcations between religious and secular become blurred, by exploring how bodily praxis and behaviours are renegotiated by people moving out of Islam in both the Netherlands and Britain. In my interlocutors’ narratives, questions of believing and belonging became particularly salient in light of the bodily behaviours that were perceived by self and others to either ascertain or terminate one’s membership to the religious or secular environs. Moreover, as will become clear, whilst (internalised) discourses may have particular expectations of what a certain body ought to look or behave like, those travelling between the religious and secular spheres (re)negotiated these expectations as to form their own sets of bodily behaviours in very individualised ways. The central aim of this chapter is to highlight the embodied aspects of moving out of Islam and how presupposed characteristics of both religious and secular bodies informed my interlocutors’ spiritual transformations. I pursue this by firstly outlining the debate on ‘a secular body’ (i.a. Hirschkind, 2011). Secondly, I will provide empirical insights into my interlocutors’ negotiations over their religious upbringing and its perceived dispositions, and how breaking the rules, i.e. performing transgressive behaviour, was often an intrinsic part of moving out of Islam as a demarcation of a new non-believing self and the religious other. Third, I will elaborate on what my interlocutors considered to be either religious or non-religious practices, knowledges, and behaviours, and their contemplations over adopting or not adopting such dispositions. These two empirical sections are designed to show two things: first, how belonging to family was often dictated primarily on visible bodily knowledges, practices, and behaviours of what a (religious) body ought to be, illustrating the relevance of embodiment when moving out of Islam. The second empirical section serves to show how secular and religious bodies then inform self-making in times of religious transformation.

Moving out of Islam and the search for a secular body Drawing on Erving Goffman who proposed the idea of performance of self in both front and backstage, Bryan S. Turner (1992) has argued that we perform with our bodies various roles

169 or identities in different settings of life. He thereby assumed that appearing ‘normal’ creates fundamental feelings of security and belonging. As Lynn Davidman (2015) noted in her study on formerly orthodox Jews: “In every cultural context, the prevailing values, norms, and rules become internalized as habitual, embodied practices. The performance of these daily physical practices creates boundaries between members and nonmembers of a particular group” (p. 203). Davidman further argued that this secure identity, of being part of a group, can fall apart when one begins to feel “a significant distance between bodily routine and self-identity” such as when faith is lost and those daily practices are no longer meaningful (p. 17). Davidman has convincingly and eloquently shown the importance of embodiment in losing faith, especially among orthodox communities.107 Recent scholarship into the secular has gone beyond the traditional idea of ‘the secular’ as being the institutionalised power of the modern nation-state and its relation to religion. Inspired by the works of Talal Asad (2003), scholars have taken up the task of investigating the secular as being entangled with affect, emotion, and embodiment, especially in relation to Islam (i.a. Amir-Moazami, 2013; 2016; Asad, 2011; Fadil, 2009; 2011; Hirschkind, 2011; Mahmood, 2013). Charles Hirschkind (2011) confronted the question of ‘a secular body’ head on, by asking whether it exists: “is there a particular configuration of the human sensorium (…) specific to secular subjects, and thus constitutive of what we call ‘secular society?’” (p. 633). He reckoned that the works that had been proposed on the religiously pious sensorium— notably Talal Asad’s, Saba Mahmood’s, and his own—provide a useful model to think about “the interrelation of knowledge, practice, and embodiment within a tradition” (p. 635). Through the reading of the works of Asad and William Connely, Hirschkind attempted to draw closer to the idea of a secular body. He viewed the secular in relation to religion, as a distinct mode of power, “one that mobilizes the productive tension between religious and secular to generate new practices through a process of internal self-differentiation” (p. 643). Schirin Amir-Moazami (2013) proposed to include the analysis of ‘religiously connoted transgressions’ in secular societies which may reveal some ideas of the constitution of a secular body. She has taken ‘the secular’ to mean two things: first, the regulative state practices and second, “a more tacit and often unmarked set of secular affects prevalent in the

107 Also see E. Marshall Brooks’ thoughtful and compelling Disenchanted lives. Apostasy and ex-Mormonism among the Latter-day Saints.

170 social practices of secular societies on various levels” (p. 84),108 which she calls ‘secular embodiments’. She has then shown how public controversies such as the face-veil (2013) or male-circumcision (2016) bring these two dimensions together. By analysing what the critiques within such controversies reveal about those who contest public expression of religion, she was able to discern that the secular body concerns shared conventions of “gender mixing, exposing parts of the body … while hiding others, notions of gender and sexual freedom, gendered conventions of visibility and, more generally, habitualized forms of communication in public” (2013, p. 93). Amir-Moazami argued that these particular forms of embodiment are not established in isolation, rather, they are anchored in modes of power, and “depend on their constant iterations”. Secular embodiment, according to Amir-Moazami, can in fact materialise, stabilise, and become visible, but “only through such religiously connoted transgressions”. In other words, how secular power debates and demarcates the religious from the secular, reiterates and reveals what secular embodiment is. Such public controversies can be a “reiteration of secular conventions and embodiments” (p. 94). I agree with Amir-Moazami’s analysis, and laude her attempt at materialising theory through empirical enquiry. However, I wish flesh out further what she calls the ‘effective stabilization of embodiment’. How do people (re)negotiate these stabilisations and expectations of what a secular body ought to be, having previously acquired a particular religious embodied set of dispositions, when moving out of Islam in Europe? Nadia Fadil (2009) previously addressed such consequences of stabilisations of embodiment, by examining the ways in which religious and secular affects become a source of concern for practicing and non-practicing Muslim women in Belgium. She argued that in order to draw closer to an understanding of what the secular may constitute, rather than to simply posit that “a liberal and secular context authorises all kinds of moral offences, what should be examined is the kind of moral offences that are deemed problematic and the kinds of offences which are normalised” (p. 442). She suggested that not only should ‘the offended’ be examined, but also, the ‘offenders’, in her case Muslim women who do not shake hands, and those who do not fast: offenders of secular and religious sensibilities respectively.

108 Similar to Amir-Moazami’s approach to include the social manifestations of institutionalised secularity in the investigation of ‘the secular’, the idea of multiple secularities also incorporated both the state ideology and forms of differentiation between what is deemed religious and secular, as well as the cultural forms and meanings that underlie such an understanding.

171 In line with these discussions, I take a secular body to be a set of presupposed characteristics which are ascribed to a body which follows secularism as ideology. Thereby, this set of characteristics is not necessarily an empirical reality applicable to anyone who is non-religious as such, but rather produced by a discursive mode of power which defines a proper set of behaviours, knowledges, and dispositions (Hirschkind, 2011) to which a secular individual should ascribe in order to be properly considered ‘one of us’, as opposed to the religious (i.e. Muslim) ‘one of them’.109 As my interlocutors will show, this concept and its construction are intertwined with methods of embodied ‘othering’ in contemporary Europe and thereby the relationships between sexuality, race, and religion (Balkenhol, Mepschen & Duyvendak, 2016; Garner & Selod 2014). A ‘secular body’ is a conceptual term I employ to refer to these constructions rather than a lived reality. The lived realities of embodiment encompass the behaviours, lifestyles, emotions, and more generally what the body in fact does. Indeed, in what is to follow, it will become clear that the particulars of a conceptual ‘secular body’ reveal itself in the transformation of individuals moving out of Islam as a set of characteristics which different actors ascribe to what one now ‘ought to be’. This ‘secular body’ influenced the various strategies people employed to (re)train the body in a non-Muslim framework. Empirically then, ‘a secular body’ became traceable in my interlocutors’ descriptions of behaviour, knowledges, and dispositions of ‘ex- Muslims’, atheists, Western people, whiteness, or non-Muslims, both from their own perspectives, as well as from their Muslim communities. These descriptions were in turn produced by that distinct mode of power: the dominant ‘secular’ discourse. I take secular and religious bodies to represent two sides which demarcate what is considered ‘the incommensurable divide’ (Mahmood, 2013).

Religious upbringing, performing (non-)religion, and questions of belonging Much has been written about religious morality, and specifically on Muslims who wish to be pious, obedient, and moral subjects (i.a.: Hocke, 2014; Mahmood, 2004). However, Samuli Schielke (2009) argued that like for most of humankind, many Muslims are not always pious, moral, or disciplined. Although in response, Nadia Fadil and Mayanthi Fernando (2015) warned for the exclusion of piety altogether from the anthropology of Islam by redirecting our

109 I have phrased it ‘this way around’ since my interlocutors are all born and/or raised in either the Netherlands or Britain, both secular countries (i.e. secularism is the dominant ideology for state apparatus and dominant public discourse).

172 attention to the ‘everyday’, as Schielke suggested, how morality was expressed through the ambiguities of especially embodied religious discipline was relevant for my interlocutors. They often presented their upbringing and experiences with religious prescriptions as ideal types of performance of religious practice. In their contemplations over religious obligations there were two motivations for adherence to be discerned: first the pious obligation to Allah to perform ritual and other embodied praxis, and second, the desire to conform to one’s community through embodiment. Intertwined with these concerns were the images that religious surroundings perpetuated about non-believers. I will discuss these matters by exploring some of my interlocutors’ ponderings, which show that it was through the performance of transgressions of certain religious embodiments and practices which were considered non- negotiable, that questions of belonging became relevant. Maya,110 a confident young woman I met in central London for a cup of coffee, had had a difficult time letting go of the fear of Allah and hell when moving out of Islam. She particularly emphasised modesty and described her discomfort with both social belonging as well as the guilt and fear she felt towards Allah and the potentially disastrous consequences her transgressive actions could have for her soul. She explained:

So for example, having sex is a massive thing for a woman to do, and I did that as a Muslim woman (…) sex before marriage is haram. (…) It’s your mother and your grandmother that tell you: ‘don’t have sex, no one’s going to marry you, you’re dirty, it’s not what Muslims do’.

She told me what happened when she did break these taboos: “These things came back to haunt me as a university student, during my first sexual experiences, and it was like I’d do it, and I’d feel bad about it. I think: ‘Oh my God, I’m going to hell’”. For Maya, moving out of Islam had much to do with these body politics, and particularly the judgment she experienced from other Muslims which led to her final de-identification as Muslim: “If people would think that I’m not Muslim enough, then fine, I wouldn’t be a Muslim. And I guess in a way it was sort of pragmatism got the better of that guilt and conflict”.111 Furthermore, for some the donning of a head scarf was a very visible, non-negotiable performance of belonging. ‘Unveiling’, according to their Muslim community, was sometimes

110 All names have been anonymised. 111 Quotes from personal interview. London, 24th January 2018.

173 considered to be a performance of waning faith. For example, Sara told me that she still donned the scarf when visiting her family and lied to her mother about living with her boyfriend. Sara was quite traumatised by what she perceived to be religious rules imposed on her: “I remember how I changed from before to after hijab, (…) once I wore it, I literally retreated into myself, because everybody treated me differently”. To stress the importance of the visibility of personal religiousness in the scarf, she continued: “taking it off is worse than never wearing it at all, because it’s more insulting to the religion [like] that: ‘look you were religious and now you overtly non-religious’, it is almost like a public rejection”. When Sara was about twelve years old, she told her mother she wanted to stop praying, to which her mother responded to be ashamed of her daughter having raised her this way. This made Sara feel so guilty she became ‘very strict’ in the performance of prayer, fasting, wearing the hijab, and never talking to boys. This mostly embodied praxis eventually took the better of her, especially after she discovered that all her prayers over the past five years had not been counting since she had washed her hands in the wrong order:

I was crying my eyes out thinking “God has not collected any of my prayers?” (…) So I had a huge board with a mark, every time I ticked off an extra prayer that I had done. (…) And I just remember I reached a certain point, like, half the board was covered, and then I was like, I stopped doing them. (…) On the outside I was still the person, the perfect Muslim girl, but on the inside I just stopped caring in a way.112

Sara’s story illustrates the consequences that embodied religious practice can have on the individual. Depending on how negotiable these sets of practices are, the visibility of these embodiments can cause friction with the environs when they are seized or questioned. Since Sara did not want to damage her relationship with her mother and sister, she concealed her unbelief from them, continuously performing what was considered a proper religious body in order to belong. The ultimate ‘sin’ or transgression of religious behaviour, according to many, was becoming a non-believer, or ‘apostasy’.113 Fahad, a Dutch banker from the West of the country explained:

112 Quotes from personal interview. London, 21st November 2017. 113 ‘Apostasy’ is a religious term for moving out of religion and is therefore not used as an analytical category in this chapter.

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In my experience the image exists that “he is no longer a Muslim, so he is totally out of control,114 he will do anything that is forbidden now, he has completely gone of the rails”, you know? There is a huge variety in moral interpretations, fine, but one who openly apostatises? He has completely lost his mind, done something very wrong.115

According to many Muslims Fahad knew, various ways of non-religious behaviour were accepted to some degree; ambiguity and transgression of the religious norm were considered part of life. Leaving one’s religion, however, could be seen as becoming without any morality. Tariq similarly elaborated: “Because you’re a teenager you’re doing dumb stuff, like a lot of people are sneaking in alcohol or smoking or whatever, but there’s also this like, ‘oh but we all believe in God.’” When he first openly talked about his non-belief, he thought that because of the way that his friends would practice—“more of a trying to be good, but you can enjoy yourself and think, I’ll be religious later on”—his internal convictions about the existence of God would not be an issue. However:

It’d be boys in school, who’d be sleeping with girls, drinking on the weekends and things like that saying to me: “you’re a bad Muslim, you’re not a Muslim, you’re going to go to hell”, shit like [this], and this was at a point where I didn’t drink: “technically I’m a better Muslim than you guys”.116

When people did openly discuss their non-belief with their surroundings, a common response was that they were thought to have strayed temporarily. Eymen, a young Dutch student, elaborated:

Some found it ok, others found it unacceptable. They said: “I can deal with it, but let’s not talk about it, just act normal”. Normal? What is that? Because in the end, these are guys that visit prostitutes every weekend. Yeah, what do you mean ‘act normal’.117

114 Significantly, this is translated from the Dutch expression ‘van God los’ which is usually translated in English as ‘out of control’. The literal translation would be Godless, or out of God’s control. 115 Quotes from personal interview. Utrecht, 15th August 2017. 116 Quotes from personal interview. Manchester, 31st January 2018. 117 Quotes from personal interview. Nijmegen, 20th February 2018.

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Notably, Eymen’s friends use terminology that indicates the performativity, the embodiment of belonging: ‘act normal’, (Dutch: doe normaal). Tariq’s and Eymen’s examples are particularly interesting, since in their friend groups, various parts of religious morality and idealised behaviour were available for negotiation and transgression. However, openly discussing their non-belief was a non-negotiable act: by doing so, according to their friends, they placed themselves outside of what their peers considered to still be ‘acceptable’, or ‘Muslim’. This distinction also reflects their own rationalisations and negotiations over behaviour and convictions required for social belonging. The above examples illustrate how negotiations over what is deemed proper or transgressive bodily behaviour coloured my interlocutors’ trajectories out of Islam, norms that differed per situation. Moving out and what that entails, became particularly visible in what was considered non-negotiable by self and others and the transgression of religious behaviours, knowledges, and practices. This took various forms: be it Tariq, or Eymen saying out loud to their friends they no longer believe, Maya no longer wanting to comply with rules of modesty, or Sara continuing certain practices in front of her family. These examples were performative acts, or refusals to perform such acts, that made statements to the self as much as they did to others about moving out of Islam. What was deemed religious and non-religious embodiment raised questions about and triggered negotiations of belonging. Body politics were in these cases particularly problematic for those for whom change in embodied behaviours was more visible and where deviation of certain norms would signal waning faith to religious surroundings. In the examples above, this visibility was differently experienced by men and women. For Tariq and Eymen the non-negotiable was concentrated on the act of ‘apostasy’ only perceived as such when they would actually say they no longer believed, whereas for Maya, for example, (the control of) her womanhood and female embodiment were central to her belonging to a Muslim community in the form of ‘modesty’. For some of the men it was rather about the alignment of saying one is no longer Muslim and the construct of the ‘no longer Muslim, nonbeliever’ who is considered to be without morality, that would signal social (un)belonging. This does not mean that men did not find issues when visible knowledges, practices, and embodiments changed, or that all women struggled equally with such issues. Rather, it shows that expectations of what a body ‘ought’ to look or behave like, both religious and secular, have a gendered nature.

176 The blurry lines of moving out: ‘Do I have to become completely Western now?’ In this section, I will elaborate on the contemplations some of my interlocutors shared with me when discussing their religious dispositions or practices, and how these either lingered for some time subconsciously, or how they were consciously retained in processes of self-making. Whilst the previous section outlined conscious transgressive performance of embodied acts as to make a statement of change of conviction and belonging to both self and others, this section will focus on the (im)possibilities and desires that coloured such contemplations. It will thereby illustrate how some of the dispositions of an embodied lifestyle that one is raised with can be experienced as non-negotiable by the self. It will also show that performance of change was not always desired nor possible. This was both with regards to processes of differentiation and contemplations over belonging as described above, as well as an incapacity to unlearn behaviours one was brought up with. Some of my interlocutors showed how they wished to continue their performance of religious identity even though they no longer believed, or that they were unable to stop certain behaviours and embodiments that were previously tied to religious convictions. I will also share some of their negotiations when it came to what they considered to be certain non-religious behaviours. These two sections are presented as two sides of the same coin and are highly intertwined.

What about those religious dispositions? Born in a large town in the north of the UK, Haroon grew up in a community that was mostly Muslim. He was raised in a Muslim household and although during his childhood he did not really consciously think about religion, he prayed his namaz, five daily prayers, from a young age. Becoming increasingly religious when going to secondary school, he also started to include the nafl salat, an optional morning prayer, in his daily routine. After school, he went to madrassa like most of his classmates. He explained:

At that young age, you just do how you are brought up (…) In my community, being a Muslim is not an issue, because it’s usually when it is in contrast to another population that it is very different (..) You don’t think about it much.

Losing his religion was both an intellectual process as well as partially made possible by physically moving away from the community to go to university: “identity, that question comes

177 when you’re not around people like you (…) a lot of my personality was shaped after I went to university”.118 Haroon lost his faith over the course of a couple of years, from still living at home to some years after he had joined university. For him, religion was very much an integrated way of life in the Muslim community he had grown up. When I spoke with him, Haroon described himself as an atheist. He explained to me how, even when he reckoned he did not believe anymore, he continued some of his prayers at university:

When I started, I was still doing juma [Friday prayers]. That was a habit of mine that was in my culture, right? So, even if you don’t pray, all the boys go to Friday prayers, I mean, you sit after, you talk about whatever is going on in your life. I’d still go, but obviously, I didn’t mean [it].

This was part out of habit, and part out of social pressure: “I didn’t have to, it was my way of, something I was used to”, or “when I used to come home for the holidays, (…) they might turn a blind eye if I wasn’t praying the other prayers, but Friday afternoon you have to. I’d have to go”.119 It is interesting to note how Haroon is presenting his negotiations over beliefs that he practiced in ritual and habits, as well as his rationalisation of his religious dispositions. He reflects on his process of negotiation in self-understanding: ‘I’d still go but I didn’t mean it’. Instead of performing his non-belief by not praying, he described this episode as insincere performance. When a performative act was not sincere, in his view, it did not count as performance of conviction and was therefore not problematic. Other examples of negotiations over religious embodiments were given by Tariq. When he realised he no longer believed, he felt:

It’s like the Matrix film, where he wakes up (…) All the morals, all the rules I had been taught, “oh, they are not real anymore”. (…) Even when I was comfortable as an atheist, there’d be things that I would find myself doing. “Oh, wait a minute, I’m only doing this because it’s an Islamic rule, I don’t have to do it”.120

118 Quotes from personal interview. Leeds, 1st February 2018. 119 Quotes from personal interview. Leeds, 1st February 2018. 120 Personal interview. Manchester, 31st January 2018.

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Examples he gave concerned modesty ‘virginity is this pure thing’, alcohol ‘when I drink I still feel really bad’, and halal food ‘I wouldn’t eat non-halal, even though I was no longer Muslim’. These examples illustrate the relative availability of negotiable behaviours and embodied practices. Some of the dispositions one was raised with are non-negotiable, although they may become available later in time. I met Naveed in Camden, London for a couple of beers in the pub. A young, well- travelled researcher, he had actually re-appropriated certain religious knowledges, practices, and embodiments to ‘make sense’ within a non-religious lifestyle. For example, he saw benefit in prayer, a practice he now called ‘meditation’. He further espoused a healthy lifestyle which included avoiding pork, and continued to perform the bodily hygiene, originally taught to him to aid religious rituals that he was raised with. Other interlocutors mentioned the value of Eid celebrations as family time; they would still attend and practice where required in order to belong. Some were at ease with the idea of not believing, yet celebrating a religious holiday with family. Others felt like they were cheating a bit, like one of them explained: “I didn’t fast, so I didn’t try my best. (…) I haven’t actually deserved it!”.121 When I asked Haroon about values in his community, he gave me an example of internalisation of those community values and how he was still battling to adopt what he called ‘liberal values’:

So to give you an example, a girl wants to go out with some guy and have sex with him. On a principle level, go for it. But the culture level in my upbringing, I’m very, to put it lightly, disinclined towards that. My young sister would wear a really short skirt or something, I’ll have severe reservations about that. And I can see that that’s not right of me.

