Did that mean I might not someday have to pay an earthly price for the death and destruction I had caused? No. But I knew God had accepted me. Even if I someday reaped human consequences of my crimes, my soul was safe. That truth burned in the center of my soul like a sacred fire and rinsed my heart clean like a holy rain. I felt in my bones the words of King David: “In my anguish, I cried out to the LORD,” he wrote in the Book of Psalms. “And he answered by setting me free.”
About ten weeks after I rolled into the Davids’ home in a wheelchair, I was able to walk out the front door on my own. To replace my totaled RX-7, the Christian Businessmen bought me a nearly-new used car, and I used it to explore a remarkable new freedom. Now I did not see the future through a narrow tunnel of hatred that would lead to many deaths including my own, but as broad and without limits, promising such simple joys as Abu Fox had offered me outside the cave in Afghanistan.
To enjoy this new freedom, I employed my old tricks, melting permanently into my identity as a Frenchman and moving only in the areas of the city where I knew my old network had not penetrated. We had targeted poor neighborhoods and prisons. My new friends were affluent Christians living and working on the opposite end of a sprawling major city. I quit my old life, as if cutting the chain to an anchor that had kept me stranded on treacherous rocks. I changed my phone number, bank accounts, everything. It was not difficult to avoid running into radical Muslims. But just to be sure, I got a job in a place where I knew no fundamentalist Muslim would ever set foot: a bar and grill that served alcohol and pork.
My new life was like a school where I learned about Americans. They were a rowdy, friendly group of many colors, I found. They loved to laugh. They embraced all faiths, and thought nothing of building a church, a synagogue, a temple, and a mosque on four corners of the same intersection. They respected their women, made them friends and partners. I remembered how my father and uncles treated their women as maids and incubators and contrasted that with American men, who did not merely allow, but expected their women to have their own wings.
Americans fought for their own country and for others, not to take them over, but to set them free. When disaster struck overseas, they sent aid to the hurting without asking first what gods that country worshipped. They griped noisily about their leaders and did not have to worry that they might be killed for it.
And where Americans had once seemed blind and foolish to trust someone like me, I began to appreciate their embrace of all cultures as a strength that had made this country great.
I fell in love with America. I fell in love with her people, who, I discovered, were mostly good-hearted, even when they were being blind and human.
After I left the Davids’ house, I began visiting churches on Sundays and learned that in Christianity, houses of worship are as diverse and wonderfully messy as American life itself. At a Southern Baptist church, I heard the Bible preached, but to my Middle Eastern ears, it was as though the preacher was speaking Martian. At a different kind of Baptist church, I could understand the teaching better, but the people were so hoity-toity that I felt out of place. Then I went to an Eastern Orthodox church and found a worship style so similar to Islam that I ran for the hills.
Having lived for a lie all my life, I now thirsted for truth like a man emerging from the Sahara. At every church I visited, I asked the pastor a simple question: “Why should I worship here?” Many denominations gave me a troubling answer that went something like this: “Because we’re not sure those other churches have their doctrine just right.”
One Sunday, I was driving down the expressway and saw a huge white church with a tall steeple and a packed parking lot. I decided to pull in. As soon as I opened my car door, I heard music spilling from the building, not organs and choir voices as I had heard else-where, but drums and guitars. Inside, a man in his thirties dressed in blue jeans greeted me with a smile and handed me a program. Now I could hear rapturous singing, as though thousands of people sang with one voice.
I had never heard anything like it. “What’s going on?” I asked the usher.
“They’re celebrating God!”
I was astonished. “Where is He?”
“He’s here!”
Entering the church sanctuary through wide double doors, I encountered a Sunday celebration such as I had never seen. In the cavernous, modern room, I saw thousands of people, smiling as they sang, some raising their hands to heaven. I sat down in a back row and watched, amazed.
They know Him, I thought. They know God!
After the service, I found the pastor, an athletic, well-spoken man in his fifties, talking with people near the pulpit. I waited in line for a chance to speak with him. When it was my turn, I introduced myself and told him I was a former Muslim.
“Why should I go to church here?” I asked.
The pastor put his hand on my shoulder and smiled. “It doesn’t matter where you go to church. God is everywhere. All you need to do is find a church home where they teach the Word. You’re welcome here while God helps you find your way.”
He invited me up to his office and we chatted awhile about my spiritual journey. Of course, I left out the part about bombings and shootings and coming to America to destroy her. It would be nearly twenty years before I told another living soul about that.
2
It turned out I was a very good bartender. I could talk to anyone about anything for as long as they wanted to talk about it, all the while revealing very little about myself. Who could have known that all the years I spent finding common ground with people in order to manipulate them could be applied harmlessly in a real job?
In 1987, being a “Frenchman” helped me land a bartending job at a five-star European-style hotel, the city’s finest, the destination of movie stars, politicians, and presidents. Very quickly, I was promoted to food and beverage manager of the property’s fine dining restaurant, as well as every lounge, and even room service.
