Gender, Religion, Extremism: Finding Women in Anti-Radicalization 2019053605, 9780190075699, 9780190075712, 9780190075729, 2019053606

Table of contents :
Cover
Series
Gender, Religion, Extremism
Copyright
Contents
Acknowledgments
Acronyms and Abbreviations
1. Gender, Religion, and Radicalization
2. Country Focus and Global Endeavors
3. Groomed and Seduced
4. Moderate Women and Violent Youths
5. Mothers and Wives
6. Fathers and Heroes
7. The Antiradicalization Protection Racket
8. The Limits of Antiradicalization
Notes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Gender, Religion, Extremism

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Oxford Studies in Gender and International Relations Series editors: J. Ann Tickner, American University, and Laura Sjoberg, University of Florida Windows of Opportunity: How Women Seize Peace Negotiations for Political Change Miriam J. Anderson

Equal Opportunity Peacekeeping: Women, Peace, and Security in Post-​Conflict States Sabrina Karim and Kyle Beardsley

Women as Foreign Policy Leaders: National Security and Gender Politics in Superpower America Sylvia Bashevkin

Gender, Sex, and the Postnational Defense: Militarism and Peacekeeping Annica Kronsell

Gendered Citizenship: Understanding Gendered Violence in Democratic India Natasha Behl Enlisting Masculinity: The Construction of Gender in U.S. Military Recruiting Advertising during the All-​Volunteer  Force Melissa T. Brown The Politics of Gender Justice at the International Criminal Court: Legacies and Legitimacy Louise Chappell

The Beauty Trade: Youth, Gender, and Fashion Globalization Angela B. V. McCracken Global Norms and Local Action: The Campaigns against Gender-​Based Violence in Africa Peace A. Medie Rape Loot Pillage: The Political Economy of Sexual Violence in Armed Conflict Sara Meger

From Global to Grassroots: The European Union, Transnational Advocacy, and Combating Violence Cosmopolitan Sex Workers: Women and Migration against Women in a Global City Celeste Montoya Christine B. N. Chin Who Is Worthy of Protection? Gender-​Based Intelligent Compassion: Feminist Critical Methodology in the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom Catia Cecilia Confortini Complicit Sisters: Gender and Women’s Issues across North-​South Divides Sara de Jong Gender and Private Security in Global Politics Maya Eichler This American Moment: A Feminist Christian Realist Intervention Caron E. Gentry Troubling Motherhood: Maternality in Global Politics Lucy B. Hall, Anna L. Weissman, and Laura J. Shepherd

Asylum and US Immigration Politics Meghana Nayak Revisiting Gendered States: Feminist Imaginings of the State in International Relations Swati Parashar, J. Ann Tickner, and Jacqui True Out of Time: The Queer Politics of Postcoloniality Rahul Rao Gender, UN Peacebuilding, and the Politics of Space: Locating Legitimacy Laura J. Shepherd A Feminist Voyage through International Relations J. Ann Tickner The Political Economy of Violence against Women Jacqui True

Breaking the Binaries in Security Studies: A Gendered Analysis of Women in Combat Ayelet Harel-​Shalev and Shir Daphna-​Tekoah

Queer International Relations: Sovereignty, Sexuality, and the Will to Knowledge Cynthia Weber

Scandalous Economics: Gender and the Politics of Financial Crises Aida A. Hozić and Jacqui True

Bodies of Violence: Theorizing Embodied Subjects in International Relations Lauren B. Wilcox

Rewriting the Victim: Dramatization as Research in Thailand’s Anti-​Trafficking Movement Erin M. Kamler

Gender, Religion, Extremism Finding Women in Anti-​Radicalization Katherine E. Brown

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1 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and certain other countries. Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America. © Oxford University Press 2020 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above. You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Brown, Katherine E., author. Title: Gender, religion, extremism: Finding Women in Anti-Radicalization / Brown, Katherine E. Description: New York, NY : Oxford University Press, [2020] | Series: Oxford studies in gender and international relations | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019053605 (print) | LCCN 019053606 (ebook) | ISBN 9780190075699 (hardback) | ISBN 9780190075712 (epub) | ISBN 9780190075729 Subjects: LCSH: Terrorists—Psychology. | Radicalism—Psychological aspects. | Violence in men. | Violence in women. | Deprogramming. | Terrorism—Prevention. Classification: LCC HV6431 .B777 2019 (print) | LCC HV6431 (ebook) | DDC 303.48/4—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019053605 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019053606 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments  vii Acronyms and Abbreviations   ix 1. Gender, Religion, and Radicalization   1 2. Country Focus and Global Endeavors   28 3. Groomed and Seduced   58 4. Moderate Women and Violent Youths   87 5. Mothers and Wives   114 6. Fathers and Heroes   140 7. The Antiradicalization Protection Racket   169 8. The Limits of Antiradicalization   191 Notes  213 Bibliography  219 Index  269

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Finally, I can say—​ Institutionally I am grateful for the support of Birmingham University and King’s College London where this book was initially conceived. My former heads of department, Matt Uttley (King’s College London) and Andrew Davies (Birmingham), also encouraged and supported my ideas and gave me the space and time to attend conferences and carry out the necessary fieldwork. Thanks to my mentors Professors Andrew Dorman and (more recently) Charlotte Hempel. Professor Dorman has held faith in my abilities and supported my efforts regardless of how many times he asked, “Is it finished yet?”—​to which the answer was invariably, “Nearly.” Charlotte helped me keep focused and is one of the most generous people I know with her time, expertise, and kindness. I would also like to thank for their ongoing support Professors Andrew Silke and Jorgen Nielsen, both of whom helped me establish contacts, develop finer ideas of research, and remind me of the broader contexts in which this book sits. Thanks also to a fantastic set of feminist writers and critics whose work never ceases to amaze me. This book would not have been feasible without the groundbreaking ideas of feminist security study scholars and religious studies scholars who make the study of gender and religion mainstream. Specifically, I want to thank Swati Parashar, Elina Penttinen, Laura Shepherd, Claire Duncanson, Caron Gentry, Laura Sjoberg, Harmonie Toros, Jayne Huckerby, and Fiona De Londras for opportunities to test out my ideas over the years in conferences, book chapters, and journal articles. My once and current students Liz Pearson, Jessica White, and Rubab Aly also deserve mention for their discussions and projects that have continued to inspire, motivate, and transform my own thinking on CVE and counter-​radicalization. In my wider life, the support of Jane-​Charlotte Manly, who has been there daily no matter what life has thrown at her, has been invaluable. Last but not least, my partner (and number-​one fan) G.  Rhydian Morgan—​ without whom this work would still be “nearly” finished.

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A C R O N Y M S & A B B R E V I AT I O N S

APF ASEAN AU AIVD

African Peace Facility Association of South East Asian Nations African Union Algemene Inlichtingen-​en Veiligheidsdienst (General Intelligence and Security Service, NL) CDCT Council of Europe Committee on Counter-​Terrorism CGI Contact Group Islam (NL) CMO Contact Organisation for Muslims (NL) CNAPR Centre Nationale d’Assistance et Prevention de la Radicalisation (National Centre for Assistance and Prevention of Radicalization, F) CPS Crown Prosecution Service (UK) CTED UN Counter-​Terrorism Executive Directorate CTITF UN Counter-​Terrorism Implementation Taskforce CVE Countering Violent Extremism DCLG Department of Local Government (UK) DG DEVCO Directorate-​General for International Cooperation and Development (EU) DG EAC Directorate-​General for Education and Culture EC European Commission EENet European Expert Network on Terrorism EIDHR European Instrument for Democracy and Human Rights ENI European Neighbourhood Initiative EP European Parliament ETA Euskadi Ta Askatasuna, Basque separatist group Etidel Global Centre for Combating Extremist Ideology (country) EU European Union EUROPOL European Police Force EUTF Emergency Trust Fund for Africa

x

FARC FATA Fatayat NU FDNY FFTF FOSI FST FTF GCHQ GCTF ICSP IIS Incel IRA ISAF ISI KPMG LRA LTTE MNCC MQM NACTA NAP NATO NCTV

NHS NISP NSA NU NYPD Ofsted OSCE PRAC PKK

PVE

Fuerzas Armadas Revolucianarias de Columbia Federally Administered Tribal Areas (Pakistan) Fatayat Nathdlatl Ulama (women’s branch of NU) Fire Department of New York Female foreign terrorist fighter Family Online Safety Institute Female suicide terrorist Foreign terrorist fighter Government Communications Head Quarters (UK) Global Counter-​Terrorism Forum Stability and Peace Institute for Inclusive Society “Involuntary celibate” Irish Republican Army, dissident Northern Irish group also known as the Provisional IRA International Security Assistance Force Inter Service Intelligence (Pakistan) UK accountancy firm, a member of the ‘Big Four’ Lord’s Resistance Army Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam Mohammed bin Naif Counselling and Care Centre Muttahida Qaumi Movement National Counter-​Terrorism Agency (Pakistan) National Action Plan (Pakistan) North Atlantic Treaty Organisation Nationaal Coordinator Terrorismebestriding en Veligheid (National Coordinator for Security and Counterterrorism, NL) National Health Service (UK) National Internal Security Policy (Pakistan) National Security Agency (US) Nathdlatl Ulama New York Police Department Office for Standards in Education, Children’s Services and Skills (UK) Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe Prevention, Rehabilitation and After Care Partiya Karkerên Kurdistanê (Kurdistan Workers’ Party)—​ Kurdish militant and political organization based in the Kurdish regions of Turkey and Iraq Preventing Violent Extremism

[ x ]  Acronyms & Abbreviations

PWME RUSI SOAS TII TPIM TTP UCLAT UN UNDP UNSC UNSCR US USAID USIP WPS

Women Moderating Extremism (Pakistan) Royal United Services Institute School of Oriental and African Studies Tentara Islam Indonesia Terrorism Prevention and Investigation Measure (UK) Terek-​e-​Takiban-​Pakistan Unité de Coordination de la Lutte Anti-​Terroriste (Co-​ordination Unit of the Fight Against Terrorism, F) United Nations UN Development Programme UN Security Council UN Security Council Resolution United States US Agency for International Development US Institute for Peace UN Women Peace and Security

Acronyms & Abbreviations  [ xi ]

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CHAPTER 1

Gender, Religion, and Radicalization

FROM TERRORISM TO EXTREMISM: RADICALIZATION

In 2001 the United States declared “a war on terror,” and other countries followed suit, accepting the binary logic of “you’re either with us, or against us.” The consequence has been an increasingly kinetic militarized counterterrorism effort that frequently blurs with counterinsurgency operations both intellectually and operationally. At the same time, as exceptional coalitions of the willing set out to combat perceived terrorist threats, people’s everyday lives have become the target of counterterrorism measures around the globe in ways not countenanced under previous waves of terrorism (Rapoport 2001). Politicians, news pundits, and academics claim that the world faces a “new terrorism” that demands new legislation and powers to counter it. The new terrorism, we are told, is different from old forms because the scale, scope, and motivations exceed those of previous incarnations of terrorist ideologies (Field 2009). The scale of new terrorism is said to be a global, deterritorialized, networked, and even cyber-​based endeavor that knows no geographical constraint. Reflecting claims of some jihadist groups of a globalized conflict where the “far enemy” should be the main target, state understanding of terrorism sees “new terrorism anywhere” as “terrorism everywhere” (Rasmussen 2002). As the US report on the September 11, 2001 attacks, claimed, the threats to international security are “defined more by the fault lines within societies than by the territorial boundaries between them” (National Commission, 2004, p.  341). Perhaps because of this global geography, even when compared with “lone actor terrorism,” or mass shootings by mostly white men in the US (“InCels”), the new terrorism remains cast as particularly threatening. Gender, Religion, Extremism. Katherine E. Brown, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190075699.001.0001

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The violence of new terrorist groups facilitated this understanding: mass casualty and spectacular events are their modus operandi. Attacks on New York, Bali, London, Paris, Madrid, and Mumbai, without warning or regard for the attackers’ lives, indicate a new set of tactics that challenge previous methods of control. Governments’ fears that they cannot contain the new threat are heightened by their inability to fully understand the motives and purpose of the new groups. The perception that many attacks are instigated by self-​starter or DIY jihadists with little formal connection to organizations, and who have been inspired in basement mosques or online by charismatic speakers, means that old methods of surveillance—​ spying, informants, and undercover operations—​seem inadequate. Adding to the sense of unease, the aims of new terrorist groups are portrayed as irrational, religiously inspired, and apolitical (Jackson 2007a), in contrast to the presumed rationality and politics of Western states. The underlying beliefs of new terrorist groups are considered, in contrast, to be faulty, deviant, and radical. Terrorism is presented as an ideological challenge; negotiations are unimaginable, and terrorists’ actions are assumed to be unpredictable. For example, in July 2015 British prime minister David Cameron introduced a new counter-​radicalization policy that argued that the cause of terrorist threats today was not rooted in politics but, “extremist ideology . . . that is a poison, one that it is not grounded in grievances or British politics abroad or at home, but simply those who detest our values” (Cameron 2015). In order to safeguard European or Western values, social cohesion, and peace, states have demonstrated the will to intervene preemptively, extending self-​defense to the prevention of possible future acts for those individuals and areas deemed at risk of becoming terrorists. States are increasingly concerned with, “everything that [potentially] happens before the bomb goes off” (Neuman 2008a, p. 4). The response to this need to preempt and prevent new terrorism is academics’ and think tanks’ appropriation and reinvention of radicalization theory. Drawing on a range of disciplines (although, interestingly, rarely religious studies), radicalization theory has taken hold to explain the new terrorism. At its simplest, radicalization is a process in which a person adopts extremist views and moves toward committing violence (Neuman 2013, 874). It is argued that “cognitive openings” begin an individual along a nonlinear and many-​pathed “trajectory” of radicalization (McCauley and Moslalenko 2008). The vast majority of writers attempt to identify a range of possible triggers occurring at all levels of analysis and environments, but ultimately focus on the “at-​risk” or already-​radical individual. Almost universally accepted is that each journey or pathway toward a radical position is unique. Defining and understanding radicalization becomes a search for

[ 2 ]  Gender, Religion, Extremism

key signatures of deviant behavior, circumstances, mechanisms, pathways, or ideas—​with researchers limited to arguing over the items to include in the list, which list ranges from social conditioning, economic poverty, and faulty parenting, to psychological vulnerabilities, cognitive openings, trauma, and the internet (Bartlett and Miller 2010; Wiktorowiz 2005; Dalgaard-​Nielsen 2008; Duffy 2009; Brown 2011b; Pattanaik 2011; Bjørgo and Horgan 2008; Christmann 2012; Della Porta 2018; Senzai 2015). In order to demonstrate how the variables in their lists are linked, writers distinguish between push and pull or supply and demand factors (Silva 2018; Hutson, Long, and Page 2011); others identify a difference between immediate and long-​term causes, and precipitant (trigger) factors and general conditions (Dalgaard-​Nielsen 2010; Volintiru 2010). These categorizations lead to attempts to theorize the relationships between the different clusters of variables that might influence the potential radical. For example, it is common to speak of “ideas, networks, and environment” (e.g., Hafez and Mullins 2015), which has been rebranded by one group of authors as “currencies, communities, and contexts” (Change Institute 2008), while others create a framework around psychological, social, and structural factors—​such as “people, places, and processes” as coined by Vertigans (2011) (see also Dawson 2017). Researchers either seek a comprehensive approach (including all likely factors) or tease out a narrowly selective significant list of variables. From each basis, a series of recommendations to state policymakers are then usually made, emphasizing a cluster of factors over others, or stressing areas where the state might have a useful impact. Nevertheless, because the process remains undetermined, radicalization is often reduced to signifiers of the imagined final stage of radicalization. For some, radicalization is behavioral—​the participation in political violence or new terrorism is the evidence of a radical. In contrast, radicalization is also held to be cognitive; the holding of extreme radical beliefs is sufficient to determine that an individual is radical. The signs of radical individuals, regardless of whether the concern is of cognitive or behavioral radicalism, are often conflated with certain types of Muslims: bearded men, veiled women, and converts, for example (see Kepel 2004). This conflation occurs because of an assumed conflict between Muslimness and a Western identity. While those engaging in radicalization research are keen to say they are not targeting Islam, nevertheless, as Lynch (2013) argues, a move from being concerned with a small number of Muslims, to suspecting radical Muslim sects, to suspecting all young Muslims frequently conflates Islam with radicalization and terrorism. For example, not living a “British” lifestyle renders a Muslim (or community) disenfranchised or rebellious and therefore suspect as radical (Hickman et al. 2011; Briggs and Birdwell

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2009; Kabir 2010; Department for Communities and Local Government DCLG 2007, p. 21; Bartlett and Miller 2010; Cameron 2015). Consequently radicalization encompasses a broad concern with a way of life rather than specific behaviors or actions, which has allowed for the securitization of ordinary and unexceptional lives (Amnesty International 2006; Kundnani 2012; Hussain and Bagguley 2012).In other words the, ordinary, and mundane lives of residents and travellers are caught up in, experienced through and justified via a security logic (this is discussed more in Chapter 7). The basis of antiradicalization advice to the state is an unquestioned expectation that the state must intervene, or strongly justify its nonintervention, in this trajectory of radicalization. This assumption of state agency occurs because radicalization is, with very few exceptions, constructed as an almost inevitable facilitator of terrorism: without radicalization, it is assumed, terrorism cannot occur (Lambert 2008; Lambert and Spalek 2008). This linkage can generate a narrow focus on “the potential of violence” in some analysis of radicalization that restricts the range of pathways and trajectories considered (Schuurman & Taylor 2018; Bartlett, Birdwell, and King 2010). This prediction of violence consequently legitimates state action and policy intervention in so-​called hard counterterrorism and deradicalization policies. However, the threat is frequently assumed to transcend this narrow understanding, and the US as well as the European Union and the majority of her member states see radicalization as a broader phenomenon of difference and exclusion threatening the basis of democratic social norms and politics. This more encompassing understanding of risk, and the phenomenon of radicalization itself, accordingly legitimizes state intervention in a significantly broader array of life than narrow violence-​based definitions would allow (European Commission’s Expert Group on Violent Radicalization 2008 in Coolsaaet 2008).1 The logical outcome of this expansion is the creation in 2018 of the Commission for Countering Extremism in the United Kingdom. This commission held consultations, requested groups and individuals to submit evidence, and funded short pieces of research, all in order to stimulate discussions about the nature and causes of extremism. In a speech in 2018 the chief commissioner, Sara Khan, talking about the work of the commission, argued that, “while not conflating integration, extremism and terrorism, understanding better the relationship between them is needed. . . . We recognise there exist grey areas of overlap between integration and extremism, and at the other side of the spectrum, the grey area between extremism and terrorism.” She also found that “people know extremism when they see it—​and they want it to stop” (Extremist Commission Blog 2018). The slippage between the terms, the assumption of the relationship between the three terms, and

[ 4 ]  Gender, Religion, Extremism

the slippage in harms associated with each results in a breadth of state concern and in attempts at self-​policing—​in the same piece, it’s the “public understanding” that matters for shaping policy; “we believe extremism is a whole-​society problem and therefore requires a whole-​society response” (Extremist Commission Blog 2018). What we have seen therefore in the policy realm since the early 2010s is that the broader efforts to combat radicalization have been reimagined as “preventing violent extremism” (PVE) and “countering violent extremism” (CVE), which are often conflated as “P/​CVE,” and then further linked again to the generic ideas of “countering extremism” (CE). The United Nations Counter-​Terrorism Implementation Task Force (The UN CTITF) found at least thirty-​four counter-​radicalization and antiradicalization state-​ led measures worldwide, most of which were initiated after 2000; add to these the interventions led and organized by civil society organizations and private companies, and antiradicalization has become a global effort. The UN CTITF found that the significant majority of state-​led programs were concerned with al Qaeda–​related terrorism, but not exclusively so. They identified eleven different types of programs: engaging and working with civil society, prison programs, education, promoting intercultural dialogue, tackling economic and social inequalities, global programs to counter radicalization, jamming extremist sites and promoting counter-​ narratives on the internet, legislation reforms, rehabilitation programs, developing and disseminating information, and training and qualifying agencies in counter-​radicalization work. These policies and interventions have been characterized as either “hard/​ narrow” deradicalization or “soft/​broad” counter-​radicalization, with the former targeting specific individuals at risk of or already holding such ideas, and the latter focusing more broadly on at-​risk communities. The broader programs tend to prioritize capacity building of communities—​through leadership training, introducing new forums for community-​state dialogue, increasing in-​ mosque regulation, and addressing local grievances and perceived (or actual) inequalities—​in order to become resilient or immune to radicalization. In other words, such broad counter-​radicalization measures constitute generalized social regulation in attempts to minimize the risk to the state. In contrast, narrow and hard approaches use individual targeting approaches and seek to reeducate or reform individual beliefs (through inducing a cost-​benefit analysis on the part of the radical such that deradicalization becomes a rational choice on the part of the individual through material and social rewards), and also tend to seek criminal prosecution and detention or otherwise operate within the criminal justice system.

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As a result of the extended remit for antiradicalization efforts worldwide, a range of actors now operate in this discursive space—​including organizations such as the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) and UNICEF (the United Nations Children’s Fund) that would have previously avoided the security arena. All of the interventions, whether PVE-​or CVE-​led at either end, and both targeted and broad measures, are seeking to achieve the same effect—​a reduction in radical or extreme ideas and behaviors associated with violence and terrorism and therefore ungovernable subjects. All state programs, broad and narrow, rely on some form of profiling and social network analysis; all state measures seem to rest on the notion that radicalization is a function of faulty ideas and seek to undermine these ideas (and those authoring them), minimize their acceptability in communities, and promote the state-​offered vision of the good life to replace the radical vision in the individual’s psychology. Over the past few years an apparent shift has taken place away from hard approaches relying on coercion and a move toward preventative and more voluntary approaches even among narrowly targeted programs, although paradoxically this move coincides with significantly increased police powers and security measures at the hard end of antiradicalization measures.

GENDER IN TERRORISM AND EXTREMISM

What becomes apparent in the operations and conceptualizations of counter-​radicalization, as with radicalization, is that they are highly gendered. Ideas about “the good life” (the presumed outcome of any political action) offered either by radical groups, or by the state in countering them rely on remarkably consistent ideas of masculinity and femininity.2 Stereotypes about peaceful mothers and responsible fathers factor in countries’ antiradicalization programs, regardless of their cultural framings. Notions of deviance and radicalization also depend on certain ideas about masculine behaviors, especially youth behaviors, and their association with violence. Importantly, recognizing also highlights significant failings in antiradicalization programs. Taking all of these “operational” concerns with gender in mind also shows how antiradicalization programs shore up existing gender structures and global relations. Critiquing antiradicalization through a gender approach quizzes how, where, and by whom highly contested terms (gender, extremism, radicalization, religion, security, terrorism, rights) are constructed and deployed. Who does what and why are therefore two important interlinked questions in terrorism research. More often than not, the answer is

[ 6 ]  Gender, Religion, Extremism

disaggregated by gender—​counting the number of men and women. More specifically, researchers are counting male and female bodies. Here we find gender treated as synonymous with sex—​that is, an assumed tidy alignment between distinct biological categories and the behaviors, thoughts, and positions of men and women in society. This simple linkage, while frequently made, fails empirically and normatively. Scientific advancements have shown us that sex is not a binary but rather a sliding scale; the formula of “sex = gender” is therefore exclusionary, resulting in stigmatization, discrimination, and violence, which masks our analysis of motives and opportunities (our agency). Counting bodies alone doesn’t help us address our who does what and why questions. As a result, many researchers use a more complex and nuanced understanding of the “who” part of that question by considering our bodies and our identities. Therefore, for these purposes, the significant term is gender, rather than sex, because I am interested in the how as much as the what. Gender has three parts: constructed, structural, and performative. The constructed element of gender is summarized by Simone de Beauvoir’s (1949) most cited phrase that, “One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.” De Beauvoir is highlighting that having a biological male or female body (sex) alone is not sufficient condition for being considered a woman or a man in any given society (Haslanger 2017). This is not necessarily adhering to a nature/​culture distinction but describes the social significance of bodies (sex) (Zimmerman and West 1987). Gender is therefore situational, and we can think of ourselves as carrying out gender activities that enable us to belong to a particular sex category based on socially accepted norms—​in other words, we do gender. There is a risk that our audiences don’t recognize our activities as appropriately “manly” or “womanly,” and we become judged as deviant (Butler 2006). Gender is therefore not essentially or individually defined but shaped through our interactions (or performances) with others. This is the performative element—​whereby our performance create a series of effects that consolidate the idea or impression of “being” a man or a woman (Butler 2011). De Beauvoir and other feminists note that the social significance of male and female bodies is one of difference and inequality (Peterson and Runyan 1993; S. Brown 1988). This is the structural component of gender. These three elements are reflected in a lengthy statement from the Office of the Special Advisor on Gender Issues and the Advancement of Women (2001) arguing that gender refers to the social attributes and opportunities associated with being male and female and the relationships between women and men and girls and boys, as well

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as the relations between women and those between men. These attributes, opportunities and relationships are socially constructed and are learned through socialization processes [construct]. They are context/​time-​specific and changeable. Gender determines what is expected, allowed and valued in a woman or a man in a given context [performative]. In most societies there are differences and inequalities between women and men in responsibilities assigned, activities undertaken, access to and control over resources, as well as decision-​making opportunities [structural].

UN Women in their definition of gender continue to assert how this learned aspect of gender (becoming) means, in most societies, established differences and inequalities between men and women in control over resources, activities undertaken (and their respective value), and decision-​ making opportunities. Gender is therefore part of a broader sociocultural context and a power relation, meaning that assumptions about the appropriate behaviors of (sexed) bodies inform most (if not all) social and political processes. Gender is thus a chief “organizing principle” of politics (Kimmel 2003). The UNDP acknowledges this when they stress that, in utilizing a “gender approach,” the focus is not on individual women and men but on the system that determines gender roles and responsibilities, access to and control over resources, and decision-​making potentials. The concerns of women and their security and welfare needs have been downplayed in thinking and actions in global politics, and their contributions to society and knowledge creation undervalued. Understanding how power works with and through gender, and how gender is also shaped by this power (this symbiosis is sometimes turned into shorthand as gendered) helps us better grapple with sociopolitical phenomena as well as the differences between the behaviors of men and women. Gender difference means not only that certain relationships and opportunities are considered socially acceptable or legitimate (or even natural) for men but not women, and vice versa, but also that particular values, concepts, or attitudes become associated with men and women. For example, male leaders are more often described as assertive, whereas women are called bossy; the former term has positive connotations while the latter does not. The implication is that women are not natural leaders, and that a woman leader negatively impacts those whom she leads. Over time, leadership and the positive attributes linked to it then become equated with the male/​masculine, such that positive attitudes, behaviors, and relationships of men define leadership in a tautological manner. These are stereotypes, but the effect is that even where women lead, such leadership only becomes possible if the women uphold the values and match

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the behaviors and attributes of the men around them (Mavin 2008; Due Billing and Alvesson 2000; Charles and Davies 2000). In other words, a woman leader is upholding “masculine” behaviors, but in doing so she may also threaten the masculinity of the men around her—​that is, threatening their sense of the correct ways of “being a man” in this world as “people who lead.” We then arrive at the related concepts of masculinity and femininity (and in their plural forms)—​terms that express the changeable and complex set of characteristics and behaviors prescribed to a particular sex by society (Peterson and Runyan 1993). Given these debates, gender is recognized as socially constructed, malleable, and political. Gender is viewed as an activity (“doing gender”) whereby we utilize social norms and prescriptions about sex categories based on the situations in which we find ourselves. As the above examples of leadership show, these activities are not always perceived, however, as masculine or feminine behaviors, and there is the risk of being seen as acting in more manly or womanly ways. These assessments of behavior become powerful gender ideologies, or discourses, that shape how societies function. Identifying how certain behaviors and norms are cast as masculine or feminine requires us to pay attention to where and with whom power lies in any given situation. This political element allows us to analyze the ways in which some people are empowered, and others disempowered, in antiradicalization programs and the discourse of antiradicalization. Deliberately adopting a broad approach to understanding gender captures the full extent to which gender is both claimed and ignored in antiradicalization programs. Despite recent progress in the general field of security studies and the practice of international security, gender in terrorism studies more narrowly is relatively understudied (Del Villar 2019). Although a number of feminist writers discuss women’s participation, their findings, analysis, and conclusions are usually ignored by the mainstream. As Davis notes, despite the evidence of women’s long participation in terrorism, among counterterrorism analysts and policymakers there is such “incredulity and lack of historical understanding” with each new conflict involving women (2015, p.  79). As I  discuss in c­ hapter  3 of this volume, with just one or two exceptions, gender has only been studied in the mainstream of terrorism studies when the focus has been on women’s violence within terrorist organizations. Consequently, accounts of women’s engagement are also seen only to explain “women’s terrorism” rather than inform the field as a whole—​gender is seen as a “women’s issue.”3 Women’s political violence is frequently considered exceptional—​perhaps because a smaller percentage of women are members, and a smaller percentage than men

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carry out violence in terrorist groups (O’Rourke 2009). Furthermore, a considerable fascination surrounds the female suicide bomber over all other types of women’s political violence. The mainstream study of women in terrorism is perhaps driven by a fascination with the bizarre and exotic, as practitioners in the field of counterinsurgency and counterintelligence view female terrorists as “unnatural” (Third 2010; Corcoran-​Nantes 2011). As Sjoberg and Gentry (2007; 2015)  explain, for the mainstream of security studies (and society), women’s faulty gender then becomes an explanatory variable—​overly sexed (whores), deviantly sexed (monsters), or once-​sexed (mothers) women carry out such violence. That is, “The ways in which [political] violence is read, understood, described and even prosecuted obscures the existence of perpetrators and victims who fall outside the sex-​stereotypical assumptions” regarding violent political actors (Sjoberg 2016, p. 54). This assumption about women’s agency in terrorism and radicalization is critiqued in more detail in c­ hapter 3, demonstrating that women’s participation is more complex than existing reductionist narratives. Furthermore, as this book reveals, limited understanding of gender in considering women’s violence and radicalization means that antiradicalization programs are woefully underequipped to meet the needs of women members of radical groups seeking exit strategies. Terrorist movements’ own gender ideologies also shape the actions of individual men and women, and some debate has occurred both within terrorist movements and by analysts about how groups explain the role of women in carrying out violent operations.4 Recognizing the importance of gender ideologies allows feminist researchers to look beyond claims that women are merely pawns in male violence, or that women’s participation in violence is merely an operational reaction to counterterrorism activities due to increased surveillance or curtailment of the groups’ male members’ activities. For example, a historical view of the Kurdish struggle shows that, for many, their socialist and nationalist agenda places women’s liberation as necessary to their self-​determination (al-​Ali and Pratt 2011; Alkan 2018). Ocalan, the ideological representative of The Kurdistan Workers’ Party (or the PKK—​in Kurdish: Partiya Karkerên Kurdistanê), for example, explicitly states, “Without women’s slavery, none of the other types of slavery can exist, let alone develop” (2011, p. 17). This demonstrates that recent attempts by the PKK and Peshmerga forces to assert gender equality in their cause against the so-​called Islamic State or Daesh (by constantly highlighting aggression against women by Daesh,5 and by promoting their female fighters) is not simply a public relations ploy to gain more international support. Nevertheless, Peshmerga women have been fighting for years to get appropriate recognition for their role in paramilitary forces.

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Similarly, Irish Catholic and Northern Irish Protestant militant women comment on how their contributions are minimized, as they threaten the restoration of male privilege vis-​à-​vis the state and other men (Lysaght 2005; Dowler 1998; Fisher-​Tahir 2012; Kimmel 2003; Alison 2004; Alison 2008). A failure to acknowledge how women interact and engage with terrorist organizations in radicalization theories hampers understanding and operations of antiradicalization programs because they only address a limited number of participants, and don’t consider how or what motivates men qua men as opposed to as “the radical”. Gender ideology also shapes the actions of terrorist groups. The Terik-​ e-​Taliban in Pakistan and the Dukhtara-​e-​Millat (Daughters of Faith) in Kashmir, for example, target women’s beauty shops and pir shrines (places of worship that women frequent more often than men) (Parashar 2011). Keenan (2014) also discusses the ways in which terrorist action occurs in urban spaces and has a gendered effect on security. Terrorist actions reveal their gender ideology, such that they are revealed as endeavors to recast the public sphere and shape the political good life, often to the exclusion of women and to the detriment of their rights (Mustafa, Brown, and Tillotson 2013; Brown 2019a). Terrorist groups carry out sexualized and gendered violence, including the rape of male and female civilians. In the north of Mali, al Qaeda affiliates instigated a campaign of terror through rape, forced marriage, and enforced prostitution (International Criminal Court [ICC] 2018).6 Sexualized violence and gender based violence is also embedded within and sometimes is used to affirm terrorist ideologies. In the US, the minister of information of the Black Panther Party wrote in his autobiography that he raped white women in order to get revenge on white men (Cleaver 1968, cited in Sixta 2008). Hardy (2001) argues that violent extremist groups may also target female victims for their violent acts because of the emotional impact of female casualties. She cites the example that the American embassy in Nairobi, Kenya, was specifically targeted in 1998 by al Qaeda operatives because the ambassador was a woman. Additionally, lone-​actor terrorist attacks often have a gendered element. For example, American Elliot Rodger, who killed six people and injured seven in a shooting (known as the Isla Vista shootings) in May 2014, left a 140-​page manifesto and a YouTube video explaining his actions as the “true alpha male,” taking “pleasure in slaughtering all of you,” as a punishment for women not finding him attractive (Rodger, cited in Penny 2014). Rodger, like other InCels seek to alter society through their violence, in the hope, or desperation that the advances of feminism will be undone, leading them to be treated as terrorists by some security actors (Gentry 2020; Merger 2018). These examples show how particular hyper or toxic forms

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of masculinity are rewarded by and absorbed by violent extremists and by terrorist organizations. A failure to consider gender in antiradicalization or radicalization theories therefore hinders awareness of the ways in which gender ideology motivates and shapes terrorism.

GENDER IN ANTIRADICALIZATION RESEARCH

Since beginning this research project some six years ago, the issue of women in terrorism and counterterrorism has come to the attention of think tanks, such as Wilton Park, and to some extent policymakers and practitioners, including UN Women and the EU Radicalisation Awareness Network (RAN). Academic research also is starting to address women’s participation and the framing of women, in antiradicalization efforts, particularly women’s involvement in nonkinetic and soft-​power efforts such as countering extremism. The research shows that efforts to include a gender perspective in antiradicalization efforts—​including by engaging women and women’s organizations—​have thus far been ad hoc and siloed; they are often seen as “women-​centered,” one-​off, discrete activities and commitments that are secondary to, and separate from, mainstream antiradicalization efforts (Huckerby and Ní Aoláin 2018a, 2018b; Giscard d’Estaing 2017; Eggert 2018). The research further shows how the bulk of antiradicalization efforts remain gender-​blind, meaning there is little explicit consideration of the role of gendered norms and impacts in these programs for either women or men, rendering such efforts unreflectively focused on men’s security needs and priorities (Möller-​Loswick 2017; Idris with Abdelazziz, 2017; Chowdhury-​Fink, Zeiger, and Bhulai 2016). Furthermore, because many antiradicalization initiatives are insufficiently grounded in a gender-​and human rights–​based framework, they can exacerbate adverse gendered dynamics, including gendered inequalities and forms of discrimination. This broader body of work looking at women in countering radicalization work and countering and preventing violent extremism (P/​CVE) is used to support and supplement the primary research used in the forthcoming chapters (particularly the next two). However, much of the prior research conflates counterterrorism or policy discourses with antiradicalization and antiextremism efforts, leading to conclusions about counterterrorism that aren’t necessarily sustained, and that gloss over the different mechanisms, logics, and impacts of these related areas. Additionally, much of the prior research on women’s participation in this field is focused on the antiradicalization efforts directed by the United Nations, the European

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Union, and the U.S. Agency for International Development carried out in the global south, often in fragile conflict or postconflict zones, rather than in the global north. This approach is logical given the imperial geographies of the war on terror, but it does mean, in contrast to this book, that domestic interventions and policies in the global north are overlooked or not connected to these global efforts. Finally, although, these existing works are useful, often well grounded in empirical research, and go a long way toward filling the gap in knowledge about gender and antiradicalization, they often remain at the level of show and tell—​identifying the nature of the antiradicalization and counterterrorism efforts—​but don’t necessarily look at the deeper broader question of why. That question is the underpinning intellectual puzzle for this book: Why do we see the modes of gender inclusion that we do? The conceptual framework and answer proposed in this work are rooted in how we understand gender and agency.

WOMEN’S AGENCY, SECURITY, AND EMPOWERMENT

The attacks on women’s rights by violent extremists and by radical organizations have been condemned by the United Nations; and as a result, UN agencies have sought to enhance and protect women’s rights and empowerment, both because of existing obligations on member states and as early protection and early prevention mechanisms. This move to enhance women’s rights in antiradicalization efforts is explicitly tied to the Women Peace and Security (WPS) agenda:  an agenda that has promoted and facilitated women’s meaningful participation, consideration, and determination over security policies and actions. The international policy realm—​ especially as it relates to antiradicalization and P/​CVE—​is discussed more in the next chapter. For the purposes of this section, it is significant that international and national antiradicalization efforts rely on a narrow framing of agency and empowerment (for women and men) as they are tied to a particular idea of the rights-​bearing and empowered individual. Agency, however, is a complex and much contested concept. Mainstream philosophical thought considers agency as having two core constituent parts: free will and free action (Oshana 2005). Someone’s agency is realized when they carry out activities that are in their rational self-​interest—​in other words, those activities that further promote their free will and free action. In effect, agency is about realizing autonomy and the ability and capacity to liberate oneself from oppressive contexts. Most accounts of agency are therefore framed as challenging and resisting existing power relations and upholding emancipatory politics: were it not for oppression

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we would all seek autonomous selves (Madhok 2013). The emancipatory dimension leads us to assess the outcomes of actions and decisions as either representing an individual’s possession or lack of agency (Auchter 2012). This is problematic, however, because what counts as “liberation” is the emulation of the powers and behaviors of the white, wealthy male (i.e., the rational autonomous man). Women are therefore framed a priori as victims or survivors, because they’re structurally unable to act with as much free will and free action as the rational autonomous man. Rooted in such unacknowledged gender, class, and racial ideals and contexts, this account of agency denies it to those whose actions do not appear to replicate this liberated ideal type—​such as women who support female genital cuttings, join radical organizations that limit their rights and movement, become suicide attackers, or voluntarily stay in abusive domestic relationships. The women appear not to be acting in a rational self-​interested manner (i.e., agentively) because their activities are not supporting an emancipatory politics. The response is to frame women’s agency in this context as part of “a male patriarchal project,” where women become “pawns and victims in the discourse of nationalist patriarchy.” (Rajasingham-​Senanayake, 2000, p.  9) The women were perceived to have faulty agency rather than their actions and choices leading to a rethinking of agency (De Mel 2014). As regards this research, despite behaving “like men,” there is a mainstream refusal to link female participation in terrorism to self-​aware and agentive political devotion to a cause, despite the fact that it is a “good enough” explanation in the case of men’s choice of terrorism (Agara 2015, p. 118). This refusal is picked up in ­chapter 3 of this book, but it occurs because the majority of theories and arguments about terrorism and radicalization are underpinned by these assumptions about agency as something that by the emancipatory outcomes of individuals’ activities can measure (Auchter 2012). In order to escape the dilemma of only seeing women’s violence as complicit with patriarchy because it doesn’t fit ideal gender types, and to escape the imperial overtones of denying agency of those who don’t seek the autonomous rational standard, feminist philosophers have an alternative account of agency that prioritizes decision-​making processes. Nancy Hirschmann (2003) argues that freedom is the “choosing subject” (to make choices; and opportunities and power to participate in the construction of choices) and that agency is determined in the process of decision making. This type of agency is understood as procedural agency; it is content-​and outcome-​neutral and allows us to recognize the agency of those in oppressive conditions, even where they do not appear to resist them (an example of this approach is Diana Meyers [2000a] discussing female genital

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cutting [also known as Female Genital Mutilation—​or FGM]). Within this framing is a tendency to see the “choosing subject” as requiring the skills of self-​discovery, self-​realization, and self-​definition (or self-​narration) (Lindemann 2014; Meyers 1989; 2000a). Under coercive conditions, impediments to agentive activity still exist, and what Friedman (2003) refers to as these “autonomy competencies” may be diminished. Unlike the framing of agency as outcome-​driven, here women’s political violence can be understood, for example, through their own accounts and by following a series of choices and actions in order to understand how they arrived at this particular outcome. Swati Parashar’s writing on women in Sri Lanka and Kashmir brings out these complex choices and narrations (2009). The implication is that agency is the realization of the authentic true self, yet as Saba Mahmood (2005), Madhok (2013), and others note, our subject positions are precarious, and activities of self-​shaping or self-​fashioning often occur in contradictory, competing, and intersecting discourses or modes of subjectivity. Agency, especially in oppressive conditions, cannot therefore be founded on the realization of a singular authentic immutable identity. Following Butler (1990), agency doesn’t need to derive from a theory of the self but is seen as an effect of power and discourse through which subjects are produced. Agency is how we recognize others as actors, how we acknowledge and understand people as agents operating within a particular field. We rationalize others’ actions (including speech and silence) via different discourses, within multiple contexts, and relative to other subject positions. However, no single discourse produces the subject woman; the presence of no singular feminine subject (or terrorist subject) means that there is no singular model of agency for how someone becomes known as a woman or a terrorist. Understanding agency is about understanding the discourses and power that produce these subject positions. As such, I  am less concerned with explaining women’s agency as “actions”—​although as Chandler (2018) notes, this is the dominant way of thinking about women and terrorism—​ and more concerned with how their agency as subject positions are produced through the multiple discourses of antiradicalization. I argue that agency in radicalization and antiradicalization discourses is premised on the idea as the self as a proj­ ect (or a business) who can operate in good order with other projects to balance risks—​they are neoliberal conceptions of the self. In neoliberal discourses, people as such are collections of skills and traits that they are continuously responsible for investing in, enhancing, and managing (Martin 2000, p. 582). The self is therefore tasked with responsible self-​ management and self-​governance, and with a will to empower, which also

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requires training and directing—​that is, policing—​toward the ordered and rational balancing of risks in cooperation with others. Failure to responsibly self-​govern is a failure to direct the self toward this will to empower, and justifies external intervention and additional policing (Rasmussen 2011; Kienscherf 2016). Within contemporary discourses, radicalization is a problematized (in)capacity for agency and autonomy, because it produces irresponsible and disordered selves. Therefore antiradicalization efforts—​ whether directed at individuals or communities—​are policing attempts at (re)shaping the capacity for responsible self-​governance (Kienscherf 2016). Like counterinsurgency, the aim of antiradicalization efforts is not to police irresponsible radicals but to enable them to police themselves. The focus of this book is therefore on the gendered discourses and practices of power that produce radicals and counter-​radicals with particular forms of agency.

RELIGION IN TERRORISM 7

Alongside gender, another key factor in this book is a consideration of how antiradicalization discourses and policies interact with discourses of religion. Giving the framing of the War on Terror as a war on Islam and despite various denials from world leaders, the relationship between religion and radicalization is embedded within these debates—​ even as antiradicalization efforts in the West are beginning to address extremism from far-​right, misogynist (“InCel”), and white supremacist groups and ideologues. Scott Atran commented in 2006, “It [religion] has done everything you can imagine, and its contrary.” Religion is seen as both the blessing and the curse of contemporary politics, or to take a more secular analogy, both the disease and the cure. This is sometimes referred to as the “two faces of faith,” and in thinking specifically about terrorism, we find that religion is presented as both the cause of and the solution to political violence. For example, in a United States Institute for Peace (USIP) 2017 briefing paper on engaging religious actors in CVE, they quote a Wilton Park conference, “Efforts to prevent or counter radicalization and extremism therefore need to ‘right-​size’ religion as both a contributing factor and part of the solution” (Wilton Park 2016).

Religion as the Problem

Numerous attempts have been made to demonstrate a causal relationship between religion and violence, and it appears commonsensical that religion

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or at least religious difference leads to conflict (Cavanaugh 2009; Appleby 1999; Huntington 1999). The phrase “Islamic terrorism” attests to this perceived relationship, casting sweeping generalizations about the worlds’ 1.6 billion Muslims, and presuming that violence is inherent in Islam and Muslim societies. We see this in Israeli leader Benjamin Netanyahu’s unsubtle and orientalist writings advising how the West can defeat terrorism, claiming that the contemporary world of Islam is medieval and that the religion itself invented terrorism in the Middle Ages (see for example:  Netanyahu 2001). Bielefeldt (2016), the UN’s Special Rapporteur on Freedom of Religion or Belief from 2010 to 2016, and Juergensmeyer (2003), respond to such language, arguing instead that this is not religious violence but religionized violence or violence in the name of religion, here challenging causality but nevertheless acknowledging the ways in which religion and politics are co-​constituted. Empirical research is increasingly nuanced in showing how religion can prolong, exacerbate and encourage violence (see Isaacs 2016 for a review). Nadia Delicata (2009) responds, “Violence within religion, or violence in the name of religion, causes the greatest scandal to human sensibilities. . . . It highlights ever more sharply how in our person, society, cultural existence, we are fundamentally torn apart—​within ourselves, from each other, from our infinite hope” (p. 13).

Labeling and Naming “Bad Islam”

The efforts to signal a more complex relationship between religion and violence than direct causality also affects the ways in which terrorist groups are described. Three dominant terms exist for describing in shorthand the relationship between religion and violence: jihadist violence, Islamist violence, religiously inspired violence. The label “Islamist violence” is an attempt to show how the violence is not conflated with Islam (that would be “Islamic violence”) but with the ideology of Islamists, sometimes also discussed as “Islamofascism.” Islamists seeks to reformulate politics in the light of religious ideals and precepts, often including the incorporation of sharia, the increased role of religious authorities in state governance, and from some perspectives the reduction in the rights of women and minorities. However, not all Islamists advocate violence as the method to achieve these goals, and not all Islamists view religious involvement in laws and governance as necessarily resulting in anti–​human rights and antidemocratic outcomes. In attempts to refine this further, we see the recent inclusion of more refined labels, the idea of “Salafi-​Jihadi” or simply “jihadi” as a descriptor of groups with which the state should be concerned. Here

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the link is to a particular understanding of jihad as espoused by some violent groups. While jihad has a complex history8 and multiple meanings, it is within this label understood to be the willingness to use violence (striving) in order to defend and implement God’s divine order. For these groups, jihad is the missing pillar of Islam, and their understanding to fulfilling this duty is best expressed through the phrase “commanding right and forbidding wrong”—​the outcome of which is an emulation and reenactment of the early period of Islam when the Prophet’s companions (the Salafs) were alive (Cook 2005; Maher 2016). With this label, the idea of jihad drives the radical’s violence, which is problematic, however, as it accepts the groups’ definition of jihad at the expense of others, and implicitly accepts these groups’ claims to a transhistorical and decontextualized reading of the concept—​one that reduces options for questioning and critiquing their use of it. The third term, “religiously inspired,” offers the loosest of connections between religion and violence. Here violence may be inspired by religious beliefs and religious practices and religious modes of belonging, and religion operates as the register through which violence has meaning. In other words, violence is made meaningful by the actor in terms of Islam, even as other factors intervene.

Religion as the Solution

Having the capacity to be both the cause of our “infinite hope” (borrowing from Martin Luther King Jr.’s sermons9) and to separate us from it points to these two faces of religion. Galtung’s (2014) theory of the peace potential of religions is built on this idea. It focuses on the factors that can make religions prone to promoting violence and then extrapolates from these to identify and develop the factors that lend themselves to the potential of religions to maintain or build peace, arguing that the latter can and should be promoted. For Thomas (2005) also, religion can facilitate a dialogue about “virtues” for shaping a better society. Specifically, as Abu-​Nimer (2003) explains, Islamic values or virtues are based on the universal dignity of humanity, the equality of all races and ethnic groups, and the sacredness of human life and forgiveness, and are therefore good groundings for peacebuilding and conflict resolution (see also Sachedina [2000] and Kalin [2005]). Others suggest that a good grounding in religious knowledge can reduce the appeal of violent extremism by limiting the opportunities for harmful exploitation by religious or political leaders (Hellyer 2016; Appleby

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1999). These approaches are often confessional and viewed as apologia by academia; they are important, however, because they refuse to leave the religious discursive field to Islamophobes or extremists. This understanding of religion as the antidote to radicalization works because “good religion” shows that religion can be made governable and be knowable in a secular world. “Bad religion” resists this; bad religion, radical religion, and radically inspired religion become evidence of questionable agency and a lack of responsible self-​governance. Often the shortcut to identifying good—​ that is, governable—​ religion for antiradicalization purposes is a particular reading of gender relations and agency within a religion.10 For example, emphasis is placed on whether religious practices formally allow women to divorce; have freedom of marriage choices and abortion rights; have access to independent wealth; and have legal protections against violence on their persons (either in terms of anti-​FGM or honor killings). “Good Islam” permits women to have these rights and prevents harms; “Bad Islam” does not. In other words, production of the Muslim Woman as self-​governing and therefore with agency is a sign of good Islam and is advocated within antiradicalization discourses. However, this understanding of gender relations within a religion is based not on everyday practices or the negotiations inherent in doing gender, but from a presumed position of a fixed official religion—​ that is, “Islam says . . .”—​despite that these are very personal, everyday lived practices. Islam, like rights, in antiradicalization efforts becomes something that happens to Muslim women rather than something they do. Therefore, what we see is how antiradicalization programs engage with, authorize, and govern “big R” Religion. Big R Religion is the official or expert religion, rather than the everyday “little r religion” of Muslims. Shakman-​Hurd (2017) makes these distinctions, drawing on Geertz’s differentiation between big Islam and little Islam, and follows the common distinction in feminist writings on international relations to distinguish between the discipline (“ir”) and the practice (“IR”). Moreover, while my focus in this book is less about how religious experts authorize particular subject positions (ways of being Muslim and of being a Muslim Woman) within antiradicalization efforts, it does looks at the religious resources that practitioners, policymakers, and those they target deploy. Such resources are religious ideas (content of belief), religious practices (ritual behavior), social organization (religious community), and religious (or spiritual) experiences (Haar 2004, p. 22). This approach is important as it stops religion being from reduced to belief alone, and includes behaviors and belonging (Brown 2018b; 2020).

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INTERSECTIONALITY—​R ACE, RELIGION, AND GENDER

One of the gaps in this book is a detailed consideration of race and the postimperial heritage of the antiradicalization narratives and interventions. The war on terror is a racial project that sorts and categorizes people as part of a broader policing politics of empire (Naber 2006). In a global racial system, Muslim bodies are not just racialized as a “biological body but also as a cultural and social entity constructed within a number of discursive regimes, including those of terrorism, fundamentalism, patriarchy, sexism and labor migration” (Rana 2011, p. 28). Muslim bodies are racialized not just or only through skin pigmentation, but by ascribing sets of characteristics as inherent to members of a group because of cultural or physical traits, such that those cultural traits become conflated with biology. Antiradicalization policies in Europe tend to rehash assimilationist and integrationist discourse about Europe’s racialized minorities, through pointing to cultural traits as inherent signs of inferiority (Garner and Selod 2015). Thus we find Muslim bodies racialized as “terrorist” in gendered ways (Selod 2019). Race clearly matters, and the antiradicalization lineage in terms of colonial and postcolonial history should be mapped, as it also affects the policies of non-​ European countries (Howell & Richter-​Montpetit 2019). Others have tried to bring this together by considering the racialization of Islam and treating Islamophobia as a form of racism. This perspective often glosses over the different histories of racialization for Muslims, flattening their identity. Indeed, as Chan-​Malik (2011, pp. 8–​9) highlights, Muslims as a group represent “dizzying racial, ethnic, class, and generational diversity,” and have an “expansive range of Islamic belief and practice” that makes the term “Muslim” too vague and homogenizing; it ignores multiple subjectivities. In order to overcome this flattening tendency, many observers advocate prioritizing and listening to the voices of the subaltern (in my previous works I have tried to do so), but contrary to many other volumes on antiradicalization, my effort here is to track and highlight the discourses of practitioners and those intervening, as well as those targeted and those labeled as radical. Such as approach makes it hard to deploy the ethnographic pursuit that many Critical Race and critical security scholars advance. In addition, discourses and concepts of race are not distinctly unpacked and critiqued as fully as gender and religion are in this work. An alternative framework that acknowledges race but doesn’t prioritize it comes through the analytic lens of feminist intersectionality. Carefully trying not to make intersectionality a term deployed only as a more interesting way of saying, “race, class, and gender,” I see intersectionality as an agenda for theorizing inequalities as connected—​sometimes reinforcing

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and sometimes in contradictory ways (Carastathis 2016). Spivak’s work on the subaltern (1988), Puar’s work on homo-​nationalism (2007), Brunner’s work on orientalism (2007), Gentry’s work on empathetic cooperation (2009b), and Penttinen’s work on abjectivity (2006), among others, have shaped my approach on intersectionality and agency. Therefore, this research and analysis prioritizes questions about power and inequality across and through the ways in which our bodies are marked and produced as agentive subjects.

CHAPTER OUTLINES

The chapters are thematic in focus and take five individual countries’ programs and policies to demonstrate the importance of gender in understanding and evaluating counter-​radicalization. The next brief chapter introduces the key developments and policies of antiradicalization through the war on terror, and global agencies such as the United Nations and NATO (the North Atlantic Treaty Organization), to help situate the policies and programs of the countries in focus. The chapter then gives details about the current situation within each country regarding extremism and radicalization brief outlines of the evolution of antiradicalization efforts. This introduction helps contextualize the arguments that I present in the subsequent chapters. Chapter 3 addresses some of the key theories on the radicalization process and looks at women in radicalization, paying particular attention to those theories and writers who discuss groups where women are known to be active members. None of the theories take gender seriously yet, which means they dismiss the lived experiences of radicals—​despite their claims to the contrary. A consequence is that theories at worst ignore, or at best diminish, women’s involvement, a trend repeated in policies. Chapter  3 shows how commentators sexualize women’s agency—​women are primarily viewed as having been “groomed” or “seduced.” To redress that balance, I  consider explanations of individual women who have been involved in terrorism and political violence from the position of intersectional agency. Moving from individual to group analysis, I also show how and when women are violent, or when they support violence within groups; their actions are on the one hand revealed in policy and public discourse as more shocking but on the other as a sign of weakness on the part of terrorist organizations. This denies the internal logics of radical groups that justify and facilitate women’s participation. The chapter focuses on four archetypes of women radicals:  the “female suicide terrorist” (FST), the “white widow,”

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the “jihadi bride” and the “female foreign terrorist fighter.” Understanding what antiradialization policymakers and researchers believe themselves to be addressing is important as it enables us to critique and evaluate their outcomes, actions and assumptions. Despite the lack of consideration of women as violent or as potentially politically violent, counter-​radicalization programs nevertheless include women—​as collaborators. Chapter 4 focuses on one of the key ideas, a maternal logic, that underpins their presumed participation. This logic derives from beliefs about women’s aims for “world preservation” that situate women as moderate and peaceful in global politics. The consequence is that women are assumed to be a priori antiradical, and any violence carried out by women is dismissed. I then explore how in antiradicalization programs women are located as being naturally peaceful and supportive. I questions this maternal logic by examining what policymakers and women themselves interpret as moderate, and suggest that the thick social bonds that motivate individuals also challenge ideas of the moderate and responsible governing self. This logic of feminine moderation is also compared with how al Qaeda and Daesh discuss the role of women in jihad—​“distracting” to men on the battlefield, only permitted to participate as a matter of last resort, and only if they have a higher chance of success than a man. In the second part of ­chapter 4 I demonstrate that the maternalist logic present in antiradicalization debates only works if, in the same move, young Muslim men are presented as troublesome and violent. Young men are considered at risk by virtue of particular masculinities, which are presumed to be hypersexual, working class, and foreign. We can also see how this plays out in Islamist constructions of manliness or marwa, performing as a marker of normative hegemonic masculinity, embodying the most honored way of being a man. In c­ hapter  5 I  show how maternal logic links the presumed moderate bias and pacifism of women that was identified in the ­chapter 4 with the emphasis placed on women’s roles as mothers and wives. The focus is on how women’s engagement with the state in antiradicalization programs is filtered through their “mother work.” Ideas of world preservation and mother work presume the home is the site of tranquility (in fact, the name of the Saudi program targeting women who are mothers) and that women are naturally located there. Caring is set up as the counter to radical violent action and dovetails with the moderation narrative. The focus in counter-​ radicalization on women’s roles as mothers and wives is demonstrated in this chapter. Yet given women’s capacity for political violence, premising antiradicalization programs on the view that wives and mothers (not women) are pro-​ state and nonextreme is questionable. Additionally,

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through these maternalist logics, antiradicalization policies and programs and public debate compound broader tendencies in security politics that women are seen not as agents but as subjects of the debate and policies. Chapter  5 concludes by arguing that debates over women’s appropriate roles in society, in politics, and in the home are the hidden battleground over which both counter-​radicalization and radical groups operate. Radical groups present a narrative about the failures of Western society and feminism to protect women, and which has also led to the emasculation of men. Antiradicalization efforts that unreflectively presume that Western society and feminism have benefited Muslim women in Europe equally in comparison to other women fail to fully appreciate the difficulties of young Muslim women negotiating their complex identities under conditions of discrimination, poverty, and Islamophobia. This failure necessarily delegitimizes the programs and discourses, and fools policymakers into focusing solely on religious or foreign policy aspects of radical groups’ propaganda. However, gender is not just about women. The book moves on to consider the role of fatherhood and paternalism in antiradicalization measures. In c­ hapter 6 I make two arguments: (1) paternalism characterizes the relationship between the state and individuals in antiradicalization programs, and (2) paradoxically the techniques used emasculate and simultaneously demand hyper-​masculinity. The consequence is that while individuals may become deradicalized, the policies reinforce inequalities at the group level that some analysts see as a cause of individual and group radicalization. The mechanisms and discourses of antiradicalization establish paternalistic relationships between the individuals operating the program and their beneficiaries (to use the language of the Saudi antiradicalization policies). Building up individual relationships based on an “ethic of care” to generate trust is seen as key to many antiradicalization policies. In the United Kingdom, however, the security quest for information and attempts at building trust to deradicalize are undermined by a lack of accountability and transparency in a number of programs. As a result, there is an ongoing battle between the racialized local Muslim community male power vis-​à-​ vis the state’s white masculine power. A  strict but fair disciplinarianism is promoted to accompany the caring paternalism. The heroic physical defense of the state against terrorism is typical of the hegemonic militarized masculinity that feminists note, and as is also demonstrated in this chapter, counterterrorism programs worldwide are increasingly militarized. In conjunction with the militarization of antiradicalization policies, there are numerous accounts of counterterrorism officials engaged in torture and human rights violations—​in the name of providing security—​that are often sexualized in nature and emasculate particular suspect men. The

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policies therefore seek to demonstrate the humanity of the state by acting in a considerate and caring manner, but serve to reinforce its paternal and emasculating undertones. These inconsistencies are important because they reinforce certain groups and forms of male power at the expense of others, and therefore reduce the programs’ success and benefits. More broadly, these elements are significant because antiradicalization programs are assumed to be less kinetic than counterterrorism operations, and many commentators see them as a positive step. However, that these programs replicate military actions and military masculinity and also violate human rights norms must raise questions about whether such programs are positive steps forward or if they are simply iron fists wrapped in velvet gloves. Chapter  7 has two key elements addressing the failures of antiradicalization programs. The first is that the masculinities supported through antiradicalization discourses are premised on a chivalric defense of the citizens. Such chivalric masculinity, as evident in antiradicalization programs, only operates if we assume that bad men are lurking to attack women, and believe in the existence of helpless, hyperfeminized victims who are not capable of defending themselves. The second is that the more societies accept an increasingly authoritarian and paternalistic state power, the more societies are expected to extend their gratitude for protection and dissent or criticism of that power is marginalized. Symbiotically, there is a proliferation of securitization, where greater areas of ordinary life are reclassified as security concerns, thereby furthering the range of state interest in everyday private lives under the guise of protection. However, these antiradicalization measures are failing to protect women. The broad methods adopted create unsafe spaces through both increased surveillance and the appropriation of other institutions—​such as schools, universities, mosques, and health-​care providers—​for security measures. The negative outcomes of these for men and women are considered in the chapter. Furthermore, as programs frequently incarcerate male heads of household for indefinite periods of time and deny them civil and political rights, women are denied a right to a family life and often experience economic hardship. State attempts to reduce women’s suffering are made in a purely utilitarian manner to reduce the risk of the detainee regressing. Such attempts further place women in the role of wives of detainees, who thus become dependent upon the state—​to which they should be grateful and gracious. The consequence of the maternalism and paternalism present in these programs is akin to a protection racket. The measures at worst undermine women’s rights and security, and at best constitute a demand for deference from citizens in exchange for governance and security. This attitude of deference undermines a society’s capacity for critical engagement with

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the state over the appropriateness and effectiveness of its policies. Any dissent to these programs is delegitimized through the evocation of security. In the final chapter I summarize the arguments of the book, reveal the consequences of these programs, and present alternative policy options. I level three main criticisms at antiradicalization programs. First, in their construction, these programs fail to explore or engage with how masculinity and femininity inform the radicalization process. As a result, antiradicalization efforts and practitioners cannot successfully account for the personal drivers or the sociopolitical environment in which these programs operate. Second, despite this conceptual failing, within the operations of these programs it becomes clear that male radicalization is unreflectively linked to an excessive but flawed masculinity, and women’s radicalization depends on orientalist stereotypes about passivity and subjugation, as women are presumed to be groomed. Solutions for male deradicalization therefore hinge on particular ideals of masculinity that few men can obtain, while deradicalizing women is seen as a rescue mission. These are operational failings. Third, the impact of these programs derives from a paternalist logic that justifies intervention in everyday lives in the name of security, yet fails to deliver. The impact of counter-​radicalization measures has a gendered differential. Although the rhetoric of countering terrorism is often couched in a narrative of women’s rights and liberal values, in this book I demonstrate that the consequences are often detrimental to these precepts. Antiradicalization efforts to date, therefore also fail in terms of outcomes. There are wider consequences of these three critiques: First, while they may be presented as less coercive and less violent than militarized counterterrorism operations, they nevertheless rely on a binary of rights vs. security, and reinforce authoritarian and paternalist tendencies in state attitudes. Second, they limit and delegitimize serious concerns about our understanding of radicalization, while absolving states’ responsibility for creating extremism by focusing on particular elements in the radicalization story. Third, by relying on paternalist and maternalist logics, these critiques replicate the limited thinking in extremist narratives. Antiradicalization programs present the “correct version” of living and believing (one that does not threaten the state) in much the same way that extremist groups present their own “correct versions.” The consequence is that individuals are denied agency because they are not given the option to critique for themselves the versions being presented, which engenders a very limited form of loyalty and security for the state. Finally, in this last chapter, I  offer some policy alternatives that are rooted in challenging the whole-​life narratives that contemporary extremist

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groups present. The alternatives are rooted in a human rights–​compliant framework that seeks to enhance the security of individuals as well as the state. I do so by looking at the main elements of each country’s programs and suggest revisions with these two principles in mind.

CHAPTER CONCLUSIONS

Introductions offer us insights into the overarching arguments; they also offer a range of themes and issues to which the book keeps returning. I want to draw your attention to three of them. The gendered nature of the radicalization concept itself.11 The radicalization concept emerged suddenly after 9/​11 in the global north to explain how domestic citizens could attack democratic states (see Sedgwick 2010). It radically alters the portrayal of agency in someone’s decision to mobilize. Whereas state counterterrorism discourses previously criminalized the person as “bad” and “evil,” now the person is feminized in their preterrorism state. Within this framing, someone “radicalized” them; someone else did this to them; they were a victim; they did not choose to take on these views.12 The radicalized individual was therefore not responsibly self-​governing, lacking the autonomy and drive to nurture and direct their skills and attributes. The person being radicalized is made passive, whereas the more experienced radicalizer is the agent. Additionally the antiradicalizer has agency and subjectivity, as the chivalric hero. Once the radical has been policed and made governable through the actions of the antiradicalizing forces, the once or former radical confirms the power and legitimacy of the state to intervene, and realizes gendered agency and subjectivity to the state. Radicalization becomes a sign of failed responsible self-​governance. Recrafting agency is therefore the underpinning agenda of antiradicalization interventions. Through these efforts, the radical individual, or vulnerable community, is remade as a former or resilient community within the boundaries of responsible self-​management rather than in ways that threaten gender, class, and racial global power relations. Antiradicalization efforts only offer a contained agency (not one rooted in critical reflection) and are therefore limited in effectiveness. Antiradicalization efforts therefore can offer only singular accounts of knowledge, power, and agency, ironically replicating the grammar of extremism. Antiradicalization efforts support the radical state. In the quest to counter radicalization, the state and state agents both become and depend upon the radical that they oppose. As critical security scholars before

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me have noted, radical groups and the state both believe in their singular mode of being in the world and are willing to use violence to foreclose alternatives. A particular ideal of agency is therefore promoted. This is why the opposite of radicalization should not be antiradicalization, as we have in current policy and public discourses, but in pluralist, inclusive, and expansive understandings of peace and agency that allow for multiple potential futures.

