Imam shares lessons learned

Henry Louis Jones was born in a home on Rodgers Alley in the spring of 1943. When he was 6, his family moved to a house at 34 1/2 Reid St.

His mother, Louise, worked as a cook at the Olympic Cafe, a Greek restaurant on Upper King Street. He attended Buist Elementary School and then Burke High School.

But he didn't finish at Burke. "I didn't like school."

His grandmother, Ethel Jones, was the boss of the family, and a churchgoer.

"I would stand in her room, see her, every night, pray." After the long day had drawn to a close, she would read the Bible. "I think that had a great effect on me."

When the man who would become Henry Jones' stepfather came calling on Louise, there was Ethel Jones, demanding proper behavior, demanding respect.

"Who's that down on my porch?"

"It's me," said Benjamin Jenkins.

"Didn't I tell you not to come to my house until you got your business straight?"

Louise's suitor was still married, you see. But Ethel set him straight, and Jenkins, who worked at the Navy yard, soon became part of the family.

From an early age, Jones learned to ask questions, to open his mind. His grandmother would say, "Don't take everything at face value, it's deeper than that." The stories in the Bible are symbolic, meant to be interpreted, she would say. They explain much about life if only one is willing to apply its lessons.

"What color is God?" Jones asked her one day.

"White," she replied, without hesitation, for it was then taken for granted. All the images of God that circulated in the 1940s and 1950s portrayed a Caucasian. But young Jones soon learned that color could be metaphorical. White meant purity of soul.

Transformation

Jones married in 1962, then left Charleston for New York City in 1963. He lived in the streets and clubs. He gambled. He had fun.

One day in 1966, he visited the Golden Moon Bar on Lenox Avenue between 127th and 128th streets, a favorite hangout where young men gathered to raise a ruckus. But at 6 p.m. on that particular evening, the bar was quiet. A group of men were gathered round someone, listening intently. Then they left.

Jones approached the man, who was called Sunny Malik.

"What did you tell them?" Jones wanted to know.

"I told them that Islam is peace," Malik replied. "There is a temple at 116th and Lenox," he went on. "If you go to the temple, it will change your whole life."

About a week later, Jones heard Louis Farrakhan preach. You can be in the world but not of the world, he heard Farrakhan say. Milk is that which passes between blood and excrement but touches neither, he heard the minister say.

Soon, Henry Jones lost the surname given to his forefathers. He became Henry 35 X.

"The only thing I had liked to do was gamble," Henry says. "I had never been part of an organized group. I'm liking it."

He wore the Nation of Islam uniform. He traveled to Chicago for the organization's annual Savior Day. He learned to think of white people as devils and the black man as god: It was a reversal of what he had been taught until then by American society.

"If you're taught to believe that everything black is bad and everything white is good, then to change perception requires a radical shift," he says.

The Nation of Islam was about black empowerment. No whites were allowed in the temples. And orders were to be followed unquestioningly. Outsiders shared their concerns with Henry, but such opinions were ignored. When one's life has improved so radically, when the gambling has stopped and self-respect has straightened the spine, there is little reason to worry about the path ahead.

But Henry 35 X did begin to worry.

One night in Harlem, the Muslim restaurant on Lenox Avenue caught fire and had extensive water damage. Most of the Muslim newspapers and other materials were washed or carried into the street. One of the brothers turned to Henry. "Take these newspapers back inside," he said urgently. "We don't want the Messenger to think we're throwing them away!"

The Messenger was Elijah Muhammad, leader of the Nation of Islam. But, Henry wondered, wasn't he supposed to be all-knowing? Wasn't he kept apprised by God? Wouldn't he understand that the newspapers hadn't been thrown away intentionally? The seed of doubt embedded itself in Henry's mind.

"I started to think differently," he says.

Then the taxi he drove broke down, and Henry acquired a Cadillac from an acquaintance who owned a pawn shop. The car sparked concern: It was a symbol of arrogance or materialism, of selfishness. Henry's superiors confronted him. There is no big "I," there is no little "you," he was told. There is only a brotherhood of faith and righteousness.

But some among the righteous were more equal than others, Henry noted. Some drove nice cars. Some enjoyed privilege.

So the organization said he was involved in a check scheme, and Henry was found guilty of forgery and sentenced in June 1975 to three years in jail, he says.

