Schoolboys to masked murderers. Photo: Getty
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I turned on the TV to find my old classmates had become Isis militants

How it feels to watch the news and see that your old school friends are jihadists fighting with Islamic State.

It's a spectacle that pushes all the right buttons to keep us in captive horror – British citizens going out to join a black-hooded death cult in Syria and Northern Iraq. The situation's grimness alone might be enough, but then there's how media-friendly Islamic State has been, too. Their macabre videos are intended to be as visually striking and fear-provoking as possible. They want to be perceived as something more than run-of-the-mill gunmen, a millenarian juggernaut that is willing to raze the Middle East to the ground and build their future on the ruins. A trigger-happy United States and a tabloid press obsessed with lurid death porn are often only too eager to fuel that characterisation. Because of that, we forget that the estimated 500 British Isis fighters could ever have been normal, once. I'm part of that, as someone who protested the Iraq war and is generally of the opinion that intervening does more harm than good, yet at times I have been pretty sanguine about airstrikes. But I saw a few of these so-called holy warriors in a very different context, five years ago. I was at school with them.

I found out what had happened a few weeks ago, when an old friend linked me to an ITV news clip reporting the death of one British jihadi and showcasing a recruitment video made by another. “It’s Mo,” he said, “and Hamza”, or words to that effect. I watched the clip a couple of times in disbelief. A few explanations ran through my head – it was a prank, the guy in the clip was a lookalike, some mistake had been made. But apparently not. I checked the Facebook profiles of the boys in question. Mo, who is now dead with a piece of shrapnel stuck in his skull, had last checked in at a popular curry restaurant in Notting Hill. The most recent thing on Hamza’s profile is birthday wishes from friends, who I don’t imagine had any idea what happened. In his list of likes is Barry from Four Lions, the black comedy send-up of Islamist terrorism. I've since heard that a third alumnus of my school has gone out there. Still, none of the rest of us can quite believe it.

I took a short video of our school leavers in Year 11. Mo’s on it, and the last thing he says is “Remember me. . . my name’s Mo”. That takes on a much more chilling dimension now. When things like this happen, it’s a cliché to say “I had no idea, he was always such a nice guy”. But it also happens to be true. I didn’t know Hamza all too well, but we did walk the same corridors for five years. Mo was a fairly typical teenager, and a wind-up merchant who delighted in annoying our teachers. He had a strong social conscience (even intervening to stop me getting picked on once) and an infectious cheeky grin. Neither were especially religious, as far as I knew. We had a big Muslim community in the school and they certainly weren’t at the devout end of the spectrum. In any case, my school was the sort of place where being culturally heterogeneous was not something that could last for long. It was the only comp in England’s richest borough, hunkered in between Edwardian mansions and collapsing council estates, in the town of the Notting Hill Carnival, Portobello Market and Kensington Palace. We had just about every race, religion, class background and gender you could think of, and while there were “communities” that stuck together, the boundaries were porous. They had to be.

I say this because we have this image in our head of extremism as something that grows up enclavised and isolated. The right might fulminate at immigrants who don’t integrate and look suspiciously at the most devout or socially conservative Muslims (who ironically probably share similar views to your average Mail reader). The left might talk about disenfranchisement, poverty and social exclusion creating fertile ground for the wrong kind of radicalisation – and these are fair points. But if you’re looking for crippling social exclusion and Luton-style ethnic tensions, don’t go to North Kensington (although it is fair to say that Islamophobia and the politics of reaction can be found anywhere if you look). Regardless, the tenor of public debate has it all wrong. The politicians and the papers stoke up fear of “Trojan horse” scandals (a friend of mine reminds me that some of the Trojan Horse allegations aren’t all that different to what she experienced at Catholic school) and extremist parents. Our school was about as far as possible from junior-jihadi training camp as it is possible to get, and the families are as shocked and disgusted as everyone else is about what has happened. “That’s not my brother,” Hamza’s brother says tearfully on the ITV news clip. He’d lied to his parents and told them he was going to study in Germany.

