An Open Letter to Alabama's Jay Mitchell: From a Neighbor Who Knows Your Heart
Dear Jay Mitchell, Alabama attorney general candidate,
I remember you as a teenager growing up across the street from me in Homewood, Alabama. You were a little awkward but remarkably intelligent, somewhat shy yet articulate. I would be mowing my lawn and see you walking by, and we would exchange greetings. You came from what appeared to be a wonderful family—a nurturing mother and father, accomplished younger siblings. As the eldest, you carried responsibilities beyond your years. I always sensed you were destined for significant achievements, and indeed you have reached impressive heights, serving as a justice on the Alabama Supreme Court. You have done well, Jay. You have done exceptionally well.
A Campaign Ad That Stopped Me Cold
That is precisely why your recent television campaign ad in Birmingham left me stunned. In it, you tell those who "stand with radical Islam" to "Allahu Akbar your butt all the way back to the Middle East."
As a Muslim who grew up in Damascus, Syria, before moving to Alabama at age 18, I have heard "Allahu Akbar" my entire life. It translates simply to "God is greater." During my occasional visits to the mosque in my teenage years, I whispered it in prayer as an act of humility. This phrase is not a call to violence but a call to awe, surrender, and gratitude.
Yes, some extremists in the Middle East have misused this sacred phrase to justify violent conquests, rally crowds, and claim divine sanction for killing, robbing, and destroying. However, these individuals are as distant from my understanding of Islam as the North Pole is from my grandmother's garden on Malik Street in ancient Al-Shaam, Damascus. That orchard was abundant with grapevines climbing trellises, artichokes and beets flourishing in the soil, figs tasting like honey, and olive trees reaching for the sun. Hibiscus blooms swayed in warm breezes while children played hide-and-seek. Does any of that sound radical?
The True Essence of My Faith and Heritage
The extremists are as far removed from my Islam as the South Pole is from Souq Al-Hamidiyeh, the ancient market where my father and I purchased Aleppo peppers, zaatar, and sumac, and where we sharpened my mother's Damascus-steel knives. We passed stalls selling Islamic prayer beads alongside Christian icons. We walked by the Umayyad Mosque and the Church of Ananias—places where people of different faiths have coexisted peacefully for centuries.
That market was a sensory symphony:
- Copper pots ringing under engravers' hammers
- The earthy aroma of tanned sheep hide prayer rugs
- Roasted chestnuts spilling from paper cones
- A vibrant palette of sky-blue Syrian silk, earth-brown Egyptian turbans, jade Moroccan kafias, and sand-brown Kuwaiti abbayes
My father wore his camelhair abbaye every winter to ward off the bitter cold and keep warm memories close. After misbehaving, I would hide inside that abbaye, listening to his calm heartbeat and the ticking of his pocket watch, counting seconds until my mother departed. Then he would unfold the garment, letting sunlight and his immeasurable love wash over me. Does any of that sound radical?
The Danger of Labels and the Power of Shared Humanity
These extremists place me and all two billion Muslims worldwide into a narrow, unjust box. They have nothing to do with Islam and everything to do with twisted minds seeking carnage. They pretend to act for God but truly act for death. Why do we never attach the word "radical" to Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, or Buddhism—or to any faith that humans manipulate to justify violence?
My personal faith journey has taken me from Islam to embracing other religions as different languages expressing the same search for something greater. Being spiritual, in any form, means tending to the human spirit: peaceful, loving, and accepting. While I identify as Muslim, I do not condemn other religions. My truest religion is love—the central message of all faiths. I reject any radical act committed in the name of any deity. I accept all human beings, regardless of belief, race, gender, sexuality, or any other human-created label.
At our core, human beings share simple desires:
- To belong
- To feel safe
- To know we matter
- To be understood
- To love and be loved authentically
- To place our joys and sufferings into a meaningful narrative
- To experience freedom from fear
Much of what we pursue—success, status, recognition—represents attempts to grasp these deeper needs. Underneath it all lies a quiet hope: that our lives carry meaning and that we are not alone in this vast, unpredictable world.
A Question Worth a Lifetime
I still recall a question I scribbled in my high school journal: Did God create humans, or did humans create God? I brought this to my father, an esteemed Syrian writer and poet once honored with a title equivalent to Poet Laureate. He told me the question was profound—worth a lifetime of contemplation. Then he offered wisdom that has stayed with me, particularly this insight: "Perhaps the better question is not who created whom, but why humans feel compelled to imagine the divine at all."
I believe we imagine the divine because we are fragile. Because we crave meaning. Because we yearn for justice in this world.
Words Matter: A Call for Understanding
Jay, your campaign ad did not sound like justice. It sounded like fear sharpened into a slogan. I do not believe you are a hateful man. I remember the boy across the street—the seriousness in your eyes and the warmth of your family. I suspect politics and campaigns often reward outrage more than understanding. But words carry weight.
When you say, "Allahu Akbar your butt back to the Middle East," you are not speaking to extremists. You are speaking about me. You are addressing my family, my neighbors, children whispering that phrase at bedtime in gratitude rather than threat. You are assigning suspicion to someone whose faith is as peaceful as the air we breathe, as ordinary as a child's laughter in a Damascus garden.
Yet I write this without anger. I forgive you. Not because your words did not sting, but because I refuse to let misunderstanding define my faith. I choose to hold onto the possibility of peace and the enduring power of love. I choose to extend a hand in grace.
A Hopeful Invitation
I hope this letter opens your heart, Jay. This letter of forgiveness—of love and shared humanity.
I hope it helps you see the humanity in a Muslim father, neighbor, and citizen who loves this country and this state passionately. I hope we can one day sit down together, without cameras or slogans, to share bread and conversation. And I hope you leave with this understanding: my Islam, my heart, my life, stands as a testimony of peace, love, and forgiveness—far removed from anything you might label "radical."
Karim Shamsi-Basha is a Syrian American writer and former columnist for MOSAIC.NJ.com, a platform amplifying marginalized voices. He immigrated from Damascus to the United States at age 18. His children's book, "The Cat Man of Aleppo," received the 2021 Caldecott Honor and the Middle East Book Award. Karim's work has appeared in National Geographic Traveler, Sports Illustrated, Time, People, The New York Times, and The Washington Post. A single father to three children—Zade, Dury, and Demi—he lives by the motto Carpe diem, savoring every moment of this extraordinary life.
