Muslim women: My headscarf is not a threat

Last year at Christmastime, Rehan Seyam, a Muslim living in New Jersey, went to pick up some things at a local Wal-Mart. Seeing her distinctive traditional Muslim head covering called a "hijab," a man in the store, addressing her directly, sang "The 12 Days of Christmas" using insulting lyrics about terrorism and Osama bin Laden.

She was stunned.

"Do I look like a terrorist to you?" Seyam said she asked the man.

According to Seyam, the man replied, "What else does a terrorist look like?"

Such stories are not altogether uncommon for Muslim Americans. According to a recent poll by the Pew Research Center, 53 percent of Muslims living in America said it has become more difficult to be a Muslim in the United States since the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks. Fifty-one percent said they are "very worried" or "somewhat worried" that women wearing the hijab are treated poorly, according to the poll.

A simple headscarf generally used by women to hide the hair from view, the hijab has become so controversial among some that several countries have banned or considered banning Muslim women from wearing them in public places. In light of this contentiousness, why do Muslim women choose to wear the hijab? Watch the making of CNN's TV special "God's Warriors" »

Gehad al-Khalek lives in Egypt and says the hijab is a focus on inner beauty.

"I want to shift the attention from my outer self to my inner self when I deal with someone, I don't want them to look at me in a way that wouldn't suit me," she told CNN in an upcoming documentary called "God's Warriors."

Al-Khalek is fluent in English and German; studied in Europe; plays Western music on her guitar; and spent time working for a women's rights organization.

She wears the hijab -- and says it's not just for religious reasons.

"My own conclusion was it is debatable whether it is a religious obligation or not, but I chose to keep it on because I do believe in modesty and you shouldn't be showing off yourself," al-Khalek said.

The Quran calls for women to be modest in their dress but interpretation of the edict varies widely, according to religious experts who spoke with CNN. An author who has written widely on Islam told CNN the Quran does not require women to wear the hijab.

"There's nothing in the Quran about all women having to be veiled or secluded in a certain part of the house. That came in later [after Prophet Mohammed's time]," said religious historian and author Karen Armstrong.

For Seyam, the hijab is a religious duty. "It's God's wish," she said.

"It's a requirement by God. He wants us to cover. He wants us to be modest," Seyam said.

But as important as the hijab is to her, Seyam's decision to cover her hair wasn't one she made easily.

"It was very dramatic for me. And I remember, even now thinking about it, it really does make my heart beat a little bit faster," she said, "I was making a decision I knew was permanent. You put on hijab, you don't take it off."

Through her childhood growing up in Long Island, New York, Seyam prayed with her devout Muslim parents, but says she was just "going through the motions." It wasn't until college that she decided to wear a hijab consistently.

Influenced by her more devout friends, Seyam decided being a good Muslim meant covering her head.

"My sole purpose is to be here for the sake of Allah, and I'm doing something that he specifically says that you should be doing."

Seyam said there were practical factors in her decision as well. "I'm sick of guys catcalling. It was just driving me crazy. I felt like a piece of meat."

But Seyam says she traded in catcalling for a different kind of negative attention. People "look at me as if I am threatening and I do not feel like I am threatening looking. I don't feel I should instill fear in anybody's heart, but I do feel like I get dirty looks," she said.

Still, Seyam says her faith sustains her and that wearing the hijab is an important part of that faith.

"I'm not here to live my life and do whatever I want. I'm here to worship God," Seyam said. "I don't think that everybody has that, and I think that I'm lucky for it."

Rejecting radical Islam -- one man's journey

The path to faith often takes unexpected twists. In the case of Daveed Gartenstein-Ross, the road went through three of the world's major religions -- Judaism, Islam and Christianity -- and ultimately brought him to the FBI.

Born to Jewish parents who call themselves mystics, he grew up in what he calls the "liberal hippie Mecca" of Ashland, Oregon, a town of about 20,000 near the California border. It was in this ultraliberal intellectual environment that a young Gartenstein-Ross experimented with a radical form of Islam that eventually led him to shun music, reject women's rights and even refuse to touch dogs because he believed this was "according to God's will."

"I began to pray for the mujahedeen, for these stateless warriors who were trying to topple secular governments," he said.

His journey began in 1997, when as a junior at Wake Forest University, he began to examine his own spiritual identity after experiencing a couple of brushes with death caused by illness. "That kind of thing can cause spiritual discomfort and make you reevaluate what it is that you're living for," he told CNN in an upcoming documentary called "God's Warriors." Watch behind-the-scenes with CNN's Christiane Amanpour »

A college friend introduced him to Islam and he was intrigued by its peaceful message. "Islam was a very simple faith and as I learned more and more about it, it seemed more and more fascinating to me," he said.

That fall, he called home to tell his parents he was planning to become a Muslim.

"We felt it was OK," his father Moshe Ross said. "We were glad that he was going to study something and hopefully seriously. And we were happy with Islam."

When Gartenstein-Ross returned to Ashland, he got his first taste of radicalization when an imam at a local makeshift mosque blasted Western society.

"His argument was that the West was so inherently corrupt, so inherently anti-Islamic, that if we stayed in this society, then inevitably our faith would be eroded," said Gartenstein-Ross, who chronicled his experience in a book called "My Year Inside Radical Islam."

The humble mosque would soon move to a hilltop headquarters in Ashland, thanks to financial support from a Saudi Arabian charity known as the Al-Haramain Islamic Foundation, which has since been shut down by U.S. and Saudi authorities for alleged terror ties. Lawyers for Al-Haramain have denied those charges and have filed suit against the U.S. government seeking to have its name cleared.

Gartenstein-Ross said a man named Pete Seda, who ran the charity's local office, offered him a job. Seda became his mentor and within a few months Gartenstein-Ross said he found himself agreeing with extreme views. At Al-Haramain, he said he saw the religion which he had embraced for its tolerance become obsessed with rules and ideology.

"What I didn't expect was that over time my ideas would fall into line with theirs," he said. "I wasn't to shake hands with women. I wasn't to pet a dog. I wasn't to wear shorts that came up above my knees. But conversely, my pants legs couldn't be too long."

But at times, he still had doubts about some beliefs espoused at the mosque. Whenever he questioned the rules, his co-workers would tell him his own views were irrelevant. The view was that "your moral inclinations do not matter. All that matters is whether this is what's right according to God's will," said Gartenstein-Ross.

In 1999 he left his job at Al-Haramain for law school at New York University. Away from his co-workers, he was free to question the radical doctrines he'd learned in Oregon and meet with others about spirituality, including Christians. A year later, he converted to Christianity and was eventually baptized in the Baptist church.

It was a decision he took extremely seriously because he said his colleagues at Al-Haramain had preached that leaving Islam was punishable by death.

"This conversion out of Islam toward Christianity was certainly not one I took lightly in any way, because I realized there could be repercussions from it," he said.

The Al-Haramain Islamic Foundation would come up in his life again, but in a very different fashion. His first job after law school was as a clerk with the U.S. Court of Appeals in the District of Columbia. He had to undergo a background check and listed Al-Haramain as a previous employer. Soon, the FBI was quizzing him about the group.

Two years later, in 2004, federal agents raided the Ashland offices of Al-Haramain. When he learned of the bust, Gartenstein-Ross says he contacted the FBI. "I knew about some of Al-Haramain's contempt for U.S. tax law. I knew about the support these guys had for the mujahedeen in Chechnya," he said.

His mentor, Pete Seda, and another top Al-Haramain official now face conspiracy and tax fraud charges for allegedly helping provide $150,000 in funds meant for Muslim fighters in Chechnya. Lawyers for the group say it renounces terrorism, and in a lawsuit filed against the government last week, Al-Haramain says it's a "charitable organization that seeks to promote greater understanding of the Islamic religion."

Seda on Wednesday voluntarily returned to the United States to fight the charges and entered a plea of not guilty.

As for Gartenstein-Ross, he is now a counter-terrorism consultant who works with the Foundation for Defense of Democracies, a Washington think-tank formed after September 11, 2001, that lists former FBI director Louis Freeh, former House Speaker Newt Gingrich and Sen. Joseph Lieberman among its "distinguished advisers."

He acknowledges his experience is atypical -- that most American Muslims are well-assimilated into American society and don't embrace radical Islamic ideas.

"There is a lot that's going right about Islam in the United States, and a lot of the conversations I've had with moderate Muslims and other Muslims in the past year-and-a-half have been encouraging in terms of what's happening with Islam in America," he said.

