On the day he planned to make his sacred journey, or hijra, to the Islamic State, 19-year-old Mohammed Hamzah Khan woke up before dawn at his house in the Chicago suburb of Bolingbrook, Illinois, and walked to the nearby mosque to pray. It was Saturday, October 4th, 2014, an unusually cold morning, though Hamzah, a slender young man with a trimmed black beard, was dressed for warmer weather in jeans, boots and a gray sweatshirt. By sunset, he’d be gone for good: leaving his parents, his friends, his country and all he knew for an unknown future in the “blessed land of Shaam,” as he called Syria. He would be taking his teenage brother and sister with him. Allahu Akbar, he prayed with the men in his family, and tried to banish his doubts: “God is great.”
Upstairs in her bedroom in the Khans’ small two-story house, Hamzah’s 17–year-old sister, Mariyam*, finished her own prayers. Ameen. Then, dressed in a long tunic and flowing pants, she wrapped a dark head scarf around her wavy black hair and waited for her brothers to come home. A delicate girl, Mariyam has flashing dark eyes, perfect skin and a radiant smile that, as a niqabi, a woman who veils her face, almost no one other than her family ever sees. Soon, if all went according to plan, Mariyam would likely be married to a jihadi. She inspected her skin for any sign of a stray pimple. What would her husband be like? She hoped he was handsome and bearded, like Hamzah.
When the men returned from the mosque just before 6 a.m., Mariyam waited until she heard her father go back to bed. Then, with just a small window of time before her parents woke up, she stuffed some pillows under the covers to make it look like she was still asleep and reviewed her mental checklist: clothes (five days’ worth), boots, warm socks, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, her niqab, hijab, Quran and two wands of Maybelline Great Lash mascara (just in case she ran out). She put on a black abaya, topped with her favorite leopard-print hoodie, and took a last look at her room. Then, grabbing her suitcase, she walked downstairs, slipped out the door with her brothers, and sped off toward the airport in a taxi.
The three Khan siblings (*Rolling Stone has agreed to change the names of the younger two, since they are minors) had been plotting their journey since the spring, communicating online with people they believed to be ISIS sympathizers in Syria. During that time, they’d secretly acquired passports, visas and, in just the past week, three airplane tickets to Istanbul, totaling more than $2,600, purchased with money Hamzah had saved from his job at a home-supply store. Once in Turkey, the plan was to make their way, by bus, from Istanbul to the city of Adana, a trip of some 12 hours. There, they’d call a number they had been given by an ISIS supporter they’d met online. “And then, uh, I don’t know,” Hamzah later admitted to the FBI.
What services Hamzah intended to offer ISIS were unclear, even to him. According to a rough transcript admitted at his detention hearing, Hamzah later told the FBI that he wanted to play a “public-service role” — delivering food, perhaps, or being a policeman. Maybe “a combat role,” he said, uncertain what exactly he’d do in that capacity. Hamzah had never even held a gun, let alone fired one. His ideology was simple: He wanted to help the Muslims. He never intended to return to the U.S.
“An Islamic State has been established, and it is thus obligatory upon every able-bodied male and female to migrate,” Hamzah had written in a letter he left for his parents, explaining why he was leaving the comforts of suburbia for the khilafah, or caliphate. “I cannot live under a law in which I am afraid to speak my beliefs.”
His 16-year-old brother, Tarek*, took a more strident tone. “This nation is openly against Islam and Muslims,” he wrote in his own goodbye letter. “The evil of this country makes me sick.”
There was a sameness to the letters, as if they’d been copied from a script. All referenced America’s wars in the Muslim world and said they felt responsible for the suffering. “I simply cannot sit here and let my brothers and sisters get killed with my own hard-earned money,” Hamzah said.
“America is openly against Muslims,” one of the Khan siblings wrote his parents. “The evil of this country makes me sick.”
“Living in this land is haram [sinful],” said Tarek, who like his brother — a pizza fanatic who loved Comedy Central and Lil Wayne — complained about the immorality of Western society. All three wrote of eschewing the dunya, or material world (even though “what I love most is comfort,” Tarek admitted), and provided they made it safely, hoped their parents might even join them. True, the area was getting bombed, said Hamzah, “but let us not forget we weren’t put on this Earth for comfort.”
