touch with the terrorists themselves, not just with Pakistani government officials or the Oxbridge-educated elite that Americans typically talk to in Pakistan. I had done the same sort of âstupidâ things Pearl had doneâmeeting alone with terrorists, and admitting, when asked, that I was a Jew. But I had been lucky. My last trip to Pakistan to talk to members of bin Ladenâs International Islamic Front was in August 2001, and I survived, despite sharing Pearlâs naïveté, as the media described it at the time. Pearl did his work after September 11, when the attitude toward Americans had shifted dramatically.
I identified with Pearl, of course. But there was more than that: I understand now that I was feeling, for the first time, thefear that I had not perceived when I had met with the same terrorist groups that Pearl met with. At the time of Pearlâs abduction it didnât feel like fear, exactly. It felt like a premonition of evil.
Nine days after he was abducted, Daniel Pearlâs captors slit his throat and beheaded him. I can almost feel that knife. A month later a film was released, showing the terroristsâ horrific crime. The film was disseminated widely to recruit others to the terrorist cause. Despite the ultimate failure of our efforts to discover the captors in time to save Pearlâs life, I received a letter of commendation from the director of the FBI for the futile help I provided during those weeks.
Like most people who have served in government, I have acquired a number of letters like this one, commemorating my service. I put these letters, and the other mementos I received, in a box. Then the box disappeared. I think it is somewhere in the basement of the house I once shared with my ex-husband.
But I have kept this letter from the FBI director. I never worked for the FBI, so that makes it more valuable. More like a stamp of approval from a higher power. More like a stamp telling me, âYouâre okayâ that this mysterious shame I feel, especially in the police station, is unwarranted, at least in the eyes of the FBI, at least for now.
One day it came into my head to ask one of the agents I knew to talk to Lt. Macone. It took some weeks for me to broach the topic. It was as if there were two persons living in my bodyâone, a tough, seemingly fearless person who traveled around the world talking to terrorists and whose knowledge turned out to be of interest to people fighting crime; and the other, a shame-filled victim. I had more or less left that victim and her unattractive, girlie feelings behind. I didnât think about her.
VictimsâI somehow âknewâ this to be a factâare ineffectual, weak, and dishonest persons who drag society, or anyway their families, or anyway their fathers, down. I understood that terror and despair were contagious emotions, and that to indulge oneself in the feeling of terror was antisocial and possibly even immoral. I found a way to slice off the side of my self that felt endangered, and endangering, by the shameful feelings I could not stop myself from experiencing.
After the rape, according to a police officerâs notes taken down on the back of his crime report, I reported that I had a âskillâ in becoming âstern and hardâ as a response to terror. I donât recall saying this to the police. But I do know that I understood, long before the rape, that to become stern and hard was a more âmanlyâ approach to fear and despair, that it demonstrated a kind of good breeding, a kind of moral fiber. I wonder now why the officer took note of my words. Was he surprised to hear a terrorized fifteen-year-old girl speaking this way? And yet he does not seem to have asked me how I acquired this skill, or to what end.
Becoming stern and hard is so inbred in me that a more natural, âgirlieâ reaction to pain or fear takes an act of will. My sister, who was petrified to be
I identified with Pearl, of course. But there was more than that: I understand now that I was feeling, for the first time, thefear that I had not perceived when I had met with the same terrorist groups that Pearl met with. At the time of Pearlâs abduction it didnât feel like fear, exactly. It felt like a premonition of evil.
Nine days after he was abducted, Daniel Pearlâs captors slit his throat and beheaded him. I can almost feel that knife. A month later a film was released, showing the terroristsâ horrific crime. The film was disseminated widely to recruit others to the terrorist cause. Despite the ultimate failure of our efforts to discover the captors in time to save Pearlâs life, I received a letter of commendation from the director of the FBI for the futile help I provided during those weeks.
Like most people who have served in government, I have acquired a number of letters like this one, commemorating my service. I put these letters, and the other mementos I received, in a box. Then the box disappeared. I think it is somewhere in the basement of the house I once shared with my ex-husband.
But I have kept this letter from the FBI director. I never worked for the FBI, so that makes it more valuable. More like a stamp of approval from a higher power. More like a stamp telling me, âYouâre okayâ that this mysterious shame I feel, especially in the police station, is unwarranted, at least in the eyes of the FBI, at least for now.
One day it came into my head to ask one of the agents I knew to talk to Lt. Macone. It took some weeks for me to broach the topic. It was as if there were two persons living in my bodyâone, a tough, seemingly fearless person who traveled around the world talking to terrorists and whose knowledge turned out to be of interest to people fighting crime; and the other, a shame-filled victim. I had more or less left that victim and her unattractive, girlie feelings behind. I didnât think about her.
VictimsâI somehow âknewâ this to be a factâare ineffectual, weak, and dishonest persons who drag society, or anyway their families, or anyway their fathers, down. I understood that terror and despair were contagious emotions, and that to indulge oneself in the feeling of terror was antisocial and possibly even immoral. I found a way to slice off the side of my self that felt endangered, and endangering, by the shameful feelings I could not stop myself from experiencing.
After the rape, according to a police officerâs notes taken down on the back of his crime report, I reported that I had a âskillâ in becoming âstern and hardâ as a response to terror. I donât recall saying this to the police. But I do know that I understood, long before the rape, that to become stern and hard was a more âmanlyâ approach to fear and despair, that it demonstrated a kind of good breeding, a kind of moral fiber. I wonder now why the officer took note of my words. Was he surprised to hear a terrorized fifteen-year-old girl speaking this way? And yet he does not seem to have asked me how I acquired this skill, or to what end.
Becoming stern and hard is so inbred in me that a more natural, âgirlieâ reaction to pain or fear takes an act of will. My sister, who was petrified to be
Similar Books
