- Source: NY Times
- News Date: 1/27/10
- Author: Andrea Elliott
Left, Omar Hammami as a freshman in high school. Right, in a Shabab propaganda video released in March 2009.
ON A WARM, cloudy day in the fall of 1999, the town of Daphne, Ala., stirred to life. The high-school band came pounding down Main Street, past the post office and the library and Christ the King Church. Trumpeters in gold-tasseled coats tipped their horns to the sky, heralding the arrival of teenage demigods. The star quarterback and his teammates came first in the parade, followed by the homecoming queen and her court. Behind them, on a float bearing leaders of the student government, a giddy mop-haired kid tossed candy to the crowd.
To view dictionary popup window put your cursor on the blue scripture words.
Perilous Times
“This know also, that in the last days perilous•Strongs 5467: chalepos, khal-ep-os´; perhaps from 5465 through the idea of reducing the strength; difficult, i.e. dangerous, or (by implication) furious:—fierce, perilous. times shall come.”
—2 Timothy 3:1-2a
”But evil•Strongs 4190: poneros, pon-ay-ros´; from a derivative of 4192; hurtful, i.e. evil (properly, in effect or influence, and thus differing from 2556, which refers rather to essential character, as well as from 4550, which indicates degeneracy from original virtue); figuratively, calamitous; also (passively) ill, i.e. diseased; but especially (morally) culpable, i.e. derelict, vicious, facinorous; neuter (singular) mischief, malice, or (plural) guilt; masculine (singular) the devil, or (plural) sinners:—bad, evil, grievous, harm, lewd, malicious, wicked(-ness). See also 4191.
•Strongs 4192: ponos, pon´-os; from the base of 3993; toil, i.e. (by implication) anguish:—pain. men and seducers shall wax worse and worse, deceiving and being deceived.”
—2 Timothy 3:13
Editors note about the word perilous•FYI: The Greek word (chalepos) (perilous) is only used one other time in the New Testament, Matthew 8:28. There it is translated as (fierce) when describing the nature of the devils that possess Legion and his cohort.
Omar Hammami had every right to flash his magnetic smile. He had just been elected president of his sophomore class. He was dating a luminous blonde, one of the most sought-after girls in school. He was a star in the gifted-student program, with visions of becoming a surgeon. For a 15-year-old, he had remarkable charisma.
Despite the name he acquired from his father, an immigrant from Syria, Hammami was every bit as Alabaman as his mother, a warm, plain-spoken woman who sprinkles her conversation with blandishments like “sugar” and “darlin’.” Brought up a Southern Baptist, Omar went to Bible camp as a boy and sang “Away in a Manger” on Christmas Eve. As a teenager, his passions veered between Shakespeare and Kurt Cobain, soccer and Nintendo. In the thick of his adolescence, he was fearless, raucously funny, rebellious, contrarian. “It felt cool just to be with him,” his best friend at the time, Trey Gunter, said recently. “You knew he was going to be a leader.”
A decade later, Hammami has fulfilled that promise in the most unimaginable way. Some 8,500 miles from Alabama, on the eastern edge of Africa, he has become a key figure in one of the world’s most ruthless Islamist insurgencies. That guerrilla army, known as the Shabab, is fighting to overthrow the fragile American-backed Somali government. The rebels are known for beheading political enemies, chopping off the hands of thieves and stoning women accused of adultery. With help from Al Qaeda, they have managed to turn Somalia into an ever more popular destination for jihadis from around the world.
More than 20 of those fighters have come from the United States, many of them young Somali-Americans from a gritty part of Minneapolis. But it is Hammami who has put a contemporary face on the Shabab’s medieval tactics. In a recent propaganda video viewed by thousands on YouTube, he is shown leading a platoon of gun-toting rebels as a soundtrack of jihadi rap plays in the background.
He is identified by his nom de guerre, Abu Mansoor Al-Amriki, “the American,” and speaks to the camera with a cool, almost eerie confidence. “We’re waiting for the enemy to come,” Hammami whispers, a smile crossing his face. Later he vows, “We’re going to kill all of them.”
In the three years since Hammami made his way to Somalia, his ascent into the Shabab’s leadership has put him in a class of his own, according to United States law-enforcement and intelligence officials. While other American terror suspects have drawn greater publicity, Hammami exercises a more powerful role, commanding guerrilla forces in the field, organizing attacks and plotting strategy with Qaeda operatives, the officials said. He has also emerged as something of a jihadist icon, starring in a recruitment campaign that has helped draw hundreds of foreign fighters to Somalia. “To have an American citizen that has risen to this kind of a rank in a terrorist organization — we have not seen that before,” a senior American law-enforcement official said earlier this month.
Not long ago, the threat of American-bred terrorists seemed a distant one. Law-enforcement officials theorized that Muslims in the United States — by comparison with many of their European counterparts — were upwardly mobile, socially integrated and therefore less susceptible to radicalization. Perhaps the greatest proof of this came with the absence of domestic terrorist attacks following 9/11, a period that has brought Europe devastating homegrown hits in Madrid and London.
America is now at a watershed. In the last year, at least two dozen men in the United States have been charged with terrorism-related offenses. They include Najibullah Zazi, the Afghan immigrant driver in Denver who authorities say was conspiring to carry out a domestic attack; David Coleman Headley, a Pakistani-American from Chicago who is suspected of helping plan the 2008 attacks in Mumbai; and the five young men from Virginia who, authorities say, sought training in Pakistan to fight American soldiers in Afghanistan.
These cases have sent intelligence analysts scurrying for answers. The American suspects come from different backgrounds and socioeconomic strata, but they share much in common with Europe’s militants: they tend to be highly motivated, even gifted people who were reared in the West with one foot in the Muslim world. Others may see them as rigid or zealous, but they envision themselves as deeply principled, possessing what Robert Pape, a professor at the University of Chicago, calls “an altruism gone wildly wrong.” While their religious piety varies, they are most often bonded by a politically driven anger that has deepened as America’s war against terrorism endures its ninth year.
The presence of Western troops in Afghanistan and Iraq has brought those conflicts closer for many Muslims in America. Through satellite television and the Internet, the distance between here and there — between Fort Hood, Tex., and Yemen, between Daphne, Ala., and Somalia — has narrowed. For Omar Hammami, the war in Iraq provided a critical spark as he turned toward militancy.
In an e-mail message in December, Hammami responded to questions, submitted to him through an intermediary, about his personal evolution and political views. “We espouse the same creed and methodology of Al Qaeda,” he wrote. Of Osama bin Laden, he said, “All of us are ready and willing to obey his commands.” Did Hammami, like bin Laden, consider America a legitimate target for attack? “It’s quite obvious that I believe America is a target,” he wrote.
OMAR HAMMAMI’S SISTER, Dena, is a petite 28-year-old woman with silky brown hair and a graceful manner. She lives with her husband and their baby daughter in an airy house overlooking a small American city, which she asked that I not identify for their protection. The walls are decorated with Dena’s whimsical paintings, which draw inspiration from Kandinsky. Wind chimes dangle over the front porch, by a sign that reads, “Hippies use side door.”
One morning in September, she was sitting in her kitchen when she opened her laptop, logged on to Facebook and saw a message that read, “Rolling farting leotard.” Her heart began to race.
Years earlier, Dena had put a note in her little brother’s school binder, trying to crack him up. She told him to picture a fat girl in a leotard, rolling across the floor and passing gas. It had become one of their many inside jokes. Now, she realized, it was her brother’s way of reaching out from Somalia, of saying, “It’s really me.” He had created a fictitious Facebook profile, listing his alma maters as Stanford and Harvard.
