Who Killed Daniel Pearl (33 page)

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 “Café 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 naïve, 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
ulémas
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 Lévy 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.”