Author: NDS.2020

Today marks a solemn occasion as we commemorate the 20th anniversary of the 7/7 London bombings—an event that remains deeply etched in the memory of our nation. On this day, we pause to remember the 52 innocent lives tragically lost and the many more affected by the devastating attacks that took place on 7 July 2005.

The coordinated suicide bombings targeted London’s public transport system during the morning rush hour, with explosions on three London Underground trains and a double-decker bus. The impact was immediate and far-reaching, leaving communities shaken and families changed forever.

In the years that followed, I must admit with deep regret that I used this horrific event to further an anti-Muslim narrative. Driven by anger and ignorance, I channelled my energy into hatred, not once truly considering the individual stories of those who had suffered, nor the feelings of the victims’ families. I saw the attacks only through a political lens, using them to justify prejudice rather than seeking understanding or empathy.

That changed when I began working with local screenwriter John Hales on a play titled The Response, which was performed at the Seagull Theatre a few years ago. During that project, I had the privilege of meeting Dan Biddle—the most severely injured survivor of the 7/7 bombings. Listening to Dan’s story was a turning point for me. His honesty, his pain, and his strength broke through the barriers I had built. As he spoke, I felt tears in my eyes. For the first time, I truly grasped the human cost of that day—not just the statistics or headlines, but the lifelong impact on real people and their loved ones.

Meeting Dan made me realise just how wrong I had been. My previous rhetoric had not only fuelled division but had also dishonoured the memory and suffering of those affected. I had failed to see the human side of the tragedy until I was faced with it directly.

As we mark this anniversary, I reflect with sorrow on my past mindset, and with gratitude for the opportunity to grow and change. It is a time not only to mourn but also to listen, to learn, and to stand in solidarity with those who continue to live with the consequences of that terrible day.

To the survivors, the bereaved families, and all who carry the pain of 7/7 in their hearts. please know that I now carry your stories with me, with respect and humility. May this anniversary remind us all of the importance of compassion over hatred, of unity over division, and of choosing peace in the face of tragedy.

@Newdaystarts

In recent weeks, two cases have emerged that raise unsettling questions about how the UK handles hate speech, public safety, and the principle of equal treatment under the law.

On one hand, a woman received a 31-month prison sentence for posting a grotesque tweet suggesting that migrant hotels should be set on fire. The court concluded that the message constituted incitement to violence, and the sentence reflected the serious threat such language poses, especially amid an increasingly volatile discourse around immigration.

On the other hand, another individual, a religious figure, delivered a public sermon after the 7 October Hamas attacks that quoted a Hadith calling for the killing of Jews. Despite widespread condemnation and media attention, the most severe consequence to date has been his suspension as a charity director.

This has left many asking: how is it that one form of incitement leads to imprisonment, while another appears to result only in an administrative penalty? And what does this say about our justice system and how it navigates hate speech in a plural, diverse society?

Context Matters, But How Much?

It’s important to acknowledge that UK hate speech laws do not operate in a vacuum. The context, platform, intent, and likelihood of causing harm all weigh heavily on legal outcomes.

In the case of the tweet, the message was unequivocal and public, posted on a platform known for rapid spread. It advocated violence directly and plainly: burn migrant hotels. No ambiguity. The court found that the post was not just tasteless or offensive, it was a clear incitement to commit arson and potentially murder, aimed at a vulnerable population.

By contrast, the sermon, while containing language that many would find vile, was framed as a religious quote, and its speaker claimed to be reflecting scripture rather than directly inciting violence. The legal distinction lies here: quoting a text, even a deeply disturbing one, is not always classified as incitement unless there’s a clear call to action or a realistic prospect of that speech leading to violence.

But critics rightly argue: isn’t there a real-world impact either way?

The Problem of Inconsistency

What makes this discrepancy feel so jarring is the perception of inconsistency. Many in the public see one group harshly punished and another seemingly protected, and that undermines trust in the justice system.

This is especially sensitive in a post-7 October climate, when antisemitic incidents have risen sharply in the UK. To many British Jews, the failure to prosecute a sermon that invokes death feels like a terrifying omission. Meanwhile, others point out that Muslims have often faced disproportionate scrutiny for lesser offences, particularly under terrorism legislation.

