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Banking on Sharia

Sharia banking is growing fast and the mainstream banks are starting to offer Islamic accounts. Its

Sharia-compliant, or Islamic, finance is committed to promoting goals any proud progressive would recognise: equity, moderation, social justice. It is a system that revolves around prudent lending, the reduction of risk, the sharing of profits and an absolute ban on speculation and the short-selling of stocks. Debt is actively discouraged and so dealings with any organisation that has a balance sheet more than a third of which is debt (which is to say, all banks!) are forbidden, as are investments in enterprises deemed unethical by Islamic scholars, such as casinos or weapons factories.

Perhaps the rarest feature, however, is the prohibition of interest - or making money out of money. As it is not permissible for banks to charge interest on their loans, sharia-compliant deals are usually structured so that the bank ends up leasing the property to the homeowner, who essentially ends up paying rent until ownership is transferred. Critics charge that the rent seems suspiciously similar to interest payments. They also point out that it ends up costing homeowners more to set up and pay off Islamic mortgages than conventional products, like with all other niche products and, in particular, ethical investments: the so-called "piety premium".

Islamic financiers disagree, stressing the joint-ownership and profit-sharing aspects of the sharia model. "The relationship between us and the customer is based on sharing risk and sharing the rewards from the financing and investments we make on their behalf," says Sultan Choudhury, commercial director at the Islamic Bank of Britain, this country's only stand-alone, sharia-compliant retail bank. "The returns are based on the amount of profit realised from each transaction."

Let me declare an interest here (in case you had not already noticed the name on the byline): I am a Muslim myself, a practising, believing Muslim. Yet, to my shame perhaps, I own not a single sharia-compliant financial product or asset. Until the recent implosion of the banking system, I had paid very little attention to the Islamic finance industry, assuming it was simply a niche activity at best, or a gimmick at worst. As a result, my own current account, pension, mortgage, loans and credit cards are all as traditional, conventional and mainstream as the next (non-Muslim) man.

Islamic finance marries the freedom of the market economy to the fairness of social democracy

Yet the reality is that Islamic finance is growing faster than any other subset of world banking, at an average annual rate of between 15 and 20 per cent. The IMF says the number and reach of sharia-compliant financial institutions worldwide has risen from one institution in one country in 1975 to more than 300 institutions operating in more than 75 countries today. Over the past year alone, sharia-compliant assets across the globe have grown by almost a third to more than $639bn, according to the latest analysis of the industry from the Banker magazine. If the current trends continue, Islamic finance will have broken through the $1trn mark by 2010.

Here in Britain, the Financial Services Authority has licensed five stand-alone Islamic banks - including the Islamic Bank of Britain, which has been reporting a significant increase in the number of non-Muslim customers applying for accounts since the start of the financial crisis. Bank officials say the numbers are growing because Islamic finance offers a "safer option" for savers and investors, regardless of faith. According to the Islamic Bank of Britain's marketing director, Steven Amos: "Our core business will always be Muslims, but the numbers of non-Muslims are really picking up. We've had increased interest and it's one of the number of reasons why we're insulated from the credit crunch."

To get an Islamic bank account you don’t have to go to the Islamic Bank of Britain only. So far, 20 major global banks have set up units to provide sharia-compliant financial services. HSBC began offering Islamic products and services to its customers in 2003; Lloyds TSB followed in 2005. The mainstream has gone Muslim.

Emile Abu-Shakra, spokesman for Lloyds TSB, explains. "We started offering Islamic financial products about three years ago and when we started out we were just in five branches around the country," he says. "Now we are in two thousand branches."

The bank has now expanded its range of products to include a current account, a mortgage, a student account, an investment fund and a business and corporate account. Its Islamic finance products are designed with Muslims in mind, but anyone can use them if they fulfil their needs.

Does Lloyds TSB believe further growth and diversification in the field are still possible? "The principles of Islamic finance could be applied to a number of different products, so there are possibilities for Islamic versions of credit cards, loans, saving accounts and asset finance as well," says Abu-Shakra. "It's just a matter of time."

The remarkable feature of Islamic financial institutions, products and assets is that, although they may have not produced fantastically high returns in any one year, they have produced consistent returns over the past decade - and continue to do so even now, in the wake of the credit crunch. This year, global markets are down by more than a third off their peak but the Dow Jones Islamic Financials Index, in comparison, has lost 7 per cent over the same period and actually rose 4.75 per cent in the most recent September quarter.

Such statistics make me truly wonder whether Islamic banking, with its antipathy towards excessive risk, debt and interest, and with its emphasis on linking deposits and investments to real, underlying assets, could have saved us from the credit crunch.

