Story of a journalist with a ISIS

 As a journalist, I wanted a story. What I got was the fright of my life.

"Salaam alaikum, sister. I see you viewed my video. It's turned into a web sensation—insane! Is it accurate to say that you are Muslim?" 

It was ten o'clock on a Friday night in April 2014. 

I was perched on my couch in my one-room Parisian condo when a fear based oppressor situated in Syria reached me on Facebook. I'd been examining European jihadists in the Islamic State and was occupied with understanding what it was that influenced somebody to surrender everything and overcome demise for this reason. 

In the same way as other columnists, I had an anecdotal Facebook account I'd made to watch out for current occasions. My profile picture was a toon picture of Princess Jasmine from the Disney film Aladdin. I asserted to be in Toulouse, a city in southwestern France. My name on this record was Mélodie. Mélodie's age: 20. 

Amid my exploration, I ran over numerous promulgation films on YouTube loaded with pictures of torment and roasted bodies laid out in the sun. The adolescent chuckling going with these horrendous scenes made the recordings all the more unendurable.

That Friday night, I ran over a video of a French jihadist who seemed to be around 35. The video demonstrated him taking stock of the things inside his SUV. The man in the video wore military uniform and Ray-Bans and called himself Abu Bilel. He guaranteed to be in Syria. The scene around him, a genuine no-man's-arrive, didn't repudiate him. In the back of his auto, his impenetrable vest sat close to an automatic weapon. I would later find that Abu Bilel had put in the previous 15 years pursuing jihad everywhere throughout the world as a partner of Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, the pioneer of ISIS. 

Not long after I shared this video, my PC alarmed me to three messages sent to "Mélodie's" private inbox … all from Abu Bilel. "Are you contemplating coming to Syria?" he solicited in one from them. 

"Walaikum salaam. I didn't figure a jihadist would converse with me," I answered. "Don't you have better activities? LOL." 

In my message, I let him know I'd changed over to Islam however didn't offer any points of interest. I intentionally included spelling botches and utilized a youngster's vocabulary. I sat tight for his answer, a bunch in my stomach: I couldn't trust this was going on.

"Obviously I have a great deal of activities! Be that as it may, here it's 11 o'clock around evening time and the warriors are done for the day. We should talk over Skype."

 I waited for his reply, a knot in my stomach: I couldn’t believe this was happening. 

Skype was impossible! I disregarded his proposition and recommended we talk some other time. Abu Bilel comprehended; he'd make himself accessible for Mélodie tomorrow at whatever point she needed. 

"You changed over, so you ought to prepare for your hijrah [emigration]. I'll deal with you, Mélodie." He didn't know anything about this young lady, and he was at that point requesting that her go along with him in the bloodiest nation on earth.

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he next time we spoke, Bilel asked, "Do you have a beau?" "No, I don't," I stated, talking as Mélodie. "I don't feel good discussing this with a man. It's haram [forbidden]. My mom will be home from work soon. I need to shroud my Koran and go to bed." 

"Before long you won't need to shroud anything, Insha'Allah [God willing]! I need to enable you to lead the life anticipating you here. Before you rest, answer me something: Can I be your sweetheart?" 

I logged off Facebook. We'd traded 120 messages in the space of two hours. That Monday, I raced to the magazine where I independent. My supervisor concurred this was a one of a kind open door, yet he helped me to remember the risks. Asking alert, he alloted me a picture taker, André. I would consent to Bilel's ask for to meet over Skype, and André would take pictures. 

To end up Mélodie, I expected to look ten years more youthful and discover a cover. Another manager loaned me a hijab [veil] and a djellaba [long dark dress]. I was happy to wear them. The possibility of a fear monger getting comfortable with my face didn't excite me, particularly not when the man being referred to could come back to France, his nation of origin, at any minute.

André landed at my condo that night around six o'clock. We had a hour to plan before Bilel "returned home from battling" and reached Mélodie. I pulled on Mélodie's floor-length dark djellaba over my pants and sweater. I expelled my rings and secured the little tattoo on my wrist with establishment, expecting Bilel wouldn't acknowledge such unimportance. 

The time had come. I sat with folded legs on my couch. André situated himself in a blind side behind the couch. The Islamic State is overflowing with counterespionage specialists and programmers. It was more secure if Bilel didn't know my telephone number, so Mélodie had her own. I'd likewise made a Skype account in her name. 

The Skype ringtone seemed like a congregation ringer. I paused for a minute to inhale, at that point tapped the catch, and there he was. Bilel's eyes seethed as he looked at the youthful Mélodie, as though endeavoring to do magic. Bilel was Skyping from his auto. He looked spotless and very much prepared after his day on the front. 

"Salaam alaikum, my sister," he said. 

I grinned. "It's insane to converse with a mujahid in Syria. It resembles you have simpler access to the Internet than I do in Toulouse!"

