The Terrorist's Son Quotes

I’m convinced that empathy is more powerful than hate and that our lives should be dedicated to making it go viral.

Joanna had finally identified the terrorist who had kidnapped her son.

I tell my story as well to let the Israeli people know that there is hope. If I, the son of a terrorist organization dedicated to the extinction of Israel, can reach a point where I not only learned to love the Jewish people but risked my life for them, there is a light of hope.

People try nonviolence for a week, and when it ‘doesn’t work,’ they go back to violence, which hasn’t worked for centuries.

I put people before gods. I respect believers of all kinds and work to promote interfaith dialogue, but my whole life I've seen religion used as a weapon, and I'm putting all weapons down.

There's a reason that murderous hatred has to be taught- and not just taught, but forcibly implanted. It's not a naturally-occurring phenomenon. It is a lie. It is a lie told over and over again- often to people who have no resources and who are denied alternative views of the world. It's a lie my father believed, and one he hoped to pass on to me.

A man is but a product of his thoughts. What he thinks, he becomes. —Gandhi

Everyone has a choice. Even if you’re trained to hate, you can choose tolerance. You can choose empathy.

Ahmed is not a murderer like my father, but within the walls of our apartment—among people he claims to love—he is every inch a terrorist.

looking down at the two beautiful guys and their sleeping forms. A serial killer on one side, and the son of a terrorist on the other. Man, my parents would be proud.

No one's ever sat me down and taught me what empathy is or why it matters more than power or patriotism or religious faith. But I learn it right there in the hallway: I cannot do what's been done to me.

...turning someone into a bigot is the first step in turning him into a terrorist. You find someone vulnerable - someone who's lost his confidence, his income, his pride, his agency. Someone who feels humiliated by life. And then you isolate him. You fill him with fear and fury, and you see to it that he regards anybody who's different as a faceless target - a silhouette at a shooting range like Calverton - rather than a human being. But even people who`ve been raised on hate since birth, people whose minds have been warped and weaponized, can make a choice about who they want to be. And they can be extraordinary advocates for peace, precisely because they`ve seen the effects of violence, discrimination and disenfranchisement firsthand. People who have been victimized can understand more deeply than anyone how little the world needs more victims.

If you see a poor man come into your majlis, try to speak to him before you speak to the other people,” the king told his son. “Never make a decision on the spot. Say you will give your decision later. Never sign a paper sending someone to prison unless you are 100 percent convinced. And once you’ve signed, don’t change your mind. Be solid. You will find that people try to test you.” Fahd was delivering his basic course in local leadership—Saudi Governance 101. “If you don’t know anything about a subject, be quiet until you do. Recruit some older people who can give you advice. And if a citizen comes with a case against the government, take the citizen’s side to start with and give the officials a hard time the government will have no shortage of people to speak for them.

No one has expressed what is needed better than Abdel Rahman al-Rashed, the general manager of the London-based al-Arabiya news channel. One of the best-known and most respected Arab journalists working today, he wrote the following, in Al-Sharq Al-Awsat (September 6, 2004), after a series of violent incidents involving Muslim extremist groups from Chechnya to Saudi Arabia to Iraq: "Self-cure starts with self-realization and confession. We should then run after our terrorist sons, in the full knowledge that they are the sour grapes of a deformed culture... The mosque used to be a haven, and the voice of religion used to be that of peace and reconciliation. Religious sermons were warm behests for a moral order and an ethical life. Then came the neo-Muslims. An innocent and benevolent religion, whose verses prohibit the felling of trees in the absence of urgent necessity, that calls murder the most heinous of crimes, that says explicitly that if you kill one person you have killed humanity as a whole, has been turned into a global message of hate and a universal war cry... We cannot clear our names unless we own up to the shameful fact that terrorism has become an Islamic enterprise; an almost exclusive monopoly, implemented by Muslim men and women. We cannot redeem our extremist youth, who commit all these heinous crimes, without confronting the Sheikhs who thought it ennobling to reinvent themselves as revolutionary ideologues, sending other people's sons and daughters to certain death, while sending their own children to European and American schools and colleges.

Three years before the terrible events of September 11, 2001, a former lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Air Force, Robert Bowman, who had flown 101 combat missions in Vietnam, and then had become a Catholic bishop, commented on the terrorist bombings of the U.S. embassies in Kenya and Tanzania. In an article in the National Catholic Reporter he wrote about the roots of terrorism: We are not hated because we practice democracy, value freedom, or uphold human rights. We are hated because our government denies these things to people in Third World countries whose resources are coveted by our multinational corporations. That hatred we have sown has come back to haunt us in the form of terrorism. . . . Instead of sending our sons and daughters around the world to kill Arabs so we can have the oil under their sand, we should send them to rebuild their infrastructure, supply clean water, and feed starving children. . . . In short, we should do good instead of evil. Who would try to stop us? Who would hate us? Who would want to bomb us? That is the truth the American people need to hear.

Aiden what have you told this poor child? And let go of her arm, you'll pull it out of the socket like that." The woman admonished. Aiden immediately released her arm. Meryn eyed the woman with new respect, if she had Aiden hopping to, then maybe she could help her get out of here. "She is a menace! She gave Colton a bloody lip, threw a lamp at me, knocked me unconscious with the back of my toilet, kicked me in the back of the head... twice and dented the roof of my trunk!" Meryn noticed that he roared the last grievance, trust a man to be more worried about his car than his possible concussion. "And how did she dent the roof of your trunk?" Meryn heard the edge to the woman's voice and answered quickly hoping to garner sympathy for her situation. "He threw me in the trunk of his car. I was kicking it from the inside trying to escape." She sniffed dramatically and glared at Aiden. She noticed that he had suddenly paled. "Oh, son." The handsome older man covered his face with his hand and the woman stared at them in shock. "You locked her in the trunk?!" "She was kicking me." Aiden protested. "She is human and half your size!" "You don't understand, she is a terrorist!

Turning someone into a bigot is the first step in turning him into a terrorist.

Sons of Ares ARES    Terrorist Leader, color unknown DANCER    Ares’ lieutenant, a Red HARMONY    Dancer’s lieutenant, a Red MICKEY    Carver, a Violet EVEY    former slave of Mickey, a Pink

on December 7, 2001, Osama announced that he was leaving. “He deserted us,” remembers Al-Hubayshi bitterly. “After five weeks his people came round telling us to make our way to Pakistan as best we could and surrender to our embassies there. We had been ready to lay down our lives for him, and he couldn’t make the effort to speak to us personally. Today I think that I was made use of by Bin Laden—exploited, just like all the young kids who went to jihad. What did he care when he sent us over the horizon to die? He was as bad as the religious sheikhs back in Saudi who preached jihad in their sermons every Friday. How many of them ever sent their own sons to Afghanistan?

