Radical: My Journey from Islamist Extremism to a Democratic Awakening

257 Pages·2013·1.23 MB·English

by  Maajid Nawaz

Contents

Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Preface by Kate Allen, Director, Amnesty International UK
Prologue

PART ONE: B-BOY
One: There is another Gujrat, in Pakistan
Two: This game’s not for Pakis
Three: The doctor who Said ‘Fuck tha Police’
Four: Matt, the stranger who was stabbed for me
Five: The green rucksack with no bomb
Six: When Babri Mosque fell in India
Seven: A land where foetuses are cut from wombs

PART TWO: ISLAMIST
Eight: An Islamist takeover
Nine: 12,000 Muslims screaming ‘Khilafah’ at Wembley Arena
Ten: Servant of the Compeller
Eleven: The womb that bore me
Twelve: A show of hands to harden the heart
Thirteen: The romanticism of struggle
Fourteen: Dreams of a nuclear Caliphate
Fifteen: Caliphs in Copenhagen
Sixteen: The polemic
Seventeen: Welcome to Egypt, we do as we please
Eighteen: The ghimamah has no rules
Nineteen: Number forty-two
Twenty: Assalaamu alaykum, you’ve just come out of hell
Twenty-One: The luxury of an audience
Twenty-Two: The Penguin is hit by slippers
Twenty-Three: ‘Monocracy’

PART THREE: RADICAL
Twenty-Four: Where the heart leads, the mind can follow
Twenty-Five: No right to silence
Twenty-Six: How many years did you fail?
Twenty-Seven: Civil-democratic intimidation
Twenty-Eight: The decade-late apology
Twenty-Nine: Monkeys in a zoo
Thirty: Visiting No.10
Thirty-One: Khudi Pakistan
Thirty-Two: I will see your day when it comes

Glossary of Arabic Terms
Epilogue
Resources
Acknowledgements
Copyright
About the Book

Harassed by Police. Violently targeted by Neo-Nazis. Maajid
Nawaz was a young Essex B-Boy recruited to an extreme
Islamist group in London. He galvanised thousands against the
west and incited armies to revolt against Muslim-led
governments.

Setting up cells in Britain, Denmark, Pakistan and Egypt, he left a
burning trail of recruits in his wake. Eventually hunted down by
Egypt’s notorious State Security, he was sentenced to five years in
a brutal Egyptian jail.

Amnesty International adopted him as a Prisoner of Conscience,
and reformist Arabs took him under their wing. Upon his release
from prison he renounced political Islamism and now travels the
world organising young people along democratic lines, risking his
life to undo everything he had once been prepared to die for.
Islamist extremists attack him. Arab revolutionaries know his
name. Presidents and prime ministers have courted him.

B-Boy. Islamist. Activist. Always the radical. This story will make
you believe in change.

For my family, my son, and for all my friends.
And for those with whom I started a movement.
The moving finger writes, and having written moves on.
Nor all thy piety nor all thy wit, can cancel half a line of it.
Omar Khayyam, Ruba’iyat
Preface

This is a book about change and transformation. Maajid Nawaz’s
extraordinary account of his life – from young childhood in
Southend through teen years embroiled in street violence and
induction into Islamism – makes it relatively easy to understand
how political and ideological radicalism occurs. His description of
the violent prejudice he experienced in his youth is a salutary
lesson in what can happen when institutional racism is allowed to
flourish. He makes it very clear how and why he became
desensitised to violence and shows how racist aggression
created a fertile recruiting ground for Islamist extremism. He
writes powerfully about his gradual detachment and inability to feel
empathy for others; such was his experience of immersion in
radical ideology.
But what is most fascinating to me is the evidence that
radical extremists can change; it is possible. Maajid describes his
awe at the compassion of ordinary human beings who, after his
arrest, unfair trial, ill treatment and imprisonment in Egypt, put
aside their own dislike of his politics, stood up for the universality
of human rights, and campaigned for his release. Chief among
them was Amnesty member John Cornwall. Not only did he
prompt Amnesty International to adopt Maajid as a Prisoner of
Conscience, he wrote letter after letter of friendship to Maajid
himself.
I am moved beyond measure to read of the transformative
effects of these letters on Maajid. It reminds me again of why I am
proud to work for Amnesty International UK, whose members’
actions were so instrumental in enabling Maajid to reconnect with
life and humanity. In essence, human rights, compassion and
kindness helped to save his humanity. This book is the account of
his redemptive journey – through innocence, bigotry, hardline
radicalism and beyond – to a passionate advocacy of human
rights and all that this can mean.

