My Year Inside Radical Islam (23 page)

Our encounter with Abby the dog came while we were waiting for John in one of Landmind’s meeting rooms. Pete, Abdul-Qaadir, and Ahmed Ezzat were also in the room, and we all sat on a large light blue couch. When Abby entered, she paced around in front of us, inquisitive, as though expecting that these new visitors would pet her.

But we didn’t react like your average visitors. Instead, everyone on the couch leaned back as far as they could, trying to prevent the dog from coming into contact with them. I saw that not only was Ahmed’s body recoiling, but he also craned his head back as far as it would go, as though that could somehow protect him. Ahmed said something in Arabic that I didn’t understand.

When John entered, he instantly read our body language. “Out of curiosity,” he said, “does Islam have some kind of problem with dogs?”

“We shouldn’t be around them,” Ahmed blurted out. He exhaled the words as though offended by John’s audacity in leaving us alone in the room with a dog.

John nodded and smiled. He was taken aback, but did his best to smooth everything over. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll make sure that she doesn’t come back in and bug you.” He tenderly led Abby out of the room. She wagged her tail and took one wistful glance back at us, disappointed that she never got the attention that she had come to expect.

When John was out of earshot, Abdul-Qaadir asked me in a whisper, “Do you know enough Arabic to understand what Ahmed said?”

At the time, I did not.

“I said that if that dog touched me, I was going to kill it,” Ahmed said. Everybody laughed.

Later, as we left the studios, the close encounter with the canine was still fresh in everybody’s mind, particularly Ahmed’s. As we drove back toward Ashland, he told a story about when he was a boy growing up in Egypt. There had been some dogs in the neighborhood. His mother had warned him about the dogs, since they were at best impure. So when one of the neighborhood dogs finally bit him, he was ready. Ahmed bit the dog right back.

Ahmed’s story provoked delighted howls of laughter. At the time, we thought of his biting a dog as a minor act of heroism.

THE JEWS’ PLAN TO RUIN EVERYTHING

When I saw that my dad had picked up a book about Islam from the public library to learn more about my religion, my first response was to carefully screen the book for deviance. If there was any question about whether I had truly begun to accept the ways of the Salafis, my instincts in this exchange with my father should have put those doubts to rest.

I had noticed this Salafi tendency to “correct” others on theological matters early on, before I even began to work at Al Haramain. I wasn’t the only one to notice this. The Naqshbandis’ U.S. Web site,
Sunnah.org
, had an amusing cartoon called “Forbidding the Good.” I first ran across it in March of 1999, when I was pondering how the Islam practiced at Al Haramain differed from the religion I thought I was embracing when I took my
shahadah.

In the cartoon, a young man decides to convert to Islam after reading a book explaining the faith. The next panel comes a few weeks later in a mosque, when the young man—now wearing a green tunic and sporting a full beard—kisses the Qur’an after reading a chapter. The man sitting next to him, a Wahhabi/Salafi, reprimands him: “Why are you kissing the Qur’an? This is
bida
—innovation.”

The Wahhabi/Salafi then sees the new convert with prayer beads, and again corrects him: “This is
bida,
too!” The Wahhabi/Salafi says to himself, “It is my duty as a Muslim following the right creed,
aqida,
to help this misguided new Muslim.” Eventually he hounds the new Muslim so much that the young man runs out of the mosque, screaming, “Let me get out of here!” (There was, however, a happy ending: after running out of the mosque, the young man encounters Naqshbandi Muslims, who are able to reignite his passion for Islam.)

I found the cartoon funny when I first read it, so reflective of the Wahhabi tendency to correct others in matters of faith. And now, that was my first impulse when I saw my dad reading a book about Islam. And I
did
find something to correct him on.

The book, I saw, was written by Mirza Ghulam Ahmad, the founder of the Ahmadiyya religious movement. This was a movement about which I had done much studying. I initially encountered it when working on my honors thesis. At first I came away impressed by the Ahmadis, given their early
dawah
efforts to bring Americans to Islam. But since I started working for Al Haramain, my impression became far less positive.

