by Ed Husain
Our parents failed to understand where this ‘Islamic marriage’ had come from. It was neither Western nor Eastern but, like relationships the world over, still often ended in tears when couples realized that simply having a religion in common did not necessarily make for compatibility. Some did end up marrying, often after the sister had run away from home. Often she would discover that he was not the pious Islamist she thought he was. And vice versa: brothers would complain that the sisters had been ‘influenced too much by feminism’. It is a sad truth that the rate of divorce among Islamists is far higher than among ordinary Muslims. To my mind, this is due in no small part to the extremist, literalist blinkers worn by many Islamists in an attempt to idealize their lives.
Away from the politics of East London mosque, a younger generation led by Brother Falik and me had our sights set on doing da’wah among Britain’s Muslims. We were now in serious need of public speakers. YMO and Islamic Forum Europe’s failure to provide them opened up avenues for many who were more than willing to lend a helping hand to Britain’s most vibrant Muslim community.
Speakers came to Tower Hamlets College representing a host of Muslim groups active in Britain, including JIMAS5 and Hizb ut-Tahrir. In the absence of strong intellectual leadership skills from YMO, these two groups started to gain a following at college and, consequently, in the wider community of Tower Hamlets and east London. JIMAS already had a following among the ninja sisters: they sent black, white, and Asian converts who had studied Islam in Saudi Arabia to live and preach in the UK. They spoke passionately about the idea of one God, tawheed in Arabic, and ceaselessly warned against shirk, or polytheism. We invited them often because they were mostly dynamic speakers, able to stir a crowd and plant genuine interest in Islam. Most impressively, they always referred directly to the Koran or the Prophet Mohammed’s wisdom, bypassing fourteen centuries of commentary and scholarship on Islam’s primary sources. They covered their heads with the red and white chequered Saudi scarf, often wearing it almost like women. They had huge, bushy beards and their trousers were very short, just below their knees. They looked like people from another era, austere in their ways, harsh in their conduct, and constantly reprimanding us for our own. Where were our beards? Why were our trousers worn long? Why did we listen to music? Why did we not condemn shirk, or idolatry?
I had never seen such people, but they were popular among our ninja sisters so I continued to invite them to speak. That was my first major mistake, for they planted ideas among the Islamized students that led those students to reject us. By late 1992 the same students that we had rescued from a life of crime were asking us why we were clean shaven. Why didn’t we grow beards in emulation of the prophets? To the followers of JIMAS, literal adherence to scripture, with no thought for context, was of primary importance. Not that we understood context, far from it, but their bluntness, ragged appearance, constant quoting of scripture, and browbeating did not endear them to us. Their womenfolk wore gloves, covered their faces, and displayed a holier-than-thou attitude towards other women. Literalism had gained a foot in Tower Hamlets under my watch.
In addition to these outward differences, they prayed in a way I had not seen in any of Britain’s mosques, standing in perfectly straight rows, touching ankles, constantly checking to see that their feet were touching one another, and holding their arms in a martial position on their chests, as ‘prescribed’ in Muslim scripture. This did not seem like prayer, but a cultish act. What was wrong with the way our parents prayed? Grandpa taught his disciples to pray as if they were in God’s presence, and to be mindful of this. How did this square with constantly looking to see if one’s feet were in place? They flooded the college with books explaining how they prayed and giving ‘evidence’ and ‘references’ in support. Literalism may begin with prayer and veiling women’s faces, but it leads to terrain that is far more dangerous.
My inability to locate these people on my mental map of Islam led me to turn to that fount of knowledge who disapproved of me: my father.
‘They’re Wahhabis,’ he said, after hearing my description. ‘Your Jamat-e-Islami are also Wahhabis, but they don’t have the audacity to suggest these ideas of a so-called “return to early Islam” to Muslims in the Indian subcontinent because there the masses still follow spiritual Islam in a framework of centuries-long Muslim scholarship.’
