Why I left Hizb ut-Tahrir

For almost ten years Umm Mustafa affiliated herself with the controversial Islamic organisation Hizb ut-Tahrir. This is why she left. 

In autumn 1998, I was 18 years old and a new student of management at Brunel University in Uxbridge, west London. I was becoming increasingly interested in my Islamic faith - and, like many people of that age, in challenging some of the injustices of the world. The Hizb ut-Tahrir stall at the freshers' fair offered me a way of doing just that.

Hizb ut-Tahrir ("The Liberation Party") aims to replace all existing governments with a global khilafah, or caliphate, subject to Islamic law and ruled by an elected male caliph. Founded in 1953 by Taqiuddin al-Nabhani, an Islamic scholar from Jerusalem, it now has about one million members spread through 40 countries, in some of which it has been banned. The party is secretive and hierarchical, with a network of national branches, each headed by an emir, or leader, who in turn is subject to an overall leader based in Palestine. Female members have their own parallel structure subject to the same leadership.

The party's arguments were persuasive. It offered a single, simple solution to all the political, social and economic problems of the world, from a religious perspective. Why should religion be left in the mosque? it asked. It should guide every aspect of our lives, particularly politics.

Hizb ut-Tahrir emphasised that it was not encouraging jihad - that it was a political and intellectual movement. Its rhe toric, however, was antagonistic, and often controversial. Its pamphlets argued that the west was out to destroy Islam, or that Jews must be removed from Israel for peace to come to the Middle East. It aimed to tap into a pre-existing anger felt by many young Muslims. It attracted a lot of hostility among the community - many of my friends disagreed with its aims and aggressive tactics. But to me, its ideas sounded new, fresh and exciting.

Cult-like structure

I became affiliated with the group, distributed its literature and, over the next few years, worked my way towards becoming a full member. In the strict hierarchy of the organisation, this was not a simple task. The new recruits aspired to become daris, or "students", who in turn aimed to take an oath of loyalty to Hizb ut-Tahrir and become full members. All the women were expected to use any social contact they had to recruit new members - mother-and-baby groups, student unions, even a chat with the neighbours. After proving their commitment to the party, they were assessed by a committee and allowed to attend the weekly "culturing circle". At 20, I joined them.

This circle was also known as a halaqa - a word other Muslims use for small groups that meet to study Islam or recite the Quran. But in the Hizb ut-Tahrir halaqa, we spent two hours listening to readings from books by the party founder, al-Nabhani. His book Nidham al-Islam ("the system of Islam") very briefly sketched the practicalities of setting up a new world order. But we did not even discuss the party's goal on that level. Everyone simply accepted that, through the hard work of party members, each country would embrace Hizb ut-Tahrir concepts and demand that its government make a peaceful transition to the khilafah, and then "we would know what to do when we got there". Originally, the holes in al-Nabhani's thinking did not trouble me. Later, however, I realised that the halaqa and the party philosophy made his writings synonymous with the Quran. In Hizb ut-Tahrir, religion and politics were truly confused.

But the cult-like structure of the organisation made this difficult to see. When I was 21, I became a full member - a prestigious position - and shortly afterwards was put in charge of the women's group's activities in west London. Suddenly, I was privy to information kept from non-members, such as the location of meetings and the details of organisational policy.

For young people - the vast majority of the members and the leadership were aged between 17 and 25 - the sense of power and community was intoxicating. We even had a very specific dress code that was chosen by the emir of HT. He had made it mandatory for all members to wear the jilbab (a loose dress), khimar (headscarf) and socks. Many Muslim women wear the jilbab and scarf, but for some reason I could always identify a fellow HT member; perhaps it was from their uniform-like style.

For a few years, I worked for the party in the Muslim community. I organised events, lectures and bazaars, renting venues and arranging marketing with the budget I was assigned from party donations. I was sometimes frustrated with these events - they were an inefficient way of recruiting members and rarely seemed to get the party message across. But, for a while, I put the doubts out of my mind.

