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Remembering the Past
My ideas about the faith were fully transformed. I didn't share my more radical views with my parents, knowing they were already uncomfortable with the rigidity of my beliefs.
That fall of 1999, I began studies at the New York University School of Law, even though a prominent sheikh had said to me bluntly, "You should not go to law school. If you do go, you will have to say that the Constitution is good."
During my first year at NYU, it was as though I lived in a different universe than my classmates. While their biggest concerns were class reading and finals, mine was grappling with the question of what Allah really wanted me to do and believe.
At my apartment, I would read fatwas online, looking for spiritual guidance. But more and more, I began to analyze them critically. As I read about the need to subjugate women, about how anyone who leaves the Muslim faith and does not repent and return to it "will be killed as a kafir and apostate," I realized that I harbored real moral doubts about radical Islam. And now there were no ardent fundamentalists around me to help keep those doubts at bay.
Depressed and confused, I kept my spiritual struggles to myself. I still prayed five times a day, but increasingly my supplications to God were different. I stopped asking for victory for the mujahedin, or for my heart to be cured of its doubts. Instead, I asked God to show me what I needed to know. I no longer was convinced I knew the truth.
I agonized over my beliefs for many months -- a deeply upsetting time for me. By late 2000, however, I was ready to depart Islam and told just a few of my closest Muslim friends. They were surprised but forgiving.
I expected life to be more calm for me, now that my Islamic past could be tucked away on a shelf. The tragic events of 9/11 only fueled my desire to leave behind this part of my life. Then came a Thursday night in February 2004. My parents called on the phone to tell me that Al Haramain's offices had been raided by federal agents. Apparently investigators suspected the foundation of trying to help finance Islamic fighters in Chechnya. (The directors of the foundation claimed the money was intended for refugees and still deny any wrongdoing.)
As I read newspaper accounts, certain things fell into place: the enthusiasm my old co-workers had for the Chechen mujahedin; my old boss's dim view of the American tax system, consistent with the money-laundering charges.
That weekend, after a lot of thought, I phoned the FBI field office in Medford, Oregon. A woman answered. I told her I thought I could provide some useful information. "My name is Daveed Gartenstein-Ross," I said. "I worked for Al Haramain."
"Oh," she replied. "I know who you are."
Minutes later, she gave the phone to another agent in charge of the investigation, and we talked for an hour.
That call marked the moment I began to fully come to terms with my past. It's a past I had wanted to forget but one that I know now I can never ignore. One reason is my memory of September 11.
I was still in Manhattan on that clear, sunny day and watched the Twin Towers smolder from the street outside my apartment. Later that evening, I saw television footage from the Muslim world, showing crowds of extremists celebrating the carnage. I couldn't help but wonder, if I had remained a fundamentalist Muslim and grown more radical over time, would I have been among those openly cheering the attacks? I'm not completely sure. But I'm positive I would have at least applauded their goals. Toppling heretical Muslim governments in the Middle East, and ultimately taking the fight into the West -- these were the aims of jihadists in a global struggle. And I had once prayed for their triumph.
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