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‘Art gets things out in the open’ – young British Muslim artists tell their stories	‘Art gets things out in the open’ – young British Muslim artists tell their stories
2015-04-12 09:40:25 UTC	2015-04-22 12:04:14 UTC (10 days later)
The stories that follow are based on interviews with four successful young British artists – working as actors, poets, playwrights, painters – who grew up in Muslim communities. Three of the artists I spoke to were born in this country; the fourth, Yusra Warsama, arrived as a baby. All in their 30s, they are old enough to remember the relatively relaxed multiculturalism of the 1990s and to have come of age during the increasing tensions, driven by the news agenda of the past 15 years.	The stories that follow are based on interviews with four successful young British artists – working as actors, poets, playwrights, painters – who grew up in Muslim communities. Three of the artists I spoke to were born in this country; the fourth, Yusra Warsama, arrived as a baby. All in their 30s, they are old enough to remember the relatively relaxed multiculturalism of the 1990s and to have come of age during the increasing tensions, driven by the news agenda of the past 15 years.
The question I was interested to put to them was this: to what degree do they feel a responsibility to use their artistic voices to counter the stridently negative stereotypes that young British Muslims face?	The question I was interested to put to them was this: to what degree do they feel a responsibility to use their artistic voices to counter the stridently negative stereotypes that young British Muslims face?
The answers, properly complex and varied, are set out in their words below.	The answers, properly complex and varied, are set out in their words below.
Though each of them had a very distinct reaction to the challenges of making art that seemed honest and relevant to the present moment, it was also true that in talking to the four of them separately, common themes emerged. One was the sense, expressed by poet, actor and playwright Warsama, that the current media conversation was almost entirely one way. British Muslim communities were often the subject of inquiry and suspicion, but were rarely allowed space to express exactly how they felt about it. “When people find language for themselves it should mean they can have a robust conversation,” Warsama said. “That is what my generation is about. We feel British, we feel part of this society, we want to talk about it.”	Though each of them had a very distinct reaction to the challenges of making art that seemed honest and relevant to the present moment, it was also true that in talking to the four of them separately, common themes emerged. One was the sense, expressed by poet, actor and playwright Warsama, that the current media conversation was almost entirely one way. British Muslim communities were often the subject of inquiry and suspicion, but were rarely allowed space to express exactly how they felt about it. “When people find language for themselves it should mean they can have a robust conversation,” Warsama said. “That is what my generation is about. We feel British, we feel part of this society, we want to talk about it.”
And when each of the four did talk about it, there was the sense in every case that the desire to be understood, in a sea of misunderstanding, was the impulse that led them to pursue their vocation in the first place. Two of the four gave up other careers because they felt they had no choice but to try to make better sense of their world; writing, for Avaes Mohammad, who was studying for a PhD in chemistry at the time of 9/11, was a way of maintaining sanity.	And when each of the four did talk about it, there was the sense in every case that the desire to be understood, in a sea of misunderstanding, was the impulse that led them to pursue their vocation in the first place. Two of the four gave up other careers because they felt they had no choice but to try to make better sense of their world; writing, for Avaes Mohammad, who was studying for a PhD in chemistry at the time of 9/11, was a way of maintaining sanity.
He suggested that the Muslim communities he knew felt “under siege” – spied on, interrogated, routinely asked to “put their house in order” as if they were not, and had never been, an equal part of British society. This, suggested Birmingham street artist Mohammed Ali, had led to a greater defensiveness, an inward turn, insularity and paranoia, both within his community and toward it.	He suggested that the Muslim communities he knew felt “under siege” – spied on, interrogated, routinely asked to “put their house in order” as if they were not, and had never been, an equal part of British society. This, suggested Birmingham street artist Mohammed Ali, had led to a greater defensiveness, an inward turn, insularity and paranoia, both within his community and toward it.
If the four artists were collectively committed to one thing it was to reverse that trend, to get communities talking to one another again. Art – whether it be one of Ali’s murals mixing Qur’anic calligraphy with Banksy-style graphic impact, or Aisha Zia’s play No Guts, Ho Heart, No Glory, staged in a boxing gym and telling true stories of young Bradford girls’ lives – was the channel for that conversation, a way of undermining polarities and finding some shared ground.	If the four artists were collectively committed to one thing it was to reverse that trend, to get communities talking to one another again. Art – whether it be one of Ali’s murals mixing Qur’anic calligraphy with Banksy-style graphic impact, or Aisha Zia’s play No Guts, Ho Heart, No Glory, staged in a boxing gym and telling true stories of young Bradford girls’ lives – was the channel for that conversation, a way of undermining polarities and finding some shared ground.
