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granted to those against whom war is made, because they have been wronged, and God indeed has the power to help them. They are those who have been driven out of their homes unjustly only because they affirmed: Our Lord is God .’
    Fighting for a cause appealed to me; it brought a sense of solidarity and loyalty.
    I pictured the migration from Mecca to Medina, the desert battles that Mohammed and his few hundred followers waged and his triumphant return to the holy city, where he showed clemency to the Quraish despite their many attempts to stifle the young religion.
    I felt I could relate to Mohammed’s struggles as a man better than to some vague deity with a beard. As Allah’s messenger he seemed a more plausible historical figure than Jesus. It seemed ludicrous to me that God should have a son. I was also struck that Mohammed’s words provided for every aspect of life, from marriage to conflict to obligation. Good intentions were recognized and rewarded. The book citedthe Prophet: ‘Certainly, Allah does not look at your shapes [appearance] or wealth. But He only looks at your hearts and deeds.’
    Here was a prescription that was both merciful and compassionate and offered absolution for sins. A pathway to a more fulfilling life. Islam could help me rein in my instincts and gain some self-discipline.
    I was still reading when a librarian approached me to announce that the library was about to close. I had been sitting in that same alcove for six hours and had read some 300 pages about the life of the Prophet.
    The chill wind took my breath away as I stepped out of the library into the cobblestoned streets. Nearby the beacon of a lighthouse rotated. After being steeped in the Arabian desert and consumed by divine revelations, I found it disorientating to be back in the Scandinavian winter. But my mind and my soul were still far away.



CHAPTER THREE
    The Convert
    Early 1997–Summer 1997
    I was far from the only young man in Europe or America at the end of the twentieth century to find meaning in a different way of life and code of conduct, to find faith and fellowship where there had been none.
    In the weeks after reading about Mohammed I engaged several of my Muslim friends in debates about Islam, and I read more about the religion and its founding generations. I borrowed another of the library’s few books on Islam and bought a copy of the Koran. At first I found it difficult to understand the Holy Book and felt overwhelmed by the demands of Islamic culture. But I was encouraged by a Turkish friend, Ymit, who was thrilled that for once a Dane wanted to embrace rather than sneer at his religion.
    Ymit had been one of the ‘Raiders’ and we had remained friends despite my encounters with the Danish criminal-justice system and graduation to the Bandidos. He had a sharp wit and was intelligent, genuinely interested in the world beyond Korsør. He was knowledgeable about Islam and took it seriously, even if he was also familiar with alcohol and cocaine. Ymit told me that Mohammed’s illiteracy was a blessing and made the faith purer.
    ‘It meant that everything he said was a revelation from God, untainted by man. It meant the Koran was a miracle.’
    ‘But if you are a real Muslim, Ymit, how come you drink and do drugs like me?’
    ‘Because I can still repent if I go to Friday prayers and seek forgiveness for my sins.’
    Others tried to dissuade me. A Christian Lebanese friend called Milad, who owned a small grocery across from the library, was stunned.
    Morten Storm – biker, boozer and boxer – had found religion, and the wrong religion at that.
    ‘Why do you want to follow that ignorant pervert? Mohammed was a fool, a Bedouin who could not read or write.’
    ‘At least he was a human being, someone who really existed and received messages from God. No one pretended he was the Son of God,’ I shot back.
    A couple of weeks after my epiphany in Korsør library, Ymit asked me to come to the mosque in a