Radical

by Maajid Nawaz

  We disguised our political demands behind religion and multiculturalism, and deliberately labeled any objection to our demands as racism. Even worse, we did this to the very generation who had been socialist sympathizers in their youth, people sympathetic to charges of racism, who like Dave Gomer were now in middle-career management posts. It is no wonder then that the authorities were unprepared to deal with politicized religion as ideological agitation; they felt racist if they tried to stop us.

  The nearest comparison to our plans was, in a curious way, that of communism. The Cold War had not just been a battle between two military superpowers and their satellite states, but between two competing ideological systems. The West understood that communism was a direct threat to its way of doing business—the Soviet Union was both a physical and existential threat. This explains the McCarthy witch-hunt in the 1950s and “reds under the bed” paranoia.

  Islamism demanded no less of a root-and-branch overhaul of society. But because it was cloaked in religious garb, no one quite knew what to do with it, and people were desperate not to offend. There was confusion over whether to define our activism as a cultural identity, an ideology, or a faith. To top it off, Islamism went through a decade of being embraced by both the left and right wings. The default liberal position was to embrace the movement as part of multicultural sensitivity: to tell people to stop practicing their faith was imperialism in nineties clothing, a colonial hangover bordering on racism. Instead, we were embraced as a new generation of anti-colonial politicized youth. Curiously, the default position on the right was to embrace us too, because it had been the Afghan Mujahideen, backed by the CIA, who fought the Soviet Union. This was when Hollywood films such as Stallone’s Rambo III portrayed the Afghan Mujahideen as heroes.

  In fact, the only groups who were speaking out against HT at this stage were people like Jeremy Newmark—now of the Jewish Leadership Council—and gay-rights campaigner Peter Tatchell. This was fantastic propaganda for HT: the opposition of pro-Israeli and pro gay rights voices only reinforced the message we were trying to get across to Muslims. “The most dangerous of the Islamic fundamentalists is Hizb al-Tahrir,” Tatchell wrote at the time. His views and warnings were ignored, and we were left laughing at people’s ignorance.

  In fact, as president of Newham Student Union, I remember an occasion when Ed and I received a press pack from the Union of Jewish Students, warning all unions about HT activities on campus. They had arranged a training and awareness day. As Newham College’s Student Union, we decided to attend. That day we learned all they intended to do to thwart us, and we simply returned to Newham to use it against them.

  Our victory in the student elections felt as though it was part of a bigger picture. A few months before, HT had held a global “Khilafah Conference” at Wembley Arena and it was packed. I was one of 12,000 people attending from across the world. This was an astonishing sight and a huge boost to my belief in the cause. I still remember the roar of the crowd as it reached fever pitch, all 12,000 chanting Allahu akbar, God is Great! I recall how the thunder of their stomping feet shook the arena, and the world’s media finally paid attention. It was hard not to come away without thinking that the momentum of historical change was behind us.

  Becoming Student Union president felt like an extension of this momentum. Newham was the first college where HT had succeeded in gaining control of the union, which meant that the HT leadership noticed us. So I persuaded the UK leader at the time, Omar Bakri Muhammad, to come down to speak at the college—another feather in my cap.

  Omar Bakri Muhammad was a Syrian in the UK on political asylum; in those days he was a rather charismatic figure. Under Omar Bakri’s leadership HT swept across the UK. This would not have been possible without his group of influential, rhetorically gifted lieutenants. The most outstanding of these was Farid Kasim, a former socialist, who converted back to Islam when he joined HT. Extremely articulate and intellectual, Kasim led the drive to recruit the student population into HT and used his former socialist tactics to do so. Kasim successfully targeted universities and got the organization to the point where it could gather 12,000 supporters for the international conference at Wembley.

