The Islamic Republic of Australia

Journalist and comedian Sami Shah is an ex-Muslim from Pakistan living in Australia. Since moving here in 2012, he has been profiled in the New York Times and on Australian Story, and is a regular guest and presenter on radio and TV, including ABC News Breakfast, The Project, RN’s Sunday Extra and ABC Radio Melbourne. Previously he wrote and presented A Beginner’s Guide to Pakistan on BBC Radio 4, and he appeared on Stephen Fry’s QI. Sami’s autobiography, I, Migrant, was shortlisted in the 2015 NSW Premier’s Literary Awards, WA Premier’s Literary Award, and for the Russell Prize for Humour Writing. His first novel, Fire Boy, is available in Australia. In 2016 he wrote and presented a five-part documentary on Islam in Australia for ABC radio.

DEDICATION

For Mummy and Daddy

CONTENTS

Dedication

Preface

Part I: The Big Deal with Muslims

1    Breaking up with Islam

2    What’s a Muslim?

3    Muslims in Australia

Part II: The Scary Muslims

4    I was a teenage radical

5    Radical or just ridiculous?

6    A de-radicalisation guide

Part III: The Free Speech Issue

7    How to blaspheme

8    The price of free speech

Part IV: Hijab-splaining

9    A woman’s Islam

10  Two more women’s Islam

11  A man’s unnecessary and unwanted opinion on women’s Islam

Part V: Putting the Ex in Muslim

12  Apostates are people too

13  Islam vs. Christianity

Epilogue: Allah Akbar?

Glossary

Acknowledgements

Copyright

PREFACE

I’m never writing another non-fiction book. Or, at least not one based around current events; you’re always playing catch-up.

The Islamic Republic of Australia didn’t even start as a book. As with much in my life, it began in the form of a stand-up comedy show. Being a professional comedian, the stage is where I process most of my psychosis. I get up in front of rooms full of strangers, hold a microphone, and let all my personal issues pour out. It’s something I’ve done for years and am only good at when I keep the distance between forebrain and microphone to a minimum. I did it in Pakistan (albeit carefully), and was thrilled to continue doing it when I moved to Australia. Australian audiences, I found, were just as accepting of me as Pakistani audiences had been – which is to say, just enough for ticket sales to break even against venue costs.

After a couple years of performing in Australia, I noticed I’d been studiously avoiding talking about Islam in my comedy. This was odd, given that I always use comedy to process whatever I’m thinking about at the time. Somehow, though, my experiences with Islam were being censored to a degree. I made jokes about religion – every comedian tends to find some comedy in the subject. But none of my jokes touched upon my personal experiences, nor even my personal opinions. I’d talk about being an atheist, but somehow I’d divorce that from the particular religion I abandoned to become an atheist. And, upon consideration, I didn’t respect myself for this avoidance. It was born out of a need, I decided, to deny a part of my identity. I’d spent so many years in Pakistan combating Islam in my head, that in Australia I wanted to pretend it just didn’t exist. Except, it obviously still did. So I did the only thing I’m capable of doing when confronted with an uncomfortable realisation about myself: I wrote a one-man show about it.

If this behaviour seems ridiculous, you’re absolutely right. It’s not how normal people react. But then, normal people don’t aspire to make a living standing on stage talking about their genitalia. Not showing their genitalia – many people throughout history have done that without any judgment at all – but talking about it. Comedians are a strange bunch indeed.

The show was called ‘Islamofarcist’, a pun on ‘Islamofascist’, which, since I’ve had to explain it every time I’ve told someone about it, utterly failed as a title. I wrote the entire thing in Perth, two days before it debuted at the Perth Fringe Festival (that’s actually an inaccurate way of describing the writing process. I wrote it in two days, because I thought of nothing but the show for six months prior. So by the time I put it down as a series of words, I’d already drafted the entire structure weeks before). The show was, essentially, what this book is, but condensed into an hour with none of the journalistic flourishes like interviews and facts. It was about my journey from Muslim to non-Muslim, while trying to explain to Muslims that it was okay for people outside Islam to criticise the religion, and explain to people outside Islam that they can construct those criticisms without being horrifically racist or bigoted in their intent.