In 2006, however, my feelings began to change. I noticed that whenever I had concerns, I was told to raise them through "the structure", but the answers to my questions and challenges were not satisfactory. The senior members seemed to be on autopilot, speaking only in party jargon, unable to participate in debate or look at the other side of an argument. It was certainly frowned upon for anyone to air their views freely or to make challenging statements. I began to question the leaders' claim that it was a God-given obligation for every Muslim to work with the group. How could this possibly be the case when these people were so far removed from society and normal life? I was fast losing confidence. But, surrounded by other members, I felt guilty about such sentiments. I stuck with it for a year, selling tickets for the same old talks and events, attending pointless meetings, and boring myself and others with "Hizbi" banter.

Finally, I was reported to the leadership as a "breakaway" member - party code for anyone who questions the party's principles. The women's emir travelled from east London to my home, bringing her small children with her. She could not answer my questions about the party any better than the local leadership.

"If we're supposed to be promoting peace, then let's do so," I told her. She replied that I had strayed from the party's principles and that I could not think in those terms. Eventually, I had to tell her that I was resigning my membership. Since then I have had almost no contact with Hizb ut-Tahrir.

After leaving, I realised that my aspirations had changed. I wanted to live as a normal member of society, and practise Islam as best I could in that context. Suddenly, I became aware of a chorus of moderate voices who supported me. I took off the party-approved jilbab, though I still wear modest dress. It was an enormous relief.

I realised that Hizb ut-Tahrir has devised a set of political ideas and goals which are in fact separate from Islam. Its tactic of convincing young people that its political goals are synonymous with Islam is its most dangerous and deceptive trick. In reality, its aims come from one man's socialist ideals, mixed with his own interpretation of Islamic scripture. So it is not "sacrifice in the way of Allah" to aid the overthrow of a government or to work with such a group.

It is my desire to witness security, safety and peace in the Muslim world. But will this come about through the forceful removal of all current Muslim governments? This is a point that Hizb ut-Tahrir leaders refuse to discuss with the naive recruits or to think about for themselves. The leaders claim to believe that the blood of a Muslim is sacred, but would be happy to spill it themselves if anyone were to oppose their khi lafah regime.

A party text by Abdul Qadeem Zallum, the second leader of HT, states that if necessary millions of Muslims and non-Muslims will be killed. How would this fact make the party different from the tyrannical rulers it continuously curses and defames?

I no longer agree with the politics and principles of Hizb ut-Tahrir, and I urge other members to reconsider their affiliation with this potentially dangerous group. They should seek a wider knowledge of Islam and open themselves to more tolerant opinions.

Umm Mustafa is a pseudonym

This article first appeared in the 03 March 2008 issue of the New Statesman, Gas gangsters

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Divided Britain: how the EU referendum exposed Britain’s new culture war

The EU referendum exposed a gaping fault line in our society – and it’s not between left and right.

There are streets in Hampstead, the wealthy northern suburb of London, where the pro-EU posters outnumber cars. A red “Vote Remain” in one. A “Green Yes” in another. The red, white and blue flag of the official campaign sits happily next to a poster from the left-wing campaign Another Europe Is Possible proclaiming that the world already has too many borders.

If you were looking for an equivalent street in Hull, in the north of England, you would look for a long time. In the city centre when I visited one recent morning, the only outward evidence that there was a referendum going on was the special edition of Wetherspoon News plastered on the walls of the William Wilberforce pub in Trinity Wharf. Most of the customers agreed with the message from the chain’s founder, Tim Martin: Britain was better off outside the European Union.

“Far too much Hampstead and not enough Hull” – that was the accusation levelled at the Remain campaign by Andy Burnham in the final weeks of the campaign. He wasn’t talking about geography; Remain’s voice is persuasive to residents of Newland Avenue in Hull, where I drank a latte as I eavesdropped on a couple who were fretting that “racists” would vote to take Britain out of the EU.

Rather, Burnham was talking about an idea, the “Hampstead” that occupies a special place in right-wing demonology as a haven of wealthy liberals who have the temerity to vote in the interests of the poor. The playwright and novelist Michael Frayn, in his 1963 essay on the Festival of Britain, called them “the Herbivores”:

“. . . the radical middle classes, the do-gooders; the readers of the News Chronicle, the Guardian, and the Observer; the signers of petitions; the backbone of the BBC . . . who look out from the lush pastures which are their natural station in life with eyes full of sorrow for less fortunate creatures, guiltily conscious of their advantages, though not usually ceasing to eat the grass.”