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CHAPTER 2

Country Focus and Global Endeavors

T

his chapter offers the reader some background information and context for the arguments later in the book. The purpose here is not to rehash the history and geographies of the war on terror or the evolutions in counterterrorism that have accompanied it. I show how, despite different contexts, there is a coherent and consistent approach to antiradicalization initiatives. I begin by looking at the efforts of global and regional institutions (the UN, EU, and NATO) and then move to outline the antiradicalization programs of the five countries that form the basis of the research of this book. The research does not determine whether this apparent uniformity derives from the shaping efforts of the UN and other transnational institutions or vice versa, but it shows how antiradicalization initiatives are mutually reinforcing and driven by the same underpinning logics, even given the friction and complaints about the action or inaction of others. Additionally, in this chapter I highlight the wider generalizability of the findings from this research on five countries.

GENDER AND GLOBAL EFFORTS FOR COUNTERING RADICALIZATION

As Kundnani and Hayes note in their report on countering violent extremism (CVE), what began as a few rhetorical commitments from a handful of agencies has developed into a multitude of policies worldwide (2018, p. 2).1 They cite Bono, who, speaking before the US Senate Committee on Appropriations, argued that the US should deploy “a Marshall Plan to head off the rise of violent extremism in North Africa, the Middle East, Gender, Religion, Extremism. Katherine E. Brown, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190075699.001.0001

and the Sahel.” Kundandi and Hayes argue that the move to CVE and radicalization has given the war on terror a new vocabulary, new partners to interact with (from musicians and artists to educators and health workers as well as the usual components of the security sector), and a wider range of methods for countering terrorism. This connection to the war on terror helps us understand and situate the resolutions and strategies of global and regional players such as the UN, NATO, and the EU in relation to radicalization. A wide variety of global and regional actors, including the Council of Europe, the African Union, and the Association of Southeast Asian Nations, are also taking up these policies and ideas.2 The origins and roots of antiradicalization efforts are in the war on terror. In early 2005, as the failures of the Anglo-​American military interventions in Iraq and Afghanistan became evident, strategies of regime change and eliminating al Qaeda were increasingly sidelined, and policies and rhetoric shifted toward “strategies against violent extremism” and addressing the perceived problem of “support in the Muslim world for radical Islam” (Glasser 2005; Sabir 2017). Counterinsurgency strategies to win the hearts and minds of others and the “battle of ideas” came to be treated as seriously as the battle for territory (Nagl 2005). This reorientation to attacks on values, beliefs, and emotions as the “real threat” becomes a mechanism by which the violence in Afghanistan, Pakistan, and the Middle East could be related to the nonstate violence in Europe and North America. Now terrorism was truly identified as global—​as much from these discursive shifts of those fighting the war on terror as it was by the actions of “global terrorists.” Thus we find from 2006 onward the UN Global Counter-​ Terrorism Strategy characterizing terrorism as “one of the most serious threats to international peace and security.”3 Many feminists—​such as Charlesworth and Chinkin (2002) , Fergusson (2005) , Shepherd (2006) , Steans (2008), Bhattacharyya (2008), Masters (2009) , and Zalewski and Runyan (2013) —​have spoken generally about the gender dynamics in the war on terror. In these arguments, the war on terror is gendered and informed by a sexualized racism, and there exists a centrality of gender in the construction of recognizable and legitimate narratives of the war on terror: the female protected and male protectors generate boundaries between terrorists and those others on the wrong side of civilization. The global counterterrorism strategy provides the core strategic framework and policy guidance to the UN system on countering terrorism and is supported by a number of counterterrorism-​related Security Council Resolutions that create obligations on Member States. This strategy contains four pillars:  tackling the conditions conducive to the spread of terrorism; preventing and combating terrorism; building states’ capacity to

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prevent and combat terrorism, and to strengthen the role of the UN system in that respect; and ensuring respect for human rights for all and the rule of law as the fundamental basis for the fight against terrorism (A/​RES/​60/​ 288 (2006)). Not until 2014 did concerns about the balance of activities between these four pillars come under scrutiny. The rise of Daesh led to significant questions being raised about the efficacy of pillar 2—​namely traditional counterterrorism and kinetic4 security-​based measures (A/​70/​674  ¶ 4). As laid out in the United Nations Secretary-​General’s “Plan of Action to Prevent Violent Extremism” (Plan of Action), there is now a recognized “need to take a more comprehensive approach which encompasses not only ongoing, essential security-​based counterterrorism measures, but also systematic preventive measures which directly address the drivers of violent extremism.” (A/​70/​674, ¶ 6). This more preventive approach includes “reinvigorating those measures covered under” pillar 1 (conditions conducive) and pillar 4 (ensuring human rights) of the UN Global Counter-​ Terrorism Strategy. The conditions identified in the UN Plan of Action are lack of socioeconomic opportunities, marginalization and discrimination, poor governance, violations of human rights and the rule of law, prolonged and unresolved conflicts, and radicalization in prisons. We see these being addressed by the five countries researched for this book, with varying degrees of emphasis. Even where these countries do not address such issues within their domestic antiradicalization programs, we see them contributing to and supporting global overseas efforts. As is picked up in this work, much of these programs are forms of social sorting and engineering. With regard to the need to develop strategies for addressing conditions conducive to terrorism, UN Security Council Resolution (UNSCR) 2178 (2014) emphasized the importance of developing nonviolent alternative avenues for conflict prevention and resolution by affected individuals and local communities to decrease the risk of radicalization to terrorism, as well as efforts to promote peaceful alternatives to violent narratives espoused by foreign terrorist fighters. The Security Council encouraged states to take steps to empower youth; families; women; religious, cultural, and education leaders; and all other concerned groups of civil society. Such broad counter-​radicalization or “preventing violent extremism” (PVE) initiatives may include the establishment of interreligious and intercultural dialogue mechanisms, educational and religious initiatives, community engagement programs, or development of national strategies. CVE programs address the “drivers of radicalization” as the UN sees them. Within the Plan of Action, the drivers of

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radicalization are grouped under four broad areas: personal experiences that confirm violent extremism (VE) ideologies, collective grievances and victimization, cynical distortion of beliefs and ethnic-​ cultural differences, and influence of charismatic leaders and social networks. The assumptions and theories that led to this list of drivers and the identification of the particular conditions conducive to VE are discussed more in the next chapter. Importantly, because of the considerable latitude afforded to states in defining VE, PVE, and CVE, antiradicalization measures have taken on a number of forms that differ in the extent to which they seek to address the overall climate in which VE flourishes, or to undertake more direct interventions. Consequently there is considerable overlap between CVE and PVE programs and counterterrorism, as proposed by UN bodies. This overlap is reflected in national policies and programs as well, and informs the decision in this book to focus on the combined efforts as “antiradicalization” rather than simply focus on one or the other. Within the Plan of Action there is some attention to gender and to women’s rights as they relate to preventing violent extremism. This includes a series of recommendations that member states enhance the capacity of women and their civil society groups to participate and respond to antiradicalization efforts, include more women working in antiradicalization initiatives and policy areas; adopt gender-​mainstreamed perspectives in design and implementation, include gender inequality as a condition conducive to terrorism, and the now ever-​present call to invest in gender-​sensitive research and data collection. The offering of these recommendations reflects the sustained efforts to include women and gender in security debates and resolutions for the past twenty years: the Women, Peace and Security (WPS) agenda. The WPS agenda was institutionalized by UN Resolutions 1325 (passed in 2000), 1889 (in 2013), and in 2178 (in 2014). International policy is typically focused on women, empowering them either as a preventative measure to war and terrorism, or during conflict and in postconflict scenarios to bring about more sustainable settlements. In general, though, while women are brought to the table in peace and security initiatives following a civil war, Fionnuala Ní Aoláin (2016) points out how women are noticeably absent in the realm of counterterrorism policy formation and implementation. Only in October 2015 did the UN focus on women’s potential contributions to countering terrorism (adopting UNSCR 2242). It specifically recognizes the need to engage with women on countering violent extremism and antiradicalization efforts. It urges member states and the UN

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To ensure the participation and leadership of women and women’s organizations in developing strategies to counter terrorism and violent extremism . . . including by the empowerment of women, youth, religious and cultural leaders, the conditions conducive to the spread of terrorism and violent extremism . . . ; calls for adequate financing in this regard and for an increased amount, with the funding of the UN for counter-​terrorism and countering violent extremism which can be conducive to terrorism, to be committed to projects which address gender dimensions including women’s empowerment. (¶13)

The most recent WPS resolution, UNSCR 2467 (2019), reaffirms the linkages between WPS, countering terrorism, and VE. It requests the secretary-​general and relevant UN entities to strengthen the monitoring, analysis, and reporting arrangement on conflict-​related sexual violence, including with information related to sexual violence as a tactic of terrorism. It affirmed that sexual violence is used as a tactic of war and of terrorism (UNSCR 2467, ¶ 6, 28). Accordingly, the Security Council asks the UN Counter-​Terrorism Executive Directorate (CTED) to work with various UN entities and member states to ensure inclusion of “information regarding Member States efforts to address the issue of trafficking in persons and its link with sexual violence in conflict and post-​conflict situations committed by terrorist groups,” in its country assessments (UNSCR 2467, ¶ 29). As this shows, global efforts to focus on women and gender were motivated initially by the potential harms to women by terrorism, and more recently by the potential threats women pose to global, regional, and national security when they engage in terrorism. The first agenda is championed by UN women and the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP), as UN Under-​Secretary-​General and UN Women Executive Director Phumzile Mlambo-​Ngcuka stated in 2018:  “Terrorists and violent extremists have increasingly targeted women and women’s rights as a tactic of terrorism.” (UNWomen 2018). They were successful in gaining UN-​wide acknowledgment, “that acts of sexual and gender-​based violence are known to be part of the strategic objectives and ideology of certain terrorist groups and are used as an instrument to increase their power through supporting financing and recruitment and through the destruction of communities.” The UNDP further argues that despite important differences in ideology, composition, and targets, groups and individuals practicing violent extremism also share a number of characteristics—​notably an antiwomen agenda, made evident through violence against women, including the systematic discrimination and abuse of women and their subordination through rape, enslavement, abduction, denial of education, forced marriage, and sexual

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trafficking, which have been part of the ideology or practice of several violent extremist groups (UNDP 2016; 2017). The second agenda, which recognizes women’s violent participation and consideration of them as threats to national and international security, has yet to fully be considered in UN policymaking and resolutions. UN Security Council Resolution (UNSCR) 2396 (2017) specifically recognizes “many different roles, including as supporters, facilitators, or perpetrators of terrorist acts” that women play, which, “require special focus when developing tailored prosecution, rehabilitation, and reintegration strategies, and stresses the importance of assisting women and children associated with foreign terrorist fighters who may have been victims of terrorism, and to do so taking into account gender and age sensitivities” (¶ 31). The recent guidelines on “Foreign Terrorist Fighters” acknowledge that countries are struggling to respond appropriately to women who are affiliated with or linked to terrorist groups. As this volume shows later in more detail, women’s participation is therefore mostly limited to “women’s empowerment” because women are framed predominantly both as victims and as peaceful—​and as participants in peace and security agendas, their main contribution is to minimize and mitigate the violence of “their men.” The lack of movement past this first agenda in the field of counterterrorism and in antiradicalization is a puzzle. It is even more of a puzzle because around the same time as UNSCR 2242 (2015), women’s direct and violent participation in terrorism, extremism, and insurgencies was acknowledged in mainstream thinking on security. Even the chief security officer for Stratfor, a traditional security and risk analyst consultancy firm, wrote a brief on women terrorists in early 2016 (Burton 2016). Such concerns have meant that women’s extremist violence is sometimes taken seriously as a security threat to the state and citizens. In November 2017 the United Arab Emirates banned Tunisian women from its passenger flights claiming it feared terrorist attacks from them (Argoubi 2017). However, these global endeavors appear overly determined by gendered stereotypes of faulty “mothers, monsters, [and] whores” (Sjoberg and Gentry 2007, 2015 Huckerby and Ní Aoaláin 2018a, 2018b). As I discuss in the next chapter, the failure to do more than “add women and stir” in research and theories of terrorism and radicalization is an underlying factor for the lack of movement on UNSCR 2242, and indeed in national policies and programs researched for this work. As I show in later chapters, these stereotypes of women’s violence are also reflected in the various antiradicalization programs around the world that consequently promote and depend upon particular versions of womanhood—​as moderate, pacifist, and selflessly caring. These ideals reflect a larger “master narrative” of

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hope and positivity in the UN regarding women’s inclusion (Gibbings 2011). However, such ideals of womanhood are unlikely to work as antidotes to male and female radicalization and terrorism because they ignore broader political and structural causes of extreme violence. The second cause for this disconnect between aspirations in UNSCR 2242 and the reality years later is the failure to consider how gender operates to shape statehood, security, and terrorism (not just terrorists) in this field. The third failing in UNSCR 2242 is that while focusing on women’s empowerment and gender equality in the last segment, the vision of “peace, security, and human rights” is limited rather than transformed by existing thinking on radicalization. These arguments and limitations are revisited, expanded upon, and demonstrated throughout this volume.

NATO AND EUROPEAN UNION

Two other significant security actors have influenced the development of antiradicalization efforts worldwide, and have a significant impact on three of the five case studies. In 2018 alone, EU member states reported a total of 129 foiled, failed, and completed attacks (Europol 2019a), of which 24 were “jihadist.” The majority (64) of the female defendants in 2018 were tried for jihadist terrorist offenses by EU member states, an increase from 42 compared to 2017 (Europol 2019a). The EU has been developing and working on antiradicalization efforts for at least a decade and now appears to have a core strategy to address “radicalization leading to violent extremism.” Its first strategy was formed in 2005 and sought to describe the “practical steps” that lead to involvement in terrorism. The strategy was updated in 2009 and 2014:  the EU Strategy for Combating Radicalization and Recruitment to Terrorism. The underlying assumption of the EU strategy is that radicalization can be spotted and disrupted by limiting the reach and activities of radicalizers, and by promoting alternative and counterideologies. The EU doesn’t implement CVE policies per se but facilitates them within member states through the Radicalization Awareness Network (RAN) and European Police Office (EUROPOL) in particular, but also through funding projects. Over 400  million Euros has been spent on initiatives related to radicalization since 2007 (Kundnani and Hayes 2018; Brown 2018c). These range from research projects such as the “Scientific Approach to Finding Indicators of and REsponses to Radicalisation” (SAFIRE) project, to funding a pilot program in 2017 with EU Commission Directorate General for Education, and Culture (DG EAC) to “support bottom-​up sport-​related projects targeting

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young people who are considered at risk of radicalization” (European Commission 2017),5 and the now well-​ established European Expert Network on Terrorism Issues (EENeT) received 343,000 Euros in 2013 to focus on radicalization over two years. Some limited consideration is made of gender in the EU policies. The 2016 European Commission “Communication on Supporting the Prevention of Radicalization Leading to Violent Extremism,” for example, identifies empowering women as a means to tackle the underlying factors of radicalization and recognizes women (and very young people) as a new audience for “violence-​inciting” ideologies (European Commission 2016, p.  3). Gender, men, and boys are not mentioned. The EU and related institutions have also produced a range of documents on women in terrorism, including • The European Parliament, which issued a briefing paper on gender and radicalization (2018). • The Council of Europe Steering Committee on Counter-​ Terrorism (CDCT; formerly CODEXTER), which investigated the gender equality dimension of its work in 2014 through a “Discussion Paper on Possible Gender-​Related Priorities.” • The WomEx project, which ran from 2013 to 2014 (funded by the European Commission’s Migration and Home Affairs Node). • Radicalization Awareness Network (RAN), which ran workshops among practitioners in 2015 and again in 2019 on gender and extremism. RAN also produced an issue paper, “The Role of Gender in Violent Extremism” (2015) and ex post papers, “The Role of Gender in Extremism and P/​CVE” (2018) and “Gender Specific Approaches to EXIT work” (2019). The WomEx project, run by Cultures Interactive, originated in their “Girrrl Power” workshops and focused on exit strategies and supporting youth workers in developing gender perspectives in PVE and deradicalization work with youth. It aimed to “make participants more aware of the intrinsic connection between rigid/​restrictive gender roles, polarization, and violent extremism.  .  .  . WomEx methods worked on promoting alternative and more inclusive modes of male and female identity practices, and training to establish alternative patterns of behavior which comply with a human right–​based and prosocial understanding of gender within democratic citizenship” (Cultures Interactive 2014). Importantly, within the RAN documents there is consideration of masculinity, and particularly of absent fathers, and of different motivations for joining violent extremist groups both among women and in contrast with men. The aim of RAN is

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to develop best practices across Europe, and the ex post paper was shared among practitioner members of the RAN working group. What is hard to ascertain is the impact of these papers on practice and national policies, but it will be referenced where appropriate here. The EU is also a large contributor to and influencer of antiradicalization efforts worldwide, funding projects and supporting other countries in their antiradicalization efforts. Projects have been funded through Stability and Peace (ICSP), the European Neighbourhood Initiative (ENI), the European Instrument for Democracy and Human Rights (EIDHR), the Emergency Trust Fund for Africa (EUTF), and the African Peace Facility (APF). This has resulted in EU funding for antiradicalization efforts outside of the EU of around 150  million to 200  million Euros annually (approximately 180–​230  million US dollars annually). For example, the EU funded the Royal United Services Institute (RUSI) project Strengthening Resilience to Violent Extremism in the Horn of Africa (STRIVE-​HOA) and Counter-​ Terrorism Monitoring, reporting and Support Mechanism in the Middle East and North Africa (CT-​MORSE MENA). STRIVE-​HOA had an overall budget of 2 million Euros (2 million one hundred US dollars) and ran for thirty-​six months, with the aim of strengthening resilience against violent extremism. It endeavored to improve women’s knowledge on radicalization in order to capitalize on their position in families and communities. The theory of change that they adopted presumed that women’s peaceful nature and role as mothers would make them ideal supporters for antiradicalization efforts. STRIVE-​HOA also sought to raise awareness among women police officers in the area and tried to increase the number of women working in local police forces. Here RUSI was operating on the basis that women are more likely to report their concerns to other women. STRIVE-​HOA sought to take a gender-​mainstreaming approach, but RUSI’s self-​evaluation was critical (RUSI 2017); Brett and Kahlmeyer (2017) and White (2019) also note significant challenges with the way RUSI approached the task. The conclusion from RUSI was that activities seen as part of a “gender agenda” (e.g., women’s empowerment or including them in discussions on violence and security) hampered the wider goals as men in the communities and in leadership positions opposed it and therefore disengaged with the whole process. Addressing gender issues is an important theme of The European Commission’s Directorate-​ General for International Cooperation and Development (DG DEVCO) Operational Guidelines on the Preparation and Implementation of EU-​Financed Actions Specific to Countering Terrorism and Violent Extremism in Third Countries. CT MORSE MENA, for example, also proposes to “ensure Gender Balance /​Equal Participation in all committees, workshops etc.,” and that “Gender Equality will be taken

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into account in all activities.” However, as Glassard and Reed (2018) note in their evaluation of EU external counterterrorism activities, few of their key informants mentioned gender issues, noting that mainstreaming was not yet apparent in practice. This is similar to the comments by interviewees in Schmidt’s research on EU member states’ domestic counterterrorism policies (2018, p. 26). This gap in practice is disappointing, as the EU also is committed to the WPS agenda, and the idea that the EU is a soft, civilian “metrosexual superpower” is challenged by writers such as Maria Stern, who argues that it is better thought of as a “civilizing patriarch” (2011, p. 50)—​a view further supported by the new EU global strategy Shared Vision, Common Action: A Stronger Europe (2016). In this strategy, the EU includes brief references to “gender” and “women,” which include, “promoting the role of women in peace efforts, mainstreaming, “gender issues,” and including women and children as recipients of aid. The EU has also adopted a Comprehensive Approach to 1325, and an EU Gender Action Plan to address women’s rights, security, and empowerment. What is apparent is that the EU tends to acknowledge the limited roles women play in the security sector and in antiradicalization efforts within Europe, but presents non-​European women largely as passive recipients of aid and in need of training and empowerment (Davis 2019). NATO also adopts this othering approach. It acknowledges that women can be actors in VE and also that women need to be better represented within NATO member state’s security sectors, but the dominant framing of women and gender is one of women’s empowerment within NATO and their victim status outside of it. In 2012 NATO created the post of the Secretary-​General’s Special Representative for Women, Peace and Security, as a move toward implementing. It was initially funded by Norway, and in 2014 the role became a permanent part of NATO’s structure. The timing of NATO’s support for UNSCR 1325 is significant; it would not have come about were it not for the NATO-​led International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) in Afghanistan. Adoption of UNSCR 1325 was intended to support NATO’s comprehensive approach—​an acknowledgment that military means alone were not enough to achieve operational goals (Wright 2016). There was a clear instrumental reason for supporting the WPS agenda, one that coincided with the shift to the framing of “hearts and minds” and toward “radicalization” as a way of understanding terrorism. We have also seen NATO develop its own approach toward counterterrorism during this period (updated the military concept, and developed action plans and education and training plans since 2015). As a result, the priorities for NATO under implementing UNSCR 1325 have been protecting civilians, protecting

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children, ensuring women’s representation in NATO, and promoting a gender perspective in NATO operations. The gender perspective is cascaded through NATO via policy documents and various committees, but also through the work of gender advisers who work at different levels (including NATO Operational Head Quarters). In March 2018, NATO hosted a workshop on women in counterterrorism in Madrid, and its Center for Excellence in Turkey hosted another in May 2019. These two workshops made a series of recommendations for NATO and for partner institutions, many of which reflect the recommendations for gender mainstreaming promoted by EU and UN bodies. In the gender perspective and the conduct of the workshops, “gender” is translated in practice as “women.” This confirms what Hurley (2018) shows us: how in relation to ISAF and NATO more broadly, within NATO the gender perspective is reduced to either the mere presence of a female body or an essentialized female perspective. NATO, as a result, downplays military women’s violence and contributions to kinetic endeavors, prioritizes women’s peaceful roles, and ignores men’s perspectives “as men” (Duncanson 2016). While NATO has not led in this area of antiradicalization, it is starting to become involved, and its broader role in the security sector is as a “teaching machine” for norm adaptation (Enloe 1983; Wright 2016); even if its teaching is not implemented or engaged directly on antiradicalization and gender concerns, it shapes how many other partner organizations view issues of gender, terrorism, and radicalization. It is part of the wider system of “good gender governance” that impacts on antiradicalization efforts (True 2011).

COUNTER-​R ADICALIZATION COUNTRY FOCUS

While this book takes a broad conceptualization of antiradicalization and roots its arguments in the global context outlined above, I focus on a few select cases of antiradicalization programs—​in the UK, the Netherlands, Saudi Arabia, Indonesia, and Pakistan. The decision to focus on country programs was to see the operationalization of the broader discourses identified at the global and regional level, as it is states and NGOs working within state contexts that implement these policies and initiatives. The selection of countries was chosen because while they all focus on antijihadist elements, they remain globally representative, covering Muslim majority and minority states, strong and weak states, and broad and narrowly targeted antiradicalization programs, with varying threat perceptions regarding the risks of radicalization. The other reason for this selection is pragmatic—​they provide sufficient coverage to illustrate enough examples

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and evidence to offer meaningful engagement with the issues. So many countries’ programs are secret, militarized, or deliberately vague that meaningful research is highly limited. The reason for targeting antiradicalization programs addressing jihadi violence is that, despite claims by governments that current counterterrorism programs address all forms of radicalization, the policies, funding, and activities of state agencies demonstrate otherwise. Given the hegemonic framing of the war on terror on international security perceptions, and the ways in which this broadly constructs a Muslim other, a consideration of antijihadi programs in this context shows how this still-​dominant security narrative works in practice.

The United Kingdom

Since 2001, and especially since the bombings of the London public transport system in the summer of 2005, the UK presents itself as at the forefront on the war on terror and a stalwart ally of the US, rooting out terrorism and radical violence globally.6 The most devastating jihadist incident in the UK was in 2005, when four suicide attackers killed fifty-​two people on the London underground and a bus (Kirby 2007). Then in 2013, two men killed an off-​duty soldier, Lee Rigby, beheading him outside his barracks in London (Doward 2013). Four high-​profile events in 2017 caused a number of fatalities. On March 22, claiming support for Daesh, Khalid Masood drove a car at high speed into pedestrians crossing Westminster Bridge, killing four. He was then shot by police. Two months later Salman Abedi, a young British Libyan, carried out a suicide attack at the Manchester Arena, targeting mainly women and children attending a concert by Ariana Grande. Twenty-​two people died in that attack. Just weeks later, a group of three men attacked people enjoying a Saturday night out in London Bridge, South London, killing eight before they were shot by police. In September, a bomb exploded on a tube train at Parson’s Green, injuring twenty-​two (McGuinness 2017). Since March 2017, of eighteen disrupted terrorist plots in the UK, fourteen were linked to jihadist extremism and four to the far right (Dodd 2019). Between March 2017 and March 2018, there were over 400 arrests linked to terrorism in the UK, although this number dropped dramatically for the subsequent twelve months (268 arrests, with 70 individuals charged and 32 convictions) (Europol 2019a). Women have been arrested and jailed for support of violence and for involvement in terrorist plots in the UK. For the past thirty or forty years, approximately 95 percent of convictions for terrorism offenses were of men; as laws have changed with the war on terror, and with the criminalization

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of both travel to join Daesh and support for the group, more women have been arrested (Simcox et al. 2011; Gartenstein-​Ross and Grossman 2009; Allen and Dempsey 2018). In 2017, women made up 15 percent of all terrorism arrests in the UK (Allen and Dempsey 2018). The case of Safaa Boular was particularly serious: the teenager was arrested along with her sister and mother and convicted of plotting a terrorist attack in central London. In 2019 Boular’s lawyer successfully argued that the role of a Daesh fighter, Naweed Hussain, whom she met online, was fundamental to Boular being “groomed,” comparing her case with child sexual exploitation. As a result, her sentence was reduced (Dixon 2018; Williams 2019). To date, only one woman has successfully carried out a violent jihadist attack in the UK. Roshonara Choudhry, a teenage student, stabbed and injured her local Member of Parliament Stephen Timms, claiming she supported al Qaeda, and wanted to retaliate against Timms for his voting record on Iraq (Pearson 2015; The Guardian 2010). Alongside attacks on the UK, almost a thousand British people chose to actively support Daesh by traveling to Syria and Iraq. Of those, most were men; however, a significant minority were women (Cook and Vale 2018). A  number made media headlines as “jihadi brides,” in particular three teenagers labeled “the Bethnal Green girls.” Shamima Begum, Amira Abase, and Kadiza Sultana followed a fourth young woman from their London secondary school to join Daesh. Other high-​profile women migrants to the group include Sally Jones, an older white convert to Islam, who took her son to Syria; Samantha Lewthwaite, wife of one of the 2005 London bombers; Grace Dare, a convert from Christianity who had Nigerian parents; teenage twins Salma and Zahra Halane, who were star students; and Umm Layth, a teenager from Glasgow who became a prolific recruiter online at the height of the call to hijrah to the so-​called Caliphate (Stacey 2017; BBC News 2015b). A  number of British women were reportedly among those active for the women’s “morality” police, the al-​Khansaa Brigade, notorious for brutal punishment of women infringing Daesh rules on such things as public dress (Bhutia 2015). Concerns are now raised about the repatriation of eighty British women and their children who are affiliated with ISIS. Rather than openly implement deradicalization programs, the British government has revoked the citizenship in high-​profile and controversial cases, such as that of Shamima Begum, and through the National Health Service (NHS) provided ad hoc support for those who returned without media attention (Brown and Morgan 2019; Brown 2019c). These women are discussed more in ­chapter 3. Current UK policy, in place since 2011, and the framing of radicalization and the security threat it poses to the state rest on the claim that

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UK foreign policy and defense of “British values” overseas are irrelevant. In response to the emergence of Daesh in August 2014, the UK raised its threat-​alert level from “substantial” to “severe.” Even with Daesh’s seeming success in recruiting from Western Europe by making links to foreign policy and Islamophobia in Europe, British policy and government framing of radicalization present the faulty logic of radicalization as the problem. The logic of radicalization is summarized in policy, law, and discourse as a black-​and-​white worldview that relies on conspiracy theories, misappropriation of Islamic sources, and the grooming of vulnerable, naïve minds (Cameron 2015; Hardy 2018). (Boular’s legal team was able to use this approach to their client’s advantage.) Policy documents deny any significance to the structural material causes of radicalization (such as discrimination, unemployment, or social inequality), and insist instead on promoting a “moderate” British Islam and Islamic practices as the key ways to interrupt the logic of radical ideologies. It frequently highlights Muslim women’s rights and women’s empowerment as one indicator of communities’ resilience to radicalization (HM Government 2015a). A more “robust” rhetoric emerged under the conservative government of 2015, explicitly linking the growth of radicalization with “tolerance” of “un-​ British” cultural practices and the failure of multiculturalism. For example, Cameron’s July 2015 speech linked violent radical Islamic terrorism with the practices of female genital mutilation and honor killings. The UK government is explicitly concerned with nonviolent foreign ideologies that are conducive to terrorism. This explicit racialization of counterterrorism is relevant as approximately two-​thirds of British Muslims have an Asian heritage (and only one in twelve Muslims are white), but just under half (47 percent) of Muslims in Britain were born in the UK. Following the Brexit referendum in 2016 that led to the premiership of Theresa May, and a few high-​profile attacks in the UK subsequently, there was a noticeable ratcheting up of fear-​based rhetoric from the UK government surrounding terrorism, immigration, and security measures. In the summer of 2017 May argued (much like her predecessors) that “enough is enough”; she demanded “awkward conversations,” more powers to the police and security services, a clampdown on foreign funding of extremism, and greater control over the internet. This progression in thinking led to the establishment in the UK of the Commission on Extremism headed by Sara Khan in 2018. The commission’s work is to explore the public understanding of extremism and to shape what is considered the legitimate extent of state intervention. Much like the UN Global Strategy, putting UK antiradicalization policy into practice, the UK has four key components to its counterterrorism policy: Prevent, Pursue, Prepare, and Protect. It situates antiradicalization

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measures within the Prevent subsection of its counterterrorism policy. These subsections are often capitalized in UK discourse and policy. PREVENT, sometimes referred to as CVE, is divided between the Office for Security and Counter Terrorism (OSCT) within the Home Office, the Department for Communities and Local Government (DCLG), and the Foreign and Commonwealth Office (FCO). The UK spends £40 million annually on CVE, part of the £2 billion allotted per year for UK to fight counterterrorism. The UK PREVENT policy has two key components. First is a series of community-​based antiradicalization initiatives aimed at building resilience in Muslim communities. In 2017–​2018, 180 local projects were supported through PREVENT; PREVENT coordinators in thirty areas of the UK have reached eighty-​eight thousand individuals, and 54  percent of these projects were delivered in schools. Placing this in context, in 2015 there were just under 3 million Muslims living in the UK, so around 2.5 percent were directly involved. In 2015 this idea of resilience was expanded to society as a whole. As a result, training to identify those being radicalized was rolled out across the country, and a duty was placed upon individuals working in a range of public sectors to report concerns about radicalization—​including sports clubs, the NHS, and universities. This was framed as “safeguarding” vulnerable individuals—​a language that public bodies were already familiar with for other harms, such as child abuse or domestic violence. Second, there is the narrow deradicalization campaign, organized through Channel7 but supported by a number of civil-​society NGOs and groups such as the Active Change Foundation and the Probation Service. There have been thousands of referrals since its inception; in 2017–​2018, 7,318 individuals were referred to PREVENT. Around 40 percent of those referred to Channel were offered alternative support, and another 40 percent were deemed to need no further action. Overall, 1,267 people have engaged with the program since 2012, of which 394 were involved in 2017/​ 2018 (HMG 2018b). Channel and related deradicalization programs hinge on a “rehabilitation and reintegration” method, linked to monitoring beliefs about politics and social connections. The Channel program relies on trust building and its voluntary nature, but both elements came under intense scrutiny in 2019, when it was revealed that mentors had been reporting to the police information and concerns about their mentees (Kerbaj 2019). A legislative framework that criminalizes a broad range of actions, including supporting or glorifying violence, financing terrorism, or recruiting and grooming for proscribed organizations, supports these programs. The majority of convictions since 2011 for terrorism-​related offenses have been for the possession of radicalizing material.

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Analysis of UK CVE and deradicalization programs has highlighted significant negative and harmful human rights implications. Amnesty International among other think tanks and NGOs considers CONTEST and legislation brought since 2001 to represent the biggest spying program ever undertaken. Even a House of Commons Select Committee acknowledged that PREVENT was widely perceived as such, with one witness characterizing PREVENT as “Pursue in sheep’s clothing” (Communities and Local Government Select Committee 2010, p.  8). Many have questioned the efficacy of the PREVENT programs, arguing that they are difficult to evaluate, and rates of recidivism are not published. As result of these complaints, in 2019 Lord Carlisle, former reviewer of counterterrorism legislation, was appointed as the independent reviewer of counterextremism policies and programs in the UK. The most high-​profile failure happened in the case of the “shoe bomber” Richard Reid, who was part of an informal deradicalization program at the time of his planned attack. There is no tangible threshold for assessing radicalization (Brown, De Londras and White 2019; Richards 2015). As a result, how terrorists are produced is overlooked; for example, the majority of convictions for terrorism-​related offenses are for possession of “radicalizing material.” This has led the Institute for Policy Research and Development to argue that if there is no “typical pathway to violent extremism,” then the “scope of risk-​assessment is rendered potentially unlimited” for British Muslims. Finally, there have been criticisms that the policies and practices are, “internally contradictory, continuously changing and capable of mutation” (McKee 2009, p.  474; O’Toole et  al. 2015). Broader criticisms have also been made that PREVENT and counterterrorism policies affirm and reinforce Islamophobia and have created a “suspect community” that is fundamentally racist in outcome, if not intent (Spalek 2014).

Saudi Arabia

With a population of nearly 30 million people, the kingdom of Saudi Arabia has a complex relationship with extreme radical groups. The stability of the country hinges on an alliance between a Wahhabi Salafi religious elite and the al-​Saud family. Since its early formation, the kingdom has sought to balance the needs of modern statehood with an isolationist religious position that dictates that non-​Wahhabis are impure. The system relies on complex relations of patronage, paternalism, and patriotism. In the 1930s and 1970s, there were insurgencies against the ruling family, with claims that they had become corrupt and deviated from righteousness in their dealings

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with outsiders, a theme that continues in today’s jihadi thinking. In 2003 and 2004, a wave of terrorist attacks in Saudi Arabia were associated with al Qaeda. Al Qaeda–​inspired attacks in Saudi Arabia have carried on since then, including in January 2019, where Daesh urged supporters to bomb the Mariah Carey concert in Saudi Arabia, and there was a failed attack on the Ministry of the Interior in April. Saudi Arabian citizens’ involvement in terrorism overseas is infamous—​including Osama bin Laden and the majority of the 9/​11 attackers. There are thought to have been 3,244 Saudi citizens fighting for Daesh, of whom 46 are thought to be women (Cook and Vale 2018; Europol 2019b). Analysts Cook and Vale (2018, 2019) consider this to be an underestimation because of low reporting and not keeping gender-​disaggregated statistics. In addition, over 400 suspected Daesh sympathizers have been arrested inside Saudi Arabia (Al Arabiya 2015). In addition the state has faced continuous Shi’a protests and rebellions since its founding—​ the Shi’a are approximately 10 to 15  percent of the population but are systematically excluded from public office and discriminated against in a range of sectors. In 2011 the Shi’a rebelled as part of the wider Arab Spring; this was largely quashed, but protests and armed rebellion have continued. In 2017, twenty-​three individuals were convicted (with fourteen receiving the death penalty) for their involvement in the so-​called Shi’a Al Awamiya cell, accused of carrying out fifty armed attacks. In one case in 2018, six Shi’ite activists were put on trial in a terrorism court for protest-​related offenses. Five of the six faced possible death sentences, including Israa al-​Ghomgham, a female activist. In 2019, thirty-​seven mostly Shi’a individuals were executed for terrorism offenses (Hall 2019a). However the Shi’a community is also the target of extremist violence, including by the so called Islamic State group, which they believe is legitimized by anti-​Shi’a rhetoric by Saudi authorities and cleric (AAJ 2015). Not until 2005 did Saudi Arabia begin to respond to the domestic terrorism threats it faced, with a view to deradicalization or counter-​ radicalization. Saudi Arabia’s response is predominantly militarized, supported by a closed and secretive judicial structure. The Specialized Criminal Court (SCC) was created in the General Court in Riyadh in 2008 to prosecute individuals accused of terrorism. By July 2007, about 9,000 suspects had been detained, according to official figures, and by January 2016 the court had tried 2,225 cases involving 6,122 defendants (UN Human Rights Council 2018). Importantly, Saudi Arabia insists that Wahhabi belief structures are not a cause of terrorism; rather, deviation from Wahhabi is the issue to be addressed, alongside the unfair treatment of Muslims worldwide, although,

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much like the UK, Saudi Arabian officials dismiss claims that their treatment of Muslim minorities within the kingdom, or Saudi foreign policy (particularly in Yemen, or its support of regimes in Muslim-​majority countries with questionable human rights records) could be a variable in radicalization of Saudi citizens. In light of this understanding of terrorism, the response to terrorism by the Saudi kingdom in the 1930s, 1970s, and present day is threefold. First are consistent efforts to reassert a doctrine of “loyalty to [royal] leadership” (wali al-​amr) from within Wahhabi thinking. Second is a deepening and expansion of state religious institutions in Saudi society to co-​opt and reeducate some of those who rebelled, and to address their religious grievances. Third, there is a hard-​line kinetic response against those who continue to refuse state “assistance,” demonstrating the costs to wider society for challenging the status quo. The Saudi response has been to view those who have radicalized as “wayward” sons who have been deceived by extremists—​that is, they “sit with the misguided group” (al­fi’a al­dalla) (Meijer 2012). As a result, they need only to be shown the “true” religion of Islam, and to accept the guidance and benevolence of the ruling elite, to be redeemed or rehabilitated. However, should they refuse such care, then the state believes only a kinetic response remains open to them. This understanding and framing of radicalization lead the kingdom to set up a rehabilitation program. Approximately 3,071 individuals have participated in the Saudi rehabilitation program since its inception in 2006, with a recidivism rate of approximately 13  percent to 20  percent (Mohammed bin Naif Counselling and Care Center [MNCC] n.d.; Gardner 2017). Most are brought to the MNCC, whose activities were praised in both the 2016 and 2018 UN Human Rights Council (A/​HRC/​31/​L13 Rev 1; A/​HRC/​40/​XX/​Add.2). The PRAC program rests on the assumption that benevolence, gradual reintegration into Saudi society, and appropriate religious education deradicalizes individuals. In a purpose-​built complex, detainees, known as “beneficiaries,” are encouraged to express themselves through discussion, seminars, art, and sport. Families are encouraged to visit. Domestic political concerns and grievances are sidelined in this program, although there is an acknowledgment that foreign governments’ policies toward Muslims may incite Saudi nationals to radicalize. As yet, women are not included within the MNCC, but a women’s program does exist—​carried out inside women’s homes with family members present. This reflects the fact that aside from Shi’a women and those women protesting for greater women’s rights, most women are not incarcerated (even if convicted) but released into the “care” of their families (Boucek 2008, p. 21; 2009). However, those individuals who refuse the Saudi government’s benevolence and persist in

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radical dissent and beliefs are considered “corruption on earth” (ifsad fi­l­ ard), and excommunicated (takfiri). As takfiri they are more than simply fugitives but “less than human,” and the state has been inclined toward extrajudicial killings rather than capture when pursuing suspected terrorists who have refused the state’s offer of help. Alongside the deradicalization program is the societal-​wide program named “Tranquillity,” which aims to restore correct religious understanding in wider Saudi society and gives more power to religious institutions over a broader range of social issues. It is presented as a “national dialogue” and also includes training for parents, specifically mothers, in spotting signs of radicalization in sons (Ansary 2008). This is supported by the Global Center for Combating Extremist Ideology (Etidel) set up in May 2017. Etidel has three core areas of work: it works with technology companies to create software to better monitor and disrupt extremist propaganda online, it supports a global database for extremism, and it engages in counternarratives (Al-​Saud and Zarea 2018). The success of Saudi efforts came under question as three former Guantanamo Bay detainees released by the program were found to be active in Yemen. In February 2009, the Saudis released a most-​wanted list of eighty-​ five individuals, of whom eleven (including the three former Guantanamo Bay detainees) were ex-​participants in the Prevention, Rehabilitation, and After Care (PRAC) program (Combes 2013). Furthermore, official figures are questionable, as it is unclear to what extent those who have been released held extremist views in the first place, have changed their beliefs as well as their behaviors, and indeed whether adequate surveillance or data have been obtained on those individuals once they leave the care of the al Munasaha PRAC program. Amnesty International’s 2011 and 2015 reports on Saudi Arabia highlight that its counterterrorism measures often rely on isolation in the first stages that Amnesty sees as akin to torture, and that its new draft counterterrorism legislation is so broadly defined that it constitutes a considerable threat to citizens’ basic human rights (Amnesty International 2011, 2016). This is also reflected in the findings of the UN special rapporteur for human rights while countering terrorism in 2016 and 2018. Amnesty International is also critical of the al Munasaha PRAC counseling program, arguing that the criteria for selection, the criteria for departure, and whether attendance is voluntary are unclear.

Indonesia

Like Saudi Arabia, debates over what is the correct place of Islam within Indonesia’s ’s governance structures have dominated the nation’s politics

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since the country’s inception in 1945. While the secular republican model combined with a philosophy of Pancasila (“five principles”)8 won out, Muslim groups that were influential in eliminating communist threats in the Second World War felt betrayed. They continuously attempted to introduce sharia law through parliament but failed. Consequently, by 1949 an Islamist rebellion had emerged in West Java under the leadership of the Tentara Islam Indonesia (TII or DT). It was not quashed until 1962, partly because simultaneous uprisings occurred in Aceh, South Kalimantan, and South Sulawesi. Each of these uprisings, rooted in local independence claims, were linked to Islamist aspirations. Some regional concessions were made, and civil laws enacted at the local level can result in religiously inspired regulations coming into force—​especially with regard to public conduct and relationships between men and women. Regardless of these concessions to the regions and Islamism, the longevity and continuity of Islamist claims and organizations in Indonesia is striking. For example, the peasantren (boarding school) Al-​Mukmin Ngruki in Solo has been an influential supporter of Negara Islam Indonesia—​an extremist movement that has existed since the 1960s—​and has been linked to the Bali bombings of 2002. Similarly, Abu Bakar Ba’asyir and Abdullah Sungkar, arrested in 1978 for inspiring and involvement in terrorism, escaped to Malaysia in 1985 and formed Jammah Islamiyah in the 1990s, starting a terrorism campaign in the early 2000s. Given this persistent nationalist Islamist radicalism, it is unsurprising to find Indonesia connected to a globalized Islamist network. From the Bali bombings in 2002 up until 2009, Indonesia experienced twenty-​two bombings and 296 fatalities. Since 2009, there have been a further fourteen attacks, the majority against police stations and churches. There has been a rise in attacks, including attacks involving family units, since 2015, as the rivalry between Daesh and other older groups in Indonesia escalates (Jones 2018). The year 2016 saw the first female suicide attacker in Indonesia: Dian Yukua Novi (Nuraniyah 2018; Campbell 2017). Indonesia is also one of the largest providers of fighters for Daesh outside of the Middle East. There are approximately 800 Indonesian affiliates in Iraq or Syria, of which 113 are thought to be women and 100 children (Cook and Vale 2018; 2019; Sumpter 2018). This includes Nurshardina Khairadharia, a seventeen-​year-​old girl who encouraged twenty-​six family members to travel to Raqqa in 2015, promising better health care, education, jobs, and an opportunity to clear their debts (Krol and Fuller 2017). From this linkage between uprisings and Islam, the military and government today (as they also did under Suharto in the 1967–​1998 period) assert that Indonesia is a fragile country, facing an existential threat in the form of Islamic terrorism.

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This connection by the military and ruling elite of Islamist violence to secessionism created a narrative that they’re facing an existential threat, with the result that Indonesia’s counterterrorism program is heavily security-​oriented. It is largely treated as a counterinsurgency campaign, and throughout Indonesia’s existence it has been the preserve of the military. Only after the overthrow of Suharto in the late 1990s were the police given jurisdiction over counterterrorism. For about five years after the overthrow of Suharto, the new leadership recognized that the heavy involvement of the Indonesian military in human rights abuses under Suharto meant a very light approach to counterterrorism. After the bombings in Bali, however, we can detect a hardening of Indonesia’s approach, such that by 2015 there were clear signs of the reemergence of military dominance in the field, and in 2017 almost a complete return of military control. Problematically for many observers of Indonesian politics, the military has largely resisted reforms introduced since the overthrow of Suharto, and has successfully reintroduced kodams (garrisons) into contested territories, claiming it will be better able to respond to any terrorist incident without reform and with fully staffed kodams in place.9 Indonesia has also expanded its raft of legal measures to criminalize terrorism and terrorist-​related activities; however, these have been criticized by Human Rights Watch as “overboard, vague and unjustifiably restrict[ing] basic human rights” (2016, online). Indonesia’s nonmilitary program primarily involves Detachment 88, an elite counterterrorism police unit that uses lethal force and gradual deradicalization of suspects through programs in prisons. Prison programs in Indonesia focus on “creeping deradicalization,” using extensive webs of paid informants and former radicals to encourage known radicals through discursive efforts and material incentives to alter their beliefs. Like Saudi Arabia, the presumption is that if detainees are treated humanely while in prison, they are more likely to cooperate with authorities and less likely to resume terrorist activities upon release. There are also broader antiradicalization efforts in Indonesia—​which has been likened to a shift from an “enemy-​centric” to a “population-​ centric” counterinsurgency operation—​where civilians are seen as the “center of gravity” for any campaign. For example, there are efforts to develop a community-​policing program with over three thousand police officers trained in a new approach that seeks to humanize the police and develop connections with grassroots community groups to address problems. Indonesia also engages to a lesser extent in a war of words, working with Muslim scholars and a broader “epistemic authority” (including former high-​profile radicals, such as Ali Imron and Bin Abbas) to counter and dismantle radical ideologies. These lectures, public debates, and seminars

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cover Indonesia in a form of traveling roadshow that mostly targets schools, youth activities, religious institutions, and the new media. Most of the work in this area of countering radicalization is carried out by civil society groups, particularly the Nahdatul Ulama (NU) and the Muhammadiyah, which claim some 50  million members. For example, the Muhammadiya launched in 2014 a global antiextremism campaign that included a ninety-​ minute film, The Divine Grace of East Indies Islam (Rahmat Islam Nusantara), aimed to convey to the world and Indonesians that (Indonesian) Islam is particularly inclusive and nonviolent. Not only is there a tension between the kinetic militarized counterterrorism efforts and the softer population-​centered counter-​radicalization efforts, measures in Indonesia have been ad hoc and rarely evaluated despite numerous institutions having oversight of various elements of counterterrorism. The Detachment 88 program, for example, does not have the capacity to follow up with detainees upon release and appears underfunded compared to similar programs in neighboring Singapore and Malaysia, despite receiving assistance from the US and Australia. Also, claims by Detachment 88 regarding observing human rights and treating prisoners humanely are held in stark relief when it becomes clear that of 464 individuals arrested between 2004 and 2009 by the group, 40 were killed, and between 2010 and 2011, a further 33 individuals were killed, 9 wounded, and another 30 were “mis-​arrested” (that is, arrested without due process or not following correct procedures). A significant number of complaints have been made about Detachment 88’s torture methods and inhumane treatment of individuals. In addition, the rivalry between the police and military hampers successful operations, as evidenced in a clash between members of the Tentara Nasional Indonesia (literally “Indonesian National Military,” TNI) and police in Ogan Komering in South Sumatra in March 2013, which resulted in the injury of eight police officers and the torching of the precinct police headquarters and police posts, allegedly due to rivalry between security apparatuses. Moreover, despite claims to be moving toward more civilian-​oriented and community-​focused policing, the police still appear to resort to militarized styles when they perceive themselves to be threatened, thereby undermining trust-​building initiatives.

Pakistan

Pakistan has the most fractious and fragmented counterterrorism arrangements, both institutional and legal, of the cases examined in

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the volume. Pakistan is covered in a patchwork of overlapping, contradictory, and competing organizations and jurisdictions. This is due partly to a legacy of colonial administration, ongoing feudalism, and geostrategic considerations. Pakistan’s regional concerns have led to an all-​encompassing security narrative that sees India as the main threat to Pakistan’s existence. This gives considerable power to the military to oversee all security concerns in Pakistan; the military consistently represents around 18 percent of government spending—​about 4 percent of GDP (Stockholm International Peace Research Institute 2018). The focus on Kashmir and India as key security concerns for Pakistan has led the military and government to foster militant jihadi groups (so-​called good jihadis) who fight against Pakistan’s enemies. However, the accommodation of the ideology of jihad has empowered other groups that challenge the federal state’s legitimacy to govern. These “bad” jihadi groups seek to introduce particular—​often Deobandi—​forms of sharia and governance, yet some of these groups are also seen as useful to curtail India’s influence in Afghanistan, and are alleged to have close links with Pakistan’s Inter-​ Service Intelligence Agency (ISI). This complex and contradictory arrangement has led some observers to accuse Pakistan of duplicity. The ongoing feudalism and the legacy of the colonial administration mean that there are different legal frameworks in operation across the country, complex networks of patronage and clientelism in business and politics, and competing and unequal relations between the federal centralized state administration and local provincial concerns. To put this in perspective, Pakistan is known to have over twenty languages and over three hundred distinct dialects; Urdu and English are the official languages, but Punjabi, Sindhi, Pashtu, Baluchi, and Seraiki are also considered main languages. Indeed, a common theme is that being Pakistani simply means “not Indian.” Out of the maelstrom, today’s politics can be characterized as having two key components: personalized and privatized centers of power cloaked in the authority of institutions, and an underlying deep-​state administration dominated by the military. This situation is compounded by poverty and poor development: all major indices place Pakistan in the lowest quartile of development, statehood, and security, and one of the riskiest places to live in terms of human rights and peace. This context led to some delay in addressing jihadi groups in Pakistan through counter-​radicalization policies. Specifically, the delay is attributed to three key ideas that permeate Pakistani society and politics:  first, that radicals are “misguided individuals” doing no real harm; second, that addressing them was believed to only serve American interests in Afghanistan rather than Pakistan’s;

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and third, that some of the groups had links with the ISI to fight India in Kashmir. Not until a public backlash to Terik-​e-​Taliban-​Pakistan (TTP) governance in 2010 of the Swat valley,10 and later when groups targeted the elite of Pakistan, did political incentive spread to take more sustained and holistic action (Mustafa, Brown, and Tillotson 2013; Brown 2015). In addition, Pakistani nationals are linked to international terrorist organizations, including fifteen women and twelve children who are thought to have joined Daesh. Additionally, the TTP linked with Daesh in 2017, an important development because the TTP has since 2007 allowed women to participate in jihad, especially weapons training and promoting propaganda, and even has a magazine targeting women (Janjua 2017; Jadoon and Mahmood 2017). Around the same time Noreen Leghori—​a medical student in Hydrabad—​was arrested in Lahore along with three others for planning an attack on churches at Easter after having been trained in Syria (Tanveer 2017). Moves by the Pakistan Army in 2008 toward a hearts-​and-​minds counterinsurgency approach have introduced a softer element to Pakistan’s counterterrorism efforts, including the rehabilitation and deradicalization programs run in the Swat valley, which began in 2010. This approach is combined with annual military offensives in North Waziristan, the Federally Administrated Tribal Areas (FATA), and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province to remove the military and fighting capability of terrorist groups. For example, in February 2017 the Pakistan military launched Operation Radd-​ul-​Fasaad (“Reject Disorder”), which targeted three Daesh-​linked terror groups: Jamaat-​ul-​Ahrar, the TTP, and Lashkar-​e-​Jhangvi. The willingness of the federal state to engage in peace talks with some terrorist groups as part of their strategy is a marked difference between Pakistan and the other countries in this book. Officially, the National Counter-​ Terrorism Agency (NACTA) provides oversight and coordinates counterterrorism activities of the military, various police forces, and intelligence bureaus. NACTA was initially proposed in 2009, and in 2013 legislation was passed to give constitutional cover for its work. In January 2018 NACTA announced the finalization of a Pakistani national narrative on extremism, sectarianism, terrorism, and militancy. According to NACTA coordinator Ihsan Ghani, the narrative will be the “cornerstone of the country’s response to non-​traditional threats and to deal with extremist ideology” (cited in The Tribune 2018). Ghani also indicated that NACTA had finalized a set of National Counter Extremism Guidelines, which outline strategies and action plans for CVE initiatives. This complements the 2015 National Action Plan (NAP) that sits alongside the National Internal Security Policy (NISP). The NISP based the national counterterrorism strategy on a three-​pronged

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approach, famously known as the “3 Ds”: deterrence, development, and dialogue. It is now moving to a “4 Ts” framework: tracing the elements, trailing coordination among intelligence agencies, tackling extremists or terrorists by taking action and seeking conviction, and transforming the roles of religious scholars, mosques, and seminaries in line with the true teachings of Islam (Ansari 2013). The most high-​profile aspect of Pakistan’s NAP has been the special courts under military officers established to facilitate terrorism trials and deliver speedy justice in an effort to avoid the pitfalls of Pakistan’s justice system (overburdened courts, slow processing times, and weak chains of evidence). The death penalty has also been reinstituted for terrorism cases. The NAP calls for uniform bans on armed militant organizations and new hate-​speech restrictions to limit terrorist access to local television or print media. It also stipulates strengthening the NACTA, registering and regulating madrasas, registering Afghan refugees, and cracking down on terrorism financing (both domestic and foreign), among other steps. Despite these grand policies, NACTA and the not fully established National Counter Terrorism Task Force (NCTF) remain hampered by lack of funding and personnel, a dual management structure (operating under the Presidential Office and Ministry of Interior Affairs), and resistance by the ISI and other agencies to be held to account by civilian authorities. Consequently, the reality of Pakistan’s counterterrorism operations is that they are predominantly led by the military and remain kinetic in effect despite rehabilitation centers. Today, the antiradicalization policy is to focus on using Sufi or folk Islam as the antidote to extremism, establishing reeducation centers in the SWAT and Punjab for those men or boys convicted or suspected of terrorism offenses, and seeking peace deals with known jihadi groups in order to reduce violence and seek accommodation. Pakistan, through the military, runs six main deradicalization programs throughout the country: the Sabaoon Center for Rehabilitation (sabaoon is the first ray of light at dawn), Mishal, Sparley, Rastoon, Pythom, and Heila. They focus on rehabilitation and provide the detainees with a curriculum that includes formal education, including corrective religious education, vocational training, counseling and therapy, and a discussion module that addresses social issues and includes sessions with the students’ families. Detainees are separated into groups depending on level of indoctrination and age groups, usually between eighteen and forty-​five. Training is provided accordingly and may last anywhere from six months to a year. Limited assistance in finding jobs is also provided by the Pakistani authorities. Project Sparley extends the initiative to the families of detainees. Pakistani officials in charge report

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a 99 percent success rate and that more than twenty-​five hundred Taliban fighters have been “reformed.” In the absence of independent evaluation, however, these statistics cannot be corroborated. Numerous civil society organizations also conduct their own on-​site antiradicalization projects that include interfaith dialogues and establishing madrasas to counter the existing religious schools that promote violence. Many are also run by the police and have seen success when the police have been able to keep up surveillance after prisoners are released. Pakistan’s counterterrorism strategy has been heavily criticized, including concerns about extrajudicial killings, corruption, inefficiency, and duplicity. Questions have been raised about the antiradicalization program because it is unclear whether those who have been targeted within the deradicalization program had been genuinely radicalized, and whether rates of recidivism are being accurately monitored given the poor administrative infrastructure. In addition, the failure of state agencies to reconcile support for some violent jihadi groups but not for others hampers their ability to counter radical ideas that see nonstate violence as legitimate.

Netherlands

The Netherlands’ counterterrorism policy views the threat of radicalization as emanating both endogenously and exogenously to Dutch society (Akerboon n/​d). The murder of Theo van Gogh and the emergence of the Hofstad network made real the violence previously seen as limited to protests concerning Dutch military involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan. In 2018, there were two attempted attacks in the Netherlands, at least two foiled attempts, and forty-​nine terrorism-​related arrests. In May 2018 a man already known to the police carried out an attack at The Hague with a jihadist motive. In September 2018 a major attack involving seven men who had reached an advanced stage in their planning was thwarted. Three of the suspects had previously been arrested for attempting to travel abroad as foreign terrorist fighters (FTFs) (Europol 2019a). In 2019 a man carried out a fatal shooting on a tram in Utrecht, and although initially it was thought to be “family related,” a note released by police to the media that was found in his getaway car indicated terrorist motives: “I am doing this for my religion. You guys are killing Muslims and want to take my religion away from me. You will not succeed in that. Allah is great” (Gids TV 2019). Between September 2015 and September 2018, 135 individuals were convicted of terrorism-​related crimes. Eighty women, about 27 percent of Dutch FTFs, are known to have traveled to join Daesh, and 65 children born to Dutch

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nationals remained in camps in Iraq or Syria awaiting repatriation (Cook and Vale 2018; Pieters 2019). In response to the number of Dutch citizens traveling to conflict zones, the Netherlands passed a series of measures to counter homegrown radicalism and prevent Dutch citizens from becoming foreign fighters or from returning to the Netherlands after participating in jihad. In 2017 the government enacted tougher legislation restricting citizenship and passports of known terrorists and returnees. The 2016–​ 2020 Counter Terrorism Strategy identifies “global jihadism” as the main terrorist threat to Dutch security. This is unchanged from the previous national strategy of 2011–​2015, which placed “international jihadism” as the first of four priority areas. Dutch institutions and professions involved in counterterrorism and counter-​radicalization present radicalization as a risk to Dutch society because current radical groups wish to realign it to one that accords with an “extremist interpretation” of the sources of Islam through implementing extremist ideas of Shari’a regardless of the faith of individuals, and mass reversion to Islam.11 As with the UK, while other forms of extremist ideology and groups are mentioned in passing, documents and counterterrorism action are focused on a perceived extreme Islamist threat. They identify the source of radicalization as the polarization of Dutch society and personal trauma in people’s lives, and see foreign military adventures as having little deterrent effect (National Coordinator for Security and Counter Terrorism (NCTV) 2018). Since 2005, they have also been concerned with Dutch nationals supporting terrorism overseas and lone-​wolf attacks from the far-​right (there was one conviction for far-​right activities in 2018 in the Netherlands (Europol 2019a). Counterterrorism policy in the Netherlands also suffers, as in Indonesia and Pakistan, from intra-​and interagency rivalry. Only in 2011 did the General Intelligence and Security Service (AVID) and the National Coordinator for Counter-​Terrorism and Security (NCTV) agree on a shared working definition of “terrorism.” The Netherlands identifies a polarization of society as the source of Dutch vulnerability. Approximately 6 percent of Dutch people are Muslim, of which 73  percent are of Moroccan or Turkish heritage. Twenty-​seven percent are from former Dutch colonies, Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, Somalia, or countries from the former Yugoslavia. About six thousand Muslims are “native Dutch.”12 Eight percent of Dutch Muslims are “strong” Orthodox (or Salafi) believers, but the majority of Muslims in the Netherlands identify as Sunni. Polls show that 82 percent of Dutch Muslims reject violence (7 percent accept it under very specific circumstances). One in five Dutch Turkish and one in four Dutch Moroccan (the majority of Dutch Muslims) fifteen-​to twenty-​five-​year-​olds are unemployed (compared to one in ten

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for “native” non-​Muslim Dutch), and there is a labor market participation rate of only 52 percent for the Dutch Turkish population and 45 percent for Dutch Moroccan (compared to “native Dutch” figures of 66  percent). Other socioeconomic indicators identify broad structural disadvantages in terms of education, health, and welfare. This identification of polarization of society as a cause of radicalization is reinterpreted by right-​wing groups, who display Islamophobia and glorified violence against Muslims; the majority of protests and demonstrations targeted mosques. Although in 2018 there were no reported acts of violence, right-​wing anti-​Muslim groups have grown in confidence, protesting and marching in traditionally left-​wing cities like Amsterdam. One attempt to challenge this polarization and narrative is the soap opera–​drama called West Side Soap. It was shown on local Dutch television and co-​financed by the Amsterdam municipality. It was about the lives of four families—​one Turkish, one Moroccan, one Surinamese, and one Dutch—​who became neighbors. Through a range of plot lines, viewers are encouraged to find out more about each other’s lives and cultures, but the story also shows how interconnected people already are in an arbitrary street in west Amsterdam. Given this framing of the risks to society, and as emanating from society, their counterterrorism policy 2013 is “combined” and involves all levels and aspects of government. There are two main components: a deradicalization program focusing on individuals who they either seek to deradicalize or simply monitor, and a broader counter-​radicalization program addressing community cohesion and social divisions. There is a greater focus on families and individuals than on “target communities” and broad counter-​ radicalization policies in the Netherlands because of a general perception of radicalization as rooted in individual circumstances and psychological responses. Since 2012 the deradicalization program has been run by the Probation Service (known as Team TER) and has an explicit reintegration and narratives approach. In its publications the team presents trust and professional bonds between client and probation worker as essential to their deradicalization work that challenges core narratives and beliefs of clients (van der Heide and Schuurman 2018). Nevertheless, both elements of the policy are predominantly police-​led, supported by local municipal social initiatives. Local-​level initiatives seek to bridge the perceived divides in Dutch society through cultural programs and community debates, and address discrimination. Some Dutch cities have created antidiscrimination officers at the district level in an attempt to address some of these concerns. However, the Dutch policy of pillarization and the separation of church and state mean that many elements of Dutch government are reluctant to directly deal with religious organizations. In order to overcome

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this reluctance, there is the state-​funded Contact Body for Muslims (CMO) representing the majority Sunni population, and the Contact Group Islam (CGI) for liaising with non-​Sunni communities. Groups such as these and others suggest that while they are invited as participants in counterterrorism events and actions, they are not involved in any of the design stage. There is some suggestion that had they been, the backlash against the Rotterdam “Islam Debates” in 2005 would not have occurred, perhaps because the groups would have advised against these debates, which were largely seen as divisive. There is little civil-​society concern regarding any human rights violations in the Netherlands as a result of counterterrorism and counter-​radicalization policies, despite fears of “crimmigration”—​the criminalization of immigration and the portrayal of migrants as dangerous others comparable to criminals—​and moves towards a preventative or anticipatory criminal justice approach to counterterrorism (Manjikian 2017). Populist political parties, for example, refer to “street terrorists” and “district hooligans” to discuss ethnic unrest in Gouda in 2007 that had been prompted by the media coverage of the arrest of Bilal Bajaka. The municipality of Amsterdam also has a complex relationship with counter-​radicalization initiatives and the complex range of actors involved. This was particularly heightened in 2010 where twelve Somalians were arrested based on unfounded allegations not fully questioned by police in advance. This repeated the events of 2009 when seven Moroccan men were similarly arrested. Surveys show that Dutch Moroccan and Dutch Turkish nationals are more likely to express dissatisfaction with police handling of counterterrorism policies, arguing that they face discrimination and racism, and have noticed increased levels of Islamophobia from the police and other parts of Dutch society.

