If only the mega projects governments had pursued were replacing substandard housing.
Is Andrew Tate really to blame for an alleged rise in sexism and misogyny amongst young men, or is he just a convenient scapegoat for society-wide issues?
Not long ago, I noticed a worrying shift in a young man’s attitudes — misogynistic language creeping into his speech.
He doesn’t have access to Andrew Tate’s content, but something had clearly influenced him. The likely culprit? Peer influence.
Some of his friends may well be watching Tate, or others like him. But is it really fair to blame one man as our hysterical social commentators wish to?
In truth, this isn’t a modern phenomenon at all. I can still remember the deeply sexist comments I heard in the common rooms and corridors of college, over thirty years ago.
By the time I reached university, some male students were boasting of sexual conquests with a sense of entitlement that was hard to ignore.
There were laddish jokes, public rankings of women’s appearances, FHM magazine passed around, and the unspoken rule that sensitivity was weakness.
That continued into the workplace, where chauvinism and endless innuendo characterised the conversations of senior managers, while junior men pinned nude calendars to office walls.
If there is a difference now, it is only in the medium. Where once such ideas were passed along in person, they’re now amplified by social media — louder, slicker, and more pervasive.
There’s been much debate about figures like Andrew Tate and their influence. Some see him as the root of a new wave of misogyny, while others say he’s a scapegoat — a convenient target that distracts from wider societal failings.
In reality, of course, both can be true. Tate didn’t invent toxic masculinity, but he does monetise and promote it with exceptional skill.
As a shrewd businessman, he seems to tap into young men’s insecurities and frustrations, offering them a warped vision of confidence rooted in domination rather than empathy.
Some might say that the danger lies not just in his message, but in how easily it spreads through memes, clips, and conversation.
I would suggest he’s more a symptom than a root cause. Focusing all the outrage on one figure lets wider society off the hook.
Media and popular culture has been promoting these attitudes for generations. It requires a conscious effort to oppose these all-pervasive attitudes.
To break these cycles means modelling respect in our own relationships and language. It means challenging sexism early, even in its supposedly harmless forms.
It also means asking deeper questions about the social and cultural voids being filled by charismatic influencers. What do they offer that our homes, schools, and communities are failing to provide?
As a Muslim, I draw encouragement from the example of our Prophet, peace be upon him, who treated women with dignity, compassion, and honour.
He listened to their voices, sought their counsel, and praised their intellect. His example stands in stark contrast to the bravado and ego that dominate many online spaces today — including within our community.
In our personal lives, we’ve had a rocky few months that have tested us in unimaginable ways. In that period it was necessary to have difficult conversations about appropriate language and behaviour.
Alhamdulilah, the young man has calmed down a little. The heat in his comments has faded, offering hope that conversations matter. That guidance, when offered with care can still reach the heart.
But this isn’t a battle that ends with a single conversation. This is just where it starts. With awareness. With challenge. With compassion. And with the belief that another way is possible.
Perhaps a part of that is more realistic role models. Not astute businessmen monetising male bravado and frustration. Something more real: men who model dignified, honourable behaviour for all who come into contact with them.
Who will answer that call?
“Help your dad,” says his mum.
“I will, I will,” he yells back.
Though evidently not while I actually need help.
He’ll come to my aid after I’ve finished. Maybe.
“Be a man” means different things to different people. It means be strong. Provide for your family. Stand up straight. Don’t show emotions. Be tough. Stand up for yourself. Be masculine. Be ambitious. Be a fighter. Stand your ground.
When I was younger, people said this to me a lot. Unsurprisingly, I suppose, because I was the epitome of a timid pushover, shy and emotional. I was also rather confused, having imbibed a literalist interpretation of our Christian faith which demanded we turn the other cheek in the face of assault. Thus did I never stand up for myself.
But even without that background, I still wouldn’t have been able to anyway, for my arms were like matchsticks, devoid of muscles. I had no strength or speed or stamina. So it was that when a group of boys from a lower year at school harassed me every day for months on end, I had no power to prevent it. Not even my voice could intimidate them, so quiet and slow, and unmanly.
“Be strong,” is what people meant here. Stand up for yourself. Stand your ground. But I never did. Later, at college, even a student with cerebral palsy was able to put me in my place, to remind me how small and insignificant I was. I was an easy target because everyone knew I would not stand up for myself. It’s true: I was not a man. I was a laughing stock, a prize buffoon, defeated by unceasing stares and laughter alone.
Sometimes what they meant was, “Be a man, not a boy.” At university, another student would address me as boy all the time. It used to wind me up, but it was just what he saw. Even then, at the age of 19, I looked much younger than my age. So of course nobody objected when he too would belittle me in front of all of my peers.
At other times, they are speaking of masculinity. In earlier years keeping this blog, writing about relationships and gender roles in particular, I was attacked by fellow Muslims — both men and women — on the basis of my perceived masculinity, or lack thereof. “That doesn’t sound very manly,” one woman declared, deriding me.
Perhaps they were right, for back then I was not a man in any sense. I brought a low income into our household. I was yet to be an adoptive dad. Medical interventions were yet to take an effect. I remained lethargic and unambitious, frequently anxious and blue.