“Things are pretty good,” he wrote. He and his new Somali wife (“the wifey,” he called her) had a baby girl. “Sometimes marriage is up,” he wrote. “Sometimes it’s down. The lifestyle is not exactly normal for most.”
Hammami wouldn’t say where he was, but he urged Dena not to worry about him. He was prepared to meet death, he said. “I don’t do anything too dangerous except once every month or so,” he added. “It’s all in God’s hands.”
Hammami’s life in Somalia appears to be more precarious than he let on. He spends much of his time shuttling between villages in southern Somalia, where many of the Shabab’s camps are based, according to Somali intelligence officials. In addition to his role as a military tactician, they said, Hammami helps guide the Shabab’s recruitment strategy and management of money — exercising surprising power after landing in Somalia as a 22-year-old rookie. The Somali government is seeking increased American aid to fight the Shabab and may have reason to play up the threat of foreigners like Hammami. But they were adamant about his role. “This guy is dangerous,” says Abdullahi Mohamed Ali, the Somali minister of national security. “He’s a threat to the region. I want him to be eliminated.”
When Hammami engages in combat, he makes an impression on other militants, said a former Shabab commander, Sheikh Mohamed Sheikh Abdullahi Sheikh Mohamed. “He doesn’t blink in the face of the enemy,” said Mohamed, who recalled four battles in 2008 and 2009 in which he and Hammami took part. In combat, Hammami used a sharpshooter’s rifle, firing calmly and with precision, said Mohamed, who spoke to me by telephone this month from a government compound in Mogadishu after defecting to the government’s side. Somali officials said they were keeping him there for his protection.
Until recently, the few visible images of American jihadis were of young men on the margins: John Walker Lindh, a Californian loner who wandered into Afghanistan to join the Taliban; or Adam Gadahn, now a Qaeda spokesman, who grew up home-schooled on a goat farm and channeled his teenage energies into death-metal music. If Omar Hammami followed his own compass, others followed him. Years later, more than one of his classmates compared him to the incongruous high-school hero of the 1986 film “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.”
Hammami’s journey from a Bible Belt town in America to terrorist training camps in Somalia was pieced together from interviews with his parents, sister, best friends and law-enforcement officials, as well as hours of home videos and passages from his e-mail messages, journal entries and hundreds of his postings on an Internet forum. If anything has remained a constant in Hammami’s life, it is his striving for another place and purpose, which flickered in a poem he wrote when he was 12:
“My reality is a bore. I wish, I want, I need the wall to fall and the monster to let me pass, the leash to snap, the chains to break. . . .
“I’ve got a taste of glory, the ticket, but where is my train?”
DAPHNE SITS ALONG Alabama’s serene Mobile Bay, just north of the Gulf of Mexico. The town seems stopped in time. Colonial-style cottages and gazebos dot the bluffs. The wide, blacktopped streets are shaded by pecan trees and Southern maples. At dusk, the tide slaps the docks as fishermen loll, casting silhouettes against a golden sky.
Shafik Hammami was searching for a quiet American town when he left Syria in 1972. He was reared in Damascus, the oldest of nine children whose father ran an import-export business. Shafik wanted to study medicine and heard that small colleges in less-populated parts of the United States were best suited for immigrants, “so you don’t get lost in the shuffle,” he told me recently. By chance, a translator working in Damascus handed him a brochure for Faulkner State Community College in Bay Minette, not far from Daphne. He looked no farther.
At Faulkner, Shafik, then 20, stuck close to the handful of other Middle Eastern students, part of a wave of Arab immigrants who were ushered into the United States by looser immigration laws. With wavy black hair and halting English, he stood out in a place that was historically suspicious of outsiders. One evening, while driving through nearby Mobile, he came upon a group of men wearing white cones on their heads and asking for money, his first brush with the Ku Klux Klan.
But Alabama’s conservative Christian culture agreed with him. Most of the women he encountered didn’t drink or smoke. Those were the first things he liked about Debra Hadley, a perky high-school senior he met through friends. The daughter of a butcher, she had rosy cheeks and a fluttering laugh and rarely missed a Sunday service. Soon Debra and Shafik were engaged.
It did not violate Shafik’s Muslim faith to marry a Christian. Debra got her mother’s blessing after promising never to convert to Islam. They had a church wedding, followed by a Muslim ceremony in the reception hall. They each wondered if, eventually, the other might cede ground.
By the time Omar was born eight years later, his parents and sister had moved into a ranch house in Daphne, a town of 19,000 where cotton fields have given way to subdivisions with names like Plantation Hills. Shafik had become a civil engineer and was working at the Department of Transportation. Debra taught elementary school.
The first years of Omar’s life followed the cues of his mother’s Southern upbringing. Freckled and blond, he answered to Omie. He spent summer afternoons on his grandparents’ farm in nearby Perdido, shelling peas and eating watermelon on the porch. He lost himself in “Tom Sawyer.” His uncles taught him to hunt deer.
On Sundays, Omar, Dena and their mother settled into the wooden pews of Perdido Baptist Church, a tiny congregation whose preacher warned of hellfire and damnation. At first, Shafik had no idea. Debra told the kids to keep their churchgoing a secret. They also attended Bible camp in the summers (Omar won $10 for rattling off the names of all the books of the Old Testament). When he was 6, he voluntarily walked to the front of the church to be baptized. “I believed it; I wanted it,” he later told his friend Trey Gunter.
Shafik tried to teach his children Arabic and later Islam, but the lessons held little resonance. Syria remained a distant backdrop amid the Fourth of July fireworks, Halloween costumes and shrimp gumbo of their American youth. Omar had gone from calling his father Babba — Arabic for “father” — to Bubba. Still, the Hammami home remained culturally Muslim. They left their shoes at the door. Koranic inscriptions decorated the walls. Pork was forbidden. “It was like two different schools of thought under one roof,” Dena says. “Thunder and lightning.”
The children learned to adapt. So did their parents. In one of the family’s home videos, shot on Oct. 8, 1992, Shafik points the camera at a cake. “Today is Debra’s birthday,” he says in a Syrian accent that has acquired an Alabaman lilt. “We’re fixin’ to celebrate her birthday in a few minutes.” In the next shot, Debra stands by the cake, smiling brightly, as a Lebanese love ballad echoes through the house. Eight-year-old Omar licks frosting off the candles as his mother opens presents. She lifts a bottle of perfume to her nose.
“That’s worth getting old for, ain’t it?” Debra says with a laugh.
“I reckon,” Shafik answers from behind the camera.
A smirk crosses Omar’s face as he repeats, mockingly, “Ah reckin.”
That trademark smirk — the same one that would later appear in the Shabab’s propaganda — hinted early at Hammami’s delight in causing trouble. He was exceedingly smart but easily bored and short-tempered, once turning over his desk in second grade. His teachers tired of his endless questions. “He had a big mind in a small-minded place,” Dena says.
Hammami finally found a kindred soul in middle school. Kathleen Hirsch, his teacher in the gifted-student program, was a quirky Jewish woman who wore Ugg boots before they became popular and drove a bottle green Jaguar convertible. She turned her classroom into a salon, replacing the desks with sofas, brewing coffee and filling the shelves with Dylan Thomas and Gertrude Stein. She taught Hammami to “think outside of the box,” he later wrote.
