At Home with Muhammad Ali

by Hana Ali

  “Okay, you want some turkey bacon?”

  “Yeah, I want to cut it.”

  “Here’s the best way.” He picked up the bacon. “Don’t cut it. Bite it.”

  I did as he did.

  “There you go!” He smiled. “Okay, that concludes this segment of Hana Ali and her daddy, Muhammad Ali, just before leaving for Hong Kong, Peking, and a few more countries on a little tour of China . . .”

  My father made two trips to China. The first was in December of 1979. Chairman Deng Xiaoping extended the invitation, with the hope that Dad would help bring boxing back to his country. My father’s visit was also of diplomatic importance. He was the first foreign athlete to be invited by the Chinese Olympic Committee and the All-China Sports Federation. He was also acting as an emissary of President Jimmy Carter, who hoped my father could persuade China to participate in the 1984 Olympics.

  Boxing had been banned in China a couple of decades previous, when, in 1959, a fighter died in the ring. Many Chinese believed boxing was too brutal, savage, and ruthless. My father, always grateful for the opportunities boxing offered him, defended the sport that introduced him to the world. Long after he won the gold medal at the 1960 Rome Olympics, he stated: “If we stopped all the things that caused accidents, cars would be first. Airplanes would be second. Boxing should be improved, not abolished. It’s a route to wealth and fame for the underprivileged. A sport where all sizes of men can truly play. There’s no other sport where a 110-pound guy can become a millionaire overnight . . .”

  In 1966, during the Cultural Revolution in China, competitive sports were banned by the Communist Party. When the revolution collapsed, China used table-tennis matches to reconnect with the world. Deng believed that to win friends and respect, his country had to win medals. Thus, in December 1979 he invited my father to meet with China’s political leaders, hoping Muhammad Ali could help their cause.

  And for those who wondered what he was doing in his hotel room, or in between flights, as he traveled the world, he recorded the moments.

  The recording on December 22nd opens with an elegant English voice on Hong Kong radio news: “Yesterday, London had its first snowfall of the winter after weeks of unseasonal mild weather, which brought out spring flowers. The snow lasted ten minutes but melted as soon as it fell. In Kent, there was heavy overnight snow, and the traffic was stalled on roads leading to Dover. And now to end this news, here are the main points again:

  “The Ayatollah Khomeini has ordered that Christian Priests should be allowed to visit the hostages in Tehran over Christmas. President Carter says he will ask the United Nations to impose economic sanctions on Iran. The two sides in the ‘Guerrilla war’ have signed a peace treaty. A letter bomb addressed to a British cabinet minister has been discovered by London postal workers.

  “And that ends this news from Radio Television, Hong Kong.”

  My father spoke into the recorder: “That was a little example of what radio sounds like in Hong Kong, as far as the news is concerned. This is December 22nd, 1979, in my Hong Kong hotel room . . . Now we’ll hear some more radio programs . . .”

  He whispered into the recorder as symphony music played: “It’s a few days before Christmas and they’re playing Christmas carols . . .” He flipped through the radio stations for a while, listening to random channels. “Well, so much for that . . . I’ll be back when we have something else. Signing off—hotel, Hong Kong.”

  My father remembered Deng as a kind, honorable man. “We hugged, ate, and talked, and he treated me like family . . .”

  Dad’s second trip to China was in 1985. By then, his personal life and health had both taken unexpected turns. He’d lost his championship title to Larry Holmes in 1980, he was on the verge of a divorce he didn’t want, he’d been diagnosed with Parkinson’s syndrome the year before, and Fremont Place was officially on the market.

  When the call came to return to China, my father remembered his warm welcome several years earlier, and he and my mother accepted the invitation. The Communist government hoped he’d follow through with their plans for him to train their boxers for the Olympics. While his health would eventually make this difficult, Dad flew across the ocean again and showed the people of China the Muhammad Ali of old.

