Wedding Haircut: A Prenuptial Rite of Passage for 9/11 Terrorists

By David Bentley

This book is about two intended weddings. A Saudi seeking Jesus tells his story covering the years 1999 to 2002 and ends with a haircut as part of his Arabic prenuptial traditions. Osman observes his roommates rehearsals for a very different wedding where the ritual haircut precedes martyrdom leading to carnal heavenly rewards. The hero is skeptical of this roommates belief where sensuality is mixed with fiery warnings against anyone daring to leave Islam. His San Diego based employer, Uncle Khaliil, a 1980s Afghan munitions dealer, does little to restrain his power over his 27 year old protg, especially interfering with Osmans romance with Marie, his Mexicana sweetheart.

San Diego provides the glamorous seaside locations where the homemade mosque and community college scenes take place but these balmy images are often interrupted by Tijuana border crises. Other borders are in Amman, Jordan, where Osman lands on 9/11 while holding an illegal passport. He is further victimized by this disastrous terror attack on Manhattan during a Sinbad-the-Sailor flight to California where the rapturous Marie awaits him.

From benign hocus pocus untruths to outright deceptions, this novel features a litany of human failings. However, for Muslims and Christians, the testing of the Prophet of God, Abraham, becomes a model for sacred trusts. The Bible and Quran record a Fathers offering of his Son upon an altar as a symbol of the similarity and the disparity of the two holy books. Several citations from the Biblical and Quranic texts touch upon some gritty issues like Osmans circumcision when he was 13 (Genesis 17:25, Quran 37:102); a delay based upon his mothers vow for pre-1967 Jerusalem.

Maries effervescent kiss will ultimately revive Osman from a death by drowning, during which he hears Jesus speaking, prepping him for his wedding as a newly washed, hairless babe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Apr 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449713744

David Bentley

This is David Bentley’s third book on non-violent interactions between Christians and Muslims. He now resides in Southern California in is his work place for advocacy of Muslims seeking asylum based on International Religious Rights documents. Bentley and his family previously lived and ministered in churches in Jordan and Iran.

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Copyright © 2011 David Bentley

Cover design by: Rian Anderson

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Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible

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ISBN: 978-1-4497-1375-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-1376-8 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-1374-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011923461

Printed in the United States of America

WestBow Press rev. date: 07/12/2011

Contents

Preface

1 Saudi Camouflage

2 Francis Azzi Mission

3 Heavenly Father Fatiha

4 La Mesa Sheikhs

5 Small Arms Crib

6 Hocus-Bogus

7 Cryptic Messages

8 Doha, Afghan Veterans

9 Faxes and Jackets, Misfits

10 Amman Revisit 1

11 St. Francis of Assisi Revisited

12 Slashing Arrows, Cutting Razor

13 Innocent Bazaar Shopper

14 Hajj Abdullah, Reciter

15 Shaban or Ramadan?

16 Modernism, Video Haram

17 Red Heifer, Surah II

18 Fitna vs. fitna

19 Truce and Warfare

20 Millennium Disaster (Y2K)

21 Seven Sleepers in a Cave

22 Christmas, New Year’s

23 Islamic Unity Seminar

24 Ibn Arabi, Mystic

25 Tijuana Forges

26 Roman Bath

27 …in the Way of God

28 Groom-to-be Mourner

29 Mental Health Unit

30 Moro en la Costa

31 Farewell to Arms, Again

32 Unconnected Rooms

33 Rites Legal and Illegal

34 Travels, Travails of Parents

35 Easter Epiphany

36 Detective Peterson

37 Last Trumpet, 09/2001

38 Orlando Confessions

39 A Loathsome Loss

40 Amman Revisit 2

41 A Man with a Maid

42 Evangel Church Anointing

43 No Visa Eagle Flights

44 Sindbad, I am

45 Waterborne Voices

Glossary

Bibliography

Endnotes

Also by David Bentley

The 99 Beautiful Names of God

for all the People of the Book

Persian [e-mail]

The Priest and the Prophet

(with Joseph Azzi)

Preface

After telling an Arab Christian about an unusual visit by three Muslims to my office at the Zwemer Institute in March, 1997, this friend confided that perhaps among these visitors was one who was seeking to become a Christian. Improbable as that may have been at the time, this notion that a seeker of Jesus was embedded in that recon group would lie dormant for more than ten years. My first intention was, however, to write a series of stories about people whom I have met who decided, very much on their own, to become Christians.

I was privileged to know these men and women seekers while working with human rights cases in Southern California. These immigrants and refugees arrived here from all parts of the Muslim-majority world seeking freedom which was personalized by their search for religious freedom. They represented a wide spectrum of age, education and socio-economic backgrounds. Osman, the central figure in this story, is a composite of these seekers, whom I more likely encountered in the hallways of the Los Angeles Immigration Courts than in a church setting.

When it came time to write the opening chapters, I returned to that incident which took place when the three men from a Lemon Grove mosque near San Diego made an appearance in our Pasadena office. I was well into the writing project before I realized that the leader of this group was none other than the American-born Yemeni, Anwar Al-Awlaki. His name now keeps cropping up as the inspiration for a series of terrorist attacks within the United States. Al-Awlaki is hiding out in his father’s native Yemen, and a reward for his capture or death hangs over his head.

Apart from that office visit, all of the events are fiction. However, like all of the characters, the major and minor episodes are based upon residual faces and facets that I noted in the courts or through contacts I made in Jordan where I lived for a tumultuous four years in the late sixties. My interests in human and religious rights have stretched over several years, during which time I was able to travel to several Asian and North African countries. In nations from Morocco to Indonesia, I almost always included visits to mosques where I found solace apart from the din and dash of modern life outside. There I often prayed, much like Osman does in this novel, the Christian prayer, Our Father in heaven…

Anyone coming to Christian faith as an adult must go through difficult times, but one coming from a Muslim background would expect to have his troubles multiplied. Most of the evidence I supplied to the immigration courts involved more than a glancing look at the Shariah law of apostasy. Basically this gives the Muslim a few days to repent before a death sentence is issued. In places where the Muslim-majority government is slow to enforce these religious decrees, other agents are willing to take the matter into their hands. Family members are known to take the life of the new believer who dared to dishonor the family and clan networks.

The terror of 9/11 is a central concern of this book as the numbers, 9 and 11, fit into the Arabic script for the written name of a pagan god, ilah. The topic is brought up by Osman’s roommate, Hamzah, a shadowy figure who emerges as a possible martyr caught in the web of attempting to be the best Muslim, yet unable to uphold the high morality and legal demands of Islam. You’ll have to wait to see how his character develops in the following pages, and more importantly, how these suicidal terrorists will influence critical peace and war issues beyond the pages of this book.

The discourse between the principal characters not only provides hints of 9/11 but also reveals my interest in the subject of the testing of Abraham when he offered his son upon an altar. The Bible’s intended son for the knife and fire is Isaac while the Muslims hold that Ishmael was the designated son for sacrifice. Both Scriptures refer to the event as a test for the Patriarch or Prophet Abraham. (Genesis 22:1; Surah 37: 106).

As the hero, Osman, moves toward his new faith, there is an inner perception that the divine sacrifice has been completed. Christians can identify with texts such as Hebrews 11: 17, where Abraham’s testing when he offered up Isaac, his unique son, would lead to multiple blessings through this son. This New Covenant view has always been countered by nonbiblical views that urge believers to sacrifice their sons to the glory of God. In medieval times we had the Crusades and in modern times our sons are sacrificed for the cause, not of God, but the nation-state. Since 9/11, the world of Islam has had to revisit this testing of Abraham that has encouraged a small fraction of Muslims to sacrifice their children in the way of God.

Readers may find the spelling of Arabic words at a variance with other English spellings. For example, Quran replaces Koran. Other foreign terms are defined in the Glossary. The English text of the Quran is based upon my own translation of the Arabic and the English conforms to most other translations. The King James Bible meshes well with the ambiences of Osman’s edgy journey toward becoming a Christian.

My first word of thanks is for my wife, Isabel, who offered me her heartiest encouragement to write this book. Her encouragement encompasses not only her willingness to share in any successes, but her bearing with me the book’s possible distractions. There are a handful of friends who deserve recognition for their help in reading the early versions of this text. The Loflands, Norman and Betty Jean, have been exemplary critics of this work from the very beginning. John Eoll, Leitha Marsolais and Tom Brown have provided keen observations that have inspired me to strive for my best efforts to tell the credible story of a young Muslim who goes about changing his faith in the midst of an intercultural romance and international terror.

For any formal dedication of Wedding Haircut I must consider the score of Muslims, my expert sources, who have left their homelands and their faith behind to become citizens of a new country and the new Kingdom of God that is declared in the Gospels. They shall remain unnamed as there is no need to add to their present troubles as converts to Jesus Christ. The contents of this book can in no way measure up to the courage of these authentic seekers after God, and who could still be experiencing threats on their lives. I want to celebrate these, my heroes, without identifying anything specifically about them.

And so I dedicate the book to those who are still seeking…

DB

1 Saudi Camouflage

Where the wide earth meets the wide sea two military jets soar across the wide heavens above me on this eleventh day of September, 1999. I glance away from Interstate 5 and the spacious Pacific Ocean toward the barren flatlands where a small formation of marines is patrolling within the barbed-wired Camp Pendleton. Even from a distance I see them in their camouflaged clothing which is designed to conceal.

I gently press the Camry hatchback’s accelerator to pass a couple of semis before noticing two white objects like turbaned heads facing the scrolling ocean. As I approach the giant domes about one hour north of San Diego, the hooded shapes and colors keep reminding me of desert Arabian headwear. These Arab khaffiyas cover two atomic reactors. As I approach the fences around the reactor site, I notice there are no sentries posted at the entrance. The marines on the east side of Interstate 5 are not close to this installation where a single saboteur could do some severe damage to the reactors about one hundred yards from the highway.

The sight of those camouflaged uniforms brings to mind a message that began sometime after the end of the Cold War between the Soviets and Americans. This message remains active on the AOL Internet. All the military uniforms for ground forces changed from solid dark greens to light green, snakeskinned patterns, causing the Islamic world to conclude that the next wars would be waged for oil buried under our Middle East deserts.

My thoughts drift when I steer inland from the Pacific view toward Dana Point, named after Richard Henry Dana, a nineteenth-century Yankee author, who described the tossing of cattle hides off the bluffs to the ships anchored below.

My own seafaring images started with my mother reading Sindbad stories to me in her Palestinian-accented English. When we were living in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, she read American comics that her sister in Fresno mailed to us. All through my depressing elementary religious education, she prodded me to progress beyond the yellow and black Cliffs Notes that my fellow students depended upon in Saudi and Jordanian high schools. I read the hardcover Moby Dick and Rip VanWinkle, as well as A Farewell to Arms, despite my classmates’ snickering at my choices of all things English from the American Library in Riyadh and the British Council Library in Amman.

Driving along the California coast, I know that my two passengers don’t share my love of American authors. Khaliil and Hamzah are staring blankly ahead at the traffic as I navigate the smooth morning drive. They are undoubtedly focusing on the survey purpose of this trip to Burbank, north of Los Angeles. Khaliil, my employer, hastily organized this day trip yesterday to investigate a Christian organization called the Francis Azzi Mission.

I slowly turn the auto inland, moments after the white sail of a boat disappears from my view of the Pacific horizon. The canvas triangle seems to sail into the Dana Point headland and reminds me of Dana’s book Two Years before the Mast. That title describes my two years since 1997 when I became Khaliil’s translator. The job was officially listed on a green card application with the US government as cryptologist, but since Khaliil’s work was slow, he allowed me to register as a part-time student in east San Diego’s Grossmont College. In one of my first classes Marie captured my attention; within weeks of that first meeting we made a wonderful and weird vow to love and to withhold love.

This romantic reflection dissipates when Khaliil breaks into the Interstate monotony. How much farther? he asks in English, but he immediately unbuckles his seatbelt to face Hamzah in the backseat to speak in Arabic.

"Hamzah, you appear to know something about this Christian group. What is the latest online news about Francis Azzi agency? They always get too much attention on the Arab Internet. Would you agree with me, Osman?" The second question in English is asked without a pause as Hamzah is still learning the ropes on the computer. Khaliil prefers to call this mission an agency, implying that it was a part of the CIA or some other official spy organization.

After Khaliil tightens his seatbelt over a full, forty-something-inch waistline, I reply. I say its reputation has remained the same for the last ten years. Switching from Arabic to English, I continue. People on the Internet are making the same charges that started in the 1970’s when this mission began to buy converts. There is nothing new, just the same old story keeps getting circulated on the Internet chat rooms. Maybe we’ll find something new this morning. I refrain from making an additional comment about the Arab web rumors and the similarity between the Francis Azzi Mission activities and the subject of camouflaged military uniforms, which the network Muslims interpret as a sign of future wars in the Middle East.

Hamzah breaks the few minutes of silence, When you write 9-11 in Arabic or English they are the same. He leans forward to touch Khaliil’s collar with his forefinger, tracing the figures 9-1-1. Hamzah is returning to a subject whose contents and hand gestures he started to fuss over when we were in San Diego earlier this morning.

"When you write 9-1-1 you write the Arabic word god, ilah, a pagan god. Today is 9/11 on the Christian calendar, a danger day. Don’t you think, brothers?"

Neither Khaliil nor I respond audibly to Hamzah’s broken English about dangers associated with an Arab pagan god and English numbers. However, I make a mental note: Today is September 11 and we are on a secret mission of sorts. There could be hidden dangers on this trip.

My own secrets are shared in an Internet chat room with a group of former Muslims who claim to be followers of Jesus. In this AOL group known as forem, former redeemed Muslims, we have discussed and dismissed these charges that the Francis Azzi Mission is buying converts. None of the twenty or so of us, all ex-believers or apostates, have received a cent for leaving Islam.

Hamzah repeats several bits of information that I have heard for over ten years. They control hundreds of missionaries, buying Muslims in every nation. His voice thins out in a rush of anger.

Well, we soon will find out how dangerous this group is when we arrive at their world headquarters in a few minutes. Khaliil unfolds a roughly drawn map with his delicately manicured fingers. His piercing gray eyes narrow to read the sketches. His face is youthful, unwrinkled in contrast to his overloaded mid-section.

Khaliil repeats, We’ll soon find out, the same words he had said when we left two of the sheikhs at the La Mesa Al Ma’eda Mosque around nine this morning. We had met for dawn prayers at this mosque about a mile east of San Diego.

Always fill in the line at this small mosque, he warned us when we stood apart from the four other worshippers at prayer.

Khaliil, my adopted uncle and employer, knows that I am no longer adhering to the religion of Islam. He will support with reservations my intentions to be a Christian, but he still thinks I should stand in the line, and go through the exercises that accompany the Muslim prayers in this small mosque where we all know each other well. He talked to me after I sat apart from the others at the rear of the prayer room which had been carved out of a former single story house. Four men stood in a line facing, bowing and prostrating their bodies toward Mecca, our Saudi holy city. While the others have grown accustomed to this room’s slanting, off-centered distortions to face the holy city, I have always felt unbalanced, out-of-kilter when I am in this made-over prayer room.

