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I
knew I could not stay much longer at the university of
Nairobi; they were trying to Africanize it as quickly a
possible, and to them I was just another white foreigner.
Before I got much older I needed a new job, probably a new
career, maybe with the State Department or a non-profit
agency. From her point of view the obstacle was simply I was a
not a Muslim. I had mistakenly though that any Muslim could
marry one of the People of the Book; she set me straight on
that very quickly; men yes, women, no.
She
was telling me about Islam, and I’d learned some things from
my colleagues and others. I already believed in the One God.
The Creator of the universe and all that is in it; I already
believed in the Islamic concepts of tawhid and shirk
and avoiding belief or trust in anything like astrology or
palmistry; I’d long believed that Jesus was one of the
prophets. I believed that Muhammad (pbuh) was a prophet and a
messenger, and it had long ceased to be relevant to me that
Muhammad (pbuh) was not a Jewish prophet.
I’d
stopped eating pork; I didn’t gamble, I rarely drank
anything besides a glass of wine with an occasional gourmet
dinner. I was, since my Peace Corps days, already more
comfortable with African and Islamic notions of modesty, child
rearing, etc. than with the "sexual revolution", and
the me-ism and disintegrating families of the ‘70s and
‘80s America. There didn’t seem to be much to prevent me
from becoming a Muslim. I was so close, so what, in 1983, was
the problem?
In
fact there were two. First, there was the matter of my
identity and my heritage. I imagine that it is not so
traumatic for a Christian to change from one religion to
another. If a German Catholic becomes a Lutheran, or even a
Jew or Muslim, he remains a German. I certainly felt like an
American first and a Jew second—I could never consider
myself Russian. But in America, nation of immigrants, even the
most acculturated attach some importance to their families’
national or ethnic origins. Even though I had no desire to
deal with Jews as Jews or as a community, I was reluctant to
lose that identity.
The
second obstacle was my family. Though not orthodox, most were
strongly traditional, all pro-Israel, some were avid zionists;
many considered Arabs as enemies, and I expected they would
also consider Muslims as enemies. I feared they would disown
me as crazy, even traitorous. Worst of all, because I still
loved them, they would be hurt. First things first: I left
that problem up in the air, and when my contract expired I did
not renew it, but returned to the States hoping to find
another job, preferably back in East Africa.
It
was terribly hard. I had no home, no income, not even an
interview suit. I invested in a wool suit, three ties and a
winter coat—it was my first winter in twenty years—got
books on how to write a resume and a SF171, and stayed with a
friend in Washington, trying all the government agencies,
consulting firms and PVOs that had anything to do with Africa,
until my many ran out. I had to return to Boston and stay with
my sister, where I had food and shelter, but it was far from
where the jobs might be. In addition, I was going through a
severe case of culture shock. So there I was: broke in
Reaganomic America, in the winter, in culture shock on top of
a mid-life crisis, in love—and on anti-depressants.
I
can joke now, but the pain and fear were unbearable then. For
the first time in my adult life I began to pray. I prayed
often and hard. I vowed that, if I could get back to Africa
and marry my beloved, I would declare my submission to Allah
and become a Muslim.
I
got a really awful temporary job in a warehouse that at least
paid for food, bus fares and dry cleaning, then a better, but
embarrassing one as a receptionist in the counseling office at
a local college. I could see that the four yuppie
psychologists figured me for some 42-year-old loser, and I
pretty much agreed with them. Out of embarrassment I didn’t
tell anything about myself, but when the phone wasn’t
ringing off the hook with students panicking over mid-terms, I
was reading job notices and typing applications letters. I
found that a government agency was hiring ESL teachers for
Egypt—close enough—and I applied immediately. A week later
another agency I’d applied to six months earlier invited me
to D.C. for interviews.
As
soon as I got to Washington I called about the ESL jobs to see
if I could get an interview, "as long as I’m in
Town." The jobs were already filled! Can I meet you
anyway, in case something comes up later? OK, four o’clock?
Great. She apologized—my resume had been misplaced—and
would definitely keep me in mind. Thank you , delighted to
meet you. As I was leaving, she said hesitantly, "By the
way, there is one position opening soon, but it’s in
Somalia."
"Somalia!"
I nearly shouted, "That’s wonderful!"
"Is
it?" she asked incredulously.
"Sure,
I’d love to go there. I’m already familiar with the
culture and the religion," I said aloud, but thinking to
myself how it’s only an hour from Mogadishu to Nairobi, and
how maybe I’d get to meet my future family in-laws. I told
her my references, all of whom she knew personally. She would
call them, and as far as she was concerned if I wanted the job
I could probably have it.
