When the power of love overcomes the
love of power, the world will know peace.
Jimi Hendrix (1942-1970), American musician
It was dark inside the Islamic Center of America. Lights were on here and there, but the large building had alcoves and corners where darkness pooled like water. In one of these voids was Hamzaa el-Shafei.
Twenty-eight, tall because of a Syrian father and slender because of a Somali mother, nonetheless a curious historical genetic quirk had emerged from deep in the familial woodpile to cause his skin color to be perfectly Caucasian. If he didn’t resort to the accent he used at home speaking in Arabic, his American accent and appearance guaranteed he could pass as any random white junkie on the street.
Because Hamzaa el-Shafei was a committed meth head.
This let him travel through many social circles that would not otherwise have embraced an Arabic man. El-Shafei was an unemployed sometimes-student who needed money for his dope habit—one who, in history, had done shameful things to get it. His health was poor. First crack cocaine and now meth had made him a scandalous person, and so far, all of Allah’s might had not yet freed him from his chemical shackles. Imam Sayid al-Waheeb would keep trying, nevertheless.
Part of restoring the boy’s self-respect, the Cleric thought, was to give him meaningful work, and reward him for doing it. It was a childish American custom to give children praise for doing that which they already knew should be done on their own responsibility, but the Cleric knew el-Shafei had grown up in America, and so the boy probably was familiar with the concept.
The Cleric approached the boy in the shadows, ensuring he rustled and scraped a foot on the floor in order not to startle him. He’d become a different, more nervous person since he’d been spying for the Cleric, and the drug use had already made him paranoid. It would not do to scare him into shouting out in Allah’s house.
“Assalamu ‘alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh,” al-Waheeb said to the boy. May the peace, mercy, and blessings of Allah be upon you.
“Wa’alaikum assalam wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh,” el-Shafei replied. And peace and mercy and blessings of Allah be upon you.
They looked at each other for long moments. Finally, el-Shafei spoke. “I have something for you.”
“I expect so. This why you left your mark in the dirt next to my car, to signal a meeting. So, here we meet. What is it?”
The Cleric wanted nothing more than to embrace this lost soul in such a grip that Allah could reach inside him and free the demons keeping him enslaved to the drugs. But this was neither the time nor the place.
“I was right!” el-Shafei said. His eyes gleamed in the low light, but whether it was from excitement or the drugs, al-Waheeb couldn’t know. “Those Skinheads I met definitely are trying to recruit me. They say big things are coming, and I better ‘get right with the Lord’ and get on the winning side. They don’t say whose side that is yet, but I see them talking to men in uniforms about stuff. Every time we have these horrible conversations, I pray so hard in my head that I think the prayers will surely reveal my true nature to them. They don’t, though. Not yet, anyway.”
The boy looked uncertain for a moment. “Perhaps I’m the only one who can hear them.”
“These are … military men?” the Cleric asked.
“I think, yeah, I think so. I mean, they wear those camouflage clothes like you see in the war movies, the green and brown leaves and stuff, and lots of them are fat. Cam-cammies, you know. I don’t think they are ruh-real government military peep-people. Not the federal kind, anyway. Militias, like hobby soldiers, you-you know?”
The boy had a wicked stutter when he got nervous and couldn’t keep it together. He had been taunted mercilessly in school, where the ethnic Arab kids blamed his stutter on his “demon infidel genes” and called him other less-civil names. Just common bullying, but thereafter, he stuttered even more easily.
“He s-says they’ve been doing urb-burb-ban druh-druh-drills up in the woods with instructors who just got back f-f-from Afghanistan and got out of th-the Ah-Ah-Army. He says because this is Ah-Ah-merica, they have m-many guns and much ammunition.” He swallowed hard. “Many guns”
“Who else knows of this?”
“No one, Imam. You said to tell only you what I learn.”
“Of course, you are right,” the Cleric said. “Continue to meet with these men. Find out more details of this plan, who is involved, and so on. And for sure, listen closely to any discussion about the murder of the Muslim Homeland Security agent.”
Al-Waheeb feigned poor memory.
“What was his name? His name …”
“Yes, yes!” the boy said. “You mean Mohammed al-Taja, right? Al-Taja. I have seen him on the news.”
“Yes, that’s him. If we can learn anything about him or his killer, we can protect our own community from harm. Al-Taja was Muslim—and yet we cannot risk lives if some rabble-rouser comes forward to say he did the deed for, or with the blessings of, other Muslims.” He leaned his extra height forward. “That would not be good for anyone.”