They begged their parents not to call the police. “All of us will be in really great danger if you do so,” Mariyam wrote in her own letter. “By the time you are reading this, we could be captured, or stranded, or possibly even killed,” she added. “I swear this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
On the afternoon of October 4th, federal authorities were on the lookout for the Khan teens as they passed through security screening at O’Hare International Airport. At the gate area for Austrian Airlines, the siblings were pulled aside and questioned by U.S. Customs officials, who then passed them over to the FBI. By that evening, Hamzah was put under arrest and charged with “knowingly attempting to provide material support and resources” to a foreign terrorist organization in the form of personnel — namely, himself. If convicted, he faces up to 15 years in prison, and possibly more if other charges are added.
Hamzah’s prosecution comes at a time when countering the lure of groups like ISIS has become one of Washington’s top priorities. “We have investigations of people in various stages of radicalizing in all 50 states,” FBI director James Comey said recently. Though it is unknown precisely how federal authorities came to target the Khans, it’s no secret that government informants lurk online. Agents customarily make these cases by gathering intelligence and setting traps for unsuspecting targets, many of whom, like Hamzah, are arrested at the airport. According to Fordham Law School’s Center on National Security, 33 people in the United States have been detained or questioned in the past year for attempting to aid or join ISIS. Most of these cases have involved kids in their late teens and early twenties. In the case of three Denver-area high school girls, who managed to make it all the way to Frankfurt before being spotted by German authorities and returned to the U.S., the youngest was just 15. Twenty-four cases so far have resulted in federal charges, though, as juvenile records are sealed, it is possible that even more teenagers have been investigated without the public’s knowledge.
The Obama administration has acknowledged a key challenge is countering ISIS’s effective social-media messaging — so much so, one Justice Department official recently conceded, that the DOJ is looking into ways it might prosecute those voicing support for ISIS on Twitter. “It’s a war of ideas — we ought to be able to win,” Assistant Attorney General John Carlin noted during a recent talk. Yet he admitted the government doesn’t yet have a cohesive strategy. “How do we explain that an ideology that’s based on enslaving other people, killing women and children, and is fundamentally nihilistic is one you shouldn’t join?”
Though the government has put forth a number of so-called countering violent-extremism initiatives, the most effective tool at the moment seems to be the criminal justice system. Most of these cases, and nearly 200 more brought since 9/11, rest on a broad interpretation of a provision in the federal criminal code known as the material-support statutes. They criminalize a wide range of activities, from supplying weapons, money, personnel or training to providing things like humanitarian relief, conflict-resolution training, and other “expert advice or assistance.”
“All the material-support law requires is that the person supported a group or set of ideas the government doesn’t like,” explains David Cole, a professor at Georgetown University Law School and author of Less Safe, Less Free: Why America Is Losing the War on Terror. “It is an extremely broad statute, and prosecutors like broad statutes because it’s easier to make a case. The risk is you very likely will send a lot of people who would never have committed violence at all to prison for a long time.”
According to federal prosecutors, Hamzah Khan and his siblings felt a “religious obligation to join the Islamic State. . . . with the hopes of violent jihad.” At Hamzah’s detention hearing in November, Assistant U.S. Attorney Matthew Hiller argued that the teens’ “carefully calculated plan to abandon their family . . . and abandon their country and join a foreign terrorist organization” showed, at minimum, their “radicalization.” Hiller also argued that Hamzah be kept in pretrial detention to “protect the safety of the community from the defendant and his intent on leaving Western society and joining ISIL.”
Nowhere in this statement is the assertion that Hamzah’s intent to join the Islamic State also means that he intended to commit harm in the United States. This fear, however, lies at the heart of both the Khan case and virtually all of the other ISIS-related prosecutions, though there is so far little evidence that those who have made it to Syria plan to come home. “What they’re doing is joining a civil war,” says Michael German, a former FBI agent and now a fellow at NYU’s Brennan Center for Justice. “And we have seen people do that through history — whether it was the Spanish Civil War, whether it was American Jews going off to fight for Israel, or American Catholics wanting to join the IRA. But rather than understand the lure in context, we judge it as they’re going to go over and become a terrorist. And then, the next leap is they’re going to become a terrorist against the United States.”
