Fatal Convictions

10

twenty-five years earlier beirut, lebanon

Hassan Ibn Talib, like every assassin, was once a child.

At five years old, he and his siblings had gathered on the living room rug each night for lessons in Islam taught by his mother. She began by placing the Qur’an on the coffee table with great reverence. The book was frail, its pages yellow and worn. When his mother opened it, a mustiness filled the air, transporting the children in time and place to the mighty battles between Muslim warriors and Jewish infidels. To be sure, there were pages of long and confusing teachings and sayings that a young boy did not understand. But there was also lots of action, and nobody could bring the old stories to life better than Hassan’s mother.

She was ordinarily a quiet woman, stern with her children, respectful of her husband in public. But when it came time for the lessons, her demeanor changed, and the almond eyes intensified with the spark of a true believer. Hassan had learned the hard way that horseplay, whispering, and poking at his siblings would earn him the switch.

On some nights, like tonight, his mother would read a few verses from the Qur’an and then launch into a story that Hassan had never heard before. Like all the best stories, this one was about a true hero.

“Our third imam, Imam Hussein, was a man of faith and action. He worshiped Allah and would carry sacks of food to the houses of the poor at night, cheering them up. He would always tell his followers, ‘Be in touch with the needy, for Allah does not love the arrogant.’”

Hassan didn’t understand the word arrogant, but he already liked Imam Hussein. Hassan’s simple view of the world, fostered by his mother’s stories, was black and white. Good guys and bad guys. Muslims and Jews. Imam Hussein would be a good guy. Strong in battle. A slayer of Jews.

“But during the time of Imam Hussein, an evil ruler named Yazid Ibn Muawiya rose to power and made everybody accept his leadership. Everybody except Imam Hussein and a few brave followers, that is. Imam Hussein was the true successor to the Holy Prophet Mohammed, and he would not bow to the leadership of somebody as evil as Yazid.”

Hassan’s little hand shot up in the air. His brother gave him a look of disdain.

“Yes, my son.”

“What does successor mean?”

His mother smiled. “Imam Hussein was the grandson of the Great Prophet Mohammed. He was supposed to take over for Mohammed when Mohammed died.”

“Oh.”

“That’s a stupid question,” Hassan’s brother whispered, drawing an evil eye from their mom.

“So the people of Kufa, who were followers of Imam Hussein, invited him to come to their city and lead them in revolt against Yazid and his army. But on the way to Kufa, Imam Hussein and his family were met by a large army of men. The men surrounded the camp of Imam Hussein and would not allow his people to get food or drinking water. For days, Imam Hussein, his family, and his followers were not allowed to leave their encampment while the army gathered reinforcements and grew. Eventually, there were 30,000 warriors.” Hassan’s mother emphasized the number and then, as the expert storyteller, paused for effect.

“How many did Imam Hussein have?” Hassan asked. This time, he forgot to raise his hand.

“Seventy-two.”

Huh? Even for a young boy, the odds seemed overwhelming.

“For eight days, the blistering hot sun scorched the desert sands as Imam Hussein waited for the people of Karbala, a nearby city, to rally to his support.”

Hassan’s mother lowered her voice. “To their great shame, the people of Karbala never came. And so, after more than a week of no food or water, many of Imam Hussein’s followers became so dry that they could not swallow, their tongues sticking to the roofs of their mouths. That’s when the imam took his six-month-old son in his arms and walked toward Yazid’s army, holding his baby up so the leaders could see that the boy was dying. He asked them to take the baby and give the child water even if they intended to kill Hussein.”

Hassan’s mom held her arms out with the imaginary baby resting in her hands. Hassan scooted forward, holding his breath, his eyes wide.

“One of Yazid’s men shot a poisoned arrow through the neck of the baby, killing the child and pinning his neck to his father’s arm.”

Hassan gasped. A baby killed! And not by Jews or infidels! By other Muslim warriors!

“They demanded that Imam Hussein surrender, but he would not. ‘Death is superior to disgrace, and I am ready to die defending Islam and the Muslims,’ he said. And then the battle began.”

Hassan listened breathlessly as his mother described the conflict-the imam mounting a black stallion and wielding a sarif, cutting down dozens of Yazid’s soldiers. But eventually, the brave man was overwhelmed by his enemies. “The evildoers cut off his head and left his body to rot for three days without burial,” Hassan’s mother reported with great sadness.

Hassan was crestfallen. The good guys seldom lost in his mother’s stories. And when they did, it was never like this. Killed. Left to rot. His baby dead in his arms.

Hassan looked toward his older brother, checking for a reaction. As usual, his brother was stone-faced. Just as he had been the day that Hassan’s mother taught Sura 99, the lesson about the earthquake and the Day of Judgment. Hassan had shivered in fear as she described the tormenting flames of hell. “If your bad works outweigh your good works, you will go to hell,” Hassan’s mother had explained. And Hassan had known immediately that hell would be his lot. His conscience had tormented him for days, and nightmares had haunted his sleep.

But his brother had seemed unfazed. What did he know that Hassan did not?

His mother’s voice brought him back to the story. “But it didn’t matter what Yazid’s men did to Imam Hussein’s body because he was no longer there,” Hassan’s mother explained, her tone reflecting the excitement of a big secret she was about to share. “He was sitting on the shore of a crystal river, surrounded by many women who were feeding him and taking care of him.”

Hassan recognized the description immediately. It was Jannah! Paradise!

His mother closed the Qur’an and looked solemnly from Hassan to his brother. “We call Imam Hussein ‘Sayyid al-Shuhada,’-the Lord of the Martyrs. When you die a martyr-a shahid-you do not feel death. It is more like the minor pain of a mosquito sting. You wake up in Jannah, and Allah smiles at you, placing a crown of virtue on your head.”

Hassan’s mother held two of her fingers and her thumb together now, opening them slightly, as if letting go of a tiny precious thing. “No matter what you have done wrong in this life, you will be forgiven with the first drop of your blood that is spilt. With the second drop, you may redeem seventy family members who would have gone to hell.

“To die a martyr is to never die at all.”*** the present washington, d.c.

Hassan received the text message on Wednesday night. The young wife of a prominent leader in a Norfolk mosque had left the faith. She had been seen in the company of a married American man, a devout Christian. She was making a mockery of her marriage and, more importantly, of Allah.

The Norfolk mosque to which she belonged had been started as part of the Islamic Brotherhood’s Strategic City Initiative, a plan to plant prominent mosques in all of America’s most important cities. Norfolk had made the list because of its strategic military bases as well as its proximity to Washington, D.C. The mosque was one of the few Islamic success stories in the South, exceeding all projections for growth. Its imam, Khalid Mobassar, was a highly respected, charismatic leader, though he pushed reformist ideas that were sometimes detrimental to the faith. Others in the mosque, outspoken defenders of the orthodox faith, served as a counterbalance. Fatih Mahdi was one such man.

But now, Mahdi’s young wife had become an infidel.

The first text message Hassan received was terse and unequivocal: Ja’dah Fatima Mahdi has converted to the Christian faith. She has defiled herself by consorting with an American man, disgraced her family, and dishonored Allah. She must be given only one opportunity to repent and return to the faith. If she refuses, the honor of her family must be restored.

The second text message had a picture attached-a photo of a young Lebanese woman and a middle-aged American man. The second message was shorter than the first: If you attend Beach Bible Church on Saturday night, you will find her there. May Allah guide you.