He began to read voraciously, losing himself in “The Catcher in the Rye” and “1984” and even the dictionary. A natural debater, he was fiercely competitive, chiding himself for finishing second in a countywide speech contest. “He went over and over every minute detail, continually asking me what he had done wrong: How was his posture? Eye contact?” Hirsch, who taught Hammami for six years, recalled in a recent e-mail message. “He hated to lose.”
She found him introspective for his age; a seeker of weighty subjects. In a journal he kept at school, Hammami wrote: “I don’t believe war should exist. It doesn’t have a point.” In a later entry, on April 13, 1996, he described the Oklahoma bombing as “stupid,” adding, “I wish violence would vanish clear from the earth.”
LOOKING BACK ON their childhood, Dena remembers a pestering little brother who followed her like a shadow. She wore hemp necklaces and Birkenstocks and thought nothing of cutting class. Hammami, who idolized her, soon followed her lead, getting high on marijuana and mushrooms by eighth grade, friends recalled.
Shafik was always a strict father (he once washed out his son’s mouth with detergent, causing him to throw up). But as the kids entered adolescence, Shafik became consumed with trying to keep his daughter on what he saw as a respectable path. He forbade her from talking on the phone unsupervised. He ruled out prom and even insisted that she wear leggings during soccer practice to avoid exposing her legs.
Dena did her best to flout the rules, with her brother as her ready accomplice. He helped her trade phone calls with boys and sneak out of the house. She and Omar shared the intimacy of twins; each was the other’s witness to an upbringing that only they could understand.
Finally, when she turned 16, Dena decided she could no longer bear her father’s rules. She hugged her brother tightly as she left.
“Sorry I can’t take you with me,” she told him.
She moved in with a friend’s family and returned only years later, to visit. The episode forced Hammami, he later wrote, “to think for myself and make my own way.”
That fall, Hammami claimed his place as one of the more popular kids at Daphne High School. The jocks found him funny; the nerds, literary; the skateboarders, alluringly rebellious. Though he was short and rail thin, girls were drawn by his cocky bravado. He soon won over Lauren Stevenson, one of the most beautiful girls in school. “He could just command people with his energy,” she says.
Yet for all of his social triumph, Hammami was consumed with a profound internal conflict. He didn’t know whether to be Muslim or Christian. On rare trips to Damascus when they were little, Omar and Dena were warned by relatives that they would go to hell if they weren’t Muslim, Dena recalled. In Perdido, their mother’s family insisted that hell was reserved for non-Christians.
When he was 12, Hammami wrote in his journal, “Sometimes I get confused because the Bible says one thing and our textbooks and Darwin say another.” He had a hard time understanding how God could have a son. That same year, his father began urging him to study Islam.
Shafik had experienced his own religious renewal after drifting from his practice during college. There were no mosques in Daphne (the Chamber of Commerce lists 43 churches). But in nearby Mobile, the University of South Alabama had given rise to a small Muslim community of Palestinian, Pakistani and Egyptian professionals. By the time Omar was in high school, his father had become an active member of a growing mosque, the Islamic Society of Mobile, and helped found the area’s first Islamic school.
A trip to Damascus the summer before Hammami’s sophomore year would make a lasting impression on him. He loved the order of things: how his aunts waited on him, how his male cousins shared a “cohesiveness of brotherhood,” Stevenson, his high-school girlfriend, recalled. In photos of the trip, Hammami had traded in his khakis and polo shirts for a long cotton tunic and a prayer cap. A family video shows him bowing to Mecca in prayer one evening.
When he got back to Daphne, Hammami remained conflicted. One night before he went to sleep, he turned to God for guidance. “Slowly I started to incline toward Islam,” he later wrote to his sister, “and my heart became tranquil.”
But Hammami’s conversion was neither smooth nor straightforward. He was the president of his sophomore class. He treasured his Friday-night routine — the football game, the meal at Waffle House and the marathon session of GoldenEye on Nintendo. He would smoke a cigarette and then feel guilty. He was smitten with Stevenson yet stopped holding her hand. Soon Hammami began taking off on Fridays to attend his father’s mosque. He finally got permission to pray at school, kneeling opposite a cinder-block wall in the library as students stole wide-eyed glances.
NO ONE WAS more struck by Hammami’s transformation than his mother.
On a recent morning, Debra skipped about her sun-filled kitchen fixing a plate of grits. A chatty woman with lively brown eyes, she was well into her third cup of coffee. In the next room, an oak table was permanently set for dinner, a nod to her Southern upbringing. The cranberry walls of her tidy neo-Colonial were free of Christian relics and family photographs, in keeping with Muslim tradition.
Debra learned to walk a fine line when it came to religion. But Christianity remained the compass of her life. She called Shafik’s mosque “his church” and the Koran “his bible.” She wasn’t going to let her son defect without a fight. “Where are the verses about love in your bible?” she prodded him. They “argued and argued and argued,” she recalled. “Then he said, ‘That’s enough.’ ”
Like his mother, Hammami was stubborn. When he became convinced of something, he turned to convincing others. At Daphne High, he managed to persuade a handful of students, including his girlfriend, to explore Islam — a striking development at a school where Christian teenagers routinely gathered at the flagpole for prayer.
“He would say, ‘So if Jesus is God, who does he pray to?’ ” recalled his friend Bernie Culveyhouse. “And if you said, ‘God,’ he’d say, ‘Doesn’t that make Jesus a narcissist?’ ”
Culveyhouse soon converted. Stevenson decided it was not for her, and Hammami broke it off. His other friendships were already strained when, one afternoon in 2000, the subject in class turned to Osama bin Laden. Then a relatively obscure terrorist, bin Laden had claimed responsibility for the 1998 bombings of the United States Embassies in Kenya and Tanzania. One boy in the class suggested that bin Laden should be shot dead.
“What if I said that about Billy Graham?” Hammami demanded.
“Billy Graham is a peaceable preacher,” the boy, a Christian, recalled saying. “Osama bin Laden is a terrorist.”
“One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter,” Hammami replied.
By his junior year, Hammami had become a spectacle. He made a point of praying by the flagpole outside school yet refused to say the Pledge of Allegiance, friends recalled. In class, he swore at Hirsch, his longtime teacher, assailing her for being Jewish. That spring, in another class, Hammami tried to choke a student who interrupted him as he was reciting the Koran, students recalled. Hammami was promptly suspended. With high grades and an A.C.T. score in the 93rd percentile, he skipped his senior year and enrolled at the University of South Alabama. There, he no longer prayed alone. He could walk to the mosque from campus, and he soon took over as president of the fledgling Muslim Student Association.
Soon after, the hijackers struck on 9/11, and local reporters began calling Hammami for comment. Publicly, he struck a measured tone, telling the school paper, “It’s difficult to believe a Muslim could have done this.” But he was caught off guard by the attacks and felt insufficiently knowledgeable about Islam, friends recalled. He set out to deepen his study and soon fell under the influence of Tony Salvatore Sylvester, a 35-year-old convert and preacher who was new in town.
Sylvester wore a thin blond beard and was missing his two front teeth. Brought up Catholic in the rural town of Doylestown, Pa., he found Islam in his early 20s while working as a jazz-fusion guitarist in Philadelphia. He had come to Mobile with his wife and six children, hoping to land a job at the Islamic school. By then, he was considered a prominent voice in the American Salafi movement.