CONCLUSION

This chapter identified the main trends and responses at the global and state levels in relation to counter-​radicalization initiatives, with some attention paid to the inclusion of the Women, Peace and Security agenda within this policy area. There is a high level of coherence, consistency, and continuity across the countries, and among the regional and global institutions discussed in this chapter. This points to Enloe’s idea of there being “teaching machines” in this field, or at least an epistemic community that facilitates a particular understanding of radicalization and the efforts a state should take to address it. We can see this in the move toward a broad

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concern with extremism rather than a narrow understanding of terrorist action in counter-​radicalization work (see also Jackson 2015). What is noticeable is that despite movement at the global and regional levels, states have not meaningfully addressed the WPS agenda in antiradicalization efforts. With the exception of Saudi Arabia, there is no acknowledged women’s deradicalization campaign. Across all five countries there is a notable lack of women’s voices in the authorship or spokespeople of policies in this field, as practitioners or as targets of policies. In all policy documents, legislation, and implementation, the default threat is male and jihadist. This potential say-​do gap is discussed in more detail throughout this book. Additionally, across all five countries and within regional institutions these programs and policies are racialized—​with Muslims othered as either female victims or male perpetrators of extremism. The feminized victim is addressed in broad counter-​radicalization programs, while the masculine perpetrator is targeted through deradicalization initiatives. What is apparent is that the purpose of modern deradicalization programs is to bring redeemable others back to “civilization”; they are a rescue mission of sexed and racialized “radical” Muslims. The function of broad counter-​radicalization programs is consequently to affirm and protect the boundaries of the “good life” and “the good” in the war on terror. To unpack this point further, it is necessary to investigate and interrogate the theories of change that underpin countries’ domestic efforts to counter terror. To do this we first need to understand how radicalization is understood—​the focus of the next chapter.

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CHAPTER 3

Groomed and Seduced

T

his chapter offers two key discussions. The first part reviews existing theories of radicalization, as they relate to women and how they discuss and relate to gender. In this chapter I  argue that neither theories rooted in psychosocial accounts of radicalization nor those drawing from social movement or milieu approaches address gender sufficiently, with consequences for the ways in which “women radicals” are considered. The second section of the chapter discusses how particular women involved in violent radical politics are considered in research and in policy. Specifically I look at four archetypes of women radicals: the “female suicide terrorist”1 (FST), the “white widow,” the “jihadi bride,”2 and more recently the “female foreign terrorist fighter” (FFTF).

THEORISING RADICALIZATION

There are multiple layers and uses of the term “radicalization”—​its history, transformations and popularity as a term are linked to the twists and turns in the war on terror (as discussed in the previous chapter). Emerging as an explanation for terrorism and terrorist violence, it seemed to offer a new lease on life to a discipline struggling to justify itself after failing to predict the attacks on September 11, 2001, in New  York and Washington. Radicalization became a popular concept for solving a series of problems in understanding the new terrorism. “New terrorism” was seen as different from the terrorism of the past because it was irrationally motivated and global, and it sought mass casualties (Crenshaw 2008; Goertz and Streitparth 2019). Deploying radicalization as a concept Gender, Religion, Extremism. Katherine E. Brown, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190075699.001.0001

also seemed to resolve the criticisms of critical terrorism scholars that the field functioned to serve state interests because of the ways terrorism was defined and that it lacked reliable and objective empirical foundations (Jackson 2007b). By shifting the focus to the individual, radicalization theory seemed to sidestep the issue of state terrorism and the diversity of motivations for and modes of terrorism. Radicalization theory, by focusing on individuals and the gathering of mass data—​in particular micro data on a radical person’s life—​seeks to overcome quantitative limitations of case study data. Additionally, Coolsaet (2019) describes how radicalization theory appeared to offer a grand unifying theory of everything and reconcile apparently competing theories for the causes of radical or terrorist violence. In particular, radicalization was used to reconcile the ideas that ideology lies as the root cause of terrorism and that sociomaterial conditions drive terrorism. Whether radicalization theory can overcome the limitations of terrorism research, as proponents claim via their methodological individualism and depoliticization of both the object and subject of research, is highly questionable. Indeed, the gender analysis of this book highlights some of the weaknesses not only of antiradicalization policies but also the theory and ideas underpinning them. Two key components of radicalization theory are examined here. The first considers the psychological approaches adopted in radicalization theory, and the second examines approaches that focus on social networks and lifestyles.3

KEY RADICALIZATION THEORIES Psychological Approaches

The early theories on radicalization highlighted the flaws in static theories on the causes of terrorism, including biological determinants. In contrast, the early theories emphasized a dynamic process by which an individual moved from “ordinary” beliefs and behaviors toward a “radical”—​that is, uncompromising and unwavering—​extreme position. Radicalization is therefore conceived of as the process whereby people become extremist (Neumann 2013). The New York Police Department (NYPD) were early adopters, and they developed an elevator or escalator model (2007). In this model, a “preradicalization” stage reveals “vulnerable” or “at risk” individuals based on exposure to radical ideology and certain life circumstances (Githens-​ Mazer 2012). This idea of exposure to radical ideas is picked up in Gill’s (2007; 2008) pathways model, and also in recent UK legislation on banning

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publications that glorify violence. In the NYPD model, individuals move from a preradicalization stage toward self-​identification with the radical beliefs through a “cognitive opening.” This alignment is followed by a phase of “indoctrination,” during which individuals “harden” their beliefs and are often “guided” or “mentored” toward a final operational stage, which the NYPD label as “jihadization.” Similarly, sociologist Fathali Moghaddam (2005; 2006) adapts a “staircase to terrorism” model; for him, as individuals move up the “staircase” there is a narrowing of the “decision tree” and available choices, making disengagement and traveling back down much harder. The staircase model begins with individual predispositions rather than situational factors, as for Moghaddam the wider environmental factors appear higher up the staircase. Another model of this nature was adopted by the Association of Police Officers in the UK and formed the basis of the UK CONTEST strategy to counter terrorism. It was seen as a pyramid, a linear progression from a “broad community” with specific environmental factors toward individual participation in criminal activity in support of a particular “radical” ideology. The focus of this model was on prevention—​directing activities to different stages of radicalization and identifying those likely or “vulnerable” to moving to the next “tier.” The limitation with these models was that, while they stress journeys and pathways toward a final “radical” status, they are unable to show why some individuals in the lower categories move to the next stage but others do not. Additionally, awareness is growing among practitioners that the journey toward radicalization is not linear, thereby complicating these models significantly and making it harder to use them to identify the correct anti-​or deradicalization responses. In order to establish who may progress along the pathway, researchers identified particular behaviors that were indicative of or signs of radicalization. These behaviors are then turned into individual factors such as affect/​emotion, behaviors, cognitive style, beliefs/​ideology, attitudes, social factors, identities, and capacities (Borum 2011; 2015). Social factors when used in this strand of radicalization theory are not socioeconomic indicators but refer to environmental microfeatures that are indicative of a support group that has pro-​violence attitudes and also social alienation, and are coupled with a mindset that proclaims “they are evil and we are good” (uniting beliefs, ideology, and attitudes) (Meloy and Gill 2016). However, a cursory glance shows significant difficulties with this approach; the NYPD guidance, for example, identifies both attending a mosque and no longer attending a mosque as equally potential signs of radicalization. In the UK, guidance suggests that

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going camping is both a sign of “Britishness” (the antithesis of a radical in the literature) and of radicalization—​but only if the person is Asian/​ Muslim and male. Most theories recognize the limitation of delineating specific behaviors or “signatures” in order to identify those on a radicalization pathway. Instead, a dominant strand focuses on cognitive and sociopsychological moments. Indeed, the point about mosque attendance from the NYPD perspective is that radicalization is signaled when there is a change in behavior rather than through the activities themselves. Quentin Wiktorowicz is one of the leading experts within this approach; he remains among the few scholars to have carried out empirical primary research on those identified as “radical” (2005). He identifies a necessary (but not sufficient) condition that was dominant and present in all of those he interviewed: namely that, at some point, each individual had undergone some form of existential crisis, often in the form of an identity crisis. He characterized these crises as “cognitive openings” that could lead to primal change in thoughts and beliefs. This crisis shakes the foundations of identity and “renders the individual more susceptible to possible alternative views and perspectives.” Wiktorowicz argues that an individual receptive to alternative worldviews may then engage in a search for new answers. In his study group, the important sets of answers to their questions were expressed religiously. Such searching leads to a “frame-​alignment,” where the answers offered by radical groups appear as correct, and then a phase of socialization follows where the individual’s entire life is reoriented around the new belief structure. Another much-​ cited terrorism expert, Mark Sageman, also sees a “moment” of “moral outrage” as the first “prong” of radicalization; this is followed by an adoption of a particular worldview, a process of self-​identification, and then mobilization within terrorist networks (2004; 2008). Atran phrases the same point slightly differently when he asks, “[What] is the original spark that ignites people’s passions and minds?” (2007, p. 110). The linkage to passion and the idea of a radicalizing moment imply that ideas and emotions drive an individual—​notably anger, anxiety, and aggression (Gøtzche-​Astrup 2018). Despite the emphasis on a journey, the quest for the spark or opening as the point upon which someone becomes a radical places this group of theories in the same space as terrorism studies: a desperate search for a line to delineate between “nonradical” and “radical.” The catalyst event is, for example, seen to be essential in Al-​Lami’s 2009 report radicalization and focusing on Iraqi female human bombers. Al-​Lami claims that the majority of human bombers had members of their family killed by coalition forces and thereby frames their suicide missions as acts of vengeance, but also as explainable and understandable through

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this catalyst. (I discuss later in this chapter in more detail how the figure of the “female human bomber” is treated in research.) Mia Bloom’s works on women in terrorism also suggest that rape is a specific female trauma that offers the crystalizing moment that places a girl or woman on the pathway toward violent extremism (2011). In this case, women are either seeking justice through emotional actions, or are rendered vulnerable and incapable of making rational choices about their politics, even if the act itself is rational. Their cognitive opening and subsequent identification is sometimes conceptualized by theorists as humiliation, either directly or by proxy. Akil Awan considers this as experiencing vicarious trauma that occurs through exposure to material that overwhelms the viewer with horrific violence and humliation, leading to a strong sense of identification with victims, such that human bombers eventually believe that they are being altruistic in their actions in defending the vulnerable (Awan, A.N. Hoskins, A & O’ Loughlin, B. 2012). The difficulty with these attempts is that, by emphasizing the origins of radicalization as a spark, the process of radicalization becomes seen to be founded upon false, overly emotional, irrational, or faulty grounds. Shifting from the idea of a singular moment or catalyst, Sieckelinck et al. (2019) argue for a biographical approach that allows for the concept of cognitive openings but sees the underlying features of the radicalization process as rooted in the transitions from childhood into adulthood. These researchers contend that radicalization is a coping mechanism for the existential and practical uncertainties of this transitional life period. DeMause (2002) also considers childhood to be a key factor in understanding radicalization, and recent work by the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) also emphasizes conditions such as absent fathers and the loss of male bonding as factors in radicalization (UNDP 2019). (I address the role and idealization of fatherhood in antiradicalization work in a later chapter). Orla Lynch (2015) and others, however, see this as a trend to pathologize teenage and childhood rebellion. Silke’s review questioning the findings of radicalization research found, given that “between 54 percent and 96 percent of young men have been involved in some form of delinquent behavior, with good international agreement on this finding,” it is difficult to see how noting that young radicals had difficult childhoods is helpful (2008, p. 106). We can make a similar argument in relation to domestic violence—​that men involved in terrorism or extremism have a track record of domestic violence does not significantly differentiate them from the wider population in order to help explain at the individual level why radicalization occurs in some men but not all.

[ 62 ]  Gender, Religion, Extremism

While these theories do not say that radicals are irrational or suffer from mental illness, and in fact many explicitly state that mental illness is no indicator, nevertheless there is an underlying claim that individuals who become radicals have lost their rationality and capacity for a reason (Miskiak et al. 2019). Gøtzsche-​Astrup (2018) and Campelo et al. (2018) both found that most radicals do not have a diagnosis of mental disorder. Nevertheless, there is an especially loose use of the term “depression” and borrowing of psychological terminology by those involved in counter-​radicalization fields and in terrorism research. For example, Campelo et al. (2018) found that research continues to highlight “trait vulnerabilities” associated with radicalization—​including antisocial, obsessive, and histrionic traits—​or mention psychopathological mechanisms—​ such as paranoia, compulsive behaviors, and anxiety. Sometimes “intense depressive emotions” are linked to radicalization (noting that they are below thresholds for depression). Antiradicalization professionals, who are not medically qualified, note that individuals may have sought health-​care services or family support services in the past but are unable to confirm the relationships beyond anecdote and correlation. “Depression,” like “trauma,” when applied in radicalization studies research, suggests a medical, psychological, or scientific approach—​one that implies an objective methodology and analysis and an apolitical field of study—​and the terms’ use implies a medical illness that explains away the (potential) violence of the radicalized individual. However, the research underpinning this approach has a number of problems. Schbley (2003), for example, concluded from questionnaires completed by violent extremists in prison that having “poor impulse control” and presenting “antisocial behavior” and “defiant” personalities were common features. Unfortunately, it is impossible to control for the impact of prison and detention on those filling in the form and the personalities identified. Additionally, whether these are necessarily psychological illnesses despite their presentation as such is unclear. Similarly, a report in the New Scientist found that “depressive symptoms” were linked to support for radical ideas (Bhui 2015; see also Bhui et  al. 2014), but as a detailed review by Misiak et al. (2019) confirmed, the findings were inconsistent. Furedi (2009) also argues on his website, “Unfortunately . . . extremism is seen as a kind of psychological virus afflicting the vulnerable and those suffering from a psychological deficit. This depiction of radicalization as a symptom of vulnerability overlooks the fact that, frequently, ‘Muslim anger’ expresses confidence and self-​belief.” Such a depiction also confirms Barkawi’s (2004) and Brunner’s (2017) positions that an orientalist framing shapes Western understanding of Muslim political violence. From a gender perspective, this research is also highly problematic because

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it is drawn from an almost universally male dataset, but rarely is gender or masculinity raised as a consideration (which I  discuss more in a later chapter addressing masculinities). Taking the link between mental illness and terrorism one step further, in 2015 Manning and Le Bau writing for the Quilliam Foundation uses an article by Dr. Dinesh Bhugra from 2002 on conversion and psychosis, to argue that there is a link between “the first onset of psychosis, religious conversion, and terrorism,” and claim that those who have experienced “sudden religious conversion” could be suffering from psychotic illness, and that, “it may well be possible that a portion of those who have travelled to Syria suffer from such illness” (Farthing 2005; Bhugra 2002). In their piece on how they helped ten individuals “recover” from extremism, it was noted that one of the individuals sought to repress his sexuality, and from this developed “pop” psychological claims about repression and vulnerability to radicalization (Manning and Le Bau 2015, p. 38). Here the psychotic, queer, and religious are all presented as equivalent and as potentially radical in their own ways because of faulty reasoning. Moreover, in this way, radicalization and belonging to extremist groups—​as well as being queer—​are linked to cult membership from which individuals can be cured. Radicalization research also borrows language from cultic studies and new religious movements.4 Unfortunately, as Kühle (2018) notes, terrorism scholars have not taken up the critical lessons of radicalization research. For example, brainwashing is a concept often related to radicalization, especially when discussing women and children. David Cameron argued in 2014 that those returning from Iraq and Syria would be forced to attend deradicalization programs to “reverse their warped brainwashing” (cited in Whitehead 2014). Brainwashing implies a weakness of mind or will, as well as vulnerability; Shaista Gohir (cited in Sherwood et al. 2014), a prominent spokesperson on deradicalization in the UK, argued that the young women who joined Daesh were naïve and easily manipulated (see also Peresin and Cervone 2015). This association with brainwashing is further picked up through linking radicalization to grooming processes. “Brainwashing” first emerged as a popular term to describe mind-​control models of involvement in new religious movements (cults) in the 1960s and 1970s (Lifton 1961; Schein 1961; Lalich and Tobias 2006). Within the discourse of brainwashing, it is common to view individuals as having been “recruited” rather than having joined a movement of their own choice; thus, affiliation is not perceived to be voluntary. Instead, it is caused by the accumulation of coercive and destructive psychological processes. Considerable mystery surrounds brainwashing theories—​an ambiguity that is preserved in a similar way in radicalization theories. Nevertheless,

[ 64 ]  Gender, Religion, Extremism

brainwashing is alleged to occur when a group uses psychological methods including inventing enemies, isolating trainees or new recruits, torture or physical abuse, use of drugs, and forcing new members to do demeaning tasks, learn a new vocabulary, memorize key passages from “holy” or foundational texts, or sever ties with family and friends. Rubin (2004) finds that “Palestinian groups have historically used after-​school activities and youth clubs to spot potential suicide bombers. Promising recruits have then typically been subject to intensive brainwashing by experienced terrorists.” Similarly, reports of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE) noted that its training camps constantly played heroic songs from loudspeakers; recruits were forbidden to marry, they were not allowed to have sex, and the highest honor was to be selected for a last supper with the group’s leader before becoming a human bomber. The difficulty with the brainwashing explanation of radicalization is that it does not fully account for the variety of individuals’ experience of involvement in new religious movements and has little scientific support in legal or religious studies scholarship (Anthony and Robbins 2004; Lewis 2005; Palmer 2008; Kühle 2018). An additional problem in transferring this concept to radicalization theories is that brainwashing requires individuals to be physically present in training camps or schools where they are subject to these practices, yet individuals who have traveled to Syria or elsewhere have not yet undergone these processes before they leave. Similarly, not all radical groups have engaged in this behavior; there is no reporting of the Irish Republican Army (IRA) or ‘Euskadi Ta Askatasuna’ (“Basque Homeland and Liberty”—​more commonly known as ETA) practicing these techniques on members or potential recruits. Nevertheless, the notion of brainwashing has been used in law to acquire reduced sentences for individuals who have sought rehabilitation. Examples can be found in the US as well as the UK of leniency given to victims (as they become portrayed in court) to account for their actions. For example, Safaa Boular, a teenager involved in radicalizing her close family and a Daesh terrorism plot, had her sentenced reduced because her lawyer was able to successfully argue that she was unduly influenced by Naweed Hussain. Her barrister argued that Boular “was an offender by exploitation . . . an ill child from a damaged home. She was groomed, radicalized, and then sexually groomed” (Doughty Street Chambers 2019; Casciani 2018). A lack of religious knowledge is also seen as a sign of radical brainwashing—​as is having in-​depth knowledge on a few core issues and the ability to recite a very select range of verses but being unable to speak on wider concerns from within the tradition. The lack of theological knowl­ edge or critical engagement with theological debates and traditions is aptly

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demonstrated by British Daesh recruits Yusuf Sawar and Mohammad Ahmed, who bought the book Islam for Dummies just before they attempted to travel to Syria. A briefing note from MI5’s behavioral science unit that was leaked to the Guardian similarly concludes that, “Far from being religious zealots, a large number of those involved in terrorism do not practice their faith regularly. Many lack religious literacy and could . . . be regarded as religious novices” (Travis 2008). This shores up the idea that a “true” believer and “true Islam” would never countenance such violence and are inherently peaceful and moderate—​a theme I  pick up in subsequent chapters. However, rather than position this as a weakened or vulnerable mind, it can also demonstrate a lack of skills or incomplete engagement with one’s experiences and reflective thinking—​or that religion is not the primary motivator despite the use of religious language and slogans. Furthermore, while a lack of knowledge beyond the superficial slogans of faith or the radical group is often used as a sign of brainwashing, we cannot assume that individuals are not competent to make the decision to join—​ or that they are less genuine in their beliefs and convictions—​yet the discourse of brainwashing and grooming denies agency or rationality to the men and women involved. The language of brainwashing and grooming is overwhelmingly applied to women and children in radicalization research and writing. In contrast, radicalized men are presented as stupid or ignorant, but it is not suggested that they have lost their capacity to think. Even in a research paper questioning the brainwashing thesis, gender stereotyping abounds: “Even the girls,” the authors write, “express themselves as sympathizers . . . active agents” (Sieckelinck et al. 2015, p. 336). Given the tone and language (“even the girls”), the reader is clearly expected to be surprised by their actions. The girls are abdicated from responsibility because they have become pawns of men. For example, in reporting reported on Boko Haram in 2015, an Al Jazeera report included an interview with Zaharau Babangida, a thirteen-​year-​old girl arrested as a human bomber for the group. She argued that the leader of the group threatened, intimidated, and attempted to cajole support from the recruits in the camp. She said when she was not motivated by “soul-​searching preaching” and by the “bounty of heaven,” she was threatened with being shot. We are told that she had no real choice (Onuoha and George 2015). In another example, Nicky Morgan in January 2016 insisted that Daesh is “grooming” and that the government had a duty to “keep our children safe.” In this, she argued that “some children are less resilient” because of “self-​esteem and confidence” issues. These details of this gender stereotyping in counter-​ radicalization policies are brought out in more detail in the chapters that follow.

[ 66 ]  Gender, Religion, Extremism

The difficulty with framing radicalization as a consequence of weak, vulnerable minds that are susceptible to “radical ideas,” is that it feminizes the person in question, regardless of whether the individual is a woman. Feminist research in international relations, law, politics, and terrorism studies, among others, has demonstrated how gendered binaries operate, associating the female-​feminine with particular and often undervalued Cartesian categories, including passion, weakness, nature, delicacy, and fragility. These are placed in binary opposition to male-​masculine properties of rationality, strength, man-​ made, resilience, confidence, and so on (Tickner 1992, pp. 7–​9; Grosz 1994). The current public discourse around depression additionally constructs women as having defective bodies and passive minds (Hurt 2007). With this association between women and the irrational, and being governed by emotions rather than rationality, the association between radicalization and the failure to rationally manage the self (by being weak-​minded) places the radical in the feminine category. In opposition to radical individuals are those who can be trusted, who are strong enough not to be drawn in; these individuals are members of the intelligence services, police, experts, and so on. A  patriarchal, albeit caring relationship is set up with considerable power inequalities between state agents and those held to be suspect, at risk, or vulnerable to radicalization. As demonstrated in this volume, such ideas are embedded in antiradicalization policies, discourse, and practices. The most overt example of this is in the UK PREVENT duty5 as it depends on safeguarding narratives already present in social institutions—​from education to health care (Heath-​Kelly 2017). As discussed later, in association with caring and self-​guarding practices we find a “women washing” of security policies (Huckerby and Ní Aoláin 2018a; 2018b). The important element of radicalization is that it cements the idea that knowledge is power; radicalization reinforces the perspective that individuals join terrorist organizations because they believe in an extreme or radical ideology. Even if the focus is on “violent extremism” as opposed to extremism more broadly, the concern is with the ideas that appear to explain or underpin the violence. The link is then that radical ideas lead to radical action. This prompts a range of “nudge”-​oriented technologies in security governance, and an emphasis in alternative and counternarratives (Bevir and Brown 2019). Accepting the role of narratives in radicalization processes might allow for the repoliticization of terrorism and the cause of radicalization; however, these are discussed in ways that are decontextualized and disassociated with ethics or politics. For example, opposition to drone warfare in Pakistan, including the use of drones by the US in Pakistan and Afghanistan, or opposition to the treatment of Palestinians in Gaza by

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the state of Israel, or opposition to the royal family in Saudi Arabia because of alleged corruption or extravagant lifestyles from radical individuals are the result of an extremist ideology, not because these events occur. These nudge technologies focus on self-​governance and are also a highly gendered security mechanism. The other challenge with focusing on narratives, beliefs, and associated emotions is that terrorism studies have shown that individuals join for a range of motivations that do not always align with those of the group as a whole (Brown 2017). These can be financial, because friends and family are or were once members of the organization, and other circumstantial reasons. Recognizing this has led to other strands of radicalization theories that focus on the milieu of the radical.

Social Networks and Radical Lifestyles

Although it focuses on the individual, radicalization theory means that biological deviancy is no longer necessary to explain terrorism per se. In other words, someone is not born a terrorist; rather, they are made a radical. Consequently, the second component of radicalization theory emphasizes the social and environmental factors that influence the radicalization journey. The majority of writings focus on social and economic exclusion, isolation, and in some ways Durkheim’s ideas of anomie. Key advocates are Giles Kepel (2004, 2012) and Oliver Roy (2017, 2006) both of whom seek to explain why European individuals support violent Islamist groups. The focus on the homegrown jihadi as both a focus of shock (How could they reject Western society?”) and for explanation (“Habitats shape decisions/​ outcomes”) implies the existence of both a fertile soil for radicalization (a community supporting radical ideas) and infertile lands (socioeconomic disadvantage and Islamophobia from wider society). The fertile-​soil thesis tends to emphasize factors that pull someone toward radicalization, while the infertile-​lands thesis prioritizes those factors that push someone away from mainstream society. The push and pull elements are widely acknowledged to be mutually reinforcing, often leading to the idea of the homegrown radical. For example, Roy finds that young radicals he interviewed exhibited a double sense of non-​belonging—​neither associated with the cultural heritage of parents or with wider society—​and classified them as “unmoored youth” (Roy, 2006; 2007). Within the infertile-​lands thesis there is an assumption that radicalization occurs because of a failure of multicultural policies and lack

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of integration. Often cited are statistics that point to socioeconomic inequalities that are said to produce “enclaves” or ghettos of minority communities. Compared with the UK population as a whole, for example, Muslims have three times the unemployment rate, a higher proportion have no qualifications, and a higher concentration are living in deprived areas (Social Mobility Commission 2017). Muslims are significantly underperforming in secondary education and are also underrepresented in higher education: 8.5 percent of the population as a whole have no formal qualifications, compared with 26 percent of Muslims in England in 2015 (Muslim Council of Britain (MCB) 2015). In the Netherlands, about 6 percent of the population is Muslim, rising to 25 percent in Rotterdam and nearly 15 percent in Amsterdam, and reports suggest that discrimination and Islamophobia are growing. In research among five hundred Dutch secondary education teachers, 61 percent witnessed verbal or physical aggression against Muslims linked to their faith; about 39 percent of all Dutch mosques have been victims of vandalism, had pigs’ heads delivered, received threatening letters, or had swastikas graffitied onto them (Dujardin 2015; van der Valk 2015). There is a higher-​than-​average school dropout rate and higher unemployment, as well as lower income levels and disproportionate dependence upon welfare support among Dutch Muslims (Archick et  al. 2011; Statham and Tillie 2016). Similarly, in trying to explain radicalization in Indonesia, there is a focus on poverty and exclusion from meaningful political processes. For example, in discussing recruitment in rural areas to Daesh, Edit Schlaffer of Women without Borders explained in 2015 that, as she was setting up the NGO Mothers Against Violent Extremism, she heard accounts from women that recruiters for Daesh would be promising their sons gainful employment in Iraq and Syria, and these women’s lack of knowledge about the area meant those promises were believed. Given the oil wealth and individual personal wealth found in the Gulf, these arguments are not made in relation to the majority of Saudi individuals in counter-​ radicalization programs. However, Saudi deradicalization programs do assist individuals in finding jobs, wives, and homes—​to provide a secure material basis for a nonradical life. As part of the infertile-​lands set of theories, some researchers stress “enclavization” and segregation as essential to radicalization. French sociologist Farhad Khosrokhavar (2006) notes that within France, Islam is increasingly becoming “the religion of the repressed.” Kepel (2012) also finds that laïcité,6 along with a xenophobic state and citizenry, is blamed by Muslim communities of the banlieue7 and other ghettoized suburbs. Kepel finds such communities are cut off from “wider society,” and people’s identities become centered on religion because it provides dignity and

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community that is otherwise denied to them. Indicative is the comparatively low rate of Muslim representation in European parliaments:  there are 15  million Muslims in the European Union, reflecting approximately 3 percent of the total population, but Muslims hold only 0.8 percent of the seats in the European Parliament—​out of 785 representatives, only 6 identify as Muslim. Similar arguments to those made about enclavization and segregation are made with regard to Shi’a minorities in Saudi Arabia and elsewhere in the Gulf, where sectarian biases reduce life options for these groups. If we accept the logic of this framing of radicalization, then one might reasonably expect to see more European Muslim women of ethnic minority backgrounds radicalized, because they experience a double bind caused by the intersection of their minority identity and their gender. This double bind includes an additional burden of representation due to increased visibility because of wearing the hijab. Such visibility makes them statistically more vulnerable to hate-​based physical attacks than Muslim-​minority men; this violence has a significantly greater negative impact on women’s freedoms and ways of life, especially as being targeted also involves them being judged on the basis of representing all Muslims and Islam, rather than as individuals (Perry 2014; Allen 2015; Tarlo 2007). However, women’s experiences are rarely considered in radicalization theories—​except for how those experiences emasculate or make Muslim men feel negatively about others. This failure to consider women properly is problematic because it is often combined with an assumption found in counter-​ radicalization narratives that women are the beneficiaries of secularism and modernity. In contrast, Muslim men, especially those residing in the West, are seen to be suffering targets of state emasculation. Subsequent chapters address these issues. Of particular concern for France, because she detains significantly higher numbers of people on Islamist-​related offenses than neighboring countries, is the claim that prison is a key site for the radicalization of individuals. In France, 60  percent of the prison population is Muslim (European Police Office [Europol] 2011); in the Netherlands it is about 20 percent (Moore 2008); and in the UK (England and Wales only), approximately 13.1 percent (Berman 2013). Neumann (2010) finds that joining an Islamic group, rather than a “gang” that more typically operates in prisons, gives young Muslims a sense of identity and superiority (see also: Ilan & Sandberg 2019). This is also reflected in discussions about radicalization in US detention camps—​specifically Bucca—​in Iraq and Afghanistan, where close proximity of detainees to each other enabled radicalization (McCants 2015). In the absence of any other identity, this criminal one takes hold. Of course, such push factors in the criminal justice system emerge before

[ 70 ]  Gender, Religion, Extremism

an individual arrives at prison. Some writers have adopted the phrase “suspect community” to describe the ways in which individuals are determined and treated a priori (Pantazis and Pemberton 2009; Lynch 2015; Ragazzi 2016). Examples of discrimination and allegations of institutional racism and Islamophobia by police forces across Europe, North America, and elsewhere regularly emerge in the media, and research shows declining levels of trust toward the police. More objectively, “stop-​and-​search” figures show how this discrimination is manifest in daily life. Over the years only a very small percentage of these searches have led to arrests (no greater than 1.4 percent). In the year ending 2015, individuals from black and minority ethnic groups (BME) were twice as likely to be stopped as those who were white. Within the BME group, those who were black (or black British) were over four times more likely than those who were white to be stopped and searched publicly (Office for National Statistics 2015). A  similar set of stop-​and-​search measures was introduced in the Netherlands in 2001, and reinforced in 2004, such that the prosecutor can designate an entire area to be submitted to stop-​and-​search operations for a renewable twelve hours under terrorism law (Den Boer 2007, p. 290; van der Leun and van der Woude 2011, p.  449). All the processes that contribute to Muslims being viewed as a suspect community are connected to the securitization of everyday life, with fear of surveillance by security services (even if that fear is unwarranted) thereby modifying behaviors through self-​policing and co-​option (Kundnani 2009; Ragazzi 2016). Gender and surveillance in antiradicalization efforts are discussed later. A challenge with radicalization theories that present the infertile-​lands thesis is that these ideas are rarely explicitly connected to broader trends in modernity and postmodernity. Rather, radicalization is seen as brought about by exceptional local conditions, despite similar behaviors being present in other areas of the world. Some comparisons between countries are made, and global connectivity is brought out in some research adopting this theme, linking radicalization to inequalities in the “global souq” (Pasha 2005). However, while poverty in Indonesia is seen as a cause of radicalization, this is rarely linked to a broader critique of globalization in policy. This kind of connectivity is reserved for those talking about the war on terror. Frith and Glenn (2015) highlight how understandings of “risk” shape global counterterrorism policies in relation to “failed states”; here, “failed” and “failing” or “fragile” states provide “safe havens” for terrorists and “breed conflict and endanger regional and global security” (White House 2010, pp. 3, 8). For example, in the work of Bernard Lewis (Roots of Muslim Rage) we find that a transhistorical fixed “Islamic community”—​connected to the present via the Cold War, colonialism, and the Crusades—​is projected in

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the future via a management and saving of civilization in which radicalization is eradicated. Puar and Rai (2004) show how this elicits a “sliding” between a “tentacled” (deterritorialized, globalized) network and yet fixed pyramidal structure, one that is rooted in poverty and crime and “generates perverse subjective, affective, and disciplinary forms (in)adequate to the new security state” (p. 89). Narratives and debates on radicalization, however, largely gloss over considerations of the transnational in the amorphous sense that Puar and Rai address, instead insisting on the specifics of the place of the radical even when they consume globally projected virtual messages or propaganda that is then causally attributed. Ralph Brand and Sara Fregonese in The Radical City (2016) focuses on the role of the urban environment in key cities for radicalization—​from a planning, policing, transportation, and architectural perspective. She concludes that radicalization is an urban problem rather than a youth problem, as “infertile” and hostile spaces facilitate radicalization. In her work as a human geographer, we see the way in which globalized modernity and urbanization processes worldwide contribute to radicalization (see also Saberi 2019). Given the focus on the infertile lands and the failure of liberalism to grow there, there needs to be special explanation for the role of converts8 in radicalization because these individuals would seem exempt from the social conditions that “breed” terrorism because they don’t belong to the same minority and disadvantaged socioeconomic, ethnic, and cultural groups. The radicalization explanation is not that radical converts are the product of globalization and modernity, but rather of their personal failures or their failure to be properly governed. For example, in the case of Murielle Deguaque (a convert from Belgium who blew herself up in Baquba, Iraq, in 2005)—​also known as Myriam Gorris—​analysts focused on poverty and her “troubled youth.” These social factors, combined with the death of her brother and her “lax” attitude to sex, were presented as the key reasons for her vulnerability and later seduction by her North African Muslim husband (Brown 2012). Paradoxically, these same characteristics enable the media and some analysts to give convert members of radical Islamic organizations notoriety and almost exceptional power (Brown 2018b). Here the racial overtones are clear: even “brown” men terrorists are led by white women—​further emasculating them (Brown 2018b) Some use the existence of converts among the radical as proof that Islam is a key driver of radicalization, while others use it as proof that Muslim communities are not the cause (Bartoszewicz 2015). Mostly, radicalization among converts is framed as a choice to reject the good life, as the Dutch secretary of state of security and justice, Klaas Dijkhoff, stated: “Look how they spit in the

[ 72 ]  Gender, Religion, Extremism

well of opportunities and freedom” (cited in Sieckelinck, Kaulingfreks, and De Winter 2015). Pisoiu (2015), challenging this angle of radicalization theory, finds that “re-​orientation towards alternative values did not occur because individuals had failed to achieve or integrate in the ’standard’ context. In the jihadi cases, this occurred but only because they were unhappy with these values, or they came into contact with others that seriously questioned them” (p. 16). This question of “rejection” has also been applied to women who have traveled to the territories of Daesh. The puzzle of their hijrah is framed in terms of irrational behavior—​it is assumed to be irrational to give up material goods and women’s rights—​without questioning whether these social goods were available to these so-​called jihadi brides (Weedon 2016; Jacoby 2015). The failures of multiculturalism are accepted in discussions about Muslim men’s radicalization but, oddly, rarely women’s. The concern around converts being particularly vulnerable to radicalization crosses into discussions about the rejection of liberal values and links to an alternative model explaining radicalization, namely the fertile-​soil thesis. Here, analysis characterizes radicalization as an outcome of living in the breeding grounds. In this characterization, already suspect Muslim communities reproduce a culture of violence. Such communities are presented as being infused with ideas that are incompatible with allegedly civilized mainstream society. The social exclusion of minorities across European cities is not presented as forced upon them because of actions of the majority and material inequalities, but one that is “desired” and actively chosen by minority groups (McGhee 2009). Forming strong insider-​outsider group identities, based on maintaining and preserving practices and ideals that adhere with modern politics, communities are presented as harboring beliefs that are not dissimilar from those who advocate violence. As discussed later, one of the key areas in which the differentiation between good/​peaceful/​moderate and violent/​bad/​radical groups occurs is women’s rights. Women’s rights, or rather the acceptance of them, are seen as a litmus test for “nonradical” belief (Brown 2014; Rashid 2016). Moreover, not supporting women’s rights is identified strongly with rejecting other neoliberal values and signals community exclusion such that social isolationism, nonparticipation in politics, and objection to women’s rights are signs of radical support for violence (Richards 2015). This theory leads the UK government to focus on noncriminal but extremist ideologies that undermine “British values”; a similar logic is presented for each of the five countries examined for this volume. The values argument has become the basis for most broad-​based counter-​radicalization policies worldwide, in contrast to deradicalization programs. Furthermore, the emergence

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of radical individuals in democratic societies provokes a particular form of “stranger danger” (van Ginneken 2011):  a fear of citizens with a non-​ Western background or of converts who live secretly among us, and who were “erroneously” seen as “one of us” before. Breeding grounds for radicalization are not simply ideological spaces or unsafe zones in theories on radicalization but are incorporated into the wider social milieu in which these ideas are acceptable. In his analysis of 242 jihadis, Bakker (2006) found that individuals tended to become involved in terrorism through networks of friends or relatives and that generally there were no formal ties with global Salafi networks. Galam (2002) finds that “passive support” by local community members may be the “backbone” of terrorist action because the community as a whole is seen to tolerate or even facilitate a terrorist actor—​this is the archetypal breeding ground. Radicalization is nourished in a facilitating or normatively supportive environment—​so-​called hotbeds of radicalization—​described as tightly bound minority enclaves, mosques, and universities. Within this framing of radicalization, women are frequently mentioned as facilitators and nurturers of extremist ideas that provoke, reward, and support radical violence. The stereotype of the “fan girl,” that is, “a girl or woman who is an overly enthusiastic fan of someone or something” (Merriam-​Webster 2015), is applied to women supporting and maintaining cultures of violence. Women’s presumed unequal location in Muslim communities—​and terrorist groups’ seeming reluctance to allow women’s equal participation in violence—​ means they are presumed to be well-​placed to support and be a conduit for violence. Instead, drawing on stereotypes about the “power behind the throne,” women’s power is located in the family or drawn through personal connections, which are seen to constitute “thick” or “strong” ties within social network analysis (McGhee 2009). For example, Andre and Harris-​ Hogan discussing in 2013 Mohammed Merah (who as a gunman killed seven people in Toulouse, France, in 2012) argue that the normative support for violence and racism provided by families is a key factor in radicalization. In particular, Merah’s sister and brother were seen as crucial mobilizers; his sister was seen to promote and advocate human bombing, and his brother helped connect Mohammed to other neojihadists in Cairo, South Asia, and elsewhere. After his actions, his sister declared, “Mohammed had the courage to act. I am proud, proud, proud. . . . Jews, and all those who massacre Muslims, I detest them” (Lichfield 2012). She is now believed to be residing in Syria (Associated Press France (AFP) 2014). This tells us about the importance of social interaction in radicalization research, the so-​called social psychological component. Van Stekelenburg

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and Klandermans (2011, p. 182) have argued that “people do not radicalize on their own but as part of a group and through the socially constructed ‘reality’ of their group.” A  study by the Saudi Ministry of the Interior found that “nearly two-​thirds of those in the sample say they joined jihad through friends and about a quarter through family” (Atran 2008, p. 6). Another study of more than five hundred Guantanamo Bay detainees further concluded that knowing an al Qaeda member was a significantly better predictor of those who may engage in politically motivated violence than belief in ideology (Abrahms 2008, p. 98). These findings present significant challenges to counter-​radicalization policies that focus on ideology or want to combat the narrative of radical groups and who take a broad-​brush analysis of Muslim communities—​such as the Quilliam Foundation’s advocacy for the erasure of Wahhabist ideology. A subtler understanding of the fertile-​ soil thesis in radicalization theories centers on the idea of the radical milieu. This concept is put forward by, among others, Malthaner and Waldmann (2014), and the Royal United Services Institute (RUSI) analysts Emily Winterbotham and Elizabeth Pearson (2017). For individual activists, the radical milieu is the formative environment, the milieu in which they are socialized and adopt frameworks of interpretation, values, and symbols, and in which they share experiences of persecution and violent confrontations. This approach follows ideas about a jihadi subculture that explains the broader milieu from which a jihadi emerges (Pisoiu 2015). The Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies at Birmingham University has looked at how radicalization processes of the far-​right do not occur in a vacuum but a cultural environment that includes a sense of style and other artifacts (Cottee 2011). For example, listening to “battle nasheeds” is an important part of “pop jihad” or “jihadi cool.” This normalizes violence and creates an aesthetic of radicalization. Huey (2015) discusses “pro jihadi jamming”9 and online expressions of “jihadi cool.” What is emerging in this scholarship is the idea of brands or franchises of jihadist movements influencing communities and individuals through soft power. In other words, they contribute to identity readiness for radicalization. Della Porta calls these subcultures from which militant activists emerge “micro-​mobilization-​ contexts” (2009, cited in Malthaner and Waldmann 2014). To that end, some have urged radicalization theorists and researchers to learn from research into gangs (specifically street and criminal gangs; Decker and Pyrooz 2015; Ilan & Sandberg 2019). Thomas Hegghammer’s edited collection, Jihadi Culture (2017), further discusses how these aesthetics create unity and cohesion across the different local contexts in order to sustain jihadist violence.

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Within this subset of theories there is a discussion of masculinity as playing an important role in radicalization. Ezekilov (2017) concludes that radicalization an extremism are avenues for men to fulfill their identities as men. Kimmel (2003), writing on white supremacist movements, noted that masculinity is deployed as symbolic capital that serves three roles: first, it helps them understand their plight; second, it serves to demonize those whom they are fighting; and third, it serves as a recruitment device. In recent radicalization research, masculinity features in two contradictory ways: as a hypermasculine gang culture or with a crisis of masculinity operating as a trigger. The crisis of masculinity is linked to a sense of humiliation in global politics and an understanding of terrorism as restorative; “after all shame (and humiliation) are already coded as feminine emotions. The terrorist feels emasculated, ’feminized’ and seeks . . . to restore that damaged masculinity” (Ferber and Kimmel 2008, p. 874). Within terrorist movements, masculinity is hyped or hyper, with violence constructed as a male duty to defend women (Zenn and Pearson 2014; Brown 2012; Van Leuven et al. 2016; Duriesmith 2018). In both scenarios, as women constitute a minority in terrorist organizations it is alleged they might actually incite men to violence as men compete for them and wish to “impress the women” (Zawodny 1978, pp. 280–​81). These issues are developed within the chapters of this volume but are frequently overlooked in antiradicalization programs and policies. One site that seems to unite the infertile-​lands and fertile-​soil positions on radicalization is mosques. Mosques are presented as male-​only spaces, with religious authority stereotyped as either charismatic preachers or incompetent and disinterested prayer leaders. Mosques emerge in policy and academic debates as key spaces for an imagined hypermasculine extremist radicalization. The mosque is said to offer opportunities for men to meet new friends and foster the development of an ideological commitment to the jihad, and to (critically) provide links to the jihad through already connected members. In this model, in these male-​only spaces vulnerable men are distanced from the presumed moderate voices of their female family members who are left at home, and instead are caught up in the rhetoric and excitement of what Durkheim referred to as “collective effervescence.” (1995 [1912]). Where a mosque has been a site of radicalization, it is rarely the imam who directly recruits or is involved, but recruiters loitering outside. Despite this, however, the popular concern is with “radical imams” and “hate preachers” who are identified as “foreign.” Linking radicalization to immigration, policy rhetoric emerges to control and regulate the foreign nature of these spaces, and whether the version of Islam promoted is compatible with British/​Dutch/​Indonesian values or

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whether it is unduly influenced by outside sources—​such as from Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Morocco, Tunisia, or Algeria. In general, this discussion highlights that, with the exception of brief considerations of masculinity, gender is largely reduced to a variable—​ sex—​and then mostly ignored. Yet this gender-​blind approach of radicalization theories does not mean there is no gender within them; there are gender assumptions at work and a resulting gendered differential impact. My purpose here is to highlight, through counterterrorism discourses and practices, how gender is present or manifest within these debates, with significant real-​world consequences. One obvious consequence is that theories on radicalization at worst ignore, or at best diminish, women’s involvement: a trend repeated in policies. Women are often considered in analysis as a distinct group requiring additional explanation because they acquire special status.

Women Radicals

Women’s radicalization is often discussed distinct from men’s radicalization, as if it needs additional explanation, and to ensure that theories derived without consideration to women’s participation can be left untarnished. Myers and Wight recognized that “when a woman commits an act of criminal violence, her sex is the lens through which all of her actions are seen and understood” (1996, p. xi). Spitzack claims, “Repeatedly, women are revealed as persons who cannot manage the body:  women lose control, succumb to fleeting pleasures, make poor judgments” (1993, p. 2). For women identified as radical or terrorist, they become “monsters” with faulty minds and bodies (Sjoberg and Gentry 2015). Women represent a minority of known terrorists and a minority of formal members of terrorist or militant groups. Silke (2008) shows that the majority of terrorists are young men, and Kimmell argues that what unites terrorists is their masculinity (2018a). However, in recent years, women’s participation is shown to be increasing. According to Mia Bloom (2011), between 1985 and 2010, female bombers committed 257 suicide attacks, a quarter of the total recorded. In 2017, women carried out 17 percent of terrorist suicide attacks worldwide; between 2011 and 2017, of 338 suicide attacks carried out by Boko Haram, 244 were by women (Warner and Matfess 2017). The conditions or criteria under which terrorist groups are willing to use women are expanding. Daesh appears to accept women’s inclusion in suicide attacks when they occur outside their territories, no longer simply a last resort (Lahoud 2017; Winter 2018). While some women are coerced into joining, and a minority

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appear to have had their suicide belts triggered by another, women’s testimony in the form of videos and letters declaring their agency and reasoning in carrying out the attacks, as well as decades of feminist research, makes it harder to paint women as victims (Saltman 2016). Additionally, their informal and supporting roles (in the radical milieu, for example) suggest that they are important to extremist groups. A body of research on women’s terrorism has been growing in recent years (Jacques & Taylor 2009; Carter 2013; Lute 2013; Ortbals & Poloni-​ Staudinger 2018). Building on increased awareness of both women’s participation in terrorism and feminist contributions to security studies, and because of the WPS agenda (as discussed in the last chapter), this research is an important development. However, there is little comparative research. Mahan and Griset (2013) present a typology of women in terrorism, outlining the different roles women have had across left-​ wing Marxist or Islamist ideologies in terrorist groups. They create four categories: sympathizers, spies, warriors, and dominant forces. These types encompass roles as recruiters, propagandists, agents, or spies, and sometimes leadership roles. The majority of terrorist groups advocate women’s positions within an organization as in supporting roles and as recruiters. The authors of the Organization for Security and Co-​operation in Europe’s (OSCE) Women and Terrorist Radicalization:  Final Report, for example, concluded that women were “often seen as passive, victims, helpless, subordinate and maternal. . . . As a result, women are neither considered to be potential terrorists, nor perceived to be as dangerous as their male counterparts,” thereby giving the element of surprise and making women more operationally successful (Organization for Security and Co-​operation in Europe 2012, p.  3; Cook 2005; von Knop 2008). Additionally, Oriola (2012) notes how women have been strategically positioned as prostitutes near military bases to gather intelligence on behalf of militant groups in the Niger Delta, and Oyewole (2015) shows how Boko Haram in the Lake Chad region uses women as porters, transporters, suppliers of weapons, and camera operators. Changes in the roles women carry out have been examined at a global level by Raghavan and Balasubramaniyan (2014), who find that women’s increasing front-​line roles in terrorist organizations are linked to the longevity of the terrorist campaign and the changing nature of conflict toward asymmetrical warfare. Others suggest that the changes and increasing involvement in violence and militancy are “a process of female emancipation, albeit a very limited (and morbid) one” (Hegghammer cited in Gilsinan 2014). Amusan et al. (2019) also engaged in a comparative study of women’s involvement in African insurgencies and terrorism and found that the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) was

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estimated to have 30  percent of its fighting force as women and young girls, and young girls are significantly represented among the four hundred thousand child soldiers in Liberia and Sierra Leone. The strong role of women in anticolonial and antiapartheid movements in Algeria, Angola, Mozambique, and South Africa, among others, is also noted. They conclude that the majority of women carry out domestic roles and facilitate the logistical operations of insurgent and terrorist groups. Bodziany and Netczuk-​Gwoździewicz (2019) also carried out a comparison between the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia, Chechen Kavkazskiy Emirat, and groups associated with Islam, and conclude that women’s participation is not driven by psychological disruption but by social environment and earlier participation in political activity. Ortbals and Poloni-​Staudinger (2018) carried out a comparative study and included women’s roles in oppositional and peace movements, as well as women as victims, and public and media representation of women in political violence. Their work describing, problematizing, and analyzing women’s presence in all aspects of political violence highlights the importance of gender ideologies. The researchers find that women are active as violent agents, but on the margins of terrorist organizations; only rarely do women become leaders. The majority of research on women’s participation in terrorism and in radicalization, however, is as single case studies or focused on particular ideological types of terrorism (often following Rapoport (2001) “four waves of terrorism” thesis). Throughout the 1960s and 1970s Ulrike Meinhof and others in the Red Army Faction group (also known at the Baader-​Meinhof gang) felt violence was necessary to “shock” the German public into recognizing West German complicity in imperialist and fascist actions occurring in the world, and that the only way such actions could be prevented in the future was by removing gender and class hierarchies in German society. On the “most wanted poster” for the Red Army Faction (RAF) designated by the federal criminal police force in West Germany, half were women. Meinhof, in her writings in jail, makes explicit the link between anarchist revolution and women’s emancipation (Melzer 2015); this aspect of her thought was largely ignored by those writing about her at the time, and unfortunately this trait of ignoring what women themselves say about their violence continues. Meinhof’s writings and actions have been glossed over by terrorism studies, even though they strategically and intellectually compete with those of Che Guevara or Mao Zedong (Colvin 2009). Research on her initially sought to determine why and how “a mother” of twins could “abandon” them for the political cause. Despite her extensive writings, analysts have more commonly presented her as duped or brainwashed by

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the charismatic Baader. In most reporting and academic work of the time, she was presented as “insecure,” “like an anorexic schoolgirl” desperately seeking acceptance and inclusion in the group (Huffman 2016). Ulrike Meinhof’s brain was analyzed posthumously by state authorities to see if there were neuropathological reasons for her becoming a “violent terrorist” (Boyes 2002; Brumby 2002). Other women who participated were also framed as deviant and as grotesque aberrations of femininity. For example, Astrid Proll of the Red Army Faction was arrested in 1978, and the British tabloids obsessed over her sexuality, explicitly arguing that her violence was linked to this presumed deviancy. The ideals of femininity reflected in traditional gender roles, such as cooking, cleaning, and raising children, explain the mass hysteria surrounding female terrorism in 1970s Germany. The negative charge of feminismusverdacht (suspicious/​suspected feminism) levied at the RAF by the West German state, and the public debate about the group, reflected a public fear of the loss of male privilege within society. This understanding of women’s involvement in radical groups continues in contemporary writings too. Morgan (1989) and Bloom (2007) claim that women are radicalized by the men in their lives, who “charm” them. However, this seems to be the exception rather than the rule, and simply because some had radical partners does not mean that those partners were the only influences. Mara Aldrovandi (of the Italian Reparti Comunisti d’attacko—​Communist Attack Detachments) in a meeting with Cataldo Neuberger and Valentini made it very clear that entering the armed struggle was a rational decision, bearing in mind her participation in other radical political groups: I did not fall in love with a man and follow him into the armed struggle: the man I loved before, when I was still in AO [Avanguardia Operaria], stopped short of embracing the armed struggle; my sister, whom I love, also desisted. I had “effective” examples of [those] who made different decisions. (Cataldo Neuberger and Valentini 1996, p. 107)

Women fighting in nationalist movements, as Naaman writes, “challenge not only the images of women as victims of war but also the traditional patriarchal binary opposition that postulates women as physically and emotionally weak and incapable of determining and defending the course of their own lives. As a result, women fighters have often been represented—​ especially in mass media—​ as deviant from prescribed forms of femininity, forms that emphasize a woman’s delicacy and fragility but also her generosity, caring nature, motherliness, and sensitivity

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to others’ needs” (Naaman 2007, p. 935). Three women stand out: Leila Khaled (PFLP), Wafra Idris (Hamas), and Thenmozhi “Gayatri” Rajaratnam (LTTE). Leila Khaled was a charismatic woman who attempted two hijackings for the Palestinian cause. She is unusual because she has written an autobiography, My People Shall Live (1973). Mohan (1998) writes in the foreword to the autobiography: “As a feminist, she attacks Arab patriarchal attitudes in her colleagues one moment, and retreats behind Arab feminine decorum the next when interrogated by Western police authorities; she declares her solidarity with oppressed women across the world, but often draws upon the most misogynist stereotypes of women in her critiques of politics” (1998, p. 54). Khaled saw her intervention as an assertion of her “spurned humanity,” and the gun was the embodiment of her humanity and determination to liberate herself and her nation (1975, pp. 89, 130). However, those writing about her saw her as a dupe of patriarchy, living under a false consciousness (Morgan 1989). In the words of one critic, “Here was a woman who might be beautiful, but she was unmistakably deadly and, because of that, deeply thrilling” (MacDonald 1991, p. 98). Her criticism of Palestinian culture, though, left her in an “in-​between” space for the resistance movement, such that Eileen MacDonald, recounting her own experiences trying to track down Khaled, reports being told by one of Yasser Arafat’s chief advisers that, “she [Khaled] had grown fat, had had eight children, and that all she was now interested in was cooking” (MacDonald 1991, p. 99). This attempt to dismiss her contributions by referencing her commitment to her family is similar to those who see Ulrike Meinhof as an aberration for “abandoning” her children. In the case of Wafra Idris (of the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade), much was made of the fact that she couldn’t have children and allowed her husband to remarry, the assumption being that she was unhappy and an outsider, and therefore more vulnerable to the radical message. In addition, women fighting for these causes are presented as “duped” victims of patriarchy (an example of this narrative can be found in Barbara Victor’s Army of Roses (2003) where she discusses four female Palestinian fighters). In the discourse of terrorist groups, we find that some women become “brides” of the nation, such as Hanadi Jaradat, who killed herself and twenty-​one others in Israel and was dubbed the “Bride of Haifa.” In a few cases, Palestinian men would come to the mourning house and perform symbolic weddings to the shaheeda (female martyr), such that the mourning scenes are transformed into brideless wedding scenes. This pushes women back into a comfortable space of patriarchal nationalist movements (Abdo 2002; Hasso 2005). Beyond marriage, “Women who engage in violent political action are all

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subject to the same scrutiny—​mothers, potential mothers, and never-​to-​ be mothers alike” (Corcoran-​Nantes 2011). In the case of Thenmozhi Rajaratnam (also known as Dhanu), her human-​bombing assassination of India’s ex–​prime minister Rajiv Gandhi was deemed possible because as a woman she was able to get closer to her target by feigning accepted female behavior, such as attempting to garland a powerful male leader. This seems a significant security breach, as over 30 percent of combatants in the regular force of the LTTE were women, and in the elite Black Tigers force, women made up nearly 50 percent of members and carried out between 30 and 40 percent of human-​bombing operations (Zedalis 2004, p. 2). The LTTE justified women’s participation by claiming that the women volunteering for these missions had been the subject of abuse or rape in the Sri Lankan conflict and the act was one of retribution in the face of dishonor (Cunningham 2003, pp.  180–​81). Gunawardena contends that the same justification was given for Dhanu, and the murder of Rajiv Gandhi became “her personal vendetta rather than a politically motivated assassination” (2006, p. 86). Most research on “women in terrorism” has been focused on the figure of the female suicide terrorist (FST) (O’Rourke 2009; Speckhard 2008; Von Knop 2007, 2008; Naaman 2007). Women human bombers tend to be young, age between sixteen and thirty-​seven, but—​as with men—​there is no single profile to draw upon, and it is likely that those finally selected to carry out such attacks are chosen because their profiles show the behavior of the target state in a negative light (Zedalis 2004; O’Rourke 2009). As Brunner (2007) makes clear in her critique of research on female suicide terrorism, mostly there is an overemphasis on the Palestinian case, especially as other groups representing different causes have used women as human bombers in “martyrdom operations” as much if not more, including the LTTE, the Chechen rebels, and al Qaeda (Corcoran-​Nantes 2011; O’Rourke 2009), but the focus distorts analysis, reinforcing orientalism and placing terrorist tactics in an ahistorical and decontextualized frame. Another group of female terrorists who are often placed in an ahistorical and orientalized framed are the so-​called jihadi brides of Islamic militant groups. In particular, we see repeated stereotypes and assumptions made in the characterization of the “White Widow” (real name, Samantha Lewthwaite); of Lady al Qaeda (real name, Aafia Siddiqui)10; of Heila al-​ Qusayyer; and of Umm Layth (real name, Aqsa Mahmood). For example, Samantha Lewthwaite was the wife of Germaine Lindsay, and has been romantically linked to a number of jihadis. In 2014 she was thought to be sheltered in al-​Shabaab territory in southern Somalia, “with at least four

[ 82 ]  Gender, Religion, Extremism

children from three different fathers” (Fenton 2016). She was described as an “English rose” who turned into “one of the world’s most wanted women.” The point at which she was radicalized was, according to an IB Times journalist, the moment when she “abandoned” her Christian heritage at university (Payne 2015). When Shannon Conley, a white nineteen-​ year-​old from Colorado, was convicted for conspiracy to support Daesh, her attorneys stressed that she was misled by falsities about the organization. During trial, the prosecutor labeled her “pathologically naïve.” The judge called her a “bit of a mess” and a “look-​at-​me girl” who just “doesn’t get it” (Martinez, Cabrera, and Weisfeldt 2015). Umm Layth left for Syria in 2014 from Glasgow, where she was a university student. Her radicalization was seen as exceptional because she was from a middle-​class, well-​educated suburban family. Although educated herself, she was presented as a fearful and weak girl (scared to put the trash out at night, according to her mother) who was radicalized by an online recruiter, Ulhaq. After Ulhaq was convicted for radicalizing another British girl, that girl’s father told a journalist, “They prey on the vulnerable, brainwash the kids, then break them from their families and, of course, it’s all a secret and exciting for the young people until it’s too late.” Umm Layth then married a Swedish fighter (and was soon widowed) and dispensed online advice about marriage to fighters and the life of women in Daesh territories. Her rise in Daesh (becoming heavily involved in the Al-​Khansaa brigade—​an all-​female police force in Raqqa) was attributed to her marriage to an influential propagandist and fighter. Samantha Lewthwaite too was seen as important because of whom she married, and then became influential as a result of her husband’s actions rather than of her abilities. Samantha Lewthwaite and Aqsa Mahmood are interesting in how they are treated in radicalization research and journalism because of how quickly they were demonized as recruiters and fanatics “luring” other women to Daesh once their husbands died. Their radicalization and ongoing presence in terrorist groups is attributed to men—​husbands, recruiters, and fighters, never politics or their agency, and while circumstances play a role, it is because they deviated from “normal” lives (see also Brunner 2007; Brown 2012). What is interesting in these cases is how white widows are granted exceptional powers and status in counterterrorism narratives, sometimes reflecting the propaganda of the extremist groups but also furthering a racial hierarchy; to put it crudely, the framing presents it as “Brown men’s terrorism needs the involvement of White women to be successful, but will ultimately be defeated by White men” (Brown 2018b).

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More recently are the cases of Colleen Rose from the US, and Safar Boular and Shamima Begum from the UK. Safar Boular was discussed briefly earlier and is accredited in some accounts as leading the first “all-​ female” terrorist gang in the UK. Shamima Begum in contrast is not given any special powers. She left the UK for Syria in 2015 with two friends, becoming dubbed the “Bethnal Three Girls.” In Syria the three joined Daesh. In 2018, following a series of military victories against Daesh, Shamima, living in a refugee camp, was seeking to return to the UK. Her case highlighted the growing numbers of returning FTFs and of women and children affiliated with terrorist groups in Syria also seeking return to their homelands (Brown 2019c; Brown and Morgan 2019; Counter-​Terrorism Committee Executive Directive 2019). Researchers found that women globally represented 13  percent of those who traveled to join organizations like Daesh, but only 4 percent of those who have returned are women and children (Cook and Vale 2018; 2019). Shamima Begum is one of those women in internally displaced placed and refugee camps in Iraq and Syria, many of whom are now facing trial in Iraqi courts for their alleged participation and membership in Daesh (Brown 2019c). Shamima Begum sought help from the UK government, was given media access, and pleaded that she should be allowed to return to the UK for the well-​being of her small child, who had been born in Iraq. Unfortunately, in the intervening period, the child died, and the UK government revoked her citizenship. The basis for revocation appeared to be that she could become a Bangladeshi citizen on the basis of her parentage and that she acted in a manner prejudicial to the interests of the UK. Her lawyers are also saying that she was groomed, and in a media interview she also says she was brainwashed (Drury 2019; Yusuf and Swann 2019). Women’s participation in Islamist groups is not just about FSTs or jihadi brides. In attempts to explain women’s participation, most studies focus on biographical and social network accounts of radicalization. However, one psychological study that linked radicalization to religious binary views in university women in France found that “dark” personality traits contributed to “cognitive and behavior religious radicalization among women,” although psychopathological traits did not (Morgades-​ Bamba et  al. 2018). That research used a survey of over four hundred French university students; a more common approach to determine Western women’s participation in groups like Daesh is to draw on their social media activity, such as a study by Loken and Zelenz (2018). They find that social isolation and disaffection drive women’s migration to the so-​called Caliphate in Iraq and Syria. They also conclude that this makes

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these young women very similar to other men and women who participate in violent extremism worldwide. The challenge with online social media as a resource is separating the public presentation of propaganda from personal motive. However, as research from Pearson (2015) and Shapiro and Maras (2019) shows, the internet is an important site of mobilization for women as it allows participation without violating ideas of purdah (social gender segregation and seclusion) that some jihadi groups espouse as ideal for women and furthers the process of isolation and identification with the extremist groups (see also:  Weimann 2009). Chowdhury-​ Fink’s (2010) research on political violence and governance in Bangladesh found that women were increasingly recruited to support and encourage jihad because they arouse less suspicion and have a greater network of potential participants. This gives operational motive and reflects similarly to the findings of Oyewole (2015), Oriola (2012), and Khelghat-​Doost (2019). Gan et  al. (2019) agree that circumstance and operational expediency shapes the range of women’s activities within groups like Daesh. The authors suggest, however, that women’s motivations and beliefs also shape the evolution of women’s participation. Drawing on the importance of ideas and belief, de Leede (2018) finds that the gender ideology of complementarity informs the roles available to men and women in jihadi groups and asserts that as a result women’s participation in jihadism cannot be seen as separate from or secondary to that of men’s. Across the examples of radical women, we see that they are positioned as groomed and seduced and the theories focus on assumed female cognitive weaknesses, or that their environment or culture destabilizes. When political motivations for women joining terrorist or radical groups are acknowledged, it is often only partially, and almost grudgingly. Once they join, women are seen and treated as passive, without agency, and marginal. For example, Coomaraswamy argued that LTTE women “are not initiators of ideas. They are only implementers of policy made by someone else. . . . They are the consumers, not the producers of the grand political project” (1997, p. 9, cited in Alison 2003). In that sense, the nationalist movement can never belong to women (Chatterjee 1997). Parashar in a comparative study of the LTTE and Kashmiri female fighters finds that, in most analysis, “the ‘feminine niche’ that is created wherein women’s participation in traditional male activities is pushed into the realm of ‘personal’ rather than the ‘political’ space raises important questions for further enquiry” (2009, p.  252). The book’s findings demonstrate that this persistent move to sexualize and diminish women’s agency continues in antiradicalization efforts.

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CONCLUSION

This chapter helps explain what antiradicalization policymakers and practitioners perceive themselves to be tackling. What the chapter reveals is a problem with the constant focus on individuals—​individual methodologicalism—​because it ignores wider politics and criminalizes extreme views even when not associated with violence. Schmidt explicitly notes this trend, stating that the effect of 9/​11 and the radicalization narrative was to shift the way in which terrorism was framed, from a social phenomenon to an individual “micro-​level” and “person-​centered” pathway (2013, p. 3). In each of the models shown and the underlying theories, the process of radicalization—​the factors, mechanisms, or prongs—​are all things going on in the would-​be or already radicalized person’s mind; their “faulty” interpretation of the world is the issue, along with their unwillingness to reevaluate or compromise with other positions of understanding. How this manifests itself was explored when looking specifically at women radicals. In these cases, women’s cognitive functions were questioned. Either they were reduced to being pawns of men, or their actions were explained away as the result of deviant sexual experiences. More generously, some claimed that the women were seduced, in a variation of the fertile-​soil thesis. Failing that, they were supposedly trapped into violence through circumstances and cultures of victim-​shaming, a variation of the infertile-​lands perspective. Understanding what antiradicalization policymakers and researchers believe themselves to be addressing is important as it enables us to evaluate and critique actions and outcomes.