Where Should the Line Be?

The right to free expression is foundational in any democracy. But it’s not absolute. In the UK, it is limited by laws that prohibit speech which incites violence, spreads hatred, or endangers public safety.

The difficulty lies in applying these limits evenly, regardless of who is speaking or who the targets are. That means scrutinising not just the content of speech, but its impact, and making sure we’re not selectively enforcing the law based on politics, public mood, or identity.

Holding Institutions Accountable

One thing is clear: greater transparency is needed. The public deserves to understand why one act of hate results in jail time and another in a suspension. It’s not enough to let legal complexity mask real moral questions.

If someone calls for violence against migrants, they should be held accountable. If someone, under the guise of religion calls for the killing of Jews, that too must be addressed with equal seriousness.

Otherwise, we risk eroding the very social cohesion that these laws are designed to protect.

@newdaystarts

When I posted on my personal Facebook profile about watching the new Netflix documentary ‘Attack on London: Hunting the 7/7 bombers’. I received this comment above, After challenging him on the post I noticed comments from my friends Gem and Dan Biddle rightly so because Dan is the most injured survivor from the 7/7 attack.

After thinking for a while, I felt a bit of guilt as a comment on my post has offended good friends of mine, I decided to spend the rest of the day exploring in a bit more detail the comment above.

Debunking the Myths: The 7/7 London Bombings and the “Ripple Effect” Conspiracy.

As the 20th anniversary of the 7th July 2005 London bombings approaches, misinformation and conspiracy theories are once again resurfacing. among them is the video 7/7 Ripple Effect 3, which promotes a narrative claiming that the four suicide bombers were innocent, that they were set up by the British government, and that the attacks were a “false flag” operation.

Claim 1: The four young Muslims were tricked into taking part in a mock exercise and were then killed at Canary Wharf.

There is no credible evidence whatsoever that the bombers, Mohammad Sidique Khan, Shehzad Tanweer, Hasib Hussain, and Germaine Lindsay, were shot dead at Canary Wharf or that they were unaware of their role in the attacks.

The Metropolitan Police, Intelligence and Security Committee (ISC), and multiple inquiries, including the 2011 Coroner’s Inquests, concluded they were suicide bombers who deliberately carried out coordinated attacks on three Tube trains and a bus, killing 52 people.

The claim that they were shot at Canary Wharf originated from vague and unverified reports which were later contradicted by physical evidence, such as CCTV footage of the bombers entering Luton station and King’s Cross, eyewitness testimony, and forensic evidence at the bombing sites linking them directly to the explosions.

Claim 2: The bombings happened during a government-run mock drill simulating the same scenario.

Visor Consultants was conducting a private crisis management exercise that day, but this was not a government-run drill. His company was working with a small group of clients on a hypothetical scenario involving bombings which is a routine exercise for risk planning.

Owner Peter Power has stated that the timings and locations in his scenario did not precisely match the actual attacks. The coincidence is striking, but not evidence of complicity. Emergency services regularly plan for terror scenarios and the existence of such drills does not imply foreknowledge or orchestration.

Claim 3: CCTV cameras were not working at the bombing locations.

CCTV footage of the bombers exists and was made very public during official investigations and court proceedings. Footage shows them together at Luton station at 04:56, and at King’s Cross shortly before the attacks.

While not every camera on the Underground was functioning perfectly that day, which apparently is not unusual according to the documentaries I’ve watched, also there is no evidence of a systemic blackout or deliberate camera failure. Some stations affected by the attacks had limited CCTV coverage in underground tunnels, as was typical in 2005.

Claim 4: Tony Blair needed a false-flag attack to distract from the Iraq war and WMD lies.

This claim is speculative and again unsupported by any evidence. The failings of the intelligence used to justify the Iraq War had already been exposed by the time of the July bombings, and Tony Blair was already under immense political pressure.

To suggest a government would orchestrate the killing of its own people to manipulate public opinion is a grave allegation. No whistle-blowers, documents, or forensic evidence have ever surfaced to substantiate this theory, despite the intense media scrutiny over the years.