Two years into hiding, I still prayed daily that I would not cross paths with anyone from my old life. Meanwhile, I grew into myself, discovering a talent for management, dealing with the public, and smoothing the ruffled feathers of the wealthiest guests. After sweet-talking millions from Saudi sheikhs, I was not intimidated by American fat cats—though some of their wives, when displeased, were almost as scary as Saddam Hussein.
One Sunday morning, shortly after my promotion, I arrived early in the restaurant’s kitchen to nurse along the hotel’s Sunday brunch, a star attraction in the city. The brunch was so famous that even the famous would wait in line for hours to eat, so I was used to seeing “the beautiful people” line up at the restaurant’s antique Austrian doors, peering in eagerly through the leaded glass. But I was unprepared for the beautiful blonde who appeared outside that day.
A cream-colored dress crocheted its way from her neck to her knees, and as she laughed and chatted with her brunch companions, her smile seemed to compete with the sun.
Mike, one of my waiters, saw me staring. “That’s the D.O.M.,” he said, meaning the hotel’s director of marketing. “Her real name is Victoria-something, but everybody calls her the Velvet Hammer.”
Her reputation preceded her. She was part of the Who’s Who in the city, I had heard, lunching with dignitaries, sitting on all kinds of boards and committees. The rumor mill said she was tough and smart, with a Southern charm that blunted the pain when she bent you to her will.
But no one had told me about those green eyes. I was mesmerized.
Mike elbowed me in the side, then walked off to tend a table. “Don’t even think about it, man,” he said over his shoulder. “She eats people like you for breakfast.”
I watched where the hostess seated Victoria-something and then, for show, made a round of the tables, chatting up my regular clientele. As soon as I thought I would not appear too eager, I sailed over to her table and extended my hand.
“You must be Miss Victoria,” I said.
She shook my hand, and he
r smile sent electricity straight to my brain. “You must be Kamal, our new manager.”
We talked for a few minutes and I felt an instant rapport, as if we had known each other for a very long time. Instantly, I wanted to know her more.
Despite the difference in our rank—she was an executive and I a low-level manager—we quickly became friends. I was drawn to her forthright honesty and regal style. It turned out we attended the same church, and so we began to go together some Sunday mornings. Since I was still a new Christian, I wanted to learn more about the faith quickly and sometimes felt like a starving man with a cracker—I could not fill up with knowledge quickly enough. But Victoria had just completed a series of courses at a Bible institute, so she poured her new knowledge into my mind as fast as I could receive it.
We shared casual dinners and movies—not dating, just spending time together, comfortable in each other’s company. Over the weeks and months, we grew closer, our hearts knitting together in deep friendship as we shared trials and joys.
Victoria was a woman in charge of her environment, at the top of her field, respected even by her competitors. Politicians and corporate leaders sought her advice, and soon, so did I.
“You are constantly going out with all these bigwigs,” I used to tease her. “Why do you keep wasting time with me?”
The truth was, I was jealous of the time she spent with “important” people. I thought no one was good enough for her, including me. At these times, Victoria would look at me very seriously and say, “There’s something extraordinary about you, Kamal. I can’t put my finger on it yet, but God has something special planned for your future.”
At that time in my life, the most important part of my future involved becoming a true American. But that goal did not come easily; I had to fight. I applied for citizenship at the state immigration office and completed all the right classes. But just when I had only one more hoop to jump through, I ran into a 180-pound roadblock named Miss Pritchett.
Miss Pritchett worked at the state immigration office, and her manner said she had worked there since baby Moses floated down the Nile. Miss Pritchett did not like Middle Easterners, she thought we had all crossed the Atlantic with our pockets full of oil money and took unfair advantage of American opportunities and freedoms.
In my case, she was right, though not in the way she thought. But that Kamal Saleem was dead. I was a new man sitting across the desk from her, pleading to make America my home. Still, at every interview, Miss Pritchett was nasty and belligerent, and each time, she refused to forward my application.
But Miss Pritchett did not count on the Velvet Hammer.
Victoria, the big-city mover and shaker, had friends in high places who had gotten to know me, both at the hotel and at church. She made a few phone calls, and soon the state attorney general and a state Supreme Court justice provided character references that trumped Miss Pritchett’s prejudice (which, even now, I admit was not entirely misplaced). Finally, at a ceremony in 1989, I raised my right hand and pledged my loyalty to America. Victoria and Dr. David were there. It was the proudest day of my life. Where I had once been ready to destroy America, now I vowed to watch over my adopted country like a father, serve her like a favorite son. When the immigration officer handed me a small American flag, I wept like a child.
But my joy that year did not last. Victoria was promoted to general manager, then transferred to Texas to manage another hotel. When she told me she was leaving, my heart broke, because I knew I was losing the best friend I had ever had. But when she actually left, I realized I was losing much more than that.
3
Like a schoolboy with a crush, I followed Victoria to Texas. I knew she was out of my league, a lioness when I was nothing but a goat. She had never hinted that our relationship would ever move to romance, and I could not dream that she would want someone like me. But I could not bear the loss of her friendship, so I quit my job, gave all my household goods to the church, and moved my clothes to Texas. We picked up where we left off. But I had only been there a few months when she told me the hotel chain was transferring her again, this time to New Orleans.
