by James Reston
“When the American embassies in Kenya and Tanzania were blown up, and the press blamed a Sheikh named Osama bin Laden, there was high excitement in our study group. ‘You see,’ Atta crowed, ‘something can be done!’ Two weeks later, the Americans fired seventy-five missiles at the Sheikh’s training camps in Afghanistan. The bombs kicked up a lot of dust, hit the camp’s kitchen and mosque and a few bathrooms, and killed three Yemenis, an Uzbek, an Egyptian, and a cook. A cook! Can you believe it? The emir of Marienstrasse could scarcely contain himself. He waved an editorial from the English magazine in our faces about how the American attacks had created ten thousand new mujahidin where before there had been none.
“In the months that followed, I felt like a reluctant brother to Atta. I wasn’t very interested in studying. I was ashamed of being a lousy son to my ailing father and a bad boyfriend to you. My parents kept calling, beseeching me to return to Lebanon. With each monthly check, my father spoke of his poor health and his hope that I would come home soon. Wouldn’t I like to have a car in Germany? Not just any old car, but an Opel coupe that a friend of his in Düsseldorf did not want. If I would only come home to sign the title, the car was mine. But I kept evading them.
“I had grown comfortable in the study group. My ability to hold forth on the subject of holy war grew more polished. When I talked of martyrdom as the highest glory for any Muslim, I watched the heads nod and the smiles form. When I expressed dissatisfaction for the way I had led my life previously and spoke of my desire to leave this world ‘not in a natural way,’ Omar nodded his pleasure.
“My sessions in Omar’s apartment became more frequent; sometimes there were as many as four a week. During the summer of 1999, I spent fewer weekends with you. He made me feel more connected to a wider world. I derived pleasure at being seen as an activist and a militant. I even started praying occasionally, though I could not manage five times a day.
I knew I was changing, my darling. Because Omar was funny and soft-spoken and thoughtful, because he could talk of auto racing and football, and politics was not so all-consuming for him, I came to value his friendship. I admired Omar as a man of depth. I began to see Atta as a visionary.
“And then late in the summer of ’99 came that call from Uncle Assem. Of course, I knew you were behind it. After all the lies I told you, I cannot blame you now. You meant well. A visit from the impressive patriarch of our family would be intimidating, I knew.
“We met at a pizza joint in the city’s center. When Uncle Assem stood up and offered his hand, I lost my nerve. He was dressed in the uniform of his business success, and he towered over me. I could not look at the old veteran without imagining him plying the back alleys of Algiers, in search of Abu Nidal.
“‘Your father has had a heart attack,’ Assem said.
“This news genuinely shocked me, Karima. I could not imagine it. My father had always been healthy, always so strong. I always thought of him as invincible. He is a good and generous man. He did not deserve to die.
“‘Will he survive?’ I asked.
“‘Yes, but he must be very careful.’
“‘How bad is it?’
“‘He wants to live. He wants to see you, Samir.’
“I had anticipated this familiar request, not the heart attack perhaps, but certainly a fierce demand to come home. ‘You know how much I’d love to jump on a plane right now, uncle,’ I said. ‘I’m so relieved that he’s okay. I will come soon, I promise. But for now I’m stretched thin with upcoming exams and other obligations.’
“‘What other obligations?’ he asked.
“‘Just obligations. You know the kind of thing students have. And I have a very demanding girlfriend.’
“Uncle frowned disapprovingly. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Samir. We have heard reports about the company you are keeping, disturbing reports.’
“‘What kind of reports have you heard?’ I asked.
“‘Well, for instance, that you’re becoming very religious.’
“‘It’s true. And what’s wrong with that?’
“‘Nothing … in moderation,’ he replied. ‘It’s like drinking. Best not to get intoxicated.’
“‘It’s personal, uncle. Religion is a personal thing. Young men my age struggle to understand what they really believe.’
“‘And you are hanging out with dangerous militants.’
“I threw up my hands. ‘They’re students! Like me. A few of them talk a big game, but they’re harmless.’
“‘Listen to me, Samir. I’ve known you all your life. I’ve watched you develop—with great pleasure, I might add—as a normal, healthy kid, with normal, healthy instincts. A little lazy perhaps, a little lackadaisical in your studies, but with a wonderful sense of fun. You’re no religious zealot. Let’s face it: you’re going through a phase in your life. Ya’youni, you’re no longer a kid. You’re an adult, and a phase like this can be dangerous and have consequences.’
“I wondered how much longer this would last.
“He leaned forward over the table. ‘I want you to come home with me, Samir,’ he said.
“‘I can’t. I just can’t.’
“‘You need to remember where you came from, my son. You need to rediscover the values you were raised with.’
“He was making me very uncomfortable. ‘I honor my family. I have not forgotten where I came from.’
“‘You have obligations at home. For the good son, those are primary.’
“‘In a few months. I promise.’