"Syria is astounding. We have everything here. Masha'Allah [God has willed it], you need to trust me: It's heaven! A great deal of ladies fantasize about us; we're Allah's warriors." 

"Be that as it may, each day individuals kick the bucket in your heaven … " 

"That is valid, and consistently I battle to stop the murdering. Here the adversary is the fallen angel. You have no clue. Let me know, do you wear your hijab consistently?"

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Mélodie discussed what I'd gotten notification from young ladies I'd met amid my profession who had furtively changed over to Islam. "I dress ordinarily early in the day. I say farewell to my mother, and when I'm outside the house, I put on my djellaba and my cover." 

"I'm pleased with you. You have a delightful soul. What's more, you're lovely outwardly as well." Bilel looked licentiously at Mélodie. All of a sudden, men's thick voices ended the sad quiet.

 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. 

"Try not to state anything!" Bilel requested. "I don't need anybody to see or hear you! You're my gem." I tuned in to the discussion and could recognize the voices of two other men. They welcomed Bilel in Arabic, at that point changed to French. They chuckled a considerable measure, praising themselves for having "butchered them." 

The dried blood I saw on the solid was proof of the assault. ISIS's dark banners with white emblem glided out there. The other men appeared to approach Bilel with deference. Their method for considerately tending to him recommended my contact was higher in the positions than they were. A moment later, he said farewell to his kindred warriors and talked into the telephone. 

"Gracious, you're still there! What's more, similarly as excellent—" 

"Who were they?" 

"Contenders who came to make proper acquaintance. Anyway, you're not inspired by all that. Inform me concerning you! What guided you to Allah's way?" 

I started to stammer—I hadn't had room schedule-wise to design a "genuine" life for Mélodie. "One of my cousins was Muslim, and I was entranced by the inward peace that his religion gave him. He guided me to Islam," I said.

"Does he realize that you need to come to al-Sham?" 

Bilel expected that everything had been chosen—Mélodie would soon land in Syria. 

"I don't know that I need to go—" 

"Tune in, Mélodie. You'll be well dealt with here. You'll be essential. What's more, on the off chance that you consent to wed me, I'll treat you like a ruler." 

Wed him?! I logged off Skype as a sort of survival reflex. Pulling the hijab down to my neck, I moved in the direction of André, who looked as puzzled as I might have been. 

How was I to react to Bilel's proposition? André proposed clarifying that since Mélodie wasn't hitched, she would not like to touch base in Syria alone. On the off chance that she chose to go by any means. 

Bilel got back to. 

"My companion Yasmine is Muslim," I stated, changing the subject. "I could welcome her to accompany me, however she's just 15." 

"Here, ladies should get hitched when they turn 14. On the off chance that Yasmine comes, I'll discover her a decent man."

Yasmine didn't exist, however I considered what number of genuine Yasmines were being attracted at that exact second by men like Bilel.

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"Bilel, I need to hang up. My mother is returning home." 

"I'll be here tomorrow after the battling, not surprisingly, at seven. Insha'Allah… pleasant evening, my child." 

My infant? When Abu Bilel reported his intend to wed Mélodie, her rundown of virtual companions developed. Young ladies started approaching Mélodie for exhortation on the most secure course to Syria. A portion of the inquiries were both specialized and abnormal: "Should I bring a considerable measure of sterile cushions or would i be able to discover them there?"; "In the event that I touch base in Syria without a spouse, it's most likely not a smart thought to attract thoughtfulness regarding myself by bringing thong clothing; my future husband may believe I'm forward. In any case, will I have the capacity to discover them there?" 

I was dazed by the everyday obsessions of these young ladies who were agreeing to accept demise. How was I expected to answer their inquiries? I squandered a considerable measure of time playing alongside Bilel's round of enchantment keeping in mind the end goal to pick up his trust. Nobody, not by any means André, could understand the level of controlled schizophrenia that this activity requested. Regardless of what he stated, Bilel was alarming.

 I was bewildered by the mundane fixations of these girls who were signing up for death. 

"Goodness, there are you are, my better half!" he said one night. "Uplifting news. I talked with the qadi [judge] in Raqqa [ISIS's fortress in Syria]. He's anticipating wedding us." 

Staggered, I didn't recognize what to state. "How are weddings there?" 

"All things considered, we're now hitched." 

"Reason me?" 

"I thought I'd effectively talked enough about the possibility of marriage with you. I requesting that you wed me a while back, and I discussed it with the judge, who drew up the papers. We're formally hitched, my significant other! Masha'Allah. You're extremely mine now."

t had been almost a month. André expected that the more we let Mélodie exist, the more I was in danger. I concurred with him. Together with my editors, I arranged the examination's end. I had revealed to Bilel that Yasmine and I would meet him in Syria. He taught me to go to Amsterdam and after that on to Istanbul. When I was there, he would send encourage directions. "You're my gem, and Raqqa is your royal residence. You'll be dealt with like a princess," he guaranteed me. 

