Authors: Ruth Francisco
The most liberal city in Europe was now the most conservative.
Thousands fled into Germany and Belgium, but millions didn’t.
Most preferred to live under Islamic law rather than abandon their homes and their lives.
Holland, after all, had survived foreign occupation many times before.
In
Malmö
, Sweden radical Islamists occupied government buildings.
The Swedish military, with orders to kill resistance fighters, combed the city, block by block, killing Muslim youth, burning mosques.
Imams were shot.
Muslim women and children were loaded onto trucks and sent to makeshift camps.
The country that shut its eyes tightest to its Muslim integration problem was now addressing it in the most ruthless way possible.
They were eliminating it.
In Denmark and Norway, where large populations of Muslims continued to riot in the cities, the police and military were jailing hundreds, who were then deported without legal recourse.
City governments enforced an around-the-clock curfew in Muslim neighborhoods, except for two hours in the morning for food shopping.
The worst fighting was in France, which was twelve percent Muslim.
Although civil unrest in Paris had been contained, France extended its state of emergency for ninety days.
The cities of Lyon and
Lille
were not under control.
The European Parliament moved temporarily from Strasbourg and Brussels to Zurich.
Germany threatened to invade the Islamic Republic of Holland if they send their newly formed Islamic army into Belgium.
It appeared, however, Belgium was likely to fall to the Islamists without any Dutch assistance.
Oil prices rose to $110 per barrel, the highest since the summer of 2008.
#
To get me to stop “moping around the house,” Mother sent me to the Santa Monica Farmers’ Market, which was held on Wednesday and Saturday mornings at Arizona Boulevard and Third Street.
It was a festive affair where organic farmers drove in from Bakersfield and Oxnard with dozens of different kinds of tomatoes, cantaloupe, and eggplant, strawberries that melted in your mouth, Valencia oranges that tasted of heaven, crisp lettuces with strange names, fresh herbs, and every kind of exotic vegetable you could imagine.
It was my mother’s favorite place in the world.
If I agreed to go with her on a Saturday morning—something I avoided except in cases of extreme guilt, or to wheedle a favor out of her—I was signing on for two or three hours while she discussed soil conditions, growing seasons, and recipes with the farmers, ran into friends, and cooed over baby carriages.
I knew it was a sacrifice for her to assign me the errand.
I grabbed her hemp bag and headed out the door.
As I was picking over the peppers—Mother had requested a variety of Serrano, jalapeño, and sweet peppers—I spotted Cynthia’s World Religions teacher sniffing a bunch of cilantro.
I had seen her once before when Cynthia hosted her Islamic club in our backyard.
Fifteen girls had sat in a circle, wearing head scarves, each with a copy of the
Quran
, all eyes on a woman in her mid twenties.
Even with her head covered, I could see how beautiful she was, her large brown eyes rimmed with kohl, her hazelnut skin, tendrils of black hair escaping from her scarf and hanging long down her back.
Her loose clothing fell against her figure as she moved, revealing for a moment her body obscured beneath, and as she listened and answered questions, she smiled with a queenly sweetness.
I could see why the girls were in love with her, why they wanted to become like her.
After her friends left, I grilled Cynthia about her.
“Her name is Sara
Jiluwis
,” Cynthia explained.
“She is from Sudan, but also lived in Kenya and Egypt.”
“She preaches Islam to your club?”
“Not exactly.
We read passages from the
Quran
and she explains, and we discuss stuff.
She tells us about life in Africa.
A guy from her mosque leads the boys.”
“Like Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts.”
“We meet together sometimes.
When we have a guest speaker or go to a museum or something.”
With her headscarf and mesh cart, Sara
Jiluwis
looked very much at home at the Farmer’s Market.
I went up and introduced myself.
“How wonderful to meet you,” she said, smiling broadly.
“Cynthia has told me so much about you.
She is such a delightful young woman.”
I was alarmed that Cynthia had talked to her teacher about her family, about me, implying an intimacy between them I immediately distrusted.
There was a light in Sara’s eyes, a
maieutic
energy—disarmingly sincere—like the forgiving gaze of the Dali Lama.
She obviously cared about Cynthia.
Without knowing why, I asked her if she had time for coffee.
“I would love to,” she said.
“I need to pick up some dates,
then
I am done.”
We agreed to meet in five minutes at the Farmers’ Market entrance on Arizona.
We walked to a Starbucks.
I bought the coffees while Sara got a table for us outside.
I was nervous with no idea what I was doing.
I felt like a spy.
“Cynthia speaks so highly of you,” I said as I pried off the top to my cup, clumsily spilling coffee all over.
I wiped it up, creating an unappetizing pile of soggy napkins.
“I don’t think there’s anything she wouldn’t do for you.”
“Cynthia is very enthusiastic.”
Sara took a slow sip of coffee.
