My Journey into the Heart of Terror

Ten Days in the Islamic State

Jürgen Todenhöfer

• Publisher: Greystone Books
• Year: 2016
• Print ISBN: 9781771642248
• eBook ISBN: 9781771642255
• Topic: Política y relaciones internacionales
• Subtopic: Políticas de Oriente Medio

An alarming and enlightening first-hand account of what’s really going on behind the borders of the Islamic State.

ISIS, IS, the Islamic State. The name is chilling. The images are horrific. This is a group that beheads journalists—and yet one, the German Jürgen Todenhöfer, went out of his way to get an invitation to visit ISIS fighters in Mosul in 2014 to ask them to explain their beliefs. This book is the result of his conversation. My Journey into the Heart of Terror: Ten Days in the Islamic State shows how the organization grew from its al-Qaeda roots and takes a harsh look at the West’s role in its past and today. Along the way, Todenhöfer offers startling insights into what ISIS thinks, what it wants—and what must change if it is to be defeated. Only by understanding, Todenhöfer believes, can we move forward and combat ISIS’s radical, violent interpretation of Islam and the terror and destruction it brings.

VII

Ten Days Inside the
“Islamic State”

DAY 1, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6, 2014

IT’S 8:55 AM. My alarm goes off. I look at the piece of paper beside my bed, pick up my cell phone, and dial the number. It rings. Once. Twice. Then someone answers. “Did you sleep well, Mr. Todenhöfer?” I say yes and ask when we’ll set off. “I’ll call you back in five minutes,” says the voice at the other end of the line. “I’ll give you exact instructions then.”

A few minutes later, my phone rings again. I’m told we are to get into a taxi in an hour or two and call a particular telephone number. Then I must give the person I’ve called a password (“Ali”) and hand the phone to the driver. He will be told exactly where he must drive to. We’ll be picked up there. Our contact speaks extremely politely and cheerfully. That’s somewhat unexpected. But they can’t all go racing around shouting furiously as though they were throwbacks to a bygone age.

I inform Frederic and Malcolm that it’s all going to start happening within the hour. Finally. We eat a quick breakfast, bring our bags down, and check out. We get into the first taxi that comes along. On my cell phone, I dial the number I’ve been given. No answer. I dial again. Again, no answer. Again. “Yes? Hello?” someone answers in Turkish. I cover my mouth with my hand and repeat the password, “Ali!” several times quietly but clearly. Then I say, “I will pass the phone to the driver now,” and I press my cell phone into the driver’s hand. He nods a couple of times, gives me my cell phone back, and drives off. It is 10:44 AM. We drive for about five minutes. Then we stop by the side of the road near a small mosque.

A short while later, a white minivan appears. There are three young men in the van. They look as though they are from eastern Europe. So, we’re going to be smuggled in with new recruits. We fall into conversation with the young men. They want to know where we’re from. One of them is from Azerbaijan; the other two are from Turkmenistan. They are twenty-two, twenty-four, and twenty-eight years old and at first glance don’t appear to be the brightest bunch. One of them is constantly giving updates into his phone or taking calls. At some point, the three of them find it odd that Malcolm keeps writing in his notebook. They’re getting nervous.

Malcolm tries to explain that he is writing a diary. None of them appear to believe him. All three begin frantically phoning. The atmosphere in the vehicle is suddenly extremely tense. Almost aggressive.

I dial our contact’s number and ask him to explain everything. Then I hand the phone to one of the young men. After a few minutes, the atmosphere in the van changes completely. All okay. Now they’re nothing but smiles. We get a thumbs-up from one of the young men.

AFTER ABOUT A ten-minute drive, we stop. Another young man and a large young woman with blue eyes and a light complexion climb into the vehicle. She is German. She is wearing a black cloak, an abaya. Her wrists are slightly swollen. We drive a couple of hundred yards and stop again. There are two old taxis parked in front of us. Another young man and two older men are waiting beside them.

We climb into one of the two taxis. Frederic sits in the front so that he can film us when we cross the border. But the driver looks at him, points to Frederic’s short beard, and asks him to sit in the back. To draw less attention. Now it’s very cramped in the back.

We set off all squished together. Then a couple of minutes later, we stop yet again at a nondescript crossroads. The other car has been stopped by the police, the driver tells us nervously.

Then suddenly, he drives off. Without saying a word to us. Showing great presence of mind, Frederic calls our contact. He explains the problem. Our driver was going to take us across the official border. Now he’s grasped that it’s a smuggling operation. Off to the illegal crossing point. In the meantime, the second taxi has caught up with us.

