As we sit sipping Yemeni coffee in the heart of Bradford, the brother whose art gallery we are visiting tells us of the many doctors, lawyers, and businesspeople he knows who are planning to move out of the UK with their families. My husband and I give each other a look that’s flashed between us many times over the decades of our marriage. It’s a look that’s accompanied by a deep sigh. We get it; we, too, have often wanted to leave, but two questions have always stopped us: where would we move, and what of the fight here? 

Hijrah is perhaps one of the most over-invoked and under-examined concepts in contemporary Muslim discourse. Today, as many British Muslims contemplate leaving the UK, understandably tired of a political climate where xenophobia has become a patriotic performance, and Islamophobia the most defining attribute of this wave of racist fever, the word hijrah has re-entered our vocabulary with great urgency. However, unlike its modern iteration, the classical Islamic understanding of hijrah was never merely geographical and certainly not driven by capitalist motivations either. Unlike today, where it can often seem more about pursuing limitless halal fast food with a convenient tax-free salary, traditionally, it was always ethical, spiritual, political, and profoundly moral.

The Qur’anic Roots of Hijrah: Migration as Moral Choice

The Qur’an repeatedly emphasises migration as a test of sincerity, courage, and ethical commitment. In the Qur’an, Allah ﷻ says, 

“Was Allah’s earth not spacious enough for you to emigrate?” (Surah An-Nisa 4:97) 

Classical commentators explain that this verse criticised those who remained in Makkah under oppression when they had the option to migrate to a land where Islam could be practised freely and ethically. Importantly, and perhaps somewhat subtly, it framed hijrah not as escapism, but as a refusal to be complicit in injustice.

Imam al-Qurtubi, in his tafsir, makes the case that hijrah is obligatory for anyone unable to practice their religion, as remaining in a place where one is humiliated in their faith is a form of self-harm and tacit support for oppression.

The Qur’an also describes the early Muslims as those, “…who believed, emigrated, and strived with their wealth and lives in the cause of Allah…” (Surah Al-Anfal 8:72)

Here, again, migration is not couched in the pursuit of comfort, but of justice and faithfulness. Hijrah is presented as an act that must align with Divine principles and objectives – not simply personal convenience. 

This is reinforced in one of the most important Prophetic teachings on hijrah in the famous hadith, “Actions are judged by intentions…whoever migrates for Allah and His Messenger, their migration is to Allah and His Messenger. But whoever migrates for worldly gain…their migration is to that for which they migrated.” (Bukhari & Muslim)

Ibn Rajab comments that this hadith is “a tremendous foundational principle in Islam,” noting that it is the sincerity of intention that gives hijrah its meaning, not merely the miles travelled. That’s not to say that hijrah for comfort or pleasure is prohibited, of course. The Prophet ﷺ counts it as one of the reasons for which a person may migrate. It just cannot be considered hijrah for the sake of Allah. On this, Imam al-Nawawi wrote, “a migration not done for Allah and His Messenger is not prohibited, but it carries none of the reward of the sacred hijrah.”

Not all migrations, then, are equal and nor does migration for the sake of Allah happen only physically; it is a spiritual journey too. Imam al-Ghazāli, in his Ihya’ Ulum al-Din, categorises migration into two forms:

1. Migration of the body, which entails leaving oppression for safety and faith.
2. Migration of the soul, which entails leaving harm, injustice, and moral corruption.

Crucially, though, al-Ghazāli stresses, “One may migrate physically but not spiritually if his destination perpetuates the very injustices he fled from.”

This is strikingly relevant today.

The First Hijrah: A Model of Ethical Relocation

Before the migration to Madinah, when the fledgling community of Muslims in Makkah were suffering brutality of every sort for their submission to Allah alone, the Prophet ﷺ sent his companions to Abyssinia, instructing them: “Go to Abyssinia, for there is a king there under whom no one is wronged.” No one is wronged; all are safe under the rulership of this King, which means not only will the Muslims be safe, but they will also not become complicit in the harming of others. 

Classical historians such as Ibn Hisham and al-Tabari highlight the intentionality behind this choice. It was not chosen because it was a wealthy or powerful nation, nor because it was a Muslim one. It was chosen because its ruler, Najashi, was just. The jurist Ibn al-Arabi wrote,

“The Prophet ﷺ chose the land of Abyssinia because its king was just, and no one is wronged under him…Justice is the basis for taking up residence [in a land], for through it one is secure in religion and in life.”