SALAF, IN ARABIC, means “ancestors.” Followers of the movement, who are sometimes likened to Calvinist Protestants, advocate a strict return to the fundamentals of Islam. To purge their practice of modern influences, they try to emulate the founders of the faith — the contemporaries of the Prophet Muhammad and the two generations that came after his death in A.D. 632. Young Salafis, for example, often dress in sandals and robes like those thought to have been worn in seventh-century Arabia.
The Salafist interpretation of Islamic doctrine tends to be literal and originalist. “They remind me a lot of Scalia in their approach to texts,” says Bernard Haykel, a professor at Princeton University. The movement is most prevalent in the Arabian Peninsula, Egypt and Jordan but has also won adherents in the West among second- and third-generation Muslim immigrants who are seeking a more authentic Islam than that of their assimilative parents.
In the United States, the trend can be traced to a handful of Middle Eastern scholars who began preaching in the 1980s, gaining a small but vocal following in places like Arlington, Tex., and Syracuse, N.Y. Their teachings spread among prison converts and found footholds in Philadelphia and Detroit, where in the 1990s Tony Sylvester managed what was then the headquarters of a leading Salafi organization, the Quran and Sunnah Society.
Several of Sylvester’s students said in interviews that he subscribed to a nonviolent school, one that represented the majority of American Salafis. They tend to believe that Muslims should remain politically disengaged and take up arms only when called to duty in a Muslim-governed country; anything else represents rebellion against the government, which violates Islamic law.
But the Salafi movement also has its share of revolutionaries — the so-called Salafi jihadis (including Osama bin Laden), who argue that rebellion is permissible. Some members of Sylvester’s original circle broke with the group over the issue of rebellion, including Ali Al-Timimi, who was convicted in 2005 on terrorism-related charges in what is sometimes known as the Virginia paintball case.
Hammami plunged headlong into Salafism, mastering its nuances and lexicon. The movement gave him a new sense of brotherhood and discipline. But it was, above all, “an excuse to disobey his father,” recalls Joseph Stewart, a Muslim convert who became close to Hammami.
Shafik Hammami was by then the president of the Mobile mosque. In many ways, he embodied the Muslim-American mainstream. He held a comfortable job and wore a suit and tie to work. His son, meanwhile, began striding around campus in a scarlet red turban and a thobe, the ankle-length gown used by gulf Arabs. He spent his free time with a group of white Salafi converts whom immigrant Muslims at the mosque dismissed as “the Dixies.” The circle included Stewart, a burly 29-year-old who had started a carpet-cleaning business, and Bernie Culveyhouse, Omar’s friend from Daphne High.
A towering, lanky boy with sky blue eyes, Culveyhouse met Hammami playing basketball in fourth grade. He was brought up by a single mother who drank heavily and fashioned herself a “Harley honey,” disappearing into the night dressed head to toe in black leather. By the time Culveyhouse came to Islam, he was fighting marijuana and Ecstasy habits and failing out of school.
Everyone in the group took a new name. Culveyhouse chose Suhayb. Stewart called himself Yusuf. Hammami sometimes went by Abu Hafs, one of the venerated companions of the prophet. They distanced themselves from the mosque, meeting weekly with Sylvester to parse theology and questions of moral conduct.
Hammami soon began denouncing the militant Islamists he once defended. He came to believe that Muslims were suffering because they had lost their religion, Culveyhouse and Stewart recall. The solution, Hammami now argued, was not to take up arms but to engage in a spiritual jihad, practicing the faith with greater devotion. He and his friends ordered their lives around a strict code: they could not look at women, listen to music, be photographed or sleep with their backsides facing Mecca.
No one in the group was more dogmatic than Hammami. He insisted on eating with his bare right hand, as the prophet had, and wearing his pants above the ankle, a popular look among Salafis. Shafik found some of his son’s new convictions theologically debatable. The conflict between them, which had been simmering for some time, blew open when Omar refused to pose for a family photograph in April 2002. Shafik ordered him to move out.
In a town where 9/11 had prompted a thick canopy of American flags, Omar devoted himself to da’wah, the practice of spreading the Islamic faith. His style was to provoke inquiry. He strolled through Wal-Mart and Arby’s in his robe, hoping to attract questions from strangers. He drove a red Honda Civic with a sign on the back that read: “As Muslims we believe in one God. We don’t worship rocks, trees or men.”
More often than not, he and his fellow converts were met with disbelief.
“Everybody looked at us as if we were Satan,” Culveyhouse recalls.
One afternoon, a group of young men in a pickup truck approached Hammami and Culveyhouse near a pier south of Daphne, where they sometimes read the Koran.
“This is the stick I have for boys who wear dresses,” one of the men warned them, waving a miniature baseball bat.
In a flash, Hammami reached into his car and grabbed the broken-off handle of a wooden shovel, Culveyhouse recalls.
“And this is the stick I have for faggots,” he shot back.
Throughout his religious transformation, Hammami kept much of his former self intact. Some nights, he and Culveyhouse darted around the mosque in their robes, sparring with invisible light sabers in homage to “Star Wars.” He continued to run red lights and rack up speeding tickets, refusing to rise for a judge in traffic court.
Above all, he remained close to his sister, Dena, who was dating a dreadlocked Deadhead (she later married him barefoot, wearing a crown of daisies). When Dena and Omar spent time together — he in his tunic, she in her “Jesus sandals” — they seemed blind to their differences, reverting to their sibling code of inside jokes and silly songs. “I wanted to keep how we always were,” she says.
But aside from his sister and mother, Hammami had nothing to do with women. Much of the time, he and his friends were tormented by sexual frustrations, two of them recall. Hammami would stare at a woman on the street and then chastise himself for hours, Stewart says. He surfed Islamic Internet forums in search of a wife. His father promised to help him marry a Syrian woman provided that Hammami completed his degree in computer studies. But in December 2002, he dropped out of college, saying that he could no longer bear to be in the company of women.
Over the next few years, Hammami, Culveyhouse and the other Mobile Salafis traveled around the country attending Islamic conferences. With Sylvester, they opened a small Muslim bookstore in Mobile, opposite a storage lot. Hammami worked to master Arabic and talked of becoming an Islamic scholar. In the meantime, he had to earn a living, and few jobs meshed with his piety. He loaded trucks, cleaned carpets and sold light bulbs.
For a time, Hammami and Culveyhouse took inventory at Wal-Mart. Their boss, an ex-Marine, tolerated their odd look (they tucked their pants into their socks), but he was frustrated by their demands: they refused to touch alcohol, pork, Christmas cards and even dolls. The boss finally assigned them to the women’s clothing section.
“I looked at Omar and said, ‘Man, we can’t do anything in life, can we?’ ” Culveyhouse recalls. They quit that day. Soon after, Culveyhouse left for the bustling Muslim crossroads of Toronto, where he had found a wife. The following year, Hammami joined him, hoping to do the same.
HAMMAMI FOUND TORONTO — with its labyrinth of mosques, Islamic bookstores and halal grocers — enthralling. He took an apartment near Culveyhouse in the western part of the city and found a job delivering milk to Somali housewives. Living in Canada, Hammami began to see his country through a new lens. The war in Iraq was deeply unpopular at the mosques and coffee shops he frequented. Being an American invited a stream of questions and commentary for which Hammami felt unprepared, Culveyhouse recalled.
For years, Hammami had tuned out current events, dismissing politics as dunya — a worldly distraction from his Islamic practice. One afternoon in April, he and Culveyhouse dropped by an Islamic bookstore. The owner, an Afghan, told them to “pray for the people of Fallujah.” Months earlier, the U.S. military had invaded the Iraqi city, an insurgency stronghold, for the second time.