Claim 5: A BBC ‘Panorama’ episode in 2004 predicted the bombings, proving foreknowledge.

The Panorama programme in question in the comment was a hypothetical exercise exploring how the UK might respond to a terrorist attack on the Underground, a scenario considered likely by intelligence agencies for years, especially after the Madrid train bombings in 2004.

Far from indicating conspiracy, this showed that security analysts were aware of London’s vulnerabilities and that a bombing was widely anticipated. Predictive planning in journalism and policy circles is not evidence of complicity.

Of course it’s natural to question official narratives, especially following catastrophic events, it is also crucial to distinguish between genuine investigation and misinformation dressed up as truth. The 7/7 Ripple Effect videos fail to provide verifiable evidence and instead they promote cherry-picked coincidences and long-debunked claims.

The families of the victims, the survivors, deserve respectful remembrance grounded in facts – not recycled conspiracy theories.

@Newdaystarts


Further reading and viewing for more information,

The 7 July Inquest transcripts and rulings (UK Coroner’s Office)

The ISC Report on the London Terrorist Attacks

BBC and Guardian investigative reports (2005–2011)

Debunking 7/7 conspiracy theories (FullFact.org)

Back from the dead: The untold story of 7/7 – Dan Biddle

Viewing

Netflix – Attack on London: Hunting the 7/7 bombers.

Sky Documentaries – 7/7: Homegrown Terror.

The Untold Story of the 7/7 Bombings by Dan Biddle is one of those rare ones. It’s not just a survivor’s account of one of the darkest days in British history; it’s a brutally honest, deeply human story of pain, resilience, and ultimately, hope. Reading it made me confront not only the horror of that day but also my own past, and the dangerous path I once walked.

Dan Biddle was on the Edgware Road train when a suicide bomber detonated his device just feet away. Dan lost both legs, and one of his eye, and endured life-altering injuries. But beyond the physical scars, what stands out in his story is the psychological and emotional toll, something he shares with incredible vulnerability and courage. He doesn’t hide from the darkness he’s faced. Instead, he invites you to walk through it with him, step by step.

His story had a profound effect on me, not just as a reader, but as someone who used to stand on the opposite side of empathy.

There was a time in my life when I used 7/7 as fuel for my own anti-Muslim hatred. I would bring it up to justify my views, to validate my anger, and to push a narrative of division and fear. The pain and trauma of those affected by the bombings didn’t cross my mind. I didn’t consider the survivors. I didn’t think about the families who lost loved ones or the long shadow that day cast over their lives.

I was so consumed by my own hatred that I dehumanised others to the point where their suffering became a tool for my agenda.

That all began to change when I left that world behind and, eventually, I met Dan and his wife Gem whilst working with Local screenwriter John Hales.

Meeting Dan was like holding up a mirror to everything I had ignored. Here was a man who had every reason to be filled with hatred himself, yet what I found was someone who had chosen a different path. Someone who, despite being a direct victim of Islamist terrorism, didn’t let it consume him with bitterness or vengeance. His strength, humility, and willingness to share his story shook me. For the first time, I saw 7/7 not as a symbol of ‘us vs them’, but as a very real, very personal human tragedy.

I think Back from the Dead isn’t just a memoir of survival. It’s a call to reflection. It’s a reminder of how easy it is to get caught up in hatred and forget the individuals behind the headlines. It’s about grief, trauma, and healing – but also about the choices we make in the aftermath of pain.

Dan’s story made me confront the reality that for years, I had been exploiting other people’s trauma without any thought for the cost. It forced me to take responsibility and to feel genuine remorse.

Since 2017, I’ve made it my mission to educate others about where that kind of hatred comes from, and how easy it is to be swept up in it if you’re not careful. Part of that work has involved encouraging people to see past the stereotypes, to understand the root causes, and most importantly, to listen – really listen – to those who have lived through the worst of it.

Dan’s voice deserves to be heard, not just because of what he endured, but because of the light he continues to shine in the darkness.

If you want to understand what happened on 7/7 beyond the headlines, if you want to understand what real strength and humanity look like, read this book (link below). It might not only change how you see that day – it might change how you see yourself.

