Chapter 25: Learner’s Permit

October 23, 2001, Chicago, Illinois

🎤 Steve

“You’ve been a good friend, Steve,” Amir said after we placed our lunch orders at a diner run by a Palestinian who served «halal» meals.

“As have you,” I replied. “I’m very sorry about the harassment and threats, and the disrespect some of your students showed you.”

“None of that is your fault.”

“No, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel bad about what’s been happening. Birgit is very sad that Fatimah is leaving. She’s hoping they can write and become pen pals.”

“That would be up to Ibrahim, but I’ll tell him that Birgit is a wonderful young woman, if a bit uncontrolled.”

“A bit?” I asked with a grin.

Amir laughed, “For an American.”

“When will Fatimah marry?”

“Not until Ibrahim returns from his studies in London. I would think next Summer. You will receive an invitation, though I understand how difficult it would be for you to travel to Saudi Arabia.”

“Thanks. I’ll send a gift, of course.”

“Thank you in advance for your generosity, and as I’ve said, for your hospitality and friendship.”

“Amir, do you think it would be possible for me to speak with your imam?”

“Now? When I’m about to leave?” he asked, sounding bemused.

It was my turn to laugh, “Sorry, not about converting. I want to discuss some challenges one of my Muslim employees is having.”

“I’m sure he’d be happy to speak with you. If you lend me your mobile phone, I’ll call him and if you have time, he might be able to meet you immediately after lunch.”

“What’s his name?”

“Mazher Iqbal. I’ve told him about the things you’ve done for us.”

“What nationality is that last name?”

“He’s Punjabi, from Pakistan. Is there a problem?”

I shook my head, “No, just a curiosity.”

“The imam was raised in Singapore, where his father, a clearing agent, was assigned by his company.”

“What’s a ‘clearing agent’?”

“I believe you would call him a ‘customs broker’.”

“Ah, OK. I would like you to call him, please.”

I pulled out my cellphone and handed it to him. He dialed a number and spoke English with his imam and arranged for me to visit the imam at the mosque once Amir and I had finished eating lunch.

“So, what will you do when you return home?”

“Continue my work. It will be more complicated, but I can keep in touch with my colleagues through the computer, and I’ll be able to return to my full-time teaching position. Like you, my family has influential friends. They intervened to allow me to return earlier than planned.”

“I’d like to keep in touch as well.”

“If you provide your email address, I will be able to use a university account to stay in touch with you.”

I gave him one of my double-sided cards with both work and personal information just as our food arrived. Amir said the traditional Islamic blessing, and we ate. We chatted about his experiences in the US and life in Saudi Arabia, and when we finished, he paid the bill. We shook hands, and he headed back to the university while I headed for the mosque. I was greeted by Imam Iqbal and shown to his office where tea and cakes were waiting.

“First, I must express my gratitude for the hospitality and care you’ve shown to Amir and his family,” Imam Iqbal said with an English accent similar to that of others I’d met in Singapore.

“No Muslim I have ever met would contemplate the actions taken by those men who claimed to be Muslims.”

“Allah, who sees all, knows the evil in their hearts. Amir tells me you have questions.”

“I do, and I would like to speak in complete confidence.”

“Of course.”

“One of my employees has something of a dilemma. At a young age, she engaged in «zina» and is worried that a devout Muslim man would refuse to marry her or, if he discovered it, would divorce her.”

He frowned, “How old is this young woman?”

“In her twenties,” I replied.

“First, she committed a sin by revealing her sin to another. No Muslim should ever do so. There is no requirement for public confession for Allah, who is merciful, to forgive even a grave transgression. Second, because of that rule, she has no duty to say anything to her husband. When asked about any impediment to marriage, she should remain silent, and silence is accepted as confirmation there is no impediment. No Muslim man should ever call her silence into question. And, I am sure, as an educated man, you know that it is very unlikely a woman in her twenties would bleed, nor should anyone educated ask about that.”

Which was a VERY different picture from what I had received from the Khans, as well as very different from Aisyah’s.

“That’s quite far from my understanding,” I said.

He smiled, “I mean no disrespect to a man as devout as Amir Khan, but Saudi views on such things are more about being Arab than about being Muslim. The same is true for Afghanis and some of my own countrymen who have similar tribal beliefs. Please do not take this as acceptance of «zina», but of how one approaches marriage.”

“I wonder why my friend doesn’t know this.”

“May I ask her ancestry?”

“Syrian, though her mother is half Lebanese.”

“So, not so conservative as Amir and his family, nor most who are part of this masjid.”

“If I understand you, she should simply say nothing. But what happens if her husband makes an accusation?”

“My school teaches that if there is no accusation made before marriage, and he accepts her silence on the matter, he has no right to ask. I do not know which school her imam follows, and I suspect you don’t want to say, so as to maintain her privacy.”

“I would prefer not to say. How many schools are there?”

“Four in Sunni, which I’m going to assume your employee is.”

“She is. May I ask about the schools?”