None of the artists saw herself or himself as a spokesperson – that would be a different kind of denial of individuality. As Warsama said: “I could write something about being a subjugated Muslim Somali girl in Manchester, held down and determined to break free of her shackles, you know. That’s what I’m expected to do. It would be really easy to get an audience going. But I wouldn’t be telling the truth. The oppressed Muslim girl is a sexy story. The woman from Moss Side who wears a headscarf and has become an astrophysicist or whatever is not sexy because it doesn’t fit that dominant narrative.”	None of the artists saw herself or himself as a spokesperson – that would be a different kind of denial of individuality. As Warsama said: “I could write something about being a subjugated Muslim Somali girl in Manchester, held down and determined to break free of her shackles, you know. That’s what I’m expected to do. It would be really easy to get an audience going. But I wouldn’t be telling the truth. The oppressed Muslim girl is a sexy story. The woman from Moss Side who wears a headscarf and has become an astrophysicist or whatever is not sexy because it doesn’t fit that dominant narrative.”
Changing that narrative is frustrating and sometimes courageous work. It is, as they would all agree, also about mischief and surprise.	Changing that narrative is frustrating and sometimes courageous work. It is, as they would all agree, also about mischief and surprise.
Mohammed Ali, street artist and curator	Mohammed Ali, street artist and curator
Mohammed Ali, 35, was born in Birmingham and set up the Hubb arts centre in his home city. His painting includes references to Arabic calligraphy as well as western graffiti styles. He has been commissioned to create murals in London, New York, Chicago, Toronto and many other cities. He recently spoke at the first TedX conference at the Vatican, on the subject of religious freedom.	Mohammed Ali, 35, was born in Birmingham and set up the Hubb arts centre in his home city. His painting includes references to Arabic calligraphy as well as western graffiti styles. He has been commissioned to create murals in London, New York, Chicago, Toronto and many other cities. He recently spoke at the first TedX conference at the Vatican, on the subject of religious freedom.
This Hubb space opened and it was exciting because there was nowhere else like it. It was run by Muslim artists but open to all. And it wasn’t in Birmingham city centre, it was in Sparkbrook, an area associated with all kinds of negativity. That was 2008. We ran it for three years and it was amazing. People were coming from all over. I have travelled to a lot of places but I am very pro-Birmingham. This is my city: my father was buried here, my three kids were born here.	This Hubb space opened and it was exciting because there was nowhere else like it. It was run by Muslim artists but open to all. And it wasn’t in Birmingham city centre, it was in Sparkbrook, an area associated with all kinds of negativity. That was 2008. We ran it for three years and it was amazing. People were coming from all over. I have travelled to a lot of places but I am very pro-Birmingham. This is my city: my father was buried here, my three kids were born here.
The city council compulsorily purchased the Hubb building. They said they were demolishing it but it’s still there. There’s some talk it might be an Islamic centre, but we don’t need any more of those. We need art reaching outwards. I just took on the keys to a new space, owned by the Yemeni community. In six months we will be up and running again.	The city council compulsorily purchased the Hubb building. They said they were demolishing it but it’s still there. There’s some talk it might be an Islamic centre, but we don’t need any more of those. We need art reaching outwards. I just took on the keys to a new space, owned by the Yemeni community. In six months we will be up and running again.
One problem for Muslims is that social spaces in this country exist around alcohol. People expect it to be there. If you’d seen what I’d seen in the restaurant my dad ran when I was growing up, the crap we had to put up with from drunks, the puke I had to clean out of the toilets on a Friday and Saturday night, you would know it is not just a religious issue with me. Alcohol put my dad in hospital – I saw him beaten around the head. So I won’t meet in bars. I go to cafes. But there is not much cafe culture here.	One problem for Muslims is that social spaces in this country exist around alcohol. People expect it to be there. If you’d seen what I’d seen in the restaurant my dad ran when I was growing up, the crap we had to put up with from drunks, the puke I had to clean out of the toilets on a Friday and Saturday night, you would know it is not just a religious issue with me. Alcohol put my dad in hospital – I saw him beaten around the head. So I won’t meet in bars. I go to cafes. But there is not much cafe culture here.
