My Year Inside Radical Islam

Daveed Gartenstein-Ross discusses his climb into the heart of jihad – and his climb out.

Frontpage Interview's guest today is Daveed Gartenstein-Ross, a counterterrorism consultant. He frequently appears as an analyst on ABC, the Fox News Channel, MSNBC, al-Jazeera, and talk radio, and writes for publications that include Reader's Digest, Commentary, The Weekly Standard, and The Wall Street Journal Europe. Gartenstein-Ross's rise in the field has been aided by a very unusual background: born into a Jewish family, Daveed converted to Islam while in college, and his first job after college was with the Al Haramain Islamic Foundation, an international Wahhabi charity that proved to be an al-Qaeda financier. Daveed's new book, My Year Inside Radical Islam, documents his time working at Al Haramain.

Preview Image

FP: Daveed Gartenstein-Ross, welcome to Frontpage Interview.

Gartenstein-Ross: Thanks, Jamie. It's an honor to join you. I actually published my very first article about radical Islam in FPM. Although that was just a little over two years ago, it feels like ages have gone by since then.

FP: Tell us a bit about your youth and how you ended up converting to Islam.

Gartenstein-Ross: I had an idiosyncratic religious upbringing. My parents were New Age hippie Jews with syncretistic beliefs: when I was growing up, artwork of Jesus graced our living room and a small statue of Buddha stood in the backyard. My parents thought that truth and wisdom could be found in all spiritual traditions.

Some of my early debates with Christian friends triggered spiritual questions for me. I struggled most with the "liar, lunatic, or Lord?" argument first advanced by C.S. Lewis in his classic work Mere Christianity but popularized for college age readers by Josh McDowell. The argument was that there were only three possible things Jesus could be: a liar, a lunatic, or the Lord. Since Jesus claimed to be God in the New Testament, you had to either accept his divinity or else believe that Jesus had absolutely nothing to offer -- since he was either lying or deluded about an issue as fundamental as the nature of God. By the time I was a junior in college, I had a couple of brushes with death that made my spiritual questions particularly intense. I started to learn about Islam at that time, through a college friend, al-Husein Madhany. I felt myself attracted to the faith, and it seemed to answer the "liar, lunatic, or Lord?" argument by posing a fourth alternative: Jesus was a prophet with a close relationship with God, but he had never claimed divinity. Rather, his words were distorted over time.

FP: So what was the process of radicalization inside Al Haramain, the radical Islamic charity you worked for? And how did it happen that teachings that you once held as abhorrent eventually struck you as compelling?

Gartenstein-Ross: When I took the job, I assumed that I wouldn't see eye-to-eye with my coworkers on some spiritual matters, but that we could simply agree to disagree. Little did I realize that my ideas would instead fall into line with theirs. There were a number of reasons for this. I felt a great deal of peer pressure to accept radical conclusions. I complied more and more with external manifestations of the faith (growing a beard, eating only with my right hand, rolling my pants legs up above my ankles, refusing to pet a dog or shake hands with women) that were themselves not radical, but coupled with the prevalent teachings inside Al Haramain pushed me in a radical direction. The biggest factor, however, was that over time I became persuaded intellectually by the theological case advanced by my coworkers and the visiting scholars who frequently joined us.

FP: Can you give us some insights into other converts who became radicalized (i.e. Adam Gadahn, John Walker Lindh, etc.)? Are there parallels to your story?

Gartenstein-Ross: There are parallels to both Gadahn and Lindh. We all had fairly unusual religious upbringings and were looking for spiritual answers. Like both of them, one of the key elements in my radicalization was adopting a legalistic interpretation of the faith that became increasingly rigid. Raffi Khatchadourian's excellent New Yorker article on Adam Gadahn outlines his spiritual development. After his conversion, Gadahn joined a small Islamic "discussion group" that was quite legalistic. Zena Zeitoun, a black convert to Islam, told Khatchadourian: "Everything was haram [prohibited by Islamic law] to them in the United States. If they saw a girl walking down the street in a short skirt, that's haram. If they saw you with a beer bottle in your hand, that's haram. If they saw a man and a woman holding each other, that's haram. Everything was haram to them."

