Don’t fetishise religious identity

'The NHS was far more important to my practising Muslim father him than any religious institution. T

Tony Blair seems to be in thrall to the idea of a global Ummah, albeit one that includes the other Abrahamic faiths. From his article inaugurating the NS’s new occasional faith column, it sounds as though, after years of having to keep quiet about his faith and his leanings towards Catholicism, he now longs for membership of a worldwide in-crowd himself. He suggests that “failure to understand the power of religion [means] failure to understand the modern world”.

“In western Europe,” he then notes, “this may sound counter-intuitive.” Or plain wrong. His framing of organised religion as the new grand narrative with the potential to imbue the financial system with “values”, and which could help navigate the confusingly fluid boundaries of race, culture and identity, just doesn’t make sense to a 21st-century British (cultural) Muslim like me.

My father, a first-generation Pakistani immigrant, was a practising Muslim. His faith, like Blair’s, underpinned his passionate, almost fanatical, commitment to a public service ethos. Unlike Blair, however, his religion was a very private relationship between himself and Allah, and he guarded that privacy jealously. The National Health Service was far more important to him than any religious institution. The only time I remember seeing him in a mosque, he was in a coffin. He was always careful to remind me that there is no pope in Islam, and that maulanas, the sometimes self-appointed religious “scholars”, are generally not to be trusted. Self-interrogation and inquiry were crucial elements of his faith, as I understood, and it was never an excuse to conform.

If anything the freedom from a stifling sense of conformity in an Islamic state (and the frequent instances of hypocrisy and corruption that often accompanied it) was one of the reasons he left Pakistan for Britain, and preferred it here throughout his lifetime.

Ubi deliberately chose not to settle in a predominantly Muslim community in Britain. Although it meant he ran a greater risk of his own children straying from the flock (as I did), he considered it a price worth paying because he knew the cost of that kind of narrow belonging. This was a brave and self-examining way to live as a devout Muslim in Britain, and although one consequence of this light touch was that I grew up not to believe in God – which must have been painful for him – it left me with an abiding respect for the progressive, secular Islam he embodied, and is the reason why I still identify as culturally Muslim – because most of my values (including what the LSE social theorist Paul Gilroy calls Britain’s “convivial multiculturalism”) are rooted in that upbringing.

Blair’s call for religion to have a higher profile in public life probably makes sense for him, as a Catholic operating in the aggressively secular political classes. But most British Muslims have experienced the fetishisation of our religious identity over our citizenship – and are exhausted by it. A lower profile would be great. In fact, a return to the closet would be a blessed relief. I miss the relative anonymity of being British Asian.

A few years ago I interviewed the postmodern French philosopher Julia Kristeva. I was very sceptical of the French position on public displays of religious identity, which seem like unreconstructed racism from my British perspective. When I said many young Muslim women wear the hijab not because of parental pressure but out of pride and desire to assert their religious identity, she said: “It is a reaction against colonialism and a symbol of pride, but maybe we could explain to them why they locate pride in this symbol and not in another. We are at a particular moment in human history when human beings are not asking the question ‘who am I?’, but ‘to what do I belong?’. Identity is confused with belonging. But this is a dead end, because belonging is not about questioning.”

Once again, I thought of Ubi and how stubbornly he refused the easy belonging of his religious identity for a more ambitious postmodern one (though he would never have called it that: just being a good Muslim, he would have said). He struggled hard to represent both parts of that construct, “British Pakistani”. At times, it conflicted with the brand of Islam he had been weaned on in 1950s Pakistan. But then he usually rose to the occasion and took on the complicated ideological challenge entailed in living in multicultural Britain, such as at my civil wedding to an agnostic Englishman of Jewish heritage. He stood up proudly in front of his many conservative Pakistani peers and told them he couldn’t have found a better match for me had he looked himself. This is the kind of everyday convivial multiculturalism we need in our private lives, not top-down interfaith initiatives. So when I come across rampant hostility to religious culture, such as that generated by Tony Blair’s article, I’m gutted on Ubi’s behalf.

Blair is right to object to the secular fundamentalist lobby’s knee-jerk opposition to religious people. The language employed often appears to be more high-minded, but the sentiments it expresses seem remarkably similar to old-fashioned racism. Living in modern multicultural Britain is an existential adventure, and we should all, devout secularists and believers included, rise to the challenge of a self-interrogating life and give up on illusory grand narratives once and for all.

Sara Wajid is a critic and journalist

This article first appeared in the 06 April 2009 issue of the New Statesman, God special issue

Biteback and James Wharton
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“It was the most traumatic chapter of my life”: ex-soldier James Wharton on his chemsex addiction

One of the British Army’s first openly gay soldiers reveals how he became trapped in a weekend world of drug and sex parties.

“Five days disappeared.” James Wharton, a 30-year-old former soldier, recalls returning to his flat in south London at 11pm on a Sunday night in early March. He hadn’t eaten or slept since Wednesday. In the five intervening days, he had visited numerous different apartments, checked in and out of a hotel room, partied with dozens of people, had sex, and smoked crystal meth “religiously”.

One man he met during this five-day blur had been doing the same for double the time. “He won’t have been exaggerating,” Wharton tells me now. “He looked like he’d been up for ten days.”

On Monday, Wharton went straight to his GP. He had suffered a “massive relapse” while recovering from his addiction to chemsex: group sex parties enhanced by drugs.

