That same morning, perhaps anticipating the problems that might be caused in Egypt by news of his involvement with the Muslim World League, Malcolm also contacted Muhammad Taufik Oweida of the Supreme Council for Islamic Affairs. Since the SCIA had granted Malcolm twenty scholarships, he recognized the importance of presenting an organized official front for his groups, noting that “there is much reorganization to be done here.” The immediate task was “to separate our religious activities from our nonreligious,” which implied increasing the division between MMI and OAAU. Then, in a revealing comment, Malcolm explained his motives for cultivating the more conservative Muslims in Saudi Arabia: I have gone quite far in establishing myself and the Muslim Mosque Inc., also with the Muslim World League which is headquartered at Mecca. I am hoping that you understand my strategy in cementing good relations with them. My heart is in Cairo and I believe the mose [sic] progressive relations forces in the Muslim world are in Cairo. I think that I can be more helpful and of more value to these progressive relation forces at Cairo by solidifying myself also with the more moderate or conservative forces that are headquartered in Mecca.
Touching down in London on December 1, he spent some of the next few days preparing for his most significant UK appearance, an event at Oxford University on the third. The student union had invited him to defend, in a formal debate, Barry Goldwater's statement that “extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice, and moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue.” The BBC televised the event, which featured three speakers for the motion and three against it. In his presentation, Malcolm once again carefully separated himself from his Black Muslim past, emphasizing his commitment to orthodox Islam. He argued that since the U.S. government had failed to safeguard the lives and property of African Americans over several centuries, it was not unreasonable for blacks to use extreme measures to defend their liberties. Yet he also tried to ground this sentiment in a multiracial approach. “I firmly believe in my heart,” he declared, that when the black man acts “to use any means necessary to bring about his freedom or put a halt to that injustice, I don’t think he’ll be by himself. . . . I for one will join in with anyone, I don’t care what color you are, as long as you want to change this miserable condition.” A few days later he lectured before a mostly Muslim audience of three hundred people, at the University of London. The British press registered the change in his outlook. The Manchester Guardian declared, “At one time whites in the United States called him a racialist, an extremist, and a Communist,” but based on his university presentation, there was noted the appearance of a new Malcolm X: “relaxed, mellifluous and reasonable. He has the assurance of Dr. Billy Graham and details are swamped by the powerful generalities of his message. And no one should doubt the power.”
Malcolm returned to the United States on December 6, and that same day he met privately with Wallace Muhammad. If the two men had followed the same arc in fleeing the ideas of the Nation and earning its enmity in the process, their journeys had ultimately left them in different circumstances. For all their disagreement with Elijah Muhammad and what they perceived as his heretical version of Islam, Wallace remained the heir apparent and had much more to lose than Malcolm. And while Malcolm had risen in stature and continued to make headlines, Wallace was toiling practically in obscurity in Philadelphia and Chicago, where he led Muslim groups so small they seemed under threat of dissolving at any moment. In fact, by the end of 1964, he was weeks away from giving up his leadership role altogether and taking up a carpet cleaning business in Chicago. He, too, had suffered through months of death threats from his father's men, yet for him, unlike Malcolm, standing down and staying alive remained an option, and an appealing one.
Despite the obstacles, Malcolm continued to ponder the idea of a merger with Wallace, perhaps because he believed the two of them standing together at the head of a major Muslim organization would present the most powerful repudiation possible of the Nation of Islam. At their meeting, Malcolm told Wallace that he was now truly an orthodox Muslim and that he did not consider the MMI or OAAU as permanent organizations—either could be disbanded. This made a certain kind of sense; Malcolm likely already saw that the MMI's overlap with the Nation left it ill equipped to grow into the kind of religious organization that could have the reach he wanted. The OAAU was still young and inchoate enough to be morphed into something more politically effective without discarding too many sunk costs. He may even have proposed that Wallace become the imam of a restructured MMI, so becoming the chief beneficiary of the extensive contacts Malcolm had forged in the Middle East. Wallace expressed interest, but remained noncommittal. Malcolm’s incendiary rhetoric made him uncomfortable, and his interest in such a joint project ended where Malcolm’s political passions began. He also knew as well as anyone the unpleasantness likely to be visited on Malcolm by the Nation at any time. Throwing in his lot so publicly would mean crossing the same threshold Malcolm had, and he had little desire to join his spiritual kinsman as marked man in his father's eyes. Ever perceptive, Malcolm sensed the roots of this reluctance, and a few weeks after their meeting he wrote Wallace (by then calling himself Walith) urging him to focus attention on his followers in Philadelphia, and to “forget Chicago . . . I would ignore the Black Muslim Movement completely.” Pointedly he tried to keep Wallace clear of his own continuing war with Elijah Muhammad. “You are not ruthless enough to deal with a man like your father and his bloodthirsty henchmen. This is one reason why he doesn’t molest you but he knows I can be just as ruthless and cold-blooded.”