There’s almost no traffic on the road to Kilis. After a few minutes driving down the highway, suddenly we’re driving along a bumpy farm road. Our two taxis are now racing toward the border! I can only imagine what this must look like from above. There couldn’t be anything more obvious. In front of us, the Turkish flag is flying on a hill... Is that the border already?!

We suddenly turn right and drive into a farmyard. Everyone has to get out right away. Now we take off again over ruts and stones, this time lying on the floor or crouching down in a minivan without seats. We’re no longer driving down tracks through fields but through the fields themselves. It’s so bumpy, we all fall on top of each other. The woman keeps looking at us. Does she know me from somewhere? My face looks familiar. No idea, I say pleasantly.

One of the men in the front of the van turns around. In broken English, he tells us that soon, on his command, we are to get out with our bags and run. Shortly after, the minivan stops. The side door slides open. All of us leap out and start running.

A hundred yards in front of us a man is standing at the border fence. He’s nervously holding up the barbed wire so that we can all squeeze through. Everyone keeps running as fast as they can. But it’s difficult to run across fields when you’ve got luggage. Frederic is carrying my suitcase. I’m lugging my backpack and the German woman’s backpack. A few hundred yards farther on, five vehicles are hidden behind the trees. We are greeted by five masked men.

The veiled woman comes from Berlin. She must be in her mid-thirties. She tells me she converted to Islam and then traveled to Mecca. After that, she was on the intelligence services’ watch list. In the end, they took her six-year-old child away from her. After Mecca, she didn’t stand a chance. Now she’s set all her hopes on the “Islamic State.” She never wants to go back to Germany.

I say, somewhat nonplussed, that means her child will be lost to her forever. “I’ve already lost everything,” she replies. “I can’t lose any more.”

Our conversation is interrupted. For some reason, Malcolm, Freddy, and I must be brought to safety right away. We climb into a white pickup truck. Two armed men from IS sit up front. The driver has a long black beard. Over his shoulders, he’s carrying a Kalashnikov and a rifle. We pile our luggage into the truck bed and climb in. The driver roars off. We drive through a barren landscape. Occasionally, we pass through country villages. We chat with the two men from IS. The icebreaker, as usual, is soccer. We list off all the Muslim soccer players we know.

When we make a brief stop at a house, a grim-faced man carrying a Kalashnikov asks us if we are from the BBC. Frederic says no and shows our guarantee of safety for the first time. The man reads it in amazement. Then he gives it back and says, almost reverentially, that everything is in order. All the women in this place are completely veiled. Children are playing soccer in the street just as they do the world over. Before we drive on, the driver gives each of us an apple—a token of hospitality.

WE GET OUT in front of an old house. We are led through a room where people are praying. We are to wait in the next room. It reeks of diesel. A dark green board on the wall suggests this used to be a school. There are little hand grenades on a shelf. Behind the desk, a stash of Kalashnikovs. On the desk, a PlayStation console.

The people here are very welcoming. One of the people we speak to is Moroccan. We talk to him in French. The friendly IS fighter explains there are now about fifty thousand foreign fighters in the “Islamic State.” He doesn’t know the exact number, but it’s got to be over fifty thousand, he says. From all over the world. His job is to register the newly arrived fighters.

It’s important to him that we get the story straight. There’s enough rubbish being said about Islam in the West, he says. Tomorrow, we can visit all the towns we want, to see for ourselves what’s going on. The Quran is difficult to understand. Many Muslims don’t really understand it. You need a teacher. Al-Dawla al-Islamiya (IS) is true Islam put into practice—Islam lived as it should be lived. The West is waging a war against Islam. “Our religion is peaceful,” he tells us.

IS propaganda videos are meant to be shocking. They are meant to make the enemy afraid. They are the answer to the equally brutal wars the West wages against Islam. All that luxury in the West is only possible because they plunder the raw materials of the Third World. Arabs have to sell their oil at much lower prices than the Russians, he claims. “We aren’t madmen. We just want to live. In the Western war against Islam, America is the butcher and the Muslims are the sheep. Over fifty countries have banded together against us. But they cannot defeat us. Our strength is not our weapons, our money, or our fighters but the fact that we are following the right path.” In this region, there are only occasional air strikes, so we don’t have to be too worried.

The presidents in the Arab world are not Muslim presidents but Western presidents. They might have a lot of money, but they are following the wrong path. To a certain extent, I can understand Arab resistance, I reply. But IS’s atrocities make it difficult to defend oppressed Muslim populations, because it sounds like a defense of IS. I’m completely against force; therefore, I abhor the way IS celebrates its killing. Gandhi would surely have found more successful strategies in the Arab world. Without resorting to violence. Where is it written that you can achieve legitimate goals in your life only by resorting to violence?

