My Journey from Judaism to Islam
I was born into a Jewish family in London, UK in 1971. My family were more cultural than religious Jews - my father was an atheist and my mother agnostic. Nevertheless, all their close friends were Jewish, and we belonged to a Reform synagogue. I was sent to Sunday school and learned a portion of the Torah for my barmitzvah at the age of 13 - I had no idea what the Hebrew words meant, and at that time I had no interest in finding out. I never felt part of the Jewish community - I hated the insidious racism that stemmed from the view that we were the âchosen people.â As far as I could see, we were no different to anyone else. I was a rebellious teenager - uninterested in doing well at school. I fell in with the wrong crowd and ended up leaving home at 17 - mainly to get away from the negative lifestyle I was trapped in.
I went on holiday to Corfu - a Greek island - and stayed there for the summer, working selling boat trips to tourists on the beach. When the summer ended I didnât want to go home, so I joined a group of guys going to Egypt overland in a VW combi. We stopped in mainland Greece for a while to do some grape-picking, then drove to Pireaus, on the coast, where we bought tickets for a 3-day boat journey to Haifa in âIsraelâ. From Haifa we drove straight down to Eilat in the south. We had picked us a couple of hitchhikers on the way, one of whom was a Jewish guy from Liverpool. As we drove through the Negev desert he said to me âyouâre home, boy.â I looked out at the arid landscape - it didnât look much like North London to me.
The guys I was with carried on to Egypt, but I had run out of money, so I went to Tel Aviv to get some work. I stayed there for a couple of months, living in a hostel and working as a dishwasher in various restaurants and bars. In one place I worked with a Palestinian from the West Bank who said they didnât hate Jews, they just wanted their land back. I had never been told that side of the story in Sunday school and it made me think differently about the reality of the situation there.
Once Iâd saved enough shekels, I exchanged them on the black market in Jerusalem for dollars and set off for Egypt. I travelled around for a while, seeing the sites, then went out to the White Desert, between Egypt and Libya. I stayed there for a couple of weeks, living cheaply, lying in hot springs at night and looking up at the stars. During the day I would sit in the shade of the orange trees writing poetry. The simple beauty of village desert life enchanted me - five times a day the adhan (call to prayer) would float out from the mosque and I would watch as men in long robes slowly made their way to pray. Eventually I ran out of money, so had to leave, but something had stirred in my heart out there in the desert - a spiritual awakening had begun.
I didnât want to return to the UK, so I went to the now-infamous Rafah border to cross into âIsraelâ to get some work. I went up to Tel Aviv and heard about communities called âmoshavsâ where you could volunteer - similar to kibbutzes but you got paid. I registered and got sent back down to near the Gaza border to a small moshav called âPriganâ. I was later to learn that most of these âIsraeliâ communities were actually colonial settlements, often built over demolished Palestinian villages. Many of the Palestinians who had lived there were now refugees in Gaza, with no other choice but to come and work as labourers for their oppressors on the land that was rightfully theirs.
I spent three months in Prigan working with Palestinians picking tomatoes. I bonded with my fellow workers, many of whom were around my age, even though we shared no common language. We shared food and drink in our breaks and their kindness stood in stark contrast to the harsh treatment I received from my Israeli boss. He didnât like the Palestinians, or my friendship with them, calling them âdirty Arabsâ and saying I shouldnât share food and drink with them. I was shocked at his racism and said his attitude was the same as the Nazis towards the Jews. His only response was a strange, chilling smile, something Iâve seen many times since on the faces of Israelis. Itâs as if they are wreaking revenge for the Holocaust on the Palestinians.
It was 1989, the time of the first intifada, and often a curfew meant Palestinians couldnât get into âIsraelâ from Gaza to work on the moshav. So sometimes Mahmoud, who could drive the tractor, would stay with me in my shack behind the bossâs house. Despite our low wages and hard work, the Israelis wouldnât give us any tomatoes, so we would stuff our pockets with them while we worked, then Iâd watch Mahmoud cook up shakshuka on our single gas hob. Iâll never forget the smile on his face as he crushed the tomatoes with his hands onto the frying onions. And Iâve never tasted shakshuka like his. After we ate I would watch him pray, intrigued by the calm motions and soft recitation. One day on a break I could see some of the youths were talking about me. Suddenly one named Hassan, took my hand and said: Ashadu an la ilaaha illallah wa ashadu anna Muhammadan rasuwlullah - I testify there is no God but Allah and Muhammad is His messenger. I wasnât ready to convert then, but Hassan surely sowed a seed of faith that would blossom. May Allah bless him, and all the Gazans I met , may He reward them for their grace and hospitality in spite of the evil oppression they continue to experience.