Christians, Jews in Holy Land alliance

Sondra Oster Baras is an Orthodox Jew doing an unorthodox job.

"If you had asked me 10 years ago what I would be doing with my life, I don't think I would have told you I'd be in church," she said.

Baras stumps for money from evangelical Christians to support Jewish settlements in the occupied territories -- land she calls biblical Israel.

A recent stop finds her in Melbourne, Florida, visiting Pastor Gary Christofaro at his First Assembly Church of God.

Christofaro and his flock take their Jewish roots so seriously that on Friday nights they observe the Jewish Sabbath with Hebrew prayers.

This is not just religious ritual. They support Israel -- which to them includes Jewish settlements on the occupied West Bank. Church members tour settlements with Baras and have donated more than a $100,000 to support them.

"If it wasn't for what the Jews brought to Christianity, there would be no Christianity," Christofaro said. "There is a promise to those who bless Israel to be blessed. Those who curse it will be cursed."

Christofaro and Baras are part of a growing alliance between evangelical Christians and Israelis.

A recent poll found that 59 percent of American evangelicals believe Israel is the fulfillment of biblical prophecy.

The Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs estimates 85 million evangelicals believe God tells them to support Israel -- more than six times the world's Jewish population.

One of the most successful Jewish fundraisers, Rabbi Yechiel Eckstein, raised $39 million last year from Christian Zionists to fund human services and humanitarian work in Israel and the settlements.

Christian Zionists often converge on Washington by the thousands to lobby members of Congress in support of Israel.

Sen. Joseph Lieberman, I-Connecticut, was among the speakers at last month's convention of Christians United for Israel.

"There are a lot more Christian Zionists in America than Jewish Zionists," the former Democratic vice presidential candidate told the group. "The support of Christian Zionists today is critical to Israel's security and strength and to America's security and strength."

Back in church, Baras told the congregation: "We need to stand together so that our governments will believe that the land of Israel, the entire land of Israel, belongs to the Jewish people."

Baras said God called her to this work. She left her high-powered, high-paid job as a Wall Street lawyer and moved to Israel in 1984.

"I was never fully American," she explained. "I was Jewish." Judaism was not only her religion but also her nationality.

"We learned how to read Hebrew before we learned how to read English," she said.

Her parents, who narrowly escaped the Holocaust, sent her to Zionist summer camps that championed the Jewish homeland.

"My parents felt very safe in America ... but there was always a part of them that said there needs to be an Israel in the event that we have another Hitler. Put it all together and I couldn't help but be a Zionist."

Baras moved her family to Karnei Shomron, a settlement deep inside the West Bank.

"Just by building my house ... I was strengthening the Jewish presence here in Samaria," she said, referring to a biblical name for the northern part of the West Bank.

In 2002, a Palestinian suicide bomber blew himself up inside a pizza parlor in her neighborhood, killing three children. She said she fought back by encouraging support from evangelical Christians in America.

"If we give any part of that land to the Arabs, we are looking at terrorism," she told a church audience.

Christofaro's Florida congregation responded with money -- all while singing a prayer for peace in perfect Hebrew.

Their money builds parks, child care centers and music therapy programs -- projects that make Jewish life in the settlements more comfortable. And more permanent.

"If you don't live somewhere, if you don't take possession of it, it is not yours," Baras said.

Some people say Jews and evangelical Christians make strange bedfellows, given historical anti-Semitism.

"Because of this doctrine of a Jew being a Christ-killer ... so much hatred and anti-Semitism has been propagated throughout the Earth," Christofaro said.

Now such historic anti-Semitism has given way to an urgent support of Israel among some evangelicals, many of whom believe that when Jews live in all of the Holy Land -- what they call Greater Israel -- only then will Christ return and true believers be raptured up to heaven.

"It is a controversial issue here in Israel as to whether we should be partnering with the Christians in any way," Baras said.

It's controversial in part because in the judgment day scenario embraced by some evangelicals, Jews who don't convert to Christianity burn in hell. But Baras said she isn't worried.

"I know that I'm not going to burn in hell because I didn't accept Jesus, because I don't believe Jesus is the Messiah," she said. "So how could I possibly be threatened?"

Baras concedes the alliance between God's Jewish and Christian warriors may seem odd to some people. But if Baras is anything, she's practical.

"Israel has many enemies," she said. "We have to take advantage of every single one of our friends."