[“I don’t think any
Muslim leader has any hope of the United States being anything but a democratic system,” he said. Muslims
in other parts of the world aspire to adopt American-style democracy, he
pointed out. “That’s what this Arab Spring is all about.”]
By Michelle Boorstein
Iqbal Unus delayed the
start of his open house by an hour, hoping more candidates would show up to
hear about the country’s first accredited training program for Muslim clergy.
But by 7:30
p.m. , just three new people were
picking at plates of chicken and rice in the library of the International
Institute of Islamic Thought in Northern
Virginia .
If Unus, 67, was
discouraged, he didn’t show it. Instead, he launched into his sales pitch for
replacing imported imams with American-trained spiritual leaders.
“We must be able to put
Islam into an American context,” he declared.
It’s a noble sentiment,
but one that not all Americans accept at face value.
Unus has spent 40 years
building some of the country’s best-known Muslim organizations, but the past
decade has driven home how unsettled the relationship remains between his faith
and his country. And few places are more emblematic of that tension than the
library of the Herndon think tank where he works.
More than nine years
ago, federal agents looking for evidence of terrorism financing hustled Unus,
the institute’s director of administration, and his colleagues into this very
library. They were kept there for hours while computers and boxes of documents
were carted out.
At almost the same
time, 14 agents and police officers broke through the front door of Unus’s
house with a battering ram and handcuffed his wife and daughter — a
raid that sparked an unsuccessful civil rights lawsuit that the Unuses pursued
all the way to the Supreme Court.
Neither Unus nor any
other institute leaders has ever been charged in the government’s probe of a
network of Herndon-based Muslim charities, businesses and organizations. But
neither have they been formally cleared.
Unus has been wedged in
an uncomfortable limbo ever since — a predicament that resonates with many
Muslims who have encountered scrutiny and distrust in the years since the Sept.
11 terrorist attacks.
Sympathizers see Unus
as a founding father of American Islam whose rights and reputation were
trampled by overzealous investigators. Others have never stopped voicing doubts
about his loyalties and motives and
those of the organizations he’s led.
A start in the
’70s
The associations that
have made Unus an object of suspicion date back four decades, to his days as a
student at Georgia Tech in Atlanta .
After arriving from Pakistan in 1970 to study physics, he helped launch what are still
two of the country’s largest Muslim groups, the Muslim
Students Association and the Islamic Society of North America.
There was controversy
connected to both groups from the start. The organizations, funded with money
from Saudi
Arabia ,
were believed by many to have ties to the Muslim Brotherhood, an Islamist group
that was focused in the 1970s on freeing Muslims from Western influence.
Early student association
leaders such as Jamal Barzinji — now president of the think tank where Unus
works — condemned Muslim leaders for striving to adopt an alien, Western
worldview that “is in total denial of revelation as the source of guidance and
knowledge.” Islam needed to create its own modern economics, psychology and
art, he and others argued.
The institute, which
was founded in 1981 with about $8 million from a Saudi family, was meant
to be the movement’s intellectual backbone.
Asked to describe their
goals back then, Unus said they were trying to figure out why the Muslim world
was mired in poverty, “why Muslims were having trouble fully contributing to
contemporary culture.”
But some consider that
description misleading. They say the words of Barzinji and others are incompatible
with Western democracy.
Zuhdi
Jasser, who recently founded the American Islamic Forum for Democracy to challenge the ideology of the
more established U.S. Muslim groups, dismissed their interfaith work and prodemocracy
declarations as “intellectual jujitsu.” Such groups won’t acknowledge the
contradictions between their Islamist interpretations of the Koran and equal
rights for women and non-Muslims, he said.
“The vehicle is still
Islam,” said Jasser, a Muslim doctor whose views have been embraced by
conservatives. “And that’s not America .”
Steven Emerson, one of
the country’s most vociferous critics of the major U.S. Muslim groups, said the
institute’s real goal is the subversion of American institutions.
He noted the
connections between the institute and Muslim radicals, including Abdurahman
Alamoudi, a onetime State Department consultant who pleaded guilty to plotting
with Libya to assassinate the ruler of Saudi Arabia, and Sami
al-Arian, a former professor at the University of South Florida who pleaded
guilty to aiding a terror organization.
Unus, who became a U.S. citizen 30 years ago, denied that he or the groups he’s
been involved with support terrorists or radicals in any way.
He acknowledged that
some of the language Muslim immigrant leaders used early on reflected a “very
insular worldview, not language that was appropriate in a multicultural,
pluralistic environment.” But he said that was more a product of naiveté and
enthusiasm for spreading values that they eventually came to realize are not
unique to Islam.
There is no plan to
subvert American institutions, nor do U.S. Muslim organizations harbor hopes of
Islamicizing the country, Unus said.
“I don’t think any
Muslim leader has any hope of the United States being anything but a democratic system,” he said. Muslims
in other parts of the world aspire to adopt American-style democracy, he
pointed out. “That’s what this Arab Spring is all about.”
Unus hardly looks the
part of a Rorschach test on the aims of American Islam.
He’s a small, scholarly
man with a soft voice and graying wreath of beard who wears tailored suits and
drives a Buick. He shakes women’s hands — a no-no, in the view of many conservative
Muslims — because that’s what people here do.
“He’s more American
than anything else,” said John Voll, an Islamic history professor at Georgetown
University who has known Unus for years. In fact, Unus never once
returned to Pakistan .
