Wrestling with Muzammil: The 2003 ISNA Convention

by Michael Muhammad Knight

My original plan for the Islamic Society of North America’s 40th annual convention was to show up Friday with a big bag and spend four days handing out my evil Muslim Punk Rawk Novel, The Taqwacores, until drawing the attention of ISNA officials and causing a massive ruckus. Then I’d issue an open challenge for anyone to meet me on top of McCormick Place, which would result in my choke-slamming Muzammil Siddiqi through the roof. More than one Muslim friend called me suicidal or masochistic for my plans. One just closed her eyes and shook her head. Their disbelief only egged me on.

In paying my $100 registration fee online I had to click “Agree” on the term that if any member of my group caused a disturbance, my whole group would leave. I had no group. “Judgment of term ‘disturbance,’” it said, “will be determined solely by ISNA officials.” The convention’s official website also provided a list of behaviors for Muslims to avoid and discourage while at McCormick Place: things like fuhsh (“indecency, obscenity, atrocity and abomination”), fuhsha (“shameful deeds, adultery, fornication and whoredom”), munkar (“ignorance, detestable behavior, reprehensible actions”) and bagha (“rebelliousness, outrageousness and wrongdoing”). I figured that in my time at ISNA I’d have no problem hitting each at least once. My friend Sara told me that while ISNA usually has cool programs, it can often become a big hookup place for horny young Muslims. “I guess they’re not all there for speeches and stuff,” she said.

The wind left my sails a week before when I learned that my friend, punk rocker Wesley Willis, had passed away following a hard fight with leukemia in a Prospect Heights, Illinois hospice.

Originally scheduled to hit Chicago for ISNA on Friday, I left early for Wesley’s memorial on Wednesday. As I sat at the Buffalo Greyhound station on the evening of August 25, watching a line of buses that could just as well have been lifted from Wesley’s drawings, the Earth was closer to Mars than it had been in 59,619 years. I did not know what to do with that other than recognize that it was an odd time.

I arrived in Chicago at around noon and then wandered with no idea where to go until finding myself on the UIC campus shuffling along concrete walkways with expressionless students. Eventually I asked for directions and was steered toward the CTA train. I rode the blue line to N. Western Avenue and lugged my big bag to John Rago and Sons Memorial Chapel. Bought a Brisk at the nearby gas station and chilled on the curb while I waited.

After the service, back out on the living concrete world, I slung my heavy bag back over my shoulder and walked down N. Western to Wesley’s old art-store hangout, Genesis. Bought a sketchbook, took a CTA back to the University of Illinois and slept outside its library.

I woke up early Thursday morning and waited for a kid to enter the Commons residence hall so I could sneak in after him and find a shared men’s bathroom, hoping for a shower. The dorms seemed to be suite-style with private bathrooms so I slipped out and took a CTA train to Rock n’ Roll McDonalds on N. Clark Street. After years of abstaining from McDonalds for a variety of reasons, I had a guilty pleasure in rediscovering the familiar mustard-and-pickles cheeseburger smell from my childhood. Later found myself wandering downtown Chicago trying to imagine all the buildings and CTA buses as Wesley would have drawn them. I found a fountain accompanying a statue of George Washington and two other guys, took my shoes and socks off and plunged my feet in. Then I unzipped my bag to discover that my shampoo bottle had busted open and damaged a mess of books. I took them all out and let them sun on the sidewalk. The unharmed ones I wrapped in my Wesley Willis hoodie. Poured a dime-sized circle of shampoo into my hand, threw the bottle away, massaged the VO5 Jasmine Tease into my hair and then rinsed it out in the fountain.

After a long and brutal time walking, I stumbled upon the Jane Addams Memorial Park and its public beach. I walked in the tide with my pantlegs rolled up to the knees, a worthless gesture because eventually I just jumped in and swam.

Looking out at the water with Chicago’s skyline behind me and whispering zikrs to myself, Lake Michigan felt like a new ocean that I had never thought of before.

Walking out of the water with my shirt and pants clinging like leftover skin, I felt like a new creature in evolutionary transition between species. For my bare feet, blistered and tender from all my hard miles, the soft sand at once consoled and burned. I cleaned them off in the grass, put my shoes back on and began the long march to McCormick Place.

Trudged a few beautiful miles down LakeShore Drive’s bike trail, past the erupting Buckingham Fountain from Married With Children’s opening credits, past museums and a dinner party at an aquarium with a live jazz-rock band, past cluttered fishing boats and a few yachts with Lake Michigan forever to my left. I began walking in strange ways to assuage my hurting toes and wore my big bag of books like a backpack. Finally made it to McCormick Place, saw the sign, let the bag fall off my body and then followed it to the grass. I lay there a long time. Then the bugs got to me and I went inside, found out that it was the wrong McCormick. I was in McCormick East and wanted McCormick West. McCormick staff directed me to the bridge that connected them.