The friendly Moroccan replies they always abide by divine laws. In the West, we are morally corrupt and on the wrong path. With drugs, whores, war, and the rampant desire for money.

I tell of the kindness and gentleness with which the Kurdish Arab hero Salah ad-Din (Saladin) treated the Christians after the conquest of Jerusalem. Our Moroccan explains they also will be kind and gentle once they win the war. They live according to sharia and the Quran. Therefore, they are fair and just.

He repeats we are safe here only because they live according to sharia and never break laws or agreements. We have been promised protection, and this promise will be kept. There are Christians living in Raqqa and even in Mosul. They can live completely normal lives without restrictions. Our friend will never return to Morocco. If he went there, he would go to jail.

A BOY CARRYING white paper bags enters the room. Grilled chicken, potatoes, Syrian flatbread, yogurt flavored with garlic, Pepsi, and a salted yogurt drink called ayran. Everything is first-rate. We eat sitting on the ground. On thin mattresses. The chicken is unbelievably good. Someone removed the labels from the Pepsi bottles before they were brought to us.

OUR SITUATION IS a little clearer now. So far, we’ve been well treated. For the time being, it doesn’t look like there’s a kidnapping in the cards. On the contrary, everyone seems to be concerned about our welfare and is constantly offering us something. Covers, cushions. “Should we make a fire in the stove, something more to eat perhaps?”

In the next room, IS fighters are praying. Six fighters in a row. One stands up front and leads the prayers. All have oriented themselves in the direction of Mecca, as required by the Quran. After prayers, we fall into a conversation with three of them. They are in their mid-twenties and they come from Frankfurt. “What are you doing here?” we want to know. They are surprised and happy at the same time. Mostly because we’re not here as fighters but as journalists. They are impressed that we are traveling with approval right from the top. This is completely different from what they’ve been seeing in the IS propaganda videos.

A somewhat corpulent IS fighter enters the room. He’s got a pistol hung over one shoulder and a Kalashnikov hung over the other. Around his waist he’s wearing an explosive belt. The young Moroccan shows us how to handle the belt. Those who are less fit and might not be able to run away from the enemy in time wear them whenever they go into action. That way they can blow themselves up at the last moment and take many enemy lives with them. The Germans estimate the belt will kill anyone in a hundred-foot radius. Particularly courageous fighters in special units also wear the deadly belts. When they are surrounded by the enemy, it is their ultimate weapon.

I try on the brown belt. And I’m surprised by how light and inconspicuous it is. It weighs no more than a few pounds and fits snugly around my waist. You’d never notice it under a sweater. I had imagined the thing would be much bulkier. Frederic gets quite nervous as I carefully fumble around with a short black cord and want to know where the detonator is. Even the IS fighters are mildly alarmed. When I take the belt off again, everyone is visibly relieved.

WE GET READY to leave. We believe we’re going to drive to Raqqa to meet Abu Qatadah. Two young men pick us up. However, they don’t drive us to Raqqa but to a house about forty minutes away. We are to spend the night there and get picked up tomorrow. Man, do these people have time on their hands! We’ve been traveling for almost a week now.

We pick up our bags and go with our two new escorts to a black SUV and get in. At least there’s more room here than on our last drive. The two IS fighters sit up front; we sit in the back. It’s downright comfortable. They turn on the radio. So-called nasheeds are being broadcast. These are religious and sometimes military a cappella chants. They don’t sound brutal at all. With their many different harmonies, they are quite beautiful and sometimes almost hypnotic.

Freddy and I talk to each other in German. But both the IS fighter who looks like a young bin Laden and the somewhat more corpulent driver, whose face is completely hidden, understand not only English and French but also some German. IS really is a multinational force, Frederic says. But perhaps it’s just that our drivers have been cleverly chosen. The young men don’t want to tell us where they’re from, nor where they learned all those languages.

IN THE MEANTIME, darkne...

Table of contents

• Table of Contents
• Introduction
• I: Birth of the “Islamic State”
• II: How Close Can We Get?
• III: Conversation with a Jihadist
• IV: Things Get Serious
• V: Planning a Journey into the Heart of Terror
• VI: Entering the Nightmare
• VII: Ten Days Inside the “Islamic State”
• VIII: A Chilling Thought
• IX: An Open Letter to the Caliph of the “Islamic State” and His Foreign Fighters
• X: A Warning to the West
• Photo Section
• Sources
• Index of Personal Names