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.”
Pete arranged a meeting at the Musalla that was one part intervention, one part termination. It was getting close to evening and five of us—Charlie, Pete, Dennis Geren, Abdul-Qaadir, and me—sat on the prayer room’s thick blue carpet. The session was far more compassionate than I expected. Pete made clear to Charlie that we all loved him, saw him as our brother, and wanted what was best for him.
“But, bro,” Pete said, “this job isn’t good for you. It isn’t making you better. You’re a guy who loves the outdoors. You love riding horses, being around trees, working with your hands. You’re not gonna be happy cooped up in an office all day long, staring out the windows and wishing that you could be outside instead.”
Charlie quickly became defensive. “Look, I know that som
etimes I haven’t shown up for work as I should, but I can honestly say that I’ve never charged a penny for work I didn’t do,” he said. “Things have been rough for me, but I’ve been praying to Allah, and I know Allah can cure me if He wills it.” Charlie nodded at the four of us, his eyes wide.
Pete was whispering in my ear. “Say something,” he said. “Say something. ” Pete and Dennis knew Charlie far better than I did, and Abdul-Qaadir was a superior religious scholar to me. I saw my role as moral support more than anything else—but complied with Pete’s order.
“Charlie,” I said, “I know that you say you haven’t charged anybody for work you didn’t do, and we appreciate that. But it isn’t that simple. Sometimes your failure to show up has other costs, like with the phone bill. We were being charged three hundred and four hundred dollars a month for a few months because we had been so late in payments that they bounced us from their standard plan.”
I instantly wished that I hadn’t followed Pete’s order to speak. Our purpose was not to show Charlie that he’d been an inadequate employee. He already knew that. Our main purpose was to show him compassion, to let him know that we wanted to be with him as he moved forward from this difficult point.
Fortunately, my remark didn’t turn the meeting sour. As the intervention /firing ended, Charlie said, “Thank you, guys. You’re great brothers. I really feel loved, I really feel like you guys would do anything to help me get better. I appreciate it.”
“We love you, bro,” Pete said. “More than anything else, what we care about is that you get well again.” The rest of us nodded.
Although I saw Charlie at juma prayers a few times after this, it would be the last conversation of substance that I ever had with him.
As Amy was on the verge of leaving Ashland, we took a walk through Lithia Park together. I had always loved coming to the park, strolling through the trails beside the gurgling creek. It felt peaceful, set apart from the rest of the world.
Over the course of the summer, I hadn’t shared much with her about my changing beliefs. There had been signs, of course. My (thwarted) insistence that we have our nikah ceremony now had been one sign. There were others. I would no longer condemn Islamic radicalism to Amy. Occasionally when I came home from work I’d parrot a remark or analogy that Abdul-Qaadir had made in his lecture, thinking it important that Amy get more of an authentic Islamic perspective. I had a harsher edge around Amy and my parents than ever before, and would tell them far less of what was going on in my life. I remembered how, at one point during the summer, my dad remarked sadly that he and I didn’t really talk anymore. He was right; surely Amy saw the difference too.
But when we walked through the park together, I was astounded by the kind of unconditional love she displayed toward me, an unconditional love that I knew I could not possibly deserve. As we chatted about our time together that summer, Amy mentioned that my dad had told her that he expected some of my coreligionists wouldn’t be happy that I was marrying a non-Muslim.
“I told him that I didn’t think that would be a problem,” Amy said. “If they’re not happy with you marrying me, I expect that to be a problem for them, not for me.”
I nodded my head, saying nothing. I realized that even here, she perhaps had too much faith in me.
It is the Jews’ plan to ruin everything.”
We were gathered in the prayer room, sitting on the floor, and this was Ahmed Ezzat’s remark.
People often ask me if other Muslims accepted me as one of them despite my Jewish background. The answer is that they did. Sometimes al-Husein would make jokes about my Jewish heritage, but they were always friendly, the kind of ethnic or religious jokes you can make about your friends if you’re truly comfortable with them. I was never the target of anti-Semitism during my time as a Muslim. Whether I witnessed anti-Semitism during this time is a different question. It would, I submit, have been impossible not to. From anti-Semitic conspiracy theories being peddled in a Turkish bazaar (the merchant blamed Israel for the Ottoman Empire’s dissolution; anyone with a passing familiarity with history will understand that this is quite impossible) to themes pervading the literature that Al Haramain distributed to offhand comments about “the yahoods,” anti-Semitism was undeniably present. But never more present than in Ahmed’s remarks that evening.
We were gathered in the prayer room because Abdul-Qaadir was teaching a class that night. I enjoyed seeing Abdul-Qaadir teach: he really had helped to transform my practice of Islam. He spoke with the same kind of confidence and world-is-watching-me presence when addressing a group that he used when it was just the two of us in the office. I was impressed by his knowledge of Islam, his knowledge of Arabic, and his thorough methodological approach to the faith.