My experiences in Egypt and Palestine inspired a search for the truth about our existence. Over the next decade I looked into various religions and spiritual paths, including Buddhism, Taoism, yoga and Thai Chi. None of them satisfied me completely, however, and around 1996 I found myself turning back to the religion I was born into - Judaism. I actually knew very little about Jewish teachings, beyond the stories of the Bible about Abraham, Moses and Joseph. I had heard about the Talmud and Kabbalah, but had no real Idea what they were, or what place they had in Judaism. I approached my study of Judaism with an open mind, ready to be convinced. What I discovered horrified me. Far from teaching love and kindness to all, the Talmud and Kabbalah are full of rabbis' discussions through about the differences between Jews and non-Jews in terms of law and spirituality. For example, the Talmud interprets the commandments in the Torah against stealing and murder as meaning a Jew should not steal from or murder another Jew. Doing the same to non-Jews is not seen as serious, and in some cases is even deemed praiseworthy. The Kabbalah states that Jewish souls are superior to non-Jewish souls, saying non-Jewish souls are closer to the souls of animals than of Jews. These racist views are hard to find in English translations, but they have been extensively researched by Hebrew speakers like Israel Shahak in Jewish Religion, Jewish History and Jewish Fundamentalism in Israel. While Reform or Progressive Jews will generally skip over these teachings, Orthodox Jews see the Talmud and Kabbalah as equal to the Torah itself - the latter being the written law and the former the oral law. Religious Zionists in Israel have taken these teachings one step further - they see themselves as living in messianic times where Talmudic law should be applied in full. Hence their zeal for killing Palestinians of any age - they literally see themselves as âcleansingâ the land of an inferior, rebellious species.
Disgusted with Judaism, I decided to look into Christianity. Reading the Gospels was generally a pleasant experience, especially after the twisted teachings of the Talmud. There was no distinction made between Christians and non-Christians in any way apart from belief. I found the idea of Jesus being the son of God, however, impossible to accept. Why would the Creator of the universe have a human son? It simply didnât make sense. And so I moved on to the last of the monotheistic religions - Islam.
The year was 1998 and I was studying International Relations in Brighton university. The internet was still young and I didnât use it much. So when I became interested in Islam I did what I always did when I wanted to learn about something - I got the book. I guess now Iâd Google it, or ask ChatGPT. The book of Islam, of course, is the Holy Quran. I still have the copy I found in a second-hand bookstore in London while on Easter break - a big old Yusuf Ali translation in green hardback.
I arrived back to Brighton, put the Quran on the shelf in my campus room and sat on my bed. None of my friends were back yet, so I didnât have much to do. I looked up at the Quran but felt apprehensive about opening it. Somehow I knew it was going to change my life. Eventually I summoned up the courage to pick it up and start reading - as with any book I started at the beginning.
Chapters in the Quran are called surahs - which is best translated as âenclosuresâ. Each surah âenclosesâ a number of messages or themes and there is a great deal of overlap in meaning and content between surahs. For example, the same message may be delivered in different ways, or the same story may be told with a different amount of detail. The surahs are not arranged in chronological order (i.e. they are not in the order in which they were revealed to the Prophet Muhammad pbuh). Verses of the Quran are called âayahsâ, which also means âsignsâ - each verse is a sign from our Creator that we should dwell upon.
The first surah of the Quran is Al Fatihah - The Opening:
Al hamdu lillahi rabbil 'alameen All praise is due to Allah, the Lord of the Worlds Arrahman irrahim The Most Gracious, the Most Merciful Maliki yawm iddeen The Master of the Day of Judgment Iyyaka na'budu wa iyyaaka nastaâeen You alone do we worship, and You alone do we ask for help. Ihdinas siratal mustaqeem Guide us to the straight path Siratal ladhina an'amta 'alayhim ghayril maghdubi 'alayhim walad daaleen The path of those upon whom Your favour has been bestowed, not those who have been incurred your wrath, nor those who have gone astray
I read through it quickly that first time, without really pondering its meaning. Once I started praying, however, I had to learn it by heart, as itâs recited in every prayer at least twice. This made me consider its meaning, something which Iâm still doing 27 years later. I donât know if I will ever truly understand it: what are the âworldsâ it speaks of? How do Allahâs grace and mercy manifest? Why are we told to say âYou alone do we worshipâ instead of âWe worship only Youâ? âBooks have been written answering these questions and more.
