And then, even more curious, and confusing to boot, this singular mix: in 20002001 al-Rashid organizes military training sessions in Afghanistan; its founder Rashid Ahmed holds active positions in the leadership of three terrorist groups, the Harkat ul-Mujahideen, the Edara ul-Rashid, and of course the Jaish, all involved in terrorist actions in both Kashmir, and, increasingly, in Pakistan itself; and it's Rashid Ahmed who appoints Masood Azhar "emir" of the Taliban in Kashmir and thereby launches his career; it's Rashid Ahmed yet again who, at the beginning of 2000, promises in the Trust's newspaper, a 2 million rupee reward to whomever can furnish proof that he has managed to "send to hell" an infidel guilty of killing a martyr. And I mention, only as a reminder, the revelations of the Washington Times on 6 November 2001, stating that the Trust had been for years in the middle of a gigantic arms-smuggling operation benefitting the Taliban: light or medium-weight arms arriving as contraband in the Karachi port, concealed under the tarpaulins on trucks meant to be carrying flour and food aid, and then speeding to Quetta and Kandahar, where they were distributed to the international militias of Allah's army-humanitarian aid as the fuel for paramilitary activities.
For me, it is obvious: Al-Rashid is a cog in the al-Qaida machine.
Far from being helped, and financed, by al-Qaida, al-Rashid instead finances the terrorist organization itself through its collection network.
And that is the fact that we must accept: Daniel Pearl was tortured and murdered in a house belonging to a fake charity organization that serves as a mask for Osama bin Laden.
CHAPTER 2 THE MOSQUE OF THE TALIBAN.
The "seminary" of Binori Town.
The grand madrasa, the heart of Sunni and, in particular, Deobandi, spirituality, where some of the Taliban dignitaries were educated and where, we remember, Omar spent one of his last nights before the kidnapping.
For a long time now, I've wanted to go inside.
I requested permission through the embassy-rejected.
From the police-rejected as well. The madrasa, they told me, is surrounded by the minority Shiite neighborhood of Karachi, which is engaged in open war against the Sunnis. So there are security problems, the risk of deadly assault. Wasn't it right there in the heart of the city, at the corner of Jamshed and Jinnah Roads, that Maulana Habibullah Mukhtar, the rector of the mosque, was shot point blank with four companions by a motorcycle squad of Shiite extremists a few years ago?
I tried to simply walk in, like a tourist coming to admire the place and passing by the adjoining grand mosque-turned back.
Finally, I talked to Abdul about it-don't even think about it! Very restricted place! As far as I know, no Western journalist has ever gone inside! You have to be Pakistani, know a teacher, work for an Urdu paper with jihadist tendencies, or, even better, go through the bureau of donations- otherwise, it's forbidden.
In short, I had finally given up. Every time I passed by, I was reduced to speculating about the mysterious world hidden behind the high walls, the barred doors, and the rust-colored iron grilles, and about Omar's reasons for going inside there twice before the crime. That is, until the morning of 24 November, the day of the great Shiite demonstration commemorating the death of the fourth caliph Ali, when, paradoxically, the riot inspired by this occasion nearly every year in this part of town gave me the opportunity I had been waiting for.
The wave of the faithful surges along Jamshed Road. The merchants have all lowered their security gates. Cordons of policemen, rifles at their sides, are keeping a watchful eye all along the avenue. There are tires burning on the sidewalks. The most fanatic of the participants are lacerating their faces and torsos, as is often the case at Shiite mass demonstrations. The others, long-haired dervishes with wild, bloodshot eyes, are shouting murderous epithets at their Sunni neighbors, then suddenly, to a man, they stop and begin chanting incoherent litanies full of, I am told, blood, vengeance, and martyrdom. My car is blocked. The mob, realizing that I am a foreigner, begins to violently rock the vehicle. One man, the victim of his own frenzied slogans, foaming at the mouth, his face bathed in sweat, brandishes a rock at the windshield. And so I get out. On the pretext of the mounting violence, I slip away from my driver, Abdul, and the official minder the ministry insisted on assigning me in light of the mood of the day. I thread my way through the crowd to the cross street, Gokal Street. In the crush, waving my expired diplomatic passport, I ask for passage through the cordon of terribly nervous policemen who are trying to block the way between the demonstrators and a hundred or so Sunnis who have just emerged from the madrasa, fists raised defiantly, shouting their own anti-Shiite slogans. The police let me pass and, without even knowing where I'm headed, I end up right at a door on the south side of the madrasa.
"What do you want?" asks the orderly, a consumptive-looking little man with a bit of a goiter, huge eyes in his moon face looking me up and down with distrust.
Behind him, in the interior courtyard, I see a group of armed men, mullahs, to judge by their turbans. Better armed, actually, than the policemen-strange for a madrasa . . .