“Certainly. I am of Shafi’i, which relies on the Holy Qur’an and the Hadith as a source of law, though we are not as strict as Hanbali, which is the tradition of the Saudi mosque of your friend Amir at home; there is also Hanafi, which was that of my father’s mosque in Pakistan; and, finally, Maliki. The details are really unimportant for you, just to know that I know of no ruling from the schools which say your employee must confess or even speak up. And, while not relevant, but to complete your knowledge, there are also Shi’ite schools.”

“So your advice?”

“Is that she find a suitable Turkish, Syrian, Jordanian, or Lebanese man, and avoid Afghani or Saudi men. The former will be closer to her in terms of culture and tradition. This is especially true if she follows the practice of many of our young women and does not wear the «ḥijāb» while at work.”

“She doesn’t.”

“Would you permit it?”

“Of course! I have two other female Muslim employees and both wear the «ḥijāb». I would no more prohibit that than the Jewish «kippah», a Christian cross, or the «dastār» of a Sikh.”

“You are remarkably well-informed.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you read the Holy Qur’an?”

“Only in translation,” I replied. “I don’t speak or read Arabic.”

He smiled and nodded, “I must ask, do you know the reason for the division of Sunni and Shi’ite?”

“Yes. The Sunni are what I would translate as ‘orthodox’, while the Shi’ite are the «Shīʿatu ʿAlī», or partisans of Ali. The main source of dispute is whether Abu Bakr Abdullah ibn Uthman, the father of Muhammed’s wife Aisha, or Ali ibn Abi Talib, the cousin and son-in-law of Muhammed, was the rightful successor.”

“I’d be shirking my duty if I didn’t ask, with all that knowledge, showing you’ve studied, what it is that keeps you from being a Muslim?”

“Certainly not the same thing which prevents me from becoming an Orthodox Christian.”

Imam Iqbal nodded knowingly, “Amir has said that your family life is more like a traditional Saudi sheikh than an American. He wasn’t exactly sure, but four wives and children by all of them?”

That was close enough, and there was no need to discuss the details.

“That is what I was referring to! But to answer your question directly, and without meaning to give offense, it would be that I don’t find sufficient wisdom in the teachings of Islam to answer my existential questions. And that’s not taking into account Amir’s Salafism, by which I could never abide.”

“What do you mean by insufficient wisdom?” Imam Iqbal inquired.

“I don’t find the Islamic view of man, and his place in this world, to provide a satisfactory answer to the question of why I’m here and what the purpose of my life ought to be. In addition, I find it lacking in tolerance and understanding of those who disagree. I suppose the best answer is that I am a skeptic, and believe any and all things may be challenged, and that the unexamined life is not worth living.”

“Your candor is refreshing. Few would make such statements unless they were attacking my beliefs, but I don’t feel you are doing that.”

“We can disagree and remain respectful and friendly. You would find me with a completely different attitude if you espoused the vile ideas held by bin Laden.”

“I agree. Would you be willing to read a book?”

My answer was effectively forced by my conversation with Sarah about reading the Lotus Sutra, as I refused to engage in intentional hypocrisy.

“Yes, of course. Which one?”

He got up and went to a shelf and returned with a box, from which he took a book.

“This is «Umdat as-Salik wa ‘Uddat an-Nasik», or Reliance of the Traveller, a manual of «fiqh» for the Shafi’i school. I think you’ll find it informative and interesting, and will help you understand the answers I’ve given to some of your questions, and perhaps allay some of your concerns about Islam.”

“A law book?”

“Effectively, yes, but probably the most appropriate thing for me to give you to read to help you understand. It’s not necessary to read it from cover to cover, but I think it would be good for you to do so. With your logical mind and your desire to learn, I think it has a far better chance of conveying the wisdom of Islam than what you would probably call a spiritual approach.”

I accepted the book from him, and intended to read it, as it might give me further insights into Aisyah’s situation, and present other possible solutions. That said, the answer I’d received from the imam certainly changed things. I’d discuss it with Aisyah when I returned to Los Angeles to sign the investment deal with her parents. I’d received the financials from Aisyah’s dad about an hour before I left the office for lunch with Amir, and a cursory examination had shown everything to be in order. I’d sent them to Bo at Spurgeon for a full analysis, which he’d promised would be complete by Friday.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Do you have further questions? If not, I could take you on a tour.”

I didn’t have any other questions at the time, and graciously accepted the tour. Thirty minutes later, I thanked him again, bade him ‘goodbye’, and headed for my car so that I could drive back to the office.

“I have to move on Monday,” Penny said dejectedly.

I nodded, opened my bag, and pulled out a framed photo of Penny and me, and made a show of setting it on the corner of my desk.

“I won’t forget you, Pretty Penny.”

“That’s from our joint birthday when I was sixteen!” she gasped.

I had one from when she was fifteen, but that would have sent an entirely different message!

“The day we agreed to be colleagues for the rest of our lives. I hoped the symbolism would reassure you.”

She smiled, leaned over, and kissed my cheek, and we both got to work.

October 25, 2001, Chicago, Illinois

“What’s that?” Kimmy asked as I walked into the office on Thursday morning.

