Phoenix: Civilizations Clash at Twilight

If you were up for some fun mischief – say, if you wanted to set off a whole bunch of M80s or tweak the nose of a major world religion – you couldn’t find a better place than the strip mall on 27th Avenue and I-17, in West Phoenix. Aside from a Denny’s and a Cinnabon, the place is lifeless. It is now 3:40 PM, and according to the latest update in the local news, the Denny’s will shut up in 20 minutes. At six, a crowd of protestors will march, armed, on the Phoenix Islamic Cultural Center, an event dubbed Freedom of Speech II by organizer Jon Ritzheimer. An hour beforehand, they’ll gather in Denny’s parking lot and compete in a contest to see who can draw the best caricature of the Muslim prophet Muhammad.

But it turns out the owner has decided not to suffer the marchers after all. “He said no way,” says the manager, a brisk-mannered woman in her 50s. She tells me and Mike, my friend and driver, that the crowd will instead be drawing Muhammad in Washington Park, a short drive south.

Ritzheimer’s provocative gestures have swamped the news these past two days. Franklin Graham has condemned them; Anderson Cooper has accused Ritzheimer of “playing into the hands” of Muslim extremists. Ritzheimer, who served with the Marine Corps in Iraq, has framed this evening’s events as acts of defiance against militant Muslims, particularly the two who armed themselves with assault rifles and stormed another “Draw Muhammad” event in Garland, Texas, earlier this month. The gunmen, Nadir Soofi and Elton Simpson, had been sharing an apartment in Phoenix. Until 2010, they prayed at the mosque where Ritzheimer will lead his march.

In a CNN interview, Ritzheimer, who says he’s read the Qu’ran three times, admitted having an axe to grind with Islam, explaining, “[The Muslims] flying their planes into the towers, those are Muslims following [the Qu’ran] as it is written.”

Through Facebook, he’s has instructed his followers that “this will be a PEACEFUL protest.” He’s also encouraged them “to utilize their second amendment right at this event just in case our first amendment right comes under the much anticipated attack.” Indeed, Twitter users have threatened him and whoever shows up. One named Dawlatil Islam has promised: “WE WILL DRINK YOUR BLOOD” and “WE WILL PAY YOU BACK TODAY THE EVENT WON’T FINISH WITHOUT KUFFAR BLOOD.”

The franchise owner’s logic is irrefutable. No sudden boost in the number of Grand Slam Breakfasts served could justify such hassle.

Set in a residential neighborhood of postwar split-level houses, Washington Park is a stretch of dry grass with a few ancient shade trees. Now the action is in the parking lot. As Mike and I step out of his car, the first person we see is Jon Ritzheimer himself. About 5’7” – he calls himself “Scrappy” on his Facebook page – and shaven-headed, he sports an auburn goatee and great constellations of tattoos, including a spider’s web on his elbow. Under his black t-shirt, which bears the message “FUCK ISLAM” a bulletproof vest bulges.

I introduce myself as a writer for Patheos. Ritzheimer says, “I’ve heard of it,” and stomps past me.

It’s a little before 5:00, and the crowd has grown to about 40. Some have arrived on Harley touring bikes, others in pickups or cars. Most are wearing pistols on their hips, but nobody’s toting an assault weapon. The median age seems to be about 50. Nearly everyone’s white, and the men outnumber the women about five to one. A towering man with a shaved head and Taliban-length beard is wearing a T-shirt marked with sigel runes and the words: “SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL WHITE BOY.” Another has decorated his leather vest with a patch in the shape of the Israeli flag. From the flatbed of a pickup, Ritzheimer is selling “FUCK ISLAM” t-shirts at $10 apiece.

“I’m not making any profit off these,” Ritzheimer tells some prospective buyers. His voice is soft and a little scratchy, his manner distant. Even with supporters he doesn’t look eager to press the flesh.

