Why Terrorist Groups Form International Alliances 9780812295023

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Why Terrorist Groups Form International Alliances

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WHY TERRORIST GROUPS FORM INTERNATIONAL ALLIANCES

TRICIA BACON

U n i v e r si t y o f P e n n s y lva n i a P r e s s Philadelphia

Copyright © 2018 University of Pennsylvania Press All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher. Published by University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104​-4­ 112 www.upenn​.e­ du​/p­ ennpress Printed in the United States of Amer­i­ca on acid-­free paper 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2  Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Bacon, Tricia, author. Title: Why terrorist groups form international alliances / Tricia Bacon. Description: 1st edition. | Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press,  [2018] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017056083 | ISBN 9780812250169 (hardcover: alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Terrorist organ­izations—­Case studies. | Terrorism—­  Case studies. | Terrorists—­Case studies. | International relations and  terrorism—­Case studies. | Terrorism—­Prevention—­Case studies. Classification: LCC HV6431 .B325 2018 | DDC 363.325—­dc23  LC rec­ord available at https://­lccn​.­loc​.g­ ov​/­2017056083

Contents

Introduction

1

Chapter 1. A Theory of Alliance Hubs and Alliance Formation

27

Chapter 2. The Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine: Pioneering Partnerships

63

Chapter 3. The Red Army Faction: Pursuing Palestinian Partners

103

Chapter 4. Al-­Qaida Before 9/11: Building Alliances One Dollar at a Time

127

Chapter 5. Al-­Qaida ­After 9/11: Calling in Debts and Capitalizing on Cachet

170

Chapter 6. Egyptian Jihadist Groups: Divergent Solutions, Similar Prob­lems

216

Conclusion

255

Notes

287

Index

335

Acknowl­edgments

345

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Introduction

As for the answer to your question, why did we join Al Qaida? We say, why ­shouldn’t we join Al Qaida? God ordered us to be united, to be allied, to cooperate and fight against the idolaters in straight lines. . . . ​We are a jihadi ancestral community. We rely on legitimacy before anything ­else as a base of our decisions. —­Abdelmalek Droukdal, leader of al-­Qaida of the Islamic Maghreb, formerly the Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat

In 2005, the Algerian Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat (GSPC) was a shadow of its former self. ­After two amnesties in Algeria and more than a de­cade of conflict, its ranks had thinned considerably, and its cause of creating a “true” Islamic state in Algeria no longer resonated with the war-­weary public. Once an existential threat to the government, the jihadist insurgency was largely a law-­and-­order prob­lem relegated to the outskirts of the country. Newly radicalized Algerian militants gravitated ­toward the insurgency against the United States in Iraq rather than join the discredited cause at home.1 Surrendering members reported that the group’s fighters strug­gled to survive on rations and lived in desolate conditions.2 Then, on the five-­year anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, al-­Qaida anointed the GSPC as its affiliate in the Maghreb. The alliance did not occur overnight. Discussion had been ­under way for at least a year before the announcement. Al-­Qaida had concerns stemming from its acrimonious break with the GSPC’s parent group, the Armed Islamic Group. The Armed Islamic Group was reputed to have been infiltrated by the Algerian security ser­vices and had alienated even fellow jihadists with its violent excesses. Al-­Qaida turned to another ally, its affiliate in Iraq led by Abu Musab al-­Z arqawi, which had contacts with the GSPC, for reassurances that the GSPC did not suffer from the same defects.3 For its part, the GSPC grappled with unity

2

Introduction

woes about the group’s direction and lack of support from the Algerian populace, which culminated in the overthrow of its founding leader. The GSPC’s new leader moved to publicly align the group with al-­Qaida, signaling his desire for an alliance. Private communications ensued, eventually producing an alliance announcement in late 2006.4 In early 2007, the GSPC changed its name to reflect the alliance. The newly minted al-­Qaida in the Islamic Maghreb (AQIM) then unleashed renewed vio­lence, shattering the Algerian government’s claims that the jihadist insurgency was defeated. AQIM’s next attack that March struck a more global target, albeit in the local context, the Rus­sian contractor Stroytransgaz. AQIM also ­adopted al-­Qaida’s modus operandi of suicide operations, which broadened its reach and increased the lethality of its attacks. It struck in the heart of Algiers—­a locale considered largely secure from the group’s bombings and ambushes—­not once, but twice. In April, a suicide bomber attacked the headquarters of Algeria’s prime minister, killing sixty-­seven. Six months ­later, AQIM struck Algeria’s Constitutional Council and the United Nations building with truck bombs, killing over forty ­people. Si­ mul­ta­neously, the group expanded its lucrative safe haven in the Sahel and attracted some members outside its Algerian base. AQIM had been rejuvenated, and some of the credit went to its alliance with al-­Qaida. The GSPC’s transformation reflects how partnering with certain terrorist groups creates opportunities for organ­izations to improve their resource mobilization and operational capability.5 Like the destruction produced by AQIM’s adoption of suicide operations, terrorist groups with allies, particularly partners that are highly capable, tend to conduct deadlier attacks.6 As AQIM’s renewal suggests, alliances can increase terrorist groups’ longevity and resilience. Overall, alliances can improve partnering groups’ strength, efficiency, and bargaining leverage.7 When alliances occur, they often cluster around select, capable groups like al-­Qaida.8 In essence, hubs operate at the epicenter of alliance networks with numerous satellite groups surrounding them. Consequently, hubs’ relationships account for a disproportionate number of alliances. Al-­Qaida behaves as an alliance hub, although, as this book ­will examine, it was by no means the first or last hub. Before al-­Qaida, groups like the Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine, Fatah, and the Red Army Faction also sought to build alliance networks. Moreover, since severing ties with al-­Qaida, the so-­called Islamic State has emerged as a rival alliance hub. Given the danger



Introduction

3

posed by hubs’ relationships specifically and terrorist alliances more broadly, we need to understand why some groups emerge as hubs and why groups gravitate ­toward hubs as their partners. The U.S. government has had ­little success disrupting or preventing alliance hubs or their networks, even though ­doing so has been a policy priority for over a de­cade. As early as 2003, the U.S. counterterrorism strategy asserted that “the interconnected nature of terrorist organ­izations necessitates that we pursue them across the geographic spectrum to ensure that all linkages between the strong and the weak organ­izations are broken, leaving each of them isolated, exposed, and vulnerable to defeat.” 9 The need to understand alliance hubs shows no sign of dissipating as the Islamic State develops its alliance network and al-­Qaida’s alliances persevere despite prolonged counterterrorism pressure. While terrorist organ­izations garner benefits through alliances, they face substantial obstacles to forging ­these relationships.10 As a result, the apex of cooperation—­a joint operation involving allied groups—­occurred in less than 1 ­percent of terrorist attacks between 1970 and 2007.11 This reflects, in part, the hurdles that terrorist groups face when attempting to forge the commitments that alliances require.12 As the GSPC and al-­Qaida’s lengthy negotiations suggest, alliances necessitate incurring risks. They involve the possibility of infiltration, betrayal, and additional counterterrorism pressure. They have the potential to alienate followers or cause internal dissension that can lead to splintering. Therefore, terrorist groups must ally carefully and selectively. Like the GSPC’s justification of its relationship with al-­Qaida, observers and even terrorists themselves frequently attribute terrorist alliances to shared ideologies and common enemies. Indeed, a strong correlation exists between both shared ideology and alliances and common enemies and alliances.13 However, the conventional wisdom about ideology and enemies cannot explain why select organ­izations emerge as desirable alliance partners or how they build their dangerous alliance networks. If enemies and ideology cause alliance hubs, alliances would form where they are often absent. Alone, neither can fully explain the timing of many alliances involving hubs. Conventional wisdom cannot explain the emergence or appeal of alliance hubs ­because it omits the influence of orga­nizational considerations. The objectives they seek and the tactics they use can obscure the fact that terrorist groups share core characteristics with all organ­izations. Fundamentally, like

4

Introduction

other organ­izations, terrorist groups seek to survive. More than other organ­ izations, terrorist groups face constant existential danger. Therefore, survival considerations loom large. Thinly veiled beneath terrorists’ declared aims is their belief that they are the ones, perhaps the only ones, who can right the perceived wrongs and precipitate the sought-­after change. In other words, terrorist organ­izations see themselves as indispensable to achieving the change they seek. Consequently, victory depends on orga­nizational survival. Moreover, not all members join or stay in terrorist organ­izations ­because of po­liti­cal or ideological motives. They do not just seek to achieve an organ­ ization’s declared po­liti­cal agenda; they also value the strong affective ties that come with membership.14 Consequently, orga­nizational survival becomes an end unto itself, not just a means to accomplishing the aspired-­after objectives. The longer a group exists, the more apt it is to substitute orga­nizational perpetuation for its stated goals.15 This helps explain why groups sometimes persist ­after their demands are outdated or their motivating grievances are obsolete. Therefore, rather than shared ideology or common enemies causing hubs to build alliance networks or motivating groups to ally with hubs, I argue that orga­nizational dynamics guide alliance be­hav­ior in two main ways. First, hubs become attractive partners ­because they are highly capable organ­izations that possess skills, knowledge, and resource mobilization capability that are in demand in the prevailing and anticipated environment. Yet they are able and willing to share ­these assets in order to address their own orga­nizational needs and ambitions. Second, for satellite groups, orga­nizational needs precipitate alliance seeking that leads to alliance initiation and formation with hubs. When groups need to acquire new skills, knowledge, or resource mobilization capability, or must adapt existing ones but cannot do so on their own, they seek allies who can help address t­ hese needs. Groups tend to experience misalignment with the environment when they are young, recovering from crises, or operating in rapidly changing environments. This orga­nizational weakness and an inability to self-­reform prompt groups to seek allies and lead them to hub partners that help realign them with the environment. However, orga­nizational vulnerability alone is not sufficient for a hub and prospective satellite to form an alliance. When orga­nizational needs arise, groups must be receptive to alliances and to the partners that can assist them.



Introduction

5

Like all organ­izations, terrorist groups create cultures, routines, and decision-­ making pro­cesses that enable some be­hav­iors and preclude ­others, including alliances. Consequently, groups must have orga­nizational pro­cesses amenable to alliances in order to consider them as solutions to orga­nizational weakness. In addition, rather than being the primary cause for hubs to seek allies or why hubs are preferable partners, I argue that shared ideology and common enemies create affinity and guide partner se­lection, that is, make some partners acceptable. When orga­nizational needs precipitate alliance seeking, groups seek partners that can address ­those needs and share identity characteristics, particularly ideology or frames that identify the enemies. Hubs fulfill both conditions. They possess identity characteristics, particularly ideology and enemies, which are shared with numerous other groups, making them both acceptable to ­others and accepting of ­others. They tend to adhere to the prevalent ideologies of their time and have an expansive view of their enemies. Thus, shared ideologies and common enemies do influence alliances but not in the manner commonly assigned to them. This introductory chapter explores what we know about terrorist group alliances. It begins by explaining what constitutes an alliance between terrorist groups and how rivalry—or, more specifically, the lack of it—­shapes alliance be­hav­ior. Next, the chapter examines both the obstacles to alliances and the benefits groups derive from them. It then discusses alliance patterns, namely, the way in which alliances cluster around certain groups, or alliance hubs. Understanding why groups become alliance hubs and their attractiveness as partners are the central inquiries of this book. The chapter concludes with an examination of conventional wisdom and the shortfalls of ­these explanations in understanding why groups become alliance hubs and why hubs are such desirable partners.

Do Terrorist Groups Ally? Beyond agreement on its po­liti­cal dimension, which differentiates terrorism from other forms of nonstate vio­lence and crime, terrorism is a notoriously contested concept. By most definitions, terrorism generally consists of three components: po­liti­cal aims and motives; vio­lence or threats of vio­lence against noncombatants or other victims proscribed by laws of war; and intended psychological repercussions beyond the immediate victim or target.16 As Victor

6

Introduction

Asal and colleagues argue, terrorism “is in sharp contrast to most other forms of vio­lence, which are largely focused on the immediate target, designed to accomplish a military objective (such as gaining or holding territory), and often at least claim to abide by the codes of conduct eschewing civilian involvement.”17 Terrorist groups—­t he focus of this book—­refer to organ­izations that use terrorism as “a tactic of violent manipulation.”18 They may engage in insurgency, guerrilla warfare, or­ga­nized crime, or po­liti­cal activities, but terrorism is a tactic in their arsenal. A consensus has not yet emerged about what constitutes an alliance. Some have shied away from using the term alliance. Kanisha Bond opted to look at what she termed “inter-­violent non-­state actor cooperative arrangements,” which she defined as a “formal or informal arrangement that has been collectively deci­ded upon by the cooperating parties and governs the management or execution of some level of resource sharing, strategic coordination, and/or tactical collaboration.”19 Ely Karmon chose to use the term co­ali­tion rather than alliance ­because of concerns that alliance assumes too much formality. He defined terrorist co­ali­tions as “ideological, material, and operational cooperation between two or more terrorist organ­izations directed against a common ­enemy, which may be a state targeted by one of the member organ­izations or a rival ideological bloc.”20 Some subsequent work has used ele­ments of Karmon’s definition to define alliances.21 Asal and colleagues drew from Karmon to refer to alliances as “joint or complementary action for the same intermediate purpose. This action can constitute activity at the rhetorical, material or operational level.”22 It is impor­tant to note that terrorist groups can engage in a range of cooperative arrangements, not all of which reach the threshold of an alliance. Assaf Moghadam differentiates “low-­end cooperation” from “high-­end cooperation” based on the time horizon of cooperation, the level of interdependence, the type of cooperative activity, and the level of affinity among partners.23 Definitions of alliances that include dyads that engage in low-­ end transactional or tactical cooperation—­groups that maintain full in­de­ pen­dence and cooperate with a limited time horizon along with ­those that involve longer time horizons and greater interdependence—­risk conflating dif­fer­ent types of relationships and thereby obscuring their ­causes. Consistent with Moghadam’s typology, for the purposes of this book, alliances require cooperation involving mutual expectations of some degree of coordination or consultation in the ­f uture.24 This approach encompasses what Bond refers to as cooperative arrangements and departs from other definitions in



Introduction

7

several ways. First, it requires cooperation, not just complementary action. Second, it does not specify the type of cooperation necessary, ­whether ideological, material, operational, or other. Instead, it includes cooperation in what­ever form it occurs. Third, it does not specify the target or reason for cooperation. This helps to avoid a tautology in which cooperation against a common ­enemy may be the cause of the alliance and define what constitutes such a relationship. Last, and perhaps most impor­tant, unlike the existing definitions, it includes the requirement that alliances involve both cooperation and expectations of ­f uture collaboration or consultation. In so ­doing, it offers a rigorous standard and thereby avoids overestimating terrorist alliance frequency by equating it with cooperation alone. Cooperation is a fundamental part of alliances. Cooperation involves adjustment and a conscious effort to work together, not simply shared interests or mutually beneficial but un­co­or­di­nated be­hav­ior.25 In contrast, harmony refers to a situation in which a group’s policies and actions facilitate the attainment of another’s goals without coordination. 26 For terrorist organ­ izations, harmony can be easily mistaken for cooperation or vice versa ­because cooperation can be covert. Groups sometimes engage in acts of harmony, ­either inadvertently or intentionally. For example, in 2008, the Pakistani terrorist group Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba deployed gunmen to Mumbai, terrorizing and paralyzing the Indian megacity for days. The gunmen targeted a train station, ­hotels, a restaurant, and a Jewish community center, killing over 160 ­people. Some posited that this attack, particularly striking ­hotels and a Jewish target, reflected an alliance between Lashkar and al-­Qaida. Indeed, al-­Qaida embraced the attack as a “heroic” operation.27 Although Lashkar struck targets that ­were consistent with al-­Qaida’s agenda, it did not adjust its plans to accommodate al-­Qaida or collaborate with al-­Qaida on the attack. Therefore, this was an instance of harmony as opposed to cooperation and thus did not indicate an alliance between the two groups. In addition, an alliance requires expectations of ­f uture consultation or coordination. This criteria reflects Moghadam’s argument that high-­end cooperation involves interdependence and shared expectations that the relationship ­will last for an extended period. Some groups that engage in cooperation do not form alliances ­because they do not develop expectations about ­f uture coordination and consultation. In contrast, allies provide assistance to one another that does not require immediate reciprocation ­because of mutual expectations that their partner ­will reciprocate when need arises in the ­f uture. Like states, terrorist group partners need not specify the

8

Introduction

degree of commitment or explic­itly agree upon specific conditions ­under which coordination ­w ill occur in order to ally. 28 Alliances shape partners’ ­future expectations, even without specific agreements.29 Notably, alliances do not require—­and rarely involve—­control. Like other alliances, terrorist partners rarely relinquish all autonomy, exercise control over one another, consult on all m ­ atters, or adhere to all of one another’s requests. As noted, alliances do not encompass all forms of terrorist interactions or orga­nizational linkages. Collaboration occurs between members of terrorist groups who are not acting on behalf of their respective organ­izations. Groups engage in temporary cooperation without expectations of ­future consultation. They express rhetorical support without ­actual cooperation or coordination. In practice, it can be difficult to distinguish ­these types of interactions from alliances. It is not always clear when and if an individual represents his organ­ ization. Likewise, given terrorist groups’ covert nature, their expectations of ­f uture consultation may not be evident to outsiders. Consequently, harmony and individual acts of cooperation risk being conflated with alliances, and the frequency of alliances overestimated, u ­ nless the relationships are carefully examined. Distinguishing Between Rival and Nonrival Alliances

This book examines a subset of alliances that receive considerable attention from the media and counterterrorism efforts: relationships between terrorist organ­izations that are not rivals. Well-­k nown examples of rivals include Hamas and Fatah or the vari­ous factions within the Afghan mujahidin. Rival groups can and do forge alliances, usually cautiously and temporarily. Notably, the consideration that dominates rivals’ alliance decisions vis-­à-­v is one another—­relative position—is largely absent among nonrivals.30 Groups can use gains acquired ­today against their rivals tomorrow, ­either directly in armed conflict or indirectly by siphoning off support. Rivals operate in a zero-­ sum environment: gains endanger one’s rivals. Therefore, relative power concerns drive their alliance calculus.31 In contrast, resources among non­ rivals can have a positive-­sum quality. When partnering groups are not rivals, they can collaborate without concerns that their partners’ gains ­today ­will harm them in the ­f uture. What distinguishes rivals from nonrivals? Brian Phillips identified two types of rivals for terrorist organ­izations: intrafield rivals and interfield



Introduction

9

rivals. Intrafield rivals are competitors that seek the same primary po­liti­cal goal, such as a Sunni jihadist revolution in the same state or a state for the same ethnic community. In contrast, interfield rivals support conflicting primary goals, such as a left-­wing group and a right-­wing group, or groups representing dif­fer­ent ethnic communities seeking control of the same territory.32 In some re­spects, Phillips’s work dovetails with William R. Thompson’s work on interstate rivalries, specifically arguing that rivals regard each other as competitors, adversaries, and the source of ­actual or latent threats that pose some possibility of becoming militarized.33 Building on Phillips’s concept of intrafield rivals, the first type of rival, competitors, are groups that rely on and seek support from the same sources; in other words, they compete in the same po­liti­cal market. Terrorist groups not only attack their enemies; they also seek to crowd out competitors to maintain or increase their po­liti­cal market share.34 They function in accordance with “competitive exclusion,” which holds that groups compete with other organ­izations that draw upon the same resources.35 Competitor rivals treat resources as mutually exclusive ­because they vie for the same finite recruits, funds, or territory.36 Competitor rivals also seek to improve their status vis-­ à-­vis one another in intangible realms, such as prestige, credibility, and legitimacy, as they seek the allegiance of a common constituency.37 As Gordon McCormick explained, they “jockey for media time and the attention of a more or less fixed base of potential constituents.”38 In addition to the potential for direct militarized conflict, a competitive dynamic can lead ­these groups to increase the pace or scope of their attacks to gain support, known as outbidding.39 Of note, outbidding reflects terrorist groups’ tendency to engage in activities driven by orga­nizational considerations rather than strategic objectives,40 an idea central to the theory proposed in Chapter 1. In contrast, groups that are not competitor rivals rely on dif­fer­ent primary po­liti­cal markets, though t­ here may be some overlap. They tend to focus on dif­fer­ent primary foes, conflicts, territories, or po­liti­cal c­ auses. Most impor­ tant, they do not depend on the same sources for support, recruits, and resources. Therefore, the assets they acquire do not come at the expense of one another. As allies, they can share resources, even personnel. When allies are not competitors, they can have dual members, whereas competitors ­w ill be reluctant to share membership. Without common po­liti­cal markets and relative power concerns, less tangible gains, such as prestige or legitimacy, benefit both partnering groups. Noncompetitor allies can ­si­mul­ta­neously

10

Introduction

be the representative of their respective ­causes without threatening one another’s position; improved stature may even enhance a partner’s position. To the extent that noncompetitive allies share a cause, it is an overarching one, which helps to unify them without creating rivalry. However, it is impor­tant to note three caveats and refinements to the above discussion of competition. First, a group’s competitor rivals are not fixed. Such rivals are determined by a group’s po­liti­cal market, which can change. Groups can—­and some do—­decide to focus on a dif­fer­ent adversary or cause. They may decide to relocate or redefine their constituency. The result is a shift in their po­liti­cal market and, by extension, their competitor rivals. Groups that ­were not initially competitor rivals can become so, and vice versa. Second, the number of competitor rivals a group ­faces can fluctuate. Some organ­izations do not survive, which eliminates competitor rivals. Conversely, new groups form, which adds new competitor rivals. In par­tic­u­lar, terrorist groups have a propensity to splinter, thereby producing such rivals.41 For example, Harakat ul-­Jihad Islami, a Pakistani Deobandi militant group, formed during the anti-­Soviet jihad in Af­ghan­i­stan in the 1980s. A few years ­a fter its founding, a faction broke away to become Harakat ul-­Mujahidin. The two groups ­later allied, only to subsequently split again. Then, in 1999, Jaish-­e-­Mohamed splintered from Harakat ul-­Mujahidin. One original group eventually resulted in three competitor rivals. All operated in the same po­liti­ cal market, vied for recruits from among the same population, sought funds from the same sources, and jockeyed for the attention of the same constituency. Therefore, they competed with one another, and their alliance be­hav­ior reflected their preoccupation with their relative position. Third, groups operating within the same country are not necessarily competitor rivals ­because national bound­aries do not determine competition. This position departs from much of the outbidding lit­er­a­ture, which often treats competition as occurring among groups at the domestic level.42 Instead, I treat competition as a dynamic that can and does occur at vari­ous levels, including at the substate or regional level, and thus is not necessarily defined by national bound­a ries. For example, states can experience multiple conflicts that give rise to multiple terrorist groups that do not share po­liti­cal markets. In addition, states can also serve as safe havens for foreign terrorist groups in places where indigenous groups also operate; ­these groups may not share po­liti­cal markets, though they reside in the same state.