  Accompanied by my mother, Howard Bingham, and a few others, Dad was mobbed by fans wherever his limousine went. As always, he signed autographs, kissed children, shook hands, and waved at roaring crowds. As reported in a local Peking newspaper, twenty-year-old lightweights got the chance of a lifetime when they sparred with “The Greatest of All Times” in a makeshift ring at the Peking Sports Institute.

  Dad took off his suit jacket and tie, and stepped into the ring for the one-minute bouts, swinging his right uppercuts, which weren’t meant to land, dancing and floating and faking a TKO at the hands of his much smaller foes, making it the most memorable day of their lives.

  “They’ve got great potential,” he said of boxers in Peking and Shanghai. “They’re not big, but they can take a punch, and they are determined and courageous. I hope to come back with a program to train Chinese boxers.” When questioned about his ill health’s correlation with boxing, he declared, “If I had to do it all over again, I’d do it exactly the same way.”

  After my father’s 1985 trip to China, the sport of boxing steadily recovered. By 1986, boxing regained its validity, with Chinese boxers appearing on the international stage.

  Before leaving the country, he delivered a few words of advice. “Now that you are open to the world,” he said, “never lose your culture, because others will try to give you theirs. It will be a great fight.” Then he waved goodbye and promised to return.

  My father reportedly said the most moving experience of his ten-day tour, on his second trip in 1985, was praying with 1,000 fellow Muslims in the Great Mosque of Xian, which dates back to AD 742, the period of the Tang dynasty.

  “I was surprised that so many people still knew me,” he said humbly. “To be there with my brothers, people so different and from so far away, was unforgettable.”

  My father was always a lover of people, nations, and cultures. While he adored his religion, he saw the truth and beauty in all faiths, and treated everyone with respect and kindness. His initial visit to China, in 1979, was a step toward understanding and friendship between our two countries. It wasn’t the first or last time my father’s name would improve foreign relations or open the lines of communication between nations. When he returned home, President Carter invited Dad to the White House to be briefed on the trip.

  “This is the only place I get nervous,” said Dad as he looked around the Oval Office. They talked about some of his past fights—Carter’s mother was a fan. They joked, exchanged pleasantries, and discussed his trip, among other things. On his way out, Dad turned to look back over his shoulder at the White House. “I like this place,” he said. “Couple of carpets I’d change . . .”

  That same month, January of 1980, a reporter for the Los Angeles Times asked my father about the Ayatollah Khomeini and the hostage crisis in Iran. As always, Dad answered uninhibitedly: “Khomeini has been a spiritual, religious man. This is the worst thing he could let happen. At his age now, which is near death, the worst thing a Muslim can do is mislead his followers . . .”

  In December of 1979, the Russians invaded Afghanistan. President Carter asked my father to visit five African nations to represent the United States’ position on boycotting the 1980 Olympics in Moscow (due to the extreme abuse inflicted upon the citizens of Afghanistan). Ambassador Andrew Young was a confidant to Martin Luther King and was in close personal contact with my father. Young felt Dad was the ideal representative to defend the civil rights and liberties of not only Americans but all people around the world whose basic human rights were being violated.

  My father made the trip, unaware that the United States had refused to join twenty-five African countries in boycotting the Montreal Olympics four years earlier over South Africa’s p
lace in the sporting world. He later stated that had he known the history, he might not have made the trip at all. After learning the truth, my father felt used and embarrassed, reportedly stating, “President Carter put me on the spot. He sent me around the world to take a whoopin’ for American politics.”

  Dad had become something of an emissary for President Carter. He made decisions based on how information was presented to him. Not all of his diplomatic choices were wise, but his intentions were always pure. He did whatever he could to help people in need.

  My father was always aware of the responsibilities that came with fame, but after that experience I think he was more cautious and mindful about the invitations he accepted. Where he had once readily agreed to travel to Africa and Israel without a second thought, he found himself having to stop and think about how his presence in certain countries was being viewed and used. On one of my father’s recordings, an Israeli reporter calls from overseas, inviting him to visit. Dad took the time to explain why he couldn’t freely accept the invitation.

