Islamophobia: when definitions become censorship

With the UK poised to define Islamophobia, we edge closer to a society where offence sets the rules — and truth backs quietly away.

Jun 29, 2025

It wasn’t the first book to cause offence, but probably the first to require a security detail.

When The Satanic Verses was published in 1988, Salman Rushdie likely expected literary controversy, not a death sentence. Within months, the Ayatollah Khomeini issued a fatwa calling for his execution. Bookshops were firebombed, translators stabbed. And the West, so proud of its commitment to free expression, responded with a mixture of embarrassment and retreat.

Rushdie soon went into hiding, while politicians issued statements about the importance of cultural sensitivity. Amid all this, something unspoken took root: if your words provoke the wrong kind of outrage, you’re on your own.

It would be comforting to think of that moment as an anomaly: a cultural clash from a bygone era. But it wasn’t an exception; it was a rehearsal. What we learned, institutionally and culturally, was that outrage is a form of power. That threat can shape policy. In short, that fear works.

Three decades later, the script hasn’t changed.

In 2020, Professor Steven Greer, a scholar of human rights law at Bristol University, was accused of Islamophobia by a student who hadn’t attended his course. The charge was vague — something about discriminatory remarks. In truth, Greer had referenced the Charlie Hebdo massacre in a lecture on Islam and global politics. The university launched an investigation, and an independent review exonerated him. But it didn’t matter. The online outrage machine had been activated. Petitions spread. Accusations festered.

The university quietly dropped the course. Greer went on sick leave, at one point, wearing a disguise to leave the house.

This is what institutional integrity looks like now: a quiet shuffling off stage. No grand declarations or public trials. Just the disappearance of people and ideas deemed too risky to defend.

We’ve reached a point where offence functions like a veto. The mere claim of hurt is enough to trigger inquiries, suspensions, and resignations. And while the people accused are often cleared, the damage has already been done — not just to reputations, but to the wider culture of truth-telling.

It’s not about punishing the guilty. It’s about discouraging the honest.

And it doesn’t stop at universities. The UK government is now moving toward a formal definition of “Islamophobia.” On the surface, it looks like a step toward protecting minorities. The group guiding the process has already hinted that citing the ethnic background of grooming gangs might be deemed Islamophobic, even when those facts are drawn directly from official reports.

What begins as a safeguard against abuse quickly becomes the means to control.

You can feel the shift. The ground beneath open inquiry has been quietly relaid, not with new principles, but with new sensitivities. Where truth was once a defence, it is now a liability. Offence is no longer an outcome to be tolerated; it is an offence in itself.

The same pattern now plays out across every charged issue — from gender to race to religion — wherever truth gives way to outrage.

Ever since Salman Rushdie was forced into hiding, the pattern has been clear: threats are rewarded, outrage is indulged, and institutions collapse under pressure. The people who stand up for reasoned inquiry and open debate are left exposed, isolated, and, too often, ruined.

This isn’t just about Islam. It’s about a deeper sickness: the rise of weaponised victimhood paired with institutional cowardice.

Veridaze

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