The darkness comes crashing in at four in the afternoon, which I would find lovely if it weren’t so jarring to pray the evening prayer at quarter to rather than in the actual evening. It’s December, the cold air (but still not cold enough for my liking) brings a stinging flush to my face as I walk through the city. Edinburgh is always beautiful, but it is even more so now, with the Dickensian architecture and winding streets illuminated with twinkling lights. Christmas lights. I adore them, just like I adore the sounds of laughter and smells of hot chocolate and spices wafting from Princes Street. But a part of me, as I navigate my way past stall after stall of mulled wine, German beer and pork sausages – a part of me can’t help but feel a twinge of awkwardness when I walk around the Christmas market with a veiled head. It’s the same feeling I experienced when stopping by a halal butcher and realised they had deals on offer for Christmas – after having a little laugh, of course. I’ve come to think it doesn’t have to be that deep; a time of year dedicated to family, warmth, gifts, and joy can be open to anyone who wants to take part. Still, though, it can be a little off-putting attempting to navigate a world where, as much as I love strings of little lights, an entire season is dedicated to normalised and imposed Christianity.  

So, where does that place me? Usually, I’d say it’s like looking in the window of a house as you pass by, watching  the celebrations of those within, except the door is open for you if you want to come in. This December though, the door closed, or rather, it was slammed in my face.  When I began writing this, I planned to detail my journey with my faith. I was going to write about growing up in a small, agnostic-at-best family who didn’t care when I stopped showing interest in Christmas trees when grappling with a missing piece in my life and learning about the different religions that I had been exposed to. Until finally, in an attempt to connect with my roots, I began learning more about Islam and it changed my life. That’s all well and good, and maybe someday I will write about that. But it’s difficult to muse about personal spiritual journeys to peace when, with the outcome of the General Election, I will no longer be allowed to have any. Everything that Boris Johnson and his Tory government stand for, though they are by no means equated, can be summed up in the packaging up and enforcing of white Christian culture as the standard, and any minority thus juxtaposed as a deviation.

Boris Johnson and his government are against everything about who I am. He is Islamophobic, racist, and homophobic; the Conservative manifesto makes no effort to hide the fact that they are allocating zero – zero! – pounds to the learning, disability, and autism fund. This, combined with his increasing war against the NHS (a main reason I chose to return to the UK for university) means that in all likelihood, I will not be able to afford to stay alive. In tears since the exit polls came out, I felt betrayed by Tory voters: was achieving a sham of an ideological principle more important to them than my life, than the lives of countless people across the nation? And I am one of the lucky ones. For now, at least, I can rely on my parents somewhat for financial support, and I have a safe community here in Edinburgh. But people will die. A Twitter user I follow expressed that a disabled friend of theirs had already taken their life over the election result. People will starve. The comments that Boris Johnson directly contributed to Islamophobia, xenophobia, and racism in this country are hauntingly correct, even around the University of Edinburgh campus, female students have vocalised being harassed for dressing modestly.

I attended a hustings at the mosque a week before the election, and questions were understandably largely focused on policies targeting Islamophobia and discrimination. Afterwards, I approached them individually to ask them what plans they had, if any, to tackle discrimination within communities on the ground level. Even the most helpful policy means little when the average person on the street has no respect for your very existence. While the candidates I spoke to agreed that I raised a good point, they did not know or offer any ideas for solving this problem. So this Christmas, as I celebrate the end of first term, sipping on hot chocolate without marshmallows and dancing down the street with my friends under beautiful, festive lights, I won’t feel safe or welcome here. Just because the government wants to narrow their definition of what lives are worth caring about doesn’t mean that we have to as well – in fact, now more than ever we cannot. If Boris and his parliamentary majority are closing the door on me, then I will open my door to others and spread love and light where I can. Because that, and not the exclusionary, terrifying message being sent out by the government, is what Christmas should be about.