Why the UK Granted Citizenship to Activist Alaa Abd El-Fattah

In the dying days of 2025, British Prime Minister Keir Starmer extended a warm welcome to a newly arrived UK citizen — a man who, by most reasonable accounts, despises the very foundations of Western liberal democracy.

That man was Alaa Abd El-Fattah, an Egyptian activist known not only for his anti-regime stance in Cairo, but also for a range of incendiary views: hatred of white people, support for killing police officers, and even justifying the murder of civilians labeled “Zionists.” This wasn’t some tabloid exaggeration. These views are well-documented.

Yet here he was, stepping off the plane in London as a free man and a citizen of the United Kingdom.

How did this happen?

The answer, surprisingly or not, lies deep within the legal infrastructure of modern Europe — specifically, in the architecture of human rights law. The same legal system that once swore “never again” in the aftermath of World War II has, decades later, enabled individuals like El-Fattah to claim rights and protections once envisioned for victims of totalitarian horror.

So how did we get here?

To understand this legal paradox, one must go back to the post-war moment when international human rights law was born. After the atrocities of the Holocaust, European leaders came together to draft the European Convention on Human Rights. Signed in 1950, it was meant to prevent any repetition of such barbarism. By 1959, the European Court of Human Rights was established in Strasbourg to enforce it.

And for a while, it worked — admirably. The Court held states accountable for real and present abuses: police negligence in domestic violence cases, invasions of privacy by the media, even bans on religious dress in the workplace.

But, as is often the case, noble intentions can breed unintended consequences.

Fast forward to the present, and the European Court of Human Rights has become a lightning rod for controversy — particularly when it comes to migration. Its interpretations of the Convention have expanded over the years, often in ways critics describe as judicial overreach. Article 3, which bans torture and inhuman treatment, and Article 8, which protects private and family life, have become key battlegrounds. These are the provisions frequently used to prevent deportations, even of individuals with criminal records.

Britain’s own Human Rights Act, passed under Tony Blair in 1998 and implemented in 2000, brought these international protections directly into domestic law. But while British courts cannot strike down Acts of Parliament, they are obligated under the Act to interpret laws in ways compatible with human rights — and public authorities must follow suit.

On paper, Parliament retains supremacy. In practice, however, once the European Court of Human Rights weighs in, governments are expected to fall in line. As one saying goes: if Strasbourg has spoken, the case is closed.

The question is, what happens when Strasbourg speaks in ways that seem wildly out of touch with democratic common sense?

The case of Alaa Abd El-Fattah hinges on a crucial piece of legislation: the British Nationality Act 1981. Before 2019, individuals born before 1983 to British mothers could apply for citizenship — but only if they passed a “good character” test. That requirement was scrapped following a series of legal challenges invoking the European Convention.

One such case involved a Jamaican-born man convicted of manslaughter. The UK Supreme Court ruled it was discriminatory to deny him citizenship simply because he was born out of wedlock. Another case involved a convicted murderer — the Court again found the good character requirement incompatible with human rights protections.

This cascade of legal reasoning culminated in the 2019 Remedial Order, which removed the good character requirement for certain paths to citizenship. As a result, when El-Fattah’s application came through in 2021 — while he was still in prison in Egypt — there was no barrier left to stop it.

The British public, understandably, asked: How did this happen? How did we end up giving citizenship to someone who openly supports political violence?

The answer, frustrating as it may be, lies in the logic of modern human rights law — a system that tends to prioritize the rights of individual claimants, even when those claims pose potential threats to the public.

To be clear, this is not an argument against human rights per se. Courts have an essential role in checking government overreach — no one wants to return to the days when parliaments acted with unchecked impunity. But when courts reinterpret treaties far beyond their original scope — applying Articles meant to protect victims of torture to prevent the deportation of convicted rapists, for instance — they begin to lose public trust.

The European Court has justified its elasticity by describing the Convention as a “living instrument.” But critics argue that this approach lacks democratic legitimacy. Treaties are not constitutions — they’re contracts between states, not blank checks for judicial creativity.

Consider the 2021 case MA v Denmark, in which the Court ruled that a Syrian asylum seeker had the right to bring his wife and two adult children to Denmark, despite a law requiring a three-year wait. The Danish government argued it needed time to ensure successful integration and protect social cohesion. The Court disagreed, ruling that Denmark hadn’t “struck a fair balance” between its immigration controls and the applicant’s right to family life.

But who decides what’s “fair”? And on what basis are we comparing the community’s economic and social interests against one man’s family life?

It’s a question many European governments are now asking. In May 2025, several wrote a joint letter objecting to the Court’s approach, arguing that the rights of law-abiding citizens to safety and security must take precedence. And in December, Starmer himself joined the Danish Prime Minister in calling for a “modernisation” of the Court’s interpretations.

The tension here is obvious. On one hand, the Convention was designed to prevent governments from arbitrarily harming individuals. On the other, it now often shields those same individuals from the consequences of their actions — even when those actions endanger the public.

The core dilemma, then, is this: human rights law was built to protect human dignity. But when it defends the rights of extremists, criminals, or violent ideologues at the expense of victims and citizens, it risks undermining the very values it was meant to uphold.

The El-Fattah episode is not merely about one activist. It’s a symbol of a broader conflict between democratic sovereignty and supranational legalism — between a public that wants control over its borders, and a judiciary that increasingly insists on holding the pen.

And so we return to the original question: what happens when a legal system designed to defend victims starts shielding those who would create more of them?

That, it seems, is a question Britain — and Europe — can no longer afford to ignore.