Читать книгу Undercover Jihadi Bride: Inside Islamic State’s Recruitment Networks - Anna Erelle, Anna Erelle - Страница 13

“Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones crashed against the walls of my living room, resonating like a premonition. I turned on my computer and found new messages from Bilel. I barely had time to read them before he connected and contacted my digital puppet. In his first posts, he struggled to hide his crass insistence. Every other line, the mercenary begged Mélodie to sign off Facebook and continue her conversation with him over Skype, a platform that combines sight and sound. Why was he so obsessed? Was it a safety measure? Did he want to verify my identity? Or did he want to make sure the new fish swimming in his net was appetizing?

“Why do you want to Skype?” I had Mélodie reply awkwardly.

“Conversations over Skype are more secure, if you see what I mean.”

No, I didn’t see. He ended his sentence with a smiley face, a yellow, winking emoticon. It was absurd. He was absurd. On his profile, he swore he was “devoted to the Islamic State,” so I tried to engage him on that point.

“I see you work for the Islamic State. What’s your job? In France, people say it’s not a very strong brigade.”

I couldn’t help using Mélodie to insult him. I also added a blushing smiley face. Bilel was quick to defend his vanity, firmly insisting that ISIS embodied the height of power, not only in Syria but throughout the world. Soldiers came from all corners of the globe to join its ranks.

“There are three types of fighters,” my charming interlocutor went on, in teacher mode: “those on the front, those who become suicide bombers, and those who return to France to punish infidels.”

“Punish? How?”

“You know how . . . like Mohammed . . .”

It was a reference to Mohammed Merah, the shooter in Toulouse. But Mélodie didn’t understand.

“Who’s Mohammed? And how is he punishing people?”

“You live in Toulouse, right? You don’t know about the scooter killer? . . . There’s one important rule: terrorize the enemies of Allah.”

“But Merah killed children. Don’t children represent innocence and purity? How can they be enemies?”

“You’re so naïve, Mélodie. . . . You like children? One day, you’ll have some of your own, Insha’Allah. You know, we have many orphans here in need of mothers. ISIS sisters take care of them; they’re remarkable women. You have a lot in common with them. You would like them.”

Although he didn’t know Mélodie, Bilel was a master manipulator. His method: lull her into a state of security by telling her what she wanted to hear. Ultimately, the subject of conversation didn’t matter; he would guide her in whatever direction he wanted. Mélodie expressed a certain affection for children, so Bilel suggested she could become a surrogate mother. Forgetting the discussion about Mohammed Merah, she smiled faintly, and imagined what it would be like to devote herself to others worse off than herself. As if other people’s despair could cure her of her own. For some time, she’d felt lost in her depressing surroundings. Everything seemed like a waste of time. Nothing mattered. True happiness was a rare and fleeting sensation; she barely remembered the strength it could provide. Mélodie was tired of her dull and futureless life. She was lost and looking for purpose. I imagined her as a marginalized teen with a difficult and scarring past.

The honey-tongued Bilel might be the spark of hope she needed to restore her faith in life. The terrorist tried to discern Mélodie’s jihadist motivations. He was like a salesman before making a pitch; he sought to understand the expectations and weaknesses of his prey. For him, Mélodie represented a type. Once he managed to categorize her, he simply had to churn out appropriate responses in deep and convincing tones. Bilel was an evil genie. He was an expert salesman, who was careful not to make direct queries on her plans for hijrah. Instead, he asked what she hoped to find once in Syria. It was an important nuance. Bilel still didn’t know much about Mélodie—not her age, the color of her eyes, or her family situation. He wasn’t concerned about any of that. In fact, he seemed interested in only one thing: that she had converted to Islam.

And for Bilel, Mélodie’s faith was so strong that it would be easy to convince her to join him in the most dangerous country on earth. He only questioned Mélodie on her opinion of jihadists. I felt as if I were being polled. My answers relied on opinions I’d heard expressed in reports on high-risk suburbs.

“I’ve heard about what Israel is doing to Palestinian children. I’ve seen dozens of videos showing dead babies. I started following some of your brothers on Facebook who have left to do jihad, there and in Syria. Some mujahideen do good, others evil, so I don’t know what to think.”

“Focus on the good! I myself am an important mujahid. I’ve been devoted to religion for a long time, and I promise you: I can be very, very gentle with the people I love, and very, very hard on nonbelievers. I hope you’re not one of them—”

“How could I be? I converted.”

“Good, but that’s not enough. It’s not enough simply to pray five times a day and observe Ramadan. According to the Prophet, if you want to be a good Muslim, you must come to al-Sham^* and serve God’s cause.”

“But I can’t leave my family and abandon everything.”

“Wrong answer! Let me guess: you’re a capitalist.”

Mélodie wasn’t an intellectual. She wasn’t interested in capitalism. Besides, what did it have to do with her family? She didn’t understand what Bilel was implying. Soon he’d tell her to turn her back on the consumer society in which she’d grown up and embrace the Islamic court (or sharia law, a radical Islamic doctrine that exists in a minority of countries). Bilel was clear: Mélodie should not obey the laws of her country. The only laws that applied to her were those of a radical form of Islam. A “pure” Islam, the one he’d embraced. Mélodie was naïve; she didn’t see anything coming. She was duped at every turn. She didn’t even notice the contradiction between Bilel’s attack on consumer society and the fact that he was wearing the latest Ray-Bans and Nike apparel.

“Isn’t capitalism about finding a balance between supply and demand? Something like that? LOL.”

