Khalid Abdullah Riyadh, who passed away on 4 September 2024 in Hereford, England, was a fine, unpretentious Englishman, with an easy smile and the friendliest of dispositions. He had a natural warmth that led to lifelong friendships in many parts of the world. At the same time, his remarkable work ethic sustained a 60-year career in his chosen field of medical microbiology. His personality embodied the best of British character – doggedness, politeness, sense of humour – and many Muslim virtues – humbleness, straightforwardness, compassion.
Khalid Abdullah Riyadh was born in Salford on 15 September 1944. His father, Reginald Maurice Anson Benson, was from Cumbria, and mother, Nancy May Iddon, a Liverpudlian. They had married in Liverpool in 1937. Reginald Benson served as a RAF flight sergeant, obtaining a mention in World War II despatches. Khalid, named Michael at birth, spent his early childhood in Wales. The family later settled in north London. As a child, Khalid remembered tobogganing down Harrow Hill when it snowed. In his father’s footsteps of a service career, he signed up to the British army after school and received training as a medical microbiologist. He was posted to Malaya, where he found the path to Islam in 1966, and took ‘Kamaruddin Abdullah’ as his Muslim name (later Khalid Abdullah Riyadh) . His last service assignment was in Sharjah, with the rank of corporal.
Khalid continued his career as a microbiologist in hospitals and clinics in London. He often befriended Muslim patients, particularly those in palliative care. For example, there was a young Sudanese Zain, for whom he went the extra mile in providing support and sympathy. Khalid was much moved when Zain eventually succumbed to a kidney disorder. Back in London, he and Madenia (née Siers) were married in April 1973..
In 1982-84, he joined the newly built National Guard King Khalid Hospital, Jeddah Saudi Arabia, working under Dr Shuja Shafi, head of its Medical Microbiology and Infection Control Departments. Khalid returned to live in Harrow, working first at Middlesex Hospital and then the London Clinic in Harley Street, eventually taking retirement in 2023. He moved with Madenia to a village near Powys, Wales. His health declined rapidly and he could not recover from a critical spinal condition. The janaza took place at the Medina Mosque in Cathays on 6 September 2024. He is survived by his wife, daughters Noorah, Ayesha and Aliyah, and sons, Nur and Adam. Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajiun.
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In 1967, while in London between army postings, Khalid began attending meetings of the London Islamic Circle that were held on Saturday afternoons in the library room of the Islamic Cultural Centre, Regents Park Mosque. A key organiser was AbdulWahid Hamid, who also edited the monthly journal of the Federation of Students’ Islamic Societies (FOSIS), The Muslim. Its issue of November 1967 reported on “two excellent talks”,
| [. . .] one given by Mr. Omar Cassem an ex-Imam and a political exile from South Africa on the “Role of Students in London” and the other by Mr. Kamaruddin Abdullah a newcomer to Islam who spoke of the process of his conversion to Islam just one year ago. Perhaps one of his most perceptive remarks was that despite all the tensions and uneasiness Muslims still evince a great hope in what Islam provides and can yet provide for them. Such a hope, he added was no longer associated with Christianity which has been abandoned by the people of his generation. |
Two months later, in January 1968, Kamaruddin/Khalid spoke at a forum at Malaysia Hall, Bryanston Square organised by the Malaysian Islamic Study Group. The topic was ‘On becoming a newcomer to Islam’. It was published in the May 1968 issue of The Muslim and stands as a timeless piece of religiously inspired writing that records a young Englishman’s struggle to be true to his inner voice,
| “My first contact with Islam was in Singapore in May 1964. I was a Christian at the time and thought quite strongly about my religion. I knew precisely nothing about Islam. I had never thought about any religion other than Christianity. Muslims were just vague beings who probably worshipped idols and would have more than one wife at a time. I became friendly with many of the Asian races in Singapore, but I was particularly fond of the Malays; there was a quality in them that I could not trace but drew me to them. I can remember thinking, although my mind cringes at these thoughts now, that it would have to be very harsh of God not to let at least some of them into heaven. I returned to England in June 1965 to visit my mother who was seriously ill. With a month of spare time on my hands, I thought it would do me no harm to learn about the Muslim religion. Maybe I would be able to understand the Malay ways a little better. I started by reading “The Koran” in the Penguin Classic series, translated by N. J. Dawood, and “Muhammad Prophet and Statesman” by W. Montgomery Watt. The combination of these two books put me well off Islam. Admittedly, I did not, as a student would, “sit, read, think and inwardly digest” but the overall