Yusuf Islam (aka Cat Stevens) has published a biography that tracks his childhood, path to fame, finding Islam, encounters with various strands from the Tabligh Jamaat to Salafism, abandonment of a musical career in the belief all music was haram, reconnection with the guitar, and now finally, status as an éminence grise respected across the Muslim world.
The biography includes poignant moments of family ruptures and reconciliations, mishaps and a rightful pride in achievements – his musical genius has been recognised in the induction to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. It has been a life accustomed to veneration, both by admirers of his musical genius, and Muslims appreciative of his public impact. To his credit, in spite of a celebrity status, he has had the forbearance to work within Muslim civil society, notably in the team work needed to establish the Islamia Primary School and Muslim Aid.
Some extracts from On the Road to Findout:
| Dr. Sayed Mutawalli ad-Darsh was a cheerful, red-faced man and the chief imam at the Central Mosque [Islamic Cultural Centre, Regents Park]. He gave me a kindly smile, which instantly made me feel relaxed. I told him of my wish to become Muslim. He probably thought me an interesting oddity, with my white silk scarf, long, black Yves Saint Laurent overcoat and matching black hat. I must have looked a bit like a prosperous young, slightly lost rabbi. He spoke clearly and temperately with a strong Egyptian accent, telling me to hold on for a while as he concluded with another man who had also been waiting to speak with him. Quite some time had passed since the congregational prayer ended. Being winter, daylight hours were shorter, and it was now getting close to the afternoon prayer. The call began over the loudspeaker. Unexpectedly, Dr. Darsh invited me to join the line. Having taken part in the similar service in Jerusalem, I knew what to do, lined up, and followed suit. After the bowing and prostrations had ended, he led me upstairs to a small white Portakabin standing just in front of the main building. The new mosque was still undergoing final decoration work in the main ground-floor hall, and the cabin was the temporary office of the imam. He offered me a seat and then introduced me to a tall, Indian-looking gentleman in a charcoal, curly lamb-hair hat and three-quarter-length coat. He had a strikingly long black beard. This was Dr. Azam Baig. After a short introduction he was asked to witness my conversion. He sat down next to me and asked, “Do you believe in one God, Allah?” “Yes,” I confidently replied. “Do you believe in the messenger and servant of God, the Last Prophet, Muhammad?” “Yes,” I replied confidently. Dr. Baig then asked me to repeat those two statements in Arabic. He spoke them to me slowly and I repeated with a little difficulty, but as best as I could: Ash- hadu an la ilaha illa-Allah Wa ash-hadu anna Muhammadan ‘abduhu wa rasuluh After I finished speaking those words, he got up, put his arms around me and warmly embraced me, as did the imam and another worshipper who happened to be there at the time. Everybody looked radiantly pleased – not to mention how relieved and ecstatically happy I felt. A small, light-green booklet about the prayers and how to perform them was handed to me, along with Dr. Baig’s telephone number. That was it. I was now a Muslim! As I walked out of the cabin into the softening glow of the afternoon, I felt the world had changed. My feet no longer touched the pavement; I was floating on an invisible cloud, carrying me softly forward towards the brilliance of a divinely lit field that was opening up before me, far from the past darkness of worldly entanglements, walls and bondage. I’ve known from wandering! My soul had found its home, at last. Of course, I was very conscious about the weight of this decision. I knew it would have a big impact on my family, on my friends, let alone my fans and the public. I could imagine what people would say: “Cat Stevens, the reclusive hippie poet, has been converted and become a Muslim? Ha, ha . . . you must be kidding”. But the most important thing at that moment was not what others thought – God Most High was now my guide and companion [. . .] |
| When I told Dr. Baig that “Joseph Islam” was my new name, he looked up thoughtfully, rolled his eyes and pondered. After a long moment, in a very gentle way, he suggested, “Why don’t you choose the Arabic pronunciation: ‘Yusuf’?” The thought had crossed my mind already. “Yusuf” was still an easy name for Western tongues, and Muslims would find it easier. Coincidentally, my late maternal uncle’s name from Sweden had also been “Josef” (pronounced, “Yosef”). Yusuf covered all bases. I accepted the idea. Although it wasn’t necessary to change your name to become Muslim, it felt like the right thing to do. Similar to Cassius Clay becoming Muhammad Ali, I wanted to draw a line of distinction between the past and the present. Anyway, “Cat Stevens” wasn’t my real name, and it could still remain a stage name for the record. It was generally understood by those “in the know” that if anyone addressed me as “Cat,” they were considered outsiders; not part of my close circle of family or friends. To intimates, “Steve” was my name. I contacted my lawyer in London and requested the preparation of whatever steps were necessary for an official name change. We arranged to meet after a couple of days, while I was staying at the Montcalm hotel, off Marble Arch. It was fated that the deed poll was signed and sealed on 4 July, 1978: US Independence Day. |