Hamzah’s attorney, Tom Durkin, believes the government’s zeal to prosecute has more to do with the fear of “missing one,” as he puts it, than in a genuine belief that people like Hamzah are dangerous. “The fact is, these kids are not ‘terrorists’ by any criminal-justice definition,” says Durkin. “The problem is, it’s now part of the ‘war on terror,’ and as soon as you declare war on something, that means you have to defeat it.”
Mariyam’s attorney, Marlo Cadeddu, believes that if the Khan kids are guilty of anything, it’s a form of magical thinking. “They were naive, and they were sheltered, and they bought into a fantasy of a Muslim utopia,” she says. “It’s hard to be an observant Muslim teenager growing up in post-9/11 America, and ISIS plays on those insecurities in a very calculated way.”
Chicago’s Muslim community is one of the oldest and largest in the United States, with a significant portion hailing from the South Asian diaspora. Hamzah’s parents, Shafi and Zarine, naturalized American citizens, were born in Hyderabad, the fourth-largest city in India, and are followers of the Deobandi school of Islam, a fundamentalist Sunni strain that stresses strict adherence to Islamic law and has been influential in jihadist networks in Pakistan and Afghanistan. The Khans, however, follow a pacifist movement that preaches that Muslims’ true battle is a spiritual one.
An unassuming young man, Shafi was 20 when he arrived in Chicago with his parents, in 1986. In 1994, he returned to India for an arranged marriage with Zarine, then a 21-year-old student at Hyderabad’s main university. Back in Chicago, the couple settled on Devon Avenue, an area famous for being a landing point for immigrants from across the Indian subcontinent. In 1995, their first child, Hamzah, was born, followed by Mariyam in 1996, Tarek in 1998 and another sister in 2000. To support his brood, Shafi, who was still putting himself through college, worked as a customer-service representative at a bank. Zarine, who’d given up her scientific ambitions to marry and have children, worked part-time teaching primary school. By 2005, they joined the migration pattern of many other Indian and Pakistani Muslims and settled in the suburbs west of the city, first in Des Plaines, near O’Hare, and then, after their fifth and final child was born in 2011, in Bolingbrook.
Chicago’s western suburbs have a drab, workaday quality filled with featureless strip malls and equally nondescript homes. Once lily-white, the area’s demographics have followed national trends, and South Asians now comprise almost six percent of the population. In the past decade, at least 15 new mosques and Islamic cultural centers have sprung up throughout the area, quickly assimilating into the landscape: mosque, 7-Eleven, McDonald’s, church, Walmart, halal butcher, Taco Bell, synagogue, Planet Fitness.
Uninspiring though it might be, the Khans found much to appreciate in the suburbs. In America, you got what you paid for: a house, a car, clean streets, medical care. They appreciated the kindness of Americans and, as Zarine often noted, their “respect for hard work and human life.” And yet, neither she nor her husband was ever fully comfortable here. The violence of popular culture in particular bothered Zarine. When Hamzah was about eight, the television broke; the Khans decided not to replace it. Though they had a computer with Internet access, Shafi and Zarine monitored their children’s online habits, allowing them to watch cartoons and read the news, but never to surf the Internet alone. “We wanted to preserve their innocence,” Zarine later noted to the Washington Post.
On September 11th, 2001, Zarine and Shafi had been living together in Chicago for seven years. Hamzah was six, Mariyam four; the younger two siblings were toddlers. The Khans, who were horrified by the attacks, tried not to watch the news. Sometimes, Zarine would hear about women’s scarves getting pulled off in public, though it never happened to her. She did, however, get random stares while shopping. Given what happened on 9/11, that was “understandable,” she rationalized. But in Chicago, as in most cities across the country, there were more overt examples of discrimination. Everyone had heard the stories of people who had been hassled or detained at the airport, or whose immigration papers were mysteriously held up. Many Muslim families knew of at least one child who’d been teased and called “Osama” or “terrorist” on the playground. It was assumed, in an era of FBI stings (including several in Chicago), that if a stranger entered a mosque during Friday prayers and started spouting extremist rhetoric, he was likely an informant.
