The Wrong Kind of Muslim – Introduction

An Untold Story of Persecution & Perseverance

Beginning today, I am launching a new weekly series here on Islam Today: Book Reviews. Each Sunday, I will reflect on a chapter from a book on Islam that I am reading or share a book I have written myself.

This series is inspired by the very first word revealed in the Qur’an: Iqra meaning read. Reading is not passive. It is an act of reflection, resistance, and responsibility. It is how we challenge ignorance and reclaim our shared humanity.

We begin, in modesty, with my own book, The Wrong Kind of Muslim. I began writing this book when I was only 23, and finally published it when I was 30, in 2013. This book is my story—a non-fiction memoir on the persecution of faith minorities in Pakistan, and it’s impact globally. It captures some of my earliest human rights advocacy, before I was a lawyer, before I was a parent, before I was a husband. As I re-read these chapters decades later I’m re-experiencing a window into my own past and processing that experience in real time. The events in this book are real, the people are real, and the struggle I share is real. Sadly, the realities it documents remain just as urgent today as when it was first written.

Today, I am sharing the book’s Introduction. This sets the tone for the entire book.

I invite you to read along with me. To sit with these stories. To question and reflect.

Introduction

“Now renegades are the people with their own philosophies. They change the course of history. Everyday people like you and me.”
— Rage Against The Machine

As we headed home on the school bus the usual taunts began.

“Hey, how come you don’t have that red dot on your forehead, you smelly ‘Moslem’?”

I bit my lip. “That’s Hindus, not Muslims… And I don’t smell.”

“Well, then I bet you’re just a smelly Hindu that won’t admit it.”

I shook my head and tried to ignore him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction that he was insulting both Hindus and Muslims. I was in the fifth grade. Sitting next to me was Michael, a neighbor boy in the first grade. My younger brother Ahmad sat a few rows ahead. Michael could tell I was getting annoyed, but being too young to understand what exactly was wrong, he remained quiet. The bully continued his taunt.

“And why are you always hanging out with that chink kid?”

I ground my teeth and finally raised my voice.

“Shut up, you jerk! He’s in first grade. Leave him alone!”

Getting a rise out of me was exactly what the bully wanted. I had no idea what I was doing.

“Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it, you smelly Hindu retard?”

He stood up too.

Michael was sitting in the aisle seat, and I by the window. I was scared. I didn’t want to fight.

“Come on, Michael, let’s move to the front of the bus, your stop is almost here.”

Ahmad moved over to make room for us. Michael stood up right away and stepped into the aisle. But before I could get up the bully ran towards Michael and pushed him in the back, and pushed hard. Michael went flying forward and hit the ground face first. I rushed to him as fast as I could.

“Are you okay, Michael?!”

Michael was in shock but okay; he was a tough kid. He nodded yes. His face was bruised. He didn’t cry, though his eyes had welled up.

“Will you look at that. The smelly Hindu retard is helping his chink friend.”

The bully walked up to us to make sure I heard him. I turned just in time for him to push me into Michael, knocking both of us down.

The rest was a blur.

Whatever happened next, I couldn’t tell you why it happened. I don’t remember planning it. But certain things I do remember to this day.

I remember lurching at the bully. I remember grabbing him by the throat with one hand and punching him several times as hard as I could with the other. I remember screaming and the squishy crunch of my fist connecting with his jaw. I remember the adrenaline. I remember blood.

The fight ended what seemed like only a few seconds later. And it probably was only a few seconds. The blood frightened me. I never meant to hurt him. The bully was sobbing and shocked that I’d fought back. He was cowering, perhaps expecting another blow.

I looked back to see a stunned Michael—the bus had stopped. Ahmad was silent. The bus was silent. I was stunned too. No one had seen me react like this before. I couldn’t believe what I’d done. I felt horrible; sick to my stomach. This wasn’t who I was. I didn’t know what to do.

In an instant I did the only thing that made sense. I grabbed my bag, grabbed Michael’s bag, and we exited.

Side by side we walked.