@Newdaystarts

Click link for Back from the Dead – The Untold Story of the 7/7 Bombings https://amzn.eu/d/bNcMiMJ

When we talk about radicalisation in the UK, certain names come to the fore, Anjem Choudary being one of the most notorious. For years, he played a pivotal role in preaching a hard-line, politicised interpretation of Islam, pushing vulnerable minds towards extremist ideologies. Most public conversations rightfully focus on the impact he had on young Muslims who were drawn into his orbit, some of whom later travelled to Syria or committed acts of terror at home. However, what often gets overlooked is the collateral damage: the people outside of the Muslim community who were affected by the echo of his words, the radicalised ideology he spread, and the wider societal ripple effects. That includes people like me a non Muslim.

It’s easy to frame radicalisation solely in terms of what it does to Muslim youth. That narrative is clear-cut, and the dangers are visible. But the deeper, more insidious legacy of someone like Anjem Choudary is how his ideology, and the widespread attention it received, began to shape how people outside those communities perceived Islam. Worse still, it altered how some of us engaged with it, turning curiosity into obsession, understanding into distortion.

For people like myself, Choudary’s interpretation of Islam became the gateway. We didn’t grow up Muslim. We didn’t learn the faith through family or community. Instead, we encountered it through headlines, documentaries, and online forums. And often, the figure standing centre stage was Choudary, preaching a warped version of Islam, heavy with political grievance, historical revisionism, and calls to a confrontational form of jihad. He became the lens through which we viewed the religion. And that lens was cracked, dark, and ultimately dangerous.

It’s a strange thing to admit: being radicalised by watching someone you inherently oppose. But that’s exactly what happened to many. Watching Anjem Choudary wasn’t just a passive experience. For some of us, it sparked a deep, often obsessive, need to understand “what makes these people tick.” We read the same sources, studied the same texts, dived into theological and political history. We learned his talking points, watched his debates, and began to shape our worldview in opposition to him. But in doing so, we unknowingly adopted many of the same premises.

It was a form of radicalisation by proxy. His black-and-white worldview infected ours. The idea that Islam was fundamentally political, that it sought to dominate, that Muslims could not coexist peacefully in secular society, these weren’t just Choudary’s claims. They became our assumptions. In a twisted irony, we mirrored his rhetoric while claiming to fight against it.

What made Choudary so dangerous wasn’t just the content of his message, it was the framing. He didn’t preach Islam as a spiritual faith but as a total political system. Every verse had a law, every hadith a policy prescription. There was no separation of mosque and state, no room for plurality or cultural nuance. It was Islam stripped of mysticism, stripped of diversity, stripped of humanity. What remained was a rigid, aggressive ideology rooted in conquest and division.

And this was the version that gained traction in media coverage, internet forums, and among people like me. For years, when we thought of Islam, we didn’t think of prayer, compassion, or community. We thought of ideology. We thought of political manifestos masquerading as scripture. We thought of Choudary.

That mindset does lasting damage. It shuts down the ability to truly understand the religion on its own terms. It breeds mistrust, fuels hate, and polarises communities. It pushes people to see Muslims not as neighbours or fellow citizens, but as foot soldiers in some imagined war. And it gives rise to reactionary movements, conspiracy theories, and deep social divides.

Choudary may not have wielded weapons, but he armed minds and not just within his intended audience. He radicalised two generations of Muslims, yes. But he also played a role in radicalising generations of non-Muslims, including angry white men with no faith background, who absorbed his message and responded with fear, hostility, and sometimes violence. His rhetoric didn’t just stay within the walls of mosques or on obscure Islamic websites. It bled into the wider culture, shaping how entire communities saw each other.

This is the part that rarely gets discussed. We talk about “Islamophobia” or far-right extremism as if they sprang from nowhere. But for many of us, our journey into suspicion, hostility, or counter-radical ideologies began with watching people like Choudary. He was the first introduction to Islam for many, and what an introduction it was: provocative, angry, divisive. His aim was to create conflict, and in that, he succeeded beyond measure.

