Remembering Fuad Nahdi: A light along my journey
He was reclined as far back as the office chair would allow, feet resting on a messy stack of papers on the desk, shirt riding up, one arm behind his head with the phone wedged precariously, shouting loudly in Swahili. It took him a few minutes to realise I was there with my mum who looked worriedly around the chaotic mess that made up the Q News office in Dexion House, Wembley. She couldn’t believe this was the place her daughter came to work every day, and said in Punjabi disbelief, “Eh tera Fuad eh?”
That indeed was my Fuad. He embarrassed me time and again. I tidied, organised and planned. He worked in chaos, arrived late, and turned everything on its head. He loved an audience, big ideas and a good argument. I focussed on the details, working behind the scenes, trying to keep the ship afloat. Our personalities could not have been more different, but we had a bond that I still have no name for.
When Fuad Nahdi passed away I struggled to tell people who he was to me. My former boss? My mentor? A father figure? All of those labels felt inadequate because he was all of those things and so much more — and not just to me but to a generation of young people. Even those who didn’t know him have been giving me their condolences as news spread that the Muslim community had lost one of its giants. I wanted to tell them what a unique character he was but I wasn’t able to. Not just because it hurt too much to talk about him so soon, but because it is easy to paint a saintly figure when someone leaves this world; and Fuad was about as earthy and real as they come.
He was a huge personality with a unique perspective who shook things up, pioneered ground-breaking projects and changed British Muslim life forever. His passing is indeed a great loss to the world but the hearts that grieve most deeply are the ones he touched personally. It wasn’t so much Fuad’s vision and strength of character that I most admired but that he noticed and cared about the small people; those he had nothing to gain from. For decades, Fuad and his wife Humera have been there personally lifting, guiding, supporting and inspiring young people as an informal and unrecognised community service, simply because they care. In over two decades of working in the Muslim community I’ve come to realise how rare a quality it is to selflessly invest in building up others, and how fortunate I was to have their guiding influence so early in my career.
When I first walked through the doors of Q News for a job interview in 1997, I expected the Editor to have a tight grip on the paper, dictating what went in it. I thought perhaps my work wouldn’t be published for many months until my ideas had matured and my writing had adapted to the publication’s style. Fresh out of university, I expected to be put on some kind of training programme and waited nervously every day for the Editor to come in and review my work. That never happened.
Fuad never sat down with a red pen to edit my writing. He never told me he liked what I had written, or even that I was doing okay. When my articles got published I couldn’t figure out if he genuinely liked them, didn’t want to disappoint me or was just desperate for content. I’d flick through the magazine every month when it came back from the printers to see if my stories were lightly or heavily edited; or had not made the final edit at all. In all my years at Q News I struggle to think of a single occasion on which Fuad offered any direct praise, even if just to boost my confidence.
But let me tell you what Fuad did give me and his team of young writers; he gave us space to debate, to form our opinions and find ourselves. He challenged us, tore our ideas apart and told us we were talking crap, admonished us for being predictable and conformist, criticised our narrow perspective, forced us to think and rethink our arguments, threw issues into the mix that were not even on our radar, pushed us to the point of utter frustration or self-doubt and then he’d lean back and laugh with a glint in his eye. He wound us up deliberately time and again and we fell for it every time, not least because the discussions got so heated. It was only later, sometimes much later, that we’d realise he was not trying to win us over to his ideas but test our ability to defend our own.
What Fuad gave us was the freedom to take those passionate debates in the Q News office — sometimes held over pizza and kebabs but usually as loud exchanges across our chaotic desks — out into the world, whether or not the world was ready for them. He cared little that Q News articles invited scrutiny and suspicion — even if that meant driving away any hope of external funding — as long as we maintained our editorial freedom. And with that freedom we thought creatively about our faith and identity as British Muslims, we held leaders and organisations to account, challenged the status quo, uncovered ugly truths at the heart of politics and poured our frustration, hopes, predictions and laughter into every issue.
For a community that took itself rather too seriously in the late 90s and early 2000s, that editorial mix was too much for some to handle, but if there was ever a person who cared deeply about the ummah yet little about earning favour with its institutions, it was Fuad. Some read Q News nervously, wondering if this was the month their dirty linen would be aired; for others it was the only reliable insight into the diversity of British Muslim thought. For the editorial team, our many brilliant contributors and so many of our readers, Q News articulated a distinct but diverse spiritual identity that gave us strength, inspiration and hope at a time when things were starting to get more difficult for Muslims across the globe.
