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Jemima Khan meets Nick Clegg: “I’m not a punchbag – I have feelings”

The NS guest editor Jemima Khan talks to the Liberal Democrat leader about life on the far side of power and what it’s like to be a cut-out.

Nick Clegg and I smile genially at each other across the table of a standard-class train carriage. He is on his way to his constituency in Sheffield to talk about manufacturing. Pale-faced, pale-eyed and so tired he appears taxidermied, he looks like he could do with a holiday, except he's just had one – skiing in Davos with his children as the Libyan crisis escalated (for which he was lambasted).

Nick Clegg is the Tim Henman of politics: a decent man for whom Cleggmania represented the peak of his career, his Henman Hill moment. Then he became the Deputy Prime Minister and, shortly after, an effigy.

The carefree, cloud-cuckoo days of opposition, when he had a platform and little criticism, are long gone. At last year's Liberal Democrat spring conference, a fresh-looking and ebullient Clegg had gesticulated and boomed: "We see the same old broken promises. No wonder people feel let down." A year on, he was less combative, more ambivalent. His many critics pointed to his own broken promises and let-down voters.

Clegg concedes that it has been a "very sharp transition". "Of course it has had a dramatic effect on how I'm perceived, the kind of dilemmas I have to face," he says. "I don't even pretend we can occupy the Lib Dem holier-than-thou, hands-entirely-clean-and-entirely-empty-type stance. No, we are getting our hands dirty, and inevitably and totally understandably we are being accused of being just like any other politicians."

His point – and it seems a fair one – is that the British public voted, no one party won and that coalition government, by definition, is a compromise. "A whole lot of things are happening that would just never in a month of Sundays have happened without the Lib Dems there," he says. The morning of our meeting, he claims to have "squeezed out of [George] Osborne" a promise of a green investment bank, not simply a fund. "We've done more on liberty and privacy," he adds, "in the past ten months than Labour did in the past 13 years."

All this has done little to dilute the vitriol of his opponents. John Prescott has likened him to Jedward, the risible and tuneless twins from The X Factor. Ed Miliband has called him "a tragic figure", one too toxic to share a platform with ahead of the referendum on the Alternative Vote. Clegg insists that none of this bothers him. "I see it exactly for what it is. [Ed] is a perfectly nice guy but he has a problem, which is that he's not in control of his own party, so he constantly has to keep his troops happy and he thinks that ranting and raving at me is the way to do it."

Since joining the government, and in particular since his U-turn on university tuition fees, Clegg has had dog mess posted through his door and been spat at in the street. It must upset him. "No, well look, I'm a human being, I'm not a punchbag – I've of course got feelings."

He pauses. "Actually, the curious thing is that the more you become a subject of admiration or loathing, the more you're examined under a microscope, the distance seems to open up between who you really are and the portrayals that people impose on you . . . I increasingly see these images of me, cardboard cut-outs that get ever more outlandish . . . One thing I've very quickly learned is that if you wake up every morning worrying about what's in the press, you would go completely and utterly potty."

After ten months in government, he has a guardedness that did not exist in the days when he told Piers Morgan he'd had roughly 30 lovers. These days he is tightly managed. I have already had a pre-interview briefing with one adviser, and now Clegg's version of Andy Coulson, who is sitting to his right, is busy taking written notes of our interview, as well as recording it. When Clegg gets sidetracked, he prompts him, head down, pen poised over notebook, deadpan: "You were talking about what you've achieved . . ."

Everyone seems painfully aware that my task as interviewer is to catch him out, to get him to say the wrong thing. Clegg's task, like all politicians, is to rattle off rhetoric, to be evasive and as uncontroversial as possible, and to fill up the tape with unquotable patter.

All of which makes interviewing him excruciating. He continues: "What we've achieved so far . . . I think just having a government with two parties in it is already such a big new thing. I know it has been born in a blaze of controversy because of the difficult economic decisions we've had to take . . . but if we're lucky, people will look back on it in 20 or 30 years' time as quite a normal thing in British politics that politicians can actually agree with each other from time to time.

“That in itself is quite big and radical. In the week or two leading up to the general election, every single newspaper was screaming from the headlines: 'A hung parliament will be a disaster, coalition politics will be a disaster. Nothing will get done.' And the extraordinary thing is that now we're being accused of almost exactly the reverse – of doing too much."