In the years since Choudary’s peak influence, the UK has done much to curb the spread of radical content. He has been imprisoned, his network dismantled, and his followers monitored. But the damage is already done. The ideological seeds he planted have taken root, not just in Muslim minds but across entire segments of British society.

For those of us who followed his every word out of morbid curiosity or a desire to understand the threat, we now have to confront what we became. We have to acknowledge that we too were drawn into his world—not as followers, but as unwilling participants in a culture war he helped ignite. And we have to ask: what now?

Moving forward means rejecting the simplistic binaries that Choudary and others thrived on. It means recognising that Islam is not a monolith, and that the loudest voices are not the most authentic. It means seeking out real Muslim voices, spiritual, intellectual, cultural, and listening with humility. It also means understanding our own radicalisation, however indirect or unintended it may have been.

The fight against extremism isn’t just about deradicalising Muslims. It’s about deradicalising society. It’s about healing the fractures created by men like Anjem Choudary. And that healing starts with honesty, about what we believed, why we believed it, and how we can unlearn it.

Because the truth is, many of us are victims too. Not in the traditional sense, not in ways that warrant sympathy or headlines. But victims nonetheless—of a narrative war we didn’t know we were part of. A war that left us suspicious, angry, and far from the truth,

Let’s not forget the full scope of the damage. Let’s not forget the silent victims. Let’s not forget ourselves.

@Newdaystarts

Anjem Choudary, the leader of the banned group al-Muhajiroun, has been jailed for life and may never leave prison alive.
Anjem Choudary: Radical preacher jailed for life – BBC News

We sadly live in a time where disagreement is often seen as a threat rather than an opportunity. Social and political divisions have grown deeper, and with them, a tendency to retreat into echo chambers—spaces where our views are reinforced, never challenged, and where those who think differently are dismissed or vilified.

I’m a strong advocate for doing the opposite. I believe deeply in the value of engaging with opposing views, especially when that engagement is grounded in genuine curiosity and empathy. It’s not easy. It requires humility, patience, and a willingness to sit with discomfort. But it’s one of the most effective tools we have to challenge our assumptions, humanise the other, and uncover the deeper roots of fear, anger, and hate.

Understanding the “Why” Behind the Belief
When someone expresses a belief that feels offensive, extreme, or flat-out wrong, it’s natural to recoil. But if we stop at rejection, we miss the opportunity to ask a more meaningful question: Why do they believe this?

People don’t adopt harmful ideologies in a vacuum. Often, these views are shaped by layers of personal experience—trauma, fear, isolation, misinformation, or a deep yearning to belong. It’s not an excuse for bigotry or hate, but it is a starting point for understanding what drives it.

Listening doesn’t mean agreement. It doesn’t mean compromising your values or accepting harm. But listening with empathy—truly seeking to understand—can help us see the human behind the headline or the hashtag. And in that space, something remarkable can happen: compassion. Even for people we profoundly disagree with.

The Role of Productive Conversation
Be prepared that not every conversation will lead to change. Some may be frustrating, even painful. But the goal isn’t always to persuade—it’s to connect. A productive conversation is one in which both people feel heard, even if no one changes their mind. It’s about creating a space where ideas can be explored, rather than weaponised. Where listening matters more than winning.

In these spaces, transformation is possible. Not just for the person you’re engaging with, but for yourself. Your own beliefs become sharper, your thinking more resilient. You begin to see the world through a wider lens.

This doesn’t mean tolerating abuse or opening yourself up to harm. Boundaries are essential. It’s okay to disengage when a conversation turns toxic or unsafe. But when the opportunity for real dialogue arises—when someone is open to being heard, and perhaps hearing you in return—that’s a door worth stepping through.

Resisting the Urge to Dehumanise
There’s a paradox at the heart of polarisation: in opposing dehumanisation, we sometimes dehumanise in return. We see those on “the other side” as ignorant, evil, or beyond redemption. We write them off, ridicule them, or cut them out of our lives entirely.

And yet, that very act mirrors the problem we’re trying to confront. Dehumanisation, even in response to harmful beliefs, only deepens the divide. It makes meaningful change less likely, not more.

