Who Could Possibly Believe In Islam? - Free Entry, Simple Rules, No Jews, And Vestal Virgins, That's Why

Ahmed al-Barsoum dreamed of an Islamic heaven - vestal virgins, fragrant gardens, lush tropical fruits, and eternal pleasure - woke from his revery, and dropped to his knees at the call to prayer by the muezzin of Islamabad, one of the prescribed five recorded by Epic Records. 

Ahmed was a devout Muslim, prayed five times a day, observed all holy days, went to the mosque for Friday prayers, and raised his children in strict accordance with the principles, rules, and obligations of Islam.  This obedience to The Law was important for he wanted to be certain that his entire family joined him on Judgment Day and in paradise. 

When his prayers were finished and after he prepared himself for the workaday routine necessary in this vale of tears, he walked briskly to his car.  He was not an engineer, doctor, or lawyer - his religious studies had always took precedence over secular topics - but he was quite happy at Bridger Toyota where he had become a successful salesman, known for his patience, due diligence, and carefully modulated insistence. Muslims all came to him, knowing that such a man of God would treat them with honor and respect. 

Ahmed was born in in Lebanon but came to the United States when he was a child of twelve - right on the cusp of language fluency after which age he would always have an accent, but coming in under the threshold he sounded just like any one of his suburban Maryland neighbors.  This unaccented English fluency was a distinct benefit, for in these days Americans were still wary of Muslims, had not yet forgotten 9/11, and read daily reports of Islamic terrorism in Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. 

He insisted to anyone who would listen that Islam was a peaceful religion, that those suras which critics said called for death to the infidel were no more than calls to religious militancy no different than Christianity.  Although Jesus preached peace and love, every since the Crusades Christians were responsible for war, civil unrest, and general social mayhem. If there was ever a bellicose religion it was Christianity. 

Ahmed believed without hesitation that Islam was the world's one true religion because Mohammed was the last prophet.  His presence on earth signified the end of religious dissent, doubt, and disbelief.  After him for all eternity there would only be Islam, Allah, and his prophet Mohammed.  Islam was a religion which defied probability and chance.  Even in the vastness and timelessness of the universe, there would be only a Muslim god, religion, and prophet. 

Knowing that one was truly of the people chosen by God to join him in celestial paradise, and that to assure such ascension one had only to abide by the five pillars of the faith - Declaration of Faith, Prayer, Fasting, Almsgiving, and Pilgrimage - made belief easy.  It was enough to say that 'There is no god but God (and) Muhammad is the messenger of God', get down on your knees five times a day, fast for a month (and that only between sunup and sundown) give to the Red Crescent, and have every intention of making trip to Mecca. 

Allah in his infinite wisdom knows that the poor, the disadvantaged, the handicapped, and the unfortunate cannot make the Hajj, but as long as they have the intention of so doing (Sura 134 'Devotion in the heart is worth a thousand journeys to the Kabbah') they too can be saved.

It was no surprise that Islam was spreading throughout the world.  None of this Christian hocus pocus, fantastical cannibalistic notions (what else was eating the body and blood of Christ?), and hypocritic fol-de-rol about neighborliness, compassion, and welcome when the Christian capitalist world was a savage, dog-eat-dog affair. 

The Jews? Enough said about that imperialistic, arrogant religion.  'Let's not get started on the Jews', Ahmed said to his Muslim friends all of whom to a man thought that the international Jewish conspiracy, that unholy cabal of greed, insolence, and arrogation of power, was responsible for the world's ills and was alone guilty of stopping the advances of the worlds one, true religion, Islam. 

These were the days of heightened awareness of anti-Semitism, so Ahmed had to choose his words carefully, but when his dander was up, there was no holding him back.  The Jews of Hollywood had infected the country and the world with their Zionist message, Jews' money-grubbing instincts had amassed a fortune used to disassemble all more reasonable expressions of faith, and their imperialistic desires have been responsible for the slaughter of millions of Muslims. 

Here Ahmed had the Quran on his side, and he had memorized the various suras which called for the extermination of the Jews and the final cleansing of the earth of all Jewish vermin. The Nazis were on the right track and but for a few untimely defeats could have finished the job. 