Haroon sighed at some point during our conversation:

I still am a part of it, I’d be lying if I said I don’t care. It’s part of me. (…) I mean, a lot of my culture is still remarkably quite Muslim (…) You go to shisha places, we’d talk. You never drink.122

121 Personal interview. Groningen, 5th April 2017. 122 Quotes from personal interview. Leeds, 1st February 2018.

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It is important to note how for Haroon the internalisation of what he deemed to be certain religious ethics, and the desire to adopt a different set of liberal or non-religious practices, went hand in hand. It was not a clear-cut line between ‘letting go of what’s religious’ and ‘adopting what’s secular’. Rather, he presented this process as being two sides of the same coin. Also note how he labels a distinction between ‘on a principle level’ and ‘on a cultural level’, reflecting what he now deems should be his convictions, i.e. girls and boys wanting to have pre-marital sex or his sister wearing a ‘really short skirt’, dispositions and behaviours he ascribes to being non-religious or secular embodiment. His ‘severe reservations’ reflect his incapacity to ascribe to this set of what he deems to be non-religious embodiments. These characteristics already give some clues as to what a ‘secular body’ is. In the above examples, we see elements of knowledges, behaviours, and practices of Islam that were retained, either consciously and willingly, or out of an incapacity to (currently) overcome them. There are two phenomena at work here. First, we can see how my interlocutors actively (re)negotiated knowledges, behaviours, and embodiments in processes of self-making. Second, these ponderings were about certain expected transformations of behaviour in light of changing existential convictions. My interlocutors were expecting themselves to change in one way or another—for their bodies to stop performing what were deemed religious embodiments—in order to become non-religious. To what extent this was desirable or even possible differed per situation. However, these particular expectations where discomfort and negotiation become evident give us the first clue on a secular body: it was emphatically seen as the absence of religious praxis and behaviour. The following section will further show how that absence also implied a presence of something else.

And what about a ‘secular body’? As shown above, my interlocutors (re)negotiated particular religious knowledges, behaviours, and practices by both transgressing or conforming to religious expectations of embodiment, as well as by identifying the absence of religious praxis and behaviour as being part of a non- religious constitution. In this section, I will elaborate on attempts at adaptation of what was seen as a particularly ‘secular lifestyle’—the other side of the coin—by my interlocutors referred to as ‘western’, ‘real Dutch’, or ‘white’. It should be stressed, as Haroon’s contemplations above have already shown, that these negotiations are highly intertwined. Nonetheless, this section will highlight that whilst a particular (conceptual) ‘secular body’ was acknowledged, it did not necessarily mean that my interlocutors found it either possible or

180 desirable to embody it. When my interlocutors told me about how they view the ‘Western lifestyle’ and their concerns for adopting it partially or fully, there were two levels of concern: first, external frames on ‘ex-Muslims’ who had supposedly crossed enemy lines and the animosity that could create with family, and second, disagreement or discomfort with what they deemed non-Islamic practices. These examples will give direct clues of what are considered knowledges, practices, and embodiments from ‘the other side’ – clues as to what a secular body ought to be. As Tariq explained above, it was hard for him to behave according to his new worldview. Since he had grown up in an environment that was natural to him and the practices were performed almost unnoticed, his re-evaluation of both parts of this ‘worldview’ as well as the supposed accompanying behaviour went gradual. Part of this was not just letting go or holding on to certain Islamic practices as described above, but losing faith also forced him to evaluate the things that he would want to believe or stand for instead. Asking Tariq about gender relations he responded:

A lot of people in my dad’s family (…) say they are all for gender equality, but (…) in the Qur’anic sense, which is like gender equality from 1400 years ago (…) I always felt men should do the same as women.

He reckoned that outside of Islam, gender equality would be more ‘natural’, but: “I realised, Islam is sexist, and I don’t want to be sexist. And then I realised: ‘oh, western sexism is just [the same], it’s still there’”. Another example he gave to explain his disillusion was that when he was younger growing up in a Muslim community: “I always wanted to be Western (…) at the centre I wanted to be a white person, I thought that would be good”. But, when he went to college where he was surrounded by ‘Western, white people’: “there was a guy and he called me a fucking Paki. And then I realised, it was the sort of thing that you missed”. It is important to note Tariq’s construction of ‘whiteness’ here. For Tariq, whiteness and being Western had been opposed to his own Muslim community in which he grew up. In European discourse, religion, specifically Islam, and modernity have been constructed as each other’s antagonists. In this case in Britain, furthermore, these discourses have been coloured, too. Whiteness and ‘being Western’ have been located in the non-religious modern, whilst ‘being brown’ or ‘Paki’

181 are associated with the Islamic realm.123 For Tariq, having lived in a Muslim pocket within a dominantly secular society, being part of the dominant ‘white modern’ had been something to aspire to. Realising that ‘whiteness’ may also include sexism and racism,124 characteristics of what he thought to be the Islamic realm, he started to explore his ethnic background (i.e.: non- religious): “reclaiming identity that I have been trying to run away from for so long”.125 Haroon had similar struggles, which he pronounced slightly differently. He elaborated on issues of (gender) equality. Between his parents, he saw how his mother had to cook every day, which he found quite normal.

Haroon: So I’d be lying if I suddenly thought in terms of: ‘this shouldn’t happen’ (…) Later on I thought that this is actually is really wrong (...) part of that is also because I went to university and had a lot of [exposure] to non-Muslim people. Maria: Exposed to other ideas in that sense? Haroon: Yeah, but there is an element of danger. You don’t want to suck up too much to another culture. (…) You should look at each [issue] piece meal, how people treat women or how to treat your family. (…) The danger is that you suddenly end up in the other camp, you know, that camp might be someone like Christopher Hitchens (…) but also people like Ayaan Hirsi [Ali] and Maajid Nawaz.126 (…) I guess with people like me, we

123 I am aware of the academic and popular discussions currently taking place on ‘Islamophobia’ ‘racism’, and ‘racialisation’. For the purpose of this chapter, I draw on the distinctions made by Steve Garner and Saher Selod (2014) in their introduction to the special issue Islamophobia and the Racialization of Muslims, that ‘religion can be raced’. They argued that bodies are the ultimate site of racism and through the various case studies presented in the special issue they present “how people read Muslim-ness onto individuals by using a combination of ideas about culture and appearance” (p. 12) and thereby lay bare the complex relationships between race and religion. 124 Also see: Rhodes (2013) on the construction of whiteness in the ‘postracial’ UK. 125 Quotes from personal interview. Manchester, 31st January 2018. 126 Ayaan Hirsi Ali is a Somali-born former Dutch politician who utilised her narrative ‘out of Islam into Enlightenment’ to further her political agenda and often speaking out against the ‘horrors of Islam’. Maajid Nawaz was a member of the Islamist group Hizb ut-Tahrir, which he renounced in 2007, now actively calling for ‘secular Islam’. He is one of the harshest critics of Islamism in the UK today. These people are referenced here by Haroon to describe typical ‘loud’ former Muslims who now speak out against their former religion.

182 haven’t really come out127 per se, and because people like them have accepted completely the values of the West, we dislike that a bit. (…) Because if very dislikeable people who speak out to a certain degree, and completely adopt a modernist set of values (…) to me it seems like someone who’s a communist, suddenly becomes hard right fascist.128

Haroon alluded to the discussion on ‘apostasisers’; there were particular ideas within the Muslim community about so-called ‘ex-Muslims’. According to Haroon, these ideas were based on prominent people within the public debate on Islam in Western society, and he described them as ‘the other camp’ from Muslims. For Haroon, however, there were two reasons to be cautious to be identified as such: first, he did not want to be in ‘that camp’ since he still had a Muslim family and did not want to exclude future Muslim friends, and second, his opinions often differed from their narrative.129 Both Tariq and Haroon found a blurriness in certain expectations of what it means to be secular, especially when it comes to speaking out: piece meal, certain behaviours that are supposed to accompany their convictions were negotiated. However, the performance of such convictions is not always possible nor desired, due to their own histories and learned dispositions. Similarly, Eymen commented on people from Muslim communities that have gone ‘over the top in being white’, or ‘Dutch’. He expressed his discomfort:

You have Muslims that try to behave real Dutch, right? Like, “we don’t belong to you [Muslims]”, so sleazy! “We are so modern, picture with a glass of wine, I am so cool!” You see it a lot with the social media heroes.

Other issues Eymen had concerned sexual liberties. He explained he was now part of a polyamorous friend group, which intrigued him, but he still struggled to ‘embrace’: “I’m part of an anarchist group for whom polyamory is totally normal. I really like the idea as well! (…) But I noticed that I simply can’t do it. I support it, but I can’t do it!”.130 This particular example

127 The vocabulary of ‘coming out’ is frequently used by people leaving Islam when discussing their disclosure of non-belief to friends or family. For an elaboration on this phenomenon, see: Cottee (2018). 128 Quotes from personal interview. Leeds, 1st February 2018. 129 Also see: Vliek (2018)/Chapter 3 on a thorough investigation into ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ in Britain. 130 Quotes from personal interview. Nijmegen, 20th February 2018.

183 shows two things. First, it highlights the struggles when it comes to ‘performing conviction’, and that those embodied convictions of morality that one was raised with are not easily or ever overcome. Many of my interlocutors indeed experienced such an ‘in between’ position, wanting or expecting to be able to behave in a certain way, but feeling that ‘something’ was holding them back. Second, Eymen’s comments are in the context of a particular Dutch construction of an embodiment of what is considered ‘the other’ to Muslims. Let me elaborate. Balkenhol, Mepschen, and Duyvendak (2016) argued that the Dutch nativist discourse is best understood through the three concepts of sexuality, race, and religion. By analysing the sexualised racist discourse surrounding the figure of ‘black Pete’131 as well as the construction of the dichotomy of Islam and homosexuality, they argued that both black racism as well as Islamophobia are bound by the accusation of sexuality: whilst Dutch people of African descent are seen as hyper sexual, Muslim Dutch are deemed to not be sexual enough for the “Dutch culture of sexularism” (p. 109).132 Both forms are then employed to define the nativist discourse and mark boundaries between self and others. I refer to Balkenhol et al.’s work here, to illustrate Eymen’s comments to be in reference to these particularly Dutch frames of othering and Dutch nativist discourse. Eymen found those ‘social media heroes’ wanting to perform the so-called ‘modern’ to be intentionally in opposition to Muslims. He further reckoned that he ought to be able to embrace sexual liberties now he was no longer religious. Indeed, Balkenhol et al. found that the Dutch frames are constructed on modernity and non-religiosity with certain sexual freedoms, whilst religion (i.e. Islam) is associated with sexual suppression.133 Others expressed similar issues with sexual liberties—though not to the extent of polyamory—especially when it would concern premarital sex. Often, it took time before that step could be taken. Amina explained her struggle with the idea of not having premarital sex:

131 ‘Black Pete’, or ‘zwarte Piet’ is a blackface character part of the Dutch annual ‘Sinterklaas’ festival which has come under increasing (international) scrutiny and debate. The Dutch nativist discourse argues that the character is ‘not racist’, and part of ‘Dutch culture’, whilst anti-racist discourse argues for black Pete’s abolition. 132 Also see: Wiering (2017) on a ‘sexular body’ and Chapter 1. 133 It is sadly beyond the scope of this chapter to extensively compare the Netherlands and Britain in their construction of ‘whiteness’, race, religion, and sexuality as well as the nuances this brings to the influences of ‘a secular body’ on the formation of selfhood in times of religious transformation. Here, it suffices to note that these contexts do have different histories of secularity and the construction of ‘otherness’, but that there is also an overarching European or even Western discourse at play in which secularism is generally presented as incompatible with Islam. It is also from this dominant ‘distinct mode of power’ that secular and religious bodies take shape and are governed, which is considered relevant here.

184

Thát’s not going to happen [laughs]. But for a long time, I struggled with someone sitting on my shoulder, who says: “what are you doing!” (…) because it’s what they teach you from a very young age, and then that is gone, and then you have to decide for yourself.134

Amina explained how she physically could not fully commit to having sex, due to ‘someone’ holding her back, asking her what she was doing—even when doing it. She also made a distinction between ‘what they teach you from a very young age’ and wanting to decide for herself, since that authority is no longer there. Other problematics that were mentioned in both the Netherlands and Britain, when it came to ‘performance of conviction’ included ‘making fun of religion’. Many of my interlocutors referred to ‘famous ex-Muslims’ such as Ayaan Hirsi Ali as having formed a certain frame within Muslim circles for people who have moved out of Islam to be publically critical of their former religion and communities. As Haroon confirmed, conforming to this frame was rarely desired. Another hurdle was the expectations of becoming accustomed to ‘alcohol culture’ now that one was no longer religious. Karim elaborated: “I still, instinctively, I won’t go to the bar and order a drink. Not because I think it’s wrong now, but because (…) I haven’t ever done that growing up”. Or eating pork: “the internal reflex is: ‘oh no, I can’t eat that!’ and then try and sort of argue with myself like: ‘no! why can’t you? I couldn’t eat that because I believed, I don’t believe that anymore’”.135 The above examples have illustrated three things. First, a secular body, according to my interlocutors, meant being convinced of Western liberty and Islamic suppression, being sexually active, openly speaking about Islam and non-belief, performing being secular by joining pub culture, or being a social media hero speaking out against Islam. Second, they often experienced problems when attempting to adopt such a non-religious lifestyle, which would require the ‘reprogramming’ of their old beliefs and embodied dispositions. Such renegotiations were not always possible when practices were experienced as more permanent dispositions. Third, these attempts at negotiation revealed the effects of the stabilisation of distinct modes of power of a ‘secular body’ on the formation of self-making. When confronted with both religious as well as secular dispositions and when convictions change and are expected—by self and others—to be performed, processes of (re)negotiating these dispositions

134 Personal interview. Utrecht, 27th July 2017. 135 Personal interview. London, 21st November 2017.

185 may commence. As shown above, these may not always be successful or even desirable, but they are realities as evidence of the distinct modes of power governing our lives.

Conclusion I opened this chapter by reflecting on the performativity of our bodies, as singular, plural, and as markers of who belongs and who does not in social groups or even society. These demarcations have become particularly salient in contemporary Europe over what Amir- Moazami has titled ‘religiously connoted transgressions’, or public debate on matters of what is deemed appropriately religious (i.e. Islamic) presence in secular societies. I have explored what happens to bodies when individuals experience a loss of faith as well as how their self- formation is influenced by these ‘distinct modes of power’ producing religious and secular bodies. I have tried to show how first, negotiations over what is deemed religious behaviour or transgressive behaviour coloured my interlocutors’ trajectories out of Islam, norms that differed per situation. ‘Leaving’ and what that entailed became particularly visible in what was considered non-negotiable by self and others. These were negotiations over performative acts, or refusals to perform such acts, that made statements to the self as much as they do to others, as to how behaviour was renegotiated in light of new convictions. Second, I have described certain embodiments that were retained when moving out of Islam, either consciously or out of incapacity to change learned religious dispositions. These particular expectations where discomfort and negotiation became evident gave the first clue on a secular body: it was emphatically seen as the absence of religious knowledges, practice, and behaviours. Furthermore, a non-religious body, according to my interlocutors, meant being convinced of Western liberty vs. Islamic suppression, being sexually active, openly speaking about Islam and non-belief, performing being secular by embracing pub-culture or being a ‘social media hero’ speaking out against Islam. My interlocutors’ stories revealed the effects of the stabilisation of distinct modes of power of a ‘secular body’ on the formation of self- making. When confronted with both religious as well as secular embodiments and when convictions change and are expected to be performed by both self and others, processes of (re)negotiating these dispositions commenced. A secular body, or a religious one, is in its conception not an empirical reality but rather ‘a distinct mode of power’ capable of shaping self-formation. In this sense, I do not contest previous scholarship on ‘a secular body’: all agree in my understanding that the secular is shaping, either by institutionalised forms of demarcation

186 or by the societal practices, a so-called secular body. However, by fleshing out the contemplations of those who move from religious to secular realms of knowledge, practice, and embodiment, the effects of such modes of power, to be clear, from both religious as well as secular perspectives, became visible. Maya said to me at some point: “There is this binary view of ‘you’re in or you’re out’, and that needs to change”. The above has shown that movements away from religion cannot be conceptualised as such and this played out particularly on the body and behaviours. Such dispositions may become available for (re)negotiation, rather than these dispositions being subjugated to choices of being one or the other. Influenced by one’s body as learned, one had to renegotiate religious and secular bodies, when moving out of Islam.

187 Chapter 6136

“Speaking out would be a step beyond just not believing”137 - On the performativity of testimony when moving out of Islam

Introduction At the start of my fieldwork in the winter of 2017, I met with one of my friends in my old university town of Groningen. Sipping coffee, we discussed how I could find people with Muslim backgrounds, who no longer believe in Allah and had not converted to another religion ̶ the subject of my study. She gave me one or two names, but we concluded that perhaps it was not going to be as easy as I had initially thought, perhaps I could place an ad somewhere? To dampen my optimism further, one of our former colleagues walked in, himself from Iraq, raised in a Muslim family. Discussing my difficulties he said: “Maria, you are not going to find people easily, because your idea of the importance of ‘belief’ does not apply here. I can behave in any way I want: eat pork, drink alcohol, don’t pray, which factually means I don’t qualify as a Muslim. For the community, however, I have just strayed. But it is no way near as bad as saying I don’t believe! And let’s be honest, it actually really doesn’t matter what my inner belief is, let alone speak my mind on such matters.”138 What he meant to say was that even though there may be many ‘unbelieving Muslims’, he reckoned I would struggle to find anyone because no one would speak about it. Although I eventually managed to find over 50 individuals in both the Netherlands and Britain who were willing to talk to me extensively about their experiences, and many more during formal and informal meetings, his words were, one way or the other, applicable to all my interlocutors. Apostasy–a religious term for leaving one’s faith–is a contested topic within religious traditions and Islam is no exception. Moreover, the debate on freedom of (or from) religion and Islam has especially in Europe become intertwined with often reductionist discussions over Islam’s compatibility with democratic values. One side of this debate argues that Islam is a religion of peace and endorses modern concepts of ‘freedom of religion’ and ‘freedom of speech’. This position is often taken by self-proclaimed ‘moderate Muslims’, and Left-wing

136 A slightly modified version of this chapter has been published with Religions, under the special guest editor Prof. Dr. Peter Nissen. 137 Personal interview with Ilyas, London, 8th November 2017. All names have been anonymised, unless indicated otherwise. 138 Anecdote taken from my field notes from 8th February 2017.

188 political parties. On the other side, there are secularist politicians such as Geert Wilders (and more recently Thierry Baudet) in the Netherlands, or UKIP in Britain, who claim Islam is intolerant and therefore there is no freedom, neither of consciousness nor of speech.139 Those wishing to leave or speak out against it are considered victims of this oppressive authority. Both these stances find evidence in Islamic texts of the Qur’an and Hadith, whilst neither come close to lived realities (Larsson, 2018). In the study of (de)conversion experiences, the phenomenon of testimony and autobiographical narratives has fascinated scholars for centuries (i.a. Hindmarsch, 2014; Hodder, 2017; Oliver, 2014). The transformation that people undergo when finding new existential convictions, be it in belief or unbelief, captures something in our minds that we can relate to, admire, or abhor. These narratives can provide insight into the unknown and the known, as well as often describe a journey from bad to good, from darkness to light (Hodder, 2017). One example of a deconversion narrative that has particularly captured the minds of the European politics and public was Somali born, Dutch politician Ayaan Hirsi Ali. In her autobiography as well as in public performances, she routinely testified of her suffering at the hands of Islam to emphasise the incompatibility of backward religion with the freedom of the West. Speech and performance are key here. In both (de)conversion literature as well as in religious and secular visions of the freedom of speech, especially when opposed with religious—i.e. Islamic—sensibilities, some who move out of religion have narrated this journey, and thereby to performed their non-religious secular identity. These voices have often been critical of religion and hailed presumed liberal values. In response, this chapter will present my interlocutors experiences of moving out of Islam in contemporary Europe, and the meaning ascribed to testimony and speaking out about their non-belief. The people I conducted fieldwork with for this study were all born and/or raised in the Netherlands or Britain with Muslim backgrounds and no longer believed in Allah.140 Whilst some of them would speak out publicly about their non-belief, the majority would not, thereby subverting certain expectations and discourses of moving out of Islam in contemporary Europe. In what is to follow, I will explore those considerations on speaking out.

