Four people who migrated to Australia speak to Beau Donelly about what it's like to live here as a Muslim.
THE FORMER RADICAL
Aisha Novakovich, 32, is a community advocate, law student and mother of two from Perth.
As a teenager, I had a laminated photo of Osama Bin Laden in my bedroom. A friend once saw the photo and demanded to know why I had it. I told her he was my hero and that I wanted to be one of his wives; that the media was manipulating his image because he was challenging US hegemony.
From the age of 14, I wore the niqab - the full face veil - with gloves. My mother hated it and said I was becoming a fanatic. For me, it became a marker of difference in the face of discrimination. At university I was determined to learn the political systems in the West in order to subvert and challenge them from within. I believed we needed a caliphate. Eventually, I started to flirt with ways I could leave Australia to join the fight against foreign oppressors. Given different circumstances and times, I might have joined a terrorist organisation when I was younger. 
I have lived in Australia since I was six weeks old. My Yugoslav father was Greek Orthodox. My mother, an Indonesian, is Muslim. As the eldest of four children to migrant parents, I was keenly aware of my family's constant state of poverty. But when my father died when I was a child, our poverty became desperate and entrenched. My mother was only 27 and she spoke very little English. We lived in Coober Pedy, an isolated mining town in South Australia.
As far as Muslim identities went, I had a loose affiliation to Islam and very little contact with the Muslim community. My mother wasn't a conservative Muslim: she didn't wear hijab or care if we ate halal food. But after my father's death, my uncle influenced her to implement a more "Islamic lifestyle".
Slowly, I could feel myself changing. Our names were changed to sound more "Muslim". I was Nancy one day, Aisha the next. We started going to Sunday school at the local mosque and learned how to pray and read the Koran. I mixed with Muslim kids from different racial and cultural backgrounds who I found different to the kids at my public school.
In university and as a young woman, I became an admirer of the work of ideologues and writers such as Sayyid Qutb, Hassan al-Banna and Abdullah Azzam. I even applauded Hizb ut-Tahrir, a group that Tony Abbott tried to ban for preaching extremist ideology. I became obnoxious in my religious judgement and was openly anti-democratic. I wanted to fight our foreign oppressors.
My first husband physically abused me within six months of being married. I was pregnant at the time. The abuse continued for four years. Domestic violence shattered my idealisation of the Muslim family model, where a protective husband with his obedient wife create a safe and loving family home for their children.
My husband eventually divorced me after getting permission from a sheikh to end the marriage on flimsy grounds.
The saving grace for me was my support network of family and friends. They loved me unconditionally and challenged me and my beliefs. I also benefited from the mentorship of several community leaders who helped break down the walls of isolation. The final thing that allowed me to rebuild my life was returning to university.
I believe young Muslims in Australia are left uninspired and vulnerable to the prey of ISIS vultures. It is vital that we have frank conversations about why terrorist groups are so alluring. To acknowledge they are seductive is not to admit defeat; it opens up a new space where we can really start to really get it.
Growing up in the 1990s, I saw a lot of graffiti that screamed "Asians out" or "Asian invasion", which made me conscious that I was not white and therefore not welcome. This had a strong impact on my self-worth, right into adulthood. In today's climate of rising Islamophobia, bigotry and nationalist movements, I shudder to think of the negative impact on the hearts and minds of young children who hear, hatefully, "You don't belong here".
THE GRANDMOTHER
Medina Idriess, 65, a mother of seven and grandmother
of 11, came to Melbourne from Eritrea in 1990.
Before extremists targeted our children, I was worried about drugs and alcohol. I am more worried now about the invisible threat. At least with drugs and alcohol, you can see the problem in front of you. But extremism is a problem we can't always see. The children can be stolen away. Stolen away to become violent and then to die. We don't want any child - Muslim or non-Muslim - to be involved with these people.
We escaped from war and torture and trauma to be in a safe place. But having this around us is scary. It is totally scary. In some ways, I feel like war has followed us. Whenever there is violence overseas, it affects the Muslim community.
We should not be judged by what others do in the name of Islam. These terrorist actions are not part of the Islamic way. Muslims are part of the wider Australian community. And we must all work together to build a strong neighbourhood to watch over our children and keep them safe.
Muslims must teach their children about their religion. We have a responsibility to educate, guide and protect them from extremists. We have to be open-minded and open-eyed.
There are lots of threats, including on the internet, and children don't have the ability to fully understand the dangers.
I teach my grandchildren about the core values of Islam; about respect and care for others. I encourage them to form friendships with people of different faiths. We talk about the violence that is happening around the world and tell the children that it is not acceptable.