"I am a French diplomat," I say, holding out my passport and one of the calling cards I had printed, quite illegally, at the time of my Afghan mission. "Bernard-Henri Levy," it reads, "Special Representative of the French President."
"I am a diplomat, and I would like to see the Mufti Nizamuddin Shamzai, the rector of the seminary."
The man examines the card. Leafs through the passport. Looks at me. Goes back to the passport. Behind me, a loud speaker squawks: "Don't take the law into your own hands, stay in the mosque." The chief of the patrol of mullahs advances towards me, Kalashnikov in hand, ready to intervene. I'm expecting them to throw me out at any moment- "Diplomat or not, infidels are not allowed here . . . You can just go back and rub elbows with those bastard Shiite demonstrators . . . " But, is it the passport? The calling card? The fact that I don't introduce myself as a journalist? The riot? Whatever it is, the little orderly motions for me to follow him into the interior courtyard, which is vaster than I had imagined, and a group of the faithful gawk at me. From there into a waiting room, empty except for some rope matting, and a moped in one corner.
"Have a seat," says the little orderly, "I'll be back."
And off he goes, my passport in hand, shuffling along with a sort of Chaplinesque gait, while the apprentice ulemas peer through the window to look at me. Most of them are very young, with scraggly adolescent beards, thrilled to see a foreigner, crowding and elbowing each other, bursting out laughing, with their black and red keffiehs on their shoulders. They look like Yemenis.
The man comes back after about five minutes. Grave. Self-conscious. "Very honor-due-to-our-foreign-guest."
"Mufti Nizamuddin Shamzai cannot receive you. Nor Doctor Abdul Razzak Sikandar. But one of the doctor's assistants is here. He will see you."
As extraordinary as it seems, my strategy has worked. And we're off again, one following the other, he with his penguin waddle and me opening my eyes wide, inside the Forbidden City of Karachi.
We take a left turn and find ourselves-inside the madrasa-behind a string of little stores: an Eskimo ice cream booth, "Master Cakes" bakery, and at the end, the "Cafe Jamia," which opens onto Jamshed. There, a sort of canteen, ill-lit and windowless, where several dozen poor devils, apparently students, are squeezed in together around big plates of rice; the little orderly presents me to an older man, a bearded colossus, who is seated with them.
We go back the way we came, down a poorly paved alley that opens out on the left onto a row of rooms, apparently classrooms-a ground floor, then a first story painted hot pink with a wooden latticework that allows a glimpse of a sort of fog inside. What is the source of this fog? I don't know. But it gives the scene a ghostly quality. Young people, who obviously come from all over the Arab-Muslim world, are busy studying there: Yemenis, again, but also Asians and Afghans, Pakistanis of course, Uzbeks, darker-skinned Sudanese, and, at the back of one of the rooms, all alone, his eyes lowered, a very pale man with long grey hair who seems to be European.
I make a mental note that I'm moving away from the actual mosque, which is on the left and slightly raised, its dome separating the two wings.
Then there's a courtyard on the right, planted with scraggly trees, with a fountain, a dry, mildewy basin, finely carved columns that are half destroyed, signs in Arabic, a loudspeaker, some mopeds parked against a wall, a few 4x4s (probably "company" cars reserved for madrasa dignitaries), and another room, in a recess, where I can see no one except, I think, another Westerner.
At the end of the alley, another larger, cloisterlike room with inscriptions carved around the frieze of the walls, undoubtedly verses of the Koran, where I briefly catch a glimpse of a giant, vividly colored portrait, stylised and nave, of a mujahid, hung on the wall facing the door and surrounded by a greenish light the source of which I again cannot see, and bearing a curious resemblance to bin Laden.
And then, right across from me, the office area (admissions, registration, donations, and administration for this city within the city which is the Binori Town madrasa) and housing for students and professors. Some of these are dilapidated blocks, like the unfinished constructions, with the structural steel beams exposed, that I have often seen in the Maghreb and the Middle East. And some of them are small houses of two or three stories, more cheerful, with an interior courtyard and, upstairs, rows of rooms that open out on to balconies.
With the exception of the bin Laden cloister, what is striking is the rustic quality of the place-rooms lacking shadows or mystery, naked ceilings, laundry drying on the railings of the balconies.
It's a series of lanes and courtyards that all look alike, giving the impression of a maze, a real labyrinth, where I would be hard pressed to find the path myself if I had to escape.
