Al-Husein’s parents were also seeing him in a new light. As Ismailis, they were used to Sunnis regarding them as outside the fold of Islam— and they now realized that their own son saw them that way. They tried to be supportive, but didn’t know what to make of these changes.
Early one morning I overheard a telephone conversation between al-Husein and his parents. There had been a lot of argument because al-Husein wanted to make sure that everything was, as he put it, “done by the Book.” The nikah ceremony had to comply entirely with Islamic law—but since his parents were Ismailis, the question frequently arose of whose Islamic law should be followed. In this conversation, he told them that under his interpretation of Islamic law, they weren’t Muslims; they were kufar. I winced when I heard this, but didn’t say anything. Instead, I was just trying to be a good friend. I was trying to guide al-Husein as best I could, trying to be a calming influence.
Eventually it was time for the nikah ceremony. As al-Husein was getting dressed in his wedding robes, his dad handed him a black kufi with gold threads on the outside. Al-Husein looked at the kufi suspiciously. “Is it real gold?”
Under Islamic law, men are not to wear gold.
“Husein,” I said, the first time in all the many moments leading up to the nikah that my voice had a note of reprimand, “get over it.”
He quickly did and wore the kufi to the ceremony. The ceremony itself was a brief and formal affair that took place in the main prayer area of an Orlando mosque. Al-Husein had mused earlier that for many of his relatives, it would be the first time they had ever set foot in a real mosque. And indeed, I was amused at the time by how clueless some of his relatives were about proper Islamic conduct. There was the uncle who wanted to drink alcohol at the wedding; there was the aunt who thought that al-Husein was a fundamentalist because he was fasting for Ramadan; there were the relatives who wanted to take him to a strip club the night before the ceremony.
I had mixed feelings about the nikah as I headed to the Orlando airport when it was finished. I would be traveling to North Carolina to spend the rest of Christmas break with Amy and her family. I thought of how both al-Husein and I had taken a turn for a much more orthodox practice of Islam. Although we were heading in the same direction, our theological transformation was driving a wedge between us. We were not the same people who had first become friends three years ago.
On the other hand, I sensed that Liana was a truly special person, a good influence on al-Husein. I thought of how the religious changes I had gone through made Amy uncomfortable, but never changed the core of her love for me. Liana displayed the same kind of patience, support, and love for al-Husein. I was happy for al-Husein to have a woman like that in his life.
As I boarded the plane, I thought about how much I had changed. At one point, I would have found everything that al-Husein had insisted on over the past several months and at his nikah ceremony to be bizarre—al-Husein’s refusing to be alone in the same room as Liana, his interrogation about whether my tie was made of silk, his concern about whether the threads in the kufi he would wear for the ceremony were made of real gold. But over the past few months, I had come to view these as weighty moral issues.
Al-Husein and Liana were now married under Islamic law. He no longer had to feel conflicted about the time he spent with her. He no longer had to worry about contravening any Islamic laws.
Boarding that plane to spend the rest of Christmas break with Amy, I realized that I envied al-Husein. He was marrying a Muslim woman. Even if she didn’t agree with his narrow approach to Islamic law, she was willing to have the nikah sooner rather than later. Amy didn’t share my faith and didn’t sympathize with my concerns. And I knew that, while I wanted the days of vacation that I spent with her to be a time of bliss, there would always be guilt lurking just below the surface.
The bottom line is that I realized that the religious proscriptions that I was falling short of could be followed. I was capable of following them. Having a beard rather than a goatee wouldn’t be difficult. While it might be awkward at first to refuse to shake hands with women, eventually people would understand that this was something I didn’t do and would stop asking. And I could have kept all my money in a checking account rather than a savings account to make sure I didn’t receive interest. (My student loans were another matter; the lenders were unlikely to look kindly upon me refusing to pay the interest that I owed them.)