Of doing too much? Or of being too Tory? Clegg's dilemma is that, on the one hand, he is in danger of being seen as too close to David Cameron and the Conservatives, and losing credibility with his party and voters. On the other hand, he can't be too distant, because that would be damaging for the coalition and a gift for the opposition and the press, which is constantly looking for rifts.

Before the election, Clegg let it be known that he had turned down an invitation to dine with the Camerons at their home in Notting Hill. He wanted to maintain a distance. Perhaps wary of looking like he fits too easily into the port-swilling, waistcoat-wearing Bullingdon Club set, he is still keen to present Cameron as more working partner than friend.

“We don't regard each other as mates and actually I don't think it would be a particularly healthy thing if we tried to become personal mates," he says. "I don't think a coalition works unless you have a very careful balance between mutual respect and civility and also a certain hardness, as at the end of the day you are representing different views."

I've heard that they play tennis together. "No, no – well, er, I think we've played one game of tennis. Of course we meet from time to time but it's always basically to talk about what we're doing in government."

Who won?

“Ah no, that's a state secret," he jokes. (Cameron won.)

Earlier, at my pre-interview briefing, Clegg's adviser Richard Reeves, the former head of Demos, characterised being in the coalition as like being in a marriage – you both get to know instinctively which are the no-go areas.

Clegg concedes that there are "some areas where we flatly disagree" with the Tories, such as on Europe ("I think you can't make sense of this world unless you work together with other folk in the European neighbourhood") and taxation ("Our reflexes as Lib Dems are to try to give tax breaks to people on middle or lower incomes, whereas traditionally they are more interested in trickle-down economics"), but denies that there are "no-go areas". "Look, we're on completely opposite sides of the fence on the AV referendum."

He refuses to concede that signing the pledge to vote against an increase in university tuition fees before the election was a mistake. "That would be a cop-out. I did it. And I have a rather old-fashioned belief that you've got to stand by what you've done and take the consequences, good or bad." He insists that it was not one of his main manifesto priorities anyway. "I didn't even spend that much time campaigning on tuition fees."

Instead, he says, he spent "every single day and every single interview talking about the four things that were on the front page of the manifesto – namely the pupil premium, two and a half million quid for disadvantaged kids; changing the tax system, so you don't pay tax on your first £10,000; political reform; and sorting out the banks and rebalancing the economy."

That's all very well, but given that the Lib Dems are only ever likely to be in government as part of a coalition, how will he deal with pledges made in future election campaigns? Will there be pledges with caveats, depending on which party he clambers into bed with next? "I think that we need to be clearer about what are the really big, big priorities."

After his capitulation on tuition fees, there are many who now fear that nothing is sacred for the Lib Dems. He denies this. "If the Conservatives wanted to become as authoritarian as Blair and New Labour, I wouldn't have it – but it wouldn't happen, as it couldn't happen with us in [the coalition]."

Clegg is emphatic that he will not allow the Tories to disempower the Lib Dems' much-loved European Court of Human Rights. The problem with being in a coalition government is that it acts as a gag. There are times in the interview when Clegg looks so pained as to remind me of Colin Firth in the opening scenes of The King's Speech, particularly when issues of Rupert Murdoch and phone-hacking come up. I know what he'd have said if he were in opposition. The Lib Dems were always very critical of the Cameron-Murdoch cabal. Some Lib Dem MPs were victims of phone-hacking by the News of the World.

“My thoughts are," he begins haltingly, "that it has all come out much more into the open since the police investigation . . . and I think, you know, since those days it is becoming much more out there, and quite rightly. I've always said that the police have got to investigate and the CPS [Crown Prosecution Service] have got to take action. Look, I don't follow every twist and turn . . ." His press secretary looks up for the first time.

What of those, such as the Labour MPs Chris Bryant and Tom Watson, who believe that the Murdochs have too much power and influence over politicians? There's a long pause. "I think that the days when newspaper barons could basically click their fingers and governments would snap to attention have gone," he says.

Clegg is exceptionally loyal to David Cameron – I expect he is a loyal man by nature, not design – but there's a fine line between being loyal and sounding plain disingenuous. So, what does he think of the dinner party hosted over Christmas by News International's chief executive, Rebekah Brooks, at her Cotswolds home, attended by the Camerons and James Murdoch?

