The Age of Reinvention (35 page)

Djamal arrives at a remote camp divided into several sectors, where Lashkar's leaders live. He is given a military uniform: combat pants, a khaki shirt, and a sort of beret. Here, he meets two men: Abdel, known as Abdel of Mecca, and Mohammed, a member of the mobile Pakistani army who liaises between this camp and Afghanistan and reports on the situation there. He is in charge of recruiting foreigners, irrespective of their nationality.

Djamal stays in this camp for a few weeks, then is sent to another camp, concealed in the mountains of the Punjab. The units are mobile in order to avoid discovery. A day in the camp follows an unchanging ritual: the trainees are woken at three in the morning; they pray together and listen to speeches about the importance of the jihad and the holy war. As in Fontainebleau, they are shown images of war, mutilations and acts of violence committed against Muslims. Along with other men from all over the world, Djamal undergoes a military training that takes the form of long walks during the day and, at night, in the mountains; shooting practice; and the assembly and disassembly of firearms. He is taught techniques for ambushes, camouflage, the use of weapons (grenades, Kalashnikovs, sniper rifles, mortars), and the manufacture and installation of explosives and detonators. The trainees follow orders, they run and crawl, climb, roll through sand, jump into trenches, carry weights, attack a military convoy. It is cold and Djamal is hungry. Exhaustion begins to overcome him. Here too, the weakest are removed, sent back to wherever they came from. Djamal lives here, surrounded by two or three thousand Mujahideen. He swaggers around, defying the enemy, his brain afire. They are guided by a military sheikh, who reports to Abdel, picking out the best men for him: those steel-hard recruits who will have the glory of dying as martyrs. Here, with them, Djamal has a goal—he exists, he is important—whereas back home in Sevran, in peacetime, he is nothing.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, the men are rudely awoken, mobilized into groups, and evacuated from the camp, their weapons well hidden. They disappear into the mountains. The Pakistani army and some American officers are about to arrive, so it's said. They flee without fear, informed in advance of every move by members of the Pakistani army itself. It's a well-oiled machine. In a secluded area, Djamal devotes himself to cleaning the camp. He does it quickly and efficiently, picking up the spent shells and collecting them in a large metal box. This process takes a few hours, sometimes a few days, and after that it's fine. They return as soon as the Pakistanis and Americans have left,
empty-handed, those pathetic losers—we will destroy them all, the Western dogs!
In the evening, around the campfire, they recite verses from the Koran predicting the coming victory,
and our enemies shall perish beneath our sword, we shall invade their lands, we shall kill them all unto the last!

They sleep on the ground, rolled up in blankets that smell of sweat and dust, defying the cold and the heat, the wind and the fear, and dream of women whose marble-like bodies they uncover from beneath the thickest chadors, pure virgins who do not cry out during lovemaking, who offer themselves without resistance, open and close their thighs upon command, oh, it's so good, they think, like the celestial paradise, those hairless, unblemished bodies waiting to be deflowered. They dream so intensely that they do not hear the American soldiers who have them in their rifle sights, ready to blow their heads off. They are woken roughly, with iron bars, meekly releasing the grenades from their hands, which they hold during sleep in case of a surprise attack, and as Djamal opens his eyes he screams that he is French—I'm French!—that he hasn't done anything—I'm French! I haven't done anything! I'm innocent!—but one of the soldiers smashes him in the face with the butt of his rifle, almost gouging out his right eye, and Djamal collapses in a cloud of ash and dust.

But . . . I' . . . Fren . . .

1
. Latifa Oualil, sixteen. Has no idea what she wants to do with her life.