| The northwest borough of Brent was quite close to where I lived, and it had a large populations of Muslims so I zeroed in on that catchment area. Driving through Brondesbury Park one day, I saw a “for sale” sign on a large Tudor-style house in a nice leafy area of London. The size looked just right. I purchased it, almost immediately. Thatcherism was being riveted to Britain’s cultural foundations, and the Iron Lady from Barnet (the same borough in which we lived) had made her intentions clear: cuts were coming! These would particularly affect funding for education. Claiming government support for projects like non-Christian faith schools was going to be a colossal struggle. The battle for faith-based Muslim schools was on. There were already thousands of Church of England government-funded schools, as well as schools for the Catholic and Jewish communities, so why not us? My bagful of tax contributions—60 percent at the time—as well as those of many fellow-Muslim taxpayers were being utilized in the service of those faiths and others; it was only fair that we saw some of that redistributed to benefit the disenfranchised Muslim children. It so happened that our third daughter, Maymanah, was also born in 1983: I seriously had to get cracking. The name “Islamia” came about through quite a wacky accident as we prepared leaflets for promotion. The Letraset transfers I used for the text in my artwork only had a limited number of black letters; there was only one “c” left on the page and I needed that to spell “school.” I decided to use an extra “a,” creating “Islamia” instead of “Islamic” school. It had a softer, more child-friendly ring to it anyway. Surprisingly, there was absolutely no information or requirement regarding the curriculum in the UK at that time, apart from an obligation to deliver religious education [. . .] I called together all Muslim educationalists in the city to attend a brainstorming session in my Curzon Street office. The task was to define the objectives of each major subject based on the principles of the Qur’an and the tradition of the prophets [. . .] Islamia Primary School bravely opened its doors on Friday 21st October 1983. Through the doors waddled thirteen little children, forming the initial kindergarten playgroup in Brondesbury Park. Two of the pioneering first-year pupils were Fawziah’s and mine: Hasana and Asmaa. |
| Arriving in Khartoum was a true eye-opener. It was 1984. Hundreds of thousands of starving people had been forced out of their drought-stricken homelands into overcrowded camps, flooding the streets of the capital; skinny children with hardly any hope of drinking their mother’s milk were barely hanging on to life. The government was struggling and, as usual, unable to cope. They welcomed us and other aid agencies with open arms. The trip served as a wake-up call, instilling within me the wish to see more relief organisations coming from the Muslim community in the UK. There were hundreds of Christian and other humanitarian organisations working to provide help. I couldn’t see why the community in Britain could not do something similar. The idea had already been raised by a fellow convert, Abdul Ghaffar, a dynamic, smart, and determined character of good British stock. We spoke after prayers one day at the Muslim World League offices in Goodge Street. He handed me a well-written proposal for the establishment of a relief charity, to be called Muslim Aid [. . .] Journalists juggled their cameras and crowded their microphones as the trustees assembled at the long, white-clothed table, set against a big banner displaying our new, impressive, emerald-green-and-white logo. I felt a great sense of satisfaction, having brought together various leaders and Islamic organisations under one umbrella for the principal sake of charity and humanitarian causes. Dr. Darsh sat in the centre and chaired the meeting. I stood up, having been selected (basically, being the only one who didn’t have a foreign accent) to read the press release and manifesto of our fledgling Muslim agency. As a non-aligned figure without membership or loyalty to any one group or movement, the trustees elected me as their first chairman. The high profile of my name gave us an instant boost and was also doubtlessly useful for raising funds too. The Muslim community trusted us; Muslim Aid became a channel through which people could direct their obligatory Zakat donations. I continued to push for broader representation on the board, but like Hany El Banna, there was a general resistance in opening the kitchen door any further. That was incredibly disappointing, as I knew it could have helped to heal some of the scars caused by various differences between the many imported ethno-based communities and organisations. But those barriers were not going to shrivel away anytime soon. |