by James Reston
Moreover, as she listened to his story, she wondered if Sami was ever a willing participant. Could he have been forced somehow? She had never really believed his conversion to radical Islam. She regarded his professions of faith as a pose. When she had been with him in Florida, a time when he was happily reveling in his independence, he had expressed no interest in Islam, and they had done many un-Islamic things. Nor did she think he had had a genuine political conversion. Florida was too much fun. Whatever happened to that picture of them sunbathing on the white sands of Siesta Key? she wondered.
Sami Haddad, ready to die for some spurious cause of Allah? Sami Haddad, a hero of some Arabian Night, stepping forward to wound corrupt America, this idol of the age, in behalf of all Arab peoples? Nonsense. Not the Sami she knew. None of that made sense.
Perhaps he was blackmailed. Yes! That was it! She embraced the notion. These ogres, Atta and Atef, the Sheikh, or this terrible Omar, must have blackmailed him. He was forced, she was sure of it.
June 27, 2001
“I have been thinking of the many lies I’ve told you, my love. When I said I was going to Beirut to see my father in November 1999, I told you I might remain in Lebanon through Ramadan. I actually went to Afghanistan. I’m sorry for the lie.
“It had been decided that I would be the first to leave Hamburg. The plan was for Atta and Fatfat to fly five days later, and Omar would follow a week or so after that. I believed at the time I was chosen to go first because I was the most westernized of the group, and, as Atta had always said, I ‘had the prettiest smile.’ But maybe it was also because I was the least committed and the most expendable. If there was trouble, it would be the signal to the other three to delay or rethink the plan.
“In Istanbul, I changed planes for Karachi and then took a rickety Tata bus to Quetta. As I grabbed a seat, about twenty men clambered on top of the bus. It was a slow, dusty trip across the Sind to Hyderabad on the Indus River. The bus was very crowded, and the smell was strong, but I didn’t mind. After Hyderabad, we kept along with the river, heading north to Sukkur, and then northwest, away from the Ganges Plain toward the mountains and the Bolan Pass. I arrived at Sibi, an ancient town, and boarded an ancient train, left over from the British colonials, for the ride over the high ridge to Quetta.
“In Quetta, women in blue burkas shuffled along the streets. At a bazaar, I tried on an embroidered jacket, a black waistcoat, a Chitrali hat, and I stuck a curved dagger in my belt. In a mirror I looked like a fierce Pashtun warrior.
“The Mauritanian had given me only an address and a name, Umar al Masri. At the Taliban headquarters, no one there answered to that name. I explained why I was there, and who had sent me, and that I was the first of four graduate students coming from Germany for jihad. They showed me where I could sleep and gave me food but left me largely alone. It was all so strange, Karima. I wondered if I had made a mistake. Atta and Fatfat arrived three days later, a bit worse for wear. Atta knocked the dust from his clothes, shot me a dirty look, and collapsed on the nearest couch.
“Our Taliban hosts gave us only a day to rest before we were escorted to a battered minivan, where we joined a group of twelve for the next leg of the trip. Two hundred bumpy miles later, we arrived at the guest house in Kandahar. Over the door was an inscription in Arabic: Dar al Ansar, or House of Victors. Atta had called his apartment in Marienstrasse the same thing. As we passed through the door, tired and hungry, there was a prominent sign on the wall, listing the rules: ‘My brother the mujahidin, my brother the visitor, please keep the house clean.’
“We were processed quickly, photographed, and relieved of our personal effects. Then we were asked to fill out an application as if we were matriculating in college. What brought ‘the candidate’ to Afghanistan? How did he get here? How did he hear about them? How did he want to fulfill his obligation to jihad? I wrote ‘Chechnya.’ After being given new clothes, a scrawny little Algerian with a pug nose and bad teeth introduced himself.
“‘I am al-Sahrawi,’ he lisped. ‘I am the emir of this guest house. I see that you want to fight in Chechnya.’ I could smell his stink. ‘Be careful what you ask for. When I was there, huddled in a foxhole, it was too cold to piss.’
“He told me he was a former handball champion in southern France. When I explained why I was there, al-Sahrawi took notes with precise little scribbles of his pencil, his face close to the paper, only rarely glancing up.
“‘We don’t get many like you,’ he said.
“Within a day we were deployed to a training camp called Khalden, near a village called Khost, in an abandoned copper mine. They told us that the year before, US cruise missiles had destroyed a camp closer to the city.
“The instructor explained that our first days in camp would be ‘days of experimentation.’ We would be tested and vetted for ‘worthiness.’ The day began with an hour’s exercise after first prayer before dawn, yogurt and gruel for breakfast, long hikes, map reading, and little sleep. I rode a horse at full gallop. Gradually they increased the intensity. They taught us hand-to-hand combat—and I hadn’t been in a fistfight in my life. I was forced to crawl under barbed wire as real machine gun bullets flew overhead. We wore brown tunics and black pantaloons, and our heads were covered with black cloth with holes slit for only the eyes and mouth. On night maneuvers, a trainer gave speeches, usually ending with the invocation, ‘O Land of Revelation. Be Patient!’ before real bombs exploded nearby. We had to jump through burning hoops. We learned how to disassemble and reassemble a rifle. In training exercises, we broke into buildings and shot at targets painted with Christian crosses and Jewish stars. All the targets on the firing range were dressed in American uniforms.