I
finished up my interviews at the other agency. They even
showed me the cubicle in windowless office where I would
probably be working, and I returned to Boston, elated. I might
even have a choice, praise God. But what a choice it was: a
one year renewable contract at a hot, dusty—but
African—hardship post on the Indian Ocean, or a career civil
service job with a pension plan in a windowless office in
northern Virginia.
Two
weeks later, she called to offer me the job of English program
director in Mogadishu, would I take it, I had 48 hours to
think it over. Everyone said it was a no-brainer; I should
take the career job with pension in Washington, otherwise
I’d be back to square one in a year or two. I argued that I
was an Africanist, the experience would help me and I’d make
good contacts. I accepted the job and starting getting my
shots. A couple of weeks later the other agency sent me a
brief note, no explanation, informing me I did not get the
windowless job.
Alhamdulillah,
Allahu ‘alim. I
could so easily have ended up with neither, but Allah had
guided me to the right decision. I was employed. I was a
person. I might even getting married. I gave my notice at the
college, and on the last day I typed a letter to the
psychologists informing them that I was leaving to take up a
position as a project direct at the United States Embassy in
Somalia, signed M. Mould, Ph.D.
Of
course I "had to" stop off in Nairobi for a few days
on my way to Mogadishu. We had a tearful reunion and tried to
make some future plans. I’d been hired as a single man, no
chance of benefits or housing for a family, and I had no idea
what Somalia or my job would be like or how long I would be
there. For the time being, I’d remain a single man in
Nairobi. Maybe I could visit often, and there was always the
phone. Maybe she could come and visit her family, whom she
hadn’t seen since childhood.
The
job was interesting, a little teaching, but mostly
administration and management, and dealing with embassy
officials. Most of my own students were senior government
officials and a few of them became good friends. Outside of
work was a whole different story. The culture and atmosphere
in urban Somalia is more Middle Eastern than African. During
my seven years in Uganda and Kenya I knew the languages,
people were open and friendly, and I never had trouble
adjusting or getting around; I’d always felt completely at
home. Mogadishu gave me culture shock. I didn’t know the
language, no one knew Swahili, educated Somalis knew Italian,
not English. All the signs were in Somali. The worst thing was
communications. Home phones were overcrowded, sweltering post
office. Only telegraph service was usually efficient. The mail
was totally unreliable except for the diplomatic pouch. It was
impossible to contact Nairobi.
Don’t
get me wrong. I was quite happy there, enjoying the sights and
smells, the Italian and Somali food, my views of the ocean,
which was within walking distance of my house and my office,
discovering a new culture. I was living downtown, in one of
the older sections, behind the Italian embassy, and I was
awakened early morning by a beautiful adhan from the
loudspeaker of a nearby mosque. We worked a Muslim schedule:
Sunday – Thursday, 7 – 3. On Fridays I would walk around
and often found myself outside a little mosque behind the
American Embassy, and while myrrh and frankincense drifted
from the doorways in the alleys I would stop and listen to the
sounds of Jumu’ah.
The
first thing I noticed was the murmuring of many voices as men
read from the Qur’an while waiting for the imam to give the khutbah.
I was instantly transported back in my mind to my old
synagogue and the identical susurrus of old men reading from
the Psalms (Zabur) at the start of morning prayers. It
gave me a comfortable and comforting feeling of nostalgia. A
little while later, walking back the other way, I would hear
the imam reciting a surah. It sounded much like the
Torah readings I’d enjoyed on Saturday mornings, again
comforting and nostalgic. Not that it made me want to return
to any synagogue; rather, it made Islam feel more comfortable
and familiar to me.
I’m
a linguist, and had been a specialist in field research. I
found a book on beginning Italian and, there being no grammar
in English on Somali, I hired myself a tutor, who was a better
friend than a teacher. I quickly learned the greetings, common
nouns, and verbs, kinship terms, numbers and telling time.
Some of the vocabulary, borrowed from Arabic, was just like
Swahili and Hebrew. Somali is also very distantly related to
Semitic languages. The grammar was something else, though,
really hard to figure out, and as I got busier and more tired
at work, our lessons turned more to conversations about
culture, politics and religion. He was knowledgeable enough to
distinguish between genuine Islam and some prevalent aspects
of indigenous, pre-Islamic culture and superstition that had
bothered me.