Dottie, the bus driver, called out after me but I paid no attention. She’d known me since the first grade, and was always incredibly gracious and kind. I had every reason to trust her. But on that day, I didn’t.

Instead, I walked.

Michael and I walked in silence. I think he turned to me to say something but changed his mind and stayed silent instead. After walking Michael home, I walked home myself, not sure what would happen. Still not sure what I’d just done.

Ahmad stayed on the bus and got home before me.

When I got home, I walked in through the kitchen, turned right down the hall, and then into my room. I threw my bag in the corner and sat on my bed, waiting.

I waited…for what, I didn’t know. But I knew it was coming. And I knew it wouldn’t be good.

And then, as expected, it came.

The phone rang—the bully’s father on the other end.

“QASIM!!” my father called out to me from the den. Now I knew what was coming. My brothers and I got scolded enough for fighting with one another. Fighting another kid, though—I knew I was in a heap of trouble. I was in over my head. I made the dreaded march down the hall, through the living room, and into my father’s den. He motioned for me to stand—not sit—and looked at me dead in the eye, and asked the most direct of questions.

“What happened?”

I didn’t know how to begin, so I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind.

“He called me a smelly Muslim, and a retard.”

My father wasn’t pleased with my answer. “And that makes it okay to hit him?”

I insisted, “But he’d been picking on me for weeks!” I didn’t mean to but I remember breaking down in tears.

“And that makes it okay to hit him??” He raised his voice slightly. A repeated question was a bad sign.

“Well, no, no, I hit him because he pushed us,” I managed to stutter out through blurry eyes.

“Us? And get a hold of yourself.”

Sniffle. I tried to force myself to calm down. “Yes, me and Michael.” Sniffle.

“Michael, the neighbor’s boy?”

“Yes, he called him bad names and pushed him down. He’s just a kid.” Sniffle.

My father paused for a second. “So he made fun of you about your religion and pushed the neighbor’s boy and pushed you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, dismissed.”

I didn’t wait to ask questions, but left right away and closed the door behind me. Once outside, I listened in as my father called the bully’s father back. Moments later I heard, “No worries, no need to apologize, kids will be kids sometimes.”

“You can stop listening in, Qasim, come back inside.”

I sheepishly opened the door and came back in. This time I sat down. At first we were both quiet. I had stopped crying. Finally, I spoke.

“Am I in trouble?”

My father shook his head no.

“Then…?”

My dad took a deep breath. “Listen, Son. I’ll never tell you it is wrong to defend yourself, or your friends. I’m glad you stood up for someone who couldn’t stand up for himself.”

I knew a “but” was coming.

“But you need to learn that sometimes people won’t treat you well. That’s part of life.”

I asked what any ten-year-old kid would ask.

“Why?”

“Because people are afraid of what they don’t understand.”

“Well, why can’t we make them understand?”

“We can, Son, but not with our fists. Never with our fists.”

I paused and shook my head. It didn’t make sense.

“Then how? I told him to stop but he wouldn’t. And he was bullying me for weeks. What was I supposed to do?”

“You try to win his heart.”

“What?”

I pouted. I didn’t like the answer. It sounded made up. Also, I hadn’t much idea of what that meant.

“I don’t understand, Abbu.” (“Abbu” means “dad” in Urdu.)

“You will. Go get your homework done.”

“But—”

“Go now before I change my mind.”

I silently got up, still shaking my head, and left.

Between the fight, the phone call from the bully’s dad, and the not-getting-in-trouble afterwards, I did not understand much of what happened that day. But two things I understood clearly.

One, my dad was wrong. Dead wrong. He was wrong because he didn’t know how hard I tried to ignore the bully. How long I waited to fight back. He didn’t understand what I meant. I didn’t understand what he meant. I didn’t understand it that day; not the next day, or even several years later.

