The definition of anti-Muslim hostility released last week comes after months of deliberations behind closed doors. What was presented as a technical exercise aimed at improving clarity has instead sparked a wave of debate and unease.
Definitions matter. Once adopted by government departments, charities, universities and businesses, they shape how institutions understand prejudice, how complaints are assessed and, ultimately, how public debate unfolds. A non-statutory definition may appear modest on paper, but its real-world consequences can be far reaching.
The government’s stated aim has been to create a working definition that helps identify anti-Muslim hostility. According to Dominic Grieve, who chaired the working group responsible for producing it, the purpose was to provide clarity and guidance. The intention, in principle, is understandable. Yet the process and timing raise serious questions.
Instead of calming an already polarised national conversation, the production of this definition has intensified it. Across social media and in public discourse more broadly, a perception has taken hold that Muslims are being granted special protections or a unique status through the introduction of this definition and the creation of a government-backed “tsar” tasked with defending it.
Perceptions matter in social cohesion. When public policy is seen to favour one community over others, even when that is not the intention, resentment and division can quickly follow.
At a time when Britain is already grappling with deep polarisation, the government should have been focused on lowering the temperature of public debate. Instead, the introduction of this definition has placed a spotlight on one community in a way that risks entrenching difference rather than building shared solutions.
I say this as someone who founded Tell MAMA, the national anti-Muslim hate monitoring service that worked with successive governments for over a decade. Through that work I saw first-hand the growth of anti-Muslim hatred in Britain. The problem is real and it should never be dismissed.
But recognising the existence of anti-Muslim hatred is not the same as agreeing that the introduction of a new definition is the right response. Britain already has robust laws addressing racially and religiously aggravated offences. Police forces, prosecutors and courts have long been able to pursue such cases under existing legislation. For more than 13 years Tell MAMA worked with government agencies to measure and monitor anti-Muslim hatred using those legal frameworks. The key question therefore remains: why introduce a new definition now, at a moment of heightened political tension?
Part of the answer appears to lie in the government’s decision to follow the trajectory taken in addressing antisemitism through the adoption of the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance definition. But mirroring that approach risks overlooking crucial differences. Another part of the answer is Labour’s continuing haemorrhaging of support within Muslim communities. What better way to try and hold onto these communities by introducing a definition at this point in time.
The experience of antisemitism, however, is historically unique. It stretches back millennia and has manifested in very different forms, often difficult to recognise, culminating in the Holocaust. The definition associated with the IHRA itself has roots in earlier work produced by the European Union Monitoring Centre on Racism and Xenophobia roughly two decades ago. Its original purpose was to assist law enforcement and monitoring bodies in identifying antisemitic incidents and patterns. In contrast, the situation regarding anti-Muslim hatred in Britain today is different. Legal protections already exist and systems for recording such incidents have been operating for years.
This does not mean that Muslims do not face prejudice. They do. But policy responses must recognise that antisemitism and anti-Muslim hostility arise from different historical and social dynamics. Indeed, some forms of anti-Muslim hostility have been fuelled by the backlash to Islamist extremism or by high-profile criminal cases involving individuals of Muslim heritage. These dynamics, however uncomfortable to discuss, shape public perceptions and debate.
The introduction of a broad definition therefore raises another concern: whether legitimate discussion of difficult issues could be curtailed. Take the example of the grooming gang scandals. Many perpetrators in those cases were men of Pakistani Muslim heritage. The ability to openly discuss why such crimes occurred and why certain patterns emerged is essential if society is to prevent them from happening again.
Let us also not forget that some police officers, councillors and social workers were fearful of dealing with the grooming issues because they worried being labelled as racist or “Islamophobic” – accusations which could have ended their careers and have a profound impact on the lives of the accused. We must therefore ask whether raising such questions in the future may risk being interpreted as falling within the definition of anti-Muslim hostility? That remains unclear.
To be fair, Dominic Grieve is widely regarded as a man of integrity who has sought to reduce hatred and improve community relations. Yet even well-intentioned initiatives can produce unintended consequences. One problem lies in the definition’s reliance on assessing “intentionality”. Determining whether speech or actions are intended to generate hatred is a complex task typically undertaken by trained investigators, police forces and prosecutors. Expecting charities, universities or other institutions to make such judgments without extensive expertise or resources may place them in an impossible position.
Another issue concerns the composition of the working group itself. Several members had previously supported the controversial 2018 All-Party Parliamentary Group definition of “Islamophobia”, a term that many critics have argued is vague and open to misuse. That definition also included the opaque and vague term of “Muslimness”, which was bizarre. The absence of stronger dissenting voices therefore inevitably raises questions about whether the process genuinely reflected a broad spectrum of opinion.
Perhaps most worrying is the possibility that this definition will become a tool in ongoing culture wars. It may be invoked in disputes over speech, media coverage or public debate, creating a steady stream of controversies for years to come. That outcome would serve neither Muslims nor wider British society.
The ultimate priority should be simple: ensuring that the law is properly enforced and that victims of hate crimes receive justice when they report incidents. Communities gain confidence when institutions demonstrate that existing laws work effectively. By contrast, creating new definitions that fuel perceptions of preferential treatment risks doing the opposite.
Britain’s challenge today is to rebuild trust between communities and to strengthen the principles of social cohesion that hold our society together. Any policy that inadvertently deepens division, even when driven by good intentions, should give us pause for thought.
Fiyaz Mughal is the founder of Faith Matters, Tell MAMA and Muslims Against Antisemitism
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