“‘When exactly? I tell you that your father is dying, and you tell me that sometime later, at your convenience, once your girlfriend approves it, you’ll move yourself to come home!’
“‘I will come as soon as I am able.’ I had to be adamant.
“Assem’s exasperation was evident. ‘I have brought the title to that car with me,’ he said at last. ‘Here, take it. It’s yours.’ He reached for the clasp on his briefcase. I put my hand on Uncle Assem’s arm to stop him.
“‘Uncle, really. I appreciate the family’s generosity. But honestly, I don’t need a car. I’m a student. I get around just fine on my bike. But thank you. And please thank Dad.’
Assem rose to leave. ‘Remember what I told you.’
“‘Remember what?’
“‘The obligations of a good son.’”
The next day, Karima arrived home from running errands and accidentally kicked a letter at her feet. The return address read, “Boulevard Zeitung.” With dread she tore it open.
Dear Dr. Ilgun,
We will be publishing a story on you and your relationship with the death-pilot, Samir Haddad, in two days. Of course, we would like to offer you the opportunity to comment, or to challenge any facts, as you choose.
She crumpled up the letter and threw it on the floor. At least it wasn’t another missive from Omar—that she dreaded most of all—but the media barrage was about to begin. She picked up the ball of paper, opened it, and read on.
I hope you will be willing to help the German public understand what might have been going on in Mr. Haddad’s head and heart, as he became involved with the Hamburg group, and how he could have been so effective in masking his plans when he prepared in Florida for his mission.
We accept entirely and totally that you have absolutely no culpability whatever in his actions.
Spare me your absolution, she thought. Popping an Ambien, she fell onto her bed without undressing. “I have to finish that last segment,” she said to herself. She retrieved the machine and hit play.
“I have to make it brief tonight, yahabibti. I just had a close call. Ahmad found a handkerchief of yours. I had put in my duffel and forgot about it. They are questioning my commitment. I must be very careful now. He has gone out for a while. I think it is safe to record.
“Oh, my love, I have been thinking about you all day. Only four weeks until we’re toge
ther! I am wondering if I will have the courage to share these stories with you. I want so much to tell you about this secret life. I imagine you, your love, your smile, and I feel the strength to say no. I’m counting on you to make me strong. I need you desperately, yahayati. Next month could be our last time together, or it could be just a beginning. I will have to make my final decision. From that point forward there will be no turning back.
“That’s why I’m telling you the whole story now. I want you to know, but I don’t know if I can tell you when I see you face-to-face. I feel like such a coward. I don’t know if I can take your one-way ticket back to Germany. If I did … if I did … we could just fly off to Beirut and lose ourselves in the love and protection of my family, my clan, away from Germany and the US, from Atta and Omar and Abu Musad and Muktar and … all of it.
“In a way, the easier path is to carry forward, to join the struggle of the Prophet. I have made a solemn oath to the Sheikh—Ahmad reminds me of it all the time, and of the many people who have placed their trust in me. He speaks of the glorious path we’re walking together, fighting in the cause of Allah.
“I hope you will be able to forgive me, whether we are together in the years ahead or not.”
Afterwards, she slept, dead to the world, for twelve hours. When she awoke, she packed her bag, retrieved the tapes from their secret hiding place, and left her apartment quickly through a back door in the basement to catch the train to Stuttgart. She wanted to be with her mother when the hurricane hit.
When she opened the door to her mother’s apartment, there sat the sweet lady, dressed in her finest robe, her upper body stiff and upright in her wheelchair. Karima leaned down to give her a big kiss and hug, careful not to push against her tender, swollen legs.
“Greetings, my darling,” her mother said. “I’m so glad you have come, especially now.”
They ate döner kebabs and tabbouleh and talked of everything except what was on their minds.
“You haven’t had any strange phone calls, have you, Mutti?” Karima asked.
“Why do you keep asking me that?” she wondered with a note of irritation. “No, I haven’t. Should I be getting strange phone calls?”
“No, of course not. I’m sorry. I’d forgotten I’d asked that before.”
That night, after her mother went to bed, Karima checked that all the doors and windows were locked. Then she drifted into the room where she had grown up. Her mother had kept it as a kind of shrine. On the wall were rough paintings she had made in kindergarten and a photograph of her in a grade school production of Rotkäppchen when she starred as Little Red Riding Hood. Her mother kept her childhood poetry books and her high school yearbooks just as they were ten years ago. On her schoolgirl desk was an album with pressed flowers and valentines and photographs with her favorite friends. Next to it was a Hello Kitty change purse and a pencil holder. Her eye fell on two letter boxes on the bookshelf. She opened one to see several sixth-grade notebooks and a bundle of letters from friends.
Karima slipped into her bed, surrounded by stuffed animals, retrieved a tape from her briefcase, and wondered: Is Mutti safe here?