Two, I was bullied. And as I reflect, this is my first recollection of being bullied because of my faith. But it certainly wouldn’t be my last. I highly doubt the bully knew a thing about Islam, or about his own faith, whatever it was. But he knew one thing—I was different. And that was enough for him to berate and belittle. Remarkably, every time I’ve ever been discriminated against because of my faith, the “bullies” knew little of my faith, and quite often little of their own. Turns out, ignorance transcends age, gender, religion, and culture.

Despite that day’s confusion, it (and other experiences like it) initiated a chain reaction of changes in my life. It helped develop the foundation for changes I would never otherwise have envisioned. Changes I could not possibly have understood that day. Over the years, I’d experience similar incidences on account of being the only Ahmadi Muslim in the group. (We’ll get to what exactly an Ahmadi Muslim is later.) Fortunately, I had someone come to my side when I needed them. But for countless individuals around the world and in our own backyards—nobody ever shows up to help. Instead, the “different” person is pummeled, mentally or physically, into a deeper hole of confusion, anger, and distrust.

But it does not have to be this way.

When we remain united in the face of forces that wish to divide us, the result elevates us to the highest levels of humanity possible. The coming days and months after 9/11 afforded Americans one such opportunity. They say it is in times of trial that a person discovers his true friends. In the days, weeks, and months after 9/11, I experienced such a joy, and such a pain. Certain people I assumed were friends now turned a cold shoulder. Rather than dwell on the seeming negative, however, I cannot help but embrace the joy of those who embraced me as family.

As with many Americans and people worldwide, the 9/11 tragedy ripped a hole in my heart. My nation was hijacked. My faith was hijacked. My brother Tayyib was an active duty U.S. Marine. Would he now go to war? Would he die?

“If I have to go fight for my country and die,” he told me when he joined the Marines in 1997, “you’re not allowed to be upset. You should be proud that your brother died serving his nation.”

I nodded that I understood, but I’m not sure I did. I was already upset at the mere thought of it.

But Tayyib was honest. And when he repeated this to me after 9/11, I knew he was serious. Meanwhile, the 9/11 tragedy continued to burn at my soul. But something beautiful happened. Friends reached out as if they were family. I’ll never forget the love, compassion, and friendship the Teague and Vandenend family showed me during those trying times post-9/11. My high school coach, Andy Preuss, is another hero of mine for his amazing friendship. It is not something I can articulate in words. They were and are Christian. I was and am Muslim. But together we forged a lasting friendship. They won my heart.

We’ll talk about many of these experiences throughout this book—the good and the bad. Because here’s the hard reality: the events in this book are not about some faraway land in some oppressed nation “over there.” No, they are about our fellow human beings. Our fellow men and women who shed the same blood we shed, love their children how we love our children, and dream of the same aspirations about which we dream.

This is not a story of them. This is the story of us.

And in the global village we call Earth, what happens “over there” affects us “over here,” and vice versa. September 11, 2001, is one such example. March 19, 2003, is another. Only those ignorant to the twenty-first century miss this reality. For those of us who get it—which is hopefully more people than not—our only hope at survival is to work together against the universal problem that is oppression of conscience.

Every event related in this book is real.

The people are real, the incidents are real, and yes, even the suffering is real. Those mentioned individuals who are now deceased are mentioned by their real names. They must never be forgotten. Several of those living have been given alternative names for security purposes.

Yes, what begins as innocent ten-year-old kids mocking their peers because of their faith grows into forty-year-old clerics, presidents, and dictators passing edicts of death on others because of their faith. It may occur at different speeds but it all begins with the same ignorance and incivility.

The Wrong Kind of Muslim is a story. It is my story. It is one story.

This particular story takes place in America, Pakistan, Canada, the United Kingdom, India, and Thailand. It stems from my birth country—Pakistan—a nation as rich and diverse as any, and traverses across the oceans to the United States. It stands to reason that I provide at least some context into Pakistan.

This nation of 190 million is largely comprised of Sunni Muslims. It is also home to tens of millions of minorities, including Shia Muslims, Ahmadi Muslims, Christians, Hindus, Parsis, Ba’hais, Jews, Buddhists, atheists; the list continues. If you were to ask the tens of millions of members of a religious minority in Pakistan, you would likely uncover tens of millions of different stories, each more passionate than the next, and each more painful than the last. While no one book can truly reach the depths of the persecution horrors that exist in present-day Pakistan, this book does its best to provide a snapshot.