Sitting up, I climbed over Rory's body and gently stepped out of bed, looking down at the two beautiful guys and their sleeping forms. A serial killer on one side, and the son of a terrorist on the other. Man, my parents would be proud.

What happened? Stan repeats. To us? To the country? What happened when childhood ends in Dealey Plaza, in Memphis, in the kitchen of the Ambassador, your belief your hope your trust lying in a pool of blood again? Fifty-five thousand of your brothers dead in Vietnam, a million Vietnamese, photos of naked napalmed children running down a dirt road, Kent State, Soviet tanks roll into Prague so you turn on drop out you know you can't reinvent the country but maybe you reimagine yourself you believe you really believe that you can that you can create a world of your own and then you lower that expectation to just a piece of ground to make a stand on but then you learn that piece of ground costs money that you don't have. What happened? Altamont, Charlie Manson, Sharon Tate, Son of Sam, Mark Chapman we saw a dream turn into a nightmare we saw love and peace turn into endless war and violence our idealism into realism our realism into cynicism our cynicism into apathy our apathy into selfishness our selfishness into greed and then greed was good and we Had babies, Ben, we had you and we had hopes but we also had fears we created nests that became bunkers we made our houses baby-safe and we bought car seats and organic apple juice and hired multilingual nannies and paid tuition to private schools out of love but also out of fear. What happened? You start by trying to create a new world and then you find yourself just wanting to add a bottle to your cellar, a few extra feet to the sunroom, you see yourself aging and wonder if you've put enough away for that and suddenly you realize that you're frightened of the years ahead of you what Happened? Watergate Irangate Contragate scandals and corruption all around you and you never think you'll become corrupt but time corrupts you, corrupts as surely as gravity and erosion, wears you down wears you out I think, son, that the country was like that, just tired, just worn out by assassinations, wars, scandals, by Ronald Reagan, Bush the First selling cocaine to fund terrorists, a war to protect cheap gas, Bill Clinton and realpolitik and jism on dresses while insane fanatics plotted and Bush the Second and his handlers, a frat boy run by evil old men and then you turn on the TV one morning and those towers are coming down and the war has come home what Happened? Afghanistan and Iraq the sheer madness the killing the bombing the missiles the death you are back in Vietnam again and I could blame it all on that but at the end of the day at the end of the day we are responsible for ourselves. We got tired, we got old we gave up our dreams we taught ourselves to scorn ourselves to despise our youthful idealism we sold ourselves cheap we aren't Who we wanted to be.

We may, in our darker thoughts, care little about whether a suspected terrorist is extradited to a state where he might be executed, or tortured, or might not receive a fair trial; but a legal system which permits this for a suspected terrorist would have to allow it for your partner, or friend, or teenage son whose computer whizz-kiddery lands him in hot water with the security services of a foreign power. Tearing down the edifice of human rights, as we are urged is in our interests, simply because it occasionally results in a benefit to people we don’t like, is the politics of the kindergarten.

Jesus Christ is not a cosmic errand boy. I mean no disrespect or irreverence in so saying, but I do intend to convey the idea that while he loves us deeply and dearly, Christ the Lord is not perched on the edge of heaven, anxiously anticipating our next wish. When we speak of God being good to us, we generally mean that he is kind to us. In the words of the inimitable C. S. Lewis, "What would really satisfy us would be a god who said of anything we happened to like doing, 'What does it matter so long as they are contented?' We want, in fact, not so much a father in heaven as a grandfather in heaven--a senile benevolence who as they say, 'liked to see young people enjoying themselves,' and whose plan for the universe was simply that it might be truly said at the end of each day, 'a good time was had by all.'" You know and I know that our Lord is much, much more than that. One writer observed: "When we so emphasize Christ's benefits that he becomes nothing more than what his significance is 'for me' we are in danger. . . . Evangelism that says 'come on, it's good for you'; discipleship that concentrates on the benefits package; sermons that 'use' Jesus as the means to a better life or marriage or job or attitude--these all turn Jesus into an expression of that nice god who always meets my spiritual needs. And this is why I am increasingly hesitant to speak of Jesus as my personal Lord and Savior. As Ken Woodward put it in a 1994 essay, 'Now I think we all need to be converted--over and over again, but having a personal Savior has always struck me as, well, elitist, like having a personal tailor. I'm satisfied to have the same Lord and Savior as everyone else.' Jesus is not a personal Savior who only seeks to meet my needs. He is the risen, crucified Lord of all creation who seeks to guide me back into the truth." . . . His infinity does not preclude either his immediacy or his intimacy. One man stated that "I want neither a terrorist spirituality that keeps me in a perpetual state of fright about being in right relationship with my heavenly Father nor a sappy spirituality that portrays God as such a benign teddy bear that there is no aberrant behavior or desire of mine that he will not condone." . . . Christ is not "my buddy." There is a natural tendency, and it is a dangerous one, to seek to bring Jesus down to our level in an effort to draw closer to him. This is a problem among people both in and outside the LDS faith. Of course we should seek with all our hearts to draw near to him. Of course we should strive to set aside all barriers that would prevent us from closer fellowship with him. And of course we should pray and labor and serve in an effort to close the gap between what we are and what we should be. But drawing close to the Lord is serious business; we nudge our way into intimacy at the peril of our souls. . . . Another gospel irony is that the way to get close to the Lord is not by attempting in any way to shrink the distance between us, to emphasize more of his humanity than his divinity, or to speak to him or of him in casual, colloquial language. . . . Those who have come to know the Lord best--the prophets or covenant spokesmen--are also those who speak of him in reverent tones, who, like Isaiah, find themselves crying out, "Woe is me! for I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips: for mine eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts" (Isaiah 6:5). Coming into the presence of the Almighty is no light thing; we feel to respond soberly to God's command to Moses: "Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground" (Exodus 3:5). Elder Bruce R. McConkie explained, "Those who truly love the Lord and who worship the Father in the name of the Son by the power of the Spirit, according to the approved patterns, maintain a reverential barrier between themselves and all the members of the Godhead.