Around the time Malcolm returned from London, he learned about the romantic relationship between his wife and Charles Kenyatta. James 67X had been dreading the moment when his boss would finally ask him about it, and when Malcolm did broach the subject he was careful to be deliberately vague. Alone together in the office, Malcolm turned to James and said sadly, “I understand that my wife has been ‘tripping the light fantastic’ while I’ve been gone.”
James kept his eyes glued to the papers on his desk and said nothing, but Malcolm pushed the issue. “Brother, they say that my wife is going with Charles 37.”
James did not relish confirming this, nor did he wish to reveal that he had heard the rumors from Ella, so he lied, hoping to leave enough room in his response to suggest various interpretations of Charles’s behavior. “I don’t know anything about that,” he told Malcolm. “But take this into consideration : Charles 37 is a street man, and he’s very egotistical. So he could do things to make it seem like something is going on between him and your wife.”
Malcolm thought for a moment and said, “If such a thing is going on, I’m not going to allow any of my personal problems to interfere with what I have to do.”
At a meeting soon thereafter, Malcolm put a permanent end to the conflict between James and Charles by reaffirming that James was his number two man. In the black-and-white world of the MMI, this decision quickly made Charles persona non grata and put him in considerable danger of retaliation. The old pipe-squad instincts of the MMI brothers, ready to punish dissenters and betrayers at a moment’s notice, were never far from the surface. But Malcolm quickly stepped in to calm the storm. He put out the word that absolutely no harm should come to Charles, and that he would not be barred from participation in any MMI or OAAU meetings. “The word was out to kill [Kenyatta],” James said. “And it was Malcolm who kept him from being ‘terminated with extreme prejudice.’ ”
Malcolm’s skillful defusing of the Betty situation lent the impression that cooler heads had prevailed, yet inwardly the news of infidelity seems to have loosened Malcolm’s own marital bonds. What is difficult to know is whether the first such transgressions on his part occurred even earlier. Betty’s speculation as to the nature of Malcolm’s close relationship with Lynne Shifflett may have been paranoid, but it may also have been grounded in truth. And Malcolm’s hesitant diary entries about the night spent with Fifi in Switzerland suggest the possibility of a more intimate
involvement. Of these, no certainty can be had, but after his return from Africa, Malcolm appears to have begun an illicit sexual affair with an eighteen-year-old OAAU secretary named Sharon 6X Poole. Little is known about her or about their relationship except that it appears to have continued up to Malcolm’s death. She joined Mosque No. 7 only months before Malcolm’s silencing. Knowledge of the affair did not spread widely like the gossip of Betty’s involvement with Kenyatta, but stayed close within Malcolm’s core circle, for whom his protection was a paramount concern.
Though the specter of internal violence had been quelled, external threats continued to make their grim presence known. On December 12, Malcolm addressed a local group, the Domestic Peace Corps, as part of its Cultural Enrichment Lecture Series. Before an audience of two hundred on West 137th Street, Malcolm urged blacks to remain in the United States, but to “migrate to Africa culturally, philosophically, and spiritually.” Emphasizing that he rejected violence “despite what the press may tell you,” he also affirmed his opposition to “any form of racism.” Black Americans needed to construct a coalition with emerging, independent African nations. He spoke again about the bombings of Congolese villages carried out by Belgian mercenaries and “American-trained, anti-Castro Cuban pilots” as acts of mass murder. But some of his most interesting commentary had to do with the capacity of the U.S. government to reform itself. “United States history is that of a country that does whatever it wants to by any means necessary . . . but when it comes to your and my interest, then all of this means become limited,” he argued. “We are dealing with a powerful enemy, and again, I am not anti-American or un-American. I think there are plenty of good people in America, but there are also plenty of bad people in America and the bad ones are the ones who seem to have all the power.” What he was conceding was that the solution to America’s racial dilemma would not be found by African Americans alone. Also attending the lecture were several dozen NOI members, all dressed in dark suits and wearing “I am with Muhammad” red and white buttons, a reminder of the ever-present threat. Six police officers were assigned to the event, and no trouble erupted.
That same week, to Malcolm’s excitement, Ernesto “Che” Guevara, the former guerrilla leader of the Cuban revolution, swept into town to address the General Assembly of the UN on December 11. At that moment, Guevara was perhaps Malcolm’s closest analogue on the world stage, a relentless supporter of the struggles of oppressed people and a committed revolutionary. Like Malcolm he was deeply concerned about ongoing and recent events in Africa. In making broad connections between the Cuban revolution and other struggles around the globe, he gave special mention to “the painful case of the Congo, unique in modern history, that shows how the rights of the peoples can be thwarted with the utmost impunity.” He insisted that the root of the Congo’s misery was that nation’s “immense wealth, which the imperialist nations want to keep under their control.” In a language markedly similar to Malcolm’s, he described the dynamics of neocolonialism as forms of military and economic collaboration between Western powers: “Who committed those crimes? Belgian paratroopers, brought in by U.S. planes, which left from English bases. . . . All free men in the world should prepare to avenge the crime in the Congo.”