Ahmed always stopped himself at this point, said a devotional prayer and begged Allah's forgiveness for his intemperance.  Of course He, the Almighty, had the universe well under control and far be it from him, Ahmed, to speak for Allah.  

Islam is an evangelical religion and every Muslim is obliged to preach the gospel to the infidel - giving him a chance to convert to the one true religion before he is annihilated - and Ahmed did his best.  He knew that he had righteousness and appeal on his side.  For those desperate for religion, offering them free entry, the simplest of all possible rules, no Jews, and a celestial paradise of infinite pleasure, was an easy sell. 

Catholic indoctrination was a mean affair - catechism, Sunday school, hellfire and damnation, and eternal punishment - and only a few were able to make heads or tails out of the labyrinthian dogma of the Church.  They believed because their parents believed - they slid into an off-the-rack suit rather than choosing designer.  The Muslim, regardless of his origins, bowed down in reverence and obedience every day of his life without asking why.  There was no why in Islam, only because. 

Although anti-Islamic sentiments were spreading, the untoward, barbaric attacks by the Jew and his American consorts on Iran, Hamas, and Hezbollah were enough to show the world the insidious savagery of non-Muslim religions. 

American progressives completely understood.  Muslims, diverse peoples of color, jointed in solidarity with their Latino and black brothers, pointed the way to a truly inclusive world, one of peace and prosperity, so with the likely victory of American liberals in the coming elections, Islam would be safe from the insensate attacks on its goodness. 

Only intellectual sceptics were unsure - most Muslim-dominated parts of the world were poor, backward, and unproductive.  Wherever one found Muslim enclaves, the tale was the same.  The Azerbaijanis in Georgia, the Sunnis in India, the Africans in Europe - all were abysmally low on any socio-economic indicator. There were no Muslim scientists, AI engineers, software startup geniuses. There were no Muslim Nobel Prizes in the hard sciences and mathematics, all of which categories were dominated by Jews, Chinese, or Indians.  Islamic 'culture', if that is what it must be called, is a failure. 

When Ahmed heard this, he immediately jumped to the defense.  Perhaps Muslims were performing less well than they did in the Islamic Golden Age but that was because the praise of Allah and a place in his heaven was far more important than any secular enterprise. 

It was hard to be a Muslim in America these days, but God forbid he should repatriate to Lebanon or any other country in the Middle East.  No, his evangelism belonged right here on Route 7 in Arlington, Virginia, selling Toyota cars and trucks, serving the faithful and preaching to the infidel. A hard row to hoe for sure, but he was up to Allah's work. 

Islamophobia is not the right term for those who criticize Islam - 'phobia' means fear, and no Christian fears Muslims.  Muslims have been roundly defeated in every war they initiated against Israel, have been shown to be no match for Western power; and although they have been successful in certain terrorist acts, they have been neutered and are much less of a threat.  

Muslim hate is the better term - intense dislike for a religion which has arrogated political power and in so doing divided and corroded stable Christian, Western countries while contributed nothing, offering nothing, promising nothing but a fictitious salvation.  

'We should be tolerant and inclusive', say progressives; but the West is finally rejecting the posturing nostrums of the Left and countries throughout Europe and the Americas are turning politically conservative and radically Christian.  The cat is out of the bag, Americans are increasingly unintimidated by the lecturing Left.  Islam is a problem, a big problem. 

Voter ID - 'Who Dat?' - Up From Slavery, An American Fable

Pharoah Jones grew up in rural North Carolina, the son of sharecroppers and the great-grandson of slaves.  His mother named him Pharoah after Pharoah of Biblical times, the tyrant who kept the Jews in bondage and only when God endowed Moses with the power to part the Red Sea, were the Chosen People able to escape to the Holy Land. 

 

When asked why she named her son after the Egyptian tyrant and not Moses, the liberator of the Jewish people, she said that the ancient Egyptians were black, Pharoah was a powerful ruler, and no little North Carolina black baby was 'gwine to carry a Jew name'. 