He could have told George a writer creates a character as a way to reveal consciousness, increase the flow of meaning. This is how we reply to power and beat back our fear. By extending the pitch of consciousness and human possibility. This poet you've snatched. His detention drains the world of one more thimble of meaning. He should have said these things to that son of a bitch, although actually he liked George, but he'd never considered the matter in quite this way before and George would have said that terrorists do not have power and anyway Bill knew he'd forget the whole thing before much time went by.

The face that Moses had begged to see – was forbidden to see – was slapped bloody (Exodus 33:19-20) The thorns that God had sent to curse the earth’s rebellion now twisted around his brow… “On your back with you!” One raises a mallet to sink the spike. But the soldier’s heart must continue pumping as he readies the prisoner’s wrist. Someone must sustain the soldier’s life minute by minute, for no man has this power on his own. Who supplies breath to his lungs? Who gives energy to his cells? Who holds his molecules together? Only by the Son do “all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17). The victim wills that the soldier live on – he grants the warrior’s continued existence. The man swings. As the man swings, the Son recalls how he and the Father first designed the medial nerve of the human forearm – the sensations it would be capable of. The design proves flawless – the nerves perform exquisitely. “Up you go!” They lift the cross. God is on display in his underwear and can scarcely breathe. But these pains are a mere warm-up to his other and growing dread. He begins to feel a foreign sensation. Somewhere during this day an unearthly foul odor began to waft, not around his nose, but his heart. He feels dirty. Human wickedness starts to crawl upon his spotless being – the living excrement from our souls. The apple of his Father’s eye turns brown with rot. His Father! He must face his Father like this! From heaven the Father now rouses himself like a lion disturbed, shakes His mane, and roars against the shriveling remnant of a man hanging on a cross.Never has the Son seen the Father look at him so, never felt even the least of his hot breath. But the roar shakes the unseen world and darkens the visible sky. The Son does not recognize these eyes. “Son of Man! Why have you behaved so? You have cheated, lusted, stolen, gossiped – murdered, envied, hated, lied. You have cursed, robbed, over-spent, overeaten – fornicated, disobeyed, embezzled, and blasphemed. Oh the duties you have shirked, the children you have abandoned! Who has ever so ignored the poor, so played the coward, so belittled my name? Have you ever held a razor tongue? What a self-righteous, pitiful drunk – you, who moles young boys, peddle killer drugs, travel in cliques, and mock your parents. Who gave you the boldness to rig elections, foment revolutions, torture animals, and worship demons? Does the list never end! Splitting families, raping virgins, acting smugly, playing the pimp – buying politicians, practicing exhortation, filming pornography, accepting bribes. You have burned down buildings, perfected terrorist tactics, founded false religions, traded in slaves – relishing each morsel and bragging about it all. I hate, loathe these things in you! Disgust for everything about you consumes me! Can you not feel my wrath? Of course the Son is innocent He is blamelessness itself. The Father knows this. But the divine pair have an agreement, and the unthinkable must now take place. Jesus will be treated as if personally responsible for every sin ever committed. The Father watches as his heart’s treasure, the mirror image of himself, sinks drowning into raw, liquid sin. Jehovah’s stored rage against humankind from every century explodes in a single direction. “Father! Father! Why have you forsaken me?!” But heaven stops its ears. The Son stares up at the One who cannot, who will not, reach down or reply. The Trinity had planned it. The Son had endured it. The Spirit enabled Him. The Father rejected the Son whom He loved. Jesus, the God-man from Nazareth, perished. The Father accepted His sacrifice for sin and was satisfied. The Rescue was accomplished.

One other thing this skinny Arab knew: the power of hating the Jew. He could quote from the Holy Book chapter and verse the perfidy of Jews. He could show the dagger of Israel stuck in the soul of Jerusalem where Prophet Muhammad ascended to Heaven. And this son of Islam’s most holy places could wrap it all up in a tidy little conspiracy, the Jews in New York controlling America, the Great Satan, launching their crusades against Muslims everywhere. See, we Muslims are nursed on the mother’s milk of conspiracies. And unless you have a conspiracy to explain everything in one neat package, we simply won’t believe you.

He threw me in the trunk of his car. I was kicking it from the inside trying to escape." She sniffed dramatically and glared at Aiden. She noticed that he had suddenly paled.  "Oh, son." The handsome older man covered his face with his hand and the woman stared at them in shock. "You locked her in the trunk?" "She was kicking me," Aiden protested. "She is human and half your size!" "You don't understand--she is a terrorist!

Another site of Leftist struggle [other than Detroit] that has parallels to New Orleans: Palestine. From the central role of displacement to the ways in which culture and community serve as tools of resistance, there are illuminating comparisons to be made between these two otherwise very different places. In the New Orleans Black community, death is commemorated as a public ritual (it's often an occasion for a street party), and the deceased are often also memorialized on t-shirts featuring their photos embellished with designs that celebrate their lives. Worn by most of the deceased's friends and family, these t-shirts remind me of the martyr posters in Palestine, which also feature a photo and design to memorialize the person who has passed on. In Palestine, the poster's subjects are anyone who has been killed by the occupation, whether a sick child who died at a checkpoint or an armed fighter killed in combat. In New Orleans, anyone with family and friends can be memorialized on a t-shift. But a sad truth of life in poor communities is that too many of those celebrate on t-shirts lost their lives to violence. For both New Orleans and Palestine, outsiders often think that people have become so accustomed to death by violence that it has become trivialized by t-shirts and posters. While it's true that these traditions wouldn't manifest in these particular ways if either population had more opportunities for long lives and death from natural causes, it's also far from trivial to find ways to celebrate a life. Outsiders tend to demonize those killed--especially the young men--in both cultures as thugs, killers, or terrorists whose lives shouldn't be memorialized in this way, or at all. But the people carrying on these traditions emphasize that every person is a son or daughter of someone, and every death should be mourned, every life celebrated.

Israeli intelligence, on the other hand, relied mostly on human resources—had countless spies in mosques, Islamic organizations, and leadership roles; and had no problem recruiting even the most dangerous terrorists. They knew they had to have eyes and ears on the inside, along with minds that understood motives and emotions and could connect the dots. America understood neither Islamic culture nor its ideology. That, combined with open borders and lax security made it a much softer target than Israel.