What about now? Twenty years on, can I claim to be a man? Do I feel like one? Do I have any greater impact on the world? Am I any more ambitious? More secure? Any stronger? I suspect that to you, looking in, I am still a boy, still trying to find and establish his place in the world.
I would probably concur. When subsumed in some morass of my own making, I’d address myself that way. “Be a man,” I’ll tell myself. Meaning, get a grip, sort yourself out, rise above this. “Be a man,” meaning work hard, do your job, stop messing around. “Be a man,” meaning do the right thing.
In the end, a true man is one who journeys towards God. The further from Him he is, the less of a man he is. So humbleness is manliness, while arrogance is not. Patience, endurance, forbearance are all part of manliness. To serve your parents, your wife and family is manliness.
May Allah make us males real men. By which I mean, to become servants of the Most Merciful, who serve the best we can.
Oh dear, my pragmatism is throwing me into conflict with the exactitude of my colleagues.
As it happens, I’m all for that precision. But only in relation to the important things.
Indeed, I’m usually the one demanding everyone do things properly in that sphere.
But being pragmatic for the wider good, in order to keep contributors engaged?
Kindness in the service of positive outcomes? Compromise rather than a hard rebuff?
I suppose I’m taking the role of mellow mediator here, worn down by a decade of mediocrity.
Honestly, I don’t know what right we have to demand standards of others given the utter drivel we produce.
But we will fight it out tomorrow, I’m sure, when I will struggle to get a word in edgeways as the team lays down the law.
In the end, I shall probably just declare: “Do whatever you like. I don’t really care.” For we have no standards, really.
Our media lies, to manufacture consent. Witness the daily news providing cover for warmongers. Their lies are now proven, but it’s too late. The damage has already been done.
I don’t know anything about stocks and shares, ISAs, bonds, mutual funds, or passive income.
All I know is that sadaqa (charity) does not decrease wealth.
It sounds strange and counterintuitive, but whatever you give in charity to help others inexplicably comes back to you, multiplied.
If I were to give you investment advice, it would be this: spend of whatever is given you on others freely and without a second thought.
That’s an investment you will never regret.
Generally, I don’t work very hard at work.
Sometimes I do, naturally. If I have a deadline, or feel particularly engaged by a project.
But, by and large, I am often distracted. To such an extent that I honestly feel undeserving of my salary.
Those around me, though, don’t see it that way. They have no idea how I feel.
Indeed, I have to ask: would anyone at work notice if I were totally incompetent?
My colleagues treat me like I’m a genius, but really I’m just helpful. If someone has a question, I’ll go out of my way to answer it.
Because of this, people never appreciate how disengaged I am most of the time.
And this, of course, compounds my sense of guilt because I’m the least deserving of praise amongst them.
Is it because I’m an ill-fitting part? Or because I’m understimulated or overwhelmed?
Or is it just something out of my control that I just can’t help? Somehow linked to the peaks and troughs that define my life?
I wish I knew. Most of all, I wish I knew the cure for this invisible struggle.
Funnily enough, I occupy the role of interpretive layer between the techies of IT and the non-techies of the rest of the organisation. I’m the intermediary who tries to explain in simple terms what each side is talking about. Who knew a Simple Simon could be so helpful?
This morning, a subtle change in SharePoint caught my attention, but not in a good way. Microsoft has introduced a faint animation on interface elements meant to convey depth. It’s a small change, barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it.
And yet, it irked me. Not because it was particularly offensive, but because it epitomises a wider, persistent problem: Microsoft seems to be prioritising needless changes over essential stability.
Who asked for this animation? Who benefits from it? Did anyone demand it? Was any real user consulted? It’s hard to tell whether these changes come from user feedback or simply from a design team caught in a loop of reinventing the wheel.
The ire wasn’t just about the animation, though. It was compounded by a more pressing issue I encountered minutes earlier. It came in the middle of supporting a tech-reluctant colleague with a piece of work. The nature of the task required repeated use of the simple “Copy of this page” feature.
It should be simple: clone a page, edit the copy, leave the original intact. Instead, SharePoint quietly directed me back to the original. Edits made under the assumption they were safely sandboxed in a duplicate ended up corrupting the source. This isn’t just inconvenient; it’s counterproductive and confusing, especially when I’m training users who already find technology intimidating.
Agile development has its virtues, but this isn’t Agile done safely. This is instability disguised as progress. What I want from Microsoft — and what users need — is a foundation of reliability, predictability and clear functionality. Instead, we’re treated to rolling feature updates no one asked for, dropped into live environments with little warning or documentation.
Copilot is another glaring example. Rather than offering genuinely helpful AI integration, it manifests primarily as nagging banners and interface clutter. It’s pitched as assistance, but it often feels like coercion — particularly when I’m just trying to help colleagues stay afloat in an already complicated workspace.
Every day, I’m reminded how far user experience seems to have fallen down the priority list at Microsoft. The elegance, clarity, and coherence of a well-thought-out user experience seem absent. And in their place: cosmetic tweaks, untested behaviours, and distractions dressed as innovation.
