Ali Eteraz - Native Believer

I was quite surprised when he stood up and said my name. It was flattering to be recognized.

“And how have you been?” he said, adjusting his skullcap over his flowing locks.

“Your Salato guy never came back.”

Mahmoud grinned. He turned to the three men still seated and mouthed Qasim’s name. They tittered knowingly.

Mahmoud pointed to an empty chair. “Sit with us, sit with us,” he said. Despite the calculating, almost premeditated manner in which Marie-Anne and I had brought about this meeting, when Mahmoud gestured for me to join his group I couldn’t help but hum with excitement. He had the avoirdupois of a gatekeeper and I had been let in. I had come a long way since offending Qasim. The officious, vaguely patriarchal authoritativeness exuding from these men distinguished them from the chaos that Ali Ansari and the Gay Commie Muzzies personified.

The three men were Samir, Sajjad, and Saqib. They were all close to forty, with a little gray along the temples, all clean shaven, two of them with platinum wedding bands, and the other a tan line on his finger. They were all American citizens, either by birth or through dual nationality. Samir and Sajjad were from an organization that represented interests of the country of Insanistan. Saqib worked as an engineer for a defense contractor; he didn’t say which.

We chatted casually and drank tea. I felt at ease, not the slightest bit tendentious. I mostly talked to Mahmoud. He had grown up in Cleveland; played baseball at Cal State Fullerton; even struck a home run in the College World Series. The Dodgers had expressed interest in him but that was right after the Oklahoma City bombing. When the first fingers of accusation were pointed at Muslims his life changed directions. “After I saw how eager Americans were to blame Muslims for anything that went wrong, I knew I had to go into public service. To make bridges.” He pointed to his wardrobe. “Of course, first I had to look the part.”

“Bridges are important nowadays,” I said.

“More than ever. I just don’t want this clash of civilizations to take over the world. It’s important for people to see that we, America, are not at war with Islam, but with a certain demonic ideology within Islam, with a perversion of a great religion. America has been good to me — as I suspect it has been to you — and it’s important that we let people around the world know about how great we have it here. Relatively speaking, of course.”

I smiled into my cup, thinking that it was probably a good thing Ali Ansari wasn’t here. He and Mahmoud were very different. Ali Ansari was a passionate man. He believed in the cultivation of his tribe over everything else, even if everything else came crumbling down after. Mahmoud was a sober man, a serious man, a man who believed in certain principles of civilization, culture, and progress, and sought to effectuate them through institutions and governance. Ali Ansari would thrive in anarchy. Mahmoud wouldn’t let things fall apart around him.

“The confrontation between the civilized West versus this demon Islam out there is actually a war, a war of ideas,” he continued. “In this war we represent an ally of the civilized West called moderate Islam. We intercede. Ahl-ul-wast . Arabic for ‘people of the middle.’ We’re like that tea. Not too hot and not too cold.”

“Being Goldilocks isn’t very sexy though,” I said.

“Maybe,” the man named Saqib spoke up. “But she ate the tastiest food, sat in the coziest chair, and slept in the best bed.” He spread his arms to gesture at the Pierre.

The conversation carried on. I limited my participation to listening. It became evident that Saqib, Samir, and Sajjad were with Mahmoud for much the same reason I was — trying to extract some unknown greater benefit. Their flattery came in the form of encouraging him to pontificate about a limitless number of topics and he was eager to oblige. His favorite subject was power and the manner in which people became corrupted by it. His analysis was a mixture of spirituality and political evaluation. “People like Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussain try to dominate others because they are ultimately incapable of attracting attention through their character,” he said in a measured way. “And that is because they are distant from God. If they were closer to God, then they would find God organizing the world in a way that favors them.”

“But Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussain are dead,” I said.

Mahmoud laughed. “Well, isn’t that just the way God works? He grants victory to those He favors.”

“Does that mean God favors us?”

“What else can it mean?”

The gathering broke up a little before sunset. I was about to head back to the room and tell Marie-Anne how I had gotten the ball rolling when Mahmoud came near and put a card in my pocket. He then stood aside and waited for me to pull it out.

I took a look. It showed that he was the Muslim Outreach Coordinator at the State Department.

“Color me impressed,” I said.

“If you’re not busy you should come with me and I can introduce you to some people. It’s just a little mixer. Do you want to go tell your wife that you’ll be late getting back?”

“You know Marie-Anne is here?”

“I know every name that registers,” he said.

I wasn’t certain how he would perceive her presence so I didn’t say anything further. Instead I followed him out and into a cab.

There was still some light outside when we reached the rooftop Sky Room on West 40th Street overlooking Times Square. We headed to a reserved table where there were a series of fine white sofas and white tables with black trays and tea candles. A group of young people waved at us. Most of them were women. They wore tight jeans or slacks paired with leather riding boots or heels. Some were in hijab. The few men were in shirts with knife-sharp creases or outfits that were premeditatively rumpled. Most had cropped beards.

Their current topic of discussion was whether Islamic explorers had come to the New World prior to Columbus. Everyone had little bits of circumstantial evidence — the name of a slave, the story of a settlement, the tale of a general wading into the water — that they believed was sufficient to establish the truth of their assertion. They simply had no smoking gun. No entry in a royal ledger. No pictures. No drawings. Nothing tangible, just conjecture. I let them talk without interruption.

As introductions occurred I learned that none of the people had a specific profession. Some referred to themselves as pundits, others as commentators, others as activists, and yet others as social-outreach alchemists. They considered themselves writers or intellectuals, though they hadn’t yet gotten around to the onerous task of publishing. A few of them were putting together an anthology featuring one another’s commentary. A majority of them were from state universities and junior colleges and bristled at the “elitism” and “privilege” of those who went to private universities or the Ivy League. They were also resentful of the ones that went off into investment banking or engineering or law in pursuit of “making paper.” They believed that life was better spent reducing conflict in the world, reforming the faith of their forefathers, and working for international harmony, all of it done in the name of America.

Mahmoud led me in their midst. “Fend for yourself a moment,” he said. “And if I may advise, just don’t order any booze.”

“Why not? It looks like they have a nice bar.”

He wagged a finger. “There are certain protocols to being a moderate Muslim.”

I nodded and stopped a waiter, ordering bruschetta and sparkling water. Then I sat down near a group of young people and asked them what they did.