"Had the Islamic financing principle of fairness and the concept of investing in partnership been slightly more prevalent in conventional banking of late, events may have turned out a little differently," says Dan Taylor, head of banking at the accountancy giant BDO Stoy Hayward. "The Islamic principle of requiring securities to be backed by assets means that the use of, say, collateralised debt oblig a tions, or CDOs, would not have been allowed by sharia-compliant institutions."

Professor Rodney Wilson, who teaches Islamic finance at Durham University, agrees. He mentions that not a single sharia-compliant financial institution has failed since the start of the current crisis. Why? "Islamic banks follow a classical model of funding from their own deposits rather than borrowing from wholesale markets."

Excessive leverage is therefore not an option for a sharia-compliant bank - as opposed to conventional banks, which in this country by 2008 were lending out roughly £700bn more than they took in deposits, betting that the good times would go on for ever and tomorrow would never come.

Well, it did: the conventional banking sector is now on the verge of collapse. Meanwhile, Islamic institutions here in Britain continue to make money. The European Islamic Investment Bank, a UK AIM-listed sharia-compliant investment bank, reported revenues up 14 per cent in June 2008 interims. On the retail side, the Islamic Bank of Britain reported 5.5 per cent growth in customer numbers and 7.2 per cent growth in customer deposits in the six months to June.

So, it is no wonder that the British government - despite distancing itself from the Archbishop of Canterbury's ten tative support for sharia law courts - has been proactively encouraging the proliferation of sharia-compliant financial institutions for several years now. When he was chancellor, Gordon Brown repeatedly urged the City of London to become the "gateway to Islamic finance".

Just late last month, the government announced the launch of the first sharia-compliant pension funds, and officials are now even considering using special interest-free, asset-backed Islamic bonds, or sukuks, to help fund the building of the athletes' village for the London 2012 Olympics.

 

In America early last month, the US treasury

department hosted a course for policymakers called “Islamic Finance 101”. This followed a visit to Saudi Arabia by the treasury deputy secretary Robert Kimmitt, during which he confirmed that sharia-compliant finance is now firmly on his country’s agenda. “The US government is studying the salient features of Islamic banking to ascertain how far it could be useful in fighting the ongoing world economic crisis,” he said.

The Islamic finance industry is entering a brave and surprisingly welcoming new world - but obstacles remain. Determining exactly what is or isn't sharia-compliant, for example, can be difficult. Banks such as HSBC and Lloyds TSB have their own sharia advisory boards, made up of senior Islamic scholars, but one board's interpretation of compliance with the sharia is not necessarily the same as another's. Standardisation of rules and regulations across the sector is vital, but could take some time.

It could also be a while before we even have enough scholars to carry out the standardising - right now, according to one survey, there are only about 260 Islamic scholars worldwide who have the requisite knowledge, business savvy and linguistic skills.

However, others, like Professor Wilson, are more sanguine. "The shortage of qualified and experienced scholars should not be a problem in the longer run, as there are aspiring British Muslim scholars studying for higher degrees who have a good knowledge of both Islamic law and modern finance."

So Islamic banking is here to stay. It is a practical, viable and resilient alternative. To borrow a phrase from the Archbishop of Canterbury, the spread of sharia finance, if not sharia law, now "seems unavoidable".

I have even convinced myself: I now intend to invest in a sharia-friendly sukuk and to try to switch my interest-only conventional mortgage to an interest-free Islamic version. In this era of financial crises and economic chaos, it may be time for all of us - Muslims and non-Muslims, investors and savers alike - to join the halal banking revolution.

It may be our only hope.

Mehdi Hasan is news and current affairs editor at Channel 4

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.

This article first appeared in the 15 December 2008 issue of the New Statesman, The power of speech

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The lost magic of England

The great conservative journalist Peregrine Worsthorne reflects on a long life at the heart of the establishment.

In a recent editorial meeting, our subscriptions manager happened to mention that Peregrine Worsthorne was still a New Statesman subscriber. A former editor of the Sunday Telegraph and, during a long Fleet Street career, a self-styled “romantic reactionary” scourge of liberals and liberalism, Worsthorne used to be something of a pantomime villain for the left, a role he delighted in. He had close friends among the “Peterhouse right”, the group of High Tory intellectuals who gathered around Maurice Cowling at the small, conspiratorial Cambridge college. He was a frequent contributor to Encounter (which turned out to be funded by the CIA) and an ardent cold warrior. His social conservatism and lofty affectations offended lefty Islingtonian sensibilities. On several occasions he was the Guardian’s reviewer of choice for its annual collection of journalism, The Bedside Guardian, and he invariably delivered the required scornful appraisal while praising its witty television critic, Nancy Banks-Smith. There is no suggestion, he wrote in 1981, that the “Guardian ever sees itself as part of the problem; itself as having some responsibility for the evils its writers described so well”.

