My Year Inside Radical Islam (19 page)

I later learned that there was a second reason for their visit, beside the documentary. Sheikh Hassan had recently complained to Al Haramain’s head office in Riyadh that it didn’t make sense to have the U.S. headquarters in an out-of-the-way place like Ashland, where there wasn’t a huge pool of potential converts to draw on, and where there was a limit to the impact that publicity and
dawah
work would have. The Riyadh office wanted to have our visitors assess the wisdom of keeping the head U.S. office in Ashland.

Pete was raving about Abdul-Qaadir long before he set foot in southern Oregon. “This guy is great,” Pete said. “He can come here and teach classes every night at the Musalla, teach weekend classes, and help show us what real Islam is.”

So I was intrigued to meet Abdul-Qaadir, and came away impressed when we were introduced.

Abdul-Qaadir was a light-skinned black man with a broad chin and a full beard. His facial hair wasn’t very thick; there were a few patches on his cheeks where I could see his skin through the hair. He usually wore a kufi and
thobe.
His clothing gave off the appearance of cleanliness and purity. I noticed that he rarely smiled, and had a peculiar way of speaking: he projected constantly, as though he were always speaking to an audience, carefully enunciating every syllable. But the main thing that struck me about Abdul-Qaadir was that he was a man of obvious intellectual gifts.

One morning Abdul-Qaadir came into the office and sat next to me. I would soon look forward to my private morning chats with Abdul-Qaadir,as each gave me a new insight into the faith. They would remind me of the walks I used to take with al-Husein around the quad, except that my talks with Abdul-Qaadir tended to leave a bitter aftertaste.

This particular morning Abdul-Qaadir described the story of his conversion to Islam. Years before, after being raised a Christian, Abdul-Qaadir was studying music. (He would later stop playing music, believing it violated Islamic law.) Abdul-Qaadir said that he was at dinner with friends one night—at a Church’s Chicken—and learned that the musicians he was eating with were Muslim. He was unfamiliar with Islam, and in fact had never before heard anybody question the Trinity. When his dinner companions not only said that they didn’t believe in the Trinity, but were also able to provide good, logical arguments against it, Abdul-Qaadir was blown away. Soon after, he took his
shahadah.

Al-Husein and I spoke that night. It was becoming increasingly difficult to relate to him. But I wasn’t sure
why
it was difficult: I wasn’t sure if it was because his views were becoming radical, or if it was that I lacked faith. What I knew—and what I found appealing about al-Husein’s transformation—was that he now possessed the kind of absolute confidence in his convictions that I had so long sought.

Abdul-Qaadir’s arrival gave me something I could discuss with al-Husein. I described Abdul-Qaadir in glowing terms, then said, “Please pray that Allah helps Abdul-Qaadir do the same thing for my faith that Brother Taha did for yours.”

Many of my talks with Abdul-Qaadir were “words of wisdom” experiences. Sometimes he’d come in to tell me about a theological issue that he was thinking about. Sometimes he would talk about more general matters. One day he explained his personal growth as a Muslim.

Abdul-Qaadir had been involved in various Islamic groups, and had been close to a number of different Islamic thinkers. Some of the figures he told me about were more liberal in bent; one of them, much like al-Husein and I, used to speak constantly about “social justice.” But Abdul-Qaadir turned his back on that outlook. He said he thought about writing a book exposing his former mentor’s heterodoxy, but decided not to: “That would be like shooting a fly with a bazooka.”

Abdul-Qaadir’s Islamic development culminated in him discovering Salafism. I was taken by his description of that discovery. He didn’t frame it in the manner that I usually heard—that Salafism is self-evidently right, and that other Muslims who don’t see that are deviants or fools. Rather, it was something he grew into slowly, step by logical step, after a few misadventures within the faith. “I’m happy to call myself a Salafi,” Abdul-Qaadir said. “It’s the most persuasive method of understanding Islam that I’ve found. Maybe there’s something better out there, but I haven’t found it.”

