When a French journalist posed online as a young woman interested in Isis, she was soon contacted by a fighter in Syria. He proposed marriage – but could she maintain a double life?
It was 10 o’clock on a Friday night in spring 2014 and I was sitting on the sofa in my one-bed Paris apartment when I received a message from a French terrorist based in Syria: “Salaam alaikum, sister. I see you watched my video. It’s gone viral – crazy! Are you Muslim? What do you think about mujahideen?”
A journalist, I had been writing about European jihadis in Islamic State for about a year. I created a social media account, using the name Mélodie, to investigate why European teenagers were attracted to Islamic extremism. I spent hours scanning feeds filled with descriptions of gruesome plans. I had spent that night on my couch, flicking from account to account, when I came across a video of a French jihadi who looked about 35. He wore military fatigues and called himself Abu Bilel. He claimed to be in Syria.
I would later learn that he had spent the past 15 years waging jihad all over the world. But for the moment, I knew nothing of the bellicose man on my screen, proudly unveiling the contents of his SUV glove box: a thick stack of Syrian pounds, candy, a knife. He removed his reflective Ray-Bans, revealing darkly lined, black eyes. I knew that Afghan soldiers wore kohl around their eyes. Still, seeing a terrorist with eyes made up like my own was surprising. He was good-looking. He spoke perfect French, with what to me sounded like a very slight Algerian accent. He smiled broadly as he beckoned viewers and called for hijrah: leaving a land of unbelievers to join an Islamist country.
I usually kept a low profile on my account. I didn’t preach; I simply posted links to articles or videos such as this one. My profile picture was a cartoon image of Princess Jasmine from the Disney movie Aladdin. I tended to change my profile location depending on what story I was working on. Now I claimed to be in Toulouse. I shared the video. Soon afterwards, my computer alerted me to three messages sent to Mélodie’s private inbox from Abu Bilel. “Last question,” he wrote, “are you thinking about coming to Syria?”
“Walaikum salaam,” I wrote. “I didn’t think a jihadi would talk to me. Don’t you have better things to do? LOL.” In reply to his question about mujahideen, I wrote: “I’m not prejudiced against fighters. Anyway, it depends on the person.”
I also told him I had converted to Islam, but didn’t offer any details. I deliberately included spelling mistakes, and tried to use teen vocabulary. I waited for his reply with a knot in my stomach. This seemed too big to be true. I had interviewed mujahideen before, but never anyone over 20, and never anyone who expressed anything beyond the official propaganda.
“Of course I have a lot of things to do! But here it’s 11 o’clock at night and the fighters are finished for the day. Do you have any questions about the video you shared? I can tell you about everything going on in Syria – the only real truth: Allah’s truth. We should talk over Skype. I’ll give you my username.”
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Skype was out of the question. I suggested we talk another time. Bilel understood; he’d make himself available for Mélodie tomorrow. “You converted, so… you should get ready for your hijrah. I’ll take care of you, Mélodie.”
Bilel knew nothing about this girl and already he was asking her to join him. I was disgusted. Going after a girl like Mélodie was so easy: I’d met a thousand girls like her, with limited education and guidance. They were vulnerable.
I wanted to understand how European children were falling for this propaganda, and to grasp the mindset of soldiers who spent their days torturing, stealing, raping, killing, and their nights staring into their computers and bragging. Perhaps this man would give me an insight. For now, however, it was getting late, and my boyfriend, Milan, was due to come round. I called to tell him I wanted to spend the night at his apartment instead. I didn’t tell him how I’d spent the evening, only that I wanted to sleep next to him.
That Monday, I rushed to the magazine where I often do freelance work, eager to discuss my lead with one of the editors. I had forwarded him the video of Bilel showing off the contents of his car. He was stunned by how easily contact had been established. He agreed that this was an opportunity, but reminded me that pursuing this could be dangerous. He assigned me a photographer, André. We’d worked together for years and we made a good team. I would agree to Bilel’s request to meet over Skype, and André would take pictures.