  However, as well as growing in numbers, the UK section of HT was also growing in notoriety, which alarmed the qiyadah, HT’s global leadership. Founded in Jerusalem in 1953, HT had chapters in almost every country in the world. Their sole purpose was to use their global presence to reestablish “the Khilafah” in a Muslim-majority country. HT in the UK, however, was directly pitching the group’s struggle against British society. Under Omar Bakri’s leadership, they wrote pamphlets describing how they would conquer the political establishment. Other pamphlets were overtly anti-Semitic. These tactics were provocative and began to get the group noticed. The qiyadah didn’t like that: it wanted to use the UK as a base for fund-raising, for recruitment, media, and diplomatic cover. It didn’t want the British wing of the organization to rock this carefully balanced, money-providing boat.

  In Newham, rather than keeping a low profile, we continued to ratchet things up.

  Our campaigns became increasingly provocative and difficult to ignore. We put up a series of posters with a picture of a Muslim woman wearing a face veil, an AK-47 by her side. The title of the poster, advertising a talk we were hosting, was “Women of the West—Cover Up or Shut Up.” That poster drew a response from both students and staff. It was the first time that people started complaining about the Student Union, and we got called in to see Dave Gomer. We were completely unrepentant, and I justified our stance to the end.

  “All I’m asking for is for people to leave us alone,” I argued, somewhat disingenuously. “This is how we believe women should dress: if you don’t want to dress like this, that’s your decision, but don’t criticize our women for doing so!”

  Into this atmosphere, we arranged for Omar Bakri Muhammad to come and address the students. We wanted to make a good impression on the leadership and spent the week before creating a buzz about his visit. On the day of his talk, the hall was packed; even the Salafists were there. They turned up in the hope of heckling him, but Omar Bakri rebutted them with his usual flair. Here was someone who did have a beard, who spoke Arabic, and who had the theological authority from having studied shari’ah (Islamic jurisprudence) at Damascus University. By demonstrating that we could argue not just in terms of politics but also religion, we began to overshadow the Salafists. The talk became a hugely successful coup for us.

  Omar Bakri’s appearance came amidst rising tension within the college. The conflict between HT and the Salafists was only one of the battles raging across campus. More serious, in some ways, were the racial tensions that had built up between Pakistani students and African students. For a long time the African students had been the dominant, threatening force within the college. They would intimidate the Pakistani students, and were also responsible for a wave of muggings. They demanded that students hand over their money and got into fights over women. They did all this knowing that the Pakistani students were unlikely to fight back.

  I saw myself in these Pakistani students, the younger me who’d been punched and kicked in the stomach. I understood instinctively that what these students needed was a cause. There were more of them; if they had a reason to stand up to these bullies, the tables would turn.

  I took it upon myself to turn the Pakistani students into a force to be reckoned with. I immediately knew what would inspire the Pakistanis; I needed to re-create that backpack moment between Osman and Mickey right here in the college. I had to inject them with the fever of Muslim jingoism. And so, unannounced, we walked into the student canteen, stood on the tables, and just addressed all the students in full view. We blatantly challenged the non-Muslim Africans in front of everyone. And dared them to step up to the power of Islam, and warned them of Allah’s wrath if they messed with Muslims.

  We were grossly outnum
bered, yet we faced them unflinchingly, with a fire raging in our chests and the sort of conviction that animates one’s expression. The African students didn’t know what to do. Our brazen confidence threw them, and they just stood there gaping. Ours was a calculated conflation of the HT message and self-defense: galvanizing the students with the HT narrative and getting them interested in the group’s activities at the same time.

  We’d inspire the students with tales of jihad, assure them of backup through our networks, but most of all, we led by example. In the middle of such confrontations, which would often spill out into the college courtyard, we would suddenly drop into coordinated prayers, right there in the open in front of our adversaries. And after our prayers, we’d stand back up and shout, “Allahu akbar,” at the tops of our voices in unison, like a war cry. The African students all had knives; some of them were carrying machetes. But after everything I’d been through in Southend, that sort of weaponry didn’t faze me. By this point, I’d been going around with my knife strapped to my back for years. It was second nature to me. I was so desensitized to the threat of violence that I could stand up to the African students without thinking twice. Imbued by my Islamist beliefs and the confidence of my election victory, I stoked the acrid atmosphere still further. Our display did the trick: it galvanized the Pakistani youth, and it made them stand as Muslims.