The contest begins without fanfare. A lanky, sunburned man is sketching in quick, bold, strokes on a stiff sheet of white paper he’s laid on another flatbed. The media – including me – crowd around.

“Aren’t you afraid of death threats?” One of the reporters asks.

“I’ve been married 13 years,” the man says. “Death threats don’t mean anything to me.” One of the reporters tells him it’s a good drawing. “If you want to call that drawing,” the man sniffs. He introduces himself as Michael.

In fact, the drawing isn’t bad – kind of Matisse-like. Rendered by Michael, Muhammad’s face is positively handsome, with sculpted lips and eyes that seem to have been outlined with kohl. But its head is supported by a tiny, stumpy body.

“That’s Muhammad as a teddy bear,” Michael tells us. “I’ve got kids at home, so I don’t want to draw anything too…” He leaves his answer unfinished and begins work on another drawing.

“This is all stupid shit,” Michael explains, apparently meaning that the drawings don’t showcase his talent properly. “But what’s really stupid is, I could be beheaded for this.” Within a few strokes, it becomes clear he’s giving his second Muhammad a snake’s body.

“Be sure to draw him with his nine-year-old wife,” a woman says from over my shoulder.

The second artist is John, a trained animator and graduate of the Phoenix Art Institute. John’s submission, which consists of a half-dozen pages, shows real virtuosity, and amounts to a complete revision of Islam’s foundation myth. The first page depicts Muhammad in a cave on Mt. Hira, being duped by ventriloquist goatherds into thinking he’s receiving a divine revelation. In the second, he’s slobbering over Aisha, his child bride, who protests, “Oh, HELL, no.” On every page, John has included citations from the Qu’ran.

“I’ve read through the Qu’ran a couple of times,” he says. “I’m not naïve.”

John has met Muslim refugees working as a flight coordinator at Fiumicino and Ciampino airports, in Italy. “This Islam stuff is out of control,” he says. “They’ve been killing Christians for years.”

By now, the crowd has doubled in size, and in confidence. By the flatbed where Michael executed his sketches, a bearded man wearing a hat with a swooping brim is declaiming for the media.

“We’re not trying to stop these people from being Muslims,” he booms. “I’m an American. I’m okay with that. It’s not that we hate these people. We don’t want to harm their property.”

The man in the hat speaks with passion and more than a touch of irritation. He says he’s sick of being made to feel like a bigot. Pointing to Ritzheimer, he says. “They threatened his life. They threatened his kids’ lives,” and demands to know if I intend to print that. I tell him I will if Ritzheimer confirms it. Looking mollified, the man nods and continues. “We’re defending their rights, too. ISIS has killed more Muslims than anyone else.

“But,” he says, stabbing the air with his forefinger. “We don’t give a shit if we offend anyone. In America, just because you don’t like it, doesn’t mean we have to stop it.”

“If Satan had a religion,” a man in a red polo interrupts to shout. “It would be Islam. Islam is not a religion; it’s a fucking cult.”

Presently, Ritzheimer, standing on the flatbed of another pickup, calls for order. Declaring both artists winners, he pronounces the contest “the First Amendment at its finest.”

He continues, relating the sacrifices he’s made. “I’ve had to put my family in hiding,” he says. “I’ve had to go into hiding.”

“Did you get that?” asks the man in the hat. I say I did. “Sorry if I was a little rude back there,” he says. I tell him no problem and ask his name. He tells me it’s Paul.

Ritzheimer concludes his speech: “You know what, Anderson Cooper? Fuck you!”

The sun’s low, and we’re approaching the Islamic Cultural center down a quiet street lined with bougainvillea and oleander bushes. We’ve parked a few blocks away, in a church parking lot, having driven there in a long convoy that reminds both me and Mike of the scene from Roger Corman’s Wild Angels where the bikers bury Bruce Dern. Residents turn out on their lawns to gawk at us. The center stands behind a high wall; we can just make out the minaret and the top of the dome.

