I smile at Yasmeen and we join in. When she asked if she could come to the demonstration I resisted. These events are small but hard core. I’m known as a radical, an uncompromising Islamist, and I don’t want my reputation spoiled by association with some giggling girl. We walk up Kensington High Street to the Israeli Embassy and I nod at a sister from the East London Mosque. She is pushing a buggy, the baby smiling out under his I ♥ Al-Qaeda bonnet. There are rumours that her husband has gone to Gaza to help with the struggle. ‘Assalamu alaikum,’ she says. I swell with pride that she has deigned to speak to me. ‘Wa alaikum assalaam, sister.’ She moves ahead to catch up with a group of women in full burka and they unfurl a ten-foot banner declaring, ‘We are all Hezbollah.’ I can tell Yasmeen is impressed by the way she adjusts her hijab. I smile secretly. She is learning. When we reach Palace Green we form a ragged crowd and a group of young men wearing long linen tunics over their jeans and trainers push to the front where they begin to pile up wooden boxes.