Because of my Jewish background, other Muslims would often ask me questions about Judaism. We frequently had visitors stay in the Musalla for a few days at a time. One of our visitors this time around was, like Pete, Iranian. I no longer recall his name, but I remember the question he asked me during one of the breaks: “Daveed, what is the Talmud?”
As I was about to answer, Ahmed Ezzat, the Egyptian who worked for Al Haramain in Saudi Arabia, jumped in. “It is the Jews’ plan to ruin everything,” he said. I felt a moment of shock. I had begun to see the world through the same theological lens as these guys, but that didn’t mean that I bought into crude conspiracy-mongering about the Jews. And the Talmud, which is a record of rabbinic discussion of Jewish law, ethics, and customs, was far from a plot to ruin everything.
Ahmed continued, “It shows how the Jews plan to have the gentiles do their will. They planned to create a financial system based on interest, which we now have, and they planned to destroy morals. Why is it that Henry Kissinger was the president of the international soccer federation while he was the president of the United States? How did he have time to do both? It is because part of the Jews’ plan is to get people throughout the world to play soccer so that they’ll wear shorts that show off the skin of their thighs.”
Dennis Geren was lying on his back on the floor. His back often bothered him, causing him to lie down in an effort to relieve his aches and sprains. “Henry Kissinger was the secretary of state, not the president, ” Dennis said. Then he got to his feet and left the room. I wondered what he was thinking. Although Dennis was often possessed by anger, he was no anti-Semite—and I was sure that he thought Ahmed’s paranoid delusions were just as ridiculous as I did.
Pete’s reaction was different. “Wow, bro, this is amazing,” he enthused. “You come to us with this incredible information. You need to get on the microphone so you can tell the sisters about this.” Pete handed the microphone to Ahmed.
Ahmed seemed embarrassed by the attention, but spoke into the microphone anyway. “There is nothing else to say,” Ahmed said. “I have talked about the promoting of interest, soccer, the shorts, and the showing of the thighs. That is all, I’ve covered it.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. Ahmed’s statement was false and dangerous. He hadn’t described the Talmud or anything close to it. Instead, Ahmed was thinking of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a fraudulent document produced by Czarist Russia purporting to evidence a vast Jewish conspiracy. It is a document that the scholar Norman Cohn aptly described as part of Hitler’s “warrant for genocide” against the Jewish people.
But I knew how things would go if I argued. Since Ahmed’s Islamic knowledge surpassed my own, he thought he was also more qualified to speak on all other matters, including Judaism. And the others in the room probably agreed. As I had noticed almost two years before, when I first encountered Sheikh Hassan, argument and debate didn’t take place here the way I was accustomed to from college. Purely logical arguments could be brushed away as Islamically improper, and the only time you didn’t have to worry about slipping up in a way that could diminish your standing in the community is when you took the most hard-line position.
What would happen, I wondered, if I took issue with Ahmed
’s explanation? Perhaps he would argue with me, using pathos in place of logos.
But this wasn’t an area where I was on unfamiliar ground, grasping for the theologically correct position through the haze of Qur’an and Sunna. I knew that what Ahmed said was false, and I knew the impact that this kind of conspiracy-mongering had on Jews in the past.
And yet I remained silent. I knew that if I argued with Ahmed, I would persuade no one.
It was one of the rare moments in which Yunus did not annoy me. He was talking about his father, Pete.
The degree to which Yunus and Yusuf looked up to Pete was apparent. They were both starved for his attention. In the limited time that he spent with his two sons, Pete obviously came across as a hero and a role model. Today, Yunus was telling me how beloved Pete was in the community.
Yunus’s story was a small example, yet also a window into how Pete was seen. In January 1997, there were heavy rains in southern Oregon. Ashland Creek leaped its banks and washed out much of the downtown area. The flooded town was without indoor running water for days. Yunus told me how Pete drove a truck to the nearby town of Talent and returned with drinking water. He glowed when he described how happy this made people.
I thought about how it seemed that everyone knew Pete around Ashland, from all quarters. The hippies, the business owners, and the rabbis would ask me how he was doing and insist that I say hello. Thinking of the teachings within Al Haramain, Pete’s offhand remarks about the kufar, his willingness to believe in the truth of alleged Jewish conspiracies, I thought about how none of them knew the real Pete Seda.
Then I further thought about Pete’s almost unwavering sincerity, even when faced with the seeming contradiction between the idea that Islam was a religion of peace and the hateful views that his organization propounded. Even Pete, I realized, may not know the real Pete Seda.
My Year Inside Radical Islam Page 18