That comment stuck with me. Before I became Muslim, I was leery of the idea of jihad, afraid that it might impel believers to take up arms against non-Muslims. Before converting to Islam, I read widely on the subject and came away convinced that this was an extremist interpretation that neither reflected mainstream Islamic thought nor the best interpretation of the faith. As a campus activist at Wake Forest, I referred to my battle against racism and other forms of discrimination as a jihad in order to show that this was a broad concept that, at its heart, represented the fight against social injustice.
But I was now learning that my coworkers roundly rejected many of my old views of the faith. I hadn’t read the essay that Dawood referred to, but I intuitively knew that it rejected my mushy, liberal ideas. I intuitively knew that the essay wouldn’t proclaim the struggle against racism to be a form of jihad. I was apprehensive about reading it because a clear pattern had already emerged. I would venture again and again into theological areas unfamiliar to me with an offhand statement or remark. In response, my coworkers would reprimand me, tell me the proper Islamic view, and give me some material to read. I was never able to engage in debate because they thought my religious views were too rough to count. So I’d read and digest the material they gave me, and would be left to stew over it.
Still, I was curious. My coworkers had firmly stated at the presentation to the high school class that Islam meant peace, that the religion rejected terrorism. What did the essay say about the matter?
When I got home that evening, I picked up my pocket-sized copy of the Noble Qur’an. I flipped to the back and found the essay: “The Call to Jihad (Holy Fighting for Allah’s Cause) in the Qur’an.” But all I read was the title. I closed the book without reading a further word. Not yet. I wasn’t ready.
I justified this to myself by figuring that I could concentrate, for now, on finding points of commonality with my coworkers. We shared a religion, and that was the most important thing. I could talk to them about more basic issues, areas where we agreed. I figured that we could discuss and debate some of the vital issues of the day, like jihad, down the road.
But there was more. Although I wouldn’t admit this at the time, not even to myself, seeing the reactions to the Naqshbandis and W. D. Muhammad gave me a taste of the vitriol that theological dissenters could expect. When I was a campus activist, I would scoff when people made personal attacks against me because of my efforts to combat discrimination. It didn’t faze me. Now, though, I found this vitriol intimidating— and I didn’t understand why there should be any difference.
five
“WHAT’S SHAKING, SHAKEY?”
A sheikh came to visit us during Ramadan. Born in Egypt but now an imam in South Carolina, Sheikh Muhammad Adly was a short man with a large gray beard that seemed to run the length of his body. I found him strange and off-putting, but the others appeared to revere him. Their deference toward him reminded me of the treatment that Sheikh Hassan received.
Early in Sheikh Adly’s visit, Dennis Geren told me a story that illustrated this deference. “I was drinking Pepsi, and one of the other brothers was giving me flak about it,” Dennis said. He didn’t explain the reason for the flak: perhaps it was because Pepsi is unhealthy, or perhaps it was because the drink represents the infidel West. “I said, ‘Well, Sheikh Adly drinks Pepsi, so as far as I’m concerned, it’s practically Sunnah. ’ ” That is, he was suggesting—playfully—that because Sheikh Adly drank Pepsi, one could almost consider it encouraged as part of the Prophet’s example. The others immediately accepted this statement. Whether or not it was meant as a joke, Dennis’s analogy made sense to them.
Sheikh Adly was visiting to teach classes on Islam and make a video detailing how to make salat properly. One day, after we’d shot the footage for the video, Pete told me that I should give the sheikh a ride to the home of Suzi Aufderheide, who was producing the video for us.
I immediately walked out to my car to make sure there weren’t any random papers strewn about on the passenger seat. As I was walking toward the red Tercel, a dark-haired woman who looked to be in her late thirties greeted me. She wasn’t wearing a hijab, the head scarf worn by Muslim women. I was surprised to see her. It took me a second to realize the reason for my surprise: due to the congregation’s strict gender segregation, I hadn’t had any real contact with a woman for weeks. And, to my dismay, I had begun to internalize the dress code of the Musalla. Her lack of hijab struck me as wrong.
