Part 18 (1/2)

As is the case with many followers of Jesus, my public declaration of faith broke the hearts of my mother and father, brothers, sisters, and friends.

My friend Jamal was one of the few people who stood by my family in their shame and cried with them. Terribly lonely after I left, Jamal met a beautiful young woman, got engaged, and was married two weeks after the Haaretz Haaretz article appeared. article appeared.

Attending his wedding, my family couldn't hold back their tears because Jamal's wedding reminded them of me, how I had destroyed my future, and how I would never marry and have a Muslim family. Seeing their sadness, even the new bridegroom started to cry. Most of the other people in the wedding cried, too, but I'm sure it was for a different reason.

”Couldn't you wait to make your announcement until two weeks after after I got married?” Jamal asked me in a phone conversation later. ”You made the best thing in my life a disaster.” I got married?” Jamal asked me in a phone conversation later. ”You made the best thing in my life a disaster.”

I felt awful. Thankfully, Jamal remains my best friend.

My father received the news in his prison cell. He woke up to learn that his oldest son had converted to Christianity. From his perspective, I had destroyed my own future and his family's future. He believes that one day I will be taken to h.e.l.l before his eyes, and then we will be estranged forever.

He cried like a baby and would not leave his cell.

Prisoners from every faction came to him. ”We are all your sons, Abu Mosab,” they told him. ”Please calm down.”

He could not confirm the news reports. But a week later, my seventeen-year-old sister, Anhar, who was the only family member allowed to visit him, came to the prison. Immediately, he could see in her eyes that it was all true. And he couldn't control himself. Other prisoners left their visiting families to come and kiss his head and weep with him. He tried to catch his breath to apologize to them, but he only wept harder. Even the Israeli guards, who respected my father, cried.

I sent him a six-page letter. I told him how important it was for him to discover the real nature of the G.o.d he has always loved but never known.

My uncles waited anxiously for my father to disown me. When he refused, they turned their backs on his wife and children. But my father knew that if he disowned me, Hamas terrorists would kill me. And he kept his covering over me, no matter how deeply I had wounded him.

Eight weeks later, the men at Ktzi'ot Prison in the Negev threatened to riot. So Shabas, the Israel Prison Service, asked my father to do what he could to defuse the situation.

One day my mother, who had been in weekly contact since my arrival in America, called me.

”Your father is in the Negev. Some of the prisoners have smuggled in cell phones. Would you like to talk to him?”

I couldn't believe it. I didn't think I would get a chance to talk to my dad until he was released from prison.

I called the number. No one answered. I called again.

”Alo!”

His voice. I could barely speak.

”Hi, Father.”

”Hi there.”

”I miss your voice.”

”How are you?”

”I am good. It doesn't matter how I am. How are you?”

”I am okay. We came here to talk to prisoners and try to calm the situation down.”

He was the same. His chief concern was always for the people. And he always would be the same.

”How is your life in the USA now?”

”My life is great. I am writing a book . . .”

Every prisoner was given only ten minutes, and my father would never use his position to get special treatment. I wanted to discuss my new life with him, but he didn't want to talk about it.

”No matter what happened,” he told me, ”you are still my son. You are part of me, and nothing will change. You have a different opinion, but you still are my little child.”

I was shocked. This man was unbelievable.

I called again the next day. He was sick at heart, but he was listening.

”I have a secret I need to tell you,” I said. ”I want to tell you now, so you don't hear it from the media.”

I explained that I had worked for the s.h.i.+n Bet for ten years. That he was still alive today because I had agreed to have him put into prison for his protection. That his name was at the top of Jerusalem's a.s.sa.s.sination list-and that he was still in prison because I was no longer there to ensure his safety.

Silence. My dad said nothing.

”I love you,” I said finally. ”You will always be my father.”

Postscript It is my greatest hope that, in telling my own story, I will show my own people-Palestinian followers of Islam who have been used by corrupt regimes for hundreds of years-that the truth can set them free.

I tell my story as well to let the Israeli people know that there is hope. If I, the son of a terrorist organization dedicated to the extinction of Israel, can reach a point where I not only learned to love the Jewish people but risked my life for them, there is a light of hope.

My story holds a message for Christians too. We must learn from the sorrows of my people, who carry a heavy burden trying to work their way into G.o.d's favor. We have to get beyond the religious rules we make for ourselves. Instead, we must love people-on all sides of the world-unconditionally. If we are going to represent Jesus to the world, we have to live his message of love. If we want to follow Jesus, we must also expect to be persecuted. We should be happy to be persecuted for his sake.

To Middle East experts, government decision makers, scholars, and leaders of intelligence agencies, I write with the hope that a simple story will contribute to your understanding of the problems and potential solutions in one of the most troubled regions of the world.