Well, hello there! Shah here – and welcome to my little corner of the internet.
First off, thanks for visiting my website. It’s lovely to have you here, though I suspect you might have stumbled upon this while googling something far more interesting. But since you’re here, let’s dive into the thrilling world of me, shall we?
So, who am I? I’m Dr. Shahwiqar Shahin. But please, call me Shah—it’s easier for everyone, including me (I blame my parents for the tongue twister). Yes, I’m a doctor, though not the life-saving kind. More like the kind who spends years buried in dusty manuscripts, trying to make sense of them, and then explaining it all to people trying to make sense of the world.
I’ve got a PhD in Theology and Philosophy from the School of Advanced Study (Heythrop College), University of London. My doctoral thesis? Oh, just a little deep dive into the Islamic legal and cultural influences on Britain’s shari’a councils. Why? Because someone had to do it. These councils keep popping up on British TV, scaring the bejeezus out of people, and we’re told they’re supposedly bad for women and society. Yet, fun fact: most of the people who actually use these councils are women. So, a group of professors looked at me and said, “Alright, Shah. Be a sport, unravel this mystery for us. Find out what these imams and scholars sitting on these councils are really thinking.” And so, I did. You can read all about it here.
Naturally, being the overachiever that I am, I didn’t stop at one degree. I went full Pokémon mode and collected a whole gaggle of them. I bagged an MA in Abrahamic Religions, another in Islamic Studies, and stacked up a collection of post-graduate diplomas and certificates in Islamic law and comparative religions. Because, if you’re going to spend your life in libraries, you might as well rack up credentials— coz I gotta catch ‘em all.
And for that extra corporate sparkle, I threw in some social entrepreneurship training at the Judge Business School, King’s College Cambridge, and ESSEC Business School in France. Now I’ve got all the credentials needed to help rich people feel good about themselves by showing them how to spend their money on worthy causes. (Credentials, I said. The practical will come soon… Godspeed.)
Yes. This is me. This is Shah.
What Do I Do?
So, what do I actually do, you ask? My days are spent immersed in research, exploring everything from Islamic family law and philanthropic instruments to developing postgraduate curricula in Islamic Studies. Yes, riveting stuff, I know. I also tackle the tricky question of how classic and contemporary Islamic thought functions in Western societies, which, as you can imagine, is the intellectual equivalent of performing brain surgery with a spoon. And yet, here I am, continuing to ask the big questions, all while trying to prevent the world from imploding over a misunderstood ḥādīth.
I also have over ten years of experience in faith leadership training and managing bespoke interfaith and cross-cultural training programmes – fancy terms for being the guy they call when someone needs to teach people how to talk about religion and society without everyone throttling each other. Picture it: passive-aggressive nods, polite sips of tea, and buttering crumpets, all while trying to act civil as they discuss God.
But if you’re expecting me to lead a group hug around a campfire while singing “Kumbaya, My Lord,” think again. That’s not my scene. I’m like the hard conversations. The ones where people drop the pretense and actually say what’s on their minds about living next door to someone who doesn’t share their taste in food, music, films, or, you know, their definition of religion.
Here’s my philosophy: we all agree on the easy stuff – “Oh yeah, we all enjoy breathing, sleeping, eating, and, of course, complaining.” No big surprises there. But the real conversation, the juicy bits, happens when we talk about our differences. That’s where things get interesting. Lay it out on the table and ask, “What’s all this then?” Who knows? Maybe if more people did that, the world would make a little more sense—and be a little less annoying.
My Background
I was born and raised in Blackburn, Lancashire – yes, the Blackburn, where the cows are lucky, chewing their cud and browse. My father, Shabbir Shahin (JP MSc, he always added those letters after his name), was more than just a chemistry teacher, magistrate, and community activist. He was a trailblazer, one of the first South Asian teachers in Britain during the early 1970s. He taught half of Blackburn at Pleckgate High School. I still get people messaging me, saying, “Your dad—he was something else. Brilliant, funny, easy-going. The suit-and-boot scholar. He was fighting for us when no one else would. We miss him, man!”
I tried to find more about him online, but there wasn’t much—probably because the internet missed his time. One of the few remnants of his legacy is the Shabbir Shahin Award at Pleckgate High School, given to the most outstanding student, often migrant students who, at first, struggle with English but go on to achieve top marks in their GCSEs. Even though I butted heads with my father and drove him nuts, I’ve got to respect that his influence continues to ripple through generations in the North of England.