A few days later, Abdul-Qaadir and I spoke about my love of books. He asked me about the Islamic authors I liked, and I told him that one of the main ones I’d been reading was Abu Ameenah Bilal Philips (a Jamaican convert to Islam). “It’s good that you like to read so much,” Abdul-Qaadir said. “People who read tend to be fooled less easily.”

I nodded. While most of my coworkers would be hard-pressed to read a single book from cover to cover, Abdul-Qaadir was well read and multilingual.

I had first thought of the Salafis as men like Dennis Geren, who didn’t have complex ideas and were quick to accept the answers that their sheikhs gave. Abdul-Qaadir and al-Husein didn’t fit that mold. Abdul-Qaadir came across as reasonable and thoughtful, a man of conviction. When I was around him, I felt that I was the one leading an unexamined life. Abdul-Qaadir knew with absolute certainty where he stood, and his life was seemingly free of inconsistencies. He was married and had kids. He and his family had removed themselves from the un-Islamic environment of the United States to live in Saudi Arabia, a country where he didn’t have to deal with the mixing of the sexes; he didn’t have to grapple with such issues as the duty of
hijra.

Abdul-Qaadir had me pick up a newspaper for him every morning on the way to work so he could clip out articles that had some relevance to Islam. He believed, though, that photographs were
haram;
after all, the Prophet told his wife Aishah that the angels won’t enter a house with pictures in it. So when an article that Abdul-Qaadir clipped from the paper had a photo in it, he’d turn it over so the picture couldn’t be seen.

This ability to negate all that was inconsistent with his worldview was so different from the life I was living, a life of uncertainty and compromises. It was clear that Abdul-Qaadir’s purpose as a Muslim was to submit to Allah’s will. He came to Salafism because he believed that the most logical way of discerning Allah’s will was a literal reading of Allah’s word, the Qur’an, and a return to the Prophet’s example. Abdul-Qaadir embraced the truth unapologetically. How could I not be drawn to this clarity?

Previously, al-Husein had been the only one I could talk with about my struggles within Islam. He and I used to discuss the delicate balance between being true to your faith and making sure that you didn’t descend into unthinking extremism. Now I had no one.

As much as I loved them, my parents’ view of God did not appeal to me. To me, their mishmash of religious beliefs was more indicative of a transcendent search for beauty than a desire to submit to God’s will. Nor did I think I could discuss this with Amy, since she wasn’t Muslim.

Deprived of an outlet for discussing these issues, I decided to keep my spiritual struggles to myself as I veered down the road to radicalism.

You shouldn’t marry that
kafir
woman.”

Pete took me aside after work one day to discuss my impending marriage to Amy, and this was his advice. The consummate salesman, Pete had a pitch prepared. “There are women from the Muslim world, like Thai women, and all they wanna do when you come home from work is serve you. ‘Oh, did you have a hard day at work? Here, lemme give you a massage. Lemme make you dinner and take care of you.’ Those women really know how to be obedient, how to take care of their husband, not like American women.”

He then turned his attention from the proffered Islamic alternative to my fiancée. “Western women are different, bro. Let’s say you’re able to lead her to Islam. Maybe it’ll take five years, maybe seven years. . . .”

“Sooner than that,
inshallah
[God willing]!” I desperately wanted her to share my faith.

“Okay,” Pete said. “Sooner than that,
inshallah.
But look, bro, what if she does become Muslim? Western women are raised differently than women in the Muslim world. They have their feminisms here, they’re taught from the very beginning that they’re supposed to be ‘independent. ’ Even if she comes around to Islam, even if she accepts the rights that a husband should have over his wife, she’s still not gonna serve you or obey you like a Muslim woman would. And do you really think, even if she becomes Muslim, that she’s gonna let you take on another wife?”

I didn’t want to carry the conversation any further. But it was not a topic that Pete would let go of easily.

Soon after Abdul-Qaadir arrived in Ashland, I decided to stop listening to music. This was no small sacrifice.

I had loved music ever since I was a kid, and had an enormous CD collection. Sometimes I’d find myself thinking in music. I would associate particularly strong emotions with certain songs, would associate different parts of town with other songs. I had a favorite nook near the top of Lithia Park where, when I wanted to be alone, I could sit on a large rock by the babbling creek. It reminded me of Fleetwood Mac’s haunting “Seven Wonders.” There was I-5 connecting the north and south ends of town, a route I’d often take to meet up with my best friend in high school, Jacob Bornstein. That section of freeway made me think of the Doors’ “L.A. Woman.” There were countless other spots that I associated with countless other songs.

