Son of Hamas

Epilogue

In July 2008, I sat in a restaurant having dinner with my good friend Avi Issacharoff, a journalist with Haaretz newspaper in Israel. I told him my story of becoming a Christian because I wanted the news to come from Israel, not from the West. It appeared in his newspaper under the headline “Prodigal Son.”

As is the case with many followers of Jesus, my public declaration of faith broke the hearts of my mother and father, brothers, sisters, and friends.

My friend Jamal was one of the few people who stood by my family in their shame and cried with them. Terribly lonely after I left, Jamal met a beautiful young woman, got engaged, and was married two weeks after the Haaretz article appeared.

Attending his wedding, my family couldn’t hold back their tears because Jamal’s wedding reminded them of me, how I had destroyed my future, and how I would never marry and have a Muslim family. Seeing their sadness, even the new bridegroom started to cry. Most of the other people in the wedding cried, too, but I’m sure it was for a different reason.

“Couldn’t you wait to make your announcement until two weeks after I got married?” Jamal asked me in a phone conversation later. “You made the best thing in my life a disaster.”

I felt awful. Thankfully, Jamal remains my best friend.

My father received the news in his prison cell. He woke up to learn that his oldest son had converted to Christianity. From his perspective, I had destroyed my own future and his family’s future. He believes that one day I will be taken to hell before his eyes, and then we will be estranged forever.

He cried like a baby and would not leave his cell.

Prisoners from every faction came to him. “We are all your sons, Abu Mosab,” they told him. “Please calm down.”

He could not confirm the news reports. But a week later, my seventeen-year-old sister, Anhar, who was the only family member allowed to visit him, came to the prison. Immediately, he could see in her eyes that it was all true. And he couldn’t control himself. Other prisoners left their visiting families to come and kiss his head and weep with him. He tried to catch his breath to apologize to them, but he only wept harder. Even the Israeli guards, who respected my father, cried.

I sent him a six-page letter. I told him how important it was for him to discover the real nature of the God he has always loved but never known.

My uncles waited anxiously for my father to disown me. When he refused, they turned their backs on his wife and children. But my father knew that if he disowned me, Hamas terrorists would kill me. And he kept his covering over me, no matter how deeply I had wounded him.

Eight weeks later, the men at Ktzi’ot Prison in the Negev threatened to riot. So Shabas, the Israel Prison Service, asked my father to do what he could to defuse the situation.

One day my mother, who had been in weekly contact since my arrival in America, called me.

“Your father is in the Negev. Some of the prisoners have smuggled in cell phones. Would you like to talk to him?”

I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t think I would get a chance to talk to my dad until he was released from prison.

I called the number. No one answered. I called again.

“Alo!”

His voice. I could barely speak.

“Hi, Father.”

“Hi there.”

“I miss your voice.”

“How are you?”

“I am good. It doesn’t matter how I am. How are you?”

“I am okay. We came here to talk to prisoners and try to calm the situation down.”

He was the same. His chief concern was always for the people. And he always would be the same.

“How is your life in the USA now?”

“My life is great. I am writing a book…”

Every prisoner was given only ten minutes, and my father would never use his position to get special treatment. I wanted to discuss my new life with him, but he didn’t want to talk about it.

“No matter what happened,” he told me, “you are still my son. You are part of me, and nothing will change. You have a different opinion, but you still are my little child.”

I was shocked. This man was unbelievable.

I called again the next day. He was sick at heart, but he was listening.

“I have a secret I need to tell you,” I said. “I want to tell you now, so you don’t hear it from the media.”

I explained that I had worked for the Shin Bet for ten years. That he was still alive today because I had agreed to have him put into prison for his protection. That his name was at the top of Jerusalem’s assassination list—and that he was still in prison because I was no longer there to ensure his safety.

Silence. My dad said nothing.

“I love you,” I said finally. “You will always be my father.”