WHAT does it feel like to be a member of a religious minority whose faith and practice set you apart from most of the people around you, making you an object of incomprehension and suspicion?

That might be a description of living a Christian life in contemporary Britain, but it was our Muslim sisters and brothers who produced last Sunday’s study in religious alienation, appallingly entitled Don’t Panic, I’m Islamic (BBC2).

The youngish subjects were all clear that they were British — they had been born here, and spoke with splendidly regional accents — but found that, however weakly they practised their religion, since the 9/11 atrocity, they were seen as potential terrorists, and destabilisers of a free society.

There were accounts of shameful prejudice and insults suffered, and anger at the way the media eagerly latched on to the words and actions of a few extremists to work up paranoia. But, as the programme continued, my sympathy wavered. Just how representative were these spokesmen and spokeswomen?

Apart from a public-relations consultant, Tariq, who had been unable to find employment until he changed his name to Daniel Jacob, they were all political activists. They were certain that Osama bin Laden was not responsible for the attacks on 11 September 2001: it had been a United States ploy to provide an excuse for war against Afganistan and Iraq. It would be valuable to find out just how widespread this belief is among British Muslims.

Their religion places a duty on being supportive of oppressed Muslims throughout the world, and the way their fellow believers were, and are, treated in Bosnia and Palestine causes them immense outrage and gives a desire to do something.

But there was no acknowledgement that many of us share precisely this outrage; that, for example, British people of all faiths and none protested — and still protest — against the second Gulf War. This was ultimately a messy programme, leaving so many opportunities for the viewer to say, “Yes, but . . .”, that its central message was fatally undermined.

Perhaps A Picture of Britain (BBC1, Sundays) would provide an answer to what it is to belong to these islands? Here David Dimbleby, permanently genial, takes us on a tour of the nation, demonstrating how our native artists — painters, poets, and composers (but mainly painters) — have moulded our perception of our landscape.

It is a great pleasure to be reminded of the delights of Girtin, Turner, Constable, John Clare, Rupert Brooke, and Ben Britten, and to see in glorious Technicolor the wondrous variety of this land. But this is a disappointing series. It is far too episodic, and nothing is developed properly. Just as you get interested in a topic, Mr Dimbleby is back in his Land Rover, off to the next place.

I’m delighted for as many ignorant southerners as possible to be introduced to the delights of Ilkely Moor, but what on earth is the point of getting the Black Dyke Mills band to struggle up there, and then to ask them what it’s like being a Yorkshireman?

With no overarching thesis or specialist engagement by the presenter, this is, I’m afraid, an essentially shallow exercise. It’s chocolate-box stuff that gives the feeling of having been commissioned by the British Tourist Board.