Many people in the West who stereotype all Muslims as terrorists don’t know about the side of Islam that reflects love and mercy. It cares for the poor, widows, and orphans. It facilitates education and welfare. It unites and strengthens. This is the side of Islam that motivated those early leaders of the Muslim Brotherhood. Of course, there is also the other side, the one that calls all Muslims to jihad, to struggle and contend with the world until they establish a global caliphate, led by one holy man who rules and speaks for Allah.

for example, the post-9/11 notion that we now need to sacrifice some of our deeply held beliefs in individual liberty and privacy in the name of collective security against terrorism. It is not reaching too far to compare our current fear of terrorists with our past fear of witches. For example, the chance of an American being killed by a terrorist is an extraordinarily unlikely 1 in 20 million, compared to being killed in a car accident (1 in 19 thousand), drowning in their own bathtub (1 in 800 thousand), or being struck by lightning (1 in 1.5 million), yet society is in an acute state of anxiety over the terrorist “threat.”26 It’s not about logic but perception.

One day over lunch in 1958, a law clerk asked out of the blue, “Mr. Justice, why did you join the Klan?” A painfully awkward silence fell over the lunch table. Clerks rarely ask justices personal questions. They never ask embarrassing personal questions. According to one of the other clerks there, “It was eerie. We just stared straight ahead. Those few seconds seemed like hours.”46 Then Hugo Black broke the silence. Laughing at his membership in, and reliance on, a terrorist organization responsible for the torture and murder of countless Americans, Black smiled. “Why, son,” he said, “if you wanted to be elected to the Senate in Alabama in the 1920s, you’d join the Klan too.

A truce between Israel and Palestine? Imagine walking into a doctor’s office. You sit down, pick up a magazine, and begin to read. A few minutes later, a man walks in, the man who killed your wife, the man whose son you murdered. He sits down, picks up a magazine, and begins to read. A two-state solution to the problem between Israel and Palestine? Imagine walking into a doctor’s office. You sit down, pick up a magazine, and begin to read. Next door, a man walks into the restaurant, the man who killed your wife, the man whose son you murdered. He sits down at a table, orders a meal, and begins to eat. In either case, there is an intolerable tension that has resisted resolution by diplomacy, combat, sanctions, or segregation. Forgiveness is the only reasonable solution.

years: You. Your spouse. Your child. Your friends. The people who love you. The people who hate you. Terrorists in the Middle East. The politicians raising your taxes and making bad policies. The teacher who gave your son a bad grade. The couple who didn’t invite you to a dinner. I have gone down this mental path when things have upset me. I find it puts life in perspective. It can be a good thing, to remember that there is very little that truly matters. A bad grade. A dumb politician. A social slight. Unfortunately, there are things that do matter. Things that can ruin what little time we have here. Things that cannot be done over or remedied. These are the things that we regret. And regret is more devious than guilt. It is more corrosive than envy. And it is more powerful than fear.

Robert Bowman, who had flown 101 combat missions in Vietnam, and then had become a Catholic bishop, commented on the terrorist bombings of the U.S. embassies in Kenya and Tanzania. In an article in the National Catholic Reporter he wrote about the roots of terrorism: We are not hated because we practice democracy, value freedom, or uphold human rights. We are hated because our government denies these things to people in Third World countries whose resources are coveted by our multinational corporations. That hatred we have sown has come back to haunt us in the form of terrorism. . . . Instead of sending our sons and daughters around the world to kill Arabs so we can have the oil under their sand we should send them to rebuild their infrastructure, supply clean water, and feed starving children. In short, we should do good instead of evil. Who would try to stop us? Who would hate us? Who would want to bomb us? That is the truth the American people need to hear.

La pression des nationaux-socialistes commençait peu à peu à délabrer les nerfs des milieux cléricaux et bourgeois ; ils sentaient de plus en plus l’insistance subversive de l’impatiente Allemagne, qui leur serrait aussi la vis dans le domaine de l’économie. Le gouvernement Dollfuss, qui voulait conserver une Autriche indépendante et la préserver de Hitler, cherchait de plus en plus désespérément un dernier appui. La France et l’Angleterre étaient trop éloignées et au fond trop indifférentes, la Tchécoslovaquie était encore pleine de sa vieille rancune et de sa rivalité à l’égard de Vienne, si bien qu’il ne restait que l’Italie, qui s’efforçait alors d’étendre sur l’Autriche son protectorat économique et politique, afin de s’assurer les passages des Alpes et Trieste. Pour cette protection, Mussolini réclamait toutefois un très haut prix. L’Autriche devait s’adapter aux tendances fascistes, le Parlement, et par là même la démocratie devaient être liquidés. Cela n’était possible que si l’on écartait ou privait de ses droits le parti social-démocrate, le plus fort et le mieux organisé d’Autriche. Pour le briser, il n’y avait point d’autre moyen que la force brutale. En vue de cette action terroriste, le prédécesseur de Dollfuss, Ignaz Seipel, avait déjà créé une organisation, la Heimwehr69. Vue du dehors, elle offrait à peu près la plus pitoyable des apparences, elle était formée de petits avocats de province, d’officiers licenciés, d’ingénieurs sans travail, de toutes les médiocrités déçues, qui se haïssaient furieusement

told my people that I wanted only the best, whatever it took, wherever they came from, whatever it cost. We assembled thirty people, the brightest cybersecurity minds we have. A few are on loan, pursuant to strict confidentiality agreements, from the private sector—software companies, telecommunications giants, cybersecurity firms, military contractors. Two are former hackers themselves, one of them currently serving a thirteen-year sentence in a federal penitentiary. Most are from various agencies of the federal government—Homeland Security, CIA, FBI, NSA. Half our team is devoted to threat mitigation—how to limit the damage to our systems and infrastructure after the virus hits. But right now, I’m concerned with the other half, the threat-response team that Devin and Casey are running. They’re devoted to stopping the virus, something they’ve been unable to do for the last two weeks. “Good morning, Mr. President,” says Devin Wittmer. He comes from NSA. After graduating from Berkeley, he started designing cyberdefense software for clients like Apple before the NSA recruited him away. He has developed federal cybersecurity assessment tools to help industries and governments understand their preparedness against cyberattacks. When the major health-care systems in France were hit with a ransomware virus three years ago, we lent them Devin, who was able to locate and disable it. Nobody in America, I’ve been assured, is better at finding holes in cyberdefense systems or at plugging them. “Mr. President,” says Casey Alvarez. Casey is the daughter of Mexican immigrants who settled in Arizona to start a family and built up a fleet of grocery stores in the Southwest along the way. Casey showed no interest in the business, taking quickly to computers and wanting to join law enforcement. When she was a grad student at Penn, she got turned down for a position at the Department of Justice. So Casey got on her computer and managed to do what state and federal authorities had been unable to do for years—she hacked into an underground child-pornography website and disclosed the identities of all the website’s patrons, basically gift-wrapping a federal prosecution for Justice and shutting down an operation that was believed to be the largest purveyor of kiddie porn in the country. DOJ hired her on the spot, and she stayed there until she went to work for the CIA. She’s been most recently deployed in the Middle East with US Central Command, where she intercepts, decodes, and disrupts cybercommunications among terrorist groups. I’ve been assured that these two are, by far, the best we have. And they are about to meet the person who, so far, has been better. There is a hint of reverence in their expressions as I introduce them to Augie. The Sons of Jihad is the all-star team of cyberterrorists, mythical figures in that world. But I sense some competitive fire, too, which will be a good thing.