His prose style was Oxbridge high table, more Walter Pater than George Orwell. It was essential not to take Worsthorne too seriously, because he delighted in mischief-making and wilful provocation – one of his targets for remorseless ridicule was Andrew Neil, when Neil edited the abrasively Thatcherite Sunday Times. He ended up suing Worsthorne, who was famous for his silk shirts and Garrick Club lunches, for libel; he was awarded damages of £1, the then cover price of the Sunday Times.

“I wrote that in the old days editors of distinguished Sunday papers could be found dining at All Souls, and something must have changed when they’re caught with their trousers down in a nightclub,” Worsthorne told me when we met recently. “I had no idea he was going to sue. I was teasing. I occasionally run into him and we smile at each other, so it’s all forgotten and forgiven.”

After his retirement in 1989, Worsthorne, although he remained a resolute defender of aristocracy, seemed to mellow, and even mischievously suggested that the Guardian had replaced the Times as the newspaper of record. In the 1990s he began writing occasionally for the New Statesman – the then literary editor, Peter Wilby, commissioned book reviews from him, as I did after I succeeded Wilby. Like most journalists of his generation, Worsthorne was a joy to work with; he wrote to length, delivered his copy on time and was never precious about being edited. (Bill Deedes and Tony Howard were the same.) He might have had the mannerisms of an old-style toff but he was also a tradesman, who understood that journalism was a craft.

Shortly before Christmas, I rang Wors­thorne at the home in Buckinghamshire he shares with his second wife, Lucinda Lambton, the charming architectural writer. I asked how he was. “I’m like a squeezed lemon: all used up,” he said. Lucy described him as being “frail but not ill”. I told him that I would visit, so one recent morning I did. Home is a Grade II-listed old rectory in the village of Hedgerley. It is grand but dishevelled and eccentrically furnished. A sign on the main gates warns you to “Beware of the Dog”. But the dog turns out to be blind and moves around the house uneasily, poignantly bumping into objects and walls. At lunch, a small replica mosque in the dining room issues repeated mechanised calls to prayer. “Why does it keep doing that?” Perry asks. “Isn’t it fun,” Lucy says. She then turns to me: “Have some more duck pâté.”

As a student, I used to read Worsthorne’s columns and essays with pleasure. I did not share his positions and prejudices but I admired the style in which he articulated them. “The job of journalism is not to be scholarly,” he wrote in 1989. “The most that can be achieved by an individual newspaper or journalist is the articulation of an intelligent, well-thought-out, coherent set of prejudices – ie, a moral position.”

His Sunday Telegraph, which he edited from 1986 to 1989, was like no other newspaper. The recondite and reactionary comment pages (the focus of his energies) were unapologetically High Tory, contrary to the prevailing Thatcherite orthodoxies of the time, but were mostly well written and historically literate. Bruce Anderson was one of the columnists. “You never knew what you were going to get when you opened the paper,” he told me. “Perry was a dandy, a popinjay, and of course he didn’t lack self-esteem. He had a nostalgia for Young England. In all the time I wrote for him, however, I never took his approval for granted. I always felt a tightening of the stomach muscles when I showed him something.”

***

Worsthorne is 92 now and, though his memory is failing, he remains a lucid and engaging conversationalist. Moving slowly, in short, shuffling steps, he has a long beard and retains a certain dandyish glamour. His silver hair is swept back from a high, smooth forehead. He remains a stubborn defender of the aristocracy – “Superiority is a dread word, but we are in very short supply of superiority because no one likes the word” – but the old hauteur has gone, replaced by humility and a kind of wonder and bafflement that he has endured so long and seen so much: a journalistic Lear, but one who is not raging against the dying of the light.

On arrival, I am shown through to the drawing room, where Perry sits quietly near an open fire, a copy of that morning’s Times before him. He moves to a corner armchair and passes me a copy of his book Democracy Needs Aristocracy (2005). “It’s all in there,” he says. “I’ve always thought the English aristocracy so marvellous compared to other ruling classes. It seemed to me that we had got a ruling class of such extraordinary historical excellence, which is rooted in England
almost since the Norman Conquest.

“Just read the 18th-century speeches – the great period – they’re all Whig or Tory, but all come from that [the aristocracy]. If they didn’t come directly from the aristocracy, they turned themselves very quickly into people who talk in its language. Poetic. If you read Burke, who’s the best in my view, it’s difficult not to be tempted to think what he says has a lot of truth in it . . .”