“All around were teenage men from humble backgrounds and with limited education. I could tell they had been drawn to jihad because of all the glorious things they had heard about the Sheikh. Some bragged about having memorized large portions of the Koran.
“We slept on straw mats on the floor in mud huts and were told the Sheikh did likewise, for he wished to live simply and be alert and ready like the Prophet himself. The rules were posted on the walls of the barracks: ‘Follow Islamic Principles/Pray Five Times a Day / Be Punctual for Food / Clean Beds and Tents Once a Week / No Arguments / No Insults / No Drugs / Go to Bed Early.’ On the wall of one classroom was a sign that read, ‘Two illegitimate reasons for leaving jihad: love of the world and hatred of death. If you leave jihad, then God will take away mercy from you.’
“A number of recruits left during these ‘days of experimentation.’ Fatfat was faltering. At the end of each training day, he dragged himself into the hut and collapsed on his straw bed. At night as he rubbed his feet, he began to talk more and more about his wife and child.
“And then we were taught to kill. In earlier drills we had practiced thrusting a knife into a straw man, as we shouted out, ‘Mout ya Kafir! Die, unbeliever! Die! Kill! Kill! Kill!’ Then one day, the instructor handed out long knives and took us to a sheep barn, where there was a pen with some thirty newborn lambs. He grabbed one by the scruff of its neck. As its high-pitched wail filled the rafters, he handed it to Atta.
“‘Okay, slit its throat,’ he said.
“Atta stared at him blankly for a second and then did the deed with dispatch. Fatfat followed, and then Omar. By the time he came down the line to me, there was blood everywhere. I was handed a lamb, I raised my knife, and then fainted dead away on the straw.
“Moral guidance infused every aspect of the training. ‘Without a sign from the leader, do not retreat,’ one instructor shouted, ‘because the Koran says, “Do not retreat, but stay steady. The only power is the power of Allah.”’ In a session on ambush, we were told that, when lying in wait for the enemy, we should save ourselves from melancholy and self-indulgence and confusion by prayer and meditation on Allah. In the common building, where we gathered before bed, the literature of jihad was everywhere, including messages and
statements by the Sheikh himself. The cover of one magazine, called the Window, featured a woman, cowering and weeping, as a huge cobra, festooned with a Star of David, hovered over her.
“Martyrdom was mentioned often. Two weeks into the ‘days of experimentation,’ we were given a list of Muslim martyrs and had to write a short essay on one of them. Just to please Omar, I wrote about Omar, the second caliph, waxing eloquent about how the caliph had expanded the dominion of Islam over Palestine, Syria, and Mesopotamia before he was stabbed by an Iraqi from Kufa in 644 CE. I got a very high mark.
“Posters listing the goals and objectives of jihad hung in the mess hall: (1) establishing the rule of God on earth; (2) purifying the ranks of Islam from the depraved elements, and finally and most importantly; (3) attaining martyrdom in the cause of God. The struggle is global, our drill instructors told us, and the only way to deliver the world from the atheists of the East and the infidels of the West is the establishment of an Islamic Caliphate. Even the soldier who is killed by his own forces would still be considered a martyr, and would be granted immediate entry into heaven.
“On the night before the final ‘experiment,’ a forty-kilometer hike in the mountains, I fell into conversation with my bunkmate, a young, diminutive Yemeni named al-Khatani. He had been in camp a few weeks longer than me and was in good physical shape. He hailed from a large Bedouin family of thirteen children, and his father was a policeman. With some self-importance, he announced that he was a businessman and an artist.
“‘What kind of art do you do?’ I asked.
“‘Mainly animals. I love to paint baby lambs.’
“I could tell al-Khatani was lonely and homesick. That night, after lights out, he whispered about a recent dream.
“‘I saw the Prophet Muhammad,’ he said. ‘I looked to his left and there stood Fahd, king of Saudi Arabia. Muhammad pointed to him and said, “Those are not from me, and I am not from them.”And then Muhammad walked farther down a path, where he encountered Sheikh Osama bin Laden and the martyrs, and the Prophet said, “Those are from me, and I am of them.”’”
“The next morning, we rose early, ate our normal ration of bread and yogurt, and then mustered near an old bus that would take us to the trailhead. This was to be the climax of our training. Atta looked uncomfortable in the cold, rocking from one foot to another, his flat-topped Chitrali hat slightly cockeyed on his head. Fatfat seemed really worried. And there I stood, not knowing what to expect. None of us was looking forward to the day.
“Just before the order was given to load up, a young Syrian rushed up and called my name. ‘Sami Haddad, you will not be making the hike today. Come with me.’
“As I fell out of the line, I turned to Atta and Fatfat and said, ‘Sorry, brother. God give you strength.’
“‘Kuss immak,’ Fatfat hissed. ‘Shove it up your mother’s cunt.’