Introduction

11

Pakistan illustrates ­these dynamics. It ­faces an internal jihadist insurrection primarily in the Pashtun areas of the country and a separatist conflict in Balochistan. The jihadist groups do not share a po­liti­cal market with the Baloch separatists; therefore, they do not behave as competitors. Numerous foreign jihadist groups find haven in Pakistan. Most of the foreign jihadist groups do not share po­liti­cal markets with local jihadist organ­ izations or the Baloch groups. Furthermore, groups may compete with organ­izations that operate in another state. As noted earlier, al-­Qaida Central—­with its leadership likely based in Pakistan and Afghanistan—­competes with the Islamic State, which primarily operates in Syria and Iraq. Therefore, rather than using national bound­aries to determine competitors, this book defines competitors and noncompetitors based on ­whether groups share a po­liti­cal market, irrespective of national bound­a ries. However, competitors and noncompetitors are not always neat, mutually exclusive categories ­because groups can share po­liti­cal markets to varying degrees. Competition operates along a spectrum. On the left side of the spectrum, groups function as competitors: they have substantial overlap in their po­liti­cal markets. On the right side of the spectrum, groups do not behave as competitor rivals, even though ­there may be some overlap in their po­liti­cal markets. On the ends of the spectrum, the distinction between competitors and noncompetitors is clear. On the far right of the spectrum, that is, in noncompetitive situations, groups have fully distinct po­liti­cal markets. On the far left side of the spectrum, groups have entirely the same po­liti­cal markets. However, the distinction becomes more complex ­toward the ­middle when ­there is some overlap in po­liti­cal markets, requiring closer examination of the dyad. ­Until 2014, al-­Qaida benefited from being the only Sunni militant group operating in a po­liti­cal market that spanned the ­Middle East. Competitors

Identical political markets

Noncompetitors

Overlapping political markets

Distinct political markets

Figure 1. The Spectrum of Competition to Noncompetition

12

Introduction

This regional-­level po­liti­cal market limited al-­Qaida’s competition with fellow Arab Sunni jihadist groups with narrower, national-­level po­liti­cal markets. For example, al-­Qaida’s po­liti­cal market had some overlap with its closest ally, the Egyptian Islamic Jihad, but their interactions fell on the noncompetition side of the spectrum ­because al-­Qaida had a broader po­liti­cal market that included, but did not rely primarily on, Egyptian Islamic Jihad’s po­liti­cal market in Egypt. In contrast, the Egyptian Islamic Group and Egyptian Islamic Jihad—­both Egyptian Sunni jihadist groups—­relied on po­liti­cal markets with substantial overlap. Consequently, the two Egyptian groups competed fiercely with one another but did not behave as competitor rivals ­toward al-­Qaida, as Chapter 6 w ­ ill discuss. Sunni jihadist groups with po­liti­cal markets outside of the ­Middle East experienced even less competition with al-­Qaida. For example, al-­Qaida’s ­alliance with Jemaah Islamiyah—­a jihadist group with a regional-­level po­ liti­cal market in Southeast Asia—­fell further on the right of the spectrum than the Egyptian groups and al-­Qaida. Al-­Qaida and Jemaah Islamiyah had regional-­level po­liti­cal markets in the ­Middle East and Southeast Asia, respectively, as ­will be discussed in Chapter 5, and thus fell on the far right of the spectrum. In 2014, a full competitor rival to al-­Qaida emerged. Following the Islamic State’s renunciation of al-­Qaida and al-­Qaida’s reciprocal disavowal of it, the Islamic State redefined its po­liti­cal market similarly and broadly enough that it shifted to the far left side of the competition spectrum vis-­à-­vis al-­Qaida. In addition to competing over resources, recruits, and allies, the two groups jockey to lead the Sunni jihadist movement. In the event that al-­ Qaida and the Islamic State decide to ally again, competitor rival considerations, such as relative position, ­will guide their calculus. This book focuses on dyads on the right side of the spectrum. ­These dyads may have some overlap in their po­liti­cal markets, but they do not rely on the same ones. In so ­doing, it ­factors in when competition is relevant to why noncompetitors ally; however, the focus is on alliance seeking, alliance initiation, and alliance formation among nonrivals. Returning to the criteria for rivals, the second type of rival are adversary rivals, similar to Phillips’s interfield rivals. Unlike competitor rivals, terrorist groups that behave as adversary rivals do not share a po­liti­cal market. However, they are also attentive to relative power considerations ­because an increase in an adversary rival’s power poses a potential threat. Adversary rivals typically represent opposing sides of a conflict. This may be a left-­wing group’s



Introduction Competitors

Egyptian Islamic Al-Qaida & Jihad & Islamic State Egyptian Islamic Group

13 Noncompetitors

Al-Qaida and Egyptian Islamic Jihad

Al-Qaida and Jemaah Islamiyah

Figure 2. Relationships Along the Spectrum of Competition to Noncompetition

posture ­toward a right-­wing group. Or one organ­ization may operate as a vigilante or an unofficial “paramilitary force” that protects the status quo, while the other seeks to change the status quo. For example, Protestant Loyalists groups in Northern Ireland, like the Ulster Defense Association, ­were the enemies of the Catholic Republican groups, such as the Irish Republican Army. The two represented dif­fer­ent sides in the conflict and behaved as adversary rivals. Excluding both types of rivals ­matter ­because rivals ally selectively, carefully, and often briefly.43 As Thompson points out, “Dealing with one’s rivals entails juggling very real conflicts of interest within a charged context especially prone to vari­ous decision-­making pathologies (in-­group solidarity, out-­group hostility, mistrust, misperception, and self-­f ulfilling prophecies).” 44 Fotini Christia argued that within the context of multiple-­party civil wars, which produces abundant rivalries, alliances fluctuate based on groups’ assessments of their relative position vis-­à-­vis one another. The same dynamics appear to function between rival terrorist groups. The rival alliance terrain shifts in response to changes in relative power, such as defections, betrayals, fracturing, detentions, and deaths. Rival alliances thus tend to be tactical and temporary, governed by a desire to acquire the maximum resources as part of the smallest-­winning co­ali­tion, as long as the risk of exploitation is manageable.45 However, notions of relative power and the smallest-­winning co­ali­tions do not apply to nonrival conditions. Nonrivals cannot and need not weigh their relative position nor would they create a minimum-­w inning co­a li­t ion.46 Therefore, dif­fer­ent considerations govern alliances between nonrivals, a fact that strongly suggests the need for separate theorizing. With two impor­tant exceptions, much existing work on terrorist alliances includes both types of

14

Introduction

relationships or at least does not make an explicit distinction. First, Ely Karmon theorizes about co­ali­tions involving transnational terrorist groups.47 Second, Michael Horo­witz and Philip Potter exclude groups with a common orga­nizational lineage from their analy­sis.48 The proposed formulation captures ­these distinctions but extends them to exclude alliances among all rivals. Limiting the population to transnational groups is insufficient ­because, as discussed, some transnational terrorist groups behave as rivals. In addition, while groups with shared orga­nizational roots usually compete, rivalry is not limited to them. Therefore, a need exists to further disaggregate rival and nonrival terrorist alliances and then to theorize and test the mechanisms that operate to cause alliances among dif­fer­ent types of dyads. Consequently, this book exclusively examines nonrival alliances.

The Challenges to Terrorist Alliances The attention terrorist alliances receive can obscure how poorly positioned terrorist groups are to form cooperative relationships.49 Alliances are difficult, dangerous, and a potential source of internal dissension. Terrorist groups must overcome many of the hurdles that states, firms, and their nonviolent counter­parts face, but they need to be even more cautious given the abundance of threats to their survival. Si­mul­ta­neously, they have limited information or access to the strategies that licit entities use to mitigate the risk. Consequently, terrorist groups experience numerous obstacles to alliances. First, ­because most terrorist organ­izations are insular, illicit, and clandestine, they lack the requisite transparency to assure prospective partners that they intend to honor promises and ­f uture obligations.50 Many terrorist groups have short life spans, which means few have the requisite shadow of the ­future, meaning they expect to interact repeatedly over time, to make cooperation worth the risk.51 Moreover, terrorist groups strug­gle to establish reputations as trustworthy partners.52 Meanwhile, adversaries seek to exploit ­these fears to undermine alliances and weaken partnering organ­izations.53 Second, and relatedly, terrorist groups often lack sufficient information about one another.54 In addition to their inherent lack of transparency, terrorist groups can and do misrepresent themselves, hide information, and downplay their weaknesses. ­Because terrorist groups are secretive about at-



Introduction

15

tributes, like their size, strength, finances, and capabilities, prospective partners lack complete, credible information about one another.55 Third, terrorist groups do not possess qualities conducive to making credible commitments; moreover, they lack access to solutions to mitigate this hurdle, namely, institutions, mechanisms to punish noncompliance, and third-­party enforcement.56 As it is problematic to enforce accountability on such actors, groups have incentives to use cooperation opportunistically to improve their own security and then defect without reciprocating. Unlike states, terrorist groups cannot overcome commitment hurdles by creating institutions to bind themselves to agreements. Even other nonstate actors, such as transnational nongovernmental organ­izations, increasingly benefit from institutional forums for co­ali­tion building.57 Nor can terrorist groups enter into contracts enforceable by an outside institution like a firm can. Absent such mechanisms, enforcement between violent nonstate actors is particularly difficult, dangerous, and costly. With few enforcement mechanisms available, fears of free-­riding and cheating hinder terrorists’ efforts to ally. Theoretically, the potential exists for a third party, perhaps a state, to enforce cooperation. However, an enforcer must be both able and willing to police partnering groups: a tall order.58 This requires expending resources to monitor be­hav­ior, creating mechanisms to punish noncompliance, and managing reprisals. Presumably, an enforcer would only be willing to undertake this role if the alliance dovetailed closely with its preferences or if it could manipulate the alliance to suit its interests.59 Furthermore, states sometimes overestimate their ability to manage terrorist clients only to find their expectations exceed their ability. States can help bring groups together, like Sudan ­under the National Islamic Front or Af­ghan­i­stan ­under the Taliban, which ­will be discussed in Chapter 4. States can also encourage alliances, as Iran did with Hizballah and Hamas. However, ­these roles differ from acting as an enforcer. Fourth, allying with another terrorist organ­ization can provoke new enemies and generate additional counterterrorism pressure. Alliances risk inciting groups’ adversaries and rivals alike. Like states, one impor­tant potential cost of entering into an alliance is that a group may find itself involved in a conflict in which it did not intend or wish to participate.60 Consequently, terrorist groups may increase the pressure they experience by forming an alliance. For example, al-­Qaida opted initially to withhold announcing its alliance with the Somali terrorist group, al-­Shabaab, in part for this

16

Introduction

reason. Usama bin Laden wrote to al-­Shabaab, arguing that “if the ­matter becomes declared and out in the open, it would have the enemies escalate their anger and mobilize against you; this is what happened to the ­brothers in Iraq or Algeria.” 61 Fifth, organ­izations risk alienating supporters with their ally choices. Groups’ real or perceived constituents range from the international community to local ethnic or religious populations. The potential for constituent disapproval can constrain groups from allying. Or an organ­ization may distance itself from an ally if an ally engages in activities condemned by its supporters. Ethnonationalist groups are arguably most sensitive to this pitfall as they may have clear constituencies, reject the terrorist label, and seek international ac­cep­tance. For example, Fatah publicly distanced itself from the Red Brigades in the wake of the international outcry against the Red Brigades’ murder of former Italian prime minister Aldo Moro in 1978. At the time, Fatah sought international recognition and could not afford to be associated with the act.62 Even al-­Qaida demonstrated sensitivity to this constraint. In 2005, then al-­Qaida deputy Ayman al-­Zawahiri wrote to the late al-­Qaida in Iraq (AQI) leader, Abu Musab al-­Z arqawi, counseling him to modify AQI’s be­hav­ior, citing the Muslim world’s rejection of AQI’s beheadings and attacks on Shia religious sites.63 Al-­Qaida feared that AQI’s actions ­were damaging al-­Qaida’s reputation among Muslims. Sixth, initiating alliances involves incurring risks for the partnering groups, especially across distances.64 ­Because prospective allies may not be proximately located or readily accessible, establishing an alliance involves allocating time, resources, and personnel. Groups may need to deploy personnel or engage in long-­distance communications, which are vulnerable to interception and manipulation by adversaries. For this reason, bin Laden expressed concerns about using the Internet for communications and recommended using couriers to ensure secrecy. However, his lieutenants worried that ­doing so would further inhibit al-­Qaida’s ability to consult with its affiliates.65 To cooperate, groups must incur risks, while a failure to communicate increases the likelihood of misunderstandings that can derail alliance formation. Seventh, alliances risk damaging the internal cohesion of the partnering organ­izations. Terrorist groups emphasize their exclusivity to help secure their survival, but this hinders outside relationships. Their insularity ensures loyalty and cohesion, but it also discourages connections outside the group.



Introduction

17

Yet alliances require broadening the circle of identification, involve a loss of autonomy, and have the potential to produce dependence on ­others.66 In addition, alliances can cause groups to engage in activities they other­w ise would not engage in, which can stoke dissent. Terrorist organ­izations may not function as unitary actors, particularly given the tradeoffs groups face between operational security versus financial efficiency and operational security versus tactical control.67 Therefore, alliances risk exacerbating tensions and provoking internal dissension, even causing splintering. In addition to the damage splintering does to the original organ­ization, offshoots become rivals.68 Eighth, alliances involve dealing with the egos and idiosyncrasies of covert and suspicious individuals. In par­tic­u­lar, terrorist leaders can be charismatic figures with an inflated sense of purpose and ambition. Cooperation and compromise between such personalities may be problematic, to say the least. Yet, as ­w ill be discussed in Chapter 1, leaders play a pivotal role in alliance formation. As a result, personality clashes can stymie alliances. Ninth, cultural and po­liti­cal differences may hinder alliances.69 Non­ rival groups in par­tic­u­lar often hail from dif­fer­ent cultural and po­liti­cal backgrounds, which increases the possibility of misunderstandings and disagreements. Cultural clashes contributed to tensions between the Red Army Faction and Fatah when the West Germans insisted on mixed-­gender sleeping accommodations and engaged in sunbathing be­hav­ior that offended their conservative Arab hosts, as ­will be discussed in Chapter 3.70 Last, and of the greatest consequence to terrorist organ­izations, alliances increase the possibility of betrayal. As clandestine organ­izations operating at a material disadvantage to their adversaries, terrorist groups must be vigilant to prevent ­enemy infiltration. Alliances increase the number of actors with knowledge of a group’s activities, thereby increasing the possibility of security breaches.71 Allies are a potential source of deliberate or inadvertent security lapses. Groups strug­gle to verify that their partners have not been compromised and are adequately security conscious; therefore, alliances involve incurring the serious danger of infiltration. Therefore, terrorist groups are cautious about alliances. They must overcome numerous obstacles and be willing to incur risks. Nevertheless, a small number of groups build alliance networks and emerge as hubs within the terrorist alliance landscape with devastating consequences. Far from a

18

Introduction

natu­ral outcome, this pres­ents a puzzle. This book seeks to illuminate why alliance hubs opt to build alliance networks, how they do so, and what motivates groups to ally with them.

What Can Groups Gain from Alliances? What could groups acquire through an alliance that would warrant undertaking such risks? Indeed, terrorist groups can derive an array of benefits from alliances. The advantages range from material or reputational gains, to knowledge acquisition, to increased po­liti­cal and orga­nizational skill. Through alliances, groups can maximize their efficiency by leveraging one another’s specializations and comparative advantages.72 ­Under some conditions, they may even aggregate their capabilities.73 An ally may improve its partner’s ability to acquire vari­ous kinds of assets. This includes materiel, such as weapons or equipment. For instance, the Red Army Faction reached out to Fatah in 1970 in order to access firearms not readily available in West Germany, which led to their alliance attempt.74 ­Under some circumstances, alliances offer improved credibility, legitimacy, and prestige, which can translate into assets like recruits or funds. Alliances can generate propaganda, which may also lead to more recruits and funds.75 Overall, alliances can help groups improve their resource mobilization capability. Groups can sometimes proj­ect themselves as part of a broader movement or another cause through alliances, a particularly valuable asset when the resonance of their cause wanes. By incorporating an ally’s cause, groups can improve their framing resonance. Al-­Qaida offered its allies a way to shift or expand their frames from revolutionary jihad focused on overthrowing the near ­enemy, that is, national governments, to global jihad against the United States, which improved some groups’ framing resonance ­after their originating cause lost its appeal. For example, the GSPC acquired this benefit when it allied with al-­Qaida to become AQIM. Though few recruits ­were attracted to the cause in Algeria, more sought to join an organ­ization associated with al-­Qaida’s cause ­after 9/11. Alliances offer ave­nues for groups to acquire new capability, expand existing capacity, or conduct ongoing activities more efficiently.76 Groups can provide one another with knowledge, train one another in new skills, or teach



Introduction

19

one another improved techniques. Through alliances, groups can share best practices and lessons learned, thereby improving and accelerating one another’s knowledge, skill, and materiel acquisition pro­cesses.77 An organ­ization can learn more effective methods and avoid ­mistakes made by their partner.78 An organ­ization’s research and development can benefit its partners as well. For example, al-­Qaida advised AQIM on how to avoid aerial surveillance based on its experience in Af­ghan­i­stan and Pakistan.79 Or allies may recommend shortcuts that produce the same outcome using less manpower or equipment. While alliances may precipitate additional counterterrorism pressure, conversely, alliances can help groups withstand or circumvent counterterrorism pressure. In par­tic­u­lar, alliances help groups survive in hostile environments, when operating in states with greater capacity or in places with autocratic regimes.80 Furthermore, alliances can diffuse counterterrorism pressure among more groups, thereby reducing the amount that individual groups experience. For this reason, al-­Qaida encouraged its allies to attack in the West, noting in its internal communications that “it is better for us that someone ­w ill share this responsibility with us and also to disperse and scatter the enemies efforts, instead of concentrating only on Al-­Qaida.”81 Groups that enjoy sanctuary may offer partners a place to operate beyond their adversaries’ reach. In addition, allies may provide facilitation or logistical assistance that makes their activities less detectable. Alliances can improve partnering groups’ positions vis-­à-­v is their competitors and their bargaining position.82 An ally may help a group to compete more effectively with its rivals. Few groups are immune to concerns about competition ­because of terrorist groups’ propensity to splinter. However, an ally can help a group to differentiate itself from rivals or attract more support and resources. Following the Islamic State’s announcement that it had formed a caliphate, a number of the initial pledges of allegiance came from small groups seeking to improve their relative position in their po­liti­cal market by aligning with a partner with prestige in jihadi circles. In addition, signals of outside support can enhance groups’ bargaining strength.83 Alliances offer a number of benefits, and, ­under some conditions, they are sufficient to warrant the risks. For some groups, the assets acquired through an alliance can be the difference between survival and extinction or between victory and defeat. Given groups’ propensity to ally with select,

20

Introduction

highly capable organ­izations, it appears that certain groups—­alliance hubs—­ are better positioned than most to bestow t­ hese benefits.

