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recited it, Sheikh Muqbil was delighted – and began pounding the desk. He told the several hundred assembledstudents that my diligence showed Islam would spread throughout the world.
‘This is the sign that Allah promised us,’ he said. ‘We must take care of our new Muslim brothers and teach them Islam and be patient with them.’
Despite the best efforts of the Yemeni government, there were plenty of foreign students at Dammaj, among them British Pakistanis from Birmingham and Manchester, Tunisians, Malaysians and Indonesians. There was also a second African-American called Khalid Green. A few had been in Bosnia, fighting with its Muslim population against the Serbs and Croats in the mid-1990s. Some would later become prominent militants in their own countries.
To begin with I was the only fair-skinned Caucasian at Dammaj. That made me an object of curiosity for many of the students and the local tribes. Yet I never felt excluded or ostracized because of my ethnicity.
I was later joined by a soft-spoken American convert from Ohio, called Clifford Allen Newman, and his four-year-old son, Abdullah. Newman went by the name Amin. He looked and sounded like what some Americans would call a ‘redneck’, but he spoke Arabic well and had spent time in Pakistan before moving to Yemen. We struck up a friendship. Like me he seemed to be fleeing a bad relationship. US authorities had a warrant for his arrest on international kidnapping charges because he had brought Abdullah with him to Yemen after a judge awarded custody to his ex-wife in their divorce the year before . Newman had wanted his son to have a strict Muslim upbringing.
I spent four months in Dammaj. In early 1998 I left the isolation of the seminary and travelled back to the capital, where I found myself a basic apartment. Newman and his son moved in with me briefly, while they looked for a place of their own.
I was serious about my faith; it was my compass and I planned to return to Dammaj. By the time I travelled back to Sana’a I was a hardcore Salafi. I could argue against the accursed ‘innovators’.
In Sana’a I was introduced to some radical preachers, including one Mohammed al-Hazmi – who three years later would take to the pulpit and welcome the events of 9/11 as ‘justified revenge’ against America.Another was Sheikh Abdul Majid al-Zindani, one of the most powerful religious figures in Yemen and prominent in the main opposition party, which he had co-founded. Al-Zindani, who was in his late fifties, had thousands of followers. He ran a university in Sana’a – al-Iman – whose mosque was crammed with several thousand worshippers every Friday. 4
When my first experience of Ramadan as a devout Muslim came about, I was invited to break the fast with him one evening. Al-Zindani wanted me to enrol in al-Iman University.
A man of great wealth, he had a fabulous library at his house in Sana’a.
‘What can I do to help you?’ he asked.
He was not expecting my answer.
‘Is it true you are with the Muslim Brotherhood?’ I asked. ‘If that is so, you will lead me to hellfire.’
We had been taught at Dammaj that the Muslim Brotherhood, a political movement that was one of the few sources of dissent in Arab countries, had abandoned true Sharia and were innovators where it suited their political ends, in some countries supporting the concept of democratic elections. This was anathema to true Salafis, because it pretended that mere mortals could make laws.
I did not ask the question with any animosity but al-Zindani looked stunned. Despite his radical profile, the Sheikh was not sufficiently militant for my taste. And as a strident Salafist and no respecter of status, I was not afraid to tell him as much.
He was clearly not used to being challenged by a novice but recovered his composure.
‘It seems that if you come to al-Iman, we will have many interesting debates. But you must not believe everything you are told. Even good Muslims are
‘This is the sign that Allah promised us,’ he said. ‘We must take care of our new Muslim brothers and teach them Islam and be patient with them.’
Despite the best efforts of the Yemeni government, there were plenty of foreign students at Dammaj, among them British Pakistanis from Birmingham and Manchester, Tunisians, Malaysians and Indonesians. There was also a second African-American called Khalid Green. A few had been in Bosnia, fighting with its Muslim population against the Serbs and Croats in the mid-1990s. Some would later become prominent militants in their own countries.
To begin with I was the only fair-skinned Caucasian at Dammaj. That made me an object of curiosity for many of the students and the local tribes. Yet I never felt excluded or ostracized because of my ethnicity.
I was later joined by a soft-spoken American convert from Ohio, called Clifford Allen Newman, and his four-year-old son, Abdullah. Newman went by the name Amin. He looked and sounded like what some Americans would call a ‘redneck’, but he spoke Arabic well and had spent time in Pakistan before moving to Yemen. We struck up a friendship. Like me he seemed to be fleeing a bad relationship. US authorities had a warrant for his arrest on international kidnapping charges because he had brought Abdullah with him to Yemen after a judge awarded custody to his ex-wife in their divorce the year before . Newman had wanted his son to have a strict Muslim upbringing.
I spent four months in Dammaj. In early 1998 I left the isolation of the seminary and travelled back to the capital, where I found myself a basic apartment. Newman and his son moved in with me briefly, while they looked for a place of their own.
I was serious about my faith; it was my compass and I planned to return to Dammaj. By the time I travelled back to Sana’a I was a hardcore Salafi. I could argue against the accursed ‘innovators’.
In Sana’a I was introduced to some radical preachers, including one Mohammed al-Hazmi – who three years later would take to the pulpit and welcome the events of 9/11 as ‘justified revenge’ against America.Another was Sheikh Abdul Majid al-Zindani, one of the most powerful religious figures in Yemen and prominent in the main opposition party, which he had co-founded. Al-Zindani, who was in his late fifties, had thousands of followers. He ran a university in Sana’a – al-Iman – whose mosque was crammed with several thousand worshippers every Friday. 4
When my first experience of Ramadan as a devout Muslim came about, I was invited to break the fast with him one evening. Al-Zindani wanted me to enrol in al-Iman University.
A man of great wealth, he had a fabulous library at his house in Sana’a.
‘What can I do to help you?’ he asked.
He was not expecting my answer.
‘Is it true you are with the Muslim Brotherhood?’ I asked. ‘If that is so, you will lead me to hellfire.’
We had been taught at Dammaj that the Muslim Brotherhood, a political movement that was one of the few sources of dissent in Arab countries, had abandoned true Sharia and were innovators where it suited their political ends, in some countries supporting the concept of democratic elections. This was anathema to true Salafis, because it pretended that mere mortals could make laws.
I did not ask the question with any animosity but al-Zindani looked stunned. Despite his radical profile, the Sheikh was not sufficiently militant for my taste. And as a strident Salafist and no respecter of status, I was not afraid to tell him as much.
He was clearly not used to being challenged by a novice but recovered his composure.
‘It seems that if you come to al-Iman, we will have many interesting debates. But you must not believe everything you are told. Even good Muslims are
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