So what was going on? I was just beginning to admit to myself what my hesitations were. But I vaguely understood that I had trouble separating the small things I did from the big picture. And I was beginning to have grave doubts about that big picture. I had begun to question whether women should really be relegated to the socially inferior position that a Salafist society would place them in. I had begun to question whether ideals like freedom of speech and freedom of religion were really so wrong. I had begun to question whether it was indeed right that my religion should be spread by force. I had even begun to question whether the Chechen mujahideen were really right. They weren’t fighting a war of liberation; instead, they had initiated the conflict by invading Dagestan in an effort to establish an Islamic state governed by Taliban-like rules.
I thought back to my days as a campus activist. I thought about the psychological theory, self-perception theory, that al-Husein and I had both latched on to. The theory holds that people develop their attitudes by observing their own behavior, then reasoning backward from the behavior to determine what their attitudes must be. As campus activists, we embraced the idea that if you could get someone to act in a certain way, their beliefs would eventually fall into line, and we’d try to get people involved so they might come to define themselves as activists.
But I realized that my development into a serious Salafi had been influenced by the same principles. There were the small steps I took. There was my refusal to shake hands with the female schoolteacher who wanted to bring her class to the Musalla. There was my decision to stop listening to music, to grow a full beard, to roll up my pants legs before prayer, to stop wearing shorts or anything that left my thighs exposed. I now saw even these as small but definite steps toward radicalism.
No, it wasn’t that the various strictures were too difficult to follow. I could have happily followed all the rules that were thrust upon me if I knew they were right. But I had developed so many doubts about the big picture.
Islamic radicals want to reestablish the caliphate. Many Muslims feel that a calamity struck the Ummah in 1924 when Mustafa Kemal Atatürk broke up the Ottoman Empire and replaced it with modern Turkey. Before that, the Ottoman Empire had served as the caliphate; that is, the Muslim world had been under unified leadership. Many radicals believe that modern nation-states are illegitimate, and that only a caliphate is worthy of authority over the Islamic world. The radicals would have this new caliphate ruled by a Taliban-like regime, not by the liberal, progressive “true Islam” that al-Husein and I had once propounded. And the caliphate would become a reality through jihad. Were these the mujahideen for whom I was praying?
As my plane lifted off, I prayed to Allah to cure me of the disease of my doubts.
In January 2000, I called Pete and told him that I was going to pay taxes on the money that I was paid while working at Al Haramain.
Ultimately, my parents persuaded me to do this. I had been so surprised when Pete insisted on writing that the first check had been for a computer that I told them about it. They advised that since I was going to law school, I should steer as far from trouble with the law as I could. And I was paid less than $10,000 for my entire time at Al Haramain. I could make more than that in a month as a lawyer. It simply wasn’t worth getting into trouble over such a trivial amount.
Pete sounded surprised when I told him I was going to pay taxes, but didn’t try to talk me out of it. “There was also a computer that you sold to us back in January,” Pete said. “Are you going to pay taxes on that, too?”
“Yes, Pete, I am. There
was never a computer. That check was for work that I did for you.”
“I just wanted to check to make sure, bro.”
Later that month, Pete called me to tell me that he had prepared a letter to the Russian ambassador outlining his plan to drive a peace convoy into Chechnya. “Take a look at the letter,” Pete said. “You might need to change some of the language.”
I remembered Pete’s “peace convoy” idea during the Kosovo war—a convoy that would enter Yugoslavia, distribute humanitarian supplies, and send a signal that the war had to end. The peace convoy represented the best and worst of Pete’s thinking. He was able to think big and think creatively, coming up with Rube Goldberg-like solutions to the world’s problems, with himself as the star of the show. But like Rube Goldberg’s fantastic machines, there was always a hitch or two in Pete’s ideas that would prevent them from becoming reality.