opération. Et nous ne voulons pas de casse, ni chez vos hommes, ni pour nous, d’autant que Tel Aviv niera son implication si ça tourne mal. Mais, il y a moins de cinq ans, j’ai moi-même égorgé un responsable du Esbollah qui faisait partie de la liste de l’opération Colère de Dieu. Au passage, j’ai tué quatre de ses gardes du corps à l’arme blanche. Je vous rappelle, que nous sommes sous mandat direct de la Knesset, et qu’il s’agit justement d’une prolongation de Colère de Dieu. Les ordres donnés aux terroristes arabes à Munich en 72 l’ont été depuis ici. Donc, je viens. Je suis garante des compétences d’Eve, quant au jeune blanc bec derrière vous, Ezra, c’est notre meilleur homme de terrain. - Il nous faut une personne en support logistique, quoiqu’il arrive, conclut le militaire vexé. Donc, démerdez-vous comme vous voulez, à la courte paille si ça vous amuse. Mais, j’en emmène deux sur les trois. Pas les trois. - Au fait, ça vous sera probablement utile dit Eve, en tendant les plans et compte-rendu de Menouha. C’est assez parcellaire comme informations, mais, elle a quand même fait un bon boulot. 29 Août 1990 – Rio de Janeiro – Brésil Sarah préparait Thomas dans la salle de bain. - Il est où papa ? - Il est parti jouer au golf avec le monsieur qui nous a aidés à guérir ta sœur. - Il rentre quand ? - Ce soir. Nous, on va aller à la plage avec Chloé. Le petit garçon échappa aux mains de sa mère qui venait de lui enfiler son t-shirt et courut dans le salon. - Isabella, tu viens avec nous à la plage ? - Je ne sais pas mon grand, répondit la jeune infirmière. Maman veut peut-être rester seule avec ses deux bambins. - Non. Isabella, vous pouvez venir avec nous. Cela fera plaisir aux enfants, répondit Sarah depuis la salle de bain. Le temps était magnifique. Thomas courait devant, son ballon à la main, dans le sable blanc de la plage d’Ipanema. Sarah et Isabella portèrent Chloé qui arrivait maintenant à marcher sur des sols durs, mais pas encore dans le sable. Les deux jeunes femmes s’installèrent non loin de l’eau dans une zone surveillée par un maitre-nageur. Thomas s’était arrêté devant un petit groupe de brésiliens à peine plus vieux que lui qui jouait au football sur un terrain improvisé. Il aurait voulu jouer avec eux mais, il n’osait pas demander. Isabella s’approcha des enfants et en quelques mots leur fit comprendre qu’avec un joueur de plus, ils seraient en nombre pair, ce qui rendrait leur partie intéressante. - Mais, non… chuchota Thomas à l’oreille de la jeune infirmière. Regarde comme ils jouent bien. Ils vont se moquer de moi. - Je suis certaine que non. Et, puis, si c’est le cas et que ça ne te convient pas, tu auras toujours la possibilité de revenir nous voir sous le parasol. Mais, si tu n’essaies pas, si tu ne te confrontes pas à eux, tu ne sauras jamais s’ils étaient vraiment meilleurs que toi, s’il s’agit d’enfants moqueurs ou de futurs copains. Tu comprends petit Thomas. Il faut tenter. Prendre des risques, sinon, on n’apprend rien. Allez, va. Ils t’attendent...

Tous les soirs, le président reçoit une longue note confidentielle qui dit les drames, les dangers et les dérives de la société française. On ne ressort pas indemne d’une telle lecture… Le poids de la responsabilité vous tombe dessus. "Vous avez le singe sur l’épaule", dit Emmanuel Macron. Il est au cœur de ce mistigri tragique, il subit la mort, il peut la donner. La nuit tombe deux fois. Il est tard, généralement, quand le chef de l’État se plonge dans un amas de notes, des dizaines de pages qui disent tout de la noirceur humaine. Ici, des attentats sont déjoués, y compris en 2019 à deux pas de l’Élysée, opération fomentée par des terroristes en herbe – l’un des auteurs putatifs est âgé de dix-sept ans. Là, des Tchétchènes, accompagnés d’un imam, règlent leurs comptes dès que leur commerce est menacé. Précisons qu’il s’agit de drogue. La Côte d’Azur accueille de nouveaux touristes : après la mafia russe, les Nigérians goûtent la baie des Anges. Le crime est global, le crime est local, les faits divers sordides. Une grand-mère violée par des migrants, ça frappe… Les informations viennent de la Direction générale de la sécurité intérieure, du service central du Renseignement territorial, de la préfecture de police de Paris, de la Division du renseignement de la gendarmerie nationale. La bureaucratie française a du bon… L’impeccable présentation de ces notes, sa régularité, sa monotonie presque, permettent de créer de la distance entre la violence et la raison qu’il faut garder à la tête de l’État. Chaque jour, le président reçoit une synthèse de documents avec un titre, un résumé logé dans un cartouche et une analyse étayée. La livraison du week-end couvre le samedi et le dimanche. Dans le bureau voisin, le secrétaire général de l’Élysée, Alexis Kohler, est destinataire d’un dossier identique. Il arrive aux deux hommes d’échanger dans la foulée, comme pour se partager un fardeau. […] "Si ces notes étaient publiées dans la presse… ", relève l’un de ceux qui les ont reçues. Comment ne pas céder à l’effet de loupe, comment garder l’âme sereine, préserver une forme de recul ? Bernard Cazeneuve, qui avait accès aux mêmes informations lorsqu’il était à Beauvau, écrit dans son livre À l’épreuve de la violence : "La question n’est plus de savoir si les éléments se déchaîneront, ou si par miracle nous serons épargnés, mais bien de deviner quand le tonnerre grondera, après que la foudre se sera abattue sur nous.

