The Redemption of Sidi Ibrahim Dimson, Part 6

بِسۡمِ ٱللهِ ٱلرَّحۡمَـٰنِ ٱلرَّحِيمِ 

The following is the spiritual journey of our Tijani brother, Sidi Ibrahim Dimson.  The story was written by him.  I have only formatted it and edited the language where necessary.  The spelling of the names have been left as Sidi Ibrahim Dimson spelled it.  The style of the writing has been left largely intact to preserve its flavour. 

“I sat there in the cell by myself.  All I could think of was how fortunate I was. I kept touching my stomach area where I was stabbed and kept saying, ‘al-Hamdulillah, al-Hamdulillah, al-Hamdulillah …’ 

My mind shifted to Shaykh Hassan (q.s.) and how ‘interesting the next 18 months would be in this ‘school of Yusuf (a.s.)’.  The guards finally came for me and told me that I was headed to Philadelphia Federal Detention Center.  This place is the headquarters of the prison Salafi movement. 

On the ride from the courthouse detention center to the Federal Detention Center in Philadelphia, all I could think about was what had just happened.  I was very surprised with myself.  I felt like I had just earned a diploma or something.  I had the power to exact revenge on Abu Dhar as-Salafi but my soul inclined towards mercy instead.  I felt no internal conflict.  It just felt like the only thing to do.  The Miracles of Allah (s.w.t.) never ceased to amaze me.  He had Protected me from being killed and at the same time, Protected me from becoming a killer.  All of this occurring after being found guilty and experiencing annihilation in Allah’s (s.w.t.) Will.  It was quite a bit to digest, but, it did not occur to me that I was on the way to a place that was arguably the Salafi movement’s headquarters here in North America - Philadelphia! 

Abu Dharr was also being transported to the same place I was going.  He was in a different marshal’s van than me.  But we definitely were going to the same place.  Philadelphia Federal Detention Center was a fortress in the middle of downtown Philadelphia.  It is an imposing looking building from the outside and it is even more intimidating from the inside.  As we pulled into the garage, I began to feel very uneasy.  The United States marshal moved me from the van and led me in cuffs, waist chain and leg-shackles into the Receiving and Discharge portion of the jail.  This area has huge cages that operate as waiting rooms for all new inmates.  There, I was made to wait for almost six hours to be processed and assigned a housing unit.  On this day, there were not too many guys in the waiting area, so I went to the toilet area and got a full roll of toilet paper.  I walked over to an unoccupied corner of the holding cell and laid down to get some sleep.  I used the toilet roll as a pillow. 

I slept for hours before being rudely awakened by a Corrections Officer.  It was my turn to get interviewed and processed.  The whole process lasted less than an hour and I was ready to go to the housing unit that I was assigned to.  They stripped me of my street clothes and gave me a green jumpsuit to wear.  I remember putting on the jumpsuit to find that it had been crudely cut at the legs.  I asked the guard for another jumpsuit and it was the same for the next.  The guard told me that he would try to look one more time for a suit that was not cut.  He said to me, ‘Those damned Muslims cut all of the legs of the suits because they say that it’s against their religion.’ 

After going through about five jumpsuits, he finally found me a pair that had not been cut.  I was also given a laundry bag with a set of bed sheets, blanket, underwear, towels, soap, deodorant and toothbrush with toothpaste.  Now it was time to be escorted to my housing unit. 

As I walked into the unit, all eyes fell on me.  There was complete silence as the guard looked through his files to tell me which cell was mine.  I will never forget the feeling that came over me as I looked at each face that was peering at me.  Almost everyone I saw had a long or scruffy beard, a bruise on their forehead and jumpsuit pants cut to the ankles.  I was in a cell block that housed approximately 140 inmates, 85 of whom were Salafi.  I mean, these guys were my avowed enemies.  They were my enemies not because I had a problem with them.  It was they who had a problem with me and what I represented. 

The guard told me the number to my cell and escorted me there.  As I walked by the other inmates, I could tell that they were trying to figure out if I was a Muslim or not.  My cellmate was an old Panamanian guy named Mr. Richmond.  He was a pleasant guy.  He welcomed me into the cell, and helped me get comfortable.  He informed me that that ‘Moslems run this jail.  Most guys become Moslem for protection.’  He continued. ‘Yeah, they’ll be coming here to question you soon and see if you’re interested in converting or learning about their religion.’ 

I laughed and told him that I was also a ‘Moslem’.  He immediately became tense and apologetic. He was afraid. 

‘I’m so sorry if I offended you man.  I didn’t know.  It’s just that you don’t look like a Moslem.’ 

‘It’s okay.  I’m not offended at all.  I don’t look like one of them and I am definitely a Moslem.  I’ll teach you the difference one day.’ 

