Book excerpt: 'My Name Used to be Muhammad'
It has been more than 22 years since Tito Momen was arrested in Cairo, Egypt, for converting from Islam to Christianity. At that time, Momen, who was being trained to become a leader among clerics and struggling with alcohol problems, says he knew that being a Christian in Cairo was a dangerous situation.
"I knew that they would be very mad and disappointed in me," Momen says about his conversion. "In the community, they couldn't forgive me."
The Egyptian Constitution seemingly allows for religious freedom, but the government does not recognize Muslim conversions to Christianity, or the Mormon church at all, even though a branch has been operating in Cairo for almost 40 years.
That unrest continues today. In April, a mob attacked the main cathedral of the Coptic Orthodox Church in Cairo during a funeral. Shortly after Egyptian President Mohammaed Morsi was overthrown in the summer, there had been almost 40 attacks on Coptic Christian establishments -- schools, churches, businesses -- in the two days following the raids on pro-Morsi encampments. Last month, a drive-by shooting on a wedding party at the Church of the Virgin Mary in suburban Cairo killed three and left 18 wounded.
"What's happening in Egypt has only gotten worse since I was there," he says.
The following is an excerpt from Momen and Jeff Benedict's book, "My Name Used to Be Muhammad: The True Story of a Muslim Who Became a Christian," which was released this week. The book details Momen's 15-year imprisonment in Egypt for converting from Islam to Christianity. His story is a unique intersection of Islam and Mormonism, the two fastest growing religions in the U.S. News of his conversion, which was reported by his wife to the Muslim Brotherhood, resulted in serious consequences. His mother would commit suicide and his father would disown him. When he was sentenced for illegally preaching prohibited theology, he was not allowed to appeal, or even have visitors come see him. His time in prison featured his fellow inmates committing suicide, while others died of illness brought on by abuse and inhumane conditions inside the Egyptian prison.
Right before his imprisonment, everything in Momen's life that was stable began to unravel, which forced him to try to flee Cairo. In this excerpt, which has been edited for length, Momen recalls his attempt to leave the country by traveling to Canada through Spain with a fake passport.
***
It was early in the morning when my Chadian friend burst through the door of his home with airline tickets and my new passport. The name on both said Adam Islam. That was my new name. Not very original. But I was grateful and anxious. My flight was due to leave in a few hours. That meant I had very little time to get to the airport and memorize my new birthday, place of birth, home address, and other vital information.
My years of training memorizing the Qur’an came in handy. By the time we got to the Cairo airport, I had everything down. The trick was going to be acting relaxed if a customs official asked me to recite any of this information.
Thy will be done. I kept telling myself that as I made my way past the check-in counter and then onto customs. The agent’s eyes went from me to my passport and back again. Then, he scrutinized my paperwork. It was the longest sixty seconds of my life. Finally, he handed me my passport and let me pass. Next, I went through a simple pat-down search.
By the time I approached the gate, my shirt was soaked with sweat. I felt as if I had just run a marathon. I was completely drained. I practically collapsed when I boarded the plane and found my seat. The roar of the jet engine might as well have been a choir of angels from heaven. Once we started to taxi down the runway, I finally felt safe.
I kept thanking God as we became airborne. I cried as I looked down on the pyramids, the River Nile and all the familiar places I had come to know so well. “Good-bye,” I whispered, my face pressed against the window.
I had fallen in love with Cairo. The first time I went through there as a sixteen-year-old en route to Syria, the city had seemed wicked to me. That was then. Living there had changed me. It was the place where I had found my first love. It was where I discovered Western culture. It was big, fast, and diverse...and so far away from Nigeria. Maybe it was the atmosphere. But I had felt safe there, safe enough to let down my guard and experiment with such new things as music, alcohol, and professional pursuits outside the clergy. Some of those things brought me heartache and pain. But without them I never would have found the gospel of Jesus Christ. That, more than anything, had changed my life and opened my eyes to possibilities that had been impossible to imagine as a young man being trained for the clergy in Islam.