Pharoah, now the drug kingpin of Anacostia, the deep inner city of Washington, DC, looked back with love on his days in the piney woods tarpaper shack where he tended the chicken run, drew water from the well, and chopped wood until his arms ached.  That's the kind of boy he was, uncomplaining and full of warm affection for his mother and grandmother and respect for his father. 

This was the way of the colored man, the Negro, and the black man in the South; but for Pharoah it was nothing but background and no different from that of any cracker white boy from the hills.  They were both born barefoot and poor but destined to become Americans - successful, respected, and rich. 

Pharoah had no hatred for the white man or anyone else.  Slavery? That was a thing of the distant past not to be dwelled upon or featured in one's life.  To do so would be to revive or perpetuate it, to continue to be a slave, to live forever in a broken down shack eating cornpone and fatback.  No, the young boy knew that he was not long for the piney woods, and someday he would buy his momma a brand new house in the big city. 

Pharoah was a smart boy, smarter than most, and born with uncanny savvy.  He knew when to yassa the white man, when to scurry back and forth doing his errands, when to stand up and be counted, and when to cut bait and fish in a bigger pond. 

He could turn on the charm when it came to that - he was the boy in the Ebenezer Baptist Church choir that the pastor noticed and took a shine to.  Pastor Williams gave the boy special chores around the church, honed his sense of duty and responsibility, and was more than willing to help him make his way in the world. 

Pharoah, however, needed no help.  Despite his choirboy image, Pharoah was quick to learn a trade - one of the few open to black people from the backwoods at the time.  He learned how to engage, cadge, and filch from the ingenues- those who were taken in by the young man's charm and affection and trusted him - and he soon learned the classic American lesson - 'A fool and his money are soon parted'.  

He soon had more money than his pappy and granddaddy had seen in years, but rather than spend it on corn liquor and women, he decided that he would invest in both; and before long in partnership with parties from Charlotte, he built a reputation as a canny investor, top manager, and brilliant entrepreneur. 

He muscled out the white boys, the backcountry road hotrodders running white lightning, and took over the trade. He assembled a crewe of young men like himself - agile, strong, and determined black men - and soon he was the man to see in North Carolina. 

This, however lucrative and socially appealing, was slim pickin's for the ambitious Pharoah Jones, and before long he made his way to Washington, DC where he apprenticed to Leroy Jackson, the drug kingpin of Anacostia.  Jackson was not unlike Frank Lucas, the Godfather of Harlem, the drug lord of New York, born and raised in rural North Carolina who became the most influential black man in the Tri-State area.  

Jackson not only ruled Anacostia but all the inner city neighborhoods of Washington.  He was versatile and accommodating, and made millions off whatever was the drug of choice - weed, cocaine, crack, heroin, and Fentanyl.  He owned a stable of hundreds of women and managed the business via his loyal managers who were not just pimps but masters of commerce.   

Pharoah quickly learned everything there was to know about Jackson's operation, but remained loyal and faithful to him; and only when the old, revered man retired to Bimini, did Pharoah take over the business.  He was just as savvy and ruthless as Jackson, and made a fortune. 

Now, Pharoah not surprisingly was a man without a face - a man without any official identity. No driver's license, no Social Security, no bank account, no social media, no nothing. It was as though he did not exist.  He left no trace, no telltale signs, nothing. 

This was America, Pharoah thought.  He was a pioneer, a rugged individualist, an off-the-grid master of all he surveyed and had never once capitulated to the confining, defining, corrupting demands of society.

As always, there was no racial bias or hatred in his attitude.  Whether white or black, politicians were as zealous for power and authority as anyone; but because they had the Constitution behind them, arrogation of power was a simple matter. Pharoah might buy politicians, police, and judges just like his predecessor and the Italian mafiosi before him, but he would never capitulate, give up his individualism and join the mainstream. 

Which is why Pharoah laughed at the flap over Voter ID and the patronizing, self-serving, venal attitude of progressive Democrats towards black people whom they assumed couldn't put two and two together let alone get a driver's license.  

