Sydney is a city made for postcards. Its gorgeous harbour is adorned by a giant steel arch bridge and an eggshell opera house. Locals affectionately refer to the bridge (which carries motor vehicles, trains, pedestrians and bicycles) as the Coat Hanger. The harbour has enough water to allow tens of thousands to travel by ferry. Each New Year’s Eve, the Coat Hanger forms the backdrop to a spectacular multimillion dollar fireworks display. Within the city’s greater metropolitan area are some of the world’s finest beaches, at least three national parks and a host of rivers.
And over a hundred mosques. Perhaps the best known of these is located deep in the geographical heart of greater Sydney. The Auburn Gallipoli Mosque combines a stereotypically Australian name with an architecture perhaps better suited to the Ottoman Europe. It is named in honour of the peninsula where Turks, Australian and New Zealand troops (the latter known as ANZACs) met in battle for the first and last time during the First World War. The Turks were led by one Mustafa Kemal Ataturk. The ANZACs were misled by their British commanders into a colossal defeat. Last year, 2015, marked a century since that fateful conflict. Australians gathered on the Gallipoli Peninsula in Turkey and at memorials across Australia. New Zealanders did the same, though Aussies tend to forget the contribution their Kiwi cousins made at that battle. In the fog of war, Australia and the new Republic of Turkey forged a lasting friendship. Celibolu (the uncorrupted version of the place’s name) is a place of secular sacredness, a battleground where Australians celebrate a military prowess born in crushing defeat, not to mention a tendency to fight other people’s battles.
The Gallipoli Mosque is one of numerous managed by Turkish communities. It consists of a large shallow dome circled by smaller half-domes and seated on two square storeys. Two tall thin minarets stand either side. The interior is spectacular, with a plush red carpet and walls hand-painted with calligraphy. The structure is big enough to rate as a medium-sized mosque in Istanbul, but in Australia it is certainly something to write boastfully to Istanbul about.
By contrast, Sydney’s oldest mosque (known appropriately as the Sydney Mosque), is a converted church purchased by the local Turkish community in 1975. The last time I visited, the floor was at a distinct angle. Facing Makkah, it felt like one was praying uphill; I almost slipped back.
Turkish mosques are dotted throughout greater Sydney in places where Turks historically lived and worked. Just south of Sydney (in Australian terms it is ‘just south’, despite being 90 kilometres from the city centre) in the suburb of Cringila sits the Bilal Mosque. Decades ago, Cringila was a hub for many Turkish migrants and their families. Generations of Turkish men and women were employed at the steelworks until the largest of these closed down. In place of steel, Wollongong now boast numerous kebab outlets. Turkish mosques are financially self-sufficient and usually named in honour of their locality instead of a Middle Eastern monarch or dictator. The imam is provided by the Turkish Ministry of Religious Affairs (Diyanet Vakfi) who pay his wages. Turkish imams generally deliver Friday sermons in Turkish and Arabic and often rotate between Turkish mosques.
That the Turkish Muslim communities are well-established in Sydney and in surrounding regional towns is largely due to a 1967 agreement between Australia and Turkey. It allowed for the mass migration of Turks. Anthropologist Liz Hopkins notes that under the agreement, Turks were deemed White Europeans notwithstanding their Muslim religious affiliation. This suited the self-identification of the migrants themselves and of their ancestral homeland which saw itself as European and white. These ‘white’ Muslims were not mere guest workers as was the case in Germany and other parts of Europe, but were eligible for Australian citizenship; which most took up.
The 1967 Treaty was one of a raft of radical changes made to Australia’s immigration policy which saw the end of a system in which being deemed White was essential to be considered fit for migration. The Commonwealth of Australia was founded in 1901 as a marriage of convenience between existing British colonies. One of the first legislative acts of its Parliament was the Immigration Restriction Act 1901, popularly known as the White Australia Policy. Upon its enactment, Chinese workers were expelled as were South Sea Islander bonded labourers (effectively slaves). Indigenous Australians were not White enough to be considered anything, despite many fighting and dying in battle (including at Gallipoli).
Before the Turks arrived, white-skinned European Muslims from what was then Yugoslavia, Albania and Cyprus settled as part of a large wave of post-WWII migration. A small number of Lebanese and Syrian Muslims also managed to sneak in, perhaps pretending to be Greek.
During the mid-1990s, Yugoslav Muslims became known by the label of ‘Bosnian’. Not much was known about these people, though I do recall one law professor named Alija Izetbegovic, who went on to become the first Chairman of the Presidency of Bosnia and Herzegovina, appearing on Amnesty International pamphlets as a prisoner of conscience. ‘Actual’ Bosnians did enter Australia as refugees. Many identified as Muslims, while others were deemed Muslim by default thanks to the ethno-religious assumptions and prejudices of the armies and militias they fled. Some found comfort living in Auburn, near the Gallipoli Mosque, while others chose to live near more established mixed ‘Yugoslav’ communities largely untouched by communal madness.