Mehdi Hasan made the point that a lot of this is about rank stupidity, not extremism. These are the “jihadis” that learn their trade from Islam for Dummies, compare themselves to the rebel alliance from Star Wars and get into Twitter rows about Jumanji and The Lion King. While the core of Isis might be firmly “old guard”, the bulk of their expat fighters – and rumour has it the British are among the most vicious – seem to be young men treating it all like a gruesome gap year holiday. Of course stories such as that of the Isis soldier who posted a picture of himself with a severed head and the caption “chillin with my homie” are disturbing to the core – but it’s also a sign of childishness, not professional guerrilla warfare. At some point we need to break past the mythos of terror and see these ignorant man-children for what they are. We have to stop assuming that “religious extremists” are actually genuine religious extremists. If they were, they might have noticed that most of the world's Muslims are lining up to condemn them. We also need to ensure that Muslims with dissenting opinions who engage in politics aren’t demonised, but that’s another story.

Isis appears to be new, to have sprung from nowhere – largely thanks to foreign fighters. Its destructive and brutal nihilism seems to have grown out of the apocalyptic conditions of the Syrian civil war, and an Iraq bloodied by invasion and sectarian battles. Among all of that, we have the phenomenon of the angry young man. History is littered with adolescent males socialised into cultures of machismo, with tension and energy to burn. History is equally littered with military leaders who take advantage of this, corrupting the minds of such young men and sending them to their deaths. When Isis’s recruiting sergeants twisted the minds of my schoolmates and turned them into killers, they’re repeating an age-old process. The people that are callously butchering aid workers and journalists aren’t doing so, to my mind, out of unreconstructed medieval barbarism, but out of arrogance and foolishness made dangerous by the weapons and power handed to them. Understanding that must be part of the key to being better able to prevent them from preying on our young people.

They are our young people. Britain can’t simply burn passports and refuse to let Isis fighters back in. The ones who come back legally with the same names and passports are unlikely to be the ones planning to blow something up. We have to take responsibility. At the simplest liberal level, British citizens should face British justice, no matter their crimes. If someone turned these average teenagers into killers, something can turn them back. Already reports abound of disillusioned would-be fighters wanting to come home. By now it could be a post-December 1914 moment, where these young men are realising that running around killing people is not actually half as fun as their recruiters made out.

I don’t pretend to have the answers. I still don’t know how a friend I hadn’t spoken to in five years went from schoolkid to masked murderer, and paid the price with his life. Above all, I’m still shocked and deeply saddened by it, and these are collected thoughts rather than a coherent response. But I don’t think any of us are going the right way about finding out the answers, either. 

This article first appeared on, and is crossposted here with permission

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If the SNP truly want another referendum, the clock is ticking

At party conference in Glasgow, I heard Scotland’s governing party demand a future distinctly different from the one being sketched out in Westminster. 

Nicola Sturgeon described Glasgow as the “dear green city” in her opening address to the SNP party conference, which may surprise anyone raised on a diet of Ken Loach films. In fact, if you’re a fan of faded grandeur and nostalgic parks, there are few places to beat it. My morning walk to conference took me past chipped sandstone tenements, over a bridge across the mysterious, twisting River Kelvin, and through a long avenue of autumnal trees in Kelvingrove Park. In the evenings, the skyline bristled with Victorian Gothic university buildings and church spires, and the hipster bars turned on their lights.

In between these two walks, I heard Scotland’s governing party demand a future distinctly different from the one being sketched out in Westminster. Glasgow’s claim to being the UK’s second city expired long ago but I wonder if, post-Brexit, there might be a case for reviving it.



Scottish politics may never have looked more interesting, but at least one Glasgow taxi driver is already over it. All he hears in the back of his cab is “politics, fitba and religion”, he complained when he picked me up from the station. The message didn’t seem to have reached SNP delegates at the conference centre on the Clyde, who cheered any mention of another referendum.