His voice fades. He has lost his way and asks what we were talking about. “Oh, yes,” he says. “It survived when others – the French and Russians and so on – were having revolutions. It was absolutely crazy to set about destroying that. There was something magical . . . the parliamentary speeches made by Burke and so on – this is a miracle! No other country has it apart from America in the early days. And I thought to get rid of it, to undermine it, was a mistake.”

I ask how exactly the aristocracy was undermined. Even today, because of the concentration of the ownership of so much land among so few and because of the enduring influence of the old families, the great schools and Oxbridge, Britain remains a peculiar hybrid: part populist hyper-democracy and part quasi-feudal state. The Tory benches are no longer filled by aristocrats but the old class structures remain.

“Equality was the order of the day after the war,” Worsthorne replies. “And in a way it did a lot of good, equalising people’s chances in the world. But it didn’t really get anywhere; the ruling class went happily on. But slowly, and I think unnecessarily dangerously, it was destroyed – and now there are no superior people around [in politics]. The Cecil family – Lord Salisbury, he was chucked out of politics. The Cecil family is being told they are not wanted. The institutions are falling apart . . .

“But there were people who had natural authority, like Denis Healey. I’m not saying it’s only aristocrats – a lot of Labour people had it. But now we haven’t got any Denis Healeys.”

Born in 1923, the younger son of Alexander Koch de Gooreynd, a Belgian banker, Worsthorne (the family anglicised its name) was educated at Stowe and was an undergraduate at both Cambridge (Peterhouse, where he studied under the historian Herbert Butterfield, the author of The Whig Interpretation of History) and Oxford (Magdalen College). “I have always felt slightly underprivileged and de-classed by having gone to Stowe, unlike my father who went to Eton,” Worsthorne wrote in 1985.

Yet his memories of Stowe remain pellucid. There he fell under the influence of the belle-lettrist John Davenport, who later became a close friend of Dylan Thomas. “He was a marvellous man, a famous intellectual of the 1930s, an ex-boxer, too. But in the war he came to Stowe and he was preparing me for a scholarship to Cambridge. He told me to read three books, and find something to alleviate the boredom of an examiner, some little thing you’ll pick up. And I duly did and got the scholarship.”

Can you remember which three books he recommended?

“Tawney. Something by Connolly, um . . . that’s the terrible thing about getting old, extremely old – you forget. And by the time you die you can’t remember your brother’s name. It’s a terrible shock. I used to think old age could be a joy because you’d have more time to read. But if you push your luck and get too far, and last too long, you start finding reading really quite difficult. The connections go, I suppose.”

Was the Connolly book Enemies of Promise (1938)?

“Yes, that’s right. It was. And the other one was . . . Hang on, the writer of the book . . . What’s the country invaded by Russia, next to Russia?

Finland, I say. Edmund Wilson’s To the Finland Station (1940)?

“Yes. Wilson. How did you get that?”

We both laugh.

***

Worsthorne is saddened but not surprised that so many Scots voted for independence and his preference is for Britain to remain a member of the European Union. “What’s happening is part of the hopelessness of English politics. It’s horrible. I can’t think why the Scots would want to be on their own but it might happen. The youth will vote [for independence]. This is part of my central theme: the Scots no longer think it’s worthwhile belonging to England. The magic of England has gone – and it’s the perversity of the Tory party to want to get us out of the European Union when of course we’re much more than ever unlikely to be able to look after ourselves as an independent state because of the quality of our political system.

“The people who want to get us out are obviously of an undesirable kind. That the future should depend on [Nigel] Farage is part of the sickness. I mean the real horror is for him to have any influence at all. And when you think of the great days of the Labour Party, the giants who strode the stage – famous, lasting historical figures, some of them: Healey, Attlee, who was probably the greatest, [Ernest] Bevin. I’m well aware that Labour in the good days produced people who were superior.”

He digresses to reflect on his wartime experience as a soldier – he served in Phantom, the special reconnaissance unit, alongside Michael Oakeshott, the philosopher of English conservatism who became a close friend, and the actor David Niven, our “prize colleague”.

“I remember Harold Macmillan saying to me, after the Second World War, the British people needed their belt enlarged; they’d done their job and they deserved a reward. And that’s what he set about doing. And he wasn’t a right-wing, unsympathetic man at all. But he didn’t – and this is what is good about conservatism – he didn’t turn it into an ‘ism’. It was a sympathetic feel, an instinctive feel, and of course people in the trenches felt it, too: solidarity with the rest of England and not just their own brotherhood. Of course he didn’t get on with Margaret Thatcher at all.”

