Undercover Jihadi Bride

Inside Islamic State's Recruitment Networks

Anna Erelle

• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Year: 2015
• Print ISBN: 9780008154493
• eBook ISBN: 9780008139575
• Topic: Politics & International Relations
• Subtopic: Radicalism
• Index: Politics & International Relations

The next day

André sat in on our conversations less and less. He didn’t have time, and he’d already photographed Bilel and Mélodie from every imaginable angle. He also thought we had everything we needed for our story. We’d gathered a considerable amount of information on Internet jihadism, and many of our questions had been answered. He was especially convinced that our story would elicit retaliation, and he feared that the longer we let Mélodie exist, the more I was at risk. “Until we put an end to this,” he said, “you’re always going to want more information.” I agreed with him about the risk, and the danger of retaliation, since Bilel knew my face. But I was still hungry for more. I received almost daily news from families affected by the departure of a child. They were all desperate. And I hadn’t yet learned enough from Bilel to be able to help them. Bilel talked and boasted a lot, but much of what he said wasn’t interesting, and it was difficult to guide him toward important topics. Still, thanks to Mélodie I’d learned things I never could have grasped on my own. But it wasn’t enough. I hadn’t yet come up with an exit strategy. And some part of me felt like I owed her an honorable end, after all she’d had to endure. This story went beyond professional interest; it was personal. I realized I’d put so much of myself into it that my curiosity had become both legitimate and unhealthy. André understood and let me “do my thing,” but urged caution.

With André gone, Mélodie no longer communicated every day with Bilel. It drove him crazy, and I reveled in this small act of vengeance: denying him access to the woman he’d grown so attached to, Mélodie. She gave excuses: her mother wouldn’t let her use the family computer, and she could only contact him when she managed to get her hands on the MacBook hidden in her room. They’d only been able to Skype twice, during which sessions he’d spoken only of marriage. I wasn’t able to get him to supply any new information. I continued tracking the presence of the Islamic State’s mujahideen on the Internet. Photographs depicted them proudly posing next to bodies that they had decapitated. The victims were mostly Muslims. The Islamic State uses sensationalist, Hollywood-style propaganda in its quest for expansion, convincing recruits to join its forces—and only its forces. One example: ISIS’s “martyrs”^* have peaceful smiles and angelic faces in propaganda photos, while the remains of its adversaries are hideously charred. In reality, ISIS takes pictures of its dead fighters immediately after they die, emphasizing their facial expressions. It lets other bodies, those of “nonbelievers,” decompose in the sun before photographing them. They look devastated by the Grim Reaper. The caption is often the same: “Look at the difference: our martyrs are happy when they meet Allah, since he is proud of them and what they have done. And look at the kafirs’ horrible bodies. Allah is punishing them. They won’t go to paradise.” Guitone was especially fond of the comparison and often published these kinds of pictures online. He’d follow such posts with a picture of himself waving a Milka chocolate bar in Syria. Or, since meat was in short supply there, he’d cross the border between Turkey and Syria and, accompanied by a few of his friends, show himself sitting at a table, a Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder, a smile on his face, enjoying lamb and American soda; the caption would read: “Syria and Turkey are fighting the same battle. We’re at home there. Masha’Allah, it’s better and cheaper than in France, my brothers. You should come!” Sometimes he’d add, and he wasn’t the only one to do this: “A shout-out to the DGSE if you’re spying on us!”

Bilel told me similar anecdotes, but he was too high up in the hierarchy to publish that kind of proof online.

I met my gentle Milan for coffee after I left the magazine and departed with a heavy heart to head home for my meeting with Bilel. I used the commute to my apartment to clear my head before diving back into the depressing universe that awaited Mélodie. I put on earphones and turned up the volume to the Cure’s “Just like Heaven,” the theme song for the 1980s French TV show Les enfants du rock. I was too young back then to appreciate the show, but the song reminded me of my older brothers, and that memory, like Proust’s madeleine, made me feel sweetly nostalgic for childhood. It soothed me for the whole journey home. The first thing I saw when I opened the door to my apartment was Mélodie’s costume, ironed and hung. It almost looked alive. The cleaning lady, who comes by once a week, must have thought I’d bought a new dress.