However, once the show had been performed to live audiences, I felt ... incomplete. I had avoided talking about Islam for so long that the brief attempt to do so left a need to expand more on the subject. I had thoughts, opinions, and analysis still to share. I also had so many questions unanswered, particularly about how Islam was practised and followed in Australia. So, with ABC Radio National’s indulgence, I created a five-part documentary for their excellent Earshot series.

I spent several months travelling to Sydney, Perth and Melbourne to interview various Muslims and non-Muslims about Islam in Australia. And then, once they’d generously trusted me with their voices, I edited it all together with the original one-man show serving as the narrative structure to which everything else was pinned. And then, because I had all the interviews done and my thoughts were already sketched out fairly well, I expanded it further into this book. I think, now, I’m done. I really should be.

The whole process – from writing the one-man show on a plastic table and chair in the food court of Perth’s Dog Swamp Mall, to finishing the first draft of the book at home in Melbourne late one summer night – took most of 2016. And when I was done with it, I thought I had quite comprehensively addressed all the issues around Islam and Islamophobia that contemporary global affairs could offer up. And then Donald Trump was elected.

In the time this book has travelled from first draft through to final publication, the 45th President of the United States of America has twice attempted to ban visitors from seven different Muslim countries, staying true to promises made throughout a campaign that relied heavily on the intent to do just that. The impact around the world cannot be understated. Donald Trump’s victory has emboldened anti-Muslim rhetoric and violence. Assaults on Muslims in Western countries have increased drastically, and global affairs will no doubt be affected in unpleasant ways for a long time to come, it’s safe to say.

I considered amending the book to include references to the new Trumpian world order, and if the changes he’s inflicted had been milder or even fewer, I might have. However, every day since his election victory has been filled with panic, drama and outright farce. If I updated the book to reflect daily events, it would never be completed. I also realised, upon closer analysis, that while he had supercharged the debates and discussions around Islam, Islamophobia, and the global perception of Muslims, the core issues remained the same. And in Australia, all sides of the argument may have gotten louder, but people are essentially still screaming the same things.

Some things can be predicted: Islam will be controversial because, like all religions, it’s so full of contradictory messages it fits all narratives; every time Muslims make progress in proving they aren’t terrorists, that progress will be offset by some idiot trying to create an act of terrorism, either inspired by ISIS or whatever Islamic extremist terrorist group is trending at the time, or directly affiliated with ISIS; America will make things worse, it always does; Australia will reflect America’s temperament, albeit at a less hysterical level; everyone will have opinions on why Muslims are a problem or why Muslims are not a problem, and none of them will bother with nuance.

Which is why, in the end, this book is something I needed to put out. It’s the most nuance I can hope to contribute to the impending conversations. And delaying it so I could keep adding in Trump’s fallout would simply create a catalogue of dangerous buffoonery. We already have Twitter for that.

So, while the book does reference certain events from the time it was written, my belief is that its analysis and information will be relevant for much longer.

That said, next time I’m writing fiction. It’s a lot less stressful.

Sami Shah

June 2017

PART I

THE BIG DEAL WITH MUSLIMS

1

BREAKING UP WITH ISLAM

Let’s start with a joke: ‘A Christian, a Jew, a Muslim and an atheist walk into a coffee shop. And everyone gets along.’

That’s nice, right? A well-meaning little joke that floats up on a bubble of positivity. You’ve probably seen it on Facebook, often accompanied by a picture of a multiracial group of young people, seated around a table in a cafe. Maybe the black girl with a hijab is laughing at something the Asian boy is saying, while the white girl and the Indian man are exchanging indulgent smiles, sunlight and optimism suffusing the atmosphere.