‘Okay, thanks man, you’re definitely different.’ 

An hour later, we got a knock on our cell door.  It was the imam of the Salafis.  His name was Talib and he was with two of his ‘security’ guys. 

‘We wanted to come and introduce ourselves to you and invite you to our classes.  We are Muslims of the Salafi minhaj and it’s our duty to call people to the haqq.’ 

So, while he was telling me all this, I was thinking about what happened earlier in the day when I told another one of these guys that I followed a Sufi thariqa’.  My mind was conflicted as to what to do.  Do I tell these guys the truth and face a war with 85 Salafi gangsters?  Or do I lie and pretend that I am not a Muslim or that I too, was a Salafi?  This was one of those life or death decisions and I had very little time to decide.  I made my decision.  ‘That’s wonderful, brother.  al-Hamdulillah, I’m a Muslim too.’ 

‘Oh yeah?  What minhaj do you follow, brother?’ 

‘My teachers and all of my shuyukh follow Qur’an and sunnah.  We are of the Thariqa’ Tijanniyyah.  My shaykh is Shaykh Hassan Cisse, leader of over 150 million Tijanis around the world.  I’m happy to be amongst all of you brothers.’ 

The look on each of their faces was one of horror and hate.  These guys looked like they had just met the bogeyman.  Thalib was speechless for a second, but then he spoke, ‘You’re an innovator.  You’re on the wrong side.  You need to abandon all of that nonsense and follow the only rightly-guided group - us.’ 

‘Sorry, brother, but I’m very happy where I am.  And I respect your position.  We just have to agree to disagree.’ 

‘No, you are gonna have to check yourself in within two days or take your shahadah over again with us and take bay’ah to us, or we gonna put them knives in you!’ 

All I could do was look at the Imam directly in his face and tell him, ‘as-Salaamu’Alaykum, brothers.  Please leave my cell now.’ 

‘Yeah, alright.  Ima get the word and then you better be ready for war.’  They stalked out of my room. 

It would be a lie for me to front as if I was not scared.  It would be so untrue for me to tell you all that I was not worried.  I was shaken to my core.  These guys were going to kill me in two days if I continued to stand up for what I believed in.  They were going to get permission from their leader, wherever he was, to kill me for being a Sufi. 

That night as dinner was announced, I walked out of my cell into the main area and immediately noticed that everyone was looking at me and the entire cell block was quiet.  As I walked down the middle of the block, I could not help but feel as if they were all watching a dead man.  I could not eat.  So, I went to the phone to call Shaykh Hassan (q.s.) for help.  ‘Hello, can I speak to Shaykh Hassan?’ 

Morr Jine answered, ‘Shaykh is not here.  He has travelled.’ 

Damned it!  Shaykh Hassan (q.s.) was not in Senegal and I could not get in touch with him.  I called Shaykh Ibrahim Mudaris, but there was no answer.  So then I called Shaykh Jibril Madaha (q.s.).  ‘as-Salaamu’Alaykum, Malam.’  The word ‘Malam’ is a respectful way of referring to a teacher or guide. 

Shaykh Jibril answered, ‘Wa Alaykum as-Salaam, Ibrahim.’ 

‘Yes, Malam, how are you?’ 

‘I’m fine.  I’m sitting here with the daughter of Shaykh Ibrahim Niasse, Sayda Ruckaya Niasse.  She told me to greet you.’ 

‘Wow, please greet her and tell her to pray for me.’ 

‘She said to tell you to relax, and stop being scared.’ 

How did she know that I was scared and tense?  She did not even know that I was in prison.  What was she talking about?  But I simply replied, ‘Okay.’ 

Shaykh Jibril said, ‘She said to recite in the morning, ‘Hasbun Allah wa ni’ma al-Wakil’ 1,350 times in the morning and in the evening from now on.  She said it is from the Qur’an and means ‘Allah Alone is sufficient for us and He is the Best Disposer of Affairs.’ She said, no harm will come to you by the Grace and Protection of God.’ 

‘Please thank her for me.’ 

That night, I repeated the verses 1,350 times as instructed.  I did the same in the morning.  I now had 24 hours before the word would come back from the leader of the Salafi group, to execute me.  I felt somewhat better after talking to Shaykh Jibril and Sayyidah Ruqayyah (q.s.), but I was still worried.  That day did not go by slowly.  It went so fast.  It seemed like only a few hours.  It was evening time and in the morning it was going down.  I recited the prayer and did every prayer that I could remember.  I did not sleep that night. 