impression was that Muhammad (may peace be upon him) was a bit of a fake, and that the Qur’an was a rather poor imitation of my own poor Christian books. Although I was not overawed by my first impressions of the Muslim religion, I felt more akin to my Malay friends by knowing that they worshipped the same God and believed in similar things. In many ways, I was thankful I was not a Muslim. Islam was too involved, too energetic and too powerful. Anybody who got up early in the morning to pray and then continue to pray each and every day five times a day, and to go fast without taking water on a red hot day in Singapore was definitely kinky. Pork in the form of bacon and eggs was my favourite breakfast. No, I could not see what there was in Islam. What was wrong with the pig? Did not God make the pig? Were we not told in the Gospels that: “Nothing the Lord thy God has made is unclean”? During this time, I still attended Church regularly. I used to go only to the early Communion Service on a Sunday morning. To me this was the most important service, where the Christian partakes in the “bread” and the “wine”, symbols of Christ’s body and blood. It was during this service that I felt closest to God, the one where I used to get somewhere, to rise above my bare self. Why I continued to think about Islam, is beyond my reasoning. I only know that something kept striking, like a record. The same thoughts would roll in my mind over and over again. Many times, my own mind would put forward arguments and counter arguments against itself. I would ask myself, “Why don’t you fast? Is it beyond you even to give up food for one day in honour of your Lord who has given you so much?” and I would find a reply saying, “The Lord knows if my heart is sincere or not, He doesn’t need proof. He knows”. “You who are so full of yourself, are you above a few prayers?”, and my mind would answer, “I pray, I often pray, just don’t get down on my hands and knees to prove it”. Then to silence all doubts, the words “Christ was the Son of God”, Christ was the Son of God, Christ was the Son of God”, would echo through my mind, and also the Creed which I said in Church every Sunday morning. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty Master of heaven and earth, And in Jesus Christ His only Son our Lord . . . The time came when a small voice deep inside would ask, “was he the son or was he a prophet”, and my mind would cry back “No, no, no, he was the son! he was he was!” One Sunday as I knelt before the altar to receive the bread and the wine, I felt the blood rise to my face, and I felt sick and ashamed. I knew that I was lying and that something else inside me knew, something that was tearing at my heart and screaming silently, ‘HYPOCRITE’. I did not attend Church again for many months after this, time passed quickly in a shallow frivolous way. I often suffered from deep depressions, I believed in God as always, but I no longer knew the path. Once more I was drawn to Islam, but I doubted my sincerity. I would tell myself that it would be a five-minute wonder with me, and then I would be back to square one. All the old arguments presented themselves and once more I cast Islam aside. Ramadan for the year 1965-66 came round, and rather than just hide from the spoken criticism, I fasted with my Malay friends. I did not mind the actual fasting too much but getting up in the early hours of the morning, and staggering across to the Muslim kitchen wearing a sarong and shirt nearly killed me. I would pick at the food my laughing friends put before me, but I had seen the light. I found something in fasting, something that made it very worthwhile. My fast lasted only three days as I was sent on temporary duty to Malacca in Malaysia. Instead of spending all my time in camp, I would walk along the sort of tropical beach that all English men go into raptures about. The week before I was due back in Singapore, I met a group of Malay youths all about my age with whom I started a casual conversation out of mutual interest in that which is different. I was invited to various homes and was made a welcome guest. I was impressed by the more naturally lived Islamic way of life, not always easy, often tragic, but generating contentment and love. When I returned to Singapore, I received a letter from these friends I had made in Malacca inviting me to join them for the Eid festival. The house in which I spent Eid night was that of the village Imam. I was awakened in the early hours of the morning by singing. I could see from my room a gathering on the verandah. All were dressed in Malay fashion. Their eyes and faces, the sounds and the atmosphere radiated happiness. One phrase was repeated over and over again. “Allahu Akbar”. It was the only phrase I caught, but the thrill of it seemed to go right through me. I found my ears rejoicing every time it was said. The year passed quickly and I made no positive move towards Islam, but as my return to England approached, I realized that I had decided to become a Muslim without knowing quite when. My actual conversion on 12 October 1966 left a strange feeling of nothingness. I was now something in name, what I had been long before. I