When we moved here, I was worried that we would not be able to practise our religion. There were not many places to educate young people about Islam. It's much better now. I know of others, such as new arrivals who do not speak English, who have had some difficult experiences because they are Muslim. My daughter says people at her work don't talk to her about Islam, it's something they are silent about even though she would like to be heard. But I do feel accepted. Australia is my home.
THE BUSINESS OWNER
Ali Kadri, 34, is a business owner and spokesman for the Islamic Council of Queensland.
My father sent me to Australia after the 2002 Gujarat riots. The mob violence between Hindus and Muslims in the city of Ahmedabad, in the west of India, had been going for months and he wanted me to be safe until things settled down. My father was a lawyer and believed the best way forward for Indian Muslims was to gain an education.
By the time I arrived in Australia, I was radical and very angry. I'd witnessed terrible things during the riots. My cousin was brutally killed. One night I saw a group of 16 Muslim kids murdered. I watched a police officer shoot a boy in the hands and knees and then leave him alive.
I was only 21 and didn't know how to process what I felt. I wanted revenge for what had happened to my cousin and all the other Muslims who were tortured or raped or murdered. If there was a group of terrorists then that had said to me, ''You are being persecuted because you are a Muslim, we are your brothers, join us'', I would have. I wanted a place to belong. I would have taken that battle on, stood up and fought in India. Instead, I found Australia.
A couple of years after moving here, my father passed away and I returned to India for his funeral. On my return to Australia, as I went through customs at the airport, I was pulled aside and searched. I had files from a case my father was working on before his death that showed photos from the riots. They were graphic photos of bodies; people who were burned, babies with their heads cut off, all sorts of terrible things. The officers looked at them with horror and asked me about them. And then they let me go.
The next day, I got a call from the Australian Federal Police. An officer wanted to meet me. I was still new to this country and didn't have a lot of support in the Muslim community. I was thinking I would be locked up and persecuted because I am Muslim. But I met the police in a cafe and we talked and everything was fine. That would not have happened in India.
I realised then that I could say anything I want as long as it wasn't violent and that I wouldn't be persecuted in Australia.
That was when I fell in love with this country and decided to stay here.
But things are going downhill. The political rhetoric, sensationalist media coverage, some law enforcement approaches. I have noticed a change. It's probably not as bad for me as it is for someone who was born here. I have seen what it can be like at its worse, I have a reference point. But for a Muslim who grew up here, comparing pre 9/11 Australia to post 9/11 Australia, they wouldn't have a good experience.
THE TEACHER
Muhammed Edwars, 46, is a teacher and father of three
who also volunteers as a marriage celebrant and Islamic
studies co-ordinator in Melbourne.
Challenging. That is the first word that comes to mind when I think about being a Muslim living in Australia. Unlike in Indonesia, where I'm from, we can't take our religion for granted. It takes effort to find halal food or a mosque and to teach our children about Islam because it's not part of the culture.
A lot of questions are raised at school about Islam. The students ask about extremism and acts of violence and the relationship with Islam. What I find very worrying is the reaction from Muslim children, who feel that practising their religion is almost a crime. This is something that they struggle with. What the media says and what the government says affects them a lot.
I feel like my religion has been hijacked. I feel like the people who commit crimes in the name of Islam are using my beautiful, compassionate, just religion for their selfish purposes. I feel angry about the way the media portrays my religion. Islam is put in a frame. If a group of people carry out a crime and they happen to be Muslim, the discussion turns to religion. If there's a Muslim involved, the coverage is always amplified a 100 times. The hardest times for us are after terrorist attacks.
After the Bali bombings, my wife, who is a nurse, had a bottle thrown at her while she was waiting for a bus. My wife has struggled to find work. A patient once refused to let her treat him. He called her a terrorist and said she would try to kill him. In the nursing home where she works now, people sometimes call her names, too. Being a man, I don't have as many challenges. Muslim women suffer the most.
My children were all born in Australia and have had an awareness of being a Muslim from a very young age. At home we talk a lot about what it means to be a Muslim. I tell them that we are all essentially the same and that being different in some ways doesn't mean one person is better or worse than another. My children understand that extremism has nothing to do with Islam. Occasionally, other kids at school ask them questions about their religion but they don't give them a hard time.
Being a Muslim in Australia is challenging, but we also have many more opportunities here that we would not have in Indonesia. I wouldn't be able to do as much to support my community and spread the true message of my religion if I lived in Indonesia.