And then, of course, there's the crowd of faithful, sitting on the grass, walking in single file or hand in hand, cooling off outside their rooms on the balconies. Some really look like students, meditative, concentrating and, contrary to those I ran into a while ago, paying no attention to me whatsoever. Others look like ruffian soldiers, dressed in fatigues, with long hair, a harsh eye, and the ruddy, tanned complexion of Kashmiri montagnards. I can count a few, at least five, who are armed and don't hide it-another bizarre element of this strange "seminary" where it seems natural to walk around carrying a Kalashnikov. They say there are 3,500 boarders in Binori Town. My rough guess is that there are many more. And another thing is striking: the silence. Or rather, not exactly silence; people talk, but softly, in muffled voices, and the result is a slight, dull, continuous background noise, as though their voices were incapable of individual identity.
"I don't see any children," I say, both to say something and to slow the pace so that I can see more. "Aren't madrasas supposed to be for children?"
The colossus looks back at me, wary. And, maintaining his pace while giving a nod of recognition to a squad of ulemas he mutters, in good English, "Ask the Doctor. I'm not authorized to answer you."
"What do they teach here, then? Can you at least tell me what kind of teaching goes on in this madrasa?"
"The Koran," he says, this time without turning around, "Just like everywhere, we teach the Koran."
"All right. But what else besides the Koran?"
He stops. He seems both offended and appalled by the question, so he stops to reply to me.
"I don't understand your question."
"Not everything is in the Koran, as far as I know."
"No. There are the Hadith, the sayings of the Prophet."
"And then?"
"What do you mean, 'and then'? What more do you want besides the Koran and the Hadith?"
He seems irritated this time. His face, his beard, are shaking with anger. He's probably trying to understand why the hell anyone let a fellow who's capable of asking you if there are other books besides the Koran into such a place. I take advantage of the pause to sneak a look inside two more rooms whose doors are ajar. In one, as if in answer to the question I just asked, a circle of imams-real imams, except that they're young and clean-shaven. These are junior imams. In the other room, ten men- adults this time-sitting at wooden school desks, wearing long, white robes, black jackets, and, on their heads, white or red-and-white ghutras held in place by the traditional double band of the Bedouins and the Saudis. And, like their guns, which clash with the image one has of a place of fundamentalist worship, I'm pretty sure I see computers on the desks.
"What do you know about the Koran?" he goads me suspiciously, as though testing me.
"I know, more or less, what French people know about it."
This time it's too much. He shrugs his shoulders; obviously the absurdity of the Koran in French is beyond him.
"You are," he says simply, "at Jame'a Uloom ul-Islameya Binori Town-the Islamic University of Binori Town."
And, as though this response makes any further discussion unnecessary, he continues on the path towards a last courtyard, this one deserted and quite silent, with just a muffled, faraway sound, like a groan, or a scraping, or maybe a slow jig. A very old, hoary imam, his bony head like that of a sad-eyed dog, deep wrinkles beneath the cheekbones of his chapped face, waits there and takes me in hand. We go up a rather steep staircase, where he must grip a railing recessed into the wall, down a gallery crammed with closed boxes, and finally, into a small room much like the others, where Doctor Abdul Razzak Sikandar's assistant awaits, sitting on the ground, steeped in piety.
Fiftyish. Black beard, like the colossus. Full djellaba of immaculate white, like the Saudis, earlier. On his head, a skullcap. A low, melodious voice and quiet, grey eyes. A great deal of presence. Twenty or so books, bound in blood red, line a shelf on the wall behind him. In front of him, on a wooden stand inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the Koran, and right next to it, my card.
"You are French?" he begins, without looking at me.
I nod modestly.
"France is generous with us. We receive donations from all over the world, but also from France. You have many good Muslims."
Long silence. I don't dare ask him what kind of donations he is talking about.
"And your religion?"
No matter what, they always pull this one on me, but I never seem to get used to it. I can never repress a sense of revulsion, a nausea, but more than ever, the thing here is not to show it.
"Atheist. In France, there are many of us of the atheist religion."
He makes a face.
"You know that non-Muslims are forbidden to enter the madrasa."
"Yes, but atheists . . . "
"It's true. The rule applies to Jews and Crusaders."
And then, in a lower tone, as if he were talking to himself, eyes still fixed on the stand (the Koran? my card?): "But mind you, don't go saying the Pakistanis don't like the Christians. It's not true. Not only have we nothing against the Christians in principle, but we believe that Jesus Christ is not dead, that he was taken bodily into heaven by Allah, peace be upon Him, and that he will soon return to accompany the army of Allah."
He shrugs his shoulders and then, as though it were a butterfly, or something vaguely disgusting, cautiously takes my card with the tips of his fingers. I sense a note of distrust in his tone-maybe the name Levy makes him stop and think, but perhaps I'm mistaken . . .
"And you are the representative of the French government?"
I nod yes.
"Well, tell your president that we, the Pakistanis, appreciate the French position. Give him our apologies, as well. Tell him the Pakistani people are sorry for the recent attacks that caused the death of Frenchmen who were here to help our country."