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CHAPTER 4

Moderate Women and Violent Youths

I

n September 2015 the United Nations Security Council Resolution (UNSCR) 2178 recognized the direct influence that women have in stopping the spread of extremism. The resolution also encouraged member states to engage relevant local communities and nongovernment actors—​ highlighting women’s involvement to “counter the violent extremist narrative that can incite terrorist attacks.” As discussed in ­chapter 2, this is situated in the broader debate of women’s roles in the Women, Peace and Security agenda, as embodied in the earlier UN Security Council Resolution 1325, which emphasizes women’s engagement in peacebuilding and security efforts as critical to building a sustainable peace. Many have celebrated its achievements, especially in mainstreaming expectations of women’s participation across a spectrum of security-​oriented activities (for a review, see Duncanson 2019; Tickner and True 2018). The aim of this chapter is to reveal how women’s participation and gender mainstreaming has been implemented in antiradicalization activities and policies, specifically in the five countries that are the focus of this research, but also more broadly. We find that, in common with the UNSC resolution, a maternal logic dominates the agenda and practices. This logic derived from ideas about women’s aims for world preservation, which situates women as moderate and peaceful in global politics. The consequence is that women are assumed to be antiradical a priori, and violence carried out by women can be dismissed more easily.

Gender, Religion, Extremism. Katherine E. Brown, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190075699.001.0001

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MATERNAL MODES OF THOUGHT

First, it is useful to examine what “maternalist” or “maternal logic” means. It operates regardless of whether women are mothers or if they claim motherhood as an expression of their political activism (Gentry 2009a). Motherhood is everywhere in presentations of women’s agency, operating as a myth that naturalizes particular behaviors (Weber 2005). It functions as a “mode of thought”—​a form of thinking and reasoning that derives from maternal practice (Cohn 2013, p.  47). Mothering is an institutionalized set of learned behaviors that become socially acceptable as a form of “social work” (Rich 1976). Mothering as social work in this context is understood as activities that preserve, nurture, or socialize the life of the vulnerable. This idea of mothering as social work is distinguished from the biological capacity to give birth. Mothering does not require a commitment to birthing and is not restricted to cis-​women. In line with this approach, rather than focusing on “mothers” (female or not) as inherently maternal, or on their embodied experiences of mothering in antiradicalization contexts, the interest in maternalist logic for this chapter lies in the ways in which agency and modes of thought of motherhood are representative and ideational within these contexts. Nevertheless, because of the sex binary that antiradicalization programs tend to operate in, frequently the emphasis is on biological mothers and cis-​women and their actions in the fields of antiradicalization and war and peace. For Ruddick (1980; 2002 [1989]; 2009), one of the foundational writers on maternalism in politics, the constitutive demands of motherhood—​the preservation, nurture, and socialization of a child—​allow maternalism and women to become a force for peace. A key insight is that these demands operate in a context of extreme vulnerability and inequality, but that the overarching purpose of maternalism is to develop relationships in which those without power can flourish (Frazer and Hutchings 2013). The three underpinning interests of preservation, nurture, and socialization generate relational qualities, emotional decision-​making, and an intuitive dedication to preservation, resulting in the conclusion that women have a maternal instinct that precludes violence and radicalism (Cohn 2013; Åhäll 2012b). As Frazer and Hutchings (2013) note, “From the standpoint of maternal thinking, a reliance on violence contradicts the immanent meaning of the practice of mothering and reproduces subspecies for whom others are killable” (p. 118). As we saw in the previous chapter, women who engage in political violence are presumed to have derogated from mothering. Ruddick argues that there is a complementarity between the principles inherent in maternal logics and the ideals of nonviolence, specifically renunciation,

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resistance, reconciliation, and peacekeeping (Ruddick 1980; 2002 [1989], pp. 183–​84, 220). Accordingly, she anticipates that women (or those operating according to maternal logics) will engage in “world protection, world preservation, and world-​repair” (Ruddick 1980, pp. 239–​50; 2002). Ruddick therefore observes that the politics of peace and maternal thinking go hand in hand (2009). In practice this maternal logic can be transformative and empowering and actively sought, and rights can be claimed on the basis of “mother work” (Ladd-​Taylor 1994). The Argentinean group Mothers and Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo famously held the junta to account for the peoples disappeared, and in Israel, Jewish mothers and grandmothers formed the Women in Black, who challenge the behavior of Israeli soldiers at checkpoints, insisting on proper treatment of Palestinians; both use their authority as mothers to insist on particular behaviors and to demand peace. Another group, Code Pink, explains its agenda as bearers and guardians of life, which led them to oppose the war in Iraq: “because of our responsibility to the next generation, because of our own love for our families and communities, it is time we women devote ourselves—​wholeheartedly—​to the business of making peace” (see www.codepink4peace.org). The principles of mothering are used to provide a standpoint to judge and expose the horrors of violence and war fighting. As these examples suggest, the ideas of maternalism, while rooted in local experiences, are also presented as universal (see also Carreon and Moghadam 2015). Thus, although not every woman is capable of such logic, or desiring of it, this maternalist mode of thought is nevertheless presented as a universal female-​feminine ideal (Ruddick 1980; Gentry 2009a; Brush 1996). The core normative claim is that maternalist logic can and indeed should generate pacifist and moderate women. This chapter focuses on the link between pacifism and moderation as norms as found in antiradicalization work. A second element to maternalist logic is an appeal to “mother work.” Mother work, while social in output, is presumed to occur in the home and emphasizes women’s relationships in the private sphere, as opposed to the public sphere (Gentry 2009a). The differentiation between public and private worlds as a consequence and reinforcement of gender inequalities is a key insight of feminist research. This divide, despite being created, is assumed to be natural in public and political discourses and allows for the ongoing discrimination against women in the public realm because they are presumed to “not really belong” there. Consequently, despite advancements in women’s rights and political participation, it is through their private relations as mother, sister, wife, and daughter that women primarily interact with the state. Women’s lives are domesticated in relation to the state (Anthias and Yuval Davis 1989; Kantola 2016). I  address in more detail

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in the next chapter this component of maternalist modes of thought in exploring the role of women as mothers and wives in antiradicalization. The application of maternalist logic in policy can be essentializing and objectifying of women despite being culturally adaptable—​and indeed this is what we find when looking at antiradicalization programs. Lisa Brush (1996) cautions against turning toward “maternalism” instead of patriarchy as a mode of understanding gender relations, especially as it has been appropriated by the state. In nationalist writings, we find two core images of motherhood—​the “patriotic mother” and the “spartan mother” (Åhäll 2012a; 2012b) who produce and sacrifice children for the nation, both of which glorify the violence of men and appear to offer little acknowledgment of women’s agency. To that end, maternalism becomes a “cloak for paternalism” (Koven and Michel 1993). Feminist writers, such as Enloe (1983), also note this appropriation, discussing how women’s rights are promised but always after the war, and that a code of self-​ sacrifice premised on the maternal logic is promoted. This code of self-​ sacrifice is also worked through in the other element of maternalist logic that creates and understands women’s relationships with the state and the public sphere through their relationships with men—​as wives, sisters, and daughters. Therefore, while appeals to maternalist logic may seek to invert gender hierarchies (by valorizing that which is traditionally devalued), such appeals may also reify the very gender norms that inform unequal hierarchies. Motherhood itself is based on an unequal power relationship between mother and the dependent child. This chapter focuses on maternal modes of thought—​pacifism and moderation—​while the next chapter focuses on maternal lives.

PEACEFUL ANTIRADICALIZATION

One imagined objective of antiradicalization work is peace, and some imagine their labor as part of a wider peacebuilding endeavor (for example, see Commonwealth Secretariat 2017). Peace and tolerance are frequently viewed in opposition to violent extremism—​regardless of whether the activities of antiradicalization initiatives are peaceful or not. Peace is presented as the desired outcome of militarized counterterrorism and counterinsurgency efforts, rather than a logic or mode of counterterrorist action. Such a focus means that “international initiatives to counter terrorism and militancy have more often than not been directed at the military aspects of such threats, with insufficient attention paid to the specific context—​the social, political, and regional

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dynamics—​in which they evolve” (Chowdhury-​Fink 2010, p. 1). Indeed, in antiradicalization initiatives, the space for peace has been contained and conceptualized as the space left aside, or left after, militarized reactions to the war on terror. With changing global dynamics between the US, the European Union, China, and Russia, there has been a shift toward acknowledging other less militarized options for antiradicalization and counterterrorism policies, especially where they are applied within the domestic jurisdiction of each country. Thus, although hard countering violent extremism (CVE) measures that focus on law enforcement, destruction of networks, and financial disruption dominate the international politics of the application of the war on terror, other soft methods that are seen to be more aligned with peace are gaining traction. Aldrich (2012) reports on the adoption of a more holistic approach to understanding terrorism and counterterrorism worldwide, which aims to push military responses downstream, focusing on the reintegration of marginalized communities and locally based counternarratives. Beyond the case studies of this volume, the Danish government, through the Peace and Stabilization Fund to prevent radicalization and extremism, has provided support to local governments and other local actors that reflects this approach. This includes institutional support to the Kenyan National Counter Terrorism Centre and offering assistance to governments in drafting new national CVE strategies (Chowdhury Fink, Romaniuk, and Barakat 2013). More recently the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP) also has become involved in preventing/​ countering violent extremism (P/​CVE) work, offering guidance and advice from a development perspective (2018). Peacebuilding perspectives, it is argued, also aid in recognizing that gender plays a role in both mitigating and fostering trajectories of radicalization (Holmer 2013). Mimicking policy framings in the field of women, peace, and security, women are deemed worthy of support in peacebuilding-​ oriented antiradicalization programs because they are predominantly victims of violence. A number of NGO antiradicalization programs adopt this logic explicitly. They argue that women can demystify the life of extremism by highlighting how women are victims in extremist organizations and victims of the violence such groups carry out. We saw this in the campaigns against Daesh that focused on the horrific stories of Yazeedi women and other refugee women under their rule. In the videos and campaigns, significant emphasis was placed on sexual violence perpetrated against them, and also on the harm done to their children’s upbringing by being in war zones and refugee camps. As victims, women are treated as experts in antiradicalization; antiradicalization programs and designers

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translate women’s experiential knowledge of extremist violent actions into meaningful insights about the processes underpinning their activities. The second way women are becoming recognized in antiradicalization programs is for their previous expertise in peacebuilding. Directly making this argument, Sanam Anderlini-​Naraghi, executive director of the International Civil Society Network, repeating the Women’s Alliance for Security Leadership foundational document:  “Women’s rights activists are the longest-​standing, socially rooted, transnational groups mobilizing for peace, countering rising extremism, and providing an alternate vision for the future” (I Can Peace Work 2017). There is a mutually constitutive self-​promoting logic in which peacebuilding approaches in antiradicalization improve gender equality and empower women, and how gender-​aware approaches reveal the importance of peacebuilding in counter-​radicalization. The flipside of this rationalization (as we discuss in later chapters) is an instrumentalization of women’s rights for the peace imagined by the state via its antiradicalization policies and programs (see also Brown 2010; 2006). As one of the world’s most influential actors, it’s worth noting that the US has also begun to take seriously the question of women in radicalization. The US Department of State in 2018 in its antiradicalization policies set a strategy to Support Women and Girls at Risk From Violent Extremism and Conflict “Based on their role, status, and influence in societies and families, women and girls can contribute to addressing terrorism, such as by identifying the early-​warning signs of violent radicalization” (US State Department:  Office of Global Women’s Issues 2018). This unique role is specifically a mothering and world-​preserving role. For example, as former director of American homeland security Jane Holl Lute argued in a panel discussion at Georgetown in 2013, “Women approach [terrorism] differently and bring different assets to it. Structurally we know that when we invest in adolescent girls and her [sic] understanding of child-​bearing, that societal indicators move in the right direction” (in Bloom et al. 2013). In other words, they are moving toward peace, stability, and economic development, because of realizing a presumed innate maternal logic. America is not alone in this framing of antiradicalization efforts. We find it across the case studies of this volume and in other countries. Australia, through funding research at Monash, is attempting to influence the National Action Plans for security in the Asia-​Pacific region to take a more gender-​sensitive approach (see the government-​funded work, True 2016; True and Parashar 2017). The unique role and attitude of women in antiradicalization efforts are contrasted with male identity, which is seen as life-​taking (Skjelsbaek 2001)—​whether acting as heroes of antiradicalization efforts (as discussed

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in later chapters) or as the violent men of jihad and violent political extremism. The maternal logic that frames women’s engagement with antiradicalization efforts ensures that the majority of activities in which women are involved are through NGOs and in soft community efforts, and rely on two dominant ideas: women as a domesticating and pacifying influence, and also as a moderating influence.

DOMESTICATING/​P ACIFYING INFLUENCE

One way in which radicalization is viewed is as a wild, violent, and uncivilized way of life. It is played out as equivalent to banditry and unruliness. This is presumed to be a male activity, operating in the frontier of the public sphere. Such a characterization of radicalization is more prevalent in countries with a history of civil war and state weaknesses in governance. The antidote to this behavior is located in the tame, passive, and pacified influences of women who live far from the borders and in the private realm. In Indonesia and Saudi Arabia, the assumption is that women pacify individual male aggression at an individual level, whereas in Pakistan the assumption is that women pacify social aggression and extremism.

Indonesia

The most prominent and active NGO working with women in anti­ radicalization matters in Indonesia is Mothers without Borders. I discuss this group in the next chapter because of its direct linking to questions about motherhood as mothers and about mothers’ lives. Beyond this group, very little work in Indonesia on countering radicalization is explicitly focused on women, and few antiradicalization reports on Indonesia examine the issues of gender equality, women’s rights, or women’s roles in countering radicalization. However, women’s roles and their potential actions are implied in a range of NGO activities. A rare example of explicit consideration of women in antiradicalization activities is Van Lierde’s (2013) coverage of the stories of six devout Indonesian Muslim women. It showcases how they contribute to combating violence in their communities and communicating values to young people. The Cordaid and Human Security Collective, which published the work, state, “We think these stories are important to be heard. Not only as gripping examples of personal courage and liberation, but more importantly as a contribution to discussions taking place on countering violent extremism

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in communities worldwide. These practices provide inspiring examples of preventative mechanisms in and from religious communities to combat violent repression and extremism.” The women are from a range of backgrounds but are all pious and explain their activism in terms of divine inspiration and religious obligation. All of the women run pesantren (traditional boarding schools) for girls. In Aceh, one was set up by women’s rights advocate Umi Hanisah; it accommodates approximately 115 female pupils (santriwati). The santriwati go to classes at the school in the morning and in the evening, but during the day they attend mainstream schools. The curricula of the Pesantren is focused on Islam, but after ten o’clock at night there are special classes for sewing, flower arrangement, gardening—​ skills to earn extra money—​ and on Sunday, there are computer skills classes. Umi Hanisah further emphasizes Islamic religious instruction on gender equality and advocates nonviolent activities. Umi Hanisah derives her authority for reform for women from her background in peacebuilding and dialogue during the Aceh conflict (Van Lierde 2013). In this case, the stress on modern skills and traditional pious behavior, infused with gender-​equal ideals, is seen as a bulwark against extremist views and as providing resilience in case of future conflict in the province. She also runs women’s meetings, known as majelis taklim, in neighboring villages, often with over a hundred women attending, advocating women’s power and change in the region towards equality, always from a basis of within Islam—​an Islamic feminism (Van Lierde 2013; Ahmed 1992). What we are seeing are examples of women’s world building and nurturing. The link throughout is that educating women, giving them opportunities for economic empowerment, and promoting women’s rights reduces the influence and power of radical ideologies (see also True 2017). Another example of this linkage between peace, empowerment, and moderation is the Rahima Association. Led by Farha Ciciek, the group focuses on women’s rights and empowerment from an Islamic perspective. Originally Rahima’s focus was on the training and dissemination of information concerning women’s rights within Islam to local community Muslim groups and Pesantren. But with increasing interest in gender issues in Indonesia, Rahima has now extended its network to women’s NGOs, Islamic women’s organizations, and university groups. According to its promotional material, the organization’s goal is to motivate and encourage Islamic discourses in order to strengthen the position of women within Islamic society. As part of its efforts, Rahima has developed a publication detailing the negative impact of Islamic extremism on women; in this, they outline a view of fundamentalism as men attempting to shift blame to women for a presumed “moral crisis” and consequently seeking

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to limit women’s participation in the public sphere and encourages violence against women (Rahima Organization 2016). Rahima is linked to one of the largest NGOs in Indonesia, Nathdlatul Ulama (NU)—​which is in turn connected to the largest political party and has a dedicated women’s wing, as discussed shortly. In the context of their broader mission of empowering and educating Indonesians about Islam, this focus leaflet shows how women are presented as victims of radical violence, and efforts to educate and empower them are seen as essential to limiting the spread of fundamentalism. A recent report on Indonesia by Jacquie True and Swati Parashar contends that the “early warning signs of extremist violence can be detected in everyday behavior that affects women. The signs include: changes in social attitudes to women’s and girls’ dress and veiling, restrictions on women’s mobility, use of ‘othering,’ derogatory language, the exclusiveness of mosques and the advocacy of child marriage” (2017). Fatayat Nathdlatul Ulama (Fatayat NU) is the women’s wing of the NU and has a membership of approximately 6 million women. It works with the government in a range of areas, such as holding national seminars, forums, and workshops on antiradicalization, women’s issues, and Islam. Fatayat NU has numerous articles on counterterrorism on its website, www.fatayat.or.id. Direct engagement on issues of countering radicalization is sporadic. Yet Fatayat tends to present women’s rights issues and a desire for gender equality more in terms of countering extremism (Rinaldo 2007, p. 106; Wulan 2015). Their work is also worth mentioning because in Indonesia, as in other countries, secular feminist groups and activists are threatened by fundamentalist religious groups that oppose their actions (Rinaldo 2007, p. 185)—​they are labeled as kafir (unbelievers). In contrast, Fatayat NU as a nonsecular group is given the opportunity to promote gender equality and sponsor moderate Islamic voices in a way that secular groups cannot. Another activity that suggests potential ways in which women can be included is the development of pesantren radio stations (sponsored by the Netherlands Foreign Ministry). The project targeted Nathdlatul Ulama–​ affiliated pesantren in areas susceptible to radicalization. One radio station in South Sumatra was particularly popular among women—​a fan club was even started—​and was seen as a way of promoting religious knowledge without women having to take time off from everyday domestic activities. The framing of the project is about peace and harmony in the pesantren and surrounding communities as a way of preventing radicalization and building resilience. The project evaluation measured students’ valuing of religious tolerance and whether belonging to another religion was a barrier to friendship, but also whether people believed women shouldn’t

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shake hands with men or whether women can be leaders. They found in post evaluation surveys that the radio programs led to greater religious tolerance and openness to inter-​ faith friendships, and more positive attitudes towards gender equality. The project evaluation reported how female students were empowered to make videos about other religions for their radio station, and that now in many of the pesantren, gender equality was no longer a taboo topic for discussion (Octavia and Wahyuni 2014). Women’s participation and the programs themselves are positioned as nonconfrontational, with the aim of promoting discussions and dialogue rather than reframing worldviews. Therefore, not only are the objectives of women in antiradicalization efforts toward world preservation but the activities themselves are also peaceful, nurturing, and socializing by design. Interestingly, in Indonesia, and in a pattern found elsewhere, more often than not these activities have been in existence for a longer period of time than government policies on countering radicalization, and that these are often empowerment or development projects repackaged as antiradicalization. This is a human security approach but also helps explain why the maternalism and peacebuilding emphasis is stronger in civil-​ society initiatives that counter radicalization in contrast to government-​led initiatives. Second, we see that the logic that links women’s empowerment and rights to antiradicalization efforts via the Women, Peace and Security agenda works because it is assumed that the maternal logic of world preservation dominates motivations, activities, and final objectives.

Saudi Arabia

In Saudi Arabia, there has been more direct engagement with women’s roles in radicalization and counter-​ radicalization than perhaps one might stereotypically expect of a country that enforces gender segregation in most areas of public life and excludes women from a range of policy realms. The overall framework doesn’t depart from the religious norms of the country and positions women’s capacity to counter radicalization through biological essentialism. Consequently, the majority of their programs that address women and gender focus on women’s roles as wives and mothers, and so most of their work is discussed in the next chapter. However, it is worth outlining here how women are positioned more broadly and perceived as moderating. First, in Saudi Arabia’s understanding of radical violence, women’s involvement in violence is a temporary glitch in their otherwise natural pacifism. It occurs (we’re told) because women are emotionally led and easily influenced by the (already

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violent or deviant) men in their lives. This perception is hinted at in an interview with the then supervisor of the Al-​Sakkinah (Tranquillity program), who stated that women are susceptible to extremist indoctrination “because of their emotionalism and easily influenced nature” (cited in Miller 2010). In cases of women’s participation in radical groups and terrorism in Saudi Arabia, they have been returned home to families to supervise them, often without trial or charge (Spencer 2010; 2011; Al-​ Sulami 2011). Consequently, women’s involvement is organized as a way of promoting women’s “natural roles” in dialogue and education. Women’s emotional weaknesses make them ideal partners for nurturing and the socialization activities of world protection. To that end, Saudi Arabia has trained women preachers to deliver lectures in mosques and engage in dialogue with women who have adopted radical ideologies, and believe in violence (Embassy of Saudi Arabia Information Office 2011). The women preachers are seen to promote nonviolent Wahhabi thought that emphasizes to other women the benevolence of the state. A comparison can be made with Morocco’s program of training women mourchidate (religious guides), which began in 2005, and led to women working in mosques, communities, and prisons across Morocco. The certification course in Morocco is twelve months long and a bachelor’s degree is a prerequisite; the course focuses on practical issues as well as knowledge to promote malaki (moderate) Islam. The Moroccan program is accredited and more rigorous than the Saudi program. The adage “peace starts at home” is reportedly the foundation of the program in Morocco. The mourchidate activities are seen as similar to those of social workers; they host talks by doctors on women’s health, coordinate youth training through vocational schools, promote literacy, and work with young people in after-​school clubs (Couture 2014). These activities are linked to the world-​sustaining aspects of motherhood. They are more directly linked to antiradicalization efforts than in Indonesia and become linked to maternal logics of world protection.

Pakistan

A study in 2011 from Pakistan highlights a range of excellent examples of these new, soft peacebuilding, maternalism-​ oriented counter-​ radicalization initiatives. The study explored the roles of civil society in these programs; analysis took place during twelve weeks of fieldwork in thirty-​five cities and villages deemed to be at risk of violent extremism (Mirahmadi et  al. 2012). The study found that nongovernmental civil

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society–​based organizations had a prominent role in organizing public rallies, conferences, and seminars to promote awareness of the threat of extremism (Mirahmadi et al. 2012). Women’s groups have been an important bulwark against the Islamization of Pakistani society; since the founding of Pakistan, they have pushed back against “conservative religious leaders who emphasize a traditional role for . . . and condone detrimental cultural practices toward women” (Coleman 2010, pp.  130–​31). Building on this understanding of women’s NGOs, the Institute for Inclusive Society (IIS) and the US Institute of Peace (USIP) program support Pakistani women in advocating for policies at the national and international level to address the drivers and consequences of extremism, and to conduct peacebuilding activities at the local level with outreach to youth groups, civil society organizations, the media, religious leaders, and educators (Chatellier 2012). One well-​known group, supported by USIP and the IIS, is Pakistani Women Moderating Extremism (PWME). Its aim is to “increase the visibility and capacity of women to moderate extremism” (Chatellier 2012, p. 1). Over the course of a two-​year program, staff from USIP have traveled to Pakistan to convene trust-​, capacity-​, and coalition-​building workshops with PWME (Chatellier 2012). The legacy of the project is unclear, however, and suggestions from fieldwork interviewees are that it had limited impact. One area of perceived impact was via a coalition founded in 2011, Amn-​o-​Nisa (“Peace through women” in Urdu), that was linked to PWME and launched a public campaign to curtail violent extremism and promote social cohesion in communities across the country. The coalition advocates for policy reforms to specifically address extremism in three sectors: security, reconstruction and rehabilitation, and methods of indoctrination (to encompass both formal and informal education, such as the media) (Mirahmadi et al. 2016). As with Indonesia, security challenges and development needs in Pakistan are frequently linked; civil society, peacebuilders, and journalists agree that giving women access to education is the best way to prevent radicalization in Pakistan. This translated into practice into a school-​building initiative in the poorest and remotest areas of Pakistan, as presented in the novel Three Cups of Tea (Mortenson and Relin 2007). Another approach is the introduction of peace education curricula that introduce school students to cultural and religious diversity and are designed to inculcate compassion and tolerance. In one school taking this approach, Qadims Lumier School and College in Peshawar, students have formed a group called Peace Angels that arranges trips to hospitals in order meet with victims of terrorism. According to the school director, the curriculum

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helps students understand that violence cannot solve conflict (Mirahmadi 2014). The focus on schools acts as a counterpoint for the fear of radicalization and overt support in two thousand of Pakistan’s eighteen thousand to thirty thousand madrasas (Islamic boarding schools) that have been labeled as “dangerous” (International Crisis Group 2015). Another effort in Pakistan is to emphasize and promote the role of women police officers. Approximately one in a hundred officers is a woman, but as in Indonesia, the majority perform administrative roles. The IIS argues that “women enable law enforcement agencies to more effectively serve and protect entire communities; they have access to a broader set of perspectives and information; and they enhance the credibility of these essential public institutions” (Peters 2014), but adds that their potential has been largely overlooked. The IIS contends that women are in a better position to build trust with local communities and to de-​escalate violence. Moreover, because of social norms in Pakistan, only women police officers can act as first responders to women victims of terrorist attacks. The IIS along with PAIMAN (a large peace-​oriented antiradicalization NGO in Pakistan) are advocating for international funding for the Pakistani police to aid in counterterrorism efforts to improve the retention and training of women police officers and to insist on gender mainstreaming in the various police forces. However, institutional barriers in the police force (lack of training for women), legal barriers in some areas that prevent them from filling in the first response reports (the first stage of the reporting process in the legal system), and a lack of recognition that women have the capacity and capability to carry out investigative work limit the effectiveness of their roles (Peters 2014). This idea of women in the police force of Pakistan matches the ideas of “female engagement teams” developed in military operations in Afghanistan and Iraq during their operations after regime change. Here, women are seen as gatekeepers and, in their world-​ preservation role, as able to provide an “early warning” of radicalization (Couture 2014). However, as revealed later in this chapter, this education-​and civil society–​ oriented approach in Pakistan sits uncomfortably with the militarized antiradicalization efforts in the Swat Valley and North Waziristan regions of Pakistan that seek to eradicate “foreign fighters” and “insurgents” through counterinsurgency operations. As the two approaches jostle for funding and priority, peacebuilding and education-​ oriented programs are located as spaces for prevention, resilience, and importantly, women. While not all who carry out the training or programs are women, many are—​and the targets are frequently women and children.

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WESTERNIZING OR MODERATING INFLUENCE

Slightly different gender emphases are found in the antiradicalization policies and programs in Muslim-​ minority states, but underpinning the policies and engagement remains this maternal logic. In the UK and the Netherlands, funding for women’s empowerment is seen as a way of turning Muslim communities toward a more peaceful and moderate path. These goals reflect the EU Strategy for Combating Radicalization and Recruitment to Terrorism, which approaches CVE in a wide-​ranging manner (European Union 2005). In this strategy, the Council of the European Union resolves to promote “equal opportunities for all” and to “support individuals and civil society to build resilience.” Under this conception, gender equality is referenced as symptomatic of European values, and conversely, gender inequality is identified as indicative of dangerous ideologies and institutions where there are risks of radicalization. This view cascades across EU member states; for example, the revised 2018 UK CONTEST Strategy defines “extremism” as “the promotion of hatred, the erosion of women’s rights, the spread of intolerance, and the isolation of communities” (HM Government 2018a, p. 23).

The United Kingdom

In the UK, eight antiradicalization projects have specifically targeted women, although another fifteen PVE projects directly included women as part of their remit (of a total of seventy interventions). Waterhouse Consultancy Group (2008) independently evaluated one of these eight, based in Birmingham, which developed a “women’s steering group and conference” known as Muslimah in Action. This project’s goal was to help strengthen the role that women can play within their communities. The committee sought to identify and map issues affecting Muslim women across the city, develop an action plan to address these, and explore ways in which women could participate in local decision making (Waterhouse Consultancy Group 2008, p. 31). The Department of Local Government and Communities (DCLG) showcased three other case studies that address PVE, alongside other projects that specifically target Muslim women, in their “Empowering Muslim Women: Case Studies” report (Department of Local Government and Communities (DCLG) 2008, pp. 39–​47). The first of these is a Muslim women’s community leadership training program delivered via Sizanani Africa. This project aims to “increase the confidence of Muslim women from the African, African-​Caribbean and Asian community.” The

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project provided three sets of six one-​day training workshops to sixty Muslim women “in advocacy, presentation skills, assertiveness, confidence building, [and] identifying signs of hate and conflict resolution skills.” The stated intention was that the women would then use these skills “to act as peer mentors to other Muslim women in how to identify and address signs of extremism” (DCLG 2008, pp. 42–​43). It is not clear if this latter stage occurred. The second PVE project was a “capacity building” leadership program for Muslim women provided by the London Borough of Hounslow. This project’s aim “was to empower Muslim women to be at the forefront of counteracting extremist ideologies amongst young Muslims” (DCLG 2008, p. 44). The project was contextualized through reference to forced marriages, honor killings, and lack of participation in mosques and public life (DCLG 2008, p. 44). A two-​day leadership training course ran for forty women working in the voluntary sector. The course “covered personal development, goal setting and developing a positive mental attitude,” and speakers from the police force spoke about their difficulties when undertaking counterterrorism measures (DCLG 2008, p. 45). The final project for contributing to PVE involved workshops designed to give women in High Wycombe the skills to “participate on issues that affect them,” delivered by Faith Associates and known as the Muslimah Project (DCLG 2008, pp. 45–​ 47). This project used a variety of activities to explore Muslim women’s involvement in all aspects of public life. They focused on how women can make a positive difference and address issues of extremism. The DCLG rapid-​evaluation assessment showcased this last PVE intervention. In each of the case studies, Muslim women’s involvement in PVE was conceptualized as empowerment or capacity building. The programs were justified on the grounds that, through empowerment, women can make a difference to their communities and therefore prevent violent extremism. The introduction to the PVE section of the DCLG case study report argued that Muslim women have a key role to play in challenging prejudice and stereotypes both within their own communities and in wider society. They possess a largely untapped potential to challenge the attitudes that can foster violent extremist ideas. Muslim women are at the heart of communities undertaking a multitude of roles. Resilient communities cannot be built and sustained without their active participation. (DCLG 2008, p. 41)

A more recent example of projects in the UK is Making A Stand, organized by Inspire. Inspire has not received funds directly from the government per se, but the group was funded to create Making a Stand in 2014.

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In their written evidence to Parliament, they state that they “delivered countering extremism and gender empowerment programs to Muslim women in partnership with a number of local authorities across the country, for example Wandsworth (2013), Leeds (2012–​2013), Portsmouth (2011), Watford (2010) and Redbridge (2009).” Making a Stand, and Inspire (who organized the campaign), were run by Sara Khan, a vocal and prominent activist for women’s rights and made chair of the Countering Extremism Commission in the UK in 2018, and were supported by Kalsoom Bashir, a qualified Muslim chaplain and PREVENT worker. Making A  Stand had an explicit focus on mothers and is discussed in the next chapter; for now, of interest is its explicit linking of antiextremism with a “pro-​democracy” stance, peace, and a moderate Islam (see http://​www.wewillinspire.com/​ making-​a-​stand/​). The group emphasized unity among British Muslim women based on faith and moderation (Brown 2019b). What is telling is the similarity to the ways in which women’s empowerment in Pakistan and Indonesia is imagined. Another similarity is the way in which women are, with a few exceptions, presented as victims in counter-​radicalization work. As victims they become experts, but they also shift from proactive peacemaking and peacebuilding work toward reactionary world-​preservation work. An informational video used by the London Metropolitan Police in 2016 to dissuade women from traveling to Daesh territories exemplifies this positioning of women as victims and supporters of pacifism. The video begins with an introduction by Helen Ball—​assistant commissioner at the Metropolitan Police (London). She is in her police uniform, and her words and tone convey how seriously the police are taking the risks to young women from Daesh. In the video, she constantly stresses “the tragedy”—​ that is, some women’s decision to travel to Syria—​and how unaware of the risks and dangers the women who travel to Iraq and Syria are. The young women are portrayed as naïve and ignorant, and their actions as tragedies that leave behind devastated families. The advantage of this approach is that it enables the possibility of rehabilitation and allows for alternative policy options. However, women traveling to Syria are not ignorant of the risks facing them; they are aware of the challenges as they embark upon the hijrah (migration, as Daesh refers to it) and of the war zone. A second group of women in the video are three refugees who talk about how life became intolerable, that they couldn’t get medication, and how their and their children’s education was interrupted by the war and the violence. The women in the video stress how women in the UK have security and ask, “Why surrender this?” Emphasizing the victimhood of women in war, and stressing the “liberal,” moderate, and peaceful benefits of life in

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the UK, the women in the video attempt to challenge the utopian ideals that Daesh puts forward. However, the video presumes an equivalency of priorities between three different groups of women—​Muslim refugee women, the women of the London Metropolitan Police force, and potential supporters of Daesh—​and assumes that, across these groups, all their priorities are peaceful and reflect social welfare concerns that tap into maternal thinking of nurturing, preserving, and empowering the vulnerable in society. However, a review of material from Daesh supporters shows that women are motivated by alternative ideas of justice and peace, such that temporary suffering in Iraq or Syria is a worthy trade-​off (Musial 2017). An element of contest in this research is also the question as to whether the women employed by counter-​radicalization programs match or live up to the image of them as moderate and pacifying individuals. Interviews and research with intervention providers reveal them as joined by the thick bonds of social community and tradition as well as of modernity. They are certainly not passive but often radically active in the context of their communities. If we look at the women who are engaged in activism at the community level, they are often not moderate or passive in their approaches. They fundamentally believe in the thick social bonds that commit them to their causes—​for example, improving women’s services in the mosque, or getting women’s-​only sessions at swimming pools, or engaging in campaigns against female genital mutilation, among other issues (Brown 2010; 2006). There have been fewer controversies regarding government engagement with groups targeting interventions at women than with more gen­ eral PREVENT or deradicalization providers. Governments struggle with whether to employ nonviolent radical partners, such as quietest salafis.1 In the UK, it was believed that salafi groups would have greater legitimacy, but questions arose about whether these groups, while perhaps having a good success rate, held views that were not compatible with the broader society—​notably on issues of gender equality—​such that the government announced that it would abandon this approach, to the dismay of many working in the field, including the Muslim Contact Unit in London.

The Netherlands

Originally the Dutch response to radicalization was similar to the view now taken by the UK—​promote harmony, social integration, and Dutch values. Part of this response was an explicit call to emancipate women and girls: an “Empowerment and Integration:  Prevention of Radicalization from the

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Perspective of Integration” policy that was set up as early as 2005. The approach was to bind individuals to Dutch society and the goal to reduce tensions in local communities. Antiradicalization programs were devolved to the municipality level (dominated by large cities) and varied according to the priorities of the mayors in charge. Rotterdam and Amsterdam instigated large, high-​profile campaigns based on promoting peaceful and moderate Islam. These led to some backlash within Muslim communities, which felt they were being unfairly targeted. Contrary to the UK, however, the focus now in the Netherlands is primarily on individuals rather than communities, and on psychology rather than ideology or values. As one official argues, “Communities do not radicalize, individuals do” (interview with The Nationaal Coördinator Terrorismebestrijding en Veiligheid—​ The National Coordinator for Security and Counter Terrorism [NCTV] in The Hague 2011, cited in Vidino and Brandon 2012). This understanding of radicalization returns to the psychological-​and counseling-​oriented approaches rather than welfare-​ or empowerment-​directed antiradicalization agendas. The NCTV further sought to distance actual policy and practice in antiradicalization from what analysts saw as loaded political statements about the role of ideology and democracy. When interviewing practitioners in the Netherlands in 2017, a focus on individuals, even in broader antiradicalization programs, meant there was little linking to peace or peacebuilding or to promoting a moderate ideology. Moreover, when pressed about the role of gender in radicalization processes, the officials interviewed felt that the underlying psychological drivers were gender neutral. However, despite high-​profile cases of women leaving the Netherlands to join Daesh, Dutch priorities in counterterrorism have shifted away from antiradicalization. Practitioners and local policymakers now view funding as a problem. In 2012 the Dutch General Intelligence and Security Service (AVID) saw its budget reduced by a third, and in 2016, mayors of ten cities protested about potential cuts to the counter-​radicalization programs for their cities because of police restructuring and budget cuts. Utrecht mayor Jan van Zanen, a prominent Muslim community figure, said in the Volkskrant, “The community officers sniff out what happened and what is going to happen on the street. . . . Especially when it comes to terrorism, the latter is of course of the utmost importance. The community officer is not a magician and also not a guarantee that there will never be an attack, but these men and women are indispensable in our deradicalization policy. They are the first to hear what’s going on, from entrepreneurs, mosque managers, teachers and informed residents” (cited in Pieters 2016). In my interviews with Dutch practitioners in 2017 they complained that very

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effective programs were cut with little notice, which had a detrimental impact on trust levels in affected communities, and their networks were broken. In one case, an interviewee expressed deep concern that “no one really knew what was going on there in the communities.” Fears about unknown communities lead us to consider the necessary other in antiradicalization work—​ namely, the radical. In the antiradicalization programs here that focus on peacefulness and moderation, they are situated in opposition to a violent (nonpeaceful) radical male youth.

VIOLENT YOUTH

In this part of the chapter I  try to show that the maternalist logic present in antiradicalization debates only works if, in the same move, young Muslim men are presented as troublesome and violent opposition. This is more important than seeing women who transgress from the pacifist norm as deviant, as they are fewer in number and easier to cast as exceptional cases. Moreover, the maternal logic only works when “Muslim” is cast as the object of social policy, which allows for the “recategorization of various ethnic (Mirpuri, Bangladeshi, Pakistani) groups into religious (Muslim) ones in Muslim-​minority countries” (Shain 2011, p.  15). This legitimizes an antiradicalization program that targets religious groups and ideas over cultural, socioeconomic material factors or alliances. Islamophobia can be seen as a “discourse” that has very specific origins in the 9/​11 attacks and the war on terror (Tyrer 2013). Tyrer (2003) points out in his earlier work that the specific marking of Muslims reinforces and fixes the “representation of Muslims as criminalised, and thus valorises the logics of racist pathology” (p. 189). He identifies that this is expressed in questions about Muslim visibility and the frequent representation of Muslims as somehow “ghostly, fantastical, or phantasmatic” (2013, p. 44). This perceived threat of Muslims is highly gendered, and Muslim masculinities are seen as problematic in the private and the public spheres, rendering young Muslim men in particular as “a new folk devil” (Alexander 2000). Werbner (2013) discusses three broad archetypes of folk devils (the Slave, the Witch, and the Grand Inquisitor), of which the “Muslim, the religious fanatic, the violent terrorist, negates—​indeed despises—​all the impulses motivated by the id and ego. He is therefore, the folk devil par excellence of a post-​ modern age” (p. 457). The consequence of this typecasting and fear is, according to Lynch (2015; 2013), that the everyday experiences of youth are cloaked in a veil

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of suspicion, and the realities of young lives are subsumed by the potential of radicalization and terrorism. Young men are at risk of, or are vulnerable to, a host of radicalization triggers that seem to be present in all areas of their lives (Mythen et al. 2009, p. 750; Coppock and McGovern 2014). As discussed in the previous chapters outlining the thinking on radicalization, this riskiness is linked to irrationality, but when combined with an understanding of moderate women we see that it is male lives and male-​dominated environments where that risk is played out. Yet paradoxically, this discourse of risk also leads to a rise of emotional dysfunction and emotion-​based explanations in public discourse, which shifts obligations and emphasis away from the structural conditions of the “risky” male space—​namely racism, poverty, the environment for war—​as social and cultural problems are recast as psychological (Furedi 2003, pp. 36–​37). The moderate Muslim woman can atone for—​offset—​these masculine traits, yet women are held accountable for their men’s behaviors and remain at risk because of them as well. One example of the psychological approach to antiradicalization can be found in Slotervaart, a subdistrict of Amsterdam with a large Muslim population. This municipality introduced programs called “Deal with Disappointment,” “Deal with Dissent” and “Learning to Deal with Criticism of Their Own Faith,” which were designed to promote self-​control and self-​ criticism among young men as part of their Municipal Action Plan (Actieplan Slotervaart) (Municipality of Slotervaart 2007, p. 10). Other courses that were offered encouraged critical thinking, the ability to listen to and objectively evaluate opposing views, and the “capacity to express thoughts in a nonconfrontational way.” Some programs were designed to allow youngsters to safely vent frustrations, as in the case of an essay contest in Utrecht where high school students were asked to write about what made them angry and what their ideal society looked like. These exercises were followed by discussions led by antiradicalization experts who commented on the essays; the Institute “Forum,” lead by the Labor Party politician Halim El Madkouri, from the city provided the experts. Here, young men are at risk of radicalization because they’re emotionally unstable as youths and unable to cope appropriately with their masculinity and points of view. Radical ideologies are seen as offering easy answers to their dilemmas. This rush to accept the easy answer and inability to communicate is part of a broader discourse that demonizes young men and youth masculinity. Male violence that attempts to remake the world is therefore countered with women’s world-​ preservation and world-​ protection activities that emerge from their maternal logic. The fear of youth as disenfranchised and seeking solutions beyond the state makes radicalization an existential

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threat to the state, as much as the violence itself. Across all five country case studies, there is a fear of young men as the instigators and agitators of general violence, but powerfully, as a subsection of the population, as the vanguards of a revolution that threatens the coherence and stability of the state. Surprisingly, casting young Muslim men as “folk devils” is not limited to Muslim-​minority countries, but is seen across the countries studied. In Indonesia, there is a hyped fear of pesantren-​educated youth; in Saudi Arabia, of the underoccupied young man; and in Pakistan, the madrasa-​educated tribal youth strike fear in mainstream urban and government discourses.

ISLAMIC RADICAL MASCULINITY

The fear of Muslim youthful manliness is in part reinforced by the propaganda and makeup of radical Islamic groups. We can also see how the same values that states seek to embody and promote are played out in Islamist constructions of manliness or marwa. Instead of upholding the state, marwa in this context operates as a marker of normative protest masculinity. Daesh propaganda, for example, has portrayed jihadi men as “real men,” exhibiting a “rightful masculinity” contrasting with the “emasculated” men of the West. For Daesh, marwa is linked to the Islamic concept of Qawwam (honor), which requires overt displays of aggression, physical force, and being a breadwinner at home. In Daesh, as in other extremist groups, we see the dominance of the “hero-​warrior” character who is justly rewarded (Brown, Toros, and Parashar 2019). As Pearson (2015) notes, it is the emergence of a “Grand Theft Auto culture. . . . Being a jihadi is not just about ideology; it’s about status, as a man. Increasingly a nexus is being recognized between macho masculinity of British street culture and criminal gangs.” How this is understood in counterterrorism and antiradicalization research and policy is vital as they contribute to the “folk devil” archetype of Islamophobia. Aslam (2012) begins to explain radicalization, arguing that “socially prescribed and idealized norms for the male gender are such that many men are willing to experiment with militant-​jihadist Islamism and even terrorism to alleviate financial hardships and social inadequacies, or simply to embark on an adventurous lifestyle as a stereotypical ‘hero’ to confirm their manliness. Programmed by societies to conceptualize their own masculinity in a secular fashion, men indulge in flamboyant displays of physical force either to assert or to regain their ‘lost honor’ ” (p. 2). This approach recognizes the role of patriarchy and social norms of masculinity,

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but Aslam’s understanding doesn’t place radicalization in a wider context of globalization and economic disadvantage. Instead it can be understood as performing a “protest masculinity” (Connell and Messerschmidt 2005). “Protest masculinity” refers to extreme forms of sex-​ typed behaviors on the part of some men who see themselves as disadvantaged in the modern world. Connell refers to biker gangs as an example; Kimmel (2003) uses US white supremacist groups as another example. Additionally, hypermasculinity is usually at the heart of protest masculinity—​that is, embracing danger, marginality, and stigma, and displaying in spectacular fashion. However, Connell also notes that protest masculinity is both emasculated and aggressive because this behavior and masculinity displays are not rewarded by wider society; their attempts to perform alpha-​male traits do not lead to associated status and privilege. This is translated in Western societies as the stereotypical “Homegrown Angry Muslim Young Man” (Khan 2010, p.  85)—​angry at his culture, his community, and his country. Sageman (2008) understood the role of protest masculine subculture as well, coining the phrase “jihadi cool,” yet for him the men he described were reduced to thug wannabes (see also Illan and Sandberg 2019). What we see is an identification of Islamic radicalization narratives as derived from failed attempts to generate a heroic hypermasculinity.

Unreasonable and Unruly Masculinity

As discussed, young men are presented as at risk by virtue of particular masculinities that are presumed to be hypersexual, working class, and foreign. The various shifts in the British context to establish discipline and reform over Muslim bodies have also meant the issues raised as Muslim—​or identified as Muslim—​are cast as risky and unruly (O’Toole et  al. 2015; Birt 2009). This is partly because their concerns have been framed as “religious,” which intrudes upon the presumed secularity of the public sphere and political discourse. Across Europe, Muslim citizens have been making claims as citizens for their religious identity to be taken into account. For example, debates over the acceptability of religious dress in schools or state employment, for halal food to be widely available, for burial rituals to be permitted in accordance with beliefs, and for prayer rooms and mosques to be allowed are seen as unreasonable claims in contrast to other human rights–​based claims (Razack 2008; Edmunds 2012; O’Toole et  al. 2015). Elizabeth Shakeman-​Hurd (2017) links this to a fear of the religious in global politics, where any attempt for religious recognition in the public sphere is seen as untrustworthy because it transgresses the trends of the

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Enlightenment and presumptions about development and modernity. Muslims are regarded as a threat because they refuse, by wearing a hijab or growing a beard, to conform with the secular “civilizing culture” of Europe, and opt instead to apparently maintain a commitment to archaic signs of faith in the public sphere (Guardiola-​Rivera 2009, p. 2). The assumption of unreasonableness is further revealed when we consider how Muslim criminality is portrayed. In reporting and public policy discussions, research has found disproportionate emphasis on gang rapes by Muslim men in France as well as the UK, when compared to general attitudes on sexual violence, and overemphasis on the “novelty” of such attacks; there is also a cultural undertone to the explanations for the gang rapes (Muccheilli 2005). In France, the rapists were described as “les tournantes” (taking turns), which is North African slang found mostly in the banliue of France, rather than the more generic “viol collectif” or “viol en reunion.” One of the key victims reinforced this message claiming she’d never date a “Beur” (slang term for North African migrant): “With anyone else fine, but not with someone from my own culture! They’re either religious fanatics or scumbags” (Benabdessadok 2004, p. 67). This ties into already existing political discourses and fears about the violences urbaines in France, but because of the sexualized nature of the crimes, it helped to reinforce the idea of male inferiority and of a “civilizing mission” for Muslim women in France. The buerrette (a woman from North Africa) is contrasted with the garcon arabe (Arab boy); the former, we are told, is only prevented from full integration because of the misogyny and patriarchal attitudes of her cultural heritage or community. Similar arguments are made about Muslim women in the UK. In January 2016 many Muslim women resisted the stereotyped description offered of them as “traditionally submissive” by David Cameron, by protesting through Facebook and other social media that they are not “traditionally submissive” (BBC 2016). Although this highlighted their achievements, it was seen in the press and public debates as achievements despite the backwardness of “their men.” As Mirza (2013) argues, Muslim women in the West are presented as heroines struggling against their cruel fathers and cultures that deny them access to the benefits of living in the West. In this narrative, their men remain unreformed and unrefined—​especially so, following the revelations regarding gang-​rape and grooming over many years in both Oxford and Rotherham.2 In these cases, young, vulnerable, predominantly white girls were groomed and raped by so-​called Asian gangs. While the official inquiries focused on how social and police services failed the young girls by assuming they themselves were trouble and untrustworthy (often they had been in state care), the newspapers and political

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discourse prioritized the ethnicity of the rapists and the victims. In 2017 the cases resurfaced with allegations that the crimes weren’t taken seriously because the police and social services were scared of being labeled as racist. This narrative about the failures of political correctness ignores the underlying questions about how women who deviate from peaceful and passive norms are treated as troublesome. The attitudes toward these failings brings us back to Edward Saïd’s Orientalism (1978) where he showed that the tropes of Orientalism cast Muslim men as sexually perverse (with an impossible libidinous energy) and morally corrupt. It was presumed that the men in these cases were more likely to rape white girls because they were culturally and religiously encouraged to see the women as “sluts.” In contrast, the French republic and secular UK spaces are envisaged as sexually enlightened and egalitarian spaces (Fassin 2006). Such a framing of gender equality and sexual enlightenment hides from the narratives of masculinity the everyday sexism and domestic violence that women of all backgrounds face in Europe, and that extremist groups use to demonstrate that failures of Western society.

Tribal Masculinity

Pakistan’s program in the SWAT valley is also discussed, because it shows the connections with the ongoing war on terror and the gendered framing of deviance and otherness in radicalization debates. This connects to ideas about Afghan warlords as “aggressive.” Stanski (2009) finds how the idea of the “Afghan warlord” as found among American and Allied forces in Operation Enduring Freedom charted the Northern Alliance as “not so much an army as a collection of feudal barons who have banded together” (citing Baker 2001). They were presented as underequipped heroes carrying out feats of wonder, but were also uncontrollable, their violence too visceral for any external restrains to be imposed, and consequently an inevitability that they came to be understood as corrupt, unsuitable for leadership, and treacherous. It was combined, Staski argues, with a presumption of the superiority of “modern” and “Western” ways of warfare and of governance. Such orientalist labeling we find mapped onto considerations of Pakistan jihadi fighters by the outside world and by the federal Pakistan government. The crossover is exemplified in the shortening of the area by military and policymakers to “Af-​Pak,” in part recognizing the cross-​border linkages between tribes in Afghanistan and Pakistan.

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The emphasis falls on tribalism to explain the violence—​it was believed that understanding the tribal system and traditional forces would enable local mobilization and identify key allies. The tribal approach in Iraq of American forces, particularly advocated by General David Petraeus, was a “high-​stakes divide-​and-​conquer strategy” (Gonzalez 2009). The assumption was that tribal honor, tribal competition over resources, and tribal ethos explain resistance and mechanisms for fighting against the central governments. This has the added advantage of leaving Islam out of the equation—​that, despite the religious and theological overtones of Terik-​e-​ Taliban Pakistan (TTP) and other extremist groups fighting in the region, it can be bracketed off, thereby not questioning the state’s religious authority. Despite acknowledging real grievances against the Pakistan federal government, the dominant discourse about the TTP in SWAT is of a backward, tribal, and unreasonable group—​and their violence matches it. The idea of the Pukhtunwali (way of the Pukhtun) tribal code is frequently emphasized in explaining violence and a lack of loyalty to Pakistan. The oft-​quoted Wali Khan, asking about his first allegiance in 1972 as the son of the famed Frontier Gandhi, replied, “I have been Pashtun for six thousand years, a Muslim for thirteen hundred years, and a Pakistani for twenty-​ five.” Yet despite this, a tribal masculinity is also stereotyped as excessively religious/​pious—​which is linked to lack of education—​hence fear of the privately run madrasa or the pesantren in Indonesia. To overcome this tension in how tribal masculinity is portrayed, piety as expressed through tribal codes is seen as the product of “not knowing” true Islam—​although some have argued that is in fact growing religious orthodoxy that has made protection of honor a religious duty. While in the past, protecting “gifts bestowed by God” (ghairat) was important, over time those “gifts bestowed by community” (aizzat) also required such protection (Keiser 1986; 1991; see also Knudson 2009). Relying on cultural practices of the rural poor to explain radicalization, the enlightened urban elite can be reassured that they know better: their Islam is moderate and doesn’t involve the need for uncontrolled, backward violence. This move distances the Pakistani urban elite from being at risk of radicalization, even while growing piety movements in Pakistan are middle class, urban, often run by women, and linked to radical ideas and groups. As with the case of gang rapes, cultural overtones and an urban civilizing-​ mission perspective are present in NGO and policy reports, often written by elites. For example, in a study of domestic violence in Pakistan, the authors chose to emphasize the persistence of a rump pre-​Islamic culture as a cause. For example, “Yes, [Pakistani] men commit honor crimes. They do this in service of male ego. Their behavior is seated in a ‘subjected’ and

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‘self-​crafted understanding’ of masculinity and is purely agrarian or tribal. It has absolutely no place in the Qur’an or Sunnah” (Allama Kausar Abbass Haidri in an interview in January 2010 with Aslam 2012, cited at p. 141). The unresolved issues in federal areas—​the areas designated as “tribal” and therefore as backward—​are consequently not only exorcized from the national image but replaced with stereotypes that can easily be ignored. They also serve to remove radicalization from ordinary grievances about land reform, or the distribution of wealth from the federal center to the regions (Brown 2015). This also helps explain the willingness to engage in military activity in the area; the men are framed as “foreign fighters” rather than as citizens.

CONCLUSION

A clear tension is present with the antiradicalization programs discussed here. First, theories on radicalization assume that women are passive or weak and are easily influenced by men; but here the policies only work if the opposite is assumed or if the state has to make women stronger. This leads to a state’s right to intervene in areas of everyday life that would never normally be considered as within the purview of security politics. There is a second tension as well—​that as they rely on the maternal logic to provide the cure for radicalization, its cause is also a failure in maternal logic: the existence of violent youth. The chapter has discussed so-​called moderate women’s involvement in antiradicalization programs and their motivations. By examining what women involved in antiradicalization actually say drives them, what their activities are focused on, and their ideas, it is possible to have a deeper understanding of how women are situated in policies as agents, not just as passive suppliers of liberal goods. It also questions what is interpreted as “moderate” by policymakers and the women themselves, and suggests that the thick social bonds that motivate also challenge ideas of the “moderate self.” The moderate self in antiradicalization efforts is therefore a feminized ideal type of the responsible self-​governing and self-​policing agent in neoliberal governance. Overall these approaches to antiradicalization efforts shift the focus toward peacebuilding, combined with a maternal logic where women are framed as life-​sustaining; this creates a space for women to operate as peace activists. Peace, and through it radicalization, became a subject that women could legitimately talk about (Steans 2008). The corollary is the disciplining of women’s gender and agency—​violent women are placed in

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contrast to “normal women.” In Pakistan this is particularly noticeable with the “Women of the Red Mosque” siege (Devji 2008; Aslam 2010; Shaikh 2017; Afzal-​Khan 2008).3 Women can legitimately respond to extremism in their societies and communities by acting peacefully. In contrast, female jihadists, for example, are temporarily masculinized, with a focus in public and violent groups’ discourses upon how they’ve sacrificed their life-​giving function for like-​taking roles. Biological essentialism in maternal logics as applied to counter-​radicalization is suspended but not abandoned. This is demonstrated in more detail via the two ways in which the maternal logics play out in characterizing and shaping legitimate women’s engagement with antiradicalization:  as pacifying and domesticating men and communities, and as moderating or Westernizing influences.

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CHAPTER 5

Mothers and Wives

T

his chapter shows how a maternal logic links the presumed moderate bias and pacifism of women (as identified in the previous chapter) with the emphasis placed on women’s roles as mothers and wives in antiradicalization efforts. The focus is on how women’s engagement with the state in antiradicalization programs is filtered through their “mother work.” Ideas of world preservation and mother work presume that the home is the site of tranquility (which is also the name of the Saudi program targeting women qua mothers) and that women are naturally located there. By securing the domestic sphere from radical ideas, it is assumed that exposure to these ideas outside of it will be modified and resisted. Women are called upon to have particular duties as they are specially located in the domestic and private realm and hold caring roles as mothers and wives. Caring is set up as the counter to radical violent action. Yet as demonstrated in c­ hapter 3 in discussing women’s engagement with radical groups and violence, premising antiradicalization programs on the view that all wives and mothers (not women) are pro-​state and nonextreme is questionable. Additionally, through these maternalist logics, antiradicalization policies, programs, and public debate compound broader gender tendencies in security politics where women are seen not as agents but as subjects of the debate and policies.

MATERNAL LOGIC: MOTHER WORK AND THE HOME

Koven and Michel present maternalist ideologies as those “that exalted women’s capacity to mother and extended to society as a whole the values of Gender, Religion, Extremism. Katherine E. Brown, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190075699.001.0001

care, nurturance and morality” (1990, p. 1079). The underpinning interests of preservation, nurture, and socialization that characterize the maternal logic generate relational qualities, emotional decision-​making, and an intuitive dedication to preservation. This results in the conclusion that women have a maternal instinct that precludes violence and radicalism (Cohn 2013; Frazer and Hutchings 2013). However, the maternal logic doesn’t just describe a negative, neutral, or passive absence of violence but infers a productive and active stance toward world preservation and protection.

MOTHER WORK AS CARING WORK

The core component of “maternal logic” is the appeal to caring—​where a feminist ethic of care is used to reinforce maternal logics. Three core elements form a feminist ethics of care:  a relational understanding of ethics, a contextual understanding of ethics, and a substantive and emotional moral component. Care ethics start from the position that life is dependent on this connection, which is importantly framed as an attachment, not a contract (Robinson 1997). Gilligan (1993) posits that a world that coheres through connection and attachment to others, rather than a world organized on rules and application of processes, empowers women to take on world-​preservation and world-​sustaining activities from a perspective of “care.” Consequently, the moral claims of particular others are prioritized over following universal rules (Held 2006, pp. 10–​11). The assertion is that those positioned as “mothers” recognize need, and that a right to have “care” is more important than abiding by particular rules (Nussbaum 2003). Second, within care ethics, there is recognition of the context in which mothering occurs—​namely in one of the most exploitative and unequal spaces possible (parent-​child relations)—​and yet there is nurturing, socialization, and preservation of the most vulnerable. Nurturing is not a fixed activity, but operates as a dynamic context with fluid power relations, in which temptations to violence are felt by children and mother alike (Ruddick 1983a, pp. 232–​33; 1983b, p. 243; 1989, pp. 35, 180). Under such conditions the ability of women to prioritize the care and mothering of another—​without direct supervision, over their own well-​ being or power—​is a selfless act that serves as a blueprint for all human action. Third, care ethics has substantive moral content, containing three core elements:  attentiveness, responsibility, and responsiveness (Tronto 1993; Walker 1995). This makes it an active and agentic condition. For Giri (2002), the ethics of care are also about feelings of sympathy to others and a commitment that operates as an overarching dedication to others, leading

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to mutually reinforcing bonds. By acknowledging emotions as a cause for behavior, the relationships are seen as attachments, not contracts; this feeds into a type of collective security arrangement with mutual shared interests. The consequence of the three elements of a mothering-​based ethics of care is that maternal logics in the public sphere are based on women accepting and undertaking moral responsibilities that arise out of their attachment to others in the private sphere. This can take the form of “activist mothering” (Naples 1998), and as Di Marco (2009,) uncovers, the “politicization of motherhood” in turn becomes a “social motherhood,” the consequence is that children’s needs are turned into political demands and thereby promotes political action (Carreon and Moghadam 2015). In the UK, the website and interest group MumsNet has become a powerful advocacy and lobbying organization based on these ideas. Care theorists reject the idea of containing mothering and caring values and activities to the private realm. This enables an ethics of care to be applied to the relationships with “very distant others,” such as applying it to foreign policy (Held 2006). At the heart of an ethics of care is an emphasis on women’s relationships in the private sphere (as mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters) as the basis for their engagement and value in the public realm (Gentry 2009a). Consequently, in maternal logics of statehood, it is through their private relations as mother, sister, wife, and daughter that women interact with the state. For example, in the field of conflict resolution, women are envisaged and valued as families’ shock absorbers, who manage and mitigate crisis. Positively, this position is then used as a way of transferring women’s experiences as peacekeepers and peacemakers in the home as valid experiences for incorporating them in peacebuilding and peace negotiations—​rather than excluding them because they lack leadership or formal political participation. Motherhood is valued as an ethical framework not only in Western feminist literature; some Muslim feminist and conservative nonfeminist literature also claims this maternalist logic. As Irene Oh notes, the differences between Muslim and other women’s mothering pale into insignificance when compared to the practicalities of mother work:  “Years dedicated to the daily work of feeding, clothing, cleaning, holding, educating, and myriad other activities necessary for the survival and flourishing of the next generation” (2010, p. 638). From an Islamic feminist perspective, we find that mother work is a way of challenging assumed male dominance over women in theological and social terms by insisting on its value and due recognition of women’s roles. In stories of exemplary women found in the Qur’an, the “importance of

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childbearing as a central part of a Muslim woman’s identity is emphasized” (Brockopp 1999, p. 7; Oh 2010; Ahmed 1992). Women who learn to read and write “manage their homes well,” “raise their children well,” and know “every minute the proper status of her mother, father, husband, and other relations; and she will fulfill her obligations [huquq] to them” (Metcalf 1997, p.  59). Within Islamic traditions as with other religious groups, women as mothers tend to be objectified as symbols of willing self-​sacrifice and selfless devotion. In several hadith, the nursing mother is described as performing moral work that deserves divine reward. Notably, these ha­dith are addressed to mothers themselves and refer to concrete practices of mothering. The Qur’an indicates that a Muslim ought to revere one’s mother because a mother “beareth him in weakness upon weakness, and his weaning is in two years” (31:14). This reflects an awareness of the context in which acts of nurturing and care occur—​one of extreme vulnerability, which is also noted in ethics of care theories. In return for caregiving, the financial rights of women are endorsed through the entitlement to nafaqa, which includes “feeding, clothing, shelter, medication and general care” (Aliyu 2010, p. 45). This situates the woman as the primary caregiver within the family and the bedrock for family roles (Maududi 2000, pp.  305–​306; Samani 2016), which is important because “a stable and well-​organised family system is a prerequisite for the birth of a righteous society” (Islahi 2001, p. 117). This selfless devotion is then generalized and extended beyond immediate others and toward a broader “we.” Most Muslim feminists working with this framework can be thought of as conceptualizing a form of communitarianism in which the individual is seen as an embedded self (Baukje 2007). Recognizing Kymlicka (2002) point that not all our connections are constituted by ends we chose, Muslim feminists articulate their civic duty of criticism and participation from within their community rather than stepping outside of it. Consequently, we see highly politicized piety movements emerging in influence throughout the Muslim-​majority world that construe modesty, veiling, and domesticity as communicative actions. An alternative reframing of this obligation is also emerging in the Muslim world that views good Muslim motherhood and womanhood as including economic activity. Working is viewed as part of Islamic tradition in a context where the state can’t provide for families’ welfare, employment becomes necessary, and women’s work is viewed as a religious duty to support and supplement incomes from male heads of the household for the benefit of the family unit and wider community. Sakai and Fauzia (2016) demonstrate this logic in their exploration of Muslim womanhood among business entrepreneurs in Indonesia. Instead of seeing their religion as

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problematic, Muslim feminists, such as those interviewed, also make a point of distinguishing religion from culture, claiming that most woman-​ unfriendly practices in contemporary Muslim countries and communities can be traced back either to pre-​Islamic custom or to their being imposed by conservative exegetes (Al Hibri 1999; 2000). They also claim that one should understand woman-​unfriendly suras (holy verses) in their historical context, rather than hold on to their literal meaning in a world that has undergone dramatic changes. For example, Amina Wadud (2007) draws from her experience as the mother of five to challenge injustices reinforced by the oft-​quoted hadith stating that “paradise lies at the feet of the mother.” Through the lens of motherhood, Wadud provides a subversive reading of the story of Hajar (Haggar). Hajar is seen as an inspirational role model for Muslim women; Wadud, rather than reinforcing ideas of self-​ sacrifice, focuses on Hajar’s status as a single head of household and finds that her status “is never commented upon, no one was held accountable for its resolution, and later legal codifications in Islam would still overlook it” (Wadud 2007, p. 144). The consequences of such failures are the contexts in which women’s role as mother are not given due recognition in Islamic law and thinking, and Wadud argues that these laws therefore need reform to overcome gender injustices. This turn to motherhood as a way of expressing alternative ethics has three components that have been beneficial for challenging the patriarchal status quo across communities. First, it prioritizes empathy and nurturing; second, it insists that needs and context be taken into account when shaping appropriate political action for preservation; and third, there is a demand for imagining more productive and constructive relations. A  number of risks are attached to this move. The first is essentializing women, such that they become heavily identified with the core qualities of mothering to the detriment of other ways of being a woman. Moreover, Hoagland (1991) argues that the ethics of care is an ethics of dependence, where dependence is valorized over independence in a “romanticized vision” (p. 247). Relatedly, Clement argues that such framing of ethics confines women’s moral capability to self-​erasure and abnegation, and a lacking of autonomy of agency (1996). In practical terms, there is the risk of not acknowledging the reality of many women or mothers who through economic burdens do not have their mothering valued. Another risk is that an ideology of motherhood places unreasonable and unrealistic expectations upon women, and because it is perceived as willing devotion, the harms of mother work are overlooked. As is demonstrated in the rest of this chapter, not only are women envisaged

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in antiradicalization programs as “mothers” and “brides,” but these potential risks are made real in these programs. Construing women as mothers and brides reinforces white, middle-​class and Islamic conservative notions of mother work and caring, as well as essentializing women’s experiences regardless of their marital and economic relationships. Women solely considered as mothers and brides are domesticated, which reinforces a public/​private divide in the policy and political realm (Glenn 1994). This chapter looks at how women are problematically treated as mothers in antiradicalization work, and then looks at other ways women are involved once we move past mother work.