  “Two groups from South Africa invited me over,” he said. “When I accepted their invitation, or talked about it publicly, I got calls from all the African nations asking me not to go. They said that the United Nations or the African countries voted for me to stay home. A group of white people wanted to improve the education among blacks and build better schools in black neighborhoods in South Africa. I thought that was a nice gesture for peace and equality.

  “So I wanted to accept their invitation. But people asked me not to go because they said it would make it look like I was ordaining South Africa’s works, and that South Africa wasn’t doing what they pretended to. With so many people protesting about South Africa, and me going to South Africa, they could use my presence there to say, ‘Muhammad Ali came, so why do you say we are not just to blacks?’

  “It was a political thing. So many native South Africans wanted to see me—so many of them like me, so I was going mainly to see them, to inspire them and uplift them and make them feel good. Regardless of who invited me, that was in my heart. I’m just sorry that all of these things have to get involved because, to me, humans are humans and people are people.

  “So what I’m saying to you, my friend, is that I want your invitation, and I will gladly consider coming, but I don’t want to come if it’s going to stir up all my people against me or cause controversy, or if they make it a political issue. I have many Israeli friends in this country. On Miami Beach, so many of the Jewish people support me—the old ladies—they come to see me train. They like me, and I like them.

  “Send me your proposal, and I’ll have it looked at to be sure the world isn’t going to condemn me if I come. Just like Anwar Sadat. He made peace and now all of the Arabs and the Muslims are condemning him because he is tired of seeing his boys killed, he’s tired of always being attacked or fighting for whatever the reason is that causes death. So, I can sympathize with Sadat, but the whole Arab world is cut off from him and looks at him as though he is an extension of Israel. I don’t want them to look at me like that just because I made a trip, you understand?”

  “Yes, I do,” said the reporter.

  “So, send me your proposal, and I will have it looked at . . .”

  After three wars and decades of tension between Israel and the Arab states, on March 27, 1979, the government of Egypt and the government of the State of Israel signed a peace treaty. Egyptian president Anwar Sadat was under extreme pressure from Arab countries not to sign a separate accord. However, after intense negotiations, the agreement was sealed in hopes of assuring peace and security for all surrounding countries, making Sadat the first Arab leader to broker peace with Israel. Dubbed “The Man of the Year” by Time magazine in 1977, Sadat was one of the most important and influential Egyptian and Arab figures in modern history. He served as Egypt’s third president from October 15, 1970, until his assassination on October 6, 1981, when he was gunned down on the platform of a military parade by Islamic infiltrators in the Egyptian Army. The peace treaty of 1979 notably made Egypt the first Arab country to officially recognize Israel.

  At the beginning of the call, the same reporter had asked my father, “Muhammad, what do you think about the peace treaty between Israel and Egypt—do you find it a good one?”

  “I know nothing about the politics of Israel and Egypt,” Dad said. “Although I am a Muslim, I don’t understand the problems the two countries have been dealing with over the years. But I know all people are God’s people, regardless of race or religion, and I know that God, Allah, is not for war. I know God, Allah, is not for violence, and I know he is for peace. So I think whatever people are involved—whether they are Israelis or Arabs or Puerto Ricans or Chinese . . . I think it’s nice to see the countries who don’t agree religiously on many things—countries who don’t agree politically—it’s nice to see they can make a bond to stop killing, regardless of what other countries may say.

  “I think that would be nice because I’m sure the Israeli people are saddened when their boys are killed in a war. I’m sure the Egyptian people are hurt when their boys are killed. If they can do anything, they can stop fighting. I can understand why they don’t want to keep suffering so much. So I can sympathize with Israel, and I can sympathize with Egypt. I can sympathize with any country, regardless of their beliefs—whether I agree with them or not. I understand why they are tired of suffering so many casualties. Whatever they can do to help lessen them, I think that is good.”