The Groups at the Center of Alliance Networks Given the risks and potential gains involved, terrorist groups select their partners carefully. Following the internationalization of terrorism in 1968, cooperation between terrorist actors flourished to previously unseen levels.84 At the time, a controversial theory gained traction, positing that this increased collaboration was state driven, a conspiracy hatched by the Soviet Union and the Communist bloc to coordinate terrorist groups’ efforts against the West.85 Instead, Kent Layne Oots found that a small number of terrorist groups acted in a manner akin to “major powers” by providing aid and resources to ­others, primarily ­those of similar ideological orientation.86 Similarly, in his examination of al-­Qaida, Jason Burke likened its alliance be­hav­ior within the Sunni Islamic militant milieu to a ­great power’s alliance posture in the international system.87 More recently, Horo­witz and Potter similarly found that “selective cooperation results in a core/periphery structure in the network of terrorist alliances.”88 Asal and colleagues also found that “terrorist organ­izations tend to prefer network structures that are or­ga­nized into cliques or subgroups.”89 Clearly groups at the center of ­these clusters, termed alliance hubs, are desirable partners. Not surprisingly, they also tend to be highly capable organ­izations.90 An alliance hub is a group that operates at the center of an alliance network. Alliance hubs function as focal points around which groups orbit and to which they are drawn. Like states, terrorist organ­izations seeking alliances with the most advantageous partners can lead to a system in which a few groups become highly connected. This clustering around certain entities resembles what network scientists call a star: one entity at the center with ties with other entities radiating from it.91 Hubs demonstrate an exceptional propensity to ally with other organ­izations. They possess an ability to more readily overcome the obstacles to cooperation and forge alliances, thereby amassing and distributing the corresponding benefits. A growing body of research indicates that hubs’ alliances have dire consequences.92 In general, research on social movements indicates that organ­ izations at the center of alliance networks garner the most benefit in terms of knowledge diffusion and exposure to novel tactics; they are also the most



Introduction

21

active exporter of tactics.93 Alliance hubs build terrorist co­ali­tions that influence and shape broader terrorist movements. They have agenda-­setting power and influence the be­hav­ior and objectives of allies.94 More specifically, Horo­witz and Potter found that terrorist groups closely allied with hubs are more likely to gain capability that leads to greater lethality. They also found that connections to hubs improve groups’ capability more than alliances with less-­connected organ­izations.95 In addition, Phillips concluded that multiple alliances improve groups’ longevity; therefore, hubs become more resilient through their alliances.96 Consequently, understanding why groups become alliance hubs and why they attract partners ­will lead to more effective policy interventions. The existence of alliance hubs poses a puzzle in light of the obstacles. And their alliance success is anomalous. Hubs’ exceptionality—­and impact—­ makes them both impor­tant and theoretically difficult to explain. This leads to the central questions of this book: Why do terrorist group alliances cluster around hubs? What makes hubs desirable alliance partners? Why do hubs seek to build such co­ali­tions?

The Shortfalls of Conventional Wisdom in Explaining Alliance Hubs The ­factors that motivate groups to become alliance hubs and other groups to cluster around them remain si­mul­ta­neously undertheorized and overgeneralized. The prevailing wisdom on terrorist alliances assumes that common enemies or shared ideologies motivate alliances, while remaining ­silent about the many instances when ­these commonalities exist, but do not produce alliances with a hub. Moreover, the causal mechanisms by which ideology or enemies produce an alliance with a hub are underspecified. What constitutes shared ideologies or enemies is sometimes applied in an elastic way, fitted to explain the presence or absence of a partnership on a case-­by-­case basis with ­little consistency or predictive accuracy. It remains unclear how common enemies should be weighed or what level of ideological compatibility ­causes an alliance. The shortfalls of conventional wisdom become more acute when examining the alliance patterns that produce hubs. If ideological solidarity ­causes alliances with hubs, why do alliances cluster in a spoke-­and-­hub arrangement? Conventional wisdom does not provide insight into why the spokes do

22

Introduction

not ally equally with one another, as groups in the cluster would seemingly share an ideology as well. Similarly, common enemies do not fully explain this alliance pattern ­because spokes should also oppose the same adversaries and thus should equally ally with one another as well. Is the E ­ nemy of My E ­ nemy My Friend?

Governments, terrorist groups, experts, and even casual observers often invoke the adage that terrorist organ­izations ally to fight common enemies. Indeed, groups with a shared target do have a higher probability of working together.97 This idea is used to explain “strange bedfellows,” groups that have ideological differences but cooperate against shared enemies. For example, in the indictment of the 1998 bombings of the U.S. embassies in ­Kenya and Tanzania, the U.S. government charged that “bin Laden . . . ​and other ranking members stated privately that al-­Qaida should put aside its differences with the Shiite Muslim terrorist organ­izations, including the Government of Iran and its affiliated terrorist group, Hizballah, to cooperate against the perceived common ­enemy, the United States and its allies.”98 Similarly, commenting on the prospects for a relationship between al-­Qaida and Hizballah, counterterrorism expert Paul Pillar remarked that given the two groups’ common enemies, he “would expect, even with all the distrust and rivalry, they would see ways in which they could cooperate.”99 Terrorist groups themselves, including hubs and their partners, publicly invoke common enemies to explain their alliance decisions. Even under­lying bin Laden’s numerous exhortations to fellow Sunni groups to ally with al-­ Qaida was the argument that unity was necessary, given the shared threat they faced from the “Crusader-­Zionist” alliance. Similarly, in its declaration announcing the alliance with al-­Qaida, the GSPC invoked this rationale. The destruction of war, the difficulty of the pres­ent situation, and the unified co­a li­tion of our enemies against us make it necessary for us to confront this co­a li­tion with our own co­a li­ tion, their alliance with our alliance, face their unified forces against our unified forces. . . . ​The United States of Amer­i­ca ­w ill only be defeated by a United States of Islam. . . . ​Our b­ rothers in Al-­Qaida organ­ization u ­ nder the lead of Mujahid Shaykh Usama Bin Laden—­may Allah protect him—­a re the best



Introduction

23

ones in this era to unify the scattered Muslims against their enemies.100 Or Brothers-­in-­Arms?

Ideological solidarity is another oft-­cited explanation, frequently offered a­ fter an alliance occurs between groups of the same ideological disposition. Indeed, alliances tend to involve groups with ideological commonalities.101 Though rarely explic­itly explained, the idea ­behind ideological solidarity seems to be that terrorist groups with common ideological platforms are attracted to one another owing to their similarities. Terrorist groups often explain their alliance decisions as necessary acts of ideological solidarity. When asked why the GSPC deci­ded to ally with al-­Qaida, the GSPC’s leader invoked ideological solidarity as well: “Joining was a legitimate necessity by the book of our God and the sunnah of our prophet, peace and blessing be upon him. . . . ​Many analysts and observers are mistaken when they think that our joining was a result of secular accounts and self-­interests. We are a jihadi ancestral community. We rely on legitimacy (from religion) before anything e­ lse as a base of our decisions.”102 The Deficiencies of Conventional Wisdom

However, the idea that common enemies and ideological solidarity explain the phenomenon ­under examination—­alliance hubs and the nonrival groups that ally with them—­faces a number of shortcomings. First, while hubs have multiple alliances, both predict that alliances should form with hubs where, in many cases, none exists. Therefore, it is unclear when, and even if, shared ideology or common enemies are sufficient to motivate an alliance with a hub. Taken alone, shared ideology and common enemies are indeterminate; groups with comparable levels of shared ideologies or enemies have dif­fer­ent alliance outcomes vis-­à-­vis hubs. They strug­gle to explain why some alliance efforts with hubs fail while o­ thers succeed. Second, ­these explanations are often invoked post hoc. This opens the possibility that dyads involving alliance hubs may have more common enemies—­and experience the accompanying threat—or appear to have greater ideological convergence as a result of an alliance rather than as the cause of it.103

24

Introduction

Third, enemies and ideology do not often shift significantly during most groups’ life span, and so they cannot explain the timing of an alliance with a hub. For example, al-­Qaida and Hizballah cooperated temporarily in the 1990s, though they continued to oppose common enemies ­a fter their cooperation subsided. Likewise, the GSPC and al-­Qaida shared an ideology and enemies for years before “God ordered them to unite.”104 Fourth, ideology and enemies are sufficiently malleable and underspecified—­​that is, groups have numerous ideological tenets and enemies—­ that terrorist organ­izations can easily cherry-­pick and claim that they allied ­because of ideological tenet X or ­enemy Z when neither X nor Z actually drove their alliance decisions. Fifth, many terrorist groups have multiple enemies, even if most primarily focus on one adversary. Yet they only ally with a subset of the groups that share ­these enemies. Al-­Qaida opposes the West, particularly the United States and Western Eu­ro­pean countries, as well as so-­called apostate regimes. The Islamic State opposes virtually every­one who is not part of the group, even other Sunni Muslims. In other words, they share enemies with many groups operating but have only allied with a subset of them. Despite the commonsense appeal and parsimony of conventional wisdom to explain nonrival alliances involving hubs, ­these shortfalls suggest that at a minimum ­there is an omitted causal mechanism operating. Furthermore, conventional wisdom may mis-­specify how shared ideologies or common enemies operate in the alliance pro­cess. As this book seeks to demonstrate, alone or in tandem neither can fully explain alliance hubs or their partnerships. Instead, I ­will argue in Chapter  1 that enemies and ideology do play an impor­tant role in alliances with hubs by influencing partner se­lection and bolstering affinity. In par­tic­u­lar, alliance hubs’ expansive ideologies and enemies make them acceptable partners to numerous organ­izations. Rather than reflecting their primary motives, groups may invoke shared ideologies and common enemies to mask the orga­nizational weakness that drives their alliances.

Conclusion Alliance hubs and their partnerships ­will continue to heighten the threat that terrorist groups pose.105 In order to more effectively divide terrorist organ­ izations and prevent ­f uture alliances, counterterrorism officials must better



Introduction

25

understand what makes alliance hubs such compelling alliance partners and how they are able to build alliance networks. While al-­Qaida has often been viewed as a unique case, other terrorist organ­izations have forged and benefited from extensive alliance networks. As Chapter 2 ­will examine, militant Palestinian organ­izations, especially the Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine and Fatah, cultivated extensive ties with other terrorist organ­ izations in the late 1960s and 1970s, serving as alliance-­hub pioneers.106 In the 1980s, the Red Army Faction endeavored to build a leftist Euro-­terrorist alliance co­ali­tion. More recently, the Islamic State has emerged as a rival alliance hub to al-­Qaida. Therefore, conditions and motives exist that span time, geography, ideology, and international conditions to produce constellations of alliances revolving around hubs. Meanwhile, existing explanations fail to convincingly explain or predict this aspect of terrorist alliance be­hav­ior. Instead, we must look more closely at the organ­izations themselves. The goal of this book is to further our understanding of several interrelated questions about this pro­cess: (1) What ­causes groups to seek an alliance despite the risks? (2) ­Under what conditions do groups select hubs as partners or agree to ally with hubs? (3) When does alliance initiation lead to alliance formation? (4) Why do alliance hubs opt to build alliance networks? Chapter 1 begins that endeavor by offering a theoretical framework that blends orga­nizational needs, identity affinity, and trust. First, orga­nizational weakness prompts alliance seeking or receptivity to hubs. Hubs become desirable partners ­because they are positioned and willing to address ­others’ orga­n izational deficiencies. Orga­n izational needs interact with identity affinity, including ideology and common frames about the ­enemy, to guide partner preferences and create a sense of affinity. Hubs possess identity features acceptable to numerous organ­izations and accept groups with shared identity features. Last, partners must build trust, if it does not already exist. Hubs develop the ability to forge trust, particularly through brokers who are ­adept at building interor­gan­i­za­tional trust. Using a wide variety of evidence and drawing from multiple disciplines, Chapter 1 lays out the conditions that lead to alliance formation with a hub: 1. the emergence of acute and/or growing shortfalls in a group’s knowledge, skills, or resource mobilization capability as a result of orga­nizational youth, orga­nizational crises, or unanticipated changes in the environment;

26

Introduction

2. a recognition within the group, especially by leaders, of t­ hese deficits, an inability to address them through self-­reform, and internal dynamics that are receptive to alliances; 3. the identification of a hub partner that can help address the orga­nizational deficits and that shares identity characteristics, particularly ideology and/or e­ nemy narratives; and 4. a willingness to build trust based on shared identity characteristics, previous interactions, personal friendships, and/or reputation. Chapter 1 concludes with a discussion of the book’s methodology, including case se­lection, and lays out the plan of the remainder of the book.

Chapter 1

A Theory of Alliance Hubs and Alliance Formation

Al-­Qaida and the Islamic State are locked in a competition for allies among Sunni jihadist groups. In terms of their ideology, enemies, and objectives, the two groups have more similarities than differences.1 Both groups adhere to a Sunni jihadist ideology that rejects the current international system, ­opposes the governments in it, and aims to reestablish the caliphate. They both promulgate the idea that Islam is ­under attack, which they argue creates an individual duty for Muslims everywhere to defend it. They employ a similar violent “defense,” which includes terrorist attacks in the West and efforts to provoke Western military interventions. They see the West and its system of demo­cratic governance as antithetical to sharia law and hostile to the creation of “true” Islamic states. As Bruce Hoffman argued, “Their differences are rooted more in clashing egos and tone than substance.”2 Yet they have built competing alliance networks, and their rivalry has divided the Sunni jihadist milieu. Their alliance be­hav­ior and the be­hav­ior of Sunni jihadist organ­izations raise two sets of questions, one about the allied groups and another about the hubs. First, why do numerous groups seek alliance with ­these two organ­ izations? Once an alliance is initiated, what influences ­whether alliance formation is successful or not? Second, why have ­these two groups in par­tic­u­lar opted to build alliance networks? Why have they been successful at building alliances? Given al-­Qaida and the Islamic State’s similarities, their ideology and enemies alone cannot fully explain other Sunni jihadist groups’ alliance decisions nor can they explain the two groups’ ability and desire to become alliance hubs.

28

Chapter 1

As the al-­Qaida and Islamic State examples illustrate, the notion that hubs form or that groups cluster around hubs in response to ideological solidarity or common enemies is at best incomplete and underspecified, strongly suggesting that other causal mechanisms operate. The most glaring deficiency of conventional wisdom is its omission of the organ­izations themselves. If considered at all, orga­nizational dynamics are relegated to having second-­order influence.3 However, like all other organ­izations, terrorist groups seek to survive. Moreover, as exclusive organ­izations often living ­under threat or repression, orga­nizational survival is a priority. Consequently, the need to secure the organ­ization influences be­hav­ior and, I ­will argue, can lead to alliances with hubs. Therefore, terrorist groups’ actions, including their alliances, cannot be understood by looking solely at their ideology, po­ liti­cal goals, and enemies.4 In this chapter, I lay out my argument that three mechanisms are jointly sufficient for alliance formation with hubs: orga­nizational needs, identity affinity, and trust. First, groups are willing to or attempt to ally with hubs when they face orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs that leave them misaligned with their environment and thereby endanger their viability. Alliances with hubs provide groups with a way to address shortcomings and secure orga­nizational survival ­because hubs possess the ability and willingness to address common needs. Hubs are willing to do so ­because they are or­g an­i­za­tion­a lly ambitious groups, a trait that generates perpetual orga­nizational needs they endeavor to fulfill through ­a lliances. Second, the central role of orga­nizational needs in alliances does not ­preclude that ideologies and enemies influence alliance be­hav­ior as well. The conventional wisdom that ideological solidarity and common enemies motivate alliances incorrectly specifies how shared ideologies and common enemies function in the alliance pro­cess. Instead, as identity characteristics, ideology and ­enemy framing shape and constrain groups’ partner choices. I argue that identity is not the primary motive for alliances, nor is it simply a construct that leaders or groups can manipulate at ­will for instrumental reasons. When seeking an ally to address orga­nizational needs, groups choose partners with which they share identity features. To ally, they build shared identities, which engender cohesion and enhance commitment to cooperate. Hubs become preferred alliance partners among a subset of groups with shared identity features. They build alliance networks consisting of part-



Theory of Alliance Hubs and Alliance Formation

29

ners with common identity features in an effort to shape their identity community. Third, alliances require trust. Like identity affinity, trust alone is insufficient to motivate or produce alliances, but alliances cannot form without it. Owing to their suspicious and illicit nature, terrorist groups strug­gle to forge and maintain trust. Mistrust can derail an alliance even when orga­ nizational needs and identity affinity exist. Several ­f actors, namely, prior ­cooperation, the presence of brokers who forge interor­gan­i­za­tional relationships, indirect ties, and reputations, encourage but do not guarantee trust. Hubs possess the ability to forge trust despite the obstacles. This chapter elucidates ­these three causal mechanisms and the inter­ actions between them, drawing from several lit­er­a­tures, including orga­nizational theory, the business alliance theory, network theory, social movement ­t heory, and constructivism. First, it explains the ways in which orga­ nizational theory applies to terrorist groups, including how orga­nizational dynamics influence their receptivity to alliances. Then it delves into how orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs precipitate alliances with hubs and how orga­nizational need types and fit affect alliance formation. The next section examines how ideology and ­enemy framing underpin terrorist groups’ collective identity, limiting their partner options to ­those with shared identity characteristics and bolstering their willingness to cooperate with ­those that do share such characteristics. It then outlines how groups build shared identities to form alliances. Third, it explores the role of trust in the alliance pro­cess and posits characteristics that encourage trust. This includes identifying the loci of trust between groups to facilitate alliance formation. Fi­nally, I conclude the chapter with a discussion of the methodology and case se­lection used to test the proposed mechanisms that produce alliance hubs and alliances with them.

The Primacy of the Organ­ization The be­hav­ior of terrorist groups is often conceived of as adhering to a strategic model in which ­these groups operate rationally based on a utility function of preferences derived from their ideology and po­liti­cal objectives.5 To some degree, the conventional wisdom about terrorist alliances stems from this framework. However, the strategic model is incomplete at best ­because it

30

Chapter 1

does not account for the organ­izations themselves. As Gordon McCormick explained, some of their be­hav­ior “can only be understood by looking inside the group itself. A terrorist organ­ization is not a black box but a living system, subject to a range of influences that may be only tangentially related to its stated strategic objectives.”  6 Fundamentally, like all organ­izations, terrorist groups seek to survive. Moreover, their tendency to be exclusive organ­izations—­establishing membership criteria and accepting only ­those who share their beliefs and meet their standards—­intensifies their commitment to orga­nizational survival.7 Not only do terrorist groups limit who can join; they often pressure members to shed competing roles and identities while encouraging them to develop strong internal affective ties, which increases the emphasis on the organ­ization and the corresponding identity.8 In addition, terrorist groups see themselves as the essential engine to accomplishing the po­liti­cal change they seek. Consequently, they conflate achieving their strategic goals with their orga­nizational circumstances, particularly the viability of the group. The cooperation and consultation offered through alliances can provide a way to repair orga­nizational deficiencies, like a lack of knowledge, skills, or resource mobilization capability needed ­under the prevailing conditions. When a group recognizes its misalignment with the environment and cannot address the prob­lem on its own, it may search for allies to address them, as long as this solution fits within its internal decision-­making dynamics. An organ­ization risks becoming misaligned owing to shifts in the environment or within the organ­ization itself. Hubs are groups positioned to provide the requisite assistance to help ­others become aligned. They are partners able and willing to impart the knowledge, skills, or resource mobilization assistance that other groups need. Hubs are not simply altruistic. Their orga­nizational aspirations produce perpetual orga­nizational needs that alliances help address. In this section, I begin by discussing why orga­nizational imperatives shape terrorist groups’ be­hav­ior in general before delving into the two ways they specifically influence alliance be­hav­ior. First, orga­nizational pro­ cesses facilitate or hinder groups’ willingness to consider alliances as a solution to orga­nizational prob­lems. Second, orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs precipitate alliance initiation with hubs. Third, I explore the role of orga­nizational needs in shaping the success or failure of alliance formation. Fourth, I discuss how orga­nizational aspirations motivate a small subset of



Theory of Alliance Hubs and Alliance Formation

31

groups to become alliance hubs and how their capability and resources deter­ mine their ability to do so. Recognizing Orga­nizational Imperatives

Terrorist groups balance their pursuit of strategic goals with the need to ­preserve and advance the organ­ization.9 As entities that place a premium on in-­group cohesion, orga­nizational obligations and dynamics guide terrorist groups’ be­hav­ior.10 Terrorist groups’ perception that they are necessary to achieve po­liti­cal change, the conditions u ­ nder which they operate, the nature of intragroup relationships, their biases ­toward action, and their tendency ­toward goal displacement all interact to create and reinforce a commitment to orga­nizational survival. Given their clandestine and violent characteristics, looking inside terrorist organ­izations poses challenges, which contributes to orga­nizational dynamics being overlooked. Despite terrorist groups’ deliberate opaqueness about their inner workings, they share the same general goal as all organ­ izations, namely, orga­nizational survival.11 Moreover, terrorist organ­izations view their survival as vital ­because they see themselves as both ­under threat and responsible for an essential change. The status quo resists the change, and, therefore, accomplishing it may be a long-­term or even an abstract endeavor. Members’ commitment to the group helps to maintain their dedication to strategic objectives that can seem unattainable in the foreseeable ­f uture. As a result, terrorist groups become committed to orga­nizational survival, sometimes even at the expense of their po­liti­cal aims. The isolation, hazards, and liabilities of being a clandestine, illicit, and violent entity solidify intragroup bonds and reinforce the emphasis on orga­ nizational survival.12 Terrorist groups are far more tight-­k nit than most organ­izations in part ­because of the dangers and costs of membership.13 Terrorist groups operate ­u nder conditions that require group solidarity, namely, engaging in clandestine and violent activities, often ­under repression or pursuit. Disunity and discord could cost lives and destroy the organ­ ization. Arrests, lapses, or defections leave the organ­ization vulnerable. Thus, the need for terrorist groups to maintain secrecy increases the de­pen­dency of members on one another. In addition, terrorist organ­izations foster a strong sense of in-­group ­dependence to secure loyalty. As exclusive organ­izations, terrorist groups limit members’ external ties and demand their allegiance, which aids in the