I knew I could not let her go. I could not afford to move again, and if I did not gather the courage to tell her how I felt, I might lose her forever.
It was after midnight when I knocked on her apartment door.
“Kamal?” she said, pulling a silk robe tight around her slender frame as she opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
She seemed surprised, but there was something else in her eyes, something I could not place. Before I could lose my nerve, I walked rapidly to the couch and sat down. “Come here, Victoria. I have something to tell you.”
She sat down beside me, and I took both her soft hands in mine. “I love you,” I said. “I have loved you for a long time. But I could not tell you because you are so much higher than me, too good for me. But now you are leaving me again, and I could not let you go without telling you.”
When I stopped talking, I realized my heart was hammering inside my chest so hard I feared she would hear it. I looked down at my lap, holding her hands tight. I had seen her deliver bad news gently to other people many, many times. And now I braced myself, waiting to be let down easy. But when I raised my eyes to look at her, I was shocked to see joy on her face.
“I know you love me,” she said through tears. “I love you, too. But I was waiting for you to tell me. I needed to hear it from you first.”
4
In November 1990, the Velvet Hammer became Mrs. Victoria Saleem. She took the job in New Orleans, and we moved into a white gabled house with magnolia trees in the yard. I loved the historic feel of the city, the French Quarter’s narrow streets, and the beignets—soft, light pastries that reminded me of Paris. But it did not take long before tragedy knocked on our door.
At home one weekend, the phone rang and Victoria answered. It was my youngest brother, Samir. Without any greeting or warm-up, he said, “Tell Kamal to call home. His brother Emad is dead.” Then he hung up.
Shocked, Victoria ran to the bedroom and told me the news. I snatched up the bedroom extension and quickly dialed home, my hands shaking as the long distance connection sniffed its way across the world. Hassan answered.
“Samir, it’s Kamal! What happened?”
“Emad is dead,” my brother said quietly. “He broke up with that Christian girl he was dating. She came here with a gun and shot him in the chest, right on Mama’s front step.”
“When! When did this happen?”
“Two years ago.”
Two years ago? Had I heard him correctly? I looked desperately at Victoria, grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Did you say two years ago? Two years?”
“Yes. Mama asked me to call and tell you now.”
Anger consumed my brain, a cloud of orange fire. “My brother died two years ago and you are just calling me now? What kind of people are you? What kind of family are you?”
I slammed down the phone and fell to my knees, sobbing, keening. Victoria knelt to comfort me as great, heaving bursts of grief pealed from my throat. “It is my fault! It is my fault!” I cried. “If I had let him come to America, my brother would still be alive!”
Several times since I had moved to the United States, Emad had asked to come and join me. But I had not wanted him corrupted by infidels; I had seen so many young Muslim men lured by American lusts.
Now, my heart melted like wax. And for the next three weeks, I did not leave the house. Sometimes, I stalked from room to room, wailing as though Pain itself had invaded my body and was pulling my insides out through my mouth. Sometimes, I lay on the bed in utter, stony silence.
If I had not been so selfish, I thought, my brother might not only be alive, but enjoying the freedom that is now mine.
I passed twenty-one days pinned under crashing waves of blackest grief. I could not eat. I was as the psalmist, David, who wrote of anguish so great that he cried even when he drank, his tears rolli
ng down his face into his cup. Then one night, Emad came to me in a dream, appearing the way I remembered him, smiling, strong, and full of youth.
“Why do you cry for me, my brother?” he said. “It was not your fault. And where I am, I am happy.”
The dream released me from my guilt, but not from the pain of losing my brother whom I had not seen for more than ten years.
The following year, I was surprised when I opened my mailbox and found a letter from my father. While I lived in his house, he had gloried in my growing status with Fatah, then the PLO. But it was to me as if he was basking in a light not his own. He did not love me, but only the respect I earned him in the neighborhood. When I left Lebanon for Riyadh, I left him behind, cut him out of my life. No more stolen glory. Now after all these years, I held a letter written in his hand, black ink on air mail stationery, Arabic script flowing across the page like islands and streams.
I tore open the flap, pulse quickening as I shook out a single sheet. My eyes raced over the page. Routine family news, as though we had never lost touch. Some Islamic exhortations and quotes from the hadith. Then, on a line alone, two words: I’m sorry.
That was all. No explanation. The words pierced my heart like an arrow shot from halfway around the world. I knew my father was approaching the winter of his life. Perhaps he wanted to right old wrongs, knit together the torn pieces of our past. But I did not know, because he did not have the manhood to say why he was sorry.
Lebanon
1991
1
It was that letter and Emad’s death that in 1991 propelled me back to Lebanon. I did not want to lose another member of my family to time and distance. Victoria flew with me as far as London, and I flew on to Lebanon alone in the dead of winter, hiring a car to carry me home.
The Blood of Lambs: A Former Terrorist's Memoir of Death and Redemption Page 28