Going to Moscow was a dream for us,' Ilich said years later. He and his younger brother started the course within weeks of Soviet tanks rolling into Czechoslovakia to crush the heady 'Prague Spring'. But they soon found that discipline at the cosmopolitan university, whose 6000 students were all selected through the Communist Party of their country of origin, was as stifling as its modernist architecture. Drab grey concrete blocks squatted around a charmless artificial pond. The only dash of colour was a map of the world painted on to the façade of one block in a valiant attempt to symbolise the ideals of the university: from an open book, symbol of learning, a torch emerges, issuing multicoloured flames that spread like waves across the planisphere. Perhaps Ilich drew some comfort from glancing up at the mural as, huddled against the rigours of the Russian winter and wearing a black beret in tribute to Che Guevara who had died riddled by bullets in October of the previous year, he trudged across the bleak square on his way to lectures. Coincidentally, the base of the flame is very close to Venezuela. Rules and regulations governed virtually every aspect of Ilich's life from the moment he started the first year's induction course, which was designed to flesh out his knowledge of the Russian language and introduce him to the delights of Marxist society before he launched into his chosen subjects, languages and chemistry. Like father, like son. Ilich rebelled against the rules, preferring to spend his time chasing girls. He would often crawl back to his room drunk. His professors at the university, some of them children of Spanish Civil War veterans who had sought refuge in Moscow, were unimpressed by his academic performance. 'His name alone, Ilich Ramírez Sánchez, was so strange that people were curious about him,' relates Kirill Privalov, a journalist on the newspaper Druzhba (Friendship) which was printed at the small university press, and an acquaintance of Ilich. The Venezuelan's escapades, wildly excessive by the standards of the university, only fanned people's interest. 'llich was not at all the typical student sent by his country's Communist Party, nothing to do with the good little soldier of Mao who laboured in the fields every summer. He was a handsome young man although his cheeks looked swollen, and he was a great bon viveur. Flush with cash sent by his parents, Ilich could afford to spend lavishly on whisky and champagne in the special stores that only accepted payment in hard currencies and which were off-limits to most people. More Russian than the Russians, the privileged student and his friends would throw over their shoulders not only empty glasses but bottles as well. The university authorities, frustrated in their attempts to impose discipline on Ilich, reasoned that his freedom of action would be drastically limited if the allowance that his father sent him were reduced. But when they asked Ramírez Navas to be less generous, the father, piqued, retorted that his son had never wanted for anything. 'The university had a sort of vice squad, and at night students were supposed either to study or sleep,' recounts Privalov. "One night the patrol entered Ilich's room and saw empty bottles of alcohol and glasses on the table, but he was apparently alone. The squad opened the cupboard door and a girl who was completely drunk fell out. She was naked and was clutching her clothes in her hands. They asked her what she was doing there and she answered: 'I feel pity for the oppressed.' She was obviously a prostitute. Another time, and with another girl, Ilich didn't bother to hide her in the cupboard. He threw her out of the window. This one was fully dressed and landed in two metres of snow a foor or two below. She got up unhurt and shouted abuse at him.

I dedicate this work to Vasily Arkhipov, the deputy commander of a Soviet nuclear submarine off the Cuban shore who said no to his comrades and may have saved the world. That was on October 27, 1962, around the time my father came home from his defense job and told me at the doorstep to our house that there was “only a twenty-percent chance, son” the next day would never come. No terrorist action today remotely poses that kind of existential threat for our world, and I hope you’ll keep that in mind in reading on.

Every day. Every single day. We turn on the news, check our phones, or start our computers, and we see the horrific headlines. Tragically, they’ve become commonplace now. We expect them. Terrorists burn entire villages to the ground, with the children’s wailing heard miles away. Christian men are forced to kneel above explosives that are detonated by jihadists. Crucifixions. Beheadings. Christians are buried alive. Missionaries’ sons and daughters are slaughtered. Women are sold into sex slavery—the younger the girl, the higher the price. Radical Islamic terrorists even distribute pamphlets explaining how Islamic law does not forbid the rape of young girls. It breaks our hearts. It makes our stomachs churn. We crave justice. But the slaughter of Christians and other religious minorities and desecration of these religions’ heritages aren’t restricted to villages in the middle of nowhere. Nor has radical Islam stopped at cities in Iraq and Syria. The entire world is at war with radical Islam, whether President Barack Obama and progressives in the ivory towers of academia and the powerful halls of our federal government are willing to admit it or not. One thing is certain: radical Islam is at war with us.

West had never decided what the hell it wanted to be: avenger or liberator. It had proved to be both, and in being both had become neither. Finally, the IEDs, rogue Afghans and the indifference of a war-sickened people had driven the military to a strategy of drones and men like me. The bitter bounty of our righteous war? Dead little girls and two-day heroes with blackened minds and stumps for limbs that the politicians could jerk off about for as long as the homecoming parade lasted. Wrap yourself in a flag that meant jack shit, drop some dollars into a bucket, close your door, and thank the Lord it wasn’t your son or daughter. That was the truth, as I saw it now. Just don’t say it out loud: if there was one thing the people back home hated more than terrorists, it was some asshole holding up a mirror to them. I kept walking, past the grunts, who had seen crazier shit than this and knew

A torrent of questions and cries raced through my mind even as the blows continued to fall: Why are you doing this to me? What have I done? I am not a terrorist! I’m just a kid. Why are you beating me like this?

On August 12, 1933, President Machado fled Cuba with ABC terrorists shooting at his laden airplane as it prepared to take off from the long hot runway. He left Cuba without any continuity of leadership and a smooth transfer of authority to the next administration became impossible in Havana. American envoy, Sumner Welles stepped into the vacuum and encouraged Carlos Manuel de Céspedes y Quesada to accept the office of Provisional President of Cuba. Céspedes was a Cuban writer and politician, born in New York City, son of Carlos Manual de Céspedes del Castillo who was a hero of the Cuban War of Independence. Wearing a spotlessly clean, crisp white suit, Céspedes was installed as the Provisional President of Cuba, on what was his 62nd birthday. This expedient political move failed to prevent the violence that broke out in the streets. Mobs looted and behaved with viciousness that lasted for six long hours and created a mayhem not witnessed since Cuba’s Independence from Spain. Students from the university ransacked the previously pro-Machado newspaper “Heraldo de Cuba.” The Presidential Palace was stormed and severely damaged, with the culprits leaving a “For Rent” sign hanging on the front gate. The temperament of the mob that rallied against the Machado supporters, including the hated Porristas who had been left behind, was ferocious. They wounded over 200 hapless souls and cost 21 people their lives. Five members of the Porristas as well as Colonel Antonio Jimenez, the head of Machado’s secret police, were summarily shot to death and trampled upon. The rioters then tied the mutilated body of Jimenez to the top of a car and paraded his bullet-riddled carcass through the streets of Havana, showing it off as a trophy. When the howling throng of incensed people finally dumped him in front of the hospital, it was determined that he had been shot 40 times. Students hammered away at an imposing bronze statue of Machado, until piece by piece it was totally destroyed. Shops owned by the dictator’s friends were looted and smashed, as were the homes of Cabinet members living in the affluent suburbs.

