The definitive account

Abu Hamza watched as the boys splashed and tapkled each other in the water. His eyes moved over each one of them in turn, like a coach appraising potential talent. They had come to him awkward and untrained, their bodies gifted with the inherent sturdiness of peasants. Now, they moved like athletes, their frames ridged with muscle; not the rounded and unnaturally developed bulk of bodybuilders, but the lithe symmetry of flat muscle and strong sinew over bone. They looked what they were, young men in rude health, with reserves of endurance and the extra fitness firmly in place.

‘The Scout’ is a painstakingly researched and authentic account of the life and times of David Headley whilst collaborating with the al-Qaeda and planning a public massacre in Denmark, right until the time of his arrest

The most motivated were not always the most suitable, similarly the toughest physical specimen sometimes turned out to be incapable of handling mental stress. It took a precise blend of the physical and mental abilities to evolve into a good commando.

But to produce a Fedayeen, something extra was required, that something which was a mix of devotion and dementia, carefully harnessed by men such as him. Hamza thought of himself as a master falconer, and these were his kettle of falconets. So far, there had been more than a score of casualties, with only about fifteen of the original forty remaining; the rest had been discarded along the way, as their bodies or minds proved insufficient to the demands of the job.

Life was harsh and extremely regimented at the training camps, generally set up in difficult mountainous terrain, far away from towns and cities. The boys usually began their day well before sunrise, and remained hard at work until sunset. Hamza remembered how he, himself had joined the LeT at its Mochi Darwaza office, in Lahore. Growing up in that city, he vividly remembered the celebrations at Mall Road after the storming of the Indian Parliament.

There were banners and posters of the Lashkar all over, and everywhere the martyrs were being hailed as heroes. He had been given a Rukka from the office and dispatched to attend a three-month training camp at Muzzafarabad. There were about ten cottages in those days, each housing fifteen boys and the trainers. Ramzan Bhai, aged thirty-five years, had been in charge of the camp.

He was jolted out of his reverie by the sound of voices raised in squabble, and turned to where an argument had started. Shoaib appeared to have been pushed by Nasser, and two others of the group had apparently chosen sides. Hamza sighed as he rose to his feet. The youth…he thought, all that young blood fizzing through their veins, and the competitive physical routine.

A few clashes were to be expected, with the boys strutting around like bantam roosters, glorying in their ever-increasing strength and stamina. These were precisely the energies he had to channelise and peak for the campaign.‘OK, break it up, what’s the matter? Break it up, I said,’ his voice rose sharply.

The two would-be combatants separated, chests heaving, glaring at each other. Yes, Hamza decided, these two are going to be covered in mud and excrement by the time I am done with them on the obstacle course.‘I told Shoaib Bhai not to use too much pressure when practicing the choke holds, ustad,’ Ismail said. ‘I told him yesterday and this morning too.’

Hamza nodded, ‘OK Ismail, now all of you, let’s proceed to the indoor gymnasium.’ As the boys jogged in for the afternoon unarmed—combat sessions with the Army instructors, Hamza phoned Zarar Khan about the scuffle and to be ready with two haversacks filled with cement bricks. Shoaib and Nasser were about to get a gutful of exertion after the days training——a five-kilometer run with at twenty-kilo backpack, just before dinner, would whet their appetite and blunt the edge of their animosity. The old ways, he thought amusedly, never failed.

Every person here was subjected to intensive training and indoctrination to heighten their level of commitment. Their timetable was such that almost every hour of military practice was followed by an hour of religious instruction. They were isolated from the outside world and even from the other novitiates in the camps. The potential Fedayeen had no access to the television or to newspapers, except to what had been carefully selected for them; the library and the magazines in the quarters were the ones churned out by the Markaj printing presses.

They were not even allowed to converse with each other in the initial stages. It was only after three months that they could intermingle to a certain extent, necessitated for the instructors to study the interpersonal relationships, so as to decide on the best ‘pairings’. Not unlike a matrimonial alliance, according to Muzammil, although he restricted such jokes to the occasions when the Amir or Zaki were not around.

In their free time the group read religious books or recited prayers. The optimum desired outcome, as volunteers for jihad, was that they should even renounce their families. They were repeatedly told that, upon martyrdom, they would be twice-blessed by God. It was common knowledge that those who lost their lives in the jihads became heroes, and those selected for suicide missions were an elite group among the mujahideen.

Even the families of such martyrs received universal respect in the Islamic world. The speeches of the Amir had planted the seed that to die in the holy war was therefore the single-most venerable act a Muslim could perform. It was a method devised by Zaki and the elders to bring a prospect to the stage of “black-and-white’ thinking. Equally compelling were the bonds created by the arduous training which fostered an intense feeling of ‘core membership.’

These impressionable young minds had to be convinced that their war is against infidels of all hues, and that it was the duty of every devout Muslim to fight them. They were repeatedly reminded that cultures such as the decadent West and anti-Islamic India had robbed the Muslims of their past glory, and that this must be avenged. By the time the prospective Fedayeen would complete their training, they would be very clear about the battle they had to wage. It was Muslims versus the rest of the world.

The boys were gathered in a wide circle around the unarmed- combat instructor, Subhedar Aga, a short man with a wrestler’s immense neck and broad shoulders. He had a length of thin wire cable with wooden dowels at either end to provide a secure grip, and a trainee in front of him. Aga was saying something; Abu Hamza stepped closer to listen in.

‘This is one of the most effective and fastest ways to make a kill from the rear, and if properly executed, it makes little or no noise.’ The Subhedar walked around the boy. ‘You have to throw the wire over the head, not too much of a loop else a guy with fast reflexes can get a hand up and out of it.’ He demonstrated with a deft flick of his wrists, and the wire encircled the youth’s neck.

(From: ‘The Scout: The Definitive Account of David Headley and the Mumbai Attacks’, by Shirish Thorat, Sachin Waze, publisher: Bloomsbury `399)