Mohamed Miah|The Narratives
Every workplace talks about inclusion. But living as a Muslim in Britain has shown me how shallow those words can be.
I stepped off a train on the way to work, waiting for my taxi, when a large white man in his 30s started making monkey noises and gestures at me. For a second I froze.
You don’t fight back, you don’t even shout. You just stand there in shock, thinking, Did that really just happen? What am I witnessing? Later you replay it, and part of you feels cowardly for not doing more.
But the truth is, it’s degrading. It’s disgusting. It’s hateful. It leaves you scared. Racism isn’t abstract when you’re made to feel it — it’s physical, it’s in your chest, in your skin. It’s a shock to the system.
That moment has stayed with me. And it wasn’t the only time. Last year, when far-right riots spread across the country, there was a violent protest in a city I usually travel through for work. I delayed my journey because I didn’t want to risk being caught in something ugly.
My colleagues said “that’s fine,” but not one of them asked: Are you scared? How does it make you feel? Silence again. The silence is almost worse than the comments. It shows a complete lack of awareness of what it means to walk through this world brown, Muslim, and marked before you even open your mouth.
Within the workplace setting, you find the same ignorance in smaller doses. The casual comments. The thoughtless “banter.” The things that people think are normal but which chip away at you all the same.
Take food, for example. Whenever the team goes out, it’s pubs or restaurants that never offer halal. No one even asks, “Shall we pick somewhere everyone can eat?” The default is exclusion, wrapped up in casual normality. And if I say I can’t eat it? A shrug. Or worse, insistence that I should “just try it.”
I remember one colleague offering to make me a traditional dish. I explained I couldn’t eat it because it wasn’t halal. Instead of understanding, they pushed: “Oh, but you have to try it.” As if my faith is a preference, something negotiable.
Then there are the other comments. Once, when I said I was going abroad on holiday to see history, a team leader exclaimed, “That place?! Isn’t that where the terrorists are?” Said with a laugh, but it landed like a stone.
Imagine if the roles were reversed, and someone replied with a remark about occupation or violence. That would never pass. But Muslims, certain countries, suddenly it’s fair game.
Sometimes it’s even dressed up as kindness. An older colleague once said to me, “It’s not you, you’re okay. I feel sorry for you and your family. You’re one of the good ones. It’s the others we don’t like — the immigrants.”
As if I was some kind of exception. I thought to myself “I’m not the exception, I’m the rule. We’re all like this. A tiny minority might be bad, but that’s the world over.”
That’s how I try to live. I try to live Islam to win hearts and minds. No matter the prejudice, I try to be generous and kind. Even when colleagues have difficult moments, I help them and support them. I stand up for them. I might not change minds, but Allah sees my intention.
A friend once told me the thing that does his head in about me is that I can be too self-righteous. Too self-righteous? Too woke? Or maybe just too decent? If that’s a fault, I’ll stick to it. Because Allah told us to strive for righteousness, and through that, we have a chance at heaven.
And that’s the truth I’ve had to accept, no matter how blue my passport is, no matter how clearly my birth certificate says British, my skin will always be the differential.
That reality chips away at you. Slowly, it makes you unhappy at work. It makes you demotivated. It makes you snappy, angry, sometimes even chaotic. For someone who already struggles with depression, the effect is doubled. You carry that weight into your work, then your home and even into yourself.
And yet, I try to stay patient. Not because I don’t feel the anger, but because I need to. My faith teaches me that patience is a strength, that Allah sees what people say and do, even when no one else does. In those moments, I remind myself that dignity isn’t given by colleagues or managers — it’s something Allah has already written for me.
Faith grounds me when the world tries to shake me. In sujood, I leave the weight behind, even if just for a moment. Because I know that this life is a test, and my job isn’t to fight every battle but to endure with dignity.
That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t leave scars. But it does mean I won’t let their ignorance or hate define me.
Inclusion isn’t about posters or policies. It’s about humanity. Until that lesson isn’t learned and lived in every workplace, people like me will keep carrying this unseen weight, quietly, patiently, but never without cost, sadness. Yet we will endure.
And if that makes me “too righteous”? Then so be it. I’d rather carry righteousness than carry hate.
The Narratives - Mohamed Miah 
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