“I don't know anything about Oxfordshire dinner parties," he says. Of course he does. Everyone in politics knows about the get-together of Brooks, Cameron and Rupert Murdoch's son, and most agree that the timing of it was inappropriate, given that there was a criminal investigation under way over phone-hacking in the Murdoch empire, as well as ongoing negotiations with the regulatory authorities over the ownership of BSkyB.

“Well, I'm assuming that they weren't sitting there talking about News International issues," says Clegg. "Look, you're putting me in a very awkward spot. If you've got an issue with it, speak to Dave. I don't hang out in Oxfordshire at dinner parties. It's not my world. It's never going to be my world."

He looks pained. I feel sorry for him and I can't help telling him so. I was married to a politician and I remember the constant self-censorship and, in my case, the gaffes. I get the impression that Nick Clegg is an honest, straightforward man in a dishonest, unstraightforward world, in which nobody can say what they really think.

An interruption offers some blessed relief. A beaming middle-aged woman who has spotted Clegg on the train passes a note to his aide. It reads: "I couldn't resist such a unique opportunity to say, 'Stick With It!' The vast majority of us think the coalition are doing the right thing. We know it's tough but it's very necessary. All the best."

The press secretary looks triumphant. Clegg looks momentarily less beleaguered. He thanks the woman graciously and just as I am wondering if it was a set-up, Clegg jokes that it was. He often gets support from the public, he says, but the difference is that these days people whisper their congratulations, "as if it's a guilty secret saying anything nice about Nick Clegg". He should watch those slips into the third person – an early sign that a person is losing touch with reality.

Clegg was a strong opponent of the war in Iraq and for that he earned many supporters. His backing of the "surge" and British forces' continued presence in Afghan­istan is therefore surprising. There are rumours, which he denies, that he wanted to call for an immediate withdrawal of troops but that the former Lib Dem leader Paddy Ashdown, an ex-marine, persuaded him not to.

“In a sense," Clegg says, "we have brought our ambition to a much more realistic level. We've now got an exit date, which we didn't have before, and a much better set of weapons on the ground. And crucially you've got the British government saying to [President Hamid] Karzai – who I had dinner with recently – this cannot be won militarily. Once you're in that far and you've had that many people die and be maimed, I think it would be morally questionable to cut and run overnight."

It is hard to avoid the conclusion that the real reason we continue to pour money into a war with no clear goals – and continue to line the roads of Wootton Bassett – is so that those in power will be able to keep on claiming that "they did not die in vain".

“Look, it's never perfect. It's not a neat world," says Clegg. He is above all a pragmatist for whom coalition, foreign policy and life are a balancing act. He accepts that there are moral problems with supporting Karzai's government, which has no authority outside the Afghan capital, Kabul, and which, according to the Transparency International corruption index, was last year the second most corrupt in the world. "Exactly – that's where it gets messy and imperfect."

Clegg is pleased to have "got more balance into the debate on Israel in the party". While he is "undimmed" in his criticism of Israel's illegal settlement activity and his "absolute horror of what is a humanitarian catastrophe in Gaza", he stresses that "Israel has legitimate security issues in a region where there is a threat to its existence".

He denies that there is a fundamental incompatibility between the west's rhetoric about democracy and our need for oil. "Do we have vital economic self-interest to keep lights on? Yes. Do I think that should be won at the cost of always being on the side of people who want to express themselves and want democracy? No."

He refuses to be drawn on whether he thinks it was bad timing for Cameron to tour the Middle East on a "UK trade mission"- a euphemism for peddling arms to despots – at a time when there are widespread protests in favour of democracy in the region. He will say, though, that the business of selling arms represents "a horrendous dilemma".

That we have sold arms to repressive regimes – tear gas grenades to Bahrain, armoured personnel carriers to Saudi Arabia, crowd-control ammunition to Libya – is "of course wrong", he agrees. "That's why we've suspended scores and scores of export licences. What guarantee do you have when you export product X to country Y, who seem totally hunky-dory, totally peaceful, and what happens when the country goes belly up? What we're doing is pragmatic rather than pure."

Even the language Clegg uses is moderate and qualified, interspersed with phrases such as "kind of" and "on the other hand" as well as rhetorical questions and unfinished sentences. He's unhyperbolic and ambiguous in a way that must be alien to most Tories. Whereas Cameron strikes me as a man with almost no self-doubt, Clegg seems more self-questioning and less bombastic. I suspect that he is as accom­modating and good at compromise in his marriage as he has been politically.