“My new iPod,” I replied. “It’s a portable music player that Apple released on Tuesday. I got it last night.”

“How is it?”

“Pretty good, I think, but ask me again next week. I need to figure out a way to carry it better with me when I run. If I can do that, and it survives both outdoor and treadmill running, I’ll call it a win. It does require a Mac with a Firewire interface to load music onto it or recharge, though you can use a power adapter for recharging, too.”

“Let me know! Anyway, Noelle is reconfiguring Penny’s phone so it rings here and at her new desk, but the phone here will have the ringer turned off.”

“Thanks for taking care of that.”

“What did she do?” Kimmy asked quietly.

“She’s going to be team lead for the FFM engagement.”

Kimmy shook her head, “It happened after your pow-wow with her. And she had been crying when she came to use the sink in the private bathroom.”

“She’s going to be team lead for the FFM engagement,” I repeated.

Kimmy gave me a look similar to the ones that Birgit gave me when she was unhappy with an answer I gave her, but there was literally nothing I could say. I’d told Penny she couldn’t say a word to anyone, and I had to follow my own instructions.

“If that’s your story...”

“That’s the truth,” I replied.

Kimmy frowned, then moved to close the door to the hallway.

“You have NEVER lied to me, Steve. Don’t start now.”

“It is the truth,” I replied.

“But not the whole truth.”

“Kimmy, please let it go.”

“Something is going on, Steve. You have an appointment with Alejandra later today, Penny is moving out of your office, Dave is in a bad mood, and you’ve had a series of odd meetings.”

“I’m fine, Kimmy, I promise. And there is nothing to worry about. I should have told you why I’m having the meetings - Cindi is presenting a proposal at the Executive Committee meeting next Tuesday for a new business unit. I’ve been working with Sam and others to create the technology plan. Dave is in a bad mood because he’s losing Penny and me for a time.”

“You? Why?”

“I’ll be running the new business unit until it’s established.”

“Bullshit!” she exclaimed. “Tell me another one!”

“It’s true, Kimmy!”

“You’re not joking?”

I shook my head, “No. It’s basically a startup project that’s right up my alley. It’s either me or Sam. Would YOU ask her?”

“There’s no ‘combat pay’ adjustment on the salary schedule, so no chance!”

“It’ll be way more tech than management, and I’ll get to hire my own team.”

“This means more work for me, right?”

“I have to talk to Stephanie to work out how much more of your time I can have.”

“You know I prefer working for you, right? Not that there’s anything wrong with Stephanie.”

“Oh, there’s PLENTY wrong with my little sister,” I chuckled. “But I know what you mean.”

“I do.”

“Are you unhappy?” I asked.

“No!” Kimmy declared firmly. “You know the most important thing for me is that you let me take care of you.”

“I do, and I very much appreciate it. How much extra time do you have?”

“Probably about three hours a week.”

“That’s not going to be enough. I’ll speak with Stephanie and see what we can work out. We have so little administrative overhead; maybe it’s time to get another person to share among the executive team and Zeke. I’ll raise that with my sister as well. Are we good?”

Kimmy smiled, “Yes.”

She opened the door and I went to my desk. I fired up my computer and started reading my email. The first one, marked urgent, had me ready to bang my head on my desk. I picked up the phone and dialed Cèlia’s number.

“I figured you’d call,” she said.

“We need an IQ test for potential clients!” I exclaimed. “How did they manage it? XP was just released today!”

“A doctor got a copy of the latest release candidate of XP Home and spent last night installing it on all eight workstations at his practice. You can imagine the results when none of the workstations could join the domain.”

“We need to change the price sheets to include a ‘stupidity’ charge. What’s the plan?”

“Nuke and pave and reinstall Windows 2000,” Cèlia declared. “I spoke with Cindi and she’s good with full price and no discounts of any kind. I called Patricio and Sanaya and they’re both heading to Naperville instead of coming to the city.”

“Every freaking time there’s a new release! And despite the newsletter AND the two service bulletins.”

“Next time I’m going to call one of the Navy guys and ask for an airstrike!”

“That would cut down on repeat offenders!” I chuckled. “Though I think they’re a little busy in Afghanistan right now. I’ll let you get back to your regularly scheduled Microsoft release disaster!”

“Thanks, I think!” Cèlia replied.

We said ‘goodbye’ and hung up. About an hour later, Kimmy buzzed me.

“Steve, there’s an Officer Julie Richman on the phone for you.”

I’d wondered if she, or one of the male officers, would call. It had been a month since the incident in Union Station, and as each day passed, I’d leaned more towards it being what they’d said.

“Put her through, please.”

Kimmy put the call through.

“Steve Adams.”

“Hi. This is Officer Julie Richman.”

“I know. Kimmy let me know who was calling. What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if you could help me work on my ‘tell’?”

“I make a point of not associating with CPD officers ever since two of them broke into my place of business twice, then acted as muscle when some guys tried to set me up. Not to mention your attempt to entrap me when I was simply minding my own business. And don’t even get me started on the FBI. So, no Officer Julie Richman, I have ZERO interest in helping you work on your ‘tell’.”