A key moment that, for me, was the bridge to accepting a fully legalistic interpretation of Islam was when I stopped listening to music -- something that many conservative Muslims regard as haram. This was not easy: I had loved music ever since I was a kid, and had an enormous CD collection. But after wrestling with the issue, I decided that I would stop listening to music, and even broke in half a favorite mixed tape from college. For Adam Gadahn, the moment that he stopped listening to music came very early in his spiritual development -- and it must have been very difficult for him, as he had been a death metal afficianado, and even a musician of sorts.

John Walker Lindh's fascinating Usenet postings (as doodoo@hooked.net) also reveal him becoming legalistic, as well as increasingly agitated by theological deviance. In July 1996, he asks in alt.religion.islam if musical instruments are actually haram. In May of the following year, he explodes at a Five Percenter (a member of an offshoot of the Nation of Islam that teaches that the black man is God) who claimed that the rapper Nas was a god: "Is Nas indeed a 'god'? If this is so, then why is he susceptable [sic] to sin and wrongdoing? Why does he smoke blunts, drink moet, fornicate, and make dukey music? Why is it if he is a 'god' that one day he will die? That's a rather pathetic 'god' if you ask me." By July 1997, Lindh was offering to sell his entire music collection.

FP: What are your thoughts about how radical leadership can drastically alter the dynamics in a Muslim community? Take, for example, the case of the community in Ashland, Oregon.

Gartenstein-Ross: Radical leadership can have a tremendous impact on the dynamics of the community. This happened in Ashland when the local group developed a relationship with the Al Haramain Islamic Foundation, and was dependent on Saudi money. A radical message was reflected in the literature that we distributed, and was amplified by the visiting scholars who would give sermons and teach classes. Members of Ashland's Muslim community who were there before the group became affiliated with Al Haramain tell me that local practices shifted in a markedly conservative direction after that connection was made.

Incidentally, there is still a Muslim community in Ashland. My understanding, based on discussions with local Muslims whom I trust, is that radical elements are no longer influential there.

FP: Share with us your climb out of radicalism and conversion to Christianity.

Gartenstein-Ross: If there's one thing that working for a Wahhabi charity can do for you, it is make you step back and rethink your religious views. In the summer of 2000, after my first year of law school, I found that I missed the tolerant, idealized version of Islam that I once practiced. But by this time my views on faith had shifted: I no longer saw the purpose of religion as forging a relationship with God that felt comfortable, but instead believed that I needed to truly understand the relationship that God wanted with me. I began that summer studying the Qur'an, the ahadith (Muhammad's recorded sayings and doings), and trying to revisit whether the moderate version of the faith that I once knew was indeed viable. Midway through the summer, during a stroll through Washington Square Park, I was struck by the realization that perhaps I hadn't found the truth in Islam. When the faith seemed to answer my spiritual questions, it was because those were the answers I had been looking for. It was then that I began to examine the arguments for Christianity with a far more open mind. I became a Christian before the end of the year.

FP: Do you have a story or two for us about how other people who became radicalized as Muslims have had to reconstruct their faith?

Gartenstein-Ross: Yes, there are a lot of people who have been radicalized who end up reconstructing their faith. Some leave Islam for another religion, as I did. Others reconstruct their faith and remain Muslim, but with a transformed practice. My college friend al-Husein Madhany drifted toward radical Islam at the same time I did. Today he remains a devout Muslim, but his practice of Islam is quite different. He again has a moderate practice, and I'm happy to say, is again the same friend who once meant so much to me. There's another Muslim with whom I discussed my book within the past few months who said that my story resonated with her: that she too at one point held radical views, but was able to reconstruct her faith and emerge with a moderate practice. These kind of discussions help give me hope.