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development of committed members and group cohesion. By limiting members’ outside ties, often through acts of “bridge burning,” groups neutralize countervailing influences or loyalties.14 They can engage in “spirals of encapsulation” whereby members cut off links to the external world as intragroup relations grow.15 Terrorist groups often encourage dependence on the group. The value of membership and the centrality of intragroup relationships increase over time, especially if the group operates underground.16 Eventually, members identify their needs and interests with ­those of the group. The emphasis on intragroup cohesion tends to engender a commensurately strong commitment to orga­nizational viability and reinforce terrorist groups’ dedication to their own existence. Orga­nizational failure means losing central relationships and the identity forged through being a member of the group.17 Terrorist groups also experience an internal tension that contributes to the weight given to orga­nizational considerations: a bias ­toward action to satisfy and attract members.18 This preoccupation has merit, considering that nearly 60 ­percent of members in secular groups and 43 ­percent of religious group members interviewed by Jerrold Post and colleagues admitted to joining the most active terrorist organ­ization.19 When a desire for action dominates, especially if action becomes necessary for internal satisfaction, a group’s activities become less connected to its po­liti­cal aims and more about ensuring orga­nizational viability. 20 Essentially, the means by which the organ­ ization seeks to achieve its goals—­vio­lence and the perpetuation of the group—­become ends unto themselves, irrespective of ­either’s efficacy in achieving strategic aims.21 When this occurs, the need to preserve the group dictates much of an organ­ization’s choices and be­hav­ior.22 Such goal displacement is not a fringe phenomenon, given the precarious­ ness of terrorist groups’ orga­nizational survival.23 In addition, as Martha Crenshaw observed, “The longer a terrorist organ­ization exists, the more likely that group solidarity ­will replace po­liti­cal purpose as the dominant incentive for members.”24 This helps explain why groups persist even a­ fter many of their goals ostensibly have been accomplished or when their po­liti­cal demands are no longer relevant to the environment. 25 A minority of groups end ­because they achieve their goals, even circumscribed versions of their objectives. 26 Orga­nizational survival alone can become an indicator of “success” for group members. 27 Even in groups that do not experience goal displacement, members’ sense of accomplishment depends on their organ­ization’s well-­being. Despite ter-



Theory of Alliance Hubs and Alliance Formation

33

rorist groups’ tendency to emphasize ideological and strategic considerations, not all members join or stay in the organ­ization solely or even primarily for ­these reasons.28 They are also enticed by incentives like the desire for status, a sense of belonging, friendships, excitement, or even the prospect of material gain.29 In addition, terrorist groups’ leaders often attract followers through their personal charisma, and their egos are inextricably linked to the viability of the groups they lead.30 Consequently, one core objective is to preserve the organ­ization, and groups develop orga­nizational pro­cesses to secure that end.31 Orga­nizational Receptivity to Alliances

All organ­izations develop orga­nizational knowledge, rules, routines, and memories to facilitate decision making. Orga­nizational learning produces orga­nizational knowledge. Groups convert orga­nizational knowledge into rules and routines, which translate past experience into methods that ­will accomplish goals, resolve inconsistencies, and help interpret the environment. Groups incorporate orga­nizational knowledge and the corresponding rules and routines into orga­nizational memories that current members draw from and pass on to ­f uture members.32 Groups use their knowledge, rules, routines, and memories as filters to operate and make decisions. Terrorist groups in par­tic­u­lar face per­sis­tent uncertainty and limited information; therefore, they rely on orga­nizational pro­cesses.33 Groups ingrain orga­nizational pro­cesses into their orga­nizational cultures, which governs their be­hav­ior. Elizabeth Kier explained that orga­ nizational culture refers to “the set of basic assumptions, values, norms, beliefs and formal knowledge that shape collective understanding.”34 She pointed out that orga­nizational culture “shapes its members’ perceptions and affects what they notice and how they interpret it; it screens out some parts of real­ ity while magnifying ­others.”35 Orga­nizational culture guides groups’ decision making, causing certain courses of action to be more or less likely. As entities that devote significant attention to the assimilation and obedience of their members, terrorist groups carefully cultivate and adhere to their orga­nizational cultures.36 As a result, orga­nizational cultures—­and the pro­ cesses that underpin them—­g uide how terrorist groups address prob­lems. Leaders are of central importance to orga­nizational pro­cesses, especially for terrorist organ­izations. They play a central role in crafting and perpetuating orga­nizational cultures, memories, and knowledge. While terrorist

34

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leaders shape orga­nizational pro­cesses, they are si­mul­ta­neously constrained by them once the pro­cesses are in place. Disregard for orga­nizational pro­cesses risks damaging the leaders’ authority or the groups’ internal cohesion. Therefore, orga­nizational pro­cesses also guide and limit leaders’ decision making. Orga­nizational dynamics affect terrorist groups’ alliance be­hav­ior in two ways. First, the likelihood that a group ­will consider an alliance depends, in part, on ­whether it possesses orga­nizational pro­cesses that include or are receptive to alliances. Groups with orga­nizational pro­cesses that privilege alliances ­will readily seek allies, as is the case with hubs. On the other end of the spectrum, some groups inadvertently omit alliances from their orga­ nizational pro­cesses ­because of a lack of exposure to them when creating their orga­nizational pro­cesses. For ­others, the hurdles that inhibit alliances, as discussed in the Introduction, dissuade them from including alliances in their pro­cesses, particularly if any of ­those hurdles pose a par­tic­u­lar threat in their environment. For example, if an adversary aggressively attempts infiltration, an organ­ization may be reticent to forge alliances for fear that alliances ­w ill expose them to penetration. Still other groups, such as the Shining Path, create highly insular and xenophobic orga­nizational cultures, which help to secure internal loyalty but inhibit connections to outside organ­izations. Groups that do not include alliances in their orga­nizational pro­cesses may become receptive to alliances during periods when they are updating or revising orga­nizational pro­cess, such as ­after orga­nizational crises or changes in the environment, as ­w ill be discussed ­later. However, if a group deliberately excludes alliances from its orga­nizational pro­cesses, it ­will not consider alliances to solve prob­lems, even if it would benefit from an alliance. Alliance hubs generate greater cognizance about the accessibility and ­advantages of alliances, which can encourage ­others to include alliances in their orga­nizational pro­cesses. Hubs can heighten other groups’ awareness of alliances by visibly including allies in their attacks. As ­will be discussed in Chapter 2, the Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP) included operatives from the Japa­nese Red Army in three attacks, all of which garnered substantial media coverage and demonstrated the viability of allying with a hub to conduct high-­profile attacks. Hubs sometimes tout allies in their propaganda, or their partners invoke them in public statements. For example, as w ­ ill be discussed in Chapter 4, al-­Qaida issued a declaration of war against the United States in 1998 with four other signatories in an



Theory of Alliance Hubs and Alliance Formation

35

effort to show it had amassed a terrorist co­ali­tion. Similarly, as ­will be discussed in Chapter 5 ­a fter 9/11, al-­Qaida forged alliances that involved its partners adopting its name to ensure its alliances ­were vis­i­ble. Hubs can also foster alliance awareness by teaching allies how to conduct similar attacks. Al-­Qaida became known for simultaneous suicide bombings; therefore, when ­others used this tactic, the press or governments often speculated about the perpetrators’ potential relationship with al-­Qaida. Hubs tend to receive media coverage for their attacks and relationships, which produces awareness. Therefore, groups operating at the same time as hubs may incorporate alliances into their orga­n izational pro­cesses in part ­because of the recognition that hubs cultivate. Once alliances become part of groups’ orga­ nizational routines, they tend to seek alliances when they face subsequent prob­lems.37 While orga­nizational pro­cesses make groups more or less receptive to alliances, they do not explain what precipitates them. The motives that stimulate alliances highlight the second way that orga­nizational dynamics influence alliance be­hav­ior. Like other organ­izations, terrorist groups must maintain a knowledge, skill, and resource mobilization capacity appropriate to their environment in order to survive and remain relevant.38 When orga­nizational knowledge, skills, or resource mobilization techniques become outdated or inapplicable, groups become misaligned with their environment. This can happen when organ­izations do not reevaluate and update in response to changes within the group or in the environment. If significant, misalignment leads to orga­nizational decline or even death. Therefore, if groups include alliances in their orga­nizational pro­cesses, orga­nizational learning and adaptation requirements can trigger alliance seeking or receptivity, particularly when groups cannot readily address the requirements through self-­reform. Orga­nizational Learning and Adaptation Needs: Motivating Alliances

Like other organ­izations, terrorist groups must continually question, verify, and adjust how they interact with their environments. Orga­nizational longevity and prosperity depend on a group’s ability to learn, anticipate, and adapt. An organ­ization’s failure to align itself with its environment produces instability and decline.39 Conversely, organ­izations appropriately aligned with their environment are competitive, effective, and innovative.40 Like social movements, how organ­izations “structure and restructure in response to the

36

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opportunities and constraints in their environment impacts their be­hav­ior and success.” 41 Orga­nizational learning and adaptation provide the basis for orga­ nizational survival.42 While intensive at the beginning, orga­nizational learning and adaptation occur to some degree throughout a group’s life span as it continuously interacts with its environment. What constitutes orga­ nizational learning? Marlene Fiol and Marjorie Lyles defined it as “the development of insights, knowledge, and association between past actions, the effectiveness of ­those actions, and ­f uture actions.” 43 Brian Jackson described orga­nizational learning for terrorist organ­izations as “a pro­cess through which members of a group acquire new knowledge that can be applied in strategic decision-­making, tactical planning or design, and operational activities.”  44 In this book, orga­nizational learning refers to the development of new knowledge, skills, or resource mobilization capability that can be applied in decision-­ making, planning, or operational activities. The related pro­cess of orga­nizational adaptation refers to groups’ adjustments to their knowledge, skills, or resource mobilization capability in response to exogenous changes, environmental changes, or changes to the organ­ization.45 Orga­nizational adaptability refers to a group’s ability to “alter or modify its components to match changes in their external environment.” 46 Groups vary in their ability to adapt; orga­ nizational adaptation, like learning, can include relatively minor adjustments or significant changes. Discrepancies between a group’s knowledge, skill, and resource mobilization capability and its environment generate orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs. Incongruities can occur at vari­ous points along the knowledge, skill, and resource mobilization spectrum and can vary in their scope and severity. Alliances can offer a way to address orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs, that is, to acquire skills, knowledge, and resource mobilization capability, for groups that face opportunity structures that are not ­conducive to addressing ­t hese needs on their own. Consequently, groups seek partners that possess the needed knowledge, skills, and resource mobilization capability. As Ranjay Gulati describes it, “a situation in which one organ­ization has resources or capabilities beneficial to but not possessed by the other” can motivate an alliance.47 Alliance hubs become desirable alliance partners ­because they can fulfill other organ­izations’ learning and adaptation needs. They possess knowledge, skills, and resource mobilization capability in demand in the prevailing conditions. For example, a discrepancy can exist between a group’s rationale



Theory of Alliance Hubs and Alliance Formation

37

for vio­lence and its current environment. A hub may offer a reputation or related cause with greater resonance for a partner to pursue in order to improve its resource mobilization capability. A group’s inability to circumvent the countermea­sures used by its adversary also requires orga­nizational learning and adaptation; a partner can train a group in a new skill or technique to employ. Something as ­simple as the inability to acquire and use weapons that ­will be effective against adversaries requires orga­nizational adaptation. An ally can assist in the acquisition of the appropriate weapon and provide training in its use. If left unaddressed, discrepancies between a group’s capabilities and its environment lead to orga­nizational decline and even death if the gap is ­sufficiently serious. Some groups ­will fail to recognize their deficiencies and succumb to a downward trajectory. ­Others ­will diagnose the prob­lem and then face a choice: continue without addressing the shortfalls, undertake self-­reform, or seek an ally to assist. If the group determines it must address the deficiency but cannot or ­will not undertake self-­reform, it ­will look for an ally that can address the prob­lem. Overall, orga­nizational needs stimulate alliances with hubs; in par­tic­u­lar, alliance initiation occurs in response to orga­nizational or environmental circumstances that render a group’s knowledge, skill, and resource mobilization ability inadequate. Groups experience learning and adaptation needs during periods of significant change, such as when they are young, they are recovering from crisis, or the environment is changing swiftly or in unanticipated ways.48 The corresponding learning and adaptation challenges can spur alliance initiation with a hub. A group may recognize that the gap between its abilities and its environment is significant and growing, to the point that the group cannot address it on its own. Or a group may acknowledge that the need to adapt and learn is acute or urgent, and, therefore, an alliance hub can accelerate its learning or adaptation pro­cess. Orga­n izational Age Orga­nizational age affects orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs, orga­nizational pro­cesses, and, by extension, alliance be­hav­ior. The early years of a group’s existence is both a time of intense learning and adaptation and the period during which groups develop problem-­solving routines to apply ­later. Discrepancies between a group’s abilities and its environment may be both acute and substantial early in its life span. Si­mul­ta­neously, it may lack

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self-­reform capability; therefore, it may seek an ally to assist in addressing the gap. Organ­izations can transition to terrorism ­a fter attempting nonviolent strategies to redress their grievances and thus may have limited experience employing vio­lence or operating illicitly. At this point, they may lack the requisite skills, knowledge, and resource mobilization capability needed to conduct terrorism, maintain orga­nizational security, and protect themselves from adversaries. At the same time, young organ­izations tend to be responsive to their environment, sensitive to shortfalls, and receptive to ways to redress them.49 If they are unable to attain self-­reform, they may seek an ally. The confluence of orga­nizational needs and orga­nizational openness that groups experience at a young age is conducive to alliances. However, young groups may have a limited ability to forge alliances ­because they may not be desirable partners, which exacerbates the hurdles. They need partners with certain skills, experience, and resources but may be unable to reciprocate. This can heighten prospective partners’ concerns about defection and other hurdles. Furthermore, young groups usually cannot rely on their reputation to assure partners. This may help explain why newly minted groups do not often forge alliances, even though this theory posits that they could benefit from them.50 Young groups’ difficulties forging alliances may contribute to terrorist organ­izations’ low survival rate beyond their first year.51 Countervailing forces are at work: orga­nizational youth generates needs that should motivate alliances, though young organ­izations can be unattractive partners. Unlike other groups, hubs may be willing to attempt cooperation and initiate alliances with young groups despite the uncertainty. Hubs can behave in a manner roughly akin to venture capital firms, providing resources to “startup” terrorist groups in the hopes of ­f uture returns. Young organ­ izations may be receptive to hubs’ influence, making them desirable partners in light of hubs’ ambitions. Young groups are attracted to hubs ­because of their ability and willingness to fulfill orga­nizational needs. Allying with a hub can provide a young organ­ization with status beyond its credentials. Furthermore, young groups may not be aware of all of the alliance options and, thus, may turn to high-­profile hubs. Orga­nizational age continues to impact alliance be­hav­ior as groups ­mature. As they get older, organ­izations tend to become less flexible and more resistant to change.52 This tendency affects alliance propensity in two ways. First, older organ­izations may be slower to recognize their misalignment with



Theory of Alliance Hubs and Alliance Formation

39

the environment. If they do not recognize their deficiencies, they ­will not seek allies to address them. Second, as discussed earlier, if groups do not have exposure to alliances when they are establishing their orga­nizational pro­ cesses, they may fail to recognize alliances’ utility ­later in their orga­nizational life. If they become misaligned with the environment, they have to determine how to self-­reform or experience decline. Conversely, groups that forge alliances early in their life span or cooperate with hubs may incorporate alliances into their orga­nizational pro­cesses to address subsequent learning and adaptation needs. When such needs arise again as they mature, alliances ­will be among the solutions they consider. Recovering from a Crisis Arguably more than any other kind of organ­ization, terrorist groups that survive over the long term must be resilient and have the ability to recover from setbacks and disruptions. They have to cope with personnel losses and turnover. Adversarial governments or rivals may inflict damage to their personnel, materiel, or resource mobilization capability. The threat can even come from within, given terrorist groups’ propensity to splinter, which produces a competitor while the parent organ­ization may be in crisis from the loss.53 As a result, a terrorist group’s orga­nizational age is not simply the tally of the number of years it has existed. Crises can reset a group’s ­orga­nizational age. Such orga­nizational rebirths are not exclusive to terrorist organ­izations. In his study of the diffusion of military innovation, Michael Horo­w itz ­calculated the orga­nizational age of militaries based on the number of years that had lapsed since a regime change or defeat in a major war.54 Similarly, significant losses reset terrorist organ­izations’ ages, particularly ­those that involve the sizable damage to orga­nizational knowledge or losses that discredit existing orga­nizational pro­cesses. ­A fter an age reset, acute orga­nizational needs may exist, and groups may reevaluate their orga­nizational dynamics. Perhaps the most serious disruption a terrorist group can experience is the loss of its leader. In addition to a leader’s influence on orga­nizational pro­ cesses and culture, organ­izations’ responses to knowledge, skills, or resource mobilization needs are limited to ­those options that a leader believes ­will both be successful and allow effective command and control.55 This includes ­whether to engage in alliances and with whom to build ties.56 New leaders come into the position with their own problem-­solving techniques and

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decision-­making pro­cesses. Therefore, groups that have recently experienced a leadership change—­and, by extension, are reevaluating their orga­nizational pro­cesses and grappling with learning and adaptation challenges—­may seek hubs’ assistance, even if they ­were not receptive before.57 Conversely, groups may reject allies even though they ­were previously receptive ­because new leaders sometimes fear that an alliance w ­ ill reduce their command and control. Consequently, terrorist groups may initiate an alliance with hubs ­after crises that reset their orga­nizational age. At this point, groups are, in essence, young organ­izations. Accordingly, they experience orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs. They may seek an ally to repair the lost knowledge, skill, and resource mobilization capability and to address the shortfalls that led to the losses. Changes to the Environment Thus far, the changes discussed focused on changes to the organ­ization. However, exogenous changes can render a group’s knowledge, skills, or resource mobilization capability deficient. When the environment changes rapidly or in unanticipated ways, groups may seek an alliance hub to help them adapt or learn. Such changes can include the emergence or improvement of a competitor that siphons off support. An adversary government may acquire improved capability, such as new technologies that significantly improve its detection, denial, and disruption capabilities. An escalation of government pressure or a new military offensive can change the environment dramatically. Other major alterations to the environment include regime change or other po­liti­cal developments that have a bearing on the groups’ grievances. The corresponding needs and uncertainty about ­f uture requirements can stimulate alliances as a means to access and acquire knowledge, skills, or resource mobilization capacity to learn and adapt.58 Recognizing and Responding to Deficiencies Irrespective of ­whether the source is orga­nizational youth, orga­nizational crisis, or environmental changes, a group must recognize its deficiencies and then determine its response. Groups possess varying levels of plasticity, which refers to an organ­ization’s capacity to adapt its be­hav­ior in the face of feedback about the effectiveness of its actions.59 In some cases, groups fail to recognize the need for adjustments or incorrectly diagnose their ailments. Due



Theory of Alliance Hubs and Alliance Formation

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to their insularity and strong in-­group identities, terrorist groups are prone to orga­nizational pathologies, like groupthink, and can function as an echo chamber in which they affirm one another and ignore criticism. Often suspicious of outsiders or having severed outside ties, terrorist groups can lack alternative sources of information. Their orga­nizational cultures may discourage criticism and debate. Consequently, few dissenting or critical influences may operate, and ­there may be an absence of “evaluative mechanisms by which to assess per­for­mance and goals.”  60 This can prevent members from voicing or even recognizing concerns about the organ­ization’s weakened state. Consequently, its efficacy, health, and viability w ­ ill suffer. If a group, particularly a group’s leader, recognizes that it is experiencing learning or adaptation needs, it ­faces a decision about how to address them. Groups may prefer self-­reform ­because it poses fewer risks. Self-­reform can involve emulating other groups’ practices or tactics, which can be mistaken for an alliance by outside observers. Groups’ ability to self-­reform is constrained by the nature of the needs, their existing capability, and their environment. If self-­reform fails or a group assesses that it cannot or ­will not undertake the requisite reforms on its own, it may search for an ally with the necessary capabilities. Even when a group searches for an ally, it may not initially identify an appropriate ally and ­will thus undertake further searches ­until it does. This pathway can lead to hubs. Why does this circumstance lead groups to hubs? Groups seek hubs ­because of hubs’ ability to fulfill common orga­nizational needs and the reputation they develop as being willing to do so. Hubs possess knowledge, skills, and resource mobilization capacity suited to the environment. They may offer training or advising in t­ hose areas. They may offer operational capability, demonstrated through their attacks. They enjoy resources and prestige and can confer status on their partners. This combination creates a magnet effect, attracting allies. In effect, hubs become the ally of choice for groups undertaking alliance searches to fulfill common orga­nizational needs in the prevailing environment. Orga­nizational Needs and Alliance Formation

Even when groups initiate cooperation and attempt to form an alliance, only some attempts succeed. Two dynamics of orga­nizational needs influence ­whether alliance initiation results in alliance formation: the type of need

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partnering groups seek to address, and the degree of fit between partnering groups’ orga­nizational needs. Knowledge, skills, and resource mobilization techniques vary in their transferability.61 In addition, groups vary in terms of their absorptive capacity, which refers to their ability to implement what they have learned from partners.62 Orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs can be broken down generally into two categories: discrete and continuous. Even groups with limited absorptive capacity can fulfill most discrete needs through relatively straightforward and limited exchanges. Addressing discrete needs usually requires the transfer of ­simple knowledge, skills, or resources. Drawing from Kim Cragin and colleagues’ typology of technology transfers among terrorist organ­izations, discrete learning needs typically involve explicit knowledge or ­simple skills that are (1) easily teachable and observable, (2) general in purpose, and (3) easily aggregated.63 Cooperation designed to fulfill discrete needs is less conducive to alliance formation. In contrast, continuous needs can involve tacit knowledge and complicated skills that necessitate (1) in-­depth instruction that is not easily observable, (2) specialized knowledge, (3) integration into a broader system, or (4) idiosyncratic adoption.64 Such knowledge, skills, or assets promote alliance formation ­because an alliance offers a reliable means for accessing them.65 Continuous needs can require groups to have greater absorptive capacity than discrete needs for the cooperation to be successful. Most impor­tant, alliance initiation that involves cooperation intended to address continuous needs fosters greater interdependence and is more conducive to alliance formation. Another ­factor that affects alliance formation is the degree of fit between partnering groups’ orga­nizational needs and expectations.66 If a group is unable to fulfill its partners’ learning or adaptation needs or cannot meaningfully reciprocate for assistance, alliance initiation ­w ill not lead to alliance formation. Prospective allies may be unable to fill each other’s needs ­because they lack the requisite knowledge, skills, or resources, or prospective allies can have a poor fit if they are too similar. While groups need to have some similarity to adopt knowledge or skills from one another, if they are too similar, they ­w ill have ­little to offer one another.67 In addition, if allies have incompatible expectations for what needs they can address, an alliance may not form.68 Other reasons exist why partnering groups may not be a good fit for one another, including cultural or personality clashes, ideological dis-



Theory of Alliance Hubs and Alliance Formation

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agreements, and mistrust. From a narrower orga­nizational perspective, the extent to which allying groups have complementary knowledge, skills, resource mobilization capability, and shared expectations determines fit. Hubs’ Motives

Hubs are influential organ­izations within the terrorist landscape, in part ­because of their alliances. They build reputations as being capable, perhaps through sophisticated and high-­profile attacks. They possess knowledge, skills, and resource mobilization capability in demand in the environment. They possess qualities well suited for the prevailing conditions. Yet only a subset of groups that fit this description becomes alliance hubs. Building alliance networks is time consuming, costly, and risky, and involves uncertain payouts. What sets a hub apart is that it not only possesses skills, knowledge, and resource mobilization capacity, but is willing to share what it has with ­others. It is willing to share knowledge, impart skills, and provide resource mobilization assistance, such as by extending its reputation to other groups or even just sharing resources. It is willing to use its status to bolster ­others. What motivates hubs to do this? Plenty of organ­izations possess knowledge, skills, and resource mobilization capability but do not opt to share them and risk alliances. In terms of orga­nizational pro­cesses, hubs embed alliances at the center of their orga­nizational pro­cesses. In par­t ic­u ­lar, hub organ­izations’ leaders do so. They incorporate alliances into orga­nizational rules and routines and integrate them into orga­nizational memories. They cultivate orga­nizational cultures that welcome alliances. Their orga­nizational pro­cesses are not only receptive to alliances; they actively promote them. Hubs are not simply altruistic, nor do they seek allies mainly to address basic orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs that motivate ­others to ally with them. Yet hubs’ motives to build alliance networks still stem from orga­nizational needs. Hubs are or­gan­i­za­tion­ally ambitious; they have orga­ nizational missions that outstrip their capabilities and thereby require partners. They may seek to influence a broader movement as part of their orga­nizational mission. They may seek a status that they cannot obtain on their own. For example, while many Sunni jihadist groups aspire to reestablish the caliphate, al-­Qaida and the Islamic State seek that aim and want to unify and lead the Sunni jihadist movement, which underpins both of their

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desires to be alliance hubs. Their orga­nizational ambitions similarly generate a sense of perpetual orga­nizational need and, by extension, a need for partners. In other words, hubs also use alliances to fulfill orga­nizational requirements.

Identity: Constraining Choices and Creating Bonds Despite the shortfalls of conventional wisdom discussed in the Introduction, a scholarly consensus exists that shared ideologies and common enemies do influence terrorist alliances. For example, Victor Asal and colleagues argue that “ideology provides a potent path for alliance connections.”  69 They find that terrorist groups tend to ally with ideologically similar organ­izations, ­irrespective of their ideological orientation, and that groups with a shared primary target have a higher probability of working together.70 Ely Karmon contended that shared threat drives alliances, but allies need some minimum ideological common denominator, while Kent Layne Oots observed that groups prefer to assist ­others with the same ideological orientation.71 In this section I propose that instead of causing alliances, ideologies and ­enemy frames shape terrorist groups’ identities and thereby guide their partner choices and offer a basis upon which groups can build a shared identity. ­Terrorist groups, like many other entities and individuals, adhere to the homophily princi­ple and prefer to ally with ­others that are similar. First, I discuss the role of identity for terrorist organ­izations and why groups prefer partners that share identity features. Next, I explain the features of terrorist groups’ identities, namely, ideology, ­enemy narratives, and ethnicity, that ­provide a basis for identity affinity. Then, I examine how efforts to engage in identity convergence facilitate alliance formation by producing a shared identity. Fi­nally, I detail hubs’ identity features, particularly how they become acceptable partners and why they do so. The Importance of Identity

Constructivist scholars have long argued that ideational ­factors influence even states’ alliance be­hav­ior, especially among democracies. As Michael Barnett argued, “A ‘natu­ral’ security partner cannot be derived from material forces alone, for the degree of naturalness is highly dependent on familiarity and



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identity.”72 Identity also affects terrorist organ­izations’ be­hav­ior ­because it shapes “the understanding of oneself in relationship to o­ thers.”73 Collective identity has both an internal and an external component; it both binds terrorist groups together and situates them with re­spect to ­others. Collective identities prescribe norms, be­hav­ior, and definitions of right and wrong. In so ­doing, they provide a “set of norms and narratives that sustain ‘we-­ness’ through time.”74 Jerrold Post argued that for terrorist organ­izations, “the importance of collective identity and the pro­cess of forming and transforming collective identities cannot be overemphasized.”75 Collective identity functions as the lifeblood of terrorist groups, securing in-­g roup identification and the loyalty necessary for orga­nizational survival. Identity conditions “the ­actual and the pos­si­ble,” including which prospective partners are acceptable.76 The collective identity of groups influences their partner preferences, leading them to seek allies with shared identity features. ­Doing so protects and preserves the in-­group identity that internally binds members to the organ­ization. Allying with a group that lacks shared identity features risks damaging a group’s collective identity and in-­ group cohesion. Leaders may, or perhaps should, be reluctant to attempt such alliances for fear of damaging their groups’ cohesion or their authority. In addition, organ­izations with shared identity qualities are easier to “trust, like, and understand.” 77 Consequently, terrorist organ­izations use identity affinity—­a sense of mutual identification based on shared identity traits—to determine the acceptability of prospective partners.78 Identity conditions thinking such that when a group seeks a partner, it ­will search for organ­izations with which it shares sufficient identity affinity. Identity thereby delineates the bound­a ries of acceptable partners.79 In essence, groups seek partners that meet an identity threshold. Identity affinity helps to mitigate four challenges that terrorist groups face when attempting to ally. First, a shared identity encourages cooperation and reciprocation while discouraging free-­riding and defection.80 It thereby eases some of the hurdles to cooperation ­under anarchy. Second, identity affinity offers partnering groups information about one another in environments in which ­there is often a dearth of reliable information. Third, building trust is challenging, as ­will be discussed in the next section; therefore, some shared identity features can help foster trust. Identity affinity does not guarantee trust but offers an indicator of trustworthiness. Fourth, ­because alliances involve improving the knowledge, skills, and resource mobilization

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of groups, identity affinity may bolster groups’ willingness and desire to provide such assistance to one another. Features of Terrorist Groups’ Identity

In par­tic­u­lar, three components of terrorist organ­izations’ identities shape their identity affinity and, by extension, their alliance decisions: ideology, enemies, and ethnicity. First, ideology acts as perhaps the strongest basis for identity affinity. Second, shared frames about the ­enemy can offer a source of identity affinity, or it can reinforce ideological affinity. Third, and least impor­tant for alliance purposes, a common ethnicity can bolster identity affinity in conjunction with other identity features. This is not a comprehensive list of terrorist groups’ identity features, but ­these three offer sources of affinity for alliances. Of note, groups act as the final arbiter of their affinity judgment. Identity affinity is not a hard-­a nd-­fast standard uniformly applied: left-­w ing groups do not necessarily neatly categorize other groups as left wing, right wing, or religious and then ally only with other left-­wing groups. Terrorist groups sometimes exhibit an idiosyncratic approach to their determinations of affinity, as they do with their ideological platforms, ­enemy narratives, and ethnic identities. They take an eclectic approach to constructing their ideologies and frames in par­tic­u­lar, selecting tenets from vari­ous sources and then adapting them to their circumstances.81 Therefore, their notions of affinity reflect ­these tendencies. Ideology Ideology provides both the historical narrative and ­f uture vision that bind terrorist organ­izations together and shape their collective identity.82 As Mark Sedgwick pointed out, “A radical ideology is indisputably an essential ingredient in producing terrorism.”83 Daniel Byman described the role of ideology in terrorist organ­izations as explaining “the world’s conditions and offering a blueprint for action.”84 Donatella della Porta further argued that “ideologies operate as facilitating f­ actors, resources, or constraints in the ­formation of actors and in their definition of strategies.”85 Consequently, ideology serves as a lens through which groups view and interpret their environment. They can use ideology to reduce the information required to act.86 Ideology helps groups to divide the world into dichoto-



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mous categories of “us” versus “them.” ­These binary categories reinforce in-­group solidarity and collective identities.87 They also inform friend-­enemy distinctions, including determinations of who is a potential ally and who is not.88 C. J. M. Drake found that ideology set the par­ameters of groups’ vio­ lence, shaping groups’ operational decisions and their definitions of acceptable targets.89 As Drake argued, ideology supplies the “motive for action and . . . ​allows terrorists to justify their vio­lence by displacing the responsibility onto ­either their victims or other actors, whom in ideological terms they hold responsible for the state of affairs which the terrorists claim led them to adopt vio­lence.”90 However, organ­izations defined t­ hose par­ameters differently based in part on their orga­nizational circumstances and environments, even when they ostensibly shared an ideology. Such variation is a consequence of the fact that ideologies do not come neatly prepackaged. Instead, groups act as the interpreter and filter of their ideologies and adapt them to their conditions.91 Even groups with the same ideology w ­ ill not agree on all facets of their beliefs. They may even take g­ reat exception to differences that seem trivial to outsiders. In addition to being the final arbiter of their determinations of identity affinity, two other ­factors influence groups’ ability to forge ideological affinity. The rigidity of a group’s ideological disposition is the first ­factor that affects its ideological affinity threshold. Groups with more flexible or vaguely defined ideological princi­ples ­will have less stringent affinity thresholds than ­those with narrow, dogmatic viewpoints.92 For example, Martha Crenshaw credited the alliance success of the Monteneros—an urban, left-­wing Argentinian group—to its nimble ideological stance.93 Groups with more elastic ideological platforms can have expansive affinity par­ameters or emphasize dif­fer­ent facets of their ideology to forge affinity. Conversely, groups with rigid ideological dispositions may narrowly fix their ideological affinity par­a­ meters, which can cause them to reject partners with which they seemingly share an ideology. The second ­f actor is the composition of the ideological landscape. ­Terrorist groups tend to subscribe to the dominant ideology of violent contention of the era.94 Groups adhering to salient ideologies may have numerous options in terms of groups that meet their par­ameters. Organ­izations with few ideological brethren may strug­gle to find partners on the basis of ideological affinity. For example, the Lord’s Re­sis­tance Army in Uganda adheres to an idiosyncratic and rigid interpretation of Chris­tian­ity. No other terrorist

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groups share its ideological beliefs, a fact that contributes to the Lord’s Re­ sis­tance Army’s lack of allies. In sum, rather than ideological solidarity causing alliances, I posit that the groups’ propensity to ally with ­others with shared ideologies reflects the prominence of ideology as a basis for identity affinity. While ideology is a central feature, other characteristics shape terrorist groups’ identity as well. ­These identity traits can be vital to partners’ sense of identity affinity or they can play a supplemental role. Shared ­E nemy Narratives Terrorist groups construct frames that offer narratives about their cause, particularly their enemies and the victims they purport to represent. Frames include their view of what they are fighting for and who they are fighting against.95 Like social movements, terrorist groups “construct frames that ­diagnose a condition as a prob­lem in need of redress. This includes attributions of responsibility and targets of blame.”96 Frames and the corresponding narratives about enemies are not in­de­ pen­dent from ideology; ideology shapes groups’ frames and vice versa. However, frames and ideology are not entirely synonymous ­either. Groups adhering to the same ideology can have narratives that significantly differ in emphasis or scope. Conversely, groups with differing ideologies can share commonalities in their frames and narratives. Organ­izations’ frames are not simply derived from their ideology in part ­because groups seek to develop narratives that resonate with target audiences, including supporters and members, in their specific environment. Like ideology, groups can vary in the flexibility or rigidity of their frames. More flexible groups shift their frames and narratives in response to the environment while seeking to make ­these shifts consistent with their previous positions. For example, Italian leftists conceived of the Italian government as “fascists” in the early 1970s but shifted to framing their ­enemy as “social democracy” as the de­cade wore on.97 Likewise, Quintan Wiktorowicz discusses how Hamas shifted its frames when strict adherence and an intransigent position regarding peace was likely to erode the support of bystander publics that sought an end to the economic and social hardships of occupation, thus threatening the orga­nizational survival of Hamas as an alternative



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to Arafat and his supporters. As a result, Hamas adjusted its doctrine to accommodate the possibility of peace with Israel by framing peace as a temporary pause in the jihad that would strengthen Muslim forces before a final assault. Concepts such as sabr (patience) and hudna (truce) w ­ ere used to legitimize doctrinal flexibility within the overall objectives of the movement.98 Narrative affinity stems from shared frames about the ­enemy, that is, common attributions of responsibility and targets of blame. ­Enemy narratives shape groups’ identities and, by extension, their partner choices, which offers an alternative explanation as to why many allied groups share enemies.99 Significant overlap in organ­izations’ frames can foster a sense of identity affinity that supports alliance initiation. Instead of the materiel interests derived from a common ­enemy stimulating alliances, groups may select or accept partners with which they share frames about the adversary. When a common ­enemy narrative construction exists, so can a corresponding sense of “us” against “them.” Shared ­enemy narratives can provide the primary basis for identity affinity, but narrative conflicts can hinder identity affinity. Take the case of Hamas’s relationship with Hizballah. Exiled to Lebanon in 1992, the Palestinian Sunni group allied with the Shia Lebanese group to acquire more advanced operational skills.100 While they had differing ideologies, their shared framing of Israel as the ­enemy offered a basis for narrative affinity, allowing them to initiate and form an alliance. However, Hizballah’s subsequent support for the Syrian regime in the sectarian war in Syria damaged its narrative affinity and alliance with Hamas.101 Such narrative conflicts can inhibit identity affinity and, by extension, alliance prospects. Ethnicity Fi­nally, some groups’ identities include ethnicity as well. As Byman explained, ethnicity refers to “a group of ­people bound together by a belief of common heritage and group distinctiveness, often reinforced by religion, ­perceived kinship ties, language, and history.”102 When ethnicity is dominant within a group’s identity, it may construct its identity narrowly, which limits its ability to find ethnic affinity with nonrivals. Organ­izations with the same narrowly defined ethnic identity ­will have the same po­liti­cal market and behave as rivals. But broader ethnic identities, such as Arab or Eu­ro­pean,

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can offer a source of affinity. For example, in the 1980s, when the Red Army Faction sought allies with fellow leftist groups in France, Belgium, and Italy, it emphasized their shared Eu­ro­pean identity in an effort to cultivate ethnic affinity to support ideological affinity. Ethnic affinity becomes more salient when groups share a language, which eliminates a barrier to developing shared understandings. As Byman argued, “Through language, vital identity components . . . ​a re formulated, maintained and crafted.”103 However, ­because broader ethnic identities tend to be secondary identity features, ethnic affinity does not have the same strength as ideological or narrative affinity. Therefore, it may play a supporting role in identity affinity, if any. It can bolster other sources of affinity. For example, as Chapters 4 and 5 ­will discuss, ethnic affinity played a discernible role in al-­Qaida’s alliances. While ideological affinity exerted primary influence, al-­Qaida experienced more affinity with fellow Arab Sunni jihadist groups. In contrast, as Chapter 2 ­will discuss, ethnic affinity did not shape the PFLP’s alliances. Identity and Alliance Formation

Working in conjunction with the orga­nizational considerations discussed in the previous section, alliances form when partnering groups build on affinity to produce a shared identity, a pro­cess I call identity convergence.104 Prospective allies can extend their ideology and frames to new issues that incorporate one another’s frames or engage in frame bridging to link their ­causes and narratives.105 To form an alliance, partnering groups cultivate solidarity, which is “an active pro­cess of negotiating differences and creating an identity.”106 Through identity convergence, prospective partners attempt to craft, internalize, and preserve an identity that binds them together. They develop constitutive norms that shape how they enact their shared identity and delineate acceptable be­hav­ior.107 If successful, identity convergence can produce a shared identity and support alliance formation.108 Hubs and Identity Affinity

From an identity standpoint, hubs are both acceptable partners and accepting partners. In terms of being acceptable partners, alliance hubs are the ­purveyors of an identity with resonance in the prevailing conditions. They adhere to a prominent ideology and an interpretation of it that is acceptable to numerous ­others. Hubs not only propagate ­enemy narratives that oppose



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enemies shared by ­others; their frames are expansive and thereby overlap with other groups. They possess identity characteristics that multiple other groups share. Si­mul­ta­neously, hubs need to have identity affinity par­ameters that are sufficiently flexible to be receptive to ­others while preserving an in-­group identity within their organ­ization and in their alliance network. If hubs are too expansive with their identity affinity par­a meters, they risk causing internal dissension or experiencing conflict that prevents identity affinity with new partners or damages existing relationships. Therefore, they must strike a balance between receptivity and exclusivity.

Trust Required To summarize, orga­nizational needs stimulate alliances while identity affinity guides partner se­lection. Groups form alliances when they enjoy organizational-­need fit and build shared identities through identity convergence. In other words, alliances form when groups are “dissimilar on certain dimensions, such as resources or capabilities, yet similar enough to provide the social bonding that can ease the transition and hold strong through difficult times.”109 The final component of alliances is trust. Without trust to maintain mutual expectations of reliability about reciprocation and coordination in the ­f uture, cooperation w ­ ill not build into an alliance.110 Trust mitigates the uncertainty inherent in terrorist partnerships as it does in other orga­nizational relationships. In a study of interfirm alliances, man­ag­ers cited a lack of trust as the most common reason that relationships with other companies failed.111 Trust is even more essential for terrorist groups ­because of the lack of an outside guarantor or other enforcement mechanisms discussed in the Introduction. As Asal and colleagues explain, “Owing to the lack of an external entity to enforce alliances, terrorist networks must operate in a world of fundamental mistrust among one another.”112 Consequently, no substitute exists for trust. This section discusses the importance of trust. I propose several ways in which groups build trust, while acknowledging that trust is difficult to predict or mea­sure. I then identify potential loci of trust that can support alliance formation. Fi­nally, I explain the characteristics that hubs possess that help them to forge trust with numerous partners.