Pete had a similar peace convoy plan for Chechnya. He wanted to take a large convoy filled with food and medicine into Grozny, the capital of the Chechen Republic. There, the convoy would evacuate the wounded and show the world that the Russian invasion of Chechnya had to end. The peace convoy was never a realistic response to the Kosovo war, but at least you could understand why the Serbs might be interested. Sending a signal that the NATO bombing had to end would, after all, help them.
There was no such incentive for the Russians, since Pete wanted them to invite him into Chechnya to signal to the rest of the world that the Russians had to end a war that they still wanted to carry out.
But Pete e-mailed the letter to me. When I opened it, I was greeted by the salutation: “Dear Ambassador Bonehead.” The letter went on to say that if the Russians would allow the peace convoy to enter Chechnya, “I will personally kiss your filthy ass.” The letter was amusing, but also provided a telling look at Pete’s attitude.
There was no question where Al Haramain as a group stood on the war in Chechnya. In January 2000, the charity’s main Web site, run out of Riyadh, featured prayers for the Chechen mujahideen:O Allah! Aid our Mujaahideen brothers in Chechnya. O Allah! Unify their rows, and gather them on the word of truth. O Allah! Aim their firing and strengthen their determination, and make their feet firm, and descend upon them tranquility, and satisfy their hearts and guide them to that which is all good.
Pete’s sympathy for the mujahideen was also clear from my phone calls with him.
By February, it was obvious that Pete’s full attention was devoted to Chechnya. I received a short e-mail from him on February 8:Salam
I am outraged this Russians bluntly giving the finger to humanitarian Orgs even killing some smashing cameras and more recently begun a systematic genocide since the western world has told Rus-Putin finish them while we make some noise so as we are against this genocide
ISNA of Canada send us money for Chechnia [sic].
Call me collect ASAP
When I called Pete after getting that message, he was vague about his plans. He wanted to do something about the situation in Chechnya, and he might need my help.
“I’m happy to help, Pete,” I said. “Let me know what you need me to do.”
It would be a little while before I heard from him again.
What I didn’t expect was for Pete to take his anger toward the Russians to the next level, to actually help the mujahideen. But it seems that this is exactly what happened. And but for my growing doubts, I too might have gotten entangled in this plot.
Pete called me in the middle of March 2000. I hadn’t spoken with him in a few weeks, but when I answered the phone, he acted like we were still back in Ashland, like I were still working for him. “Bro,” he said, “Soliman is flying into town tomorrow. I want you to go out to the airport, bring him flowers, tell him how glad you are to see him, and make him feel at home in New York.” He was referring to Soliman al-But’he, another Al Haramain director who worked in the Riyadh office. Although I had never met him, I had spoken with Soliman on the phone several times while I was working in the Ashland office, and had exchanged e-mail with him on countless occasions.
“What?” Amy was visiting me over her spring break. She sat on the bed while I stood by the window of my dorm room, holding the green receiver. No doubt she heard the surprise in my voice.
“Bro, Soliman doesn’t come into the U.S. too often, and it’d be real nice if we could show him the kind of hospitality that people really appreciate in the Arab world.”
“Pete, I have a full schedule, and it’s about a thirty-dollar cab ride to the airport. It’d cost me sixty dollars or more to see him.”
“I know it’s an inconvenience, but look, bro, I’m trying to get you a law school scholarship from Al Haramain. I told them how good you are and said that we need this guy. You’re one of those young Muslims who could be a future leader in the Ummah, and I wanna make sure that you don’t have to worry about money all the time while you’re in school, and you don’t have to go through the problems with riba [interest] that come with taking out loans. So I wanna get you to meet Soliman, so you can treat him like a good host while he’s in New York and he can see that you’re legit. Whaddaya say to that, bro?”
“I don’t know, Pete. You say Soliman is coming into New York tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So look, let me think about this. I’ll get back to you.”
“Okay, bro,” Pete said. “It’d be best if you can meet up with him. That would mean a lot to him.”