And it’s worth sharing and spreading through your personal social media ecosystem. After all, it’s more than just a joke: it’s a message of human values, of people overcoming sectarian differences in a time when those differences are what seem most insurmountable. It’s about reminding us that fundamentally we’re all just human, and that the differences that seem to separate us can so easily be overcome. That, in the end, all we need to connect with one another is a sense of humanity.

Except it’s bullshit.

See, here’s the thing – that’s supposed to be a joke, but it doesn’t work as a joke. I should know, because I’m a professional comedian. Knowing jokes is my business. And that’s not the structure of the joke.

The joke should be: ‘A Christian, a Jew, a Muslim and an atheist walk into a bar.’ But they’re not in a bar: they’re in a coffee shop. And I know why they’re not in a bar: it’s because of the Muslim.

The Muslim made a big stink and said, ‘I can’t go into a bar, because there’s alcohol and the Quran says no alcohol. Alcohol is haram.’ And the Muslim can’t just go to the bar and not drink. No, the Muslim has to avoid the bar entirely.

So the Christian said, ‘Fine, we’ll go to a coffee shop instead. Is that okay? Is coffee okay with Allah? Is coffee halal?’

And then the Muslim had to become a martyr, so the Muslim said, ‘No, you guys go ahead without me. It’s fine, go to the bar. I’ll catch up with you some other time!’

But the Jew said, ‘No, we can’t go ahead without you. Because without you, it’s a Christian, a Jew and an atheist walk into a bar, and that’s just Tuesday. That happens all the damn time. There’s no story there with a moral and a feel-good message. It only works with you because you’re the problem one.’

And the Muslim said, ‘But why do you even need to drink? Like, why do you even need alcohol?’

And the atheist said, ‘Because every time we get together, you guys talk about a magic man in the sky who sent some messages to a Middle Eastern dude thousands of years ago, and now I have to live my life according to what he said. I need beer – I can’t handle you without it. So, you know, let’s just get this over with. Let’s go to a coffee shop, and get our picture taken, and make this a message about peace and humanity and overcoming differences and whatever the hell you need it to be.’

And so, they went to a coffee shop, they got their picture taken and the ‘joke’ was written. But no one ate anything, because the food wasn’t halal.

*

Now, I’m willing to admit that some of what you just read has more to do with me than the original joke. See, my name is Sami Shah, and I’m not a Muslim. I was born a Muslim, I grew up a Muslim, but at a point in my life I stopped being a Muslim.

You can do that, by the way. It’s not something that’s encouraged, of course. No religion gets excited when an adherent tries to leave. The exit clauses in organised religion – especially the major Abrahamic faiths (Islam, Christianity and Judaism) – tend to be at least as life-threatening as when you try changing your phone service plans. (In fact, I’m quite sure that Telstra’s inspiration in crafting those exit clauses was the Old Testament.) But it is possible to leave your religion.¹

When you used to believe in something, then stopped believing in it, you become an ‘apostate’. That’s the official word for someone like me. And Islam tends to frown on apostasy: it’s illegal in most Muslim countries, punishable by the death penalty in some. This, you see, is what the Quran says about apostates:

. . . if they turn their backs, take them and slay them, wherever you find them. [Quran 4:89]

Now, I would really like that not to happen to me. So if we could keep this just between us, I’d really appreciate that.

Many people assume I’m a Muslim. Every time I meet someone new, their first assumption is that I’m a practising Muslim – it’s practically an occupational hazard at this point. And when I inform them that I’m not a Muslim, they just pretend not to hear me.

I was once approached by someone who wanted to create a reality TV show around me,² whose opening pitch was, ‘You’re a Muslim –’

‘Actually, I’m not a Muslim,’ I pointed out.

They paused, then I heard a thunk as parts of their brain attempted to realign for cognitive dissonance, and failed.

‘You’re a Muslim,’ they said, this time more to themselves than to me.

