This month of August, year 2019, marks 31 years of my father’s imprisonment. He was charged, found guilty, and sentenced to life in prison for the murder of a man who offended him for playing his radio too loud in front of our apartment door. And so it was that on August 19th, 1988 at the age of 16, I was led into the courtroom chained and shackled to stand before the judge alongside my father, whose fetters resounded at the pronouncement of the charge of murder arrayed against us; father and son… now co-defendants.
As a juvenile, smug and irascible, I took a plea bargain of aggravated manslaughter and was sentenced to 4 years for my participation in a street fight that would claim the life of a precious soul. This was NOT “a calculated well thought out plan bent on murder” as the prosecutors insisted. But rather an unfortunate series of events that spiraled out of control in one split second of unchecked emotions. Emotions filled with an intensity of pent up provocations derived from an insidious ambiance that harbors offenses, disrespect, and deep-seated contentions.
What is a murderer? A Murderer is one who relishes in his or her acts of barbarism. A callous heart that cannot rest or enjoy his bread unless it spills the blood of another, and my father was NOT that. While it is true that we did deserve to serve time in prison, my father’s parole denial at the age of 77, after having already served 30 years in prison especially at a time when news outlets and newspaper columnists celebrate the status of so-called “reputed gang leader/drug dealers” who’s star power is increased once they are released to continue in the chaotic cycle of decimating our communities and the lives of our youth with poison is unacceptable & appalling. I must state that in my observations, the parole board and the whole prison industrial complex has what I call a meticulously orchestrated selective process of determining which prisoners are most likely to return to prison. In order for them to release, you must return; henceforth creating a perennial residual profit for the prison industrial complex. So whatever one commits, murder or theft, it makes no difference to the system as long as their intended targets are susceptible and weak-minded individuals and are prone to cowardly acts of desperation as a means to merely exist and survive. They will haphazardly sacrifice every God-given gift and talent in exchange for a vain degradation of humanity while the strong ones who will gladly sacrifice their very own lives for the many, remain behind bars. The latter are strong-willed firebrands with wings attached to their ageless limp called ‘contradiction’. For at one time they ruled the streets and were responsible for the irreparable breaches done to our inner cities across America. They are a threat with a promise.
I can remember that after serving my 4-year sentence, I took a one-way ticket to Chicago to be with my brother who was working for my father’s brother, Uncle Adnan. Within a couple of weeks, indignant about our condition at the time, I convinced my brother to assist me in robbing our uncles liquor grocery store located in the south side of Chicago. We were caught within one week after having fled to New Jersey. This time I stood before the court alongside my one and only sibling…My brother. As the judge read aloud the charges of murder and armed robbery, I had a brief flashback of a 16-year-old younger self.
My brother remained in the Middlesex County jail while I was promptly hauled off in the middle of the night to Trenton State Prison, deemed as a violent security threat to the county jail’s general population. Ironically, I was being sent to the same prison where my father had so far served 4 years out of his 30-year sentence. It was 1993 and after 1 week of orientation I was now admitted into general population. I would now get to see my father for the first time in 4 years as I walked among a group of new arrivals into the big yard. With tears in my eyes I recall this moment. To my far right against the big wall surrounded by at least 10-15 militant Muslim men, I beheld a white bearded man whose smile was like the Sun… beckoning me to come forward. My father, inmate #223677 leaped toward me with a wail uncontainable in its joy and agony and cried for all to hear “My son! My son!” He wrapped his arms around me just like he did when I was a child afraid that I would fall off the wonder wheel over at Coney Island.
It was here in this prison that for the first time, I got to know my dad; the man, the friend, the comrade! His eloquence and his passion as he preached from the Quran and taught the men how to speak Arabic was captivating. A large number of Muslims in the New Jersey department of corrections were birthed from the loins of my father. Many of them were considered some of the most powerful men in prison. From my father’s personal armor bearer, Mustafa Al Shabazz, who was allegedly accused of murdering Malcom X, to my friend Sekou who was allegedly accused of sending his men, the BLA, to breaking out his girlfriend Joanne Chesimard aka Assata Shakur out of prison.
I would spend a couple of years with these men before being extradited back to Chicago to stand trial with my brother, but this is a long story. Today I am a free man. I am a husband, a father, and a believer in the Most High God. My father on the other hand, is due to appear before the parole board again next year 2020. I still cannot understand how My father… a Palestinian man born in Jerusalem, a former businessman and self-made millionaire, so charismatic and extraordinary, is still being held like a caged lion even after so many years. This time I pray that he is granted his freedom for my father is NOT a murderer.
RETURNING IN TRIUMPH 