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  After years of rediscovery and rehumanization, what I call my re-identity crisis, my heart eventually found solace in the arms of someone I felt finally understood me as I had come to be. And so I proposed to her. She happened to be an American. It had taken me a couple of years to actually believe that I could make this leap, from being married to Rabia—then a committed Islamist raised in Britain yet born in Pakistan—to joining hands with Rachel, a liberal born in Tennessee who came of age in New York. From Rabia to Rachel, the contrast teased out an observation that brought me a level of uneasy solace; after everything that had happened, maybe I had not really changed.

  During those early years, the “love for my cause” was indistinguishable from the “love of my life.” And now, as I raised my head arguing for political pluralism and reconciliation, perhaps my heart had once again followed the same pattern in my personal life. In her sentient, serene, and even musical gentleness, Rachel embodied the antithesis of the violence that had once forged me. Her comfort in the abstract, among the arts, her subtlety and tenderness being the very traits I needed to rely on to soften my combative instincts, to anchor my weathered soul. Perhaps I was only really able to love what I believed in, and would be destined to seek out the person who came to personify those beliefs.

  But it was deeper than that; accepting myself and embracing a hybrid array of identities meant that I was now truly free to love someone who relished this complexity. And here it is that one can discover the real hope in my writing Radical; for we can all try to understand “the other” in times of conflict, and though sometimes we will succeed, other times we are destined to fail. But it is not so much in understanding this “other” that brings lasting reconciliation; rather, it is in understanding ourselves. It took me years in prison to finally realize that my hatred was against myself, and that my Islamist rebellion was informed by, and constructed from, the most Western of political ideas and methods. In short I was being American; I just hadn’t realized it yet.

  Maajid Nawaz

  London

  April 2013

  FOREWORD

  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 desensitized 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, but he also 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, hard-line 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

  Slamer: that’s my tag when I’m out bombing, plastering the streets with graffiti. I write it without a second “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 E.P.M.D., we look the Business.

  I’m fifteen years old, and I live in Southend in Essex, Southeast England. 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 go to chill and check out the skins on show, the local female talent.

  As Ice Cube once rapped, “it 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 candy floss and fried onions. We’re bowling around, on the prowl, when out of the crowd comes a face I recognize. 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, crisscrossing 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 around and I follow his gaze to where, and whom, he’s been running from. Barging through the crowd is a group of white boys 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. I know the park well, know where to go. That means I can give these skinheads the slip, and I realize 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 favorite hunting knife. Taking three stairs at a time, bish-bash-bosh, I’m down and back out of the door before my parents can ask what’s going on.

  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 when we get split up like this. It takes awhile, 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.

  As we walk back up London Road, a white van suddenly pulls up behind us. Back doors open, and out climb a group of nasty-looking skinheads.
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  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 crew, for all their front, are just local youths like us. These skinheads are in a different league: big men, built like brick shithouses, in their twenties, tooled up and ready for action. There’s a glint of a blade in the street lights as they climb out of the van. Some are carrying clubs with nails hammered in the ends. If they catch us . . .

  My friends all have the same idea as me: we need to move fast. My blade! I think, as I hear them tearing down the street. I’ve gotta ditch my blade! If they find me with it, they’ll think I’m up for a fight. My only chance is if I can prove I’m not strapped, try my luck, see if they’ll let me be. I dive into a side alley, duck down, and hide the knife behind a bush. Then I’m out, pelting up the street, in the panic of the moment not sure which way to turn, and—oh shit—I’m surrounded. There’s five, six of them, around me on all sides. Knives, brass knuckles, clubs. There’s the Hitler salute again, pierced by more swearing: Fucking Paki! Fuck off back to where you came from!

  I can feel my fear rising, my adrenaline pumping. The look on these men’s faces can only mean one thing; they know there’s no escape for me now, and so do I. This is it, “that’s the way the ball bounces.” I’ve had my skins, blasted my tunes, and enjoyed the good times. Now, I guess I’m just gonna get got . . .

  EGYPT, 2002

  Am I being driven to my martyrdom, my shahadah? I’m bound and blindfolded with filthy rags, packed between other frightened, hapless creatures, sweltering beneath an unforgiving desert sun. Heat and salt. Heat and salt. It’s all I can taste. The sour, putrid smell of fear is thick in the back of the van, reeking from the sweat of those I’m trussed up against, and I’m certain I smell the same to them. Someone to my right is murmuring incomprehensibly: a prayer, a whimper, or just gibberish. The rest are silent but for the sound of their ragged, labored breaths, waiting, waiting for what lies ahead.

  It seems like four hours since I awoke, maybe five. There’s no way to tell. The searing heat could be Cairo, but then again it could be anywhere in Egypt. Allahu a’lam—God only knows. Maybe it will be a bullet in the back of my head. The state security, Aman al-Dawlah, has been known to bus people out to deserted areas to do just that. What a mercy that would be. Quick and easy. Just time enough to read my testimony of faith, the Kalimatain, before I go. Yes, the Qur’an, I must remember the Qur’an. Chapter Ya-Seen will surely calm my nerves. I try recalling the words with all the focus I can muster, but nothing penetrates through the asphyxiating haze.

  And then I hear it, announced with relish as a policeman, a shaweesh, jostles us out of the van and down steps we can’t see: al-Gihaz. The Apparatus. Headquarters of Aman al-Dawlah, notorious in all Egypt for what has been whispered about its dark, underground cells. Many have come out crazed, unable to speak of what they encountered inside; others never come out at all.