We were told that the drugs will destroy the sons and daughters of the West, and that we must kill them. Their lives are worth less because they are not Muslims.

Our daughters, and later our son, were born in Beirut in the midst of the war, and by virtue of the fact of having parents who were politically involved (as were almost all of the 300,000 or so Palestinians in Lebanon), they were seen as terrorists by the Israeli government and some others, as were Mona and I.

Many people in the West who stereotype all Muslims as terrorists don't know about the side of Islam that reflects love and mercy. It cares for the poor, widows, and orphans. It facilitates education and welfare. It unites and strengthens.

In the weeks to follow, the Shin Bet would begin searching for lessons to be found in the rubble of what would come to be known simply as 9/11. Why had the U.S. intelligence services not been able to prevent the disaster? For one thing, they operated independently and competitively. For another, they relied mostly on technology and rarely collaborated with terrorists. Those tactics may have been fine in the Cold War, but it’s pretty tough to combat fanatical ideals with technology.

In their struggle with al-Qaeda, the Al Saud benefited from several favorable circumstances. The Saudi state was highly centralized, backed by important allies, and determined to hold on to power. A state-controlled media and consolidated education system got out the message that al-Qaeda members were criminals, not heroes. Oil prices were high and the Saudi treasury full. The war in Iraq drew militants away from Riyadh. In a very conservative society, revolution was never likely to be popular and, as we have seen, the Al Saud made some deliberate, and ultimately effective, choices. Unlike the rulers of Algeria, Egypt, Iran, Iraq, Libya, or Syria, the Saudi government did not turn the army on its own people. Torture was officially abandoned. Collective punishment of families and tribes was avoided. Less dangerous terrorists were treated more as prodigal sons than criminals. Police officers attended the weddings of released terrorists to indicate that they were still part of the community. In a deeply religious society, al-Qaeda was delegitimized in religious terms by respected theologians.

Without any qualifications whatsoever, Sonia Gandhi fancies herself as an uncrowned empress of India and has psychologically bulldozed her similarly unqualified son into believing that India’s prime ministership is his birthright. For a long time I did not believe that he would succumb to his mother’s monarchical passion. It was in November 2008, after the monstrous terrorist attack in Mumbai, that I started having doubts.

On August 12, 1933, Machado fled Cuba with ABC terrorists shooting at his airplane as it prepared to take off from the runway, leaving Cuba without any continuity of leadership. A smooth transfer of authority to the next administration became impossible in Havana. American envoy, Sumner Welles stepped into the vacuum and encouraged Carlos Manuel de Céspedes y Quesada to accept the office of Provisional President of Cuba. Céspedes was a Cuban writer and politician, born in New York City, son of Carlos Manual de Céspedes del Castillo who was a hero of the Cuban War of Independence. Wearing a spotlessly clean, crisp white suit, Céspedes was installed as the Provisional President of Cuba, on what was his 62nd birthday.

Dedicate to President of the United States, Donald J. Trump Mr. President your, poorly sourced blame that, "The United States has foolishly given Pakistan more than 33 billion dollars in aid over the last 15 years, and they have given us nothing but lies & deceit, thinking of our leaders as fools. They give safe haven to the terrorists we hunt in Afghanistan, with little help. No more!" It is the conduct of self-disregarding, and you also dishonour your former presidents' policies; whereas, the Armed Forces of Pakistan fought the war on terror, scarifying the thousand of its beloved soldiers and Generals, and the loss of civilian lives and resources of the country, for the United States. You feel sorry for 33 billion dollars in aid, which have been spent on your motives, while you are forgetting and ignoring the voluntary sacrifices of the sons of those mothers, who still deserve to have more than 50 billion dollars in reward, even though that will not bring back their beloved ones. Pakistan still suffers from the results of the war on terror. You do not realize the sacrifices of the lives, but you trigger 33 billion dollars to misguide and mislead the American people and the nations of the world. It is disgusting; your statement holds not the soberness and wisdom, except cheap blame and politically exploiting that does not match as the President of the United States. The State of Pakistan expects trust and confidence; otherwise, Pakistan does not depend on the United States. Ehsan Sehgal Chairman Muslim United Nations

Mr. President your poorly sourced blame that, "The United States has foolishly given Pakistan more than 33 billion dollars in aid over the last 15 years, and they have given us nothing but lies & deceit, thinking of our leaders as fools. They give safe haven to the terrorists we hunt in Afghanistan, with little help. No more!" It is the conduct of self-disregarding and even dishonouring your former presidents too, whereas The Armed Forces of Pakistan fought the war on terror, scarifying the thousand of its beloved soldiers and Generals, and the loss of civilian lives and resources of the country, for the United States. You feel sorry, for 33 billion dollars in aid, which have been spent on your motives, while you are forgetting and ignoring the voluntary sacrifices of the sons of those mothers, who still deserve to have more 50 billion dollars in reward, even though that will not bring back their beloved ones. Pakistan still suffers from the results of the war on terror. You do not realize the sacrifices of the lives, but you trigger 33 billion dollars to misguide and mislead the American people and the nations of the world. It is disgusting; your statement holds not the soberness and wisdom, except cheap blame, and politically exploiting that does not match as the President of the United States. The State of Pakistan expects trust and confidence; otherwise, Pakistan does not depend on the United States.

In addition to the economic reprisals, terrorist violence was directed at the Hazelwood household. Crosses were burned on the lawn of the Hazelwood residence. Nightriders drove by the Hazelwood domicile and fired into the home. Regular raids on the Hazelwood home had become so common that the family became accustomed to sleeping on the floor with their son under the bed to better avoid gunfire from nightriders. The Hazelwood family had become so accustomed to responding to gunfire that Luella Hazelwood joked that her eight-year-old son once said, “Didn’t President [John] Kennedy know you are supposed to duck when someone is shooting?

People are not born terrorists. Nor do they become terrorists in a single stroke. But step by step, like a farmer preparing a field for planting, their lives unfold in a pattern that leaves them prepared to receive the seedd of terrorism.