Ever since Dawood first lectured me about the impropriety of music, I struggled with whether I should remove it from my life. It seemed unfathomable that I could simply quit something that had meant so much to me, that was so closely tied to my emotional highs and lows.

I felt, though, that I needed to make a decision. I drove my Tercel past the golf course, out toward the lake. Driving often helped me clear my head and think. As I drove, I listened to a mixed tape that I had made in college. The music seemed to fit the road. There was a dark, winding stretch where the endless guitar riffs of Golden Earring’s “Twilight Zone” punctuated each turn. As I took the final, sloping drive up toward Emigrant Lake, the near out-of-control mix of a guitar and flute in Jethro Tull’s “Sealion” marked the ascent. And I sat in my car, on the dirt road near the edge of the lake, letting the music wash over me. So many songs, each bringing back some long-forgotten memory or emotion.

But this would have to end, I decided. There were my coworkers, but there was also my relationship with Allah. (I used to call the Creator either God or Allah interchangeably in my thoughts; by now, I only used the name Allah.) Was music
haram?
I found some of the evidence in Muhammad bin Jamil Zino’s book unpersuasive the first time I read it. But I couldn’t deny the power of some of the other
ahadith.
If I really believed in Allah, I had to be intellectually honest. Even if some music were
halal
(lawful), the music I was listening to was not. Stringed instruments were well known to be
haram,
and I couldn’t think of a song on my mixed tape that didn’t have a guitar in it. And the themes of my music? Allah, I knew, wouldn’t approve of them. There were songs about sex, songs about drugs—most of the music I listened to was religiously objectionable in some way.

I drove back toward the house, knowing that this would be the last time I enjoyed the music that I used to love so much. As I got close to home, I decided to take another lap around the block. A chance to listen to one more song.

As Jimi Hendrix’s “Eazy Rider” reached its crescendo, I finally pulled into the driveway. I ejected the cassette from the car’s tape player. I then held the tape in my hand and sat looking at it. Already I was regretting the loss of music. I wanted to pop the tape back in and keep listening. The ghost echoes of music reverberated through my head.

I brought the tape into my room, thinking about the temptation of music. I needed finality.

So I took the tape in both hands and squeezed until it snapped in two. In that instant, the broken tape seemed like a symbol. I was turning my back on a life of not being serious about my faith.

Then I grabbed a Kleenex from the side of my bed and wrapped the broken tape inside it. I didn’t want my parents to see it. I thought about how they had introduced me to music. I remembered that they had given me a tape of the Beatles’
Abbey Road
when I was just six years old, old enough for the album to hold my interest but too young to recognize its true brilliance.

I wasn’t hiding the tape because my parents would be upset that I’d given up on music. It was larger than that. My parents had no problem with my conversion to Islam because our ideas about religion were fundamentally the same thereafter. No longer. I was careening down a new road, and didn’t know where it would lead me—but I knew that my ideas about religion were no longer like my parents’. And I knew that these differences would hurt them deeply.

Since Amy and I were now engaged, it made sense that she would spend the summer with me in Oregon. We hadn’t been together since her Christmas break, and I couldn’t wait to see her. But I also felt hesitant.

I had undergone so many changes since I had last seen her, changes that she couldn’t anticipate and probably couldn’t comprehend. And now I didn’t know how we fit into each other’s lives. Would my views on our relationship change?

I knew that my coworkers wouldn’t approve of the fact that Amy had come to stay with me for the summer. And I didn’t want them to know that she was here. I wanted to keep my life at work separate from my life with the woman I loved.

If only hypocrisy were that easy.

Abdul-Qaadir, at least, had a different take on my marriage to Amy than Pete did.

Since he knew that I would be marrying a Christian woman, he broached the subject early in his time at the Musalla. He said that it was permissible for a Muslim man to take a Christian wife, but he did have some warnings.