Each morning in KL begins with the songs of the cranes. Not the organic ones, but those mechanistic beasts which perch upon the numerous towers which make up the city’s skyline that has the sort of elegance and style of Boris Johnson’s hair.

Dislocating the Arab future from the grip of the political bankruptcy and moral morass in the Arab world might appear remote and relegated to the domain of quixotic dreams. But does it need to be that way?

I had never thought about the question before. I had never asked myself why I am still a Muslim despite the patriarchy that appears to be so ingrained in the tradition and faith that I am committed to.

When I close my eyes, I can still hear the sounds of the rattling dishes and trays. It was early morning, and we had gently been woken up first by the azan, and then, after sweet moments between sleep and wakening, by our hosts preparing the breakfast.