Najashi’s justice was not accidental; it was so aligned with the ethical thrust of Islam that, according to many reports, he later embraced the faith. The Prophet ﷺ even prayed janazah for him in absentia. 

This first hijrah, then, was one rooted in an integrity forged in the very Qur’anic principles of ‘adl (justice) and ihsan (beauty and goodness) that attracted the early Muslims in the first place. 

So, let’s take this into our contexts today. In the UK, the far-right have marched our streets spreading misinformation and vitriol, and we know only too well that they then go on to mingle back into society as teachers, medical professionals and carers with absolute impunity. Islamophobia has been mainstreamed, sanitised and woven into policy. The spectacle of roundabout painters, flag-draped street “patriots,” and the emboldened supporters of figures like Tommy Robinson and Nigel Farage are symptoms of a deeper national shift. Muslim women in hijab report rising harassment; Palestinians and their allies in Britain watch with despair as their rights to solidarity are criminalised.

It is no surprise then that many Muslims now ask whether they still belong. The desire to leave is real, and for many of us it’s a question that’s arisen many times before. But alongside it arises another question: is every relocation a hijrah for the sake of Allah? Or are some migrations merely escapes from discomfort?

The UAE and the Mirage of the “Muslim Utopia”

For a growing number of Muslims, particularly millennials and Gen Z, the UAE has been marketed as the ideal Muslim homeland: safe, clean, wealthy, full of mosques, calls to prayer, halal restaurants, and visible Muslimness. A place where you can be Muslim without apology – supposedly.

But if there’s one thing we have learned by now, it is that hijrah requires more than aesthetic Islam. Ibn Taymiyyah warned, “Not every land where Muslims gather is a land of righteousness. Righteousness is known by justice, not by appearance.”

The UAE’s glittering skyline conceals stark realities which have been well documented: a labour system widely condemned by human rights groups, severe hierarchies of citizenship, suppression of dissent, sophisticated nation-branding to mask political repression and complicity in regional conflicts, including actions that have harmed our brothers and sisters in Sudan, to name but a few.

The crisis in Sudan is a deeply uncomfortable mirror held up to our consciences. For years, the UAE has been widely reported to support forces and militias whose actions have devastated civilian life across Sudan. Weapons, funding, and political backing have flowed into a conflict that has left millions displaced, starved and brutalised. Entire cities, Khartoum, Omdurman and El Geneina, bear the scars of atrocities. Families across the diaspora, including many in Britain, have endured unbearable grief as they watch their homeland fracture.

For Muslims contemplating hijrah, this creates a sharp moral tension: what does it mean to seek sanctuary in a state whose geopolitical manoeuvring has contributed to the suffering of the very people we are commanded to protect?

The Qur’an’s moral instruction is uncompromising on this point. Allah tells us, “And what is it with you? You do not fight in the cause of Allah and for oppressed men, women, and children..?” (Surah An-Nisa 4:75)

Classical scholars consistently held that supporting an oppressor, whether that’s financially, politically, militarily, or symbolically, is an act of injustice. Imam Ibn Taymiyyah wrote that oppression is not only the wrongdoing itself, but also “the enabling of a wrongdoer, even by silence or indifference.” Imam al-Ghazālī likewise warned that injustice spreads not merely through tyrants, but through “those who find security under their shade.” These warnings resonate painfully today.

When a state benefits from migrant labour, tourism, investment, and Muslim relocation, it gains social legitimacy. And when that same state uses its strategic influence in ways that fuel conflict in Sudan, the ethical stakes of migration become profound. Moving there under the banner of “Hijrah for the sake of Allah” risks blurring the line between seeking safety and inadvertently bolstering a system implicated in harming other Muslims.

Sudanese communities in the UK, the Gulf, and globally, have spoken of this contradiction with deep anguish and great clarity. Many have said openly that when wealthy Muslim nations empower militarised actors in their homeland, it feels like a betrayal of the ummah’s moral bond. As the Prophet ﷺ taught, “The Muslim is the brother of the Muslim. He does not oppress him nor hand him over to an oppressor.” (Bukhari). And isn’t legitimising, strengthening or materially supporting a state that inflicts such harm, the same as handing one’s siblings in Islam over to their oppressor? 