It was valid. I was extremely going to Istanbul, however André—not Yasmine—would go with me. The arrangement was basic: Bilel had disclosed to me a more seasoned lady known as Mother would meet us there. André would surreptitiously catch Mother on film for the article. While she searched for Yasmine and Mélodie, André and I would proceed to Kilis, a city close to the Syrian outskirt. Turkey controlled it, and it would be more secure than different spots. 

The story would end there, with a photo of Mélodie watching out at the Syrian outskirt from behind. The writer would stop at the ways to heck, and Mélodie would venture through them. We were at last wrapping this up. At any rate that is the thing that I thought. A couple of days after the fact, I was in a modest inn room in Amsterdam when Bilel Skyped.

The story would end there, with a photo of Mélodie watching out at the Syrian outskirt from behind. The writer would stop at the ways to heck, and Mélodie would venture through them. We were at last wrapping this up. At any rate that is the thing that I thought. A couple of days after the fact, I was in a modest inn room in A-msterdam when Bilel Skyped.

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"Salaam alaikum, my sweetheart; would you say you are truly in Amsterdam? I can't trust it. You'll be here soon. I'm the most joyful man on earth. I cherish you, my significant other." 

I'd never observed him look so cheerful. Bilel was separated from everyone else in an Internet bistro. He'd recently completed "work." 

"Inform me concerning your trek. How could you pay for the tickets?" 

"I stole my mother's charge card." 

"You're so solid, my better half! On the off chance that despite everything you have the charge card, don't hesitate to get me some stuff." 

What do you get for a man who discusses decapitating individuals in a single breath and the amount he adores you in the following? 

"What do you need?" 

"All things considered, cologne! I adore Égoïste by Chanel or something decent from Dior." 

"Alright, infant. Would we be able to discuss tomorrow? What will occur after we meet Mother?" 

"As a matter of fact, no one will be there to meet you."

"In any case, that wasn't the arrangement, Bilel," I stated, my voice really frayed with tension. "You were resolute—as was I—that a lady come to meet us. You revealed to me we would be protected." 

"Hear me out," he stated, his tone solidifying. "You will quiets down for a moment and let me talk. When you touch base at the air terminal in Istanbul, purchase two one-path tickets for Urfa." 

Urfa? Urfa was penetrated by the Islamic State. Going there was suicide. 

"All I ask is that you regard what you've guaranteed me." 

"You can't converse with me like that! I'm the person who gives bosses around here, not you. Starting now and into the foreseeable future, you will quiets down. Don't you know my identity? I order a hundred warriors consistently. I haven't disclosed to you a fourth of reality!" 

At the point when the discussion finished, I removed the hijab. Everything was going to pieces. I called my editorial manager in boss, who gave me requests to wrap up this story. To place things in context, she advised me that two French writers sent to the Urfa district had quite recently been liberated following ten months of imprisonment on account of ISIS. The following morning, we flew home. 

Mélodie sent Bilel a Skype message from the airplane terminal illuminating him that an "interesting" man had scrutinized the young ladies. Yasmine and Mélodie felt they were being viewed, and they chose to come back to France until the point that better conditions introduced themselves.

ack home, my editors were acknowledging exactly how much data I had: Bilel had uncovered many insights about the structure of ISIS and the way newcomers were dealt with. I started composing. After seven days, the magazine distributed my article under a nom de plume. Out of dread that the fear based oppressors could follow me, I moved out of my loft and twice changed my telephone number. 

I quit checking the quantity of articulations I've given to different branches of the police when it achieved 254. An antiterrorist judge likewise requested to hear my declaration after my genuine personality began showing up in some of their documents. As indicated by those records, Bilel has three spouses, ages 20, 28, and 39. They're all with him in Syria. He is the father of no less than three young men younger than 13. The two eldest are as of now battling on the front in Syria. 

I never had coordinate contact with Bilel again. In any case, as of late, a columnist companion called to let me know he'd realized there was a fatwa against me. 

I found a video on the Web that indicated me wearing Mélodie's shroud on my love seat. It was taken, I envision, by Bilel. There's no sound, however it includes toon characters of a fallen angel and bilingual, French and Arabic, subtitles. I've seen the video just once, however I recollect each word:

"My siblings from around the globe, I issue a fatwa against this polluted individual who has despised the Almighty. In the event that you see her anyplace on earth, take after Islamic law and slaughter her. Ensure she endures a long and agonizing passing. Whoever taunts Islam will pay for it in blood. She's more tainted than a pooch. Assault, stone, and complete her. Insha'Allah." 

I don't think I'll watch it once more.