After Al Fatihah comes Al Baqarah - The Cow, the longest surah in the Quran. It is this surah, or rather its translation, that inspired me to become Muslim. In ayah 40, Allah says: âO children of Israel! Remember My favours upon you. Fulfill your covenant and I will fulfill Mine, and stand in awe of Me alone.â He then continues to describe that covenant: âDo not mix truth with falsehood or hide the truth knowingly. Establish prayer, pay charity and bow down with those who bow down.â (2:42-43) As I read, I was struck by the simple beauty of the message. It was so different from the Judaism I had grown up with, which seemed to be mostly about remembering events that happened ages ago. And it was nothing like the racist statements in the Talmud and Kabbalah. I wondered how this teaching had changed so much over the years. As if hearing my question, the Quran answered as I read on, describing how the Children of Israel worshipped the golden calf, questioned needlessly and constantly expressed dissatisfaction. They killed their Prophets and changed the words of God to suit their desires.
The experience of the Quran answering my thoughts is a phenomenon that will never cease to amaze me. I still experience it when reading, sometimes overtly, as with the Children of Israel, and sometimes more subtly, as if answering questions I didnât know I had. It offers a glimpse into the nature of the Quran as a living word - interacting with our minds and souls on levels we cannot even perceive. Bringing tears to the eyes of those who cannot even understand Arabic; inspiring millions to memorise it. His Word is beyond time and space, it follows no linear boundaries of past, present and future. And when read with comprehension it guides oneâs thoughts gently - like a soft wind caressing smoke from a candle.
I read on, despairing at the state of the people I came from, feeling the same alienation and disappointment I had felt growing up. And again, as if understanding where I was at, the words of the Quran spoke to my emotions, interlacing the admonishments to the Children of Israel with exhortations to be grateful, to be guided; making it clear that Allah will always accept true repentance. It was as if a window of light had opened, a doorway to another world, another way of being. I understood then that this book was not the words of another human being.
If the Quran was not the word of man, then it could only be the word of his Creator. Which meant I should accept it and become Muslim. This thought terrified me - what would my friends and family say? Would I be accepted by Muslims? Especially with modern-day Jews in Israel committing such heinous crimes against mainly Muslim Palestinians. Then I read Allah's words: ââŚso do not fear them, fear Meâ (2:150) and my fear of people evaporated - transformed into fear of Allah. I felt a serenity and clarity of purpose I had never felt before. I experienced directly, and still experience, that apparent contradiction wherein fear of God brings you closer to Him. As Allah states in the Quran "O you who have believed, fear Allah and seek the means [of nearness] to Him and strive in His cause that you may succeed." (5:35)
I sat in awe at the power of the Quranic message, noticing nothing apart from the beating of my heart. Indeed, it seemed to me it was beating too hard, so I went to the university health clinic and made an appointment to see the GP about it the next day. Back in my room, I carried on reading the Quran and came to this ayah: âWhoever Allah wills to guide, He opens their heart to Islamâ. (6:125). Tears filled my eyes as I realised what was happening. I cancelled my doctorâs appointment and asked my friend Ebrima how I could become Muslim. Once he saw I was sure, he arranged for me to take my shahadah (conversion) at the campus mosque the following Friday, after jummah (weekly congregational prayer).
That Friday I stood nervously in front of the packed crowd of Muslims. The imam took my hand and I recited after him: Ashadu an la ilaaha illallah wa ashadu anna Muhammadan rasuwlullah: I testify there is no God but Allah and Muhammad is His messenger. As I stumbled through the Arabic words, they triggered a flash of memory - I remembered hearing them 10 years before in occupied Palestine, from Hassan, my Gazan friend. The seed he sowed had finally sprouted. Alhamdulillah.
Since becoming Muslim 27 years ago the teachings of Islam and the Quran have guided my life in every way. Islam gives me a moral compass to navigate the world with and a spiritual connection to my Creator and other people. I strongly advise anyone searching for the truth about our existence to look into Islam with an open mind. Wa rabbana zidna âilman - may our Lord increase us in knowledge.