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Dr. Moustafa Mould, Ex-Jew, USA (part 4 of 5)
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Description: After a spiritual journey of almost 40 years, a Boston Jewish linguist finds Islam in Africa. Part 3.
By Dr. Moustafa Mould
Published on 13 Dec 2010 - Last modified on 14 Feb 2011
Viewed: 3574 (daily average: 7) - Rating: 5 out of 5 - Rated by: 1
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Category: Articles
> Stories of New Muslims
> Men
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Then I fell in love! She was Somali, intelligent,
witty, charming, and a young widow with two handsome young sons. Her English
was very limited and my Somali was non-existent, but we could communicate quite
easily in Swahili. We discussed marriage, but there were a few practical
problems.
I knew I could not stay much longer at the University of
Nairobi; they were trying to Africanize it as quickly as possible, and to them
I was just another white foreigner. Before I got much older I needed a new job,
probably a new career, maybe with the State Department or a non-profit agency.
From her point of view the obstacle was simply that I was a not a Muslim. I
had mistakenly thought that any Muslim could marry one of the People of the
Book; she set me straight on that very quickly; men yes, women, no!
She was telling me about Islam, and I’d learned some
things from my colleagues and others. I already believed in the One God who
was the Creator of the universe and all that is in it. I already believed in
the Islamic concepts of tawhid and shirk and I knew the fallacy
of believing in anything like astrology or palmistry. I’d long believed that
Jesus was one of the prophets and I believed that Muhammad, may God praise him,
was a prophet and a messenger, and it had long ceased to be relevant to me that
Muhammad was not a Jewish prophet.
I’d stopped eating pork; I didn’t gamble, I rarely drank
anything besides a glass of wine with an occasional gourmet dinner. I was,
since my Peace Corps days, already more comfortable with African and Islamic
notions of modesty, child rearing, etc., than with the “sexual revolution”,
and the me-ism and the phenomena of disintegrating families that were on the
rise in the ‘70s and ‘80s in America. There didn’t seem to be much to prevent
me from becoming a Muslim. I was so close, so what in 1983, was the problem?
In fact there were two. First, there was the matter of
my identity and my heritage. I imagine that it is not so traumatic for a
Christian to change from one religion to another. If a German Catholic became a
Lutheran, or even a Jew or Muslim, he remains a German. I certainly felt like
an American first and a Jew second – I could never consider myself Russian. But
in America, nation of immigrants, even the most acculturated attach some
importance to their families’ national or ethnic origins. Even though I had no
desire to deal with Jews as Jews or as a community, I was reluctant to lose
that identity.
The second obstacle was my family. Though not orthodox,
most were strongly traditional, all pro-Israel, some were avid Zionists; many
considered Arabs as enemies, and I expected they would also consider Muslims as
enemies. I feared they would disown me as crazy or even traitorous. Worst of
all, because I still loved them, they would be hurt.
First things first: I left
that problem up in the air, and when my contract expired I did not renew it but
returned to the States hoping to find another job, preferably back in East Africa.
It was terribly hard. I had no home, no income, not even an interview suit. I
invested in a wool suit, three ties and a winter coat – it was my first winter
in twenty years – got books on how to write a resume and a SF171, and stayed
with a friend in Washington, trying all the government agencies, consulting
firms and PVOs that had anything to do with Africa, until my money ran out. I
had to return to Boston and stay with my sister, where I had food and shelter,
but it was far from where the jobs might be. In addition, I was going through
a severe case of culture shock. So there I was: broke, in the winter, in
culture shock on top of a mid-life crisis, in love – and on anti-depressants.
I can joke now, but the pain and fear were unbearable
then. For the first time in my adult life I began to pray. I prayed often and
hard. I vowed that, if I could get back to Africa and marry my beloved, I
would declare my submission to Allah and become a Muslim.
I got a really awful temporary job in a warehouse that
at least paid for food, bus fares and dry cleaning, then a better, but
embarrassing one as a receptionist in the counseling office at a local college.
I could see that the four yuppie psychologists figured me for some 42-year-old
loser, and I pretty much agreed with them. Out of embarrassment I didn’t tell
anything about myself, but when the phone wasn’t ringing off the hook with
students panicking over mid-terms, I was reading job notices and typing
applications letters. I found that a government agency was hiring ESL teachers
for Egypt - close enough - and I applied immediately. A week later another
agency I’d applied to six months earlier invited me to D.C. for interviews.
