Jihadi Bride, page 12
Unlikely.
These days freedom of speech issues seemed to be limited to freedom from being offended, like the Dutch cartoons of the prophet Muhammad. It was okay to call for the cartoonist’s head, but God forbid the cartoons had been printed in the first place. Erik shook his head and headed for the journal section. Dr. Sahraoui no doubt knew a lot about the exploitation of western freedoms, but right now that wasn’t Erik’s concern. Finding Arielle was, even if he had to ignore what Stephanie had said.
Still, the thought drew a pang of guilt. Stephanie was right, a meeting with Sahraoui was risky. If he complained to the police, it could set off a chain of events that might cost Erik his job. But the risk would be worth it if Sahraoui knew who’d helped Arielle plan her trip to Syria. Plus, he hadn’t talked to Sahraoui yet. He could always back out, although he was confident he could steer any conversation to a harmless spot.
Erik passed into the tower, a squat, two-story building that had been converted into an open atrium. In the mid-day sun, the space was well-lit. A large circular table took up the center of the room, surrounded by several students and presided over by a familiar face with a trimmed beard. Sahraoui. Erik tucked himself into an alcove near the entrance and studied Sahraoui as he moved from student to student, here and there stopping to offer a few words. One of the students was the boy Erik had seen outside, the one he’d thought had been in the strip club.
After fifteen minutes or so, Sahraoui gave a small speech in a voice too quiet for Erik to make out. When he was done, the students began to file out. The strip club boy was one of the last to leave, and before he did, he paused to exchange a few words with another man who had an athlete’s body, a shaved head, and a thick, dark beard. The boy handed a package to the man, and then they left together, passing Erik without any recognition. Soon, Sahraoui was the only one who remained, occupied with several journals that had been left on the table. As Erik stepped into the room, Sahraoui looked at him.
“May I help you?” Sahraoui spoke softly, much softer than Erik had expected.
“I hope so.” Erik extended his hand. “Dr. Sahraoui?”
“Please, I’m no doctor. Omar is fine.” Sahraoui made no move to take Erik’s hand. “And you are?”
“My name is Erik Petersson. I was hoping to talk, if you had time.”
Sahraoui gathered several journals from the table. “My secretary will be happy to make an appointment during office hours.”
“I just need a few minutes.” Erik gestured to some chairs in an anteroom. “Can we sit?”
“What is this about?”
“Arielle Petersson.”
“Are you with the police?” Sahraoui clutched the journals to his chest.
Erik held up his hands. “No, no, I’m not representing the police.”
“I don’t believe I can help you, sir,” Sahraoui said. He stepped past Erik toward the exit. “Good day to you.”
“I’m Arielle’s father.”
Sahraoui paused, halfway out the door.
Erik cleared his throat. “Dr. Sahraoui, just over a month ago Arielle called me from Frankfurt to say she was on her way to the Middle East. That’s the last I’ve heard from her.” He held his hands out low, as if trying to calm a wild animal. “Arielle’s roommate told me she’d come to your study group and I was hoping you might have heard her say something.”
“I’ve already spoken to the police,” Sahraoui said over his shoulder.
“Please. My daughter left with no explanation, and I’m trying to understand why.” Erik stepped closer. “Can you help me?”
Sahraoui turned. “All right, Mr. Petersson. Although I’m not sure you’ll learn much more than what I’ve already said.” He sat at one of the chairs in the anteroom.
“I didn’t realize you’d been interviewed.” Erik took a seat across from Sahraoui. “The police gave me some information, but they didn’t mention that.”
Sahraoui snorted. “It’s standard procedure whenever someone from Montreal radicalizes,” he said. “It would appear as if my being cleared on a security certificate was more for appearances than anything else.”
“Then you knew Arielle?”
“She first came to my study group in November,” Sahraoui said. “I was opposed to it at first, but she seemed…troubled. She seemed to find solace in the sessions, so I let her continue.”
“Why did it bother you?”
“As much as it’s depicted otherwise, I don’t run prayer groups.” He peered over the top of his glasses. “I run study groups. There’s a difference. Attendees should be registered in the Islamic studies program, which your daughter was not. From time to time, I invite non-students to discuss issues in the forum, but there aren’t many exceptions.”
“I see. You said she seemed troubled?”
Sahraoui nodded. “She was very quiet, at first, and wouldn’t leave her friend’s side.”
“Naomi.”
“Yes.”
“And was Naomi in the Islamic studies program?”
“Of course. Naomi made a personal appeal to let your daughter attend, and it seemed to work. Your daughter grew more confident, even more so after she took the shahada, but even then, it was rare for her to talk to the men in the study group.”
“Did Arielle convert with Naomi?”
“Reverted, actually,” Sahraoui said and nodded. “I witnessed her shahada myself.”