139 Also see Ismail & Mat (2016) for an examination of the different interpretations given by scholars on the issue of freedom of religion according to the scriptures. 140 My interlocutor group represented roughly the ethnic composition of Muslims in the respective countries.

189 The central aim of this chapter is to show that moving out of Islam did not necessarily elicit the performance of testimony, because as opposed to for example certain conversion narratives, the religious transformation was not always experienced as rupture of a before and after. Therefore, I wish to present how my interlocutors’ decisions over ‘speaking out’ and ‘coming out’141 were often intricate negotiations over belonging and belief, as well as the performance of self. This means that not only did they consider their options of disclosure towards their immediate surroundings or in public in the context of behaviours, knowledges, and questions of belonging, but also their intrinsic need to narrate their non-religious identity was weighed against the effects this could elicit with both religious as well as secular others. Rather than having experienced a linear move from religion to the secular, my interlocutors’ stories showed that they were often continuously negotiating both sides of this presumed divide. In order to do so, I will firstly explore the category of testimony in relation to conversion, religious transformation, and secular expectations over modern subjectivity especially with regards to freedom of speech. Secondly, I will present some of my interlocutors’ reflections on publicly and privately ‘coming out’ or ‘speaking out’ and their experiences of their potential performance of their non-belief in the form of speech. I will do so to modestly contribute to our understanding of moving out of Islam and specifically the role of speech as a potential performative act of drawing boundaries between self and other. Finally, I will relate these experiences of my interlocutors of the performativity of speech to secular expectations of what it means to be a modern subject.

Testimony and (de)conversion Testimony and religious transformation, especially the prototypical form of conversion, have long been studied in tandem. Especially in confessional religions such as Christianity (e.g. Hodder, 2017) but also Islam,142 the speech act of testifying of one’s religious change and the simultaneous reconstruction of the self-narrative in light of newly found convictions has captured academic but also popular attention since Augustine’s Confessions (Hindmarsch, 2014). Firstly, with regards to the performativity of speech to achieve religious change, Susan F. Harding (1987) examined the ‘rhetoric of conversion’ in fundamentalist Baptist conversion

141 See: Cottee (2018) for an elaboration on language of ‘coming out’ or ‘staying in the closet’. 142 Pronouncing the shahada is considered one’s testimony to entering the Ummah and the first step to becoming Muslim. I will elaborate on testimony in Christian traditions below.

190 strategies. Her focus on witnessing as a performance towards the prospect convert as both argument for self-transformation as well as a method of actually bringing about change in the individual, showed the far-reaching effects speech can have in religious conversion. Furthermore, Lewis R. Rambo (1993), in his influential work on religious conversion, considered testimony to have a dual character of both language transformation and biographical reconstruction. Additionally, testimony can be central in displaying commitment to a new group, according to Rambo. In similar vein, Peter G. Stromberg (1993) studied the specific link between language and self-transformation in Christian conversion narratives and that it is: “through the use of language in the conversion narrative that the processes of increased commitment and self-transformation take place” (p. 188). According to Stromberg testimony functions in self-transformation as performative act to cultivate one’s faith. Thereby, a conversion narrative is not only a simple recollection of events passed, but “it is a creation of a particular situation in the moment of its telling” (p. 3). In his intriguing book, Stromberg analysed this dual process of strengthening faith and transformation of lives when a conversion testimony is uttered. In his study into recovering drug addicts’ conversion testimonies, Srdjan Sremac (2013) reckoned that testimony “can be understood as the discursive practice of self-performance in which converts give evidence of their spiritual transformation through public confessions (testimony) of their past life and their present situation” (p. 77). Furthermore, Sremac noted that testimony may “help individuals construe a new religious identity that enables them to cope with the past as something that can be both overcome and redeemed” (p.77). What these studies have in common, is their emphasis on the presence of testimony and speech in the context of religious conversion. Testimony, then, has the power to change an individual’s conviction, reaffirm one’s faith, as well as provide tools for coping with or retelling one’s past in light of new convictions. It may function ‘to make sense’ of the transformation of the self (also see: Bourque, 2006). With regards to deconversion, Rosemary Avance (2013), in her study into online conversion and deconversion narratives from the Mormon faith considers their respective testimonies to be parallel to one another: they are in both cases rituals of sharing in a binding spiritual community, be it the presently or formerly religious. Indeed, in certain protestant Christian faiths where one’s testimony is central to one’s confessed beliefs and performance of piety, testimony has in turn been inherently seen as part of the deconversion narrative. In these studies, the testimonial is often considered a sneak peek into the psychological identity formation (Payne, 2013; Avance, 2013). Eric Chalfant (2011) for example, analysed online

191 deconversion narratives of Christians in the United States. He understood these testimonies as Foucauldian ‘technologies of the self’: produced by and in certain discourses, they represent and aid a form of moral self-fashioning in times of transition. E. Marshall Brooks (2018) has argued in his study into ‘apostates’ from the Mormon faith, that deconversion testimony functions as more than that: he analysed it as an element of ongoing politics of identity making specifically in response to Mormon discourses about so-called apostates. In all these studies, a pivotal character is assigned to (de)conversion and the function of testimony therein: it is a linguistic performance of a first-hand experience which functions to make sense of a past life and reaffirm one’s faith or lack thereof to both self and others. With regards to deconversion from Islam, considering the relative inaccessibility of interlocutors, especially in the Middle East and North Africa region, in recent years, various studies have opted to consider the online presence of ‘apostates’. Katarzyna Sidło (2016) recruited her Jordanian respondents through Facebook to whom she posed surveys and open ended questionnaires, ensuring their anonymity. Teemu Pauha and Atefeh Aghaee (2018) collected online narratives from Iranian atheists to which they applied content analysis. Whilst these are valuable contributions to our understanding of unbelief in contested regions, they generally are uncritical of the specific genre they consider their data. Illustratively, barely half of my interlocutors was a member of some form of an online group, and only three of them actually had produced an online testimonial in the past. It should also be noted that if a testimony was expressed, such a spoken or written statement of non-belief did not carry the same symbolic meaning of identity formation as it did to a ‘confessional’ religion such as the Mormon faith. However, the performative act of testimony in the form of speaking about non- belief to others was an ever-present option that had to be considered. But contemplations were always contextual. In the Netherlands, for example, one such deconversion narrative has had a particular societal impact, which was often referenced by my interlocutors. Ayaan Hirsi Ali, a Somali born Dutch politician, utilised her ‘deconversion narrative’ or native testimonial for political and activist ends. In her autobiography, she posited the ‘Darkness’ of Somalia and Islam against the Enlightened West. Her motivation to publish her book was, in her own words: “a subjective record of my own personal memories, as close to accurate as I can make them (…) It is the story of what I have experienced what I’ve seen, and why I think the way I do” (Hirsi Ali, 2007, p. xii). Hirsi Ali posited her narrative as trustworthy by claiming authority through inside knowledge and victimhood, which emphasised the veracity that is pre-eminently suggested in the genre of autobiographical novel. Mineke Bosch (2008) noted in her analysis

192 of the book that this emphasis on telling the truth, veracity, and recording reality from Hirsi Ali’s perspective gained another dimension in light of the ‘enlightened person’ that she had come to be. Her rejection of faith and religion, her turn and dedication to facts and reason, her mission to break with all the taboos and to increase the public’s awareness of the ‘terrors’ of Islam and its threat to Dutch society, all affirmed her “commitment to freedom” (Hirsi Ali, 2007, p. 240). Bosch further noted that it is precisely the promise of ‘telling the truth’ that has made the autobiographical genre so popular: “it gives readers the illusion that they are looking over someone else’s shoulders and vicariously undergoing the narrator’s experience” (Bosch, 2008, p.141). Relatedly, Saba Mahmood (2009a) focussed on the specific genre that is the ‘feminist native testimonial’ which aims to represent Muslim women who have suffered personally at the hands of Islam. This particular autobiographical genre, according to Mahmood, has played a pivotal role in securing the Western judgement that Islam systematically mistreats women and is specifically after 9/11 the source of all evil now haunting the West. “Calls for the reformation of Islam, now issued from progressive, liberal, and conservative podiums alike, are ineluctably tied to [Islam’s] oppression of women” (p. 194). Mahmood noted that the power of these narratives lies specifically in the Muslim woman author to embody both the character of ‘insider’ and ‘victim’ simultaneously whilst claiming high levels of veracity. Marc de Leeuw and Sonja van Wichelen (2006) argued that the particular power of Hirsi Ali’s testimonial came from the authority she could claim through victimhood and the simultaneous positioning as now being ‘one of us’. As will become clear, my interlocutors often (implicitly) referred to this genre of native testimonial and its potential to secure Western judgement of Islam, when considering speaking out about their non-belief. In addition, Simon Cottee (2015), in his pioneering sociological work on Muslims leaving Islam in Britain and Canada, similarly reflected on this ‘apostate narrative’ as an ‘atrocity narrative’. Such a narrative is socially constructed against the former in-group, and often in close collaboration with the rival out-group. He quoted Anson Shupe, who stated: “Their testimony is that of the insider and as such provides an apparently irrefutable confirmation for the propaganda of a group’s opponents” (p. 214). Indeed, in the case of Muslims leaving Islam in Europe, these social workings become particularly relevant in this construction of the Islamic religious, versus the Enlightened Modern West dichotomy. Simon Cottee (2018) later complained about how ill-equipped the sociology of religion was to theoretically approach those moving out of religion. He reckoned that in the existing literature, the emphasis has primarily been on those who are ‘career leavers’ or ‘native

193 informants’ who use their special status as ‘formerly religious’ to castigate their former religion. In response, he noted that most of his informants, however, were “in their own terminology, ‘in the closet,’ and had not disclosed their apostasy” (p. 282). His chapter further investigated these experiences of concealment of ‘apostasy’ among people leaving Islam in Britain and Canada. During my own fieldwork in Britain and the Netherlands, I also encountered a plethora of considerations, contemplations, and negotiations when it came to expressing inner belief or lack thereof to the outside world. From hiding one’s convictions entirely and performing a fully embodied Muslim identity (Vliek, forthcoming/Chapter 5) to publicly performed ‘ex-Muslim’ identities (Vliek, 2018/ Chapter 3), and anything in between, all my interlocutors considered the power of speaking out about moving out of Islam and the far-stretching effects this may or may not have. Whilst Cottee explored the world of stigma in relation to loss of faith and community, I will consider the relative importance of testifying and its potency to demarcate categorical divides on the basis of religious conviction. When analysing speaking out about religious transformation in contemporary Europe, the concepts of ‘freedom of speech’ or ‘freedom of expression’ should be briefly considered. They are two terms pointing to the same political right in the contemporary Western world (Snel, 2013). They do not only include the right to communicate freely, but also the right to search for information and ideas, to disseminate and receive it. It has been considered one of the main ‘canonical rights’, a central issue in current European public debates, and it has been included in international human rights laws (Snel, 2013, p. 125). However, in the Netherlands specifically, but also in broader Europe including Britain, it has come to stand for something more: it is identified with a specific secular set of Western values, as opposed to religious ones. Johan Snel analysed the cultural turn from ‘freedom of expression’ as a legal matter, to it having to come to represent “the core of liberal democracy, modern values, even Western civilization at large” (p. 131). After 9/11 and other Islam-related violent attacks world-wide including the Danish Cartoon Affair and Charlie Hebdo, the public role of religion and specifically Islam had become diametrically opposed with this alleged freedom. Quoting cultural anthropologist Oskar Verkaaik, Snel noted: “More than a mere symbol, the freedom of expression had come to be identified with this recent liberation of the individual from the bonds of religion” (p. 132). Rather than providing an extensive analysis of how such a dichotomy has come to be,143 it is relevant here to note the emphatically secular Western

143 See: Vliek (2018/Chapter 3) for a brief comparison on ‘freedom of speech’ and Islam between the Netherlands and Britain.

194 expectations of liberation from religion, and the assumed core value of freedom of expression; a core right that in the past has also been exercised by individuals who left religion behind. This has created a particular discourse for both religious as well as secular expectations that those who leave Islam, also automatically (publically) critique their former religion. To underscore the relevance of these observations, I refer to Webb Keane (2007), who, in his influential work Christian Moderns, opened one of his chapters by stating: “The purposeful effort to become ‘modern’ as a moral project, can resemble that of religious conversion in certain respects. Both projects often propose to transform people by disabusing them of earlier errors and abstracting them from the constraints of former social entanglements” (p. 197). In my understanding, Keane was pointing at specific norms and values that accompany modernity, and indeed the secular: to be free from the shackles that may threaten the individual’s autonomy is part of the conversion or modernity project. Whilst in the colonial project this partly centred around religious conversion to Christianity in one form or another, in contemporary Europe to become modern is to become secular. These so-called secular expectations of what it means to be modern (i.e. to have the right to express oneself freely and unlimitedly) did not go unnoticed by my interlocutors and these influences and their consequences will be reflected on below. In what is to follow, I will draw out some of my interlocutors’ contemplations over disclosing their non-belief to friends and family as well as their considerations over speaking out publicly on such matters. I make an analytical distinction between public and private, since the performance of speech was thought to have different effects in both spheres. Whilst public discourses on leaving Islam and speaking freely were always weighed, in private these were related to familial bonds, love, and belonging, whilst when considering speaking out in public this was contextualised with reference to potential secularist appropriation of their stories as ‘native testimonial’. As such, my interlocutors will show that testifying of one’s religious transformation in the case of moving out of Islam was neither central nor conditional. Speech was mostly considered a ‘step beyond’ not believing.

Concealment of Convictions and Speech as Performance When my interlocutors experienced change in conviction and the lifestyle that may accompany that, certain differences sometimes had to be negotiated with the direct surroundings of friends and family. The ways in which this was experienced differed greatly. Sometimes change was entirely concealed: one would not speak about it, nor would changes in lifestyle be openly

195 lived. Karim, a young Londoner, reckoned it could bring unwanted attention: “people phoning me up, knocking on my door, (…) saying I should go and speak to this scholar, that scholar” at best, and threats from “crazy people out there”144 at worst. Laila, who I met in Paddington, London in the winter of 2018 for a cup of coffee ‘could not imagine’ what would happen if they were to find out. For her it was more about the concealment of her entire lifestyle which had ruined relationships for her, even without not showing it to her relatives.145 Concealment of desired lifestyles and inner convictions can become intensely mentally taxing (May, 2017). Others explained that concealment of conviction or behaviour was not necessarily problematic. This was particularly the case when my interlocutors could behave and live the way they pleased; inner conviction was considered to be less relevant, like my Iraqi friend suggested to me in Groningen. Their friends and family for example also ‘broke religious rules’, or would not live perfectly pious lives. Zehra, a Dutch-Turkish woman I met on a warm day in August on the terrace explained that in her community and family, conforming to a certain Muslim or ethnic identity was all that really mattered. When growing up, everybody around her was Muslim and her family conformed to the religious practices and holidays. However, many of them also drank alcohol and did not regularly pray, yet they called themselves Muslim: “sometimes I think, that is the only difference, you say you are [Muslim], and I say that I’m not”. Therefore, she had never really discussed these issues with her family, rather, her struggles had been about leaving her parental home and pursuing a different lifestyle. When I asked her about telling her family about her non-belief, she replied: “the way that you ask me now, ‘did you tell’, it’s not like coming out of the closet, no. You don’t necessarily feel different because of it”. Later she concluded on the matter: “I think the form was very important. You can drink and do everything, as long as you say you are Muslim, I think that is what is in the Turkish community”.146 Note how despite knowing that her family may treat her differently if she were to speak out about non-belief, she did not ‘feel different’ herself. There was no need to speak, since it may have provoked unwanted and unnecessary animosity between her and her family. For Elea, also from a Turkish family in the Netherlands, breaking certain social stigmas had been a bigger issue than religion or faith. She explained to me that it all revolved about

144 Personal interview, London, 21st November 2017. 145 Also see: Vliek (Forthcoming)/Chapter 5 on the particulars over the contestations of what is (non-)negotiable behaviour in light of religious transformation. 146 All quotes from personal interview, Leiden, 7th August 2017.

196 ‘liveability’: which battles needed to be fought for her to live a life that she desired? A big issue was the fact that she had a ‘Dutch’ partner:

At a certain point, it became clear to my family I had a Dutch partner, which gave me a certain freedom. I didn’t have to explain myself constantly (…) And if you have that [a Dutch partner] the rest of it doesn’t matter. For the community, it is the worst thing you can do. I’m not going to announce: “I’m an unbeliever! I’m an unbeliever!” Because that is not visible. But that Dutch partner is visible. That means you don’t choose for them.147

She elaborated on other visible matters, such as the hijab or fasting which are only problematic when others contest your behaviour. That which is on the inside therefore ‘doesn’t matter’ and does not need to be spoken of since it does not have to be visible until you actually testify to it. It should be stressed, that when these visible matters are key to one’s belonging to family and community, concealment of change in knowledges, practices, or behaviours can become highly problematic, and can cause severe issues of identity and even depression (Cottee 2015; 2018; Vliek, forthcoming/Chapter 5). Khalida, a confident and sharp-witted woman from the south of the Netherlands, similarly explained to me: “I never said: ‘I’m not a Muslim’ to people that would judge that. Because it doesn’t feel necessary to do that. As long as I can live my life the way I want to, and stand for what I believe in, then that’s it”. She further concluded on behaviour and non- belief: “People know I don’t practice, but they also have deep respect and admiration for me because they know I am a good person”.148 Rabia, a young teacher, emphasised her family relations and values over the importance of talking about non-belief in a similar manner: “I think we share those common values we were raised with. How you treat people, how you treat the world. And when it comes down to it, it doesn’t really matter what you believe or don’t believe, even though someone might say it is, when it comes down to it, we are family”.149 Rabia, like Zehra and Elea, had never spoken explicitly about inner convictions to her family, but had not found it necessary to do so either. The above examples show that the differences between perceiving concealment of change in conviction and lifestyle, hinges on the relative performance of religion and the value

147 Personal interview, Amsterdam, 22nd September 2017. 148 Personal interview, Breda, 18th August, 2017. 149 Personal interview, Rotterdam, 13th July 2017.

197 that is attached to performing conviction. Whilst for some, differences were perceived but felt like it could not be performed, such as for Laila, others could perform their new convictions and lifestyle without having to explicate those in terms of belief in God or ‘being Muslim’. Therefore, the lines between self and others were not really noticeable or experienced, and therefore less relevant to be discussed with one’s surroundings. However, those who did perceive difference between self and religious others, explained to me that it was precisely because they did not want to emphasise or materialise this divide that they would not testify to their non-belief to others, and particularly family. I met Naveed in Camden in London for a drink. He explained the difficulties with non-belief and moving out of Islam: “It is hard, because to renounce Islam, also means to renounce your culture, and your family (…) You know your whole family is a Muslim, and to deny that would be to deny them”. Even though he was ‘quite confident’ his sister was in the same place as him with regards to religion, he reckoned: “I’d be cautious about outright saying I don’t believe in God. (…) It’s like admitting. You cross like a barrier, in terms of family”.150 Naveed had therefore never openly spoken about his atheism with his family or community. Aarini, a British-Bangladeshi girl, explained this as the intertwinement of religion and cultural norms. When I asked her about talking to her parents about her non-belief, she replied: “I would never say to my mother: ‘I’m an atheist’. (…) It feels almost offensive. It is more like an affront than a stigma (…) It would feel like saying to a group of people like, ‘I’m out! I don’t want what you have’”. She stressed that it was not so much about her family rejecting her if she were to announce her lack of belief, rather it would be her family thinking that she would not want to be a part of them: “It would be like I’m saying ‘no’ to my roots”.151 For Aarini, it was noteworthy that throughout her teenage years, she had attempted to subvert the socio-religiously imposed rules and tried to perform a non-Islamic lifestyle (also see: Vliek forthcoming), however, like Ilyas said in the title of this chapter: saying out loud one does not believe would have been a step beyond all that. Indeed, Ilyas similarly considered his parents’ feelings and the categorical divide they would perceive if he were to tell them. He had seen his parents’ disappointment when he would come home drunk or smoke weed. He explained:

150 Personal interview, London, 16th November 2017. 151 Personal interview, London, 14th November 2017.

198 I think over the years, it’s not about that I don’t believe in God, but it [non-belief] just kept that distance. And that kind of works for both of us. That’s that. I don’t really feel the need to tell them that. I don’t feel like it’s kind of hiding something from them. Because I feel like that they know it on some level, but they’re not ready to really engage with that. They are not ready to engage with me. So why would I tell them?152

Testimony in conversion literature has primarily been analysed as a means for the (de)convert him or herself to perform and confirm a new self, in front of self and others. However, in the case of Ilyas and others I spoke to, it appeared to be perceived as reversed. Instead of speech or testifying to unbelief to be a confirmation of difference for them, it was actually the ‘other’ that would assign that label on the basis of their testimony, if they were to speak explicitly about non-belief. In my interlocutors’ considerations to not speak about their non-belief towards others in the private sphere various factors were at stake. First, there were those who actively hid their non-belief in both behaviour and speech. The consideration would be that if they were to testify to their religious change, it could ruin relationships or trigger threats. Second, others reckoned that they themselves did not experience any difference between them and their loved ones, and therefore, the topic could remain untouched. There was no need to testify to one’s non-belief or change in lifestyle since it would only provoke unnecessary animosity. Last, some reckoned that even though they desired to testify to one’s change in convictions, they emphasised the affront it would cause since they would be perceived as to openly reject not only religion, but also one’s family and values one was raised with. In the concealment of some of my interlocutors’ religious transformations, we see considerations over testimony that are about its perception and consequences for relationships, rather than what it could mean for them in their personal development.

