I have been wondering what I could write about the current immigration controversy that would be worth reading. My personal feelings about immigration have no weight and little relevance. But then I thought of something. I lived with a Muslim family for five years.

In what follows, bear in mind that I am a secular person. I do not empathize with what believers call “faith”, though I understand the attraction very well. It seems to be something that most people need in some form. I am more in tune with Stephen Hawking. I have no trouble with abstractions. Most people do.

We had a family member who suffered a long illness requiring 24 hour care. Such care is affordable only from people on the margins of existence. This Muslim family of native-born Americans came to our house, from the inner city, as caregivers. They lived on a dead-end street dominated by drug dealers. Gunfire was frequent. For the head of the family, the challenge was keeping his own home inviolate. Drug dealers would literally trespass the inside of their dwelling. Their travails included every aspect of existence. Yet they acquired and kept an insular pride.

The household head was the first convert to Islam. Although he had never been to college, he learned Arabic, became fluent in Islamic theology, made Hajj, and became the external spokesperson for his mosque. He remarked that returning home, he felt so much better, so fortunate, to be back in the United States. He expressed affection for this country. Some of his opinions were troubling. His mosque had been one of the first in the U.S. to condemn terrorism in most cases. I would have preferred to hear, “all cases.” He believed that a caliphate is the ideal form of government. I favor strict separation of church and state. He wanted his wife to wear the burqa, but she refused. There was no evidence of subordinate status. They had family democracy.

I think they converted because Islam offered more than other creeds of order, identity, and, to some extent,  self-imposed isolation from an environment hostile to good intent. These ulterior motives are hidden from the believers themselves.

His wife was the caregiver. They had a vulnerable daughter, and a gaggle of extended family they brought to live with us. Food tended to vanish from the fridge. I complained, and they brought it back. They were, if not on the edge of starvation, chronically underfed.

One day the whole crew showed up, including their best conversion specialist, a woman in burqa. I was the target. She cited their holy book as a “self revealing text”. This is a recognized theological term,  meaning that a text serves as its own proof.  If I only read it, I would know it was true. She asserted that I must be desirous to know the origin of all things, which, she alleged, the text would provide. She whacked away at it with the expertise of the best cult recruiter. As a special fruit, she alleged that Islam contradicted no science. But she said that she was glad she had been converted before going to college. She felt it resulted in stronger faith (“It took better…”) than had it been the other way around.

Since my own secular ontological holdings are beyond the comprehension of most people, I decided on the “possum defense”, to play dead. I feigned no curiosity. They tried to arouse it. I played the dullest person imaginable, interested only in sitcoms and the dinner menu. It went round and round. If they had not by now become intimates, it might have been interesting to bait them. After three hours, they gave up in disgust.

But our friendship was untarnished. Knowing that I was beyond the reach of conversion, they never tried again. They served until the last dying breath. Some weeks later, the severance was exhausted. They were desperate again. On two occasions, I slipped the wife small sums of money. When the family head found out about it, payment for no work, he was extremely angry, and forbade it.

Our last contact was an unexpected visit some years later. The caregiver herself was now mortally ill. He brought her to our house to remember the good times. I don’t remember the prolonged illness of a family member as a good time, but I was gratified that they did.

This is one experience with Islam. There are other experiences, which is why the debate is so wrenching.