“So Sami is in jail because of this brother, who he never even mentioned to me,” Berman tells Nina. “After being arrested on the Afghan border by American soldiers, his brother was taken to the United States and then incarcerated in Guantánamo. But apparently no one understands what role Sam played in this exactly, or how deeply he was involved in it. It's still a mystery.” Nina has listened to Berman without interrupting, feeling as if he were talking about a stranger. Could Samir have deceived her so thoroughly about this? Is it possible for a man to have not two but five or six faces? Who
was
Samir, really? A cruel hoaxer? A lovable schizophrenic? A perverted polymorph? Was he the victim of some dreadful conspiracy or was he part of that conspiracy? An activist of some sort? Surely not a terrorist. Not an Islamist or a fundamentalist either. He loved alcohol and sex, loved provocation and transgression. And he loved her.
Didn't he?
In her mind, everything had become vague and murky: she was no longer capable of separating reality from fantasy, fact from gossip, truth from falsehood. She felt nauseous—felt the bile rise like some deadly lava inside her—and if Berman hadn't ended his monologue there, she would have fainted in this café where the voices of other people buzzed and roared like an engine . . . she would have fainted and perhaps even died. Because, for her, what other way out was there from this? She possessed absolutely
nothing
. During all these months in New York, she had let herself be carried on his shoulders, like a child, and how light she had felt! Cleaning the house, paying her bills, working for a living—all those shackles imposed by society, she had been free of them all.

“You can't stay in New York,” Berman tells her. “They'll interrogate you. And your presence here might damage him even more. They're going to freeze his bank accounts. Believe me, the best thing you can do is return to France as quickly as possible.” Nina does not reply. She feels sure that Berman does not know the truth about Samir's identity because he keeps repeating that he doesn't believe this story: “Why would a Jew be on the side of radical Islamists?” She decides it is better to remain silent. “What do you think?” She says she would like to see Sami, speak to him, but Berman dissuades her:

“I'm afraid that's impossible. He's kept in total isolation. They regard him as a danger to society, you see? No one is allowed to go near him. Even for his lawyers, there's a whole routine they have to go through each time. What they're trying to do, by keeping him away from people in this way, is to make him weak, make him crack, make him believe that everyone on the outside has abandoned him; it's a fairly standard torture technique.”

“In that case, I'll write to him.”

“I don't think that would be a good idea. Do you really think they'll just let your letter through to him unopened? Every letter he receives will be censored. Each one will be read very carefully, and if by any chance it is handed on to him, most of your sentences will be blacked out anyway. Don't look so shocked—when it comes to anti-terrorism, there are no rules anymore. They can do anything they want. So imagine what they would find out from your letters . . . The judges would learn that he was leading a double life. You'd risk damning him even more. It would help them build up a picture of a man who was two-faced, secretive, and in many ways manipulative. That's all it would take for them to keep him in prison for months to come . . .”

“Whatever, I have to see him and—”

“What do you mean, whatever? What kind of world are you living in? This isn't a romantic comedy, Nina.”

She is revolted by the machismo of his speech. But she says nothing and, as he lectures her, listens to him obediently like a six-year-old girl.

“Listen, Nina, what do you expect from him? He'll probably be in prison for a long time. For now, you can't help him at all. All you can do is make things more difficult for him. The only people he needs in his life right now are his lawyers.”

“I'll wait.”

“Wait? Where? His bank accounts will be blocked. The owner of the apartment he rents for you will kick you out . . . And anyway, why would you do that for him? He put you in danger, didn't he?”

“I'm going to stay. He'll need me eventually. Because we're together.”

In an infuriated voice, Berman finally tells her: “You are not together! Sami is married. He has a wife, a family, and the only person he will need by his side is Ruth Berg. With her money, with her influence, she's in a position to help him. You can't even imagine the lawyers' fees for a case like this. Without his wife, I'm not sure he'd even be able to afford it.”

“You don't understand. I love him. I can't just let him . . .”

Hearing this gorgeous woman, for whom he feels a powerful erotic desire, say that she loves Tahar is a severe blow to Berman's convictions, to his strict code of ethics, to his certainties about life, to everything that has enabled him to lead this calm, moral existence—an existence he would be ready to give up at the slightest sign of any reciprocal feeling. How he would love to be loved by her. He tells her: “Sam is lucky to have you.” Nina gives a faint smile—a sad, disillusioned smile.