Turks may be a key feature of Sydney Islam, but I never knew much about them when I was growing up. My own family sneaked into Australia in 1965 when my father won a PhD scholarship at the Australian National University (ANU) in Canberra; and we eventually ended up in Sydney in 1970. When I was growing up, Muslim and Indian were synonymous. Muslims were brown-skinned people who watched long-winded Indian movies without the need of subtitles. A Muslim woman in my childhood imagination wore a sari or shalwar kameez and cooked very spicy food. Many Muslim men tied handkerchiefs around their heads when praying. Sofas were moved, white bed sheets were laid out on the floor, incense sticks burned and books in strange languages were read when a Muslim died.
Once a month, we Muslims would drive out to Bondi Beach to what was then Sydney’s only Indian spice shop. It was managed by a friendly old couple. The husband wore an embroidered cap on his head and his wife wore a small headscarf. They spoke Hindi. Yes, they were Muslims too. At least in my mind they were until, years later, I was told Uncle Isi Moses prayed on Saturday and did not go to a mosque on Friday.
No doubt for many Muslim migrants Islam was part of a broader project in preserving ancestral language and culture. Religion often played second fiddle. The result was Lebanese Muslims spent more time with Lebanese Christians, Cypriot Turks all had Cypriot Greek accountants and lawyers and Yugoslavs were just Yugoslavs (apart from a small number of Croatian nationalist folk constantly chased by law enforcement and security agencies for being ‘terrorists’). And half my ‘Muslim’ aunties sported red dots on their foreheads.
In their multiculturalism, Sydney Muslims are a microcosm of Sydney and broader urban Australia. Most Muslims, like most Australians, live in coastal cities. According to the 2011 census conducted by the Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS), some 45 per cent of Muslims live in Sydney. They have migrated from over 180 different countries, many from nations (such as Lebanon, India, Fiji, Sri Lanka and South Africa) where Muslims live as minorities. Though multicultural, Sydney’s Muslims are no longer just a migrant phenomenon. The largest group by place of birth are those born in Australia. And second in line are Muslims born in Lebanon.
For some strange reason, being Lebanese and being Muslim are considered by many Australians to be one and the same. It’s as if your average Aussie imagines downtown Beirut to be full of bearded men and burqa-clad women. The irony is that most Lebanese in Australia are not Muslim. The ones that identify as Muslim come in all sectarian shapes and sizes. The Ithna Ashariyya (Twelver Shi‘a) community is dominated by competing Lebanese religious and political factions. Their main mosque is located in the southern suburb of Arncliffe, close to the international airport. Surrounding the mosque are large blocks of units. Down the road is a small commercial district with shops, restaurants and the compulsory shisha outlets.
A short drive from Arncliffe is the village of Lakemba. In popular imagination, Lakemba is the Muslim heartland of Australia. According to the 2011 Census, 51.8 per cent of the population are Muslim. Roman Catholics are a distant second at 12.3 per cent. Nutty right wing journalists looking for shock and horror quotes and sound bites jump in a cab and head straight for Lakemba. Tim Blair, a columnist on Australia’s Daily Telegraph even took the ‘risk’ of staying overnight in a room above a pub. He found what he was looking for:
Lakemba may be only 30 minutes from the centre of Sydney, yet it is remarkably distinct from the rest of the city. You can walk the length of crowded Haldon St and not hear a single phrase in English. On this main shopping strip the ethnic mix seems similar to what you’d find in any Arabic city. Australia may be multicultural, but Haldon St is a monoculture.
I have travelled far and wide, but I have never come across streets in ‘Arabic’ cities named Haldon Street. To those familiar with Lakemba, Blair sounds like Donald Trump describing parts of London. But Blair’s assessment represents something close to the views of ‘mainstream’ red-top tabloid readers. I have, however, heard Lakemba locals laugh off the stereotypes with their own corrupted names – Lakembanon and Lebkemba.
The reality, however, is quite different. You’d expect a stereotypical Lebanese or Arab area to have an average household size of far in excess of 3.02 persons (we all know they breed like rabbits). But would you expect the largest ethnic group by ancestry of an Arabic city to be from Bangladesh? Or to have major communities originating from China, Greece, India, Pakistan, Vietnam and Indonesia. Indeed, Lakemba can hardly be describes as an ‘Arab monoculture’.
But Lakemba has acquired a somewhat unsavoury reputation for specific reasons which have caused much grief and embarrassment. The Imam Ali ben Abi Taleb Mosque is located on Wangee Road, a residential street packed with blocks of units and the rear of a primary school playground. The mosque is managed by the Lebanese Muslim Association (LMA), a body whose representatives often appear in mainstream media (including Mr Blair’s own newspaper) as representatives of ‘the Muslim community’.