MOTHERS IN ANTIRADICALIZATION

Mothers emerge in antiradicalization measures in a binary mode:  either women are good mothers and their sons or daughters do not become terrorists, or they’re bad mothers, directly or indirectly contributing to their children’s radicalization. While we can find examples from Indonesia, Pakistan, and Saudi Arabia of this focus on mothering and parenting when addressing individual cases of radicalization, it emerges as policy mostly in Muslim-​minority countries. The focus here is therefore mostly on the UK, the Netherlands, and other European or Western countries.

Bad Mothers

The primary way in which women are constructed as bad mothers is through their participation in political violence. Already marked as deviant women for having chosen to participate in violence, motherhood is viewed as a further transgression (Sjoberg and Gentry 2007). Within radical movements this viewpoint is internalized as well, and some women involved in revolutionary struggle have chosen not to have children, citing this logic. In an interview, R (a woman involved in the Red Army Faction [RAF] in Germany) felt that “motherhood was strategically incongruent with revolutionary struggle” (Melzer 2011, p. 81). Melzer, who interviewed R and others, found that for women participating in the struggle, “actively rescinding the role of mother was a necessary step in their political development.” However, not all women took this approach, and recent scholarship has challenged the idea that women who participated in armed struggle were not caring for their children. Indeed, Katharina de Fries—​a

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mother of five who was repeatedly arrested for membership in a terrorist organization—​argued that a better world without children was impossible; children, she argued, “were the guarantors of any desired utopia becoming something ‘konkret’ [concrete/​real]” (Edschmid 2001, p. 44, cited in Melzer 2011, p. 89). De Fries contrasted her approach to that of Meinhof and Ensslin; Meinhof sent her children to live with others. More recently, European women who went to join Daesh have claimed to have done so because they believed that their children were offered a “better life” in the caliphate than living with “kaffir” in a society that rejected them (Brown 2018a). While ideas of mother work make it easy to demonize women who engage in political violence because of their motherhood, mothers do not always construct their participation in violence as antithetical to good mothering. Like the examples in Sjoberg and Gentry’s Mothers, Monsters, Whores, the mothers of the RAF were presented as defective and shirking their responsibilities in wider society and policy. This characterization of women’s support for violence continues today in counter-​radicalization initiatives that target women. The majority of programs that envisage women’s roles in counter-​radicalization and deradicalization do so from a position that presumes women’s primary responsibility is as caregivers to sons and husbands. This is common across the case studies presented. The burden of responsibility for young people’s radicalization shifts from the conditions and material environment in which they live to that of their parents. Women who fail to prevent their children from being radicalized are held responsible as “bad mothers.” There are three core ways in which bad mothers are blamed, which cannot be separated from racial and class politics. First is the argument that bad mothers don’t spot or report the signs or radicalization; they are presented as inattentive and overly lax in parenting their sons. Here, they are seen to have failed in their duty as mothers and as citizens. Second, in a contradictory move, bad mothers are those who are too protective, thereby driving their children toward radical ideas. Parents who are too strict are seen as not focused enough on their children’s well-​being but more obsessed with reputation—​this is a more likely framing of blame in cases where teenage or young women have joined radical groups. A  subset of this theory is related to parents who promote piety or cultural observances and insist on their children living lives isolated from the mainstream. Finally, bad mothers are women who are complicit in and supportive of their children’s radical beliefs; these women are seen to be promoting the wrong attitude in their children, and harming society and their children directly.

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Bad Mothering: Inattentiveness

The first part of this claim is the argument that parents—​although usually the claim is made against mothers—​even if the language refers to plural “parents” are best placed to spot the signs of radicalization in their children. (Absent fathers and the role of fatherhood in radicalization and deradicalization thinking is addressed in the next chapter.) In Saudi Arabia, the claim is explicit: mothers who are not attentive, responsive, or accepting responsibility for the proper moral upbringing of children create radicalized individuals. Saudi authorities “believe there is a correlation between less attention received at home and trouble later in life,” and that radicals did not have a “proper religious education” in their early childhood (Rabasa et al. 2010, pp. 60, 62). The women are seen to be defaulting from their natural “ethics of care” by not nurturing their children appropriately. This perspective is often internalized by mothers of radicals. For example, Fatima Hadfi, mother of Bilal Hadfi, who blew himself up outside the Stade de France in Paris in 2015, told Maghreb TV that she was sure that people listening to her would wonder how she could not have noticed any changes in her son’s behavior:  “I have said that to myself. I  should have listened more closely, I  should have been closer to my children” (Associated Free Press [AFP] 2015). In the UK, a similar logic is at work as radicalization has become a child-​ protection concern, involving family courts, local authorities, police, and education authorities. In the latest hearings, parents have been threatened with imprisonment, removal of their children (thirty-​two children have been made wards of court and ten interim care orders have been issued in London), and electronic tagging (Family Court Orders 2015). In these cases, local authorities are concerned with parental ability to spot and report signs of radicalization of their children in at-​risk categories (e.g., another sibling or friend having traveled to Daesh, a father or other male relative arrested or detained on terrorism-​related charges). Their presumed inability is often compounded by illiteracy and economic deprivation, but mostly authorities are concerned with parental willingness to cooperate with PREVENT, the UK’s antiradicalization programs (CAGE 2017; Silke and Brown 2016; Awan and Guru 2016). The suggestion appears to be that “neglecting parents” have defects that “normal parents” don’t have; therefore, deviating from proper parenting behaviors rather than poverty and marginalization are a root cause. This move is similar to that identified by Karen Swift (1995) as she discusses the manufacturing of “bad mothers” in social work. Swift argues that the accepted view of child neglect masks and distorts social realities

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and in doing so reproduces the marginalization, poverty, and violence that too many families face. Swift demonstrates how the good parent model not only stigmatizes the family but also inadequately supports the children deemed at risk. She shows how the system to tackle child neglect and abuse does not seem to be producing happy children or empowered women, and that chronic underfunding and case overload condemn the system to keep rolling on regardless of outcome. In contrast, one might posit that, as it is targeting a new category of “abuse,” a system addressing radicalization of minors would be relatively resilient with new forms of funding and support, yet cases in the UK show how the system struggles and repeats the same faulty processes of addressing child neglect. In the Netherlands, the focus on parenting style has become a core concern of researchers, trying to understand why parents appeared to be inattentive to their children’s “descent” into radicalization. Van San et  al. (2013), researching the radicalization of young people in the Netherlands (both Muslim and non-​Muslim), found that “none of our respondents [radical youths] grew up in an authoritarian family. Almost all parents seemed to take a negotiating or permissive rather than an authoritarian approach to dealing with their children’s extreme idealism.” Answers given by the youths in the study showed that most parents took little interest in their children’s political and radical ideas or fail to address the subject altogether. This lack of responsiveness from the parents was partly explained by the fact that a number of young people described themselves as “very private persons.” We are told they were used to sitting alone in their room surfing the internet without any parental supervision. Only a few parents, the researchers found, engaged in discussions with their children about their beliefs, in most cases not with the aim of changing their children’s minds but to set boundaries out of moral or prudent considerations:  “Believe what you want, as long as you don’t harm yourself or others.” Moreover, they found that parents were not aware of the challenges their teenage children faced, and didn’t know how to respond to their children’s views (Van San et al. 2013). The overall tone of this research was to present parents as naive, or that they were incapable of responding. The researchers argued that parents who take a “you have your view, we have ours, let’s just respect that” approach to parenting were abdicating their parental and social responsibility. Van San et al.’s (2013) findings confirmed that of Becker (2008), who described abandoning (“verlassene”) families. These are families where politics and ideology are not discussed, where the parenting style can be characterized as indifferent, and where parents have trouble setting boundaries. Pels et al. (2006) presented the case that young Muslims tend

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to receive less parental support than indigenous Dutch youngsters, and particularly their fathers tend to be much less involved. Research among Moroccan families in the Netherlands showed that this is particularly true for boys:  they cannot turn to their parents as easily as girls can, which means that boys are more dependent on their peers (Stevens et al. 2004; Pels 2003). Sikkens et al. (2016) followed up on this research and found that parents in their study in the Netherlands were disempowered and confused when children displayed radical beliefs. Parents were not sure who to turn to and were uncertain about the correct response. Counterintuitively, parents didn’t increase surveillance of their children but backed off, intimidated by their children and lacking the skills or knowledge to counter them (Van San et  al. 2013). In interviews with me, caseworkers in the Netherlands described how extremist groups were replacements for mothering by offering conditional love and acceptance. As one worker argued in interview, jihadi groups are a “substitute Salafi family” for young people. This additionally mimics studies demonizing black fathering, fatherhood, and parenting in the US, as discussed in the section on learned behaviors. The intersectionality of this research is notable, with particular Muslim family practices constructed as negative—​for example, traditional family ideas on parental authority and refusal to accept challenges from children, hence feeling intimidated by their radicalization as it is culturally unusual. In research on American Somali boys who traveled from Minneapolis to join Al-​Shabab, mothers reported being pleased when their sons joined mosques or Muslim men’s groups because they had been worried about their sons not focusing on college or that they might join criminal gangs. These are real risks for Somali young men, and seeing religion as an alternative was not unreasonable. However, the women were then blamed for not being more critical or for being overly concerned with the piety of their children rather than their education or social inclusion. Muslim communities are then defined as being “overly religious” or defined purely in terms of their religious identification and practices. The solutions offered to the women were highlighting to them the support structures and parenting advice available (e.g., Somali Mothers Health Realisation interventions), CAFES (the Coffee and Family Education and Support program), and refugee support services to build strong family units (Weine et al. 2009). This focus on parenting as a question of style or skills ignores the fact that in Minneapolis 70  percent of Somali mothers are heading single-​parent households, 50 percent have suffered torture, and 35 percent or so have PTSD symptoms. Moreover, as many have moved from their original point of entry in the US to Minneapolis, they are denied extra material support from the federal authorities. Here we see class and racial

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expectations of parenting imposed with little consideration for underlying material environments. Overall the language and policies present parents as similar to those who “neglect” their children—​in this case neglecting children’s correct mental and ideological development. This maps onto ideas of radicalization as purely cerebral and about faulty rational logics, as discussed in the opening chapter. State solutions to this neglectful bad mothering appear later in the chapter.

Bad Mothering: Overprotectiveness

The second, less dominant narrative that stands in opposition to the neglectful mother is to cast as causes of radicalization those mothers who are smothering and overly involved in their children’s lives. Mothers are presented as all-​powerful, holding the fate of their children, and ultimately society, in their hands. By tapping into cultural assumptions about Muslim communities where women are valued as mothers, these are women who although highly influential in their children’s lives fail to recognize the signs of rebellion by prioritizing the “wrong” things (such as attending religious services or upholding traditional marital practices). This idea of overly protective parenting as a cause of radicalization is usually reserved for explaining young girls’ radicalization. One exception is an article in Quadrant, a magazine based in Australia, that blames “antisocial” behaviors on “traditional” Muslim parenting styles that foster unhealthy attachments, and lack of criticality that lead teenagers to become more religious and to self-​segregating behaviors (Ahmed 2016; for a related argument see also Stevens et al. 2007). This explanation is then applied to the radicalization of young men and young women. However, more common are arguments such as this one from the Netherlands: “girls are educated in a stricter way; for them Islam can be a way to strive for autonomy and freedom” (Pels and Ruyter 2012). There is a presumed logical progression toward radicalization; in the UK, this move to radical Islam is presented as a failure of parents and schools, for not upholding “British values” that include gender equality. Journalists and to some extent policymakers have argued that British Muslim girls are more easily seduced by the illusion of love and choice presented online by so-​ called male jihad-​hotties because they are forced into marriage by families and are not allowed to participate in proper teenage behavior and sex education classes in schools, as cultural pressures lead parents to try to protect them from Western immorality. Overly protective parenting blames culture

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as opposed to faith for radicalization. Nevertheless, the young women are considered misguided for turning to a new “ethnically pure” Islam that challenges the cultural boundaries of their parents, as this is deemed to depend on suspect readings of religious texts (namely a Salafi one); despite being loaded with a language of women’s rights and empowerment (but notably not equality), the woman’s move is seen by authorities as one short step away from radicalization. Moreover, despite young women who join Islamic extremist groups denouncing Western culture and feminism, the argument presented is that, if only these communities had allowed the young women full access to Western lifestyles, then they wouldn’t be tempted by the false promises of Islamic extremism. For example, in a recent UK court case overseen by Mr. Justice Hayden involving a seventeen-​ year-​old girl who was perceived at risk of joining Daesh, the social worker and father’s barrister recommended the young girl should watch more television, in order “to give her a portal to the wider world” (The Telegraph 2016; London Borough of Tower Hamlets v B [2016] EWHC 1707 (Fam); A Local Authority v M [2017] EWHC 2851 (Fam)). This concept of bad mothering is not only gendered but it is not found in Muslim-​majority countries. It is always tied to questions about multiculturalism. The argument that underpins this conceptualization of radicalization is that while these mothers are seen as overly protective of their children, they act that way from a basis of ignorance. Parental attempts to protect children from the ills of Western society have in fact led them to the ills of radicalization. These are mothers who fail to understand the lived realities of their children. By insisting on a protective space in the home, such mothers encourage their children to be duplicitous or left unprotected against the dangers of the outside world. On the one hand, we are told that radicalized young women are those who have become experts in deception—​they hold one language and identity in schools and in front of the wider multicultural society, and a second in the home and among community elders. In other words, when radical groups insist that parents, elders, and school authorities “don’t understand you,” this is believable, but also that the children already have the skills to hide their radicalization (despite overly protective parents). This is how the radicalization of the three girls from Bethnal Green (London) who traveled to Daesh in 2015 (two of whom are now believed to be dead) is presented. On the other hand, we are told that radicalized young women are those who are naïve and who, because of their parents’ misguided attempts to protect them, were denied the skills to recognize the deception and propaganda of radical recruiters. What links these versions of the overly protective mother in explanations for radicalization is that mothers failed to truly understand

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the wider society they lived in and as a result misdiagnosed the threats and risks to their children (Robinson et al. 2017). These ideas of overly protective mothers also promote the idea that young women join radical groups because they have been sexually groomed as discussed later in the chapter.

Bad Mothering: Learned Behavior

In the Netherlands, van de Bergen and Ersanilli et al. (2016) determined, based on social learning theory, that children learned their attitudes and behaviors regarding radical ideas and violence from parents, especially relative to how parents address a hostile societal climate within the Netherlands. Youth are said to recognize the fears and prejudices of their parents and become radicalized due to a violent in-​group defense mechanism apparent in Muslim communities. This defensive fear of the Western other is combined with a moral superiority that produces radicalized individuals. Within this understanding, the radical beliefs of mothers are not themselves problematic; rather, it is the possibility that these beliefs become transferred to their children, making it a matter of child abuse. As reported in Indonesia and Malaysia, women’s increasing piety, combined with their responsibility as the primary transmitters of religion, and socioeconomic dependency on women’s networks linked to radical groups, casts them as potential radicalizers of sons and daughters (Frisk 2009; Rahman and Lim 2017). Therefore, while the activities of mothers—​going on Islamic protests and marches, joining sister study groups, fundraising for charities that are alleged to support radical groups—​may not be illegal, they still fall under the suspicion of the state for failing to raise children in a manner conducive to Western values and tolerance or without due regard and loyalty to the state. As David Cameron, then the British prime minister, said in May 2015, “For too long we have been a passively tolerant society. We have sent the message that, if you obey the law, we will leave you alone” (HM Government 2015c). For Muslim communities in the UK, however, this is a myth, as the state for the past fifteen years has continuously intervened in Muslims’ lives (Awan and Guru 2016). Learning from parents’ bad social behavior as one of the primary reasons for children’s delinquent behavior in Muslim communities is rooted in the development of urban governance in the nineteenth century (see, for example, the Report of Committee for Investigating the Causes of the Alarming Increase of Juvenile Delinquency in the Metropolis 1816). The troubled-​families discourse is transposed onto PREVENT in the UK and elsewhere, and deradicalization strategies draw explicit ties between

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families in difficulty, online radicalization, and terrorism (NYPD, NYPD 2007). However, if we draw on the research on ethnic mother work by Bailey (1995) and Collins (1994), we see that physical survival of children is the primary objective—​avoiding police arrest and detention, and in the US, being killed by the police. These writers show how black children are being taught to always have their hands in full view in a store to avoid accusations of shoplifting. Both find that “good” mother work involved with maintaining safety requires identity formation grounded in ethnic heritage and values while simultaneously passing along skills that allow them to achieve higher social positions and reject the norms that are built into racially prejudiced society. Mother work and empowerment in these conditions is to limit children’s assimilation of racial stereotypes and seek self-​definition and value from their ethnic heritage. This tightrope for those under the surveillance of the UK’s antiradicalization policy, PREVENT, shows how values and ideals presumed by the state cannot and do not easily transpose. The notion of empowerment preventing radicalization shifts responsibility onto individual families rather than the circumstances in which they live. A  failure to be empowered through “expert help” or state authority produces mothers deemed unworthy of help (Swift 1995, p. 171). Procedures designed to examine people’s apparent suitability to parent obscure mothers’ and fathers’ lived realities—​for example, they ignore class and racial structures of discrimination. For example, a case taken on by CAGE in the UK shows how constant surveillance and cooperation with PREVENT officers and procedures have not supported families or children. The founder of Families for Life, Nicola Benyahia, from Birmingham in the UK, discovered that while many police officers were respectful, they nevertheless were only concerned about uncovering evidence rather than providing support (Casciani 2016). Additionally, the constant state concern created resentment, resistance, and rebellion in the families affected (Families for Life 2017). Repeated rescue operations from dangerous situations—​that is, risky family environments—​also do not necessarily ensure the future of the children concerned. Care and parenting become adjudicated in the system as capability rather than love, affectional ties, and identity. For children who become the responsibility of the state and are placed in state care (foster homes, adoption, or care homes), their outcomes are not necessarily improved (Stewart et al. 2014; Davison and Burris 2014; Sebba et al. 2015; Department for Education 2014; 2015). Overall these three constructions of the bad mother in counter-​ radicalization discourse craft a particular set of responses aimed at generating and producing the “good mother” (discussed next). In the

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creation of the bad mother, a number of issues emerge. First, radicalization researchers and practitioners draw upon a logic of risk that acts as a framework through which behavior is seen as problematic and in need of correction; this behavior gets assessed as being “risky” (Broadhurst et al. 2010). Second, and following from this, problems in parenting are viewed as resulting from individual choices. Third, this focus easily weakens collaborative practice with parents, as they are constructed as the source of risk. For example, parents, but particularly mothers, are expected to come to meetings with the social worker, and if they do not arrive on time and well prepared they are seen as failing or being in denial regarding the risk (Stanley and Guru 2015). Fourth, the focus on individual bad parenting doesn’t consider the conditions under which Muslim families now have to operate—​notably a genuine fear of us-​vs.-​them policing styles that do not serve their communities, panoptic surveillance, and a culture of suspicion in the UK and elsewhere. As Surinder Guru argues, “Muslim families are likely to lose their abilities and strengths to survive under such pressures” (Guru 2012, p. 5). Additionally, while the language of mothering is explicit in much antiradicalization work and literature, sometimes it slips into a degendered rhetoric of “parental responsibility,” which hides the gendered nature of the debate; it is women—​mothers—​who parent regardless of marital status (Standing 1999, p. 36). Helen Baker also notes that men who stay with their families or maintain regular contact with their children are viewed as good fathers (Baker 2009, p. 445; Ruxton and Baker 2009); more stringent parenting standards are applied to women. Consequently, “it is lone mothers, particularly those living in poverty, who bear the brunt of attacks on inadequate parenting” (Baker 2009, p. 36).

GOOD MOTHERS

Given the focus on poor parenting and bad mothering, women then appear in antiradicalization programs as transformed or potentially transformed figures. particularly women featured in videos that warn other parents; these women are seen to be seeking redemption for their children’s choices by imploring other women to be better mothers. The videos show women describing the loss of their sons from the family, the women’s failure to act, and their moments of confrontation—​leaving the impression that had they behaved differently, their children could have been saved. Like the current approach to dealing with child neglect in Western countries, the solution to radicalization is in empowering good parents. Good mothers not only can prevent radicalization in their sons but also have a role in

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empowering their communities and influencing men to prevent radicalization and foster better relations. There is considerable parenting advice on terrorism, specifically in discussing terrorism with children and addressing any concerns children might have living in an age of generalized fear. Within this literature parents are portrayed as overwhelmed by a diminished ability to protect their children and fear of the risk of a terrorist attack. The assumption is that good parents need to be empowered to properly nurture and protect their children, which follows a clear ethics of care. However, as Doley and Zeedyk (2006) highlight, parenting advice publications suffer four main limitations: the expert view is important while parental intuition is downplayed, the relationship between expert and parents is ambiguously presented as helpful advice but delivered in a manner that implies no real choice, parents are indirectly blamed for developmental outcomes in children, and undesirable behaviors of the children are the parents’ fault. The similarities with counter-​radicalization advice to parents are marked. Failure to heed or take the advice and implement parenting changes, mothers are warned, will have dire consequences. Parents are therefore the ones who can spot the signs in their children, and bad parents are those who lack the skills and correct attentiveness to do so.

Good Mothering: Know the Signs

The idea that mothers play a key—​if not the key—​role in the prevention of young people’s terrorism and should be prioritized in counterterrorism initiatives is a stance that counter-​radicalization actors promote whether they’re state funded or an NGO. For example, in the UK, groups such as the think tank Quilliam and the UK National Police Chiefs’ Council (NPCC) promote the idea that women need to be invested in counter-​radicalization because they are mothers. To legitimize this position, the NPCC conducted a survey among people ages eleven to twenty-​five; 86 percent of respondents said they preferred to approach their mother for “information about a serious, sensitive, or political subject.” As a result, the NPCC issued a set of recommendations for antiradicalization policies, one of which emphasizes the need to “prioritize bespoke engagement with mothers.” In this light, initiatives such as the Syrian Mothers’ Open Letters were launched in the UK. In July 2014 the home secretary launched the “Families Matter” campaign aimed at dissuading young people from traveling to Syria in support of Daesh or the Syrian state. The advertisement for the program announced that “the campaign recognises that it is mothers

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who often spot changes in behavior or signs someone may be considering travelling to a conflict that millions are desperate to escape” (Weaver 2015; see also Pickering et al. 2008). The mother-​daughter relationship is especially invoked in these cases. Police appealed to Asian mothers through ads urging them to prevent their daughters from going to zones of conflict to become jihadi brides and to establish a dialogue with their daughters. This approach explicitly assumes a special mother/​daughter bond (Morris 2014). In the Netherlands, we find a similar logic. In many cases, Dutch organizations teach women how to spot signs of radicalization in their children and relatives and explain the dangers related to the radicalization process. For example, the city of Rotterdam has a long-​running program conducted by the Attanmia Foundation that seeks to train Moroccan mothers in gen­ eral parenting behaviors, specifically raising the issues of bringing up children in the Netherlands and, alongside that, the risks of radicalization. The foundation argues that raising children in the Netherlands for Moroccan mothers can be challenging because children learn to live in two worlds and therefore become adept at hiding their real selves from their parents. The Attanmia Foundation seeks to foster open communication between mothers and their children. In Pakistan, PAIMAN, an NGO funded by and working in partnership with a number of international organizations, works with Taleb youth and their mothers in areas of Pakistan once ruled by the Terik-​e-​Taliban. In their material, the trust contends that women are typically “the first to recognize signs of resignation and anger in children,” and “when their sons, daughters, or husbands exhibit tell-​tale signs of violent ideologies” (Peace Direct 2017). Similarly, in Indonesian “mother schools” run by Sisters Against Violent Extremism, the emphasis is on peace education and facilitation of “critical dialogue and targeted training to strengthen women’s confidence and competence to recognize and react to early warning signs of radicalization in their children” (Women without Borders n.d.).

Good Mothering: Spot the Signs

Linked to knowing the signs is a call for attentiveness to them; parents and community members must be vigilant to successfully counter the influence of ruthless recruiters. As one jihadi bride’s father warned, “If our daughter, who had all the chances and freedom in life, could become a bedroom radical then it’s possible for this to happen to any family” (Sherwood et al. 2014). One example of a good mother upheld by the United States

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Institute for Peace and others is the mother of Nora el-​Bathy, who successfully spotted the signs. French schoolgirl Nora el-​Bathy began wearing a hijab, which she had not donned before, and frequently vocalized to her friends and family her desire to help the wounded in Syria. Days before she disappeared, she had asked her parents for her passport. Nora’s new beha­ v­ior, the content of her repeated remarks, and her ultimate request for her passport were all signals that could have alerted her family and friends to her plan (Sherwood et al. 2014). The mother is portrayed as the exemplar of good motherhood in spotting the signs and subsequently asking for expert advice. France adopted a family-​based approach for spotting signs and set up a family support helpline in 2014, but unlike the Dutch or British approaches, there is a heavy security focus. Unlike other organizations that are run by counselors and social workers, France has its National Centre for Assistance and Prevention of Radicalization (CNAPR) overseen by the Ministry of Interior’s Coordination Unit for Counter Terrorism (UCLAT) (Hellmuth 2015).

Good Mothering: Follow Best Practice

Knowing your children, however, is not sufficient to protect them from radicalization. In addition, good mothers must instill the right values and behaviors in their children through parenting best practices. The values and behaviors that mothers are meant to instill in children are those that will presumably protect and prevent children from being radicalized. This approach only works if radicalization is presumed to be a consequence of wrong values. The question, then, is: “What are the “right values”? Across the programs, women as mothers are encouraged to be ambassadors of “constructive change with their children by teaching (and modelling) moderation, tolerance, and acceptance” (Couture 2014). The assumptions are that mothers are moderate, liberal women who will necessarily promote peace, and that the right values are those that the state would wish to see in obedient and passive citizens. In Muslim-​minority countries, the assumption is that the right values are those that allow children to pass in the majority public sphere. Instilling the right values means not only as having the right values but knowing how to pass them on generationally. Parenting as a set of behaviors becomes defined as an “open conversation with children” (Morris 2016). This conversational approach is taken by the Family Online Safety Institute (FOSI) in the UK. FOSI contends that “parents know their children better than anyone else” and are therefore best placed to protect and prevent

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radicalization in young people (Families Against Terrorism and Extremism 2016). The solution for parents is to engage in a two-​way conversation to “understand the risks children face,” and to “engage” in a “frank, honest conversation about this complicated subject” with their children to prevent them from going to terrorist hotspots (Pickering et al. 2008). Within a culture of responsibility, parents should establish household rules about technology use, but also expectations about general behavior attitudes and values, as vital to preventing conversion to violent extremism. These are activities mothers “must” do, and they are “crucial”; if parents fail to heed this expert advice, children will face additional “emotional dangers” of dire consequences (Morris 2016). For example, we find that antiradicalization programs focusing on family relationships—​particularly on mothers—​are gaining in popularity in the Netherlands (Hearne 2009). Best mothering practices are therefore the solution, despite the fact that child psychology and social research show that the largest influences on young people in all other areas of life—​such as drinking, smoking, drugs, and sex—​are not parents but peers (Cox et al. 2017; de Boer et al. 2016). These fields also typically ignore a dominant explanation in adult radicalization: namely the “band of brothers” or social networks. In every country, parents are told to seek expert advice and that professional opinion and intervention are needed in case of exposure to terrorism. In guidelines and leaflets, parents are treated as a homogenous and uniform group although children are seen as diverse. This dynamic has resulted in a standard best practice being established, with guidelines, advice, and hotlines for how to care for children when dealing with radicalization. The advice bears very little relation to everyday life or the socioeconomic realities of families. The family is universally seen as safe and relies on the maternal logic that enables the nurturing, socializing, and protecting of children; the risks to children in society are presumed low. In the Netherlands, parents and family are explicit in their concerns that the postimmigration world outside of the home that second-​generation Moroccan children inhabit is dangerous, filled with risks and unknown threats, and children engage in risky activities—​online and off—​about which parents need to be aware. The authorities deliver to parents this new knowledge on their children’s lives and the “difficult-​to-​penetrate world” in which they live (Buurman n.d.). On the one hand, mothers are told they know their children best, while on the other hand, the authorities offer themselves as experts. Families and children constantly hear that they should trust the police, teachers, and others in authority. In Pakistan, it was argued that women are so disempowered because of the culture that without expert advice and facilitation they would not be able to counter

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the radicalization of their children or communities. In the UK, the Family Online Safety Institute (FOSI) seeks to “build a culture of responsibility” and urges that “parents who are concerned about their child’s online activities should not be afraid to approach law enforcement authorities for guidance” (Morris 2016, p.  508). Antiradicalization programs that focus on the role of the family therefore have an inherent tension; in particular, mothers’ resilience and role can only be realized with support from the state, but mothering itself relies on presumed innate qualities and behaviors of mothering. When focused on deradicalization work rather than general counter-​ radicalization efforts, the expert advice is often explicitly framed as “mothering.” For example, Dr. Feriha Peracha, an Australian deradicalizer working in Pakistan, takes a soft approach, describing herself as a surrogate mother or grandmother to radicalized children. She comments, At first I  thought my [female] colleague and I  would have a handicap being women, but [the boys] immediately responded, because they’ve been through so much harshness. First, they were angry and distant but slowly . . . I became like the mother or the grandmother. And they still look upon me like that. They won’t get married unless I’m there. (Wroe 2017)

Similarly, a deradicalizer in the Netherlands with a background in psychology, while insisting that her professionalism meant that she did not view herself as a mother to the young men she helped deradicalize, nevertheless carried out mother work via an ethic of care. She nurtured the young men in dynamic ways, providing emotional and practical support: she helped with their socialization by providing them specific roles in their colleges and communities, and she was responsive, responsible, and attentive to them (often communicating with them at all hours via WhatsApp), thereby fulfilling the moral component of this work. Mossarat Qadeem, the executive director of PAIMAN, encapsulates all of these concepts in relation to maternal logic and mothering practices. She has spoken about her work “with mothers as the gateways to families.” She explained that by “educating these women about nonviolent interpretations of the Qur’an and the alternatives to radicalization, one could often reach their sons.” She continued, “PAIMAN realized that it is the innocent mother who needs to be sensitised and educated to counter the extremist ideology. We developed our strategy of engaging mothers with the belief that they shape the morals and values of their children and instil a sense of responsibility for creating positive human relationships within the family and community” (UN Chronicle 2016). Following PAIMAN training, women

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become members of PAIMAN mothers’ peace groups called Mothers Tolana (“together,” in Pashto) and started reaching out to other mothers. By 2017, PAIMAN had trained 745 mothers, who have formed thirty Mothers Tolana groups in the KP and FATA provinces of Pakistan. In conjunction with this educative function, the trust also seeks to give women marketable livelihoods, “so that they can contribute to [their] family’s income—​and be more respected by their children” (Peace Direct 2017). What we see here is an application of all the elements of mothering logic. In the first instance, women are “gateways”—​their value is estimated because they can extend the reach of the state into the family and home; in other words, there is a relational ethics of care being offered. Second, women are presented as inherently peaceful; through their innocence and ignorance, they are seen as passive. Third, their values and morals are necessarily moderate and centered on human connectivity. Fourth, they are in need of expert advice to realize their potential, whether in income generation or countering radicalization. This last linkage of women’s economic potential to having respect in the family also presumes that moderation is about liberal economic values, and somewhat contradictorily, that being a mother alone is insufficient for building respect in a family unit. The other set of mothers in antiradicalization work are those of children who have become radicalized. These women become experts because of their experience, because they’re willing to share this knowledge, and frequently because their children are dead; the women are redeemed as good mothers. One example is the Mothers for Life initiative set up in 2014 by a Canadian woman that includes mothers of deceased foreign fighters from twelve countries. The group’s aim is to be a safe but wide-​reaching network of support and exchange for people with similar experiences of highly advanced violent radicalization in their families, and it now offers training and counseling for parents. The founder Christianne Boudreau (also founder of the Hayat Centre in the Canada Family Support group) talks of “suspecting something wasn’t right” and noticing signs of change, but she was nevertheless powerless to stop her son from joining the radical group (All Things Considered 2016; Kelly 2016). These women have considerable normative power in the public sphere by drawing on their experiences of radicalization and on their position as mothers. The wording that Mothers for Life employs deliberately uses the Islamist language of motherhood. For example, in its second letter to Daesh in 2016, Mothers for Life states, “You [Al-​Baghdadi] even dared to turn our own children against us in the name of Allah and forced some of them to kill their own mothers because they tried to plead for their children’s return. We who gave birth and life, were cheated, threatened, and forced into

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the open in the midst of our pain and not granted the right to heal and mourn in silence” (Mothers for Life 2016). They continue with religious citations and stories to reinforce the Islamist tradition of obeying mothers, and that “paradise lies at their feet” Mothers for Life also has significant alliances with other NGOs, such as Hayat, Quilliam, and FATE, and together they reinforce this message of women’s capacity to counter radical narratives. According to one of the lead NGOs, INSPIRE, #MakingAStand “set out to equip mothers with theological counternarratives to extremist ideology so they could feel confident in challenging their children’s views at home,” and “also sought to help women recognize possible early signs of radicalization using real-​life case scenarios and signposting them to agencies if they require support.” The group continues, As mothers, we were losing our children as they turned their backs on us, choosing instead to join the murderous so-​called Islamic State having been radicalised online by hate preachers pushing their messages of a false Islam. Listening to women as they told us of their suffering and unimaginable grief on discovering that their sons and daughters had turned their backs on the family to join ISIS made us realise that if we came together our voice would be stronger. (We Will Inspire n.d.)

BRIDES OF DETAINEES OR JIHADISTS

The potentially redeemed mothers of terrorists are contrasted with the wives of terrorists in counter-​radicalization programs, and with the concept of jihadi brides in both extremist and counter-​radicalization narratives. In this discussion, I focus on Indonesia’s policy to support wives of detainees and Saudi Arabia’s program to provide “wives” for those leaving their deradicalization program. In both cases the presumed ability of women to “nurture” radicals through their ethics of care (mother work) not only infantilizes terrorists but also renders women as secondary concerns in these programs. In Indonesia, women’s interaction with counter-​radicalization programs is either as mothers attending mother schools to train them to spot the signs of radicalization in their sons, or as wives of terrorists. In both scenarios, these women are presumed to support deradicalization. In relation to the latter, Indonesia’s prison program provides them with funding to visit detainees, and in some cases provides welfare for women left without an income because of their husband’s incarceration. However, a

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report by King’s College London’s International Centre for the Study of Radicalization (ICSR) highlights how the program is premised on “questionable assumptions, such as the idea that prisoners’ wives and families are necessarily in need of economic assistance or that families are always pro-​government and will honor their commitment to ensuring ’good behavior’ ” (Neumann 2010). In Saudi Arabia, women are seen to “bind” men to this earth and to encourage men to fulfill their responsibilities qua men—​that is, as fathers and husbands. Therefore, the Saudi government assists the “beneficiaries” of its deradicalization plan in finding a wife if they’re not married, and paying the associated wedding costs. By 2010 the Saudi government helped thirty-​one of sixty Guantanamo returnees get married (Rabasa et al. 2010; Lamb 2010). This is an interesting approach as it mimics the gender logic of some radical Islamic groups that suggest that men should not marry as it stops them from seeking paradise through martyrdom (Cook 2005). However, for women seeking to leave extremist or radical groups, this logic can also cause a problem, as their marriage might often tie them to the radical group, even if it wasn’t what drew them to it (Schmidt 2018). These examples stand in stark contrast with the way the wives of Muslim men accused of terrorism in the UK and US are treated. In these countries women complain of being denied basic rights, of being humiliated by security and police forces, and of being considered as complicit in the actions of their husbands, until proven innocent (Guru 2016; Kassem 2013). Women as wives are seen as necessarily supportive of their radical husbands—​who unlike their sons could not or would not have hidden their radical beliefs—​and who because of assumptions about marital relations in Muslim households are presumed to have had no power to persuade them otherwise even if they disagreed. While research has been carried out to discover whether parents would report sons or daughters of suspected radicalization (Awan and Guru 2016), similar questions have not been asked of spouses. The linkage between radicalization and domestic violence is also of interest here; if accurate, a woman would be even less likely to report her husband’s radicalization due to fear of violent reaction. In addition, Muslim women who suffer domestic violence are harmed because they may not report this violence for fear of it being used as a reason to investigate a family for terrorism-​related offenses. I discuss this presumed link to domestic violence more in the next chapter. An interesting example of a jihadi wife is Samantha Lewthwaite, the wife of Jermaine Lindsay, one of the July 7, 2005, London attackers. Samantha was initially believed to be ignorant of her husband’s activities, and the British media paid considerable sums of money for her story. However,

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by 2017 Samantha Lewthwaite became one of Europe’s “most wanted” women. The assumption of innocence was granted because she was a white convert (Brown 2018b). Since she fled the UK in 2009 after security services’ increasing suspicion about her role in the London attacks, she has been linked to grenade attacks at non-​Muslim places of worship, an attack on those watching football in a bar in Mombasa during Euro 2012, and less convincingly, the 2013 Westgate shopping mall attack. This track record, albeit one that may be more mythological than real, is what earned her the moniker “the White Widow.” As of 2019 she is believed to be fugitive in Kenya after entering into the country on a false passport—​although a few reports allege that she is dead while others locate her in Bradford. Her conversion to Sunni Islam is seen as a necessary precursor to her involvement in radical violence, as her youth until that point in her late teens is presented as uneventful. Her conversion is rarely addressed in reports as a question of substantive belief, but one caused by her parents’ divorce and a desire for stronger family values. Conversion alone is insufficient as a cause for radicalization; indeed, the temptation to see converts as more radical than born Muslims is misleading and risks creating a suspect community that is demonized by association. Annabel Inge (2016) argues that what is more important is a “second conversion” process for radical violent Islamist ideology. As with Ulrike Meinhof of the RAF mentioned at the beginning of the chapter, Samantha Lewthwaite also went to university, in this case the London-​ based School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), to study religion and politics—​although she never graduated. She married in her early twenties after meeting Jermaine Lindsay in an internet chat room and then at a “Stop the [Iraq] War” march in London. At the time of his death, she was pregnant with their second child and denied all knowledge of his involvement in terrorism. This raises two questions: First, was she radicalized by Jermaine Lindsay? Or were they radicalized together by a third party—​ such as by charismatic and extremist preachers? This question makes sense if we accept the account of a local politician who had known her as a child and teenager, who described her as “very innocent, lacking confidence, shy and very easy to get on with. She was a follower, not a leader” (BBC 2013). Lewthwaite is said to have visited the extremist speaker Abudullah el-​Faisal (Trevor Forrest) while he was in jail in the UK for soliciting the murder of Jews and Hindus in 2003 (Owens and Myers 2013). Focusing on the role of charismatic and authoritative speakers denies her agency in her violence—​radicalization is something that happened to her by someone else. Such a narrative also denies her belief in the cause and doesn’t explain her subsequent departure from the UK after her husband’s attack.

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In 2009 and 2013 she had her third and fourth children. It is rumored she has now married four times, with each husband becoming a martyr for the extremist cause. In notes seized by Kenyan police in 2011, she had written, “Blessed me with the best husband for me. In fact, exactly what I asked for when I made du’a before marriage. I asked for a man that would go forth, give all he could for Allah and live a life of terrorising the disbelievers as they have us.” This last point is important, as it echoes those of other women who have joined Daesh—​the unification of a set of ideals about private life and political cause (“terrorising the disbelievers as they have us”). The collectivist identity is also present in this note—​she strongly identifies with the group but with the added moral certainty that Allah “is on her side” (Siddique 2013). To quote feminist Carole Hanisch (1970) “The personal is political, and the political is personal.” Interestingly, in the reporting and analysis of Lewthwaite, no one seeks to explain why or how she was radicalized; it is simply presumed to be because of her marriage(s), yet we are also encouraged to see her as a mastermind of complex military attacks and able to defy the strict gender norms of Al-​Shabab and Daesh that exclude women from leadership roles and offensive attacks as opposed to defensive jihad. As Nelly Lahoud (2017) notes, Al-​Shabab, Boko Haram, and Daesh are very careful when acknowledging terrorist attacks by women, and while celebrating their deaths, other women are subsequently cautioned against following suit. Rarely were the women themselves clearly linked to the organizations. In the case of Samantha Lewthwaite, her reported motivations surrounding marriage and motherhood notably contradict many of the assumptions about mother work and maternal ethics of care. Yet despite this, by ascribing motivation to her mothering and marriages, we find that women in antiradicalization as mothers or wives are affirmed in their roles. Bad mothers or wives are offset against the women who spot the signs, seek professional advice, and become professional counter-​radicalizers as mothers and wives. The scope for alternative ways of viewing and promoting women’s participation in either antiradicalization work or in radicalization becomes limited by this obsession with mother work.

CONCLUSION: MORE THAN WIVES AND MOTHERS

This chapter demonstrates that debates over women’s appropriate roles in society, in politics, and in the home are the hidden battleground on which both counter-​radicalization and radical groups operate. Radical groups

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present a narrative about the failures of Western society and feminism to protect women, and which have supposedly led to the emasculation of men. Counter-​radicalization efforts that unreflectively presume that Western society and feminism have benefited Muslim women in Europe equally in comparison to other women fail to fully appreciate the difficulties of young Muslim women negotiating their complex identities under conditions of discrimination, poverty, and Islamophobia. This failure necessarily delegitimizes the programs and discourses, and misleads policymakers into focusing on religious or foreign policy aspects alone of the radical groups’ propaganda. This supports the findings of Mina Caulfield in her work on family and cultures of resistance (1974). She shows how the family is a central locus for resistance to imperial control because it is where children are socialized to know their place in society and it is a competitor for authority and loyalty; the family is also a site of continued surveillance and attempted control in antiradicalization programs. Consequently, families are simultaneously viewed as potentially risky, as well as potentially being a source of protection and rehabilitation. On the one hand, good mothers prevent and preempt radicalization, and good wives rehabilitate and deradicalize husbands. On the other hand, bad mothers promote or ignore the radicalization of their children, and bad wives blindly support their husband’s cause. Barbara Katz Rothman (2016) picks up a second component of this framing of women’s role in antiradicalization work as mothering. She notes how maternal thinking does not occur in isolation but is part of complex ideologies that buttress patriarchy, capitalist exploitation, and technology that privileges the mind over the body. As part of this, mothering is always linked to the latter, lower-​ valued item in cultural binary oppressions:  male-​female, mind-​body, nature-​culture, reason-​emotion, public-​private, labor-​love. Women’s efforts are subsequently devalued in contrast to those of men, because they are linked to these ethics of care (female-​body-​culture-​emotion-​love,  etc.). By locating women in their traditional roles as wives and mothers, and often replicating the religious references to motherhood that are found in Islamist thought, radicalization is emphasized as a consequence of faulty beliefs and faulty emotions. Most programs to support women in antiradicalization are variations on the theme of enhancing respect for one’s mother, without providing guidance to mothers themselves for handling the struggles and complexities of motherhood. In antiradicalization work, motherhood is reduced to a question of parenting. It frequently fails to take into account women’s other roles and the context of their mothering—​employment, discrimination, and the broader war on terror.

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CHAPTER 6

Fathers and Heroes

THE “MUSLIM MALE” AND ANTIRADICALIZATION

In this chapter I make two core arguments about how countering violent extremism (CVE) operates. First, paternalism characterizes the relationship between the state and individuals in antiradicalization programs; second, the techniques are used to emasculate some groups of men while promoting particular masculine ideals that are impossible to meet because of the emasculation process. The consequence is that while individuals may become deradicalized, the policies reinforce racial and social inequalities at the group level that some analysts see as a cause of individual and group radicalization. Racial, gendered, and social stereotypes are constantly reworked, repositioned, and projected across state governance, policymaking, and research lines, in the process maintaining and shaping social inequalities (Bhattacharyya 2008; Semati 2010). In this era of the war on terror, this historical pattern of inequality continues such that the demographic category “Muslim male” has come under particular scrutiny and supervision from states worldwide. Muslim men are subject to a range of pressures that ascribe to them highly contradictory masculine identities—​in which they are represented as both a major threat to themselves (as vulnerable to terrorist recruitment) and to the state (as potential terrorists). In their vulnerability they are feminized, cast as needing care, while with their ever-​present potential to violence, they are hypermasculinized, their destructiveness in need of containment. This point was partially discussed in ­chapter 4 when addressing violent youth. Gender, Religion, Extremism. Katherine E. Brown, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190075699.001.0001

In the current chapter, I  show how the two layers of paternalism in antiradicalization efforts only make sense in conjunction with understanding how the hegemonic masculinities of the state are valorized and constructed in opposition to these two modes. The argument of this chapter is that hegemonic masculinities operate in antiradicalization measures through paternalist logic. This logic grants the state the legitimacy to be the caring but strict father figure, the ever-​watchful Big Brother, and the hero. These three processes of paternalism appear to sit in awkward tension with the way antiradicalization also crafts maternal logic. The inability to reconcile these competing logics means that inconsistent and often contradictory outcomes emerge, as discussed in ­chapters 7 and 8.

THE LOGIC OF PATERNALISM

For our considerations, the logic of paternalism operates on two levels. The first is the idea of the state as masculine; this framing helps us understand how and why politics operate in the way they do, such as setting up a protection racket for women’s security generally. These insights from feminist security studies are discussed more in the next chapter, where we look at the impact of antiradicalization policies on human security and the construction of citizens’ lives. Here, the focus is on the second level in which paternalism is invoked: within the policies and practices themselves. Despite the terminology, the gendered characteristics of paternalism are often overlooked in philosophical and economic writings. One exception is Lakoff (1996), who highlights how a “strict father” morality is present in socially conservative ideologies, in contrast to a “nurturing mother” morality in liberal ones. This analogy works because it relies on an understanding of the father as a form of hegemonic masculinity, a complex concept that relates to how ideal male types frame and dominate the lives of all. The “hegemonic definition of manhood is a man in power, a man with power, and a man of power” (Kimmel 1994, p. 125). Not all men, indeed very few, can achieve the ideal (of in power, with power, and of power) but their potential and imagined existence legitimize particular gendered power relations and structures. With this in mind, hegemonic masculinity is not a fixed gender type, but varies in time and place. Regardless of the content or criteria we ascribe to the hegemonic male however, he forms the pinnacle of gender hierarchies (Connell 1995, p. 76). Hegemonic masculinity becomes expected of certain men in various social contexts, whereas women, and declared lesser men, are not expected to act according to masculine norms and are valued less

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as a consequence. As a result, we see that hegemonic masculinity is often racist and homophobic, and defines itself in opposition to these lesser groups of men. Moreover, this hierarchy is perpetuated through consent and coercion, both soft and hard forms. Donaldson (1993) explains that “hegemony involves persuasion of the great part of the population, particularly through the media, and the organization of social institutions in ways that appear ‘natural,’ ‘ordinary,’ and ‘normal.’ ” This is particularly important when looking at the torture and feminization of terrorist men later in this chapter. Given this perspective, although there are cultural variations and counterhegemonic narratives, hegemonic masculinities tend to value physical force and control, occupational achievement, familial patriarchy, cowboy/​frontiersman risk-​taking activities, and, heterosexuality (Trujillo 1991, pp. 290–​91). In antiradicalization measures, the familial patriarch component and the emphasis on physical force and control are the main interlocking elements. “Paternalism” comes from the Latin pater (father), and means to act like a father and to treat another like a child. Paternalism has benevolent intent, but its methods are frequently coercive. Van de Veer states that “a paternalistic act is one in which one party interferes with another for the sake of the other’s own good” (1986, p. 17). Importantly, only the judgment and agency of the pater is authorized, and it is based upon a presumption of intellectual and moral superiority on the part of the pater (Shriffrin 2000). For example, as Suli (2006) argued in relation to countering al Qaeda, states have adopted a paternalistic view of Islam, rather than embracing itjihad (open debate and legal reasoning). In other words, states have preferred to offer a quick fix of determining correct Islam for misguided and perhaps morally inferior citizens. Here the father figure determines the Islamic framework and benchmarks by which the metaphorical children’s actions and values are to be judged, because the father figure knows best. The pater creates the framework in which liberty-​versus-​security debates are permitted and judged. In the formulation of paternal action, the denial of liberty interests is important because the objectives of paternalism are the protection and provision of security. Paternalism sets up protector-​ protected roles, where protectors are not only afforded greater moral and intellectual superiority but also demonstrate their physical dominance by carrying out acts of heroism. Those who protect are frequently militarized stereotypes, demonstrating risk-​taking behaviors, physical force, and control. Paternalism is therefore imagined as the iron fist in a velvet glove; paternal actions are not characterized by hostility toward the subject—​those positioned as childlike in the relationship—​but they are characterized as unequal and with the threat or application of punishment. As we shall see,

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threat of violence or harm is a core component of paternalism, even in implied, soft, or libertarian paternalism, especially as it maps onto the field of security and counterterrorism. In contemporary antiradicalization policies, paternalism is both explicit (in the cases of Saudi Arabia and Indonesia) and implicit (in the cases of the UK and the Netherlands). In the explicit examples, paternalism is characterized by overt appeal to father figures and the state’s express moral superiority and benevolence. In the implicit cases, a libertarian paternalism is at work, operating through shaping “choice architectures” of individuals and through intense narratives of possible harms to correct behaviors of individuals and communities (Pykett et  al. 2011; Sunstein 2006). The chapter looks first at father figures of explicit paternal practices, then at the Big Brother logics, and finally at the heroic savior role model.

FATHER FIGURES

Counter-​radicalization and deradicalization programs often set up a paternalistic relationship between the individuals operating the program and their “beneficiaries” (to use the language of the Saudi antiradicalization policies). For example, in Indonesia, Detachment 88, the nation’s elite counterterrorism squad, mimics bapakism (fatherism), the Indonesian ideal of the family unit and the father figure. Such paternalism is also found in the Netherlands’ programs where mentors become father figures to young men at risk, under a presumption that a lack of appropriate father figures is partly responsible for their potential radicalization. Building up individual relationships based on an ethics of care to generate trust is seen as key in many antiradicalization policies that rely on voluntary participation and to mask coercion in involuntary programs. Trust, where it is constructed, is built upon the father figure of the state or state agents who want what’s best for their citizens. In the UK and the Netherlands, however, the quest for information and building trust are undermined by a lack of accountability and transparency in a number of programs, which are usually expected in policy and state actions in those countries, and the state’s efforts to present itself as a benevolent father figure consequently fail (Kundnani 2012). There is an ongoing battle between local community Muslim male power and the white masculine power of the state. As a result, implicit Big Brother–​like measures dominate, instead of more explicit ones, as found in Indonesia or Saudi Arabia. In Indonesia, a strict-​but-​fair disciplinarianism is promoted to accompany the caring paternalism of antiradicalization practitioners and

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policies. This approach is in line with broader Indonesian narratives of the role of the state and identity of the nation and the pervasiveness of the notion of a powerful father figure in the political imaginings of Indonesian people (Geertz 1976, p.  33; Boellstorff 2005, p.  196). This figure is perceived to embody such power that the term often collapses the notion of ruler/​king/​father into one powerful person, which gives the figure of a king a mythological status with somewhat incommensurable magical power. This perception was institutionalized during the presidency of Suharto, who was pitched as the father-​king of the nation. The father-​king’s primary relationship is with his anak buah (sons/​ subordinates), and his benevolent guidance (pembinaan) promotes harmony because “father knows best [bapakism]” (Gerke 2000, p. 140). This was made semiofficial in Suharto’s title, “Bapak Pembangunan Indonesia” (Indonesia’s father of development). Suharto needed to establish an independent Indonesia; “smoothing out regional and cultural gender variations in acceptable maleness and femaleness was part of this nationalizing process” (Nilan 2009, p. 330). The state gender order delivered a “patriarchal dividend” to all men, but not equally between them; working-​class men (sarong wearers) were diminished and infantilized as “houseboys” in contrast to the modern Western-​dressed men of the governmental, military Javanese, and middle-​class elite (Elson 2008, p. 56). This understanding of Indonesia as one big family led to a stark gender divide that valorized women’s domesticity, justified it as reflecting biological destiny (kodrat), and meant that household roles were enshrined in marriage law (Robinson 2009). The state segregated the public and private spheres for men and women respectively. Since the fall of Suharto, politics has been decentralized, and while the figure of the president is still influential, he holds less mythological status than his predecessors. One result is that there is no longer a consensus in a positive sense on what it means to be Indonesian (Budiman et al. 1999). Instead, “Indonesian” is defined in relation to perceived threats:  a fear of contagion from liberalism, secularism, or extremism. To overcome and be protected from these threats, a form of religiously promoted bapakism has emerged to unite Indonesia under a politically moderate but socially conservative Islam. Islam is seen as a powerful force to empower Muslim men who were emasculated under the Suharto regime, and their superiority over women is now sanctioned by God, as opposed to kingly or presidential authority. The majority of Indonesian men are now seeing the dividends of democracy over dictatorial rule in everyday life. Consequently, the values, norms, and approaches of bapakism remain dominant in Indonesian politics and statehood.

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The dominance of bapakism in Indonesian antiradicalization programs is apparent in the nation’s approach to general counterterrorism efforts, as well as to the well-​known Detachment 88 counterterrorism unit. For example, police raids in 2011 in Mataram and Bali that targeted hotels in the region were explained as follows: “We don’t want to irritate and annoy [menggdedor-​gedong] anyone, we are just trying to catch terrorists [terroris] and sinful people [orang maksiat] so the general public does not need to worry” (Lombok Post 2011, p. 10, cited in Davies 2015, p. 37). The desire for harmony (“not need to worry”) and the desire not to interfere with ordinary people’s lives dominate the discourse around raids. The assumption is that ordinary Indonesians needn’t be concerned or interested in these events, and should trust the judgment of the police authorities. This understanding of these raids presents the state as caring for ordinary people’s well-​being by removing this social threat. The raids were initially framed as preventing and catching people having illegal or illicit sexual activities, and most of the prosecutions were for this but were speedily linked in official statements to counterterrorism operations. The linkage to presumed sexual deviancy is not accidental. Illicit sexual relations are seen in Indonesia and elsewhere to disrupt the harmony and unity of the heteronormative family, in the same way that terrorism disrupts the harmony of the state. Additionally, both are linked to moral deviancy and spiritual failings—​as radicalization and sexual deviancy are both seen as failures of belief. Ensuring correct faith and belief is central to paternalism and can be seen in other areas of antiradicalization work. Detachment 88 has been described as people who become “spiritual counselors,” working to deradicalize individuals (Beech 2010). However, such counseling is not premised on an equal relationship, but one in which the prisoners are taught the “correct” way of being Muslim and manly, and shown the error of their former beliefs. This process of counseling is underpinned by the idea of “repentance” (tobat; the Arabic for repentance is tawbah). The purpose of repentance is to seek a change of behavior and to regret past behaviors by acknowledging them as wrong as a necessary condition for salvation. Here, salvation is granted by the acceptance of the deradicalization officials, who have the power to ascertain whether someone has “truly repented.” Deradicalization therefore has a key confessional and pastoral element to it. A way of demonstrating that an individual has repented is to accept the paternal care of Detachment 88 and to emulate their models of fatherhood. For example, extra privileges are available in a few Indonesian jails for people in the Detachment 88 program. These are personalized opportunities designed to mimic paternal relationships and foster trust and dependency on the part of the detainee. So while Chalmers (2017)

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finds that social networks are vital for sustaining the deradicalization process in Indonesia, what is missing from his analysis is that the networks he identifies are gendered—​based on brotherly and paternal relationships. Frequently, travel expenses are covered for families seeking to visit incarcerated loved ones, and they are provided with accommodations upon arrival. This puts Detachment 88 in a position of care for women as well, reinforcing the gender hierarchy. This support is in addition to perks for detainees such as access to distance education (International Crisis Group 2007). Detachment 88 also organizes family barbecues to remind the detainees of their “earthly responsibilities” as fathers and husbands. The importance of family in sustaining the deradicalized states of detainees is recognized in many programs, including in Saudi Arabia (Al-​ Hadlaq 2015; Porges 2010). In Pakistan, program leaders describe their approach: “We tell them, you need to get your life back in order. We tell them that their mothers or their sisters are at home waiting for them . . . waiting for them to take care of them. . . . We don’t confuse them with ideas of what is a good jihad or a bad jihad. We tell them their focus should be on their families” (Temple-​R aston 2013). The Detachment 88 group also involves prisoners in rehabilitation work that reinforces their fatherly status outside existing relationships, such as taking prisoners to orphanages in which Detachment 88 personnel sponsor or volunteer, and showing the detainees the work done there by ordinary “good Muslims” (Hwang 2017). The chief of Detachment 88 believes that demonstrating to detainees that one can be a good Muslim man without violent jihad can help deradicalize individuals. An observer might view this as a transactional relationship—​ in exchange for cooperation a detainee gets logistic and financial support. However, discussions with Bin Abbas, a high-​profile terrorism detainee in Indonesia, revealed that good treatment by the police and the lack of torture disoriented him and helped change his belief structures (Horgan and Braddock 2010). These processes tap into established conservative Muslim masculinities and emerge as conservative and Islamic codes of honor: first, showing themselves to be the protectors and maintainers (qawwamun) of women, and second, that being the good Muslim man taps into the jihadist ideal of shahadat (witnessing or demonstrating faith), but through good works. Despite this commitment, however, antiradicalization programs for prisoners are implemented sporadically. In some prisons an Islamic cleric from Majelis Ulama Indonesia (MUI) may be invited to give a speech or hold a discussion on terrorism, and in other cases “conflict management training” is offered, while in many prisons no particular program is offered (Andrie 2011). The reason is that any services offered are dependent on the

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facilities and funding available at each prison rather than the provision of nationally administered resources. The focus of Indonesia’s deradicalization work is therefore on those detained in Jakarta where Detachment 88 is located, and is close to the seat of government, which can lead to a misrepresentation of the national picture in research and policy. Andrie’s fieldwork (2011) revealed that only two prisons (Porong, in Surabaya, and Semarang) were seen to have systematic and adequate deradicalization initiatives for their prisoners. In some prisons, some radicals or terrorists were integrated with the general prison population, yet in others they were kept in separate wings. In 2017 Indonesia opened a new prison for terrorist convicts only. The lack of consistency gives rise to questions about the long-​term effectiveness of the efforts of Detachment 88 and the commitment to deradicalization and tobat. Moreover, the financial rewards and support offered to families of those convicted and the commitment offered by the state to deradicalize pale in comparison to the attention and resources made available to prisoners by radical groups, rendering the viability and success rate of these measures questionable. We can contrast the desire for father figures in counterterrorism work with how policewomen in Indonesia are treated and discussed. This comparison confirms that terrorism and counterterrorism in Indonesia remain a male pejorative in the eyes of the state despite efforts by civil society groups. Davies and Hartono (2015) write about “The Pretty Imperative” for policewomen in Indonesia; analyzing one of the biggest magazines in Indonesia, Tempo, they found discussions about “pretty policewomen” approximately once a month. The views found in the magazine were not so dissimilar from that of the force itself. For example, the magazine interviewed the head of the policewomen’s academy, Commissioner Sri Handayani, who confirmed that being pretty was one of the most important requirements for becoming a police officer (Decilya 2013, cited in Davies and Hartono 2015). Specifically, the interview revealed the importance of virginity, strong religious beliefs, willingness to transfer within the force across Indonesia, and to be “pleasing to the eye.” This criterion was confirmed by Brigadier General Basaria Panjaitan, who in 2015 was the highest-​ranked policewoman, who also added that having a good body (fisik) was important (Hadriani and Aisha 2013, cited in Davies and Hartono 2015). Women make up less than 4  percent of Indonesia’s police force (approximately 13,200 out of 400,000), and the majority have administrative or public relations roles rather than working as criminal investigators. Women’s police activities include performing dance routines to pacify protestors, appearing as travel news presenters on television, and

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delivering general press releases (Davies and Hartono 2015). Policewomen are seen to use a motherly approach (pendekatan keibuan) in their duties, which is nonthreatening to men or their colleagues (Hadriani 2013) and are viewed as helping to pacify situations. There are no women in Detachment 88, and none carry out CVE work in Indonesia’s state-​led programs. This comparison is important because it highlights how antiradicalization work at the state level reinforces the view that terrorism, radicalization and security are the remit of men, and paternal masculinity is deemed the appropriate response. As a result, women are denied agency and are considered only secondarily in the overall campaigns, despite women’s activities and leadership in civil society movements that seek to counter “extremist Islam.” Here we see in the policies of the state a divide between soft security measures that are normatively and culturally deemed suitable for women to carry out and hard security measures that are the preserve of men. A second set of examples of deradicalization that rely on father figures are Scandinavian EXIT programs—​as in programs that help people “exit” extremist groups and ways of life. EXIT deradicalization practitioners envisage their task as “weaning youngsters from troubled backgrounds away from the identity problems arising out of destructive subcultures and family breakdown which give rise to a constant search for ‘substitute families and father figures’ ” (Bjørgo 2002). In these programs, there are clear efforts to replicate familial characteristics, with a focus on reintegration and rehabilitation (Fekete 2014). This understanding is similar to the Indonesian concept of tobat. The Aarhaus model in Denmark also follows this line of reasoning—​that sincere motivation to leave radical groups is met with support and mentoring. Additionally, the model in Saudi Arabia is premised on the idea of a supporting benevolent patriarch. The concept of “loyalty to [royal] leadership” (wali al-​amir) means that terrorists are seen first and foremost to have shown disloyalty, but should they repent, then they are considered more as “wayward sons” (Meijer 2012). These approaches, which place the state in the father’s role, also connect to those that emphasize family counseling and good mothering as essential to preventing terrorism and violent extremism, as discussed in ­chapter 4. The difficulty with these patriarchal approaches, in which the “children” are supposed to obey the authority and views of the state-​father, is that they replace one form of authoritarianism—​extremist ideology—​with another. The individuals are not empowered to engage with Islam or politics on their own terms, but rather are obliged to accept without deviance the views and behaviors of the state and state agents.

