On a crisp sunny morning in a Catholic Church near Underground Atlanta, Kemal Korucu, a Muslim, stood before a small crowd gathered in the basement and did his best to break the ice.
“If we’re supposed to kill Christians, would I be here?”
“Where’s my gun?” he asked, raising his hands.
He then opened his jacket: “Where’s my bomb?”
The group of 30 or so at the Catholic Shrine of the Immaculate Conception shifted nervously for just a moment. But Korucu, a charming storyteller with a flair for the dramatic, had made his point.
“You can call me a terrorist. You can call me a monster. But just don’t call my religion hateful because of some crazy people.”
And so it went.
For nearly an hour, Korucu and Noor Abbady, another metro Atlanta Muslim, took time to answer questions, break down stereotypes and shine a spotlight on some of the lesser-known facets of Islam. Both shared the personal toll recent events had taken on them.
Their timing, of course, couldn’t have been more perfect.
New data from Gallup shows fear of terrorism in America just hit a 10-year high.
The subject has played a pivotal role in the race for the White House: Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump has proposed temporarily banning Muslim immigrants from entering the country. (A poll by The Atlanta Journal-Constitution found almost two-thirds of Georgia voters, including nearly half of Republicans and 65 percent of Independents, oppose Trump’s idea.)
In the wake of the terrorist attacks in Paris and the mass shooting in Southern California, reports of threats and attacks against Muslims in America have spiked. It’s no wonder, then, that American Muslims worry about being targeted for their religion.
“There are definitely people out there inciting panic,” said Mike Canfield, a parishioner from Midtown who sipped coffee in the church basement before the presentation began. “And I know nothing, nothing at all, about Islam.”
So what did we hope to learn on that recent Sunday morning?
Some said they simply wanted to know more about the basic tenets of Islam.
One woman wondered just how Korucu and Abbady share information with their children in the midst of so much pain and anger.
“More importantly,” someone asked, “What would you like us to tell our children?”
All good questions.
But first, here are some things you should know about Korucu and Abbady:
Korucu was born in Turkey and came to the United States as a teenager. He now runs a software development company.
Abbady was born and raised in Jordan and has lived in Atlanta for 10 years now. She works for Educational Testing Services, is part of the Islamic Speakers Bureau of Atlanta and believes that educating folks is the best way to raise awareness.
Together, the two of them are among the 100,000 Muslims living in metro Atlanta.
“And, yes,” Abbady said, “we play video games and recycle.”
That got a hearty laugh from the crowd.
As Muslims, Korucu and Abbady pray five times a day. Their religion expects them to give to charity, to fast during Ramadan and to take a pilgrimage to Mecca, the holiest city of Islam.
Like us, they understand the value of serving as good neighbors, respecting the elderly and helping those less fortunate.
Yet, given the recent violence, such as the mass shooting by a couple that left 14 people dead in San Bernardino, Calif., that’s not the image most Americans may have of Muslims, unfortunately.
“When most people think of Muslims, they think of the strange people they see on TV doing horrible things,” Korucu said, “and they think, ‘Where are they coming from. What do they want?’”
The violence pains Abbady and Korucu.
In the church basement, Abbady, for instance, shared with me the story of her 9-year-old son, who was shaken after the attacks in Paris. His teacher is French, which only added to the pain.
“Don’t they know how they make us look like?” her son asked of the Islamic extremists who carried out the deadly plot.
And Korucu recalled walking into the lobby of his building and seeing the horrific images of a Jordanian pilot who was burned alive by ISIS militants.
“I remember asking, ‘Who does this?’” Korucu said. “The images you see on the news are disturbing to us, too.”
He continued:
“People are doing horrible things and saying, ‘God told me to.’ That’s a lie. And by doing this, they’re tarnishing our religion, and that’s a crime. Just because I’m a Muslim doesn’t mean I can do whatever I want. They will have to answer to God as to why they did that.”
With all of the hate around us, it’s no wonder one man in the audience stood up and asked the one question that seemed to be on everyone’s mind:
“So what can we do?”
With that, Abbady thought for a moment.
“The situation is complex,” she admitted. “But we need to reach out and build bridges of understanding.”
Which is exactly what metro Atlanta Muslims are trying to do.
Two weeks ago, for instance, more than a dozen mosques participated in “Visit a Mosque Day.” And it’s why Korucu and Abbady chose this setting at our church to speak about their religion.
But it hasn’t been easy.
“The attacks in Paris felt like the last straw,” Korucu acknowledged. “I was feeling very down. But then I thought, ‘Maybe there is one thing I can do to make a difference,’” which helped lead him to the Catholic church that Sunday.
Abbady’s advice?
Have compassion. Learn about Islam. Make Muslim friends.
Of course, it was impossible to answer all of our questions before the 11 a.m. Mass began, but those gathered in the audience were thankful for the chance to learn more about Islam and to have met Korucu and Abbady.
As we gathered up our stuff, Canfield, the parishioner from Midtown, turned to me, and left me with this thought:
“It was good, and it reminded me of my long-held belief that all people are good people – regardless of their religion.”
About the Author