That’s why the Hubb space was exciting. When I had an event there I would get upset if there wasn’t a 50/50 white/Asian split in the room. They would often be on separate sides but they would at least be in the same room.	That’s why the Hubb space was exciting. When I had an event there I would get upset if there wasn’t a 50/50 white/Asian split in the room. They would often be on separate sides but they would at least be in the same room.
Whenever I do a programme in mainstream places I say to people in the community: go, claim your place in these spaces, it’s your taxes that are paying for them. The sad reality is that, increasingly, there is nowhere in the city where people really mix. I’m fed up with being part of a silent minority. The immigrant mentality when my father came was: “Son, keep your head down.” People would do a runner in my dad’s restaurant. His mentality would be: let them go. My brother and I never did. We would chase them for miles. You have to stand your ground.	Whenever I do a programme in mainstream places I say to people in the community: go, claim your place in these spaces, it’s your taxes that are paying for them. The sad reality is that, increasingly, there is nowhere in the city where people really mix. I’m fed up with being part of a silent minority. The immigrant mentality when my father came was: “Son, keep your head down.” People would do a runner in my dad’s restaurant. His mentality would be: let them go. My brother and I never did. We would chase them for miles. You have to stand your ground.
A friend of mine runs a website in Amsterdam, which is called, in Dutch, We Are Here to Stay. There is something about the spirit of that that I love.	A friend of mine runs a website in Amsterdam, which is called, in Dutch, We Are Here to Stay. There is something about the spirit of that that I love.
Street art is like that. It is not the only thing I do but it is the perfect medium for me. It made sense as a Muslim. It was an expression of “Hey, I’m lost in this city, but I exist!” I like that George Orwell quote: “In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.” It feels like that. When I started, you could count on one hand the Muslim artists in this country. Here we were, post-9/11, trying to represent our Muslim British identity. It felt like something historic, almost.	Street art is like that. It is not the only thing I do but it is the perfect medium for me. It made sense as a Muslim. It was an expression of “Hey, I’m lost in this city, but I exist!” I like that George Orwell quote: “In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.” It feels like that. When I started, you could count on one hand the Muslim artists in this country. Here we were, post-9/11, trying to represent our Muslim British identity. It felt like something historic, almost.
I was in the middle of a painting when the Charlie Hebdo news happened. I was thinking: how will this painting be taken? I was thinking: will I have my door kicked in? Will there be a law introduced that will stop the free expression of Muslim artists?	I was in the middle of a painting when the Charlie Hebdo news happened. I was thinking: how will this painting be taken? I was thinking: will I have my door kicked in? Will there be a law introduced that will stop the free expression of Muslim artists?
The painting was exploring some of the local heritage that interested me. My dad worked at the Birmingham Small Arms (BSA) factory. People here forget that the south Asian community worked in the factories. In the painting I was looking at the history of the pen. There was a time this city made 75% of the world’s pens and I really liked that idea. It linked back to calligraphy and Islamic tradition.	The painting was exploring some of the local heritage that interested me. My dad worked at the Birmingham Small Arms (BSA) factory. People here forget that the south Asian community worked in the factories. In the painting I was looking at the history of the pen. There was a time this city made 75% of the world’s pens and I really liked that idea. It linked back to calligraphy and Islamic tradition.
Then in the middle of me making this painting – Charlie Hebdo. Suddenly pens became a different thing. This weapon we were being prodded with. So it became a darker piece, in a way. The next day the government starts talking about the inevitability of surveillance being increased. Our FaceTime, our WhatsApp – that was their priority now. I incorporated this surveillance camera in the painting. It was kind of a live piece.	Then in the middle of me making this painting – Charlie Hebdo. Suddenly pens became a different thing. This weapon we were being prodded with. So it became a darker piece, in a way. The next day the government starts talking about the inevitability of surveillance being increased. Our FaceTime, our WhatsApp – that was their priority now. I incorporated this surveillance camera in the painting. It was kind of a live piece.
Art is the best way of getting things out in the open. When we talk about radicalisation and we talk about those girls in Bethnal Green, say, my response is: give them a space in society to express themselves, to be angry and create what they want.	Art is the best way of getting things out in the open. When we talk about radicalisation and we talk about those girls in Bethnal Green, say, my response is: give them a space in society to express themselves, to be angry and create what they want.