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Big Brother Surveillance as Antiradicalization

“Big Brother” in North America and Europe is today heavily associated with George Orwell’s novel 1984. In contrast to other dystopian novels of the time (such as Huxley’s Brave New World) Big Brother was separate from the Controller. The idea of a peer “watching out for you” rather than watching “over you” was an attempt to show a more helpful and facilitating state. However, as Orwell makes clear, such efforts were ultimately about regulating, disciplining, and restricting citizens’ behavior. Understanding surveillance as, “monitoring people in order to regulate or govern their behaviour,” it is clear that women’s experience of surveillance is extensive—​from verbal harassment, peeping toms, and stalking, to inappropriate touching and escalating forms of sexual assault and violence in public spaces. The conclusion is that women feel less confident in public spaces and change their behavior accordingly (Glasbeek 2016, p. 65; Glasbeek and van der Meulen 2014). Today “Big Brother” is linked to ideas of mass surveillance implemented “for our own good,” returning to a patrician model of statehood. The mass rise of peer surveillance also coincides with technologies that enable resistance to it and governance, and create distance between the “watcher” and the “watched” (Ball 2005; Miller 2016). Koskela (2012) finds that surveillance can make women feel more secure but that they also are acutely aware that surveillance is usually about men watching women and experience this as insecurity. This awareness is particularly heightened with closed-​circuit television (CCTV) monitoring, which is an extension of a longer pattern of a controlling “being-​looked-​at-​ness” (Mulvey 1975). CCTV is an “electronic peeping tom” that enhances exposure of all bodies and behaviors (Ball 2009, 639). In other words, there is an enhanced white male gaze, but one that is a known unknown; the observed is unable to form an opinion concerning the reliability of her protection and the willingness of the observer to help in a harmful situation. Instead the observed must trust (Hoskela 2012). But in contrast to the father-​figure model of paternalism, here, in implicit models, citizens also become complicit and participants in their own security; we all become Big Brother via peer surveillance forms. Peer surveillance provides new scales of governance and new forms of visibility in every dimension of our lives (Gilliom and Monahan 2012). In antiradicalization efforts, “surveillance functions as an early warning system that allows identification of potential terrorists” (Kessler and Daase 2008, p. 228). In the early years of the war on terror, surveillance

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programs and operations typically were found at state borders because the “risks” were seen as “foreign” and “alien” (Brighton 2007). These systems of prevention also seek to exclude and expel, to maintain internal order; they are manifestations of Tickner’s critique of anarchy and masculine statehood as discussed in ­chapter  1. Bigo coined the phrase “Ban-​opticon” to describe how surveillance and other crime control measures function to sort subjects and exclude those who do not belong within the sovereign order (2006). For example, Rachel Hall (2007) has spoken of the “citizen-​ suspect” who submits to rituals of suspicion in places like airports that are beyond the formal border zones of states; all citizens in the post-​9/​11 era have been declared potential walking, driving, or flying bombs. Vigilance against terror translates into suspicion against one another (Packer 2006; Larsen and Piché 2009). The secrecy and potential ubiquity of terrorists, argues Jeremy Packer, “creates a situation in which combatants cannot be known in any field of battle, which means everyone will be policed as if they are potential terrorists. At the same time, all citizens are asked to join in the war on terror as part of Department of Homeland Security initiatives” (2008, p.  273). Therefore, while today’s most visible counterterrorism strategies may work by expulsion and exclusion, they are accompanied by persistent, enduring, inconspicuous efforts to build up the internal controls of neighborhoods and to encourage communities to police themselves (Garland 2001, p. 17).

Peer Surveillance and Antiradicalization

Internal controls have helped form the figure whom Reeves (2012) called “the citizen-​officer-​suspect.” As Jarvis and Lister put it, “This diffusion of responsibility precariously positions the citizen simultaneously as a subject to be secured, a threat from which to be secured, and a technology of security” (2010, p. 185, punctuation added). The citizen-​officer-​suspect requires individuals to take responsibility for their own security by “knowing where to look, what to look for, or how to recognize what you were looking for when you find it” (Becker 1998, p. 110). But more than this, it places a duty upon individuals to look in the first instance. The set of rules for this activity is premised on shared understandings of abnormality and risk, which are never clearly defined but predicated on “common-​sense” knowledge (Huysmans 2014). Peer surveillance also relies on an implicit set of rules to draw “attention to any behaviour that disrupts the ‘normal’ ” (Norris 2003, p. 265). Thus, the citizen-​officer-​suspect is called upon to share that assessment of abnormality and risk through suspicious activity reporting (SAR)

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mechanisms—​ terrorist hotlines, for example (Chan 2008). Moreover, the citizen-​officer-​suspect is always required to submit to the very vigilance they are expected to carry out, based on a logic of “if you’ve nothing to hide, you’ve nothing to fear” (Sloan and Warner 2015); the citizen-​ officer-​suspect is told to be thankful, polite, and compliant when being monitored, surveilled, and searched. Collectively these measures are forms of peer surveillance—​sometimes described as “coveillance,” “lateral surveillance,” “citizen surveillance” or “citizen-​to-​citizen surveillance” (Rainie and Wellman 2012). Together these actions describe “the work of watching one another” (Andrejevic 2005)  that forms the backdrop of many soft antiradicalization campaigns. In November 2016 the British Transport Police launched an advertising campaign, “See It. Say It. Sorted,” that saw posters in Britain’s major cities—​London, Birmingham, Glasgow, and Manchester. The purpose of the campaign was, according to then–​rail minister Paul Maynard, to “send a clear message  .  .  .  that there are thousands of pairs of eyes and ears ready to report any potential threat.” Suspicious behavior included wearing a coat “big enough to hide something,” “avoiding staff or police,” leaving a bag unattended, heading somewhere they shouldn’t be, or taking photos of CCTV cameras. And should it be reported, then citizens can rely on government and police to “sort it” (sorted)—​as in to resolve the issue. The UK campaign mimics the 2010 US Department of Homeland Security’s “If You See Something, Say Something” tagline and resembles earlier efforts such as these in London:  “You are that someone” (2006), “Trust your Senses” (2007), and “If you suspect it, report it” (2008). In the Netherlands in 2006, Holland Against Terrorism was launched with the slogan “Better to have phoned once for nothing than too late.” The running costs for the campaign and hotline are approximately 500 million Euros per year (approximately 560 million US dollars per annum). From the US, there was, “Handyman? Pest Controller? Bomb Maker? Don’t rely on others. If you suspect it, report it.” The New Jersey Office of Homeland Security ran public awareness campaigns with slogans including, “Our most effective weapon against terrorism is you,” and “Watch Out, Help Out” (State of New Jersey Office of Homeland Security and Preparedness n.d.; see also Hay and Andrejevic 2006, p. 340). France in 2016 set up #Stopjihadism—​a campaign to fight online recruitment, as well as a toll-​free hotline where suspicious behavior could be reported to authorities; government materials state that such behavior could include “sudden changes in clothing or eating habits.” These slogans and initiatives appear to normalize the terrorist threats and render everything suspect.

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Within hours of the UK posters being unveiled in 2016, criticism came about the overt anti-​Semitic nature of one of the posters, and that all of the “witnesses” (watchers) were white. The women in the posters were mostly watchers, but in one case, a white woman was shown to be “acting suspiciously.” In a more recent poster, watchers are told, “Don’t be afraid to report it.” In a conference held months after the posters’ release, a speaker who had worked on the campaign responded to the criticism, saying they had “focus-​grouped” the posters, were surprised by the reaction, and didn’t see them as racist. A French campaign was also criticized by Ouisa Kies, who runs a prison deradicalization program: “[The hotline is] for the middle classes—​people who feel comfortable dealing with the authorities” (quoted in Vincour 2016). Much like the discussion over black parenting in the previous chapter, a climate of suspicion toward authority and police in working-​class areas makes it unlikely that individuals will inform. These campaigns are part of an effort to deputize individuals and make them responsible for the provision of their own security and safety. Citizens are increasingly being asked to fulfill the surveillance duties once reserved for the state’s police and security forces. This coincides with the move toward community policing, neighborhood watch schemes, community mobilization projects, and the democratization of policing in many countries. Given this backdrop, public awareness campaigns presume that terrorism is a “community problem” akin to a “neighbourhood crime” (Klausen 2009, p. 410). This “subtle logic of interactive participation,” warns Andrejevic, “invites unexamined identification with the priorities of those in power” (2006, p.  44). This leads to a rhetoric of “better safe than sorry,” under which an increase of surveillance measures can take place. The deputizing of citizens hints at the advent of a new kind of right: the “right to suspicion” (Bossio 2005; Chan 2008). The assertion of the right to suspicion is to take on the paranoia of the watcher as the default measure of security, such that who is considered a bad guy, a suspect, or suspicious is vague or overwhelming; we are presented with the terrorist subject as someone who hides from communities by blending in with them. The breadth of activities and suspects leads to mass surveillance, such that 2014 saw an anonymous source disclose the extent of US tracking of “terror suspects,” many of whom appeared to have no known connection to terrorism at all (Scahill and Devereaux 2014). Mohammed Umar Farooq was a victim of such peer surveillance. At the time, he was a postgraduate student at Staffordshire University in the UK, where he was falsely accused of being a terrorist after a member of library staff noticed him reading a copy of J. Horgan and Kurt Braddock’s Terrorism Studies: A Reader. The book was a required text for his course.

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Faizah Shaheen was reported to authorities by Thompson aircrew for reading Syria Speaks:  Art and Culture from the Frontline on her outward-​ bound flight to Turkey—​for her honeymoon. On her return to the UK she was detained under Schedule 7 of the Terrorism Act. Shaheen was questioned for half an hour and asked about her work, the languages she spoke, and the book itself. John Fiske (1998) noted how surveillance “enables different races to be policed differently, and it has an insidious set of ‘chilling’ effects upon the freedoms of opinion, movement, and association that cumulatively produce racially differentiated senses of ‘the citizen’ (p. 69). The two cases offered here certainly demonstrate the racially differentiated consequences of the vague definitions of abnormality and risk. When the state encourages members of the public to be vigilant against potential terrorist activity, they are required to do so by making a distinction in the public sphere of what should be the “normal” behavior of others or the accepted use of a space, such as a storage facility or a river. This approach is based on the assumption that “terrorists look and act so transparently that intensified monitoring will single them out for investigation and capture” (Haggerty and Grazzo 2005, p. 181). However, despite this assumption, Vaughn-​Williams highlights that the public vigilance campaigns exhibit a “lack of clarity about precisely what citizen-​detectives should be on the lookout for. . . . Rather, the suspicion is generalised and objectless” (2008, p. 75). The major development in the UK Conservative government’s PREVENT strategy has been the 2015 PREVENT Duty, which was reinforced in policies from 2018 (HM Government 2015a; 2018a). This duty has legally enforced a requirement on all schools, nurseries, health-​care premises, and universities to have “due regard” for preventing terrorism. All schools must be aware of radicalization risks, report signs of radicalization to their police contact, and teach “British values” to the children (Department for Education 2015). Health-​care premises are also required to roll out PREVENT training to all staff with safeguarding duties and to report signs of radicalization to their police contact. The PREVENT Duty Guidance specifies that “safeguarding” is the process of protecting vulnerable people, whether from crime, other forms of abuse or, in the context of this chapter, from being drawn into terrorist-​related activity (Home Office 2015b, p. 21). By July 2016 the Home Office confirmed that 550,000 doctors, nurses, and teachers had received Workshop to Raise Awareness of PREVENT (WRAP) training (Jeory and Cockburn n.d.); also in 2016, 90  percent of National Health Service (NHS) referrals to Channel—​the UK deradicalization program—​were assessed by police as unrelated to terrorism or extremism. Spalek and Imtoual (2007, p. 193) emphasize that as

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surveillance practices of this form are increasingly being cast as a responsibility of citizenship and professionalism, Muslims’ broader responsibilities as active citizens have increasingly been reframed by antiterror measures that encourage internal community surveillance. As a consequence, the responsible Muslim citizen is expected to inform the authorities about the activities—​suspicious or perceived to be suspicious—​of their fellow community members, and to actively help deal with any potential extremism. Kundnani and Hayes argue that the move to counter violent extremism and radicalization with this PREVENT logic “has given the war on terror a new vocabulary, new partners to interact with (from musicians and artists to educators and health workers as well as the usual components of the security sector), and a wider range of methods for countering terrorism” (2018, p. 2; see also Duffield 2007). While the right to suspicion is cast as universal, the duty of surveillance is not evenly felt. Heath-​Kelly (2017) shows how counterterrorism measures in the UK have shifted from geographical understanding to one of mass data. Thomas (2017) shows how Muslim communities aren’t trusted even with funding for counter-​radicalization activities in their areas, yet its implementation has focused primarily on Muslim populations, playing into an Islamophobic narrative about the alleged risk posed by the Muslim population as a whole (Mythen, et al. 2017; Dwyer et al. 2008). Further, although they are not trusted, it remains “the responsibility of Muslims and Muslim communities to perform their duty of being ‘frontline vigilant watchers’ in their mosques, neighbourhoods and families” (McGhee 2010, p. 33). One example is the “Families Matter” campaign launched in 2014 to deter travel to Syria. While the intent expresses care for citizens, the campaign suggests that this “deputization” of British Muslim communities was as much horizontal, involving communities taking responsibility for the conduct of other Muslims, as it was vertical, where Muslims were seen as responsible to the state for the conduct of their co-​religionists (Ragazzi 2017). As Stoycheff (2016) explores, cultures of peer surveillance tend to silence democratic discourse through the self-​censorship of citizens. The outcome of the public awareness campaigns and associated suspicious reporting mechanisms is that citizens become “agents of surveillance,” acting on behalf of government counterterrorist agencies. Although the observation, recording, and categorization are enacted by the conscientious individual citizens, the system functions as an aspect of counterterrorism when the information is passed on to the security services. In relation to the public awareness campaigns in the UK, “the MPS [Metropolitan Police Service] will assess all incoming intelligence and decide if, when, and how to act.” With the referrals to PREVENT by teachers,

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social workers, or NHS staff in the UK, the mandatory training advises that experts will then decide how to assess the information and carry out further inquiries. Yet as recent criticisms demonstrate, even with the data, the authorities overlook important evidence, misidentify individuals, and frequently fail to spot the radical even with all the information they have. Therefore, despite the inclusion of civilian participation, the state is still in control of the surveillance mechanisms, and it is tailored to address what the government considers to be the most urgent threat to its survival.

NEW SURVEILLANCE

New surveillance techniques, no matter the intent, often lack consent:  the location of data and its collectors and analysts are remote or less visible; data are also stored remotely and migrated, often making it harder to trace, and harder to seek consent for storage and re-​use of all occurrences of that data; the data are typically decontextualized, with general populations targeted rather than specified individuals (Marx 2002). This disembodied form of surveillance sits alongside peer surveillance and involves both private companies and the state collecting “big data” and installing systems of surveillance in public spaces. The British Security Industry Association estimates that there are 4 million to 6 million cameras in operation in the UK (BBC 2015), and the UK Government Communications Headquarter’s (GCHQ) Tempora Program allows GCHQ to indiscriminately collect communications from fiber optic cables to watch the data live or to store it in databases (MacAskill et  al. 2013). In this section, the attention is on the UK because it is one of the most surveilled societies in the developed world. This reflects the ongoing pluralization of counterterrorism delivery; with devolved and dispersed operations of control and loci of power, UK Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ) and MI5 (the UK’s domestic counterintelligence and security agency) are portrayed as “faceless guarantors” of security, where NGOs and local police become the soft side of peer-​to-​peer surveillance and security providers. Unlike some other looks, there is no equality of interactional resources in this form of surveillance (Smith 2016). Whether formal or informal, mechanical or in person, at a distance or close by, those undertaking surveillance are able to use wider structures of power to simultaneously control bodies and veil their gaze (Foucault 1977). Adey notes that subjects “are not proving their identity, rather . . . authorities are identifying them” (2004, p. 507).

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This process of identification does not lead to safe outcomes for all citizens, as discussed in ­chapter 7, or for justice. For example, the shooting of John Crawford III in the US followed a “citizen surveillance” report that he’d been observed with a gun (later discovered to have been a toy), but the CCTV footage of his shooting did not lead to the indictment of the police officer responsible for his death. In contrast, there was a notable lack of operable surveillance cameras at the Stockwell underground station when Jean Charles de Menezes was fatally shot by police officers in a case of mistaken identity (the institution was found to be at fault under health and safety regulations “for failing to provide for the health, safety and welfare of Jean Charles de Menezes”). Contributing factors to de Menezes’s death were the failure of surveillance officers to provide a suitable-​quality image of the failed July 2005 bomber Hussain Osman, and a difficulty in providing a timely identification of the man under surveillance. Indeed, eight of the surveillance officers were not given copies of the pictures at all, meaning they were working from memory for the rest of the day; what’s more, the surveillance team was ambivalent as to whether the man they were surveilling was correctly identified as Hussain Osman, yet this uncertainty was not conveyed to firearms officers. These circumstances show how nonnormative bodies become both hypervisible and invisible differently and imperfectly in the name of security, thereby rendering them accessible for various forms of state intervention. Such surveillance, whether peer-​to-​peer or from above, is not equally applied or felt. Its “social sorting” function “produce[s]‌coded categories through which persons and groups of persons may be sorted . . . and provided differential treatments” (Lyon 2006, p. 404). Surveillance mechanisms disproportionately target poor people of color who lack the privilege to opt out (Small 2014; Monahan 2017; Bates 2016). Monahan earlier noted, “When social contexts are already marked by sexist relations, then surveillance (and other) technologies tend to amplify those tensions and inequalities” (2009, p. 288). Particularly, the “intersections of transgendered, disabled, fat, religious, female and racialised bodies are disproportionally affected and singled out for increased surveillance and harassment” (Magnet and Rodgers 2012). The surveillance of bodies is therefore about predetermining and reinforcing ideas of “suspect bodies”—​those persons who, for whatever reason, are marked out as a problem. Spaces are “sanitised” through surveillance as the moral governance of “suspect bodies” regulates access and movement through urban spaces—​they are purified of perceived troublesome others (McCahill 2002). A key component of surveillance is suspicion, a “colour-​coded suspicion” (Norris and Armstrong 1999, p.  123). Spalek et al. (2009) argue that, despite the lack of any actual evidence of

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criminal wrongdoing on their part, brown bodies experience enhanced, discriminatory, and unnecessary surveillance on all levels, and that the consequences lead to further limited freedoms. Revelations about surveillance that have received the least attention in the US are precisely those that point toward the targeted surveillance of Arabs, Muslims, and anyone suspected of being Muslim. In July 2014 Greenwald and Hussain published an article that identified specific targets of National Security Agency (NSA) surveillance and showed how individuals were being placed under surveillance based on their political activities being viewed as suspicious. All of those named as targets were prominent Muslim Americans (Greenwald and Hussain 2014). Intercept (an independent investigative newspaper) later revealed by that the number of people on the National Counterterrorism Center’s no-​fly list had increased ten-​fold to forty-​seven thousand under the Obama administration. Classified yet leaked documents also showed that the center maintains a fast-​growing database of a million terrorism suspects worldwide, increasingly including biometric data. This database includes 20,800 persons within the US who are disproportionately concentrated in Dearborn, Michigan, with its significant Arab American population (Scahill and Devereaux 2014). As Bailey (2016, p. 157) aptly summarizes, “Inequality is [surveillance’s] animating script.” In the UK, one prominent example of government surveillance brings together many of the issues. Project Champion ran in Birmingham between 2010 and 2012 (it was initiated in 2008)  and cost 3  million GBP (see Isakjee and Allen [2013] for a detailed outline of the project’s handling). Birmingham is the UK’s second-​largest city, with a population of approximately 1.1 million in 2017 (and a wider metropole of 3.8 million). The scheme was to deploy, often invisibly, over two hundred high-​resolution cameras, many with automated number plate recognition capability, in the areas surrounding and within two Muslim-​majority neighborhoods—​ Sparkbrook and Washwood Heath (ACPO TAM 2007). Only 10 percent of the populations of Sparkbrook and Washwood Heath were classified as white in the 2011 Census (as against a city average of 52.1 percent) (Office for National Statistics et al. 2017). Local people and the city council were told this initiative was about removing street crime and improving street safety. Birmingham has a low crime rate in comparison with other large cities in UK (with the exception of vehicle crime and theft in the city center) and has the seventy-​second-​highest crime rate in the country; Manchester, the nearest equivalent city, has a crime rate 145  percent higher than Birmingham. The two neighborhoods affected have high levels of socioeconomic disadvantages; for example, more than 40 percent of households

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in each area have no employed adults (Office of National Statistics 2017). In Sparkbrook the majority of reported offenses in 2019–​2020 involved violence: violence and sexual offences (38.86 percent), and antisocial behavior (12  percent) (followed by vehicle crime and public order offences as next percentage component of crime in this area), which are crimes associated with lower-​income areas; overall, however, the two areas are not high crime rate areas in the city (HM Government 2020). The Safer Birmingham Partnership (a group of police and city council officials tasked with overseeing the project, and which became the logo and branding of the project) nevertheless categorically misrepresented the case and went as far as misusing statistics “to divert public attention from the real intent of the project” (Birmingham City Council 2010, p. 47). West Midlands Police Authority effectively rationalized Project Champion post hoc as a solution to high-​crime areas as a more expedient, politically acceptable, and legitimate guise (Thames Valley Police 2010, p.  16) rather than the inherently negative and politically unacceptable labeling of geographical areas as hotbeds of radicalization. The underlying counterterrorism rationale for the scheme was that the two areas were also home to eleven people convicted for terrorist-​related activity between 2007 and 2011. Importantly, there were never any plans to connect Project Champion cameras to Birmingham’s extant surveillance camera network for crime reduction. Rather, Project Champion would operate as a “parallel system.” Images would be fed into a separate control room monitored solely by counterterrorism police officers, which—​geographically reproducing the separation of systems—​was to be located in an autonomous control center near the Birmingham airport, rather than routing camera footage through the existing city center hub (Fussey 2013). The scheme was characterized as a “vehicle movement net” (Thames Valley Police 2010) that mimicked those found since the 1990s in financial zones of the city of London designed to protect valued spaces and buildings (Coaffee 2003). Project Champion, however, was applying a logic of encirclement to large residential areas and was based not on a logic of a fear of attack but on one of suspicion of what had been labeled “hard to reach” groups and areas. A few years later a police officer with counterterrorism responsibilities defended the program against criticism, saying that police “had [their] reasons [that] information . . . wasn’t made public,” and that “[we] still don’t know what’s going on in some of those places” (unpublished interview 2017). This interview and the practices of the monitoring regimes show how suspicious subjects were tracked and monitored from a distance, ensuring the safety of police officers and allowing recordings to take place unhindered (Coaffee and Fussey 2015, p.  96; Fussey 2013). Contrary to

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national advice for “community policing,” Project Champion was policing from afar. This distance between the police and policed produced a lack of trust and a culture of suspicion. Decisions were made about risk to officers based on incomplete knowledge and perceptions of the communities that were based on one set of statistics (the number of men from the two areas convicted of terrorism-​related offenses). Initial protests regarding the scheme began in the more affluent neighboring district of Moseley, where residents questioned the installation of camera stanchions in their streets, feeling it diminished the area’s aesthetic appeal. Moseley is an affluent suburban area where social movements managed to mobilize their grievances, but those who would be directly under the CCTV gaze did not. Here, wealthy, majority-​white citizens had the social capital to expose, lobby, and challenge the police and local authorities. The outcome was an investigation by another police service into the project, and the decommissioning of the patriarchs who maintain a right to control and observe. Those who carry out the surveillance in Project Champion and in other counter-​radicalization programs are mainly white men, observing “for our own good” the movements, behaviors, and dispositions of Muslim men. When NSA officials in the US, for example, state that they only focus on the “bad guys,” not “average people” (Ledgett 2014), or when the Indonesian authorities tell citizens they only catch “sinful people,” those terms are in practice racialized and gendered. The language mobilizes a flawed ontological separation between deserving and innocent targets and, correspondingly, good and bad surveillance. Good surveillance relies on citizens accepting the good intent of Big Brother and, to a lesser extent, the state acting as a caring patriarch and therefore maintaining its right to watch. The lack of concern for privacy surrounding these forms of surveillance, compared to the Snowden revelations,1 also known as wikileaks, is startling. There, when powerful white men realized they were subject to the same surveillance and “sorting” categories that minority communities and women have been exposed to for decades, demands for action and protest were heard.

HEROIC SAVIORS

Exposing the masculine gaze of the watchers reveals that the state we see emerging is a “staunchly masculinist state, and even more specifically a chivalric state in which good men are ‘vigilant men,’ who keep watch over the safety of their national families” (Glasbeek 2016, p.  76). The role of chivalry is picked up in the next chapter. However, on its own, watching

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is insufficient to bring about success in antiradicalization efforts; action is also required. This action is demanded not only of state actors explicitly involved in antiradicalization work but also of ordinary men. The hero is muscular, acts first (thinks later), and is courageous or sacrificing. A military undercurrent for this masculine hero carries particular values like honor, loyalty, and righteousness. This type of masculinity belongs to heroes and myth making (Tickner 2001, p. 57). Proving one’s manhood through killing in order to “save” others is a vital component of countering terrorism measures. An emphasis on coercive and hard measures in countering radicalization might seem to offer a contradictory component to the soft benevolent elements of the CVE programs described earlier. I  argue, however, that the two are dependent upon each other. The so-​called soft and persuasive components of CVE are given certainty because of the underlying “threat” of force. Force remains the final arbiter. On September 11, 2001, the firefighters of New  York City performed this heroic masculinity:  muscular and (by profession albeit relatively well-​paid) working-​class white men rescuing other bourgeois but powerless white men. Their gadgets, the technological tools of the information age—​computers, calculators, and mobile phones—​were impotent against the threat of fire and destruction. The failure of top intelligence agencies like the CIA to foresee the attacks also contributed to the loss of confidence in new methods. Hegemonic masculinity revolved around confrontation rather than knowledge. Knowledge was not regarded as sufficiently powerful to assert superiority over the terrorist humiliation and to overcome the displayed vulnerability. It appeared as if only brute physical force had sufficient power to protect citizens and counter evil after all. American masculinity has a tendency to become ruggedly militaristic during crisis periods. This image of the American hero was cemented after an attack on a train in France in 2015, where two American men and one British man prevented a gunman from attacking more individuals. As the train staff ran by shouting warnings, the three men saw a man with a weapon enter their car and promptly tackled him to take the weapon from him; they were then attacked with a knife as they did so, and then they beat the attacker unconscious. At that point, another individual helped them to tie up El Khazzani, the attacker, to prevent him from moving. The two Americans had military and paramedic training, both serving in the US armed forces. El Khazzani denied any terrorist links in preliminary interviews with police, saying he was only trying to rob passengers on the train. The three men’s courage, but particularly that of the two Americans, were praised and were commended by President Obama. Clint Eastwood plans to make a movie to memorialize their actions.

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The importance of media in the creation of heroes for counter-​ radicalization work should not be underestimated. For example, we can look at Counter-​Terrorism: Real-​Life Heroes 2017 (https://​youtu.be/​LTigmxckIFo) videogames. In these productions, the actors are all military, all are male, and there is no view of those detained. In contrast to surveillance, there is lots of storming of buildings (regardless of a right to entry or privacy of those inside) and considerable firepower. Players are only able to see the game world from the perspective of the counterterrorist operatives they control, thereby concealing the terrorist other, who can only be perceived as an anonymous opponent. The participants have the right to force entry to all spaces. Another example is America’s Army, which was produced and distributed by the US Army for recruiting purposes, a game that is itself a tool in the war on terror. But the majority of these games are built by the entertainment industry. They are typically first-​person-​shooter games, played in global geographies. There is little of the civilian world (only buildings and infrastructure), and the heroes are invariably special ops without oversight or control. Therefore, regardless of the soft forms of counterterrorism work, countering radicalization and violent extremism remains linked to the ability to be a hero. Such mythmaking of heroes is not unique to America. Chaudry Aslam in Pakistan was set up as a “super-​cop” and headed the counterterrorism section of the Crime Investigation Department (CID). He was assassinated in January 2014 along with two others as his convoy was attacked on the Lyari Expressway in Karachi—​the same place a failed attack had happened the year before. In 2011 his house had been bombed—​he vowed to “bury the attackers” and called them cowards—​and the year prior his office had been blown up. Some considered him indestructible. He was known for his on-​the-​edge encounters with leaders of banned militant groups and for his bravado. The Inter-​Services Public Relations service reports how tributes to Aslam referred to his attack as a “hero’s death,” that “his courage and conviction is the stuff that heroes are made of,” and that “he stood up for what most people don’t even dream of” (Inayat n.d.). Nawaz Sharif, the prime minister, paid tribute to him, saying that his death was a huge loss to the police force: “Chaudry Aslam was a brave officer. We will not let the will of the nation be crushed by these cowardly acts by terrorists.” Reports came of the long hours he worked, how he was armed with a Glock handgun. However, Aslam was also criticized for personally overseeing extrajudicial killings by staging “fake encounters” to claim that militant deaths were the result of self-​defense, although he denied such allegations (Buncombe and Dilawar 2014; BBC 2014; The Tribune 2017). In January 2017 he was memorialized by renaming a road after him. Keeping his memory in the

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public eye, colleagues and politicians talked about his vital contribution to countering terrorism. Muttahida Qaumi Movement (MQM) leader Rauf Siddiqui said, “He was not an ordinary cop but he was a symbol of terror for terrorists.” The Indonesian state also makes this explicit in its antiradicalization efforts. In Indonesia, the assassination of police officers has become “characteristic” of jihadist terrorism, and the willingness of officers to perform “the ultimate sacrifice” adds legitimacy to the programs (Singh 2016). It not only affirms the state role as the protector but also increases its value qua protector and its claim to care because it is willing to absorb these costs. The acts of kindness that Detachment 88 promotes as essential to their antiradicalization efforts are complemented by a muscular force to compel those who resist them, and to demonstrate that they will protect the people of Indonesia by sacrificing their lives if necessary. Detachment 88 has its own YouTube channel live streaming the armed raids it carries out. These videos have the same quality as the videogames mentioned earlier. Incidents of extrajudicial killings by Detachment 88 are shown almost as a reality show on the television and are celebrated as the victory of humanity, despite the absence of solid proof and a fair legal process. For example, in December 2016, television footage showed a shootout in greater Jakarta, where three members were killed, and one injured and subsequently arrested. In an interview afterward with a local TV station, police said, “During the raid, we tried to be careful but they threw something from inside the house and it was a bomb but it did not explode. Then they fired from inside.” The police entered wearing “blast-​resistant suits” and said five bombs had been discovered (Harvey 2016). These forms of heroes are upheld similarly by radical far-​right and jihadist groups. They too emphasize self-​sacrifice, and the use of force and action as the pinnacles of masculinity (Brown 2018a). These state models of male heroism might be viewed as a challenge to radical groups, suggesting a form of one-​upmanship. However, repeating the same underlying logic of masculinity as the radical groups they’re trying to counter is unlikely to generate success in the long term for the state as ultimately it holds out a stereotype or role-​model figure that can never be achieved. Additionally, such militarized heroic masculinities operate without oversight—​and prioritize action and violence over thought and due process—​which means there is an inevitability in the reproduction of grievances and violations that terrorist groups themselves rely on to recruit to their cause.

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UNLIKELY HEROES—​F ORMERS

“Formers” are those who have been involved in terrorism or radical violence but have redeemed themselves.2 They demonstrate the potential of rehabilitation and resurrection. The European Union’s Radicalization Awareness Network (RAN) discusses the advantages and disadvantages of using formers. It begins with a caution to its practitioner members that it is impossible to guarantee that a former is no longer engaged in violent extremism. However, RAN reiterates the belief that formers make credible messengers, and are seen to act as role models to demonstrate that a “new life” is possible (RAN 2017; Olidort and Sheff 2015, para. 7; see also Samuel 2015, p. 95). The idea of using true stories stems from public health campaigns such as antismoking ads and antigang policies. Hedayah (n.d.) worked with formers to establish why and how they became involved in CVE work. Their report instrumentalizes their experiences to determine ways to recruit formers into CVE work more effectively, in much the same way as debates about women’s rights and empowerment feature in CVE work. This is a problem because it downplays the risks to formers who publicly engage in CVE and deradicalization work. Formers often face violence and intimidation as a result of their successes, such as the death threats by Islamic extremists against the founder of the Active Change Foundation. When formers participate in CVE and by prioritizing their violent experiences as credible narratives, it affirms violent extremism and CVE as masculine spaces. In the UK, only one female former is used in CVE work. Through her own volition she left Al-​Muhajiroun, her husband following her. However, her husband is the one invited to talk as the charismatic speaker with insider knowledge. Another example is that of Extreme Dialogue, an NGO that has a number of resources using the real-​life experiences of those affected by extremism. This includes men as former violent extremists and women as victims of extremism, reiterating the gendered divide in CVE. For example, Adam Deen, founder of the Deen Institute, speaks about his journey into and out of extremism in a video for Extreme Dialogue. Adam offers an alternative masculinity, one based on private piety but that also reiterates the narrative that saving men and women from extremism is an act of redemption. The Peace Foundation’s “My Former Life” campaign, which ran in 2015, is an interesting example of chivalry, in that it included a Muslim woman among the formers, but in all the media about the campaign, she doesn’t speak. One of the most infamous formers is the founder of the Quilliam Foundation, Maajid Nawaz. Maajid Nawaz was recruited at age sixteen

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to Hizb Ut-​Tahrir, which he describes as aspiring for “the Third Reich but for Muslims.” Maajid Nawaz is now seen as an acceptable face of reformed Muslims; at ease at the private members’ Hospital Club in Convent Garden in London, he offers the image of a working-​class young man who “clashed with skinheads” in Essex, was diverted by Islamic extremism, but eventually “turned good.” However, Quilliam and Nawaz lack credibility with grassroots organizations and Muslim communities, as much as they have it with government, for the same reasons—​the expensive and elite London Bloomsbury address, his stag-​night behavior leaked to the Daily Mail, and his commitment to secularism. Sunder Katwala, director of integration think tank British Future, interviewed for the Guardian stated, “Quilliam has a very polarising reputation. Part of the problem has been with the media—​it’s as though only the ex-​extremist voice is sexy enough to carry an antiextremist narrative. The people who’ve never been extremists in the first place struggle to get their voices heard as a result—​and that has caused resentment” (Shariatmadari 2015; see also Alberici 2017). Quilliam cofounder Ed Husain offers a similar transformation story, where he lacked a British identity, was seduced by Islamists, and has (re)discovered his British identity in liberal, small-​c conservative Islamic heritage. Husain argues that surveillance is morally correct, as “the alternative [would be] to let the buggers do what they wish, until they appear on the violence radar, which is too late” (Iqbal 2018). Like Nawaz and Sara Khan, Husain sees the challenge for CVE as one of the ideology of Islam, and that with the “right beliefs,” all Muslims can become “good” (read, upper middle class). This is further reflected in the PREVENT providers whom Weeks (2018) interviewed, where they discussed the “litmus tests that we had to go through . . . the values test and what have you”—​that is, in addition to having the right religious knowledge and prior successes or background, they also needed to show adherence to a certain sense of Britishness in order to gain Home Office approval.

EMASCULATING TECHNIQUES

The body is central to these constitutions of masculinities, and it is a key site for projecting them. As Chris Shilling observes, “If a man’s physicality is unable to convey an image of power, he is found to have little presence precisely because the social definition of men as holders of power is not reflected in his embodiment” (1993, p. 113). This is why, alongside heroism and surveillance, we see state forces acting on the bodies of those it feels are a threat. Despite claims that human rights adherence and compliance are

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essential in the fight against terrorism, significant evidence demonstrates that torture and other culturally specific humiliations to elicit information are used in antiradicalization programs. State officials argue that such actions are necessary to obtain information, especially when radicalization is linked to separatist movements. The argument here is that torture silences, even when done for information, and asserts the dominance of the torturer’s identity and the politics of the victim. The oftentimes sexualized nature of the torture can be viewed as an attempt to emasculate the victims and strip them of their masculinity as the torturers and others are simultaneously asserting it. Looking at cases where female torturers have been used, torture asserts the hegemony of the state both despite and because of the women’s femininity. Clearly the case of Abu Ghraib highlights how this operates. What is also at play are the ways in which the power of the torturer is built in a gendered manner through these practices. While this section focuses on abuses in Pakistan, Indonesia, and Saudi Arabia, this does not deny the human rights abuses carried out in the name of the war on terror by UK personnel and, to a lesser extent, Dutch agencies. However, the rationale and framing of those abuses were not to counter, deter, or reverse radicalization; rather, they were justified (however wrongly) as preventing a terrorist attack. In contrast, the direct linkage of Detachment 88 to torture and improper interrogation techniques, and questions over the Army-​run counter-​radicalization detention camps in the SWAT valley in Pakistan, are connected to antiradicalization efforts, yet the key message from antiradicalization programs is that of “heroic restraint” on the part of practitioners. The lack of torture is seen as key to successful deradicalization of individuals, but at the community and local levels, police and military use of torture undermines counter-​radicalization programs. The Human Rights Watch Report (2016b) on the police and judiciary in Pakistan notes that “Pakistan’s police are widely regarded as among the most abusive, corrupt, and unaccountable institutions of the state,” noting further that “the corruption and abuse endemic to the Pakistani law enforcement system are often described as ‘thana culture,’ after the Urdu word for police station.” Additionally, Pakistan is accused of having a “conveyor belt of killing” (Amnesty International 2015) after having lifted its moratorium on the death penalty and placing the military at the heart of its counterterrorism strategy following the horrific attack on a school in Peshawar where over 140 students died in December 2014. In 2020 there were approximately 5,000 individuals on death row in Pakistan, and 515 have been executed, since the moratorium was lifted in 2014 (Justice Project Pakistan 2020). 76 under the provisions of the Anti-​Terrorism Act (ATA).

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There is also overwhelming evidence that those executed were sentenced as children or were tortured to confess (Justice Project Pakistan—​JPP 2017). The UN Committee Against Torture accordingly noted that the ATA, 1997 “eliminates legal safeguards against torture that are otherwise provided to persons deprived of their liberty” (UN Committee Against Torture 2017, para 12). In one reported case, the superintendent at Adiala jail refused to carry out the execution order because he felt the condemned man did not meet the government’s criteria of a terrorist (Pakistan Today 2015). Research showed that almost 86% of individuals sentenced to death by the Anti-​terrorism Courts did not committee acts of terrorism per se. Rather the cases registered appeared to be ordinary criminal offences which could have been tried by the criminal courts (JPP 2017). The federal state of Pakistan is claiming that such extreme policies are creating a climate of security and that, as a result, terrorist incidents are declining along with the level of general crime (Oborne and Agha 2016). The state in a Machiavellian move is effectively arguing that might makes right. Indonesia’s National Human Rights Commission has identified 121 terrorism suspects who have died in custody since 2007, but the police routinely deny using torture or inappropriate force in interrogation. Amnesty International said in 2016 that there was an “endemic culture of impunity” in Indonesia’s police service and a need for an investigation into the “torture” of suspects by Detachment 88 (Amnesty International 2016b). For example, on September 2010 Khairul Ghazali (Haedharoh), allegedly a member of the proscribed organization Jemaah Islamiyah (JI),3 appeared on a television show telling the audience about spectacular plots planned by the terrorists. Later, Khairul Ghazali testified that the show was directed by the police. He swore that he was compelled to mention the claim that he was part of the plot to make Medan a “second Iraq.” He was forced to say that Abu Bakar Ba’asyir received 20 percent of proceeds from robbery operations conducted by the group. He was also forced to attest that Abu Bakar Ba’asyir issued a fatwa to kill police officers on the streets. All statements, he testified, were written by the police—​and this was not the only such case. Abu Dujana, who appeared on another television show to confess to terrorism, also claimed that the show was a fake: he alleges that the police threatened the safety of his wife and children unless he followed their script (Choiruzzad 2013). These are examples of public humiliation and a demonstration of the state’s ability to remove the power of detained persons to speak their own story, replacing it with the approved narrative of the authorities. While such examples are overt displays of emasculating techniques used by the state, in Europe the preferred emasculation techniques are the use

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of general preventative stop-​and-​searches and restrictions on particular individuals’ rights of association, travel, and private life if they are suspected of supporting or being associated with terrorism. These latter techniques are referred to as “administrative orders” or “pre-​punishment.” In France, such restrictions applied to 150 citizens. In the Netherlands, these measures have yet to be implemented. In the UK in 2019, 6 individuals were subject to similar constraints, known as TPIMs (pronounced T-​Pims—​an acronym based on the Terrorism Prevention and Investigation Measures Act 2011), and often they were “tagged”—​that is, their movements were monitored. This represents a considerable decline from the total of 52 that were issued between 2005 and 2011 (the life time of the Control Orders Act that TPIMS replaced) (Anderson 2012). Questions have emerged over the process and proportionality of pre-​ punishment and administrative measures. The first question is about the basis on which they are issued, as the evidence on which the allegations of involvement in terrorism are based are kept secret, and to a large extent are not disclosed to the individuals who are subject to TPIMs. In the UK, the issue of using secret evidence is dealt with to a certain extent by the use of “special advocates” as part of the “closed material procedure” (HM Government 2011c, Appendix C). However, the effectiveness of the special advocate is entirely dependent upon how much information is revealed to the accused. The vague criteria notably allowed the government to impose administrative measures for purposes unrelated to the prevention of terrorism, such as preventing environmental or labor law activists from demonstrating, which further hints at the measures’ subjective nature. The second question that emerges is about proportionality. In France, administrative measures under the state of emergency (November 2015–​September 2017) were used quite frequently, with over 4,000 searches conducted and more than five hundred house arrests ordered, with many of the powers continuing through counter terrorism legislation that replaced it (Assemblee Nationale 2016; Amnesty International 2017). Reports state that administrative searches had often involved excessive physical and psychological violence (e.g., failure to take into account the presence of children, pregnant women, the elderly, and disabled people), and unnecessary damage to property (e.g., breaking entry doors without prior notice and degradation of religious symbols) (Commission Nationale Consultative des Droits de l’Homme (2016), paras. 7–​10). According to Amnesty International, by February 2017 only 0.3 percent of the 4,551 searches on properties during the state of emergency had led to terrorism-​related criminal charges (Amnesty International 2017).

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CONCLUSION: THE CARING STATE?

While the antiradicalization policies and programs seek to demonstrate the state’s humanity by acting in a considerate and caring manner, instead they serve to reinforce its paternal and emasculating undertones. These inconsistencies are important, because they reinforce certain groups and forms of male power at the expense of others and therefore reduce the programs’ success and benefits. More broadly, antiradicalization programs are assumed to be less kinetic than counterterrorism operations, and are seen as a positive step by many commentators—​in comparison, for example, to military-​led activities in Northern Ireland or elsewhere. However, that these programs replicate military actions and military masculinity, and also violate human rights norms, must raise questions about whether these programs are positive steps forward or simply iron fists wrapped in velvet gloves.

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CHAPTER 7

The Antiradicalization Protection Racket

THE WAR ON TERROR

Previous chapters have focused on people involved in antiradicalization measures, including state heroes and vulnerable women. This chapter broadens the scope and looks at the wider consequences for and the contributions antiradicalization measures make to the world order. The War on Terror describes not only a set of policies and actions carried out by world institutions and individual states but a mindset that holds together often competing and contradictory ways of viewing the world. Much like orientalism, the War on Terror functions as a metadiscourse that outlasts its own formal constitution. What unites otherwise disparate activities on the global stage is a foundational myth of 9/​11,1 the creation myth of the contemporary period and of the War on Terror. This myth sets 9/​11 apart from inherent risks of globalization and distinguishes it from Cold War legacies—​such as the conflict in Chechnya or the breakup of the former Yugoslavia—​ by recourse to a “new terrorism” thesis. Although much critiqued, the new terrorism thesis held sway in policy circles because it presented terrorism as irrational, exceptionally violent, and globalized, and consequently gave credibility and legitimacy to a range of new state powers and narratives. The War on (new) Terror links liberty, free speech, women’s rights, the rule of law, and religious freedoms as already established “facts” that need defending (Croft 2006). It became the duty of governments to guarantee and protect such public goods that were presumed to have been secured, defined, and available to all. An absolute morality separates these positive goods from a shadowy evil—​those who are invariably presented as monstrous, diabolical, zombielike, and barbaric villains (see Bhuiyan 2019; Gender, Religion, Extremism. Katherine E. Brown, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190075699.001.0001

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Baker and Jones 2019; Edmunds 2012). Within this worldview, women’s rights or denial of them function as a core link in a chain of associations that signal who or what is “against us.” As discussed in c­hapter  2, this broader context for antiradicalization policies and programs is important for shaping antiradicalization initiatives and policies; in this chapter I reflect on that wider context as it connects to ways in which antiradicalization efforts have implications for human rights and human security in an era defined by the War on Terror. The increased state focus on antiradicalization policies occurred as the war on terror evolved to include terrorist plots and attacks in Europe, America, and Australia. The stereotypes of the presumed enemy became infused with markers of normality and domesticity (“Jihadi John,” “homegrown,” and “DIY jihadists”). For European, Antipodean, and North American societies, these new categories shifted the War on Terror’s geography from an international conflict, largely fought overseas, to battles now found in formerly secure sites of everyday domestic living. Of course, these societies were never really completely safe or secure for everyone, given rates of domestic violence, gang crimes, and human trafficking across these locations. However, the inability to predict or prevent new attacks in everyday locations (from market squares to concert halls) by apparently ordinary people (from university students to unemployed petty criminals) often using ordinary implements as weapons (vans, toilet bowl cleaners, and kitchen knives) brought home the insecurity of war. This shift was also observed in countries such as Pakistan and Nigeria, known as front-​line states, where terrorism had previously been focused on the borderlands and where the state insisted that only foreign fighters created terrorist instability. Instead, radicals practicing the new terrorism threatened capitals, shopping malls, and airports of the elite and ordinary alike. This new terrorism narrative has inevitable reach and has produced government security policies that seek to regulate beliefs and behaviors in the public sphere, from mosques to universities, and from prisons to women’s shelters. In the name of preventing and defending citizens and the state from terrorism, a much wider range of sites became securitized than had ever before been countenanced. These new policies made sense because these radicals were now lurking among us. As ­chapter 6 showed, controlling these as yet unidentified and unknown individuals, rather than knowable groups, became the focus of state efforts. Given that these future threats from radicals or those at risk are not immediately visible to the public, training is required to ensure that we spot the signs and heed constant reminders to be hypervigilant of unusual or suspicious behavior infiltrating our public

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spaces (Stahl and Kaempf 2019). Moreover, despite legal and civil challenges to specific programs and demands for more information, knowledge of radicalization and of the associated threats posed to society remains held in official channels. Citizens are required to trust the authorities for reliable and correct information, and on the professional assessment of counter-​ radicalization experts if they refuse to share the underlying information (Brown 2019b). Such dependency has implications for the relationship between citizens and states. Foucault’s rendering of Bacon’s claim that knowledge is power comes alive when examining these programs (Focault 1977).2 Despite the shift from profiling to a general social sorting, our lived experiences of these policies, programs, and accompanying surveillance are differentiated on gendered and religio-​racial lines. Through the War on Terror, and antiradicalization programs as part of it, states are increasingly governing through fear (Ingram and Dodds 2016). By mobilizing citizens’ anxieties, the state and state actors are put firmly in the role of protector and guarantor. Recognition and legitimacy as protectors are only possible, though, if there is something or someone to fear. Antiradicalization programs set up two layers of protection and threat. First they offer protection to citizens from events and terror that have yet to occur—​they are presented as a form of “future proofing” (see also Martin 2014; McCulloch and Pickering 2009; Aradau and Van Munster 2007). Second, they offer protection to the “vulnerable” or already radicalized individual from the threatening thoughts and deeds that hover about them. The policies constitute and re-​create the category “radical” and define the threats in particular ways that guarantee the state as the “good guy.” The good guy is heroic and chivalrous, and reputation is sustained regardless of the efficacy of the policies and programs introduced. This chapter explores in more detail this relationship between protector, protected, and threat. I  contend that states have crafted an elaborate protection racket. This idea is reinforced when the broader consequences of antiradicalization programs are explored. While direct causality is not claimed, the antiradicalization programs through their rhetoric, actions, and outcomes sustain gender and racial inequalities. First, I explore the creation and nature of chivalric masculinity, as this is the central set of values that sustain antiradicalization programs. Chivalric masculinity holds the other masculinities and femininities explored in this book in its orbit, creating coherence. It solidifies a gender hierarchy that creates conditions of dependency for knowledge, security, and identities. Second, I show how this form of chivalric masculinity provides the basis for a protection racket in antiradicalization programs by unpacking some of its

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negative consequences—​women’s insecurity and the commodification of human (women’s) rights.

CHIVALRIC MASCULINITY

Chivalry, as a code of values and behaviors, represents universalized ideals of generosity, justice, sacrifice, and courage (Duff 1994). It spread beyond being a guide for knights’ conduct in the battlefield to become a broader system of manners for all men toward the end of the eighteenth century. Chivalry helped refashion the polite gentleman into a figure who was more securely masculine and who integrated this masculine identity with Enlightenment notions of civilizational progress (Cohen 2005). Prior to the eighteenth century, an era of politeness reigned: a man’s refinement and enlightenment depended upon his demonstration and ability to discuss fairer, more feminine pursuits and interests—​such as opera, art, and poetry. Women were at the center of cultural production—​culture was produced in reflection of, in honor of, and in creation of the feminine. Being cultured and polite forever risked becoming overly familiar with the feminine. In contrast, heroism and chivalry required respecting culture, knowing its (financial) value, and defending it, but did not require intimate knowledge about high culture or integrating it into everyday life. This made politeness about the relations and discourses between men rather than dependent on dialogue with women. The shift toward chivalry coincided with the expansion of property rights and construction of property as the guarantor of citizenship. The idea of one’s home as a castle in need of defense began to determine not only men’s behavior but also their status. Chivalry and a new language of love placed culture—​and, by extension, women—​in the safety of private collections; rather than being created, it was now preserved and protected. Man’s chivalric veneration and respect of the “fair sex” meant women became delicate, timid, and, according to social and political commentators of the time, naturally inclined to be obedient (Cohen 2005, p. 323, 329). However, at that time chivalry was tied to a language of love, motivating “scrupulous honor” and “valor” to protect the innocent and rescue the damsel in distress, but was not yet associated with martial masculinity. Cohen (2005) argues that chivalry was not linked to broader political projects because love of a woman motivated chivalric knights and sent them on quests for love rather than for shared glory. It was not until World War I, Frantzen argues, that, “the sacrificial crucible of war . . . [re]shaped the self-​sacrificial ideals of chivalry and its code of heroic masculinity”

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(2004, p.  149). Posters in Britain at the time encouraged men to volunteer by evoking women and children as defenseless targets of war and drew upon chivalric discourses of honor and protection: “Your rights of citizenship give you the privilege of joining your fellows in defense of your Honor and your Home” (cited in Bet-​El 1998, p. 82). The invention of the standard trope in the call to arms is seen here:  the defense of otherwise helpless civilians against dangerous men threatening to attack. Sexualized violence against both men and women by enemy others was widely reported, justifying war in the name of chivalrous values that held that worthy men would act nobly to stop such atrocities (Ross 1996; Grayzel 2002, pp. 16–​ 19). War would provide an escape from ordinary life for young men, whose lives were heavily controlled in strictly hierarchical societies of Victorian-​ era Europe, and offer a chance to gain honor, independence, and glory. In reality, to be a solider of the state meant, and still means, to be subservient, obedient, and almost totally dependent in most areas of life; under these conditions, the only way to prove one’s masculinity is in combat itself. Therefore, to quest or lust for combat in order to defend and protect vulnerable others offsets this contradiction of military masculinity. Tied to identity, and given the possibility of actualizing and realizing the promise offered for agency through it, chivalry is a powerful motivator (Enloe cited in Runyan 1990). Aside from motivating individuals, chivalric ideals also governed how, by whom, and against whom war was carried out. Lauren Wilcox (2009), in exploring military tactics, shows how the use of airplanes in war was initially seen as dishonorable, treacherous, and a betrayal of the civilian immunity principle because of the extreme asymmetry that aerial bombardment generated. With the introduction of drones, military ethicists continue to debate about the legitimacy of aerial bombing of civilian areas—​ including those deemed essential to the enemy’s war capacity and fighting capability—​because of this inequality in kinetic power and the ability to engage in a fair fight (Grosscup 2006; Strawser 2013). Overall, manners and manliness put in motion the idea of heroic restraint that we still see dominating military discourses today (Duncanson 2012). Recognizing that what constitutes chivalry and how its relationship to war has evolved helps us realize that it, alongside other gender identities, is not “natural” or a necessary way of justifying war; rather it is produced by and produces particular relations between men and women. Chivalry as a specific code of masculinity is important to antiradicalization policies because it is the gendered logic by which they implicitly operate. Without the idea of chivalry, the gendered figures we’ve encountered in the previous chapters do not function operationally or conceptually.

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The claims to chivalry and their relationship to warfare as we now know them are not only gendered but also are linked to the pursuit of empire and the racist ideologies that supported it (Springhall 1987). For the French, a civilizing mission, and for the British and Americans, a “white man’s burden,” justified empire in moral terms and helped shore up the power of the gentlemanly elites (Cain 2012). The Dutch also developed an idea of a so-​called ethical policy regarding their Indonesian colonies that saw a “moral burden” and commitment to reforming Java by introducing them to capitalism, bureaucratic governance, and Christianity (Bertrand 2007). Iris Marion Young highlights, “The knights of civilization aim to bring enlightened understanding to the further regions of the world still living in cruel and irrational traditions that keep them from developing the economic and political structures that will bring them a good life” (2003b, p. 19). Linking empire, chivalry, and missionary zeal, masculine defense becomes proactive. This is important for understanding antiradicalization measures, because it empowers preemptive action based on potential actions. For example, Lord Cromer, founder of the Men’s AntiSuffragette League in England, defended British rule of Egypt on the basis of Muslim women needing protection from the improper behaviors of Egyptian men. European women were being protected not only from dangerous men outside, but also with this move, non-​Europeans were being rescued from themselves—​their culture and traditions that deprived them of civilization. Callaway (1993) shows how the idea of the chaste English woman and protecting her “purity” from colonial men were the moral justifications for repressive laws and violence against insurgents and colonial subjects. For the Dutch, for example, as imperial authority came under pressure through insurgency and nationalism, tightening rules against concubinage and relaxing rules on white women’s migration enabled greater control and surveillance of colonial men’s activities in the name of protecting women’s honor (Stoler 1989). These ideas of women’s vulnerability and associated male chivalry were picked up around the globe and led to reimaginings of purdah (seclusion)3 and veiling in the name of honor and patriotism across the Muslim world, often erasing their complex histories. It became increasingly important to many Muslim men of the time to be able to shield their women from the gaze of colonial soldiers and simultaneously important to colonial rulers to ensure that women were “revealed” to them administratively and literally by banning traditional dress. This continues in the current age, where there is a strong belief that American military drones in Yemen were taking photographs of local women, which violated Yemini men’s honor (Center for Human Rights and Global Justice [CHRGJ] 2011, p. 23).

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The replication of such rhetoric in the modern-​day war on terror has not gone unnoticed. Fergusson’s (2005) article “W Is for Women,” and Abu-​Lughod’s (2002) controversial piece “Do Muslim Women Really Need Saving?” offer reflections on how chivalrous logic underpins military activities in Afghanistan after 9/​11, and also reveal how women’s rights become the measure by which “civilizational” progress is determined. Consistently in antiradicalization policies protecting women and children from the violence of terrorists and radicalized individuals, chivalry is a legitimizing component. The sexualized atrocities committed by terrorist groups such as Boko Haram and Daesh become central motifs to prevention (Brown 2017). Patrick Porter (2009) in Military Orientalism notes how contemporary jihadist discourses also consider drones, aerial bombardment, and missile technology as demonstrating the West’s lack of honor, trustworthiness, and masculinity. The jihadists contrasted this with the honor of so-​called martyrdom operations that require self-​sacrifice and facing the enemy. Just as technology and military advantages led to new framings of aircraft in war but didn’t eliminate the civilian immunity principle or the abstract values of chivalry, jihadists began to use the improvised explosive device (IED) that also fails to offer “honor” in the way they imagine. However, even as men on all sides in these wars fail to live up to the chivalry codes, they remain the frame of reference. In antiradicalization programs, we have seen examples of this rescue narrative and chivalric code. In Indonesian examples of recent women’s participation in the so-​called Islamic State, the state insists that the women were influenced by their husbands to participate in suicide attacks, with the Ministry of Religious Affairs condemning such marriages as lacking peace, hope, and love. Recently there has been increased emphasis on the vulnerability of Indonesian women living overseas and doing domestic work. In separate incidents in 2017, Indonesian women in Singapore and Hong Kong were arrested for terrorism-​related offenses. In the media and flurry of think-​tank reporting, the women were presented as being in need of rescue from exploitation and to be returned to the presumed safety of the Indonesian family (Sumpter 2019). In Saudi Arabia, eighty-​four women linked to Daesh were, according to officials, “rescued” and returned by the state to their families with little consideration of punishment. In a UN report of the view of women’s involvement in violent extremism in Central Asia, women were viewed by CVE practitioners and experts as subject to a lifetime of “zombification” that encouraged extreme obedience to men and therefore required rescue from men who abused this societal norm by taking their wives into extremist environments or forcing them to carry out violent acts (Speckhard et al. 2017). In the Netherlands, those vulnerable

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to radicalization are those who are lacking empowerment, feel dissatisfied with Dutch society, and are “seeking answers.” These vulnerable individuals cannot save themselves for they lack agency and are feminized (because radicalization is “something that happens to them”) and therefore the state must intervene and “save them” (Vidino 2008). Although, as noted in c­ hapter 5, this saving impulse doesn’t extend to those women who have traveled overseas; their apparent autonomy and actions make it difficult to consider them as lacking agency. These examples offer two types of rescue operations. First, wider society and ordinary individuals’ ways of life must be saved from bad radicals who threaten to usurp the traditional institutions of marriage, family, and statehood. Second, at-​risk individuals—​that is, potential radicals—​must also be rescued from the lure of radical beliefs and groups that would separate them from ordinary life. Unlike aggressive terrorists, radicals primarily risk weakening the state through their existence and only secondarily through their behaviors. Only because the radical is feminized in this way—​denied agency, targeted because of their presence rather than their actions—​can they be “saved” through antiradicalization programs in a way that terrorists cannot be. Instead, discursively at least, terrorist action is stopped:  “We don’t negotiate with terrorists” is the common refrain, so there is no potential for saving them. In this feminization of radicals and radicalization, the state is offering two layers of protection—​it is protecting women and citizens from radicals, but it is also saving radicals from their radical self. Not only is the state saving two sets of victims, but the creation of the radical who must be countered also creates the “counter-​radical” and creates the state as a “just warrior” (Elshtain 1987). As Iris Marion Young explains, “The gallantly masculine man faces the world’s difficulties and dangers in order to shield women from harm.  .  .  . Good men can only appear in their goodness if we assume that lurking outside the warm familial walls are aggressors, the ‘bad’ men, who wish to attack them” (2003b, p. 224). The construction of good men versus bad men in chivalric codes reveals how these are two sides of same coin. Talal Asad (2010) questions the difference between civilized violence (war) and barbaric violence (terrorism), arguing that what separates them is the power to define one as legitimate and civilized and deny the possibility of those labels for the other. The two become mutually constituted through the War on Terror that frames antiradicalization activities. Deylami (2012), for example, talks of how empire and terror are two masculinist enterprises:  modern-​day empire requires a dangerous, irrational, and violent world outside of its borders, which has become focused on Middle East and North Africa (MENA) and

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is defined as “Islamic patriarchy” (regardless of MENA’s realities). This is a form of infantilization (Nayak 2006, p. 48) that sets up the other as an as-​yet uncivilized entity, but a necessary category to justify the empire’s existence. More is happening in the relationship between terrorism and the War on Terror, though, once chivalry is acknowledged as a way of creating gallant men. Chivalry operates by placing constraints and codes of conduct upon masculine behavior, but these are only necessary because the unacknowledged potential of an uncivilized, uncontrolled dangerous other lurks within the masculine self. Chivalrous men are saving themselves from becoming this dangerous other, and this logic of chivalry ultimately rests on the underlying potential that these men might be otherwise were it not for their agency. The dangerous other is always oversexed or undersexed masculine agency in contrast to the chivalrous controlled masculine hero (Nagel 1998). This dangerous potential violence is cast out and personified in the radical, and the state’s (and counter-​radicals’) own violence is dismissed, denied, or glorified as chivalrous. Within counter-​radicalization efforts, contra to counterterrorism, this potential uncivilized violence is made abject—​ pitiful, wretched, and servile—​through the figure of the radical to be saved. Penttinen (2006) shows us that the abject is “derived from the dirt that has fallen off the subject, mean[ing] that the abject once belonged to the subject.” To be abject is to be without agency or subjectivity, perpetually in the position of the silent, grateful, and passive other; following Butler (2006) the abject becomes “socially dead.” Saving others therefore means that the counter-​radicals are saving themselves; constantly asserting their subjectivity, the saviors are demonstrating that they are not victims. Specifically in relation to antiradicalization work, the purpose of saving radicals is thus also to ensure the counter-​radical’s own agency or subjectivity in relation to their masculinity. In the position of the savior, counter-​radicals are heroes who through their status and chivalric actions are no longer vulnerable to violent extremism as victims or as potential perpetrators. The lack of trust (revealed in interviews with practitioners and in practitioner guidelines) that counter-​radicals have of formers who engage in antiradicalization work is indicative of this abject quality of radicals (Brown 2019b). For the chivalrous counter-​radical, there is a pressing need to redeem the radical individual, not necessarily to address root causes or respond to the causes of terrorist group behavior but, as this discussion shows, to maintain the radical’s own agency. The focus is on saving individuals because the counter-​radical cannot redeem the entire group or collective of terrorists; without them, counter-​radicalization and the figure of the “counter-​radical” wouldn’t exist (the counter-​radical’s subjectivity is

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erased). The counter-​radical seeks to save individuals, while in contrast the counterterrorist saves the state. As demonstrated through the War on Terror, the abject other as terrorist is created through overt force and repressive power. However, the abject radical is created differently; following Foucault (2007) from his lectures in 1977–​78, in antiradicalization policies we have pastoral power at work (see also Foucault 1994). The counter-​ radical sees individuals who can be redeemed and saved from radicalization through the logics of paternalism and maternalism addressed in this volume. Overall, chivalry appears today as a “quasi-​global personage something like ‘Man-​the-​Impregnator-​Protector-​Provider’  ” (Gilmore 1990, p. 223). Chivalry in antiradicalization policies and programs places the radical as someone to be feared and protected from, but also in need of saving. The radical is feminized and made abject in an attempt to constitute the state and state agents as agentic and chivalrous. The state then becomes the just warrior, acting as a shield and actively defending against the aggressive terrorist and the abject radical—​thus saving itself, the citizen, and the radical.

PROTECTION RACKETS: PRODUCING THE THREAT

As just shown, for the role of the chivalric, masculine protector to exist, there must be something threatening those who are unable to defend themselves. Left unasked are why they are unable to defend themselves and what is causing the threats against them. The agency and authority of the chivalric protectors depends on the existence of its binary opposite—​ aggressive, unpredictable, and evil masculinity (Penttinen 2006, pp. 140–​ 141). The threat needs to be created and maintained, which today is done through the image of the “terrorist-​radical.” In asserting their self-​ sacrificing position, state actors seek to show and deny their own capability and capacity for being the terrorist-​radical. They need the enemy, the radical, to maintain their position of authority and power over the protected. By creating the abject radical and the conflict deemed necessary to protect women from the terrorist threat, the logic of chivalric masculinity reveals that the security state operates as a protection racket. Simply put, a racketeer is someone who creates the danger and offers the shield at a price. Charles Tilly put forth the argument that the state provides security and creates the insecurity of its citizens together when he explored a state’s emergence and its commonalities with organized crime. He argued that the desire for power and expansion created a universal will and singular sovereign in European states. Such sovereigns were all focused on the abolition

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of the abject other outside its jurisdiction because such a danger hampered the viability and advantages of citizen-​clients. Internal security and unity became important in order to preserve a united, stronger, coherent front to display to outside threats and dangers. However, Tilly continues, To the extent that threats against which a given government protects its citizens, imaginary or as consequences of its own activities, the government has organised a protection racket. Since governments themselves commonly simulate, stimulate or even fabricate threats of external war, and since the repressive and extractive activities of governments constitute the largest threats to the livelihoods of their own citizens, governments operate in the same way as racketeers. (1985, p. 171)

In other words, counter-​radicalization efforts not only mask the causes of insecurity. Rather, in Tilly’s model there is a hierarchical mode of protection—​ with conditions of allegiance and deference to status bearers: the chivalrous knights in armor. Today this model of racketeering has been replaced with a vertical membership racket, namely one of allegiance to common values, with deference to the bearers of enlightenment. Jihadists are therefore not only guilty of violence but lese-​majesty (Lavi 2011). Understanding the War on Terror as a protection racket enables the consideration of the production of insecurities in the name of security—​it allows for the linking of drones, torture, surveillance, detention, reeducating and reconditioning, and profiling with antiradicalization politics. The War on Terror is then not only a security project but also a cultural project, one that seeks to redefine and remake the conditions of belonging, otherness, and the rule of law (Jabri 2007; Heath-​Kelly 2017). Antiradicalization language and policies create the very hate crimes they seek to prevent, undermine the community cohesion (Spalek et al. 2009; Spalek 2010) that they seek to defend, and undermine women’s rights (Brown 2014). Sjoberg and Peet (2011) adapt the logic further and explore how the protection racket in war is necessarily gendered. They discuss the protection racket as it is found in the principle of civilian immunity. Sjoberg and Peet (2011) demonstrate how in war the process of identifying women and children as in need of protection, because they are innocent, places them in additional positions of risk. Women and children subsequently become “the center of gravity” and the “will to fight” for military forces, both of which strategists insist need to be overcome in order to win a particular war or conflict. As women and children become symbolic and literal carriers of the nation, their violation becomes the destruction of the nation itself. This

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logic makes rape a “weapon of war” (Nagel 1998). As a result, women must not only survive war but must survive with their “virtue” intact (Runyan 1990). Otherwise they are considered unworthy of protecting—​no longer innocent—​but also a constant reminder of male failure. As a result, rape in war is rarely considered from then women’s standpoint (even though they are the majority of victims); rather rape is understood and prioritized because of what it does to the state/​men/​soldiers; when women’s experiences of rape in war are no longer needed for nationalistic jingoism, women’s testimonies are dismissed as erratic, incoherent, and weak. This last element is essential for understanding within antiradicalization frameworks how and why declarations about upholding women’s rights are signs of chivalry, but also how in practice when women’s rights threaten or challenge the chivalric order or become inconvenient, they are sidelined. I discuss this point further later in the chapter. To summarize the argument in relation to counter-​radicalization: first, the threat of the terrorist-​radical is sustained to deny and obscure the state’s role in creating the terrorist-​radical; second, the creation of the threat of the terrorist-​radical legitimates the state’s position as the provider of redemption and protection; third, those considered at risk and vulnerable become incapacitated, abject, and dependent upon the state for protection. This last element is explored in the next section, where we look at the costs of the chivalric counter-​radicalization shield. The first cost is that it enforces feminine deference and dependency; the second cost is its commodification of women’s rights; and the third cost is in its failures to provide security.