He smiles for the first time when he tells me that his Spanish wife, Miriam, has "got wonderfully strong opinions". It's clear for a start who chose the names for their three children, Antonio, Alberto and Miguel Clegg. They are being brought up as Roman Catholics, even though Clegg has said he is an atheist. The children are bilingual, speaking both Spanish and English fluently.

At one point, it was assumed that Miriam would be the one with the big career and he would be the thinker and take care of their children. After his eldest son was born, Clegg says: "Miriam was in a particularly intense period of her career and I was in a particularly relaxed period of mine . . . coming to the end of my time as an MEP, so I was very, very involved. I wasn't the primary parent – Miriam would get very annoyed if she were to read that – but I was very involved and you carry that on with you."

He has successfully managed to keep his family out of the spotlight, "to create a firewall" between his world and theirs, although he worries constantly that "what I am doing in my work impacts on them emotionally, because my nine-year-old is starting to sense things and I'm having to explain things. Like he asks, 'Why are the students angry with you, Papa?'"

Clegg refuses "to play politics" with his children, or to say whether or not they will go to a private school. While he's not "ideologically opposed to fee-paying schools existing", he is offended by the notion that it would be his decision alone, rather than one he would reach with Miriam. "I go: hang on a minute – what century are we living in?"

The same applies to what he might do in the future. He certainly does not want to be in politics all his life. "I think that's deeply unhealthy. I look at those people that got into politics when they were 16 and are still at it in their late sixties and think, 'My heavens above!'" Judging by the most recent opinion polls, he may not have the luxury of choice. Either way, he says, Miriam has made "masses of sacrifices putting up with me and politics" and this will be something they decide on together. He'd like to think, though, that he would go into education.

He is besotted by his "three lovely boys" and is most proud "by a long shot" of the family life he has created with Miriam. They manage to lead a relatively normal life, "not in a bunker in Westminster", and he tries to pick his children up from school and put them to bed at night at least two or three times a week.

He regrets that sometimes he doesn't always get the balance right, which makes him "quite miserable" and unable to do his job properly.Sometimes he has to tell them white lies if he is stuck in a meeting. At home, in the evenings, he likes to read novels and says he "cries regularly to music."

I receive a snapshot of his family life when, after the interview is over, I am invited to dine with other journalists at Chevening, the grace- and-favour house in Kent that Clegg shares with William Hague. Clegg arrives two hours late – he's been in protracted discussions over Libya – and looks corpse-like with exhaustion. The contrast with his vibrant, pretty wife, with her big bawdy laugh, could not be more stark. His children seem delightful – and delightfully normal.

Clegg has been accused of selling out, of providing a yellow fig leaf for the Tories' less attractive bits. But I expect that he would see opting out of the coalition or leaving politics altogether as the biggest cop-out of all. He is not consumed by politics – he has a fulfilling life away from Westminster – but he seems to have an old-fashioned sense of duty and believes that, without him there in the cabinet, the Tories would be up to far more of their old tricks. He might well be right – but will he be so easily forgiven by the voters?

“I have a faintly romantic belief that if over five years I just keep steadily trying to do the best I can, with all the difficult dilemmas we face, with not very much money, all those kinds of things . . . we will kind of come through. I think if people see that someone is trying to do the right thing and maybe they're not entirely succeeding, they kind of will go with you. And that's all you can do."

He suddenly looks very, very sad. A week later I glimpse him on television, on the front bench on Budget Day. Cameron sits to his left, looking ruddy and shiny, straight off the playing fields, ready for an interminable life of "Yeah, yeah, yeah" in the Commons. Clegg, by contrast, looks like he's in black and white – lost and out of place.

Later that evening, I get a text from his press secretary, offering me "a full copy of the note that lady passed on the train". He thought I might like it for my piece, "in case it needs some colour".

Jemima Khan is associate editor of the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 11 April 2011 issue of the New Statesman, Jemima Khan guest edit

André Carrilho
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The army of one

How the writings of an al-Qaeda strategist inspired the spate of small-cell terror attacks in Britain and other Western countries.

Again. The attack on London Bridge and Borough Market on  3 June has claimed seven lives, with many more people still receiving intensive care for critical injuries. Within hours of the terrorist attack – the third within as many months in England – Islamic State released a statement claiming responsibility, as it did for the two outrages in the UK that immediately preceded it. At least one of the three attackers, Khuram Butt, had a long history of extremist activism and associations in Britain. He was a member of one of the Islamist networks that emerged during the 1990s and then proliferated after the al-Qaeda attacks of 11 September 2001. Although most of the preachers who founded these groups – such as Omar Bakri Muhammad, in the case of Butt and al-Muhajiroun – are no longer in the country, their legacy endures.