Before
long, he offered to bring a shaikh to my home so that I
could make the shahada. Despite my vow I still felt
hesitation, thinking of my family. But they were ten thousand
miles away, my fiancee a few hundred, and I was living in,
being touched by and feeling comfortable with this Muslim
society. I had good friends and colleagues, and it was clear
to me that much of their goodness was due to Islam. I asked
him to bring the shaikh and he did. He questioned me
about my beliefs, and I told him I’d been a Jew, not a
Christian (no problems with the trinity), and that I’d long
ago given up pork, alcohol, gambling and zina, and
after he was convinced that I understood what I was about to
say and knew the five pillars, I declared the shahadah.
My fiancee had suggested the name Mustafa, which I liked very
much.
After
all the hesitation and procrastination I felt enormous relief,
and a restored sense of belonging that I’d missed more than
I’d realized. All my Somali friends were of course delighted
and very supportive. They began calling me seedi
(‘brother-in-law’). As soon as I could get away I bought
some gold jewellery and flew to Nairobi. To get married I had
to go to the office of the chief qadi and declare the shahadah
again, with witnesses, in order to get an official certificate
of conversion, there being no such thing in Somalia.
We
went to the qadi and made our nikah[editor’s
note: nikah means marriage]. A couple of days later I
had to fly back to Mogadishu and my work. Less than a year
later, at 43, I was overjoyed and blessed by Allah to become
the father of a wonderful Muslim baby boy. I flew to Nairobi,
and after a brief discussion we agreed on my wife’s
suggestion for a name. Now I even had a kunya (nick
name); I was Abu Khalid, and he was named after the great
Companion, Khalid Ibn Al-Walid.
You
are probably wondering if I told my family about my converting
to Islam, and the answer is, not for quite some time. Of
course I told my family about my marriage and they were
neither surprised or upset.
I
was a middle-aged man who ought to know what he was doing, and
they were mainly happy for the sake of my happiness. When
Khalid was born they were positively delighted and were most
eager to meet him and his mother. When Khalid was a little
over a year old, I went to Boston on my vacation and brought
my wife and son with me. The two boys, Ali and Yusuf, were
away at a Muslim boarding school in north-eastern Kenya.
The
reception was as warm and loving as anyone could wish for and
we had a great visit. There’s no question that a baby,
especially a grandson, has a most salutary and beneficial
effect on people. My wife had brought little gifts for my
mother, sister and aunts, and they all had little gifts for
her. I suppose they all assumed, as I had once done, that
Muslim can marry a Jew or Christian. They knew my wife and our
sons were Muslims, that Khalid was being raised as a Muslim,
and they had no problem with that. They knew I hadn’t been a
practicing Jew for nearly thirty years, and I’d married a
non-Jew before. I’d decided that if they asked I wouldn’t
lie, and if they didn’t I’d just wait for a more opportune
time—some other time. A few years ago they finally asked me
and I told them. I cannot say they were pleased, but neither
were they surprised, angry or cold to me, and we still have
warm, loving relationships.
Another
year, another contract went by, and then I lost my job. Like
the new Pharaoh "who knew not Joseph", a new
director came, who saw no value in the English programs and
decided to end them. I kind of saw it coming and had applied
for a similar job in Yemen, so I didn’t fight it very hard,
but in the end the job in San`a fell through, and, as my
family had predicted, I was back to square one—well, not
quite.
In
1988, leaving my family in Nairobi, I returned to the States
alone and jobless. It was again vary tough (winter, too), but
this time I had some savings, new skills and a stronger
resume, I knew better how to job-hunt; I knew my way around
Washington and had a few contacts. I still had the suit. Best
of all, I had my faith instead of anti-depressants. I quickly
got a couple of part-time teaching jobs and a job in a men’s
store. The teaching jobs dried up, so I sold suits full-time
for over three years, always looking for a better job, but
finally—it took two years—I managed to bring my family
over and we did our best, trusting in Allah.
Then,
four years ago, a Muslim neighbor told us about a new Islamic
institute that had recently opened, where they were looking
for an English teacher. I immediately called, made an
appointment and met the director. By the grace of Allah I was
hired to teach some of the staff and do some editorial work.
Ironically, I am now in a cubicle in a windowless office in
northern Virginia, but what a difference! I am in an Islamic
environment, surrounded and inspired by good Muslim brothers,
many of them excellent scholars and all of whom I love and
respect very much, and whom I learn from daily. And what is my
job? To read books on Islam, to edit manuscripts on Islam, to
write about what I read. In essence, I am being paid to study
Qur’an, Hadith, `aqidah, Fiqh, Sirah,
Islamic history and Arabic. I thank and praise Allah every day
for leading me to Islam and for showering me with all these
blessings. Alhamdulillah,
ash-shukrulillahi Rabbil-‘alamin.
*
This story first appeared on www.jews-for-allah.org. It is
republished with kind permission.
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