The idea of a terrorist becoming familiar with my face didn’t thrill me, especially as he might come home at any moment
I needed to look 10 years younger, find a veil, and somehow slip into the skin of a 20-year-old woman. Another editor, a former reporter who would also be supervising my investigation, lent me a hijab and a black dress – a kind of djellaba. I was glad to wear the veil. The idea of a terrorist becoming familiar with my face didn’t thrill me, especially not when he might return to France, his home country, at any moment.
André arrived at my apartment around 6pm. It was one hour later in Syria. That gave us time to prepare before Bilel came online. We looked for the best angle from which to take pictures of the computer screen and keep me as indistinct as possible. We had strict orders to prioritise our safety above all else.
I pulled Mélodie’s floor-length djellaba over my jeans and sweater. When I returned to the living room, André burst out laughing. “It’s supposed to cover more of your forehead,” he said, mocking me. He helped me readjust the hijab so it covered every strand of hair and showed only the oval of the face. I removed my rings and covered the tattoo on my wrist with foundation. Bilel was already logged on to Facebook and waiting for Mélodie.
“Are you there?” he asked impatiently.
“Are we meeting on Skype?”
“Mélodie?”
“Hello? LOL.”
“Mélodie???…”
“Sorry: salaam alaikum… 
You there???”
It was time. I sat cross-legged on my sofa. It had a high back, which hid most of my apartment and any distinctive features from the camera. André had also removed a photograph from the wall. He positioned himself in a blind spot behind the sofa. My smartphone was already recording, and I had another prepaid phone, which would be Mélodie’s. I’d also created a new Skype account in her name. From a YouTube video, I’d worked out how to scramble the IP address.
The Skype ringtone sounded like a church bell. I took a moment to breathe, then I clicked the button, and there he was. Bilel stared at Mélodie. His eyes were still accentuated with dark liner. He appeared to be Skyping from his car, using a smartphone. He looked clean, even well-groomed. He was a proud man, his shoulders pulled back and his chin thrust forward, but I sensed he was nervous. After what felt like an eternity, he finally broke the silence: “Salaam alaikum, my sister.”
I made my voice as tiny, sweet and bright as I could, considering I’d smoked like a chimney for 15 years. And I smiled. “It’s crazy to be talking to a mujahid in Syria,” Mélodie said, impressed. “It’s like you have easier access to the internet than I do in Toulouse! I share the computer with my sister, and my mum takes it away from us a lot. Even your phone is newer than mine.” I was giving Mélodie a plausible excuse for future unavailability. She lived with her family, she couldn’t always honour her engagements.
“Syria is amazing,” Bilel said. “We have everything here. Masha’Allah, you have to believe me: it’s paradise! A lot of women fantasise about us; we’re Allah’s warriors,” he said.
“But every day people die in your paradise…”
“That’s true, and every day I fight to stop the killing. Here the enemy is the devil. You have no idea. The enemy steals from and kills poor Syrians. He rapes women, too. He’s attacking us, and we’re defending peace.”
“Is the enemy the president of Syria?”
“Among others. We have many adversaries.”
In addition to Bashar al-Assad’s regime, he mentioned the al-Nusra Front (an armed branch of al-Qaida), Syrians and all those he considered infidels. “Tell me,” Bilel said, “do you wear your hijab every day?”
Mélodie recited what I’d heard from the girls I’d met during my research who had secretly converted to Islam. “I dress normally in the morning. I say goodbye to my mum, and when I’m outside the house, I put on my djellaba and my veil.”
“Good. I’m proud of you. What you’re doing is really brave. You have a beautiful soul. And you’re very pretty on the outside, too.”
Bilel peered lecherously at Mélodie. She asked him to show her his surroundings. He claimed to be near Aleppo. In reality, he was probably several miles from the Isis stronghold of Raqqa.
He got out of his car and his smartphone showed images of a devastated Syria. Not a person in sight. It was about 9pm there, and it was absolutely silent. Suddenly, men’s thick voices broke the silence.
Read the rest from the Guardian.
http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/may/26/french-journalist-poses-muslim-convert-isis-anna-erelle