“But you said this was just a study group.” Erik struggled to keep the heat from his voice. It annoyed him that Sahraoui had known of Arielle’s conversion before he did, doubly so to have the man lecture him on semantics like the belief that people are born with a natural faith in God and thus revert to Islam instead of convert.
Sahraoui frowned. “If you’re assuming there was something duplicitous, there was no such thing. She asked me a number of times before I agreed.”
“Why?”
“Revert or convert, people should be rational when they accept Allah as the one, true god. Not grasping for him out of desperation as if for a short-term pain-killer.”
“I thought –”
“Very many people think, and yet very few get beyond considering Islam as anything but a source of problems instead of a salve for the troubles of our worldly life.”
“Pardon?”
Sahraoui drummed his fingers on the arm rest of the chair. “Your daughter lived on campus, correct?”
Erik nodded.
“And have you spent much time on campus? Enough to get a feel for campus culture?”
“I’m not sure how that’s relevant.”
“No?” Sahraoui asked. “Not even some of the finer aspects?
“Like what?”
“Materialism for starters, and glorification of celebrity. Next, I would mention the over-sexualization and objectification of women, or perhaps the abandonment of morals.”
Unbidden, Mary-Beth’s calling card popped into Erik’s mind, and his face grew hot. “Arielle didn’t talk much about school.” Except that wasn’t the complete truth. She had, at first. But around the end of September, once classes had gotten underway in earnest and her workload had built up, she’d mentioned less and less.
“A shame, because all of those things exist here,” Sahraoui said, “and I can tell you they’re the proverbial tip of the iceberg, because what’s interesting and tragic at the same time is that this institution of learning is simply a microcosm of broader society. Some aspects are magnified or lessened as the case may be, but in general, it reflects society writ large.”
Erik shifted in his chair. “It might not be perfect, but it’s better than the alternatives.”
“Spoken from a position of privilege.”
“Right.” Erik dropped his gaze and bit back a retort. “Listen, Dr. Sahraoui –”
“Omar.”
“Of course. Omar.” Erik seemed to recall an old report that had said Sahraoui was difficult to question. He’d disregarded it at the time, but he was beginning to appreciate the sentiment. “What I’m trying to figure out is who convinced Arielle that going to Syria was a good idea and then helped her go.”
Sahraoui sighed. “I find your assumption that your daughter did all of this against her will fascinating. Do you find it hard to accept she might have voluntarily decided to accept God and fulfill her obligations?”
“I find it surprising, yes,” Erik said. “Arielle and I were always open with each other. If she was considering something like this, I would have expected her to tell me.”
“Maybe she suspected you wouldn’t have supported her decision.”
“This isn’t about me.” Erik blurted out the words and then ran a hand over his mouth. “I have my faults as a father. We all do, but right now my concern is getting Arielle out of Syria. To do that, I need to know who put the idea in her head and helped her get there so I can see if they can tell me where she is and how to get in touch with her. I’m not here to have a philosophical argument with you about Islam and western society.”
“Can’t you see those issues are linked?” Sahraoui asked. “Is it so hard to believe your daughter might have come to this university with certain expectations, and when those expectations were not met and were instead shattered, that she decided to open herself to a new experience?”
Erik rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’ll have to explain yourself.”
Sahraoui frowned. “How about the treatment of women? Western thought would have us believe that women are equal and yet, beneath the surface, this is manifestly a lie. Women are treated as possessions, no matter how much they’re allowed to earn, or what they can wear. And even in those examples, we cannot forget irregularities such as the inconvenient and largely undiscussed wage gap that continues to persist between genders. In Islam, women are treated as equals.”
Erik shook his head. “Equals who are forced to cover their bodies and not allowed to vote. Some equality.”
“Women choose for themselves to follow hijab. They are not compelled.”
“Except in places like Syria. Or places with honor-killings, like Afghanistan.”
“Of course, there are variances in practice across the ummah, but I can tell you that in general, Islam strives for equality while also recognizing the differences between men and women.” Sahraoui held up a finger. “We should not create artificial equality. This is not what Allah Almighty intended, it is what man intended. In Islam, women are treated with respect, that is why they cover themselves and conduct prayers separately, to protect themselves from men’s sexual desires. In this, Allah the Most Wise knows best about the fallibility and weaknesses of people.”
“Is that what you told Arielle?”
A polite smile came over Sahraoui’s face. “Mr. Petersson, earlier you admitted to having spent little time on campus. Tell me then, are you aware of the number of rapes and sexual assaults that have occurred on campus grounds over the past year? Over the past five years?”
“No.”
“Are you willing to guess?” Sahraoui asked. “No? It’s a lot. Would you say that this is reflective of a culture that respects women? Where each day, the best and brightest fear for their safety at a so-called institute of higher learning?”
Erik’s eyes narrowed. “Her roommate mentioned an incident with one of the fraternities.”
Sahraoui removed his glasses and held them in his lap. “I know from her friend that something happened with a boy. As for your daughter, she would say nothing, and yet it is no wonder she was looking for an alternative view of the relationship between men and women than what is espoused here on campus.”