It was not Fuad’s style to impart wisdom in the classical sense of a teacher instructing his student but there was one lesson he taught unreservedly that has always stayed with me; never ever throw your community under the bus. I can still hear his words, “The community may be a mess, but it is not to blame.” Whatever the issue, he taught us to see the bigger picture, dig deeper and uncover the root of injustice. However harsh his frustration and critique of the community appeared on the surface, for him true journalism and activism meant challenging the structures of power — not punching down to those unfairly impacted by them. In truth, this wasn’t the easiest thing to do as the world’s attention turned to the worst extremes of Muslim behaviour in the early 2000s, but our past was too steeped in generations of colonial injustice and our present too scarred by Islamophobia for us to sell out and become mouthpieces for the establishment.
That Fuad felt answerable only to his Lord gave us the freedom to push traditional boundaries, experiment creatively and speak truth to power through Q News. He published our articles even if he profoundly disagreed with them and then fought like a lion to defend our freedom of expression. He gave his young editorial team the chance to rebrand Q News into a full colour monthly magazine with lifestyle features, even though he wasn’t keen on the idea himself. Through his contacts we commissioned exclusive content by some of the greatest western-based Islamic scholars of our time. As the Q News vision expanded beyond the pages of the magazine, Fuad pushed Fareena Alam, myself and others forward into the media spotlight. He put us at the centre of organising hugely successful events that brought a new dimension to faith and spirituality in Muslim Britain and in classic Fuad style, put us on the podium before a community that rarely listened to its youth or made space for women.
One evening in 2000, Fuad stayed late to put the magazine to bed, as he often did, making last minute edits that the rest of us would only get sight of once it came back from the printers. We carried up the boxes and laid out all the envelopes and address labels in the middle of the square office, ready to individually pack each subscriber’s copy before piling them into the grey Royal Mail sacks. I flicked through the pages to see if Fuad had made any last-minute changes and was shocked to see an article announcing a new Editor. At first I thought it was a spoof and picked up the phone to tell him that this time he’d gone too far, much to my embarrassment, but he just laughed and told me to get ready for the media interviews.
“The first British Muslim paper with a female editor,” or something like that, were the headlines when the mainstream media picked up the story. For the Q News team it wasn’t the fact that Fuad had given a woman the most senior position that surprised us, but that he had handed his baby over to anyone at all. The Fuad we knew lived and breathed Q News, keeping the paper going against all the odds and at great personal cost to his health and family. None of us thought we would see the day that he would hand over the reins of the dearest project of his life, but he was Fuad, and he never failed to surprise us. The day he appointed me Editor of Q News I felt as though he had entrusted me with a piece of his heart. And yet now that he has left this world, I realise his most precious gift to me was not the legacy of leading Q News but submitting to the profound, infectious love of the Divine to which he devoted his own life — and changed ours forever.
At heart, Fuad was neither just a journalist nor an activist but a lover of the beloved Prophet (upon him be blessings and peace) and by extension, his ummah. This love was what drove and sustained him, inspired him and found its way to so many souls through him. Fuad opened our hearts and filled a void that we never knew existed, bringing a rich spiritual tradition layered with celebrations of global culture and scented with the joys of mawlid to a generation that had internalised the anxieties of being children of immigrants living as a religious minority. Fuad’s vision was one of an Islam that is felt deeply, expressed beautifully and shared openly; and this vision was contained neither by the failing health of his body, the limits of his worldly resources or the confines of Muslim sensibility.
The Fuad I will miss is the one who never stopped dreaming. The one who would call spontaneously just to say “what’s up?”, lift me out of the everyday into some place higher, and then bring the conversation back down to kebabs. I will forever be grateful to the Fuad who embraced my friends as though they were his family, touching their lives in ways that will always stay with them. The Fuad I will always love is the one who turned down unsuitable suitors on my behalf, arranged my wedding day with flair, but whose voice shook with emotion as I gave my consent. I will miss the Fuad who could barely stand in the midday heat of Ramadan seven years ago, struggling to hold back his tears at the cemetery as my own father was being laid to rest.
The tears that now flow from hearts like mine as our hands rise to pray for Fuad’s soul are heavy with a lifelong gratitude that he opened our path to what it means to put our trust in Allah and to love the beloved Messenger of Allah, upon him be blessings and peace. Blessed are those on this journey whose lives are illuminated by people like Fuad who guide us as we make our way back to our Lord. Our dear Fuad has left this world and many are hurting but the story has not ended because what he left us with was never destined for this world.
Shagufta Yaqub
May Allah forgive our dear Fuad, have mercy on him, grant him the company of our beloved Messenger (upon him be blessings and peace) and raise him to the heights of jannah. Ameen.