Instead of sending their kids to public schools, the Khans enrolled their children in an Islamic primary school, and later in the College Preparatory School of America (CPSA), a private Islamic day school that bills itself as providing “academic excellence in an Islamic environment.” Mohammad Chaudhry, a friend of the Khans and a former board member of their mosque, also sends his kids to CPSA, which he feels has helped instill in them the proper Islamic values. But it’s also a safety issue, he admits. “To be honest with you, I don’t want my kids being told they’re terrorists.”
“ISIS’s message is, ‘Come and help us build a utopia that will protect every single Muslim,'” says one expert. “This is very seductive.”
The problem with this approach, notes Ahmed Rehab, executive director of the Chicago branch of the Council on American Islamic Relations, is by “cocooning” one’s children in Islamic schools, parents run the risk of setting them up for profound isolation. When they emerge, he asks, “will the kids be prepared for what they see?”
By all accounts, the Khans enveloped their children in a tight and loving cocoon. Other parents would remark on the manners and obedience of the Khan kids, who got good grades, volunteered at the mosque religious school, day care and summer camp, and were relentlessly polite and helpful. Religion played a central role in their lives, and they made an effort to pray five times a day. But they were also regular American kids who grew up on a steady diet of cartoons, Marvel superhero comics and young-adult fiction: The Lightning Thief, the Maximum Ride series, the Legend trilogy. Mariyam, who as a child loved Muslim Scouts Adventures, a cartoon series broadcast on the Islamic-themed website MuslimVille.tv, was also partial to the very American animated hero Kim Possible. Hamzah loved Batman. Their brother Tarek idolized Wolverine. Anime fanatics, they were desperate to learn Japanese and, at one point, created their own fake Japanese language, which they used as a secret code.
When Hamzah was 10, he left school and enrolled in a local Islamic institute to memorize the Quran, a process known as becoming a hafiz. He spent roughly two and a half years learning the 600-page text in Arabic, until the phrases rolled off his tongue like poetry. It’s not uncommon in highly religious Muslim families, particularly those from the South Asian community, to put their kids through this program, which is both a sign of piety and great prestige. As Hamzah spoke only English and Urdu, however, he had little idea what the words, in Arabic, actually meant.
Of the Khan kids, Hamzah was probably the most sensitive, a dreamer. He loved to draw and had a particular soft spot for children, serving as treasurer of his school’s UNICEF chapter. The stories of refugee families in places like Syria, Gaza or Sudan moved him so much that he decided to become a pediatrician so he could work with Doctors Without Borders. But he quickly realized he couldn’t endure eight years of medical school, and after graduating from high school in 2013 and enrolling at Benedictine University, he decided to study engineering and computer science. By October of his freshman year, it seemed that he was already feeling the pressure. “Calc and Chem exams, back-to-back,” he tweeted one day. “Need duas [prayers]!!”
One of Hamzah’s teachers at CPSA, who spoke to Rolling Stone anonymously (the school has refused to comment on the Khans and has instructed its faculty to do the same), doubts Hamzah had the skills needed for a scientific career. “He wasn’t cut out for engineering,” he says. “He always came across as really naive, just kind of simple.” Sexual innuendos went over his head. Though he had a circle of friends, he lacked the go-along-to-get-along sensibility that others took in stride. According to the teacher, cheating has occasionally been a problem at CPSA, where tremendous pressure is put on kids to excel in the sciences, but Hamzah never took part. “That’s part of that innocence,” he says. “The rest of the kids are like, ‘Look, you can’t always be this goody-two-shoes.’ ”
Hamzah saw in Islam a world of infinite wisdom whose rules and ancient history intrigued him. Steeped in the stories of Muhammad, his companions, and the sultans and caliphs who came after them, Hamzah viewed those days as a “simpler” era when Islam flourished across a vast empire, or Caliphate, and the Muslim ummah, or global community, was united. By college, though he still enjoyed making funny videos with friends and listening to rappers like Waka Flocka Flame, he’d begun to see those pursuits as shallow, lacking the honor and romance of being a true champion of the ummah. In 2014, he created a Tumblr page he called “Torchbearers of Tawheed,” dedicated to “posts about important events and people from Islam dating from the period of Muhammad [peace be upon him],” though he sometimes posted his own poetry, too. On Twitter, he dubbed himself @lionofthe-d3s3rt – a take on his name, which means “lion,” and a reference to historical freedom fighters in the Middle East. He trimmed his beard in the manner of an Arabian prince, and then, because it looked so good, he posted a picture on his Google+ page, standing in front of a suburban home, his black hair wrapped in a Saudi-style headdress, chin raised, eyes fixed on some distant point. Mecca? Chicago? Burger King? Who knew?
