Page 8 Page 9 The Islamic Bulletin Issue 16 All of this was very destroying to me as I loved my family and friends with all my heart, and still do. Occasionally they will call and wish hell on my head...but even these calls have become less frequent. I just thank Allah (swt) that my Iman (faith) was strong. I spoke to my family two days after the bombing in Saudi Arabia. They called to tell me that my Uncle had been killed and that me and my terrorist friends were responsible, and that his blood was on my hands. I cried for days and days...but again my Iman stood strong and I continued. I have made repeated attempts to contact my family but still they refuse and have gone so far as to have their phone numbers changed. Some have even put legal restrictions on me so that I can not go near their homes, my mother being one of them. But Insha’allah, I will keep trying to reach them. It has been over 9 months since I have heard from them. About four days after the bombing, I returned from shopping and found the words “terrorist lover” spray painted down the side of my vehicle. When the police arrived to make a report I asked them to check for any damages that might have been done that would keep me from driving it to a place of safety...as I no longer felt safe in my home. They refused, stating that I could have had some of my terrorist friends plant a bomb for them somewhere on the vehicle. I could not believe what I was hearing. But things were only going to get worse. A lot worse. I was beaten and stabbed in a parking lot by a man one night. He was caught and is serving his punishment, doing community service picking up trash in the street, mowing the mayors’ yard and running errands. At least this is what I have been told. So many times I have had people from all over the world ask me where I was from, what nationality I was, etc. and so I said, “Muslim American” which I am. But I recently found some startling information. It seems that I have some bloodline in me that I didn’t know about and this is where my search begins: I finally discovered why I faced so many problems with my family on my choice to be Muslim. My real father is Kuwaiti. My real mother is American. I was adopted at birth by an American couple, the same one’s you read about in my conversion story. And although I still consider them my family and love them, I have a REAL biological family somewhere, and Insha’Allah I will find them. Here are the only details that I know...and as scarce as they are...I am bound to find my real father. My birth mother I recently learned died in Oregon in 1986. My real mother and father were married and living in Anaheim, California which is near Los Angeles. My mother was pregnant with me. During the last few months of my mothers’ pregnancy, my father had to return to Kuwait, as his mother had passed away. (May Allah bless her soul.) At some point my mother decided to give me up for adoption. We don’t know the circumstances for this decision. She called my father and his family in Kuwait and told them of her decision. At the time, my mother worked for an American couple who owned a business called “Tibia Ranch”, also located in Anaheim. This couple could not have children, and they approached my mother when they found that she was putting the baby up for adoption. She agreed to let them adopt. A few months later, on September 17th my real mother was admitted into the “Orange County Hospital”, in Los Angeles County, California under the woman’s name who was adopting me. Although this was very illegal, it was a common practice at that time. A very short time after my birth, my father returned from Kuwait and started his search for his child and wife. I was told that my mother divorced my father and left the state, never to be heard from again. I have to say that it hurts me deeply that someone could give up a child, knowing that the child was very much wanted by the other parent. I know my father wanted me because after he returned to the US the first place he went was where my real mother worked to inquire about her and the baby. He was told that they had no knowledge of either. My father was told this by the very people that had illegally adopted his child. My real father was also an acquaintance of an adoptive Uncle, from whom he also sought information. My Uncle was kinder to my real father than the others, but he did not provide any information either. My father continued to contact the people that had adopted me, only to be told, repeatedly, that they had NO information for him. At some point he became suspicious when he went to their business and upon seeing me, demanded to know if I was his child! He was told no of course, but my adoptive parents fearing what would be next, sold their business and fled to Arkansas. My real father continued to go to my Uncle pleading with him for any information, but none was given to him. Still, he continued to search and probe my Uncle, until my Uncles death, in 1995. My father searched for me for many years. I was told that he attended my Uncles funeral, and then went back to Kuwait some days later. The only other thing right now that I know about my real father is his name: KHALED AL-MAZIDI. Insha’Allah, some day we will meet. Editors Note: If you have any information you would like to share, please contact us at the Islamic Bulletin. In this issue of the Bulletin we would like to introduce you to a gentleman who rose from the