June 23, 2001
“For Atta the time for study is over, and the moment of action has arrived. He gathered us together in Omar’s apartment with an air of urgency. By now I am accustomed to his rants. His lesson for the day was the inspirational history of the Chechen struggle. ‘Look how the greatly outmanned and outgunned mujahideen prevailed in Afghanistan in the 1980s,’ he said. ‘See how in the First Chechen War, again believers had humiliated that drunken pig, Boris Yeltsin. Now it’s Putin’s turn.’
“The drift of the discussion made me nervous. But I knew I had to be careful. Before I could speak up about the practical difficulties of Chechnya, I needed to demonstrate my commitment to the cause. Atta had asked me to contribute something uplifting and motivational to the meeting. So, I composed a little poem to appeal to the Jihadist in Atta.
“‘I’m not much of a poet,’ I told the group. ‘But I wrote this for you last night.’ I fished out a crumpled piece of paper and read with gusto.
‘We will return to him (Allah)
But the spring of my country has been murdered
The red shining sunrise will come
The morning will come.
The victors will come, will come
We will search, we will find you, and we will defeat you
The earth will shake underneath your feet.
I came to you with men
Who loved death as much as you loved life.
The mujahideen give their money for weapons,
Food, and travel, with the goal
To succeed and to die for the cause of Allah.
But the unfortunate will perish.
Arise, Oh sweet smell of Paradise.
“They clapped boisterously and I gave them a long, sweeping stage bow.
“After I read my poem, I thought it might be safe to raise some objections about the Chechnya mission. How could we join such a faraway fight? How would we be trained? Who would provide us the money for the travel and the training?
“Atta had the answers. There was this agent in Duisburg near Düsseldorf, a Mauritanian he knew only by a code name, Abu Musab. He might be willing to help us. Within a few days, the four of us were on the train southwest to the province of North Rhine-Westphalia. I was not sure what to expect. A bearded, one-eyed fanatic, wearing a lace white skullcap, peering out through round, Coke-bottle glasses.
“In Duisburg we made our way to Hochfeld, a working-class neighborhood of rundown three-story houses and the pervasive stink of garbage. At Eigenstrasse 92, Atta rang the bell. The door opened, and before us stood a short, dark-skinned, smiling man of about forty, dressed casually in a floor-length blue Dra’a and slippers. He was the perfect image of an elegant junior professor. ‘Guten Tag, meine Herren,’ he said with a twinkle, ‘or should I say—’ And he made a clicking sound that is the Mauritanian greeting: ‘I wish you no evil.’ Then he ushered us into a bright, modern flat. Large abstract paintings dominated the walls, Andalusian shag rugs covered the floor, and a coffee table was piled high with oversized art books. The book on top was about ancient North African ruins. A side door was open a crack, and I glimpsed Musab’s study, with a large computer at the center and various computer manuals stacked around it.
“Nervously, Atta blurted out why we had come. ‘We’re all graduate students,’ he said, ‘all in various technical fields. I’m in urban design, Marwan in shipbuilding, Omar is a banker, and Sami is a future pilot, studying aeronautical engineering. We’ve all been in the West for more than three years.’ He went on to describe how we had grounded ourselves in the Koran, in the history of the Prophet, and in conflicts between the West and Islam over the centuries.
“‘Now we wanted to put our beliefs into action by fulfilling our obligations as Muslims.’
“As Atta proclaimed our desire to fight in Chechnya, the Mauritanian listened patiently, a look of worldly empathy fixed on his handsome face.
“When Atta finished, Abu Musab offered tea in small cups. The first cup, he explained, was unsweetened, to represent the struggles of life. The next cup, he promised, would be sweetened and minted, to signify that life would get better when one married. I shot a glance at Omar. Through the door to the next room, opened just a crack, I noticed a coffee-skinned beauty about our age, wrapped in a colorful sari, preparing our sweets.
“Abu Musab gazed at each of us, as if he were gauging our worth. He expressed his gratitude for these heartfelt sentiments.
“‘Do you have an email address?’ he asked.
“‘Yes, everyone has at least one gmx account and a Hotmail account,’ Atta replied.
“‘Very good,’ he said. ‘We can stay in touch, then. Be careful of those Hotmail chats. They can be traced, you know.’
“‘Yes, we know,’ Atta
said.
“‘Send me your MSN names, and I’ll add you to my contact list. You’ll get an invitation from mauritanian01.’
“‘I always use a combination of el emir for my accounts,’ Atta said.
“‘Fine. I appreciate your trouble to come all this way—just to be disappointed.’
“Disappointed? What had we done wrong? Surely the ranks of Allah’s army could always use more warriors.
“‘It’s true,’ he was saying. ‘The fight in Chechnya is important. Local commanders need young, idealistic men like you who are ready to fight and even die for Islam. Before this villain Putin is finished, he will level Grozny flatter than the Americans flattened Hiroshima in World War II. Mark my words.’