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Killing for Islam
The foundation quickly challenged my moderate outlook. In January 1999, just after I started work, I was driving a visiting sheikh around town. As I walked to my car to clean out the passenger seat, a dark-haired woman greeted me. She wasn't wearing a hijab, the head scarf worn by Muslim women.
She introduced herself as an elementary school teacher and said she wanted to bring her class over so they could learn about Islam. I glimpsed the sheikh out of the corner of my eye. He stood far enough away that he wouldn't have to introduce himself, but close enough that he could listen.
When our brief conversation ended, the teacher stuck out her hand and said, "I appreciate the help. It was nice talking with you."
I knew that shaking hands with a woman was prohibited by Muslim law and that the sheikh was watching. So I let her stand there with her hand sticking out. Then I said, somewhat embarrassed, "No, thanks."
She gave me a perturbed look, then turned and walked away without another word.
An especially hard step for me was giving up music. I was told at Al Haramain that music was impermissible, but for months I couldn't stop listening to it. I loved music too much. But that summer, as I met more conservative Muslims and saw the consistency in their practice of Islam, I felt that I needed to make a decision.
I was in my car listening to Jimi Hendrix, when I pulled into my driveway. I took the tape to my room, held it in both hands and squeezed until it snapped in two. In that instant, the broken tape became a symbol: I was turning my back on my old life.
One summer morning, I realized just how much I had come to accept a worldview that I once would have rejected out of hand. A visiting scholar who lived in Saudi Arabia, Abdul-Qaadir Abdul-Khaaliq, told me after one of his lectures that an 11-year-old boy had asked a question. The youth's mother had left Islam for Christianity, so his question was natural enough: "If someone had been Christian, then became Muslim, but went back to Christianity, could she return to Islam?"
Abdul-Khaaliq immediately answered, "Some people think you should kill them."
He explained that a Muslim commits not only to Allah but to the Islamic state. So turning your back on that commitment is treason.
Instead of being outraged at the idea that people should be killed for changing religions, I heard myself say, "That makes sense." If this was true Islam, it was precisely what I should believe.
Early on at Al Haramain, I learned of an essay written by a former Saudi chief justice, "The Call to Jihad in the Qur'an." Knowing it would challenge my moderate principles, I avoided reading it for several months. Eventually, though, I decided I was ready for it.
The jurist outlined the historical phases of jihad in Prophet Muhammad's life and concluded that those who reject Islam must be conquered. And if they refuse to abandon their old religion, they must pay the Islamic state "with willing submission, and feel themselves subdued."
The implications were unsettling: Jihads against non-Muslim regimes were just wars, and non-Muslims in Islamic countries should be given the choice of conversion or living like second-class citizens. But my duty wasn't to question these teachings. Rather, it was to strengthen my faith so I could more easily accept them.
Later that night, I sat on my prayer rug in a corner of my room and, for the first time, prayed for victory for the mujahedin, the holy warriors.
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