For Hampstead then, read swaths of Islington, Hackney, Brighton, Bristol, Cambridge, Edinburgh and Oxford today – all areas that were most strongly in favour of Remain and where Jeremy Corbyn is popular. But Remain never found a tone that won over the other half of Labour England; the campaign struck as duff a note among the diminishing band of pensioners on Hampstead’s remaining council estates as it did on Hull’s Orchard Park Estate.

The rift between “Hampstead and Hull”, in the sense that Andy Burnham meant it, is one that has stealthily divided Britain for years, but it has been brought into sharp focus by the debate over Europe.

Academics use various kinds of shorthand for it: the beer drinkers v the wine drinkers, or the cosmopolitans v the “left behind”. “It’s not just that [Britain] is div­ided between people who buy organic and people who buy own-brand,” says Philip Cowley, a professor of politics at Queen Mary University of London, “but between people who wouldn’t understand how anyone could buy own-brand and people who wouldn’t buy organic if you put a gun to their head.” Equating political preferences with shopping habits might sound flippant, but on 21 June the retail research company Verdict estimated that “half of Waitrose shoppers backed a Remain vote, against just over a third of Morrisons customers”.

The referendum has shown that there is another chasm in British politics, beyond left and right, beyond social conservatism v liberalism, and beyond arguments about the size of the state. The new culture war is about class, and income, and education, but also about culture, race, nationalism and optimism about the future (or lack of it). This divide explains why Ukip’s message has been seductive to former Labour voters and to Tories, and why Boris Johnson, an Old Etonian, led a campaign that purported to despise “elites” and “experts” and spoke of “wanting our country back”.


At the start of the campaign, the question that most accurately predicted whether you would back Remain or Leave was consistently: “Are you a graduate?” (Those who answered yes were much more likely to vote in favour of staying in the EU.) Stronger In never found a way to change that and win over those who left education at 18 or earlier. Pollsters also suggested that the much-vaunted Euroscepticism of older voters reflects generations where only one in ten people went to university.

This fissure has been growing for the best part of a decade and a half, but Britain’s first-past-the-post system, which deters newcomers and maintains entrenched parties, has provided a degree of insulation to Labour that its European cousins have lacked. Yet even here in the UK the mid-Noughties brought the brief rise of the British National Party, powered by voter defections from Labour in its strongholds in east London and Yorkshire, as well as the election of the Greens’ first MP on the back of progressive disillusionment with the governments of Tony Blair and Gordon Brown.

In office, both Blair and Brown calculated, wrongly, that Labour’s core vote had “nowhere else to go”. In opposition under Ed Miliband, the party calculated, again wrongly, that discontent with immigration, and the rise of Ukip powered by that discontent, was a problem for the Conservative Party alone.

In a 2014 pamphlet for the Fabian Society, ­Revolt on the Left, the activist Marcus Roberts, the academic Rob Ford and the analyst Ian Warren warned that Labour had “few reasons to cheer about the Ukip insurgency and plenty to worry about”. When the votes were cast in the general election the following year, that prediction turned out to be dispiritingly accurate. Defections from Labour to Ukip led to Labour losing seats to the Conservatives in Gower, Southampton Itchen, Telford and Plymouth Moor View.

For the most part, however, first-past-the-post papered over the cracks in Labour’s broad coalition: cracks that, in the harsh light of the EU referendum, have become obvious. The divide isn’t simply one of class, or income. The social profile and culture of voters in Cumbria are no different from that of voters on the other side of the border – but Scots in the Borders backed a Remain vote while their English peers in the border areas opted for Brexit. Inhospitality towards Brexit proved a stronger indication of city status than a mere cathedral: Vote Leave generally found Britain’s great cities more difficult terrain than the surrounding towns and countryside.

The problem of the fracturing vote is particularly acute for the Labour Party, which for much of the 20th century was able to rely on the Herbivores. In concert with Frayn’s “less fortunate creatures”, they have been enough to guarantee Labour close to 250 seats in the House of Commons and roughly one-third of the popular vote, even in difficult years. But Britain’s EU referendum placed Hampstead and Hull on opposing sides for the first time in modern British political history.

It was Tony Blair who, in his final speech to the Trades Union Congress as Labour leader in September 2006, said that the new debate in politics was not left against right, but “open v closed” – openness to immigration, to diversity, to the idea of Europe. Driven by their commitment to openness, Blair’s outriders dreamed of reshaping Labour as a mirror of the US Democrats – though, ironically, it was Ed Miliband, who repudiated much of Blair’s approach and politics, who achieved this.