Kate Allen, Director, Amnesty International UK
Prologue

Southend, 1992

‘Slammer’: that’s my tag when I’m out bombing, plastering the
streets with graffiti. I write it without an ‘m’ – ‘Slamer’ – because
it’s quicker that way, and speed counts if you don’t want to get
caught by the cops. I’m a hip-hop B-boy, into Public Enemy and
N.W.A. Tracks like ‘Rebel Without a Pause’, ‘Fear of a Black
Planet’, ‘Fuck tha Police’ – their lyrics are deep. I’m in a ‘click’ suit,
baggy corduroys with pin tucks at the bottom, rocking Adidas
trainers. My hair’s a grade zero up to the top – when not in a red
bandana it stands up in a box-cut, with a mad design trimmed up
the back. My crew all wear the same clothes, blast the same
tunes. Like Erick and Parrish Making Dollars, we look the
Business.
I’m fifteen years old, and I live in Southend in Essex. This
summer, like every summer, the fair is here, in the park across the
way from my house. When I was young I used to go to the fair with
my folks. Back in those days it was all about the rides: the
dodgems, the Egg-Roller, the Carpet Roll. These days I go with
my boys, and at night not during the day. Now I don’t care about
the rides. I go to chill and check out the skins on show, the local
female talent.
As Ice Cube once rapped today was a good day … or at
least it had been. The sky is full of blurred lights against the
blackness: there’s a backdrop of girls’ screams and thumping
tracks from the rides; that sweet and sour fairground smell of
candyfloss and fried onions. We’re bowling around, on the prowl,
when out of the crowd comes a face I recognise. It’s my friend
Chill – real name, Tsiluwa. Chill and I are tight. Born in Zimbabwe,
he came to Britain a few years ago. He’s pelting towards us, criss-
crossing through all the people, and I can see straight away that
he’s relieved he’s found us.
‘Yo, Chill. Whassup, bro?’
‘We’ve got beef, boys,’ he says.
Chill turns round and I follow his gaze to where, and who,
he’s been running from. Barging through the crowd is a group of
white lads in green bomber jackets, and they’re stepping to us big
time. When they see Chill has friends they stop in their tracks. The
crowd between us starts to thin and I can feel my heart racing. The
leader, a well-known local thug called Mickey, scopes us as he
raises his right hand in a fascist salute. Then his friends are all at
it, swearing and giving Nazi salutes, calling us ‘Niggers’ and
‘Pakis’ and telling us to ‘fuck off back to where we came from’.
It’s good to know that in situations like this my boys’ve got
my back. Mickey’s threats are clear: I’ve been here before, but it’s
not something I’m about to get used to. Especially when it’s more
than all mouth: I know from experience that they’ll be packing
knives. If we get caught, we’ll get sliced to pieces. The longer our
stand-off lasts the more the crowd melts away, and the hustle and
bustle of the fair gives way to an ominous ring of space. No one
wants to know.
We split. I’m running between the stalls, weaving in and out
of people, running so hard I can hear my breath thumping against
the screams from the rides. Where’s that park-keeper when you
need him? I’m glad I know the park well, know where to go. That
means I can give these skinheads the slip, and I realise with relief
that the shouts of ‘Paki!’ are drifting further and further away as I
make my way to the gate. Then I’m over the road, heading for
home. Straight in and up the stairs, up to my room and under the
bed where I keep it: my favourite hunting knife. Taking three stairs
at a time, bishbash-bosh, I’m down and back out of the door
before my parents can ask what’s going on. They belong to a
generation more tolerant of such trouble, and with a local
newsagent’s to look after right opposite the park this is definitely
not an approach they would approve of. But me and my crew, we
think different. Now’s not the time to cower and hope the shit
blows over. Now’s the time to stand with my boys, to back them
up. No racist is gonna run us off our own streets.
The group reassembles at one of our prearranged meeting
points: the place we head to when we get split up like this. It takes
a while but once we’re sure it’s safe we gather on the corner of
Chalkwell Avenue and London Road. We’re not looking for trouble,
but we sure as hell aren’t backing down either. We’re not gonna
be run down by Mickey and his goons.
Walking back up London Road a white van suddenly pulls
up behind us. Back doors open, and out climb a group of proper,
nasty-looking skinheads.
Shit, here we go.
I’ve heard stories of ‘Paki-bashing’ before. Tales of groups
of men driving around in search of unsuspecting victims to stab.
But this is the first time I’ve been the ‘Paki’ in question. We’ve
been set up. Mickey and his bomber-jacket mates, for all their