“Nina, I can help you stay here. You won't be able to see Sami for quite some time, but I'll be here for you.”

He moves closer to her, places a hand on her arm. Nina pulls away brusquely.

“I'm sorry.”

Nina looks away.

“Don't look so scared. I'm telling you, I could help you.”

“Oh . . . and what would you do?”

“Well, to begin with, I could find you somewhere else to live because it's not a good idea to stay in that apartment. The investigators will check all his outgoings and there's a good chance they'll pay you a visit there. Or his wife will find out and you'll find yourself face-to-face with her. That's the worst-case scenario.”

“And afterward what will happen?”

Berman's hand creeps toward Nina's. He catches one of her fingers.

“That would depend on you.”

He wants her, now, here, in this packed restaurant. He feels bad about it, terribly guilty. And he's baking-hot, the sweat running inside his cotton shirt. All the same, he doesn't give up:

“What do you think? It'd give you time to get things organized, to think about your future here.”

“I don't want your help.”

He lets go of her finger suddenly and shifts back in his seat slightly, as if she were a source of toxic heat.

“Nina, there's something you should know which might affect your decision . . .”

She freezes.

“I'm just going to come out with it. Are you ready to hear this?”

“Go on.”

“The day before his arrest, I had a very long discussion with Sami . . . about your relationship. It was late at night. We were the only ones in the office. We'd had a drink together, and . . . he told me that you'd threatened him that he would never see you again if he didn't leave his wife . . . He told me you wanted a child . . .”

Nina's mouth tenses. Her eyes fill with salt water.

“I thought he wanted my advice, but it wasn't that. He'd already made his decision . . .”

Nina looks away.

“He was going to tell you that it was over between you.”

The shock of it. He's having a nightmare—trapped inside a concrete block—but, each time, Samir wakes up thinking it's over, that he's free, unscathed . . . and then he feels the handcuffs cutting into his wrists. Under the white light of the bare bulb swinging above his head in a hypnotic movement, he tries to understand what's happening/what's at stake/where this is heading. He demands/threatens/yells: “Call my lawyer! Where is my wife?” “Shut the fuck up!” How long has he been locked up? He has no notion of time. He feels as if there's a plastic bag over his head: he can't breathe, his limbs twitch, his entire metabolism seems to have slowed down, as if his blood has been mixed with some poisonous substance that is atrophying his muscles, a slow and horrible death creeping over him inch by inch. The nights are the worst: the shouts and screams of his fellow detainees—some of them sounding like the wailing of wild beasts or of a child getting its throat cut—keep him in a state of terror that lasts until the early morning, when, worn out and thirsty, he is called for another round of interrogation. He is exhausted by the lack of sleep and by the despair he feels at having to go through it all again: the psychological harassment, the threats, the humiliation, the bullying.

You knew what your brother was up to
.

No, he didn't know. He knew
nothing
!

What was your connection with Djamal Yahyaoui? Did you know what he was doing with the money you sent him every month? Why did you send him so much money? Why did you come to the United States? What is your connection to the Islamist movement? Are you Jewish? Did you convert to Islam? Where did you get that scar? Who do you work for? Did you know your brother was preparing to carry out a terrorist attack? Did you know he lived in Afghanistan? Did you know he'd become a radical Islamist? Why are you a member of a shooting club? What were your relations with the organized Muslim community in New York? What do you think of Bin Laden? Did you know your brother was being trained to kill Americans? Did you plan to take part in a terrorist attack against the United States of America? How do you feel about America? What was your brother doing on American soil? When did he tell you he was planning to convert? Did you know he was married and that his wife wore a chador? Did you know your brother had published anti-Semitic tracts in France?

I didn't do anything! This is all a big mistake! It's just a terrible misunderstanding!