Private Disclosure: Speech as Demarcation Those who did explicitly inform their loved ones about their desires for a different lifestyle or new existential convictions received vastly different responses. Some told their family or friends intentionally, they made a statement or started the conversation, others ‘were found out’ and had to cope with the unintended consequences. For some this was problematic, others

152 Personal interview, London, 8th November 2017.

199 (gradually) received ample support from their religious surroundings, but mostly it was a constant negotiation in flux, rather than a fixed reality. Haroon grew up in a Muslim majority community in the north of Britain: “Eventually I called my best friend and told her I’m not really a Muslim, (…) but it wasn’t that big of an issue, because I didn’t really need to tell anyone. As a male person, what I wear and stuff is going to be the same [as] before I become an apostate”. Note how Haroon gendered his experience: nothing much on the outside changes for boys, so what is believed does not make much of a difference. The response he received was that he “was going through a phase”, and therefore “they were not so outraged”. Again, this resonates my Iraqi friend who described a similar discourse of ‘straying’. In Haroon’s teens and the first years after he had become an ‘apostate’ he had not felt the need to tell anyone about his unbelief, but as he grew older, went to university, and searched online more, he realised that: “that made me more comfortable in thinking that I’m not the only one, and there’s people who’ve gone through much more hardship than me”. Having told a few people, and having become more active online, his family eventually found out ‘he was no longer Muslim’. He recalled: “At the time I’ll be quite honest, I didn’t mind that much. [My dad] pried, but I just, I never spoke to him at university. It was difficult for me [to tell him] but in hindsight not the best thing. And then my mum found out. That was harder. (…) I wish I hadn’t told them. They were very upset”. When at university just after he had told his family about his non-belief, his mother was diagnosed with cancer: “so a lot of people in my community said that that was a consequence of me turning ex-Muslim”. Haroon reflected on explicating his non-belief to his family as something he would not do again. Furthermore: “I decided not to talk about my religious stuff after that (…) Since my mum, I’ve made an effort not to talk about it and no one asks me about it. But I think it is one of those things that people kind of know. They don’t want to know the truth I suppose, and I don’t want to have that question aimed at me. So that’s how it is at the moment”.153 These experiences of friends’ responding that one was just ‘going through a phase’, being blamed for the family’s misfortunes, and non-conformism being the elephant in the room were exemplary for others too. Mahira did not know that she ‘was’ something until she came to Britain for her studies. From a Pakistani family, she had always felt she was different from her family, but had not been able to perform or even identify that difference:

153 All quotes from personal interview, Leeds, 1st February 2018.

200 I have been living in a closet. I was practicing. I used to get away with it when nobody is watching me. (…) I just knew: because I opened my eyes in a Muslim family, this is what I have to do for the rest of my life (…) I didn’t refuse them. Initially I was afraid of losing them as well, because I knew my parents would not accept me the way I am.

Note how she connects the continued performance of a Muslim identity with ‘not refusing them’, and the open performance of a non-believing self as being refused: “It actually happened that they didn’t [accept me], when they found out that I have lost my faith in God (…) they broke all ties with me. They don’t really talk to me, they don’t want to see my face”. It was not until she went to university where she learned about the term and identity of ‘ex-Muslim’ that she was able to perform her inner convictions. However, to her great sadness, this was why she could not move back to her family: “I know for a fact my parents love me. (…) But when they think about my lifestyle, or when they think about the transformation in my personality, that makes them hate me. (…) Everything has changed. Just because my ideology changed, their love for me has changed”.154 When considering speaking about perceived differences, others explained to me that although family may have been quite shocked to start, from the moment that there was disclosure it became a journey together to develop, build, and create new spaces of belonging without believing, growing up, and for parents to let go. I met Maya in a quiet coffee house in central London. We sat downstairs in some comfortable armchairs and her stories came out quickly and fluently, but always reflexively:

When I’ve been saying I’m an ex-Muslim, [they think] that I’ve been siding with the Westerners, and with the enemy. (…) I understand that there are very real grievances there. People in the UK, especially Muslims, people can feel like they are under attack from the West in a lot of ways. And for you to be seen as to be kind of rejecting that identity that is already stigmatized (…) [you are] a traitor to your identity.

However, for Maya herself it was not that clear cut: “I am an ex-Muslim, I was a Muslim for 18 years of my life (…) It’s there and it’s part of me, and just because I don’t believe in the religion, I can’t really pretend that it hasn’t influenced me”. She contemplated on the matters of performing a non-believing identity, such as ex-Muslim: “No one will say: ‘this is Maya,

154 All quotes from personal interview, London, 5th February 2018.

201 she is an ex-Muslim’. (…) No, nobody talks about her. (…) It’s those people, we [Muslims] just pretend they never existed. (…) Although my family know I’m an ex-Muslim, it’s that what it’s going to be like? Am I just going to disappear from the narrative?”.155 In Maya’s experience, people who pronounce their unbelief are perceived to be so radically different and to have crossed enemy lines, that ties can be unilaterally cut or narratives entirely ignored. Having explained this discourse of potential rejection of those who are ‘ex-Muslim’, Maya continued that despite these worries, she had told her mother that she no longer believed. This had been a very emotional conversation, which her mother actively tried to ‘sweep under the rug’: “there was a lot of crying involved, a lot of being seen as a traitor (…) But difficult as it would be, there is always that level of acceptance between me and my family, my immediate family, which is my mom and my brother. So I feel safe at home, to speak out against things”. For Maya and her family, it has become possible and important to talk about thorny issues especially when it would concern religion, women’s rights, and gender equality:

It is important for me to push back (…) If I don’t, then who will? I do challenge things all the time, (…) and I’ll get a backlash. But luckily, it’s becoming like, ‘Oh, Maya has her opinions, we don’t agree with them, but we’re going to let her have them’. That’s one aspect of it, and that’s fantastic, that I can have that discussion, and speak my mind. I have the freedom of thought and expression in my house.

But this ends at the front door: “I can talk about not believing in God inside my home, but I cannot leave my house in a pair of shorts”.156 Maya had experienced the gradual change in attitudes from loved ones when it would concern the explication of religious differences between self and others. She was not the only one: the continuous struggle of reconciling the need for belonging to family with the desire to talk about issues that had previously been taboo–i.e. unbelief, leaving the parental home, relationships, lifestyle—was often in constant development. Zehra, for example, explained that it was difficult to tell her parents that she had a Dutch boyfriend, but that that had made ‘the other stuff’ easier: “They responded relatively calm. That’s because they transformed along with me slowly. So that I stopped believing, or that I drank alcohol, they gradually got accustomed to that, so it was not such a big deal. So, I think it is very important that you share

155 All quotes from personal interview, London, 23rd January 2018. 156 Personal interview, London, 23rd January 2018.

202 this stuff”.157 Throughout our conversation, Zehra emphasised the need for personal strive and breaking of taboos within the family. Intertwined with the above, where people experienced development with their surroundings over newly found convictions and/or lifestyle, my interlocutors also changed their own attitudes towards religion and Islam as time went on. It was quite common for people to develop strong anti-religious sentiments in the early days, whilst these would often soften later in life. These considerations were strongly entangled with the desire for testifying of those newly found convictions and perceived differences with others. Haroon, for example, elaborated on his initial shock having lost his faith: “Initially I didn’t have the motivation to get up. You feel like you’ve been lied to. (…) What people are preaching… hypocrisy becomes much more obvious. You just start to see flaws. And although they’re human, you see them as religious faults”. For Haroon, it was the initial couple of years that he saw these faults which he discussed with his friend: “that’s all we talked about: ‘oh the community is a mess, look what they do! Look how they treat this girl!’ That kind of talk. Ideally, you don’t want to be like that. Obviously, that needs to happen because of that big step you’ve taken. But now… I don’t really talk about it much. I mean, sure we make jokes, and I might make a subtle statement here or there, but I think I’m in a more healthy state”. When contemplating speaking out for change in that community, he responded: “Some of the things are screwed up, but my voice is unfortunately not going to make much of an impact. I’m selfish in the sense that if I want to move out, live my life, and hopefully bring my kids up, I can do that in a good way”.158 Haroon’s experiences of first having strong opinions about religion, Islam, and community resonated with many of my interlocutors. For example, Miray tried for much of her adult life to convince her mother of the fallacies of religion. She recalled the final conversation on the matter:

Always we fought, and always she left. Until at some point I just said to her: ‘Mum I just don’t believe anymore’. And then she said to me: ‘that is your business (…) I just don’t want to talk about this with you anymore. Don’t believe, I don’t care. But just leave me be. I’m an old woman, I don’t know any better. Leave me be.’ And I tried so hard to

157 Personal interview, Leiden, 7th August 2017. 158 Personal interview, Leeds, 1st February 2018.

203 make my mother think the same way as me. So stupid in hind sight! I regret it so much, just leave her be! So much stress, so many fights, not worth it.

I met Kadin in his flat in Amsterdam-West in the summer of 2017. A 45-year-old teacher, he reflected on his relatively recent journey out of faith. After explaining his long intellectual struggle, he concluded: “I lost my basis really, and that is how God died in my head (…) Emptiness had come where God used to be”. For quite some time he still practiced and pretended to be religious, to believe, but slowly he also let go of these performances: “First I was very critical talking to people about faith. I could be very harsh, very critical, very dismissive”. These discussions came to the fore especially when he was confronted with his non-conformism: “When my sister would be: ‘why are you not praying?’ or someone sends me a message with prayers and stuff… Before I could get really annoyed, but now, I see it as a token that [someone] thinks of me I guess. But initially, you are not neutral towards that. You want to get rid of it, but it keeps coming back to you”. Kadin complained about how Muslims used to assume he was not well informed about Islam, which made him even angrier at the time. However, now: “I understand that people need that (…) I am much less dismissive, if people want to tell me why they believe in God? Fine. I’m not going to tell them otherwise. (…) I only debate them when they try to convince me”.159 Despite his claims that he was more relaxed towards religion now, after this he continued to lengthily outline his arguments to me which to him proved Islam false. Indeed, the most common form of speaking out about religion and testifying to one’s unbelief was geared towards immediate surroundings which was often considered to be more important in the beginning than later on in life. Especially when newly found convictions would be perceived to create difference between self and loved ones, it could become pertinent to discuss these matters in order to overcome feeling ‘on the outside’ and wanting to perform one’s true non-believing identity to those who knew them best. This was often paired with the desire to speak about issues they had with religion or socio-religious rules. Like Kadin, some mentioned that they would argue with their surroundings if or when it would become relevant. For Eléa, for example, this point would be reached when her parents or siblings would suggest Islamic rituals or practices, such as circumcision or attending madrassa, to her own children. Otherwise, she and her family would not discuss matters of faith anymore. Khalida similarly elaborated that whilst generally not debating religion anymore: “At a party, my uncles hid my

159 All quotes from personal interview, Amsterdam, 23rd June 2017.

204 shoes that I had left in the hall. [They did that] because they were heels, and heels are supposedly sensual and sexual. I was pissed off! I said to them: ‘You know what? This is your sick mind! These are shoes, and you are perverts!’ They won’t debate me, because they know I’m right. (…) Man, I can’t stand the hypocrisy!”160

New Identities? Claiming Space through Public Performance Whilst the previous sections elaborated on speaking about non-belief or non-conformism to one’s immediate surroundings, this section will explore the realm of publically speaking out. I will firstly introduce Hassan [real name], who has been active on social media in discussing with Muslims and non-Muslims matters of faith, religion, and doubt. Second, I will briefly touch upon online testimonials as part of the performance of new identities. Third, I will share some of the contemplations to not speak out. The vast majority of my interlocutors would not aspire any form of public presence for either private reasons, or in consideration of dominant public discourses. Lastly, I will briefly explore what happened when identities were formed specifically not in relation to religion. In British online circles of ‘ex-Muslims’ Hassan Radwan is quite well-known. Having co-founded the online forum for the Council for Ex-Muslims in Britain [CEMB], he had since taken some distance from the organisation and was particularly active on Facebook, posting his doubts and questions about religion and in particular Islam. He was a scholar of Islam and fluent in Arabic, and his YouTube videos were therefore considered to be a legitimate authority on explaining or analysing Quranic scripture and Hadith by his (sceptical) followers. After having come out in private to some ‘quite religious’ friends and family, he realised: “Actually, nobody is going to kill me, so I’m going to be upfront about it. And you know, soon after that I decided. Because people were asking me on the forum about it. So, I changed my name to Hassan Radwan, I put my picture as my icon, and I said ‘Look, I’m me. This is who I am’. And I actually wrote my story on the forum. And I decided, I said: ‘I’m making a conscious effort now. (…) I want to be open, I don’t want to hide anymore”. Rather than critiquing Islam or religion, Hassan said to strive to open up discussions on sensitive matters between Muslims and non-believers: “If you look at my videos, I never attack Muslims, I never am nasty. And even when I’m criticising, I always try to make it really balanced and fair. And I always leave people to think for themselves”.161

160 Personal interview, Breda, 18th August 2017. 161 All quotes from personal interview, London, 4th November 2017.

205 For a time, he was actively making videos: “and then I got tired, because it kind of, it’s like I was flogging a dead horse. Same old questions kept coming up again and again. And I said: ‘I don’t really want to be part of the Council [CEMB] anymore, I don’t like the label. It was a useful label, (…) But I don’t want to be known as ex-Muslim anymore”. Reflecting on his motivations for speaking out about religion and Islam the way he had done, Hassan shared some of his emotions: “I wanted to have a say in maybe trying to influence the reform of Islam. (…) And I felt maybe, because I know the majority of Muslims are good decent people, they are my family, they are my friends, and I don’t want to leave them in the hands of the extremists. I want them to be able to use their humanity, and pick and choose as they feel, without feeling they have to do ‘all or nothing’”. He continued: “In the long run, we would be better off without religion. (…) Now I’m tired. I don’t care anymore. I’m done with trying to be a hero. I’m done with trying to solve the world’s problems. I’m done.”162 At the time of the conversation I had with Hassan, he had recently experienced a period of convinced non-belief, and he was quite dejected by it all. Hassan’s speaking out, his initiation of the dialogue, was founded in a desire for performance of a ‘real’ self, as well as a desire for reform of Islam and bringing about change for those who move out of Islam. This was often by the means of attempting to subvert certain Muslim discourses about ‘ex-Muslims’, by stressing humanity and the plight of those who moved away from religion. Tariq had similar motivations for his online presence and speaking out about Islam and religion. When first realising he no longer believed, he uploaded an online testimonial to the CEMB forum. It tells his story from his 16-year old perspective on what it was like to ‘lose his faith’ and ‘coming out’ to his high school. In this testimonial, he seeks advice on the matter that he had not yet told his parents. Upon reflection as to why he wrote it he said: “I thought the world needed to read, and other people on the forum would write things”, emphasising both the urge to perform his identity as well as pointing to the creation of a narrative genre (Also see: van Nieuwkerk, 2006). During that time, he also posted controversial posts on Facebook: “It was kind of one of those things where I wasn’t really mature to sort of let people be. I wanted to express myself, I wanted to be… I have always been making jokes, and it is not going to stop me, I’m not going to hide my identity”. Furthermore, he wanted to claim a space, thereby defending his beliefs and identity:

162 Personal interview, London, 4th November 2017.

206 I was kind of like: ‘if you are going to talk amongst yourselves how I’m going to hell, then I’m going to poke through your religion. I also, I wanted people to know, I don’t want to hide, this is what I am. (…) I needed to be vocal about it, because you kind of need to form your own place, your own identity.163

After having ‘come out’ towards his peers, his speaking out is now geared towards the defence of his own space. Instead of his peers taking over or reclaiming Tariq and his convictions, Tariq defended his own identity by engaging in the debate, often online. His standpoint is simultaneously the performance and defence of his identity as ‘ex-Muslim’. In line with the above described ‘curve’, at the time of our conversation Tariq was much less preoccupied with these matters and focusing on his university degree and music. Anthropologist E. Marshall Brooks (2018) noted in his study into ex-Mormons in the United States how exit stories and testimonials can be “a constitutive element of an ongoing politics of identity making for those transitioning into the social category of nonbeliever” (p. 189). He analysed these stories not only as constitutive of identity formation in relation to the formerly religious selves, but also as a “strategic counter-hegemonic discourse” by which ex- Mormons try to “strategically inhabit their new social positions” (p. 189) on the margins of their former in-group. They attempt not only to build a space for oneself, but moreover, they wish to strategically challenge stereotypes. In the above examples, we see similar strategies come to the fore. On the one hand, in private debates people attempted to claim a space, whilst intellectually challenging convictions and stereotyped judgements. On the other hand, through public testimonies, or in online debate people tried to perform a new self–testifying ‘here I am’–whilst aiming for some sort of reform and more acceptance of non-belief. There is a nuance between these public performances and the private debates as forms of speaking out. Although change, or ‘reform’ of people’s attitudes was generally the goal, and all these expressions of identity were in one way or another about claiming a space for oneself outside of religion, the difference between Hassan and Tariq’s stories, and those private challenges, is that they had a more public audience in mind rather than their private surroundings. Hassan, at some point, wanted to ‘change the world’, whilst Tariq felt that his story should be out there for people to read: “some people even cried”. Furthermore, Tariq never told his parents explicitly about his non-belief. ‘Coming out’ towards his parents was a private matter, whilst speaking out towards his peers was a public performance. Both Tariq and

163 All quotes from personal interview, Manchester, 31st January 2018.

207 Hassan wished to subvert certain discourses about ‘ex-Muslims’ – a stereotype that paints those who have left Islam as ‘Islam bashing’, angry, sexually promiscuous, drinking, and taking drugs. Rather, by engaging in conversation, telling one’s story, or critically engaging with Islamic dogmas, they wished to establish change where Muslims would not be acceptant of those leaving Islam behind. Although Tariq had initially found it desirable to express his non-belief to the outside world, either anonymously via a testimonial or later openly to his peers through expressing his opinions on religion and Islam, others felt less inclined to do so. Reasons for this were both private and public concerns. When I asked Naveed about speaking about his non-belief publically, he replied:

The question is, why would you, say it out loud. Why does it have to be such an extroverted thing? So I guess for some people it is. They need to.. Kind of like me buying pork, that was an internal thing, a statement. Some people do need to make that statement publicly (…) But in that case they would come up against a lot of backlash from family and friends. And it would, things would just become more and more difficult. So like first of all, why would you do that. Say you do that, then it is difficult, definitely. I can imagine it being difficult for me (…) from a very liberal Muslim family, so I can really imagine that it can be bad.164

As Naveed explained earlier as well, to him Islam was still in many ways part of his life, speaking out against it was like crossing another barrier, which could not be undone. Like he explained his concealment towards his family, he reckoned there was little need for expressing these things publicly neither. The above quote showed how to him, it would become particularly difficult to move out of Islam if one would say it out loud in public but chiefly for private concerns. The performance of non-belief to others in the form of speech was perceived as a particular affront that was best avoided. There were also people who were concerned with politics when considering speaking out, and not wanting to ‘feed into a narrative of islamophobia’ and thereby conform to certain expectations of speaking out against one’s former religion. This can be considered to be the other side of the coin of critiquing Islam or Muslims, or speaking out for the freedom of religion, that is, the freedom to leave religion. The main concern was that one’s narrative or

164 Personal interview, Manchester, 31st January 2018.

208 testimony of leaving Islam would be seen as a ‘native testimonial’ to be hijacked by ‘secular crusaders’. Eymen explained how ‘social-right’ (i.e. Geert Wilders and his Party for Freedom) would interfere with a message for the plight of ex-Muslims. “They can present themselves as the good guys: ‘we can support those poor people [ex-Muslims]. See, we have no issue with foreigners, it is Islam which is the problem!’”.165 When I asked Yedder, a public figure for Amazigh activism,166 about speaking publicly about his non-belief he replied: “The media wants the odd one, they have no stake in you saying that it is a growing phenomenon, or you saying: ‘look there is also a lot of acceptance for people who are not religious’”. He added: “Currently the climate around the debate on religion and politics, it is mostly Islam-bashing, and I don’t feel like that. I don’t want to be used as gunpowder for that”.167 Sara, a British student who had spent some of her childhood in the UAE, explained trying to balance critique of Islam with being accused of Islamophobia: “I try my best as possible to try and separate those [critique Islam vs. critiquing Muslims]. Because people might misconstrue it, think I’m being negative towards Muslims and that someone might use it. Whereas I did not want that. I want people to stand up and question ideas”.168 Maya resonated this, but also emphasised the need to reform communities, not just dogma. She was particularly critical of the people claiming Islam is peaceful and accepting:

If you are such a peaceful and feminist religion, why am I as an ex-Muslim woman (…) silenced for speaking out about things? (…) But it’s tough because I feel like Islam is under attack, we see that all the time (…) But women, we stay quiet, because it would feel like it is how we protect our religion. But I don’t feel there is enough room for

165 Personal interview, Nijmegen, 20th February 2018. 166 The Berber (Tamazight) speaking areas of Morocco have historically been culturally neglected by the State, which has a nationalist discourse of emphasizing the links to ‘high- culture’ Arab-Islamic civilisation. Hereby the cultural heritage of the Amazigh has been seen as a threat to Moroccan national unity. Whilst there have been significant reforms, such as the allowance of Tamazight being taught in the Berber regions to students in 2004 and the recognition of the status of the language as co-official in 2011, structural neglect and social injustices have not been overcome. Yedder was actively involved in the Dutch Amazigh activist movement at the time of our interview. 167 All quotes from personal interview, Utrecht, 18th July 2017. 168 Personal interview, London, 21st November 2017.

