abu wilyam ~ أبو وليام

This is a story about my visit this morning to my friend Abu ‘Imad who owns a shop in Souq al-Jum’a. It is experiences like this that remind me why I love speaking Arabic and why I love living in Syria.

I’ve known Abu ‘Imad for years now, from the time I used to live just up the street from his shop when I first lived here. I know him well, through all the many times he has sat me down in at his shop and served me some tea to enjoy while we chat.

I like Abu ‘Imad a lot, but sometimes I avoid walking past his shop: I’m in a rush, and I don’t want to feel obligated to stop and say hello – while it’s great to know your neighbors, anonymity can also be a glorious thing, I have learned. What’s more, I sometimes feel like I have to hide parts of myself from Abu ‘Imad: he is a devout Muslim, married to a Pakistani-American devout Muslim, and I don’t talk to him about all the girls I hang out with or the haram things I have done and do. He is a tolerant person and would not condemn me, but they are topics that wouldn’t leave us much to talk about.

I try to stop by the shop at least every week or two, to say hi and see what is new. The shop is in the corner of a modern apartment building in the midst of this ancient and active souq. In front of the shop is a separate structure, a small and ramshackle butchery. Sitting at the shop, you can see across the street (now adorned with colorful banners commemorating the prophet Muhammad’s birthday) to an ancient tomb with a beautiful red dome that the Awqaf Ministry has rented out to a shopkeeper selling kitchen staples: pasta, eggs, spices. No one I’ve asked can tell me who is buried there.

Before last year Abu ‘Imad sold yogurts, cheeses and milk but he has now switched to costume jewelry, stick-on tattoos and small gypsum plaques of Quranic verses. Business is slow these days, especially when the weather is cold and in the morning before schools let out. We sit and sip tea; Abu ‘Imad shouts out greetings to passers by that he knows: “Welcome!” “Come on in!”

I have come to expect that Abu ‘Imad always has a story to tell me, and today was no exception. These are not your everyday stories either: despite his relative youth (in his 30s), Abu ‘Imad is a master storyteller, with dramatic shifts in tone of voice, questions to keep the listener involved (“… are you grasping what I’m telling you here?” or “… and what happened next, ya hazrak – can you guess?”), and all kinds of expressions – religious and otherwise – that give his stories such life and power, even if the subject would otherwise be unremarkable. Since I last saw him, he managed to get some foreign Shari’a students out of trouble with the police when they crashed a car they had rented, his partner argued with him and took their costume jewelry and started his own shop on the other side of the city, and a British friend of his wife, studying Islam here, was picked up by the authorities two days ago and until now they don’t know what’s the reason, where she is, and what might become of her. I was relieved that there haven’t been further arguments with his wife – this has been the topic of stories a few times in the past.

“I’ve had a big victory this week, ya Richard,” he told me – and what a brilliant start to a story! I’m intrigued, and, filling my role as active listener, ask “A victory about what? A victory over whom?” This turns out to be the latest in the saga of Abu ‘Imad’s rivalry with the butcher who occupies the dodgy butchery directly in front of the shop. (I can remember Abu ‘Imad joking with me in 2005, during the Hariri frenzy, “Tell your friend Bush about that butcher shop so that when he comes to bomb Syria he can use his fancy bombs to wipe it from the face of the earth!”) This time, it is something about a high court deciding in his favor about the contract that stipulates their (his and the butcher’s) use of that piece of land. This uncovered another story, from years back apparently, that Abu ‘Imad was certain that he’d told me before but he hadn’t. This one started with a scene of drama: while selling some yogurt and milk one evening, up the road walked about 100 policemen, secret police, firemen, fancy-suited officials – “half the whole government” – all looking straight at him and “foaming at the mouth.” His customers ran off and the men stormed into the shop, asking him where is his telephone and where are his electrical outlets. He had no phone, but they started to inspect his outlets, until they were rude and he yelled at them all to get out or explain what was going on. It turns out that there had been a fire at the nearby telephone transmission center (old fuses) that was traced to crossed wires at his shop. The whole center was destroyed, eliminating some 1200 phone lines. It turns out the butcher (“may God not grant him health”) was the one whose wires had caused the fire, but he managed to put the blame on Abu ‘Imad, either intentionally or by registering the phone numbers incorrectly.