“What’s going on?” Hammami said.
Over the next few months, Hammami became consumed with events in Iraq and Afghanistan. He began subscribing to conspiracy theories about 9/11, Dena and Culveyhouse recall. He soon found himself rethinking his nonmilitant Salafi stance.
“I was finding it difficult to reconcile between having Americans attacking my brothers, at home and abroad, while I was supposed to remain completely neutral, without getting involved,” he wrote in the December e-mail message responding to questions posed to him through an intermediary.
Hammami concluded that his Salafi mentors had been “hiding many parts of the religion that have a direct relationship to jihad and politics,” he wrote. He began searching for guidance on the Internet, Culveyhouse says, discovering a documentary about the life of Amir Khattab, a legendary jihadist who fought in Chechnya. The documentary traces Khattab’s evolution as a promising Saudi student who gave up a life that “any young man would desire” to embrace a higher purpose. Hammami was mesmerized, Culveyhouse recalls.
“Once you’ve made that step, it’s a gateway,” Culveyhouse says. “Once you’ve legitimized the jihad in Chechnya, you’re compelled to legitimize the jihad in other places as well.”
Back then, Hammami and Culveyhouse talked about jihad in the way that star football players at Daphne High School dreamed about the N.F.L. The idea remained romantic and hypothetical. Hammami assured friends, for instance, that he would go to Syria to fight if the United States ever invaded.
But action required the right set of circumstances. Hammami remained unimpressed by most of the militant Islamist groups he studied: he still disapproved of how Al Qaeda attacked civilians, and he saw the insurgency in Iraq as too secular, Culveyhouse said. Only a “pure jihad” — one that was carried out in defense of Muslim land with the purpose of creating an Islamic state — met Hammami’s standard.
Besides, Hammami had more pressing matters at hand. He was desperate to marry. Culveyhouse arranged an introduction to his Somali sister-in-law, Sadiyo Mohamed Abdille. A tall, wisecracking 19-year-old who wore skinny jeans and played basketball, Sadiyo grew up in Toronto with Culveyhouse’s wife, Ayan, after their family fled Somalia’s internecine violence. Hammami found her amusing and eager to learn more about Islam, Ayan recalled. Within a matter of weeks, he persuaded her to socialize with only women and to wear the abaya, a cloaklike garment. In March 2005, just two months after their first meeting, they married in a small, spartan ceremony.
With limited prospects in Toronto, Hammami and Culveyhouse talked quixotically of making hijra — migration — to a Muslim land. Culveyhouse proposed Egypt, where they could study Islam at the revered Al-Azhar University in Cairo. In September, Hammami and his pregnant wife boarded an airplane with Culveyhouse’s family, including his formerly Harley-riding mother, who had also converted to Islam.
The two families settled in Alexandria, Egypt, which they found disappointingly secular. When the applications to Al-Azhar fell through, Culveyhouse and his family returned to the United States. “I didn’t want to continue down this fool’s path,” he says. Hammami felt betrayed, Culveyhouse recalls, and they drifted apart.
Alone with his young wife and newborn daughter, Hammami seemed overwhelmed, Dena recalls. He found freelance work translating Islamic texts into English but had trouble supporting his family. In the December e-mail message, he wrote that he was yearning to live in a country “where Shariah was being implemented completely.”
In April 2006, Hammami joined an online discussion forum called Islamic Networking. Using the alias “al-Mizzi,” a relative recalls, Hammami began communicating with the administrator of the forum, an American convert who also happened to live in Egypt. The convert, Daniel Maldonado, was a 27-year-old from New Hampshire who moved there with his wife and children the previous year.
Hammami and Maldonado soon met in person, relatives recall, and began venturing into poor neighborhoods to attend underground mosques. That summer, Hammami wrote to two Muslim friends, saying he had met “a pious brother” and was planning “a trip.” He seemed to be communicating in code.
“Our family members to the south need doctors,” he told the friends, who described the exchanges only on the condition of anonymity.
When Hammami discussed Chechnya with them years earlier, “doctor” was their word for “those who make jihad,” one friend says. By the “south,” Hammami seemed to be referring to Somalia; he had been sending them news articles about the remarkable events unfolding there.
A BOOMERANG-SHAPED country on the Horn of Africa, Somalia had been consumed by a catastrophic civil war since 1991. What was not destroyed by famine and drought was plundered by warlords and pirates. Amid the chaos, an Islamist movement gave rise to an insurgency that took control of Mogadishu in June 2006. The insurgents — known as the Islamic Courts Union — promised a new unity under the banner of Islam and brought an unfamiliar peace to the streets of the capital.
Officials in Washington found the developments troubling. The group’s military wing — the Shabab, which means “youth” in Arabic — was said to be sheltering foreign Al Qaeda operatives. They were calling for a jihad against neighboring Ethiopia, a predominantly Christian country and longtime enemy. Ethiopian troops gathered at the border, threatening an invasion with backing from the United States. News of the conflict quickly spread in jihadist chat rooms, as bin Laden called upon Muslims to join in Somalia’s fight.
From Egypt, Hammami followed the events closely. He was convinced that “jihad had become an obligation upon me,” he wrote in his December e-mail message. He wanted to help his “captive brothers and sisters” while helping himself “obtain the highest rank available” as a Muslim. (Jihadists believe that the greatest rewards in the afterlife are granted to them.) On their Internet forum, Hammami and Maldonado made impassioned pleas for action without directly referring to Somalia.
“Where is the desire to do something amazing?” Hammami wrote on Aug. 7, 2006. “Where is the urge to get up and change yourself — not to mention the world and other issues further off?”
“Stop sticking to the earth,” he continued, “and let your soul fly!”
Secretly, Maldonado and Hammami began planning to leave for Somalia, according to a written statement Maldonado later provided to U.S. investigators. On the morning of Nov. 6, Hammami woke his mother, who was visiting from Alabama, and kissed her on the cheek. He told her that he was going to Dubai for a few days to look for a job. “I love you,” he said.
Several days later, he called his apartment in Alexandria and told his wife, Sadiyo, that he was in fact in Somalia. Sadiyo, who agreed to answer my questions through her sister Ayan, found the story odd. Hammami told her that he traveled to Somalia because he wanted to meet her relatives. Indeed he was staying with Sadiyo’s grandmother in Mogadishu. Yet he seemed in no rush to leave. In other phone calls, he told Sadiyo and his parents that he was stranded because someone stole his passport.
Shafik and Debra scrambled to help their son, contacting the F.B.I. in Mobile, a local congressman and the State Department. They were told nothing could be done because the United States did not have diplomatic relations with Somalia. They tried to arrange for Hammami to cross the border, into Kenya or Djibouti, where a new passport could be issued.
Soon after, thousands of Ethiopian troops invaded Somalia and swiftly gained control of Mogadishu. Leaders of the Islamic Courts Union fled the country, while their military wing, the Shabab, retreated to the south and mounted a new rebellion aimed at driving the Ethiopians out. Without a word to his family, Hammami vanished. It is not clear who connected him to the Shabab, but in the December e-mail message, he wrote, “I made it my goal to find those guys should I make it to Somalia,” adding that he “signed up for training.” Meanwhile, his friend Maldonado, who had also enlisted with the Shabab, was picked up by a multinational counterterrorism team along the Somalia-Kenya border. He has since been convicted in the United States for receiving training from a foreign terrorist organization and is serving a 10-year sentence.
