Talking to the Enemy: Faith, Brotherhood, and the (Un)Making of Terrorists by Scott Atran Read Free Book Online Page A

initiative rather than following orders tend to lose wars, but the egalitarian jihad prospers because, like Google, its leadership is distributed over a social network in ways that are fairly fluid and flat.
I also went to the neighboring Spanish enclave of Ceuta at the northernmost tip of Morocco. There, the Alonso Principe barrio, where one of the Guantánamo prisoners had come from, is a faithful image of Mezuak. I wanted to talk to the young men, so I stationed myself in the plaza where children were playing soccer. The Plaza del Padre Salvador Cervos is bookended by two cafés, one devoted to fans of the Barcelona soccer team Barça, the other to aficionados of archrival Real Madrid. Young men sipped tea in a shaded corner. An endless trickle of children and adolescents flowed through the small plaza, pausing in pairs to kick the ball. A pair became a triad, someone came and two pairs formed, then the triads became a free for all. Someone’s little sister, left alone, cried, “I have to go, adios, ciao, salaam.” “Me too.” And the plaza suddenly emptied, then filled up again.
“Who’s your hero? Who do you want to grow up to be like?” I asked as I had done with the boys in Mezuak.
Number one was Ronaldinho, the Brazilian-born star of the Barcelona soccer team. Osama Bin Laden came up number three. And sandwiched between the athlete and the terrorist? The Terminator. About the Terminator’s subsequent career as governor of California, the children neither knew nor cared. When I queried the older teenagers, they were ready with wary and sarcastic replies. “George Bush,” said one. “Rumsfeld,” said another: “I want to make the world free for democracy!” All laughed.
I asked which soccer stars they liked: Barcelona’s Cameroonian striker, Samuel Eto’o; or Sergio Ramos, a defender for Real Madrid. What about Zinedine Zidane? This Frenchman of Algerian origin was probably the planet’s best-known soccer star. He had previously led France to the greatest of all triumphs in team sports—the World Cup Championship—and had been named outstanding player of the 2006 World Cup, where he was famously expelled in the tournament’s final match for head-butting an Italian who had insulted his family.
“Zinedine who?” a boy of about twelve asked.
“Zinedine Zidane,” I said, “the greatest soccer player in all the world.”
I knew that would do the trick because immediately one of the young men who had been in a corner of the plaza with others eyeing my behavior the whole time walked over and scolded the children. “Zizou, Zizou,” repeated the young man, using Zidane’s nickname. Even more puzzlement on the faces of the kids. “Zinedine Zidane is an artist, a great artist.” One of the younger kids poked his friend next to him. “Yes, Zidane. I remember Zidane. He’s good.”
The young man, Malik was his name, invited me to sit with the other young men. We talked soccer a bit, and then I turned the conversation to what I hoped would become a discussion of jihad. We spoke in a babel of Spanish, Arabic, and French that everyone around understood:
“I guess Zidane just couldn’t take that insult to his family, so he butted that Italian, even if it meant losing the World Cup.”
“Qué lástima [it’s a shame], yes,” said Malik, “but some things are more important than all the fame and money in the world. Some things a man can’t take.”
“What do you mean? What things are more important? Your family? Your religion? What?” I asked.
Malik gently put a hand on the shoulder of his son, who was standing next to him. “My son is six years old. I don’t want him to live the life I’ve had. Look around here. This is no life. The Spanish authorities treat us like we were all criminals. Our people have been here for hundreds, maybe thousands, of years, but even the Hindus get better treatment. We are always looking for work, and when we find it, the children are left to themselves, to drugs.