Islam has a long and complex presence in China and offers a fascinating case study in how different Muslim communities integrate, or clash, with a dominant national culture. While China’s Hui Muslims live peacefully alongside the Han majority, the Uyghurs of Xinjiang have repeatedly come into conflict with the Chinese state, often driven by a toxic mix of ethnic separatism and Islamic radicalism.
Today, these two groups, both Muslim, live radically different lives under the same flag, the same regime and in the same country. The contrast offers, in my opinion, an insight into what happens when a religious minority embraces national identity against adopting a confrontational, often militant stance.
Islam arrived in China over 1,300 years ago via traders and missionaries from the Middle East, mainly Persia. These early Muslims didn’t conquer or demand special status; they assimilated. In fact, the Hui Muslims, the largest and most integrated Muslim group in China, are the descendants of these early settlers. They speak Mandarin, dress like other Chinese citizens, and mostly consider themselves loyal patriots. Their mosques even mimic traditional Chinese architecture, lacking the domes and minarets associated with Middle Eastern Islam.
Throughout dynastic China Hui Muslims held senior positions in government and contributed to military and economic life. They've built a reputation for working within Chinese society and not causing trouble, and are usually well-integrated and accepted by ordinary Chinese. Even today, in cities like Xi’an, Lanzhou, and regions like Ningxia and Yunnan, Hui communities operate schools, halal markets, and mosques with minimal conflict. They represent an example of how a minority religion can coexist within a larger, secular national framework—without demanding special treatment.
In places like Dali, which I know well and will return to in October, and in the broader Yunnan province, Islam exists quietly. Hui Muslims live alongside Han and Bai ethnic groups, blending into the social fabric. There are no calls for separatism or political Islam. Instead, they run businesses, participate in civic life, and celebrate their faith with little fanfare. Local Han Chinese often shop at halal markets and attend Muslim festivals. Integration here is not enforced—it evolved naturally.
Why? Because the Hui never tried to impose their beliefs or challenge the authority of the state. They adapted to local norms, spoke the same language, and did not allow their religious identity to eclipse their national one.
Unfortunately the story couldn’t be more different in Xinjiang, where the Uyghur population, ethnically Turkic and linguistically distinct, has a long history of resisting Chinese rule and rejecting Chinese nationality. To be honest, I had not heard of Uyghurs until recently. Muslims yes, there were a few in Beijing where I grew up. We used to laugh at them for not eating pork, but that was about it. They were Chinese, a little different but no threat. I suppose that the heavy oppression of the Mao years kept them cowed. But over the past few decades, Xinjiang has become a flashpoint not just for ethnic tension, but for Islamic radicalism and terrorism.
There have been deadly riots, bombings, and terrorist attacks attributed to Uyghur separatists and Islamists. One of the most brutal occurred in 2014 at the Kunming railway station, where knife-wielding attackers killed 31 people and injured over 140. Such incidents were not isolated. Some Uyghur extremists aligned themselves with the East Turkestan Islamic Movement (ETIM), a jihadist group seeking an Islamic state independent of China. Others were reportedly trained abroad in Syria and Afghanistan.
These aren’t baseless accusations by the Chinese government—these are real security threats, and any sovereign nation has a right to defend itself. And, to nobody’s surprise, the CCP acted with the brutality it always metes out to perceived threats to its authority.
Yes, the Communist government’s response has been harsh, arguably too harsh. Mass surveillance, internment camps disguised as "vocational centers," restrictions on religious practice, and forced assimilation policies have sparked global outrage. Western governments and human rights organizations accuse Beijing of cultural genocide.
But in the eyes of many Chinese citizens, and even many Chinese Muslims outside Xinjiang, these policies are viewed through a different lens: self-defense and were no different to what dissidents in the general public have faces since 1949. After repeated attacks and rising separatist rhetoric, the central government moved to prevent Xinjiang from becoming another Syria or Chechnya.
From a national security perspective, China’s crackdown is less about religion as such and more about political Islam and ethno-religious separatism. Beijing does not target Hui Muslims, nor does it ban Islam. It targets what it sees as radicalism often, admittedly, using a wide brush.
Among Han Chinese, there is little public sympathy for the Uyghurs. Most see them as ungrateful, rebellious, and easily radicalised. This perception, whether accurate or not, has hardened public opinion and made it easier for the CCP to impose harsh policies without much domestic resistance.
But contrast this with the perception of the Hui Muslims. They are seen as hardworking, patriotic, and cooperative. They build mosques with Chinese aesthetics. Their imams preach in Mandarin. Their religious schools follow national curricula. In short, they live their faith without challenging the state or Chinese culture
This distinction matters. It highlights the difference between religious practice and religious politics, between Muslims who integrate and those who demand autonomy under the banner of Islam.
Could there be a broader lesson here, especially for Western countries struggling with the challenges of Islamist extremism and parallel societies. Perhaps the problem isn’t Islam itself but instead it is political Islam, the kind that refuses to accept the legitimacy of the secular nation-state, demands religious exceptionalism, or uses violence to achieve its goals.
China's approach is blunt, often repressive, and at times overreaching. But its underlying philosophy—that integration matters, and that separatist ideologies cannot be tolerated, is not without merit. Western policymakers might disagree with Beijing’s methods, but they would do well to study the success of Hui integration versus the radicalization seen among segments of the Uyghur population.
China’s Muslim communities are not monolithic. The Hui show that Islam can coexist with national identity, cultural norms, and modernity. The Uyghur situation, however, illustrates what happens when religion becomes a vehicle for political dissent, tribal identity, and at times, violent extremism.
Critics of Beijing’s policies are right to condemn collective punishment and violations of basic rights. But they should also acknowledge the real dangers of Islamic radicalism, the costs of separatist violence, and the importance of national cohesion. If Islam is to thrive in any society, be it China or Britain, it must do so within the framework of the nation, not in opposition to it.