To resist hate without becoming hateful ourselves is a quiet kind of courage. It means holding both compassion and accountability. It means seeing the humanity in others, even when they can’t see it in you.

A Personal Commitment
This approach isn’t theoretical for me—it’s personal. I’ve had conversations that challenged me to my core. I’ve listened to people express beliefs I found abhorrent, and I’ve asked questions rather than shutting them down. Sometimes the conversation led nowhere. Sometimes, it led to connection. Occasionally, it sparked reflection on both sides. But it always reminded me of one thing: people are more than their worst opinions.

I don’t believe we can shout or shame our way to a better world. But I do believe we can talk our way there—slowly, imperfectly, and with compassion as our guide.

Call to Action
So here’s my challenge: the next time you encounter a viewpoint that angers or confuses you, resist the urge to immediately argue or disengage. Instead, pause. Take a breath. Ask a question.

“What brought you to that belief?”
“How do you see the world through that lens?”
“Would you be open to hearing how I see it?”

Not everyone will respond with openness. Some won’t be ready. That’s okay. But some will. And in those moments, you’re not just having a conversation—you’re building a bridge.

Let’s choose dialogue over division. Curiosity over certainty. Humanity over hate. One conversation at a time, we can begin to reshape how we see each other—and what’s possible when we truly listen.

More than 400 individuals who left the UK to fight for ISIS in Syria and Iraq are believed to have returned—many re-entering British society without facing prosecution. This is not merely a legal loophole; it represents a national security blind spot. A new report is calling for urgent changes to the law—and rightly so. The question is, why has it taken so long for alarm bells to ring?

The return of ISIS fighters to Britain is not a hypothetical threat. These are individuals who actively joined one of the most violent extremist groups in modern history—a group responsible for mass executions, sexual slavery, and terrorism across the globe. The UK government’s approach—revoking citizenship in some high-profile cases, passively monitoring others, and prosecuting very few—has been inconsistent and, some would argue, dangerously lenient.

The root of the issue lies in the current legal framework. The burden of proof required to prosecute returning fighters under existing terrorism laws is high, particularly when much of the evidence lies in war zones beyond the reach of British investigators. As a result, many returnees are subject to limited surveillance or de-radicalisation programmes, which may not be sufficient to assess or neutralise potential risks.

What is needed is not a knee-jerk crackdown but a smart recalibration of our laws to address the complexities of modern terrorism. Legislation should be updated to make it a clear criminal offence to support or train with designated terrorist groups abroad, regardless of whether a specific act of violence can be proven. There should also be greater investment in international intelligence cooperation and the documentation of war crimes.

Beyond the legal gaps, there is a moral question: what message does this send to victims of ISIS, to communities radicalised by their propaganda, and to those who believe in justice? Turning a blind eye undermines public trust and emboldens extremist networks who interpret the lack of consequences as a green light.

This is not about vengeance. It is about safeguarding democracy, ensuring justice, and closing the door on impunity. If we do not act decisively now, we risk allowing history to repeat itself—only next time, the consequences could be far deadlier.

@newdaystarts

In 1968, Enoch Powell’s “Rivers of Blood” speech cast a long, toxic shadow over British political discourse. His claim that Britons would become “strangers in their own country” was rooted in a fear of immigration that veiled racial anxiety as cultural concern. Fifty-seven years later, Labour leader Sir Keir Starmer has echoed similar language, warning that we “risk becoming an island of strangers.”

The comparison is as uncomfortable as it is revealing. While Starmer’s words lack Powell’s incendiary tone and historical baggage, the resonance is unmistakable. Both frame the nation in terms of alienation—a fracturing of communal identity—and both raise the question: who, exactly, is being made a stranger, and by whom?

In Powell’s time, it was clear: non-white immigrants were the perceived outsiders, and the speech served as a clarion call to nativism. His rhetoric helped define the outer edge of acceptable public discourse on race and migration for a generation. For Starmer, the terrain is subtler, but no less fraught. His remark comes at a time when Britain is grappling with cultural fragmentation, economic disparity, and a chronic crisis of political trust. The “strangers” he refers to may not be immigrants alone—they may be the economically dispossessed, the digitally isolated, the politically disillusioned.