The First Minister, though, seems to have sensed the nation’s weariness. Support for independence has fallen from 47 per cent in June (Survation) to 39 per cent in October (BMG Research). Sturgeon made headlines with the announcement of a draft referendum bill, but read her speeches carefully and nothing is off the table. SNP politicians made the same demands again and again – devolved control of immigration and access to the single market. None ruled out these happening while remaining in the UK.

If Sturgeon does want a soft Brexit deal, though, she must secure it fast. Most experts agree that it would be far easier for an independent Scotland to inherit Britain’s EU membership than for it to reapply. Once Article 50 is triggered, the SNP will be in a race against the clock.


The hare and the tortoise

If anyone is still in doubt about the SNP’s position, look who won the deputy leadership race. Angus Robertson, the gradualist leader of the party in the Commons, saw off a referendum-minded challenger, Tommy Sheppard, with 52.5 per cent of the vote.

Conference would be nothing without an independence rally, and on the final day supporters gathered for one outside. A stall sold “Indyref 2” T-shirts but the grass-roots members I spoke to were patient, at least for now. William Prowse, resplendent in a kilt and a waistcoat covered in pro-indy
badges, remains supportive of Sturgeon. “The reason she has not called an Indy 2 vote
is we need to have the right numbers,” he told me. “She’s playing the right game.”

Jordi McArthur, a member for 30 years, stood nearby waving a flagpole with the Scottish, Welsh and Catalan flags side by side. “We’re happy to wait until we know what is happening with Brexit,” he said. “But at the same time, we want a referendum. It won’t be Nicola’s choice. It will be the grass roots’ choice.”


No Gerrymandering

Party leaders may come and go, but SNP members can rely on one thing at conference – the stage invasions of the pensioner Gerry Fisher. A legendary dissenter, Fisher refused this year to play along with the party’s embrace of the EU. Clutching the
lectern stubbornly, he told members: “Don’t tell me that you can be independent and a member of the EU. It’s factually rubbish.” In the press room, where conference proceedings were shown unrelentingly on a big screen, hacks stopped what they were doing to cheer him on.


Back to black

No SNP conference would be complete without a glimpse of Mhairi Black, the straight-talking slayer of Douglas Alexander and Westminster’s Baby of the House. She is a celebrity among my millennial friends – a video of her maiden Commons speech has been watched more than 700,000 times – and her relative silence in recent months is making them anxious.

I was determined to track her down, so I set my alarm for an unearthly hour and joined a queue of middle-aged women at an early-morning fringe event. The SNP has taken up the cause of the Waspi (Women Against State Pension Inequality) campaign, run by a group of women born in the 1950s whose retirement age has been delayed and are demanding compensation. Black, who is 22, has become their most ­articulate spokeswoman.

The event started but her chair remained unfilled. When she did arrive, halfway through the session, it was straight from the airport. She gave a rip-roaring speech that momentarily convinced even Waspi sceptics like me, and then dashed off to her next appointment.


Family stories

Woven through the SNP conference was an argument about the benefits of immigration (currently controlled by Westminster). This culminated in an appearance by the Brain family, whose attempt to resist deportation back to Australia has made them a national cause célèbre. (Their young son has learned to speak Gaelic.) Yet for me, the most emotional moment of the conference was when another family, the Chhokars, stepped on stage. Surjit Singh Chhokar was murdered in 1998, but it took 17 years of campaigning and a change in double jeopardy laws before his killer could be brought to justice.

As Aamer Anwar, the family’s solicitor, told the story of “Scotland’s Stephen Lawrence”, Chhokar’s mother and sister stood listening silently, still stricken with grief. After he finished, the delegates gave the family a standing ovation.

Julia Rampen is the editor of The Staggers, the New Statesman’s politics blog

Julia Rampen is the editor of The Staggers, The New Statesman's online rolling politics blog. She was previously deputy editor at Mirror Money Online and has worked as a financial journalist for several trade magazines. 

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood