Living Stones (3 page)

One Friday evening he explained jihad as the mystic Sufi Muslims believe.

“Jihad is a struggle in life to please God since you can never be sure your good deeds will outweigh your bad ones. But some see jihad as Islam taking over the world. They’re trying to establish Muslim rule in many countries of the world. But these are the radical fringe of Islam. And some are terrorists.”

Robert glanced at Ali, who was scowling.

The imam continued: “The vast majority of Muslims are peaceful and just want to live their lives like everyone else. We respect others, including people of the Book, Christians and Jews. Those extremists, the radical jihadists, they pervert our religion. What they do has nothing to do with true Islam.”

As Ali and Robert walked home that night, a crescent moon
seemed to float in the southwest sky.

Ali shook his head. “This imam doesn’t know what is going on in the world! He’s weak and naïve, too ‘otherworldly.’ He’s a mystical Sufi. Too few Muslims see things as we do because of people like him. He never spoke of revenge for what the West is doing to the Muslim countries.”

“Well, maybe he does know but he doesn’t care. Anyway, I think we should go somewhere else.”

The sidewalk shone wet in the streetlight as they approached a traffic light on Broadway in the Capitol Hill district of Seattle. Robert stopped walking and grabbed Ali’s arm. “I heard of the Islamic Center that meets on Fridays not far from here. That may be just what we want. One of the guys in the house told me about it. He goes, you know. The imam there knows what’s going on. Jabril Safar teaches real jihad!”

The following Friday afternoon, Robert and Ali stepped up the hollowed-out wood steps onto the broad porch of an old house with peeling paint outside. They entered a large front room with front and side windows, carpeted, similar to that in the previous mosque, plain and unfurnished except for the Qu’ran stand. To Robert it smelled old and musty but with an odor of curry as well. They sat in a circle with others before the prayers would begin.

Imam Jabril Safar launched his sermon with a few introductory remarks and then gradually raised his voice. “The Qu’ran teaches us about jihad. Fighting for sharia law against the infidels in this world is our religious duty. That struggle, the jihad, is the best way to please Allah!”

Jabril expanded on the spiritual basis for jihad and the wonderful benefits of sacrificing one’s life in the struggle for pure Islamic rule for all nations.
Heaven and seventy virgins await such a soldier. This should be the goal of every Muslim man
.

“Dude, that’s what I’ve been waiting to hear!” Robert punched the air as he and Ali walked home after evening prayers in the mosque. “I would give everything to be able to fight in jihad!”

“Maybe we can, but how?”

“Let’s make an appointment to talk with Imam Jabril to see what he says.”

The following Wednesday afternoon at the Islamic Center, Robert and Ali sat on the floor with Imam Jabril over tea and a plate of dates, pear slices, and crackers. The imam, in his turban and glasses, gazed at the two young men through fierce dark eyes.

“Asalaam alekum. What brings you here?”

“Asalaam alekum, Imam Jabril. I am Ali and this is Robert. I guess Allah, through Mohammed—peace be upon him—called us to the Islamic Center and to you. We believe in Salafist jihadism. We come to learn how we can involve ourselves in jihad.”

That began a long interrogation of the two young men, their backgrounds, understanding of Islam and jihad, motivation, and seriousness of their intentions. The imam finally asked, “Do you understand what you are requesting, involving yourselves in jihad?”

Robert trembled at the question as he sipped his tea. Was he prepared to give his life in the Jihad-Salafi cause to bring Muslim rule to the nations of the world?

“Are you really willing to live in that cause?” the imam asked. “Are you ready to die in it? Would you be willing to carry a bomb into a crowd?”

With wide eyes, Ali looked at Robert, whose hands shook. Robert studied the two windows across the room, his mind in turmoil. A test question or was this for real? To see if they were serious about learning how to be a jihadist? Or was the imam asking whether they were actually up to being suicide bombers? If they said no, what would he think? That they were chicken or didn’t really believe in jihad? If they said yes, did that mean that he would arrange a suicide bombing and they’d have to do it or offend Allah?