I started this blog for many reasons—one of them being that not much is written about my father, even though I keep hearing Gen Xers and Millennials say, “We miss him. He was brilliant.” But I’ll save his story for another time.
My mother, meanwhile, was quite the astute businesswoman in the 1980s and 90s, starting from nothing and eventually building up a chain of shops and properties. In many ways, she was my father’s Khadijah.
Anyway, moving on. I eventually made my way to London, and being a glutton for punishment, I studied Mathematics, earning a BSc (Hons) from King’s College, London. Yes, I was crunching numbers long before I was crunching complex theological arguments.
Then came 2004—my very own Sliding Doors moment. Enter Professor Mohammed Aboulkhair Zaki Badawi, an Islamic scholar and champion of interfaith dialogue. Back then, he was not only the Prince of Wales’ advisor (who’s now King Charles III), but some even called him Britain’s unofficial Grand Mufti. We chatted, he liked the cut of my jib and offered me a scholarship to study at his Islamic seminary, the Muslim College, London. And just like that – with a flick of a tasbīḥ – I was plucked from mathematical obscurity and thrust into the world of Islamic scholarship, trying to blend ancient wisdom with contemporary Islamic thought… all while carefully sidestepping theological landmines.
And if that wasn’t enough, Professor Badawi also sparked my interest in interfaith dialogue. But his style was far from the peace, love, and “I’d like to teach the world to sing” vibe floating around these days. Instead of making assumptions about other religions, he’d say, “Why don’t you just go ask them?” So, I did. I chatted with Jews, Christians, Hindus, Buddhists—you name it, I was there. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was studying at Heythrop College while still knee-deep in my Islamic studies. Quite the balancing act, really!
Fast forward to today, and I’m blending my knowledge of classic and contemporary Islamic thought with a healthy dose of interfaith experience. I’ve worked with government agencies, private companies, and charities, all of whom seem to think I know what I’m talking about. I’ve organised and delivered comprehensive leadership, interfaith, and cross-cultural enrichment programs for federal officers, and have been at the forefront of initiatives like the Muslim Chaplaincy Programme, Rawiya College—an online learning portal for Muslim women—because, really, what’s the point of having multiple degrees if you’re not going to create your own virtual school?
When I don my interfaith cap, I somehow found myself sitting as an Executive Committee Member of the World Congress of Faiths, was a faculty member for the Cambridge Interfaith Programme, and one of the twenty participants in the Society of Jesus’ Faiths Together Programme. Now, some of these projects were actually quite interesting—like the Faiths Together Programme, where the Jesuits carted us around to various places of worship, giving us all that immersive religious experience. Others, however, were your typical interfaith ordeal: a room full of people cherry-picking words, each one more terrified than the last to say anything remotely scandalous. You end up with these excruciatingly polite pauses, where everyone waits for someone else to take the plunge into something real—but, surprise, they never do. The result? You leave the room exhausted, with your soul feeling about as refreshed as a week-old sandwich left out in the sun. It’s absolutely soul-destroying.
And just when you think it couldn’t get any more farcical, in strut the religious zealots—armed to the teeth with sanctimonious babble and delusions of grandeur. They enter the room like they’ve got Stayin’ Alive playing on repeat in their heads, absolutely convinced they’re about to save our heathen souls with that one perfect argument that’ll make us see the light. And then, behold, they speak—only for their words to land with all the impact of a damp sponge against a brick wall. Watching their grand declaration flop is, honestly, a thing of beauty. With egos deflated, they scurry off like a sad balloon at a kid’s birthday party—with no cake to soften the blow.
Here’s the thing with interfaith: just stop pretending. Accept that you’re stepping out of your comfort zone. You might hear things that make you squirm and wonder why you even walked into that mosque, church, synagogue, or temple in the first place. But that’s the point. You have to get uncomfortable. Once you’re there, you start asking, “What do I really believe?” That’s where you temper your beliefs, strengthen them with facts. That’s where the good stuff happens, the part where you learn more about yourself.
You’re not supposed to leave these talks feeling warm and fuzzy. If anything, you should walk out a little unsettled, a little confused, and, with any luck, a little smarter.
But let’s be honest—most people don’t want that. They want comfort, not wisdom. They want their worldview wrapped in a nice little package that doesn’t force them to question anything—let alone themselves. (Yeah… I think I’ve been doing this thing for too long).
Let’s wrap this up. If you’re looking for an academic who’s done it all—analyse, critique, research, and occasionally contemplate existential despair and lived to tell the tale—then congratulations, you’ve found him. Don’t all rush at once.
Kind regards and blessings,
Shah