“I understand,” el-Shafei said, cowed. “I haven’t heard a word of this, but I’ll keep my ears open.”
He discreetly extended his right hand in the dark to accept something, but looked away as if it would be a surprise.
When he felt the object touch his palm, he reflexively closed his fingers around it. He wouldn’t look at it again until the Cleric disappeared into the surrounding caverns.
It was five one hundred dollar bills.
They spoke for a few more minutes, then the Cleric told him to be well, keep learning new things, and to report back often.
“Ma’aasalaama!” the Cleric said as he departed. Peace.
The Cleric did something he almost never did. He changed out of his traditional Islamic garb and into casual American clothes. Grabbing a plastic key fob from a board in his office, he strode to an outbuilding on the mosque grounds where the groundskeepers kept their equipment. His golf cubs were in there as well, but he wasn’t headed to the golf course.
He pressed a button on the key fob, raising the aluminum garage door to reveal his very own surrender to secular pride and personal enjoyment: a perfectly restored 1967 Ford Mustang GT.
The Ford Motor Company had presented the muscle car to the Imam during his community welcome ceremony. Such gifts were inappropriate in some eyes, but once al-Waheeb had taken hold of the mosque and started doing such good things for his congregants and their community, no one even remembered his little automotive prize.
He took it out infrequently, and usually after dark, better to not arouse the ire of the envious. He loved driving the car on warm summer nights, thinking about how his life might have evolved differently if he’d owned it in high school. The thought itself was slightly blasphemous, but the Cleric also believed Allah understood the value of his greater intentions.
Then the iPhone laying on the passenger seat rang. The Caller ID said the call was from Amber Watson.
“Good evening,” he said.
“I got the photo you texted of that sweet car,” Amber said. “Are we meeting to, ah, exchange car stories, Imam?”
“I think that would be fun and educational for all concerned,” he said. “There is a gas station at the corner of South Woodward and Orchard Lake Road. Do you know it?”
“Yes, sir. I have cruised Woodward before,” she said.
Al-Waheeb laughed appreciatively. “I’ll bet you have. Only a few times for me. That cruising-street racing scene was mostly over by the time I was old enough to care about it, and then I was in religious study for many years. I go out there in this car occasionally, just to drive and daydream. See you up on Woodward in about twenty minutes?”
By the time the Cleric pulled his car into the gas station, Amber was already there. As always, her yellow Corvette was showroom clean from bumper to bumper. Al-Waheeb stopped next to the Corvette.
“Nice ride, lady—wanna run it?” he asked, and laughed.
“No, thanks. But I do want you to show me that gem of yours.”
She got out of the Vette, locked it even though the top was down, and got into the passenger side of the Mustang.
“Yikes man, this is sweeet,” she said, respectfully touching the interior pieces and turning radio knobs.
“Let’s take a drive,” al-Waheeb said, and pulled into the intersection to take a Michigan left up North Woodward. Traffic was light and they would not be disturbed. Amber’s Apple Watch buzzed her wrist three times, alerting her that a follow team was on them. The watch would record their conversation just as it had in the Red Flag.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more forthcoming the other day in the restaurant,” al-Waheeb began. He casually rowed through the gears of the manual transmission with smooth efficiency until they cruised in fourth at the speed limit.
“I wasn’t completely sure of what I’d suspected, but new information about a different topic has come to light.” He looked in his rear-view mirror. Seemed like traffic had picked up a little, he thought. What he couldn’t know was that many of the following cars were occupied by FBI agents.
“There seems to be a growing—what do you call it?—’white nationalist’ movement in southeastern Michigan that may intend to do harm to Muslims in Dearborn. I have a guy the group is trying to recruit, and they really want him because he speaks Arabic. He told them he learned it in military service. They have many guns, lots of bullets, and trainers with military expertise. My guy has seen the weapons and spoken to the recruiters. They tell him he has to be ready to act, because some big event is coming.”
Amber listened intently, but masked her excitement. “Did your guy have any details? Names, places?”
“No, not yet. He said they are waiting for him to join their team. They want to use him as an intermediary between their group and the Muslim community, but he didn’t say more.”
“A Muslim ambassador from the Skinhead Nation!” Amber said. “That’s priceless, even if they aren’t in on the joke.”