Who were the Wahhabis? I wondered. If I asked my father for more detail he would only attack those I loved: my brothers at the Islamist movement. I recalled vague memories of Grandpa recounting his negative experiences with Wahhabis while he was a student in Mecca. Grandpa, whose health had improved, had recently visited Britain and followed his usual itinerary of dhikr sessions, mawlid gatherings, and giving service to the followers of the Prophet Mohammed. I deliberately avoided meeting him. How could I see him? How would I explain myself to him? Besides, his activities seemed trivial to me: I was working for true Islam. Grandpa had somehow misunderstood Islam. Only Mawdudi could right the wrongs of Grandpa’s understanding.
At college, I asked the speaker at Friday prayers, Abu Aliya, to tell me about the Wahhabis. Abu Aliya had an unkempt beard, flawless English, and a red scarf tied like a turban; he always carried a heavy bag full of Arabic books. Smiling wryly, he pushed up his thick glasses and said, ‘They are people who follow the ways of the sunnah, or the way of the Prophet.’ Deep down, I knew that was not the whole truth. He was hiding something from me. All Muslims claimed to follow the Prophet Mohammed; that answer was deceptive. It was rather like asking, ‘Who are the Mormons?’ and getting the response, ‘Followers of Jesus’.
Whoever its proponents were, many students at college found the literalist approach of Wahhabism attractive, and I soon saw several of my fellow students heading to jihad training in Afghanistan in response to Koranic verses urging Muslims to rise up against violence. That the violence in question was of pagans in Mecca in the seventh century might not be obvious justification of a so-called jihad in the modern world, but who was I to argue with my literalist members? From YMO, we had introduced many of them to Milestones - had Qutb not called for a jihad against Muslim rulers on the grounds that they were non-believers? What, then, of the Israelis, or the Serbs, or Indians? Qutb’s Milestones combined with Wahhabi literalism made a potent and dangerous cocktail.
In the multicultural Britain of the 1980s and 1990s we were free to practise our religion and develop our culture as we wanted. Our teachers left us alone, so long as we didn’t engage in public expressions of homophobia or intimidation of non-Muslims. But Britishness and the British values of democracy, tolerance, respect, compromise, and pluralism had no meaning for us. Like me, most of the students at college had no real bond with mainstream Britain. Yes, we attended a British educational institution in London, but there was nothing particularly British about it. It might as well have been in Cairo or Karachi. Cut off from Britain, isolated from the Eastern culture of our parents, Islamism provided us with a purpose and a place in life. More importantly, we felt as though we were the pioneers, at the cutting edge of this new global development of confronting the West in its own backyard.
In early 1993, a thirty-minute video was handed to me about the war in Bosnia, the ethnic cleansing of Muslims in the Balkans. I watched it in horror and then decided that it must be shown to our students to raise money for Bosnian Muslims.
On Wednesday afternoon we booked a lecture theatre under the title ‘The Killing Fields of Bosnia’. We warned the students that this was a video unlike any other they had ever seen. That same Wednesday afternoon the youth workers at college organized their second disco, safe in the knowledge that we Islamists would be busy with our own event and unable to keep people from attending. The Islamic Society offered a video on the killing of Muslims by Christians. The youth workers offered dance, drugs, and delight.
To our astonishment, the lecture theatre was packed. The students had voted with their feet. Delighted by the turnout, I delivered a welcoming speech
and a stinging attack on the ‘enemies of Islam’ who had tried to compete with us. Having incited the audience with my confrontational attitude, I then played the video. In the dark lecture theatre there were sobs at what people were seeing; gasps of shock at what was going on two hours away from Heathrow airport: the serving of Muslim men’s testicles on trays, Serbs slaughtering pregnant Muslim women, reports of group rape within the borders of Europe. After the video I stood up and, in sombre tone, related this to our situation in college.
‘While our sisters are raped in Bosnia, our brothers slaughtered, the enemies of Islam organize disco parties for us here at college. I congratulate all of you for making the right decision and coming here. We must help our Muslim brothers and sisters. Next week there will be a talk on how we can try to stop the horrors of Bosnia. Please pass the word round.’