  But it was only a matter of time before someone got badly hurt.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Servant of the Compeller

  Hizb al-Tahrir’s view on violence was that, while it condemned its members attacking others, it was reasonable to defend oneself. This policy wasn’t universally agreed upon among the group’s members; some from the more intellectual contingent thought it better not to carry weapons. They argued that it made the group look bad and made it possible for people to conclude that we were terrorists. By not carrying any form of weapon, they argued, the distinction between HT and jihadists would be more clearly defined. For those of us facing groups like the African students, this all seemed somewhat theoretical. In practical terms, we needed to be able to defend ourselves, so I encouraged the Pakistani students in college to get more aggressively “defensive.” The Africans quickly realized that something different was happening—for the first time, they understood that things weren’t going their way, but they remained unsure of what to do.

  One day, while all this was unfolding, a student whom I didn’t know approached me.

  “Brother Maajid,” he said, “there is someone on campus asking for you. He is going round trying to find out where you are.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Tall,” the student said. “A really tall black guy.”

  My alarm bells immediately started ringing. The Africans must have called for backup to put me in my place. This is it, I thought, it’s time. Everything I’d learned back in Essex taught me to face such danger head on, so I walked around the college looking for this guy. I wanted it to be me who found him, rather than the other way around. And I did. Adrenaline pumping, I walked straight up him, fully expecting trouble. “You’re looking for me?”

  “Assalaamu alaykum, akhi, are you brother Maajid?” he said with a huge smile and a warm embrace. He smelled of the traditional scented oils, called attar, favored by our Prophet ‘alayhi salam (upon whom be peace), and sold in contemporary Islamic bookshops.

  It turned out that the lanky outsider was a jihadist Muslim from South London called Sa’eed Nur. Sa’eed had come to offer his “support” to the now notorious “HT brothers” in Newham College.

  “Brother Maajid”—he always addressed me so respectfully—“I heard of the great work you brothers are doing here and I’m here to offer you my support. No one can mess with you while I’m around, that’s my promise insha’ Allah—God willing.”

  Sa’eed Nur hailed from a nascent jihadist scene that was developing in Brixton, then one of London’s roughest areas. He embodied the merger between religious literalism and Islamism. And though I wasn’t a jihadist myself, I was relieved to have found his support. I felt confident in my ability to convert him to our cause over time. Sa’eed became, in effect, my bodyguard: he talked of bringing down “fifty gunmen” from Brixton if we needed them, though he wasn’t short of weaponry himself. At that first meeting, he reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a sword.

  “This,” he said, “is Abdul Jabbar.”

  In Islamic tradition, Jabbar is one of the ninety-nine names of Allah: it translates as the Compeller. Putting Abdul in front of it rendered the meaning: Servant of the Compeller. That was the name Sa’eed had chosen to give his sword.

  “I’ve heard you’re having some trouble with some nasty kuffar—infidels, here in the college. They’re pestering our sisters?” Sa’eed asked, looking sincerely disturbed at this thought.

  “So any time you need help,” he continued, sliding the sword back away, “just give me a call, akhi. I’ll come down fee sabeelillah—in the path of Allah—and sort it out for you.” He then handed me his home phone number, and with another embrace sought my leave, ironically, with the words “assalaamu alaykum—peace be upon you.”