THE COST OF THE SHIELD Feminine Deference and Dependency

Within the language of chivalry, women are presumed innocent and in need of protection because they are cast as apolitical and protected from politics. Not only does this legitimate war, and in this case counter-​radicalization policies and persons, it also legitimates the state’s constitution as the provider of security; the protector and protected cannot be equal to one another, as the latter is dependent on the former. “The male protector confronts evil aggressors in the name of the right and the good, while those under his protection submit to his order and serve as handmaids to his efforts” (Young 2003b, p. 230). In other words, the triumph of security politics over other concerns emerges and serves to contain women and other

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feminized subjects in the existing order. The protection racket neutralizes radical action, because the only legitimate response available under chivalry is that offered by the state; subjects must therefore trust in the mastery of the state to respond to threats and define them. As Stiehm (1982, p. 368) notes, “The degree of danger posed by a particular threat is usually defined by the protector.” The public is dependent on the protector—​the chivalrous warrior—​for information about the threats to them and told to trust the protectors that certain information can’t be in the public realm for security reasons. The consequence is a lack of oversight and accountability, but also a narrowing of the range of views and analysis on the information and threats. At the UN, for example, women are mostly absent from the realm of counterterrorism. UNSCR 1373—​which is crucial to this realm as a “super resolution.” It set up the Counter Terrorism Committee (CTC) and the Counter Terrorism Executive Directorate (CTED) which supports it, and the former reports to the UN Security Council—​ marginalizes the role of women and the gendered impact of terrorism and counterterrorism harms upon them. This is despite the CTC 2015 Open Briefing highlighting the role of women in counterterrorism and CVE, and UNSCR 2242, which also discusses gender mainstreaming. Instead, CTC and CTED remain distinctly masculine spaces, both in terms of their concerns and the personnel who work in them, and UNSCR 1373 has limited aspirations to ensuring gender representation in countering terrorism (Ní Aoláin 2016, p. 286). The appointment of a gender coordinator for CTED is a step in the right direction, and her work, especially since 2018, has raised public and member states’ awareness of issues relating to women, antiradicalization, and terrorism. By concentrating knowledge about radicalization and the information about it into the hands of the chivalric state, it allows for fear to dominate populations” responses. As Highgate (n.d.) discusses in relation to private security contractors: Narratives of risk and response appeared to sustain Civilian Protection officers’ superior position in a hierarchy of knowledge and expertise influencing protector/​protector interaction. Further, and in a more demonstrable sense, the (somewhat unintended) cultivation of fear and anxiety amongst clients was fostered as a disciplinary strategy intended to engender acquiescence and deference to the security expert. In no way were Civilian Protection officers malicious in their intent to convey the risky nature of the environment, but rather it can be seen as a functional outcome of professional practice central to the protector/​ protected relationship.

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This microcosm shows how the chivalric protection racket operates in practice. The civilian protection officers whom Highgate researches operate in dangerous locations and focus on the potential for violence. Elsewhere, however, the shift from violent action to violent/​radical thoughts and radical belonging as the basis for state action means that the protection offered comes with the cost of being constantly policed and surveilled to ensure that citizens do not become radical/​deviant (as shown in ­chapter 4), and people having to constantly prove that they are innocent and beautiful souls worthy of protection (as shown in ­chapter 5), regardless of location. This constant proving of oneself as in need of protection is vital because otherwise one risks being seen and treated as at risk of radicalization, and therefore a potential threat. Everyday behaviors and attitudes must fit into the security framing of the War on Terror; the protectors as well insist on due respect or deference to those who “put themselves at risk” for our protection. At airports, for example, individuals who do not fit a neat gender binary for body scanners are often nervous and anxious because of uncertainty about how they’ll be treated, which security officials then interpret as suspicious and threatening behavior for not showing due deference. As a result, people outside that gender binary more likely will experience increased security searches and other checks than cis-​gendered individuals (Patel 2012). The consequences of this deference are not limited to the insecurity of marginal groups. The more that societies accept an increasingly authoritarian and paternalistic state power, which derives its support partly from the unity a perceived terrorist threat produces, the more that societies are expected to extend their gratitude for protection. Symbiotically, there is a proliferation of securitization, where greater areas of ordinary life are reclassified as security concerns—​thereby furthering the range of state interest in everyday private lives in order to protect. In this way, the purpose of those working as chivalrous officers for the state is not to kill for the cause but to die for it. The element of sacrifice is important because it sets up a sense of obligation in those being saved. This is rather similar to recent developments in global narratives about the Responsibility to Protect (R2P), which also epitomizes this sense of burden. The “white man’s burden” or “civilizing mission” is recast as an obligation to rescue those who are otherwise incapable of defending themselves. While this is shown as a burden—​a cross that the wealthy and powerful states must bear—​it is the imagined or real cost born that creates the gratitude in those rescued. Were it not at some cost, those rescued would not feel obligation, loyalty, or dependency upon those who had once saved them. The consequence is a neutralizing of radical activism in other areas. For

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example, domestic criticism by feminists or others of repressive policies is trivialized, discredited by variants of the statement “Be grateful you’re not a woman living in fundamentalist country X” (Deylami 2012). This shows how the protector and protected are interdependent and co-​constituted, but the relationship is asymmetrical; only one of the parties has access to the means (embodied capital) and instruments (weapons) of force (Stiehm 1982, p. 374). Moreover, it displaces questions about whether those who benefit from the system created the conditions that lead to others needing saving (Wheeler 2002). As Inderpal Grewal notes, “It is the interrelation between the sovereign right to kill and the humanitarian right to rescue that constitutes modes of modern power, whether by states or by other institutions of power” (2003, p. 57). What typifies the chivalric masculinity approach is a failure to consider whether the approaches and methods taken to protect are going to result in the security of the protected and therefore ensure their agency and subjectivity. As Penttinen (2004) writes about Finnish efforts to “protect” Eastern European women from prostitution, or as Ingram and Dodds (2016) write about Western efforts to “save” Afghan women from the Taliban, there is a failure to ask whether these women want protection or saving by criminalizing their clients or bombing their homes. I address this question more later in this chapter. The failure to show deference is also used as a reason to prosecute women for their (relative) radical activism. Saudi Arabia uses terrorism laws to detain and prosecute women’s rights activists yet was elected to the UN Commission for Women’s Rights in April 2017. Loujain al-​Hathloul is a prominent women’s rights activist who was arrested in June 2017, then again in 2018 and 2019. She was previously detained and charged for voicing her criticism of the Saudi kingdom online while she was stopped driving from the United Arab Emirates (UAE) into Saudi Arabia in 2014. Her case was heard in a specialized criminal court, a tribunal set up originally to try terrorism cases. She is currently detained and has been offered release if she agrees to declare she was not tortured while under arrest (Ensor 2019). Turkey deported two Saudi sisters back to Saudi Arabia in May 2017 at the insistence of the kingdom, despite seeking refuge from domestic abuse, while their family and the state claimed they are allies of the terrorist Daesh group and in need of deradicalization. Here the claims of the two sisters were ignored in favor of the dominant narrative of security and radicalization. Such a situation is made possible by the guardianship system that requires women to have the permission of a male guardian for certain activities, which over the years has become ever more restrictive. While many of the guardianship rules were relaxed in

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September 2019, the application of these rules remains. The concerns regarding the guardianship system are with the informal application of it, where the internal regulations of companies or institutions require a male guardian’s permission—​for example, hospitals often require it for medical procedures, and some employers also insist on it—​regardless of the actual legal requirements (Raphaeli 2005). More generally, the UN Special Rapporteur on Human Rights found in May 2017 that Saudi Arabia uses antiterror laws and misuse of court procedures to detain and prosecute human rights activists. The UN Special Rapporteur said that Saudi antiterror laws “enable the criminalization of a wide spectrum of acts of peaceful expression, which are viewed by the authorities as endangering ‘national unity’ or undermining the ‘reputation or position of the state.’ ” For example, it is known that Mohammed al-​Bajadi, a founder of the Saudi Civil and Political Rights Association (ACPRA), was held for four months at the Mohammed bin Naif Counselling and Care Centre that was set up to deradicalize convicted terrorists. This is set against the backdrop of Saudi Arabia’s aerial campaign against Huthi groups and their allies in Yemen, where attacks against civilians and civilian infrastructure are alleged to be indiscriminate. By focusing on the ideology or beliefs of individuals, the wider structural and political questions remain unaddressed in Saudi antiradicalization programs. Criticism of the government and the ruling family leads to severe and often deadly results, as the death of Jamal Khashoggi reveals. Saudi Arabia and the UAE-​backed Yemeni government forces are alleged to indiscriminately detain civilians in the name of countering extremism and defeating al Qaeda and Daesh. There are cross-​border attacks against Saudi Arabia in and around Najran and Jazan in southern Saudi Arabia, which also harm and kill civilians. The other major concern for the kingdom is the collapse in oil prices, which has led to strikes and unrest among migrant workers as they are have not been paid. In early 2017, approximately forty thousand Pakistani migrant workers were deported for “visa violations and “security concerns” (there were approximately nine hundred thousand Pakistani nationals in Saudi Arabia, so almost 4 percent of those present). The connections here are in deployments of the shield against other forms of protest, thus decreasing the range of possibilities for dissent.

Women’s Rights Securitized

The compartmentalization of women’s security and the dominance of security politics means that, at best, women’s rights become signifiers of

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compliance and deference to the chivalric state but may still meaningfully change women’s lives for the better. However, the reality in many nations is that women’s rights are securitized—​ that is, commodified and instrumentalized in the name of security. The commodification is a reflection of how women’s rights become open to barter and trading if the perceived cost of them is too high for the state racketeers, while the instrumentalization refers to how their value is only measured in terms of their contribution to security rather than their value on their own terms. In the War on Terror, human rights and women’s rights are both upheld as a solution to terrorism. However, a focus on these rights comes under criticism for handicapping Western governments in their quest for security if they have to give undue concern to issues of equality (women in combat, for example) or distinguishing between civilians or combatants (e.g., nontorture as a principle). What is important in this debate about human rights is not whether they are upheld in the West or elsewhere but what they represent in an idealized Western imaginary. Widespread human rights abuses are certainly present in the West; however, only in the danger zones of the War on Terror is their absence seen as a sign of terrorism. Indeed, human rights abuses, including those against women, by Western military forces in the name of combating terrorism are explained away as a result of their exceptional exposure to terrorism in risky environments. It is as if exposure to insecurity and violence outside of “civilized lands” produces an exceptional hypermasculinity that is used to excuse and justify violations of human rights (Hunt and Rygiel 2006). As security becomes a primary concern for states, sources of funding for welfare and domestic policies are redirected into the security sphere, such as to police, intelligence services, or the military. Women’s shelters are facing a funding crisis; women’s aid organizations are also struggling, and many women in the West rely on government aid, food banks, or other means to provide for their families. In contrast, spending on terrorism and counter-​radicalization programs increases year after year. Women’s leadership and parenting courses have counter-​radicalization elements incorporated into them in order to secure funding that is otherwise set aside for countering terrorism. At the policy level, therefore, despite the rhetoric that compliance is important to demonstrating how a state stands in the War on Terror, women’s rights become tick boxes but have little connection to lived reality (Brown 2014). For example, one CVE effort in the Horn of Africa, Strengthening Resilience to Violence and Extremism (STRIVE, HOA), was run and evaluated by the Royal United Services Institute (RUSI), included a clear objective to increase women’s involvement in policing—​ counter-​radicalization policing particularly. However, the report concluded

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that the efforts required to out this aspect of the program in place were not worth alienating the men who implemented other parts of the program and who were opposed to women’s inclusion. In short, the objective of gender mainstreaming came secondary to a male-​defined objective of improving traditional policing measures in counterterrorism. Within Muslim-​ minority countries, application of women’s rights becomes a code for conformity and therefore compliance with expected conduct and norms of moderate and peaceful (feminine) Muslim communities. The recent attempted bans in Quebec, France, Austria, and elsewhere of the burqa, niqab (face veiling), or both are justified in the name of security and values. Here women’s conformity in fashion and dress as the object of security is the idea of security being achieved through homogeneity (Ragazzi 2015, p. 157). Although many of the justifications presented for the bans were focused on women’s equality and liberty as citizens, the justifications in law were regarding public safety: the “full veil” represented a hindrance to public communication, as well as signaled a fear of terrorism carried out by those who wear clothing to “hide their face.” In reality, as Ferrari’s analysis demonstrates, bans rarely coincided with actual disturbances of public order or peace, but when the “political majority were convinced” that a threat was present (Ferrari and Pastorelli 2013, pp. 9–​10). This fear appears to stem from a belief that the niqab and burqa upset the right of suspicion and scrutiny discussed in the previous chapter. This fear contrasts with Muslim women who wear the burqa or niqab and who talk about being empowered through anonymity and freedom from the gaze of the state and men. The fear of Muslim women’s veiling and Muslim gender norms were recently observed in response to complaints and an alleged document outlining conflicts between Muslim school governors and others.4 As the “jihadist plot to take over Birmingham schools” was unveiled in the UK media in 2014, the government responded by asking the former head of the counterterrorism unit to investigate whether Salafi Muslims were “infiltrating” Birmingham schools (Pidd 2014; Holmwood and O’Toole 2018). In the language used, the selection of topics, and the UK government’s response, we can explicitly see the securitization of women’s rights to education. But here, the head of counterterrorism was asked to investigate the veracity of the claims rather than the local authorities or Ofsted (the Office for Standards in Education, Children’s Services, and Skills—​the body that inspects British state schools). A counterterrorist’s perspective guaranteed a particular framing of the issues and allegations. However, clearly the threats to girls’ education was not the central concern but rather that such attempts represented an existential threat to the secular British identity

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narrative that demanded instant extraordinary measures (Cannizzaro and Gholami 2018). In 2017 this topic was revisited in the UK when Ofsted began to insist on asking primary school–​age girls (4–​10  years old) why they wore the hijab. The reasoning offered was that most Islamic teachings recommend the hijab postpuberty, and Ofsted were worried about undue sexualization of young girls. The decision came under fierce criticism; it was argued that Ofsted had failed to consider the multiple reasons women wear the hijab and risked reinforcing “anti-​Muslim” politics by placing Muslim parents and children under greater scrutiny than others. In effect, “White men and women are seen to be saving Muslim women from Muslim men” (italics in original) regardless of need or effect (Mirza 2013, p. 100). Next I investigate the extent to which the effect is positive for women and others.

DOES IT WORK? WOMEN’S SECURITY: UNSAFE SPACES

Not only are we told that women’s rights will help combat radicalization, but also that combating radicalization and terrorism will improve women’s rights. In May 2017 US secretary of state Rex Tillerson argued on Fox News Sunday that combating terrorism in Saudi Arabia will help increase freedom for women in Arab countries of the Middle East: “I think the way you address those human rights issues and women’s rights issues is to improve the conditions in the region . . . and today conditions in the region are under a lot of stress because of the threat of terrorism, the threat that Iran poses to stability in the region” (Tillerson 2017). Here I question this assessment of the role of antiradicalization measures in securing women’s rights and improving their overall welfare. As Stiehm argues, “Women are meant to be protected by their protectors but frequently they are not” (1982, p. 367). Macaulay reiterated this point twenty years later: “Greater gender equality and equity are correlated to less violent, more stable societies, yet (male) political leaders and policy-​makers often respond to the threats of violence from other men by disempowering women and undermining their status, rather than the opposite” (2012). For example, Pakistan has for the past ten years initiated full-​scale military operations in three provinces in order to save women and Pakistan’s frontiers from Islamic extremism. The consequence is the largest number of internally displaced persons and refugees in the world since World War II. Every year between 2004 and 2015, approximately 2  million people were annually displaced, with a peak of 3 million in 2009. In 2017, 17,000 individuals were newly displaced as a result of military operations to

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counter terrorism, with 464,000 remaining displaced and another 100,000 as refugees from previous years’ counterterrorism activities (Internal Displacement Monitoring Centre 2017). In these full-​ scale military offensives, millions of people every year have lost their homes, livelihoods, and loved ones—​despite the minimal effect of these actions and an abject failure in the military to learn from their mistakes from year to year. Yet when compromise was agreed to with the extremist group Terek-​e-​Taliban Pakistan, which ceased hostilities by allowing sharia as the legal norm, women suffered disproportionately with new crimes and punishments. This was particularly true in the Mingora region, where the implementation of sharia did not match local customs (Mustafa et al. 2013). Given the use of sexual violence by terrorist groups and the relationship between sex trafficking, slave trading, ransom payments, and women’s safety, it is worrying how the CTC focuses on women’s role in preventing the radicalization of men and boys, with little concern for the fragile and marginal status of women in complex conflict situations, and with little care for the harms facing women should they be identified as minders and informers (Ní Aoláin 2016, p. 285). In addition, violent extremist and terrorist groups have kidnapped schoolgirls, targeted female politicians, imposed restrictions on women’s dress, and threatened women activists around the world. Yet, with the exception of the kidnapping of the Chibok girls in Nigeria, when women raise these gender-​specific threats, they are ignored and told that the existing gender-​neutral antiradicalization policies are effective for women too. Indeed, women are told that they should be “more careful” to “obey the rules” in place for their benefit. For example, when a Muslim female politician in Indonesia who had a well-​ known antiextremist stance was photographed having an early-​morning meeting alone with a male colleague, it became a scandal that undermined her authority (Van Lierde 2013). Rather than questioning why the photographer was there, or why the meeting had been arranged at that time (it was unusual and an effort to frame her for wrong doing), instead the focus was that she shouldn’t be alone with a man. The case of Pakistan highlights another concern with antiradicalization measures: a presumption that the state is in control of antiradicalization efforts and of territories formally in its jurisdiction. The guidelines of two of the most well-​known think tanks, Hedayah and GCTF, epitomize this response: making numerous claims about what the state “should do” and “needs to do” without examining whether the state is able (e.g., Hedayah 2015). The think tanks presume a collaborative and cooperative civil society and benign state actors; in other words, the state is presumed to be hegemonic and unified in its chivalric defense. In contrast, as analysts clearly

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show year after year, the nation faces considerable challenges from a multitude of actors and structural constraints that frequently place Pakistan close to or in the failing-​state category (by nearly every measure and index) and render such antiradicalization efforts almost impossible. More broadly, the discourse on antiradicalization helps creates “Muslim communities” in Muslim-​minority states, but it also creates the “Muslim woman” (Millings 2013), for example, through the stop-​and-​search policies that are claimed to improve public and street security by reducing crime through deterrence. However, the effect of applying these policies across Europe is to securitize, stigmatize, and marginalize those of Muslim appearance. It reinforces the Islamophobia that produces the insecurity of Muslim women, who are more visible and more vulnerable to attack in the street and to general assault. The streets become unsafe spaces, and the very streets deny Muslim presence. Mosques become situated as safe yet simultaneously also unsafe spaces. In Amsterdam, a large police station was built next to a community mosque, with large CCTV cameras visible. Ahmed (2004, p.  69) describes the ways in which fear, such as that produced by constant surveillance, “works to contain bodies such that they take up less space.” Emotions, in Ahmed’s (2004, p.  69) analysis, do not simply reflect the psychological state or interior world of the subject; they are productive:  “Emotions work to align bodily space with social space.” France and Switzerland do not offer official prayer space, in part because of a refusal to grant planning permission to build new mosques; this leads to praying in the streets and the creation of underground or basement mosques. This then leads to fear of an occupation of national territory, as Muslims, cast as foreign, are presented as taking over the public space literally and normatively, and Muslim leaders fear violent incidents targeting their communities when this discursive shift happens (Andre et al. 2015, p.  308). Tell Mama—​an organization that collects women’s accounts of Islamophobic assault in the UK—​reveals that 80 percent of perpetrators of verbal or physical assault against Muslim women are male. Copsey et al. (2013), in their volume Anti-​Muslim Hate Crime and the Far Right, analyze the figures for hate crimes from the UK Crown Prosecution Service. They reveal that online and offline perpetrators tend to be white men. In Australia, wearing the hijab is also the most common reason cited for provoking racist abuse (Mansouri and Marotta 2012). The state reinforces the conditions of insecurity and then insists that Muslim women feel safe in the streets. It creates the Muslim identity but also makes that a condition of insecurity; as participants in Orla Lynch’s study report, they are more cautious of their Islamic appearance even within their own communities (2015). They feel they can’t use Islamic symbols or religious language to

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express resistance or political activities because they are seen as threatening. Despite ambiguities in improving security and reducing crime, accounts of its impact on everyday activities commonly point to a certain chilling effect on people’s willingness and “ability to lawfully express dissent” (Cunningham 2007, p. 124; Davenport 2007). The point of concern is that the statistics suggest they are right to be afraid. State creation of a Muslim identity as part of antiradicalization initiatives is found not only in Muslim-​minority states but also Saudi Arabia, Indonesia, and Pakistan. In Indonesia and Pakistan, the state directs attention toward Islamic schools (pesantren and madrasas), but as discussed in previous chapters, doing so undermines the institutions that are better at meeting the needs of the poorest in society. Targeting religious institutions is a response that prioritizes state security and absolves the state from responsibility in the creation of radicalized individuals. The state adopts a view of radicalization that ignores its potential role in the creation of the threat, such as in shaping the milieu and environment in which people live (Pearson and Winterbotham 2017).

CONCLUSION

This chapter has demonstrated not only that women are unprotected by the protection offered but also that the protector itself is the cause of insecurity. The deference and dependency created by the protection racket have led to a reduction in capacity for critical engagement with the state over appropriateness of policies. Additionally, the chapter has underscored how the authority of the protector, as chivalric statehood, is fluid and contingent, and as such is something that necessarily has to be constantly demonstrated, articulated, and enforced. This occurs through surveillance, targeting religious institutions, demonstrating a willingness to sacrifice, and the creation of the abject other. Chivalric protector masculinity is the glue that holds together the policies and narratives, even when they are seemingly contradictory. Given these inconsistencies, contradictions and inadequacies exposed in existing operation of, and framing of antiradicalization, alternatives are surely needed.

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CHAPTER 8

The Limits of Antiradicalization

T

he argument so far has engaged with not only highlighting the gendered modes of engagement found in antiradicalization efforts but in understanding how and why these modes occur. The research shows how the maternal and paternal logics come together to produce a chivalric mode of governance that ultimately fails to deliver on security. The combination of these insights about the gendered nature of antiradicalization efforts reveals how radicalization is a gendered and racialized concept. This chapter follows on by reflecting more upon the ideas of agency and governance that are highlighted in this field. I identify lessons to be learned from the arguments and findings of this research through a consideration of the Women, Peace and Security agenda that shapes UN initiatives, but also from similar fields such as disarmament, demobilization, and reintegration (DDR) and transitional justice programs.

RADICALIZATION: A GENDERED CONCEPT

During the final months this book was being written, the repatriation of European and North American women and their children affiliated with Daesh raised a series of questions about the commitment of care that Western states professed to their citizens and to deradicalization. Throughout this research, the point of differentiation between counterterrorism and counter-​radicalization efforts has been that the latter shifts security politics from creating states of exception for the Muslim oth­er—​ where they can be killed (such as in drone attacks or targeted killings) or at least not saved (collateral damage)—​toward the safe management of Gender, Religion, Extremism. Katherine E. Brown, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190075699.001.0001

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lives to be controlled. This follows not only from the anticipatory politics implicit in antiradicalization work or from resilience narratives (Anderson 2010; Chandler 2014) but also from the expansion of neoliberal modes of governance to cover all lives. However, in the spring of 2019, the US, UK, and other countries refused to support the rehabilitation and resettlement of women affiliated with Daesh and similar groups. Throughout the previous two years, Western states had facilitated with little controversy the quiet resettlement and return of women from Iraq and Syria. As the military successes against the insurgents in Iraq and Syria unsettled populations and supporters in increasing numbers, European, American, and other non–​Middle Eastern women were found in the internal displacement camps and also facing prosecution in Iraq for terrorism-​related offenses (Brown 2019a, 2019 c; Brown and Morgan 2019). Among these was Shamima Begum, one of the Bethnal Green Three who had traveled as a fifteen-​year-​old to join Daesh. In an attempt to raise her profile and to mobilize support for her efforts to return to the UK, she was interviewed for television. For Western viewers she did not appear as a sympathetic character: she did not express remorse or regret for her actions, she appeared nonplussed about the violence she saw, and she also appeared to remain committed to the ideas behind Daesh. Her motivation for return was as a mother, and she relied solely on the appeal to the well-​being of her sick baby. The response from the British home secretary was to seek to revoke her citizenship (Brown and Morgan 2019). This would appear to suggest that the arguments about rescue and redemption in antiradicalization fall short, as here is a clear attempt by a government to position a woman in a “state of exception” where she’d be rendered stateless (a point under dispute) and neither worth saving or killing (Agamben 1998; Butler 2006). Tragically, while waiting for decisions and appeals, her child died—​confirming the inevitable “collateral damage.” This is “necropolitics,” where sovereignty is ultimately linked with “the capacity to dictate who may live and who must die” (Mbembe 2003, p. 11). Consequently Shamima Begum epitomizes Sherene Razack’s (2008) casting out. Razack (2008) explains how through the War on terror special categories have been created and myths perpetuated which groups of people from the rule of law and from political community. She links this to the continuing legacy of colonialism, racism, and gender oppression, such that a climate of fear limits the fundamental rights of those who been identified as threats and are therefore ‘cast out’. However, the treatment of Shamima Begum also confirms the contingent nature of antiradicalization efforts. First, it shows how the possibility of redemption being offered through deradicalization programs is premised on

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appropriate levels of gratitude and servitude to the state. Shamima Begum failed to be grateful for the opportunities of living in the West; she hadn’t learned the right lessons from her time in Iraq and Syria. Her apparent defiance appeared to indicate that she rejected the need for responsible self-​governance, necessary for becoming a deserving victimized radical. Her apparent bravado in the interviews she gave, which others later argued was a symptom of PTSD (Pokalova 2020), appeared more masculine, so she couldn’t be coded as feminine. Additionally, she made no reference to a radicalizer or to being duped or groomed; indeed her husband, a Dutch convert and allegedly a fighter for Daesh, was also seeking family reunification in the Netherlands (BBC 2019a). There was no radicalizer to blame for her position—​indeed her narrative and story about her journey to Daesh point to the failings of the state for her current vulnerabilities. In her narrative she discusses the quotidian, nonspectacular elements of terrorism, the normalization of violence, and the ordinariness of being a housewife, and in doing so highlights the continuities in gender dynamics. Warner and Matfess (2017) make the important point that “insurgent abuse against women is ultimately an extension of the patterns of neglect and abuse that women have suffered for decades” (2017, p. 45). But there is no abuse story here, but instead evidence of the ongoing continuities in gender relations worldwide (Pereira 2018). Additionally, while Shamima Begum included a maternal and world-​ preserving story arc in her interview—​her motherly instincts required her to seek a life in the West—​she was ultimately cast as failed mother as her other children had died in her care. As a result she couldn’t be fitted into any of the categories that operate within antiradicalization framing:  she wasn’t groomed or seduced; she wasn’t a maternal peace activist; she wasn’t grateful for the protection and security of Western states so didn’t allow for the chivalric paternal rescue. As such, her agency threatened existing gender and race relations because it couldn’t be contained within the potential boundaries of the former. As a result she was to be punished rather than saved. The Organization for Security and Co-​operation in Europe (OSCE), however, is condemnatory of criminalization approaches such as this: “In stark contrast to the need to support returning FTFs [foreign terrorist fighters] and others involved in FTF-​related acts to re-​establish themselves in society, approaches such as arbitrary exclusions (prevention from entering the territory of the state) and over-​reaching prosecutions run counter to effective rehabilitation and reintegration” (Organization for Security and Co-​operation in Europe 2018, p. 61). The antiradicalization efforts premised on saving and controlling Muslim lives are therefore contingent on accepting the power of sovereignty.

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Through the story of Shamima Begum, antiradicalization efforts and the gendered savior narrative are shown not to be about saving the other but saving the self. The antiradicalization efforts enable a paternalist narrative of state care to operate under the conditions of the war on terror. In the quest to counter radicalization, the state and state agents both become and depend upon the radical that they oppose. As critical security scholars before me have noted, radical groups and the state both believe in their singular mode of being in the world and are willing to use violence to foreclose alternatives. A particular ideal of agency is therefore promoted, which is why the opposite of radicalization should not be “antiradicalization,” as we have in current policy and public discourses, but in pluralist, inclusive, and expansive understandings of peace and agency that allow for multiple potential futures. This suggests that in order to understand antiradicalization efforts and to understand how Shamima Begum was cast as irredeemable, it is necessary to see all parties (security agent, suspect radical, former) as mutually constitutive, and to recognize the unequal gender and racial hierarchies that are sustained through them. Gendering is not about women alone, nor is it a pure and autonomous dichotomy. Rather, masculinities and femininities are already always “cross-​ hatched” with racial and class categories (McClintock 1995).

AGENCY, GENDER, AND SECURITY GOVERNANCE: REDEMPTION AND THE RADICAL STATE

We already know from other feminist and critical studies research that the war on terror is remaking civilian lives and civilian life worlds (Kinsella 2006; Khalili 2011). It does so, as discussed in c­ hapter 2, through the shift from military to counterinsurgency operations, whereby civilians are essential objects of the military. In addition, the war on terror brings the spaces, identities, and bodies coded as feminine into counterterrorism. In the name of preparedness and the fear of evil embedded everywhere, security is moved beyond the spectacle of emergencies into the mundane and quotidian elements of life. With the development of radicalization understood as a product of vulnerabilities rather than external forces, evil has the potential to be everywhere and anywhere among us. It cannot easily be cast out and excluded; as Anderson puts it, “The causes of disaster are presumed to incubate in life” (2010, p. 781). This study on antiradicalization has also shown how sovereignty is (re) created and cast in the war on terror. It is not simply that civilian life is

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acted over in gendered and racialized methods through antiradicalization security governance, but also the state is produced through the “moralized life” that justifies these gendered and racialized methods (Schotten 2018). In discussing Queer Terror, Schotten raises the problem of the social death and slow death of those cast outside the safety zone of sovereign security. Schotten argues that this slow death is possible because the state is able to determine what is valuable life, the life worth living, and describes this in a moralized position—​the good life. The offering of deradicalization is a limited contained agency, not one rooted in critical reflection but rather in becoming responsibly self-​governing citizens. The deradicalized self, the resilient citizen, is determined by one’s acceptance of the state’s narrative of the good life. Elsewhere I  have argued, using Hannah Arendt’s ideas about politics, how the threat of terrorism is more the threat to dominant narratives of the good life than to biological lives (Mustafa, Brown, and Tillotson 2014). Because of this moralizing position within antiradicalization efforts about future lives as well as current lives, this chapter also offers alternatives based on a feminist vision of the good life—​ options rooted in the idea of transformative peace.

RESEARCHING AND PRACTICING ANTIRADICALIZATION

In the years that I’ve researched antiradicalization measures and policies worldwide, a number of barriers to researchers and practitioners have become evident (see also Sageman 2014). These relate to what actually count as antiradicalization efforts, who should carry out these efforts, and ultimately how we might know or measure their effectiveness. The first challenge is a definitional one. The popularity of “radicalization” as policy language came about partly because the word seemed to overcome definitional challenges connected to the terms “terrorism” and “terrorist.” However, antiradicalization efforts are ambiguous and unclear because, much like “terrorism” and “terrorist,” the definitions of “radical,” “radicalization,” and their nonradical counterparts remain contested. The consequence is that antiradicalization efforts are remarkably broad. Variations are present in who the intended target is for policies and programs, what the criteria for inclusion are, and how radicalization can be established to have occurred—​or indeed where there is a risk of it happening. In Saudi Arabia, antiradicalization efforts are focused on prisons and general public awareness campaigns; in the UK, the majority of efforts address local community leadership and utilize a diverse and diffuse surveillance network. Yet, according to their policy documents, both

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nations claim to be addressing the same phenomenon:  radical Muslims, radicalized because of a perverted form of Islam. In not having an adequate understanding of the causes or processes of radicalization in theory or in policy, policies and programs previously labeled as antipoverty or social welfare, among other areas, have become repurposed for antiradicalization funding. In postconflict societies, this results in an additional conflation with peacebuilding, and in ongoing conflicts in a conflation with counterinsurgency programs. What were once distinct areas of policy and identifiable activities have blurred into an all-​encompassing security continuum. The securitization of nearly all areas of policy is an instrumentalization of otherwise established public goods. Peace, antipoverty measures, and gender or ethnic equality are reframed as desirable pathways to antiradicalization rather than objectives in their own right. This narrowing of legitimate politics to antiradicalization security is problematic in the way it constrains possibilities of the good life. As a result of this complexity, there are also clear gaps in coverage, with certain groups—​notably the far right in Europe but also secessionist groups elsewhere—​largely overlooked in the early phases of antiradicalization efforts. Desta warns of antiradicalization initiatives in Africa, that the “challenge of these initiatives is that they lack coordination and they provide the support based on their own specific policies on [CVE],” rather than working within a regional strategy (2016, p. 10). Given the transnational nature of contemporary terrorism, this is shortsighted and unlikely to lead to success. The second issue with the lack of definitional clarity is that antiradicalization programs, especially counter-​radicalization programs, are burdened with high yet undefined expectations that are also frequently immeasurable and often outside the remit of the agencies and actors involved. These expectations and lack of definitional clarity led to serious doubts about the accountability and transparency of antiradicalization programs. Over the years of researching this topic and attempting to carry out gender reviews of these programs, I have gained access to only a few evaluations or end-​of-​program reports. Those reports that do exist are conducted by auditors and focus on whether the aims and activities of the program have been carried out, without considering if the aims and activities are appropriate, reasonable, or effective in deterring, countering, or preventing radicalization. In the UK, for example, the accountancy firm KPMG performed evaluations of the Pathfinder antiradicalization programs based entirely on whether the activities listed in the program’s agendas were carried out. Second, where end-​of-​program reports exist, the priority is to stress

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successes, such as testimonials from formers, as NGOs are reluctant to report failures in case they negatively impact subsequent funding opportunities. A bias in findings and in subsequent researcher analysis results, as often the reports are the only accounts we have of antiradicalization programs. One example of such success bias is in the Saudi Arabian deradicalization program that at one point claimed a 95  percent success rate, defined as people not returning to terrorist organizations. Contrast this with the EXIT programs in Europe—​which define the success of a deradicalization initiative as when someone has remained apart from radical groups for over two years from leaving the program—​which subsequently appear to be less successful but in practice have longer-​term positive results. This outcome was found in Denmark, where evaluation of different antiradicalization programs found varying indicators of success and measurable objectives based on a range of ideas about the causes of radicalization (Lindekilde 2012). At the program level in deradicalization initiatives, the aim is to return individuals to a “normal life,” but little consideration is given to what a normal life is or should be. Where success is considered in broader counter-​ radicalization programs, it is usually in terms of whether security of the state or community has been achieved, although some cases have provoked concern about the disproportionate costs to other actors (minority communities) in the implementation of antiradicalization programs. For example, the Center for Human Rights and Global Justice (CHRGJ) (2011) report on American counterterrorism operations gives a good account of the ways in which women disproportionately suffer the effect of US counterterrorism policy. A more recent study by the center shows some detail in relation to counterterrorism financing regulations having a detrimental impact on women’s civil society organizations; because these organizations cannot meet the same accounting regulations, states use the rules to prevent them from accessing foreign donations, and they often operate in areas without formal banking access (Duke Law International Human Rights Clinic and Women Peacemakers Program 2017). Other evaluations and end-​of-​program reports are so general in their approach and subsequent prescriptions (“Governments should do.  .  .  .”) that they fail to consider whether the recommendations are feasible or if they’ve been attempted, and if so, why they have not worked. For example, the Organization for Security and Co-​operation in Europe (OSCE) and the Global Counterterrorism Forum (GCTF) framework document Good Practices on Women and Countering Violent Extremism (GCTF 2014)  gives seven good practices around gender mainstreaming, enhancing women’s visibility, and encouraging research on women’s participation in violent extremism, but as is typical of these types of documents, has little guidance

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on how or why these haven’t been considered or implemented. The GCTF (2018) Addendum is similarly lacking. This advice is repeated in a report by Wilton Park (2018) as well. Many observers may see these normative claims as desirable, but they become yet another stick to beat Muslim states with, and reaffirm a liberal idea of gender and economics. The third issue concerns the level of analysis, whether the focus is on policies, programs, or individual activities. While hard security is the preserve of the state, the question over who should implement and pay for antiradicalization efforts varies in each location. At the policy level, the state assumes the role of protector, but the implementation of programs results in fragmentation, diffusion, and decentralization, with the subsequent effects of repetition, lack of coordination, and a lack of accountability. Simultaneously, with the increase in surveillance rhetoric in antiradicalization efforts, there is the “responsibilization” of citizens. In this case, the spotlight is removed from the state, and the causes of radicalization are depolicitized. However, the involvement of a range of state agencies in an ever-​widening array of everyday living activities is also depoliticized and normalized. The individual citizen is the bearer, the cause, and the consequence of antiradicalization policies. This might not be seen as problematic were it not for the fact that this deflects attention away from any suggestion that the state might be responsible for radicalizing individuals or the existence of certain terrorist groups. It also means that legitimate dissent against the state and state activities are mapped onto a terrorist-​violent extremist scale rather than seen as political rights and obligations. In doing so, dissent and opposition are repositioned as treasonous and signs of radicalization, and therefore restricted. The challenges for researchers are the generation of any causal theory derived from comparisons between radically different activities (even with the same stated goals), and to achieve this despite a bias of data, information, and activities toward particular targets or target locations; few agreed-​upon indicators of success or objectives; and broken chains of accountability and little transparency in programming and commissioning.

INSIGHTS FROM FEMINIST ANALYSIS AND RESEARCH

Borrowing from True’s (2011) tripartite understanding of how gender features in analysis—​as a variable, as constitutive, and as transformative—​ the gender-​specific insights from the research in this book are highlighted. The first notable insight from this research is that where women are included or mentioned, it is primarily as victims of terrorism and radicalization.

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O’Reilly explains why this link is made, derived from research conducted in thirty countries across the Middle East, North Africa, and South Asia. She suggests that “women are often the first to stand up against terrorism, since they are among the first targets of fundamentalism, which restricts their rights and frequently leads to increases in domestic violence before it translates into open armed conflict.” A recent report by Oxfam suggests that, postconflict, there is a continuation and often escalation in violence against women in the home (Villardo and Bittar 2018). This is possible because women are primarily viewed as victims rather than agents, and it means that women who are active in terrorism, who are violent, or who are radicalized are largely ignored by antiradicalization policies and programs. There are no programs to date that deliberately target women’s radicalization qua women, or that considers their radicalization as problematic in and of itself. WomEx, a two-​year project in Germany, now discontinued, sought to define the impact of gender aspects in methodologies for action on deradicalization and hate crime rehabilitation. WomEx observed that the gender dimension has not been systematically and conceptually considered in the exit-​support procedure (Cultures Interactive, 2014). More recent research, including interviews with CVE practitioners across Europe, found an absence of women-​focused programs. As one interviewee stated, “Even though gender is really pushed in terms of policy and CVE policy . . . it’s not something being addressed on the ground” (Schmidt 2018, p. 26). Still, providing they behave appropriately, women who join radical groups such as Daesh are viewed as tragedies and as victims who need rescuing—​and once rescued, the assumption is that they will return to their natural moderate and peaceful state. Women’s radicalization is only presented as a problem because of their potential to promote radicalization in men or to act as spoilers in antiradicalization programs in communities. To date, women are included and imagined in antiradicalization work generally as peacemakers and moderators. The highly essentialist language of UN Security Council Resolutions (2242, for example) portrays women as the redeemers of sons, husbands, and communities (Lewis & Crawford 2015). Women’s contributions to countering (male) radicalization are usually presented as women’s presumed innate ability to highlight and offset the harms and trauma to society or individuals by (male) radicalization; also, because they are assumed to be linked to the state via their relations to others, their contribution is to humanize, or even feminize, the costs of violent extremism, thereby justifying further state chivalric rescue. In other words, women’s participation and role in countering radicalization have been to harness an ability to highlight the potential emotional cost and effective damage of violent extremism and radicalization. The emotional

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pleas made by mothers of radicals in various antiradicalization campaigns, or of mothers who have fled conflict zones, epitomize this approach. In contrast, men’s roles in antiradicalization are about showing the practical wrongs of violent extremism and challenging the underlying political causes of a particular group: when men engage in antiradicalization efforts, they do so to challenge the rational arguments. This difference in how men and women’s roles are understood, could be interpreted as a positive recognition of women’s specific knowledge and experience of (anti)radicalization. However, in practice, women are rarely assumed to be bearers of knowledge about radicalization—​they must be taught the signs by outside experts rather than know them through experience or the knowledge of those in their lives. Korir (2016) acknowledges in relation to antiradicalization efforts in Kenya that “excluding women from conversations [about CVE] has been a missed opportunity: women often head their families and generally spend more time with their children since they are their primary caregivers, and they spend much of their time in the settlement. For these reasons, they are often the holders of key information related to the men and boys in their lives.” Yet women’s knowledge of radicalization has been excluded from the discussion. This stems from the chivalric protectionist logic that underpins antiradicalization efforts, where antiradicalization enterprises are assumed to require the application of rationality (read:  a Western, white, and male perspective) to the problem of radicalization (assumed as an emotional imbalance, nonmale, and nonwhite). This issue was made clear in the autumn of 2019 when it was revealed that Super Sisters, an organization promoting women’s empowerment in the UK, received P/​CVE funding but also that its leadership and majority of employees were white, non-​Muslim men. The Muslim women who contributed to the material and content of the website and other programs said their religious knowledge and perspectives were often written out of pieces in heavy-​handed editorial processes by the leadership of J-​Go Media (Iqbal 2019). When we do look at women as victims in these programs, we see that their impact derives from a paternalist logic that justifies intervention in ordinary lives in the name of security, yet fails to deliver. There is a gendered differential in the impact of counter-​radicalization measures. Although the rhetoric of countering terrorism is often couched in a narrative of women’s rights and liberal values, the research here and elsewhere demonstrates that the consequences are often detrimental to these precepts. Gendering our analysis of radicalization and counter-​ radicalization means more than adding women as a variable. Gendering is about recognizing the gender inequalities and gender ideologies that underpin

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the phenomena under study. Gender is a structural feature of social and political life that defines and is defined by actors’ understandings of antiradicalization. Building better antiradicalization programs requires understanding the ways in which gender practices inform not only individual decisions to join radical groups or participate in violent extremism but also how gender ideologies shape the ideologies of violent extremism, and how gender inequalities feed into the structural inequalities that generate conflict (Brown 2017). Exploring how masculinity and femininity are constituted in radicalization processes has allowed for antiradicalization practitioners to construct simple binaries that are presented as viable alternatives. However, they depend on oversimplified understandings of deviant masculinity and idealized concepts of fatherhood. Male radicalization is unreflectively linked to an excessive and flawed masculinity, and women’s radicalization depends on orientalist stereotypes about passivity and subjugation as they are presumed to be “groomed.” Solutions for male deradicalization therefore hinge on particular ideals of masculinity that few (white) men can obtain, while deradicalizing women is seen as a rescue mission. Radicalization is constructed through these gender ideologies that underpin antiradicalization policies as a problem of personality—​either of the individual radicals or in the broader populations. This understanding led to an emphasis on gender equality as a solution to radicalization. Policymakers, national leaders, and activists have claimed that formal and social gender equality in a society or community are markers of resilience to radicalization. Here, implementing gender equality is presented as an apolitical and technocratic exercise that can come about through the correct application of expertise and training of the recipient population or community. This approach ignores decades of feminist research that looks at deep structural inequalities, which are intensely political, and decontextualizes gender inequality for other structural constraints, such as race and class. Gender inequality is treated as behavior rather than a deep structural condition. Even where radicalized individuals and radical groups have come from theoretically gender-​equal societies, the presumption is that there is a difference in their local milieu—​namely, these are presented as localized and abnormal sites of gender inequality—​which can be rectified through empowerment measures and leadership training of women. Such gender analysis also highlights the crisscrossing layers of power defined by race and class. It is no coincidence that antiradicalization and deradicalization programs offer an opportunity for “white men to save brown women from brown men” (per Spivak, 1988, p. 84). It is also worth noting the significant risks of the antiradicalization agenda co-​opting

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feminist ideals to re-​create imperial feminism (where white women get to save brown women from brown men) (Mohanty 1991). Fekete (2004) asked a decade ago whether the state was racist, and her analysis concluded in the affirmative. However, alternatives are available when it comes to understanding gender and gender equality. Gender also operates as a transformative category of antiradicalization work. One of the key insights from this research is how gender analysis reveals that antiradicalization efforts are predicated on a common goal toward order and stability. Such order and stability are dependent upon a return to the status quo ante, that is, to the conditions prior to the radicalization that is imagined as an infection in an otherwise healthy state-​civilian-​society relationship. However, if we as feminists look for peace rather than stability as the outcome or objective of antiradicalization measures, as we are frequently minded to, then a transformative potential emerges. Duncanson (2016) identifies this peace as inclusive, expansive, and transformative. An inclusive peace, she argues, breaks down the self-​other dichotomy through empathy and compassion. An expansive peace transcends formal and institutionally embedded ideas of peace as the absence of fighting toward an everyday peace, which includes broader human security requirements. A  transformative peace breaks down neoliberal economics, which she identifies as failing men and women in postconflict societies. She goes on to argue that gender equality is mutually constitutive of peace, and in doing so avoids the instrumentalism (“gender equality leads to peace”) prominent in the Women, Peace and Security agenda. Instead Duncanson argues that gender equality itself is peace. Seeing antiradicalization efforts as part of peacekeeping and peacebuilding, rather than as restoring a previous (vulnerable) stability and order, reveals a number of shortcomings in current antiradicalization efforts. The first is to realize that antiradicalization efforts are not necessarily better than hard measures of kinetic counterterrorism approaches, because they rely on the same masculinist, protectionist logic and violence. As the previous chapter showed, in rehabilitation centers, in mentoring programs, and across the spectrum of counter-​radicalization activities, we see a dependency upon a militarized logic even as these initiatives are offered as alternatives to the violence of “radical extremism.” This failure to consider how alternative peaceful masculinities might feature in antiradicalization limits the possibility for a long-​lasting or sustainable peace. Second, although antiradicalization measures may be presented as less coercive and less violent than militarized counterterrorism operations, they nevertheless rely on a binary of rights versus security and, as

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demonstrated, reinforce authoritarian and paternalist tendencies in state attitudes. Security is seen as order and stability. What we see therefore is that, with antiradicalization efforts, “there is greater militarization of public security and diminished equality before the law” (Mahmoud 2016). Thus, alongside the paternalist protection, the emphasis on security and stability undermines the ability to critique the state or dissent without becoming radical. However, while dissent is contained, antiradicalization efforts being framed as they are also absolves states of their responsibility for creating extremism by focusing on particular elements in the radicalization narrative. Third, relying on paternalist and maternalist logics replicates the limited thinking in extremist narratives. Antiradicalization programs present the “correct version” of gendered living and believing (one that does not threaten the state) in much the same way that extremist groups present their “correct versions.” The consequence is that individuals are denied agency because they are not given the option to critique for themselves the versions being presented, nor are they given the opportunity to create and generate their own ideals. This engenders a very limited form of loyalty and security for the state because it replicates the same logic as extremist thought—​of a binary and of an omnipotent state or group that has possession of the sole truth on a particular topic or issue. The infantilizing of populations is apparent as they are denied or at least have questioned their capacity for self-​governance.

ALTERNATIVES

Facing these obstacles, how can diverse women’s knowledge, peace, security, and experiences be included in antiradicalization discussions in more inclusive ways? Very few countries have systematic policies for deradicalizing or countering the radicalization of women. Little empirical evidence is available. However, it is possible to draw on the principles of the Women, Peace and Security (WPS) agenda and examples from how women are treated in disarmament, disengagement, and reintegration (DDR) programs and the wider involvement of women in peace processes and DDR planning as a result of the WPS agenda. This approach offers a good comparison because, like counterterrorism and antiradicalization policies, DDR programs typically only considered women’s involvement in conflict in narrow ways: predominantly as victims or only in secondary noncombatant roles. However, criticism of this narrow view of women from activists, policymakers,

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and academics in this field has been more vocal and influential than in the antiradicalization and counterterrorism fields, and has led to some revisions of DDR programming in practice. Based on these developments, we can identify lessons that can be transferred from the DDR world to antiradicalization measures.

The Women, Peace and Security Agenda

As noted in ­chapter  2, the WPS agenda “is predicated on the principle that effective incorporation of gender perspectives . . . can have a meaningful and positive impact on the lives of women, men, girls, and boys on the ground” (UNSCR 1325). The increasingly influential WPS agenda has four pillars: participation and promotion, prevention, protection, and relief and recovery. The WPS agenda has not been without critics (see Kirby and Shepherd 2016). In particular, Kirby and Shepherd (2016) argue that a narrowing of the agenda’s original scope has occurred, reducing it to the traditional politics of security rather than reimagining what security means. Particular criticism to keep in mind is that despite increases in women participating in peacekeeping and peacebuilding operations, participation alone is no guarantee of influence. Indeed, the bar seems very low; merely having a female body at peace talks seems sufficient in the eyes of many (Coomaraswamy et al. 2015). Second, there is little crossover from the WPS agenda into other areas of security. For example, Kirby and Shepherd (2016) discuss the work of the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom, which found that less than 20  percent of UN Security Council Resolutions on Iraq between 2001 and 2016 reflected on or contained language pertaining to the WPS agenda. Critically, not one of these contained WPS language in operative paragraphs. In contrast, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), all twenty-​four resolutions include WPS language and mostly in the operative paragraphs. Thus, while WPS operates in “old wars,” it doesn’t yet have influence in “new wars” that relate to counterterrorism and antiradicalization. We also see a narrowing of focus to conflict-​related sexual violence, which precludes recognition of the “continuum of violence” that characterizes the experiences of many individuals whose lives are marked by everyday violence that occurs everywhere (Kirby and Shepherd 2016, p. 380). Finally, as Hudson (2013) notes, there is a state-​centrism in the WPS agenda despite the need for regional action plans (given that conflicts rarely stay within national boundaries) and despite the essential work of civil society organizations—​which are now relegated to supporting roles. Yet despite

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these failings and disappointments in WPS implementation, especially for its early advocates following a feminist ethic of hope and a feminist peace, there are alternative framings based on gender centrality that encourage a focus not only on participation but on the wider structures and environments that limit effectiveness and outcomes of that participation (Ní Aoláin, Haynes and Cahn 2011)—​that requires looking at goals and values, as well as the institutions that are needed to implement them.

DDR (Disarmament, Demobilization, and Reintegration)

DDR has three phases around which activities and programs are organized. In the first phase, the emphasis is on disarmament. Here, information about combatants is collected to get an idea of the size, profile, and deployment of the forces involved, and the number and type of weapons. Combatants are brought to disarmament sites and voluntarily disarmed; weapons and ammunition are decommissioned and destroyed. The second phase is the demobilization of militias and other forces. A key element is the separation of combatants from command-​and-​control structures. After a period of verification, individuals receive identity and discharge papers that recognize their military involvement and give them access to assistance programs. The final stage is reintegration, recognized as a complex process in which ex-​combatants return to communities to adjust to civilian life. During this phase, counseling, specialist health services, education, microcredit schemes, public work projects, and so on typify efforts to enable ex-​combatants and the communities they rejoin to adjust. The objective is to move a society toward a long-​term, sustainable, and positive peace, and this longer-​term objective guides the three phases.

DDR Gender-​M ainstreaming Successes

As the longer-​term goal of DDR is a sustainable peace, upholding liberal values of human rights and achieving goals of freedom, fairness, and safety are considered as essential. For these to be realized, women’s participation and empowerment are central. This has led to growing recognition of “child-​centered” and “women-​centered” DDR processes, which take into account women’s and children’s specific needs (Hauge 2015; Inter-​Agency World Group on DDR 2012; McLeod and O’Reilly 2019). As Patel and Westermann (2018) put it programs are more successful when policies incorporate “the challenges posed by women and for women” (p. 53). These

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include maternity and neonatal care, play spaces, and age-​appropriate trauma care. Recognizing that an ex-​combatant’s identity is not simply that of an individual but often tied to that of a family, DDR processes now involve longer, more holistic family reintegration programs. In addition, in South America, we have seen the introduction of gender-​aware and gender-​ responsive interventions in DDR, which means not only thinking about women’s needs but including an awareness that societal conceptions of masculinity and individual violent masculinities are in need of reform in order to gain long-​term peace. Finally, we are also seeing the introduction of gender centrality to the peace process—​that is, considering the broader gendered context in which DDR happens such that empowerment and broader social transformation toward sustainable peace for all is achieved.

DDR Gender-​M ainstreaming Failures and Limitations

Despite these advances, there remain some failings and limitations in DDR processes. First, as with antiradicalization measures, women are still not seen as security threats. Their military activities are often unacknowledged (often because male commanders take their weapons from them), and they often do not have leadership roles (and are even less likely to have formal leadership experience in combat areas), so they are not prioritized in DDR planning or in the minds of security officials who dominate the DDR processes. Consequently, the skills women acquire in war—​including cookery, computing, communication, logistics, and mechanical repairs—​are also not recognized. Women are often offered irrelevant “skills training” based on gender stereotypes to help with reintegration, such as beauty and cosmetic applications and sewing training. Such provision is often offered to women regardless of their personal interests. Former male combatants are offered a more diverse range of training (albeit also gendered, such as car mechanics, agricultural work, computing, or construction). A  significant failing is that rarely does the DDR process consider the gendered motivations for women’s participation in conflicts, and so their underlying grievances are often ignored. In particular, land rights are key to many women and are often key to women’s postconflict empowerment, but these are rarely considered in the DDR or peace settlement processes. The reason is that DDR and postconflict reconstruction efforts are frequently treated as technical and apolitical processes to be implemented by experts, thereby ignoring preexisting structural inequalities (Bergeron et al. 2017). Finally, while policy often recognizes that gender is important,

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at the implementation level we find that gender experts are not qualified for interacting and advising in the DDR process, and DDR experts are not qualified to consider gender. As a result, despite recognition and verbal confirmation of gender mainstreaming in DDR, in reality, too few people are trained in this area and it is therefore overlooked at the planning, implementation, and evaluation stages. Additionally, while politicians and advisers affirm the importance of women in the peace process, there is a distinct lack of guidance about how to implement the goals and an associated lack of resources to implement them. In practice, therefore, women’s participation and gender-​aware activities in DDR remain desirable rather than essential.

ANTIRADICALIZATION ALTERNATIVES AND LESSONS TO BE LEARNED

The first set of lessons are goal-​and values-​oriented and stem from ideas about gender centrality and seeing gender equality as co-​constitutive of peace. If the end goal of antiradicalization activities can be seen as peace through preempting and preventing future extremist violence, then recognizing the advances of a feminist analysis of peace in antiradicalization framing is essential. The second set of lessons is focused on operational objectives—​ seeking policy alternatives that are rooted in challenging the whole-​life narratives that contemporary extremist groups present. The alternatives are rooted in a human rights–​compliant framework that seeks to enhance the security of individuals as well as the state. The third set of lessons is pragmatic; it requires sufficient material and political investment—​the tactical changes and lessons drawn from the review of DDR and WPS. The UN secretary-​general recognized this in 2016, stating that, “In order to build counter-​narratives and counter-​strategies and pave the way for reparations and redress . . . it is critical to invest in the capacity of women’s groups to lead grass-​roots efforts to counter extremism and youth radicalization” (UN Security Council, (UNSC) 2016, para. 22). These are, however, general requests and recommendations for policymakers, out of which practical steps and policies can be seen, especially as they pertain to each of the pillars of the WPS agenda. Applying the first pillar would encourage women’s participation in all aspects of a country’s antiradicalization efforts and promote women’s leadership in this field by encouraging women experts (Krause, Krause, and Bränfors 2018). This requires seeing women not only as police officers who tackle women’s issues or part of female engagement teams to bodily search

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women, but also including them in the wider remit of antiradicalization efforts. This includes adapting and accepting feminist ideals of gender equality and peace in program design. For example, this might lead to challenging the tendency toward militarized boot camps for deradicalizing individuals (as in France, and touted in the UK) that replicate the problematic masculinities of violent groups, and instead promoting alternative peaceful masculinities. Related is the importance of acknowledging women’s awareness of radicalization, taking seriously their insights into the process and the implications on their lives of particular programs and policies. This will improve understanding of radicalization processes and of those measures that are effective or ineffective in countering them. This does not necessarily mean women are equipped to resolve radicalization. Overall, and echoing the findings of Chowdhury-​Fink et al. (2016), without including women in the conceptualization, implementation, and evaluation stages, critical opportunities to enhance the effectiveness, sustainability, and relevance of antiradicalization measures are likely to be lost (p. 14). The second pillar concerns the implementation of prevention measures and ensuring they are gender-​sensitive. Examples include:  when considering kinetic military-​style raids to ensure the provision of safe houses for women and children; for training on signs for radicalization to also consider how these signs manifest differently in girls and boys, while also recognizing that underlying causes and drivers remain similar. There is a need to recognize that violent extremism and radicalization affects men and women differently, and therefore that prevention measures address men and women accordingly. The third prioritizes the protection of women’s rights and protecting women and children, especially in the legal and political realm, such as by training judges and police about their duties regarding existing laws to protect women and their rights. It is important to do this without instrumentalizing women’s rights or their empowerment. Instrumentalization undermines rights provision in the long term, as the rights can always be sacrificed for security in the short term and are rarely regained. Avoiding instrumentalization and protecting women’s human rights and those of children can be achieved, for example, by encouraging police and other relevant authorities to investigate sexual violence against women, including domestic violence, as a holistic approach to community resilience and homeland security. These measures incorporate the continuum of violence that defines many people’s experiences of radicalization. Such prioritization and non-​instrumentalization of rights, has to be set in a context of broader human rights compliance, and states need to

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recognize the tensions between kinetic security-​oriented counterterrorism operations and other approaches that seek to build trust with vulnerable or afflicted communities. Additionally, as Pratt and Richter-​Devroe (2010) remind us, it’s important as well to avoid using women’s well-​being as an excuse or cover-​up for (military) intervention, thereby maintaining global hierarchies. The final pillar focuses on provision of appropriate gender-​sensitive economic, welfare, and health services, before, during, and after a conflict or terrorist attack—​for example, having safe houses for women returning from radical groups, providing maternal and neonatal care, and offering economic welfare and benefits for women left by family members who have joined radical groups. Deradicalization programs need to be gender specific and recognize the complex agency of women—​as neither always with free choices or entirely coerced. Research by Herjeet Marway (2015) shows how current models of women’s roles in antiradicalization are predicated on a neoliberal vision of agency and autonomy that ignores insights from feminist theories of women’s selfhood and identity.

GENDERING ANTIRADICALIZATION

The opening sections of this book established how radicalization is conceived of in counterterrorism, antiradicalization, and security realms. While the processes of radicalization are widely acknowledged to be complex and largely unknown, governments and global institutions nevertheless seek to counter and prevent it. The rationale is that being radical is a necessary precursor to violent extremism and terrorism. The willingness to use violence is in itself labeled as radical, but “radicalization” as we find it in policy distinguishes any form of everyday violence from violence that is linked to radical belief or ideology. The focus is therefore upon how radical beliefs and ideologies infiltrate or taint particular individuals—​those deemed to be at risk or vulnerable to radicalization. Consequently, and despite viewing terrorism as a problem of faulty belief, the politics, beliefs, and ideologies of radical groups are therefore not considered the primary point of analysis in radicalization, but rather the suspect or vulnerable individual or community with whom the ideology resonates. Therefore I  have focused on how these individuals are constructed within radicalization and antiradicalization policies. Although women radicals are acknowledged in research and policy statements, they are viewed as incidental or statistical anomalies and can be ignored in the generation of theory, policy, and programs. We also find that male

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terrorists are feminized through seeing their actions as the outcome of radicalization processes rather than their knowledge of their world. The limitation is that antiradicalization policies are formulated based on incomplete and biased data. The second element of the book has been to ask: Where are the women in antiradicalization efforts? In the first place, women are seen as victims of male extremism, pawns in a male affair, duped and seduced to leave otherwise safe spaces. In the second instance, women are incorporated as allies in the realm of antiradicalization. Certainly, there are examples of women tirelessly working to promote resilience, counter radicalization in their communities, and empower other women generally for that purpose. However, invariably their value—​their understanding of their efforts—​ repeats and fits into a narrative of women as allies because of their relationships to men, as mothers, sisters, daughters, and wives, rather than because of their relationships to the state as citizens. Antiradicalization measures are revealed to be premised on a maternal logic, which rests on a particular view of women as inevitably moderate, peaceful, and domestic goddesses. The maternal logic when inserted into existing security and terrorism paradigms becomes a vehicle to essentialize women and gloss over their insecurity in the everyday spaces and private realm. Such a move makes it possible to ignore the physical and emotional risks to women when they are co-​opted into antiradicalization efforts. The third element of this book has been to recognize that gender is not synonymous with women. In asking where women are, men become visible as men in antiradicalization efforts. The first men made visible are “radical men” viewed through the lens of deviant masculinities; radical men subsequently become “not real men” in the eyes of the state for their failure to control or channel their violence to legitimate ends. Their presumed failure, as becoming abject, is essential to understanding how antiradicalization measures become a protection racket. However, the other men made visible in antiradicalization programs are the men who carry out the required roles of mentor, killer, and protector. As with how women are constructed through a maternal logic, men are constructed through a complementary paternal logic. This logic prioritizes a hypermasculinity in antiradicalization actors, who must be courageous heroes risking their lives against deranged radicals, but also strict yet fair disciplinarians to those who are believed to be rehabilitated and redeemed. Bringing the two logics of maternalism and paternalism together, via an analysis of chivalric masculinity, brings us to the fourth step in the argument:  antiradicalization measures operate as a gendered protection racket. Two steps are involved: first, the masculinities supported through

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antiradicalization discourses are premised on a chivalric defense of the citizens. Such chivalric masculinity as is evident in antiradicalization programs only operates if we assume that “bad men are lurking to attack women” and further believe in the existence of helpless feminized victims who are not capable of defending themselves. In this situation, the radical is the discarded and abject other of the chivalric masculine state hero. Second, the more that societies accept an increasingly authoritarian and paternalistic state power, which derives its support partly from the unity a threat produces, the more that societies are expected to extend their gratitude for protection. Symbiotically, there is a proliferation of securitization, where greater areas of ordinary life are reclassified as security concerns—​thereby furthering the range of state interest in everyday private lives in order to protect. The fifth and final element of this book is the provision of an alternative framing of antiradicalization, one rooted in a feminist peace and a commitment to men’s and women’s rights. The reorienting of antiradicalization measures is necessary if they are to overcome their inherent limitations as revealed by the previous chapters. In particular, the earlier chapters have shown how antiradicalization measures are designed to restore order and the status quo ante to radicalization, and so prioritize stabilizing populations and containing radical threats over a sustainable human security. A feminist peace is revealed to be inclusive (of men and women, and diversity across class and race), expansive (addressing the continuum of violence and broad spectrum of rights), and transformative (dismantling neoliberal and governance structures that underpin gender inequalities) (Duncanson 2016; Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom 2016). To implement this vision, one route is to adapt the WPS pillars and draw on lessons learned from the DDR process. Gender ideologies, practices, and norms are essential to understanding the strengths and weaknesses of antiradicalization, and antiradicalization politics influence and shape gender norms, practices, and ideologies. At best, therefore, without radically redefining antiradicalization in relation to an inclusive, expansive, and transformative peace, antiradicalization measures reinforce existing racial and gender hierarchies, even as they purport to promote gender equality. Understanding the gendered nature and gendered impact of antiradicalization efforts reveals the limits to current state efforts as constrained to ideas about stability and order. Understanding how masculinity and femininity are constituted in antiradicalization efforts also shows how limited in effectiveness they will be in achieving even this restricted agenda. Understanding the gendered impacts and how they intersect across race and class reveals that,

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ultimately, antiradicalization efforts as they are currently constructed represent an elaborate protection racket that fails in its basic provision of providing security for all. The alternative is to relocate antiradicalization and redefine it according to a feminist peace initiative, one that is inclusive, expansive, and transformative.

