From Mufti Menk to Gaza: Dissent Should Be Heard by Scholars, Not Silenced by Police

The recent incident in Sheffield, where Mufti Menk was interrupted during a lecture and the young man was ultimately removed by security before the police were called, deserves more than a passing glance. It exposes a deeper problem in the culture of religious authority and the spaces in which we gather.

Today, many scholars have attained the status of celebrities. With that comes an expectation that disagreement or dissent should be silenced, rather than engaged. Mosques, once vibrant spaces of learning, debate, and robust exchange, are now too often places where the unspoken rule is: accept and agree. When was the last time you heard a serious debate in a mosque on the pressing issues of our time?

Yet history shows us something very different. The mosque of the Prophet صلى الله عليه وسلم in Madinah was not only a place of prayer, but the beating heart of the community. It was here that questions of faith were explored, doubts were raised, and disagreements were addressed openly. The Companions themselves debated issues — from questions of inheritance, to the limits of war, to the conduct of governance.

Later generations continued this tradition. In Kufa and Basra, masājid became the centres where the great fuqahā’ refined their legal schools through open disputation. Imam Abu Hanifa himself would sit in the mosque with students and rivals alike, debating issues of theology and law with passion and rigor.

Even political debates took place in the masjid. After the passing of the Prophet ﷺ, the question of leadership was discussed in the open — sometimes heatedly — within the mosque and its precincts. During the caliphates, mosques served as forums where grievances against rulers were raised publicly, where khutbahs could be interrupted, and where the people expected answers. This was not seen as disrespect; it was seen as accountability.

By contrast, today the “get out of jail free card” for many scholars is: “At least he made duʻa for Gaza.” But this is not the demand of the people. The Ummah is not crying out merely for duʻa — it is crying out for scholars to speak truth to those who rule over us, to account them openly as they commit treachery openly. Do not think the Ummah is naïve enough to believe that your grand strategy of “silence” is somehow leading to a greater good, and that this is why you refrain from naming and confronting rulers who are complicit in betrayal. We have heard such grand strategies before, only to find they paved the way for further complicity in the crimes against Palestine.

Erdogan is a case in point. Once lauded by many as a mujaddid, his refusal to act decisively and his complicity in the ongoing war crimes against Gaza have left those who defended his silence now hanging their heads in shame. Silence and strategy did not deliver justice — they delivered betrayal.

The Sheffield Grand Mosque committee, in choosing to call the police on a young man who stood up in zeal, sent a message that disruption is not to be handled with patience or dialogue, but with removal. Yet, scholars by their very definition should be those who can take even an irate, angry man and — through love, patience, and a strong narrative — bring calm and reason to him. Is this not exactly what Imam Abu Hanifa did when faced with an atheist who challenged him? Debate was not an inconvenience to him; it was an opportunity to clarify truth.

Even when we remember the etiquette of the Friday khutbah — that we do not speak — we cannot forget the example of Umar ibn al-Khattab (RA), the second Caliph. During his khutbah, a man interrupted and declared: “If we see crookedness in you, we will correct you with our swords.” Umar did not order him silenced, nor did he call for guards to drag him out. Instead, he raised his hands in gratitude to Allah and said: “Praise be to Allah who placed in this Ummah those who will correct Umar if he goes astray.”

Contrast that with Sheffield. Contrast that with the culture of celebrity scholarship. And — surprisingly — contrast that even with Barack Obama. In 2009–2010, while promoting health care reform, he was heckled in a town hall. Security moved to remove the man, but Obama stopped them, saying: “Let him speak.” I am no fan of Obama, but even he understood the need to allow dissent.

What we are losing is the very culture that once elevated our Deen — a culture where questions were welcomed, disagreements were engaged with, and truth was clarified through dialogue, not suppressed through authority.

Nowhere is this more relevant than in our discussion of Gaza. With the horrific ongoing reality — massacres, displacement, and unimaginable suffering — it is only natural that passions are high. People will express frustration, anger, despair, and even sharp criticism of leadership, both political and religious. This is expected. It is not to be pigeonholed as “bad manners” or dismissed as the voice of “troubled people.” On the contrary, these reactions are the heartbeat of a living Ummah that refuses to remain silent in the face of oppression. When our scholars and institutions respond to such raw passion by silencing, removing, or criminalising it, they are not protecting decorum — they are stifling the very spirit of accountability and resistance that our Deen demands.

In my own writing on Gaza, I have faced sharp disagreements and even outright accusations of being wrong. These do not turn me into a “keyboard warrior” seeking to block or silence others. On the contrary, I see them as essential. It is this exchange, not monologues from pulpits, that will elevate the Ummah.

Silencing dissent is not strength. Engaging it with wisdom is. Yet today, many celebrity scholars seem more interested in populism — the likes, shares, and applause they receive — than in fostering robust debate or addressing the substance of what they deliver in their talks and khutbahs. Until we return to the principle of valuing dialogue, accountability, and truth over popularity, our mosques will remain places of conformity rather than growth.