The biggest problem I had with Mirza Ghulam Ahmad was his use of the terms
nabi
(prophet) and
rasul
(messenger) in referring to himself, which seemed to contradict the finality of Muhammad’s prophethood. There were also several other Ahmadi beliefs that contradicted more theologically sound accounts. I was now regularly praying for the mujahideen’s victory. Mirza Ghulam Ahmad, in contrast, had argued that jihad could only be used to protect against extreme religious persecution, and that it couldn’t be used as a reason for invading neighboring territories. This, to me, contradicted the Qur’anic account.

So I told my dad, “Be careful with that book. There are a lot of people out there who put out information that doesn’t represent the most carefully considered Islamic view, and Mirza Ghulam Ahmad is one of them. He even claimed to be a prophet, which is completely contrary to Islamic teaching since Muhammad said there would be no other prophets after him.”

Just like when I told my dad about Mike’s argument for Jesus’ divinity, this statement upset him. “I just wanted to learn more about Islam,” he shot back. “I’m not going to go out and start worshipping Ghulam Ahmad!”

“They don’t
worship
him,” I said. “His followers merely think he was a prophet. But that in itself is unacceptable Islamically.”

The words coming from my mouth were cold and humorless. I remembered how, early in my encounters with Wahhabis, I noticed that they were eager to correct me on any Islamic shortcomings. Now, evidently, I was doing the same to my own family.

It was nearing the end of July, and it remained light outside well into the evening. I left work around five o’clock and parked my Tercel near the Daniel Meyer Pool. Stone walkways crisscrossed the perfectly cut grass of the fields outside the pool. These fields sprawled for hundreds of feet, up until they met the railroad tracks that cut across the town.

I sat down on the grass to read a book. It was the perfect scene for some summer reading. But instead of light fiction, I was curled up with a book by Abu Ameenah Bilal Philips,
Tafseer Soorah al-Hujuraat.
I felt a vague unease, aware that I was having trouble appreciating the beauty of this warm summer evening. I discarded this feeling, telling myself that this life was temporary, and I was surrounded by people so wrapped up in this world that they had lost sight of the larger picture. An image flashed through my head of Dennis Geren scoffing at them dismissively and muttering, “The
kufar.
”

Tafsir
is Arabic for explanation and interpretation of the Qur’an. (Bilal Philips transliterates the word differently; his system of transliteration is predominantly used by the Salafis.) I was interested to read Bilal Philips’s account of the history of
tafsir
and the various schools of
tafsir
that developed over time. He outlined a clear system for interpreting the Qur’an, with a hierarchy of interpretive methods. Most desirable, naturally, was
tafsir
by the Qur’an itself: sometimes the Qur’an will ask and subsequently answer questions, and in other places it makes general statements that are later explained with greater specificity. Failing that, there was
tafsir
of the Qur’an by the Prophet, where he personally clarified verses in the holy book. If Muhammad’s companions were confused about a verse and couldn’t find an explanation in the Qur’an or one that was provided by Muhammad, “they would use their own reasoning based on their knowledge of the contexts of the verses and the intricacies of the Arabic language in which the Qur’aan was revealed.” Likewise, if we—the Muslims of the twentieth century—were unable to find the answer in the Qur’an or Sunnah, we would next turn to the sayings of Muhammad’s companions for enlightenment. And the last method of
tafsir
in this hierarchy was
tafsir
by opinion. These opinions would have to be based on the first three steps, and would only be considered valid if they didn’t contradict the previous steps.

Clearly, there was a science of
tafsir.
And, typical of the books that I got through Al Haramain, Bilal Philips outlined not only the proper methods of
tafsir
but also the dangers of deviant
tafsirs.
These included
tafsirs
that placed too much emphasis on the spiritual over the material, those that attempted to interpret revelation according to human logic, and those whose errors were based on an obsession with the Prophet’s descendants.

I paused for a second and put the book down. It was a beautiful day. The sun was setting, couples were strolling past, and a gentle breeze ruffled the grass. But the beauty of the evening wasn’t doing anything for me. I no longer appreciated nature the way I once did.