This is what happens when UX takes a backseat. The perils of delivering features nobody asked for, and neglecting core functionality. Maybe they should try testing with our users. Real tech noobs. People with a minimal digital skills set. Then they might truly understand what we’re up against.
Is our faith relevant to the times we live in? For many of our detractors, of course, the answer is a hard no: it is irrelevant at best, if not outright harmful. But is that really so?
One of the central principles I have learnt is that in moments of uncertainty, our faith teaches us to choose the path of safety. This principle isn’t just a legal guideline; it’s a moral compass. When things are unclear, especially where people’s dignity and wellbeing are concerned, we lean towards caution. That caution isn’t fear, but mercy. It’s responsibility, and a form of care.
When there is genuine confusion about a person’s gender, for example — when it’s not immediately clear whether someone is male or female, or how others should interact with them — we prioritise safety. For women, this means safeguarding their right to private, female-only spaces. For those navigating gender identity, it may also mean not placing them at risk of harm in male spaces.
Safety cuts both ways. But the vulnerability of women — especially in intimate or enclosed spaces — is not hypothetical. It is a daily reality. Across societies, many women live with the ongoing threat of domestic violence, sexual assault, coercion, and invasive behaviour.
Many women carry stories of being followed, touched without consent, or spoken to with aggression — sometimes in settings as mundane as a changing room, a park, or a bus stop. These are not rare exceptions. They are part of a broader pattern of harm, often hidden or dismissed, yet painfully real.
It is this reality that makes the protection of female-only spaces not an act of exclusion, but one of recognition and care. Yet, in today’s world, that clarity is under pressure. We’re now seeing debates around access to women’s changing rooms, toilets, and other private facilities — the very spaces designed for dignity and safety.
Sometimes, these debates centre around individuals with sincere and difficult experiences of gender dysphoria who deserve kindness and compassion. But they can also centre around individuals who exploit the language of gender identity to enter spaces not meant for them — driven not by confusion or need, but by harmful intent.
These are difficult conversations. They require wisdom, compassion, and a commitment to justice for everyone. Islam’s classical jurists confronted similar complexities centuries ago in their rulings on intersex individuals, advocating for a third space when binary classification proved unclear. This shows us that tradition has long valued careful, principled solutions which protect without demeaning, and include without compromising safety.
We can take heart from that today. We don’t need to erase boundaries to show compassion, nor endanger one group to accommodate another. There is another way, if we’re brave enough to seek it. That is, choosing the path of safety, which minimises harm.
This isn’t a political statement, but a quiet, moral reflection. A longing for clarity and a plea for balance. A hope that in our desire to be kind, we don’t forget to be wise. If we are to learn anything about our faith, it is that it is a path to removing harm, individually and collectively.
Live with them in kindness, says the Quran.
But many of us have inner impulses that are anything but kind.
Our test is in how we respond. Do we feed them and make them real?
Or do we subdue them, recalling a better way to live our lives?
Only we can determine which side of us will prevail: our good or our bad, compassionate, or self-serving.
In reporting of recent UK Supreme Court rulings about the use of female-only changing facilities by transgender individuals, I’ve noticed some media outlets conflating transgender identities with intersex conditions — and, in some cases, even with chromosomal differences that do not constitute intersex conditions at all.
One of those conditions I know intimately, having been diagnosed with it twenty years ago.
Now, I do understand that identity is deeply personal and that some people with this condition may indeed identify as female or non-binary.
I also recognise that some individuals are born with genuine intersex conditions, where reproductive anatomy doesn’t fit typical definitions of male or female. There are also rare cases where someone may have male chromosomes yet develop biologically female traits.
Nevertheless, we must be honest about the biology here. The vast majority of people with my aneuploidy are biologically male. Our condition is not intersex. We are born with male reproductive organs. While some may experience features like gynecomastia, broader hips or atypical fat distribution, these traits do not make us biologically female, nor do they render our condition intersex.
We do not possess both sets of reproductive organs or the biological ambiguity found in some intersex conditions. While some individuals with the condition may have slightly elevated oestrogen levels compared to typical males, we do not produce oestrogen in levels remotely comparable to biologically female individuals.
We are, simply put, men with a chromosomal variation that can affect things like fertility, hormone balance and psychosocial development.
Why does this matter? Because blending these categories — transgender, intersex, and chromosomal differences — doesn’t help anyone. It clouds public understanding, misrepresents people like myself, and ultimately undermines the distinct experiences of all three groups.
Transgender individuals navigate a different journey, centred on gender identity, not biological sex. Intersex people face unique medical and social challenges tied to ambiguous or atypical anatomy.
But those of us with chromosome disorders often don’t fit either narrative. We deserve to be understood on our own terms, not used as rhetorical leverage in debates we didn’t choose to enter.
It’s time to stop lumping unlike things together for the sake of political expediency. Not only is it misleading, but it’s also unfair. As you’ll note, I still can’t bring myself to name the condition all these years on, such is the volume of misinformation that surrounds it.
Misrepresentation in debates like this a case in point.