Bilel had been harassing me with messages morning, noon, and night for the past several days. He wrote the same sentences over and over, as if Mélodie really belonged to him.

“You there?”

“You there?”

“You there?”

“You there?”

“You there?”

“You there?”

“You there?”

“You there?”

“You there?”

“Baby?”

His “you there?” questions covered dozens of pages. He badgered Mélodie on Skype, Facebook, and even her disposable phone. Meanwhile, my friends and coworkers started asking if I, the reporter, was getting too involved. I didn’t understand their concern. Now I realize that I enjoyed tormenting him. For example, Mélodie wouldn’t turn on the camera during their Skype conversations, or she’d trap him into talking about shameful topics. The deeper I got into the investigation, the harder it became to keep my professional distance. That had never happened to me in my career before, and I’d interviewed murderers, rapists, and pedophiles. I’d wanted to strangle them, but my face always remained neutral.

In Bilel’s case—and what I’m about to say is neither polite nor journalistically ethical, but it is the best description of my “feelings”—I wanted to fuck him over. I wanted to beat him at his own game. I didn’t see him as religious or even human. This murderer divided his time between taking people’s lives and convincing girls like Mélodie to embrace death. I couldn’t attack the powerful jihadist or his army directly, but I could attack the man’s weaknesses. Namely, his thirst for recognition and domination. He thought he controlled Mélodie, but in fact the opposite was true. Bilel made me laugh when he wasn’t making me sick. I believe that trust and mutual care form the foundation of love. He offered Mélodie its antithesis.

I gave the impression of having developed a kind of Stockholm syndrome, but I sensed that my friends and colleagues were skeptical as to how much of it was feigned. “Why else would you keep this up?” they asked. Because I was doing my job, and because everything I’d learned from Bilel would have taken me months to learn and understand without him. I’d told them all how he disgusted me; we’d made fun of him, but they seemed to think I was hiding something from them, as if my interest went beyond the professional. I didn’t tell them everything because some part of me was embarrassed and, as I would later understand, this kind of story doesn’t leave a person unscathed; I also wanted to publish this article and didn’t want word to get out before I had the chance to write it. Besides, intimacy between Bilel and Mélodie never went beyond his verbal insinuations. He’d never asked to see more than her face. He didn’t need to. No matter what he said, Bilel was terrifying. And again that night:

“Oh, there are you are, my wife! Were you being punished again? We need to talk. I have so much to tell you. Only good news!”

“I love good news.”

“I spoke with the qadi^* in Raqqa. He’s looking forward to marrying us.”

Stunned, I didn’t know what to say.

“Doesn’t that make you happy, baby?”

“I already told you that since I’m single I don’t want to arrive in al-Sham without my cousin—or I have to be married first.”

“The qadi said we can’t get married on Skype.”

“You wanted to get married over Skype? Is cybermarriage legally binding?”

“According to our laws it is. But the qadi thinks I’m too important to get married over the computer. He wants you to be on holy land. He wants us to wait until you’re here to get married. He’s very excited to meet you.”

Meeting Bilel in Syria was out of the question. There was no way I’d let Mélodie see what life was really like in the Islamic State. All professions have their limits. I’d go there one day, but probably not disguised as a convert looking for a husband. Committing suicide would be a quicker death than that. Meanwhile, Bilel had completely erased Mélodie’s cousin from the plans. When Mélodie brought him up, Bilel ignored her. He had very selective hearing.

“What are weddings like there?”

“Actually, we’re already married.”

“Excuse me?”

“I thought I’d already spoken enough about the idea of marriage with you. I asked you to marry me awhile ago, and I talked about it with the judge, who drew up the papers. We’re officially married, my wife! Masha’Allah.”

I don’t know how I managed to maintain my composure in that moment. But I didn’t have a choice, since just inches away, Bilel was scrutinizing Mélodie’s face from the other side of the screen.

“I thought I told you I wanted to see you in person before saying yes. To touch your skin, smell you, have a discussion, and be able to touch your hand.”

Bilel didn’t say anything. Mélodie went on.

“What do you mean, we’re ‘officially’ married?”