209 criticism of Islam. (…) So when you start to criticise or challenge or question, you’re immediately just thrown out of the group.169

Zehra summarised her position on speaking out and critiquing Islam: “I used to want to kick against it all. But now I notice my attitude has changed (…) Because it has an adverse effect. Before, it was personal, that I had to free myself from the community. But now, the danger is coming from the right-wing extremist politics, more than from Muslim fundamentalism. I find that scarier.” In line with others she reckoned the current political climate in the Netherlands did not allow for prominent critique of Muslims or Islam, or public testimony of her journey out of religion, due to the risk of such narratives being appropriated as a native informant. Later, she elaborated: “That dude Ehsan Jami, I mean I really thought, it is also some common sense here, ok?”.170 It is important to note a couple of things in the above examples. First, speaking out against Islam was sometimes perceived to be related to stigmatisation of Muslims in Europe. This was considered something not only to be avoided, but also not intended. Some of my interlocutors made a clear distinction between wanting reform and question ideas, rather than being intolerant towards Muslims. This position was often construed in opposition to ‘the social right’, or other anti-Muslim voices. Second, there were people who differentiated between wanting to carve out a space for themselves in relation to their former religion on the one hand, and unreflectively critiquing Islam in light of their religious transformation on the other. The latter was perceived to be conforming to secular expectations of now speaking freely against Islam after religion is lost in aide of anti-Muslim sentiments and secularist politics, as mirrored by references to for example Jami or Hirsi Ali. Lastly, there were those to whom it was (no longer) relevant to speak about religion or non-belief: there was no barrier to be crossed or non-religious identity to be performed. This

169 Personal interview, London, 23rd January 2018. 170 Personal interview, Leiden, 7th August 2017; Ehsan Jami was the founder of the briefly existing Dutch Committee for Ex-Muslims in 2007. At the time, he advocated for the recognition of the supposedly suppressed ‘ex-Muslims’ in the Netherlands by the Muslim community, and for others to stand up and claim a space and voice by joining him. The committee, however, was dissolved the next year due to a lack of interest. According to Jami, this was due to the fact that it was considered too dangerous for ‘ex-Muslims’ to speak out, whilst according to other Dutch former Muslims it was due to the fact it was not so much an issue in the Netherlands and that Jami’s approach was considered counter-productive (e.g. Jafari & Taebi, 2007).

210 was particularly relevant for those who developed their identities emphatically not in relation to religion (also see: Vliek, 2019b/Chapter 4). They also referred to wanting to speak out about other issues and performing other identities, both publicly and privately. Eymen, for example, had joined the Dutch Antifa movement, speaking out across cultural and religious boundaries against inequality and injustice: “[Leaving religion] is not relevant for my activism. (…) I would however like to speak about leaving [Turkish] nationalism, but being Muslim? No.”171 Elea thought that if she were to speak out about anything, it would not be about religion per se, rather: “I don’t want to jump on the barricades. If I do feel an urge, it would be about women’s rights, not because I want to push against religion, but because I feel that women and children need protection. But that would be somewhere else than the Netherlands”.172 Others said that they had embraced their ethnic identity or that religion was simply not important anymore, like Amina explained: “I never talk about it, it’s like eating bread every day, it is just a way of life”.173

Conclusion Within the study of conversion, testimony has previously been analysed as both cultivating and reaffirming one’s piety, as well as a tool or technique for making sense of an old and new self in light of newly found convictions. The act of speaking, especially in front of others as performance, has often taken a central role in the study of religious transition. Also in the case of deconversion, testimonials have been analysed as such. In the above, my interlocutors on the other hand, showed that testifying of one’s unbelief did not necessarily function in aid of their formation of selfhood, nor was it required to reaffirm one’s non-belief. This does not mean that they did not have to make sense and negotiate over past selves and new convictions, behaviours, and knowledges, rather this process was often done privately.174 In the above I have tried to show that testimony as performative speech, i.e. speaking out loud about religious change, was considered to have the potential to trigger the experience of categorical division in the other: you no longer belong to us by saying it out loud. First, then, concealment of change

171 Personal interview, Nijmegen, 20th February 2018. 172 Personal interview, Amsterdam, 22nd September 2017. 173 Personal interview, Utrecht, 27th July 2017. 174 I do not contest that narrative formation can aid the creation and maintenance of identity and self. For example, sometimes, the interviews I conducted with my interlocutors were perceived as technique of ‘making sense’, since they had not previously spoken about these matters openly or it was the first time they were asked to reflect on their experiences.

211 in knowledges, practices, and/or behaviours towards one’s surroundings was common, and was sometimes hard and problematic. For others, it was about those expectations that people had of their families and immediate surroundings and the fact that some of my interlocutors themselves did not ‘feel different’: there was no direct motivation to address the matter, since it could provoke unwanted animosity between self and loved ones. Furthermore, there were different nuances in considering either privately or publically ‘speaking out’ or testifying of one’s religious transformation. Privately, there were concerns over being perceived and accused by loved ones as having crossed enemy lines. Many people who disclosed their change in knowledges, behaviours, or practices to their private surroundings often thought that it was more important ‘in the beginning’ than it was later on in life. In practice, the experience of such a curve meant that many people found it necessary to speak about issues of religion early on in their transformation than later on.175 Whilst contemplations over speaking out publically also related to not wanting to draw lines between self and loved ones, there were other issues at stake here too. First, in the context of dominant secularist discourses in modern day Europe with regards to the contested status of Islam in the public spheres, these considerations were also often about not wanting to pledge allegiance to the other side of the ‘incommensurable divide’. Most of my interlocutors, in fact, found themselves straddling both sides. In addition, the feared appropriation of their narratives by ‘the social right’, or the ‘secularist crusaders’ as my interlocutors called them, should be addressed. The expectations of speaking out as being part of a secular modern constitution, as perceived by my interlocutors, become particularly evident in the popular reception of so- called native testimonials, or the embracing of ‘ex-Muslim’ narratives in the media as well as the discourse they have created that my interlocutors regularly referred to. These native testimonials are highly scripted, often presenting Islam as oppressive, backward, and pre- modern, whilst the newly found convictions of non-religion are presented as Enlightened, free, and modern. However, as the above has shown, presenting such a narrative was rarely desired. Lived realities did not necessarily reflect the native testimonial which dictates a linear journey from Islamic darkness to secular modernity. Rather, the religious transformations my

175 This is also related to growing up, coming of age, and being able to carve out a (non- religious) space and life for oneself, in which difference with surroundings becomes less of a daily issue. Also see: Vliek (Forthcoming/Chapter 5).

212 interlocutors experienced were coloured by ambiguity and blurriness over the lines between what was considered religious or secular. What my interlocutors thus showed, is that when moving out of Islam testifying of change in convictions would be considered almost as an expression of conversion to secularism. To be clear, these are expectations that my interlocutors ascribed to their own families and communities. Contrastively, the above has attempted to outline that difference between self and religious other was rarely perceived as dramatically as a ‘conversion to secularity’. When considering speaking out about change in knowledges, practices, and behaviours, their contemplations mostly concerned the boundaries that may be crossed, the alienation that one would risk, and the potential perception of shifting allegiance in light of religious-political discourses. More significantly, the presumption that accompanies ‘freedom of speech’ as being a flagship of the secular modern, and therefore a trait that the former Muslim may now be expected to possess, was weighed carefully in light of a desire for familial belonging and the lack of need of performing what could potentially be perceived as differences between self and others. Additionally, when speaking out was considered ‘a step beyond not believing’ which may cause affront, and seen as a general change of allegiance which was not always desired, freedom of speech was no longer a secular modern value to aspire to, but a (violent) performative act which may cause to alienate the self from others. Lastly, when people would speak out or testify towards friends and family, or publically, change or emancipation of familial practices or religious dogma was generally aspired. Whilst this particular genre of both speaking out as activism—as differentiated from the native testimonial—warrants further elaboration, those who actively engaged in conversations about non-belief or breaking socio-religious rules with either the public or in private, mostly did so with careful consideration of the risk of discursive appropriation of their narrative, as well as their familial relationships.

213 Conclusion

This research took place between 2016 and 2019, yet more relevant events, debates, and legislation will continue to shape the field in the future, details of which cannot be reported or included here. In trying to answer the question how people experience moving out of Islam in the UK and the Netherlands, as well as how they negotiate religious and secular contexts in which they live, I have therefore given an analysis and description of a particular period, or moment in time and place. Political and societal turmoil in both countries continue to stir in the form of new political currents, Brexit negotiations, and societal movements. In addition, with regards to former Muslims, more transnational events are being organised – among which the ‘Celebrating Dissent Festival’ in Amsterdam at the end of August 2019, hosted by the Council for Ex-Muslims in Britain – focusing not only on those who have left Islam but also more generally including the new atheist movement and alignment with LGBTQ+ interests. This dissertation has taken as its starting point the personal experiences of people moving out of Islam, in their respective countries, during my time in the field. How were religious and secular discourses negotiated? One central tenet of this dissertation was a comparative perspective between the Netherlands and the UK, on both discursive and personal levels, and their interplay, the other how religious and secular spheres are negotiated by people who move out of Islam in these respective countries. In order to do so, I have firstly sketched a discursive lay-out in the first chapter with regards to religious minorities chiefly focussing on public debates and societal discourses with regards to Islam in both countries. To further investigate the research questions in detail, I have then approached moving out of Islam from five distinctive analytical angles elaborated on in the chapters 2 to 6: Dialogical Self Theory, Multiple Secularities, Narrative Analysis, a Secular Body, and (De)conversion Testimony. In what is to follow I will explicate how these five analytical tools have contributed to our understanding of moving out of Islam in the Netherlands and the UK whilst considering both the religious and secular spheres my interlocutors were situated in, and specifically how these were negotiated. I will then point to some lines of further inquiry, and lastly conclude this dissertation by drawing some general conclusions. First, I have proposed to utilise Hubert Hermans’ Dialogical Self Theory as an analytical tool for investigating the narratives of moving out of Islam in a post-migration context. Considering the actual voices in self-narratives, the embeddedness of these voices in discursive structures, and the self-making properties of a dialogical self, opened up new spaces for understanding their trajectories out of Islam. The self, in its own society of mind, is

214 surrounded not only in personal external voices, such as family and friends, but also situated in the larger discourses of, for example and among others, the ‘public debate’, ‘secularist ex- Muslims voices’, and ‘Islamic discourses’ and so forth. In the close examination of one such narrative, complex internal dialogues and monologues were utilised for ethical self-making and search for wisdom and ‘truth’. When moving out of Islam, hierarchical positioning of different voices and shifting identifications of different I-positions was informed by larger external (internalised) discourses, and thereby co-constructed agentic self-making. The dialogical approach was not only useful for the close-reading of my interlocutors’ narratives. By recognising the multiplicity of I-positions and voices that inhabit the self in the larger analysis of the data, it turned out that in narratives of moving out of Islam, the religious voice had a relative weight, and was not necessarily always central to one’s experience. It also revealed that whilst religion was present in all my interlocutors’ narratives, sometimes it did not take centre stage in their lives, not in the past, and not in the present. These observations (through dialogical analysis) point to one of the larger conclusions of this dissertation: my interlocutors experienced their move out of Islam as being about more than religion or faith alone. Second, in order to uncover the underlying reasons for the presence of what I have called ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ in Britain and their relative contemporary absence in the Netherlands, I utilised the interpretive device of ‘multiple secularities’. Multiple secularities assumes that the religious spheres are linked to other social, political, and cultural spheres, which are determined by situatedness in time and space. By in turn then analysing both the institutionalised forms and the social and cultural ways in which boundaries are drawn between what is deemed appropriately religious and the ways in which these contestations play out, we can trace particular formations of secularity and their related reference problems, and the consequential spaces this may open up for critique. The major differences in these formations of secularity between the Netherlands and Britain lie in that in the Netherlands, dominant secularity for the sake of social integration and national development with motives and arguments also taken from secularity for the sake of individual liberties has developed, whilst Britain has been predominantly marked by secularity for the sake of accommodating diversity. The ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ in Britain then, as articulated at the conference organised by the CEMB, were responding to this particular secularity by critiquing its specific reference problems on both the institutional and social levels (such as State-church relations, multiculturalism, and communitarianism), and the Islamism it allegedly accommodates. Since

215 different reference problems surfaced in the Netherlands, these voices have been relatively absent in the recent past. This third chapter particularly answered questions relating to discursive differences, and how larger structures of secularity can sometimes determine the relative need for and desire to speak out publically, to challenge dominant discourses, and to perhaps identify oneself as ‘ex-Muslim’. It further lay bare the considerable differences in each country, both with regards to histories of secularity as well as how certain voices may respond to the various reference problems that may consequently surface. These differences also came to the fore when I spoke with my interlocutors about ‘speaking out’ in such discourses. In the Netherlands, this was generally less desirable to do than it was in Britain. Indeed, also in my interlocutors’ personal narratives and not only when analysing public voices, it is important to highlight these respective countries’ histories of secularity and the constitution of (religious) minorities. Some of my interlocutors’ reasoning was that in the Netherlands in recent decades – in analytical terms – secularity for the sake of social/national integration had become dominant. Therefore, reference problems surfaced mainly relating to the continuous and systematic stigmatisation of Muslims, in response to which my interlocutors did not desire to speak out against their former religion. They calculated their narratives may be appropriated by so-called ‘secular crusaders’. In Britain, on the other hand, secularity for the sake of accommodating diversity had been dominant, therefore, sometimes reference problems were identified to which they wished to respond. Besides helping to understand the rise of certain voices in the public debate, ‘multiple secularities’ may also explain the presence of certain social groups such as the Council for Ex-Muslims in Britain. Third, in order to unpack the experiences of moving out of Islam, I have offered a narrative analysis of all my interviews. The themes that surfaced in that analysis consisted of various non-chronological stages, ordered differently in their stories. Themes of ‘religious break’, ‘social break-away’, ‘entrance’, and ‘unconscious secularisation’ then, could overlap within one narrative, showing fluidity rather than fixed categories. By dialogically approaching their stories, instead of assuming a centrality of negative religion when moving out of Islam, I proposed to look beyond what is left behind and to give a little more attention to the realties and discourses that people find themselves in besides religion, such as familial relations, political discourses, ethnic identities, and professional careers, as well as to the ways in which people respond to them and reshape their sense of self. By viewing people in relation to religion alone, a narrow description of human experience is the result, and often not in line with how

216 people consider themselves. Indeed, as one of my interlocutors stated: Perhaps there should be [a focus] on what we are rather than what we are not. With regards to the narrative structures in both countries, I have suggested that differences encountered between the Netherlands and Britain – i.e. more prominence of certain themes in each country – were mainly to do with the relative centrality of religion to one’s identity, and thereby the related presence of and need for support groups. In Britain I found more ‘religious break’ and ‘social break-away’ themes than in the Netherlands, where ‘the entrance’ and ‘unconscious secularisation’ were more common. I have suggested that these differences are both related to the relative presence or absence of support groups, thereby the method by which I found my interlocutors, and relatedly, whether or not group narratives were then formed. Furthermore, in all the conversations I had with people, the question of what role religion played when growing up came up. I believe that the stories behind that question, causally relate to how one experiences moving out of Islam, and therefore the relative need for support, a point to which I will return below. Fourth, in order to examine the interplay between the discursive structures and my interlocutors’ experiences, I have analysed how people negotiated religious and secular embodiment in light of religious change and concluded that moving out of Islam became particularly visible and contested in what was considered non-negotiable by self and others in their surroundings. Behaviours were negotiated by sometimes hiding one’s move out of Islam entirely, often a psychologically draining experience, or behaviours, knowledges, and practices were mobilised selectively. Sometimes this was not at all problematic, at other times this was a careful balance between what was considered acceptable behaviour, from both religious as well as secular perspectives. My interlocutors further negotiated over what a non-religious body ought to be. This conceptual ‘secular body’ was not always desired or even possible to perform. Taking the body as a starting point, rather than ‘belief’ or religious dogma in seclusion, has shown two things. First, by looking at the embodied practices and how they may change over time, as well as how they may demarcate belonging, it became clear that movements away from religion cannot be conceptualised as ‘you are in or you are out’. Instead, certain bodily practices and behaviours may become available for negotiation, rather than these dispositions being subjugated to choices of being one or the other. Second, the interconnections between discursive productions of what it means to be either religious or secular and how this works on a very personal level, became visible. Fifth and last, in all the conversations I have had with people the question of ‘speaking out’, either privately or publically, came up. I also had various conversations with people who

217 did publically speak out about their religious transformation as well as expressed critical remarks towards their former religion, Islam, or social inequalities in religious communities. The act of speaking, especially in its testimonial form, has often taken a central role in the study of (de)conversion, and has been considered a tool or technique for making sense of an old and new self in light of religious transformation. This final chapter aimed to answer questions of both the experience of what moving out may mean, and more specifically, how certain expectations were negotiated from both religious and secular perspectives. For many of my interlocutors, however, speech or even a written down statement, was often considered a ‘step beyond not believing’; negotiation over past selves and new convictions, behaviours and knowledges was often done privately. Speech was often considered a sign of crossing the divide, or enemy lines, yet sometimes it was felt that social injustice needed to be addressed. The vast majority of people doing the latter were found in Britain. Of course, this is not to say that these voices are completely absent from the Dutch public sphere. Some members of, for example, the Dutch Humanist Society have been attempting to create spaces for those who have left Islam. There are others who have Muslim backgrounds and challenge certain religious dogmas and social problematics within Muslim communities in the public debate, but their ‘selling point’ is not necessarily their non-religion (e.g. Fidan Ekiz, Asis Aynan, Tofik Dibi). Whether or not they are religious is often left unmentioned. In Britain on the other hand, it was more common for people who had left Islam to openly speak out. I believe that the reason for this difference in the presence of public voices of those who have left Islam as well as organisations set up for those moving out has two underlying reasons related to points made above: the countries’ respective histories of secularity, and the relative dominance of certain narrative themes in each country, relating to the need for and presence of support groups. In these six chapters I have aimed to be as conclusive and encompassing as possible, whilst maintaining the integrity of the boundaries of this study. However, of course, there are some topics, general comparisons, and details that have not been extensively touched upon, some of which I wish to point to here. First, considering the discursive productions of secular embodiment, the descriptive empirical perspective that I have offered has perhaps not left enough space for the more theoretical analysis of what ‘a secular body’ is in each country. Because if we follow the line of thought that the Netherlands and Britain operate under different histories of secularity, then surely, their discursive production of a ‘secular body’ is different, too. This would in turn imply that there could be considerable differences between how my interlocutors negotiated these conceptions. I briefly touch on these matters when I discuss one