I hung up the phone and gave the matter some thought. It seemed like an imposition at first, but Pete claimed he was trying to get something for me. I talked it over with Amy. But, as had become routine, I didn’t give her enough of a window into my world. There was so much that I wouldn’t, and probably couldn’t, explain. There was the fact that my religious inexperience and uncertainty had locked me into an unfortunate pattern with Pete and the others. It was a command-and-respond pattern, where someone would tell me what to do and I would do it. Since religion influences every aspect of one’s life in Islam, this had boiled over into an uncertainty even on secular matters.
And so, even when Pete called to ask me to spend a few hours and about sixty dollars on a lark, my reflexive reaction was to agree. After all, I was beginning to believe that I did not know best. Instead, the people with Islamic knowledge superior to mine knew best.
But then I thought about the reaction I could expect from Soliman. And when I thought about Soliman, my thoughts turned to my facial hair. I grew a full beard when I was at Al Haramain, but shaved it off in favor of a goatee months ago. What would Soliman think? Would I spend sixty dollars to get to the airport only to find Soliman chastising me for my physical appearance?
On top of that, something just didn’t sound right about Pete’s request. What it was, I couldn’t put my finger on. But intuitively, there seemed to be something strange about Pete’s desire to have me go to the airport and meet Soliman.
I called Pete later that day and told him apologetically that I couldn’t go. “I have a lot of work to do and can’t really afford to spend sixty dollars to take a cab out to the airport and back,” I said.
Pete sounded annoyed, but said it was fine. Clearly, though, if he really had been pushing to get me a law school scholarship from Al Haramain, my refusal made him give up on the idea.
My decision not to meet Soliman was more significant than I could have realized. Part of the significance lay in the fact that I had stood up to Pete. This small act of rebellion would grow into something more, although at the time I couldn’t imagine by how much.
And part of the significance lay in what Pete and Soliman may have had planned for me. Since I didn’t go to the airport, there is no way of knowing precisely. But I would later learn that at the time Soliman was passing through New York, he was in the process of smuggling about $130,000 out of the country—money that federal investigators believe was used to fund the Chechen mujahideen. It is only my growing doubts that prevented me from heading to the airp
ort and discovering what they had in mind—and ultimately, these doubts may have saved me from involvement in a plot to fund terrorists.
eleven
RESURRECTION
It was a Sunday morning, and it felt right.
I woke up around nine o’clock, showered, shaved, and put my suit on. I had a quick breakfast, then walked out the front doors of D’Agostino Hall. It was a hot day. As was the case every Sunday morning, the corner of West Third and MacDougal was littered with trash: paper plates, beer bottles, old newspapers, nightclub flyers. I walked past the panhandlers, the early-morning risers, and those who never quite found their way to bed last night.
I walked to the Washington Square Church, a United Methodist church up the street from Washington Square Park. It was the first time I had been to church in four years. Last time was with Mike Hollister in Bellingham. Back then, the experience did nothing for me. This time, I didn’t know what to expect.
The church had a woman pastor, a marked contrast from the various Islamic ceremonies I had been to over the past several years. Although I had little knowledge of Christian doctrine, I realized that most Christians would probably see her sermon as objectionable. It focused on Marion Zimmer Bradley’s book The Mists of Avalon, a retelling of the King Arthur legend. The pastor explained that The Mists of Avalon has a different holy trinity than the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit of Christianity—and that the trinity presented in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s book was more woman-affirming.
After the sermon, they invited everyone present, Christian and not, to take communion. The preacher mentioned that their communion used grape juice rather than wine. On hearing this, I decided to participate. I wouldn’t have done it if they used wine, which was haram to drink.
Walking home afterward, I tried to gauge my emotional reaction. Despite the questionable religious content, I felt invigorated. Thinking of the reaction that men like W. D. Muhammad and the Naqshbandis received in Islamic extremist circles, it amazed me that in the world of Christianity you could give a sermon like the one I had just heard without instantly being branded a heretic and apostate.
My Year Inside Radical Islam Page 21