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Trust permeates all facets of an alliance: choice of partners, willingness to initiate, and success or failure of alliance formation. Trust refers to the subjective belief in another’s reliability, which leads to expectations that obligations ­w ill be honored.113 A common basis of trust is required for collaboration to become stable.114 Without trust to create and maintain mutual expectations of reliability, cooperation ­will be ephemeral. Trust can be built through some combination of four ­factors: prior ­cooperation and interactions, personal relationships, third-­party referrals or shared connections, and reputation. First, successful interactions and cooperation may foster trust for terrorist organ­izations as they do for other types of organ­izations. Trust built through cooperation is sufficiently compelling that firms prefer to return to t­ hose with which they have previously cooperated when seeking assistance.115 When firms seek an ally, they tend to first approach businesses with which they had existing relationships to explore reengaging or expanding cooperation, or to get recommendations for other allies.116 Karen Cook and Richard Emerson described a pro­cess of “commitment” in which economic actors develop distinct preferences for engaging in subsequent exchanges with their prior partners.117 Some have argued that the tendency to return to prior partners increases in environments in which information about other partners is limited—­a situation terrorist groups ­often face. Moreover, if groups successfully cooperate with one another, cooperation can become part of their respective orga­nizational routines.118 An accessible group has opportunities to interact and cooperate with ­others and thereby a greater ability to develop trust. Opportunities for interaction come in vari­ous forms; some are cultivated deliberately while ­others occur coincidentally. As one might suspect, groups that operate in geographic proximity to one another have more chances to interact and cooperate than ­those separated by geographic hurdles. Groups with ready access to transportation and travel also have more interaction opportunities. Some state sponsors offer venues where interactions and cooperation can occur, especially when this includes safe haven and training facilities. Similarly, terrorist groups that control territory may be more accessible to prospective partners. Conflict zones where groups congregate, like Af­g han­i­stan, Iraq, and Syria, offer another site where groups interact. Organ­izations sometimes have unexpected opportunities to interact when members are imprisoned or displaced at the same location. When Israel expelled hundreds of Palestinian Islamic Jihad and Hamas members to Lebanon in 1992, the Palestinian groups had opportunities to interact with Hizballah, which helped them to



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build trust. No ­matter what the forum, opportunities for interaction and successful cooperation can build trust. Second, personal relationships among members of prospective allies can nurture orga­nizational trust. Personal relationships among leaders or key individuals, especially ­t hose tasked with implementing cooperation, can be particularly valuable for orga­nizational trust building. The presence of influential individuals with ties across organ­izations, known as brokers, help to cultivate trust.119 Third, when groups lack direct ties, they ­w ill be more receptive to attempting trust if they get a referral from a trusted third party. An indirect tie, such as two groups sharing a partner, reduces some of the uncertainty and fear. Groups can get information and assurances through the third party about the other group’s trustworthiness.120 As Ranjay Gulati argued about businesses, “The social network of indirect ties is an effective referral mechanism for bringing firms together and dense co-­location in an alliance network enhances mutual confidence as firms become aware of the pos­si­ble negative reputational consequences of their own or ­others’ opportunistic be­hav­ ior.”121 Similarly, terrorist groups may be more receptive to trusting ­others when they receive a referral from a third-­party trusted source. Reputation is the final ave­nue of trust for all kinds of alliances. Reputation ­factors into groups’ assessments of the trustworthiness of prospective allies. Studies of business relations demonstrate that reputation is an impor­ tant determinant of alliance formation and per­for­mance.122 A similar consensus exists in the lit­er­a­ture on state alliances, although debate continues about what facets of reputation ­matter and how much. Terrorist organ­izations also consider reputation when making alliance decisions.123 For terrorist groups, arguably the most prominent consideration is a group’s reputation regarding security ­matters. Groups reputed to be infiltrated by government security ser­v ices ­w ill strug­gle to form alliances. Groups may also eschew partnerships with organ­izations known for security lapses or inattention to security. A reputation for other indiscretions, such as stealing money, failing to honor commitments, and cheating, can also harm a group’s ability to forge alliances. In addition, reputations may depend on past per­for­mance, as in previous cooperation or alliances.124 Admittedly, trust has a quality that is not easily mea­sured, predicted, or defined. Access, interaction opportunities, reputation, referral, and personal relationships do not necessarily produce the requisite trust for an alliance. Trust is facilitated by social cohesion—­both how much exists and how

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much can be developed—­that links back to identity affinity but is not fully captured by it.125 Personality conflicts, misunderstandings, and differences of opinions can scuttle even the most promising prospective relationships. No amount of interaction can overcome personal animosities among key ­figures that develop for a variety of unanticipated reasons, particularly among illicit, suspicious, and violent actors led by charismatic individuals with ­sizable egos and ambitions. Loci of Trust and Alliance Formation

Allying groups develop a locus of trust. A locus of trust can exist in four places between allying groups. First, partnering groups can institutionalize and embed trust throughout the organ­izations, prob­ably ­because they have engaged in repeated cooperation and had extensive interaction before alliance formation. The second type is leadership trust. In ­these relationships, the leaders of the allying groups develop and nurture trust. A third potential locus of trust exists between key nodes. This occurs when trust resides between interlocutors responsible for managing the interactions and exchanges. They behave as the primary trust promoters and cultivators. When the locus of trust is located in brokers, such as leaders or key nodes, alliance formation depends on characteristics like the brokers’ legitimacy as well as their ability to cultivate solidarity, effectively communicate, coordinate, mediate, and manage conflicts.126 The fourth locus of trust occurs primarily within the rank and file of the organ­izations. This type may occur in groups with decentralized structures. Trust is a particularly vulnerable aspect of the alliance formation pro­cess ­because of the difficulties groups have forging it. Yet it is an essential component of terrorist alliances. The absence of trust can explain the absence of an alliance, and, likewise, distrust can thwart alliance formation, even when all other f­ actors suggest that an alliance should occur. Hubs and Trust

Alliance hubs clearly demonstrate an aptitude for building trust. They may have access to venues where interactions and cooperation can occur, w ­ hether in a safe haven, in a conflict zone, or through a state sponsor. They have brokers who create and foster interor­gan­i­za­tional personal relationships. Hubs in par­tic­u­lar build reputations through their past alliance be­hav­ior and de-



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velop reputations as trustworthy. Eventually, a hub’s reputation can become self-­perpetuating, as its numerous alliances demonstrate its trustworthiness. Hubs’ embeddedness in existing networks allows ­others to gain valuable information regarding their reliability, capabilities, and trustworthiness.127 They are also able to get or receive referrals or endorsements from numerous partners to build trust with new prospective partners. While hubs possess the ability to cultivate trust, they must also be discerning about which groups they trust. They need only put their trust in one untrustworthy organ­ization to incur serious consequence. Therefore, they develop ways to vet prospective partners before alliance formation.

Research Methodology and Plan of the Book Qualitative methods are well suited to trace the alliance formation pro­cess and ­whether three proposed causal mechanisms—­orga­nizational needs, identity affinity, and trust—­operate. Qualitative methods can also reveal any omitted variables. The use of a mix of cross-­case comparisons and process-­ tracing within cases ­will allow this book to contribute to explaining two aspects of terrorist alliances: alliance formation among nonrivals involving hubs, and why alliance hubs develop alliance networks. Pro­cess tracing is particularly useful for testing the proposed causal mechanisms and assessing them against conventional wisdom. The proposed theory and conventional wisdom are not entirely mutually exclusive. If the proposed theory is correct, shared ideology or common enemies, or both, ­will still be pres­ent ­because I argue that groups must have some basis for identity affinity to attempt to ally and that they build a shared identity to form an alliance. Notably, I maintain that identity affinity ­will not be sufficient ­unless orga­nizational needs and trust are also pres­ent. In contrast, the argument that ideological solidarity and common enemies alone can motivate alliances posits that they are sufficient without orga­nizational needs and trust. Process-­tracing offers leverage over such questions.128 Case Se­lection

Chapters 2 through 6 examine cases of both alliance hubs and their prospective partners. ­These chapters focus on within-­case process-­tracing of alliance hubs as well as alliance initiation and alliance formation with

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hubs. The complexity of the proposed causal mechanisms and the two-­ pronged research questions required multilevel case se­lection. First, I selected most dif­fer­ent cases of alliance hubs to maximize variation and thereby provide a tough test for the theory. One of ­these cases also has substantial within-­case variation. Second, to test the ­causes of alliance initiation and formation with hubs, I selected most similar cases. Last, to test partner se­ lection in addition to alliance initiation and formation, I selected a case that has within-­case variation in that it involves two instances of alliance initiation and attempted alliance formation with two hubs. At both points, the prospective ally had two hub options, which offers an opportunity to discern what motivated alliance initiation, influenced partner se­lection, and explained the variation in outcomes within a case. This complements the most-­similar case comparison, which assesses how two similar groups behaved ­toward the same hub. Hub Case Se­l ection To test ­whether the proposed pathway explains how and why alliance hubs emerge, Chapters 2, 4, and 5 process-­trace the two alliance hubs: the PFLP and al-­Qaida (by which I mean al-­Qaida Core, as ­will be explained in Chapter 4). I selected ­these two hubs ­because they offer a most-­different case comparison on the three relevant features and several additional other ­characteristics of potential consequence. First, they differ in terms of their ideology. The PFLP followed a leftist ideology with strong ethnonationalist leanings, while al-­Qaida adheres to a Sunni religious ideology that eschews national identities. Second, their primary enemies vary. The PFLP focused on opposing its parochial ­enemy, Israel, while al-­Qaida emphasizes opposition to the United States, the “far ­enemy” it views as responsible for the inter­ national system. Third, the two groups possess dif­fer­ent orga­nizational features. The PFLP was a complex organ­ization with thousands of members, po­liti­cal and military units, and an international terrorism wing. Terrorism was only one wing within the PFLP, and it was a small unit within the organ­ization. Al-­Qaida Core, however, has tended to be smaller, with hundreds of members who have sworn allegiance. Al-­Qaida has wings responsible for propaganda, training, and religious rulings, but above all it is an organ­ization dedicated to terrorism and vio­lence. Its primary mission is executing international terrorism, and all other parts of the organ­ization work in ser­vice of that aim.



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In addition to variation in the characteristics relevant to the proposed causal mechanisms, the groups’ environments and cohesion also differed. The PFLP operated in a highly competitive environment. It experienced multiple splinters and operated u ­ nder constant concern about further breakaways. In addition, its rival, Fatah, consistently outflanked the PFLP in terms of size, resources, support, and power. Moreover, the ethnonationalist Fatah functioned as an alliance hub at the same time as the PFLP. Consequently, prospective allies had a choice between the two groups when seeking an alliance-­hub partner. In contrast, al-­Qaida had few rivals of consequence ­until 2014, primarily ­because it sought to transcend competition through prescribing unity against the United States. Additionally, al-­Qaida did not experience any major splinters or offshoots. The two hubs also operated during dif­fer­ent periods. The PFLP operated as an alliance hub from roughly 1969 to 1979, in the midst of the Cold War. Al-­Qaida formed and functioned as an alliance hub from the late 1980s to pres­ent, during which time the United States was the sole superpower. Therefore, they functioned ­u nder dif­fer­ent international conditions, and their hub experiences ­were in­de­pen­dent. Several groups that cooperated or allied with al-­Qaida have subsequently become alliance hubs. However, in so ­doing, they had the ability to emulate al-­Qaida ­because of their firsthand experiences with a hub. Assessing in­de­pen­dent hubs reduces concerns that the one hub simply emulated another. In other words, it offers a tougher and more meaningful test of the theory. Admittedly, the two groups share an obvious commonality: both ­were predominantly Arab organ­izations. However, ­there is no theoretical reason that their ethnic composition should influence their ability to become alliance hubs. Both groups allied with Arab and non-­Arab partners. Neither operated exclusively in the ­Middle East. In fact, al-­Qaida spent the majority of its existence outside of the ­Middle East in South Asia. The PFLP operated extensively in Eu­rope and the ­Middle East. In both cases, I examine prospective allies spanning from the ­Middle East to Eu­rope, Latin Amer­i­ca, Asia, Africa, and South Asia, which further suggests that my findings are not limited to the ­Middle East or Arab groups. Al-­Qaida’s experience as an alliance hub also offers substantial within-­ case variation that provides a meaningful test of the proposed theory. As Chapter 4 details, in the pre−9/11 period, al-­Qaida enjoyed substantial resources, which translated into an ability to confer training in skills and knowledge and to offer funds. If al-­Qaida’s hub position relied on its ability

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to fulfill other groups’ orga­nizational needs using ­these assets, it was in jeopardy of losing its position ­after 9/11, when the United States targeted and badly damaged its personnel, haven, and wealth, that is, its knowledge, skills, and resource mobilization capability. Al-­Qaida’s ability to sustain its alliance position and attract new partners ­a fter 9/11 potentially disconfirms the theory offered in this chapter. This pres­ents a tough test for the proposed theory’s emphasis on how hubs are groups able and willing to address other groups’ orga­nizational needs. Moreover, the counterterrorism environment ­after 9/11, specifically the United States’ co­ali­tion against terrorism and aggressive actions against terrorist groups, offers a most likely case for the argument that shared enemies motivate alliances and explain alliance hubs. The chapters on hubs not only examine how and why alliance hubs built their alliance networks; they also include mini-­cases of alliance seeking, ­a lliance initiation, and alliance formation—as well as cases in which alliances ­were not sought, initiated, or formed—­over the course of the hubs’ life span. This complements Chapters 3 and 6, which focus on hubs’ prospective allies. Prospective Partner Case Se­l ection Chapters 3 and 6 trace cases of prospective hub partners to discern their motives for alliance seeking, initiation, and formation, or the lack thereof, with hubs. I selected a prospective ally case for both the PFLP and al-­Qaida using two dif­fer­ent rationales. I used a combination of a case containing within-­case variation in alliance be­hav­ior and a most-­similar case comparison. For the PFLP, I opted to analyze a prospective ally that was a most-­ likely case for conventional wisdom and that demonstrated significant variation over time. First, I selected a group with both shared ideology and common enemies with the PFLP. Second, I sought a group that engaged in several alliance attempts over time. This provides multiple opportunities to test the group’s alliance be­hav­ior against conventional wisdom and the proposed theory. Moreover, ­because ­there ­were at least two Palestinian alliance hub options in the PFLP and Fatah, this allows me to discern what guided partner se­lection. Consequently, I selected the West German Red Army Faction (RAF). As is well known, the RAF initiated alliances with Palestinian groups on at least two occasions, in 1970 and 1975—­alliance efforts often attributed to conventional wisdom. It was a leftist organ­ization focused on the overthrow



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of the West German government. It also opposed the United States, especially the U.S. military presence in West Germany. West German radical leftists ­were involved in attacks against Israeli and Jewish targets. Therefore, based on conventional wisdom, the RAF seemingly had an ample basis to ally with the PFLP. Yet it attempted to ally with Fatah first, in 1970, and did not ally with the PFLP ­until 1975. Therefore, Chapter 3 addresses the questions that stem from this: Why did the RAF seek allies specifically at ­these two points? What influenced the RAF’s partner se­lection? And what ­e xplains the variation in partner se­lection and outcomes in ­t hese two ­instances? For al-­Qaida, I selected a most-­similar case comparison in which the chosen pair of cases is similar in the relevant re­spects, except the variable of interest: orga­nizational needs. In this case, I sought the two groups that shared an ideology and enemies with al-­Qaida and adhered to the same ideology and opposed the same enemies, including the same primary ­enemy, as one another. Moreover, I wanted to eliminate additional ­factors that could plausibly influence the alliance pro­cess, such as variation resulting from dif­ fer­ent environments, adversary government counterterrorism mea­sures, or even cultural differences; therefore, I sought prospective al-­Qaida allies that operated during the same time and hailed from the same country. This ­narrowed the options to pairs of Deobandi militant groups in Pakistan or Salafist jihadist organ­izations from Egypt. I selected the Egyptian groups ­because they ­were more ideologically similar to al-­Qaida and had marked orga­nizational differences, which made them a good test for the theory, whereas the Pakistani groups had similar orga­nizational features. Specifically, I selected the Egyptian Islamic Group (EIG) and Egyptian Islamic Jihad (EIJ). Both adhered to a Salafist jihadist ideology rooted in the writings of influential Egyptians, particularly Sayyid Qutb. Therefore, they shared an ideology with al-­Qaida, a fellow Salafist jihadist organ­ization. Both focused on the Egyptian government as their primary adversary and viewed the United States, Israel, and other so-­called apostate regimes as enemies as well. Therefore, neither group shared al-­Qaida’s focus on the United States, although both viewed the United States as a foe. Similarly, al-­Qaida viewed the Egyptian regime as an apostate regime, but it did not prioritize Cairo above the United States. Conventional wisdom predicts, at a minimum, that they would both make the same alliance decisions vis-­à-­vis al-­Qaida. In contrast, the proposed theory predicts that their alliance be­hav­ior ­w ill vary based on their orga­nizational needs. The Egyptian groups had

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markedly dif­fer­ent orga­nizational characteristics. EIJ was a small, clandestine group or­ga­nized into compartmented cells. Significantly, it sought to precipitate regime change in Egypt through a coup. To that end, it conducted attacks against high-­level Egyptian officials. In contrast, EIG was a sizable organ­ization with thousands of members and supporters. It sought to weaken the Egyptian government through largely lower-­level vio­lence against the police and government. It also endeavored to Islamicize society and enforce “proper” Islamic be­hav­ior. Their differing orga­nizational size, targets, tactics, and visions of how to precipitate change suggest they may have experienced dif­fer­ent orga­nizational needs and, by extension, potentially dif­fer­ent alliance be­hav­ior vis-­à-­vis al-­Qaida. Of note, the two Egyptian groups behaved as rivals ­toward one another. With extensive overlap in their po­liti­cal markets, EIJ and EIG acted as competitors. Their be­hav­ior ­toward one another offers an opportunity to demonstrate the argument given in the Introduction about the need for separate theorizing about alliances between rivals and nonrivals. While the focus of the chapter is their alliance be­hav­ior ­toward al-­Qaida, I also seek to account for how the Egyptian groups’ ­bitter competition, particularly their concerns about relative position, influenced their alliance be­hav­ior ­toward each other and ­toward al-­Qaida. Sources and Information Hurdles

Acquiring the information necessary to process-­trace cases of terrorist organ­ izations’ alliance decisions pres­ents substantial hurdles. In focusing on orga­ nizational needs, the proposed theory in par­tic­u­lar ­faces serious challenges. It requires probing the black box of clandestine, illicit, and violent actors that seek to keep such information secret. In general, hurdles exist to in-­depth studies of terrorist organ­izations. In many cases, ­there is limited information in the unclassified, open-­source realm about groups’ inner workings. The information available is sometimes of uncertain credibility or unclear origin. For this reason, many works on terrorism focus on more readily observable aspects of groups, such as their attacks and their public statements. Their attacks offer some insights into the research questions at hand, especially when they demonstrate a change in frequency, tactics, or targets. Notably, groups’ propaganda—an impor­tant available source of information—­f avors conventional wisdom ­because groups have incentives to emphasize ideological reasons or the need to ­counter



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a shared ­enemy to account for their be­hav­ior while they have disincentives to publicly admit to weaknesses. Whenever pos­si­ble, I used insider accounts of the organ­izations that ­offered information on participants’ views. This included works by authors who acquired access to members of the organ­izations as well as memoirs from members. ­These works ­were not specifically about the alliances; therefore, ­there was no reason for authors to pres­ent the alliances as motivated by any par­tic­u­lar rationale or characterize the alliances in any specific manner. I also conducted interviews with participants, former analysts from multiple governments, current and former counterterrorism officials, and other experts to ­garner and verify information and probe the accounts. In addition, I acquired declassified information, court transcripts, and analy­sis on the cases, which included primary source documents captured in Af­ghan­i­stan, Iraq, and Pakistan. I also used secondary sources to supplement my accounts, fill gaps, and corroborate information. Nonetheless, I am attempting to make perhaps the most difficult argument about terrorist organ­izations’ be­hav­ior ­because I emphasize their inner workings. Any such account ­will have gaps and limitations.

Conclusion This chapter proposed three causal mechanisms that motivate alliances with hubs and cause hubs to emerge. The pathway to alliance formation with a hub consists of three steps: alliance seeking, alliance initiation, and alliance formation. Nonhub groups seek or accept an alliance when they experience orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs due to orga­nizational youth, orga­nizational crisis, or exogenous shocks. Orga­nizational needs are sufficient to cause alliance initiation with a hub if the partnering groups share identity affinity and a willingness to attempt trust. During the alliance initiation phase, partnering groups endeavor to build on identity affinity to develop a shared identity through pro­cesses such as frame bridging and frame alignment. Groups only seek partners with which they think they can build trust. Without prior connections, reputations and referrals ­will influence this assessment. During the alliance initiation phase, if trust does not already exist, groups attempt to build it through interactions and developing inter­ or­gan­i­za­tional personal relationships. ­W hether alliance initiation leads to alliance formation depends on several ­factors: the type of orga­nizational need being addressed; ­whether the

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groups experience orga­nizational need fit; ­whether they are able to build a shared identity; and if they develop a locus of trust. Continuous orga­nizational needs are more conducive to alliance formation, though numerous discrete needs may also support alliance formation. In addition, groups must have or must develop shared expectations of how they can assist one another and have complementary capabilities and needs. Alliance formation also depends on ­whether their identity convergence efforts produce a shared identity and ­whether prospective partners establish a locus of trust. In conjunction, a willingness and ability to fulfill other organ­izations’ needs, an ability to forge trust, and bases for identity affinity with numerous groups are sufficient for a group to become an alliance hub. Hubs are groups with the inclination and capacity to assist o­ thers to address orga­nizational needs. Hubs possess identity characteristics that make them acceptable to other groups. They have members or leaders who demonstrate the ability to act as a locus of trust. They are accessible for interactions and earn a reputation for being trustworthy. Hubs opt to build alliance networks ­because they have orga­nizational ambitions they cannot fill in­de­pen­dently. Relatedly, they seek to propagate their identity and encourage ­others to adopt their frames, narratives, and ideological interpretation. They strike a balance in their ac­cep­tance of allies. They accept other groups with shared identity characteristics while placing limits on who can belong in their identity community to avoid compromising identity cohesion in their network. They also have the ability to forge trust but are careful about whom they trust and how much. ­These pathways to alliance formation and alliance hubs admittedly lack the parsimony of conventional wisdom. However, they recognize and treat terrorist groups as the complex organ­izations they must be in order to survive. In the next five chapters, I explore how ­these pro­cesses work in practice by process-­tracing two alliance hubs and three prospective allies. With the abundant information hurdles to analyzing terrorist groups, some ­omissions ­will invariably occur. Yet the following chapters offer insight into why terrorist groups form ­these difficult and dangerous relationships with hubs and why hubs undertake the risks involved to build alliance networks. In addition to addressing this compelling puzzle, such insights can reveal ways to disrupt and prevent f­ uture alliances and ­f uture alliance hubs.