depths of despair and darkness into the light of Islam. We hope you will find it as inspiring as we did. OMAR ABDUL SALAM February 1992...my wife and I are driving down Highway 80 [Northern California] heading back home to San Francisco after a weekend in Reno [a popular town in Northern Nevada for gambling casinos...little sister to Las Vegas] about a 5 hour drive from the Bay area. I’m in a severely distressed state of mind as I have lost about $350 which I cannot afford. More than the fact that I have lost playing poker is an undeniable sense of despair about my life and where my destination seems to be heading. For the past seven plus years my free time has been occupied by heavy liquor consumption on a daily basis. A situation which obviously needs correcting, but given my theological-philosophical point of view at the time, a day without drinking is not possible for me. As we near San Francisco a heavy thunder storm begins to pound into us. This is the first time I’ve seen a full blown storm in the Bay Area replete with numerous lightning strikes which can be seen flashing all around the valleys to the east and the ocean to the west. As suddenly as the storm hits, I am hit with a lightning bolt of undeniable realization....for me it’s over! My nights of drunken bitter meandering about the philosophical virtues of Jean Paul Satre, Nietzsche and Dostoevesky have brought me to a place of dark anguish and existential hopelessness. This is why I drink, I tell myself. I am convinced that there is no point to birth, life or death beyond this present reality. I cannot see investing a lot of effort in something which is as obviously finite as the human life-span. I can’t beat it so I might as well stumble about in a drunken stupor. So on this night, rolling down the highway amidst the thunder and lightning, I can sense for the first time that God is telling me “Enough is enough”. For you, it’s over. The following day at work, I go through the motions as usual, but I know that something is terribly wrong. At my lunch break, I tell the boss that I’m sick and head home. I’ve got to do something about this alcoholic condition. I read the phone book searching for a way out. I call a place in the Los Angeles area which offers a 30 day inhouse treatment program. This sounds plausible to me. When my wife arrives home, I lay out the whole scenario to her and in her wise and wonderful way she advises me to see what happens over the next two days. If I drink... go for the treatment. Keep in mind that this is the first night in over seven years that I haven’t had any liquor. I’m tense and nervous but agree with my wife’s idea. The next morning I tell my boss the story as my company insurance would have to cover the treatment program. I’m embarrassed, but relieved that I’m doing something about this problem. When I get home that evening, right on schedule, my sick alcoholic mind tells me, “Just go to the liquor store for a half-pint...you can ease off gradually and this will calm you down.” But this time I don’t go. As I sit on the sofa, head in my hands, lost in my own internal struggle, it hits me like a “bolt of lightning”! READ THE QUR’AN! As is my usual way, I don’t analyze this impulse, I just do it! As I read Surah Fatihah, tears well up in my eyes and Allah- blesses me with the sweetest of miracles!. I continue to read the sacred script for the next two hours until my wife returns from work. A transformation was taking place inside of me. Coming from me it doesn’t sound like much, but I proclaim to her and my work mates that I have become Muslim and have quit drinking. For the next eight months, I read the Holy Qur’an on a daily basis. I read everything on Islam that I can find. Understand that I had the Holy Qur’an (English translation) at home only because I had every other religious book that I knew of. I had read bits and pieces of it prior to Allah’s blessing me with the revelation, but I had also read the Bible, the Bhagivad Gita, numerous Zen texts, the Kabbalah, as well as all of the major Greek and existential philosophers mentioned previously. I had a large selection of books promising enlightenment to choose from. It was not mere chance that I picked up the Holy Qur’an that fateful evening. I had heard of people in life-and-death situations beg God to rescue them and they will follow whatever religion they are brought to. It seems that they invariably convert to Islam. This is the human beings natural religion. As the Holy Qur’an tells us, we are born Muslims...it is the parents that call us Jews, Christians, etc. For the first eight months I stumbled about praying salat in English, trying to practice my deen as best I could alone. At times I tried to reach out I would look through the yellow pages but the numbers I called [masjids] were either unanswered or I would be immediately invited to the mosque. I was too afraid of looking foolish in front of the ‘real Muslims” as I couldn’t even say “Assalamu Alaikum”. I had first become aware of Islamic conversion in America from reading about jazz musicians that I looked up to such as Yusef Lateef and Ahmad Jamal. I was a big jazz fan and a poor saxophone player myself. I knew of a number of African Americans who converted to Islam, but not many whites like myself. This made me hesitant to approach a masjid. I didn’t know what to expect. How I Embraced Islam
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy MTUxNjQ1