She set her cup down, looked at it for a few moments, then raised her eyes to me—those penetrating, dark brown, kohl-rimmed eyes.
“You asked me to coffee because you are concerned about Cynthia’s interest in Islam.
Am I right?”
Her eyes stung like a truth serum.
“I’m a little curious,” I replied, trying for nonchalance.
“It is partly her age.
Cynthia is very open and impressionable.
I tell my students every religion slowly reveals itself as you study its truth, its beauty, and that studying the religion of their parents honors them.
I tell them the reason for studying other religions is we learn all religions seek the same truth, the same beauty.”
“And Islam?”
“Yes, of course Islam, one of the world’s four great religions.
Islam is a religion of peace and charity and justice.”
“And tolerance?” I asked.
Jiluwis
smiled but didn’t respond.
“In your club meetings, do you discuss what’s happening in Europe?
Do you talk about jihad?”
She paused,
then
said, “Are you asking me if I am recruiting terrorists?”
“No, of course not,” I said.
“I meant no offense.
It’s just...my sister is completely—” I bit my lip, but continued “—obsessed with Islam.
It’s a little weird.”
“The class is a requirement to pass the eighth grade.
I could ask Cynthia to leave the Islamic club.”
She smiled, waiting for me to backpedal.
“I just wondered—” I broke off, flummoxed and embarrassed.
“How can so much hatred—so much murder—come out of a religion you say preaches charity and justice?”
“I could ask the same question about the Christian Crusades, or the Inquisition, or bombing abortion clinics.”
“Neither the Crusades nor the Inquisition had anything to do with Christ’s teachings.
No major Christian denomination advocates violence.
Can you say the same about Islam?
Don’t Muslims consider jihad to be the sixth pillar of Islam?”
“There are many parts of the Bible that most Christians do not take literally or are clearly part of an ancient culture.
The same is true for Islam.
The fundamentalist
Salafi
sect that was developed in Saudi Arabia in the eighteenth century interprets the
Quran
and the traditions or
hadith
of Islam in a very literal way, without regard to historical context.”
“What is
hadith
?” I ask.
“
Hadiths
are a collection of the Prophet’s deeds and sayings.
They are second only to the
Quran
as an authority of Islamic knowledge.
Salafis
seek to revive the early practice of Islam, which they believe is simpler and purer.
They think any innovation since then is evil.
It is very strict, very puritanical.
Unfortunately,
Salafism
is used by terrorists to validate their actions, and it’s growing very rapidly.
But my guess is you do not want to discuss theology with me.
Your sister said your boyfriend is held at
Guantánamo
Bay.
You suspect he is a
jihadist
?”
“No, of course not.
He’ll be cleared soon.”
“I’m sure he will.
It is curious why a middle class secular youth might join a terrorist cell.”
“Peter didn’t join a terrorist cell,” I nearly shout.
“Of course not.
But you want to know why young people are attracted to Islam.
You want to know why your sister is attracted to Islam.”
I felt so ashamed, yet desperate.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’ll give you my theory.
It’s not just that young Muslims feel alienated and lack opportunities.
I think young people have an instinct to seek truth.
They always have.
Truth is not easily found in Western consumer culture.
Young people crave focus and a path.
They see themselves and the world and want to do something important.
In jihad they feel a sense of adventure, of belonging to part of a big movement, part of history.
Their desires are answered and reinforced through the internet, global media, and social bonds.
Fundamentalism is a form of intoxication, full of clichés, a world that is black and white.
They feel empowered.
You know that old recruiting slogan for the U.S. Army?”
“‘There’s strong, and then there’s army strong?’”
“That’s the one.
You can imagine how many millions the military paid some Madison Avenue advertising company to think up that one.
Why?
Because it works.”
“You make it sound like jihad is fueled by propaganda.”
“The power of the
jihadist
movement lies in the truth that the world has become too materialistic.
Like the Protestant Reformation, the culture is responding to a truth.”
I suddenly felt enervated, as if this woman had sucked out my energy with her calmness and pat explanations.
“Do you believe in jihad?” I asked.
“I believe in jihad as the personal struggle to become a better Muslim.
I believe the word of God will spread throughout the world as God sees fit.”
“Don’t you feel responsible in some way?
Don’t you feel Muslims should do something about extremists who murder in the name of Islam?”
“It pains me deeply to see my faith used as a vehicle for terrorism.”
“Then why don’t you do something about it?”
She smiled.
“Don’t you feel like you should do something about global warming?”
“Of course I do.”
“Have you done anything?”
As she got up from the table and collected her groceries, Sara
Jiluwis
pressed my fingers with her soft scented palm, her smile warm and genuine.
“Come talk to me again,” she said.
“I enjoyed our conversation.”
Her answers were perfect.
She was perfect.
There was no particular reason to distrust her.
But I did.
I felt enraged as if she were trying to steal my sister’s soul.
I was afraid of her.