returned to a cold grey England on 4 December 1966. My family knew of my conversion and my father proved to be openly hostile. Once satisfied that his opinion was known, he did not broach the subject again. My brother, two years my junior, accepted it with casual indifference and my grandmother was too excited at having her grandson back and more anxious to know what I could and could not eat than to worry about religion. I had not followed my new religion very closely during my last month in Singapore. I knew the basic requirements of ablutions and prayer, but this superficial knowledge could not stand the most sympathetic criticism. So it was with great apprehension that I first visited the Islamic Cultural Centre in London. Although I set out for the Centre in good time for Friday prayers, I did not know the area, and somehow, I managed to lose myself in Regent’s Park. I walked up and down, round and round gazing hopefully at the skyline for anything that might vaguely resemble a Mosque. Alas, it started to rain and I was thoroughly drenched by the time I arrived at the Centre, three hours late for prayers. The following week I returned on time and felt comforted by the fact that there were few people who seemed to know exactly what they were meant to be doing anyway. Also, as I left I was greeted with the words, “What part of Syria do you come from?” The fact that I had not been taken for an Englishman surprised and contented me. Obviously, I was not as odd as I thought. I often thought during Ramadan that I had chosen to accept Islam at a very inopportune moment. The fasting was hard because though it was not as long as it had been in Malaya, I had free time on my hands. Often it was a case of sit and wait. Also, the English weather after Singapore’s tropical heat was more than cold enough, without having an empty stomach. I found the afternoon period between one and two o’clock the hardest. I would feel cold and very tired. I had begun to read another translation of the Koran, this time The Meaning of the Glorious Koran by Muhammad Pickthall. This book was much more to my taste than the earlier one I had read. With the combination of the fasting, reading the Koran and Friday prayers, I was beginning to realise just what Islam meant. There was an awakening inside me, a new life, an excitement, a hope. The army, when I met them again in late January, were exceptionally generous in allowing me to live at home and attend Friday prayers. The only time I have spent in barracks as a Muslim, was in February when I was attached to a Woolwich Hospital for two weeks. Here my religion was greeted with surprise and amusement. One day, one of my old Singapore friends asked me just how seriously I was following my religion. After inquiring as to the reason for his question, he explained that one of my roommates had been to ask him if I had adopted a weird oriental religion, because he had stated incredulously, “He wears a long kilt, gets on a mat and worships a compass.” Never had I thought of a Malay sarong as a long kilt. The rest I understand. I cannot put into words, the joy that I now obtain from Friday prayers. Nor can I express the spiritual satisfaction I gained from some of the camps and gatherings with some of my Muslim brothers in Britain. Or how much more my prayers have meant to me since I have learnt “The Fatiha“. When I look back at the trials of my early prayers, when I knew they lacked sincerity and even found my mind wandering. I would make myself resay them out of disgust at the miserable offering of worship I had just done. More than anything else I have felt a unity with other Muslims and a sure knowledge that together we may succeed; apart we will lose ourselves. Above all things, I believe in the words stated so frequently in the Koran that Allah is “Most Merciful and Compassionate”. Sometimes in prayer at night, my tears well up from a swollen heart and constricted throat, out of love and shame, and thanks and hope. Thanks for the path onto which I strayed, and hope for the realisation by all Muslims of what they really possess.” |
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While posted in Sharjah, Khalid/Kamaruddin corresponded with a friend in the London Islamic Circle who was also on the editorial board of The Muslim. In a letter dated 4 October 1968, there were some sharp observations of local life, “There is no love lost between the rival groups [immigrants and local Arabs], but violence is kept to a minimum by the knowledge that a quarrel will always go in favour of the Arab. Amongst the thorns however, the roses continue to bloom. Islam is not neglected by all, and true Islamic life sets such an example that truly only the blind do not see. There are good among both rich and poor and one sometimes wonders who has the hardest job, the rich man with leisure and luxury, or the poor man with continuous struggle and toil. I will not be back until September next year, and another summer’s rains will have flowed down the Thames by then. I miss the group at the Circle a great deal, they are true Muslims and their work will not be lost. Please give my regards (salam) to all of them [. . .].”