FP: So what is the best way we can fight this terror war in an ideological sense? What is the most effective way we can help those Muslims who seek to fight the fanaticism within their religion?

Gartenstein-Ross: This is a critical question, one where I don't think the answer is obvious. In fact, I think the answer is both sufficiently non-obvious and also sufficiently important that I may devote my next book to exploring it.

Rather than attempt to prescribe at this point the best way to help Muslims fight fanaticism within their religion, I'll address the first part of your question: how do we fight the terror war in an ideological sense? There is a critical first step that most policymakers, analysts, and journalists haven't taken: understanding the importance of ideology to this conflict, and really seeking to understand the ideology of radical Islam. As the people charged with making decisions come to better understand this ideology, they will be able to adopt more informed policies. But almost five and a half years after 9/11, I'm disappointed that many critical decision-makers haven't developed even a basic understanding. The fact that important counterterrorism officials don't even know which groups are Sunni and Shia is indicative of the fact that many people charged with defending our national security are in fact committing professional malpractice.

FP: Daveed Gartenstein-Ross, thank you for joining Frontpage Interview.

Gartenstein-Ross: It has been a pleasure to join you, Jamie.

To read the Dinesh D'Souza-Jamie Glazov debate, click here.

When Faith Goes Too Far
Author: Daveed Gartenstein-Ross
Dated: 01/28/2007

http://www.islamdaily.net/EN/Contents.aspx?AID=5281

Seduced by radical Islam, I became everything I once despised.

Seduced by Radical Islam

Before I was an FBI informant, an apostate and a blasphemer, I was a devout believer in radical Islam. That meant I had to remember a lot of rules. I could never pet a dog or shake hands with a woman. I could eat only with my right hand, and before prayer, I had to roll my pant legs above my ankles. I accepted all this.

And more. I believed that non-Islamic governments were illegitimate, that jihadists were brave holy warriors carrying out the will of Allah, that Jews and other non-Muslims were inferiors who had to be conquered and ruled. Funny thing, I was born Jewish. At 23, with my nose in a wool prayer rug, I found myself praying for the humiliation of my parents because true Islam demanded it, or so I believed.

This is the story of how I was seduced by radical Islam -- and how, over time, I embraced a worldview that I had once abhorred.

I grew up in Ashland, Oregon, the only son of parents who were nontraditional, to say the least. They were sort of Unitarian Jews who esteemed a mishmash of religious figures from different faiths -- a spiritual patchwork that I found unfulfilling.

It was during my junior year at Wake Forest University, in 1997, that I first learned about Islam. One friend in the dorm was a moderate Muslim whose faith led him to become a campus activist, fighting religious prejudice and homophobia. His convictions appealed to me, and I was envious of the spiritual anchor in his life.

I went to a mosque for the first time with him and took part in the Islamic ritual of prayer. I didn't even try to repeat the Arabic words; I just did my best to imitate the bowing and prostration. As I left, one of the Muslims came up and gave me a book: What Every American Should Know About Islam and the Muslims.

I read this volume and others, hoping to be reassured that our Western fears of Islamic terrorism were misplaced. There were certainly Muslim extremists, but Christianity had also gone through dark periods, hadn't it?

Then, during my next semester abroad in Venice, I befriended an Italian convert to Islam. I knew there was an emptiness in my life, and eventually I asked, "How do I become a Muslim?"

That evening, I publicly declared my devotion to Islam by reciting the shahadah, the Islamic declaration of faith, before Muslim witnesses. I had found my spiritual home.

Infidel Country

The Muslim religion, as practiced by the moderate believers I knew, felt comfortable to me, even familiar. I didn't hide my conversion from my parents, who regarded it as a healthy part of my spiritual journey. But I kept some things to myself, such as my first encounter with a darker interpretation of Islam.

While visiting Ashland in December 1997, I attended a local mosque, where I heard my first radical sermon. The imam, Hassan Zabady, said that Muslims now living in non-Muslim lands should move to Islamic countries. His message was clear -- if a Muslim lives in a corrupt environment, he will be corrupted.