Strangely, I had come full circle with Cairo. As the city faded out of view, I saw it as evil again. Not the people or the culture, but the political regime, particularly the police, was so corrupt that someone in my shoes had to live in fear. Not anymore. I put my head back and fell asleep.
By the time I woke up, the plane was descending. I had never been in Spain before. And though I was scheduled to spend only a few hours in the airport, I was eager to have a look around.
When I stepped off the plane, a couple of security officers were positioned just inside the terminal. One of them motioned me toward him with his hand. “Passport,” he said.
I handed it to him.
He flipped through it. Then, he looked at me. Then, he said something in Spanish to his colleague.
“Come with me,” he said.
I followed him to an immigration counter. A customs official thumbed through my passport and escorted me through the checkpoint and into an office waiting area. “Have a seat,” he told me.
I couldn’t help being nervous. What if there was something wrong with my paperwork?
Soon, an Arab family was escorted in and told to wait. Then, a Nigerian man was ushered in. Within minutes, they were cleared and on their way. An hour later, I was still sitting there. Finally, I approached the window. “My flight is leaving in forty-five minutes,” I told a man in a uniform.
“They know. They know. Just sit down and wait.”
Another fifteen minutes passed, and a uniformed woman entered the waiting area. “Excuse me,” I said to her. “I’ve been waiting here a long time, and I don’t know why I’m here. I’m about to miss my connecting flight. Can you help me?”
“I will check for you.”
She went behind the glass. I could see her huddling with male officers, one of whom opened a secured door and motioned me toward him with his hand. He had my passport and a boarding pass. “Come with me,” he said.
I followed him all the way to baggage claim. “Do you see your bag?” he asked.
I spotted my suitcase against a wall. The officer checked the name tag on the suitcase against my ticket. Then, he walked my suitcase and me to customs. After an agent searched my suitcase, the officer led me to the ticket counter for Egypt Air. A ticket agent handed the officer a new ticket for me. I wasn’t sure if my flight to Canada had been delayed or if I was being put on a later flight. But as soon as we left the Egypt Air counter, the officer hurriedly led me through the terminal and directly to a gate where flight attendants were waiting. All the other passengers on the flight had already boarded. The officer handed me my passport and rushed me onto the plane. He escorted me all the way to my seat and even helped me get my suitcase on board.
The cabin was hot and packed. But I didn’t care. I was just relieved to be on board. The officer rushed off the plane without saying another word, and the next thing I knew the plane was taxiing down the runway. That’s when I heard the pilot’s voice for the first time.
He was speaking Arabic.
“My God,” I said under my breath.
I looked around me. Then, I looked over my shoulder. Everyone on board was an Arab. I wasn’t heading to Canada. I was on a flight back to Cairo. A feeling of doom swept over me.
Convinced that Egyptian authorities were onto me, I had no doubt they’d be waiting for me when I stepped off the plane in Cairo. I would be arrested. The fake passport in my hand was my ticket to jail. I knew what police custody was like in Egypt. A guy like me—an African Muslim who had converted to Christianity and tried leaving the country with false papers—would be subject to persecution.
I had to do something. But what? I was airborne. There was no place to run. Nowhere to hide. Sitting there, I wished for something I never imagined I’d want. I wished for Palestinian terrorists to hijack the plane and reroute it to Cypress or anyplace besides Cairo. I was that desperate.
Then, I had an idea. I unbuckled my seat belt and headed to the restroom. Once inside, I locked the door and tore my passport into tiny pieces. I tore up my ticket, too. Then I flushed them down the toilet. I figured I should at least destroy any evidence that I had falsified my identity. I realized that this created a new problem for me. I was going to have to explain how I got on board with no identification. But I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.
Shortly after I returned to my seat, the plane started shaking violently. The turbulence got so bad that it felt like the plane was going to come apart. Cries of “God is great” in Arabic rang throughout the cabin. The cries continued until the plane stabilized just before landing in Cairo. The moment the passengers exited the plane they dropped to their knees on the runway and put their foreheads to the ground, shouting: “God is great. God is great.”
I didn’t thank God. I wasn’t happy to be in Cairo.
Egyptian police officers were waiting for me.
“Welcome back,” one of them said to me. “You think you can run away from us?”
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