Chapter 2

The Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine Pioneering Partnerships

For de­cades world opinion has been neither for nor against the Palestinians. It simply ignored us. At least the world is talking about us now. —­George Habash, leader of the Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine

The brain trust of the Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP) gathered in 1968. Since its founding the previous year, the group had trained a few thousand fighters—­fewer than its rival Fatah but still a respectable force.1 Yet it had ­little to show for its cross-­border attacks. The Israelis ­were ­adept at protecting their territory and possessed superior conventional capability. Israeli forces readily repulsed the PFLP’s fighters and established a robust anti-­infiltration system, including fences, mines, detection devices, and land and air patrols that prevented large-­scale infiltrations and made even minor raids difficult and largely ineffectual.2 By the end of 1968, two-­thirds of Palestinian incursion attempts into Israel from Jordan failed.3 The PFLP did not have an adequate presence to effectively fight from within Israel, nor could it penetrate deeply enough to inflict real damage. While the attacks ­were a nuisance for Israel, the PFLP’s costs mounted. Moreover, ­these efforts failed to garner international attention—­a key ingredient in the preceding successful anticolonial campaigns—­for the Palestinians’ predicament.4

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The PFLP’s second in command and operational mastermind, Wadi’ Haddad, recommended an alternative strategy—to adapt and self-­reform.5 Haddad’s proposal would alter the way the Israeli-­Palestinian conflict unfolded for the next de­cade, usher in the era of international terrorism, and position the PFLP to become an alliance hub.6 Haddad argued that the PFLP should not confine the battlefield to Israel but should strike Israeli interests wherever they could be found.7 The PFLP could thereby exploit Israel’s vulnerability abroad. Perhaps more impor­tant, this approach would draw attention to the Palestinian cause. Haddad presciently predicted that “spectacular operations ­will focus the world’s attention on the prob­lem of Palestine. The world ­will ask, What the hell is the prob­lem in Palestine? Who are ­these Palestinians? Why are they ­doing ­these ­things?”8 Likewise, the PFLP’s founding leader George Habash argued, “Wadi’ and I ­were trying to determine how world opinion could be awakened to the injustice that has been done to the Palestinian ­people. Wadi’ came up with the hijacking idea. . . . ​We wanted to attract world attention through some action.” 9 In July 1968, the PFLP inaugurated Haddad’s strategy. Three armed operatives hijacked an El Al plane leaving Rome for Tel Aviv and diverted it to Algiers.10 In exchange for the hostages, the PFLP demanded the release ­ ere a way of Palestinians detained in Israel.11 ­Until this incident, hijackings w to travel to off-­limits destinations. In its innovative decision to use hijackings to bargain for prisoner releases, the PFLP politicized the act in a way previously unseen. It targeted a symbol of Israel, forced Israel to negotiate—­ something it had refused to do to date—­with the Palestinian attackers, and seized international attention.12 While Israel did not agree to a prisoner exchange, it subsequently pardoned over a dozen Palestinian prisoners serving lengthy prison terms as a “humanitarian gesture.”13 The PFLP released the last of its hostages a l­ittle over a month ­after the hijacking.14 The Palestinian cause already occupied a preeminent position within the radical leftist movement, the dominant ideology producing militant groups all over the world. Left-­wing militants privileged “Third World national liberation” campaigns, like the Palestinian cause and the Viet Cong’s re­sis­tance against the United States. In addition to garnering international awareness, the PFLP’s hijacking captured the attention of fellow “revolutionaries.” The PFLP’s groundbreaking attack doubled as an alliance advertisement by demonstrating innovative operational capability. The combination of its ideological authority and operational capability created substantial alliance appeal. Groups from all over the world flocked to Jordan and ­later Leba-



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non and South Yemen, where the PFLP operated its fiefdoms, which, most notably, included training facilities where trust could be forged and orga­ nizational needs addressed. This chapter analyzes why the PFLP became an alliance hub, tracing its emergence and evolution from 1968 to 1979. In so ­doing, it cannot and does not attempt to provide a comprehensive discussion of the Israeli-­Palestinian conflict or the inner workings of the Palestinian movement.15 It focuses on the PFLP’s alliance be­hav­ior during this period and examines events as they pertain to that aspect of the conflict. It begins by situating the group in the environment of the late 1960s and 1970s before delving into the Palestinian militant milieu of that time. The chapter then traces how the PFLP, primarily through its special operations group, the PFLP Special Operations Group (SOG), became an alliance hub. This shadowy entity became an attractive partner ­because of its ability to provide knowledge, skills, and resource mobilization assets, including training, weapons, safe haven, money, and prestige; its appealing identity characteristics, that is, a flexible leftist ideology, expansive ­enemy frames, and association with the Palestinian cause; and its ability to develop trust through interactions and the reputation it developed. The PFLP-­SOG sought allies in order to execute and maximize the ­impact of its international terrorism campaign. From an early point, its leader instilled receptivity to alliances into the PFLP-­SOG’s orga­nizational pro­cesses and was committed to alliances, even a­ fter its parent organ­ization distanced itself from international terrorism. The PFLP-­SOG’s ideological flexibility and expansive narrative offered numerous ave­nues to affinity and an ability to readily bridge and incorporate o­ thers’ frames. Ideological affinity was most influential; it limited its alliances to fellow left-­w ing groups while cooperating with organ­izations of many stripes. It used its training fa­cil­i­t y to vet prospective partners and forge trust with other groups, while carefully protecting itself by avoiding relations with groups reputed to be infiltrated and carefully compartmentalizing information.

The Dawn of International Terrorism As the 1960s ended, international terrorism, dominated by the New Left, began its rise.16 Prominent anticolonial campaigns, most notably Algeria’s in­de­pen­dence from France, had recently been resolved in ­favor of ­those seeking

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self-­determination. Their success fed hope to other “national liberation” strug­g les that lacked impor­t ant commonalities and would not enjoy the same fate, including the Palestinian campaign for statehood.17 Ethnonationalist groups—­many of which ­adopted leftist trappings in keeping with the radical intellectual currents of the day—­a nd leftist organ­izations emerged in ­every hemi­sphere. Many ­were further galvanized by the ferocity of the Viet Cong’s opposition to the United States.18 They rebelled against their governments and the United States−led “imperialist” world order, particularly reacting to the disparities that emerged following the 1950s economic boom.19 Terrorism’s theatrical imperative was apparent in the hostage takings, hijackings, kidnappings, and assassinations employed during the late 1960s and 1970s.20 Some organ­izations, including Palestinian groups, recognized the role international opinion played in the successful anticolonial strug­gles and attempted to foster similar attention for their ­causes. In contrast to con­temporary times, terrorist groups generally calibrated their attacks to garner attention while avoiding mass casualties.21 Deliberate tailoring of vio­lence was an “overriding tactical—­a nd indeed ethical—­imperative for left-­w ing terrorists,” according to Bruce Hoffman.22 Leftists’ self-­identification with the ­people and ethnonationalists’ need to avoid alienating their constituents constrained the scope of their vio­lence, leading Brian Jenkins to conclude in 1974 that “terrorists want a lot of ­people watching, not a lot of ­people dead.”23 During this period, cooperation between nonrivals flourished, enabled in part by alliance hubs. Significant hurdles remained, but three developments prompted greater collaboration. First, the prevailing leftist ideology fostered an overarching sense of solidarity among its adherents, particularly the shared frames emphasizing a strug­gle against imperialism.24 With the proliferation of leftist as well as left-­leaning ethnonationalist groups, many viewed themselves as part of a common international revolution, although most maintained parochial priorities. Second, advances in transportation and communication facilitated awareness and interaction among groups operating in vari­ous conflicts.25 Third, active and passive state sponsorship increased and sometimes included sanctuary, which offered venues to vet prospective partners.26 ­These trends improved alliance prospects by si­mul­ta­neously cultivating identity affinity and providing opportunities to build trust. Perhaps most impor­t ant, this environment enabled a small number of groups to emerge that could offer training, sanctuary, experience, weapons, and other forms of assistance.



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The Palestinians functioned at the center of ­these currents: long-­ suffering and neglected victims of “imperialism,” a national liberation movement par excellence, recipients of vari­ous states’ tutelage, and ready ser­vice providers. Fittingly, Palestinian militant groups broke new ground, particularly by producing alliance hubs, most notably the PFLP.

Situating the PFLP in the Crowded Palestinian Landscape Palestinian groups’ appeal as alliance partners followed the increasing stature of the Palestinian cause in radical circles ­after Israel’s victory in the Six-­Day War in 1967 and the rise of the Palestinian Liberation Organ­ ization (PLO).27 The Arab governments’ ignominious defeat led Palestinians to conclude that their aspirations would not be realized through Arab solidarity.28 The fedayeen—as Palestinian fighters ­were collectively called—­ began an asymmetric guerrilla campaign against Israel. 29 The fedayeen’s raids won them support from the Arab public, material support from Arab governments keen to compensate for their recent humiliation, and admiration from other radical movements.30 Terrorism had long been a component of the conflict, but the PFLP’s 1968 hijacking was the first international terrorist attack. By the late 1960s, terrorism became a primary tactic for Palestinian militant groups “through a pro­cess of elimination . . . ​as the only means to pursue the military option to which they are committed.”31 Alliances soon emerged as another ele­ment of Palestinian militants’ strategy in no small part ­because alliances offered a way to improve groups’ resource mobilization capability in the fiercely competitive Palestinian environment and to garner international attention for the Palestinian cause. Tellingly, in 1969, ­a fter an unspecified Palestinian organ­ization trained a burgeoning group of West German radical leftists in explosives and shooting, the trainers only requested propaganda in West Germany in return. Following one of the early known instances of such nonrival orga­nizational cooperation, all the Palestinian group wanted in return was publicity.32 Observers sometimes attributed Palestinian attacks and alliances to the PLO, an umbrella entity of Palestinian groups led by Fatah. However, in real­ity, groups within the fractious PLO pursued their own policies ­toward alliances. Many engaged in some cooperation with nonrival groups, in part ­because of the needs generated by their exile, particularly resource mobilization needs.

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As the State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research pointed out, in contrast to their anticolonial pre­de­ces­sors, “having no land of their own, the fedayeen command no in­de­pen­dent resources.”33 Fatah—­the largest, most capable, and wealthiest, and therefore the most power­f ul, of the Palestinian groups—­used its leading position to cultivate allies in order to gain international recognition as the representative of the Palestinian p­ eople. A highly influential group of this era, Fatah was an ethnon­ ationalist group, though it employed leftist rhe­toric during this time, such as the prevalent “anti-­imperialist” discourse.34 The combination of its ethnonationalist ideology and desire for international legitimacy eventually curbed its international terrorist attacks and imposed constraints on its alliances. Initially, the PFLP began international terrorist attacks and developed into an alliance hub primarily to offset its relative weaknesses vis-­à-­v is Fatah and manage internal divisions. Led by the charismatic Christian physician George Habash, the PFLP formed in 1967 based on an uneasy co­ali­tion of factions from the pan-­Arab Movement of Arab Nationalists; a contingent from the Palestinian Liberation Front led by a Palestinian officer in the ­Syrian army, Ahmed Jibril; and an assortment of ­others seeking to undercut Fatah.35 The PFLP joined the PLO in 1968 to become its second largest member organ­ization, yet it remained consistently outflanked by Fatah.36 The forces that brought this co­a li­tion together did not have staying power, and the under­lying fault lines soon became permanent, public, and ­bitter breaks.37 Jibril defected to form the Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine—­General Command (PFLP-­GC), taking substantial military ­capability with him. A left-­wing clique from the pan-­Arab Movement of Arab Nationalists bloc broke away to become the Demo­cratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine (DFLP) ­under Nayef Hawatmeh, which challenged the PFLP’s shallow leftist credentials.38 In addition to leaving a young PFLP in crisis, ­these breaks provoked further competition; the rivalry between the PFLP and DFLP escalated into armed confrontations, precipitating a Fatah-­led mediation.39 The groups invoked disagreements about ideology, strategy, priorities, and tactics to explain the splits, although egos, ambitions, and personality conflicts also played a role. Like all of the Palestinian groups, PFLP’s frames emphasized Israel as the primary enemy. However, it framed Israel as an “imperialist” state and also opposed “world imperialism” ­because this global order protected Israel at the expense of the Palestinians. This framing of its adversary produced



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an expansive ­enemy narrative, which offered ave­nues to narrative affinity. As it explained in a 1969 strategy document, “the Palestinian revolution, which is fused together with the Arab revolution and in alliance with world revolution is alone capable of achieving victory. To confine the Palestinian revolution within the limits of the Palestinian ­people would mean failure, if we remember the nature of the ­enemy alliance which we are facing.” 40 The PFLP’s leftist ideology also had a countervailing nationalist streak. In an organ­ization beset with numerous fissures, tensions persisted between what Yezid Ṣāyigh called its “Marxist mantle and nationalist core.” 41 The PFLP initially traced its ideology to Maoism—­even sending a del­e­ga­tion to Peking in 1970—­and its strategy document cited above, “The Strategy for the Liberation of Palestine,” drew heavi­ly from Mao’s Analy­sis of the Classes in Chinese Society.42 Peking l­ater distanced itself from the PFLP, expressing discomfort with the group’s terrorist operations.43 That, coupled with the ideological challenge posed by the DFLP, prompted the PFLP’s move left and adoption of Marxism, a “transformation” that did not have much practical effect.44 Palestinian nationalist sentiments tempered the group’s commitment to Marxism. A PFLP spokesman described the group as only “tinged with red” for a mixture of ideological and orga­nizational reasons.45 Ṣāyigh concurred, characterizing the PFLP’s embrace of Marxism as r­ unning just “skin deep.” 46 This posture produced an ideological flexibility that was conducive to ideological affinity. Despite their “Marxist” goal of building a working-­class leadership in the Palestinian movement and beyond, the PFLP’s leaders ­were largely middle-­class intellectuals, which damaged the group’s appeal among one of its constituencies, the Palestinian working class.47 Furthermore, key leadership figures, including Habash and Haddad, ­were Christian, which reduced the PFLP’s appeal among the predominantly Muslim Palestinian public. The PFLP’s leaders’ characteristics limited its size, which fluctuated between several hundred and a few thousand members, mainly Palestinians and other Arabs. On the other hand, its more elite composition made it difficult to infiltrate the group, as did the group’s aggressive campaigns against in­ for­mants.48 On paper, the PFLP had a complex structure, to the point of becoming excessively bureaucratic. A ­ fter its adoption of Marxism, it “transformed” into a proletarian party, which, in real­ity, produced no substantive changes in the leadership.49 As secretary general, Habash presided over the PFLP’s governing bodies: the Politburo, the Central Committee, and the National Congress.

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The group’s structure also included other components, such as a central organ­izing committee, an education bureau, and bodies charged with special responsibilities. It underwent several reorganizations that added or eliminated committees and positions.50 However, a divide existed between the group’s de jure and de facto modes of operating. In real­ity, personalities often superseded positions and orga­nizational structure. Above all, ­after the slew of defections, ­those who remained ­were loyal to Habash.51 Habash’s loyalists included his deputy Wadi’ Haddad.52 The physician turned terrorist managed the PFLP’s international terrorism campaign and the group’s alliances.53 The two men shared an extensive history, including working together at a medical clinic for the indigent.54 Habash owed his freedom and perhaps his life to Haddad, who directed a daring ambush to rescue Habash from Syrian prison in 1968. David Yallop aptly explained the two men’s complementary existence: “If Dr. Habash gave his organ­ization the intellectual rationale, his fellow doctor Wadi Haddad was the man who by his activities gave Habash a world stage for his oratory.”55 The In­de­pen­dent similarly juxtaposed Haddad with his compatriot: “So strong was his [Habash’s] personality, so ­g reat his charm, that many an impressionable young man or ­woman would have been quite ready to plant bombs on his behalf if he had asked. But, for all his reputation, Habash was not the mastermind of terror that he was made out to be. . . . ​Wadi Haddad . . . ​was as self-­effacing and publicity-­shy as Habash was keen to be seen and to explain. It was Haddad who was the brains ­behind the terrorism, with his own group within the organisation, and his own friends and backers.”56 Nicknamed “the Master,” Haddad managed all aspects of the PFLP-­ SOG. In addition to his indelible influence over the group’s orga­nizational pro­cesses and culture, he directed ­every attack and conducted postmortems following each operation to identify lessons learned.57 He also oversaw the PFLP’s development of an alliance network and was unwavering in his ­belief in allies’ utility, even ­after the mainline PFLP lost interest in such relationships and international operations. The PFLP’s bureaucracy did not extend to the PFLP-­SOG, though the importance of loyalty did. The small and covert unit, perhaps only dozens of operatives, revolved around Haddad and t­ hose he personally trusted.58 Unlike o­ thers, Haddad was content to let his operations speak for themselves and did not pres­ent himself as a contender for leadership of the Palestinian movement or as a rival to Habash, even ­after being “officially” expelled from the PFLP in 1972. He recruited po­liti­cally, militarily, and technically sophisticated operatives, such as chem-



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istry students, engineers, and other skilled professionals, for his elite organ­ ization.59 While Haddad accepted some foreigners, few non-­Arabs held se­nior positions in the organ­ization ­because of the group’s nationalist streak and ­because of fears they would be used to infiltrate the group.60 Though the PFLP was only tinged red, the PFLP-­SOG had even less use for ideological dogma. The PFLP-­SOG, particularly Haddad, scoffed at the PFLP’s Marxist “conversion” and was decidedly uninterested in the intricacies of Maoism, Marxism, or any other “ism.” 61 A man of action, by all accounts, Haddad was “restless and irritable, with no patience for theory or ideology of any sort, especially the Marxist turn of his leftist colleagues.” 62 Privileging action above philosophy, Haddad’s unit shunned abstract ideological considerations and chafed against attempts to interject a more Marxist agenda into its operations.63 Above all, its language, doctrine, and beliefs ­were vio­lence, namely, the efficacy and necessity of it to destroy Israel and the “imperialist” international system that supported the Jewish state.64 As Haddad explained to his men, “We ­don’t even have to hit Israeli targets all the time. But we must be a constant irritation, a bug u ­ nder the skin of the developed world. We must make them lose patience with Israel and Palestine the hard way.” 65 As this chapter w ­ ill reveal, it was the PFLP-­SOG rather than the PFLP that emerged as an alliance hub. The combination of the international ethos of its leftist ideology, its nondogmatic adherence to it, and its encompassing ­enemy narrative made the PFLP-­SOG both receptive and appealing to ­numerous groups. Like its parent organ­ization, its ­enemy narrative expanded to virtually any government that did not support it, including the West, so-­called reactionary Arab regimes, and other governments aligned with them. Unlike its parent organ­ization, it maintained its conviction that any of ­these entities could be targeted, anywhere. Of note, the active state support it received from South Yemen, the ­Soviet Union, and to a lesser extent Iraq, and the passive support it coerced from Lebanon, underpinned the PFLP-­SOG’s ability to become an alliance hub. Aden not only provided resources; it allowed the group to operate training facilities at which it could host prospective allies.66 Moscow offered advanced weapons and training that the PFLP-­SOG could share with allies. Baghdad also provided a venue for interaction and cooperation. Numerous Palestinian groups, including the PFLP-­SOG, exploited Lebanon’s inability to oust them to develop infrastructure and capability. The combination gave the PFLP-­SOG the ability to train, advise, consult, and offer

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sanctuary to prospective allies, not to mention providing logistical and materiel assistance while offering venues to build trust.

