RealNews

Zacarias, My Brother: The Making of a Terrorist

In the summer of 1996 my wife and I decided to take a holiday in Morocco. I knew Zacarias would probably come to France, as he did every summer, but I didn’t know exactly when. I hadn’t heard a whisper out of him for a whole year. I hadn’t been to Morocco in nineteen years. I was eager to see the other members of my family, to look at their faces again. The last time was when I was ten. My grandmother, my aunt, my uncles and cousins—what had become of them? It’s true that I knew only a fraction of my many relatives, but I was very fond of them, and they of me. There were many I’d only talked to on the phone; seeing them in Morocco would be putting faces to voices. The thought of meeting them all filled me with joy. I got ready for our journey well in advance, like an impatient child waiting for his birthday. I gave my car a tune-up. Then, suddenly, it was time. We stopped to say goodbye to all our friends, and I called the family to tell them we were on our way. Full Story

OODA Analyst

OODA Analyst

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