  In here I have lost my name. I am now a number. Forty-two—itnain wa arba’een—is what I must remember, and what I must answer to every time it is called. Itnain wa arba’een, itnain wa arba’een, itnain wa arba’een. Everything else is uncertain. I don’t know if I will get down these steps without falling, I don’t know when I’ll be beaten. I have been stripped of defense; my blindfold means I cannot see it coming. Clenching my body in anticipation of the blows is exhausting, but it’s all I can do. The muscles in my stomach and the back of my neck ache with the effort.

  The change in the air tells me I am being shoved below ground. The space becomes constricted; dank, invisible walls start closing in. As I’m pushed through a corridor, the smell hits me like a blow to the gut; the stench of human waste left stewing too long. It cuts through the agony and the fatigue, leaving me gagging for air, begging soundlessly for respite. I feel movement on both sides, the restless stirring of confined bodies. Packed holding cells to my right and left.

  With no room to spare, I am made to lie on top of others already lying on the soiled floor of the corridor; we are like human dominoes. I can feel a strange body crushed beneath mine. Ya akhi—my brother, forgive me for what my weight must be doing to you. I want to speak, but our orders are to maintain absolute silence, or be silenced. Hour after hour, new bodies pile up around me. In the solitary world of the blindfold, I have no way of distinguishing one living corpse from the next.

  And so it begins, the long sleepless vigil of al-Gihaz. No rest, no communication, no movement. Shivering and sweltering between carefully orchestrated extremes of temperature, we must be ready at all times to answer the hourly roll call of our assigned numbers. Itnain wa arba’een, itnain wa arba’een, itnain wa arba’een. I must not forget. Failing to answer or falling asleep means a vicious boot to my face.

  In moments of lucidity I remember that no one, not the wife and child I left behind screaming after me in the middle of the night, or the parents who fretted about my move to Egypt, know where I am. Panic rises like bile in my throat as I struggle to regain control. Allah have mercy. Hasbi Allah wa ni’mal wakeel—you are sufficient and the best of protectors. Ever since I dedicated myself to the reestablishment of our Caliphate, I have spent years knowing that this moment would come. Pharaohs were never defeated without blood and sacrifice, and the victories of the righteous have always extracted a heavy price. But help me through this ordeal, my Lord, as I am scared and alone. Ya-Seen, wal Qur’an il-Hakim . . .

  Days, nights, I can no longer tell the difference. But I recognize with a shudder when the roll call stops and the “questioning” begins. A brother somewhere down a corridor nearby—assigned the number one—is yanked to his feet.

  Raqam wahid!

  Scuffling amid muted cries, he treads his way between the rows of prisoners to a room down the corridor. The door is left open like a warning to the rest of us. Shouts. Thuds. Pleas. And then a noise that turns my stomach. The sharp, unmistakable crackle of electricity, followed by a bloodcurdling scream. A’uzu billah—I seek refuge in God! It is hard to imagine the impact of such a howl until you actually hear it. A chorus of murmuring engulfs my corridor as all the brothers pray under their breaths. We all know that our own numbers will be called soon enough. Think! I tell myself. Recite the Qur’an! But my lips are quivering, my throat is dry, and my mind is shot with exhaustion and fear.

  There are fewer footsteps as the brother is brought back to his place. His limp body is dumped against a wall with a sickening thud of finality. And then:

  Raqam itnain!

  It’s on to number two. With time the threats and shouts of the guard and wailing of the nameless brothers blend into an endless stream of screaming sound. With brutal regularity the numbers are called, growing ever nearer to my own—drawing ever closer.

  Itnain wa arba’een, itnain wa arba’een, itnain wa arba’een.

  I must not forget.

  TEXAS, 2011

  Spring is giving way to summer in Dallas, and I’ve already decided it’s too warm here. My suit collar chafes against my neck as I gaze out of the car that has collected me from my hotel; the neighborhoods are getting visibly grander as we near our destination. Unsurprising really, given where I am headed.

  Dallas has just launched the Presidential Center for Democracy, and I have just spoken at its inaugural conference. I was invited to discuss the role of social media in the recent uprisings in the Middle East—mass protests that set the region alight and shook decades of tyranny and repression. Naturally, the rest of the world is paying very close attention. On the panel with me was Oscar Morales, a friend and fellow activist. Oscar is the man credited with organizing the largest demonstration against terrorism ever recorded—twelve million people responded to his viral campaign by taking to the streets to protest against the C
olombian terrorist group FARC. Together, Oscar and I addressed an audience of global activists on how online platforms can be harnessed to mobilize and feed into traditional media. Surreal. Two years earlier I had not heard of Twitter. Now I was using my account to inform television programs about an uprising in Egypt.

  The formalities over, I’m on my way to lunch with the sponsor of the event. I reach a large, imposing house, and at the door I am greeted by a butler who tells me that guests are to “go casual” for this one—lose our jackets and ties. Uncomfortable with shedding my jacket, I make my way through the patio doors to a huge, immaculately kept lawn, where the other invited guests are mingling and a buffet-style lunch has been laid out.

  As enticing as the smell of a Texan barbecue is, the guests are more so. I spot former national security advisor Stephen Hadley and former secretary of state Condoleezza Rice chatting in a corner. While I’m standing in line for barbecue, a man comes over and introduces himself as Michael Meece, former chief of staff. He informs me that I have been invited to join our host at his table. Following Meece, I find myself among familiar faces: American activist and campaigner Stephanie Rudat, and various Egyptian and Syrian revolutionary activists. And there, ushering me to an empty seat next to him is the host: former president of the United States, George W. Bush.

  I keep my expression neutral as I look into that familiar face; so much rushes through my mind. I return the handshake he extends and take my seat. Lunch with Bush: this is something I didn’t see coming. Half-remembered memories of television appearances, the public persona, the caricatures, all flash through my mind as I recall his “War on Terror”—his war on me.