In plain language he is admitting guilt. I cannot help thinking that when you excuse yourself, you accuse yourself. It is hard to say more clearly that the Islamists in general-and perhaps those of Binori Town in particular-are behind the recent wave of anti-Western attacks, especially the one at the Sheraton. All the more so, since he adds, as though reading my thoughts: "Tell your president it was a mistake . . . A very unfortunate mistake . . . The people who did that honestly believed that those were Americans."
"Should I understand this to mean, honorable mullah, that you know who is behind the suicide bombing at the Sheraton?"
He doesn't hesitate a second.
"Wicked people. People we strenuously condemn. Islam is a religion of peace."
"And the organizers of the attack, the people who have done so much harm to my country, would they be rejected if they came here?"
"Ah, no! We reject no one. All men are our brothers."
"And bin Laden? A little while ago, in passing, I saw a portrait of bin Laden. Has he come here? Would you welcome him if he did?"
He frowns. And for the first time, he looks in my direction-but it's a blank stare that seems to look beyond me.
"Osama is just a Muslim. No one needs to know whether or not he has come here. Do not ask this question, you are not entitled to."
"All the same, in Islamabad people told me that the grand mufti of your madrasa, Nizamuddin Shamzai, attended the marriage of one of bin Laden's sons last year with the mufti Jamil. Is that possible?"
"Do not ask this question," he repeats, raising his voice. "You are not entitled."
I know that during the American bombing of Afghanistan, this holy man, Nizamuddin Shamzai, personally supervised the recruiting of volunteers- starting with his own two sons-who crossed the frontier to fight beside the Taliban.
I know that in August, before September 11, when the Americans were putting pressure on Pakistan to send the foreign fighters of al-Qaida back to their own countries, in order to prevent this "betrayal," he personally threatened the Minister of the Interior with the rage of Allah and his followers.
And I know of the innumerable calls for jihad emanating from Binori, where this man the Mullah Omar considered his guru- Nizamussin Shamzai, again-cursed the Americans, the Indians, the Jews, and Westerners in general. Abdul translated one of his fatwas for me. It was from 1999, printed in Jasrat, the Urdu daily of Harkat, and in it, he said it was permissible to "kill and plunder the Americans, and to enslave their women."
But Doctor Abdul Razzak Sikandar's assistant stares at me now, and a flicker of hostility that wasn't there before prompts me to compromise.
"If I'm asking you this question, it's only in relation to what you told me: Islam is a religion of peace."
"That's true," he replies, a little more softly.
"Which means that, according to you, Osama is a man of peace?"
"Osama, I repeat, is a good Muslim. He is our brother in Islam. He fears no one but Allah. He may have made mistakes. But when he distinguishes between dar al-islam (the home of peace), which unites all the Muslims of the world, and dar al-harb (the home of war), which encompasses all the rest, he is right; that is our position."
"All right. But the result, in concrete terms, is what? Man of peace or man of war?"
He's irritated again. Again the inquisitive look, a restrained anger in in the voice. Behind the doctor lurks the jihadist.
"War against the infidels is not war, it is a duty. Since the American attack in Saudi Arabia, and then in Afghanistan, it is the duty of the Muslims of the world to support the jihad against America and the Jews."
"Why the Jews?"
Stunned, this time. Like the mullah earlier on, he seems dumbfounded by the question. He takes up my card again. He puts it down. He places his hand on the Koran, as though, unsettled, it is only through contact with the book that he will find the strength to respond.
"Because they are the true terrorists. And because they lead their crusade on the soil of Palestine and Afghanistan. Zionist agents have infiltrated even here, in Pakistan. Why do you think the government accepts their orders? It should place its confidence in God. But it accepts orders from the Jews."
Am I going to bring up my questions now? Do I dare? I have a feeling I've almost said too much, that the interview is drawing to a close. So I plunge in.
"Is that why they killed the American journalist Daniel Pearl? Because he was a Jew? Do you have an opinion about this affair, which has attracted a lot of attention in my country?"
Just mentioning the name Pearl sets off a very strange reaction. First he curls up, pulling his head down between his shoulders, clenching his fists and drawing in his elbows as though he were about to face an agressor and wanted to reduce the target area. Then he straightens up, unfolding his big body, nearly rising, and extends his arms in my direction-the gesture of a preacher or of someone preparing to strike. It's funny, I think, seeing him suddenly so tall, towering over me-the Pakistani activists seem enormous, full of themselves, self-satisfied, nothing like the rawboned desperate killers I'd seen in Afghanistan.
"We have no opinion!" he finally utters in an oddly solemn voice. "We do not think anything about the death of this journalist! Islam is a religion of peace. The Pakistanis are a people of peace."