Sheikh Hassan’s sermon argued otherwise. He said that Muslims now living in non-Muslim lands were required to move to Islamic countries because non-Islamic society is so corrupt that it will shatter our devotion to Islam. His style of argument was far different from what I had grown used to in my college classes. He didn’t refute possible counterarguments. He didn’t even acknowledge that another side existed.
Sheikh Hassan also didn’t try to prove that the duty of
hijra
was a good idea from a secular perspective. Instead, he said only that it was a religious obligation. He read the relevant Qur’anic verses, referenced the
ahadith
(a
hadith
is one of Muhammad’s sayings or traditions, distinct from the Qur’an;
ahadith
is the plural form of
hadith
), and that was it.
“The Holy Qur’an says, ‘Verily, those who believed, and emigrated and strove hard and fought with their property and their lives in the Cause of Allah as well as those who gave asylum and help—these are allies to one another. And as to those who believed but did not emigrate, you owe no duty of protection to them until they emigrate.’ So as Muslims we too must emigrate. We are living in a land ruled by the
kufar
[infidels]. This is not the way of Muhammad,” he said.
“Prophet Muhammad,
alayhi salaatu was salaam
[upon him be prayers and peace], described the risks of living among the
kufar.
Our beloved prophet said, ‘Anybody who meets, gathers together, lives, and stays with a
Mushrik
—a polytheist or disbeliever in the Oneness of Allah—and agrees to his ways and opinions, and enjoys living with him, then he is like the
Mushrik.
’ So when you live among the
kufar,
and act like the
kufar,
and like to live with the
kufar,
then brothers, you may become just like the
kufar.
If you do not take the duty of
hijra
seriously, your faith is in danger.”
Sheikh Hassan used a tone of severe reprimand. He was so disdainful of non-Muslims and the West that I wondered why he had moved here.
But I was also concerned. I wondered if he was right. I hadn’t before given any thought to whether there was a continuing duty of
hijra.
What if there was?
I found myself glancing over at al-Husein through much of the sermon. I shot him quizzical looks, as though to ask
Should I take this stuff seriously?
Al-Husein answered with a knowing, reassuring, smile:
Don’t let it bother you. There’s nothing to this.
Sheikh Hassan finished speaking and the congregation prayed. When we were done, there was a question-and-answer session with the sheikh.
The first person to ask a question was a large red-haired man named Charlie Jones. Charlie had a muscular frame and a sizable gut. His eyes were pale blue. Although he was starting to go bald, he had a large beard, the hallmark of a serious Muslim. Charlie’s speaking style reminded me of Eeyore, the perpetually depressed donkey who was friends with Winnie the Pooh. He leaned forward with his head slightly bowed, speaking earnestly and with great sadness.
Charlie spoke into the microphone so that the women in the other part of the house could hear his question. There was no microphone for the women. If they had questions, they would have to write them down on a sheet of paper for Pete’s son Yusuf, who was then around ten years old, to bring to the main prayer room. Today, they did not ask questions.
“I think if we go to the Muslim world, we need to go ashore ready to fight.” Charlie nodded his head when he said this and his eyes widened. “Those governments don’t practice true Islam. They go from house to house and take their citizens’ guns away. Muhammad, peace be upon him, never took away the
Ummah
’s weapons.” (The
Ummah
is the worldwide community of Muslims.)
A Muslim whose main concern about the corrupt Middle Eastern dictatorships was the lack of Second Amendment rights? I suppressed a chuckle, still amused at stumbling upon a congregation of Muslim rednecks.
Sheikh Hassan spoke softly in his response and looked away from Charlie. He said that while Middle Eastern governments weren’t practicing true Islam, it was still better to live in the Middle East with other Muslims than to live in this
kafir
(infidel) society.
Just as Sheikh Hassan’s style of argument was strange to me, so was the way that he answered questions. His answers were short, and came across as rebukes more than explanations. His message was: I am practicing true Islam, and you should be ashamed of your doubts.