At the 2015 election Labour’s coalition was drawn from the young, ethnic minorities and the well educated: the groups that powered Barack Obama’s two election wins in 2008 and 2012. The party was repudiated in the Midlands, went backwards in Wales and was all but wiped out in the east of England. (Scotland was another matter altogether.) Its best results came in Britain’s big cities and university towns.

The Remain campaign gave Labour a glimpse of how Miliband’s manifesto might have fared without the reassuring imprimatur of a red rosette. Britain Stronger In Europe has been rejected in the Midlands and struggled in the east of England. But it also failed to inspire passion in Sunderland, Oldham and Hull – all areas that, for now, return Labour MPs.


In appearance, Hull’s city centre is built on blood and sandstone, dotted with memorials to a lost empire and postwar replacements for bombed buildings, all ringed by suburban housing built by the private sector in the 1930s and the state in the 1950s and 1960s. It could be Bristol without the excessive hills, or a smaller Glasgow with a different accent. Unlike in Glasgow or Bristol, however, the residents of Hull are largely hostile to the European Union. Unlike Glasgow and Bristol, Hull is a post-imperial city that has yet to experience a post-colonial second act.

The William Wilberforce is named after a native son who helped destroy the British slave trade, the engine of Hull’s prosperity in the 18th century. The destruction of another local industry – fishing – drives resentment among the pub’s ageing clientele, who were there for breakfast and a bit of company when I visited. They blame its demise squarely on the EU.

Although the Labour Party now has only one MP in Scotland, the back rooms of the labour movement host an outsized Scottish contingent. For that reason – and the continuing threat that the loss of Labour’s seats in Scotland poses to the party’s chances of winning a majority at Westminster – the Scottish independence referendum of 2014 loomed large for Labour throughout the EU campaign.

From the outset, Britain Stronger In struggled to replicate the success of the Scottish No campaign, in part because the price of victory was one that Labour regarded as too high to pay a second time. In Glasgow, in the week before the Scottish referendum, everyone knew where Labour stood on independence – consequently, many voters were already planning to take revenge. The proprietor of one café told me that Labour was “finished in this city, for ever”.

Predictions of this sort were thin on the ground in Hull. Alan Johnson, the head of Labour’s EU campaign, is one of the three Labour MPs whom Hull sent to Westminster in 2015. But even late in the campaign, in his own constituency, I found uncertainty about the party’s official position on the referendum. For that reason, if nothing else, it didn’t have the feeling of a city preparing to break with a half-century-plus of Labour rule, as Glasgow did in 2014. In Scotland, most people I spoke to believed that they were on the brink of independence, which made the eventual result a big blow.

Only among Hull’s pro-European minority could I find any conviction that Britain might actually leave the EU. In September 2014 Kenneth Clarke remarked that Ukip’s supporters were “largely . . . the disappointed elderly, the grumpy old men, people who’ve had a bit of a hard time in life”. To listen to Hull’s Leave voters is to hear tales of the same frustrated potential: they feel that politicians of all stripes have lives entirely removed from theirs. In their defence, they are right – just 4 per cent of MPs in 2010 were from working-class backgrounds.

As for Ken Clarke, he has carved out a second career as every left-winger’s favourite Tory, but that tone of indifference towards the “disappointed lives” of globalisation’s casualties recalls his younger days as a rising star of Margaret Thatcher’s government.

Hull’s residents have been dismissed, first as the regrettable but inevitable consequence of Thatcherite economics, and now as small-minded opponents of social progress and racial diversity. Unsurprisingly, people who feel that their wishes have been ignored and in some cases actively squashed by successive governments of left and right did not expect to wake up on the morning of 24 June to discover that this time, their votes really had changed something.

Equally unsurprisingly, the Remain campaign’s warnings of economic collapse lacked force for people for whom the world’s end had been and gone.

In Glasgow in 2014 Scottish independence was a question of identity in itself, whereas in Hull, hostility towards Europe is the by-product of other identities that feel beleaguered or under threat: fishing, Englishness and whiteness, for the most part.