The woman introduced herself as an elementary school teacher. She wanted to bring her class to the Musalla so they could learn about Islam, and asked who she could speak to about this. I told her that Pete Seda was the person to ask. Then I glimpsed Sheikh Adly out of the corner of my eye. He stood a short distance away, far enough that he wouldn’t have to introduce himself but close enough to listen. After noticing him, I felt self-conscious.
When my brief conversation with the teacher ended, she stuck out her hand and said, “I appreciate the help. It was nice talking with you.”
I hesitated, and let her stand there with her hand sticking out. Then I said, somewhat embarrassed, “No thanks.” I felt uncomfortable shaking her hand with the sheikh watching.
She gave me a perturbed look. The awkwardness was my fault. Dennis Geren had prepared a semihumorous spiel that he’d use to explain to women why he wouldn’t shake their hands. It included the line, “You probably shouldn’t shake my hand, unless you want to marry me.” I had never prepared such a speech—but “no thanks” clearly did not do the trick. The teacher turned and walked to her car without saying another word.
When Sheikh Adly got into my Tercel, he explained in a soft meanderingvoice that a lot of non-Muslims don’t understand and don’t like the rules that we Muslims follow. “That woman,” he said, “she didn’t understand when you didn’t want to shake her hand.”
I nodded.
Sheikh Adly and I hadn’t talked much during his time at the Musalla. I had noticed that his resemblance to Sheikh Hassan didn’t end with the deference paid to him. Sheikh Adly had the same kind of aloofness, the same kind of quiet hostility toward all that didn’t comport with his ideas of how the world should be ordered. I hadn’t been too interested in talking to him, since I sensed that my questions would be met with reproaches rather than dialogue.
But now it was just the two of us in my car. Sheikh Adly asked me a few basic questions. He wanted to know how I came to Islam; since I was young, he wanted to know my future plans. When I told him that I wanted to go to law school in the fall, he shook his head, astonished.
“You should not go to law school,” he said. “If you go to law school, you will have to say that the Constitution is good.”
I was surprised. What’s wrong with the Constitution?
But that wasn’t how I responded. My first inclination was not to defend the Constitution, but to question his facts. “I can study Islamic law when I go to law school,” I said. “A lot of American law schools have good programs in Islamic law. I don’t have to just study U.S. law for all three years.”
Later I’d reflect on the fact that this was my first line of argument. Questioning Sheikh Adly’s facts rather than defending the Constitution was my way of dealing with the emerging pattern where any religious opinion I had that differed from my colleagues resulted in incredulity, recommended reading designed to clear up my misconception, and lists of scholars who disagreed with me. Even if my mind wasn’t changed, I could never argue the point. So it wasn’t surprising that I didn’t want to debate with Sheikh Adly about the Constitution.
He found my argument that I’d be able to study Islamic law unpersuasive. With a shrug he said, “If you go to law school, someone might try to make you say that the Constitution is good.”
I didn’t say anything in response, but put the car into gear and drove Sheikh Adly to the home of Suzi Aufderheide, who would edit the instructional video on making salat.
Suzi epitomized Ashland’s hippie eth
os. She was about the same age as my parents, with five sons and a daughter. Two of her sons had gone to high school with me. Her boys were tall, thin, and freckled, and they had different last names. One was named Zachary Zeus; the other was Morgan Starr. Although Zach and Morgan left Ashland after they graduated from high school, Suzi had three sons still in town. Two of them, Colin and Ian Riversong, were the same age as Pete’s son Yusuf—eleven or twelve years old. Suzi’s other son was Justin Shenandoah; the only reason she had given Colin and Ian the same last name was because they were twins.
Colin and Ian had been around when we filmed Sheikh Adly making salat for the video, and they were captivated by having a real live sheikh in their presence. Suzi—in that follow-your-dreams spirit that characterizes Ashland—told them that they could become Muslim. And they did.
Their conversion wouldn’t last. It was inevitable that two eleven-year-olds would turn away from a religious practice built around arcane, restrictive, and alien rules and customs. But for the next few weeks they would be an occasional presence in the Musalla.