As a new Muslim, his approach intimidated me. When I first converted to Islam, al-Husein had told me, “No other Muslim will accuse you of not being a Muslim.” His point was that this faith is different from Christianity. We were both struck by how often Christians would accuse certain sects, like the Mormons or Jehovah’s Witnesses, of not being true Christians. The thought that other Muslims would accept me as a brother in faith even if we disagreed on some points was comforting.
But I didn’t get that impression from Sheikh Hassan. He thought that his way was right and all those who disagreed were deviants, or worse.
Al-Husein didn’t share my sense of intimidation. He took the microphone after Charlie and spoke into it with a slow, gravelly voice. “To me, the Muslims in the Middle East are bigger
kufar
than those in the U.S.,” he said. “When I look at the Middle East, I see people who aren’t practicing Islam even though they live in the Muslim world. I see people pushing for a version of
sharia
law that puts women in an inferior position. I see people who want to destroy personal freedoms. That is in itself a distortion of true Islam.”
Sheikh Hassan turned to Dawood Rodgers, a beefy man who trained horses for a living, and asked him to explain. Dawood picked up the microphone, turned to al-Husein, and said, “Brother, I used to believe the way you did. I used to think that Middle Eastern Muslims had it all wrong, and that they were missing out on the true, progressive Islam.” His voice oozed with sarcasm when he said the words
progressive Islam.
“But, brother, when I learned more about the faith I realized—”
Sheikh Hassan cut him off. He didn’t want Dawood to explain why al-Husein was wrong. All he wanted was a simpler explanation of al-Husein’s statement. Sheikh Hassan apparently didn’t understand what al-Husein had said.
When the statement sank in, it kicked off an extended theological debate between Sheikh Hassan and al-Husein. The room was packed when they started, but the worshippers trickled out as the debate progressed until only a handful remained.
I found the debate mesmerizing. It was reassuring to see how comfortable al-Husein appeared to be while debating Sheikh Hassan. I was reminded of something else that al-Husein had told me about Islam: qualifications were not as important as a person’s ideas. Even a child could be right about a theological point, while an imam could be wrong.
I noticed that Sheikh Hassan never actually answered al-Husein’s arguments. Instead, he was satisfied with his assumption that he had found the true Islam, and that everybody who disagreed was delusional. His lack of respect for al-Husein’s arguments was typified by an exchange where al-Husein brought up the Moroccan author Fatema Mernissi, who has cast doubt on the authenticity of certain
ahadith
that place women in a subordinate position. When al-Husein mentioned Mernissi, Sheikh Hassan said, “There are good, sound scholars who answer her arguments. You should read them so you can understand the problems with her.”
I was struck by that reply: there are answers to her argument and you need to find them. If Sheikh Hassan couldn’t articulate those answers, how did he know that Mernissi was wrong?
Sheikh Hassan ended up leaving before al-Husein and I did. Out of politeness, we walked him to the door. As he stepped outside, Sheikh Hassan waved his hand at the valley. The green peaks surrounding us had always epitomized peace and beauty to me, but to Sheikh Hassan they were an object of scorn. Putting in a final word, he said, “You’ll be compromised if you stay in this
kafir
country. Just look at all these homosexuals. ”
It would not be the last time I met Sheikh Hassan, but the shock of these parting words never left me.
Despite Sheikh Hassan’s hateful views and scornful tone, the debate was fairly civil. There was no yelling. Sheikh Hassan addressed al-Husein in his soft voice throughout, always looking away from us while he spoke.
And while Ashland’s Muslims—or at least, those who seemed to comprise the Muslim community’s inner circle—apparently agreed with Sheikh Hassan, Dawood sat on the floor with us after the sheikh left. We drank heavily spiced mint tea.
I told Dawood that I was having trouble perfecting my
salat.
The Islamic ritual prayers are difficult to master because they consist of a series of physical positions—standing, bowing, kneeling, prostrating— as well as prayers in Arabic. When I mentioned this, Dawood gave me a small saddle-stapled booklet detailing how to pray. It included illustrations showing the positions that the worshipper should take, along with transliterations of the Arabic prayers.
