Where do we draw the line between criticism and bigotry? From the uproar over Lee Anderson’s remarks about the London mayor, Sadiq Khan, being “controlled” by Islamists to the condemnation of slogans used on pro-Palestinian demonstrations, it is a question at the heart of current debates about Muslims and Jews, Islam and Israel.
The distinction between criticism and bigotry should, in principle, be easy to mark. Discussions about ideas or social practices or public policy should be as unfettered as possible. But when disdain for ideas or policies or practices become transposed into prejudices about people, a red line is crossed. It’s crossed when castigation of Islamism leads to calls for an end to Muslim immigration. Or when denunciation of Israeli actions in Gaza turns into a protest outside a Jewish shop in London.
In practice, though, that line can appear blurry. Claims about “Islamophobia” or “antisemitism” are often wielded in ways designed specifically to erase the distinction between criticism and bigotry, either to suppress dissent or to promote hatred. Such muddying enables some to portray criticism of Islam or of Israel as illegitimate because it is “Islamophobic” or “antisemitic”. It also allows those promoting hatred of Muslims or Jews to dismiss condemnation of that hatred as stemming from a desire to avoid censure of Islam or Israel.
It is for this reason that I have long been a critic of the concept of “Islamophobia”; not because bigotry or discrimination against Muslims does not exist, but because the term conflates disapproval of ideas and disparagement of people, making it more difficult to challenge the latter. It is, in my view, more useful to frame such intolerance as “anti-Muslim prejudice” or “bigotry”. The issue, though, is not one of wording; what matters is less the term employed than the meaning attributed to it.
The concept of Islamophobia became popularised in the 1990s, partly through an influential report from the Runnymede Trust thinktank entitled “Islamophobia: A Challenge For Us All”. The report acknowledged the term as “not ideal” but thought it “a useful shorthand way of referring to dread or hatred of Islam – and, therefore, to fear or dislike of all or most Muslims”. Ironically, the “useful shorthand” itself exposes the problem, eliding hostility to beliefs (“dread or hatred of Islam”) with prejudice towards a people (“fear or dislike of all or most Muslims”).
In 2018, the all-party parliamentary group (APPG) on British Muslims defined Islamophobia as “a type of racism that targets expressions of Muslimness or perceived Muslimness”, a clumsy formulation that has nevertheless been adopted by the major political parties apart from the Conservatives. The APPG report dismissed the “supposed right to criticise Islam” as “another subtle form of anti-Muslim racism”.
It argued, too, that “Islamophobia” refers to Muslims being targeted by non-Muslims. Yet, the charge of “Islamophobia” or “hatred” is often aimed by Muslims at other Muslims, from Salman Rushdie to Monica Ali, from Hanif Kureishi to Sooreh Hera, to make their arguments appear illegitimate. It is a means of “gatekeeping”, of certain people taking it on themselves to police a community and determine what can be said about it.
The elision of criticism and bigotry works the other way, too: to deflect challenges to hatred. Some commentators have responded to the pushback against Anderson’s conspiracy theories about Khan by claiming that labelling his comments “Islamophobic” is intended “to stop criticism of Islamic extremism”.
The actions of hardline Islamists can have horrifying consequences, from forcing a teacher into hiding to the murder of an MP. Too often, as with the recent parliamentary mess created by the speaker, Lindsay Hoyle, politicians and institutions accede to threats rather than confronting them. None of this should lead us to conclude, though, that challenging anti-Muslim bigotry is a distraction from confronting Islamism. Opposing the one without opposing the other weakens our ability to challenge either.
The historical roots and contemporary manifestations of anti-Jewish and anti-Muslim hatred are different. Nevertheless, the charge of “antisemitism” can similarly be deployed to marginalise dissent while also providing racists with an alibi for their racism.
Take the insistence that “anti-Zionism is antisemitism”. It is a claim that has become increasingly accepted in recent years by mainstream politicians and organisations, from the French National Assembly to the US House of Representatives.
Zionism is a set of ideas and social practices. Yet, many who insist that Islam, as a set of beliefs and practices, should be open to robust challenge refuse to countenance similar scrutiny of Zionism.
In 2016, the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA) formally adopted its “working definition of antisemitism”, a definition that has been embraced by many governments, universities and civil institutions. It has also become, in the despairing words of one of its own drafters, Kenneth Stern, “a blunt instrument to label anyone an antisemite”.
For Stern, director of the Bard Center for the Study of Hate, the IHRA definition was never meant to be a “hate speech code” but developed rather to help monitor antisemitism. It has, however, become a means by which supporters of Israel now “go after pro-Palestinian speech”. “As a Zionist, I don’t agree with some of the speech,” Stern notes, but such speech “should be answered, not suppressed”.
This is particularly so because “there is a deep internal Jewish conflict about … attitude[s] toward Israel”. “For many Jews,” Stern points out, “Zionism, and what it means for Palestinians, is irreconcilable with what Judaism says about treating the stranger or repairing the world.” Again, blurring the line between criticism and bigotry facilitates gatekeeping, in this case by making dissenting Jewish voices seem illegitimate.
The drive to suppress criticism of Israel and support for Palestinians has been aided by some on the left lacing their anti-Zionism with antisemitic tropes. And, mirroring the tactics of anti-Muslim bigots, too many dismiss criticism of their antisemitism as a kind of Zionist shield against scrutiny.
Anti-Zionism is not necessarily antisemitic; but it can be, and too often is. The answer is not to label all expressions of anti-Zionism as antisemitic but to call out the latter, while acknowledging the legitimacy of the former.
In the polarised debate about antisemitism and anti-Muslim bigotry, too many who rightly condemn antisemitism are less robust in challenging bigotry against Muslims. And too many of those who excoriate anti-Muslim bigotry turn a blind eye to the hatred of Jews. In both cases, blurring the line between criticism of ideas and bigotry against people narrows debate and nurtures hatred.
Kenan Malik is an Observer columnist
Multicultural Meanderings 