218 of my interlocutor’s contemplations over not wanting to be a social media hero or (not) embracing sexual liberties as being in response to a particular Dutch set of dispositions. Similarly, ponderings by British interlocutors about not wanting to be completely ‘Western’ or ‘white’ now, could be considered to be in light of a particular conception of whiteness and racial constructions in Britain, which may potentially have unfolded differently in the Netherlands. There were also similarities: what someone in Britain referred to as ‘not wanting to suck up to another culture’ can be seen as a similar response in the Netherlands with regards to so-called ‘social media heroes’, who allegedly did exactly that. I have not had the space to trace these particular histories of what it means to be ‘white’, ‘Dutch’, ‘British’, or indeed, ‘a secular body’ in detail per country, and have therefore not been able to systematically compare the two in relation to my interlocutors’ experiences. The vast overlaps, however, have been noted in order to further our understanding of ‘a secular body’ and what it indeed may represent as well as my interlocutors’ bodily experiences when moving out. I therefore would encourage further research into secular bodies within countries, and their cross-comparison in light of their formations of secularity. Another point of note, is that in our study into ‘the secular’, I wish to argue for the inclusion of the experiences of the formerly religious. As I have tried to show, particular formations of knowledges, practices, and behaviours of what it means to be secular can become highly visible in its religious shadow, and those who have moved out of religion may be ideally suited to point to such particularities. Second, I wish to point to a significant field that this study has not been able to explore: the relation between the specific role of religion when growing up, how one experienced moving out of Islam, and thereby perhaps the causal relation in needing support. What does one’s so-called community look like? How is religion and social behaviour valued and imbued? By whom? How does this relate to individual and collective experiences of moving out? This project has included individuals from all over each country. There was one cluster of three people who knew each other from their secondary school in Britain and had witnessed each other’s move out of Islam; the other 41 interviewees (participant observations not included) were strangers to one another, or perhaps knew each other from after having moved out of their communities or Islam by linking up through (online) communities of ‘former Muslims’. Therefore, further research is warranted into geographic religious and ethnic communities to assess the commonalities and differences between them with regards to moving out, in order to answer questions of issues that in this project were only hinted to. For example, Turkish belonging in the Netherlands seemed to centre at least as much around one’s support for

219 President Erdoğan as it did around religious affiliation. Or in Iranian communities in the Netherlands, believing or adhering to Islam was actually treated with suspicion. In Britain, the lack of social welfare and increased ethnic segregation in, for example, Blackburn or the London East-End was considered to be highly problematic and contributing to issues of increased religious conservatism, the impossibility of physically moving away, and thereby also complicating moving out of Islam. Third, there is a body of data that has been collected for this project, but has not been extensively analysed in this dissertation. For example, in 2018, in each country a different book was published, both a collection of testimonials of people who had left Islam. The British book, Leaving Faith Behind, edited by Fiyaz Mughal and Aliyah Saleem, collected and edited the six narratives as were written down by the ‘apostates’ themselves. In the Dutch book, Nieuwe Vrijdenkers, (New Freethinkers) Rachid Benhammou interviewed twelve people who had moved out of Islam and wrote down their stories. These two books are a source of narratives as well as an interesting parallel phenomenon which I have not been able to include here. However, when delving into the concept of (de)conversion testimony, my interlocutors’ contemplations had to be considered before taking into account the various publically available genres. Rather than having assumed an importance of testimony as a technique of self-making or performance of newly found convictions by taking the actual testimonies as a starting point, I uncovered the vast ambiguities surrounding the act of ‘speaking out’ as often being considered a step beyond not believing and therefore rarely performed. Other data and phenomena, which have been collected and have been a rich source of information but which have not been extensively analysed are online testimonials, prominent or well-known former Muslims in either country, media coverage, (non)fiction literature, popular culture such as theatre and film, and so on and so forth (see, for example, Van den Brandt, 2019a; 2019b). Almost none of my interlocutors had produced a spoken or written testimony, even though the genre obviously does exist. I believe this points to a gap between public knowledges and private experiences, which this dissertation has aimed to address. Last, although this dissertation has not been a study that has had the space to include the larger topic of Islamic ‘religiousness’ of Europe which has reported an increase of practices and adherence over the past decades especially among the newer generations, it is worth noting its relation here. Whilst those moving out of Islam could be considered to be a ‘counter movement’, it should also be noted that in addition, despite this ‘Islamic increase’, both the Netherlands and Britain have consistently reported a decline in religious adherence and identification. Based on this qualitative inquiry, and the persistent lack of quantitative data on

220 those moving out of Islam, it is impossible to draw larger conclusions on ‘moving out’ as a social movement, either as a counter movement to increased Muslim religiousness, or as adhering to a general trend of increased non-religion in both the Netherlands and Britain. In conclusion, the different starting points of Dialogical Self Theory, Multiple Secularities, Narrative Analysis, A Secular Body, and (De)conversion Testimony, have aimed to, taken together, give a unique outlook on moving out of Islam in the Netherlands and the UK, responding to contemporary outlooks on ‘apostasy’ from Islam, from various societal, political, and theological perspectives. I hope to have complicated these notions of what ‘moving out’ supposedly means as well as its consequences. There are two critical aspects to this. First, we have to take into account the deeply personal processes of religious transformation people undergo. As we have seen, these range from traumatising struggles with one’s environs and convictions, to rather unnoticed secularisations. I opened this dissertation with two anecdotes, one outlining a need among some of my interlocutors for making a stand and being officially recognised as non-believer, and another describing a lack of awareness of being non-religious in the first place. In order to understand religious decline, I believe all such experiences should be taken into account. In public debates, religion – and particularly when it concerns Islam – is generally assumed to be the sum of a problematised and securitised identity in Europe. Whilst not denying the importance of religion in people’s lives, as well as its importance for many of those who move out of Islam, I hope to have complicated the simplified notions of the dominant narratives, from both secular as well as religious perspectives. Second, I wish to point to the reported ‘inbetweenness’ of those who have moved out of Islam in post-secular societies. My interlocutors negotiated belonging to both sides of the religious-secular divide, and often demonstrated a thoroughly personalised renegotiation of embodiment and morality to constitute selfhood without religion, balancing a simultaneous desire to retain community. This balancing act was a common denominator, whilst the outcomes of these negotiations and considerations in turn varied greatly. These experiences however, indicate another complication with the simplified notions of ‘being in or out’: whilst external religious and secular discourses may assert their desire for people to be either ‘one or the other’, my interlocutors often resisted such expectations in their own individualised ways in constituting their selfhood. I hope that the narratives, descriptions, and analyses that have been presented in this dissertation, have provided a considerate outlook on what it may mean to move out of Islam in the Netherlands and Britain. With its comparative element, I have aimed to present both the

221 shared experiences of moving out of religion, as well as the particulars of situatedness in specific national discourses. Approaching the topic and my interlocutors’ experiences from five distinctive analytical angles has allowed me to uncover some of the complex ambiguities that colour human experience. Thereby, I hope to have opened up some pathways to questioning the antagonist nature of the debate between the religious and the secular, of who is in and who is out, and for the recognition of the inbetweenness that most of us live in.

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249 Vliek, M. (2019a). ‘When I finally heard my own voice’: Dialogical articulations of self- making when moving out of Islam in the Netherlands. Journal of Muslims in Europe, 8(1), 85– 107.

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251 Code Book

The coding process was partly based on Dialogical Self Theory, as elaborated on in chapters 2 and 4, and was done in Atlas.ti. Here, I have included the codes (both voices and I-positions) that this approach has produced. As the explanatory notes indicate as well, more code- combinations were of course possible. Only those which were recorded 4 times or more have been included here.

The abbreviations are building blocks. For example, the internalised voice of an interviewee’s father would be: Int-ExtV-ParV-F. The explicit absence of Wilders’ narrative, would be: Abs- ExtV-NL-SDV-WIL

The table below shows the diversity of potential external voices present in narratives. Especially the personalised voices [PersV] are identifying labels and do not describe content. The Societal Discursive Voices [SDV] do have a broadly known content, however, their meaning, effect on the individual, and their dialogue may differ per narrative.

As DST explains, external voices may be presented by the individual, and may enter dialogue with one another, as well as various I-positions. These I-positions are outlined separately.

Codes – Voices

In alphabetical order. These are the codes of which four or more were recorded in the entire dataset. They were all inductively established.

Abs-ExtV-NL-SDV Absent External Societal Discursive voice in the Netherlands Abs-ExtV-PersV-Comm Absent external personal voice of the community Abs-ExtV-PersV-Comm-EthV Absent external voice, specifically about ethnic heritage Abs-ExtV-Comm-Policing Absence of the experience of policing from the community Abs-ExtV-PersV-Dev Absence of the voice of the devil Abs-ExtV-PersV-ParV Absence of the parental voice

252 Abs-ExtV-PersV-R Absence of a specifically religious voice Abs-ExtV-PersV-R-G Absence of a voice of God Abs-ExtV-PersV-R-Mor Absence of a religious moral voice Abs-ExtV-UK-SDV-CEMB Absence of the CEMB voice Abs-ExtV-UK-SDV-HC Absence of the voice of the ‘old’ country of migration. Cont-ExtV-PersV-Comm-EthV Continued (after moving out) voice of the ethnic community Cont-ExtV-PersV-ParV Continued parental voice Cont-ExtV-PersV-R-G Continued voice of God Cont-ExtV-PersV-R-Isl Continued voice of specifically Islamic doctrine Cont-IntExtV-PersV-Isl Continued internalized voice of specifically Islamic doctrine* Cont-IntExtV-PersV-ParV Continued internalized parental voice Cont-IntExtV-PersV-ParV-M Continued internalized external maternal voice Cont-IntExtV-PersV-R-Mor Continued internalized external voice of religious morality ExtV-NL-SDV-AHA External Dutch Societal discursive voice of ‘Ayaan Hirsi Ali’ ExtV-NL-SDV-AIS Idem – Anti-Islamic sentiments ExtV-NL-SDV-Ath Idem – atheism ExtV-NL-SDV-exM Idem – ex-Muslims ExtV-NL-SDV-HC Idem – ‘old’ country of migration ExtV-NL-SDV-Isl Idem – Islamic doctrine in national context ExtV-NL-SDV-Msl Idem – Muslims in the Netherlands ExtV-NL-SDV-Sec Idem – secularist discourse ExtV-NL-SDV-WIL Idem – Geert Wilders ExtV-NL-SDV-www Idem – Internet discourse Ext-V-PersV-Books External personal voice with regards to books Ext-V-PersV-Comm Voice of the community Ext-V-PersV-Comm-EthV Voice of the community, but specifically about ethnic issues Ext-V-PersV-Comm-Policing Voice of the community, specifically about policing one another

253 Ext-V-PersV-Comm-RelV Voice of the community, specifically about religious issues Ext-V-PersV-Fr Voices of friends Ext-V-PersV-ParV Parental voice Ext-V-PersV-ParV-F Fathers voice Ext-V-PersV-ParV-M Mothers voice Ext-V-PersV-R-Dev Voice of the devil Ext-V-PersV-R-G Voice of God Ext-V-PersV-R-Isl Personal religious voice of ‘Islam’ Ext-V-PersV-R-Mor Voice of religious morality Ext-V-PersV-Sibl Voices of siblings Ext-V-PersV-Spouse Voice of spouse ExtV-UK-SDV-AHA External British societal discursive voice – ‘Ayaan Hirsi Ali’ ExtV-UK-SDV-AIS Idem – Anti-Islamic sentiments ExtV-UK-SDV-Ath Idem – Atheism ExtV-UK-SDV-CEMB Idem – CEMB ExtV-UK-SDV-exM Idem – Ex-Muslims ExtV-UK-SDV-HC Idem – ‘old’ country of migration ExtV-UK-SDV-Isl Idem – Islamic doctrine in national context ExtV-UK-SDV-Msl Idem – Muslims in one’s country ExtV-UK-SDV-RegL Idem – ‘Regressive Left’ ExtV-UK-SDV-Sec Idem – Secularists discourse ExtV-UK-SDV-www Idem – Internet debates IMG-ExtV-PersV-Children Imagined external voice of hypothetical children IMG-ExtV-PersV-Comm-RelV Imagined external religious voice IMG-ExtV-PersV-ParV Imagined external parental voice **

* The difference between an external voice and an internalised external voice is very difficult sometimes to distinguish. When in doubt, both codes were assigned, and later where relevant situations were assessed. ** Again, the difference between imagined voices and internalized voices or simple external voices is hard to determine. They have been included when it was a specific imagination in the interlocutor’s words.

254 Codes – I-Positions

In random order:

Sibling IPos-Sibl Deductive Spouse IPos-Spouse Deductive Child (to parents) IPos-Child Deductive Working Self IPos-Work Deductive Woman IPos-Woman Deductive Man IPos-Man Deductive Friend IPos-Friend Deductive Sense of IPos-Self Inductive Self/Name Atheist IPos-Ath Inductive Ex-Muslim IPos-ExM Inductive Freethinker IPos-FT Inductive Self as Free IPos-Free Inductive Critical Thinker IPos-CT Inductive Muslim IPos-Musl Deductive Muslim with a IPos-GS Inductive grain of salt Activism IPos-Activist Inductive Apatheism IPos-Apatheist Inductive Ethnicity IPos-Ethnicity Inductive Agnostic IPos-Agnostic Inductive Bisexual IPos-Bisex Inductive Humanism IPos-Humanist Inductive New Identity IPos-NewMe Inductive Non-religion IPos-NonReligious Inductive Parent IPos-Parent Deductive Rebel IPos-Rebel Inductive

NB: All I-Positions could also have been accompanied by ‘IMG’ – meaning it can be an imagined or hypothetical I-position, or ‘Abs’ meaning that an I-Position was explicitly observed as absent. E.g.: ‘I’m not such an activist type person’. Or: ‘I am not really very rebellious’.

255 Codes – Thematic

In alphabetical order

Apostasy Religious connotations or prejudices Deductive experienced Belonging Matters of belonging to either religious or Inductive secular groups Betrayed Feelings after realising ‘God is not real’ that Inductive one has been betrayed Breaking the Rules Breaking religious/parental rules Inductive Children When discussing (hypothetical) relationship to Deductive children Coming Out Anything related to coming out to one’s Deductive surroundings about non-belief Conformity When still ‘behaving’ the same way in order to Inductive belong Crime When criminal issues came to the fore Inductive Critique Muslims When debating Muslims’ behaviours Inductive Critique Religion When discussing views towards Islam in Inductive specific, or religion in general. Doubt Relating to any form of doubt Deductive Drugs When drugs came to the fore Inductive Evolution When evolution played a role Deductive Exploring THEME of ‘Seeking Alternatives’. When Inductive looking for other things outside religion, or identity Fading Importance When religion faded, rather than was ‘debated’ Inductive or contested Gender Any issues relating to gender Deductive Growing Up Specifically about the phenomenon of Inductive outgrowing parental control Guilt In stages of doubt, religious guilt, or guilt Deductive towards parents Hell Descriptions or fears of hell Deductive Hijab When issues surrounding hijab were discussed Inductive Hypocrisy When discussing observations that refer to Inductive hypocrisy Increased Religiosity When religion becomes more important Inductive Knowing from Young When someone reckons they never really Inductive Age believed

256 Leaving Narrative The story of moving out Deductive Leaving Parental Home When moving out of the house is relevant Deductive LGBT LGBT issues Deductive Mental Illness When mental illness is referred to Inductive Morality Any questions or issues relating to ‘being Deductive moral’ Move to the Other Side THEME: when someone refers to the ‘switch’ Inductive of religion/non-religion Negotiating Difference THEME: when specific differences with one’s Inductive surroundings are discussed Nihilism Feelings of nihilism after moving out. Inductive Pivotal Event When an event is narrated as being highly Inductive influential Prejudice From others to individual or the other way Inductive around. Any form of preconceived ideas Rational vs Emotional When someone reckons they ‘know’ Inductive something, but don’t ‘feel’ it. Relationships When discussing romantic relations Deductive Risk Assessment When considering ‘speaking out’ and ‘risk’ is Inductive assessed. Specifically when referring to violent retaliation from Muslims. Social Rules When discussing religious/cultural/parental Inductive rules Speaking Out When discussing speaking out about non-belief Deductive Support When discussing support groups, online or Deductive offline Testimony When discussing the production of Deductive written/spoken testimony Theology When referring to theological Deductive problems/discussions Timewarp How religion of parents is ‘old’ religion from Inductive country they migrated from that doesn’t evolve in the ‘new’ country. University Potentials of university Inductive USE QUOTE Deductive Why rub it in When contemplating speaking about one’s non- Inductive. belief/non-religion towards significant others and not wanting to ‘rub it in’.

257 Data Management Plan

1. Research project

1.1 Title Neither in nor out. Former Muslims between

narratives of belonging and secular convictions in The Netherlands and the UK

1.2 Abstract This project focusses on people moving out of Islam in contemporary Europe and adopts a comparative perspective between the Netherlands and the UK. It has a qualitative approach, utilising biographical interviews and participant observation. Its method of analysis is a dialogical one, considering the individual not to be merely alone, but surrounded by discourses and others which are an intrinsic dialogical part of oneself. Furthermore, it attempts to broaden our conceptions of ‘deconversion’ by viewing the process of 'moving out’ as being about more than faith alone; both the post-migration particulars of the narratives, negative and positive identity formation, as well as the renegotiations over religious and secular embodiments and behaviours are taken into account. It considers the processes of moving out of Islam not linear or binary constructed over ‘believing’ or ‘non-believing’, rather, it views it as transformation and renegotiation in which selves are (re)constructed in a post-secular world. In addition, since this study is situated in the context of the ‘incommensurable divide’ of the religious and the secular, it takes into account the concept of ‘testimony’; of the performative act of speaking out about losing faith

258

Data life cycle: planning research

2. Organisational context

2.1 Researcher(s) Maria Vliek

2.2 Research Institute Philosophy, Theology, Religious Studies

2.3 Chair group

2.4 Supervisor(s) Karin van Nieuwkerk, Gert-Jan van der Heiden

2.5 Funder

2.6 Start date of the project 01-12-15

2.7 File name for this version of the 2019-05-08_Data Management Plan DMP 2.8 Date of this version of the DMP 08-05-2019

3. Data management roles

3.1 Who is involved in writing the Maria Vliek DMP? 3.2 Who is collecting the data? Maria Vliek

3.3 Who is processing and analysing the Maria Vliek data? 3.4 Who is preserving and giving access Maria Vliek to the data? 3.5 Who may want to reuse the data? ---

3.6 Are there any other roles that are --- relevant to the management of your research data? Please indicate the role(s) and person(s).

4. Costs

4.1 What type(s) of costs do you foresee for data management (both during and after research is completed) and what amount of cost do you estimate? How will these costs be covered?

259 Nil

Data life cycle: collecting data

5. Use of existing data

5.1 Do you make use of existing data? Yes, go to 5.2 No, go to 6.1 X

5.2 What arrangements have been made regarding the use of these data?

6. Collection process

6.1 Briefly describe your data collection process and indicate if you are collecting critical, sensitive and/or standard data? Semi-structured interviews are conducted with people, which are recorded and later transcribed. Considering the topic of research, this is a highly sensitive procedure. People are hesitant to talk or to be recognised through identifiable characteristics due to sometimes, the fear of retaliations from either the public or family. Therefore, this data should be considered critical, even in its anonymised form. Furthermore, considering the sensitivity of the subject, informed consent is given when my position as a researcher is made clear, and interlocutors agree to an interview or me to attend meetings. Besides my interlocutors, these meetings can also not be identified in place, time or name.

7. Informed consent

7.1 Will you need the informed consent Yes, go to 7.2 No, go to 8 of participants? v

7.2 Briefly describe the content of your informed consent form and the accompanying information document.

260

My interlocutors all have agreed to be interviewed and have been made aware of the use of their statements anonymously for academic publishing purposes.

They have further been made aware of the protection of their identities to anyone else but me.