At the end of the worship, I walked outside with Sheikh Hassan, who waved his hand at the beautiful green peaks surrounding us. "You'll be compromised if you stay in this kafir [infidel] country," he said. "Just look at all these homosexuals." The shock of these words never left me.

The following winter, I was again on vacation in Ashland and decided to visit a Muslim prayer house just outside town. To my surprise, I drove up to a massive home in a neighborhood of upscale "McMansions." One of the local Muslims explained the opulent surroundings: The congregation had become affiliated with a Saudi Arabian charity called the Al Haramain Islamic Foundation, which had given it a grant to buy the house. It now doubled as the foundation's American headquarters.

Al Haramain's purpose, I was told, was to spread true Islamic teachings through various outreach programs -- everything from sponsoring seminars and lectures to providing Islamic literature to libraries and prisons. It turned out the foundation was looking to hire a person to help run its office. I'd be graduating in December with nothing to do until law school in the fall, and a job at Al Haramain seemed ideal: I could learn about Islam while saving on rent by living with my parents.

I was hired and soon learned that I was joining an impressive operation. In the halcyon days before 9/11, Al Haramain had offices in more than 50 countries and an annual budget of $30 million to $80 million.

My job was managing the office and overseeing the prison outreach. Everything appeared to operate in a normal way, other than a few curious experiences. My boss seemed contemptuous of the U.S. tax system, and I suspected he was cheating the government out of some payments. For example, my first paycheck from Al Haramain had computer written in the memo space. I was asked if I'd be willing to testify in court, if need be, that I had gotten my check for selling Al Haramain a computer. I was taken aback but thought it was easiest to just say yes.

Killing for Islam

The foundation quickly challenged my moderate outlook. In January 1999, just after I started work, I was driving a visiting sheikh around town. As I walked to my car to clean out the passenger seat, a dark-haired woman greeted me. She wasn't wearing a hijab, the head scarf worn by Muslim women.

She introduced herself as an elementary school teacher and said she wanted to bring her class over so they could learn about Islam. I glimpsed the sheikh out of the corner of my eye. He stood far enough away that he wouldn't have to introduce himself, but close enough that he could listen.

When our brief conversation ended, the teacher stuck out her hand and said, "I appreciate the help. It was nice talking with you."

I knew that shaking hands with a woman was prohibited by Muslim law and that the sheikh was watching. So I let her stand there with her hand sticking out. Then I said, somewhat embarrassed, "No, thanks."

She gave me a perturbed look, then turned and walked away without another word.

An especially hard step for me was giving up music. I was told at Al Haramain that music was impermissible, but for months I couldn't stop listening to it. I loved music too much. But that summer, as I met more conservative Muslims and saw the consistency in their practice of Islam, I felt that I needed to make a decision.

I was in my car listening to Jimi Hendrix, when I pulled into my driveway. I took the tape to my room, held it in both hands and squeezed until it snapped in two. In that instant, the broken tape became a symbol: I was turning my back on my old life.

One summer morning, I realized just how much I had come to accept a worldview that I once would have rejected out of hand. A visiting scholar who lived in Saudi Arabia, Abdul-Qaadir Abdul-Khaaliq, told me after one of his lectures that an 11-year-old boy had asked a question. The youth's mother had left Islam for Christianity, so his question was natural enough: "If someone had been Christian, then became Muslim, but went back to Christianity, could she return to Islam?"

Abdul-Khaaliq immediately answered, "Some people think you should kill them."

He explained that a Muslim commits not only to Allah but to the Islamic state. So turning your back on that commitment is treason.

Instead of being outraged at the idea that people should be killed for changing religions, I heard myself say, "That makes sense." If this was true Islam, it was precisely what I should believe.

Early on at Al Haramain, I learned of an essay written by a former Saudi chief justice, "The Call to Jihad in the Qur'an." Knowing it would challenge my moderate principles, I avoided reading it for several months. Eventually, though, I decided I was ready for it.

