Tariq Jahan interview: "I don't see a broken society"

The grieving father talks to the New Statesman about tougher sentencing, and his Islamist past.

The grieving father talks to the New Statesman about tougher sentencing, his Islamist past and his memories of his son.

In this week's New Statesman, on the newsstands tomorrow, Tariq Jahan -- the grieving father whose son Haroon was killed during the violence in Birmingham last week -- speaks to me about tougher sentencing for criminals and looters, David Cameron and the "broken society", his own surprising Islamist past and, of course, how he is coping with the loss of his young son.

Here are some extracts from the interview (and it was probably the most difficult and heartbreaking interview I've ever had to do):

On tougher laws and sentencing

In a rebuke to the Prime Minister's call for a "fightback" and "crackdown" against the antisocial elements of British society, Jahan says there is no need for "more stringent" laws:

To David Cameron, to parliament, I say: don't make the laws any more stringent. Don't make the laws any tighter. It doesn't help. Joe Public hates authority. Don't make yourselves out to be tyrants, oppressing the people. We don't need to be pushed back against the wall.

Later in the interview, he again remarks:

I don't think tougher action will make any difference . . . We've had enough tough laws as it is.

Jahan is particularly concerned that the police will overreact in future.

What I don't want to see are the stop-and-search seizures all over again.

Nor is he interested in harsher sentencing -- for the looters or for the killer of his son:

Don't change the law just because my son was killed. Changing the law to make the punishment even greater does not bring my son back. It doesn't bring those two brothers back.

On the "Broken Society"

He rejects David Cameron's rhetoric about society being "sick" or "broken":

I don't see a broken society. I see a minority of people who took advantage of the country when the country was in crisis. They didn't think of the country and only thought about themselves, their own personal greed and satisfaction.

And Jahan says he will "never, never blame England for what happened to my son. It wasn't the country's fault. Was the whole country after my son? No."

He is scathing about the conservative historian David Starkey's recent attempt on BBC Newsnight to blame the rioting and looting on black gang culture.

Nonsense. Why blame the black community? Why point fingers? I totally disagree.

On his Islamist past

In a surprising admission, Jahan tells me that, as a teenager growing up in Slough, he was a "miscreant" who started moving in Islamic religious circles that grew increasingly extremist. He ended up attending events held by Hizb ut-Tahrir (HT), the radical Islamist organisation that has been accused of being part of the ideological "conveyor belt" of violent extremism and terrorism.

He wasn't ever, he says, a card-carrying member of Hizb ut-Tahrir but he does admit to working as a bodyguard for the reviled cleric and former HT leader Omar Bakri Mohammed, who has since been banned from Britain.

At the age of 20, Jahan says, he got married, moved to Birmingham and left "HT and all those other religious groups" behind:

I got involved with my own family and had my three kids.

Asked for his opinion of modern Muslim extremism, Jahan says some young British Muslims need "to cool down" and he adds:

There are too many bleeding extremists now.

However, he says he disagrees with the Conservative Party election manifesto pledge to outlaw Hizb ut-Tahrir and advocates a dialogue with home-grown Islamists:

If you've got an extremist group, sit them down and communicate with them. We've been at war in Afghanistan for the past ten years and now we've decided we want to talk to the Taliban. If we can talk to the Taliban, why can't we talk to these [domestic] extremist groups?

On his son's death

Jahan speaks movingly in the interview about Haroon and how hard it has been to cope with the fallout from his murder during the riots:

Publicly, you won't see a tear from me or my family.

In private, however, it is a different matter:

Me and my wife, we sit down in our bedroom each night, we put our heads together and we cry and we cry and we cry, until we can't cry any more.

 

Mehdi Hasan (left) with Tariq Jahan. Credit: Lorne Campbell

Tariq Jahan.

Mehdi Hasan is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and the co-author of Ed: The Milibands and the Making of a Labour Leader. He was the New Statesman's senior editor (politics) from 2009-12.

Qusai Al Shidi/Flickr
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I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war