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Taking our lad to the local mosque this afternoon, another youngster addressed him. “Is that your dad?” Then: “Is he Muslim?”

The kids get a free pass for asking such questions. Adults less so. But this is the reality of the mosque in our locality: it’s a Pakistani club.

Our daughter absolutely hates going to this mosque. She claims all the girls point at her, laugh and call her names.

She has my sympathy, but I try to muster some kind of generous defence of the community. Though I know it doesn’t really wash with them.

The real problem is that they are not taught that ours is a religion for all, with adherents in every nation on earth. Some of them, it seems, can barely accommodate people from a different village or valley back home.

This is a strange situation if you’re used to the cosmopolitan mosques of the big cities. In the capital, nobody would ever think to question your presence.

But these are not enlightened spaces. In twenty-five years, not much has changed in these quiet backwaters. Even as the community becomes ever more diverse, the mentality hardly changes.

There are more open gatherings all over; they’re just not taking place at the mosque. This space exists for the preservation of cultural heritage. Fair enough, perhaps; they built the place, after all.

The rest of us must build our own spaces, whether physical or emotional. For some it may require another migration; for others just finding like minded companions.

Many converts are less conspicuous than me, with my palid pink skin. They are Caribbean, Chinese, Indians, Ghanaians, and all the world. Some blend in better than others, but generally our needs are all the same.

Ultimately we will go elsewhere for guidance and fraternity. We have to if we wish to keep this faith of ours alive. Hence those circles of knowledge and belonging elsewhere.

We will be found where nobody ever looks at us and thinks to ask, “Are you Muslim?”