Aisha Sherazi, National Post Toronto
As a Muslim, my own faith journey began when a co-worker committed suicide by hanging himself, using sheets from his bedroom window. He was the life and soul of the party, and I was in my early 20s, young and shocked. I wondered: What happens when we die?

It was eventually my study of the life of the prophet Mohamed that would lead me to choose Islam as my path, and I have never looked back.

When I embraced the Islamic faith, the Internet was in its infancy. I had to learn about my new faith the old-fashioned way, using books, talking to people, and reaching out to God.

I was just about to begin my second year at university when a young man approached me at the start of term, initially skirting around the subject. “Erm, you look different … there’s something different about you,” he stammered. Finally, he blurted out: “Are you Muslim now?”
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When I said that I was, he said: “In that case, it is my duty to tell you that you are not wearing your scarf according to Shariah law.”

I was dazed for a moment, but found my feet quickly. “I’m disappointed in you,” I said. “You haven’t asked me what support I need, if I know any other Muslims, or indeed if I even know how to pray. Is this ” — clothing — “what you choose to define your faith?”

He walked away. But he was to return, with a book about how to pray, tucked within a magazine called Khilafah. The publication was produced by a group in the UK that promotes a politicized brand of Islam at universities.

At the time, I did not consider the influence of such groups to be significant. Yet even then, I was aware of activists arguing that the only way to achieve enlightenment was to establish an Islamic State.

That didn’t interest me, and I returned the magazine. The memory makes me realize: Compared to today’s youth, who are bombarded with all sorts of information on their smartphones — not just a magazine or two — I had a very shielded upbringing.

Influential Imam Suhaib Webb, of the Islamic Society of Boston Cultural Center, suggests that radicalization does not happen to young people who have a strong grounding in the American Muslim mainstream. Increasingly, it happens online, and sometimes abroad, among those who are disconnected from others.

This sense of disconnection is not representative of North American Muslims as a whole

He’s right, and what happened in Boston seems to be an example of this phenomenon.

When I look at the face of Tamerlan Tsarnaev, the dead suspect in last week’s Boston bombings, I feel great sadness. He is reported to have shouted at the imam in the middle of a Friday service — calling him a “non-believer” as the imam praised the life and work of Dr. Martin Luther King in his sermon. It takes a certain kind of courage to stand up in the middle of an entire congregation, and say what you think. In another context, in the hands of someone else, his courage would have been an asset. Instead, it turned into something deadly and hateful.

The younger Tsarnaev brother seems to have rarely attended mosque at all. Apparently, he was out partying with friends following the bombings, as though nothing had happened. This shows a disconnect, not only from community, but also from reality itself.

This sense of disconnection is not representative of North American Muslims as a whole. The two terror suspects arrested this week in Canada are a case in point: Intelligence on the plot apparently came from an imam in the Muslim community itself, someone who did not share the suspects’ alleged taste for nihilistic violence.

Nonetheless, in the end, we are left with a sad truth: As members of a community, we Muslims can work hard with our youth, put on programs and educate them, provide love and warmth for them early on. But the reality is, we can’t reach everyone.

National Post