  The first time he turned up, Sa’eed Nur felt like a gift from Allah. Here was someone who appeared, as if out of nowhere, to offer us unconditional physical support. The seerah—life of our Prophet ‘alayhi salam—seemed to affirm such divine providence. Islamic tradition relates how the Prophet was granted similar nussra (support) by the conversion of his warrior uncle Hamza to Islam. By drawing analogies between Sa’eed’s appearance and Hamza, we reinforced our belief that ours was the righteous path. The fact that Sa’eed was black was perfect. It reinforced the point I’d been making to the Pakistanis that this wasn’t a racial issue: the dividing line was between Muslims and the rest of the world. Whether it was the white Muslims in Bosnia, black Muslims like Sa’eed, or Pakistani Muslims, it was our deen (religion) that gave us our identity and united us.

  The next time Sa’eed came to campus, with steely determination he asked to see the Africans. I pointed them out to him, and he strode over to speak to their crew. If my standing up to the gang had surprised them, seeing this lanky black man taking our side shook them even more. I’d already warned Sa’eed that they’d be packing knives, but with Abdul Jabbar hidden inside his jacket, and Allah on his side, that didn’t worry him much. He walked right into the center of their group, in front of a packed and gaping student common room, and at the top of his voice, offered to take them all on in one clean sweep.

  “You dirty kuffar! You think you’re bad men? I’ll have fifty gunmen up in here in no time!” he growled. “We love death more than you love life. Come, all of you, come and taste death if you dare!”

  He went around, one by one, asking each of them who felt confident enough to challenge him. None of them stood up to him.

  “Right,” Sa’eed said, “if you’re not man enough to take me on, you stay away from my brothers!”

  And there it was—the Muslims of Newham College had just found their backpack moment. This wasn’t a private confrontation. Everyone saw it, and word quickly got around. You could almost see it ripple through the student body. They knew now that they had Sa’eed to back them up if things kicked off.

  Over a couple of months, the whole atmosphere in the college changed. Sa’eed would come down regularly and wander around the campus with impunity. Security was fairly lax. The authorities never challenged the fact that a man in his mid-twenties was hanging about, and there were no metal detectors to pick up that he carried a sword. Buoyed by his support, we were running campaigns like the “Cover Up or Shut Up” posters. We were inviting Omar Bakri and other high-profile leaders to speak, confident of the reception we’d get. And the Pakistani students were making their presence felt for the first time. Our vision of Islamisizing the college was going according to plan.

 
The Africans, however, were still adjusting to this shift in power. After the initial shock of being challenged, and watching the Muslim students assert themselves, the hard-core elements of the gang began to regroup. One day, there was a stand-off in the common room. This would all have been fairly typical stuff were it not for one of the African crew, Ayotunde Obanubi, pulling out a penknife and slashing at a Muslim student. No one was hurt, but everyone split, and word of what had happened got around pretty quickly.

  I was outraged. The following morning, I organized a show of strength. I got as many Muslim students to gather in the courtyard as I could, to take part in a spontaneous rally. As the African students stood there aghast, we chanted, “Allahu akbar!” and marched around the square declaring our presence. Again, we prayed right there on the street in front of the courtyard, supremely confident that the Africans would not dare attack us while we prayed. For us, prayer had become a propaganda tool and a means of intimidation—not the calming spiritual experience it was meant to be.

  And then he arrived. I’m not sure who had called Sa’eed—he’d offered his number to everyone—but he was aware of the incident in the common room and his eyes were bloodshot red. If I had known better, or cared to know, I would have recognized the look on his face as bloodlust.

  The atmosphere was suddenly speed and adrenaline. Ayotunde was there with his gang. He watched with contempt as we marched and chanted. He’d come prepared and was ready for trouble. Then suddenly Sa’eed approached him. Words were being exchanged. I decided I had to get closer. Ayotunde had already pulled out a pair of butcher’s knives: two big, ugly, nasty blades. He was waving them at Sa’eed. He was shouting at Sa’eed. He was attacking Sa’eed. I am behind Sa’eed. Ayotunde is slashing with his butcher’s knives at Sa’eed’s leather jacket. He is trying to stab Sa’eed.

  What to do? How to react?