In Hampstead, a vote for Remain feels more like a statement about the world as you see it. One woman, who walks off before I can probe further, tells me: “Of course I’m voting to stay In. I buy Fairtrade.”


Immigration, not the European Union, is the issue that moves voters in Hull. “Britain is full” was the most frequent explanation they gave for an Out vote. Knowing that immigration, rather than the abstract question of sovereignty, would be crucial to winning the contest, Vote Leave tried from the beginning to make it a referendum on border control. Leave’s main theme: the threat of Turkey joining the European Union and, with it, the prospect of all 75 million Turks gaining the right to live and work in Britain.

Although Turkey’s chances of joining the EU are somewhere only just north of its hopes of launching a manned mission to Mars, the tactic worked: according to an ­Ipsos MORI poll released on the morning of 16 June, 45 per cent of Britons believed that Turkey will be fast-tracked into the Union.

That same morning, Nigel Farage posed in front of a poster showing refugees – mostly from Syria and most of them non-white – on the border between Croatia and Slovenia, with a slogan warning that uncontrolled immigration was leaving Britain at “breaking point”. But the row over the poster came to an unpleasant halt just a few hours later as news began to break that Jo Cox, the Labour MP for Batley and Spen, had been shot and stabbed on her way out of a constituency surgery. She died of her injuries a little over an hour later. On 19 June Thomas Mair, who was arrested in connection with the killing, gave his name at Westminster Magistrates’ Court as “Death to traitors, freedom for Britain”.

The circumstances of the killing felt familiar. A little after midnight on 5 June 1968, Robert Kennedy was returning to the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles in high spirits. He had just won a crucial victory in the California primary and was well placed to secure the Democratic nomination to run in that year’s presidential election. Going through the kitchen in order to avoid cheering crowds and get straight to his press conference, he was ambushed by a man called Sirhan Sirhan, who fired six shots from a revolver. Kennedy was rushed to hospital, where he died early the following morning.

Five months later Richard Nixon was elected president. The American right held on to the White House for 20 years out of the next 25. Jo Cox’s killing, amid the nativist howling from Farage et al, felt like the beginning of a similar chapter of right-wing advance in the UK.

Labour’s problem, and that of its social-democratic cousins throughout Europe, is the same as the American left’s was in the 1960s. Its founding coalition – of trade unions, the socially concerned middle classes and minorities, ethnic and cultural – is united (barely) on economic issues but irrevocably split on questions of identity. Outside crisis-stricken Greece and Spain, the left looks trapped in permanent opposition, with no politician able to reconsolidate its old base and take power again.


When I arrive in Hull, preparations are under way for a vigil in Jo Cox’s honour, but it is the nation of Turkey that is weighing on the minds of undecided voters. On Park Street, residents are divided. Those who have exercised their right to buy and are concerned about their mortgages are flirting with an Out vote but are terrified about negative equity. Those who remain in social housing or the private rented sector are untouched by stories of soaring mortgages. To many residents, the Treasury’s dire warnings seem to be the concerns of people from a different planet, not merely another part of the country. As Rachel, a woman in her mid-fifties who lives alone, puts it: “They say I’d lose four grand a month. I don’t know who they think is earning four grand a month but it certainly isn’t me.”

As Vote Leave knew, the promise that an Out vote will allow people to “take control” always had a particular appeal for those with precious little control – of their rent, of next week’s shift, of whether or not they will be able to afford to turn the heating on next week. Never mind that the control envisaged by Vote Leave would be exercised by the conservative right: the campaign found a message that was able to resonate across class and region, at least to an extent that could yet create a force to be reckoned with under first-past-the-post in Britain.

Four grand a month isn’t a bad salary, even in leafy Hampstead, but in that prosperous corner of north London fears of an Out vote, and what will come after, gained a tight purchase. The worry was coupled with resentment, too, over what would come, should the Outers triumph.

The great risk for the left is that herbivorous resentment is already curdling into contempt towards the people of Hull and the other bastions of Brexitism. That contempt threatens the commodity on which Labour has always relied to get Hull and Hampstead to vote and work together – solidarity. The referendum leaves the Conservatives divided at Westminster. That will give little comfort to Labour if the long-term outcome of the vote is to leave its own ranks divided outside it.


Stephen Bush is special correspondent at the New Statesman. He usually writes about politics. 

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain