Born a Muslim

By Izek Aliev

Covering two story arcs, Born a Muslim is a compelling, insightful tale that tracks the radicalization of a young man brought to the US from Syria when he was only five years old. He becomes involved with the jihadist movement and the reader sees how he is groomed to carry out a terrorist attack. Secondly, it is an examination of our society’s division between liberals and conservatives, revealed in the form of lectures to twelfth-grade students given by their history teacher, an immigrant from Azerbaijan.

About the Author
Izek Aliev is married with two daughters. He has a PhD in geology, and is a case worker. Aliev worked in Baku as a correspondent for the newspaper Svoboda. In the USA he was published in the local newspaper Azerbaijan Review and spoke several times on local radio. Aliev has written three books published in Russia and the US.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Mar 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889257462

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

As always, the alarm jostled me awake at 6:00 a.m. My wife, Sofa, was already busy fiddling in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. She was in a hurry; she needed to go to Brooklyn, but the Brooklyn-Queen Highway is infamous for its rush-hour traffic.

But me? I don’t rush. I taught at a school on Staten Island, where we’ve lived in a small community nestled into one of the island’s most prestigious areas, for almost ten years. Here, the houses cost at least $700k and we’re surrounded by dense forest alive with deer, wild turkeys, rabbits, anvils, foxes, snakes, and many others. The residents, however, are not so variegated—Italians, Chinese, and Jews (including Russian-speaking).

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I express thanks to Sofa. Thanks for this beautiful community. Thanks for our pretty decent house. Generally speaking, if it wasn’t for her, we never would’ve arrived in America.

Don’t forget to make sandwiches for Sarah, Sofa shouted, slamming the front door, behind her. I’m in charge of making sandwiches for our daughter every day and could hardly forget, but my wife always reminds me of this daily. Our only daughter Sarah is in medical school.

Sarah, we are late. Every day I meet my sleepy daughter with these words in the kitchen. Please eat quickly and let’s go.

I take her to the pier to board the Staten Island Ferry at exactly 7:30 a.m. Sarah sprints to the free boat making the trip through New York Harbor to Manhattan, where she’ll transfer to the train. Eventually, she’ll reach St. George’s University on time, and thus, I’m going to work with a sigh of relief.

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Before entering my class, I usually go to the school principal, Ricci Romano’s, office. He, his wife Bianca, and his children live next door to us and are family friends. So, I’m always interested in his well-being, especially since we’re both historians by profession. Time ticks by and my first lesson ends, at which point my good friend, Amir, called me.

Was Rizvan in class? he asked, his voice filled with concern.

No, he was not.

He hasn’t been home for two days. I don’t know what to do.

Did you call his buddies?

Nobody saw him.

Then call the police.

Nobody saw him.

Then call the police.

I’m going to wait one more day. I could hear Fatima sobbing.

What could happen? He will appear.

Anything can happen. May Allah save him. I’ll be in touch.

Okay. Everything will be settled, God forbid. Keep me updated.

Our school is zoned, meaning students who live in the vicinity can study here. So, Rizvan, who lives close by, gained acceptance into this school, where 90 percent of the student population is of Italian origin.

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Rizvan is a handsome, thin, but strong guy of above average height with a perpetually wary expression on his face and has always been closed off and silent. His slightly humped nose hangs over thin, tightly compressed lips. His eyebrows pinched together atop the bridge of his nose and the stubborn forelock flops over his eyes. Not only does he not have friends in class, but he doesn’t care to communicate. And what’s more, his classmates don’t seem to notice him, except for niceties and polite greetings. Hello. Goodbye.

He studied very poorly. He exerted little to no effort during school hours and everything that happens around him seems to cause little worry. From the outside looking in, it appears he’s completely alienated from reality.

But deep in his soul, he carried a secret, one he was too afraid to admit even to himself.

He really likes the girl who was sitting on the first desk. When night fell, he was tormented by brave fantasies. He imagined how tomorrow would be the day he’d approach her and confess his love. Naturally, she will reciprocate, allowing him to hug her and never even consider letting go. Sometimes, he imagined she was being bullied by guys and he’d be there defending her, becoming a hero in her eyes. But entering the classroom the following day after a sleepless night, he did not dare to look at her. His fantasies were forced to wait another day.

Fatima Malika, his mother, immigrated to the United States of America with her husband, Muhammad Said, and her five-year-old son, Rizvan, from Aleppo City, Syria, in 2004. She’s a tall, slender, black-haired, black-eyed beauty. Her husband, a hard-working yellow taxicab driver, met an all-too-early end to his life during a tragic collision with a truck.

Whether through the haze-filled moments of grief or the general demeanor of her boy, he regularly missed lessons and I, the head teacher, called her. She constantly complained about him; complained that there was no controlling him; despaired that he never listened to her. During every parent-teacher meeting, we devised ways to fix the situation.

One day, she brought a man to our meeting and introduced me. It was none other than Amir Hussein. After that, Fatima always came with him. He turned out to be a person with whom I could easily communicate, although his appearance suggested otherwise. It just so happened that we became friends. He liked to joke, and spoke in a measured, slow manner.

Born in Cairo, Amir immigrated to America from Egypt. His father, a theology professor, taught at the University of Cairo, where Amir eventually graduated from the theological faculty.

The university was one of the oldest secular learning establishments in the Arab world, and the second higher institution in the country, following the University of al-Azhar.

Amir’s graduation was overshadowed by the death of his father. Suddenly, he was the man of the house and needed to feed his family. Initially, he worked with a small business, but sadly, things didn’t go well. And then 2012 saw the Muslim Brothers come into power. Being a devout Muslim with moderate views, Amir considered the Muslim Brothers to be radical and whose interests were not conducive to Egypt’s development.

Fortunately, he found luck in America. He was awarded permanent residence status due to his religious and political persecution in Egypt. Settling in Brooklyn, he tried his hand in many fields. Through meeting good people, he gained great ideas, and he passed the civil service exam, awarding him the position of social worker. The inner-city organization provided social services in all five boroughs of New York City.

After just a few years, Amir passed yet another exam and was promoted to supervisor for his efforts. He did the honorable job of helping people who came into the Welfare office seeking financial assistance. His clients received food, cash, medical care, and rental assistance.

A fantastic job for a fantastic man.

At the time, roughly 18,000 employees of this city-based company were immigrants from the Caribbean, Africa, Asia, and Russian-speaking people from the various republics of the former Soviet Union. As one might expect, the salaries were low. But the stability, excellent medical coverage, four to five weeks of paid vacation, and sick days were massively important in America.

A couple of years ago, Amir transferred to the Staten Island Welfare office branch and rented an affordable, one-bedroom apartment nearby, where the rent was cheaper than in Brooklyn.

At forty-five years old, Amir was of strong constitution and looked very nice. Thick black hair, slightly flecked with gray, neatly combed back, highlighting his prominent forehead. Small beard, aquiline nose, mustache, and bushy eyebrows added to his impressive appearance of a person who could easily stand up for himself. He met Fatima when she came into the Welfare office to ask for poverty allowance.

Following the deplorable death of her husband, she was left with her fourteen-year-old son and no livelihood. During the interview, they struck up a sincere conversation. She came to the office several times and allowed him to call her. So, they started dating. Rizvan, who was now entering adolescence, began to squabble with and contradict his mother, who was worried as study was already of little interest to him. But try as she might, she couldn’t make him knuckle down. Their relationship became even more complicated after Fatima began to meet with Amir and invite him home. Rizvan behaved defiantly and Fatima could often hear her son’s cries buried in his pillow during the night.

Sometimes, Amir tried to give Rizvan some good advice, but he was always interrupted with the words, No one has the right to lecture me. I am old enough and don’t need anyone’s advice.

When the time came, Amir told Rizvan he was going to legitimize his relationship with Fatima. All Rizvan gave in reply was a shoulder shrug before leaving silently, locking himself in his room. The next morning, the phone range, making Fatima flinch. She hadn’t slept for two nights and had only just dozed off. For a moment, she lay staring up at the ceiling, not quite understanding what was happening. Then realizing, she jumped up and snatched the telephone.

Rizvan?

Yes, it’s me, Mom.

What happened? Where are you? Are you alright? Fatima almost shouted in her panic.

Mom, I am fine, calm down.

Where are you? She was almost sick with fear and concern.

Don’t worry. I will be home soon.

Fatima heard the intermittent beeps down the line. With a trembling hand, she felt the back of the chair and sat down, covering her face with her hands to try and hold back the sobs racking her shaking body but to no avail. They escaped from her chest, tracking tear-stained rivers down her cheeks.

Somewhat composed, she called Amir. Continuing to cry, she began to complain that her son called but didn’t deign to say where he is or when he will return.

Already feeling better at the mention of the call, Amir tried to calm her down. Now we know that Rizvan is fine and will be back soon!

This did nothing to console Fatima, as her beautiful face contorted into a grief-borne grimace. Amir, I cannot stand this. How can I live on?

"Darling, please calm down. I will come