The neighborhood mosque

My son tore an ACL skiing six days before winter term classes began at an East Coast university. Since missing a semester was not an option and he could not climb the 45 steps up to his apartment, we flew back to school and checked into a residence hotel five miles from campus. Each day I drove him to class since he was on crutches. This left me a lot of free time at the hotel, and I became very friendly with the staff that was all black. After the second week, they began to trust me enough to talk politics and life.

Doug is a cheerful 23-year-old man who cleaned rooms and cooked breakfast at the hotel. He only had time for one JC class a semester, since he worked two jobs to support his mother. Here is his story, just as I was told, no embellishments.

In Doug's neighborhood, the mosques are on the constant lookout for seven to ten year old black boys. Doug often baby-sat Tom, who was a happy 8 year old that lived in the same apartment building as Doug and his mother. Last fall, Tom was invited to play with some mosque kids at the park. Three days later, an elder from the local mosque came to apartment building to talk to Tom's mother. The mosque elder invited Tom to attend the mosque's school full time at no charge. The mosque had also found a better job for Tom's mother. The new job, working in a Muslim food market as a cashier, paid $9,000 a year more than she was currently making.

So Tom dropped out of public school and took a bus to the nearby mosque early every morning, seven days a week. Tom soon changed his name to Omar, and was rarely seen on the streets of the neighborhood or at his mother's apartment.

Seven or eight months later, Doug ran into Omar and it was a "very nasty" meeting.

"You are an infidel, since I saw you go to the Baptist church with your mom," said Omar.

"That so Omar? So tell me, what else do they teach at your school?"

"I want to be a martyr for Allah, in Lebanon or Miami.

"Miami, Florida?"

"Yes, that's where many Zionists live."

Doug was shaken by these answers, but asked Omar what else he has been doing.

Omar replied, "I travel a lot, to other mosques in Ohio, Michigan and Virginia. We are delivering supplies, using a van full of young martyrs like me.

"What kind of supplies?"

"I don't know, but they are very heavy boxes. We hide the boxes under the seats".

Omar turned and walked away. Doug was very upset by the whole conversation, especially since Omar was once the sweet boy who loved to watch Saturday morning cartoons.

There is more than a culture war being fought in our urban cities. We have closed our eyes to a growing radical hatred that is infecting our children and many adults in the black community.  Those who point to this danger are immediately labeled as racist, and then cheerfully slimed by the MSM. No matter, whether we close our eyes or focus our attention on this problem, concrete solutions are beyond the current capabilities of our social and political institutions.

My son tore an ACL skiing six days before winter term classes began at an East Coast university. Since missing a semester was not an option and he could not climb the 45 steps up to his apartment, we flew back to school and checked into a residence hotel five miles from campus. Each day I drove him to class since he was on crutches. This left me a lot of free time at the hotel, and I became very friendly with the staff that was all black. After the second week, they began to trust me enough to talk politics and life.

Doug is a cheerful 23-year-old man who cleaned rooms and cooked breakfast at the hotel. He only had time for one JC class a semester, since he worked two jobs to support his mother. Here is his story, just as I was told, no embellishments.

In Doug's neighborhood, the mosques are on the constant lookout for seven to ten year old black boys. Doug often baby-sat Tom, who was a happy 8 year old that lived in the same apartment building as Doug and his mother. Last fall, Tom was invited to play with some mosque kids at the park. Three days later, an elder from the local mosque came to apartment building to talk to Tom's mother. The mosque elder invited Tom to attend the mosque's school full time at no charge. The mosque had also found a better job for Tom's mother. The new job, working in a Muslim food market as a cashier, paid $9,000 a year more than she was currently making.

So Tom dropped out of public school and took a bus to the nearby mosque early every morning, seven days a week. Tom soon changed his name to Omar, and was rarely seen on the streets of the neighborhood or at his mother's apartment.

Seven or eight months later, Doug ran into Omar and it was a "very nasty" meeting.

"You are an infidel, since I saw you go to the Baptist church with your mom," said Omar.

"That so Omar? So tell me, what else do they teach at your school?"

"I want to be a martyr for Allah, in Lebanon or Miami.

"Miami, Florida?"

"Yes, that's where many Zionists live."

Doug was shaken by these answers, but asked Omar what else he has been doing.

Omar replied, "I travel a lot, to other mosques in Ohio, Michigan and Virginia. We are delivering supplies, using a van full of young martyrs like me.

"What kind of supplies?"

"I don't know, but they are very heavy boxes. We hide the boxes under the seats".

Omar turned and walked away. Doug was very upset by the whole conversation, especially since Omar was once the sweet boy who loved to watch Saturday morning cartoons.

There is more than a culture war being fought in our urban cities. We have closed our eyes to a growing radical hatred that is infecting our children and many adults in the black community.  Those who point to this danger are immediately labeled as racist, and then cheerfully slimed by the MSM. No matter, whether we close our eyes or focus our attention on this problem, concrete solutions are beyond the current capabilities of our social and political institutions.