“Crystal meth lets you really dig in, to use an Army term”

I meet Wharton on a very different Monday morning six months after that lost long weekend. Sipping a flat white in a sleek café workspace in Holborn, he’s a stroll away from his office in the city, where he works as a PR. He left the Army in 2013 after ten years, having left school and home at 16.


Wharton left school at 16 to join the Army. Photo: Biteback

With his stubble, white t-shirt and tortoise shell glasses, he now looks like any other young media professional. But he’s surfacing from two years in the chemsex world, where he disappeared to every weekend – sometimes for 72 hours straight.

Back then, this time on a Monday would have been “like a double-decker bus smashing through” his life – and that’s if he made it into work at all. Sometimes he’d still be partying into the early hours of a Tuesday morning. The drugs allow your body to go without sleep. “Crystal meth lets you really dig in, to use an Army expression,” Wharton says, wryly.


Wharton now works as a PR in London. Photo: James Wharton

Mainly experienced by gay and bisexual men, chemsex commonly involves snorting the stimulant mephodrone, taking “shots” (the euphoric drug GBL mixed with a soft drink), and smoking the amphetamine crystal meth.

These drugs make you “HnH” (high and horny) – a shorthand on dating apps that facilitate the scene. Ironically, they also inhibit erections, so Viagra is added to the mix. No one, sighs Wharton, orgasms. He describes it as a soulless and mechanical process. “Can you imagine having sex with somebody and then catching them texting at the same time?”

“This is the real consequence of Section 28”

Approximately 3,000 men who go to Soho’s 56 Dean Street sexual health clinic each month are using “chems”, though it’s hard to quantify how many people regularly have chemsex in the UK. Chemsex environments can be fun and controlled; they can also be unsafe and highly addictive.

Participants congregate in each other’s flats, chat, chill out, have sex and top up their drugs. GBL can only be taken in tiny doses without being fatal, so revellers set timers on their phones to space out the shots.

GBL is known as “the date rape drug”; it looks like water, and a small amount can wipe your memory. Like some of his peers, Wharton was raped while passed out from the drug. He had been asleep for six or so hours, and woke up to someone having sex with him. “That was the worst point, without a doubt – rock bottom,” he tells me. “[But] it didn’t stop me from returning to those activities again.”

There is a chemsex-related death every 12 days in London from usually accidental GBL overdoses; a problem that Wharton compares to the AIDS epidemic in a book he’s written about his experiences, Something for the Weekend.


Wharton has written a book about his experiences. Photo: Biteback

Wharton’s first encounter with the drug, at a gathering he was taken to by a date a couple of years ago, had him hooked.

“I loved it and I wanted more immediately,” he recalls. From then on, he would take it every weekend, and found doctors, teachers, lawyers, parliamentary researchers, journalists and city workers all doing the same thing. He describes regular participants as the “London gay elite”.

“Chemsex was the most traumatic chapter of my life” 

Topics of conversation “bounce from things like Lady Gaga’s current single to Donald Trump”, Wharton boggles. “You’d see people talking about the general election, to why is Britney Spears the worst diva of them all?”

Eventually, he found himself addicted to the whole chemsex culture. “It’s not one single person, it’s not one single drug, it’s just all of it,” he says.



Wharton was in the Household Cavalry alongside Prince Harry. Photos: Biteback and James Wharton

Wharton feels the stigma attached to chemsex is stopping people practising it safely, or being able to stop. He’s found a support network through gay community-led advice services, drop-ins and workshops. Not everyone has that access, or feels confident coming forward.

“This is the real consequence of Section 28,” says Wharton, who left school in 2003, the year this legislation against “promoting” homosexuality was repealed. “Who teaches gay men how to have sex? Because the birds and the bees chat your mum gives you is wholly irrelevant.”


Wharton was the first openly gay soldier to appear in the military in-house magazine. Photo courtesy of Biteback

Wharton only learned that condoms are needed in gay sex when he first went to a gay bar at 18. He was brought up in Wrexham, north Wales, by working-class parents, and described himself as a “somewhat geeky gay” prior to his chemsex days.

After four years together, he and his long-term partner had a civil partnership in 2010; they lived in a little cottage in Windsor with two dogs. Their break-up in 2014 launched him into London life as a single man.

As an openly gay soldier, Wharton was also an Army poster boy; he appeared in his uniform on the cover of gay magazine Attitude. He served in the Household Cavalry with Prince Harry, who once defended him from homophobic abuse, and spent seven months in Iraq.


In 2012, Wharton appeared with his then civil partner in Attitude magazine. Photo courtesy of Biteback

A large Union Jack shield tattoo covering his left bicep pokes out from his t-shirt – a physical reminder of his time at war on his now much leaner frame. He had it done the day he returned from Iraq.

Yet even including war, Wharton calls chemsex “the most traumatic chapter” of his life. “Iraq was absolutely Ronseal, it did exactly what it said on the tin,” he says. “It was going to be a bit shit, and then I was coming home. But with chemsex, you don’t know what’s going to happen next.

“When I did my divorce, I had support around me. When I did the Army, I had a lot of support. Chemsex was like a million miles an hour for 47 hours, then on the 48th hour it was me on my own, in the back of an Uber, thinking where did it all go wrong? And that’s traumatic.”

Something for the Weekend: Life in the Chemsex Underworld by James Wharton is published by Biteback.

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 06 April 2009 issue of the New Statesman, God special issue