The jurist outlined the historical phases of jihad in Prophet Muhammad's life and concluded that those who reject Islam must be conquered. And if they refuse to abandon their old religion, they must pay the Islamic state "with willing submission, and feel themselves subdued."

The implications were unsettling: Jihads against non-Muslim regimes were just wars, and non-Muslims in Islamic countries should be given the choice of conversion or living like second-class citizens. But my duty wasn't to question these teachings. Rather, it was to strengthen my faith so I could more easily accept them.

Later that night, I sat on my prayer rug in a corner of my room and, for the first time, prayed for victory for the mujahedin, the holy warriors.

Remembering the Past

My ideas about the faith were fully transformed. I didn't share my more radical views with my parents, knowing they were already uncomfortable with the rigidity of my beliefs.

That fall of 1999, I began studies at the New York University School of Law, even though a prominent sheikh had said to me bluntly, "You should not go to law school. If you do go, you will have to say that the Constitution is good."

During my first year at NYU, it was as though I lived in a different universe than my classmates. While their biggest concerns were class reading and finals, mine was grappling with the question of what Allah really wanted me to do and believe.

At my apartment, I would read fatwas online, looking for spiritual guidance. But more and more, I began to analyze them critically. As I read about the need to subjugate women, about how anyone who leaves the Muslim faith and does not repent and return to it "will be killed as a kafir and apostate," I realized that I harbored real moral doubts about radical Islam. And now there were no ardent fundamentalists around me to help keep those doubts at bay.

Depressed and confused, I kept my spiritual struggles to myself. I still prayed five times a day, but increasingly my supplications to God were different. I stopped asking for victory for the mujahedin, or for my heart to be cured of its doubts. Instead, I asked God to show me what I needed to know. I no longer was convinced I knew the truth.

I agonized over my beliefs for many months -- a deeply upsetting time for me. By late 2000, however, I was ready to depart Islam and told just a few of my closest Muslim friends. They were surprised but forgiving.

I expected life to be more calm for me, now that my Islamic past could be tucked away on a shelf. The tragic events of 9/11 only fueled my desire to leave behind this part of my life. Then came a Thursday night in February 2004. My parents called on the phone to tell me that Al Haramain's offices had been raided by federal agents. Apparently investigators suspected the foundation of trying to help finance Islamic fighters in Chechnya. (The directors of the foundation claimed the money was intended for refugees and still deny any wrongdoing.)

As I read newspaper accounts, certain things fell into place: the enthusiasm my old co-workers had for the Chechen mujahedin; my old boss's dim view of the American tax system, consistent with the money-laundering charges.

That weekend, after a lot of thought, I phoned the FBI field office in Medford, Oregon. A woman answered. I told her I thought I could provide some useful information. "My name is Daveed Gartenstein-Ross," I said. "I worked for Al Haramain."

"Oh," she replied. "I know who you are."

Minutes later, she gave the phone to another agent in charge of the investigation, and we talked for an hour.

That call marked the moment I began to fully come to terms with my past. It's a past I had wanted to forget but one that I know now I can never ignore. One reason is my memory of September 11.

I was still in Manhattan on that clear, sunny day and watched the Twin Towers smolder from the street outside my apartment. Later that evening, I saw television footage from the Muslim world, showing crowds of extremists celebrating the carnage. I couldn't help but wonder, if I had remained a fundamentalist Muslim and grown more radical over time, would I have been among those openly cheering the attacks? I'm not completely sure. But I'm positive I would have at least applauded their goals. Toppling heretical Muslim governments in the Middle East, and ultimately taking the fight into the West -- these were the aims of jihadists in a global struggle. And I had once prayed for their triumph.

Disclaimer: Opinions posted on Free Republic are those of the individual posters and do not necessarily represent the opinion of Free Republic or its management. All materials posted herein are protected by copyright law and the exemption for fair use of copyrighted works.