Mariyam, while equally invested in her dreams, was more focused. A voracious reader, she made her way through most of the young-adult novels on The New York Times Best Sellers list, and spent hours making plans. She was going to be an astronaut. Then she decided she’d rather be a paleontologist, or a surgeon. Like her brother, she also became a hafiz, which in her case took three years, as she was meticulous about the Quran, memorizing each phrase and passage backward and forward until she could recite it without error. “I like things to be perfect, and I like to be the best at them,” she says. This was obvious by simply looking at her, if she’d have allowed it.
Though wearing the niqab isn’t generally required in Islam, Mariyam, like her mother, chose to cover all but her forehead and her eyes. In public, Mariyam, a tiny five feet two, appeared as a mute appendage to Zarine, to whom she is fiercely attached. But at home, where she covered only her hair, she was a different, more dynamic girl: intellectually curious, chatty, sometimes angst-ridden and moody. She was concerned about the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. She worried about the suffering of Muslims — especially the children — wherever they were. She also worried about the usual teenage things: her hair, her skin, her weight. Embarrassingly, she now admits, she was obsessed for a while — OK, for about three years — with Linkin Park, whose lyrics she memorized and wrote everywhere. There were also the boys-suck ballads of Taylor Swift, more of a secret passion. Boys themselves were strictly off-limits in the hyperconservative interpretation of Islam imparted by her parents. She could still laugh, joke, ride bikes and climb trees with her brothers, but once she hit puberty, strange boys were to be avoided unless she needed to ask someone for directions.
This, for the most part, was OK, because more than anything, Mariyam was painfully shy. Her niqab was her shield, and behind the veil she could observe, which she did, keenly, but didn’t have to engage. This shyness, combined with her innate perfectionism, created a deep well of anxiety that struck her immediately after she finished memorizing the Quran. She’d missed the entirety of middle school, though she’d tried to keep up through home-schooling. As a result, all the torment of those awkward early-teenage years, the best-friendships, rivalries and petty jealousies — all of that had passed her by. So she told her mother she didn’t want to go back to school. Zarine begged her to change her mind. “I used to tell her every single day, ‘You’re going to regret this when you’re in college,’ ” Zarine recalls. “ ’You’re going to say, “I missed high school life.” ’ ” Mariyam insisted she’d be better off being home-schooled and enrolled in a correspondence program. And so, ninth grade passed and then 10th.
Apart from her studies, her outlets were baking, drawing and watching YouTube videos. She developed a passion for elaborate Arabic eye makeup, which she’d experiment with in her room, trying the Indian-princess look one day, a sultry Arabian look the next, always making sure to take it off before anyone could see. Though she never admitted it, the loneliness was excruciating. After a while, even a trip with her mother to Walmart was exciting.
And then, at 16, Mariyam began to change. She stopped listening to music, stopped watching anime and reading novels. She no longer missed her friends or worried about whether she should return to high school — she knew there was no point. The only thing that mattered to her was religion. While her brothers and sister were off at school and working on projects for the next science fair, she would rush through her lessons in order to curl up in a corner and read the hadiths, the second-hand accounts of the teachings and proverbs of Muhammad, as well as books by many other Islamic scholars.
Her favorite heroes were men like Muhammad al-Fatih, Muhammad bin Qasim and Saladin — all famous Muslim warriors who waged valiant jihad in defense of Islam and its expansion. The term “jihad” refers to two distinct Islamic concepts — the greater jihad, or the daily struggle to live a godly life, and the lesser jihad, which most scholars agree refers to war, and not just a spiritual or existential one.
Mariyam envisioned herself as less a warrior than a protector. In her private musings, she could take on a fierce edge, frustrated by the refusal of American Muslims to even mention jihad for fear of being misunderstood. “When talk of jihad comes up, [the men] turn their faces away, or look down and avoid your eyes, or attack you,” she wrote in an undated note, referring to the men of her community as “cowards” and the women as “selfish.” The righteous path was clear to her; why would none of them see it? “They don’t want to believe,” she said. “They lash out at you, mock you, and ridicule what the best people on the face of this Earth loved and carried out with passion flaming in their hearts. Will they say the same when it is their children whose skulls are being crushed, their husbands who are being tortured, their fathers who are slaughtered, and their mothers who are raped?”
