I was still following the screen and taking notes about the video. “No, I’m not,” I said.
“Unbelievable,” he answered and started reeling off the usual effusive compliments favored by men in Islamist circles, including comparing me to the Prophet’s wives. I took a moment to admire the irony: both my parents’ forefathers were related to the Prophet’s first wife, but I was fairly sure this man wouldn’t have appreciated my mother’s background much, even if she was from the Ahl al-Bayt.
He said that from time to time, he showed these videos to some of the young men who visited his mosque. I asked Abu Anas where he got them.
“Some brothers are distributing them,” he said. “If you like, I can help you meet them. But you will need to cover your face.”
*
ABU ANAS CALLED me that evening to confirm the meeting with the “video brothers.” It was supposed to take place at one of their houses in Zarqa. I’d bought a niqab for the occasion.
In the car on the way there, Michael read Arabic vocabulary words from orange cards. “Thank you”: shukran; “good morning”: sabah el hair.
“No,” I answered, “It’s sabah el khair.”
He repeated it the right way. “I think it’s nice to be able to say some words in Arabic,” Michael said. “It shows them how much respect I have for their culture.”
I was apprehensive about this meeting. The night before, I’d called the former close associate of Zarqawi who’d chosen my abaya to ask about the “video brothers,” and he’d told me that one of the men was potentially dangerous. For safety, Michael and I asked a Jordanian named Marwan to join us. Marwan was a freelance journalist who had researched jihadist networks; he was sometimes quoted as an expert in our stories, and I’d met him a couple of times before. I also asked our driver Abu Dania, who came from a large and well-known family in Jordan, to accompany us inside.
As I had on other trips, I’d listed all the Salafi sheikhs and leaders who could vouch for us in case of any danger. This time, since Michael and I were both going to the interview, I carried the paper with me.
We pulled up to the house, and I drew the niqab across my mouth and over my head so only my eyes would show. We got out and knocked at a door in the wall that opened into a small garden. A man with glasses was waiting at the entrance to the house.
“As’salam alaikum,” we said in greeting.
“Wa’alaikum as’salam,” he responded.
We followed him inside, stepping into a room furnished with couches and a TV. Another man stood there. He had black hair, a long black beard, and angry blue eyes.
“He is my friend and a sheikh,” the man with the glasses said.
Michael and I said hello.
“Is she the Moroccan Muslima?” the angry-eyed man asked in Arabic.
“Yes, Sheikh, that’s me,” I answered.
“And him?” The angry-looking man glanced at Michael. “He’s American?” he said in Arabic.
“Yes, he is American,” the man with the glasses answered.
The angry-looking one began to smile. He looked at Michael and then said in Arabic, “Let’s kidnap and kill him and make a video out of it.”
Next to me, Michael was smiling and nodding. “Shukran, shukran,” I heard him say.
We all looked at Michael, and even the angry-looking man’s expression changed. “Why is he saying ‘thank you’?” he asked us.
I decided not to tell Michael what he had just thanked them for. Instead, I began arguing with the men in Arabic. “Before you kill my colleague, you will have to kill me,” I said in as loud and serious a tone as I could manage. I was breathing so hard that the light veil covering my mouth and nose flapped up and down. I told them that we had come as their guests and were under the protection of some figures known in the jihadist circles, whom I named.
“Why are you talking so impolitely to them?” Michael asked me. “They are both here welcoming us and smiling.”
The two men whispered to each other, and then the one with the glasses invoked one of the tenets of jihadi etiquette: the host had to consent to killing Michael before it could happen with God’s grace. It was his house, the man with glasses said, and he wouldn’t allow Michael to be killed there. Marwan also spoke up, saying that Michael was under his protection and that he wouldn’t allow him to be slaughtered.
After a few tense moments, we all sat down. I noticed that the host’s wife had come around the corner and was standing out of view of the others, where only I could see her. We greeted each other politely.
To be safe, I decided to work as quickly as we could. I asked basic questions, such as where they got their footage and how many DVDs they distributed. Michael kept asking for more details, but I told him we had to hurry, as we had another appointment.
The man with glasses explained that they had received the videos on flash drives from Iraq and burned the footage onto DVDs, which they distributed mainly in Zarqa; from there, they found their way to other cities as well.
“Do you sell them?” I asked.
“No, no, we give them away for free,” he said. The effort was financed through private donations, but he refused to tell us who was contributing.
Our host then excused himself, saying that his wife was calling. When he returned, he told me that she wanted to see me.
“It’s okay, I already greeted her,” I replied.
“No, she wants to welcome you in the other room.”
I didn’t want to leave Michael alone. “It’s fine,” I said. “I’m very comfortable here.”
“You don’t understand,” the man with glasses told me. “We have rules in the house, and she insists that you sit with her where the women sit.”
Seeing no way around it, I told him I would visit her in a few minutes. We asked if they had given these videos to the young men from the neighborhood who had left for Iraq.
“I knew one of them personally,” the host said.
His angry friend grumbled. “They are all mujahideen, masha’Allah,” he said. “They went to Iraq to kill the evil Americans like your friend, who have sold Iraq to the more evil Shia, who are now torturing our brothers and raping our sisters.”
“Sheikh, my colleague is one of the journalists who has reported about the torture that was committed by Shia militias,” I told him. “Our paper has published many reports about this and also about the CIA facilities where people were tortured.” I wanted him to see that not every American was guilty.
“They are all the same,” he answered. “All kuffar, and you should not be working with him.”
We decided to leave. I asked Abu Dania and Marwan to go to the car with Michael while I said good-bye to the host’s wife. She was sitting in the next room watching TV with her four small children. When I stuck my head in, I realized they were watching videos showing attacks on U.S. soldiers in Iraq, and Shia militiamen holding the severed heads of what they said were Sunni men in Iraq.
“You’re letting them see all this?” I asked her.