Still, language matters. When national leaders frame the present in terms of strangers and estrangement, they risk validating the idea that belonging is a fragile, exclusionary privilege—rather than a shared, evolving identity. In doing so, they echo a historical reflex that sees social change not as an opportunity for enrichment, but as a threat to cohesion.

But who makes a stranger? Is it the migrant who moves to contribute to a new society? The young Briton priced out of their hometown? The minority Briton asked again and again, “Where are you really from?” Strangership, we must recognise, is often imposed—not chosen. The danger lies not in our growing diversity, but in the politics of division that treat cultural difference as a zero-sum game.

If Starmer wishes to lead a truly inclusive Britain, he must move beyond cautious nods to national unease and instead articulate a hopeful, generous vision of belonging. One that doesn’t merely mourn a perceived loss of identity, but builds a future around shared values—fairness, dignity, opportunity—for all who call this country home.

Otherwise, we risk more than becoming an island of strangers. We risk becoming a nation afraid of its own reflection.

@newdaystarts

There is a persistent, and frankly damaging, mindset that continues to afflict certain journalists and self-styled “anti-racism experts”. It is the quiet but unmistakable presumption of intellectual superiority: the belief that they are, by default, more enlightened than the rest of us.

This assumption is not only arrogant, but deeply counterproductive. It fosters a sense of detachment from the very communities and conversations they purport to champion. Rather than building bridges, it erects walls. It alienates those who are engaged in this work not for professional advancement, but out of genuine interest, lived experience, or moral commitment.

While some are busy polishing their credentials and cultivating their personal brands, others, often unpaid, unrecognised, and excluded from the institutional spotlight are pushing the discourse forward. These are the individuals who identify emerging patterns, challenge comfortable assumptions, and take intellectual risks without the cushion of a salary or an academic title. More often than not, they are years ahead in thought, unconstrained by professional orthodoxy or performative posturing.

It is ironic that those most invested in the appearance of progressiveness are often the least willing to be challenged. The work of dismantling systemic inequality demands humility, not hierarchy. It requires listening more than lecturing, especially to those who are doing the hard thinking, unencumbered by the need to be seen as “the expert”.

The future of this work does not belong to those who believe they have already arrived. It belongs to those who remain open, curious, and willing to evolve. Perhaps it is time the so-called experts stopped looking down from their pedestals, and started looking around.

@newdaystarts

When will mainstream media, major newspapers, and influential organisations take a hard look in the mirror and ask themselves a difficult question: what role have we played in radicalising individuals?

It’s a question that demands urgent attention—not just in the wake of each violent act or surge of online extremism, but as part of a continuous cultural self-examination. More than a decade ago, I was involved in the English Defence League (EDL), and even then, I noticed a troubling contradiction that still lingers today. People who express views—often drawn directly from reputable media sources—are frequently met with hostility, dismissed outright as racists, or branded far-right. But if those same opinions appear in a polished opinion piece or are voiced by a columnist with the right credentials, they are considered part of “respectable debate”.

This double standard is not just frustrating—it’s dangerous.

Mainstream media has long operated under a powerful paradox. On one hand, they serve as gatekeepers of legitimate discourse. On the other, they amplify divisive narratives—about immigration, crime, identity, and religion—often in ways that blur the line between reporting and provocation. Tabloid headlines stoke fear. Think tanks with ideological agendas are quoted as neutral experts. Dog-whistles are sanitised and published under the guise of concern for “integration” or “security”.

And yet, when readers absorb this language, respond to it emotionally, and express it—sometimes clumsily, sometimes passionately—they’re told they’ve crossed a line. But who drew that line in the first place? And why is it that people repeating media-sanctioned talking points are excluded from civil discourse?

This dissonance can breed resentment and alienation. For some—especially those already on the fringes—it creates a fertile ground for radicalisation. They begin to distrust institutions that appear hypocritical or elitist. They turn to alternative platforms that claim to say “what the mainstream won’t”. These platforms often exploit genuine grievances but distort them into dangerous ideologies.

Of course, individuals are responsible for their actions. But institutions—especially those with the power to shape public perception—must also take responsibility for the broader consequences of their messaging.