For, if that level of violence seemed far-fetched in America, it wasn’t the case in Syria, or Iraq. And maybe it wasn’t even that far off in Chicago. In 2012, there had been a hate crime at CPSA, when a 7-Up bottle filled with acid was hurled at the building during Ramadan prayers. That same year, the area’s U.S. congressman, Republican Joe Walsh, noted while campaigning for re-election that Muslims were “trying to kill Americans every week” in the United States. A few days later, a man terrorized an area mosque with a pellet gun.
For some Muslim kids, the prejudice, discrimination and violence only reinforced what they may have felt all along. “If you’re a Muslim-American teenager, America has been at war with the Muslims for as long as you’ve been conscious,” says Omer Mozaffar, an Islamic scholar and Muslim chaplain at Loyola University in Chicago. “That’s just the frame around how they see the world. It’s on the news, it’s online, it’s on your Xbox — I mean, just look at Call of Duty, where they are fighting the Muslims in Iraq and Afghanistan. It’s just in the air.”
And yet, what could Mariyam, or Hamzah, or any other disaffected Muslim teenager do about it? There were thousands just like them on Twitter and Facebook, a whole universe of kids who debated the hadiths, and talked about anime, and agonized over the latest atrocity in Syria, and also shared pictures of lions, or dinosaurs, or baby tigers, or their baby sisters. They came from the same drab sort of wastelands as Bolingbrook: from Perth, and Cardiff, and Manchester, and Portsmouth, and the immigrant ghettos of London, as well as those in cities like Paris, Berlin, Brussels, Minneapolis, Denver — and many of them were born in these cities, too. And yet they never felt fully American, or British, or Australian, or French (even though they were), but they also didn’t feel totally “Muslim” either, or at least not like the lions and lionesses of Islam they thought they should be.
“Brothers and sisters, the pain is real,” one supposed witness to Syrian bloodshed wrote on his widely read blog, issuing a siren call to all the akhis and ukhtis, or brothers and sisters, in the dar al-kufr, or land of disbelief, who yearned to be in the dar al-Islam, or land of Islam — wherever that was. “News of atrocities no longer reach us by the week or by the day. Instead, we hear of new massacres, transgressions and oppression against our brothers and sisters in faith, every couple of hours of every day. If you are tired of and cannot bear seeing, reading, hearing of and witnessing those atrocities anymore, then, undeniably, the time has come for you to act.”
An unprecedented number of young Muslims heeded the call. “I swear by the one who holds my soul in his hands, I will not give this up even if the entire world turns against me,” Mariyam wrote, with all the passion her 17-year-old heart could muster.
Mariyam Khan spent most of every day alone, “thinking,” she wrote on her Ask.fm page. While perusing Islamic forums, she discovered Kalamullah.com, a British-based Islamic website that aggregates a wide range of Islamic material. Those looking to read or listen to the speeches of American-born cleric Anwar al-Awlaki can do so there, but Kalamullah also posts information from various human rights groups, and, perhaps of particular resonance for Mariyam, a link to daily video updates from Syria.
By 2013, Mariyam had become immersed in the crisis in Syria, or Shaam, as she now called it, which is also what the Islamic State called the territory — encompassing large swaths of Syria and Iraq — that it would later dub the caliphate. Taking the cause as her own, she joined in a hashtag campaign for a Muslim prisoner and retweeted photos of victims of violence in the Middle East. She was influenced by Islamic forums that promoted a stridently anti-Western view — all non-Muslims were “kuffars,” all Shias “apostates,” and all mainstream imams, Islamic scholars and virtually any Muslims who “watered down their religion” were “coconuts”: brown on the outside, but white at the heart.