“Capitalism, my dear, is a blight on the world. While you’re busy eating Snickers bars, watching MTV, buying Booba or Wu-Tang Clan albums, and window-shopping at Foot Locker, dozens of our people are dying every day so that we Muslims can live in our own state. While we’re out risking our lives, you’re spending your days doing meaningless activities. Being religious means imposing your values. I’m worried about you, Mélodie, because I sense that you have a good soul, and if you continue to live among kafirs, you’ll burn in hell. Capitalism is exploitation of man by man, do you know what I mean?”

Now he was referencing Marx. Did he really grasp the German philosopher’s doctrine and his concept of class struggle? Or was he simply repeating something he’d heard from someone else? I thought of Guitone, the Islamic State’s “publicist,” who dressed head to toe in Lacoste. Mélodie was stunned by the fate Bilel described for “kafirs.” Her life in the West offered no hope, but was it really so bleak, compared to what Syrians endured? Bilel sought to infuse her faith with fear. He succeeded in sowing doubt in her mind and making her feel extremely guilty.

Abu Bilel was diabolical. I examined his profile picture. He was rather good-looking. The stunning grammatical errors barely distracted from the force of his conviction. What had drawn him to radicalism? What had made him so blindly committed—and therefore particularly dangerous? Some parents of jihadists compare the indoctrination of their children to methods used by cults. There was something of that here. Bilel acted as a kind of guru, who presented war as a divine mission. Mélodie was to accomplish her mission for the sake of a prophecy she didn’t understand. I lit another cigarette.

“Are you saying that if I don’t go to al-Sham, I’ll be a bad Muslim, and I’ll never know heaven?”

“Exactly . . . but you still have time. I’ll help you. I’ll be your protector. Can I ask you a question?”

Another smiley face; it had been a while. Mélodie had the choice between Syria and hell. Bilel painted a postcard of Syria that sounded pleasant and not at all hellish.

“I’ve checked out your profile,” he went on, “and I only found one picture. Is it of you?”

Crap! I’d completely forgotten about the picture. I’d created Mélodie’s account six years before, when the wives of extremists could still show their faces. Now the few Islamist radicals who allowed their wives access to social networks made them cover their faces. I hadn’t thought to erase the old profile picture depicting a pretty, fair-haired girl.

“It’s a picture of my older sister,” I improvised. “She hasn’t converted, so she doesn’t cover her face, but I do.”

“You scared me, Masha’Allah! Nobody should be allowed to look at you! A respectable woman only shows herself to her husband. How old are you, Mélodie?”

Until that point, I’d felt like I was conversing with a car salesman; now I had the disturbing sensation of speaking with a pedophile. I wanted to tell him that I was a minor—just to see his reaction. But if I decided to meet him over Skype, that wouldn’t work. I was just over thirty. And even if I looked young for my age, I couldn’t pass for a pubescent teen.

“I’m almost twenty.”

“Can I ask you another question?”

He clearly didn’t care about Mélodie’s age. What if she’d been fifteen? Would he speak to her differently?

It was midnight in Syria, eleven o’clock in France. My pack of Marlboros was empty. I was exhausted, and I sensed his next question would finish me off for the night.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Touché. I’d been dreading this moment. Mélodie would have to be succinct. She couldn’t give any details.

“No, I don’t. I don’t feel comfortable talking about this with a man. It’s haram.* My mother will be home from work soon. I have to hide my Koran and go to bed.”

“Soon you won’t have to hide anything, Insha’Allah! I just want to know if I can be your boyfriend?”

“But you don’t know me.”

“So?”

“So what if you’re not attracted to me?”

“You’re sweet. It’s your inner beauty that counts. I have a good feeling about you, and I want to help you lead the life awaiting you here. It breaks my heart to hear that you hide to pray. It’s something I fight for every day here, to make others respect sharia.”

His exploitation of Islam enraged me. Islam, and this is my opinion, is a great religion that encourages its believers to have sympathy for others. I’m agnostic, but I admire this community of people that finds its bearings throughout the world. André Malraux predicted that “the twenty-first century will be religious or will not be at all.” This quote is often taken out of context; Malraux was referring to spirituality and “lofty” feelings. Bilel promoted a doctrine that, among other antiquated practices, forced women to wear full veils and marry at the age of fourteen. Some of these laws are intolerably violent: adulterous women are stoned to death, while men who cheat on their wives are merely fined; thieves pay for their crimes with their hands. ISIS seeks to install sharia law, first in the Middle East, then throughout the world.

When it came to sharia, Bilel was professorial: Mélodie was not to show an inch of her body, not even her hands, to anyone. A veil covering all but the oval of her face was not enough. She needed to wear a burqa and an additional veil over it. His pronouncements grated on me.

“My mother raised my sister and me by herself,” I began, trying to calm things down. “She works two part-time jobs to make sure we have everything we need. I converted in secret. She isn’t preventing me from practicing my religion.”

“I’m sure your mother is a good person; she’s just lost her way. I hope she’ll soon return to the right path—the one and only—Allah’s path.”

I was dumbstruck by his rigid thinking, bad faith, and blind judgments. Still, his arguments were relatively coherent, if ideologically impoverished. Bilel met Mélodie’s questions with the most basic doublespeak: all the answers could be found in Islam—the medieval version of Islam promoted by ISIS. This conversation had gone on too long, and it was time to put an end to it. Mélodie reminded Bilel that she had to go to bed. He gave in and wished her sweet dreams, then added, “Before you go to sleep, answer me something: can I be your boyfriend?”

I logged off Facebook.

We’d exchanged one hundred twenty messages in the space of two hours. I carefully reread them all. Late in the night, I called Milan.