All that week students were asking us ask what could be done about the situation in Bosnia. How could they help? From campuses across the country we were receiving news of other Islamic societies holding discussions on Bosnia, condemning the United Nations’ failure to stop the slaughter of thousands of Muslims, Croats, Serbs. The Balkan crisis truly radicalized many Muslims in Britain. I desperately wanted to help, to do something to stop the killing. And we were young; we believed we could change the world.
I began to attend meetings at Queen Mary and Westfield College, where I met young Muslims who collected money and sent individuals to deliver the cash to the mujahideen. One student who left for what was increasingly being called a jihad never returned to Britain. He was a martyr. Increasingly there were reports of individual Muslims from different cities going to join the jihad.
At college, doing something for Bosnia beyond collecting for charity became the discussion of the day. YMO offered little guidance but the ninja sisters and the Wahhabis had a clear answer to the slaughter of Muslims in Bosnia: jihad. They cited verses of the Koran that ordered Muslims to fight to defend the weak. Military style boots, Denison smock military jackets, and physical training in anticipation of participation in jihad all gained in popularity.
Word came back from Bosnia that volunteers from Britain were a burden on the mujahideen owing to their lack of preparation. The military types among us now started to whisper that Afghanistan, where there were proper training facilities, should be the first stopping point. We believed, we knew, Bosnia would not be the last jihad. In Algeria, for example, our Islamist brothers had won elections but had been ousted by the military. We knew that at some time, somewhere, this training would prove invaluable.
Although going off to fight never appealed to me - Abjol, a YMO martial-arts expert, used to say that I should ‘sit in the control tower and guide the troops’ - I saw nothing wrong with Muslims preparing for a jihad. Nobody questioned its legitimacy - was this not what Qutb had called upon us to do?
It was in this heightened state that I met members of an international organization dedicated to the overthrow of Muslim regimes and the re-establishment of the Islamic state - the khilafah or caliphate: Hizb ut-Tahrir. Mawdudi’s literature had trained us to want to create an Islamic state, not a khilafah. To Hizb ut-Tahrir, the khilafah and the Islamic state were one and the same. One of their members, Abdul Malik, had been invited to the college by a Muslim lecturer to lead congregational prayers on Fridays. The Hizb entered our college not through other students, but by recommendation of a teacher.
Abdul Malik was the son of the leader of our sworn enemies at Dawatul Islam, so we did not take too well to him. Besides, he constantly spoke about the need for a khilafah. In our minds the khilafah had ended soon after the Prophet passed away. It was a period that belonged to history and at Tower Hamlets College we saw no relevance in its resurrection. Soon we stopped inviting him. However, the three sermons he delivered for us helped us counter-attack the Wahhabis’ rejection of scholarly interpretation of the Koran and schools of law in Muslim jurisprudence. Abdul Malik provided us with ample scriptural evidence to oppose the Wahhabi position. Again, where YMO had failed, others were succeeding.
Although we had not warmed to Abdul Malik, members of Hizb ut-Tahrir noticed my restlessness and asked me questions about my commitment to YMO, particularly about our ‘meth odology for changing the world’. It was difficult for me to defend YMO in the face of Hizb ut-Tahrir. I was disgruntled with YMO’s obsession with the Bangladeshi community, lack of intellectual vigour, and complete failure to provide an answer to the Bosnia issue.
The YMO appeared more and more parochial. They concentrated only on maintaining complete control over East London mosque as an organizational base, and engaging in social work, educational events, youth activities, and fundraising with a view to recruitment. True, some senior members maintained close ties with political activism in the subcontinent and provided funds for Islamist politics in the larger cities of India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh, but that was all. Slowly, new rules were brought in. We had to seek permission from YMO leaders if we wanted to attend meetings of other organizations. I found such control freakery increasingly difficult to stomach.
During this time, at the wedding of a relative, I met an Englishman who challenged my readings of Mawdudi. David, a research student, was a convert to Islam and was stern in his beliefs. A tall, thin man with glasses, he cared little for social graces.