But after years of
scrutiny, Unus is also guarded, carefully weighing his words and avoiding
potentially controversial subjects such as Israel or U.S. foreign policy. His five U.S.-born daughters were
off-limits for interviews. He wouldn’t agree to be photographed at his home.
His reticence can be
traced to a winter day more than nine years ago.
Handcuffed for
hours
When the agents pounded
on the front door, Unus’s wife, Aysha, was in a sunken living room in the back
of their home on Rock
Ridge Road in
Herndon.
At first, she thought
it was the delivery of a refrigerator. She said she was terrified when she
spotted black jackets and drawn rifles through a window. It was March 20, 2002 , little more than six months after the Pentagon had burned
and the Twin Towers had crumbled.
She screamed to her
daughter, Haana, then 18, who rushed downstairs to call 911. Then the front
door came down.
“You could hear [the
agents] break something, the wood or whatever, and they just came storming in,”
Haana Unus recounted in court documents. “It was a bunch of them, and one of
them had a gun . . . pointed at me, and he was yelling at
me to drop the phone and put my hands up.”
The women said their
hands were cuffed behind their backs and they were led to a couch. Other than
bathroom breaks, they were kept there for four hours.
They weren’t aware that
agents were fanning through the hallways of the institute and 18 other Muslim
homes, charities and businesses, searching for evidence of what they believed
was a major terrorism funding network.
Even now, Aysha Unus,
63, a tiny woman in a white, gold and navy head scarf and tunic, describes what
happened that day only reluctantly.
Agents denied their
plea to let them cover their hair in front of unfamiliar men. They said
officers would not initially show them a search warrant, accused Mrs. Unus of
having a fake driver’s license and asked the women — both U.S. citizens — if these American police weren’t “better than
yours.”
Multiple efforts to
speak with current and former U.S. agents who conducted the raids were unsuccessful. A
Justice Department spokesman said he couldn’t comment because the terrorism
financing probe remains open.
In court documents, the
agents said they identified themselves through the front door and watched Aysha
Unus run the other way. And an affidavit unsealed in 2003 laid out what a
Homeland Security agent described as “evidence of the transfer of large amounts
of funds” to terrorist organizations by the institute and other Herndon-based
Muslim groups.
But even within the
government, the raids were controversial. Dennis Lormel, who headed the FBI’s
terrorist financing operations section at the time and is now a private
consultant, said he refused to let his agents participate alongside those from
U.S. Customs and other agencies because he didn’t believe the evidence was
strong enough.
“Unfortunately,” Lormel
said, the targets “were maligned by that investigation, and quite frankly I
think that investigation should never have happened.”
Other officials
maintain the investigation led to several indictments and the conviction of
Alamoudi. But Nancy Luque, a lawyer who represents the Unuses and the other
Muslims targeted by the raids, disputes that.
“No evidence of
wrongdoing was ever found,” she said. “Every single thing they took was
returned, and it was never used in court as evidence against anyone.”
As for the legality of
the raids, the courts sided with the government.
The raids “must have
been a harrowing experience” for the Unus family, a federal appeals
panel concluded in 2009. But considering what agents believed to be in the
house, they acted legally, the judges ruled in a 46-page opinion. (The decision
notes that Iqbal Unus “was not suspected of committing any crimes.”)
Unus himself talks
about the raids with a practiced distance. He always tells the same story, about the
stranger who was waiting at the institute’s doorstep the next day with flowers
and sympathy. It was reminiscent, he said, of the outpouring of support from
neighbors and local leaders after Sept. 11.
“Even now the news
stories that dominate about Muslims are about this whole thing of Islamophobia
and people burning the Koran, but these are extreme minorities,” he said.
“There are a lot of people who want to develop relationships and create peace.”
Still, the impact of
that day loomed over the household.
Hanaa barely ate,
couldn’t sleep and was afraid to leave her mother alone. Aysha still startles
at a knock on the door.
“This is the worst
thing,” she said. “America says you’re safe in your own home, but now I know that’s
not true.”
She couldn’t bear the
sight of the couch where she and Hanaa had sat in handcuffs, so the Unuses got
rid it.
The family decided to
fix but not replace the front door. In case someone breaks it down again.
Changing
perceptions
A few days before the
start of Ramadan, dozens of Muslim teenagers streamed into a community room at
the All Dulles Area Muslim Society, Unus’s mosque, to be recognized for
completing a three-day leadership seminar. The boys sat on one side of the
room, the girls on the other, as a parade of speakers lauded their ambitions
and achievements.
Yet even here, the
outside world’s fears about American Muslims intruded. A few of the speakers
were government officials who didn’t want to be publicly identified, as if
their mere presence at a mosque could stir critics.
“The antipathy people
have toward your community is higher than it’s been in years,” one official
warned the teens. “You can’t run away from that. If you’re not speaking up,
people will talk about you, they won’t talk to you.”
Unus listened from the
boy’s section, sitting alongside high school students already leading
organizations, winning academic awards and speaking like pros before crowds of
adults.
They are the kind of
go-getters he has struggled to recruit to his fledgling imam-training program,
which was launched last year in partnership with Hartford Seminary in Connecticut .
The first year’s class
had only 10 people, a reflection of the lack of pay and prestige typically
accorded imams in the United States . But the first graduate from an accredited U.S. program marched across Hartford ’s stage earlier this summer.
Unus believes more will
follow, just as he believes that the young people gathered at ADAMS will
alter public perceptions of Islam. A decade of suspicion hasn’t shaken that
faith.