“As soon as you come to Syria, our marriage will be valid. As I’ve mentioned, we follow sharia law, and you should from now on as well. You’re really my wife now.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. All I have to do is set foot in Syria in order to become Mrs. al-Firanzi? At any time?”

If my investigation did lead me to the Syrian border, I wanted to know my exact chances of survival.

“Yeah, whenever. For as long as I’m alive, insha’Allah! You’re really mine now.”

Speechless, I blinked.

“There are just two important things to add to our marriage certificate. First, what do you want as your dowry?”

“I have a right to a dowry? Doesn’t the bride’s father provide the dowry? I don’t have a father. Do you have money for that?”

“Of course I do, baby! I’m Tony Montana here. Except I don’t deal in drugs but in faith. ISIS is loaded. And yeah, here we respect women above all else. Here it’s the man who gives his future wife a dowry, to show her that he’ll take care of her for the rest of his life. So, what do you want?”

This was the first I’d heard of such an arrangement. Mélodie took a while to reply. I tried to buy time by asking other questions while I searched for inspiration in memories of past conversations with this lunatic. A strange idea came to me.

“A Kalashnikov?” Mélodie said.

Her future husband burst out laughing. I didn’t know how to interpret it.

“That’s what you want? That’s it? I’m proud of you, but you know you could have asked for much more.”

“I could have? Like what?”

“I don’t know, a palace, a castle, some pretty horses. Or the life of someone who’s offended you.”

“That’s okay. All I want is a Kalashnikov.”

“In any case, the emir of Raqqa, a very important man, has already found a beautiful big apartment for us.”

I had trouble imagining a two-bedroom apartment in Raqqa.

“That’s really nice. What’s the apartment like?”

Bilel’s face fell like it always did when he lied. He lowered his eyes and scratched his slightly tilted head. I was as familiar with this posture as with his dreamy looks. What an actor. His exaggerated expressions were becoming increasingly irritating with each passing day.

“Well, it’s big . . . and it’s nice . . . you’ll see! You’ll have to decorate it. Okay, I have one more question for you, and it’s really important.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to promise me first that you’ll give me an honest answer, because we take this kind of thing really seriously.”

“I promise. Ask.”

“Are you a virgin?”

“Yes.”

“Really? Because the qadi is waiting for your answer so he can include it on our marriage certificate.”

“Oh? Because my virginity is all of Raqqa’s business?”

“Of course not! It only concerns your future husband and the supreme authority. That’s it. You crack me up. Mélodie, you’re so sweet and pure.”

Personally, I didn’t find any of this funny. Bilel went on.

“You know, lying about that is punishable by death. There will be women to check if you’re pure on our wedding night.”

I forced a sour laugh.

“Don’t disappoint me. I’ve already told everybody you’re coming, including the other brothers and the border police. I’ve really put myself out there for you, so don’t make a fool of me. Be strong; come to Syria. You’re a real lioness, my wife.”

“The border police? What is that? A real police force or a friendly arrangement?”

This was an allusion to Turkey, which has been accused of turning a blind eye on border passages.

“Both . . . I’ll explain more once you’re on your way. It’s too risky now. Cops and journalists are everywhere. They’re all kafirs and deserve to die.”

Mélodie let out a nervous laugh and changed the subject. Bilel had promised to help with her jihad, but aside from saying she’d have to choose between Holland and Germany, he hadn’t provided any details. Since his hearing was selective, Mélodie played along with his plans. Yes, she would do her ji...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Contents
• Paris, ten days earlier
• The same night
• Saturday morning
• That night
• Sunday night
• Monday
• Monday, 8 p.m.
• Monday, 9:30 p.m.
• Mélodie
• Thursday
• Thursday, 10 p.m.
• A few days later
• In the afternoon
• The same day, 5:30 p.m.
• Monday, 7:30 p.m.
• Monday, 8 p.m.
• Two days later
• The next day
• Thursday
• Friday
• Four days later
• Wednesday night
• Early the next morning
• Friday the 25th
• Amsterdam, Friday, 6 p.m.
• Friday, 9 p.m.
• Friday, 10 p.m.
• Saturday morning
• Paris, Sunday afternoon
• Two days later, at the magazine
• The same day, in the evening
• Five days later
• Tuesday
• Eight months later
• About the Author