I sat at the kitchen table, next to their youngest son, eleven-year-old Amir, chirpy, polite and fluent in English, who was busy alternating between his maths homework and sketching the fascinations of a contemporary Iranian boy: luxury sports cars, the BMW roundel and masked gun-toting terrorists. ‘These are the speciality of Yazd,’ said Sara. For a moment I thought she was referring to her son’s artwork, but was relieved to find her presenting us with a plate of tiny decorated sweets and pastries.

It’s getting-up time,” Alessandro declares. “Today is the day.” “What day?” “The release date.” “What are we talking about?” “Daa-add. The new XBOX game. Hunting Old Sammie.” Armand opens his eyes. He looks at his son looking at him. The boy’s eyes are only inches away. “You’re kidding.” “It’s the newest best game. You hunt down terrorists and kill them.” Lifting his voice, “‘Deploy teams of Black Berets into the ancient mountains of Tora Bora. Track implacable terrorists to their cavernous lairs. Rain withering fire down on the homicidal masterminds who planned the horror of September eleven, two-thousand-and-one.’” The kid’s memory is canny. Armand lifts Alex off his chest and sits up. “Who invented it?” “I’m telling you, dad. It’s an XBOX game.” “We can get it today?” “No,” Leah says. “Absolutely not. The last thing he needs is another violent video game.” “Mahhuum!” “How bad can it be?” says Armand. “How would you know? A minute ago you hadn’t heard of it.” “And you had?” “I saw a promo. Helicopter gunships with giant machine guns. Soldiers with flamethrowers, turning bearded men into candles.” “Sounds great.” “Armand, really. How old are you?” “I don’t see what my age has to do with it.” “Dad, it’s totally cool. ‘Uncover mountain strongholds with thermal imaging technology. Call in air-strikes by F-16s. Destroy terrorist cells with laser weaponry. Wage pitched battles against mujahideen. Capture bin Laden alive or kill him on the spot. March down Fifth Avenue with jihadists’ heads on pikes. Make the world safe for democracy.’” Safe for Dick Cheney’s profits, Armand thinks, knowing all about it from his former life, but says nothing. It’s pretty much impossible to explain the complexity of how things work within the greater systemic dysfunction. Instead, he asks the one question that matters. “How much does it cost?” Alessandro’s mouth minces sideways. He holds up fingers, then realizes he needs more than two hands. Armand can see the kid doesn’t want to say. “C’mon. ’Fess up.” Alex sighs. “A one with two zeros.” “One hundred dollars.” Alex’s eyes slide away. Rapid nods, face averted. “Yeah.” “For a video game, Alex.” “Yhep.” “No way.” “Daa-add! It’s the greatest game ever!” The boy is beginning to whine. “Don’t whine,” Armand tells him. “On TV it’s awesome. The army guys are flaming a cave and when the terror guys try to escape, they shoot them.” “Neat.” “Their turbans are on fire.” “Even better.” “Armand,” Leah says. “Dad,” says Alessandro. He will not admit it but Armand is hooked. It would be deeply satisfying in the second-most intimate way imaginable to kill al Qaida terrorists holed up along the Afghanistan-Pakistan border—something the actual U.S. military cannot or will not completely do. But a hundred bucks. It isn’t really the money, although living on interest income Armand has become more frugal. He can boost the C-note but what message would it send? Hunting virtual terrorists in cyberspace is all well and good. But plunking down $100 for a toy seems irresponsible and possibly wrong in a country where tens of thousands are homeless and millions have no health insurance and children continue, incredibly, to go hungry. Fifty million Americans live in poverty and he’s looking to play games.

I asked Dancer why the Sons streamed my wife’s death to the mines. Why not instead show the lowReds the wealth of the surface? That would sow anger. “Because a rebellion now would be crushed in days,” Dancer explained. “We must take a different path. An empire cannot be destroyed from without till it is destroyed from within. Remember that. We’re empire-breakers, not terrorists.” When Dancer told me what I am to do, I laughed. I do not know if I can do it. I am a speck. A thousand cities span the face of Mars. Metal behemoths sail between the planets in fleets carrying weapons that can crack the mantle of a moon. On distant Luna, buildings rise seven miles high; there the Sovereign Consul, Octavia au Lune, rules with her Imperators and Praetors. The Ash Lord, who made the world of Rhea cinders, is her minion. She controls the twelve Olympic Knights, legions of Peerless Scarred, and Obsidians as innumerable as the stars. And those Obsidians are only the elite. The Gray soldiers prowl the cities ensuring order, ensuring obedience to the hierarchy. The Whites arbitrate their justice and push their philosophy. Pinks pleasure and serve in highColor homes. Silvers count and manipulate currency and logistics. Yellows study the medicines and sciences. Greens develop

Russia targets Chechen refugee camps. Russian troops stand alert and ready to go on the offensive. Dozens of them are building a new base at the gates of the Slipsovsk refugee camp. It is just a small part of Russia's military crackdown along the border and right across Chechnya after last week's seizing of a Moscow theatre by armed Chechens and the subsequent deaths of more than 100 of their hostages during a rescue mission. Inside the camp, the thousands of refugees whose homes have been destroyed by years of conflict are apprehensive. They expect the Russians to enter their tent city soon, carrying out mass arrests - detaining sons and husbands suspected of supporting the Moscow hostagetakers, and their demands for an independent Chechnya. In one tent, I found Suleiman Azanaurov and his family waiting for the inevitable Russian revenge. Suleiman has been in the camp for the past three years. His house, and the cafe he used to run in the Chechen capital, Grozny, were blown up during the Russian assault on the city. Aid handouts Now, home is a tent shared with his wife and six children aged between eight months and 17 years old. It is a squalid existence, reliant on handouts of aid and charity. Suleiman is angry. He dismisses accusations that the Chechens who went to Moscow are terrorists - as far as he's concerned, they were heroes. He tells me they were fighting for Chechnya's independence, drawing attention to a cause the world prefers to ignore. Suleiman says he has no doubts that they did the right thing, even though more than 100 of their hostages died during an operation to rescue them: «These people had no other option. They carried out this extreme act because we can't stand this war anymore.

After removing a debilitating number of jobs and the funding to ensure quality schools, after instituting laws that disrupt families' possibility to thrive, welfare laws beginning in the 1970s meant that women often lost benefits needed to feed their children if they had a man present in the home, even if, between the two of them, they still subsisted on poverty wages. Our mothers and fathers and daughters and sons were criminalized for choices made out of absolute desperation and lack of any other real options.