They have given their consent explicitly in conversation before, during, or after the ‘formal’ part of the interview. Due to the sensitivity of their identities, this has not been recorded on paper; the majority would not have agreed to their full names being recorded in such manner.

8. Ethics committee

8.1 Do you need approval of the ethics Ye No committee? x

9. Privacy

9.1 Are there any privacy issues that concern the collecting of the data? If so, please describe them and indicate how you will address them.

Yes. The vast majority of my interlocutors would not want their full names or other details of their identities recorded. 1. Recording of the interviews and collection of ethnographic data is done anonymously. Records such as the audio files or field notes are transferred from the recording device to the RU VPN the same day and deleted from the recording device. 2. Transcripts are anonymised – no full names or places of residence/family names or other potentially identity revealing characteristics are included in the transcript. 3. Transcripts are stored on RU VPN. 4. The ‘key’ to my interlocutors’ identities is stored on RU VPN and only accessible to Maria Vliek. 5. The transcripts are used for the data analysis.

10. Security 10.1 How will you deal with security issues that concern the collecting of the data?

261

Everything has so far been stored on RU VPN. Also see 9.1.

Data life cycle: processing and analysing data

11. Overview of research data

11.1 Please specify and describe for each data stage (a) what type of data is involved, (b) how the data is classified (critical, sensitive or standard), (c) the software you will use, and (d) the (expected) size of the data.

Data stage a. Type of data b. Classification c. Software d. Data size

Raw data Audio files Critical Recording Interlocutor list Critical software Text editor

Processed data PDF files Sensitive Word/AdobeP df/Atlas.ti

Analysed data Data Set Sensitive Atlas.ti Code book

Other Data Management Plan Standard Text editor

12. Storing during research

12.1 Indicate where the data will be stored physically and why you choose that location. And what arrangements will be made to organise the backup of your data during your research.

NB When you are working with critical or sensitive data, you are limited in your choice of storage location.

Type of data Storage location Backup procedures

Audio files Phone, which is only for the RU VPN recording of the interview. Once internet is available, the files are immediately sent to RU VPN

262 Transcripts RU VPN RU VPN

Analysed data Own PC because of portability RU VPN & HomeDrive when working on public transport. Code books and other sensitive data is stored on RU VPN.

Other data DMP is stored on RU VPN RU VPN & Research Director has a copy.

13. Privacy

13.1 If applicable, how will you anonymise or pseudonymise personal data after collection?

1. Transcripts are anonymised – no full names or places of residence/family names or other potentially identity revealing characteristics are included in the transcript. 2. Transcripts are stored on RU VPN. 3. The ‘key’ to my interlocutors identities is stored on RU VPN and only accessible to Maria Vliek.

14. Structuring your data

14.1 Indicate a proposed folder and file naming structure, including versioning. Folders: UK NL

File naming structure: Yyyymmdd_Place_AnonymisedName.mp3/.pdf

15. Sharing data during research

15.1 Do you need to share your data Yes, go to 15.2 No, go to with others during your research? x

15.2 Are there any agreements made on how the data will be used and shared during your research?

263

n/a

15.3 Describe who will have access to the data and which access level applies.

Type of data Research partner(s) Access level

16. Documentation

16.1 How would you describe the content of your dataset?

Interviews and fieldnotes on moving out of Islam in contemporary Europe. No quantitative data. All data are in .pdf files (text)

16.2 How would you describe the context of your dataset?

For this project, people who were born and/or raised in the Netherlands or the UK, with Muslim backgrounds, who no longer believe in any deity have been contacted in order to find out more about: 1. What is it like to move out of Islam in contemporary Europe? 2. How does country specific context on Islam in Europe influence such trajectories? 3. What embodied aspects are involved in moving out of Islam? 4. What role does speech play in religious transformation when moving out of Islam? Data collection consisted of 1. Semi-structured interviews 2. Ethnographic fieldnotes Data was collected by: 1. Primary and secondary network of the researcher (informal networks) 2. Formal networks such as online or offline groups for (Islamic) non-believers. 3. No gender, ethnicity, or age restrictions All data has been anonymised

16.3 How would you describe the structure of your dataset? All data has been dated.

264

Data life cycle: preserving and giving access to data 17. Long-term storage

17.1 Please indicate whether you will store your data for the long term. If not, explain why.

Type of data Long-term storage? If no, why?

Transcripts of interviews Yes/No

Field notes Yes/No Personal impressions

17.2 Please indicate where you will store your data long term and what the minimum and maximum retention period will be.

Type of data Repository Retention period

Transcripts of interviews DANS Min. 4 years

17.3 Do you need to migrate your data to a format or formats other than they are in? If so, please provide details.

n/a

17.4 Do you need to store software Yes, go to 17.5 No, go to 18 and/or tools together with your data? x

17.5 Describe what software and/or tools you will store together with your data

n/a

18. Metadata and documentation

18.1 Is the metadata of the archive of Yes, go to 18.3 No, go to your choice rich enough? v

265 18.2 If you want to add an additional metadata schema, describe which metadata you will add and how you are going to do this.

18.3 What documentation will you add to your data files?

Context – research objectives & data collection methodology. Content – Brief description of text/audio files Structure – self-evident.

19. Giving access to data

19.1 Are there any funder, journal or institutional requirements regarding the sharing of data after research? If so, please indicate what they are. No

19.2 Are there any privacy or security issues that concern the sharing of data after research? If so, please describe them and indicate how you will address them.

Yes. Storage in DANS EASY – Dark archive

19.3 Please indicate which access level you want to use, who controls the access to your data and if you are going to place an embargo period on the access of your data.

Type of data Access level Access control Embargo

n/a

19.4 Who is the target audience for your data?

n/a

266 Summary

The central and guiding question of this dissertation is how people experience moving out of Islam in Britain and the Netherlands and how do they negotiate both religious and secular contexts in which they live? It thereby investigates how people experience religious transformations in a post-migration context from an interdisciplinary perspective. It takes into account both the contextual as well as the (inter)personal, and their interaction, by analysing narratives and experiences of people who have grown up with Muslim backgrounds in both the Netherlands and Britain, who no longer subscribe to Islam and have not converted to another religion. Over recent decades, secularised societies such as the Netherlands and Britain have become increasingly pre-occupied with religion. Public and political discourses have shifted from a focus on ‘the immigrant other’ in the 1990s, to a heated discussion from the early 2000s onwards over the ‘religious Muslim other’, who is primarily perceived to be a threat to modern secular values. In a process of painting the other with one brush, both peripheral and fundamental differences within a large group may be ignored; intersectional identities such as ethnicity, culture, religiosity, politics, or even gender are not always recognised. Apostasy–a religious term for leaving one’s faith–is a contested topic within religious traditions and Islam is no exception. Moreover, the debate on freedom of (or from) religion and Islam has especially in Europe become intertwined with often reductionist discussions over Islam’s compatibility with democratic values. One side of this debate argues that Islam is a religion of peace and endorses modern concepts of ‘freedom of religion’ and ‘freedom of speech’. This position is often taken by self-proclaimed ‘moderate Muslims’, and Left-wing political parties. On the other side, there are secularist politicians such as Geert Wilders (and more recently Thierry Baudet) in the Netherlands, or UKIP in Britain, who claim Islam is intolerant and therefore there is no freedom, neither of consciousness nor of speech. Those wishing to leave or speak out against it are considered victims of this oppressive authority. Then there are of course also religious authorities and individuals who claim either one or the other. Both these stances find evidence in Islamic texts of the Qur’an and Hadith, whilst neither come close to lived realities (Larsson, 2018). The role that religion plays in people’s lives has throughout history received the keen interest of sociologists and anthropologists alike. In recent decades, with regard to Islam, the works of Talal Asad (1986;1993, for example), Saba Mahmood (2005) and Charles Hirschkind

267 (2006) in particular have inspired many scholars to investigate ‘Islam as a discursive tradition’ and how it informs the construction of religious piety through embodied practices. Samuli Schielke (2010), in response to this growing body of literature, has wondered whether this line of inquiry has overemphasized the importance of ‘Islam’ and ‘religiosity’ in the study of the anthropology of Islam, and whether it has neglected questions of ambivalence. Rather, he proposes adopting a broader focus on people’s lives and considering ‘the everyday’: in daily life, people negotiate a plethora of possibilities, not merely religious ones, when making decisions about being in the world. In much recent scholarship interrogating ‘the secular’, emphasis has been placed on the absence of religion in post-secular societies, i.e. that which emerges when religious diversity increases, as well as on the ideology of ‘secularism’ as a neutral method of governance to aspire to. Similarly, the study of what ‘being secular’ constitutes on an individual level has primarily focused on what one is in relation to religion (atheist, non-religious and so forth). This line of inquiry has departed from the logical view that the secular and the religious are mutually constitutive and therefore always have to be considered in relation to one another. However, this assumption has led to an implicit bias in religious studies towards the absence of religion in secular lives, rather than to a thorough investigation as to what such lives may in fact entail besides how one now relates to religion. Studies into ‘losing religion’ have similarly focused on what is left behind and how people narrate their trajectories ‘out of faith’ (see, among others Bromley, 1998; Bromley and Shupe, 1986; Cottee, 2015; Fenelon & Danielsen, 2016; Gooren, 2010; Sevinç, Coleman & Hood, 2018; Streib et al., 2009). This dissertation responds by critically engaging with people’s experiences of moving out of Islam in both the Netherlands and Britain. First, in order to contextualise this study, in chapter 1, I lay bare the construction of dominant discourses on Islam and Muslims in both countries. I do so through an analysis of public debates, discourse shaping events, and prominent politicians in each country, before intersecting these with gendered contestations over Islam and Muslim ‘others’ in public debate and the media as well as the role of prominent former Muslims. This chapter departs from the assumption that the secular’s constitutive power in delineating what is appropriately religious in secular environs, is as much an implicit formation of what the secular itself ought to behave and look like in shared spaces. The two recent histories of each country bare significant similarities, but also considerable differences when it comes to how these issues have been contested, debated, and shaped with regards to religion (i.e. Islam) in the public sphere.

268 Firstly, the Dutch situation since the late 80s is elaborated on. Events such as the Salman Rushdie affair, the murders of Pim Fortuyn and Theo van Gogh, the simultaneous rise of new realism, and the strong polarising political discourse the Netherlands finds itself in today are outlined. Themes or so-called values that resurface throughout this national narrative are sexual liberties, the status of freedom of expression, and identity politics, which meanings have changed and have been appropriated differently over time. Since the 1990s a dominant assimilationist discourse has shaped the Dutch public sphere. In Britain, on the other hand, whilst similar themes have surfaced, and events such as the 7/7 bombings and the Manchester attacks have affected anti-Muslim sentiments throughout the country, the multiculturalist discourse in public debate has remained dominant for much longer. Second, in order to illustrate the constructions of secularism and demarcations of what is deemed appropriately religious in each country further, this chapter investigates how gendered and sexual constructions have informed the debate and public discourses on Islam and Muslims in each country. In the Netherlands, through a brief analysis of prominent politicians’ stances and integration policies, a particular sexual liberty is part and parcel of a ‘Dutch’ secular image, including the presentation of a national self as sexually progressive, at all times embracing LGBTQ+ rights, thereby constructing homophobia as a solely ‘Islamic backward’ problem. In the UK, on the other hand, these ‘sexular’ constitutions (Scott, 2009) are left much more implicit. Exemplary of this is that there are some ‘secularist ex-Muslims’ who have recently aligned themselves actively with LGBTQ+ interests, by joining the London Pride each year since 2017. Their, according to some, provocative contributions have not remained uncontested and have been labelled ‘Islamophobic’ by their critics. The difference between the two countries is clear: whilst in the Netherlands the equation of homophobia and Islam is almost a nationally held conviction by the dominant discourse, in the UK mere allusion to that Islam may harbour anti-gay sentiments (by former Muslims) is already a highly contested and sensitive matter. This chapter illustrates there are considerable overlaps in the construction of ‘an Other’ in both countries, spaces which my interlocutors navigate, and they do so sometimes similarly to one another in each country, connecting religious and secular dominant frames through their awareness of alleged Muslim otherness in their respective secular societies. However, there are also significant differences between interlocutors in each country, which relate back to the discursive productions of what is appropriately religious or deemed properly secular (for example through embodiment in chapter 5, or public speech in chapter 6) by creating different spaces, or subverting certain dominant frames.

269

Research methods and analytical framework All the data which this dissertation centers around has been intermittently collected between January 2016 and April 2019 in Britain and the Netherlands. Ethnographic data was collected over a period of 18 months during 2017 and 2018, during which I conducted 22 in-depth interviews in the Netherlands, and 22 in Britain. The interlocutors roughly represented the ethnic composition of Muslims with migrant backgrounds in each country. There were no age restrictions and both genders were included. Furthermore, I attended numerous meetings and activities, during which I had many informal talks with participants. The people I met came from all over each country and no selection criteria were based on socio-economic status, education, profession, online presence or activity. Rather, about half of my interlocutors were found via social media such as (closed) Facebook groups; the other half were found through my own (secondary) network and snowballing. In chapter 2, I lay out the methodological and analytical framework this research is based on, and expand on Dialogical Self Theory in order to illustrate its benefits for the analysis of narratives of moving out of Islam in a post-migration context. With leaving one’s religion, complex mechanisms of doubt, uncertainty, and ethical self-making may come to the fore. Being in a post-migration context raises additional issues of intersectionality. Dialogical Self Theory is well-suited for the close-reading and in-depth analysis of such trajectories out of Islam, because it firstly considers the actual voices and their interaction in self-narrative. Secondly, Dialogical Self Theory allows for the recognition of the complex embeddedness of these voices in discursive power-structures. Thirdly, it considers self-making agentic properties. The particular usefulness of this theory is exemplified by applying its analytical tools to one such trajectory.

Between secularities and religion In order to further elaborate on the discursive positioning of some of my interlocutors, the third chapter uses the interpretative device of ‘multiple secularities’ (Burchardt & Wohlrab-Sahr, 2012) to interrogate the presence of ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ in the British debate on Islam and freedom of expression. By contrasting Britain with the Netherlands, where these voices are currently relatively absent, it examines ‘secularist ex-Muslim voices’ as expressed at the International Conference on Freedom of Conscience and Expression in London, July 2017. I argue that these voices have surfaced here due to Britain’s particular history of secularity for

270 the sake of accommodating diversity. They challenge institutionalised levels (state church relations, multiculturalism, and communitarianism) and social and cultural forms (debate on freedom of expression and Islamophobia). These voices are relatively absent in the Netherlands due to its dominant secularity for the sake of social/national integration. Due to the particular histories of secularity, reference problems that surface in Britain have less bearing on the Dutch situation. These voices have, therefore, been relatively absent. In chapter 4, I delve into the personal narratives of my interlocutors. Rather than focusing primarily on ‘leaving faith’ (i.e. a predominantly negative and religiously centred approach), I present four types of thematic trajectories that consider the broader life-worlds and experiences of my interlocutors. These themes illustrate the relative weight of the religious voice in trajectories, rather than presupposing the centrality of religion in one’s (former) identity or trajectory. I thereby display a broader understanding of my interlocutors’ experiences as being in a negative relation to religion alone: not only religious, but also political, social, ethnic, and gender boundaries provided the contexts in which people moved out of Islam. The themes (‘religious break’, ‘social break-away’, ‘the entrance’ and ‘unconscious secularisation’) are illustrated by four case studies. A fifth case is presented to illustrate the potency of the intertwinement of the themes. To further empirically look at the experiences of moving out of Islam, the fifth chapter takes as a starting point the body, and specifically how belonging is negotiated through embodied practices, or the lack thereof. It first outlines how the Muslim identity and its bodily performance are highly contested in European public spheres. Both religious and secular discourses ascribe certain features to what it means to be Muslim. Religious voices may do so to demarcate the contested ‘own’ and secure a sense of belonging, whilst the secular may do so to demarcate what is ‘other’ and thereby implicitly self. In light of these discourses, this chapter explores what happens when these alleged boundaries and demarcations become blurred, by analysing how bodily expressions and performances may change or remain unaltered for those who grew up in Muslim communities, but now no longer believe in an Abrahamic God. In narratives of transforming lives affected by a loss of faith, questions of believing and belonging become particularly salient in light of the bodily practices that either ascertain or terminate one’s membership to the religious or secular environs. Whilst (internalised) discourses may have particular expectations of what a certain body ought to look or behave like, those travelling between the religious and secular spheres, (re)negotiate these expectations as to form their own sets of bodily ethics in very individualised ways, straddling both sides of ‘the incommensurable divide’ (Mahmood, 2009). Performances of ‘knowledge,

271 practice, and embodiment’ sometimes changed, especially its gendered, sexualised and sometimes racialised aspects. Others remained unaltered when moving out of Islam, certain behaviours, knowledges, or practices which were considered religious were retained. The ‘distinct modes of power’ (Hirschkind, 2011) of a secular and religious body played a role in how people negotiate ideological and existential conviction with a very practical being in the world. Chapter 6 focusses on the potential performance of non-belief in the form of speech. By critically examining the function of testimony in conversion and deconversion narratives, this chapter problematises the assumed boundaries of belief, non-belief, and the function of the performance of identity. It does so by investigating contemplations over private and public performances, since the performance of speech was thought to have different effects in both spheres. Whilst public discourses on leaving Islam and speaking freely were always weighed, in private these were related to familial bonds, love, and belonging. On the other hand, considering speaking out in public was often contextualised with reference to potential secularist appropriation of their stories as ‘native testimonial’ (Mahmood, 2009b). As such, my interlocutors show that testifying of one’s religious transformation in the case of moving out of Islam was neither central nor conditional. Speech was mostly considered a ‘step beyond’ not believing.

Neither in nor out Collectively, these chapters give a unique perspective on moving out of Islam in the Netherlands and Britain, responding to contemporary outlooks on ‘apostasy’ from Islam, from various societal, political, and personal perspectives. I complicate the notions of what ‘moving out’ supposedly means as well as its consequences. There are three major conclusions to be drawn from this. First, we have to take into account the deeply personal processes of religious transformation people undergo. These range from traumatising struggles with one’s environs and convictions, to rather unnoticed secularisations. In order to understand religious decline, I believe all such experiences should be taken into account. In public debates, religion – and particularly when it concerns Islam – is generally assumed to be the sum of a problematised and securitised identity in Europe. Whilst not denying the importance of religion in people’s lives, as well as its importance for many of those who move out of Islam, I hope to have complicated the simplified notions of the dominant narratives, from both secular as well as religious perspectives.

272 Second, all the chapters (both implicitly as well as explicitly) highlight that ‘it is not just about faith’. Whilst indeed religious identities are often considered to be the defining trait of especially minorities in secular societies such as the Netherlands and Britain, my interlocutors balanced a great variety of identities and preoccupations in which the religious voice became sometimes more or less prominent. Assuming a centrality of religion and specifically ‘faith’ is insufficient for our approach and understanding of moving out of religion in general, and Islam specifically. Whether it was because ‘religion’ simply did not play such a big role at certain moments in time, or because embodied belonging was considered more important than professing convictions, this dissertation concludes that we ought to look beyond ‘what’s left behind’. Last, I wish to point to the reported ‘inbetweenness’ of those who have moved out of Islam in post-secular societies. My interlocutors negotiated belonging to both sides of the religious-secular divide, and often demonstrated a thoroughly personalised renegotiation of embodiment and morality to constitute selfhood without religion, balancing a simultaneous desire to retain community. This balancing act is a common denominator, whilst the outcomes of these negotiations and considerations in turn vary greatly. These experiences however, indicate another complication with the simplified notions of ‘being in or out’: whilst external religious and secular discourses may assert their desire for people to be either ‘one or the other’, my interlocutors often resisted such expectations in their own individualised ways in constituting their selfhood: they felt neither in nor out.

