By Elizabeth Evans Hagan
Egypt and its political future has been on all of our minds recently, especially if we have ears at all turned toward the Middle East.
Questions swirl: “What will happen if Mubarak leaves office?” “How will America fare if Israel’s only ally in the Middle East is no more?” “How can Islamic extremists be stopped from gathering in Cairo’s square?”
The undercurrent to all of this, I believe, is fear. If a pro-Israel president loses power and new Islamic leaders emerge, what might become of Christians in the United States? It boils down to a simple truth: the presence of and discussion about Islam ignites fear.
I’ve examined this fear as part of an Interfaith Delegation of Peace to Israel from which I just returned. Traveling with Islamic lay and clergy helped me to think less like a suspicious American and instead to turn to the spiritual practice of friendship.
Meet two of my traveling companions:
Imam Salaam, who is among the retired clergy-in-residence at Masjid Muhammad in Washington D.C., first endeared himself to me when we found out our families came from a similar region of the country with parents also in the church business.
As we drove into some of the highly contested areas of Israel — in particular Hebron — my compassion grew as I watched check-point guards look at him suspiciously, simply for his religious path of choice.
As we arrived at the Tomb of the Patriarchs, Imam Salaam was searched carefully — as if his intent were to do harm. Yet the imam held his head high, not in bitterness or anger but in love toward those who wanted to judge him by the color of his skin and the type of prayers from his mouth. Imam Salaam loved what some might call his enemies. I was moved in spirit to see him in action.
Then, there was my new Palestinian friend, Aziz, who served as our tour guide and who is also a part of the Muslim faith.
My first long conversation with Aziz, a native of East Jerusalem, was when we discovered we both like country music. I learned he is eager to visit the city of my birth, Nashville, Tenn., to see the music sites.
My respect for Aziz grew as I learned that the most important virtue in his life was forgiveness. He could have joined a fundamentalist regime after his brother met an early death under the Israeli’s army’s brutality in the late 1980s. Instead he chose a path of healing and accepted peacemaking as a career.
He serves now as the director of Middle East programs for George Mason University in Arlington, Va. Through all kinds of venues he seeks to bring Jews, Christians and Muslims together for conversation, even when this might endanger his own life. Aziz loves what some might call his forbidden neighbors. I was moved in spirit to see him move about the conflicted region in ease.
From the comfort of home, I now see the conflict in Egypt through their eyes. My Israel journey taught me how wrong it is to first think “Muslim” equals “less than.”
Religious tradition doesn’t dictate basic truths about what it means to be human. It’s something we all share, no matter to whom we pray. We all want to be safe. We all want to be loved. We all want those we love to be safe.
Maybe this crisis in Egypt is the call sounding for us, as concerned world citizens, to think about how we need to know “the other” before we assume to support one side or judge others. Maybe just maybe, there are countless other stories to share, journeys to take and music to enjoy.
There might be more brothers, more sisters, more friends — waiting for us both around the globe and right in our communities of residence — if we lead with love instead of fear.