Tito Momen - My Name Used to Be Muhammad: The True Story of a Muslim Who Became a Christian

2013 Tito Momen, Jeff Benedict.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may bereproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from thepublisher, Ensign Peak. The views expressed herein arethe responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the positionof Ensign Peak.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

(CIP on file)

ISBN 978-1-60907-710-5

Printed in the United States of America
Publishers Printing, Salt Lake City, UT

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

AUTHORS NOTE

I was raised in a village in Nigeria where my family practiced a harsh form of Islam. When I was a teenager my father sent me to a radical Islamic school in Syria. Later I studied with members of the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt while pursuing a degree in Islamic studies. It was there, of all places, that I discovered Christianity, a faith I had been taught to despise, along with Judaism. I am the last person you might expect to become a Christian. But I did. And for that I was disowned by my family and sentenced to life in prison.

Thats right. My decision to believe in Jesus Christ cost me my family and my freedom.

But that decision also saved my life and taught me to believe in divine miracles. Some of my fellow inmates committed suicide. Some died of illness brought on by abuse and inhumane conditions. Others simply succumbed to hopelessness. But during my time behind bars, I never gave up hope. I never stopped believing. And after fifteen years I was released. That alone is a miracle.

Ive written my story to shed light on the suffering of countless others who are victims of religious persecution. Freedom of expression and freedom of worship are sacred rights. Yet still in many parts of the world religious minorities are arrested, abused, or worse.

Although I was falsely imprisoned, beaten, and ridiculed, I dont harbor any bitterness. Nor do I blame Islam. I recognize that my life experience with Islam has been one of extremes in terms of intolerance and violence. But there are millions of good and sincere Muslims in many countries who love God and family while practicing Islam in a tolerant and positive manner. I consider them my brothers and sisters. At the same time, I am indebted to Jesus Christ and countless Christians from many sects and churches who have accepted me. This book is a tribute to their kindness.

ARRIVAL

I can feel the plane descending. My ears are filling up. My stomach is queasy. Below, a carpet of lights illuminates a sea of skyscrapers. Id been told New York City was big, but I had never imagined it was this big. The buildings seem to touch the sky.

The passengers around me are asleep. Its 4:30 in the morning, and weve been flying all night. But Im wide awake. Other than dozing here and there, I havent slept. I havent eaten much, either. Too much adrenaline. My nerves are a mess too. I pull my seat back forward and give my seat belt an extra tug. Nice and tight. Im not scared. Im elated. Im over America.

Its been a long journey. Twenty-four hours ago I was in West Africa, eight time zones away. My name used to be Muhammad Awal Momen. Now my passport says Tito Momen.

chapter 1

THE CHOSEN ONE

November 21, 1965

Nguru, Nigeria

Wake up! Wake up!

Startled, I sprang up in bed. It was 4:45 in the morning. In the darkness I could see my fathers silhouette in the doorway. He had on his red Moroccan cap and an ash-colored gown over his trousers.

Well be late, he said. Hurry.

Anxious, I slid off my handmade cotton mattress onto a colorful mat made of palm leaves and hit the light switch. A single bulb at the end of an electrical cable dangling from the ceiling illuminated the concrete floor and the scarce furniture in my room: a crude wooden wardrobe and a rickety wooden chair under a matching table with a kerosene lamp and a Quran on it. The rooms only window was a two-foot-by-two-foot opening with three iron bars instead of a windowpane. It was my fifth birthday, and my presents hung from nails in the wall: white trousers, a long white gown, a white Moroccan cap, and a turban to wear over my cap.

I quickly dressed in my new outfit and grabbed my new string of ninety-nine plastic prayer beads, wrapping them around the fingers on my right hand. With my left hand I picked up my brand-new black leather sandals and headed for the door. My home was part of a compound that included six houses and a mosque. Relatives, mainly my uncles and cousins, owned the homes. My bedroom door opened to an outdoor walkway that led directly to the mosque. At the doorway I dropped my sandals over the threshold and onto the walkway. Then I stepped through the doorway, right foot first, and slid my feet into the sandals. Always exit and enter a room right foot first. Never wear shoes in the house. Those were the rules of Islam.

Careful not to step back into my bedroom with my shoes, I reached just inside the door and retrieved a blue kettle of water. Then I ran down the walkway to catch up with my father. Lean, wiry, and just under six feet tall, he had rich dark skin and walked with a slight limp.

Good morning, he said impatiently.

Good morning, Father.

Do you have your Misbaha?

I raised my right hand, showing him the prayer beads.

Good, he said. Dawn prayer is like starting the day with the Almighty.

I touched the tips of my beads and repeated the words: Allah is great. Allah is great. Allah is great.

Arriving at the mosque, my father went directly inside. He had gotten up early enough to perform his ablutions at home. I ducked into the open-air washroom at the entrance to the mosque. It had a concrete floor with a round hole in it for urinating, as well as a water trough that led to an outside gutter. I squatted over the hole. Standing causes urine to splatter, which is forbidden because urine is considered unclean. A prayer offered by a man with urine splattered on his garment would not be accepted.

I left the washroom with my water kettle and rushed through the purification procedure known as Wudhu. I washed my right hand three times, then my left, before rinsing out my mouth and nose three times. Then I washed my face, ears, and feet. Clean, I looked heavenward and pointed with my finger. I bear witness that there is no god except Allah alone, with no partner or associate, and I bear witness that Muhammad is His slave and Messenger.

Barefoot, I entered the mosque, clutching my beads. Individual rolled-up prayer mats lined the rear of the room. I passed through large wooden columns. Roughly thirty men from my villageall wearing trousers and V-neck shirts covered by full-length gowns, covered in turn by three-quarter-length gownswere lined up in perfectly straight rows, kneeling on mats, facing the front of the mosque. My father was in the front row, on all fours, his eyes closed, his forehead pressed to the floor. I knelt on the mat beside him. A few feet in front of us, my uncle Othman (Oath-mun) knelt alone on a slightly elevated platform, his back to us.

Othman was our imam. We called him Sheik Othman. He was tall, slim, and bald with a long gray beard; his top front teeth were big and crowded. At 5 a.m. sharp, he rose to his feet, wearing a white gown and white trousers.

The moment he stood, everyone else stood and shouted: Allah is great.

The imam raised his hands high above his head. Allah is great, he said.

All of us put our hands above our heads.

Allah is great, the imam said. I testify that Allah is the only God, and I testify that Muhammad is his prophet.