CONSCIENCE. CHARACTER. COURAGE. Tommy Robinson's story.

I didn't think I could get any more outraged than I already was over the recent abuse of Tommy Robinson by the British deep state. Arrested during a live Facebook broadcast from outside Leeds Crown Court, he was rushed through a travesty of a trial, then shipped to a prison before the day was over, only to be released – after nearly three months of cruel and unusual punishment – when the Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales finally declared the whole process thoroughly illegitimate.

As I say, I didn't think I could be more outraged. But then I caught up with Tommy's autobiography, Enemy of the State, which was first published in 1988 and which I read in a 2015 revised edition. By turns riveting, frustrating, and inspiring, it tells the story of an ordinary working-class lad – a good soul and solid friend, if a bit of a mischief-maker – who gradually came to understand that his country faced an existential threat from an enemy within, and, driven by a conscience of remarkable magnitude, became an activist.

Clearly, there were people high up in the system who were out to get him. To put the country's most outspoken critic of Islam in a hoosegow where he'd be surrounded by Muslims and, with any luck, would end up being found dead in his cell of unknown causes. 

What was it, exactly, that drove Tommy to activism? Well, to begin with, his hometown, Luton, where he still lives, was a place where he had friends, white and black and brown, from a wide range of backgrounds – but where one tight-knit group, namely Muslims, seemed to hold all the cards, standing apart from (and above) all the others, refusing to blend in, treating the kafir with arrogance and contempt. 


While professing to be exceedingly devout – and demanding, for this reason, that special allowances be made to accommodate their religious practices and prohibitions – the Muslim community leaders ran drug and prostitution rings, raped non-Muslim girls as casually as if they were consuming a kebab, and expertly manipulated pusillanimous government authorities who were not only terrified to arrest them for even the most bloodcurdling infraction but who were, on the contrary, eager to throw money at them, with a smile and a bow, in response to their “piss-and-moan stories about deprivation and prejudice.” This, then, was the environment in which Tommy grew up. 

Then came 9/11. It horrified him. On the first anniversary of 9/11, while the terrorist organization Al Muhajiroun was holding a conference in London to celebrate the hijackers, posters were put up all over Luton glorifying the so-called “Magnificent 19.” The authorities did nothing about any of this. He was appalled. Two years later, a group of Luton Muslims stated in a national media interview that they looked forward to a 9/11 in Britain; their leader, Sayful Islam, made it clear that he “wanted to see our children assassinated, executed.” 

The cops didn't even call them in for questioning. As Tommy writes, “here was the great British public, sitting around listening to it, giving him [Sayful Islam] a public platform and doing nothing about it.” What set Tommy apart from the rest of the British public was one thing: “I had to do something.” But what? What to do? After the 2004 massacre of schoolchildren in...
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