Mélodie replied using the same polite expression, but she didn’t finish her phrase. André distracted me by jumping around the sofa and waving his arms, careful not to enter the camera’s field of vision. In the heat of the action, I hadn’t replied correctly to Bilel’s question. The proper response to “salaam alaikum” is “walaikum salaam.” It was a beginner’s mistake, and I knew better. I wanted to laugh, and at the same time, I would’ve liked to see André in my shoes! But I couldn’t do anything; Bilel was hanging on Mélodie’s every word. He may have been in Syria, and I in France, but our faces were separated by mere millimeters. I had to be careful not to let my eyes wander from the screen. I was flooded with random thoughts. Ignoring André, who was still jumping around like a kangaroo, I choked when I heard Bilel’s first question.
“What’s new?”
Seriously? I hadn’t expected him to show interest in Mélodie’s day. I was so caught off guard by this ordinary request that I couldn’t think of anything to say but, “So much! But I’m shy. First, tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?” he asked, smiling confidently.
He took the bait. Mélodie’s life didn’t seem to interest him much after all. Too bad for her. Great for me. That said, I didn’t want to awaken his suspicions and risk blowing my cover by asking too many questions. ISIS knows that many journalists and police officers hide behind fake identities. Mélodie was twenty years old, and her knowledge of the world needed to match her age. She didn’t know much about politics, geopolitics, or holy wars.
“It’s crazy to be talking to a mujahid in Syria,” she 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 mom takes it away from us a lot. And you’re totally in a car. It’s insane! Even your phone is newer than mine.”
In addition to getting into character, I was giving Mélodie a plausible excuse for future unavailability. She lived with her family, and she couldn’t always honor her engagements.
“Syria is amazing. We have everything here. Masha’Allah, you have to believe me: it’s paradise! A lot of women fantasize about us; we’re Allah’s warriors.”
“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-Qaeda), Syrians, and all those he considered infidels. I knew ISIS wouldn’t hesitate to decimate the Syrian people (already oppressed by the Alawite dictatorship) if they refused to adhere to the terrorist organization’s rules. But I sensed the fighter didn’t want to elaborate. Bloody descriptions of the violent acts he committed every day didn’t fit with his strategy of lobotomizing his prey. Especially not when they might involve the weak. He didn’t want to give Mélodie pause.
“You’re awfully curious,” Bilel said. “Tell me, do you wear your hijab every day?”
Mélodie recited what I’d heard from the majority of girls I’d met during my career who had secretly converted to Islam.
“I dress normally in the morning. I say goodbye to my mom, 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 outside of Raqqa—ISIS headquarters and the first city where the organization literally established a state whose laws and strict policies subjugate locals through barbaric practices.
“The Prophet says you must choose a wife based on her character. Her inner beauty is her true beauty,” he added. “But when a woman is beautiful inside and out . . .”
Bilel bit his lip and stared at what he could see of me. I smiled. In response to Mélodie’s request, he got out of his car and his smartphone showed me images of a devastated Syria. Not a person in sight. It was about 9 p.m. in Syria, and it was absolutely silent. Suddenly, men’s thick voices broke the mournful silence.
“Don’t say anything!” Bilel ordered anxiously. “I don’t want anyone to see or hear you! You’re my jewel; you’re pure. Okay? Do you understand? Tell me you understand.”
Mélodie said she understood. She wouldn’t make another sound until he instructed her otherwise. That meant I could listen to the conversation. I was able to distinguish the voices of two other men. They greeted one another in Arabic, then switched to French, which sounded like their mother tongue. They laughed a lot, congratulating themselves for having “slaughtered them.”
“Salaam alaikum. What’s up?” one man asked. “Are you putting in overtime, or something?”
“I’m on the lookout, brother, lookout duty . . . nothing special. Nothing happening here. This area is all cleared out. You know that.”
As he finished talking, a sardonic smile spread across his face. Given the camera angle, I was able, with difficulty, to make out his facial expressions. By “cleared out,” Bilel meant his militia had laid siege to the area. The dried blood I saw on the concrete was evidence of the attack. ISIS’s black flags with white insignia floated in the distance. I listened to Bilel go on about a variety of issues, notably his impatience for the arrival of his “American cargo” and “chocolate bars.” André and I exchanged a meaningful look. The other men seemed to treat Bilel with respect, and they were quick to congratulate him. The exchange was too short to draw any conclusions, but their way of politely addressing him suggested my “contact” was higher in the ranks than they were. A minute later, he said goodbye to his fellow fighters and spoke into the phone, worried Mélodie might have hung up.
“Oh, you’re still there! And just as beautiful—”
“Who were they?”
“Fighters who came to say hello.”
“Oh, it sounded like they were reporting to you. You don’t want to brag, but I bet you’re a boss or something.”
“You’re right; I don’t like to brag . . . but people respect me.”
“Why? Are you an emir?”
Bilel adopted an attitude of false humility.
“You’ve guessed it, but I don’t like to brag. Let’s keep it between us. We’re all here for the same thing.”
“You seem really determined . . . can I ask what your job is?”
“Killing people.”
“Killing people is your job? I mean, that’s a job?”
“Of course it is! I work hard here. This isn’t Club Med!”
“You kill infidels?”
“Yeah, and traitors, too. I kill anyone who tries to prevent Islam from dominating the world.”
“What do you mean? Do you plan to take over the world?”
“Our leader Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi seeks to abolish all borders. It