On June 2, 1999, Abdullah Nafi Muhammed shot and killed two people while under the influence of drugs and alcohol. Even though he was only 17 years old, Muhammed was prosecuted as an adult and sentenced to life without parole.

Muhammed’s 18th birthday came behind bars, and all the birthdays since. He has now spent about 26 years incarcerated in the Tennessee Department of Correction, 11 more years than he spent outside prison. But this has not embittered him. He hasa calm, reflective attitude that bears little semblance to the impulsive anger of his youth. 

“I was lost,” Muhammed told me of what he was like when he first came to prison. 

Facing life without parole and with little hope for his future, he was quickly integrated into a gang. He started smoking weed, dealing in contraband, fighting and racking up disciplinary charges. He always kept a knife handy. After robbing another prisoner, he spent five years in a maximum security unit, part of the 13-and-a-half years he has served in segregation, a more restricted part of prison. 

“There was no rehabilitation in place for people with life without parole,” he said.

In 2009, Muhammed’s mother died. He became despondent and began using harder drugs. He continued down his self-destructive path for over a decade, and might not have changed if not for Umar.

Umar, a Muslim prisoner, gave him a book that explored Muslims and Christians. Reading it was transformative for Muhammed, who soon embraced Islam and changed his name from Donavan Daniel.

“When you’re in prison, you learn to be a better criminal or a worse human being,” Muhammed said. “It teaches you how to break rather than follow the rules.” 

But Islam provided him with structure and accountability, as well as a “healthy fear” of God, he said. 

“I’m called to a higher standard as a Muslim,” he said. “A lot of my vices are forbidden in Islam — such as drugs and alcohol — and I realize that many of my vices are what led me to where I am.” 

Fellow prisoner Bobby Claybrook has known Muhammed for two decades; they were cellmates for a time after Muhammed’s conversion.

“He was a lot less humble” before, Claybrook said. “His language was different, his looks were different.” 

But he said Muhammed has transformed in recent years.

“He’s a lot wiser now and more controlled,” Claybrook said. “His growth was noticeable. He’s a spiritual man, and left his [gang] affiliation behind. He’s evolved a lot.” 

Such a transformation isn’t unusual for prisoners who accept Islam, according to Zayid Hammam, who has served 31 years of a life sentence for murder. Hammam, who became a Muslim around 1997, said there has been a longstanding trend of people converting to Islam while incarcerated. It’s estimated that there are hundreds of thousands of Muslims in U.S. prisons, close to 9% of the prison population — with a very high majority of them converting while incarcerated.

“The Quran speaks more to the mercy of Allah,” Hammam said, explaining why people are drawn to the religion.

On a personal level, Islam helped Muhammed focus on improving himself and controlling his anger. Since Muhammed became Muslim, he hasn’t been placed in maximum or close custody (the two highest security designations here); nor has he engaged in physical violence. He prays five times daily and participates in Ramadan, the holy month of fasting, among other religious observances. 

Muhammed admits that he continues to face challenges, including relapses. But he’s trying. 

Muhammed’s aunt, Angela Johnson, told me over the phone that he is now more disciplined and rational. He will think about things “rather than react impulsively.”

This improvement in his behavior and attitude has been “in all areas — academically, psychologically, mentally, even physically,” she said.  

I met Muhammed about three years ago at Bledsoe County Correctional Complex, which is just over two hours southeast of Nashville, Tennessee. I’ve witnessed how Muhammed’s faith has influenced his actions. 

Earlier this year, prison officials didn’t post a sign-up notice for Ramadan, then said prisoners who didn’t sign up 60 days in advance couldn’t participate. Muhammed filed a grievance on behalf of the Muslim prisoners. His petition was successful.

Another time, a man struck Muhammed and knocked him down due to a misunderstanding. Before accepting Islam he would have reacted violently, he said; instead, he told the guards they were just horseplaying, walked away and later resolved the misunderstanding peacefully. 

Recently, I helped Muhammed file a petition to re-open his appeal challenging his life-without-parole sentence. A trial court granted his petition, ruling that he could be considered for parole despite his LWOP sentence. That provided Muhammed with his first glimmer of hope for freedom in a long time. But an appellate court reversed the ruling and Muhammed, now represented by counsel, sought review in the Tennessee Supreme Court. 

In March, the Supreme Court denied review and Abdullah’s life-without-parole sentence still stands. Absent an extraordinary turn of events, he will never leave prison. 

Rather than sinking into despair, he was pragmatic. 

“I must still have something to do here,” he said. “It’s the will of Allah whether I’m released.” 

I asked him what that purpose might be.

“Perhaps to give young men serving life sentences hope and direction, and to show repeat offenders who keep coming back that they’re squandering an opportunity to rehabilitate themselves and stay out,” Abdullah said.