What exactly is an Ahmadi Muslim?

Simple. Ahmadi Muslims are Muslims who believe in the Messiah, Mirza Ghulam Ahmad of Qadian. I am an Ahmadi Muslim. We believe Ahmad is that Messiah that both Jesus and Muhammad foretold. I offer this for one purpose only—context into why Ahmadi Muslims are so vehemently persecuted. It is for this belief in the Messiah, Ahmad—and this belief alone—that Ahmadi Muslims suffer untold persecution in Pakistan.

Over the past forty years, over three hundred Ahmadi Muslims have been murdered—over 125 in just the past three years alone. The government and vigilantes have destroyed Ahmadi Muslim mosques, expelled their students, denied them employment, refused them military service, revoked their right to vote, prevented them from performing the Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca (a pillar of Islam), destroyed their tombstones, and even exhumed deceased Ahmadi Muslims from their graves—only because of their faith.

And while this story, my story, is primarily focused on the persecution of Ahmadi Muslims in Pakistan, it is certainly not exclusive to Ahmadi Muslims. This is because, sadly, Ahmadi Muslims were just the beginning.

As I write this, an eleven-year-old Christian girl named Rimsha runs for her life from the Taliban for her alleged blasphemy. Meanwhile, the mullah (cleric) who falsely accuses her goes unpunished. A fourteen-year-old girl named Malala recovers from brain surgery after a Taliban attack left her for dead. Her crime? Malala allegedly violated Islamic principles—she is an education advocate. The body of a missing eleven-year-old Christian boy in Faisalabad is uncovered—he was murdered, lips and nose sliced, and stomach removed. Hundreds of Christians flee Islamabad, and hundreds more Hindus flee Pakistan. Every day, another Hindu woman is raped, “converted” to Islam, and forcibly married. On Eid ul Fitr 2012, twenty Shia Muslims were forcibly removed from their bus and made to recite a prayer that allegedly only Sunni Muslims would know. Those who recited the prayer were spared. The Shias who did not, or could not, were executed point blank. As far as atheists in Pakistan are concerned, I’ve been advised they don’t exist.

These are our fellow human beings.

In compiling these stories, I have spent several years, traveled tens of thousands of miles and dollars, and researched through countless hours—meeting with individuals in the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, India, Thailand, and of course, Pakistan. I visited blood-splattered mosques, touched scars left by gunfire, grenades, and shrapnel, and prayed for the departed at their final resting places. I held a mother’s hand as she wept for her son and husband. I trembled as a son related the intimate account of his father’s cold-blooded execution before his eyes. I sat speechless as members of my family related what they were certain were their final Earthly moments.

But above all, I sat in awe of the resilience that is the human spirit. The passion that strives us to drive forward and march on. The fortitude that allows us to rise above the viciousness around us, and look to a new day, a new opportunity, a new doorway.

This is not just a story of what has gone wrong in Pakistan; it is also a story of what is going right in the world. A revolution to free the millions, or rather, the billions around the world who live under the veil of oppression of conscience. A new revolution of conscience is emerging. It is growing, and it is spreading. And by reading this story and listening to the cries of the silenced, you help further this revolution.

Thus, I thank you for reading this book, as you have made that conscious and courageous decision to make a positive world change. This journey is not easy, nor is the destination near. But this is the right side of history. The side that champions universal religious freedom for all people of all faiths, and for all people of no faith. For this is the single way forward to peace on Earth. We will reach that destination together.

This book is but a step in a journey already a million miles long, with many more to go—but hopefully not too many more. Whatever your philosophy on life, whatever your world view, to whichever God you pray—or do not pray—I thank you all the same from the bottom of my heart for taking this step with me,

Stay tuned next Sunday for Chapter 1: Out of the Darkness.