Before Hamzah jumped into the Camry hatchback for the trip north, Khaliil offered, Hamzah, he’s been with us for four months now, and I still don’t know what he is about …

His comment reflects my own attitude toward Hamzah, whom Khaliil once described as my dark image. We were born in the Islamic year 1392, Christian year 1972; our slender medium height, black hair and cropped moustaches are considered handsome in both Arab and US societies. My mother’s Palestinian heritage must have bleached out my father’s Saudi brown, which was not the case for Hamzah’s swarthy desert complexion. Of course, he does not know much book English beyond the Cliffs Notes.

Khaliil became my mentor two years ago, and although he is not a blood relative I call him by an affectionate term, Amu, because he is a wise, personal friend. His steady loyalty, a noble Arab characteristic, is certainly much stronger than the Saudi blood in my veins from the Abu Ziyadi family. Khaliil knows this Riyadh family intimately, which means he knows mysteries of my parents, of their unhappy marriage and a previous life the three of them shared in the early 1970’s in Kuwait.

Again Khaliil unbuckles the seatbelt to speak in English to Hamzah. When we enter this world headquarters building, you will be introduced as a Muslim. Your name is Hamid for today. You are a finance student at the University of California and for today you are from Ethiopia. And I want you to know that Osman here is not Osman Abu Ziyadi but Ishaq Al Bedowi from Lebanon. He turns to me and says, Both of you listen up. You, Osman, I mean Ishaq, were a Muslim but now you are a Christian."

Why the change? Khaliil answers his own question. "If this Christian agency is as powerful as some people think, we’ll have to make several visits here. Ishaq will be the one who will keep returning to find out about this organization’s buying converts."

Hamzah’s hot breath is on my neck as he mutters the damn-ed word, "Murtadd, Apostate, I swear that they will have the Wahabi haircut."

I catch a glimpse of Hamzah’s forefinger drawn across his neck, signaling a beheading of criminals and apostates in a Riyadh public square after Friday prayers.

Shush, Hamzah, Khaliil cautions, "There is not any need for violence here. We’re like the marines guarding Camp Pendleton and wearing their camouflage uniforms. Getting into this office, we’re wearing new names. Osman must disguise himself as a Christian. We have to stand united today if we are going to learn anything from this agency. If they are a threat to our Prophet and our faith, we must know. Khaliil mixes the dual languages, adding at the end the devotional affirmation on Muhammad, Peace and blessings on the Prophet and his family."

Hamzah, Khaliil begins slowly, You think 9-11 is a code word for god? Well, I remember one Sufi, an Indian who passed himself off in Kuwait as a holy man; he told me that when you multiply 9 times 11 you get the number 99. That’s the number of the divine names of God, is it not? I think this pitiful holy man thought the numbers would win the lottery. Supposedly they were lucky numbers because they were odd numbers.

The two of us listen as Khaliil continues his tutoring, "This Christian agency’s name is one of the names of God, Al-Aziz. What does that mean?"

I respond by repeating the common word for power and strength, "aziz."

Hamzah first pounds his fist into his open hand two or three times and then shouts out, the Mighty God.

I know my 99 names backwards and forward. Khaliil reproaches his two lackeys. I mean, why does this mission use the Arabic name Azzi? That’s my question, O immature ones.

No further comments are offered. Suddenly my stomach turns my mouth sour. I remember the frequent slaps I received from my grade school religious teacher because I could not rattle off the 99 beautiful names of God within the allotted time.

Now I concentrate on the last few miles of the drive to the parking lot of the Francis Azzi Mission office. Rather than words to express my anger at Khaliil, I shake my head, reproaching him for hinting to Hamzah that I am masquerading as a Christian today. After all, it was Uncle, my dear Amu, who has wanted to keep my new faith in Jesus as a secret. He’s playing a game by making sport of my intentions of abandoning Islam.

At times, I forget that my mentor is also the best of all Procurement Officers, which is how he will introduce himself once we Saudis are inside the worn, water-stained, stucco walls of the unassuming two stories of the Francis Azzi international headquarters.