The train of this story was interrupted by the passing by of a friend of Abu ‘Imad, who he invited over to have some tea. We made introductions and greetings and then they made small talk. “Are you working these days?” asked Abu ‘Imad. “I’m just going now to work.” “Good, and what are you doing?” “They have me working as an electrician.” “And how much are you getting per day?” “200 lira.” “Nice, 200 lira is a decent amount.” (200 lira is just over $4.) “Have you quit smoking yet?” said Abu ‘Imad. “No, not yet,” replied the friend, “It’s hard, you know. What about you, have you quit?” The friend asked this despite the fact that Abu ‘Imad’s lit cigarette was in his hand. “What, you can’t see me? No, quitting needs patience.” “Yes, it needs patience.” Pause. “Want to have a cigarette?” asked Abu ‘Imad. “If there is one, yes, may God preserve you.”

With a pack of cigarettes at 50 lira, you can see how they would be beyond the friend’s means. The friend was what you would call a simple man, very kind and eager to please. Abu ‘Imad gave him one of the cards with his phone number he had had made for himself a few weeks ago, written in English advertising his services as a tourist guide. (I had been a consultant on making sure the English was correct.) The friend struggled to read Abu ‘Imad’s full name from the card, getting two out of the three names correct. Abu ‘Imad complemented him on his reading and asked, “What year did you get to in school?” “I made it to the 9th but didn’t pass.” “Ok, not bad. Did something happen at that time?” “No, I just didn’t pass. God decided it for me, He is All-knowing, He has planned it for us, and I didn’t pass.” “Yes, God is All-knowing.”

This served as an opportunity to make a transition in the conversation, and the friend offered a story: “I heard about this man in Africa, both of whose parents were Christian, who became a Muslim when his son, who was just one and a half years old, memorized the Holy Quran.” “Really?” “Yes, he memorized the whole thing.” “How did he do that?” “I don’t know, but he did. He could even tell you the verse number and the page number. So right away, his mother and father became Muslims.” “Wow. You don’t know where in Africa, do you?” “No, just in Africa.” “Ma sha Allah – May God’s will be done!” “Yes, may God’s will be done. You know it says in in the Quran,” – and here he quoted a verse that says that Muslims will enter paradise and non-Muslims will enter hellfire.

“What?” shouted Abu ‘Imad with a smile on his face, “May God forgive you!” (You say this phrase when you want to disagree with something someone has said.) “And what about our Christian brother here? Is he headed to hellfire?”

I loved Abu ‘Imad at this moment. If he hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t have minded much, since I’m used to going along with conversations in which I don’t agree with everything. At times I’m eager to discuss such issues seriously, but at other times (such as when with a person I barely know) it’s easiest just to let things pass.

The friend had assumed I was a Muslim of course. Not only is it is rare to see Christians in that neighborhood, but my fair complexion, when not plausibly Arab as it sometimes is, is unremarkable in an area filled with foreign Muslims from around the world studying Shari’a and Quran. Furthermore, throughout this whole conversation the few words I’d spoken had been in Arabic.

“Really?” he said, “He’s a Christian? You’re a Christian?” Yes, we replied. “Well, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean that – well, you know …” He was obviously very embarrassed and flustered, and he immediately apologized to me, yet Abu ‘Imad was eager to give him a good-natured hard time about it. The friend tried to change what he had said, saying something about Ahl al-Kitab and how it might possible for them to go to paradise. “Now wait a minute,” said Abu ‘Imad, “don’t try that, you just said that non-Muslims would go to hellfire, and now you’re changing what you said. I don’t like my friends to talk like this and then like that – I like them to talk direct! What do you mean?”

“Don’t take offence, brother, but what can I say, that’s what the verse from the Quran says, what can I do about it?” “So that means our brother Richard here is going to hellfire –“ “His name is Richard?” “—and it also means my grandmother is going to hellfire too, huh?” “Your grandmother?” “Yes, my grandmother was a Christian.”

I had known about this but forgotten: Abu ‘Imad’s grandparents are from the Balkans, his grandfather a Muslim and his grandmother a Christian. According to Abu ‘Imad, when a Muslim man marries a Christian woman, it is her choice to convert or not, and his grandmother did not.

