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Most of my writing focuses on topics related to the Bible and its interpretation. However, on this Memorial Day, I have decided to write something a bit different—something more personal.
I arrived in the United States exactly 25 years ago today—on Memorial Day, May 26, 2000. I did not know what Memorial Day was or why it was such a big deal in America. My family and I immigrated legally to the United States, driven by hope, seeking refuge in what we believed was “the land of the free,” where justice and Judeo-Christian values reign. In short, America was more than a country; it was a promise, a dream.
Life in the Middle East
I had lived for many years under the oppressive weight of Islamic regimes, where my Christian identity was not just marginalized—it was ridiculed and ostracized. From the age of 9 to 16, I lived in Libya under Muammar Gaddafi’s brutal regime. As a Christian boy in an Islamic dictatorship, I quickly became familiar with what it means to be ridiculed, singled out, and marginalized. My name alone—a Christian name—was enough to draw mockery and scorn from classmates and teachers alike. Every school day came with the expectation of insult or derision—not because of anything I had done, but simply because I bear the name of Christ. I endured that weight in silence as a teenager.
When I finished high school, I returned to Egypt. The situation there was not much different. While living in Libya, I had been fearful as a Christian foreigner; in Egypt, I faced discrimination as a Christian native! After a couple of years in Egypt, my family was selected via immigration lottery for a Green Card. That was when the door of opportunity opened, and the dream of coming to the United States started to become a reality.
From Hope to Reality: My First Days in America
So we came to America. Our first stop as a family was Algonquin, Illinois—a western suburb of Chicago. After my arrival, I learned the significance of Memorial Day. The timing of coming to this country seemed almost symbolic! As Americans commemorated those who gave their lives for freedom, I was stepping onto American soil for the very first time, having left behind a life marked by religious oppression and authoritarian rule. I came filled with hope and gratitude. I believed I had finally reached a land where the sacrifices of others had secured something I had never fully known—liberty.
At 20 years old, my top priority was to find a reputable university to complete my engineering studies, which I had begun before leaving Egypt. So, I enrolled at the University of Illinois at Chicago (UIC). This was where I first encountered something unsettling in America—the classroom.
The Classroom Shock
When I started my studies at UIC during the summer semester of 2000, one of the elective classes I chose to register for was English Composition. I thought it would be fun to study English composition at an American university (at last!). One of the required readings in this class was Bertrand Russell’s Why I Am Not a Christian—a well-known essay that critiques and dismisses the foundations of Christian belief. As a new immigrant, especially a Christian fleeing persecution, I questioned why an article with that title would be the topic for classroom discussion at a public university, funded by taxpayer dollars, in a country that celebrates its devotion to the separation between church and state! This choice of reading alone was telling, but it didn’t bother me as much as what followed.
We were asked to write a paper about Russell’s article. In response, I wrote an essay titled Why I Am a Christian—an honest reflection of my journey, written by a young man who had experienced first-hand the cost of being a Christian. It was not a polemic but a deeply personal reflection—an account of why I, a young man from a Christian family in a predominantly Muslim country, who had seen the darkness of religious oppression, had chosen to follow Christ. I was exercising my freedom of thought and belief—something I believed formed the very heart of America.
My professor was left unimpressed by my essay. He called me into his office for a one-on-one meeting—a discussion that turned into a subtle (or maybe not-so-subtle!) attempt to dismantle my Christian faith. Almost anyone who knows me would tell you that it is almost impossible to win an argument with me, especially if it pertains to the Christian faith or the Bible. Needless to say, my professor did not win that argument. Remember, I was a 20-year-old debating my college professor, who was at least fifteen or twenty years older than me at the time.
This professor was an American-born man from a middle-class background. Two things he said during our discussion caught my attention. First, I learned that he was preparing to move to China. I found that bewildering, especially since I myself had just moved to the United States. I wondered, Why would anyone leave a land of freedom to embrace authoritarianism, unless they had come to see freedom itself as an illusion or a burden? So I asked him why he wanted to move to China. His answer was shocking—and that was the second thing he said that caught me by surprise:
“There’s nothing special about this country,” he said.
These words were jarring. I had barely unpacked my bags. I had arrived believing I was now standing on sacred ground—a land where freedom reigned, faith could flourish, and Christian ideals still shaped society. Here was a professor who had never tasted real oppression and who had us read Russell’s work, telling me America had nothing unique to offer. He went on to explain that what I had come to America seeking was nothing more than a mirage and that the American ideals were merely a façade of deception and illusion. I remember leaving his office thinking: either this professor is delusional, or I have made the mistake of my life by coming to the United States! But I had moved with my family, so I stayed, hoping for the best. And here I am, twenty-five years later.
That was when I first began to understand something unsettling: the ideological erosion I thought I had left behind in Egypt was present here too, but in subtler, more deceptive forms.