Over the next few months, Mogadishu descended into a hellish war zone. That May, Hammami suddenly reappeared at the grandmother’s apartment, asking for a phone number to reach his wife, who had moved back to Toronto. Over the phone, Hammami told Sadiyo that he was still trying to leave Somalia, Ayan said. A month later, he called with a different story. He wanted his wife and daughter to join him.
“He was saying: ‘It’s so wonderful. There’s going to be an Islamic state,’ ” Ayan recalled Sadiyo telling her. “He was making it this utopia of happiness.”
THE PROMISE OF an Islamic state, and by extension a caliphate, or Islamic world order, has long been the anthem of the global jihadist movement. It is central to the ideology of Al Qaeda, which has allied itself with smaller militant groups as its financing and core leadership have come under assault.
Al Qaeda offers these groups a powerful brand; the groups offer Al Qaeda an expanded platform. Yet the exact nature and significance of Al Qaeda’s connection to the Shabab remain unclear. The majority of the Shabab’s fighters are Somalis, many of whom were drawn to the movement by nationalist fervor (including some of the first Somali-American recruits). A smaller contingent of foreign fighters — young men like Hammami — joined as part of the global jihad. Rookie recruits from the United States and Europe would seem to offer little but cannon fodder to their battle-hardened Somali counterparts. But Westerners bring the Shabab prestige and possible financing from abroad. They also bring their passports — with which they could conceivably return to cities like Sydney, New York or London to carry out attacks.
When Hammami joined the Shabab in late 2006, he had no known military training. Like other foreign fighters, he quickly fell ill, probably with malaria, he told Dena in e-mail messages and phone calls. He started reaching out to her the following summer, after his wife in Toronto asked for a divorce. He never disclosed what he was doing, but he seemed to have little power: he had to ask permission to make phone calls, he told Dena.
But over time, Hammami caught the attention of his superiors. He brought an unusual skill set: he was articulate, computer savvy, well organized and fluent in Arabic. “He has that charisma,” says an American law-enforcement official. Hammami came to be seen as an asset by two Qaeda-linked militants, the official said: Fazul Abdullah Mohammed and Saleh Ali Saleh Nabhan.
Mohammed, who is also known as Haroun Fazul, is believed to be Al Qaeda’s longtime chief in East Africa. A native of the Comoros Islands off Mozambique, he is accused of organizing the 1998 bombings of American Embassies in Kenya and Tanzania that left more than 200 dead. He also is wanted for the bombing of an Israeli-owned hotel and the unsuccessful attempt to shoot down an Israeli charter jet in Mombasa, Kenya. Nabhan, a Kenyan of Yemeni descent, was also suspected in both attacks. He was killed in Somalia last September in a daylight raid by a helicopter-borne team of American Special Operations troops.
In October 2007 — less than a year after Hammami landed in Somalia — he made his public debut as Abu Mansoor Al-Amriki. In an interview with Al Jazeera, he stared confidently into the camera, a thin, green scarf concealing half of his face. “Oh, Muslims of America, take into consideration the situation in Somalia,” he began in English. “After 15 years of chaos and oppressive rule by the American-backed warlords, your brothers stood up and established peace and justice in this land.”
Over the next two years, Hammami’s stature in the Shabab continued to rise as the group launched suicide attacks and ruled in fear. Where its rebels held sway, they carried out public floggings, amputations and beheadings in the name of Shariah, alienating many. Hammami gave no indication that he was troubled by such punishments. “Human rights,” he said in an audio recording released by the Shabab last July, is “the Western form of democracy which cannot be reconciled with Islam.”
By the summer of 2008, Hammami was leading military strikes in the field — including a deadly ambush on Ethiopian troops that the Shabab captured on the video now popular on YouTube, American law-enforcement officials say. Among the fighters in the ambush were several of the Somali-Americans from Minneapolis, officials said, including Shirwa Ahmed, an aloof 26-year-old college dropout. Three months after the ambush, on Oct. 28, Ahmed blew himself up in northern Somalia, becoming the first known American suicide bomber. Senior American and Somali intelligence officials say that Hammami helped organize that attack — along with four others the same day that together left more than 20 dead.
The Shabab continued to lose support after Ethiopia withdrew from Somalia last January, and a new president — Sheik Sharif Ahmed, a former leader of the Islamist insurgency — began paving the way for a democratic Islamic state. Around that time, Hammami called Dena with a stunning announcement. “In the next video, I’m going to show my face,” he said. “It makes more of a statement if my face is uncovered.”
The 31-minute video, released by the Shabab last March, is a veritable homage to Hammami. He is shown running in slow motion, a line of fighters behind him, as a jihadist rap song plays in the background. He reads to them from the Koran, moving in and out of Arabic while stroking his beard. He then lectures them in English, with what struck his old friend Bernie Culveyhouse as an “E.S.L. accent.”
“The only reason we’re staying here,” Hammami tells the recruits, “away from our families, away from the cities, away from — you know — ice, candy bars, all these other things, is because we’re waiting to meet with the enemy.”
BACK IN DAPHNE, Debra Hammami stared at the video in shock.
She had long known that her son was “in the wrong hands.” Since Shafik first went to the F.B.I. in 2006, he had spent countless hours answering their questions.
But it was something else to see Omar on her laptop. She studied his face, replaying the same images again and again, trying to decode his mental and physical state. His cheeks were gaunt; his eyes, glassy. “He looks like a homeless person,” said Debra, whose husband first spotted the video while searching a Somali Web site for news of his son.
Emotions in the Hammami house had run like a fickle stream, from anger to grief to dread. Shafik talked about his son the way a parent talks about a child lost to a cult. Terrorism, he says, “goes against everything I taught him.”
Bernie Culveyhouse was also at a loss. He said he could understand the logic of defending Muslim land from invaders. But it was beyond him how Hammami had come to align himself with a group that attacks civilians and supports Al Qaeda. Both he and Joseph Stewart remained Muslim but not Salafi. They had “grown up,” as they put it. They were back in school, pursuing professional degrees. Like the Hammamis, they kept quiet about the F.B.I.’s investigation, but they assumed it was only a matter of time before the case became public.
The new Shabab video generated a burst of public speculation about the identity of the mysterious American. Hammami’s high-school girlfriend, Lauren Stevenson, caught a glimpse of the video on the news in April and instantly recognized him, watching aghast. He seemed like a shell of the guy who took her to homecoming, a boutonniere pinned to his lapel. “When you look in his eyes, it’s just dead,” she says.
The story finally broke on Sept. 4, with Fox News reporting that Hammami had been charged with terrorism offenses in a sealed federal indictment. Reporters descended on the Hammamis’ home and Shafik’s mosque. The local newspaper swiftly identified Shafik as a government employee. “Waterboard him!” one reader demanded on the paper’s Web site.
Shafik and Debra did their best to keep a low profile. One afternoon in October, they sat opposite each other in their living room, picking at a silver tray of dates and baklava. Their two religions, the ocean between them, had offered the same salve: the belief in God’s preordained plan. “You take solace in knowing that it’s in God’s hands,” said Shafik, sunken in his armchair, as Debra nodded. “And there is nothing you could have done to change it.”
DENA SEES OMAR in her dreams.
“Sometimes he is emaciated and about to die,” she said one recent afternoon, as her 19-month-old daughter toddled about the house. “Sometimes he is coming back to hang out with me.”
The last three years have also been something of a surreal dream. Dena has come to expect the sudden rap of F.B.I. agents at her door. She suspects that her phone is tapped. She is used to feeling exposed and, at the same time, walled off. “The fact that my brother is a terrorist — it’s not something you can talk to anyone about,” she said.