Ali swallowed and nodded his head. “Yes, I would do it.” He turned to Robert, his eyebrows raised.

Robert’s heart pounded and he began to sweat as he thought,
Man, I guess I should be willing to die myself if I agree to plant a bomb in a crowd of infidels. But I would have to think about it further, you know, because remaining alive means you could do it again. And which would be better?
His hands began to tremble.

“I need time to consider this,” he replied.

“Of course. Such things can be decided later,” the imam said as his frightening gaze seemed to penetrate right through Robert.

Robert exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath. He shifted his uncomfortable crossed-legged position, not used to sitting on the floor.
This guy doesn’t fool around
. He got right to the point. “So what do you suggest we do?”

“You need intensive training, and the best place to get that is overseas, but first . . .”

Ali suddenly spoke in Urdu, and then translated for Robert. “I recognize you as being a Pakistani brother, Imam. Do you have connections to a madrassa there?”

“Yes, I do, but I think it would be dangerous for you to go to North Waziristan,” he replied in English. “We need to prepare you here before you go.” He paused, nodding his head. “But I can introduce you to some brothers in an Afghan camp near the southern border. You could fly to Quetta in Pakistan and take ground transport from there. We have Taliban friends in Quetta.”

That began a long and friendlier conversation, the first of several planning sessions over several weeks. They learned the first weeks there consisted of paramilitary training like Marine boot camp, followed by weeks of instruction in creating and using explosives.

The imam seemed pleased to have recruited Ali and Robert. “I won’t tell you the name of the camp or the names of any contacts, for security reasons.” He leaned forward, handing Ali a piece of paper. “But I am providing you with an address in Quetta. You must destroy it on arrival at the safe house there.”

With that one simple piece of paper, Robert realized he and Ali had launched into a world of intrigue and danger, with no idea what was ahead.

The flight from Seattle to New York and then Karachi took more than thirty hours with a stop in Abu Dhabi. Robert traveled separately alone and would rendezvous in the Karachi airport. They both used Pakistani tourist visas. After clearing customs with a pat down and search of his backpack and carry-on bag, Robert found the line for domestic flights and bought two round-trip tickets. Ali appeared after a wait of several hours. Then they flew north to Baluchistan province and its largest city, Quetta, near the Afghan border.

From a small dilapidated cab, Robert, wide-eyed, saw colorful painted buses and trucks competing with cars and animal-driven carts in the crowded streets and roundabouts. People and honking horns were everywhere. He looked around, smiling at Ali. There were men in long shirts and pajama pants, beautiful women adorned in bright sari-like dresses. The young ones wore jeans, most without head coverings. Small shops bordered the streets, open in front and busy with people. He’d never seen such markets.

They sped on a hectic cab ride into a residential area with houses all behind high, painted walls. The community apparently contained
the safe house Imam Jabril described. The cab eased up to a concrete wall ending in a metal locked gate that slowly opened in response to the cabbie’s horn. Two tall guards with beards pointed AK-47s at the car then motioned for Robert and Ali to get out.

Robert stared at the guns and raised his hands. His heart raced and he began to tremble. “Why are they doing this Ali?” he whispered. “Didn’t they expect us?”

Ali shrugged. “They want us to get our packs out.”

Ali paid the cabbie, and then they raised his hands up again. The cab quickly backed out while the gate banged shut, and one of the guards spoke in broken English.

“Where your papers?”

Ali answered in Urdu, nodding at the smaller of his two packs. A third guard appeared and found Ali’s U.S. passport and Jabril’s sealed envelope. He tore it open and read something out loud to the two other guards. They all nodded. They opened and inspected all the bags, found Robert’s passport, patted both men down thoroughly, and asked Ali in Urdu for the name of their gardener.

“Abdul-Alim Kalb.” He said it proudly, just as Imam Jabril had instructed. The guards suddenly dropped their weapons, smiled broadly, and welcomed both men with a handshake and kisses on both cheeks. Robert’s face, which had turned ashen, regained its color, and he took a deep breath.