Though ISIS promoted a hitherto unknown pageant of cinematic brutality to the world, believers like Hamzah and Mariyam were hearing a different message. By declaring the “caliphate,” ISIS leader Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi was fulfilling a dream cherished by generations of Muslims and Islamic leaders, including Osama bin Laden, who saw it as a long-term goal, albeit one that might take generations to realize. In his first video appearance as self-annointed caliph, Baghdadi issued a direct call to not just fighters, but also doctors, judges, engineers and experts in Islamic law to help build the new “Islamic State,” where all Muslims were now obligated to go. This is a vastly different message from what previous iterations of jihadis have promoted, noted Loretta Napoleani, author of a new book on ISIS, The Islamist Phoenix. “In the old days, Al Qaeda was sending a negative message, which was ‘Come be suicide bombers and live in paradise with 72 virgins,’ ” Napoleani said at a recent talk in New York. “This time, the message is ‘Come and help us build a new state, your state . . . a Sunni political utopia . . . that will protect every single Muslim. . . .’ This is a very, very seductive message, and it’s also a positive message.”
All of the Khan kids were active on social media, but for Mariyam, it was more than just an outlet — it was her voice. Mariyam’s life was full of rules, but online she could be anyone she wanted to be: a good Muslim girl, an advocate for the oppressed, even, in a way, an honorary boy who, veiled in the anonymity of the Internet, was free to engage with a bubbling new subculture of people, mostly young men, who she’d never have been able to look at, let alone speak to, in real life.
She found them on Twitter, sometimes identified by the black jihadist flag they used as their avatar and their noms de guerre that began with “Abu,” for men, and “Umm,” for women, occasionally with their nationality tacked to the end of their names: al-Amriki, for Americans; al-Britani, for the Brits. As Mariyam observed, and later took part in, they engaged in lengthy conversations with their followers, debating the value of various jihadist groups, promoting the latest ISIS video or heroic nasheed, and, if you were lucky, the most influential of this group, who served as unofficial recruiters, might send you their personal Kik or Surespot handles so you could continue the conversation more securely.
Getting to that point required that one show loyalty to the cause, which Mariyam did, tweeting her love for videos like “Saleel al-Sawarim IV” [“The Clanging of the Swords IV”], which heralded ISIS’s operations in Iraq and featured scenes of foreign fighters burning their passports, as well as executions and a beheading. During her brother’s detention hearing, federal prosecutors noted Mariyam’s “twisted delight” at the ending of “Saleel al-Sawarim,” which she tweeted about with emoticons of a heart and a smiley face.
To converse with ISIS jihadis, Mariyam also had to understand their language. According to the University of Wisconsin-Madison’s Dr. Amanda Rogers, who studies ISIS propaganda, the English-speaking ISIS network has its own vernacular of Arabic buzzwords that followers use, interspersed with Western terms, as a sort of in-group code. Those who made it to Syria were “on the haqq,” or living the truth. They might also be “on the deen,” a term, referencing a person’s faith, that meant embracing it fully, with body and soul, as Muslims did during the days of the Prophet. To travel to Syria was to make hijra, or migration, referring to the original journey of Muhammad and his followers to Medina and inextricably tied to the idea of persecution; indeed, one of the conditions that makes hijra mandatory for Muslims is oppression by the country or system under which they live. Hence, a decision to make hijra and join the other emigrants, or muhajireen, was not just a decision: It was a sacred and liberating duty. Shaam (or Sham, as it’s often written) referred to greater Syria, but also to so much more: It was not just a place, Mariyam learned, it was the place, and only the very best people — the true muhajireen — would gather in Shaam.
The most famous of the Western, English-speaking jihadis, and a rock star to homebound girls like Mariyam, was Abu Abdulrahman al-Britani, otherwise known as Ifthekar Jaman, a British 22-year-old of Bengali descent who migrated to Syria in 2013 from his home in working-class Portsmouth. Jaman was the first of a group of young men that dubbed themselves the Bangladeshi Bad Boys Brigade who decided to make hijra, and he was also the first one of them to die. But before he did, indeed before he’d even left England, he amassed a fairly large Twitter following, putting out what often seemed like an endless stream of photos and videos of himself answering questions about Islam and applying black kohl around his eyes, which made him look like Aladdin. He grew his beard long, in the manner of Osama bin Laden, who, he once said, struck him as “a really nice guy.” In his most famous video, he offered a 90-minute tutorial, full of digressions onto virtually every subject, on how to tie a turban.