From the moment we arrived at Suzi’s house, I derived endless amusement from her interactions with Sheikh Adly. Unlike Ashland’s Muslims, she wasn’t awed by him. She wasn’t disrespectful, but was playful, almost flirtatious. And although she meant no disrespect, I was sure that a man like Sheikh Adly felt threatened by this.
“What’s shaking, Shakey?” Suzi said when she opened the door for us.
If Sheikh Adly noticed this play on his honorific title, he didn’t let on. He gave a slight nod of greeting, avoiding eye contact with her.
The sheikh and I immediately headed toward the studio in the back of Suzi’s house, where he instructed Suzi on audio edits that he wanted. Suzi, who was blissfully unaware of the peculiar Islamic rules regulating conduct between the sexes, continued to tease Sheikh Adly during the editing process. She kept calling him Shakey.
Pete phoned halfway through the editing. He asked how things were going, but didn’t wait to hear my response. “What are you doing right now?” he said.
“I’m here with Sheikh Adly. I’m just watching the editing process, and will continue to chaperone him.”
“You didn’t bring any of your work with you?” Pete said frantically.
“No, the work is back in the office.”
Pete’s voice became louder and faster. “Bro, you need to bring that with you when you go out for things like this. I can’t have you just sitting around when you could be working. I need you to go back to the Musalla and get any work you can take with you so that you can keep busy.”
“Okay, Pete.”
I hung up the phone and told Sheikh Adly that Pete wanted me to go back to the Musalla to pick up some work. The round-trip would take about thirty minutes. Suddenly, Pete wasn’t the only person who was upset.
Unlike Pete, Sheikh Adly didn’t raise his voice. Instead, he lowered it to try to prevent Suzi from hearing. He said that he couldn’t be in the same room with her. I instantly knew what he meant. There was a hadith where Muhammad said, “When a woman and man are alone, Satan is the third.” Sheikh Adly thought it was haram to be alone in a room with a woman.
I called Pete. “Pete, Sheikh Adly doesn’t want me to go. If I left, he’d be alone in a room with a woman, and he doesn’t want that.”
“What?” Pete asked. I expected him to instantly agree with the sheikh. I was surprised—and, I have to admit, pleased—that he seemed as dismayed as I was by Sheikh Adly’s refusal to let me leave for the office. “Put me on the phone with Sheikh Adly,” Pete said.
Sheikh Adly spoke quietly. Even though I was sitting across the room, I could sometimes hear Pete’s excited voice through the receiver.
But they finally reached a compromise, which Sheikh Adly explained to Suzi. One of her young sons was outside the room doing math home-work. In a calm, polite voice, he asked her to leave the door to the studio open and make sure that her son stayed nearby. That was the solution to the Islamic legal problem: leave the door open and make sure an eleven-year-old kid was outside it.
The sheikh thanked Suzi quietly. He bowed his head slightly as he did, embarrassed that he had to make this request.
“It’s okay, Shakey. To be honest, I take it as kind of a compliment that you think I’d want to jump your bones.” She said the phrase “jump your bones” jokingly, but seemed almost regretful once the words left her mouth—as though, for the first time, she wondered if she had crossed a line.
The sheikh mumbled something. I didn’t think he understood what “jump your bones” meant, but decided the best course was to get out of there quickly. I chuckled to myself as I headed out, shaking my head at Suzi’s audacity.
But as I got back into my car, my thoughts turned to how Suzi had it wrong. She assumed that Sheikh Adly didn’t want to be alone with her because he thought she was attracted to him. But in the end, it had nothing to do with that. Sheikh Adly probably didn’t give a moment’s thought to who Suzi was before deciding that being alone with her was improper. Suzi was irrelevant; the hadith pointed the way.
During Ramadan, I decided to grow a beard. While at Wake Forest I had worn a goatee, and that was the only facial hair I had when I started work at Al Haramain. But then I woke up late for three straight mornings. Because I had to hustle to work, I skipped shaving each time. In an office where the median beard length was six or seven inches, I figured nobody would mind that I had a little extra scruff.
Not only did they not mind, they were positively enthused. On the third day, Charlie Jones asked, “Are you growing a beard?”