Ultimately, she said, “you can either accept him or disown him. Those are the choices.” Dena chose to stay in touch, as much as she abhors violence. She found news accounts of the Shabab deeply disturbing. On Oct. 27, 2008, Shabab militiamen dragged Aisha Ibrahim Duhulow, a 13-year-old rape victim accused of adultery, into a stadium filled with spectators and stoned her to death, according to Amnesty International.
Sometimes months would pass with no word from Hammami. When he reached out through Facebook in early September, he told Dena that he hoped his infamy would prompt people to ask, “How did this guy become that?”
“They can’t blame it on poverty or any of that stuff,” he continued. “They will have to realize that it’s an ideology and it’s a way of life that makes people change. They will also have to realize that their political agendas need to be fixed.”
Dena tried to temper her reply.
“I think it’s admirable to stand up for what you believe in, but it gets hairy when you affect the lives of others,” she wrote.
Hammami responded that he understood how strange it might seem to “fight for beliefs,” especially as he had once been a liberal (under the influence, he wrote, of the teacher he still referred to as “Mrs. Hirsch”). But he had come to the realization that “we don’t live in a utopian society.”
“When I came here I saw that firsthand,” he wrote. “There are villages that live in a constant state of war between rival tribes. There are roads that people cannot pass except with fear of being robbed or raped.”
He and his fellow fighters, he wrote, are helping those people. “Regardless of what the media says,” he added, “we do not kill innocents.”
Throughout the exchange, Hammami seemed to slide back and forth between the boy from Daphne and the jihadi propagandist. He asked his sister for news about his grandmother in Perdido (“Maw Maw,” he called her) and signed off “later tater” and “I love you.”
They soon lost contact again. These days, his family and friends wonder what will become of him.
“There is no out,” Dena said. “He’s in too deep.”
On Dec. 3, a suicide bomber disguised as a woman blew himself up at a graduation ceremony for medical students in Mogadishu, killing nearly two dozen people, including three Somali government officials. Somali and American authorities said the attack was carried out by the Shabab. That same month, Hammami seemed more taken by his cause than ever. “I have become a Somali you could say,” he wrote in the December e-mail message. “I hear bullets, I dodge mortars, I hear nasheeds” — Islamic songs — “and play soccer. Sometimes I live in the bush with camels, sometimes I live the five-star life. Sometimes I walk for miles in the terrible heat with no water, sometimes I ride in extremely slick cars. Sometimes I’m chased by the enemy, sometimes I chase him!”
“I have hatred, I have love,” he went on. “It’s the best life on earth!”
Andrea Elliott is a reporter for The New York Times. She won the 2007 Pulitzer Prize for feature writing for a series of articles about an imam in Brooklyn.
Abdi Aynte contributed reporting to this story from Washington D.C.
This weekend's newspapers were filled with stories about how the United States is providing ballistic missile defense (BMD) to four countries on the Arabian Peninsula. The New York Times carried a front-page story on the United States providing anti-missile defenses to Kuwait, the United Arab Emirates, Qatar and Oman, as well as stationing BMD-capable, Aegis-equipped warships in the Persian Gulf. Meanwhile, the front page of The Washington Post carried a story saying that “the Obama administration is quietly working with Saudi Arabia and other Persian Gulf allies to speed up arms sales and rapidly upgrade defenses for oil terminals and other key infrastructure in a bid to thwart future attacks by Iran, according to former and current U.S. and Middle Eastern government officials.”
Obviously, the work is no longer “quiet.” In fact, Washington has been publicly engaged in upgrading defensive systems in the area for some time. Central Command head Gen. David Petraeus recently said the four countries named by the Times were receiving BMD-capable Patriot Advanced Capability-3 (PAC-3) batteries, and at the end of October the United States carried out its largest-ever military exercises with Israel, known as Juniper Cobra.
More interesting than the stories themselves was the Obama administration's decision to launch a major public relations campaign this weekend regarding these moves. And the most intriguing question out of all this is why the administration decided to call everyone's attention to these defensive measures while not mentioning any offensive options.
The Iranian Nuclear Question
U.S. President Barack Obama spent little time on foreign policy in his Jan. 27 State of the Union message, though he did make a short, sharp reference to Iran. He promised a strong response to Tehran if it continued its present course; though this could have been pro forma, it seemed quite pointed. Early in his administration, Obama had said he would give the Iranians until the end of 2009 to change their policy on nuclear weapons development. But the end of 2009 came, and the Iranians continued their policy.
All along, Obama has focused on diplomacy on the Iran question. To be more precise, he has focused on bringing together a coalition prepared to impose “crippling sanctions” on the Iranians. The most crippling sanction would be stopping Iran's gasoline imports, as Tehran imports about 35 percent of its gasoline. Such sanctions are now unlikely, as China has made clear that it is not prepared to participate-and that was before the most recent round of U.S. weapon sales to Taiwan. Similarly, while the Russians have indicated that their participation in sanctions is not completely out of the question, they also have made clear that time for sanctions is not near. We suspect that the Russian time frame for sanctions will keep getting pushed back.
Therefore, the diplomatic option appears to have dissolved. The Israelis have said they regard February as the decisive month for sanctions, which they have indicated is based on an agreement with the United States. While previous deadlines of various sorts regarding Iran have come and gone, there is really no room after February. If no progress is made on sanctions and no action follows, then the decision has been made by default that a nuclear-armed Iran is acceptable.
The Americans and the Israelis have somewhat different views of this based on different geopolitical realities. The Americans have seen a number of apparently extreme and dangerous countries develop nuclear weapons. The most important example was Maoist China. Mao Zedong had argued that a nuclear war was not particularly dangerous to China, as it could lose several hundred million people and still win the war. But once China developed nuclear weapons, the wild talk subsided and China behaved quite cautiously. From this experience, the United States developed a two-stage strategy.
First, the United States believed that while the spread of nuclear weapons is a danger, countries tend to be circumspect after acquiring nuclear weapons. Therefore, overreaction by United States to the acquisition of nuclear weapons by other countries is unnecessary and unwise.
Second, since the United States is a big country with widely dispersed population and a massive nuclear arsenal, a reckless country that launched some weapons at the United States would do minimal harm to the United States while the other country would face annihilation. And the United States has emphasized BMD to further mitigate-if not eliminate-the threat of such a limited strike to the United States.
Israel's geography forces it to see things differently. Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has said Israel should be wiped off the face of the Earth while simultaneously working to attain nuclear weapons. While the Americans take comfort in the view that the acquisition of nuclear weapons has a sobering effect on a new nuclear power, the Israelis don't think the Chinese case necessarily can be generalized. Moreover, the United States is outside the range of the Iranians' current ballistic missile arsenal while Israel is not. And a nuclear strike would have a particularly devastating effect on Israel. Unlike the United States, Israel is small country with a highly concentrated population. A strike with just one or two weapons could destroy Israel.
Therefore, Israel has a very different threshold for risk as far as Iran is concerned. For Israel, a nuclear strike from Iran is improbable, but would be catastrophic if it happened. For the United States, the risk of an Iranian strike is far more remote, and would be painful but not catastrophic if it happened. The two countries thus approach the situation very differently.