273 Nederlandse Samenvatting

Niet erbij of erbuiten Voormalige moslims tussen verhalen van behoren en seculiere overtuigingen in Nederland en het Verenigd Koninkrijk

Hoe ervaren mensen in het Verenigd Koninkrijk en Nederland het om islam te verlaten, en hoe gaan ze vervolgens om met de religieuze en seculiere contexten waarin zij leven? Dat is de centrale en leidende vraag voor dit proefschrift. Dit onderzoek, uitgevoerd vanuit een interdisciplinair perspectief, gaat over hoe mensen religieuze transformatie ervaren in een post- migratie context. Het houdt rekening met zowel het contextuele als het interpersoonlijke en de interactie ertussen door verhalen en ervaringen van mensen te bestuderen die zijn opgegroeid met een moslimachtergrond in Nederland en in het Verenigd Koninkrijk die zichzelf niet langer islamitisch of moslim noemen, en die zich ook niet hebben bekeerd tot een andere religie. De afgelopen decennia is religie steeds belangrijker geworden in geseculariseerde samenlevingen zoals het Verenigd Koninkrijk en Nederland. De focus van publieke en politieke discoursen is verlegd van ‘de ander, de immigrant’ in de jaren negentig naar een verhitte dominantere discussie vanaf de jaren tweeduizend over ‘de religieuze ander, de moslim’, die dan voornamelijk wordt gezien als een bedreiging voor moderne seculiere waarden. In dit proces worden vaak de perifere en fundamentele verschillen binnen deze groep vergeten; de intersectionele identiteiten zoals etniciteit, cultuur, religiositeit, politiek, of zelfs gender worden niet altijd erkend. Afvalligheid – een religieuze term voor het verlaten van je religie – kan een gevoelig onderwerp zijn in religieuze kringen, en islam is hier geen uitzondering op. Het debat rond de vrijheid van religie en islam is daarbij in Europa verstrengeld geraakt met reductionistische discussies over hoe verenigbaar islam eigenlijk is met democratische waarden. Aan de ene kant wordt geredeneerd dat islam de religie van vrede is die achter de universele waarden vrijheid van religie en vrijheid van meningsuiting staat. Deze positie wordt publiek vaak ingenomen door zelfbenoemde ‘gematigde moslims’ en linkse politieke partijen. De ander kant wordt vertegenwoordigd door seculiere politieke kopstukken zoals Geert Wilders (en recenter Thierry Baudet) in Nederland, of UKIP in het VK, die claimen dat islam intolerant is en dat er geen vrijheid is om je religie te verlaten of om je hierover uit te spreken. Degenen die dat wel willen of wel doen worden gezien als slachtoffers van een onderdrukkende autoriteit. Dan zijn er ook

274 nog islamitische autoriteiten en individuen aan beide kanten van dit argument te vinden. Beide kanten vinden hun bewijs in de islamitische teksten, maar geen van beiden spreken echt over de geleefde realiteiten van mensen. De rol die religie speelt in de levens van mensen heeft door de geschiedenis heen veel aandacht gekregen van sociologen en antropologen, al is er nog altijd geen consensus over wat religie eigenlijk is. Als het om islam gaat, hebben de recente werken van met name Talal Asad (1986; 1993), Saba Mahmood (2005) en Charles Hirschkind (2005) meerdere academici geïnspireerd om ‘islam als een discursieve traditie’ te bestuderen. In respons vroeg Samuli Schielke (2010) zich af of deze benadering zich wellicht teveel op de rol van ‘islam’ en ‘religiositeit’ van mensen heeft gericht en wellicht minder aandacht had voor vragen over ambiguïteit. Hij stelde voor om ook te kijken naar het alledaagse in de levens van mensen, want vaak hebben mensen meer te overwegen dan religie alleen, wanneer ze keuzes maken. In ander recent werk wat zich meer richt op ‘het seculiere’ is er vooral aandacht geweest voor de afwezigheid van religie in post-seculiere samenlevingen. Met het post-seculiere wordt bedoeld, dat wat er ontstaat naar gelang er meer religieuze diversiteit is in een samenleving, maar ook specifiek de onderliggende seculiere ideologie als een zogenoemde neutrale manier van besturen waar natiestaten naar streven. Studies naar ‘seculier zijn’ hebben zich op die manier vooral gericht op wat individuen zijn in relatie tot religie (i.e. atheïst, non-religieus, agnost enzovoorts). Deze benadering wordt gesteund door de logische aanname dat ‘het seculiere’ en ‘het religieuze’ van elkaar afhankelijk zijn, elkaar nodig hebben, en dus altijd in relatie tot elkaar bestudeerd dienen te worden. Deze aanname heeft echter geleid tot een impliciete bias in godsdienstwetenschap richting de afwezigheid van religie in seculiere levens, in plaats van een grondige analyse van wat zulke levens nou eigenlijk inhouden naast de relatie met religie. Onderzoek naar het ‘verliezen van religie’ heeft zich ook op die manier vooral gericht op wat er nog ‘over’ is, en hoe mensen hun verhalen vertellen ‘uit het geloof’ (zie, onder andere: Bromley, 1998; Bromley and Shupe, 1986; Cottee, 2015; Fenelon & Danielsen, 2016; Gooren, 2010; Sevinç, Coleman & Hood, 2018; Streib et al., 2009). In dit proefschrift haak ik aan op deze discussies door kritisch te engageren met de ervaringen van mensen die uit de islam bewegen in Nederland en het Verenigd Koninkrijk. Om de hele studie te contextualiseren, richt ik mij in het eerste hoofdstuk op de constructie van dominante discoursen in beide landen omtrent islam en moslims. Dit doe ik aan de hand van een analyse van publieke debatten, gebeurtenissen die effect hebben gehad op deze discoursen en prominente (politieke) figuren in beide landen. Hierna doorkruis ik deze analyse met gegenderde discussies over islam en moslims in het publieke debat en de media en de rol van

275 ‘ex-moslims’. Dit hoofdstuk veronderstelt dat ‘het seculiere’ net zo’n constituerende macht heeft over het bepalen wat religieus mag zijn in religieuze en seculiere omgevingen, en daarmee impliciet het seculiere definieert, en wat voor gedragingen geaccepteerd zijn in publieke ruimtes. De twee recente geschiedenissen van elk land kennen overeenkomsten maar ook significante verschillen wanneer het gaat over hoe deze kwesties zijn besproken, bediscussieerd en gevormd met betrekking tot religie (dat wil zeggen, islam) in de publieke ruimte. Eerst bespreek ik de situatie in Nederland sinds de jaren tachtig. Gebeurtenissen zoals de Salman Rushdie affaire, maar ook de moorden op Pim Fortuyn en Vincent van Gogh, de gelijktijdige opkomst van het nieuw realisme en de sterk polariserende politieke discoursen waar Nederland zich momenteel in bevindt, zet ik uiteen. Thema’s, of zogenoemde ‘waarden en normen’, die de kop op blijven steken in dit nationale narratief zijn seksuele vrijheid, de vrijheid van meningsuiting en identiteitspolitiek, welke verschillende betekenissen toegeschreven hebben gekregen door de jaren heen. Sinds de jaren negentig heeft een dominant assimilatiediscours het publieke debat vormgegeven. Na een analyse van de situatie in het Verenigd Koninkrijk, waar ook de recente geschiedenis met betrekking tot islam uiteen wordt gezet en de verschillende stemmen die zeker ook anti-islam sentimenten hebben geventileerd, blijkt dat hier het multiculturele discours veel langer dominant is gebleven. Vervolgens wijdt dit hoofdstuk verder uit over hoe gegenderde en seksuele constructies dit debat en publieke discours over moslims en islam hebben vormgegeven in beide landen. Door middel van een korte analyse van de houdingen van prominente politieke Nederlandse leiders en hun beleid, wordt duidelijk dat er een heel specifieke vorm van seksuele vrijheid deel is van een ‘Nederlands’ seculier zelfbeeld. Dit is inclusief een presentatie van de nationale zelf als seksueel progressief: ten alle tijden omarmt men holebitrans rechten, en is homofobie geconstrueerd als een ‘achtergesteld islamitisch probleem’. In het Verenigd Koninkrijk daarentegen worden deze ‘seksuliere’ (Scott, 2009) waarden veel meer impliciet gelaten. Een voorbeeld hiervan was een groep ‘seculiere ex-moslims’ die zich sinds 2017 hebben geallieerd met holebitrans interesses, door deel te nemen aan de London Pride. Hun, volgens sommigen, provocerende bijdragen (e.g.: een spandoek met ‘Allah is Gay’) zijn kritisch ontvangen door verschillende commentatoren die hen ‘islamofobisch’ noemden. Het verschil tussen de twee landen wordt duidelijk: in Nederland is de associatie tussen islam en homofobie een haast nationale overtuiging, terwijl in het Verenigd Koninkrijk dit veel gevoeliger ligt. Dit hoofdstuk laat zien dat er soms grote overlap tussen beide landen bestaat wanneer het gaat over gemarginaliseerde posities van moslims, maar er zijn ook vaak significante verschillen, en dit zijn precies de ruimtes die mijn interlocutors vaak navigeren. Dit heeft vaak

276 te maken met de discursieve productie van de ruimte die islam in seculiere contexten krijgt toebedeeld. Dit uit zich bijvoorbeeld in vragen of iemand zich nu helemaal Westers voor moet doen, nu ze niet meer in Allah gelooft? Of in onderhandelingen over bepaalde gedragingen, wanneer iemand bijvoorbeeld weigert om grappen te maken over islam in de angst anti- moslimsentimenten te voeden.

Onderzoeksmethoden en het analytische raamwerk Alle data waar dit proefschrift zich op baseert, zijn verzameld tussen januari 2016 en april 2019, in Nederland en het Verenigd Koninkrijk. De specifiek etnografische data zijn verzameld gedurende een periode van 18 maanden gedurende 2017 en 2018. Ik heb in deze tijd 22 diepte- interviews in Nederland en 22 diepte-interviews in het Verenigd Koninkrijk afgenomen. Die interlocutors waren een grove representatie van de etnische compositie van moslims met migratieachtergronden in ieder land. Er waren geen restricties met betrekking tot leeftijd en ik heb zowel mannen als vrouwen geïnterviewd. Daarnaast heb ik verschillende bijeenkomsten en activiteiten bijgewoond, en tijdens deze bijeenkomsten heb ik vele informele gesprekken gevoerd met deelnemers. De mensen die ik tegen ben gekomen kwamen uit alle windstreken, en er waren geen selectiecriteria gebaseerd op socio-economische status, genoten onderwijs, beroepsgroep, of online aanwezigheid of activiteit. Ongeveer de helft van mijn gesprekspartners heb ik via sociale media en online gevonden, zoals besloten facebookgroepen, de andere helft heb ik gevonden via mijn eigen (secundaire) netwerk en ‘snowballing’. In hoofdstuk twee leg ik het methodologische en theoretische raamwerk voor dit onderzoek uit. Ik weid uitgebreid uit over Dialogical Self Theory zodat ik de voordelen van deze theorie kan illustreren voor de analyse van narratieven over het verlaten van islam in een post-migratie context. Wanneer iemand zijn religie verlaat, kunnen complexe mechanismen van twijfel, onzekerheid en ethisch zelf-verstaan in gang worden gezet. De post-migratie setting levert daarbij extra intersectionele problematiek op. Dialogical Self Theory is daarom uitermate geschikt voor het intensief bestuderen en analyseren van zulke trajecten uit de islam, aangezien het ten eerste rekening houdt met de daadwerkelijke stemmen en hun interactie in zelf-vertellingen. Ten tweede kan men met Dialogical Self Theory rekening houden met de complexe inbedding van deze stemmen in de discursieve machtsstructuren. Ten derde houdt het rekening met het vermogen van de zelf om zichzelf vorm te geven. Dit nut illustreer ik met behulp van een diepte analyse van een van de interviews.

277 Tussen seculariteiten en religie Om verder in te kunnen gaan op de discursieve positionering van mijn interlocutors gebruik ik in hoofdstuk drie het verklarende ‘multiple secularities’ model (Burchardt & Wohlrab-Sahr, 2012). Hiermee bevraag ik de aanwezigheid van ‘seculiere ex-moslims’ in het Britse debat over islam en de vrijheid van meningsuiting. Door het Verenigd Koninkrijk met Nederland te vergelijken, waar deze stemmen momenteel relatief afwezig zijn, analyseer ik deze ‘seculiere ex-moslim stemmen’ zoals ik deze tegenkwam op de International Conference on Freedom of Conscience and Expression in Londen, juli 2017. Ik beargumenteer dat deze stemmen hier recent hebben geklonken vanwege het specifiek Britse seculariteitstraject, wat als doel heeft om diversiteit te accommoderen. Deze stemmen betwisten de geïnstitutionaliseerde niveaus (namelijk kerk-staat relaties, multiculturalisme en communitarisme) en de sociale en culturele vormen (het debat over de vrijheid van meningsuiting en islamofobie) van de Britse seculariteit. Deze stemmen zijn relatief afwezig in Nederland vanwege haar dominante seculariteit met sociale/nationale integratie als doel. Vanwege deze specifieke geschiedenissen van seculariteit worden verschillende ‘referentie problemen’ relevant: wat relevant is in het Verenigd Koninkrijk is minder van toepassing op de Nederlandse situatie. Dit is de reden dat deze stemmen daar nu relatief afwezig zijn. In tegenstelling tot de publieke optredens in hoofdstuk drie, duik ik in hoofdstuk vier in de persoonlijke vertellingen van mijn interlocutors. Ik richt mij hier niet primair op ‘het verlaten van religie’ (een voornamelijk negatief en religieus georiënteerde benadering), maar ik presenteer vier thematische typeringen van trajecten. Deze typeringen nemen de bredere beleving van mijn interlocutors in acht. Ze illustreren de relatieve zwaarte van de religieuze stem in deze trajecten, in plaats van de centrale positie van religie te vooronderstellen in identiteit en ervaring. Ik laat hierbij zien dat de ervaringen van mijn interlocuors niet slechts een negatieve relatie tot religie behelzen. De contexten en achtergronden waartegen mensen de uit de islam bewogen, kennen niet alleen religieuze maar ook politieke, sociale, etnische en gegenderde begrenzingen. De thema’s (religieuze breuk, de sociale break-away, de binnenkomst, en de onderbewuste secularisatie) worden elk geïllustreerd door een casestudie, met een vijfde voorbeeld waarin ze alle vier naar voren komen. In het vijfde hoofdstuk neem ik het lichaam als uitgangspunt, en specifiek hoe het tot een groep behoren wordt onderhandeld met belichaamde praktijken, of de afwezigheid daarvan. Eerst zet ik uiteen hoe de moslimidentiteit en haar belichaamde uitvoering uitermate omstreden zijn in de Britse en Nederlandse publieke ruimtes. Religieuze en seculiere discoursen schrijven bepaalde fysieke kenmerken toe aan wat het betekent om moslim te zijn.

278 Religieuze stemmen kunnen dit doen om af te bakenen wat bij het eigen hoort, terwijl seculiere stemmen dit doen om ‘de ander’ af te bakenen, en daarmee ook impliciet het zelf. In het licht van deze discoursen onderzoek ik in dit hoofdstuk wat er dan gebeurt als deze veronderstelde grenzen en afbakeningen opeens niet meer zo strak zijn maar vervagen: wanneer mensen niet meer in Allah geloven, zichzelf niet meer moslim noemen, zich niet bekeren naar een ander geloof, en hoe de lichamelijke ervaringen dan soms veranderen of juist hetzelfde blijven. In de verhalen over getransformeerde levens die zijn beïnvloed door een verlies van geloof, worden vragen over geloven en behoren tot een groep relevant. Dit is vooral in het licht van die belichaamde praktijken die juist het lidmaatschap bij een bepaalde groep (hetzij religieus, het zij seculier) kunnen bepalen. Terwijl (soms geïnternaliseerde) discoursen zekere verwachtingen kunnen hebben over hoe een bepaald lichaam eruitziet of hoe het zich hoort te gedragen, (her)onderhandelen zij die bewegen tussen de religieuze en seculiere sferen deze verwachtingen, zodat ze hun eigen belichaamde disposities kunnen vormen op vaak een hele individuele manier. Ze overbruggen, of liever overstijgen daarmee de gepolariseerde discoursen van ‘religieus’ en ‘seculier’. De uitvoeringen van ‘kennis, praktijk en belichaming’ veranderen soms, vooral in zijn gegenderde, geseksualiseerde, en soms geracialiseerde aspecten. Anderen blijven nagenoeg gelijk in hun beweging uit de islam: bepaalde gedragingen, kennis, of praktijken die religieus werden geacht worden behouden. De ‘distinctieve modes van macht’ (Hirschkind, 2011) van een seculier en religieus lichaam spelen een rol in hoe mensen hun ideologische en existentiële overtuigingen balanceren met een heel praktisch in-de-wereld-zijn. In hoofdstuk zes kijk ik naar de potentiele performance van ongeloof in de vorm van spraak. Door kritisch naar de functie van de getuigenis te kijken in bekerings- en ontkeringsverhalen, problematiseer ik in dit hoofdstuk de vooronderstelde grenzen van geloof, ongeloof en de functie van de performance van identiteit. Ik onderzoek de overwegingen die mijn interlocutors hadden over zich uitspreken in de privésfeer of in het openbaar. Spraak werd geacht een ander effect te hebben in beide contexten. Terwijl voor openbaar uitspreken het publieke discours over het verlaten van de islam en de veronderstelde vrijheid van meningsuiting werden gewogen, werd er in de privésfeer meer verbonden aan de banden die men had met familie en vrienden, liefde, en erbij willen horen. Verder werd het publiek spreken vaak in de context geplaatst met verwijzingen naar de potentiele seculiere toe-eigening van hun verhalen als ‘native testimonial’ (Mahmood, 2009b). Zo lieten mijn interlocutors zien dat het getuigen van religieuze transformatie in het geval van de islam verlaten eigenlijk nooit centraal

279 of conditioneel was. Spraak werd over het algemeen gezien als ‘een stap verder dan niet geloven’.

Niet erbij of erbuiten In deze hoofdstukken geef ik een unieke blik op het verlaten van de islam in Nederland en het Verenigd Koninkrijk, in gesprek met hedendaagse discoursen over ‘afvalligheid’ en islam, vanuit verschillende maatschappelijke, politieke en persoonlijke perspectieven. Ik compliceer de noties van wat ‘islam verlaten’ zou betekenen, en ook de gevolgen die het zou hebben. Ik trek hieruit drie grote conclusies. Ten eerste moeten we ten alle tijden rekening houden met de zeer persoonlijke processen van religieuze transformatie die mensen ondergaan. Dit varieert van zeer traumatische ervaringen en worstelingen met de persoonlijke omgeving, tot haast ongemerkte secularisaties. Als we willen begrijpen waarom mensen minder religieus worden, geloof ik dat we al deze ervaringen mee moeten nemen. Religie – en vooral wanneer het over islam gaat – wordt in het publieke debat over het algemeen gezien als de som van een geproblematiseerde identiteit in Europa. Door te wijzen naar de bredere leefwereld van mensen ontken ik niet het belang dat religie heeft in de levens van mensen, en ook niet het belang van religie voor velen die de islam verlaten, maar ik hoop wel dat ik versimpelde ideeën en dominante narratieven, vanuit religieuze en seculiere perspectieven, heb kunnen nuanceren. Ten tweede tonen alle hoofdstukken (impliciet en expliciet) aan dat het ‘niet alleen maar over geloof’ gaat. Vaak worden religieuze identiteiten toch als een definiërende eigenschap gezien, vooral als het over minderheden gaat in seculiere samenlevingen zoals het Verenigd Koninkrijk en Nederland. Maar mijn interlocutors lieten juist zien dat ze vele identiteiten en eigenschappen balanceerden, waar soms de religieuze stem belangrijker werd, en soms veel stiller was. De aanname dat religie, en vooral ook ‘geloof’, altijd centraal staat, is niet voldoende voor onze benadering van en begrip over het uit religie bewegen over het algemeen, en uit islam in het bijzonder. Soms speelde religie gewoon ‘niet zo’n rol’, of soms was het belichaamde behoren belangrijker dan het uiten van overtuigingen. In dit proefschrift concludeer ik dat we verder moeten kijken dan naar wat men achterlaat. Als laatste wil ik nadruk leggen op de ervaring van mijn interlocutors van ‘het ertussen zitten’. Ze onderhandelen allemaal over een bepaald gevoel van behoren, bij het religieuze willen horen, en bij het seculiere willen horen. Ze lieten vaak enorm gepersonaliseerde onderhandelingen zien over belichaming en moraliteit, zodat ze een vorm van individualiteit konden opbouwen zonder religie, terwijl ze dit met het verlangen om bij hun familie en soms

280 religieuze gemeenschap te blijven horen balanceerden. Deze balanceer-act was gemeengoed, iedereen was hier op de een of andere manier mee bezig, terwijl de uitkomsten van deze onderhandelingen verschilden per persoon. Deze ervaringen wijzen echter op een andere complexiteit met de versimpelde ideeën over ‘erin en eruit’ zijn: terwijl externe religieuze en seculiere discoursen wel kunnen verwachten van individuen om of het een of het ander te zijn, verzetten mijn interlocutors zich veelal tegen dit soort verwachtingen op hun eigen individuele manier om zo hun eigenheid te bewaren: ze voelden zich er niet helemaal bij horen, maar wilden ook niet erbuiten staan.

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