Bakri founded al-Muhajiroun (meaning “the emigrants”) in 1996. Now outlawed, it was a radical group committed to the re-establishment of a caliphate. After Bakri was finally excluded from the UK in 2005 (he is now in prison in Lebanon), he was succeeded by Anjem Choudary, the well-known British jihadist who assumed leadership of the network. From its inception, al-Muhajiroun embraced ever greater extremism, declaring support for Osama Bin Laden, for the 9/11 attacks and for al-Qaeda. Scores of its members have been convicted of terrorist offences. Choudary was sentenced to five and a half years in prison in September 2016 for supporting IS.

Several individuals from his network have travelled to Syria in recent years. Among them are Abu Rahin Aziz, originally from Luton, who became involved in active attack planning for IS operations against the West. He was killed in a US drone strike on Raqqa in 2015. Another prominent member of the group, Abu Rumaysah from London, moved his wife and five children to IS-held territory. Along with another British member of the group, Mohammad Ridha Alhak, Rumaysah is believed to have appeared in execution videos for IS.

Those who have remained at home can be found on the edges of terrorist plots. Butt, a 27-year-old British national born in Pakistan, was featured in a recent Channel 4 documentary about British supporters of Islamic State. He glorified and revelled in the barbarism of IS.

Butt will not be the last British jihadist to carry out a terrorist outrage in this country. The London Bridge attack may have seemed chaotic and amateurish but that is the jihadists’ purpose. And behind even the most unsophisticated attack is a considered strategic theory of global jihad, the antecedents of which are long and extend from Afghanistan into Yemen and Syria.

***

Al-Qaeda concentrated on carrying out the 11 September 2001 attacks with such tunnel vision that it gave little consideration to what might come next. The group reasoned that the US would be forced to respond to the atrocity, as Bill Clinton had done in 1998 after groups affiliated with Osama Bin Laden bombed US embassies in Tanzania and Kenya. The Clinton administration launched a series of retaliatory cruise missile strikes against sites associated with Bin Laden in Sudan and Afghanistan. But the response was otherwise muted.

Nonetheless, al-Qaeda had learned an important lesson. Push the US hard enough and the president will be forced to act – which is what al-Qaeda wanted. What the group had not anticipated was the ferocity of American resolve.

As the Taliban melted away after the US invasion of Afghanistan in late 2001 – and with much of its leadership captured, or killed, or on the run – al-Qaeda feared it had overreached. What good had the 9/11 attacks achieved if the global jihad movement would now crumble?

This provoked an intense debate within the movement about its future. Two competing schools of thought arose, which were considered mutually exclusive until Islamic State’s emergence brought them together.

The first view came from a theorist called Abu Bakr Naji (this is a pen name). Naji argued that al-Qaeda should promote an asymmetry of fear by adopting especially brutal and gruesome tactics. He believed Western societies were ultimately weak and lacked the resolve to endure the long war. Instead, he reasoned, jihadists should continue to escalate their depravity and barbarism. This would in turn allow them to re-establish formal control over territory as the Taliban had done, creating safe havens and launchpads for future attacks.

Naji’s view was robustly opposed by another theorist, Abu Musab al-Suri (a nom de guerre for Mustafa Setmariam Nasar, a Syrian strategist within al-Qaeda). He argued that the American response to 9/11 was too severe and that the group would never be able to regain the freedom it had enjoyed under the Taliban. The global jihadi movement would have to embrace the new reality.

According to the Norwegian scholar Brynjar Lia, who has written an authoritative biography of Suri, he opposed the 9/11 attacks precisely because he feared al-Qaeda would be unable to withstand the ferocity of the US response. When it eventually came, Suri felt vindicated.

It reaffirmed a long-standing view of his that the global jihad movement could succeed only if it was decentralised. Suri had begun to advocate decentralisation in the early 1990s, arguing that formal hierarchies did not well serve the jihadist cause. At the time, militant groups were being rounded up in Egypt, Libya and Algeria because their members congregated in large structures.