How close the Iranians are to having a deliverable nuclear weapon is, of course, a significant consideration in all this. Iran has not yet achieved a testable nuclear device. Logic tells us they are quite far from a deliverable nuclear weapon. But the ability to trust logic varies as the risk grows. The United States (and this is true for both the Bush and Obama administrations) has been much more willing to play for time than Israel can afford to be. For Israel, all intelligence must be read in the context of worst-case scenarios.
Diverging Interests and Grand Strategy
It is also important to remember that Israel is much less dependent on the United States than it was in 1973. Though U.S. aid to Israel continues, it is now a much smaller percentage of Israeli gross domestic product. Moreover, the threat of sudden conventional attack by Israel's immediate neighbors has disappeared. Egypt is at peace with Israel, and in any case, its military is too weak to mount an attack. Jordan is effectively an Israeli ally. Only Syria is hostile, but it presents no conventional military threat. Israel previously has relied on guarantees that the United States would rush aid to Israel in the event of war. But it has been a generation since this has been a major consideration for Israel. In the minds of many, the Israeli-U.S. relationship is stuck in the past. Israel is not critical to American interests the way it was during the Cold War. And Israel does not need the United States the way it did during the Cold War. While there is intelligence cooperation in the struggle against jihadists, even here American and Israeli interests diverge.
And this means that the United States no longer has Israeli national security as an overriding consideration-and that the United States cannot compel Israel to pursue policies Israel regards as dangerous.
Given all of this, the Obama administration's decision to launch a public relations campaign on defensive measures just before February makes perfect sense. If Iran develops a nuclear capability, a defensive capability might shift Iran's calculus of the risks and rewards of the military option.
Assume, for example, that the Iranians decided to launch a nuclear missile at Israel or Iran's Arab neighbors with which its relations are not the best. Iran would have only a handful of missiles, and perhaps just one. Launching that one missile only to have it shot down would represent the worst-case scenario for Iran. Tehran would have lost a valuable military asset, it would not have achieved its goal and it would have invited a devastating counterstrike. Anything the United States can do to increase the likelihood of an Iranian failure therefore decreases the likelihood that Iran would strike until they have more delivery systems and more fissile material for manufacturing more weapons.
The U.S. announcement of the defensive measures therefore has three audiences: Iran, Israel and the American public. Israel and Iran obviously know all about American efforts, meaning the key audience is the American public. The administration is trying to deflect American concerns about Iran generated both by reality and Israel by showing that effective steps are being taken.
There are two key weapon systems being deployed, the PAC-3 and the Aegis/Standard Missile-3 (SM-3). The original Patriot, primarily an anti-aircraft system, had a poor record-especially as a BMD system-during the first Gulf War. But that was almost 20 years ago. The new system is regarded as much more effective as a terminal-phase BMD system, such as the medium-range ballistic missiles (MRBMs) developed by Iran, and performed much more impressively in this role during the opening of Operation Iraqi Freedom in March 2003. In addition, Juniper Cobra served to further integrate a series of American and Israeli BMD interceptors and sensors, building a more redundant and layered system. This operation also included the SM-3, which is deployed aboard specially modified Aegis-equipped guided missile cruisers and destroyers. The SM-3 is one of the most successful BMD technologies currently in the field and successfully brought down a wayward U.S. spy satellite in 2008.
Nevertheless, a series of Iranian Shahab-3s is a different threat than a few Iraqi Scuds, and the PAC-3 and SM-3 have yet to be proven in combat against such MRBMs-something the Israelis are no doubt aware of. War planners must calculate the incalculable; that is what makes good generals pessimists.
The Obama administration does not want to mount an offensive action against Iran. Such an operation would not be a single strike like the 1981 Osirak attack in Iraq. Iran has multiple nuclear sites buried deep and surrounded by air defenses. And assessing the effectiveness of airstrikes would be a nightmare. Many days of combat at a minimum probably would be required, and like the effectiveness of defensive weapons systems, the quality of intelligence about which locations to hit cannot be known until after the battle.
A defensive posture therefore makes perfect sense for the United States. Washington can simply defend its allies, letting them absorb the risk and then the first strike before the United States counterstrikes rather than rely on its intelligence and offensive forces in a pre-emptive strike. This defensive posture on Iran fits American grand strategy, which is always to shift such risk to partners in exchange for technology and long-term guarantees.
The Arabian states can live with this, albeit nervously, since they are not the likely targets. But Israel finds its assigned role in U.S. grand strategy far more difficult to stomach. In the unlikely event that Iran actually does develop a weapon and does strike, Israel is the likely target. If the defensive measures do not convince Iran to abandon its program and if the Patriots allow a missile to leak through, Israel has a national catastrophe. It faces an unlikely event with unacceptable consequences.
Israel's Options
It has options, although a long-range conventional airstrike against Iran is really not one of them. Carrying out a multiday or even multiweek air campaign with Israel's available force is too likely to be insufficient and too likely to fail. Israel's most effective option for taking out Iran's nuclear activities is itself nuclear. Israel could strike Iran from submarines if it genuinely intended to stop Iran's program.
The problem with this is that much of the Iranian nuclear program is sited near large cities, including Tehran. Depending on the nuclear weapons used and their precision, any Israeli strikes could thus turn into city-killers. Israel is not able to live in a region where nuclear weapons are used in counterpopulation strikes (regardless of the actual intent behind launching). Mounting such a strike could unravel the careful balance of power Israel has created and threaten relationships it needs. And while Israel may not be as dependent on the United States as it once was, it does not want the United States completely distancing itself from Israel, as Washington doubtless would after an Israeli nuclear strike.
The Israelis want Iran's nuclear program destroyed, but they do not want to be the ones to try to do it. Only the United States has the force needed to carry out the strike conventionally. But like the Bush administration, the Obama administration is not confident in its ability to remove the Iranian program surgically. Washington is concerned that any air campaign would have an indeterminate outcome and would require extremely difficult ground operations to determine the strikes' success or failure. Perhaps even more complicated is the U.S. ability to manage the consequences, such as a potential attempt by Iran to close the Strait of Hormuz and Iranian meddling in already extremely delicate situations in Iraq and Afghanistan. As Iran does not threaten the United States, the United States therefore is in no hurry to initiate combat. And so the United States has launched a public relations campaign about defensive measures, hoping to affect Iranian calculations while remaining content to let the game play itself out.
Israel's option is to respond to the United States with its intent to go nuclear, something Washington does not want in a region where U.S. troops are fighting in countries on either side of Iran. Israel might calculate that its announcement would force the United States to pre-empt an Israeli nuclear strike with conventional strikes. But the American response to Israel cannot be predicted. It is therefore dangerous for a small regional power to try to corner a global power.
With the adoption of a defensive posture, we have now seen the U.S. response to the February deadline. This response closes off no U.S. options (the United States can always shift its strategy when intelligence indicates), it increases the Arabian Peninsula's dependence on the United States, and it possibly causes Iran to recalculate its position. Israel, meanwhile, finds itself in a box, because the United States calculates that Israel will not chance a conventional strike and fears a nuclear strike on Iran as much as the United States does.
In the end, Obama has followed the Bush strategy on Iran-make vague threats, try to build a coalition, hold Israel off with vague promises, protect the Arabian Peninsula, and wait-to the letter. But along with this announcement, we would expect to begin to see a series of articles on the offensive deployment of U.S. forces, as good defensive posture requires a strong offensive option.
Stratfor is a private intelligence company delivering in-depth analysis, assessments and forecasts on global geopolitical, economic, security and public policy issues. A variety of subscription-based access, free intelligence reports and confidential consulting are available for individuals and corporations.
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Everett Cote