I saw scattered brothers and sisters in kufis and hijabs setting up tables and chairs and registration counters and booths. A lady and her son whizzed by on Segway scooters. The reality of ISNA smacked me. I wondered if this was a good idea; sometimes I run so far with daydreams that I forget the flesh-and-blood people with their real sensibilities. I walked around McCormick, scavenged a volunteers’ table for free pizza and Coke, found a quiet spot on level 4 and crashed onto a couch. At one point I took my bar of Dial soap into the men’s room and performed a very makeshift shower. Slightly cleaner, I returned to my couch and slept. At four a.m. I woke up and found a police officer staring me in the face. He asked me what I was doing. ISNA, I said. He told me that it didn’t start until tomorrow. He walked me to the elevator, put me on his little golf-cart thing and wheeled me to the main entrance. I walked out with bag over my shoulder, feeling pretty refreshed after a good sleep. Went down to the nearby McDonalds and waited for it to open. Another officer pulled up in his car and told me that it was a bad neighborhood, pointing to the gang areas. I decided that it was a good day to make Fajr. I made a sort-of tayammum by wiping my hands off the McDonalds window, then went out back since nobody would be needing the drive-thru at that hour and prayed by the little speaker where they take your order. Didn’t know which way to face but Allah is Lord of both East and West, right?

Soon the sky became lighter and McDonalds unlocked its doors. Again, McDonalds is not my thing but I needed to rent space. I ordered hotcakes just to sit in a booth. At 8:30 I sat in the Hyatt lobby in front of scattered newspaper sections. Read a warm tribute to Wes by Chicago Tribune reporter Gayle Worland. Men, women and children rolled around the library on Segways. It turned out that Chicago was hosting the first national convention of Segway owners. All I had to do was stay on the lobby loveseat and allow the cartoon to unfold before me: preppy families on $1,500 Segways, Arabic words for peace rattling off Muslim tongues, white yuppies on dumb gimmicks, bearded believers in shalwar chemises. I watched Segways segue between clusters of hijabis. I’d like to think that Allah is writing us a quirky little comedy. Maybe it was the Earth-Mars thing. The day that I left Buffalo, my twenty-four-year old ex-girlfriend announced by phone that she was dating a forty-two-year old computer consultant. If Allah’s greatest book is this world itself, I try to pick it apart like an English Lit professor: find the themes, motifs, main ideas. I didn’t know what to do with this week. I went back to the couch where I had been discovered earlier and napped again.

A couple hours later there were Muslims everywhere. I walked around the bazaar until hearing the adhan. Then I took my shoes off, walked across a sea of cardboard, made four sunna rakats and sat for the khutbah. After a while I just got up and walked out. Most of the imam’s talk consisted of melodic Arabic which just doesn’t do it for me anymore, and for that I’m sorry.

The place was crawling with beautiful girls. I wondered how I’d go about talking to them. I’d have liked to talk to some girls but most of them wouldn’t even make eye contact. One looked at me, I looked back and then her face tensed up. “Smile,” I said. She turned toward me again from reflex, then looked away and was gone. I noticed lots of obligatory but sincere hugging; ISNA seemed an annual reunion for many people. A mother and daughter sat on the couch next to mine. I struck up a conversation. Turned out she had just finished law school. I watched Siraj Wahaj greet some fans and heard one girl gasp, “That’s the THIRD time I’ve seen him today!” In the past few days I had occupied scenes with drastically varying qualifications for starpower.

I sold a few books. A pair of stunning hijabis gave me ten dollars each, though I had only asked for “a couple bucks or whatever.” I sold a copy to one brother but realized while we were talking afterward that it wasn’t exactly his scene.

Walked around with my new friend Khalid checking out the booths. At the MPAC booth they bum-rushed us like used-car salesmen. Khalid jokingly told the MPAC girl that I had come to write an article about Muzammil Siddiqi. She replied with enthusiasm until I explained my plan to challenge him to a wrestling match on the McCormick roof. She didn’t know what to say to that but made sure I had all her necessary MPAC pamphlets. I actually attended a Siddiqi lecture on “benevolence” and left after five minutes (without making my challenge).

Went back to the bazaar and saw CAIR’s booth offering a free Nike t-shirt with your CAIR membership. The “Nike shirt” consisted of a swoosh with the words, “Faith in Action.” Saw Siraj Wahaj again and gave him the old stink-palm. That night I sat on a lobby couch watching young Muslims walk by until I fell asleep and was woken by another cop at 8:30.

Saturday I met filmmaker Farah Nousheen, her brother Ali and friend Helena, a Polish-Mexican convert. Helena taught me a phrase: “Cholli kopeechay, kya?” which meant something like “what’s under your shirt?” We watched girls and pointed out the pseudo-hijabis who’d cover up at ISNA and then go out in their club-gear. Met a cool girl named Samia who had come from New Orleans. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m not a doctor.”

“Neither am I,” I replied. “I’m an engineer.”

“Really?”

“No.” She laughed with relief.

