When America entered World War I in 1917, thousands of young men were drafted into the U.S. Army. Among them were a handful of Muslim immigrants who had made Maryland their new home. For these men, service was complicated. They had left behind homelands under Ottoman rule, places still entangled in the politics of empire, yet here they were, wearing the uniform of the United States, fighting for a country that barely understood their names, let alone their faith.
One such soldier was remembered by his family as Abdul Rahman, a Syrian immigrant who had arrived in Baltimore just a few years before the war. He spoke broken English, worked long hours in a factory, and sent back to his relatives overseas what little money he could afford. When the draft came, he was called to serve.
In training, his accent made him stand out. Fellow soldiers often mistook him for Italian or Greek, but he would quietly correct them: “I am Syrian. I am Muslim.” Few understood what that meant. Some made fun of him for refusing pork in the mess hall; others grew curious. Abdul never preached, never argued. Instead, he lived his faith with quiet dignity, surviving on bread and beans, and stepping aside for a few minutes of prayer whenever he could.
He was sent to France with the American Expeditionary Forces. Letters home were rare, censored, and brief. But in one surviving note, preserved by his descendants, he wrote: “I bow my head to God even here. Pray for me.” That single line speaks volumes about the resilience of a man who carried his Islam into the trenches of Europe.
When the war ended, Abdul returned to Baltimore. He didn’t receive medals or honors, and his name was never written in any history books. He went back to the factory, raised a family, and built a modest life. Yet in the quiet corners of his home, he told his children about the war, and about the prayers he whispered while bullets flew overhead.
For his children, the lesson was clear: being Muslim in America was not separate from being American. Their father had worn the uniform, fought for the country, and kept his faith intact.
Abdul Rahman’s story is just one among many forgotten Muslim servicemen in Maryland during that era. However, they remind us that Muslim loyalty, sacrifice, and patriotism in this land are not a new phenomenon. They stretch back more than a century, to men who carried both the Qur’an and the flag, who endured both suspicion and acceptance, and who quietly laid the foundation for the generations of Muslim Americans who would follow.