  “Very nice . . . Very nice, Champ. I wish you all the best, Muhammad . . .”

  “Thank you. May Allah bless you.”

  During 1979, Dad was involved with the Tehran hostage crisis and other political and humanitarian endeavors, which would occupy most of his time and eventually propel him into a much bigger role as a mediator for world peace. But on December 24, 1979, he was just a father coming home to his children.

  20

  December 25, 1979

  It was Christmas morning; my parents had just come home from Hong Kong with dozens of colorfully wrapped packages full of toys from around the world. Every morning the sun shone through my window, illuminating all my beautiful dolls, especially the porcelain faces of the ones that my mother never let us play with and my father wouldn’t let me take to school for show-and-tell, thinking it would make less fortunate children feel bad.

  “Hana . . .” he’d say, removing the doll from my arms, “You will find in life that most people get pleasure out of showing off, and knowing they have things that others don’t. When we follow the rules of Islam, compassion, and kindness, it teaches we should want for others what we want for ourselves . . .”

  And with that, the doll was put back on the shelf. I was a little disappointed that day, but it wasn’t so terrible; the following week I ended up bringing something much better to school than my exotic porcelain doll.

  I know, I thought, I’ll bring something fun and exciting that everyone in my class has—but not like mine! So I brought my father to school for show-and-tell.

  He hugged and kissed the students and performed magic tricks. Then he turned on his tape recorder and interviewed my teacher and classmates, trying to find out what boy I had a crush on.

  “Who does Hana like?” he asked.

  “Nobody in here,” I said. We were in Laila’s classroom. Thank God!

  “Little girl,” he said to one student, “what’s your name?”

  “Cheyenne.” She blushed.

  “Are you friends with my daughters, Hana and Laila?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me, are Hana and Laila good little girls?”

  She paused before replying, “NO.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Laila hit me.” She pouted.

  “That’s not true!” said Laila in the background. “She hit me first, then I hit her.”

  “Cheyenne, are you bad?” he asked.

  She pouted and lowered her head.

  “It�
��s okay,” he said. “I’m bad sometimes too, you just can’t be bad ALL the time . . .”

  * * *

  Our Christmas tree was upstairs in the governess’s bedroom. It had originally been downstairs in the foyer just outside of my father’s office, but my mother asked my aunt Diane to help her move it. Dad was a devout Muslim, and he respected my mother’s wishes, but she knew how often he changed his mind. He could be rather mercurial at times. She knew that if one of my father’s Muslim friends said something to him about the Christmas tree in the entrance hall, there was a good chance he’d forget why he had agreed to let us have one in the first place.

  “Then he’ll just get mad at me,” said Mom, as she and Auntie Diane carried the tree upstairs.

  My mother was raised Catholic and wanted her children to experience the holiday as she had. My aunt Diane loves telling the story about how a conversation with my father was instrumental in him deciding to let us have a tree.

  “Oh, Muhammad,” she said one day in his den after dinner, “don’t you remember how happy you were when you were a little boy opening your presents on Christmas morning? And what it felt like seeing the colorfully wrapped gifts under the Christmas tree?”

  “Yeah,” he said, wide-eyed.

  “That’s too bad.” She sighed.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I was just thinking how sad it is that Hana and Laila won’t have those wonderful memories that you and Veronica have.”

  Diane had many talents, but her knack for manipulation was, and still is, exceptionally effective. She knew my father occasionally wrestled with his desire and ideology. He would perform magic tricks for a while, then store them away for months at a time, explaining how it was against Islam to practice trickery. Then, after a time, he’d bring them out again, resolving it would be okay if he showed people how the trick was done. As I said, he was sometimes mercurial.

  I think he found a similar reasoning when letting us have a Christmas tree. After all, we were only celebrating the spirit of giving and gratitude.