I’m not an expert in preventing radicalisation but my feeling would be that being heard is enough for most people.	I’m not an expert in preventing radicalisation but my feeling would be that being heard is enough for most people.
I always say that if I was not being an artist I could have fallen into all kinds of crime. I thank graffiti. God knows what it saved me from. We can theorise for ever about radicalisation but sometimes the answers are right under our nose.	I always say that if I was not being an artist I could have fallen into all kinds of crime. I thank graffiti. God knows what it saved me from. We can theorise for ever about radicalisation but sometimes the answers are right under our nose.
Avaes Mohammad, poet and playwright	Avaes Mohammad, poet and playwright
Avaes Mohammad was born in Blackburn in 1978. He is the author of seven acclaimed plays. His poetry has won him an Amnesty Media award. His new plays, Hurling Rubble at the Moon and Hurling Rubble at the Sun, which examine the parallels between extreme English nationalism and Islamic fundamentalism in a northern city, will premiere at the Park Theatre in London next month.	Avaes Mohammad was born in Blackburn in 1978. He is the author of seven acclaimed plays. His poetry has won him an Amnesty Media award. His new plays, Hurling Rubble at the Moon and Hurling Rubble at the Sun, which examine the parallels between extreme English nationalism and Islamic fundamentalism in a northern city, will premiere at the Park Theatre in London next month.
I wrote my first poem, for performance, after the Oldham riots in 2001. I was in Manchester being a student, completing my bachelor’s degree in chemistry, and in May I came home from a club one night, late, off my head, and turned on Newsnight to see a man in a suit explaining how there was a serious issue with young Asian men in the north. That was a real huge shock to me. In my somewhat inebriated state, I remember thinking: “There is nobody on that panel speaking for Asian youth, so these men could get away with saying anything.”	I wrote my first poem, for performance, after the Oldham riots in 2001. I was in Manchester being a student, completing my bachelor’s degree in chemistry, and in May I came home from a club one night, late, off my head, and turned on Newsnight to see a man in a suit explaining how there was a serious issue with young Asian men in the north. That was a real huge shock to me. In my somewhat inebriated state, I remember thinking: “There is nobody on that panel speaking for Asian youth, so these men could get away with saying anything.”
Later that summer, I returned to Manchester to start my PhD, 9/11 happened and the whole world, including my whole world, changed. Suddenly everyone wanted to know about Islam. Friends started to question my religion and where I was brought up. Before that, I was just a student like everyone else. I started writing poetry, performing poetry, looking back, as a means of trying to stay sane within myself, with all the lies around me.	Later that summer, I returned to Manchester to start my PhD, 9/11 happened and the whole world, including my whole world, changed. Suddenly everyone wanted to know about Islam. Friends started to question my religion and where I was brought up. Before that, I was just a student like everyone else. I started writing poetry, performing poetry, looking back, as a means of trying to stay sane within myself, with all the lies around me.
When I first pitched these new plays three years ago, it was a trilogy that was going to look at the British Muslim experience of the last 15 years. The first part was going to be about that 2001 summer. And it was going to be set in a car. When I was that age, I spent my youth in cars, with friends, smoking weed, listening to Tupac, chasing girls and pretending to be bad. In Blackburn. When we were doing that nobody wanted to find out about us. As soon as the riots and 9/11 happened, though, it was as if young Asian men were noticed for the first time as a group. At the end of the play, these guys would emerge from the car.	When I first pitched these new plays three years ago, it was a trilogy that was going to look at the British Muslim experience of the last 15 years. The first part was going to be about that 2001 summer. And it was going to be set in a car. When I was that age, I spent my youth in cars, with friends, smoking weed, listening to Tupac, chasing girls and pretending to be bad. In Blackburn. When we were doing that nobody wanted to find out about us. As soon as the riots and 9/11 happened, though, it was as if young Asian men were noticed for the first time as a group. At the end of the play, these guys would emerge from the car.