The most formative influence on Suri’s views, however, was the uprising led by the Muslim Brotherhood in the Syrian city of Hama in the late 1970s and early 1980s. He wrote about the experience in a 900-page book, The Islamic Jihadi Revolution in ­Syria. The uprising was brutally repressed by President Hafez al-Assad, father of Bashar al-Assad. Too much centralisation and formal structuring had caused the revolution to be lost, Suri reasoned. What the movement needed was smaller and more autonomous cells, which could wage a form of low-intensity guerrilla warfare, grinding down the local populations.

Although Suri had been formulating his ideas since the early 1990s, it was only after 9/11 that they coalesced into a coherent theory. Towards the end of 2004, he published his seminal work, The Global Islamic Resistance Call, which outlined his vision for the future of the global jihad movement.

Suri took a more strategic view of terrorism and its outcomes than Bin Laden or his al-Qaeda network. They obsessed about “spectacular”, large-scale attacks such as the 1998 twin embassy bombings, 9/11, the Madrid bombings, or the 7 July 2005 attacks in London. Suri welcomed the successful execution of these attacks but above all what he wanted was continuous, low-level action of the kind we are now experiencing in Britain. Despite overt displays of resilience and camaraderie, these have succeeded in making the public more fearful and angry.

“The jihad of individual or cell terrorism, using the methods of urban or rural guerrilla warfare, is fundamental for exhausting the enemy and causing him to collapse and withdraw,” Suri wrote in The Global Islamic Resistance Call.

To justify indiscriminate attacks on civilians, he invoked verse 8:60 of the Quran, which states: “And prepare against them whatever you are able of power and of steeds of war by which you may terrify the enemy of Allah and your enemy and others besides them.” The passage is often invoked by jihadi theorists to rationalise acts of mass and indiscriminate terror. “This generous verse has ordered preparation for the purpose of terrorising the assailants’ and God’s enemies among the infidels and their servants,” Suri wrote.

He interpreted its invocation to “terrify the enemy” broadly, arguing that “terrorism is a religious duty, and assassination is a Prophetic tradition”.

This is what is known as the doctrine of the “army of one”. The idea is simple: individuals are empowered to carry out deadly and destructive attacks without an overriding command-and-control structure. Having no command structure makes their attacks harder to intercept and oppress. The reality is, the antecedents of the threat we face in Britain today were first theorised in the mountains of the Hindu Kush more than a decade ago.

***

Al-Qaeda’s central leadership favoured Suri’s doctrine, believing that Naji’s approach was too fantastical. What Suri offered was a simpler, more tangible vision of how the global jihad movement should proceed.

However, it was al-Qaeda’s branch in Yemen (known as AQAP) that capitalised most on this doctrine. Under the spiritual tutelage of Anwar al-Awlaki, a Yemeni-American cleric who was eventually killed in an US drone strike, an aggressive doctrine of global jihad was launched.

What made Awlaki so dangerous was not just his charismatic appeal, but his experience of living in the West. He understood the motivation of Western Muslims and knew how to radicalise them.

AQAP published a magazine called Inspire, a precursor to the glossy IS magazine Dabiq, which has glorified as well as inspired attacks against the West. Inspire published Abu Musab al-Suri in English translation. Much of his work is untranslated and remains lost in Arabic texts, making it inaccessible to many Western Muslims. AQAP changed this by bringing the most devastating sections of his writing directly to readers in the West.

Most importantly, Inspire created and promoted a programme of Open Source Jihad (OSJ), which is the strategy of inspiring lone-actor attacks. It offered simple instructions for launching unsophisticated attacks on civilians: pipe bombs, stabbings and vehicle-based assaults.

The impact was considerable. According to original research by Alexander Meleagrou-Hitchens in his forthcoming book on Awlaki, between 2009 and 2016, of a total 212 terrorism cases in the United States, 66 plots could be directly linked to the cleric in one form or another. Put another way, Awlaki was responsible for or inspired almost one-third of all terrorism cases in the US over a seven-year period.

“In this section, the OSJ [Open Source Jihad], we give our readers suggestions on how to wage their individual jihad,” is how Inspire magazine described its OSJ programme. “It allows Muslims to train at home instead of risking [sic] a dangerous travel abroad.” Awlaki explained that this was “a disaster for the repressive imperialistic nations . . . America’s worst nightmare”.

Its effects were felt not only in the United States. In May 2010, Roshonara Choudhry, a then 21-year-old university dropout, attempted to murder Stephen Timms, the Labour MP for East Ham at his constituency surgery in London, because he had voted in favour of the Western war in Iraq. During her trial, Choudhry explained how she had been motivated to stab Timms during a constituency surgery after she became a devotee of Awlaki and his OSJ programme.