Abu ‘Imad countered the friend’s assertion with other support from the Quran and the Hadith: that Christians and Jews will also enter paradise if they follow their prophets (who are also prophets within Islam). “How,” he asked, “can we expect a good Christian to be kept out of paradise while you have so many Muslims here on the street stealing and lying?” He then told some stories about his grandmother – that she was always true to her religion and also respected her husband’s and children’s religion. She would even have alcohol and pork in the house, for example, but she wouldn’t allow her children to have any, since they were Muslims. He told about her funeral with a crowd the size of which “a priest could only dream about” – Muslims and Christians all crowded in there on top of one another to remember this beloved woman. “And you’re telling me she hasn’t gone to paradise!”

What hasn’t come across in my account of was how this situation was at the same time a real argument about religion and yet hilarious and lighthearted – Abu ‘Imad and I were constantly laughing as this all happened. Abu ‘Imad was extremely amused by the poor friend’s embarrassment at having told me that I was on my way to hellfire, and yet at times he also seemed to be really asking: would my grandmother possibly not be in paradise because she wasn’t a Muslim? In addition to the friend’s flusteredness, I was amused by the whole situation because of where I had been earlier that morning: Abu ‘Imad and the friend couldn’t have known just how appropriate this discussion was.

I had just been at my friend Kate’s house, where we were reading and memorizing Quran together. No doubt an unusual activity for two kafirun – some other kafir friends wonder why we would do such a thing, and some Muslim friends would certainly disapprove (if we told them), fearing that we would not treat the holy book with proper respect. By their standards we probably aren’t respecting it properly, but I think our motives are sound: learning Arabic (the Quran is, after all, the most perfect Arabic around), practicing our recitation, and learning more about Islam. We both also happen to have a penchant for memorizing things.

Kate and I wondered, as we said goodbye, how this activity would stack up for us on the Day of Judgment if it turns out that Islam really is the way. Would we get plus points for knowing the fatiha and a few other suras, or would we get minus points for not doing wudu’ properly before touching the Quran and, what’s worse, for rejecting the true path even after being exposed to it?

And here I was, just half an hour later, discussing with a friend and a stranger where I, as a Christian, would be headed in the afterlife. The friend acknowledged that maybe non-Muslims could go to paradise, or maybe that the interpretation of the verse is that those non-Muslims who go to paradise become Muslims by the time they get there, even if they were non-Muslims during their lives. And in the end, I made sure to point out (and everyone agreed) that it isn’t for us to decide: “Allahu a’lam (God is the Most-knowing).”

The friend made a comment about Jews all going to hellfire, and Abu ‘Imad, not missing an opportunity to mess with him, said, “Oh, we didn’t tell you: Richard is a Jew.” This nearly gave the poor guy a heart attack: “What? Are you a Jew or a Christian?” At this point Abu ‘Imad was laughing so hard he was crying – the simple seriousness of the man was so evident, he really worried that he’d stuck his foot in his mouth a second time. We cleared things up, laughing all the while, and the friend took his leave and went his way.

As he laughed, Abu ‘Imad said how much he likes that man: “He’s a good man, a simple man.” “But seriously,” I asked Abu ‘Imad once the laughter had subsided, “what about the Jews?” Abu ‘Imad explained his position, and how the issue has become mixed up in politics: For those Jews who are Zionists, in Palestine killing people and kicking people off their land, they will certainly end up in hellfire like anyone who does such things to innocents. “But a Jew who is living, going about his own life, following his religion – I have no issue with him, surely he could go to paradise.”

With that episode over, Abu ‘Imad was able to finally finish his story about the butcher, the police, the fire in the telephone center, and the court’s decision – it resulting in a victory for him. He filled up our tea glasses once again. Omar, Abu ‘Imad’s 12 year old son-in-law, came by asking for money to go buy some bread for the house. I like the ever-smiling Omar, born and raised in Baltimore, and he seems to like me. After a few years here his Arabic is perfect but he likes to speak English with me and I’m glad to oblige. Then Hasan, a neighbor who manufactures the gypsum Quran plaques that Abu ‘Imad sells, came by to discuss with Abu ‘Imad in hushed voices the case of the British woman who has disappeared, and what they could do to find out about her situation.

I had to be on my way so I took my leave: “Daime ‘al-shay – thanks for the tea. In sha Allah (God willing) I’ll see you soon.” “You’re welcome. Stop by more often, brother!” urged Abu ‘Imad. “Yes, definitely, in sha Allah,” I replied, and I really meant it.

“To paradise, in sha Allah!” said Abu ‘Imad with a wide smile on his face, eyes full of laughter. “Yes, in sha Allah,” I replied, “Allahu a’lam.”