I am the son of a terrorist. Here's how I chose peace.

On November 5th, 1990,

a man named El-Sayyid Nosair walked

into a hotel in Manhattan

and assassinated Rabbi Meir Kahane,

the leader of the Jewish Defense League.

Nosair was initially found not guilty of the murder,

but while serving time on lesser charges,

he and other men began planning attacks

on a dozen New York City landmarks,

including tunnels, synagogues

and the United Nations headquarters.

Thankfully, those plans were foiled

by an FBI informant.

Sadly, the 1993 bombing

of the World Trade Center was not.

Nosair would eventually be convicted

for his involvement in the plot.

El-Sayyid Nosair is my father.

I was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

in 1983 to him, an Egyptian engineer,

and a loving American mother
and grade school teacher,

who together tried their best

to create a happy childhood for me.

It wasn't until I was seven years old

that our family dynamic started to change.

My father exposed me to a side of Islam

that few people, including the majority of Muslims,

get to see.

It's been my experience that when people

take the time to interact with one another,

it doesn't take long to realize that for the most part,

we all want the same things out of life.

However, in every religion, in every population,

you'll find a small percentage of people

who hold so fervently to their beliefs

that they feel they must use any means necessary

to make others live as they do.

A few months prior to his arrest,

he sat me down and explained that

for the past few weekends, he and some friends

had been going to a shooting range on Long Island

for target practice.

He told me I'd be going with him the next morning.

We arrived at Calverton Shooting Range,

which unbeknownst to our group was being watched

by the FBI.

When it was my turn to shoot,

my father helped me hold the rifle to my shoulder

and explained how to aim at the target

about 30 yards off.

That day, the last bullet I shot

hit the small orange light that sat on top of the target

and to everyone's surprise, especially mine,

the entire target burst into flames.

My uncle turned to the other men,

and in Arabic said, "Ibn abu."

Like father, like son.

They all seemed to get a really
big laugh out of that comment,

but it wasn't until a few years later

that I fully understood what
they thought was so funny.

They thought they saw in me the same destruction

my father was capable of.

Those men would eventually be convicted

of placing a van filled with
1,500 pounds of explosives

into the sub-level parking lot of the
World Trade Center's North Tower,

causing an explosion that killed six people

and injured over 1,000 others.

These were the men I looked up to.

These were the men I called
ammu, which means uncle.

By the time I turned 19,

I had already moved 20 times in my life,

and that instability during my childhood

didn't really provide an opportunity

to make many friends.

Each time I would begin to feel
comfortable around someone,

it was time to pack up and move to the next town.

Being the perpetual new face in class,

I was frequently the target of bullies.

I kept my identity a secret from my classmates

to avoid being targeted,

but as it turns out, being the
quiet, chubby new kid in class

was more than enough ammunition.

So for the most part, I spent my time at home

reading books and watching TV

or playing video games.

For those reasons, my social skills were lacking,

to say the least,

and growing up in a bigoted household,

I wasn't prepared for the real world.

I'd been raised to judge people

based on arbitrary measurements,

like a person's race or religion.

So what opened my eyes?

One of my first experiences

that challenged this way of thinking

was during the 2000 presidential elections.

Through a college prep program,

I was able to take part

in the National Youth Convention in Philadelphia.

My particular group's focus was on youth violence,

and having been the victim
of bullying for most of my life,

this was a subject in which
I felt particularly passionate.

The members of our group came
from many different walks of life.

One day toward the end of the convention,

I found out that one of the kids I had befriended

was Jewish.

Now, it had taken several days

for this detail to come to light,

and I realized that there was no natural animosity

between the two of us.

I had never had a Jewish friend before,

and frankly I felt a sense of pride

in having been able to overcome a barrier

that for most of my life I had been led to believe

was insurmountable.

Another major turning point came when

I found a summer a job at Busch Gardens,

an amusement park.

There, I was exposed to people
from all sorts of faiths and cultures,

and that experience proved to be fundamental

to the development of my character.

Most of my life, I'd been taught

that homosexuality was a sin, and by extension,

that all gay people were a negative influence.

As chance would have it, I had the opportunity

to work with some of the gay performers

at a show there,

and soon found that many were the kindest,

least judgmental people I had ever met.

Being bullied as a kid

created a sense of empathy in me

toward the suffering of others,

and it comes very unnaturally to me

to treat people who are kind

in any other way than how
I would want to be treated.

Because of that feeling, I was able

to contrast the stereotypes I'd been taught as a child

with real life experience and interaction.

I don't know what it's like to be gay,

but I'm well acquainted with being judged

for something that's beyond my control.

Then there was "The Daily Show."

On a nightly basis, Jon Stewart forced me

to be intellectually honest with
myself about my own bigotry

and helped me to realize that a person's race,

religion or sexual orientation

had nothing to do with the quality of one's character.

He was in many ways a father figure to me

when I was in desperate need of one.

Inspiration can often come
from an unexpected place,

and the fact that a Jewish comedian had done more

to positively influence my worldview

than my own extremist father

is not lost on me.

One day, I had a conversation with my mother

about how my worldview was starting to change,

and she said something to me

that I will hold dear to my heart

for as long as I live.

She looked at me with the weary eyes

of someone who had experienced

enough dogmatism to last a lifetime, and said,

"I'm tired of hating people."

In that instant, I realized how much negative energy

it takes to hold that hatred inside of you.

Zak Ebrahim is not my real name.

I changed it when my family decided

to end our connection with my father

and start a new life.

So why would I out myself

and potentially put myself in danger?

Well, that's simple.

I do it in the hopes that perhaps someone someday

who is compelled to use violence

may hear my story and realize

that there is a better way,

that although I had been subjected

to this violent, intolerant ideology,

that I did not become fanaticized.

Instead, I choose to use my experience

to fight back against terrorism,

against the bigotry.

I do it for the victims of terrorism

and their loved ones,

for the terrible pain and loss

that terrorism has forced upon their lives.

For the victims of terrorism, I will speak out

against these senseless acts

and condemn my father's actions.

And with that simple fact, I stand here as proof

that violence isn't inherent in one's religion or race,

and the son does not have to follow

the ways of his father.

I am not my father.

Thank you. (Applause)

Thank you, everybody. (Applause)

Thank you all. (Applause)

Thanks a lot. Applause)