“I guess we passed the test, Ali.”

For the first time he noticed the tan painted house with its metal roof, window bars, and green metal door. Entering the house, they removed their shoes and walked to a back room. It looked empty, except for mats stacked near the walls and a tablecloth in the center of the carpeted floor. A platter contained dates, figs, pomegranates, nuts, and bread. A short Pakistani brought tea and cups. The guards quickly surrounded the tablecloth with large, colorful, one-inch-thick mats, and the new guests sat down on them, legs folded under as did their three hosts. Robert had learned you don’t show the bottom of your feet. A fourth man appeared, bald and with a gray-streaked beard, and all stood up. He shook hands all around, first with Ali and Robert, and spoke English clearly.

“Welcome! I am Hamid. Please sit down. How is my friend Jabril?”

“He is well,” Ali replied in English, “and sends his greetings.”

“Ah, good,” he said nodding. “He is a fine man. We attended school together many years ago in Peshawar. I apologize for our reception of you. But these days you can’t be too careful.”

After eating, Hamid interviewed Robert and Ali separately for three hours to determine their goals and level of training. Then he asked a sequence of questions. He probed into the level of risk they were willing to take, how they felt about working with dangerous materials, and whether they were able to work alone. Then he explored how they handled fear and whether they were willing to sacrifice the innocent in order to convey a message to infidel governments. Would they be willing to carry out acts of holy war anywhere in the world? Were they willing to give up their lives for jihad?

Robert had steeled himself for these questions. He knew they were coming. If he couldn’t answer yes, why had he come?

By the fourth hour, Hamid seemed satisfied with the answers they had provided. “We will take you north just over the Afghan border, where you will receive training in the things you need to know for jihad. The test explosions you will carry out will be back in Pakistan for security since foreign troops are still in Afghanistan and get curious. Be ready in the morning.”

Robert and Ali sat quietly in the old tan Toyota 4×4 behind the driver, one of the guards from the gate. The paved road wound north from Quetta through apricot orchards.

Soon the cultivated landscape transformed into scrub brush only. Deep in thought, they silently watched the now barren desert slip by as high hills increasingly loomed on either side. Robert looked at his passport. A loose page with some writing on it had been inserted. It looked like a foreign script. He studied it for any English. It appeared official. “What does this page say, Ali?”

“It’s your Afghan visa, written in Pashtun, identifying you as a tourist. That number at the bottom seems to be our identification with Hamid’s program, so they’ll know we are the ones he sent. It’s loose because once you take it out you’ll have no permanent record of ever being here.”

Robert suddenly sat up tall, eyes wide. He’d never thought of that. He started to talk as he turned to his friend. But Ali stared ahead, apparently lost in thought.

Robert remembered he could be questioned about this trip, and
he’d have to insist he came only as a tourist. Then he wondered how Ali would handle any questions. “Does it feel right to return to your family’s country?” Robert asked.

“Yeah, but I’m scared. I don’t know where they’ll send me after the training.”

“Man, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Like, I just assumed they will send me back to America. Now you have me worried.”

“They probably will since you look European. But me, I could be from anywhere, from Indonesia to the Middle East to London in the Asian community.”

At the border Robert stared wide-eyed at dozens of trucks lined up with appliances, computers, and other electronic equipment. He wanted to ask their driver about them, but he was busy talking to the Afghan soldiers who gathered around the car. Many men in turbans and long shirts stood around the numerous shops. Robert noticed several military vehicles in various states of repair, including a couple of army tanks with broken tracks and blown-off turrets. After Robert, Ali and the driver showed their passports, and the soldiers waved them on. In five minutes he suddenly veered off the main road heading east. For an hour they followed a two-rut track through desolate dry-brown rolling hills to the outskirts of a village where some low, unpainted, wooden buildings matched the surrounding brush. A guard appeared with an assault rifle. He grinned when he saw the driver and spoke a few words.