Faking faith to fool death squads

EVERY night when he comes home from work, Assem al-Hassani sits down and studies. His wife Sausan teaches him the names of the 12 Shia imams, where they prayed and where they are buried. But this is no religious madrassa — Assem is a Sunni, learning from his Shia wife how to pretend to be a Shia to avoid the sectarian death squads stalking Baghdad.

I think I’ve made the point before that I no longer subscribe to religiosity, but I do hold on to some core values, and needless to say, memories from my religious past.

The very idea of having to ‘pretend’ the attributes of a different religious tribe as a survival technique assaults every principle of faith. But we see it, whether it is in deadly Baghdad or downtown Chilliwack; whether Muslim or Christian, organized religion makes total compliance an imperative.

The odd thing is, I have always witnessed the real compassion, the ‘deal with the issue first and worry about judgment later’, coming predominantly from the un-churched. Most of us have some degree of spiritual influence on our lives; obviously there are fewer barriers to actually practicing those values if you aren’t restricted by organizational imperatives.

A friend of mine in Sydney, a Lebanese guy, was caught up in a plane hijacking in Beirut some years back. He is Christian Lebanese, he is ‘christian’ in every sense of charity and compassion.

Although he is non-practicing, he wears a small cross on a chain, which I guess is a tribal symbol as much as anything.

The story of his ordeal was grueling from start to finish, held blindfolded for days and hearing people around him dying or being killed. But the episode tat struck me most was the moments of dilemma as the captors first moved down the plane.

“Shit!” he was thinking, “I’m wearing a cross!” In those minutes he was frozen by thoughts of self-preservation, of denial, of simply being caught trying to dispose of the offending symbol. I doubt he even considered the futility of pretending to be Muslim.

In the end he was bundled up and carted off with all the other infidels. I suspect that inability to deny who he really is, deep below even his own self-awareness, also helped him survive the horrific ordeals of the next few weeks.

But I often think about Nem when I’m under pressure, and thank him silently for his example. After all he went through he is still the most compassionate person I’ve known, and he does it without thinking or rationalizing.

I can understand the dilemma facing ordinary people in Baghdad, I can really sympathize with the need for survival. It speaks of some kind of deep optimism, a belief that tomorrow or the next day might be better, that there is a future.

But somehow it seems more dehumanizing to be forced to deny who you really are, regardless of the consequences.