The Slow Erosion of Truth
What I encountered at UIC was neither an isolated incident nor lacking deeper, wider-reaching significance. I did not understand its implications back then, nor was I, as a new immigrant to this country, capable of grasping what it meant. But now, twenty-five years later, reflecting on this incident, I realize it held a much deeper meaning than I had initially perceived.
Recently, there has been a troubling increase in violence and hatred on college and university campuses in America, particularly aimed at the Jewish community. Much of it is brazen acts of violence carried out not in the shadows, but openly, in broad daylight, often fueled by ignorance and by misguided ideologies that have been festering for decades. While this may seem like a sudden cultural shift for many, I know from experience, such as my encounter with that UIC professor, that this did not begin yesterday. The institutions tasked with shaping the minds of the next generation had been infiltrated by a worldview that not only disdains Christianity and Judeo-Christian values but also undermines the very values of freedom, reason, and personal responsibility that built the Western world.
From Cultural Decay to Ideological Collapse
For those of us who have fled lands of persecution and now watch the same ideologies take root here, this is not surprising. It is a sobering confirmation of a long-developing trend. I say this as someone who grew up in the Middle East as a Christian—someone who is often struck by the level of ignorance regarding the most basic realities about that part of the world among those chanting slogans, who themselves do not have the slightest idea of what they mean!
Most regimes in the Middle East have experienced their fair share of challenges in recent years, and many have either collapsed or are collapsing in their own heartlands. In Arab and non-Arab nations like Egypt, Libya, Lebanon, Syria, Turkey, and Iran, we see internal conflict, moral disarray, and ideological fragmentation. Governments are propped up by force. Religious institutions are fractured. Yet rather than reform or repent, many within those structures have opted instead to export their grievances westward, first to Europe, then to America. Others have realized that they either reform or suffer a similar fate, hence the wave of reformation sweeping across the Arabian Peninsula in Saudi Arabia, United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, and others.
This is no longer a theory—it is fact. This wave of protests sweeping across college campuses has not brought about anything new; it has only exposed what was brewing under the surface, unnoticed for a long time. These protests, which lionize terrorist groups, are emblematic of an ideological invasion. This ideology comes cloaked in the language of human rights and justice, but behind the curtain lies the same agenda: silence dissent, demonize Christianity and Judaism, and replace freedom with submission.
But what has it found in the West? A generation of young people, spiritually disoriented, morally unanchored, and ripe for radicalization. Campuses that once trained minds for critical thought now function as echo chambers for Marxist, relativist, and even jihadist sympathies. What I’m seeing now is a spiritual and ideological invasion: not with tanks, but with textbooks; not with bombs, but with beliefs. The casualties are truth, identity, and freedom.
This woke, progressive agenda dominating the universities has not appeared overnight. It has been germinating for decades—quietly, strategically, and with devastating effect. In my case, the seeds of this were evident in my English composition class. Across the nation, the pattern repeats: students are taught to deconstruct the past, despise their heritage, redefine morality, and chant what they do not understand. They are taught that all religions are equal—except Christianity; that is oppressive. All nations are flawed, they tell us, except America, which is uniquely wicked. Truth is subjective, (gender) identity is fluid, and freedom means doing whatever one pleases.
Why I Still Believe in America
As recent events have shown, this is a worldview that has bred sympathy for ideologies that, in other parts of the world, gave rise to groups like ISIS. Yes, I say that soberly: many of today’s campus protestors and ideologues may not wield weapons, but the venom in their words, the radicalism in their worldview, and their disdain for truth are strikingly familiar to those who have seen jihadism up close. And now the fruits of this cultural decay are spilling into the streets.
Unlike what my UIC professor said, I believe that this country is special—not because it is perfect, but because it was founded on principles that reflect eternal biblical truths: liberty, the dignity of every human life (including the unborn!), and the right to believe, worship, and express one’s opinion without fear. These are not trivial values. They are sacred. What we see erupting in protests and violence is not spontaneous—it is the fruit of a long cultural war waged in our schools, media, and institutions.
This article is not a rant. It is a plea—it is a call to all who still believe in the Judeo-Christian values on which this country was founded to wake up and understand the hour in which we live. As someone who has lived under tyranny and now watches Western freedom slowly erode, I say this with love and urgency. We must recognize cultural and, above all, the spiritual battle at our doorstep. We must stop sending our children into institutions without training them to stand firm in truth. We must stop sending them uncritically into environments that are actively hostile to their faith. We must speak plainly when truth is under fire. We must recognize the mission field within our own borders. We must not remain silent when lies are paraded as virtue, or when hatred is dressed up as justice. And we must remember that this nation is indeed special, not because of its economy, military, or global influence, but because its founding principles are rooted in righteousness and justice.
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