In the morning, I saw a lot of movement among the Salafis.  They were going in and out of Thalib’s cell.  There seemed to be some confusion of some sort.  I was on alert.  I was ready for a fight to the death.  If they were going to take me out, it was not going to be without a fight.  I wrapped my stomach area with bundles of old newspapers and I wrapped my neck area with lots of thick socks.  My cell mate had secured a long knife for me the day before.  These guys were going to have to bring the damned swords out for me. 

I sat in my cell waiting to be called out.  Thalib and about eight other guys started walking towards my room.  I told my cell mate to leave because this had nothing to do with him.  He was a really good guy and thought that it would be dishonourable to abandon me, but I convinced him and he left right before they reached our cell. 

I stood at the back of my cell.  My strategy was to fight each of them in the small space of my cell as they entered.  If I met them out in the open area of the cell block, I could be mobbed by many of them at one time.  The smaller and narrower space of my cell would only allow one or two people to enter at a time.  It was the old Spartan strategy.  So long as I could hold my ground, I could survive for a few minutes. 

al-Hamdulillah, all I could do was ask Allah (s.w.t.) to Forgive me for all of the sins I had committed in my life.  The only words of prayer that my mouth could utter at that moment was Salawat al-Fatih, which is a great prayer on the Prophet Muhammad (s.a.w.).  It was the first prayer that I had ever known, even before Qur’an, and I never learned it, we grew up hearing it daily and I just knew it.  If I was to die, then that would be the last thing I wanted on my lips. 

Talib came and knocked on my door.  I was standing there thinking, ‘What were you knocking for?’ 

He kept knocking and would not enter.  Then he started shouting into my room, ‘as-Salaamu’Alaykum, Akhi.’ 

So now he is knocking and saying peace?  I did not know what to do, so I stood there staring at him through the glass window of my door.  Then something spoke to me in my head, saying, ‘Remember the prayer that Sayda Ruckaya gave you, Ibrahim?  She said no harm would come to you, so long as you recite it at the specified times.’ 

My shuyukh had never failed me yet, and although Sayda Ruckaya (q.s.) was a woman, she was also my shaykha.  She was the daughter of Shaykh Ibrahim Niasse (q.s.) and a complete waliyah.  She was also like a grandmother to me because my father was like an adopted son to her.  I trusted in Allah (s.w.t.) by trusting in one of His representatives.  I opened the cell door with my knife ready. 

Talib said, ‘Can we talk for a minute?’ 

‘About what?’ 

‘About this letter.’  He was holding a piece of paper in his hand. 

‘Yeah, but only you.’ 

‘No, I need a witness.’ 

‘You think I’m stupid?’ 

‘I swear to Allah (s.w.t.), no violence Ibrahim.’ 

‘Okay.’ 

One other brother entered the room and left the door open for the rest of the crew he had brought to my cell, to hear what was happening. 

Talib said, ‘We sent word out to our leader to let him know that a Sufi was on our cell block and that we were going to kill you.  We needed his permission to move forward.  We told him your name and that you are a Tijani.’ 

He began to read directly from the letter: ‘Wa Alaykum as-Salaam, Imam Talib.  I received your kite [letter] and understand what you are asking permission to do.  Thank you and all of the rest of the brothers for reaching out to me about this.  Ibrahim, is a very good friend of mine.  You cannot harm him.  He saved my life, Talib.  He is one of the most righteous and sincere brothers I’ve ever known.  Don’t allow the word ‘Sufi’ to scare you away from learning from this brother.  I’ve never met anyone like him.  If you all appreciate what I’ve done for you and if you all love me and respect me, then you will follow my instructions and make him your teacher in Qur’an and let him lead you in prayer.  Please give him a big hug for me and tell him that I said ‘sorry’.’  The letter was signed Abu Dharr as-Salafi. 

I later found out that all of the Muslims in my cell-block were on one big drug conspiracy case together.  Abu Dharr was the kingpin or boss of this crew and had agreed to take the fall for all 85 of his brothers.  The prosecutors agreed to give everyone reduced prison sentences if Abu Dharr would plead guilty and agree to life in prison.  These guys looked up to Abu Dharr for the sacrifice he made for them.  They became Muslims when he became Muslim, and they considered him as their leader.  The prison officials were keeping him in the segregated housing unit of the jail, which is basically solitary confinement.  They would smuggle letters to him through corrupt guards.  They sought his blessing to kill me, but Allah (s.w.t.) had other Plans. 

Talib, hugged me and lead me out of the cell to meet the rest of the brothers.  They were all staring at me with a look of amazement and respect.  Each of the brothers came and shook my hand.  Allah (s.w.t.) had turned hell on earth into a Paradise.  That was the best 6 months I have ever spent behind bars.  I learned about the history of Salafism and they learned about adab and Qur’an.  Within two months, 20 brothers took the thariqa’ from me and the rest were my loyal friends, even until now.”