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By the time Shahid reached the mosque in Regent’s Park, there were already quite a lot of people outside. He saw at once that they all looked like clones: all wore the white dishdasha, with skullcaps and gutrah, had close-cropped hair with trimmed moustaches, goatee beards and designer stubble, and they were all young men in their late teens and early twenties. It was as if they were wearing a uniform. He felt uncomfortable. He went inside to try to find Ahmed. Eventually he saw him in one of the administrative areas, talking animatedly with several other men. From their actions, it was clear that they had an agenda. They were not having a casual conversation. Ahmed seemed to be reporting to the other men.

As soon as Ahmed saw Shahid, his eyes seemed to flash a warning to the others. They immediately stopped talking and looked interrogatively at Shahid, as if summing him up, running a slide rule over him.

‘Hi, Brother, sala’am alaikum!’ said Ahmed, his demeanour quickly changing to a welcoming smile. He beckoned Shahid across and introduced him to the other men, but did not tell him who they were.

‘Right, the talk is just about to begin. But first, we will all pray,’ he said and guided Shahid into the main hall which was by now almost completely full. The prayers were led by the Imam of the mosque, who then introduced the speaker. The Imam seemed subdued and uncertain. Shahid had been to the London Central Mosque quite frequently and knew the Imam. He was a most devout and placid person. He was a Sufi and revered in the Muslim community, but on this occasion he did not seem at ease.

‘My brothers,’ said the Imam. ‘Our esteemed brother Omar Bakri Muhammad is going to talk to us on the subject of the “true Muslim’s obligations to his brothers in Islam”.’

As he began to speak, Shahid realised that it had been Omar Bakri to whom Ahmed seemed to be reporting earlier. Immediately, he seemed to cast a spell over the eagerly anticipating group of men.

‘In the name of God, the merciful, the compassionate, may peace be upon Him, the cheerful one and undaunted fighter, Prophet Muhammad, God’s peace be upon him.

‘The nation of Islam and the Arab nation: rejoice, for it is time to take revenge against the Crusader governments in retaliation for the massacres committed by them against Muslims across the world. The heroic Mujahedeen will carry out blessed raids in London. The world of the Crusader will be burning with fear, terror and panic in its northern, southern, eastern and western quarters.

‘We have repeatedly warned the Crusader governments and people. We have fulfilled our promise and will carry out our blessed military raids. Our strong Mujahedeen exerted strenuous efforts over a long period of time to ensure the success of the raids. He who warns is excused. God says: “You who believe: if ye will aid the cause of Allah, he will aid you, and plant your feet firmly”.’

There were frequent ejaculations from the crowd in acknowledgement of Bakri’s rhetoric. ‘Insha’Allah,’ they chanted rhythmically, ‘Allah Akbar!’ Bakri was a mesmeric and powerful orator. He spoke fast, without pause, with no reference to notes or cribs, in a seemingly unending diatribe, punctuated by heavy emphasis and violent gesticulation. His whole tone and manner were strident and aggressive, his language atavistic, full of imagery and allusion. He fulminated against the ‘Crusader’ countries, exhorting Muslims to stand up and be counted; to exact retribution for the crimes being committed against their faith by apostates. Some of his most vitriolic threats were directed not at the US or British governments, but at those of Egypt, Saudi Arabia and Jordan; and, of course, throughout – underpinning all – was an extreme and paranoid hostility towards Israel and the Jews.

‘Brothers, we don’t make any distinction between civilians and non-civilians, innocents and non-innocents. Only between Muslims and unbelievers. And the life of an unbeliever has no value. It has no sanctity,’ Bakri concluded.

He had finished, and sat down. The crowd began chanting in unison: ‘Insha’Allah… Insha’Allah,’ in an even louder voice. Some began flagellating themselves as if to expiate their sins, and to signal a commitment to take action to right the perceived wrongs inflicted on Islam.

Shahid was taken aback by the tone and language of Omar Bakri. But the television reports from Gaza the week before were imprinted, like fiery images, on his mind. Shahid was surprised and uncomfortable to realise that, as Omar Bakri continued to weave his spell, he began to find that he was more and more in agreement with the speaker’s polemics. It was palpably evident that all in the audience thought the same way. Suddenly, Shahid felt that he was among brothers, that this was his natural constituency. Here was someone propounding with vigour and logic a path of action. He remembered his chagrin and how angry he had been with his parents, mouthing platitudes about how bad the Jews were and then just getting on with their comfortable lives, as if the thought had translated into action.

Shahid was simultaneously excited and afraid. He felt shivers of passion convulsing his bowels. This orgasmic feeling quickly passed. The spell was broken. Ahmed said, ‘What do you think of that, Brother Shahid? He is a wonderful Muslim – an example to us all.’

Despite what he had just experienced, Shahid felt himself still wary of Ahmed. The other seemed cool and calculating. Everything he did was part of an agenda. Shahid had just experienced something to do with Islam and faith. He thought that it was the same for most of those with whom he had sat on the floor of the mosque. But Ahmed did not seem affected in any way, despite praising the cleric, by what Bakri had said. For him, it seemed to be a case of business as usual.

Shahid responded noncommittally. Although he had been fired up by Omar Bakri’s fierce rhetoric, he was still unsure about Ahmed’s motives; still uncertain whether he could trust him. Ahmed Abu Yasir’s eyes were deep and impenetrable, the pupils like tiny dark grey pebbles.

‘We had a great turnout tonight, Brother Shahid, you must have done a great job distributing those leaflets which I gave you.’ Shahid had indeed done a good job, making sure that all notice boards and common rooms in the University had had a supply of copies. He had also given a lot to his friends and, together, they had distributed them around their estate, leaving them in shops and bus shelters and pushing them through letter boxes.

‘I’ve got to get home now. Otherwise my parents will wonder where I am. I’m normally home by this time.’ It was past ten o’clock.

‘What will you tell them you’ve been doing?’ asked Ahmed.

‘I’ll say that I was in a session with my tutor at UCL. We regularly have evening tutorials. That’ll please my parents too.’

‘Good, Brother,’ said Ahmed. ‘That’s wise; no point in worrying your parents at this stage!’

‘What do you mean?’ Shahid was alarmed at the implication. Yet, he had instinctively thought that he should not actually tell his father, particularly, where he had been. That would result in an intense interrogation. His mother would dutifully take his father’s side. He had seen his father strike his mother during previous confrontations between them. Both his parents wanted to control him, to dictate the path of his life, and his father wanted to dominate both him and his mother.

None the less, he was disconcerted that Ahmed had asked the question. What was it to him what he did or did not say to his parents? It suggested some subterfuge, a desire to conceal. Surely Ahmed should be encouraging him to spread the good news that Omar Bakri Muhammad had revealed to his ardent followers tonight? It was all very disturbing, coming on top of the overwhelming and conflicting emotions which Shahid had experienced listening to him.

Shahid had parted from Ahmed on the mosque steps and had caught the number 82 bus. As he left, Ahmed said, ‘We meet again next week. I’ll introduce you to the Brothers next time. I’ll give you a call. Ma’a sala’am.’

To Shahid, it sounded like a command.