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NOTES

CHAPTER 1 1. The report was never officially published. It is however reprinted in: Coolsaet, R. (2008). Jihadi Terrorism and the Radicalisation Challenge. European and American Experiences. 2nd edition. Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate. Appendix. Fernando Reinares et al. Radicalisation Processes Leading to Acts of Terrorism: Report Prepared by the European Commission`s Expert Group on Violent Radicalisation. Brussels, May 15, 2008, pp. 269–​328. 2. Some of this section comes from ­chapter 2 in Pearson, E., Winterbotham, E and Brown, K. E. (2020) Making CVE Work, Making Gender Matter. London: Palgrave. Pp. tbc. 3. Of course this is not unique to the field of terrorism studies, as Scott’s (1988) compelling, and still pertinent, critique of how gender is treated by historians and the disciplines of history and politics. 4. Some of this section is drawn from Brown, K. E. (2017) “Gender and Terrorist Movements” in C. Duncanson and R. Woodward (eds.) Handbook of Gender and the Military. London: Palgrave, pp. 419–​435. 5. I am using the term Daesh to refer to the group that was original ISIL, then ISIS, then simply IS or Islamic State. Daesh is a term used to diminish the legitimacy of the group by refusing to acknowledge its claim to statehood. Please refer to Brown (2018a). 6. The Prosecutor v. Al Hassan Ag Abdoul Aziz Ag Mohamed Ag Mahmoud. ICC-​01/​ 12-​01/​18. 7. Some of this section is found in Brown, K. E (2020) “Religious Violence and Post-​Secular Counter Terrorism” International Affairs 96(2): 279–​303. 8. Please see Bonner (2008) for a good account. 9. King, Unfulfilled Hopes, Sermon Delivered at Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, April 5, 1959, pp. 359–​367. King annotated the chapter titled “Shattered Dreams” in his personal copy of J. Wallace Hamilton’s Horns and Halos in Human Nature (pp. 25–​34). Also recorded as part of his sermons in Atlanta between July 1962–​March 1963. Clayborne Carson, Susan Carson, Susan Englander, Troy Jackson, and Gerald L. Smith, eds. (2007). The Papers of Martin Luther King, Jr. Volume VI: Advocate of the Social Gospel, September 1948—​March 1963, (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press). 10. See also Mamdani (2004) and Birt (2006) for a discussion on how the good Islam vs. Bad Islam divide is linked to and operates in the war on terror.

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11. I would like to thank one of the reviewers for insisting I make this underpinning argument clear and obvious. 12. See also Aarten et al. (2018) for an idea of how vicitimization narratives also play out in the self-​understanding and identity narratives of “radicals” as they work through the deradicalization process. CHAPTER 2 1. Some of this section comes from the author’s coauthored work with UNWomen, Gender Mainstreaming Principles, Dimensions and Priorities for PVE. New York: UN Women HQ. Available at: https://​www.unwomen.org/​en/​digital-​library/​ publications/​2019/​09/​gender-​mainstreaming-​principles-​dimensions-​and-​ priorities-​for-​pve. My co-​contributors for that work were Laura Shepherd and Jayne Huckerby, whose expertise and contribution were invaluable. 2. See variously Council of Europe Committee of Ministers (2015), “The Fight against Violent Extremism and Radicalization Leading to Terrorism—​Action Plan,” May 19, CM(2015)74, Brussels: Council of Europe; T. Sharif and J. Richards, “Towards a Continental Strategy for Countering Violent Extremism in Africa,” Global Peace Operations Review, December 19, 2016; Joint Statement of Special ASEAN Defense Ministers’ Meeting on Countering Violent Extremism (CVE), Radicalization and Terrorism, October 24, 2017, http://​asean.org/​joint-​ statement-​of-​special-​asean-​defence-​ministers-​meeting-​on-​countering-​violent-​ extremism-​cve-​radicalization-​and-​terrorism/​ 3. As contained in: A/​RES/​62/​272 (2008); A/​RES/​64/​297 (2010); A/​RES/​66/​282 (2012); A/​RES/​68/​276 (2014); A/​RES/​70/​291 (2016), A/​RES/​72/​284 (2018). 4. Kinetic derives from kinetic military operations, which means the use or display of military force to influence others and potentially to have lethal effects. For more discussion see Ford (2020). 5. The European Commission is the EU’s politically independent executive arm. It is responsible for drawing up proposals for new European legislation, and it implements the decisions of the European Parliament and the Council of the EU. 6. Some information and text in this section is derived from Pearson, Winterbotham, and Brown (2020). 7. According to the Home Office media blog factsheet: “Channel is a voluntary, confidential programme which operates throughout England and Wales to safeguard people identified as vulnerable to being drawn into terrorism”. It is an individualized counter and deradicalization programme (HM Government 2019). 8. The five principles are politicized in a speech known as “The Birth of Pancasila” on June 1, 1945, by Sukarno, in which he highlighted the unity of Indonesia, social welfare, monotheism, an internationalism based on justice and humanity, and representative democracy. 9. Kodoms are more than simply garrisons; they also enable the military to engage and override local politics. The removal of some kodoms were central to a number of peace negotiations with secessionist movements, such as Aceh. 10. The Swat Valley is part of the Swat District, in Malakand Division of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa province in Pakistan. 11. Muslim groups sometimes refer to the idea of ‘reversion’ as opposed to ‘conversion’ to Islam, because they believe everyone is born Muslim. Therefore, they understand that people ‘revert’ to their original condition—​Islam. This is a controversial position, and is raised in later chapters.

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12. In the Netherlands the term allochthoon is used to describe those of non-​Dutch heritage, while autocthoon denotes those of Dutch heritage—​that is, those who are white Dutch. Anyone with a grandparent not of autocthoon origin is classified as allochthoon. I use the term “native Dutch” to describe the term autocthoon. These terms were officially taken out of use in March 2017 but retain some popular and unofficial usage. CHAPTER 3 1. There is a debate about terminology here, whether to label those who self-​ detonate bombs in the name of a particular cause as “martyrs” carrying out “martyrdom operations,” as this is the language used by groups who engage in these activities; alternatively, they are referred to as “suicide bombers,” as the death of the protagonist is almost inevitable. However, this is widely contested (Strenski 2003). When discussing women the acronym FST is often used—​ referring to “female suicide terrorist” and less often FSB—​“female suicide bomber.” An alternative is the term I prefer: “human bomber,” as it does not glorify their violence nor label them as suicidal. When I’m discussing the women, I refer to them as “human bombers” but when discussing the archetype that appears in research and policy, I use the more common “FST.” 2. “Jihadi,” “jihad,” and “jihadism” are complex terms but are often used as shorthand to refer to Islamic religious-​political violence and the people affiliated to it (Maher 2016). 3. Maskaliūnaitė (2015) deploys a similar division—​seeing theories of radicalisation divided by those that view motivation as internally or externally driven. 4. For a discussion about cults (or new religious movements) and gender please refer to Boeri 2002. 5. The UK Counter-​Terrorism and Security Act 2015 contains a duty on specified authorities to have due regard to the need to prevent people from being drawn into terrorism. This is also known as the PREVENT duty. 6. Laïcité is often translated as secularism, that is to summarise the prevailing beliefs about the proper relationship between religion and the State in France. However there is no fixed definition that captures the meaning and its role in French politics and national identity. Le Grand Robert dictionary defines it as a “political notion involving the separation of civil society and religious society, the State exercising no religious power and the churches exercising no political power” (1992, p. 915). It has constitutional status in Franche since 1946, “France is a Republic that is indivisibile, laïc, democratic and social. . . .” (French Constitution Art 2 (1958)). The term denotes a degree of suspicion in a way that the term ‘religious freedom’ does not. For the current French government’s discussion please review: https://​www.gouvernement.fr/​qu-​est-​ce-​que-​la-​ laicite. For an extended discussion please refer to: Troper (2000) and Gunn (2004). 7. Banlieu are suburbs of a large city. Banlieues are divided into autonomous administrative entities and do not constitute part of the city proper. The Banlieues are often socially and economically deprived areas, and also have an immigrant majority population. Please refer to Bonelli (2005) and Moran (2017). 8. Within Islamic discourses, adults who convert to Islam are known as “reverts” because of a belief that everyone is born Muslim.

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9. Political jamming is the deliberate alteration of representations of a logo, photo, or meme in order to subvert its meaning for the audience and thus disrupt its political or commercial use—​a form of what Lasn (1999) terms “meme warfare.” 10. I don’t raise her case often in this book. For a discussion on Lady Al Qaeda please refer to Gentry 2016. CHAPTER 4 1. Quietist Salafism refers to a dominant branch of Salafism which eschews politics and avoids direct political engagement. However it would be a mistake to ignore their influence on politics or to say they have no views on politics (Olidort 2016). 2. In Oxford 22 men were convicted of various sexual offences against underage girls in the English city of Oxford between 1998 and 2012. Trials were finally completed in 2020 (Race 2020). Organized child sexual abuse that occurred in the town of Rotherham, South Yorkshire, Northern England from the late 1980s until the 2010s, and the failure of local authorities to act on reports of the abuse throughout most of that period, led to a national outcry (Dearden 2019). In both cases media attention focused on the fact that the majority of victims were white girls and perpetrators had an Asian (Indian Subcontinent) background (Cockbain and Tufail 2020). 3. The Red Mosque Siege (also referred to as the Lal Majid Siege) was the culmination of a controversial series of events in 2007 in Isalmabad. Women from the mosque and madrassah had protested against the city authorities on a variety of issues over a six month period, and allegedly kidnapped other women from the city accusing them of running brothels. A final military operation ended an 8 day siege of the mosque and women’s madrassa, leaving approximatey 80 people dead and a number of others missing (Masood 2007; Blom 2011). The issue and mosque remains subject to court proceedings and controversy remains (Thompson 2016). CHAPTER 6 1. The Snowdon Revelations refer to the whistle blower Edward Snowdon and the release of NSA documents into the public domain in 2013 (Greenwald et al. 2013). 2. This section comes from my article in International Journal of Law, Crime, and Justice (2019b). 3. The United Nations Security Council has placed JI on the UN Al Qaeda Sanctions List. The list was last updated in 2018. https://​www.un.org/​securitycouncil/​ sanctions/​1267/​aq_​sanctions_​list/​summaries/​entity/​jemaah-​islamiyah. CHAPTER 7 1. The term “myth” is not to say that 9/​11 did not happen; myths often rely on historical narratives about past events. Rather, 9/​11 itself has been elevated to mythological status. A political myth, is defined by Bottici and Challand (2006) as “the continual process of work on a common narrative by which the members of a social group can provide significance to their political conditions and experience” (p. 320). See also Esch (2010). 2. As per the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Foucault’s point is that, at least for the study of human beings, the goals of power and the goals of knowledge cannot be separated: in knowing we control and in controlling we know (https://​ plato.stanford.edu/​entries/​foucault/​#HistPris).

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3. Purdah is a particular mode of institutionalised seclusion practiced by some Muslim and Hindu communities in order to separate (and therefore protect) women from men. It includes including confining women to the company of other women and close male relatives in their home or in separate female living quarters, veiling, self-​effacing mannerisms, and the separation of men and women in public places. It is also sometimes presented as metaphorical and sometimes physical curtain that “the . . . curtain separating the everyday worlds of women and men” (Weiss 1998, p. 125; Oxford Islamic Studies Online 2020). 4. This paragraph and discussion is derived from Brown 2019b.

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INDEX

For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages. Abase, Amira, 40 Abbas, Bin, 48–​49, 146 Abedi, Salman, 39 Abu Ghraib, 164–​65 Active Change Foundation, 42, 163 Afghanistan, 29, 37–​38, 49–​51, 53–​55, 67–​68, 70–​71,  175 African Peace Facility (APF), 36–​37 African Union (AU), 28 agency, agent, 4–​5, 6–​7, 9–​10, 12–​16, 19, 20, 21–​22, 25, 26–​27, 60, 65–​66, 77–​78, 83, 85, 88, 110, 118–​19, 137, 142–​43, 148, 172–​73, 175–​ 76, 177–​78, 183, 191, 193–​95, 203, 209 Ahmed, Mohammad, 65–​66 Aizzat, 111 al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, 81–​82 al Awamiya, 44 al Qaeda, 29, 39–​40, 43–​44, 74–​75, 82,  142–​43 al-​Bajadi, Mohammed, 184 Aldrovandi, Mara, 80 Algeria, 76–​77,  78–​79 al-​Ghomgham, Israa, 44 al-​Hathloul, Loujain,  183–​84 al-​Khansaa Brigade, 40, 83 al-​Mukmin Ngruki,  46–​47 al-​Qusayyer, Heila,  82–​83 al-​Sakkinah,  96–​97 al-​Shabaab, 82–​83, 123–​24,  138 Amnesty International, 3–​4, 43, 46, 165–​66,  167

Amn-​o-​Nisa,  97–​98 anak buah,  143–​44 Angola,  78–​79 antidote, 19, 33–​34, 52–​53, 93 Arab Spring, the, 44 Arafat, Yasser, 81 Aslam, Chaudry, 161–​62 Association of South East Nations (ASEAN),  28–​29 Attanmia Foundation, 130 Australia, 49, 92–​93, 124, 170 authority, 48–​49, 50, 76–​77, 88–​89, 123–​24, 127, 132–​33, 139, 143–​44, 148, 152, 174, 178, 188, 190 authority, religious, 17–​18, 76–​77 authoritarian, 24–​25, 122, 182–​83, 202–​3,  210–​11 Ba’asyir, Abu Bakar, 46–​47, 166 Baader-​Meinhof Gang, 79–​80. See also Meinhof, Ulrike Bajaka, Bilal, 56 bapakism,  143–​45 baron, barons, 110 Bashir, Kalsoom, 101–​2 Begum, Shamima, 40, 84, 192–​94 behavior, behavioral, 2–​4, 6–​7, 8–​9, 13–​14,  19 Bell, Helen, 102 belonging, 19, 64, 95–​96, 179, 182 belonging, modes of religious, 18 unbelonging, 75

Benyahia, Nicola, 127 Big Brother, 141, 143, 149–​50, 159 “Big R” religion, 19 Bin Laden, Osama, 43–​44 biology, biological, 6–​7, 20, 68, 88, 143–​44,  194–​95 biological determinism, 59–​60 biological essentialism, 96–​97, 112–​13 Black Panthers, Black Panther Party,  11–​12 Boko Haram, 65–​66, 77–​79, 138, 175 Boudreau, Christianne, 134 Boular, Safaa, 40–41, 65, 84 British Future, 163–​64 burqa, banning of, 186 CAGE, 127 Cameron, David, 1–​2, 3–​4, 40–​41, 64, 109–​10,  126 Canada Family Support, 134 capacity, 5, 13–​14, 15–​16, 18–​19, 22–​23, 24–​25, 29–​30, 31, 49, 63–​64, 65–​66, 88, 96–​98, 99, 106, 114–​ 15, 135, 178, 190, 192, 203, 207 capacity building, 97–​98, 100–​1 Carey, Mariah, 43–​44 Cartesian, 67 Catholic, Catholicism, 10–​11 causality, causal, 16–​18, 71–​72, 171, 198 Channel, 42, 153–​54 Chechnya, Chechen, 82, 169–​70 Chechen Kavkazskiy Emirat, 78–​79 Chibok girls, 188 China, 91 Chivalry, chivalric, 24–​25, 26, 159–​60, 163, 172–​81, 182–​83, 184–​85, 188–​89, 190, 191, 193, 199–​200,  210–​11 Choudhry, Roshonara, 39–​40 Ciciek, Farha, 94–​95 class, 108–​9, 111–​12, 118–​19, 120, 123–​24, 127, 143–​44, 152, 160, 163–​64, 194, 201–​2,  211–​12 coalition, 61–​62,  97–​98 coalition of the willing, 1–​2 Code Pink, 88–​89 coercion, coercive, 25, 64–​65, 77–​78, 141–​43, 159–​60, 202–​3,  209 cognition, cognitive, 2–​4, 59–​62, 84–​86 Cold War, the, 71–​72, 169–​70

[ 270 ] Index

collaboration, collaborative, 22, 127–​28,  188–​89 colonial, colonialism, 20, 49–​50, 71–​72,  174 anticolonial,  78–​79 post-​colonialism,  20 community, communal, 23–​24, 26, 30–​31, 32–​33, 36–​37, 40–​42, 43, 48–​49, 55–​57, 60, 68–​76, 87, 88–​89, 91, 92–​96, 97–​98, 99, 100–​1, 103–​5, 106, 107–​8, 111, 112–​13, 117–​19, 124–​29, 130–​31, 132–​34, 137, 143, 149–​50, 152, 153–​54, 155, 158–​59, 163–​64, 165, 179, 186, 189–​90, 195–​97, 199–​200, 201, 205, 206–​7,  208–​10 communitarianism,  117–​18 conceptualization, 38–​39, 125–​26, 208 Conley, Shannon, 82–​83 construct, constructed, construction, 4–​5, 6, 7–​8, 9, 14–​15, 20, 22, 25, 29, 38–​39, 67, 74–​75, 76, 97–​98, 107, 119–​20, 123–​24, 127–​28, 141, 143, 176–​77, 200–​1, 206–​7, 209–​10,  211–​12 Cordaid and Human Security Collective, the,  93–​94 Council of Europe, 28–​29 CDCT, 35 Countering Violent Extremism (CVE), 4–​6, 12–​13, 16, 28–​29, 30–​32, 34–​35, 41–​42, 43, 51–​52, 91, 93–​94, 100, 140, 148, 159–​60, 163–​64, 175–​76, 181, 185–​86, 196, 197–​99, 200 counterinsurgency, 1–​2, 9–​10, 15–​16, 29, 48–​49, 51–​52, 90–​91, 99, 194,  195–​96 counterintelligence, 9–​10, 155 counter-​radicalization, 1–​2, 5, 6, 21, 22–​23, 24–​25, 30–​31, 38–​57, 63–​64, 65–​66, 68–​70, 73–​75, 92, 96–​98, 102, 103, 104–​5, 112–​13, 120, 127–​28, 129, 135–​36, 138–​39, 143, 154, 159, 165, 176–​78, 179, 180–​81, 185–​86, 191–​92, 196–​97, 200–​1,  202 counterterrorism, 1–​2, 9–​11, 12–​13, 21–​22, 23–​24, 25, 26, 28, 29–​30,

31, 33–​34, 36–​39, 40–​42, 43, 46, 48, 49–​50, 51–​52, 53–​54, 55–​56, 77, 83, 90–​91, 99, 100–​1, 104–​5, 107, 129, 142–​43, 145, 147–​48, 149–​50, 154–​55, 157–​59, 161–​62, 165–​66, 168, 177, 181, 185–​88, 191–​92, 194, 196–​97, 202–​4,  208–​9 crime, criminal, criminality, 5, 6–​7, 44, 53–​54, 56, 60, 70–​72, 73–​74, 75, 77–​78, 79–​80, 107, 108–​10, 111–​12, 123–​24, 147–​48, 149–​50, 152, 153–​54, 156–​58, 161–​62, 165–​66, 167, 170, 178–​79, 183–​84, 187–​88, 189–​90, 193,  198–​99 criminal justice system (see justice) criminalization, criminalized, 26, 39–​40, 41–​42, 48, 56, 86, 105, 183, 184 criticism, 24–​25, 43, 58–​59, 81, 106, 117–​18, 152, 154–​55, 158–​59, 182–​84, 185, 186–​87,  203–​4 Cromer, Lord, 174 Crusades, the, 71–​72 culture, cultural, 6, 7, 16–​17, 20, 30–​31, 32, 35–​36, 40–​41, 54–​56, 68, 72–​73, 74–​76, 81, 85–​86, 90, 97–​99, 105–​6, 107–​10, 111–​12, 117–​18, 120, 122–​23, 124–​25, 127–​28, 131–​33, 139, 141, 143–​44, 148, 152–​53, 154, 158–​59, 164–​66, 172, 174, 179,  198–​99 intercultural, 5, 30–​31 multicultural, 40–​41, 68–​69, 73,  125–​26 subculture, 75, 107–​8, 148 Daesh, 10–​11, 21, 22, 25, 30, 39, 40, 43, 46, 49–50, 52, 64, 65–​66, 68–​69, 73, 77–​78, 82–​85, 91–​92, 102–​3, 104–​5, 107, 119–​20, 121, 124–​26, 129–​30, 134–​35, 138, 175–​76, 183–​84, 191–​93,  199 Dare, Grace, 40 Daughters of Faith, 11–​12. See also Dukhtara-​e-​Millat DDR, 21–​22, 191, 203–​4, 205–​7 de Beauvoir, Simone, 7 de Fries, Katharina, 119–​20

de Menezes, Jean Charles, 156–​57 Deen, Adam, 163 Deguaque, Murielle, 72–​73 Denmark, 148, 196–​97 deradicalization, 4–​5, 25, 35–​36, 40, 42–​43, 44, 45–​46, 48, 51–​53, 55–​56, 57, 60–​61, 64, 68–​69, 73–​74, 77, 104–​5, 120–​21, 126–​27, 133, 135–​36, 143, 145–​47, 148, 152, 163, 165, 183–​84, 191–​93, 194–​95, 196–​97, 198–​99, 200–​2,  209 deviance, deviancy, deviant, 1–​3, 6, 7, 9–​10, 68, 79–​81, 86, 96–​97, 105, 110, 119–​20, 145, 148, 182, 200–​1,  210 DG DEVCO, 36–​37 DG EAC, 34 dialogue, 5, 18–​19, 30–​31, 45–​46, 51–​53, 94, 95–​97, 129–​30, 163, 172 disaggregated, disaggregation, 6–​7,  43–​44 discipline, 2–​3, 19, 58–​59, 100, 112–​13, 149 disciplinarianism, 23–​24, 143–​44, 210 disciplinary, 71–​72, 181 discourse, 9, 12–​16, 19–​20, 21–​25, 26–​27, 38–​39, 40–​41, 64–​67, 77, 89–​90, 94–​95, 105–​7, 108–​10, 111, 112–​13, 126–​28, 138–​39, 145, 154, 169–​70, 172–​73, 175, 210–​11 Dujana, Abu, 166 Dukhtara-​e-​Millat (Daughters of Faith),  11–​12 education, 5, 30–​31, 34–​35, 37–​38, 45–​47, 52–​53, 54–​55, 67–​69, 96–​99, 102–​3, 111, 121, 123–​25, 127, 130, 145–​46, 186–​87, 205 re-​education,  52–​53 EENet,  34–​35 el-​Bathy, Nora,  130–​31 el-​Faisal, Abdullah, 137 emancipation, emancipatory, 13–​14, 78–​80,  103–​4 Emergency Trust Fund for Africa (EUTF),  36–​37 empowerment, 13, 32, 33–​34, 36–​38, 40–​41, 94–​95, 96, 100, 101–​2, 103–​4, 124–​25, 126–​27, 163, 175–​76, 200, 201, 205–​7, 208–​9

Index  [ 271 ]

European Commission, EC, 4–​5, 35 European Neighbourhood Initiative (ENI),  36–​37 European Parliament, EP, 35, 69–​70 European Union, EU, 4–​5, 12–​13, 69–​70, 91, 100, 163 Council of the European Union, 100 EU Radicalization Awareness Network (RAN), 12, 34–​36, 163 EUROPOL, 34–​35, 53–​54,  70–​71 Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (ETA), 65 EXIT, 148, 196–​97 Extreme Dialogue, 163 Faith Associates, 100–​1 Families for Life, 127 Family Online Safety Institute (FOSI),  131–​33 Farooq, Mohammed Umar, 152–​53 father, fatherhood, 6, 23–​24, 35–​36, 62, 82–​83, 109–​10, 116–​17, 121, 122–​23, 124–​25, 127–​28, 130–​31, 135–​36,  200–​1 Female foreign terrorist fighter (FFTF), 58 Female suicide terrorist (FST), 58 feminine, femininity, 6, 8–​9, 25, 79–​81, 164–​65, 200–​1,  211–​12 feminism, feminist, 7, 9–​11, 14–​15, 19, 20–​21, 22–​24, 29, 67, 77–​80, 81, 89–​90, 95, 115–​18, 124–​26, 138–​39, 182–​83, 194–​95, 198–​203, 204–​5, 207–​8, 209,  211–​12 feudal, feudalism, 49–​50, 110 Foreign terrorist fighter (FTF), 53–​54, 84, 193 FORUM, 106 Foucault, Michel, 170–​71, 177–​78 Fox News Sunday, 187 France, 69–​71, 74–​75, 84–​85, 109, 121, 130–​31, 151, 160, 166–​67, 186, 189–​90,  207–​8 CNAPR,  130–​31 Paris, 1–​2, 121 Stade de France, 121 Toulouse,  74–​75 UCLAT,  130–​31 Fregonese, Sara, 71–​72

[ 272 ] Index

Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Columbia (FARC), 78–​79 fundamentalism, fundamentalist, 20, 94–​95, 182–​83,  198–​99 Gandhi, Rajiv, 82 gangs, 75, 107–​8, 109–​10, 123–​24 GCTF, 188–​89,  197–​98 gender-​aware, 92,  205–​7 gender-​blind, 12, 77 gender-​mainstreaming,  205–​7 gender-​responsive,  205–​6 ghairat, 111 Ghani, Ihsan, 51–​52 Ghazali, Khairul, 166 Global Centre for Combating Extremist Ideology (Etidel), 45–​46 Gohir, Shaista, 64 Gorris, Myriam, 72–​73. See also Deguaque, Murielle governance, governable, 6, 15–​16, 17–​18, 19, 24–​25, 26, 30, 46–​47, 49–​51, 67–​68, 84–​85, 93, 110, 112, 126–​27, 140, 149, 156–​57, 174, 191–​93, 194–​95, 203, 211 Grand Theft Auto, 107 Grande, Ariana, 39 grooming, 40–​41, 42, 64, 65–​66 Guantanamo, Guantanamo Bay, 46, 74–​75,  135–​36 Guardian, the, 39–​40, 65–​66,  163–​64 Guevara, Che, 186 Gulf, the, 68–​70 Hadfi, Bilal, 121 Hadfi, Fatima, 121 hadith,  116–​18 Haggar, 117–​18. See also Hajar Hajar,  117–​18 Halane, Salma, 40 Halane, Zahra, 40 Hayat Centre, 134 Hedayah, 163, 188–​89 hegemony, hegemonic, 22, 23–​24, 38–​39, 141–​42, 160, 164–​65,  188–​89 Hejira, hijrah, 40, 73, 102 Hizb Ut-​Tahrir,  163–​64 Hofstad Network, 53–​54

Holland Against Terrorism, 151 Human Rights Watch, 48, 165–​66 huquq,  116–​17 Husain, Ed, 163–​64 Hussain, Naweed, 39–​40, 65 Huxley, Aldous, 149 Brave New World, 149 hypervigilance, hypervigilant, 170–​71 identity, 3–​4, 15, 20, 35–​36, 61, 69–​71, 75, 92–​93, 108–​9, 116–​17, 125–​27, 138, 143–​44, 148, 155, 156–​57, 163–​65, 172–​73, 186–​87, 189–​90, 205–​6,  209 ideology, ideologies, 1–​2, 9, 10–​12, 16, 30–​31, 32–​33, 34–​35, 40–​41, 45–​46, 48–​50, 51–​52, 54, 58–​61, 67–​68, 73–​75, 76–​77, 78–​79, 84–​85, 94, 97, 100–​1, 104, 106, 107, 114–​15, 118–​19, 122–​23, 124, 130, 133–​34, 135, 137, 139, 141, 148, 163–​64, 174, 184, 200–​1, 209–​10,  211–​12 Islamist ideology, 17–​18, 78–​79 Marxist ideology, 78–​79 Idris, Wafra, 80–​82 ifsad fil-​ard,  44–​45 Imron, Ali, 48–​49 Incel, incels, 1–​2, 16 inclusion, 12–​13, 17–​18, 32, 33–​34, 56–​57, 77–​78, 79–​80, 123–​24, 154–​55, 185–​86,  195–​96 India, 49–​51, 82 Kashmir, 11–​12, 14–​15, 49–​51, 85 Mumbai,  1–​2 Indonesia, 21–​22, 38–​39, 46–​49, 93–​96, 98–​99, 102, 106–​7, 111, 117–​18, 119, 126, 130, 135–​36, 143–​48, 159, 162, 164–​65, 166, 174, 175–​76, 188, 190 Aceh, 46–​47, 94 Bali,  46–​47 Detachment 88, 48, 49, 143, 145–​47, 148, 162, 165, 166 National Human Rights Commission, 166 Negara Islam Indonesia, 46–​47 South Kalimantan, 46–​47 South Sulawesi, 46–​47

South Sumatra, 49, 95–​96 Ogan Komering, 49 Suharto, 46–​48,  143–​44 West Java, 46–​47, 143–​44, 174 inequality, inequalities, 5, 7–​8, 12, 20–​21, 23–​24, 31, 40–​41, 67, 68–​69, 71–​72, 73–​74, 88–​90, 100, 140, 156–​57, 171, 193–​200, 206–​7,  211 inferiority, 20, 109 INSPIRE, 101–​2, 135 Institute for Inclusive Society (IIS), 97–​98,  99 Institute for Policy Research and Development, 43 insurgency, 174 intelligence, 51–​52, 54, 67, 78–​79, 154–​55, 160,  185–​86 Intercept, 157 International Civil Society Network, 92 International Security Assistance Force (ISAF),  37–​38 intervention, interventions, 4–​6, 12–​13, 15–​16, 20, 25, 26, 29, 31, 40–​41, 81, 100–​1, 103, 123–​24, 132–​33, 156–​57, 200, 205–​6,  208–​9 Iraq, 29, 31, 46–​47, 53–​55, 61–​62, 64, 68–​69, 70–​71, 72–​73, 84–​85, 88–​89, 99, 102–​3, 111, 137, 166, 192–​93,  204 Irish Republican Army (IRA), 65 Isla Vista shootings, 11–​12 Islam, Islamic, 3–​4, 16–​19, 20, 29, 40–​41, 44–​45, 46–​47, 48–​49, 51–​53, 54, 55–​56, 65–​66, 69–​70, 71–​73, 76–​77, 78–​79, 82–​83, 94–​95, 97, 98–​99, 101–​2, 103–​4, 107–​12, 116–​19, 124–​25, 126, 135–​37, 142–​44, 146–​47, 148, 163–​64, 176–​77, 186–​88, 189–​90, 195–​96 Islam for Dummies,  65–​66 Islamic State, 10–​11, 135, 175–​76 (see also Daesh) Islamist, 17–​18, 22, 46–​48, 54, 68, 70–​71, 84–​85, 134–​35, 137, 139,  163–​64 Islamization,  97–​98 Islamofascism,  17–​18

Index  [ 273 ]

Islamophobia, 18–​19, 20, 22–​23, 40–​41, 43, 54–​55, 56, 68–​69, 70–​71, 105, 138–​39, 154, 189–​90 mosque, mosques, 23–​24, 51–​52, 54–​55, 60–​61, 68–​69, 74, 76–​77, 94–​95, 97, 100–​1, 103, 104–​5, 108–​9, 112–​13, 123–​24, 154, 170–​71,  189–​90 in-​mosque regulation, 5 Muslim, 3–​4, 16–​17, 19–​20, 22–​24, 29, 38–​39, 40–​42, 43, 44–​47, 48–​49, 53–​56, 57, 60–​61, 63–​64, 68–​73, 74–​75, 93–​95, 100–​10, 111, 116–​18, 119, 122–​28, 131, 136–​37, 138–​39, 140, 143–​44, 145, 146, 153–​54, 157–​58, 159, 163–​64, 174–​75, 186–​87, 188, 189–​90, 191–​92, 193–​94, 195–​96, 197–​98,  200 Muslim Woman, 19, 189 Muslimness,  3–​4 Muslim Contact Unit, 103 Muslimah in Action, 100–​1 Muslimah Project, 100–​1 Israel, 16–​17, 67–​68, 81–​82,  88–​89 itjihad,  142–​43 Jamaat-​ul-​Ahrar,  51–​52 Jaradat, Hanadi, 81–​82 Bride of Haifa, the, 81–​82 J-​Go Media, 200 jihad, jihadi, jihadism, jihadist, 1–​2, 17–​18, 22, 34, 38–​40, 43–​44, 49–​51, 52–​54, 57, 58–​59, 68, 73, 74–​75, 76–​77, 82–​83, 84–​85, 92–​93, 107–​8, 110, 112–​13, 122–​23, 124–​25, 129–​31, 146, 162, 170, 175, 179, 186–​87 jihadi bride, 18–​19, 58, 73, 82–​83,  135–​38 Jihadi John, 170 Salafi-​jihadi,  17–​18 Jones, Sally, 40 justice, 5, 51–​52, 56, 61–​62, 70–​71, 72–​73, 76, 156–​57, 172, 191 kafir, kaffir, 95, 119–​20 Katwala, Sunder, 163–​64 Kenya, 11–​12, 91–​92, 136–​37, 138, 200 Mombasa,  136–​37

[ 274 ] Index

National Counter Terrorism Centre, 91 Khairadharia, Nurshardina, 46–​47 Khaled, Leila, 80–​81 Khan, Sara, 4–​5, 40–​41, 101–​2, 163–​64 Khan, Wali, 111 Kies, Ouisa, 152 King, Jr., Martin Luther, 18–​19 Kodams, 48 Kodrat,  143–​44 KPMG,  196–​97 Kurds, Kurdish, 10–​11 PKK,  10–​11 Lashkar-​e-​Jhangvi,  51–​52 Layth, Umm, 82–​83 leadership, 8–​9, 32, 36–​37, 44–​45, 46–​48, 78–​79, 100–​1, 110, 116, 138, 148, 185–​86, 195–​96, 200, 206, 207–​8 leadership training, 5, 100–​1, 201 Leghori, Noreen, 50–​51 les tournantes, 109 Lewthwaite, Samantha, 40, 82–83, 136–138​ liberal, liberalism, 25, 73, 102–​3, 112, 131, 134, 141, 163–​64, 197–​98, 200, 205–​6 liberation, 10–​11, 13–​14,  93–​94 neoliberal, neoliberalism, 15–​16, 73–​74, 112, 191–​92, 202, 209, 211 Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), 64–​65, 78–​79, 80–​81, 82, 85 Black Tigers force, 82 Liberia,  78–​79 Life and Peace Institute, 196 Lindsay, Germaine, 82–​83, 136–​37 “little r” religion, 19, 132–​33 Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), 78–​79 madrasa, madrasas, 51–​53, 98–​99, 106–​7, 111, 190 Madrid, 1–​2,  37–​38 Mahmood, Aqsa, 82–​83. See also Layth, Umm Making A Stand, 101–​2 malaki, 97 Malaysia, 46–​47, 49, 126 Jammah Islamiyah, 46–​47 Mali,  11–​12 Marwa, 22, 107 masculine, masculinities, masculinity, 6, 8–​9, 11–​12, 22, 23–​25, 35–​36,

57, 63–​64, 67, 76, 77–​78, 105–​6, 107–​13, 140–​42, 143, 146, 148, 149–​50, 159–​60, 162, 163, 164–​65, 168, 171–​79, 181, 183, 190, 192–​93, 194, 200–​1, 202, 205–​6, 207–​8,  210–​12 hypermasculine, hypermasculinity, 76–​77, 107–​8, 140, 185, 210 Masood, Khalid, 39 maternal, maternalism, 78–​79, 88–​90, 92–​93, 96, 97–​98, 100, 102–​3, 105, 106–​7, 112–​13, 114–​16, 132–​34, 138, 139, 141, 177–​78, 191, 193, 203, 209, 210–​11. See also mother, motherhood May, Theresa, 41–​42 Maynard, Paul, 151 Meinhof, Ulrike, 79–​80, 81, 119–​20, 137 Merah, Mohammed, 74–​75 migration, migrant, 20, 35, 40, 56, 84–​85, 102, 109, 155, 174, 184 military, 84, 90–​91, 99, 110, 112, 143–​44, 159–​61, 165–​66, 168, 172–​73, 174–​75, 179–​80, 185–​86, 187–​88, 192, 194, 205, 206, 208–​9 militaristic, 160 militarization, militarized, 90–​91, 99, 142–​43, 162, 202–​3,  207–​8 Mlambo-​Ngcuka, Phumzile,  32–​33 Mohammed bin Naif Counselling and Care Centre, 45–​46, 184 Monash University, 92–​93 Morocco, Moroccan, 54–​55, 56, 76–​77, 97, 122–​23, 130, 132–​33 mother, motherhood, 6, 9–​10, 22–​23, 33–​34, 36–​37, 39–​40, 79–​82, 83, 88–​90, 92–​93, 96–​97, 101–​2, 114–​39, 141, 146, 147–​48, 192, 193, 199–​200, 210 mother work, 22–​23, 89–​90, 114–​20, 126–​27, 133, 135, 138 Mothers Against Violent Extremism,  68–​69 Mothers without Borders, 93 Mothers, Monsters, Whores, 120 Mothers for Life, 134–​35 Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo,  89–​90 Mothers Tolana, 133–​34 “patriotic mother,” 90

“spartan mother,” 90 mourchidate, 97 Mozambique,  78–​79 Muhammadiyah,  48–​49 MumsNet, 116 Muttahida Qaumi Movement (MQM),  161–​62 nafaqa,  116–​17 Nahdatul Ulama (NU), 49 Fatayat Nathdlatl Ulama (Fatayat NU), 95 nationalism, nationalist, 10–​11, 13–​14, 20–​21, 46–​47, 80–​82, 85, 90, 174,  179–​80 NATO, 21, 28–​29, 34–​38 Nawaz, Maajid, 163–​64 Netanyahu, Benjamin, 16–​17 Netherlands,  38–​39 Amsterdam, 54–​55, 56, 68–​69, 103–​4, 106,  107–​8 Slotervaart, 106 Contact Body for Muslims (CMO),  55–​56 Contact Group Islam (CGI), 55–​56 Dutch Moroccan, 54–​56 Dutch Turkish, 54–​56 General Intelligence and Security Service (AVID), 54 Gouda, 56 National Coordinator for Counter-​Terrorism,  54 Netherlands Counter-​Terrorism Strategy (NCTV), 104 Netherlands Probation Service (Team TER), 55–​56 Rotterdam, 56, 68–​69, 103–​4, 130 Islam Debates, 56 The Hague, 53–​54, 104 Utrecht, 53–​54, 104–​5, 106 West Side Soap,  54–​55 New Scientist,  63–​64 new terrorism, 1–​4, 58–​59, 169–​71 niqab, 186 norms, 4–​5, 7, 9, 12, 23–​24, 88–​89, 90, 96–​97, 99, 107–​8, 109–​10, 127, 138, 141–​42, 143–​44, 168, 186,  211–​12 Norway,  37–​38 Novi, Dian Yukua, 46–​47

Index  [ 275 ]

operation, operations, 1–​2, 6, 10–​11, 23–​24, 25, 37–​38, 48–​49, 50, 51–​52, 70–​71, 78–​79, 82, 99, 127–​28, 145, 155, 166, 168, 175, 176, 187–​88, 194, 196–​97, 202–​3, 204,  208–​9 oppression, 13–​14, 139 orientalist, orientalism, 16–​17, 20–​21, 25, 63–​64, 82, 110, 169–​70, 175,  200–​1 Orwell, George, 149 1984, 149 OSCE, 78–​79, 193, 197–​98 Osman, Hussain, 156–​57 Oxfam,  198–​99 pacifism, pacifist, 22–​23, 33–​34, 88–​89, 90, 96–​97, 102, 105, 114 PAIMAN, 99, 130, 133–​34 Pakistan, 11–​12, 29, 38–​39, 49–​53, 54, 67–​68, 93, 97–​99, 102, 105, 106–​7, 110–​13, 119, 130, 132–​34, 146, 161–​62, 164–​66, 170, 184, 187–​89,  190 Federally Administrated Tribal Areas (FATA),  51–​52 Hydrabad,  50–​51 Inter-​Service Intelligence Agency (ISI), 49–​51,  52 Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province, 51–​52 Lahore,  50–​51 National Action Plan (NAP), 50–​51 National Counter Extremism Guidelines,  51–​52 National Counter-​Terrorism Agency (NACTA),  51–​52 National Internal Security Policy (NISP),  51–​52 North Waziristan, 51–​52, 99 Operation Radd-​ul-​Fasaad,  51–​52 Peshawar, 98–​99,  165–​66 Punjab,  52–​53 SWAT Valley, 37, 51–​53, 165 Women Moderating Extremism (PWME),  97–​98 Palestine, Palestinian, 64–​65, 67–​68, 81–​82,  88–​89 Gaza,  67–​68 Pancasila,  46–​47 Panjaitan, Basaria, 147–​48

[ 276 ] Index

PRAC,  45–​46 parents, parenting, 40, 45–​46, 68, 115–​16,  120–​28 passive, passivity, 25, 26, 37, 67, 74, 78–​79, 85, 93, 103, 109–​10, 112, 114–​15, 126, 131, 134, 177, 200–​1 paternal, paternalism, 23–​25, 43–​44, 90, 140, 141–​44, 145–​46, 148, 149, 168, 177–​78, 182–​83, 191, 193–​94, 200, 202–​3, 210–​11. See also father, fatherhood patriarchy, patriarchal, 13–​16, 20, 67, 80–​82, 90, 107–​8, 109, 118–​19, 139, 141–​42, 143–​44, 148, 159,  176–​77 Peace Foundation, the, 163 peacebuilding, 18–​19, 87, 90–​92, 94, 96, 97–​99, 102, 104, 112–​13, 116, 195–​96, 202, 204 Pearson, Elizabeth, 75 pembinaan,  143–​44 performance, performative, 7–​8 pesantren, 94–​96, 106–​7, 111, 190 Peshmerga,  10–​11 Petraeus, David, 111 Plan of Action to Prevent Violent Extremism,  30–​31 police, policing, 4–​5, 6, 15–​16, 20, 36–​37, 39, 40–​41, 42, 46–​49, 51–​54, 55–​56, 59–​60, 67, 70–​72, 79–​80, 81, 83, 99, 100–​1, 102–​3, 104–​5, 109–​10, 112–​13, 121, 126–​28, 129–​30, 132–​33, 136, 138, 145, 146, 147–​48, 149–​50, 151, 152, 153–​55, 156–​59, 160, 161–​62, 165, 166, 189, 207–​9 police powers, 6 policy, policymakers, 9–​10, 12–​13, 19, 21–​24, 25, 26–​27, 29–​30, 31, 33, 37–​38, 40–​42, 43, 44–​45, 51–​54, 55–​57, 58, 71–​72, 76–​77, 85–​86, 90, 91–​92, 96–​98, 102, 103–​5, 107, 109, 110, 111–​12, 116, 118–​19, 120, 124–​25, 126–​27, 135, 138–​39, 140, 143, 146–​47, 169–​70, 174, 185–​86, 187, 193–​ 94, 195–​97, 198–​99, 201, 203–​4, 206–​7,  209–​10 politics, political, 1–​2, 3–​5, 6, 8, 9–​10, 11–​12, 13–​15, 16–​19, 20, 21–​23,

24–​25, 33–​34, 42, 45–​48, 50–​51, 56, 58, 59, 61–​62, 63–​64, 67–​69, 73–​75, 76, 78–​80, 81–​82, 83, 84–​86, 88–​91, 92–​93, 94–​95, 104, 108–​10, 112, 114, 116, 117–​20, 122–​23, 129, 137, 138–​39, 141, 143–​44, 148, 157–​58, 161–​62, 164–​65, 172–​73, 174, 179, 180–​81, 184–​85, 186–​87, 188, 189–​90, 191–​92, 195, 196, 198, 200–​1, 204, 206–​7, 208–​10,  211–​12 power, 8, 9, 12, 13–​16, 20–​21, 23–​25, 26, 32–​33, 35–​36, 45–​46, 49–​50, 67–​68, 72–​73, 74–​75, 88–​89, 90, 94, 115–​16, 134–​35, 136, 141, 143–​44, 145–​46, 152, 155, 160, 164–​65, 166, 168, 170–​71, 174, 176–​79, 182–​83, 193–​94, 201–​2,  210–​11 PREVENT, 41–​43, 67, 100, 101–​2, 103, 120, 121, 126–​27, 153–​55,  163–​64 Preventing Violent Extremism (PVE), 5–​6, 12–​13, 30–​31, 35–​36,  100–​1 Proll, Astrid, 79–​80 Protestant, Protestantism, 10–​11 psychology, psychological, 3, 6, 55–​56, 59–​68, 74–​75, 78–​79, 84–​85, 104, 105–​6, 131–​32, 133, 167,  189–​90 psychological vulnerabilities, 2–​3 purdah, 84–​85, 174 Qadims Lumier School and College,  98–​99 qawwam, qawwamun, 107, 146 Quadrant, 124 Quebec, 186 Quilliam Foundation, the, 64, 74–​75, 129, 135, 163–​64 Qur’an, the, 111–​12, 116–​17 race, 18–​19, 20–​21, 152–​53, 193, 201–​2,  211–​12 racialize, racialized, 18–​19, 20, 23–​24, 26, 40–​41, 57, 72–​73, 83, 120, 123–​24, 126–​27, 140, 152–​53, 156–​57, 159, 170–​71, 191, 194–​95,  211–​12

radicalization, 1–​6, 9–​14, 15–​16, 19, 21–​24, 25, 26–​27, 28–​29, 30–​31, 33–​35, 36–​39, 40–​42, 43, 44–​46, 48–​49, 53–​57, 58–​85, 91–​93, 95–​ 96, 98–​99, 100, 103–​8, 110–​13, 119, 120–​22, 123–​29, 130–​36, 137, 138, 139, 140, 143, 145, 148, 153–​ 54, 157–​58, 163, 164–​65, 170–​71, 175–​76, 177–​78, 181, 182, 183–​84, 187, 188, 190, 191–​94, 195–​97, 198–​201, 202–​4, 207, 208–​10, 211 counter-​radicalization, 1–​2, 5, 16, 21, 22–​23, 24–​25, 28–​34, 38–​56, 63–​64, 65–​66, 68–​70, 73–​75, 92–​93, 95, 96–​98, 102, 103, 112–​13, 120, 129, 133, 134, 135–​36, 138–​39, 143, 154, 159, 161, 165, 170–​71, 177–​78, 179, 180–​81, 185–​86, 191–​92, 193–​94, 196–​97, 200–​1,  202 deradicalization, 5, 6, 25, 35–​36, 40, 42–​43, 44, 45–​46, 48, 51–​53, 55–​ 56, 57, 60–​61, 64, 68–​69, 73–​74, 103, 104–​5, 120–​21, 126–​27, 133, 135–​36, 143, 145–​47, 148, 152, 163, 165, 183–​84, 191–​93, 194–​ 95, 196–​97, 198–​99, 200–​2, 209 preradicalization,  59–​60 Rahima Association, 94–​95 Rahmat Islam Nusantara, 48–​49 Rajaratnam, Thenmozhi, 80–​81, 82 rationality, rational, 1–​2, 5, 13–​16, 61–​62, 67, 73, 124, 200, 206–​7 irrationality, 1–​2, 58–​59, 61–​62, 63–​64, 67, 105–​6, 169–​70, 174, 176–​77,  181 rationale, 157–​58, 165, 209 rationalization, 15, 92, 157–​58 Red Army Faction, 79–​80, 119–​20. See also Baader-​Meinhof Gang regulation, regulations, 5, 46–​47, 156–​57, 183–​84,  196–​97 Reid, Richard, 43–​44 religious belief, 18, 147–​48 religious practice, 18, 19 Reparti Communisti d’Attacko, 80 responsibility, 25, 65–​66, 88–​89, 115–​16, 120–​21, 122, 126, 127–​28, 131–​ 34, 150–​51, 153–​54, 182–​83, 190,  202–​3

Index  [ 277 ]

Rigby, Lee, 31 rights, 6, 11–​12, 13–​14, 17–​18, 19, 24–​25, 31, 32–​33, 37, 40–​41, 45–​46, 73–​74, 88–​90, 92, 93, 94–​95, 96, 100, 101–​2, 116–​17, 124–​25, 136–​37, 166–​67, 169–​70, 171–​73, 175, 179–​80, 183–​87, 198–​99, 200, 202–​3, 206–​7, 208–​9, 211 rights, human, 12, 17–​18, 23–​24, 25, 29–​30, 33–​34, 43, 44–​45, 46, 48, 49, 50, 56, 90, 111–​12, 168, 169–​70, 184, 185, 187, 205–​6, 207,  208–​9 Rodger, Elliot, 11–​12 Rose, Colleen, 84 Royal United Services Institute (RUSI), 36–​37, 75,  185–​86 Project CT MENA, 36–​37 Project STRIVE-​HOA,  36–​37 Sabaoon Center for Rehabilitation,  52–​53 Project Heila, 52–​53 Project Mishal, 52–​53 Project Pythom, 52–​53 Project Rastoon, 52–​53 Project Sparley, 52–​53 Safer Birmingham Partnership, 157–​58 Sageman, Mark, 61, 107–​8 Said, Edward, 110 Orientalism, 110 salafi, Salafism, 17–​18, 43–​44, 54–​55, 74, 103, 122–​23, 124–​25, 133 santriwati, 94 Saudi Arabia, 21–​22, 38–​39, 43–​47, 48, 57, 67–​68, 69–​70, 76–​77, 93, 96–​97, 106–​7, 119, 121, 135–​36, 143, 146, 148, 164–​65, 175–​76, 183–​84, 187, 190, 195–​97 al Saud family, 43–​44 Sawar, Yusuf, 65–​66 Schlaffer, Edit, 68–​69 School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), 137 security, 1–​2, 6, 8, 9–​10, 11–​12, 13–​16, 20, 22–​25, 26–​27, 28–​29, 30, 31, 32–​34, 36–​39, 40–​41, 48, 49–​50, 54, 67–​68, 70–​73, 78–​79, 82, 87, 91–​93, 96, 97–​99, 102–​3, 112, 114, 115–​16, 130–​31, 136–​37, 141,

[ 278 ] Index

142–​43, 148, 149, 150–​51, 152, 153–​55, 156–​57, 165–​66, 169–​72, 178–​79, 180–​86, 187–​90, 191–​92, 193–​97, 198, 200, 202–​3, 204–​5, 206, 207, 208–​9, 210–​12 security studies, 9–​10, 78–​79, 141 self, 14–​16, 22, 67, 112, 117–​18, 176–​77,  193–​95 self-​awareness,  13–​14 self-​belief,  63–​64 self-​censorship,  154 self-​control,  106 self-​criticism,  106 self-​defense, 1–​2,  161–​62 self-​definition, 14–​15,  126–​27 self-​determination,  10–​11 self-​discovery,  14–​15 self-​esteem,  65–​66 self-​evaluation,  36–​37 self-​governance, 15–​16, 19, 26, 67–​68, 112, 193, 194–​95, 203 self-​guarding,  67 self-​identification, 59–​60,  61 self-​interest,  13–​14 self-​narration,  14–​15 self-​policing, 4–​5, 70–​71,  112 self-​promotion,  92 self-​realization,  14–​15 self-​sacrifice, 90, 116–​18, 162, 172–​73, 175, 178 self-​shaping,  14–​15 self-​starter,  1–​2 September 11th, 9/​11, 1–​2, 26, 43–​44, 58–​59, 86, 105, 149–​50, 160, 169–​70,  175 sex, sexual, 6–​7, 8–​10, 57, 64–​65, 72–​73, 77–​78, 107–​8, 124–​26, 131–​32, 145, 149, 157–​58, 172–​73, 184–​85,  188–​89 hypersexuality, 22, 108–​9 sex, biological (see biology, biological) sexism, sexist, 20, 110, 156–​57 sexuality, 32–​33, 39–​40, 64, 65, 79–​80, 85–​86, 109, 110 sexualization, 11–​12, 21–​22, 23–​24, 29, 109, 164–​65, 187 sexual violence, 32, 91–​92, 109, 157–​58, 188, 204–​5,  208–​9 shahadat, 146 shaheeda,  81–​82

Shaheen, Faiza, 152–​53 sharia, 17–​18, 46–​47, 49–​50,  187–​88 Sharif, Nawaz, 161–​62 Shi’a, Shi’ite, 44, 45–​46, 69–​70 Siddiqui, Aafia, 82–​83 Siddiqui, Rauf, 161–​62 Sierra Leone, 78–​79 Sisters Against Violent Extremism, 130 Sizanani Africa, 100–​1 slavery,  10–​11 Snowden, Edward, 159 society, social, 3, 4–​10, 16–​17, 18–​19, 20, 22–​23, 24–​25, 28–​40, 44–​46, 50–​51, 53–​56, 60–​61, 67, 68, 69–​70, 72–​73, 74, 75, 79–​80, 86, 89–​91, 94–​95, 97–​98, 101, 102–​4, 105–​6, 107–​8, 109–​10, 114–​15, 116–​17, 119–​20, 124, 125–​26, 132–​33, 138–​39, 170–​71, 175–​76, 190, 193, 199–​200, 201, 205 civil society, 5, 30–​31, 42, 48–​49, 52–​53, 56, 96, 97–​100, 147–​48, 188–​89, 196–​97,  204–​5 social aggression, 93 social attitudes, 94–​95 social bonds, connections, 22, 42, 103, 112 social capital, 159 social cohesion, 1–​2, 97–​98 social conditioning, 2–​3 social context, 141–​42, 156–​57 social death, 194–​95 social divisions, 55–​56 social environment, 78–​79 social factors, 60–​61, 72–​73 social goods, 73 social inadequacy, 107–​8 social inclusion, 123–​24 social inequalities, 5, 40–​41, 140 social integration, 103–​4 social interaction, 74–​75 social isolationism, 73–​74, 84–​85 social issues, 45–​46, 52–​53 social learning theory, 126 social media, 84–​85, 109–​10 social motherhood, 116 social movement, 58, 159 social network, 6, 30–​31, 59, 68–​77, 84–​85,  131–​32 social norms, 4–​5, 9, 99, 107–​8

social policy, 105 social responsibility, 122 social sorting, 30, 156–​57, 170–​71 social welfare, 102–​3, 195–​96 social work, 88, 97, 121–​22, 124–​25, 127–​28, 130–​31,  154–​55 Somalia, Somalian, 54–​55, 56, 82–​83,  123–​24 South Africa, 78–​79 Stability and Peace (ICSP), 36–​37 stereotypes, 6, 8–​9, 25, 33–​34, 74–​75, 76–​77, 81, 82–​83, 101, 109–​10, 111, 112, 126–​27, 140, 142–​43, 162, 170, 180–​81, 186–​87 structure, structural, 3, 6, 7–​8, 13–​14, 33–​34, 37–​38, 40–​41, 44–​45, 46–​47, 52, 53, 54–​55, 61, 71–​72, 92–​93, 105–​6, 123–​24, 127, 141, 146, 155, 174, 184, 200–​1, 204–​5, 206–​7,  211 Sultana, Kadiza, 40 Sungkar, Abdullah, 46–​47 Sunnah, the, 111–​12 Sunni, 54–​56,  136–​37 Supremacism supremacist, white, 16, 76, 107–​8 suras,  117–​18 surveillance, 1–​2, 10–​11, 24–​25, 46, 52–​53, 70–​71, 122–​23, 126–​28, 139, 149–​59, 161, 163–​65, 171, 174, 179, 189–​90, 195–​96, 198 Syria, 40, 46–​47, 50–​51, 64, 65–​66, 68–​69, 74–​75, 83, 84–​85, 102–​3, 129–​31, 152–​53, 154,  192–​93 Takfiri,  45–​46 Taliban, 52–​53,  183–​84 Tawbah, 145 Tell Mama, 189–​90 Tempo,  147–​48 Tentara Islam Indonesia (TII) (DT),  46–​47 Terik-​e-​Taliban-​Pakistan (TTP), 11–​12, 50–​51, 111, 130, 187–​88 terrorism, 1–​2, 3–​12, 13, 15–​19, 20, 21–​22, 23–​24, 25, 28–​35, 37–​38, 39–​41, 42–​45, 46–​48, 51–​54, 58–​60, 61–​64, 65–​68, 70–​71, 72–​73, 74, 76, 78–​80, 82, 83, 86, 91, 92–​93, 96–​97, 98–​99, 104–​6,

Index  [ 279 ]

terrorism (cont.) 107–​8, 121, 126–​27, 129, 132–​33, 136, 137, 145, 146–​48, 151, 152–​54, 157, 158–​59, 161–​62, 163, 164–​65, 166–​67, 169–​71, 175–​77, 181, 183–​84, 185–​86, 187–​88, 192–​93, 194–​96, 198–​99, 200,  209–​10 lone actor terrorism, 1–​2 new terrorism, 1–​4, 58–​59, 169–​71 terrorism studies, 9–​10, 61–​62, 67, 68, 79–​80,  152–​53 theory, theories, 2–​3, 15, 18–​19, 36–​37, 58–​60, 112, 116–​17, 209 think tank, think tanks, 2–​3, 12, 43, 129, 163–​64, 175–​76,  188–​89 Three Cups of Tea,  98–​99 Tillerson, Rex, 187 Timms, Stephen, 39–​40 Tobat, 145, 147, 148 TPIM order, 166–​67 tranquility program, 22–​23, 114. See also al-​Sakkinah Turkey, Turkish, 37–​38, 54–​55, 56, 76–​77, 152–​53,  183–​84 United Arab Emirates, 33–​34, 183–​84 United Kingdom, 4–​5, 21–​22, 23–​24, 39–​43,  100–​3 Association of Police Officers, 60 Bethnal Green girls, 40, 84, 192 Hounslow,  100–​1 London Underground, 39 Birmingham, 100–​1, 127, 151, 157–​58,  186–​87 Birmingham University, 75 Moseley, 159 Sparkbrook,  157–​58 Washwood Heath, 157–​58 Brexit,  40–​41 CONTEST Strategy, 43, 60 Crown Prosecution Service (CPS),  189–​90 Department of Local Government (DCLG), 41–​42,  100–​1 GCHQ, 155 Tempora Program, 155 Glasgow, 40, 83, 151 High Wycombe, 100–​1 Leeds,  101–​2

[ 280 ] Index

London, 1–​2, 39–​40, 100–​1, 102–​3, 121, 136–​37, 151, 158–​59, 163–​64 Bethnal Green, 125–​26 Manchester, 39, 151, 157–​58 Manchester Arena, 39 MI5,  65–​66 National Health Service (NHS), 40, 41–​42,  153–​55 Ofsted,  186–​87 Oxford,  109–​10 Parsons Green, 39 Metropolitan Police Force, 102–​3,  154–​55 Wandsworth,  101–​2 Westminster Bridge, 39 Portsmouth,  101–​2 Project Champion, 157–​59 Redbridge,  101–​2 Rotherham,  109–​10 Watford,  101–​2 West Midlands Police Authority,  157–​58 United Nations, UN, 13, 28–​32, 33–​34, 37–​38, 176, 181, 191 CTED, 32, 181 CTITF, 5 UN Commission for Women’s Rights,  183–​84 UN Development Programme (UNDP), 6, 8, 32–​33, 62, 91 UN Global Counter-​Terrorism Strategy, 29, 30 UN Global Strategy, 41–​42 UN Plan of Action, 30–​31 UN Secretary General, 207 UN Security Council Resolution, 30–​31, 33, 87, 199–​200, 204 UN Special Rapporteur, 46, 184 UN Women, 8, 12, 32–​33 UN Women Peace and Security (WPS), 13, 31, 37–​38, 56–​57, 87, 91–​92, 96, 191, 202, 203–​5 UNICEF, 6 United States, US, 1–​2 National Security Agency (NSA), 157 New York, 1–​2, 58–​59, 160 NYPD,  59–​61 US Homeland Security, 92–​93, 149–​50,  208–​9 US Institute for Peace (USIP), 16, 130–​31

van Gogh, Theo, 53–​54 van Zanen, Jan, 104–​5 victim, victimhood, 9–​10, 11–​12, 13–​14, 24–​25, 26, 33–​34, 37–​38, 57, 61–​62, 65, 68–​69, 77–​79, 80–​ 82, 86, 91–​92, 94–​95, 98–​99, 102–​3, 109–​10, 152–​53, 163, 164–​65, 176–​77, 198–​99, 200, 203–​4,  210–​11 victimization, 30–​31,  192–​93 violence, 1–​3, 4–​5, 6–​7, 9–​12, 14–​15, 18–​19, 21–​22, 26–​27, 29, 33–​34, 35, 36–​40, 42, 46–​47, 52–​55, 58–​62, 63–​64, 65–​66, 67–​68, 69–​70, 73–​76, 77–​80, 86, 88–​89, 90, 91–​92, 93–​95, 96–​97, 98–​99, 102–​3, 106–​7, 110–​11, 114–​16, 119–​20, 121–​22, 126, 136–​37, 140, 142–​43, 149, 157–​58, 162–​64, 167, 174–​75, 176–​77, 179, 182, 185, 187, 192–​94, 198–​99, 202, 204–​5, 207, 208–​9, 210, 211 domestic violence, 40–​41, 62, 110, 111–​12, 136, 170, 198–​99, 208–​9 political violence, 3–​4, 9–​10, 14–​15, 16, 21–​23, 63–​64, 78–​79, 84–​85,  119–​20 religious violence, 16–​18 sexual violence, 32–​33, 91–​92, 109, 157–​58, 172–​73, 188, 204–​5,  208–​9 voluntary, 6, 42, 46, 64–​65, 100–​1, 143 Wahhabi, Wahhabism, 43–​45, 74–​75, 97 wali al-​amir, 44–​45, 148

war on terror, 57, 58–​59, 71–​72, 90–​91, 105, 110, 139, 140, 149–​50, 153–​54, 161, 164–​65, 169–​70, 171, 175, 176–​78, 179, 182, 185–​86,  193–​95 warlord, 110 Waterhouse Consultancy Group, 100–​1 welfare, 8, 54–​55, 68–​69, 104, 117–​18, 135–​36, 156–​57, 185–​86, 187, 209 Western, 1–​2, 3–​4, 22–​23, 40–​41, 64, 68, 73–​74, 81, 84–​85, 100–​5, 107–​8, 110, 112–​13, 116, 119, 124–​26, 128–​29, 138–​39, 143–​44, 183, 185, 191–​92, 193, 200 “white man’s burden,” 174, 182–​83 “white widow,” 58, 82–​83, 136–​37 Wiktorowicz, Quentin, 61 Wilton Park, 12, 16 Winterbottom, Emily, 75 Women in Black, 88–​89 Women of the Red Mosque siege, 112–​13 Women Without Borders, 68–​69 Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom, 204, 211 WomEx Project, The, 35–​36, 198–​99    Yazeedi,  91–​92 Yemen, 46, 174, 184 youth, YOUTHS, 6, 30–​31, 32, 34–​36, 48–​49, 64–​65, 68, 71–​73, 87, 122, 126, 130, 136–​37, 140, 207 YouTube, 11–​12, 162 Yugoslavia, former, 54–​55, 169–​70    Zedong, Mao, 79–​80

Index  [ 281 ]

8 2