by Nuri Muhammad

Tuesday, May 20, 2025

“The mythic figure of Malcolm X conjures up a variety of images – Black nationalist, extremist, civil rights leader, hero. But how often is Malcolm X understood as a religious leader; a man profoundly affected by his relationship with Allah?”

—Louis A. DeCaro, Jr., On the Side of My People

Al-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz—better known as Malcolm X—meant different things to different people. But there is broad agreement that he was a revolutionary. Still, even decades after his assassination in 1965, debates persist over what defined him more: his Muslim faith or his Black nationalist stance. Some freeze Malcolm in time, reanimating him selectively in essays, poetry, and songs to validate a position. Yet, rarely is Malcolm the Muslim honored—except in passing, as if his faith were incidental rather than foundational.

This duality—separating Malcolm the Muslim from Malcolm the revolutionary—is partly the result of what unfolded during the final phase of his life and the aftermath of his death. To understand this, we must revisit some key aspects of his transformation.

Malcolm often spoke of the moral rebirth he experienced upon joining the Nation of Islam. He compared it to Paul’s Biblical conversion on the road to Damascus. For him, it was night and day. Under the Hon. Elijah Muhammad, Malcolm became the Nation’s national spokesman and the most recognized face of its ideology. His relationship with Mr. Muhammad was intensely personal—he described it as that of a son to a father. This bond lasted a decade, from 1953 to 1963, and played a central role in shaping his early discipline and public voice.

Yet, Malcolm was not static. He was evolving—pushed forward not only by internal questions, but also by the tide of the global liberation movement. By 1963, his growing discomfort with Elijah Muhammad’s personal indiscretions and the Nation’s political detachment led him to speak out. But these expressions were more than personal grievances—they were symptoms of a larger ideological shift. Malcolm was expanding his consciousness beyond the insular world of the Nation, to embrace the broader struggles of oppressed peoples around the globe.

One often-overlooked influence during this period was Warith Deen Mohammed, the son of Elijah Muhammad. Malcolm held him in high regard, especially for his knowledge of orthodox Islam and his quiet resistance to his father’s doctrinal distortions. History tends to downplay the intellectual and spiritual bond between these two men, but it likely played a significant role in Malcolm’s spiritual realignment.

Many point to Malcolm’s pilgrimage to Mecca as the moment of his religious awakening. His autobiography, crafted with the help of Alex Haley, highlights his discovery of “white Muslims” and the universality of Islam. While this image has become iconic, it is often oversimplified. Malcolm was already aware that Islam was not confined to Black people. Foreign dignitaries—Arabs, Persians, and others—frequently visited Elijah Muhammad’s home. And Malcolm himself had traveled across Africa and the Middle East on Elijah’s behalf as early as 1959.

So, why did he remain silent about the racial diversity of Islam for so long? And why did he delay addressing Elijah Muhammad’s moral failings? To answer that, one must consider the political tensions of the late 1950s and early 60s. Malcolm remained personally loyal to Elijah, but he grew increasingly critical of the Nation’s rigid hierarchy and its failure to engage with the mounting social crises affecting Black Americans and colonized peoples worldwide.

As Malcolm expanded his network—meeting with global leaders like Nasser, Castro, and even Martin Luther King, Jr.—his worldview became more internationalist. He began framing the Black struggle not as a civil rights issue, but as a human rights issue. This was radical. In doing so, he was moving the struggle from the American courtroom to the global stage—specifically, the United Nations.

By the time of his assassination on February 21, 1965, Malcolm had become, in the words of a social theorist, “the one hundredth monkey”—a tipping point figure capable of igniting mass awakening. He was perceived as a direct threat to the American establishment for two critical reasons:

He was internationalizing the Black struggle. Malcolm was poised to shift the language of civil rights into the legal framework of human rights. He understood the strategic advantage of appealing to the United Nations, the same way oppressed minorities in Eastern Europe would later challenge Soviet hegemony.

He was declaring himself an Orthodox Muslim. This was revolutionary in 1960’s America. By embracing Islam beyond the Nation’s racial framework, Malcolm positioned himself within a global religious community, capable of mobilizing support from millions of Muslims in Africa, Asia, and the Middle East. It was a strategic realignment that threatened to undercut the Christian monopoly on the civil rights narrative in America.

Malcolm’s potential was explosive. The surveillance state recognized this. Intelligence agencies, aware of the fracture between Malcolm and the Nation, exploited the rift, fanned the flames, and eventually struck when the opportunity came.

So, what if Malik Shabazz had lived?

By now, we would know him simply as Malik. “Malcolm X” would be a historical footnote. Alongside Dr. King, he might have stood as an international elder statesman—perhaps even a Nobel laureate like Mandela. But even more important than the man is the question: what would Malik say to us today?

Two pillars framed his evolving legacy at the time of his death:

That Black Americans should see themselves as Muslims and part of the universal Islamic Ummah.

That the struggle for dignity must be reframed as a matter of human rights, not merely civil rights.

This twin-pronged vision remains potent. Islam, for Malik, was not just theology—it was identity, discipline, and a foundation for global solidarity. But he also believed in staying relevant—dealing with the present rather than romanticizing the past. Unlike some Afrocentric ideologues who look backward to move forward, Malcolm was always in motion, grounded in principle but guided by the needs of the moment.

It’s tempting to trap Malcolm in the iconography of the ‘60s. But he was the embodiment of change—from hustler to minister, from Black nationalist to global Muslim. If alive today, his message would not be frozen in time—it would evolve. He would still speak of freedom, justice, and equality, but in terms that resonate with the struggles of this century.

Malik Shabazz was not just a man of his time. He was a man ahead of it.