Yet, according to LMA’s own membership rules, the ‘community’ does not include women, who are barred from holding full membership; and men are ineligible for a Lebanese passport! (I am not sure anyone is actually looking for one.)
The mosque’s former imam, Sheikh Taj Din Al-Hilali, an Egyptian who spoke through an interpreter, often gave speeches which made headlines. Frequent targets of the Sheikh’s speeches were Jews and women. In 2006, he made international headlines with a sermon claiming that women who dressed inappropriately were like ‘uncovered meat’ for cats to eat. ‘Whose fault is that: the cat’s or the uncovered meat’s?’ Some 500 persons were present in the mosque to hear his speech. Within weeks, millions more read about it on the web.
But Sheikh Hilali was no firebrand Salafi with a beard fit for a ZZ Top guitarist. Instead he was a mainstream al-Azhar educated Mullah. He established the Muslim Women’s Association, spoke out against domestic violence and was very popular with young people. He was also very physically fit for his age. When he was in a tracksuit and sunglasses, you’d swear you were in the presence of Viv Richards.
The Shaikh has now retired, but his major Lebanese Sunni factional enemies are still active. They include a contingent of Salafi Muslims, some of whose imams have also made headlines of their own with colourful views relating female dress to sexual violence. One young Lebanese Salafi imam claimed women who dressed in an inappropriate manner were ‘eligible for rape’. When asked to clarify, he said he was only referring to Muslim women who didn’t wear hijab. My elderly Indian mother, who doggedly refuses to wear anything on her head except when performing the prayer or listening to Qur’an, was not impressed.
Amongst Sheikh Hilali’s other enemies is a curious group from Lebanon who follow one Ethiopian cleric named Abdullah Hareri al-Habashi. Known as Ahbash, the group directly compete with the LMA on numerous Lebanese Sunni fronts. The rift between the Ahbash and LMA has split major extended families and village cultural associations. The irony is that, doctrinally speaking, there is little difference between the Ahbash and the LMA congregation. Both follow the Shafie school of law, reject scriptural literalism, celebrate the birthday of the Prophet and both are Lebanese (which, in Sydney terms, are essential articles of faith).
Which often makes it impossible for an untrained non-Lebanese eye to tell the difference between the two. Until, that is, you mention Ibn Taymiyyah, the fourteenth century Syrian literalist theologian and jurist. The Ahbash cannot stand him and unambiguously denounce him as an apostate. The LMA crowd, Sheikh Hilali and his successors prefer not to regard ibn Taymiyyah as a traitor to Islam. In an Ahbash mosque, or indeed at a mawlid gathering, the very mention of Ibn Taymiyyah can lead to serious strife. The same goes for any of those recent hard-line religious scholars who take their inspiration from Ibn Taymiyyah – such as Syed Qutb, Hasan al-Banna or Abul Ala Maududi, the founders of Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood and Pakistan’s Jamaat-e-Islami, respectively.
No doubt both Ahbash and the LMA band would have doctrinal differences with the followers of Abu Shu’ayb Muhammad ibn Nusayr, a disciple of the eleventh Shi‘a Imam Hasan al-Askari. The followers of ibn Nusayr are known as Nusayriyya or Alawis. A small Lebanese Alawi community is present in Sydney. They operate a mosque, a comprehensive school and a youth centre. However, they have gone to ground since the beginning of the civil war in Syria. Occasionally anti-Shi‘a and anti-Alawi violence has spilled onto the streets of Lakemba.
A small group of Lebanese Sunni hotheads and thugs have also been prominent supporters of ISIS and have made their way to Syria. One Sydney thug, Khaled Sharrouf, made international headlines when a photograph of himself and his son holding a severed head of an ISIS opponent appeared in the press.
But competing factions, denigrating comments about women, and severed heads only tells a tiny part of the story of Sydney’s Lebanese Muslims. The community has also made major contributions to public life. On the Australian Labor Party (ALP) side (for some reason the ALP uses American spelling for its name), two names are highly respected.
Jihad Dib is a former high school principal, who transformed a troubled state high school in a disadvantaged area riddled with crime adjacent to Lakemba into one of the best performing schools in Western Sydney. Dib now represents the electorate of Lakemba in the Lower House of the New South Wales State Parliament, Australia’s oldest Parliament.
In the Upper House, Labor has lawyer Shaoquett Mouselmane who was the first person of Lebanese Muslim descent to be elected in any Australian parliament. Born in the village of Konin in Southern Lebanon, Mouselmane’s family moved to Sydney in 1977.