The thing is, I understand. I don’t get upset when people make the assumption. It would be a silly thing to be upset by. I know, for example, that I have a Muslim-y³ name. ‘Sami Shah’ is a good Muslim name. It isn’t even my full name – it’s a shortened, stage-and-print version. The actual thing is so Muslim-y, just saying it would get you a free roundtrip to Mecca. I shortened it so that it would fit on book covers and comedy gig posters better.⁴

I also have a Muslim-y face. Brown skin, black beard, ‘Allah 4 lyfe’ tattooed across my forehead. Okay, so maybe not the last part. But I do have a face that’s Muslim-y enough that in a hostage situation, I’d be the suspect. Even if I was the hostage.

Growing up, I didn’t know it was a Muslim-y name or face. Mainly because I was living in a Muslim country, Pakistan, so it was just another face, just another name. Then, in 2012, I migrated to Australia,⁵ and all of a sudden I went from background scenery to curiosity.

That’s actually unfair to parts of Australia. In Melbourne, for example, you can have a seventeen-syllable name only pronounceable through a combination of whistles, semaphore, eyebrow curls and a thirteen-person flash mob, and people will go out of their way to make you feel as though that’s just how it is for everyone. And having a beard means you’re expected to own a ukulele, not implement Shariah Law.

Unfortunately, I didn’t move to Melbourne when I first landed in Australia. Instead, because the immigration department has a sense of humour all its own, I spent almost four years living in Northam, a small country town two hours’ drive from Perth. A farming town with a struggling industrial legacy, its only growth coming from the odd influx of Plymouth Brethren,⁶ Northam is a place I still have a great deal of fondness for (despite having relocated to Melbourne the moment I received my permanent residency). Most of that affection comes from still having many friends there, as well as being appreciative of my forced exposure to the Western Australian countryside – a thing of unparalleled beauty. But a small part of my love for Northam has to do with how far it is from the world I’d just left behind.

Pakistan is a Muslim country. It’s so Muslim that its full name is ‘The Islamic Republic of Pakistan’, which it isn’t as afraid of sharing as I am of my full name. And in Pakistan, they talk about Islam a lot. The religion suffuses every portion of the country: from the government to the media, and even to everyday conversations. A constant and tireless debate rages over Islamic minutiae everywhere, and everyone is trying to prove just how Muslim they are.

You’d think, being a Muslim country founded in 1947 as a supposed safe-haven for South Asian Muslims, Pakistan would be confident in its Muslim credentials and move on to other things. But when religion is such an integral part of the national identity, and that identity is perpetually in flux due to various geopolitical factors, as well as internal cultural tensions, the need to stay focused on Muslim-hood becomes pathological. Pakistan treats Islam much like an Apple-addict treats their new iPhone in the first few days of receiving it – constantly touching it to reassure themselves it’s both real and still there. I’ve never been to Israel, but I imagine there’s a similar fanatical obsession with defining and affirming its religious identity.

To suddenly be away from Pakistan, then, was a relief to me. Well, that’s actually understating it somewhat – it was like enjoying the sort of mental clarity only experienced when a long had flu suddenly evaporates and your brain stops feeling like it’s been wrapped in gauze. I didn’t have my aural environment filled with constant calls to prayer, every sentence wasn’t ended with a religious invocation of gratitude for Allah’s blessings, and I could openly proclaim myself an atheist.

Not only did it feel good to no longer be surrounded by Islam, but I also looked forward to never having to worry about it again. Even the regular mentions in the news by politicians and news pundits seemed distant – as anyone who has spent time in rural Western Australia can confirm, there’s a pleasing disconnect from the rest of the world’s problems, even if those problems are within Australia. You could ride out a zombie apocalypse in Northam, never even finding out that the dead had risen, devoured all of civilisation, and been defeated by a handful of courageous and inventive survivors, who had then restored society to its former splendour.

This was exactly what I wanted from my place of residence – until my daughter came home from school one day and began to tell me