The familiar pattern resurfaced. I hadn’t given any thought to growing a beard before that, but figured that if I said no, I’d be treated to the now-standard routine of incredulity, assigned reading, and names of scholars I didn’t know. “Yes,” I said. “I’m growing a beard.”
Charlie beamed, an anomalous expression for him.
But then something came up. Before I left Wake Forest, I was selected to the U.S. national debate team. I would be going on a brief tour of Britain, Ireland, and Portugal—competing in some tournaments, participating in public debates, giving lectures and workshops at schools and universities. Wake Forest had sent a press release to the local newspapers, and a reporter from the Medford Mail Tribune, Bill Varble, wanted to interview me. He wanted to meet in a coffee shop, where we could talk and his photographer could take some pictures.
The problem was that my beard wouldn’t have grown in by the time we were to meet. My facial hair would be in a kind of nether-region where I wasn’t clean-shaven but didn’t really have a beard. The nether-region of facial hair that’s desperately trying to be a beard but failing, and instead looks like unkempt scruff.
The first person I told about the upcoming interview was Charlie, since I had promised him that I’d grow the beard. I told him that I planned on shaving before the interview so I’d look presentable for the photographer—but then quickly added that I’d immediately start growing the beard again once the interview was over. Charlie clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “Your only goal should be pleasing Allah,” he said. “You’re not trying to please cameramen or newspaper readers or anybody else—only Allah.”
“I’ll still have facial hair,” I said. “It’s not like I’m going to shave my goatee off or anything.”
“But Allah gave you this hair on your face for a reason. Allah gave you hair on your whole face. Why would you shave it off? Was Allah’s creation not good enough, so that you have to change it?”
I had no response. I didn’t see how shaving the beard could be considered changing Allah’s creation. But argument was futile. Charlie shook his head sadly, his eyes downcast. This was very serious for him.
So serious, in fact, that he told Dawood. In the late afternoon, Dawood entered the office with two books for me. One was a pamphlet called The Beard . . . Why? The other book I had already seen. Dawood had put yellow tabs in a new section of Muhammad bin Jamil
Zino’s Islamic Guidelines for Individual and Social Reform.
Dawood probably realized how presumptuous this seemed because, for the first time, he spoke to me in something other than a booming, confident voice. With a soft, somewhat apologetic tone, he said, “Bro, I’m just trying to help you. Let me know if we’re pushing too fast.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m glad that you’re helping to educate me about Islam.”
I couldn’t believe that shaving off my scruff had turned into such an ordeal. After looking through both books that Dawood had given me, I made up my mind. My decision wasn’t swayed by religious argument, but by how silly the whole affair seemed.
I told Charlie that I would shave off the scruff. I made a point of promising that I’d immediately grow out my beard after that. He seemed disappointed, sadder than usual.
It was my first little rebellion. And like most rebellions, it was doomed to failure.
Sheikh Adly conducted a question-and-answer session almost every night, where people would ask theological questions and he’d render a verdict. That night, someone asked Sheikh Adly about the need for a beard.
Sheikh Adly said that having a beard was absolutely required. He quoted a hadith: “The Prophet, alayhi salaatu was salaam, cursed the men who intend to look like women.” Shaving the beard, Sheikh Adly explained, makes a man look like a woman and so strips him of Allah’s mercy. When he said this, I noticed some of the others—Charlie, Dawood, Dennis Geren, and Pete—glancing over at me, trying to see what effect the words would have.
I stuck around until half past nine that night. As I headed for the door, Dawood, Charlie Jones, and Pete took me aside. “I hope you’ll consider Sheikh Adly’s words before you decide to butcher all your facial hair,” Dawood said.
Before I could respond, Pete began a rapid-fire interjection that was far more ambitious. “Bro, what you gotta do when you meet the reporter is wear your kufi and a thobe [a long, shirtlike dress worn by Saudi men, usually made of white cotton]. You’ll look so much like a Muslim that the reporter can’t ignore it even if he wants to.” Pete saw this interview as yet another opportunity for dawah.
My Year Inside Radical Islam Page 10