Around noon ISNA had a Community Service Recognition Luncheon. I lacked the $150 for a plate and would miss the slick tap-dancing of John Esposito.

Ali was very cool and activist-minded. We speculated on how many Mossad agents might have been there. “There has to be some here,” he mused, “at least for training.” We noticed plenty of straight-postured guys with earpieces. “Are these guys feds or ISNA’s secret police?” Ali wondered. “It’s all the same these days.”

I spent most of my time with Helena. We shared conversion stories and grievances and eventually walked far from McCormick. She took me to a coffeehouse, then the beach, then DePaul University, then her place. Sunday morning we ate in Chinatown near McCormick. Walking back to ISNA we passed a group of guys who looked to be in their early years of high school. One wore a “STOP THE OCCUPATION” shirt and they all carried ISNA bags. “Did you hear what he said?” Helena asked.

“What?”

“One of them said, ‘it’s ok—he’s a kafir.”

What did that even mean? Was it for my blue eyes? Was it because I walked with a non-mahram female? I threw my bag down, stretched my arms out, cocked my head back and yelled, “WHO YOU CALLING A KAFIR?” They turned to look but kept on walking. “THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT,” I shouted. Then I picked up my bag and we rejoined ISNA.

At noon they screened Farah’s film Nazrah. During it I realized a great deal not only about ISNA but Islam and my relation to it. I had been one of those guys whom Islam enters and leaves like an arrow through its game. I had abandoned the idea that there could ever be a community for me. But Farah’s film, which was meant as an expression of the Muslim Woman’s voice, woke me up. I heard women who dated and left the house without hijab and even a woman both Muslim and gay, and there she was on an ISNA screen. I had never imagined that there was room for these voices at a place like this. Could there be room for mine?

At 3:00 that afternoon Yusuf Islam (Cat Stevens) sat at the Astrolabe booth giving autographs. I just stood and watched the crowd for a while. Western Islam has its own celebrity culture, just as reverential and absurd as any other. I squeezed in and gave him my stink-palm. Score another one for the good guys.

I stood outside and talked to random people in the rain, such as a Pakistani med-student who studied in Dublin. He said he was friends with a Muslim punk band in Ireland and that they’d all get high together. I saw a kid walk by in kufi and NOFX shirt and chased him down. I introduced myself and pitched the book. If there was anyone who’d dig the whole Muslim Punk angle, it’d be this kid. He took it and we went our ways. His name was Siraj. I got a copy to Rima, an amazing poet from the group Calligraphy of Thought.

My friend Tariq had gone to some matrimonial meet-and-greet and said it was lame. The girls were all there to find doctors, he said, and had bad attitude.

Farah, Ali, Helena and I met up with the girl from New Orleans and her two friends and we all went to Chinatown for dinner. I sat next to a seventeen-year old with braces and grossed her out by pointing to pork items on the menu. “Pork Blood Cake,” I’d read and laugh. “Fried Pork Intestine.” She literally couldn’t take it. She laughed giddily at everything like she was drunk. Said she watched a lot of Japanese animation and actually drew some. After dinner the group split up. Helena took me to the Greyhound station. It was a long walk and my feet suffered, but it was nice going through Chicago holding hands with a brilliant young woman. It was actually depressing to get on my bus. Didn’t have time for an adequate goodbye but said that I would call her and hopped aboard. With that, the Winds that Scatter took me back to Buffalo.

More than anything else, what I got out of ISNA was people. When you have 30,000 Muslims all thrown together for a weekend, who needs lectures?

I never created a disturbance and ISNA security did not have to remove me, but I still consider my mission an absolute success. In the course of that three-day convention I dropped my hostilities. I never would have seen it coming, but ISNA gave me da’wah. So I didn’t challenge all the mailis to fight me on the roof, but I had a good time and met some amazing people.

It was worth noting that I checked off every item on ISNA’s “not-to-do” list. Fuhsh, from my repeated acts of istimna in McCormick bathrooms; fuhsha, from my Saturday night with a beautiful convert; munkar, from stink-palming Siraj Wahaj and Cat Stevens and almost fighting a group of teenagers; and bagha, from the dirty novel that I peddled throughout the convention.

Maybe the “old guard” still runs ISNA, and maybe the House of Saud still runs that old guard. But I saw a lot of young people there, and they are claiming their spots. The med-student who smoked weed, the NOFX kid, Farah the filmmaker, Rima the poet, even me, for whatever I am. Things are changing. A distinctly American Islam has already begun to take shape. Now say what you want about Islam being universal and above this kind of thing, but it’s not. We don’t need every Muslim in the world to think and talk and dress and act the same. There is a Saudi Islam, a Turkish Islam, a South Asian Islam and Malaysian Islam. They are different and they should be. If American kids are making Islam their own, al-hamdulillah.

And if Muzammil Uncle wants to wrestle, I’ll probably go back next year.

Michael Muhammad Knight's novel, The Taqwacores, is available through legendary punk label Alternative Tentacles. Read an excerpt here.