“Do you know this guy’s name?”
Sahraoui shook his head.
“What he looks like? What frat house he’s in?”
Sahraoui sighed and began to clean his glasses with a cloth pulled from his pocket. “I believe it was Alpha Kappa Omega.”
Erik made a quick note. “Did you tell anybody about this?”
“Mr. Petersson, it’s possible your daughter’s roommate was mistaken. Although there have been many complaints about boys in that fraternity, there are others that are no different.”
“You’re a professor. You have a duty to report.”
“Why would I? For it to be dismissed as baseless?” Sahraoui’s eyes flashed. “And to what end, so Arielle could suffer the indignity of a sham investigation? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to prove sexual assault when the case is ‘he-said, she-said’ and alcohol is involved? Who do you think the police side with in those cases?” Sahraoui drew a breath, replaced his glasses. “What’s important is that Arielle was in pain when I met her. Islam provided her solace, so for that reason, I assisted her.” His gaze darted to the entrance of the anteroom, where the athletic, bald man who’d been in the study group now stood. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I have another commitment.”
“Do you know who could have helped her get to Syria?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Petersson.” Sahraoui stood. “I wish you the best of luck, but I fear you will need to confront some hard truths before you’ll be able to accept your daughter’s decision.”
Erik rose to his feet as well. “Wait. I have more questions.”
Sahraoui smiled. “Some other time, perhaps. With lawyers present?”
“I told you, I’m not an investigator. I’m just trying to –”
“Find your daughter, of course. Perhaps you should direct any further questions to the police. Good day to you.” Sahraoui nodded and took a few steps toward the exit, then stopped to peer over his shoulder. “I do hope you find what you’re looking for with Arielle.” He studied Erik’s face for several seconds more – seemed about to say something else – then continued on his way. The athletic man glared at Erik, then followed the professor.
A maelstrom of thoughts and emotions whirled inside. What had Sahraoui been talking about? He had more questions than answers, but he knew he’d already pushed his luck. He’d need to find another way.
* * *
Mosul, Iraq
06 May 15 – 0912 Local
The smoldering pile of ashes cast off enough heat to make Abu Noor al Kanadi shield his face. To his front, the pock-marked windows and bullet-riddled walls of the Mosul Central Library paid silent testament to the travesty. The building remained standing, but to no purpose. All the books had been removed, dumped in burn heaps that dotted the streets outside the building.
Al Kanadi poked at the edge of one pile and unearthed a smoldering manuscript, which he bent to pick up. The pages were covered in Arabic script and the sheets fluttered to the ground one by one as he flipped through what remained. Hundreds of years of history and knowledge, lost.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind him, stopped at a respectful distance. Mamdouh.
“This is barbaric,” al Kanadi said. “All this knowledge, gone for all time.”
Mamdouh shrugged. “These books promote infidelity and call for disobeying Allah, the All-Knowing. They must be destroyed.”
Al Kanadi tossed the remains of the charred book back into the ashes. “There are times I wonder how a movement with such disregard for knowledge can ever prevail.”
“Not all knowledge,” Mamdouh said. “Only knowledge of the infidels. It is un-Islamic and must be cleansed.”
“And the artifacts? They’re un-Islamic too?”
“This is why you’ll never be accepted into the inner circle,” Mamdouh said. “With respect, of course.”
Al Kanadi snorted and stared up at the library’s imposing bulk. Rumor had it the building sat atop miles of underground caves, which if true, would prove useful. He needed a location to work from in Mosul and Western forces would hesitate to bomb a heritage site such as this library. But that didn’t excuse destroying the books. “With respect, the inner circle accepts me because I get results. Do you have something for me?”
“A brother in Montreal is concerned about operations there. Someone was asking questions.”
“So? Why bring this to me?”
“I asked that question.” Mamdouh’s tone suggested he was insulted. “It’s the father of one of our recent travelers.”
“Which one?”
“Petersson. He questioned the professor.”
“Interesting, but not unusual. Again, why bring this to me? The cell should be able to handle it. Breaking silence needlessly exposes us to risk.” He might have added it also wasted valuable time.
“Sayyid feels the man is a threat.”
“Let the professor run interference like he always does. That’s what we use him for.” Al Kanadi headed for the library’s entrance.
“In this case, it would appear the professor knew more than was good for him. Sayyid fears he gave this man information that might lead him to our other operations.”
“I see.” Indeed, that would be annoying. The fool. Things in Montreal were just getting off the ground. The smuggling routes would survive any sort of investigation – his partners had been running them for years – but the recruiting efforts had barely begun to bear fruit. He crouched and rummaged through some loose pages in the library’s doorway. There had to be a way to both remove a potential threat and perhaps also bring the battle to foreign shores.
“Can we give the police something else to think about?” he wondered aloud. “Maybe cut away some low-hanging fruit?”