And so, Sudan becomes a test of our sincerity because hijrah, real hijrah, truly done for the sake of Allah, cannot be built on the backs of those whose cries we choose to ignore.

In reconsidering hijrah, Sudan forces us to confront whether our modern migrations reflect that same Prophetic clarity, or whether we have allowed comfort to rot the moral foundation that hijrah was meant to be built upon. And of course, the ethical conundrum doesn’t stop there. 

This ethical contradiction is also visible in the UAE’s role in the Abraham Accords, which normalised relations with Israel at the very moment Palestinians were enduring some of the darkest chapters of their oppression. The Accords were celebrated through glossy PR campaigns promising “peace” and “prosperity,” yet on the ground, they intensified Palestinian isolation, emboldened Israeli expansionism, and further legitimised an apartheid system. For many Muslims in Britain who have marched, donated, organised, and faced harassment for their solidarity with the people of Palestine, this alignment is a moral red line. When a state chooses open friendship with a regime actively dispossessing and bombarding Palestinians, it signals its willingness to trade ethics and principles of justice and goodness for influence and geopolitical favour.

The classical scholars warned us about precisely this dynamic. Ibn Taymiyyah held that supporting an oppressor, even indirectly, is itself a form of injustice, and Imam Ja’far al-Sadiq famously said, “The one who is pleased with the actions of a people is as if they performed it.” These warnings echo painfully today.

To migrate to a land deeply entangled in the machinery of Palestinian suffering, not just as a wretched bystander, but as a willing partner, requires us to confront a difficult truth: hijrah cannot be built upon the betrayal of those whom Allah commands us to defend.

Palestine has never been a fringe issue in the Islamic moral imagination. It is the land of al-Aqsa, the first qiblah, a trust for the entire ummah. The Qur’an tells us to stand firmly for justice, even if it is against ourselves (Surah An-Nisa 4:135). What, then, does it mean to call a move “Hijrah for the sake of Allah” when its destination is a state that formalises ties with an occupying power while criminalising dissent at home? The question is not whether people may move for dunya, of course, they can and do. The question is whether we can attach the sacred language of hijrah to a relocation that, by its nature, risks strengthening a political order complicit in the oppression of the very people we claim to stand with.

We must then ask ourselves, with all that we know, can Muslims ethically perform hijrah for the sake of Allah to a land whose political systems extend harm to other Muslims?

Hijrah Cannot Be at the Price of Harming Others

Classical jurists were clear that hijrah is impermissible if it strengthens an oppressor. Al-Mawardi writes in Al-Ahkam al-Sultaniyyah, “It is not permitted for a Muslim to settle in a land where injustice is institutionalised, for his residence becomes a support for falsehood.”

Ibn Kathir, in his tafsir of 4:97, states, “Whoever is able to oppose oppression, or leave it, must do so. Remaining among the unjust without necessity is a form of aiding them.”

The words of our scholars reach us over the annals of history, just as pertinent today as they were centuries ago. Their warnings are weighty and rooted in the earliest Prophetic actions. Abyssinia was chosen because it was just, therefore it would offer more than simple shelter, it would also provide the fertile environment in which the Islam of the Muslims could be nurtured and truly flourish uncorrupted. Hijrah for the sake of Allah has always and must always be ethically demanding. Whilst it can, of course, be a migration that makes possible more physical comfort, it must foremostly be one that allows for moral alignment.

Hijrah for dunya alone is not forbidden; our Prophet ﷺ and the classical scholars acknowledged that people migrate for reasons such as trade, marriage, or livelihood. But to call such acts “Hijrah for the sake of Allah” is inaccurate.

If we want to be sincere, it’s important to ask ourselves difficult questions and to sit honestly with the answers:

• Does my migration support justice or strengthen injustice?
• Does my safety rely on systems that oppress others?
• Am I migrating for Allah or for lifestyle?
• Is the place I am drawn to ethically aligned with Prophetic values?

Hijrah is not simply “moving to a Muslim-majority country,” it is choosing justice over aesthetics, truth over branding, ethics over comfort.

Does Ethical Hijrah Make Hijrah for the Sake of Allah Impossible?

A natural worry arises at this point, the one I hear from Muslims across the diaspora whenever we speak about ethical migration. Namely, isn’t every country unjust in some way, and so isn’t hijrah for the sake of Allah just impossible in today’s context?