‘Why the hell are you in YMO?’ he asked without preamble.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, taken aback by this display of rudeness.
‘YMO are a bunch of losers. They’re a branch of the Jamat-e-Islami in the Indian subcontinent, followers of a shallow man, Mawdudi. Jamat-e-Islami have no concerns beyond their individual countries. As Muslims, we must think globally. YMO is a national organization, limited in its scope . . .’
I could not disagree with that. But why was Mawdudi shallow?
‘Mawdudi was right to identify the need for an Islamic state as the solution for the problems of the world’s Muslims,’ said David, ‘but he provides no answers. How will we bring the state into being? What is going to be its foreign policy? Its education policy? How will it deal with Israel? How will it address unemployment? Do you know?’
I tried to explain to him that Mawdudi believed that we should take power gradually, by infiltration of parliament, the army, and so on. But I had no inkling of how to respond to the questions pertaining to education, foreign policy, and unemployment. Most of us working inside Jamat-e-Islami affiliated organizations had as our goal the seizure of political power, and had given little thought to the minutiae of policy-related matters. If that meant adapting a democratic parliamentary system to our own ends, then why not?
‘We can’t do that, man!’ David said, very excited. ‘Democracy is haram! Forbidden in Islam. Don’t you know that? Democracy is a Greek concept, rooted in demos and kratos - people’s rule. In Islam, we don’t rule; Allah rules. Human beings do not have legislative power. The world today suffers from the malignant cancers of freedom and democracy . . .’
As an eighteen-year-old, who was I to argue with a scientist? David continued to rip apart Mawdudi’s arguments as I listened, defenceless. Eventually, I asked him, ‘So what do you think Muslims should do? If Mawdudi and the Jamat-e-Islami were wrong, and we needed the Islamic state, whom should we work with?’
David was delighted with my question. As we ate tandoori chicken pieces he laid out his alternative of working with a radical political organization: the Hizb ut-Tahrir.
‘The Hizb has a clear methodology for dealing with all of the problems of the world. From Bosnia to the Gulf War, from poverty in Africa to high crime rates in the West, we have solutions. Islam is God’s system of government. Jamat-e-Islami and other groups may say the same, but we are the only group in the world who really will implement it. Our members in different Muslim countries have penetrated Muslim armies and soon we will establish our own government. Not through democracy or parliament - all that belongs to the kafir system. We will deliver the Islamic state through a military
coup. Very soon, God willing. Our members orchestrated coups in the 1960s and 1970s in several Arab countries, but the time was not right. Now, the time is ripe. The West will shake and crumble. The flag of Islam will rise above Downing Street . . .’
David’s sense of conviction was overpowering, his oratory unmatched by anything I had heard in Muslim circles before. Still, I interrupted and asked how he would relieve poverty in Muslim Africa, for example. The rest of Africa did not interest me: it was only Muslims that mattered.
‘Huh! Easy,’ he said. ‘The Hizb will redistribute the wealth of the future Islamic state. Remember, the Muslim nation is one nation, one ummah. We were divided by Britain and France but under the caliph, the leader of the coming Islamic state, we will be united again. So we don’t believe that the wealth of Saudi Arabia or Kuwait should be limited to those artificial constructs. The riches of Saudi Arabia belong to the whole Muslim nation, the ummah, controlled by the Islamic state. We will first distribute this wealth to poorer Muslims in Africa and then invite other non-Muslim nations to Islam. If they accept, we will alleviate their poverty too.’
I continued to question David, and he fired off responses. His ability to answer any question that I put to him, his brimming confidence, and radical vision for a future world order were attractive to me, a disillusioned teenage Islamist. We discussed the conflict in Bosnia, and the silence of Western and Muslim governments in the face of Serb atrocities. ‘Put it this way,’ said David. ‘If there was an Islamic state, a caliphate, then Bosnia would not have happened.’ David took down my contact details and invited me to attend a conference at the London School of Economics (LSE), where the leader of Hizb ut-Tahrir in Britain, a Syrian-born Muslim cleric named Omar Bakri, would be speaking about Bosnia.