In a further letter dated 29 December 1968, he attached a poem, though declaring, “You will find enclosed an attempt at writing a poem by yours truly, don’t laugh too loud. If you can improve on it by all means do, it is for the Muslim, just in case they get desperate some time.” It was this modesty and lack of pretention that so endeared him to friends.
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Life was however not all serious contemplation. In his bachelor days in the early 1970s he lived with his father in Harrow. He would half-seriously describe their relationship as mirroring ‘Steptoe and Son’, a popular TV sitcom of the times that featured a shrewd, incorrigible father in the rag-and-bone trade (Albert Steptoe) and his mild-mannered idealistic son, Harold Steptoe.
There were also a band of friends all living in those years in the FOSIS hostel, 38 Mapesbury Road in Kilburn. Their adventures included a motoring trip, through France and Spain, to Morocco.
Image source: Dr Jaafar El-Murad. “Broken down somewhere north of Marseilles. Summer 1971!” L to R: El Moncef Sharawi (Libyan), Khalid Riyadh, Ibrahim Thanoon (from Taif, Saudi Arabia)
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Together with an easy going nature and sense of adventure, there was also an underlying seriousness of purpose in all that he did. For example, he was always keen in attendance of Qur’an study circles. In the pre-Covid era these included Sunday sessions led by the Moroccan scholar Noureddine Khallouki in Willesden Green, that later continued on Tuesday evenings at the Wembley home of another friend from FOSIS and The Muslim days, the physicist Dr Abdur Rauf. Later, from 2000 – 2003 Khalid joined the Sunday afternoon on-line class. Khalid led a well-regulated life, for example always praying at the same spot during the taraweeh prayers at Harrow Central Mosque, and always slipping some notes in the hand of the same destitute person after each jum’a.
The condolence message from Ustadh Khallouki is a fitting remembrance:
May Allah Subhananu Ta’ala grant him a place in Paradise with the prophets, the truthful and the martyrs and give patience to all his loved ones to bear the loss.
JS & J-E-M/December 2025
* updated 26 December 2025– memories from Dr Shuja Shafi
| I met Khalid in 1969-70 during my first post at the Central Middlesex Hospital (CMH), London. At that time there wasn’t a mosque near by and Khalid had an arrangement to take a long lunch break on Fridays to enable him to go to the Islamic Cultural Centre, Regents Park, for jum’a. At the time he was known as Mike Benson. I did not know about this arrangement until one Friday (must have been a holiday) when I also happened to go to there. I still remember how pleased he looked to see me – his words “MashaAllah, good to see you here” still ring in my ears. It put me to shame as I had not worked out my jum’a arrangements, unlike him. Khalid was based at the Neasden Hospital site of CMH’s Microbiology department at that time. Some months after that he took up a job in Dubai and stayed there for 8-10 years during which time he was promoted to Chief Biomedical Scientist. The CMH Microbiology department had a reputation of people wanting to come back. Khalid was one of those. Several months before his return date he wrote to the then head of department, Dr David McSwiggan, who was also former Armed Forces. Khalid enquired if there was likely to be a vacancy. Khalid was well liked and respected by colleagues and there was no hesitation in offering him a vacant post. In 1982, I was fortunate to take up a position in Jeddah at the newly built King Khalid National Guard Hospital. I received a letter from Khalid in which he wrote that he was missing the life and atmosphere of the Middle East and would love to work in Jeddah, if there was a possibility. Again, we just happened to have a vacancy. He was interviewed in London and joined us in Jeddah around 1983/84. He was popular and particularly liked by Saudi colleagues. Khalid stayed at the National Guard Hospital for several years after I returned to London in 1985. He was appointed to the position of Senior Chief Biomedical Scientist, and served in this capacity for many years until his return back to UK. I think it was meant to be retirement but Khalid was not of the retiring kind – he loved his profession and had no qualms about seniority and would accept a position that he would be happy to work in. Whenever we bumped into each other in Harrow (usually in the mosque), he would make a point of saying that he was still working! Khalid was a personable individual, a good friend, a living example of how to practice one’s faith. May Allah Subhanahu Ta’ala reward him in abundance and grant him the highest place in Jannatul Firdaus and grant sabre jameel to his family. |