This argument is understandable, but it stems from a misunderstanding of what both the Qur’an and our scholars actually require. Islam has never demanded that we find a land free of all wrongdoing. No such place has ever existed, not even Madinah in the Prophet’s ﷺ lifetime achieved such utopic standards.

Imām al-Nawawī, in his commentary on Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim, explains that the obligation of migration applies when a Muslim cannot practise their faith or protect their dignity, “and if he/she finds another land where harm is reduced and where he/she may uphold his/her religion, even if imperfections remain.” Similarly, Ibn Ḥajar al-ʿAsqalānī, commenting on the famous aforementioned hadith “actions are by intentions,” emphasises that hijrah is valued because “the intention seeks a place where obedience becomes easier, and disobedience is lessened.” 

The idea of lessening harm is repeated throughout the tradition, such that hijrah is presented as a comparative, not utopian, ideal. Imām al-Qurṭubī reinforces this by defining a suitable land of hijrah as a place where a Muslim encounters “less oppression, greater safety, and the freedom to fulfil religious duties.” Additionally, Imām al-Shawkānī, in Nayl al-Awtār, writes that even when a destination has moral failings, hijrah remains valid so long as one is not assisting the oppressor nor benefiting from their injustice. So, Islam is not asking us to seek a utopia, but it is asking us to avoid enabling the worst injustices when alternatives exist.

This distinction, between living under imperfection and strengthening injustice, is crucial.

The Prophetic model of hijrah was also a realistic refuge, not a completely perfect one. That first hijrah to Abyssinia was, of course, to a Christian kingdom with its own political hierarchies and challenges. Yet the Prophet ﷺ chose it because Najāshī was just and because, as al-Ṭabarī notes, “the Muslims’ presence did not aid him in wrongdoing, nor did he seek their support for oppression.” Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyyah echoes this when he writes that the believer is obligated to choose “the land in which he is furthest from assisting injustice,” even if the land itself contains injustice.

This is an attainable standard, because an ethical hijrah is not about seeking out an established perfected state, but seeing where one can best practise their faith and flourish in a way that a) isn’t at the expense of others’ freedoms and b) where one can contribute fruitfully and meaningfully in bettering the ethical and moral standards of the country they have moved to. 

Therefore, what ethical hijrah for the sake of Allah demands is discernment. Honestly, asking ourselves, does this move decrease or increase my entanglement in oppression? Am I lending my labour, taxes, credibility, or presence to a system harming others? Am I choosing this land out of fear, convenience, or sincere pursuit of Allah’s pleasure?

Hijrah remains possible because its essence has always been practical, not utopian. It was designed for the real world, which is messy, complex, and politically compromised.

It calls us not to escape this reality, but to navigate it with integrity and to actively seek ways to shape it.

Reclaiming the Soul of Hijrah

We live in a turbulent time. The UK’s political climate is hostile, and many Muslims feel spiritually, physically and mentally drained. The desire to leave is deeply human and one that resonates with many of us. But the Prophetic model of hijrah for the sake of Allah calls us to assess not only our safety and comforts, but our impact.

A land does not become righteous because Muslims live there; it becomes righteous because it embodies justice. Najashi’s Abyssinia offered protection without participating in oppression. That is why it became the first sanctuary for Muslims, and that is why it became part of our sacred history.

To reconsider hijrah is to reject supposed utopias built on exploitation. It is to seek lands of integrity, not merely lands of convenience. And ultimately, it is to remember that, yes, “actions are judged by intentions,” but intentions are judged by their ethics and moral impact. Ultimately,  hijrah is not just a journey of the feet, but one of the heart too. It is a journey of principles, of justice and of beauty.

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References

1. Ibn Rajab al-Ḥanbalī, Jāmiʿ al-ʿUlūm wa’l-Ḥikam, Commentary on Hadith 1 (Hadith al-Niyyah)

2. Imām al-Nawawī, Sharḥ Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim Commentary on the hadith “Actions are by intentions”

3. Abū Bakr ibn al-ʿArabī (d. 543 AH) Ahkam al-Qur’an, commentary on Qur’an 4:97

4. Gendered Islamophobia: Evidence of Disproportionate Abuse Against Muslim Women and Girls. Hamed Shaw, S. (2025)

5. The Co-Founder of Palestine Action Is Taking the Government to Court

6. The Injustices of UAE 2024 Events

7. The Genocide in Sudan, the Role of UAE and the Complicity of the West

8. Destruction and violence in Sudan