Me and my family always knew where we belonged — England. England was home. My father had come here from what was British India in his thirties and ran a small Indian takeaway in east London, in Limehouse. He liked to wear three-piece suits and was proud to be a subject of the Crown. We were a Muslim family, but my mother took us to see Santa Claus every year. My upbringing was warm, inclusive, genuinely multicultural and multi-faith. My primary school, a three- or four-minute walk from our house, felt like an extension of our home. My parents would help the head teacher and staff prepare for exhibitions or trips to places like the New Forest. Good days.

I got on really well at primary school. I used to write stories which were printed, laminated and distributed to the class as storybooks. Towards the end of my time there the headmistress said she felt I shouldn’t go to Stepney Green secondary. But my father thought that going to this all-male, predominantly Muslim school was perfectly healthy. I was confused.

I did go to Stepney Green. Not only was it all-male and all-Muslim, but it was 90% Bangladeshi. These kids were part of the new immigrant intake, whereas I was born and raised here. I, and people like me, ended up as unofficial English teachers. And then I did begin to feel like an outsider. I yearned for what I’d had in my primary school days — a mixed school with real expectations of its pupils and a strong sense of multiculturalism.

At Stepney Green all that went by the wayside. The headmaster was strict; the sports teachers would shout all the time. Most of the kids left at 16 to work in Indian restaurants, market stalls or garment factories. If I’m honest, being at this school totally destroyed me.

Worse was to come. I was horribly bullied because I wore glasses. To most of the kids, who were from Bangladeshi villages, glasses were worn by old people or people who’d lost their sight. The concept of someone my age having an eye test didn’t exist. I was called “Glass Man”, and after martial-arts sessions I was kicked and bullied. But who would I tell? I didn’t belong with the guys in my class. I didn’t even belong to a gang.

Often guys played truant after assembly. They’d go to Oxford Street and steal things. The teachers just shrugged. Lessons weren’t much better. I remember one science class run by a supply teacher which was mayhem. There was water everywhere, the Bunsen burners were on, chairs were thrown around. The teacher just stood back — he was getting his £25 an hour. “This is meant to be school,”

I thought. But I didn’t say: “Don’t do this, guys.” One day — I was 15 — I was waiting for my father after school and he was late. A guy who’d left school for the day returned covered in blood — he’d just walked into the wrong area. That could so easily have been me. I wanted a cause. I was desperate for life to have meaning.

Islamism and Islamists, with their radical world agenda, seemed to make sense. After all, I was bookish, and they seemed bookish too. I’d met an Islamist born and raised here. He wore a Palestinian scarf and went to the local mosque. He gave me book after book to read — books I couldn’t show my father. Islamism offered me not only an identity but rebellion. I joined the extremist group Hizb ut-Tahrir. Eventually, in 2005, I went to Saudi Arabia. I yearned to be close to Mecca and Medina. But during my time there I saw how Islamism was becoming the most dangerous force, wreaking havoc throughout the world.

I visited the Prophet’s mosque in Medina just after dawn prayers, when there’s a very spiritual feeling in the air.

A group of Shia were praying, chanting beautiful poetry in praise of the Prophet. But to the Saudi guards the Shia were dissenters, and they chased them away.

I thought: “I came here to be closer to the Prophet, but I’m witnessing extreme intolerance.” I said to the guards in Arabic: “Why are you doing this?” The main guard said: “Do you know who they are?” I said: “They’re Muslims.” He just said: “They’re Shia.” I was bullied at school for being different. Now these Muslims were being bullied for being different Muslims. The incident led me to vow to fight those who had hijacked my faith. So I wrote The Islamist, to tell of what was going on from within the Muslim community, to right my own wrongs.

Not long after it was published, my daughter was born. We called her Camilla, an English and an Arabic name. I’d hate her to grow up in a world where guys judge her as a woman by Islamist scripture and see her as subhuman. Muslim men must stop their sisters and daughters being treated as subhuman.

Today work can be frustrating. There are parts of London and some mosques I wouldn’t go to. There are entire blogs denouncing me. But someone has to speak out. Camilla is Arabic for completion. Being with her brings me such warmth, so for me Camilla really has to do with completion.

Interview by Ann McFerran.

Photographs by Francesco Guidicini

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