“‘Please,’ I said, holding up my hand in objection. ‘Remember. No insults.’
For once Karima reached Recht directly.
“I really need to see you,” she said.
“We’re very busy here right now, Dr. Ilgun.”
“I insist. I must see you.”
“I’m sorry. We’re preoccupied. There are developments.”
“Developments?”
He paused. “Okay, I’m going to read you something because it will be in the papers tomorrow.”
“Are you leaking something else to me?”
There was a pause. “You must believe me, Dr. Ilgun,” he said finally. “I did not leak your letter to the press. I’m sorry that happened, and I did what I could to prevent it. But this place can be a sieve.”
“I trusted you,” she said and then, as there was nothing further to say on that subject, “What’s your news?”
He cleared his throat. “Okay, this comes from the FBI,” and he read haltingly: “‘Certain information, while not specific as to target, gives the government reason to believe that there may be additional terrorist attacks within the United States and against US interests overseas over the next several days.’ See what I mean?”
“Kommissar Recht … You mentioned the ringleaders once, Mudor or something….”
“Muktar.”
“And an Omar, I think.”
“Yes, Omar.”
“Are you close to arresting them?”
The silence on the line seemed like an eternity to her.
“Kommissar Recht?”
“That is confidential police business.”
“I’m frightened, Herr Recht.”
“You have reason to be.”
They made an appointment to meet three days later.
“The Syrian led me through the huts and across a dusty parade ground until we arrived at the administration building. Inside, the escort knocked on a door. A commanding voice inside called out his permission to enter. ‘Rely on God,’ the Syrian whispered in my ear as he nudged me forward and closed the door behind me.
“There before me sat Mohammad Atef. I recognized him immediately from pictures I had seen in Hamburg in Omar’s apartment, and from the descriptions of him in camp gossip. He was referred to as the ‘emir of all emirs.’ I understood that long ago he had been an Egyptian policeman and air force officer and a founding father of the organization and a veteran of the Russian jihad. As chief of military operations to the Sheikh, they said, he had planned the attacks on the African embassies. Once he had even been a professional volleyball player. I had heard that he was an excellent equestrian, though not as good as the Sheikh himself. He was seated cross-legged on a cushion behind a low coffee table before me. His head was erect, shoulders held back, chin high. He wore a white turban. His deep-set eyes were hooded beneath thick eyebrows, and even though his beard was dark and full, extending down below his shoulder bone, his face was brown and smooth. The collar of his white robe was open, and over it was a dark, sleeveless vest. Resting against the wall beside him was a Kalashnikov.
“‘Salaam, Abu Tariq al Lubnani,’ he said and motioned for me to take a seat on the floor opposite him. ‘I am Mohamed Atef.’
“‘Yes, yasayyidi, na’am,’ I said. ‘I have heard many things about you.’
“My eyes flickered upward to a poem framed in gold above his head. It read:
Our listeners gave us their ears and heard us—let the sword occupy the pulpit
Whoever seeks his rights must eventually find the sword to be his best guide.
When they refused to respond to our demands, we turned our saber rattling into songs.
“‘I welcome you to the Emirate of the Faithful,’ he said. ‘You have nearly finished the first phase of your training, I understand.’
“‘I wish to apologize for my performance, eminence,’ I said. ‘I am not much of a fighter. I would understand entirely if the organization deems me unqualified.’
“‘What did you expect when you came here, Abu Tariq, rose water and lovely ladies?’
“‘I expected the training would be hard. I did not realize how soft I am. I am a graduate student.’
“‘But you expressed a wish to fight in Chechnya.’
“‘We decided that as a group in Hamburg.’
“‘And you went along.’
“‘Yes, na’amyasayyidi.’
“‘We send only our toughest brothers to Chechnya.’
“‘I would hope there might also be less strenuous assignments.’
“‘All our assignments are strenuous,’ he said sharply. ‘Here in Afghanistan, we operate under the authority of the Taliban. They rule the country. We are their Arabian section, and our fighters are the most disciplined, best trained, the most heroic in battles against the American puppets.’
“He glanced at me, looking amused. ‘If you are interested in laughter and entertainment and beautiful women, you should volunteer for Bosnia.’
“‘I would follow you
r guidance, sayyidina’amya. I would like to satisfy my duty to jihad in a manner that best suits my talents.’
“‘Remember what God said: “Those who strive in our cause, we will guide them along our path.”’”
“He reached for a paper in front of him. ‘I was impressed by your essay on Caliph Omar. You have a sense of history, Abu Tariq. That is good. And your qualifications are good … on paper. You seem to have special talents. You see, our organization has evolved in recent years. Once we needed only muscular, tough fighters, schooled in the Koran, dedicated and disciplined, ready to die in the cause of Allah if need be.’
“‘Like those who could make a forty-kilometer hike without complaint,’ I said eagerly.
“Atef cast a sidelong glance at me. ‘We pride ourselves in inspiring young men toward jihad. But after we triumphed over the Russians in Afghanistan, our mission widened. Now our struggle extends far beyond these borders. Now we need young men who are just as tough, but who can do more than look down the barrel of a rifle.’