As soon as I got to Washington I called about the ESL
jobs to see if I could get an interview but the jobs were already filled! Nonetheless,
I asked to meet with them anyways, just in case something came up later. I got
the interview and it was there that I was told, “By the way, there is one
position opening soon, but it’s in Somalia.”
“Somalia!” I nearly shouted, “That’s wonderful!”
“Is it?” she asked incredulously.
“Sure, I’d love to go there. I’m already familiar with
the culture and the religion,” I said aloud, but thinking to myself how it’s
only an hour from Mogadishu to Nairobi, and how maybe I’d get to meet my future
family in-laws. I told her my references, all of whom she knew personally. She
would call them, and as far as she was concerned if I wanted the job I could
probably have it.
I finished up my interviews at the other agency. They
even showed me the cubicle in the windowless office where I would probably be
working, and I returned to Boston, elated. I might even have a choice, praise
God. But what a choice it was: a one year renewable contract in a hot, dusty –
but African –post near the Indian Ocean, or a career civil service job with a
pension plan in a windowless office in northern Virginia.
Two weeks later, she called to offer me the job of
English program director in Mogadishu saying that I would have 48 hours to
think it over. Everyone said it was a no-brainer; I should take the career job
with pension in Washington, otherwise I’d be back at square one in a year or
two. I argued that I was an Africanist, the experience would help me and I’d
make good contacts. I accepted the job and started to get my shots. A couple
of weeks later the other agency sent me a brief note, with no explanation,
informing me I did not get the windowless job.
Alhamdulillah, I could so easily have ended up with
neither, but Allah had guided me to the right decision. I was employed and
probably about to get married. I gave my notice at the college, and on the
last day I typed a letter to the psychologists informing them that I was
leaving to take up a position as a project director at the United States
Embassy in Somalia, signed M. Mould, Ph.D.
Of course I had to stop off in Nairobi for a few days on
my way to Mogadishu where I had a tearful reunion with the Somali sister. I tried
to make some future plans but the problem was that I’d been hired as a bachelor,
which meant no family benefits or housing. Besides this, I had no idea what
Somalia or my job would be like or how long I would be there. I thought I could
visit often, and there was always the phone. As well, she could come to visit
her family, whom she hadn’t seen since childhood.
The job was interesting, a little teaching, but mostly
administration and management, and dealing with embassy officials. Most of my
own students were senior government officials and a few of them became good
friends. Outside of work was a whole different story. The culture and
atmosphere in urban Somalia was more Middle Eastern than African. During my
seven years in Uganda and Kenya I knew the languages and the people were open
and friendly and I never had trouble adjusting or getting around; I’d always
felt completely at home. Mogadishu gave me a culture shock. I didn’t know the
language, no one knew Swahili and educated Somalis knew Italian, not English. All
the signs were in Somali. The worst thing was the communications. Home phones
were overcrowded; the post office was sweltering hot. The only service that was
efficient was the telegraph service. The mail was totally unreliable except
for the diplomatic pouch. It was at times next to impossible to contact
Nairobi.
Don’t get me wrong. I was quite happy there, enjoying
the sights and smells, the Italian and Somali food, my views of the ocean,
which was within walking distance of my house and my office, discovering a new
culture. I was living downtown, in one of the older sections, behind the
Italian embassy, and I was awakened early morning by a beautiful adhan from the
loudspeaker of a nearby mosque. We worked a Muslim schedule: Sunday –
Thursday, 7 – 3. On Fridays I would walk around and often found myself outside
a little mosque behind the American Embassy, and while myrrh and frankincense
drifted from the doorways in the alleys and I would stop and listen to the
sounds of Jumu’ah.
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| Parts of This Article |
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Dr. Moustafa Mould, Ex-Jew, USA (part 1 of 5)
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Dr. Moustafa Mould, Ex-Jew, USA (part 2 of 5)
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Dr. Moustafa Mould, Ex-Jew, USA (part 3 of 5)
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Dr. Moustafa Mould, Ex-Jew, USA (part 4 of 5) |
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Dr. Moustafa Mould, Ex-Jew, USA (part 5 of 5)
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View all parts together
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