Every one in the 'hood from the dopers and johns to the dealers and pimps who serviced them had identification, had bought into the system. As much as these men were social outliers, living on the margins of white society, they still had been co-opted, something Pharoah would never do. 

It was indeed laughable that here he was at the very pinnacle of American success with a treasury of millions, atop one of the biggest enterprises in the DC, Maryland, and Virginia area, but the only black man within miles around who couldn't show a valid source of identification.  The fact that this official anonymity was his modus vivendi, his signature, and his persona - a deliberate, willful act to remain beyond the clawing forces that were out to unman him - was ironic. 

He was as clean as a wiped I-phone, a non-person but never a non-entity.  Non-entities do not hear cash registers ringing and filling offshore coffers with millions. They rule the roost, command respect and attention.  They are as American as apple pie but just don't show up anywhere. 

Voter ID?  What a joke, thought Pharoah.  What a pathetic, transparent, ridiculous charade. It meant nothing at all, a fantasy, a political chimera while the real business of black people was managed by none other than the invisible man, Pharoah Jones.

The feds knew who he was, but could never find him - he was the elusive chameleon of the ghetto, changing shape and color, the human boson, the quantum physics of probability. He was a genius, local boy made good, the model of the American dream, and all the suits wanted to do was to put him behind bars. 

Never, not in a million years.  True heroes never die. 

What Makes A Good Politician - Patriotism, Honor...Wait, That's Not Right! A Tale Of Political Divinity

Harlan Evans had always been a popular boy.  Girls loved him and boys wanted to be like him. He wasn't particularly handsome, intelligent, or athletic, and yet he was always prom king, president of his class, and chosen the most likely to succeed.  

Harlan had two qualities which made him irresistible - a silver tongue and empathy.  When Harlan listened to you, you felt like you were the only person in the world who mattered, and what he said was the most sensitively chosen, perfectly attuned expression of his understanding, his intentions, and his charm. 

No one could resist him. Young men took him into their confidence as though he were a father confessor, and women felt so respected, admired, and valued that they fell for him head over heels.  And this was even before he graduated from high school. 

Fitzgerald said it best about Gatsby and he could have been writing about Harlan Evans:

He smiled understandingly-much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced--or seemed to face--the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.

 

'You've got a great career ahead of you', said the dean of students who had followed Harlan during his years under his watch.  There was something successful about the boy.  The dean couldn't quite put his finger on it it, but he too was charmed by the boy's interest, patience, and uncommon empathy.  These qualities more than intelligence, intellect, or insight would carry him far. 

As his popularity grew - he was no less sought after and admired in college as he was in secondary school - he came to realize how easy it was to get whatever he wanted with very little effort.  Professors loved his interest in their lectures and graded him far above the quality of his work.  Roommates were generous and affectionate.  He became a member of the university's most prestigious secret society reserved for the best, the brightest, the most well-bred, and the most likely to succeed. 

A strong moral foundation is built through adversity.  Moral choice - doing the right thing - is often difficult and must be parsed a thousand different ways and in the end, whatever the individual chooses, the individual is stronger, more respected, and more responsible. 

Harlan had never had to face such dilemmas in his life.  He had always done what suited him, but did it in a way that eased him through any narrow passages or across rough patches with hardly a notice.  His genial, accommodating, patient ways were tickets to ride free.  He had no moral foundation, no centralizing, ordering ethos, no set of principles. 

This lack of a moral center did not make him immoral.  Far from it.  His easy social success was made possible by never stumbling into the wrong corner, offending someone, stepping on toes, or pushing his way to the front of the line. 

People made way for him, granted him passage, deferred to him, and happily watched him go.  He was successful because he was always on an even keel.  He never ruffled feathers or gave people pause.  Everyone thought that he had their interests at heart, not his.  He, in their opinion, was one of the most generous and considerate people they had ever met. 

The Congressman from his electoral district had heard of this remarkable young man and was anxious to meet him, perhaps invite him to Washington to work on his campaign. The Congressman was as charmed as everyone who had met the young man and with his canny, practiced, and insightful political instincts knew that Harlan was the real item.  He and the people of his district would be proud to have such a promising talent in Washington. 