Also on the Labor side in the Australian House of Representatives is Ed Husic who represents the large Western Sydney electorate of Chifley. Husic’s father, Hasib, migrated to Australia from Bosnia some fifty-five years ago, part of the large post-World War Two wave from Europe. His father was a welder, his mother a stay-at-home mum of three children. After pursuing an Arts degree, Husic became active in the trade union movement and the ALP.
Both Jihad Dib and Ed Husic have faced problems with their names. Jihad has acquired unpalatable connotations; and Ed does not quite shield Husic despite his white European heritage. In his inaugural speech in May 2005, Jihad explained:
In accordance with custom, I was named after my paternal grandfather as the first son of the eldest. That was a time when my name did not have the same connotations that it carries today, a time when the true meaning was clearly understood. My grandfather’s name, Jihad, is an Arabic word that means to strive and to improve one’s self, to overcome struggle and to help others improve their lives. Jihad is charity, jihad is service, and jihad is support of others. It is a name used by people of different faiths because they know its true interpretation. It is this meaning of ‘jihad’ that I want people to know.
Ed was given the name ‘Edham Nurredin’ by his parents. When he first stood for election in 2003, Husic’s political opponent, a conservative and an active member of the Pentecostal Hillsong Church, questioned his Muslim identity. A number of her campaign workers frequently mentioned to voters that Ed refused to use his ‘real’ name. Husic was forced to defend himself. In a speech to the Sydney Institute in October 2005, he declared:
The first time that many people knew I was Muslim was during the campaign. And many of these people had known me for 10 years…
Just before election-day, I learned about the distribution of another pamphlet, this one claiming that I was a devout Muslim fighting for a better deal for Islam in Greenway. The sheet was a dummied version of one of my campaign ads, designed to mislead a reader into believing it was put out by me. I was also told there was a phone banking campaign that repeatedly rang voters with identified strong religious beliefs to let them know that I was Muslim. … Obviously there was a big, organised effort to keep this issue alive. Was Ed a real dinkum Aussie? Could he be relied on? Would he be fighting for you or for Islam? …
I always considered myself as a regular Aussie, who happened to be Muslim. But when I woke up the day after the election I didn’t completely feel like a regular Aussie any more. I actually felt – for the first time in my 34 years – that I had this brand stuck on my forehead. I might not have understood or appreciated what it was like to feel part of a sub-group that was treated differently – but I got a good sense of what it was like.

To the Left of the political spectrum, there is engineer and academic Dr Mehreen Faruqi who sits in the New South Wales Upper House for the Greens. Faruqi migrated from Pakistan with her family twenty-four years ago and has been a citizen for twenty-two years. She joined the Greens a decade ago ‘because of the Party’s strong commitment to supporting refugees, multiculturalism, human rights and the environment’. She too has faced a fair amount of criticism – but from the other side, the believers ‘including Muslims and Christians for being a strong public advocate of LGBTQI rights and marriage equality’. How does Faruqi handle this? Australia’s political culture does the job for her. She says
Fortunately, we live in a secular state and in my view everyone has a right to practise their religion freely, but no one has a right to impose it on others.
Apart from issues of multiculturalism and identity, Muslims in Sydney – like Muslims everywhere – are also living in the shadow of terrorism. Around a hundred Muslim Australians have joined ISIS; and some thirty jihadis are reported to have been killed. To emphasise their connection to Oz, these characters (quite a few of them are converts), append ‘al-Australi’ to their real or assumed names – such as Abu al-Bara al-Australi!
There have also been two recent incidents in Sydney that have been deemed terrorist attacks.The first of these was the siege in Martin Place in December 2014 by Man Monis, an Iranian-born self-styled religious leader also known as ‘Shaikh Haroon’, who orchestrated a lengthy siege of the Lindt CafĂ© which ended when he and two of his hostages were killed during the storming of the premises by police. Evidence given by court-appointed expert witnesses has disputed whether the incident represented a terrorist attack, though media reports and statements by politicians and some representatives of law enforcement agencies have treated it as such.
The second was the first allegedly Islam-related terrorist attack to be carried out by a minor, Mohammed Farhad Jabar, who shot and killed police worker Curtis Cheng outside police headquarters in Parramatta. Jabar, from a family of Iranian-Kurdish heritage, was fifteen years old and attended a local high school. Again, the incident is being treated by many as a terrorist incident with questions being raised about diverse issues such as mosques, Muslim leaders, and religious backgrounds of Muslim high school students.
Meanwhile, life goes on for Muslims in Sydney. They are like Muslims everywhere. Sunni, Shi‘a, Alawi, Salafis, conservative, liberals, moderate, fanatics. All human life is there – as they say. Some are fighting over irrelevant doctrinal differences. Some are deeply misogynistic and cannot help denigrating women. But most are making an invaluable contribution to Australia. Though let’s get some perspective, after all, more people in Sydney are being killed or wounded by great white sharks.
(First published in Critical Muslim Issue 31, 2016)