Malcolm invited Guevara to address his OAAU rally at the Audubon on December 13, but the Argentine declined to attend, concerned that his presence might be seen as a provocative foray into internal U.S. politics. Still, many of the themes Guevara had addressed at the UN were central to the discussion that evening, especially when Malcolm took the stage to fill time after Tanzanian minister Abdulrahman Muhammad Babu, who also happened to be in New York for the General Assembly, was late in arriving. “We’re living in a revolutionary world and in a revolutionary age,” Malcolm told the overflowing crowd, numbering at least five hundred and, by some reports, many more. We must realize, he said, “the direct connection between the struggle of the Afro-American in this country and the struggle of our people all over the world.” For those who might suggest resolving the racial crisis in Mississippi before worrying about the Congo, he warned, “You’ll never get Mississippi straightened out. Not until you start realizing your connection with the Congo.” His argument defined Pan-Africanist logic, but also ran deeper in light of the “imperialist” connections that Guevara had drawn at the UN. Underlying Malcolm’s main argument about the unity of the black struggle was an important point about exploitation. The “connection with the Congo” for black Americans had as much to do with the commonality of economic oppression as it did with race. It was this leap from race-specific ideas to broader ones about class, politics, and economics that pushed Malcolm’s thinking forward in late 1964, a lesson that his travels in Africa had brought into focus.
Yet he continued to have difficulty conveying the change in his thinking to Harlem audiences, often because of his reliance on an older, cumbersome political language that lumped nearly all whites into one hostile group. He also defined the enemy as “the man” rather than in the more nuanced terms of class and politics. Indeed, at one point when he was calling for “a firm, uncompromising stand against the man,” Malcolm was forced to stop in midsentence to explain that by “the man” he meant “the segregationist, lyncher, and exploiter.” These speaking efforts found his mind in transition, and still struggling to find a new terminology to translate increasingly complex ideas into crowd-friendly language.
Babu finally arrived at the Audubon nearly two hours late, but before he took the stage, Malcolm presented the crowd with a delicious surprise: a statement of solidarity from Che Guevara, which Malcolm read aloud with pride: “Dear brothers and sisters of Harlem, I would have liked to have been with you and Brother Babu, but the actual conditions are not good for this meeting. Receive the warm salutations of the Cuban people and especially those of Fidel, who remembers enthusiastically his visit to Harlem a few years ago. United we will win.” As the audience applauded, Malcolm relished the moment. The man, Malcolm said, “was in no position anymore to tell blacks who we should applaud for and who we shouldn’t applaud for. And you don’t see any anti-Castro Cubans around here—we eat them up.”
Circumstantial evidence provided by James 67X suggests that Malcolm and Guevara briefly met that week in December. Although there is no direct evidence, Guevara’s subsequent actions in 1965 can be accurately described as carrying out Malcolm’s revolutionary agenda for the continent. The two men were kindred spirits politically, a bond revealed not only by the similarity of their worldviews but by Guevara’s subsequent travels. Days after his UN speech, Guevara flew to Africa and literally traced Malcolm’s steps from Algiers; on January 8 he was in Guinea; and from January 14 to 24 he visited Accra. He met with Julius Nyerere, and it was through Tanzania that Cuban guerrillas gained safe passage into the eastern provinces of Congo. And only days following Malcolm’s assassination, Guevara met Nasser in Cairo, where he obtained the Egyptian government’s support for the guerrilla war. That both men eventually met such a violent fate in the name of their struggles and found in death iconic stature as revolutionaries seems only to further bind their legacies.
During his final two months in Africa and the Middle East, Malcolm had said relatively little publicly about his feud with the Nation of Islam. After his return, he tried to remain silent about his dispute, but the gears set in motion within the Nation could no longer be stopped. There would be no more negotiation. The charismatic minister who had whipped members into a frenzy now became the object of that violent energy, and Malcolm’s outspokenness about the Nation through 1964 had given its leaders more than enough fuel to keep the fires burning. NOI membership had stagnated without Malcolm’s recruitment appeal, and as the paternity suit against Elijah Muhammad wended its way through the court system, it continued to produce damning public revelations, which could only be refuted as lies spread by their former national minister.
And though Malcolm had mostly kept quiet about the Nation during his time abroad, his po
litical actions had been all too provocative. Muhammad and the Chicago headquarters bristled at Malcolm’s successful negotiations with Islamic organizations in Cairo and Mecca, which had the effect of furthering perceptions of the Nation in the United States and the Middle East as beyond the boundaries of true Islam. This especially infuriated Muhammad, who had worked hard to Islamify the Nation in recent years, though always around the central, heretical idea of his own divinity. Hiring teachers of Arabic, cultivating relations with Islamic states abroad—all this had been done to strengthen the Nation’s religious bona fides, yet by embracing orthodox Islam under his own program, Malcolm had marginalized the Nation in one fell swoop, circumscribing its membership growth at the most critical moment. This move, and its continuing ramifications as Malcolm broadened his reach, had made his murder all the more necessary from an institutional standpoint.
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