When I pitched it, though, the theatre company, Red Ladder, said it couldn’t be a trilogy. They said why don’t you make it an analogous play and look at the white working-class extremes in those northern cities, too. I was excited by that. I had done a lot of creative workshops trying to bring those two communities together. There was a truth in the idea that the two extremisms were symbiotic, even though they were mostly segregated. What happened in one affected the other.	When I pitched it, though, the theatre company, Red Ladder, said it couldn’t be a trilogy. They said why don’t you make it an analogous play and look at the white working-class extremes in those northern cities, too. I was excited by that. I had done a lot of creative workshops trying to bring those two communities together. There was a truth in the idea that the two extremisms were symbiotic, even though they were mostly segregated. What happened in one affected the other.
So my plays are about two people who don’t feel they belong any more, a young Muslim and a white working-class guy. Neither has been allowed to feel part of the mainstream makeup of the country. That is where the extremism comes from on both sides. To use a scientific analogy, if you leave something alone too long then it stagnates and creates infection.	So my plays are about two people who don’t feel they belong any more, a young Muslim and a white working-class guy. Neither has been allowed to feel part of the mainstream makeup of the country. That is where the extremism comes from on both sides. To use a scientific analogy, if you leave something alone too long then it stagnates and creates infection.
I did a lot of research for both parts of the play. I looked hard at the lives of the Leeds bombers and Mohammad Sidique Khan. He is a similar age to me. He was quite invested in this country but at some point he clearly began to feel terribly out of place here. His parents practised this kind of rural Pakistani version of Islam and that didn’t fit for him.	I did a lot of research for both parts of the play. I looked hard at the lives of the Leeds bombers and Mohammad Sidique Khan. He is a similar age to me. He was quite invested in this country but at some point he clearly began to feel terribly out of place here. His parents practised this kind of rural Pakistani version of Islam and that didn’t fit for him.
Forty years ago, there were probably political groups you could join. Workers’ parties might have told you it was the fault of global capitalism. But that doesn’t happen any more. In fact, the only people telling these young men why their lives were as they are were these radical Islamists preaching in jeans and T-shirts. Their arguments are not right but they do make sense. Palestine, Kashmir, Iraq, Afghanistan – these are post-imperial conflicts, they say. And suddenly your poverty of opportunity in Leeds or Blackburn becomes a global struggle. For certain young men, that is an incredibly powerful message.	Forty years ago, there were probably political groups you could join. Workers’ parties might have told you it was the fault of global capitalism. But that doesn’t happen any more. In fact, the only people telling these young men why their lives were as they are were these radical Islamists preaching in jeans and T-shirts. Their arguments are not right but they do make sense. Palestine, Kashmir, Iraq, Afghanistan – these are post-imperial conflicts, they say. And suddenly your poverty of opportunity in Leeds or Blackburn becomes a global struggle. For certain young men, that is an incredibly powerful message.
Ironically, it is something like the same for the white working class. Except instead of the Islamists telling them why they are where they are, they have the BNP or the EDL. I think, I hope, my plays can bring light to that simple truth but also humanise these issues.	Ironically, it is something like the same for the white working class. Except instead of the Islamists telling them why they are where they are, they have the BNP or the EDL. I think, I hope, my plays can bring light to that simple truth but also humanise these issues.
The fact is, I don’t think we are ever going to get to a place where we can think about solutions until we understand these people are part of us, part of Britain. It is not Islam that has created them alone. These are British Muslims.	The fact is, I don’t think we are ever going to get to a place where we can think about solutions until we understand these people are part of us, part of Britain. It is not Islam that has created them alone. These are British Muslims.
I was on a different career trajectory. I was going to be a scientist. But since 9/11 I felt I had no option but to write. I do it because this is my home and I want to make it a better place.	I was on a different career trajectory. I was going to be a scientist. But since 9/11 I felt I had no option but to write. I do it because this is my home and I want to make it a better place.
Yusra Warsama, poet, actor and playwright	Yusra Warsama, poet, actor and playwright
Yusra Warsama, 30, grew up in Manchester. A play she co-wrote, Rites, about issues surrounding female genital mutilation is currently touring. She will appear in James Graham’s The Vote, for Channel 4 and the Donmar Warehouse, a “real-time play” set in a polling station, in May.	Yusra Warsama, 30, grew up in Manchester. A play she co-wrote, Rites, about issues surrounding female genital mutilation is currently touring. She will appear in James Graham’s The Vote, for Channel 4 and the Donmar Warehouse, a “real-time play” set in a polling station, in May.