2 Francis Azzi Mission

Here’s my official ID from the National Guard of the Royal Saudi Kingdom. I do lots of business for my government as a Procurement Officer. Khaliil hands the plastic card to one of the two men who escort us to the Francis Azzi conference room.

Welcome to our humble office, I am Dr. Davis. I talked to you yesterday. This gray beard with thick glasses then passes the ID to a tall, slender, elderly gentleman with a large hearing aid, who extends his right hand:

"Good morning, Salaam alaikum."

"Wa Alaikum, Salaam," Instinctively we three Arabs respond.

And peace be upon us all, the second man repeats in English, while gazing at the photo ID before an introduction. My name is Dr. Charles. I am the assistant to the director who will not be with us today. As you can see, we are in the process of moving our facility to Colorado in a few days. The director is there this week. He places the ID back in Khaliil’s hands, adjusts his hearing aid, then looks directly at me.

And I am Ishaq al Bedowi and I am a student in San Diego studying finance.

Hamzah immediately follows, My name is Hamid Habbash. I am from Ethiopia. Indeed, I study the San Diego University of California Finance.

For your information, Ishaq is from Lebanon, Khaliil says to continue the deceptions. He is a Christian, a convert who could benefit from Francis Azzi.

For the next two hours, one person after another converses with the other four around the conference table in the small, untidy library while drinking weak coffee and crunching day-old French pastries.

Both Drs. Davis and Charles speak to our question regarding the foundation of the Francis Azzi Mission. They maintain that their Christian organization was formed in 1978 in Switzerland with the hope of becoming the leading office for Christian understanding and witness among Muslims. Many other Christian organizations joined in by declaring that the Francis Azzi Mission would be fully financially supported, which according to Dr. Charles never did happen.

What you see here are the very poor remains of that hope we held for over twenty years since Lausanne. Dr. Charles waves his hand toward empty cardboard boxes waiting to be filled from the library’s stacks of worn books.

Of course you heard about us on the Muslim web? Dr. Charles raises his sentence to a question. We never saw such exaggeration. Imagine us buying converts. We have been struggling to pay the monthly rent.

While stroking his short beard, Dr. Davis speaks less passionately about the name of the organization. Francis Azzi is an adaptation of the name of the medieval Roman Catholic monk commonly called St. Francis, who was born in Assisi, Italy, over 700 years ago. He had a remarkable conversion to Christ back in the days when we thought that all Europeans were Christians. We adopted this name not because we are Roman Catholics, which we are not, and not because we follow the Franciscan order which St. Francis started.

"Mon Dieu," I say under my breath, recalling the many occasions I had heard this mild French oath at the Franciscan Friars School in Amman, Jordan. My attention is waning under Dr. Davis’s lecture when I am jolted by the reference to the Franciscans. There under the main staircase, the statue of St. Francis was in front of me during my years at Friars School. The brown-robed Franciscans with their tonsured scalps were my teachers. My recently divorced mother had sent me to this famous Latin Catholic School to get me through my high school matriculation tests. Much like the last sip of my cold, sugary coffee, my cup of remembrance is full of some bad tastes of regrets.

The Gulf War of 1991, when the US invaded Iraq, was a shattering event for us students. Over two-thirds of the Jordanian student body were Muslim and vocal supporters of Saddam Hussein. The Iraq leader’s photo hung defiantly over the sculptured pigeons on the shoulders of St. Francis for a couple of days before Brother Filippe personally took it down.

Mother’s separation from my father’s Abu Ziyadi clan made the start of those two years in Jordan miserable and were made worse at the close when I failed the Jordan government exams; I never caught on to the sciences while doing superior work in English and computers.

The professor leans his shoulders over the table, continuing the lecture.

St. Francis is our model here, Dr. Davis stares at the empty boxes. "He is our inspiration because he brought the message of the risen Christ directly to the Muslims during the First Crusade. It was about 1200 when Francis met the Sultan in Egypt at the same time