Not surprisingly, the awarding of a knighthood to Salman Rushdie has reignited the controversy over the 1988 publication of his book, The Satanic Verses. Pakistan and Iran have already witnessed angry condemnations of the author and popular protests. With memories of last year's Danish cartoon row still fresh, there are understandable concerns that the situation could dramatically escalate around the world.

When The Satanic Verses was first published, I was a second year student at Queen Mary College in London. I had started becoming a more observant Muslim just over a year earlier and had begun attending Islamic talks across London. For many young Muslim students at the time the situation was fairly straightforward. The Thatcher government had banned Peter Wright's Spycatcher and had gone to court to prevent its distribution. Surely, Rushdie's novel, which had caused such offence to hundreds of millions of believers, deserved a similar fate? I remember being rather puzzled as to why Rushdie's defenders were so vigorous in arguing for the right to offend Muslims. Muslims were not writing books making fun of Christ and other revered religious figures. It seemed to be a deliberate attempt to mock deeply held beliefs.

We were a tiny minority and in the mainstream British newspapers had no voice whatsoever, while our detractors had column after column of newsprint to disparage us and our "backward" ways. We were utterly powerless.

So on February 14 1989, when the Iranian Islamic leader, Imam Khomeini delivered his fatwa calling for Salman Rushdie's death, I was truly elated. It was a very welcome reminder that British Muslims did not have to regard themselves just as a small, vulnerable minority; they were part of a truly global and powerful movement. If we were not treated with respect then we were capable of forcing others to respect us.

I remember taking part in the large demonstration in Hyde Park that summer. It was an amazing day. There was an increasing realisation that by giving greater importance to our Islamic identity we could transcend and overcome the narrow sectarian and tribal divides that were widespread among us. We may have Pakistani, Bengali, Gujarati, Arab, Turkish backgrounds, but this was less important than what brought us together: we were British Muslims.

And so Rushdie's novel became, unwittingly no doubt, the catalyst for the forging of a more confident Islamic identity among many British Muslims.

Looking back now on those events I will readily acknowledge that we were wrong to have called for the book to be banned. Today I can certainly better appreciate the concerns and fear generated by the images of book-burning in Bradford and the calls for the author to be killed. It seems crazy now, but I really did believe that some committee of learned elders should vet all books before they could be sold to the public.

In the intervening years I have managed to travel to Egypt, Sudan, Pakistan, Malaysia, Indonesia, Turkey and elsewhere and it is always with a sense of warmth that I return to the UK. Our detractors had been right. The freedom to offend is a necessary freedom.
Moreover, Islam has flourished wherever there has been a free atmosphere. I continue to strongly disagree with the way Rushdie caricatured early Islamic heroes of mine, but banning the book was not the answer.

And from reading various British Muslim message boards on the internet there appears to be a strong desire among many younger Muslims not to get distracted by the Rushdie knighthood. It is a hopeful sign.

For the record, Rushdie's support for Bush's invasion of Iraq only helped underline why I think he is pompous, heartless and self-regarding. Still, I will always remember with gratitude taking part in those protests all those years ago and how it drew me closer to my faith. Thanks, Sir Salman.

Source: commentisfree.guardian.co.uk

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