 

Harlan's political independence at first worried the Congressman.  Independents were notoriously untrustworthy, wavering souls and indifferent soldiers; but Harlan in his typical, ingenuous, patient, and empathetic way easily convinced the Congressman that loyalty was more important than principle in life; and that he would be an unwavering and unerring supporter of whatever policies the Congressman supported. 

Now, Congress is filled with many who believe that a sucker is born every minute, and that you can fool most of the people most of the time, but they get coopted into rabid party politics.  Take the ranking member of one of the House's most influential committees, a man who had won election thanks to a silver tongue and a gracious complaisance; but whose power and authority went to his head and he became a party enforcer, a man of limited vision, spiteful personality, and downright meanness.  He was feared, but the days of being liked were far in the past. 

Partisan politics and the viral instincts therein were a kind of euphoric drug for the ranking member.  He saw himself as a gladiator not a conciliator; a killer rather than healer.  He had reason to the top of the heap and would remain there by hook or by crook. 

The ranking member was nonplussed when he met Harlan. Who was this underling sent to him by his colleague from an unimportant, insignificant Midwestern district?  Yet after only a few minutes with the young man in his chambers, the Congressman had lost all of his military huffiness, his rigid bearing, and his grimace.  There was something likeable about the young man he could not quite define - something attentive, personal, even intimate.  This was not the way politicians were supposed to behave.  One was always on one's guard, watching one's back, and ready to parry and riposte. 

Harlan had been sent into this den by his patron who by then had understood the almost magical effect his young protege had on people; and since favors were needed from the ranking member, why not send in Harlan as an advance team of one?  His simple charm would soften the old man up and make compromise easy. 

The ranking member was so taken by the young man - he could not deny desire - that he approached Harlan's mentor if he might be available for a transfer.  The ranking member would be very appreciative, this an unmistakable offering that his colleague could not refuse. 

From the hems of power to power itself, that was the story of Harlan Evans whose service to the ranking member, his natural political camaraderie, and his instinctive ability to create communities of which he was the center, enabled his rise to electoral victory. 

He was found a comfortable seat in a district not far from his own, was sent out on the hustings, and not surprisingly won a convincing victory.  His policies? They were unnecessary.  His promises and his genuine commitment to fulfilling them was enough. This bait-and-switch was the stock in trade of politicians, but the electorate was usually on to them and demanded more substance, proof, and results. 

Not so with Harlan.  He was treated more like a divinity than a politician.  His words were never inflammatory, accusatory, or untimely.  He spoke in measured, simple, and heartfelt tones.  He was believable, as simple as that; and he joined his fellow representatives in the House with a policy chest as empty as it was before the election.  If there was ever a Representative with such high approval ratings and so devoid of ideas, it was Harlan Evans. 

Of course, he could talk a good talk, and wove personal anecdotes with homey philosophical tales, all embroidered with fancy stitching, but he never boxed himself in, never once betrayed that inimitable ability to say nothing and be believed. 

There were those in Congress who had caught on to this chimera and challenged Harlan to fess up, to admit his shell game and to come clean; but such was Harlan's savvy and confidence that he welcomed these naysayers into his chambers, treated them as royalty, made them feel welcome, wanted, and admired, and walked out with them, embracing and smiling. 

Harlan was a secret admirer of Jesus - secret because he kept any intimations of faith to himself, and because he had none - because Jesus in life and in death was able to win over millions of believers on the basis of promises alone.  If there was ever a man with more natural charm, seductive influence, and the ability to turn the most recalcitrant apostate to him, it was Jesus Christ. 

'Mustn't let that go to my head', Harlan said, smiling at the face in the mirror, allowing himself a bit of levity before the rounds of the day. 

Faith has many colors after all and had a missionary caught wind of Harlan's irony, they would have jumped on the challenge; but Harlan as always kept his own counsel.  Jesus and his equally persuasive, promises only emissary Paul would be his closeted heroes. He kept an original Dore lithograph of The Temptation in the Desert on his office wall.  'Now that was Jesus at the top of his form'.