Worsthorne admired Thatcher and believed that the “Conservatives required a dictator woman” to shake things up, though he was not a Thatcherite and denounced what he called her “bourgeois triumphalism”. He expresses regret at how the miners were treated during the bitter strike of 1984-85. “I quarrelled with her about the miners’ strike, and the people she got around her to conduct it were a pretty ropey lot.

“I liked her as a person. I was with her that last night when she wasn’t prime minister any more, but she was still in Downing Street and had everything cut off. The pressman [Bernard Ingham] got several of us to try to take her mind off her miseries that night. There’s a photograph of me standing at the top of the stairs.”

In the summer of 1989, Peregrine Wors­thorne was sacked as the editor of the Sunday Telegraph by Andrew Knight, a former journalist-turned-management enforcer, over breakfast at Claridge’s. He wrote about the experience in an elegant diary for the Spectator: “I remember well the exact moment when this thunderbolt, coming out of a blue sky, hit me. It was when the waiter had just served two perfectly poached eggs on buttered toast . . . In my mind I knew that the information just imparted was a paralysingly painful blow: pretty well a professional death sentence.”

He no longer reads the Telegraph.

“Politically they don’t have much to say of interest. But I can’t put the finger on exactly what it is I don’t like about it. Boredom, I think!”

You must read Charles Moore?

“He is my favourite. Interesting fellow. He converted to Catholicism and started riding to hounds in the same week.”

He has no regrets about pursuing a long career in journalism rather than, say, as a full-time writer or academic, like his friends Cowling and Oakeshott. “I was incredibly lucky to do journalism. What people don’t realise – and perhaps you don’t agree – but it’s really a very easy life, compared to many others. And you have good company in other journalists and so on. I was an apprentice on the Times, after working [as a sub-editor] on the Glasgow Herald.”

How does he spend the days?

“Living, I suppose. It takes an hour to get dressed because all the muscles go. Then I read the Times and get bored with it halfway through. Then there’s a meal to eat. The ­answer is, the days go. I used to go for walks but I can’t do that now. But Lucy’s getting me all kinds of instruments to facilitate people with no muscles, to help you walk. I’m very sceptical about it working, but then again, better than the alternative.”

He does not read as much as he would wish. He takes the Statesman, the Spectator and the Times but no longer the Guardian. He is reading Niall Ferguson’s biography of Kissinger, The Maisky Diaries by Ivan Maisky, Stalin’s ambassador to London from 1932 to 1943, and Living on Paper, a selection of letters by Iris Murdoch, whom he knew. “I get these massive books, thinking of a rainy day, but once I pick them up they are too heavy, physically, so they’re stacked up, begging to be read.”

He watches television – the news (we speak about Isis and the Syrian tragedy), the Marr show on Sunday mornings, and he has been enjoying War and Peace on BBC1. “Andrew Marr gave my book a very good review. He’s come back. He’s survived [a stroke] through a degree of hard willpower to get back to that job, almost as soon as he came out of surgery. But I don’t know him; he was a Guardian man.” (In fact, Marr is more closely associated with the Independent.)

Of the celebrated Peterhouse historians, both Herbert Butterfield (who was a Methodist) and Maurice Cowling were devout Christians. For High Tories, who believe in and accept natural inequalities and the organic theory of society, Christianity was a binding force that held together all social classes, as some believe was the order in late-Victorian England.

“I was a very hardened Catholic,” Worsthorne says, when I mention Cowling’s book Religion and Public Doctrine in Modern England. “My mother was divorced [her second marriage was to Montagu Norman, then the governor of the Bank of England] and she didn’t want my brother and me to be Catholic, so she sent us to Stowe. And I used to annoy her because I read [Hilaire] Belloc. I tried to annoy the history master teaching us Queen Elizabeth I. I said to him: ‘Are you covering up on her behalf: don’t you know she had syphilis?’

“Once I felt very angry about not being made Catholic. But then I went to Cambridge and there was a very Catholic chaplain and he was very snobbish. And in confession I had to tell him I masturbated twice that morning or something, and so it embarrassed me when half an hour later I had to sit next to him at breakfast. I literally gave up going to Mass to get out of this embarrassing situation. But recently I’ve started again. I haven’t actually gone to church but I’ve made my confessions, to a friendly bishop who came to the house.”

So you are a believer?

“Yes. I don’t know which bit I believe. But as Voltaire said: ‘Don’t take a risk.’”

He smiles and lowers his head. We are ready for lunch. 

Jason Cowley is editor of the New Statesman. He has been the editor of Granta, a senior editor at the Observer and a staff writer at the Times.

This article first appeared in the 11 February 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The legacy of Europe's worst battle