The murder of Fusilier Lee Rigby by Michael Adebolajo and Michael Adebowale in May 2013 was another Awlaki-inspired plot. Rigby was attacked on the streets of Woolwich, south-east London. His attackers first rammed him with a vehicle and then stabbed him with knives.

Documents seized by the United States following the raid in which Osama Bin Laden was killed show that the al-Qaeda leader was uneasy about AQAP’s strategy. He felt that attacks using vehicles against civilians were wrong as well as amateurish. And he believed they were so brutal that they would reduce support for violent jihad.

***

Islamic State has never worried about public opinion. It emerged in 2003 after the invasion of Iraq, in a period when the murderous Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, a Jordanian, was leading the organisation. Unlike al-Qaeda’s central leadership, which found itself on the defensive in Afghanistan, Zarqawi, who revelled in barbarism, was presented with an opportunity to confront some of the group’s biggest enemies – America and Britain – in the heart of the Arab world.

In these circumstances, he favoured Naji’s nihilistic doctrine of brutality. His methods have been played out in Syria and Iraq, producing especially egregious acts of barbarism against the local populations over which IS has ruled. Yet, for the group’s attacks in the West, it continues to embrace Suri’s model of decentralisation.

IS has produced significant amounts of literature promoting gruesome attacks in its followers’ home countries. In its Rumiyah (Rome) magazine, one infographic promotes truck attacks, describing their use as “just terror”. It advises readers to acquire a vehicle that is “large in size, heavy in weight” and which has a “slightly raised chassis and bumper”. Among its suggested targets are “congested streets, outdoor markets and large outdoor festivals”.

Another infographic disseminated by the group on social media advises supporters to “kill the civilians of the crusaders, run over them by vehicles [sic]”.

The Nice attack in 2016 which killed 86 people demonstrated just how effective a relatively unsophisticated plot carried out by a lone actor can be. This is one of the ways in which terrorism works: a successful attack gives confidence to others, inspiring and emboldening imitators. The wave of terrorism that is now sweeping the UK is born of this.

Terrorists will take encouragement from others and we have seen comparable spikes in attacks across the European continent, with the French and Germans enduring periods of similar activity.

***

None of this occurs in a vacuum. For many years we allowed radical preachers such as Omar Bakri Muhammad, Anjem Choudary, Abu Hamza and others to preach on the streets and in the mosques of Britain. They spread a deadly message of separateness, telling young Muslims not to identify as British. In many cases, they invoked the very same verses of the Quran as al-Qaeda theorists such as Abu Musab al-Suri in order to spread their message.

A leaflet produced and distributed in 2006 by the same network from which Khuram Butt emerged brazenly glorified terrorism of the kind he unleashed in London. “Jihad against the Kuffar [infidels], the enemies of Allah, puts fear in their hearts and terrifies them,” it stated. “This will give Islam victory, humiliate its enemy and put happiness into the hearts of believers.”

Al-Muhajiroun frequently celebrated terrorist atrocities at home and abroad. What we have, therefore, is a culture in which young men are growing up in Britain who are divorced from our society and its values. They are invested in the fortunes of foreign conflicts instead, exposing us to the turbulence of distant wars. Once it was Yemen and Anwar al-Awlaki who posed the greatest threat to Britain, when al-Qaeda regrouped and established a base there. Yet the potency of his message sharply tailed off after he was killed in 2011.

There is a lesson to learn. The message of leaders and movements, however ideological, still requires them to have an active presence. When they are killed, or pushed back through military action, their potency is much reduced.

In recent times, Islamic State has been able to project a message of momentum and success. Now that the group is suffering significant setbacks in Mosul – where it has practically lost the entire city – its prestige is diminished. Its de facto capital in Raqqa, Syria, is also being slowly encircled by coalition troops.

As with the efforts in Iraq, reclaiming the city will be difficult and dangerous, but Raqqa will fall. In the meantime, attacks from the “army of one” will only intensify and increase in frequency, yet this is a critical phase through which we must pass if the overall threat from IS and other such groups is to be defeated decisively. Our security can only be built over their ruins.

Shiraz Maher is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and a senior research fellow at King’s College London’s International Centre for the Study of Radicalisation.

This article first appeared in the 08 June 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Election special

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