Remembering Khalid Waajid, Who Documented 40 Years of Black Muslim Life in Oakland

My correspondence with Brother Khalid Waajid began in 2019, a few years after he sent me an archived Muhammad Speaks newspaper article about a Berkeley police shooting he’d been the victim of in 1974. I read the article and looked at the photos, in which Khalid (then named Larry “3X” Crosby) lay on the concrete after being shot three times. The article and photos reminded me of countless incidents of contemporary police brutality against African Americans, but unlike many of those tragic cases, Brother Khalid survived. I saw him throughout my childhood and life, always in his wheelchair, smiling jovially with a mini-DV camera in his hand, recording the Masjid Waritheen community in East Oakland. At the Oakland premiere of my feature film Jinn, he attended and embraced me with open arms.

I began to wonder about his journey through early life, the Nation of Islam, that police shooting, Orthodox Islam and then as a videographer, archivist and documentarian of the Muslim community in the Bay Area. After he sent me that Muhammad Speaks newspaper article about the police shooting that left him paralyzed, I asked him if he’d be interested in sitting down for a short documentary interview on his life. He was excited and receptive to the idea, and we’d planned to do it.

But over the course of the next several years, we never got to sit down for that documentary interview, though we kept in contact. Life swung us all in unimaginable directions through the COVID-19 pandemic. When I learned of Brother Khalid’s recent passing at age 75, I sat on the phone with my father, frozen with sadness. I also reflected on his legacy of communal preservation. In our current political climate, where Islamophobia and hatred have become parts of daily life, Brother Khalid’s videos remind us of the beauty, perseverance and light that we carry. Because of his steadfast documentation, the Muslim community’s presence in the greater Bay Area will never be erased.

For four decades, Khalid filmed major community events during times of celebration, grief and everything in between. “He was doing it on his own,” says his close friend Abdul Raoof Nasir, a Muslim Sheikh. “He would make a short film on someone who died. He would make a short film on [celebrations like] the Evening of Elegance. He would do those things, and I don’t know if he was ever paid. All of this was done as volunteer work. He was quite phenomenal.”

Brother Khalid was an artist from an early age: His first love was architecture, but his white teacher steered him towards graphic design. While a student at Laney College, he became interested in media studies and videography, strengthening these passions throughout his life. He began documenting his life as a young member of the Black Panther Party in the 1960s.

Nasir recalls that Khalid came into the Nation of Islam (NOI) in 1968. Inspired by his late mother’s memory and wanting to do good things in life, Khalid began attending the Nation’s main Temple #26 in San Francisco, which at that time, was the largest temple in the Bay Area before one was built in Oakland. Many African Americans in the Bay Area, including Brother Khalid, Nasir and my own father Saleem, were inspired by the teachings of the NOI, which stressed economic self-reliance, self-respect, entrepreneurship and upliftment for the Black community.

Numerous members of the NOI sold Muhammad Speaks newspapers, whiting fish and bean pies at low prices to surrounding communities in Oakland and Berkeley. Brother Khalid was on the fish crew.

At the time, Italians controlled the fish business, and NOI fishmongers faced discrimination. “We used to get harassed while we were trying to make a living, help our people and give them good food at a low price. The police would stop us almost every day,” Brother Khalid shared in an interview with a young Muslim student named Ameir Strong Jamerson Ali and his father Shomari Ali in March 2024.

One day, Brother Khalid was riding in a NOI fish van through Berkeley with three other Muslims. A police officer stopped them as they rolled into North Oakland, asking for their selling permit and license, which they presented. The police officer demanded they get out of the van, and a scuffle ensued. Brother Khalid attempted to stop the police officer from shooting one of the other men, and tried to grab the gun from him. He was shot three times in the back, paralyzing him from the waist down.

In that same interview, Khalid said he tried to grab the officer’s gun because when he was young, he witnessed an act of violence against his mother, and he always felt he should’ve done something to protect her, though he couldn’t. At that moment, he didn’t want the police officer to harm his Muslim brother. After the shooting, the police charged him with assaulting an officer, but the Nation of Islam countersued the police for shooting and paralyzing Khalid. The case against him and the other men lasted for several years, and eventually Khalid accepted a lesser charge.

“This is what we have to be aware of as Blacks, as Afro-Americans: Anytime we start to try to build a community for ourselves, they find an opportunity to harass us,” Khalid said.

Around 1976, there was a large migration of African Americans in the Nation of Islam to Orthodox Sunni Islam, led by Elijah Muhammad’s son, Warith Deen Muhammad. Khalid, Abdul Raoof Nasir and my father were a part of that migration, and Masjid Waritheen in East Oakland became a haven for that community. (This is the masjid I was later born into.)

By the ’80s, Khalid and his camera were a regular presence at milestones and gatherings. In 1980, he filmed Nasir teaching Arabic to inmates at San Quentin Prison.

He captured interviews with festive party-goers at the 5th Annual Evening of Elegance in 1987, an annual event of fashion, music and celebration for the Masjid Waritheen community. My father speaks at the 1:19 mark.

Brother Khalid stayed active with his filmmaking practice until the end of his life. “Always at the forefront of technology, I would see Brother Khalid at community events and gatherings with a camera or a drone flying through the air,” recalled photographer and visual artist Amir Aziz, who I had enlisted for my would-be documentary interview about Khalid’s life. “Brother Khalid shows a sincere interest in [people’s] lives. … I’ve always admired his openness and storytelling ability, which shows in his treasure trove of moments through the ages.”

In 2023, he recorded a panel that I spoke on at the Islamic Scholarship Fund annual banquet.

Earlier this year, he filmed Masjid Waritheen’s food giveaway for houseless people during Ramadan.

And at the end of Ramadan, he filmed the colorful, vibrant festivities of Eid al-Fitr.

When I saw Brother Khalid at that scholarship banquet in 2023, he greeted me with the same warmth and zeal he’d always shown, and we took a photo together. That was the last time I saw him. When I learned of his passing, a deep pain vibrated through my body. But as I watched his videos and learned more about his life, I felt a deep sense of appreciation. His work as a disabled artist shows us that it is never too late to fulfill one’s dreams, and to build a legacy that endures for years to come.

As Oakland and the Bay Area continue to undergo waves of redevelopment and gentrification, Brother Khalid’s videography and documentation allows us to revisit, reclaim and celebrate our legacy as African American Muslims. His work encourages us to become the authors of our own stories and images, instead of relying on outside entities to define us and our humanity. When I watch the videos on his Youtube page, I feel seen. This was Brother Khalid’s gift to us. I will always remember him.