Twenty years ago, I was walking through central London with my history teacher when a bus exploded behind us. We were in London for an awards ceremony at Westminster where I was to pick up the award for best opposition speaker in the Youth Parliament competition.

We had arrived at Euston station and all local transport had been cancelled. At this point, we heard that there'd been a bomb scare.

We bought a map at the station and set off to walk to Westminster when the number 30 bus exploded on Tavistock Square. It was the loudest sound I'd ever heard. People were running and screaming. We ran too and took shelter in a nearby park.

We later learned that four bombs had been detonated on London's transport system. The attack, carried out by British-born Islamist extremists on July 7 2005, claimed the lives of 52 people and injured hundreds. My teacher and I were far enough away from the bus to be physically unhurt.

Four years on from the attacks on 9/11, this was a time when, in the minds of many, Muslims were already associated with terrorism. Despite going to a state school where the pupils were predominantly Muslim, we were called terrorists in the playground.

Get your news from actual experts, straight to your inbox. Sign up to our daily newsletter to receive all The Conversation UK's latest coverage of news and research, from politics and business to the arts and sciences.

In the aftermath of 7/7, there was no space for Muslim survivors like me. No headlines about our fear, our trauma or our belonging - only suspicion. While I was lucky to walk away physically unscathed, I carried a different kind of wound: being part of a community that was treated with collective blame.

My academic research focuses on ethnic minority voting behaviour, political participation and representation in Britain. The events of 7/7 marked a critical moment in how British Muslims are still viewed as inherently suspect today.

Over the last 25 years, Muslim communities have been viewed as places where terrorism is fostered. Following 7/7, British Muslims were viewed as a security threat by politicians, the media and many non-Muslims.

One stark example was the implementation of the Prevent counter-terrorism programme after 7/7. Prevent has contributed to increased surveillance and marginalisation of Muslim communities in the UK.

Fear of Muslims and especially "home-grown terrorists" has meant that Muslims are made to feel that they must condemn terrorist acts. Despite the fact that an overwhelming majority of Muslims in the UK identify as British and are proud to be British citizens, British Muslims often feel they must prove their "Britishness" and distance themselves from stereotypes of Muslims as terrorists or terrorist sympathisers.

Post-7/7 arguments that British Muslims were at odds with "British values" and fears that Britain was sleepwalking into segregation have persisted in politics and the media. Negative portrayals of Islam and Muslims in media, including stigmatising, offensive and biased news reports have not helped.

In 2013, a device exploded outside the mosque I attended as a child, carried out by an extreme right-wing white supremacist. In 2025, hate crimes against Muslims have reached record levels.

Twenty years after the London bombings, there are more Muslim voices in politics and media, and a greater awareness of Islamophobia. The idea that London could have a Muslim mayor, as it does today with Sadiq Khan, may have been unthinkable in the immediate aftermath of 7/7.

But the fear that gripped the country in 2005 never disappeared, it just changed shape. Today it shows up in political attacks and increases in anti-Muslim hate crimes in the context of the war in Gaza. It also shows up in attacks on the religious freedoms of British Muslims - like calls for a burka ban - under the guise of "British values".

While there are more Muslims in politics at every level, they are not exempt from stereotypes. In my research on ethnic minority local councillors, I've found Muslim women councillors were often stereotyped as submissive and oppressed in white council spaces.

A hijab-wearing Muslim woman councillor received comments that she wasn't "westernised enough" and that she needed to be "more modernised". Another Muslim woman councillor had a white male journalist remark that she was "very confident" in a way she felt was derisive.

Working against ingrained stereotypes of how a Muslim woman would behave, these councillors often faced a double burden: having to constantly prove their "modernity" and competence while simultaneously navigating accusations of being either too passive or too assertive - never quite fitting the narrow expectations imposed upon them.

In research on ethnic minority voting behaviour in the EU referendum, I found that campaign groups for Brexit such as Muslims for Britain drew on "good Muslim" narratives to buttress their claims to Britishness. For example, they have referred to the sacrifices Muslim soldiers made for Britain in the two world wars, to position British Muslims - particularly those with south Asian heritage - as established and loyal members of the nation.

Even as a survivor of terrorism, I - like many British Muslims - am constantly made to prove my distance from it. I have particularly noticed this as a woman of Bangladeshi heritage, sharing a surname with Shamima Begum, who joined Islamic State as a teenager and had her UK citizenship stripped.

Begum is also my mother's name, my classmates' name, and shared by many British Bengali women. It belongs to Nadiya Hussain (nee Begum), winner of The Great British Bake Off and Halima Begum, chief executive of Oxfam. Behind every headline are real, complex communities still hoping to be seen beyond the shadow of suspicion.