A few months earlier, Elijah Muhammad died, and his son, W. Deen Mohammed, assumed leadership of the Nation of Islam. W. Deen was scheduled to speak at Madison Square Garden at the end of June, so Henry asked the judge for permission to hear the imam before going to jail. The judge refused the request, probably knowing that Henry would not return until he heard Mohammed.

And that's what happened.

After the rally, Henry sent a letter to the imam. "I'm not confused anymore," he wrote. A month later, authorities caught up to Henry.

Mohammed Idris

While serving time in Sandstone, Minn., at the same prison that held Mohammed after he refused to serve in the military, Henry received a life-changing letter. Henceforth, Henry 35 X would be known as Mohammed Idris, named for the prophet of truthfulness and learning, the letter instructed. He would become a minister and work closely with his mentor.

After seven months, he was released on parole and immediately made for Chicago. He became part of Mohammed's inner circle. He made the pilgrimage to Mecca in 1976. He absorbed the messages of Islam: peace, brotherhood, devotion. He considered the teachings of his mentor: the senses that open to heaven and hell, bread representing knowledge, spirit and consciousness, numerology, the balance that must be achieved between rationality and spirituality.

In 1978, Idris was driving a taxi in Chicago when not working for the ministry. By chance, he was at O'Hare International Airport when Mohammed returned to town after a trip. The ride that had been arranged was nowhere to be seen, so Idris took the imam in his cab.

"Did they tell you I wanted you to work for me?" the imam said.

Idris became a teacher, an imam, and returned to Charleston in 1979 when his stepfather died. He served at a mosque in Union Heights until disagreements drove him away. He worked as a painter. With a New York friend, Henry Chisolm, he opened a Muslim bookstore on King Street around the corner from the place of his birth.

He struggled, eventually following Chisolm back to New York in 1983 and going to work for the Brownsville Tenant Association and helping Mohammed in a legal battle over contested property in Chicago.

In 1989, Mohammed wanted Idris to accompany him on his travels, and the man who once preferred gambling to school very nearly caught a flight around the world. But then Hurricane Hugo hit, and Idris decided to come home and help. He represented his mentor, who had drifted far away from the black nationalism of his father and embraced a more open, pluralistic form of Islam.

Idris worked closely with former Charleston Police Chief Reuben Greenberg, Mayor Joe Riley and Cultural Affairs Director Ellen Dressler Moryl. Together, they arranged to bring Mohammed to Charleston every year, mostly to participate in Piccolo Spoleto events.

"We made 'Islam' a lovable word in the city of Charleston," Idris says.

Legacy, tradition

Mohammed died last month. Idris wants to build a memorial for him in Charleston, a city that always welcomed him with open arms.

With support from the W. Deen Mohammed Ministry, Idris is starting a newspaper called the Clear Vision Journal. He hopes it will appeal to people across the country. It will be about all the things happening in the world, he says. It will be about paying attention and trying to understand why things happen the way they do.

Standing on a corner of America and Reid streets, next to the house where he grew up, Idris greets his brother, Leroy Jones. Leroy, 63, has never left Charleston. He is taking care of their mother, Louise, who is now 83. He goes inside to prepare some food for her.

Idris is living in a nearby home temporarily with Ismail Salaam, but says he soon will move closer to his son in North Charleston. Salaam, 58, a vendor of oils and incense, socks and T-shirts, and a skilled bricklayer, says he met Idris 15 years ago. The imam's Muslim style of dress caught his eye. He went to hear Idris speak.

In 2003, they made the pilgrimage to Mecca together, along with 300 others from across the country. The hajj is a transformative experience, Salaam says. Everyone dresses in white. Everyone is equal. Everyone shares the same goals. Everyone bows in submission to Allah.

The hajj, Salaam says, is itself a symbol. It represents man's opportunity to forget his particular interests and overcome great difficulties.

This idea fires in Idris' mind, and the imam is talking about the tawaf or ritual of walking counterclockwise seven times around the Kaaba, the ancient square black stone, the holiest site in Islam. Seven signifies completion, Idris says.

In Charleston, Idris continues his walk. He is seeking completion. He is not giving up.

Reach Adam Parker at 937-5902 or aparker@postand courier.com.