Getting to know people as a Muslim at a demographically non-Muslim university comes with a hint of imposter syndrome, accompanied by double standards. One can only handle so many interrogations into their religious and/or personal choices laced with microaggressions.
In the last four years, I’ve seen and done it all. To some I’m vegetarian or a picky eater, and to others I don’t drink for health reasons – a half truth that’s easier to swallow than the full one.
I have come to understand that in order to receive an apathetic reaction to the inevitable “I don’t drink…” line, I must fill in the blanks with quite literally anything but “…because I’m Muslim.” The alternative: to tell the truth and entertain the onslaught of further questions, justifications and peculiar assumptions.
But, why are we so intoxicated with the need to understand why people do not do something? Drinking is so embedded within the social f abric of what we know as Australia, that not doing it is abnormal. We all saw the Boxing Day party aftermath in Bronte last year, which truthfully is a scene that speaks for itself.
Whether it’s Friday night drinks, pub feeds, or raves, alcohol is well and truly everywhere, woven into the everyday. It is a way to escape reality, and also to alter it. But beyond it’s role as a social lubricant, alcohol – and the choice to consume or abstain from it – carries deeper cultural and political implications. The proliferation of “sober-curious,” movements and wellness trends has reframed sobriety as a form of self-empowerment, but not all forms of abstention are treated equally.
Being “sober,” or “sober-curious,” elicits a level of respect, and even empowerment that simply does not come with being a Muslim who does not drink. The double standards are glaringly obvious. Sobriety indicates that you have tasted alcohol before, only to make the conscious decision to not drink. It implies self-discipline, personal growth and a rejection of excess.
Meanwhile, a Muslim’s abstention is viewed through an entirely different lens: one of restriction, compulsion, and lack of agency. After all, in the eyes of many in the Western world, Muslims are not believed to have free will or good judgement – only restrictions imposed upon them that they yearn to be free of.
The underlying issue here is not just about alcohol, but about who is allowed to exercise control over their own body and who is seen as being controlled by something – or someone – else. This discrepancy is moulded by broader colonial histories and racialised narratives. Western societies have long associated individualism and secularism with progress, and religious observance with backwardness, particularly with Islam and other non-Christian faiths. While atheism is on the rise among younger generations, religiosity is increasingly framed as a restraint on personal freedoms and autonomy. Thus contributing to the notion that a Muslim abstains from alcohol solely due to religious impositions, rather than out of their own personal choices, which then feeds into pervasive Orientalist narratives that depict Muslims as lacking autonomy.
It would be remiss of me to discuss alcohol consumption in so-called Australia without exploring its colonial roots. Alcohol was brought to Australia with the First Fleet, catering to the heavy drinking of Anglo convicts and settlers. However, its role extended far beyond personal consumption – it was weaponised in the colonial project.
Alcohol was a catalyst within the dispossession process, used as a bargaining chip for sexual favours, initiating street fighting and a form of payment for labour, and ultimately a tool to encourage dependency and wreak social havoc.
Almost overnight, Indigenous communities, who had no significant historical relationship with alcohol prior to colonisation were systemically targeted. Centuries later, First Nations peoples bear the brunt of racist tropes such as the “drunken Aboriginal”. It is tropes like this, invented by the settlers then, that are ultimately weaponised in the now, with politicians and first responders constantly justifying the absence of sufficient care for Indigenous communities.
Isn’t it ironic, that the same society that celebrates alcohol as intrinsic to national identity and patriotism, simultaneously polices and criminalises Indigenous drinking habits?
This contradiction aligns quite well with the treatment of Muslim abstention: the dominant culture dictates the terms of what is to be acceptable.
Drinking is both a rite of passage, and a form of moral bankruptcy, depending on who is holding the glass.
Not drinking is both a sign of personal discipline and a sign of repression, depending on who is practicing it.
Candidly, this was never about alcohol – it is a matter of control and cultural dominance. While a Muslim’s abstention is cross-examined, the wellness influencer is praised for their self-control. First Nations peoples drinking in public ends with countless deaths in custody, whereas White Australian drinking habits are hailed as a cultural phenomena.