In the end, the exchange between al-Husein and Sheikh Hassan reinforced my view that the moderate interpretation of Islam had more intellectual force. If a learned sheikh couldn’t answer the arguments of a college student, what hope did the radicals have?
Later in al-Husein’s visit to the West Coast, we drove up to the state of Washington to visit some of my old friends. This was the only time that al-Husein and Mike Hollister would meet face-to-face.
Their meeting was less eventful than I thought it might be. There was some religious debate but no fireworks, no arguments that were clean kills for either side. I still liked Mike, but more than ever it seemed that the strong connection we once had was fizzling. I feared it would eventually be lost.
Al-Husein and I also visited another friend of mine from high school, a woman named Tami Garrard who lived in Port Angeles, Washington. While in Port Angeles, we went camping near a beach with Tami and some of her friends.
At one point during the camping trip, al-Husein and I were angry at each other. The passage of time makes me forget the reason for our fight, nor is it particularly important. Two people with personalities as strong as al-Husein’s and mine are bound to clash from time to time. I was struck, though, by what happened after we fought.
We walked down the sandy beach for a few minutes. Eventually we found a piece of driftwood large enough for both of us to sit on. Al-Husein wordlessly pulled out his prayer beads, then started chanting Allah’s name. Recognizing the same kind of loud
dhikr
that I had taken part in the night I became Muslim, I instantly joined. We chanted for more than twenty minutes, with al-Husein taking the lead in setting the words and pace. By the time we finished, I didn’t feel any more anger toward al-Husein; all I felt was the comforting presence of the Almighty.
Al-Husein slowly got up from the driftwood. “Do you know what you learned today?” he asked.
“What?”
The fact that I was an only child gave special significance to al-Husein’s next words. “You learned how to be a brother.”
When I returned to Wake Forest in January 1998, I did so as a full-fledged campus activist. I realize now that, by taking me outside of myself, the beginnings of my activism had propelled me toward Islam. And on my return to campus, my Islamic faith drove my activism.
Al-Husein and I used the term
jihad
to describe our political activities. To us, this was the “greater jihad.” The concept of a greater jihad came from a
hadith
in which Muhammad, on his return from a battle, said, “We are finished with the lesser jihad; now we are starting the greater jihad.” The implication was clear: military fighting is less important than the battle against the evils within oneself. Later, when I became radicalized, I would scoff at the idea that a greater jihad even existed.
But at Wake Forest, al-Husein and I saw our activism as the greater jihad. It always amused us when another student took our use of the word
jihad
in the wrong way, thinking it meant terrorism or holy war. We would explain—patiently yet condescendingly—that jihad was Arabic for “struggle,” and we were engaged in a struggle for social justice.
My biggest idea for creating social change was coalition-building between Wake Forest’s various minority student groups—groups like the Black Student Alliance, ASIA, the Gay-Straight Student Alliance, and the Islam Awareness Organization. (Knox’s group, VOICE, proved to be stillborn.) I thought these groups’ common bond of being minorities at Wake Forest was enough for them to work together and become the most powerful political bloc on campus.
Although this coalition represented a patchwork of agendas, I tried to make sure that my activism was consistent with my faith. The area where this was most difficult was the work we did on behalf of gay students. Even as a progressive Sufi, I knew that Islam didn’t exactly endorse homosexuality. So whenever someone questioned me about it, I’d appeal to a higher principle: “Regardless of whether I believe that homosexuality is a sin, gay students are entitled to human rights.” If pressed, I’d admit that Islam held that homosexuality was wrong—but that didn’t change the need to combat discrimination.
Al-Husein had a different take. I once heard him tell a woman student that homosexuality wasn’t
haram
(forbidden) in Islam, but that the faith regarded it as something to be avoided. He explained that homosexuality should be avoided not because it’s morally wrong, but because society is prejudiced against gays. People should avoid homosexuality so as not to subject themselves to such a stigma, al-Husein said.
I thought he was trying too hard to appeal to his audience. “Come on, al-Husein,” I said, “doesn’t our faith have a stronger position on homosexuality than that?”