Then we hit a wall of police, and a wall of noise. Surrounding the cultural center in a protective cordon is a crowd of counter-demonstrators. They’re carrying signs that read “Love your neighbor as yourself,” “Muslim lives matter,” “Have the audacity of hope,” and, in one case, “FUCK ISIS, NOT ISLAM.” Some members are chanting, “READ YOUR BIBLE!”

This crowd is both bigger and younger than Ritzheimer’s by a comfortable margin. More than half are wearing shirts in shades of blue. Nevertheless, the variety in the crowd is as stunning as the energy. For one thing, there are a substantial number of women, some wearing hijab, one sporting a very chic side shave. A man with African features has covered his head in a red-and-white Jordanian-style keffiyeh. Members of a small, ethnically mixed group have wrapped their faces in black bandanas.

A bearded, barrel-chested young man wearing a black tank top that reveals tattoos in Arabic is shouting, “You’re not Marines! I served! We have one God! Go back to Germany, you Nazis!”

Noting several other men of about his age and build wearing identical tank tops, I ask the men whether they’re providing security for the center.

“Security?” He asks, sounding disgusted. “Do we look like security?”

As a section of the counter-demonstrators break into a chant of “NAZIS, GO HOME,” I overhear a man in his early 20s telling a woman, “We consider ourselves conservative fundamentalist Christians.” A woman holding a sign bearing Jesus’ command, “Love one another as I have loved you,” introduces herself as Megan and says she’s a Buddhist.

“If you want to put it on record, I feel kind of bad for yelling,” Megan says. “I’m just good at it.”

A woman hands me and Mike Dixie cups filled with water. It’s ice cold and delicious. Family packs of bottled water rest by the wall. The counter-demonstrators have logistics on their side.

I find the leader of the blue shirts, whose name is Jim Mullins. Plump and bearded, with a bashful grin and a hip golf cap, he’s pastor of Redemption Church, which has 10 branches in the Valley.

“Post 9/11, I thought like the folks over there,” Mullins says, pointing to Ritzheimer’s group, now both invisible and inaudible behind the ranks of counter-demonstrators and police. “Some friends told me that I was being inconsistent with who Jesus was. I could either walk with them or walk with Him.”

Several years ago, he met Usama Shami, the center’s imam, at a Muslim-Christian dialogue event. The two became fast friends, regular partners on the dialogue circuit. Mullins now counts several Muslims among his closest friends. “To tell you the truth,” he says, “a couple of them really saved my life.”

The differences between the two camps are impossible to overlook and too numerous to catalogue. Whether for good reason or not, the demonstrators seem wary and aggrieved; the counter-demonstrators are confident and voluble.

I ask a wiry, shaggy-haired member of the black-bandanna group why he and his friends are covering their faces. “You see that thing?” He asks, pointing far ahead to something that looks like a Smart Phone on a selfie stick. “That’s a facial recognition camera. The Phoenix Police Department is making records of everyone’s faces. Some of them are colluding with militia-group members over there,” he says, gesturing toward Ritzheimer’s vanished faction.

“For above-ground activists, who come out only once or twice a year, it’s no big deal,” he says. “But against people like us, waging the struggle for liberation, they’ll use every means available.”

His eyes are wide, though whether from fear or zeal is hard to say. But it strikes me that this is a very long and generous disquisition for him to have offered a complete stranger, who could, for all he knows, be an FBI agent. His bandana makes his age hard to guess, but I’d put him in his early 20s. Maybe what’s revealing itself is the naivete – or the swagger – of youth.

The counter-demonstrators break into another chant, one whose words I can’t quite make out. It sounds like “DON’T TRUST YOUR BUBBLE.” Whatever it is, it’s drowned out the demonstrators completely. For a diverse bunch that seems to include a certain number of anarchists, the counter-demonstrators chant well, and cohere well generally. Mentally, I call the day for them and head back with Mike to the church parking lot, leaving the future behind.