I thought about the book. I had at one point recoiled from passages such as the one I was now reading, which condemned different ways of interpreting Islam. I once thought that there were
many
Islams, a diversity of practice within the faith. I once thought that I could learn from other people’s practice even if it differed from mine. But now Bilal Philips’s writing resonated rather than repelled. He was offering a more objective guide for telling right from wrong, for distinguishing between sound and shaky methods of Qur’anic interpretation.

I thought back to the conversations that al-Husein and I had with my parents when he visited Ashland. Those days were long gone, separated by time and by the changes that al-Husein and I had gone through. I remembered how al-Husein and I had agreed with my parents on so many spiritual matters. If al-Husein were here today, we would no longer have those long conversations with my parents. Now, I felt, I had finally developed the correct understanding of religion.

Even after converting to Islam I had at first believed that I should forge a relationship with Allah that felt comfortable. I thought back to my conversation with Joy Vermillion in Venice, when she asked if I would ever consider leaving Islam. Back then, I had told her that I wouldn’t: “I can find everything I need in this faith. I can have a mystical relationship with God. And if I’m looking for greater literalism, I can find that, too. There are plenty of directions that I can grow within Islam.”

I had no desire to leave Islam, but my response to Joy had been wrong. I had approached the question from the perspective of what felt comfortable to me. Absent from my answer was a consideration of what was
true.
I had spoken with Joy about my spiritual needs, but they are irrelevant if Allah exists. If Allah exists,
none
of our spiritual needs can be fulfilled if our relationship with Him is based on falsehood. If Allah exists, we don’t forge a relationship with Him. Instead, He dictates a relationship with us. Salafism led me to comprehend this in a way that I never did before. The scientific methodology espoused by Bilal Philips and others like him was an effort to ensure that our understanding and actions accord with Allah’s will.

Salafis carefully interpret the Qur’an and Sunna because they believe that the best way of interpreting Allah’s will is going back to the earliest understanding of Islam. The earliest generation of Muslims is a pious example because if Muhammad were truly a prophet, those who were closest to him and experienced life under his rule would best understand the principles on which an ideal society should be built.

I now understood why I had long resisted this logic: it was leading me to conclusions that I once considered unacceptable. I was reevaluating my ideas about jihad, about the role of women, about religious minorities and individual freedoms. I was reevaluating my ideas about the Taliban.

But I felt a pang of loss that I could no longer sit down at the dinner table with my parents and talk about all the areas where we agreed spiritually. I felt a pang of loss at the freedom of intellect I had once cherished. I used to enjoy trying to reason through any complex and controversial issue. Now I had embraced a creed that answered even the smallest of questions, such as what hand to wipe with after using the bathroom.

But why the pang of loss if this was
right
? Shouldn’t I instead feel a joy of discovery?

I realized that I had stopped reading the book about twenty minutes ago, and had been lost in thought.

I was unhappy, but the conclusions I had reached, the method of interpretation I was using—they were
right.
Happiness, I was sure, would come later.

Charlie Jones was fired as July drew to a close.

His depressive tendencies were obvious from the first time I met him, and they only grew over time. They were reflected in his speech, his bearing, and his work. Sometimes Charlie wouldn’t show up at the Musalla for weeks at a time. At least a couple of times his wife called to see if we knew where Charlie was; his whereabouts were a mystery to her as well.

Most of the office backlog that I had been forced to deal with had been Charlie’s responsibility. He was, for example, supposed to write the reports for the head office in Riyadh that had been months late. But most egregious was his failure to pay our bills on time. We were so late in bill payments that at one point our long-distance provider bounced us from the standard plan and started billing us at random. One month our charges came to over four hundred dollars, an outrageous total.

Charlie had been diagnosed with a chemical cause to his depression, but refused to take medication. “Maybe this sounds silly to you guys,” he said, “but rather than taking this medicine that the doctors claim is supposed to make me better, I just pray to Allah. If Allah wants to cure me, He will.”