The PFLP’s Emergence as an Alliance Hub The PFLP’s foray into international terrorism in 1968 soon required it to adapt to the changing environment. It also expanded its alliance prospects. The PFLP did not set out to become an alliance hub. Its special operations unit became motivated to do so ­because of the need for orga­nizational adaptations in order to execute its international terrorism campaign and respond to environmental changes. Its first step t­ oward becoming an alliance hub came when the PFLP-­SOG saw ways for allies to help it circumvent the increasing security mea­sures implemented in response to its attacks. This ­section traces the PFLP’s early period, including its initiation of international attacks, its subsequent adaptations, and its increased cooperation with nonrival groups. In addition to adapting to its inability to target Israel and desire to awaken world opinion to the Palestinian cause, three orga­nizational dynamics influenced the PFLP’s decision to begin international terrorist attacks. First, its operational innovation stemmed in part from its desire to compensate for its relative weakness vis-­à-­vis Fatah. Especially in the early years, the PFLP’s international operations doubled as a bid for primacy in the Palestinian movement.67 Second, and relatedly, the PFLP conducted the attack to bolster its resource mobilization capability, specifically to attract new members.68 Habash explained ­these aspects of the PFLP’s motive when he said in 1970 that “the masses ­will not heed any group ­unless they feel that it continues its strikes against Israel and increases its effectiveness.” 69 Moreover, not only did ­people seek to join the most active group; resources from outside sources tended to follow the action, creating orga­nizational incentives to conduct operations.70 Indeed, one of the PFLP’s most infamous operatives, Leila Khaled, attributed her defection from Fatah to the PFLP to the 1968 hijacking. She pointed to it as “an eye opener for me. . . . ​I was about to be liberated; I had found an alternative to Fatah and I sought to make contacts with the PFLP.”71 Fi­nally, the early international operations, particularly the 1968 hijacking, quieted the PFLP’s restive rank and file. Dependent on Habash’s charismatic leadership, his imprisonment in Syria eroded the PFLP’s precarious



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unity, leading Haddad to orchestrate a rescue operation. The group’s cohesion had been shaky since its inception—­a prob­lem exacerbated by the departure of the PFLP-­GC in 1968 and the signs of dissatisfaction that would lead to the formation of the DFLP the following year—so the hijacking helped solidify cohesion. However, the unity it produced was temporary as international operations strengthened the PFLP-­SOG at the expense of ­others, thereby planting the seeds of ­f uture disharmony.72 Detractors would ­later accuse Haddad of conducting attacks during periods of internal unrest as a tactic to quell dissatisfaction. The 1968 hijacking set the stage for the PFLP’s emergence as an alliance hub by both creating a motive to form alliances and increasing its appeal as an alliance partner. First, the PFLP-­SOG soon found it needed knowledge, skills, and resources to conduct international operations that differed from the conventional military skills the group had employed in cross-­border raids. It also needed to be able to operate in locations where it could conduct attacks and circumvent security mea­sures, which grew increasingly stringent in subsequent years. When the PFLP grew less supportive of the international operations ­after 1970, the PFLP-­SOG’s needs mounted further. ­These needs stimulated the PFLP-­SOG’s receptivity to allies that could supplement its operational capability. Second, as the first of its kind, the 1968 hijacking and then the 1969 hijacking of a TWA aircraft earned the PFLP a reputation as an operationally innovative and capable organ­ization, which made it a desirable alliance partner. Fellow “revolutionary” groups poured into the PFLP’s facilities seeking knowledge and skills.73 As one Haddad lieutenant reminisced, overnight “Wadi became a symbol and a sanctuary.” His unit’s facilities “became a place for the revolutionaries to be trained and rock the world with vio­lence.”74 Between December 1968 and September 1969, the PFLP-­SOG’s mystique increased as it made Eu­rope a central battleground, attacking Israeli targets in Athens, Zu­rich, London, the Hague, Brussels, and Bonn.75 The group executed nearly all of the Palestinian-­perpetrated attacks in Western Eu­rope from 1968 to 1971.76 However, the Israelis instituted effective ­mea­sures to improve the security of Israeli targets and deter ­future attacks.77 Tellingly, no successful PFLP hijackings of El Al planes occurred ­after the 1968 attack, despite numerous attempts. For example, during an attempted PFLP hijacking of an El Al plane in Zu­rich in early 1969, El Al security killed one operative and injured three o­ thers.78 In addition to preventative mea­sures, Israel retaliated against the states where the Palestinian groups found haven.

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For instance, Israel destroyed thirteen planes at the Beirut airport in response to a PFLP attack on an El Al plane at Athens airport in December 1968. This strategy was far less effective ­because it did nothing to deter the PFLP-­SOG and much to hurt the already weak Lebanese government.79 The PFLP-­SOG adapted to the Israeli countermea­sures by expanding its targets. The PFLP justified its attacks on El Al planes by insisting that the airline was not ­really a civilian target. Habash argued, “El Al is a military objective ­because it transports military personnel and material.”80 Leila Khaled similarly referred to El Al as Israel’s “semi-­military, semi-­civilian airline.”81 Unable to strike El Al, the PFLP rationalized broadening attacks to other airlines by arguing that they supported imperialist interests by connecting Israel with the rest of the world.82 The group defended such attacks as disrupting international travel to Israel, which would isolate Israel and harm its economy. The group also extended its operations to attack the resource it viewed as fueling the imperialist economy: oil. In 1969, it attacked an American-­ owned pipeline carry­ing Saudi oil through the Golan Heights. Already opposed to American influence in the ­Middle East, it was further motivated to attack the American pipeline following the United States’ decision to sell Phantom bombers to Israel.83 The PFLP-­SOG would repeatedly strike oil-­ related targets over the next de­cade, arguing that ­doing so would weaken imperialist powers. In addition to the po­liti­cal motives, the PFLP’s use of hostage takings served an orga­nizational purpose. This tactic offered a way to secure prisoner releases for operatives or supporters, a motivation for operations that became increasingly prevalent in subsequent years.84 ­After the 1968 hijacking, Israel refused further exchanges, but other governments lacked Israel’s resolve. In addition, the prospect of attacks to secure prisoner releases even dissuaded some governments from arresting Palestinian militants. The PFLP used its own operatives, mostly Palestinians or other Arabs, to conduct its operations in the early years. Haddad’s ability to force the world to ask who ­these Palestinians ­were and why they ­were ­doing ­these ­things necessitated the use of Palestinian or Arab operatives to execute operations. However, Israel was not the only government to implement counter­mea­sures, and other governments began to scrutinize Arabs more closely, thereby reducing the PFLP-­SOG’s operational effectiveness. The PFLP’s cooperation with other groups si­mul­ta­neously burgeoned, primarily through the provision of training in Jordan and Lebanon. It worked



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mostly with fellow leftists and sometimes ethnonationalists, with occasional vague reports of training provision to right-­w ing groups.85 Determining which groups trained at the PFLP’s camps during this early period is problematic b­ ecause Fatah and, to a lesser extent, the DFLP engaged in similar training efforts, sometimes in proximity to or even in concert with the PFLP’s facilities. Therefore, it is difficult to sort through the abundant vague ­references to “fedayeen” or PLO training and determine which refer to the PFLP, Fatah, or another Palestinian group altogether. Overall, the PFLP was cooperating and building ties with other groups. Heading into 1970, it had not employed its allies directly in its attacks; however, as it sought ways to circumvent the increased scrutiny, prospective partners offered a way for it to adapt.

Integrating Prospective Allies into Operations In 1970, Haddad’s unit executed its most ambitious attack to date: multiple, simultaneous hijackings. Fittingly, the attack both bolstered its appeal as an alliance partner and involved the integration of allies into its operations, though the turmoil caused by the attack overshadowed ­these developments. It had a mixture of po­liti­cal and orga­nizational motives for this groundbreaking attack. First, it sought to disrupt the peace pro­cess with Israel, especially in light of Egypt’s ac­cep­tance of the Rogers plan in June of that year. Second, as with previous hostage takings, it saw an opportunity to gain the release of detained operatives. Third, it wanted to bolster Palestinians’ morale—­ and their support for the PFLP—by striking at a time when victory against Israel appeared unattainable. Fourth, it offered an opportunity to subvert the increasingly hostile Jordanian government. Ṣāyigh characterized this “provocative instinct” and “apocalyptic act” as typical of Haddad.86 However, by 1970, international operations defined the PFLP, which did not sit well with some in the organ­ization. The PFLP’s unity once again wavered in the face of mounting questions about the wisdom of international operations as well as resentment ­toward the influence Haddad accrued through them.87 Some bemoaned the pressure produced by the international attacks, especially in places that previously tolerated the group’s personnel and activities. Furthermore, detractors accused Haddad of using operations to shore up his unit’s position within the organ­ization and marginalize his critics.88 They begrudged the PFLP-­SOG’s preferential access to promising

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recruits—­a function of the unit’s mission, Haddad argued—­and its unmonitored use of resources for operational expenses. Haddad’s insistence on strict operational security, which meant that he briefed only Habash on impending attacks and expenditures, exacerbated the friction.89 Undeterred, on September  6, 1970, Haddad’s unit orchestrated the ­simultaneous hijacking of three planes.90 One team hijacked a TWA flight departing Frankfurt. A second team hijacked a Swissair flight leaving Zu­rich for New York. Both teams diverted the hijacked aircraft to Dawson Field in Jordan, which the group dubbed “Revolution Airport.” The PFLP’s notorious female operative, Leila Khaled, led a third team of four operatives charged with hijacking the most difficult target: an El Al plane. Her team ran into trou­ble immediately. First, El Al security denied boarding to two of the operatives slated for the mission. Khaled and her remaining teammate, a Latin American man posing as her husband, deci­ded to seize the plane anyway. In response to their attempt, the pi­lot sent the plane into a nosedive to disorient the hijackers. Then El Al security guards killed the male operative and restrained Khaled. The plane made an emergency landing in London where British authorities detained Khaled. The two indomitable operatives denied access to the El Al plane proceeded to hijack a fourth plane, a Pam Am flight. They eventually diverted the jumbo jet to Cairo, which offered an opportunity to communicate to Gamal Abdel Nasser the group’s dis­plea­sure with his policies ­toward Israel. Three days ­later, yet another PFLP team, which reportedly included another Latin American operative, seized a British plane to compensate for the unsuccessful attempt on El Al and pressure the British government to release Khaled.91 With over three hundred hostages, the PFLP enjoyed significant bargaining leverage.92 The group issued its demands: the release of all Palestinian prisoners in Israel and Eu­rope. Israel refused to participate, but multicountry negotiations ensued, mediated by the International Red Cross. Eventually, the PFLP freed the hostages and secured the release of Palestinian prisoners held in German, Swiss, and British jails, including Khaled.93 Seizing the international spotlight, the operation initially appeared to be another audacious success for the PFLP-­SOG, but the repercussions that followed spared few. Numerous Palestinian militant groups used Jordan for haven. In the preceding months, their challenges to King Hussein’s rule had grown increasingly brazen. For the Jordanian government, the PFLP’s unsanctioned use of the airstrip for the hijacked aircraft was the final provocation. In response, on September 16, the Jordanian military launched a military



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operation to expel the Palestinian groups. Although estimates of the death toll vary, thousands died in a bloody confrontation that followed, dubbed Black September.94 Though the blood bath in Jordan took center stage, in the aftermath of the operation, questions arose about the slain hijacker on Khaled’s team and reports of Latin American operatives on the other hijacking teams. The deceased operative’s identity was initially unclear ­because he had posed as Khaled’s husband using a fraudulent passport. He was Patrick Arguello, an American who lived in Nicaragua during his childhood with his American ­mother and Nicaraguan f­ather. Arguello excelled in Latin American studies at the University of California, Los Angeles, and received a Fulbright scholarship to study in Chile.95 Opposed to the dynastic military dictatorship of Anastasio Somoza, Arguello deci­ded to return to Nicaragua and join the San­ di­nis­tas. Led by Carlos Fonseca and inspired by the Cuban revolution, the San­di­nis­tas sought to overthrow Somoza’s regime. Its ideology, dubbed Sandinismo ­after the nationalist guerrilla Augusta Cesar Sandino, can be under­ stood as a blend of Marxism, anti-­imperialism, and Nicaraguan nati­onalism.96 In the spring of 1970, Arguello traveled to Jordan as part of a Sandinista ­del­e­ga­tion to train with the PFLP.97 The San­di­nis­tas formed in the early 1960s, but by the late 1960s, the Nicaraguan group was badly weakened.98 In 1967, the group suffered a major military defeat in Pancasan, which decimated its ranks.99 An ill-­advised effort to demonstrate the group’s continued viability by conducting urban operations ­later that year backfired and resulted in the loss of more personnel. Within a year, the group’s major leaders ­were dead, in jail, or on the run. The San­di­nis­tas ­were, by one member’s admission, in a “dire situation.”100 Compounding the organ­ization’s crises, by 1968, the group’s support from Cuba declined significantly. Cuba had been a critical source of materiel and training and had provided a venue for the San­di­nis­tas to build connections.101 One member recalled, “We made our foreign contacts abroad, mostly in Cuba, ­because every­one was arriving ­there.”102 In par­tic­u­lar, at Havana’s ­Tri-­Continental Conference in 1966, an estimated five hundred representatives hailing from radical movements, including Palestinians and San­di­nis­tas, met to formulate a strategy for global revolution.103. By 1970, the survival of the San­di­nis­tas was in danger, prompting its search for an ally. As one member conceded, “The defeat at Pancasan was written all over our foreheads, and we could not offer anything to the cause of revolution in Latin American. . . . ​Cuba was closed to us. . . . ​We needed

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somewhere ­else to go for training of our cadre, weapons, supply, and financial assistance. . . . ​Then we received news from our representatives in ­Eu­rope that something might come up in the ­Middle East.”104 The group got a much-­needed reprieve when Sandinista representatives in Eu­rope established contact with the PFLP’s rival, the DFLP.105 The San­ di­nis­tas sent a del­e­ga­tion to train at a DFLP camp in Jordan.106 However, the Sandinista trainees ­were disappointed with their training experience. Except for some physical conditioning, their trainers imparted skills of ­little use to the group, such as how to fight in the desert and slit a camel’s belly.107 With its needs unaddressed, the San­di­nis­tas continued its search for a partner. It approached an intermediary, the Fourth International, a Trotskyite group based in Paris, to find an ally that could address its needs. The Fourth International facilitated the San­di­nis­tas’ outreach to the PFLP, thereby offering a referral sufficient for the two groups to attempt trust and initiate cooperation.108 The San­di­nis­tas then sent a del­e­ga­tion to the PFLP’s training facilities in 1970, where the PFLP sought to address the group’s needs, which doubled as an opportunity for the groups to interact, cooperate, and build trust.109 While a PFLP spokesman boasted how “we offered them [the San­di­nis­ tas] the possibility to express their internationalism through our campaigns,” ideological solidarity cannot explain their relationship. It cannot explain the timing of the relationship. It cannot explain the San­di­nis­tas’ success with the PFLP and its failure with the DFLP.110 Instead, ideological affinity guided partner se­lection, as the San­di­nis­tas limited its search to fellow leftists while seeking a partner that could assist the group in surviving and rebuilding by addressing its orga­nizational needs. For its part, the PFLP sought operational assistance from its new ally to circumvent growing scrutiny, especially Israel’s effective countermea­sures. To that end, Sandinistan operatives assisted with the 1970 hijacking operation, with at least two of its operatives, Arguello and Juan Jose Quezada, participating in the attacks. Such operational cooperation is both rare and risky for groups, suggesting that the two groups had developed high levels of trust. Moreover, involvement in the operation required the San­di­nis­tas to become involved in a cause that was, at best, tangentially related to the one that motivated it. The two groups shared overarching ­enemy frames, but their ­causes ­were not closely interlinked. Thus, a shared ­enemy cannot explain the San­di­nis­tas’ decision to ­either seek a relationship or partake in a risky operation with ­little connection to its cause in Nicaragua. Instead, it was



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the San­d i­nis­t as’ reciprocation for the PFLP-­SOG’s assistance, which i­nvolved addressing the PFLP-­SOG’s needs. In sum, the two groups had orga­nizational need fit and had sufficient ideological affinity to support their effort to form an alliance. While the two groups had the ability to develop trust based on the Fourth International’s referral and through cooperation at the training camp, ­there is not sufficient information available to determine where the locus of trust resided. In the wake of Arguello’s death, the San­di­nis­tas publicly embraced the PFLP and declared its role in the operation. ­After all, association with such a sophisticated attack had the potential to bolster the San­di­nis­tas’ reputation. The San­di­nis­tas’ spokesman told Al-­Watan about the group’s role: “A number of San­di­nis­tas took part in the operation to divert four aircraft which the PFLP seized and landed at a deserted airfield in Jordan. One of our comrades was also wounded in a hijack operation in which Leila Khaled was involved. She was in command of the operation and our comrades helped her carry it out.”111 Their cooperation did not end ­there. Quezada and the remaining San­di­nis­tas in Jordan joined the PFLP in the futile effort to ward off the Jordanian forces.112 In the wake of their ouster from Jordan, the besieged Palestinian groups gathered in Lebanon, where the government was unable to prevent their influx. Lebanon served as a suitable alternative haven to Jordan, particularly ­because of its proximity to Israel, and it quickly became a major hub for Palestinian militant groups. In October 1970, another del­e­ga­tion of San­di­nis­ tas arrived ­there for more training, suggesting that the two groups had developed mutual expectations of continued cooperation and coordination. In addition, the San­di­nis­tas felt compelled to continue the relationship with the PFLP, with one trainee characterizing it as a “moral obligation” to work with the PFLP-­SOG to honor Arguello’s memory.113 The next group of San­di­nis­tas differed from the initial group. They came from abroad, mainly the Soviet Union and Germany rather than from Nicaragua. Overall, the San­di­nis­tas’ needs ­were also seemingly less acute, as this group of trainees was preparing for their eventual return to Nicaragua rather than being members currently operating ­there. This group of trainees experienced prob­lems building identity convergence. While they sympathized with the Palestinian cause, they strug­gled to further the identity convergence cultivated by their pre­de­ces­sors. One trainee concluded that “language and idiosyncratic differences ­were just too ­great of a barrier to meaningful dialogue with each other.”114

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Notably, ­these trainees ­were unimpressed with the training they received. “Such a long trip to obtain training that at the end was so elementary,” one lamented. Another recounted that “the terrain conditions and the training they could provide ­were not what we needed for our own type of fight.”115 In the PFLP’s disarray following the defeat in Jordan, it may not have focused on training its foreign guests or the lack of effectiveness may have simply been a function of the differences in t­ hese trainees’ background. Equally impor­tant, the San­di­nis­tas acquired other sources of support throughout the 1970s, reducing the group’s need to turn to the PFLP-­SOG.116 ­Because of the subsequent prob­lems with both identity affinity and orga­ nizational need and fit, the alliance faltered and was ultimately short-­lived. ­There may have been subsequent efforts to reinitiate cooperation; the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) reported that the Nicaraguan government disrupted an “Arab” effort to recruit Nicaraguans for unspecified “fedayeen training” in 1972.117 Nonetheless, the relationship with the PFLP ­shaped the San­di­nis­tas. The Nicaraguans who trained with the PFLP went on to become high-­ ranking members of the group.118 Sympathy for their former trainers endured, and the San­di­nis­tas engaged in rhe­toric supportive of the Palestinians even ­after their relationship subsided.119 ­After the San­di­nis­tas acquired power in Nicaragua in 1979, it memorialized Arguello, naming a dam in his honor.120 It also advocated for the Palestinians when it governed Nicaragua, though much of that assistance benefited Fatah more than the PFLP, such as the establishment of relations with the PLO and an embassy in Managua.121 While Israeli security mea­sures thwarted the attempted hijacking of an El Al plane, the PFLP-­SOG took note of the Nicaraguans’ utility. Although the operation against El Al was unsuccessful, Arguello was able to board and facilitated Khaled’s boarding. In addition, Quezada’s involvement in a successful hijacking indicated that foreign operatives possessed the potential to help the PFLP-­SOG circumvent security mea­sures, which focused ­primarily on Arabs and Palestinians. However, the war with Jordan had been costly, and the PFLP faced recriminations from all directions. While ­there was plenty of blame to go around for the rupture with the Jordanian government and the fedayeen’s poor battlefield per­for­mance, the PFLP endured the brunt of the criticism. The PLO suspended the PFLP from the Central Committee,122 and Fatah publicly condemned the hijackings, calling them an act of “extremism of diehard maximalists.”123



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Within the PFLP, the blame landed squarely on Haddad.124 Not only was it his operation, Haddad was de facto in charge of the PFLP during the hijackings and the fallout ­because Habash was in Asia trying to build the PFLP’s foreign relations.125 Habash initially defended the hijackings—­and, by extension, his friend—­a rguing that “when we hijack a plane it has more effect than if we killed one hundred Israelis in ­battle.”126 Despite Habash’s attempt to rationalize the hijackings, he could no longer ignore the costs and the schisms t­ hese operations created. Moreover, he saw that the international attacks hindered the group’s “international revolutionary relations,” by which he meant relations with governments. Habash still sought to compete with Fatah, this time by building ties to governments, including the Soviet Union.127 At the PFLP Central Committee meeting in late 1971, the leadership deci­ded to halt hijackings.128

The PFLP-­SOG Blossoms into a Hub as Relations with PFLP Weaken ­ fter Black September, the PFLP-­SOG operated facilities in Lebanon and A expanded its presence in South Yemen, where Haddad had ties with the ­National Liberation Front.129 South Yemen offered numerous advantages, including that, unlike Lebanon, Israel could not conduct retaliatory strikes in South Yemen ­because it was ­u nder Soviet protection.130 Moreover, the PFLP-­SOG’s international operations did not depend on access to Israel, and so the freedoms and protection afforded by Aden outweighed the distance. Aden offered the PFLP-­SOG active assistance, including training, weapons, transit, and forged passports.131 Most impor­tant from an alliance standpoint, Aden allowed the group significant latitude, including the ability to bring prospective allies to its facilities.132 Aden’s liberal sanctuary policies permitted the PFLP-­SOG to host, train, and vet potential allies and further flourish as an alliance hub.133 Notably, Moscow had more influence over Aden than any other state in the M ­ iddle East.134 Not surprisingly, the PFLP-­SOG’s move to South Yemen coincided with Haddad’s growing covert ties with the Soviet Union.135 The Soviet Committee for State Security, widely known as KGB, recruited Haddad as an asset in 1970. He undertook missions, such as the attempted kidnapping of a U.S. official in Beirut, at the KGB’s behest. The KGB also used Haddad’s contacts to facilitate clandestine interactions with other

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groups. Through its relationship to Haddad, the KGB received advanced ­notice of major PFLP-­SOG attacks, but the KGB did not dictate the PFLP-­ SOG’s operations or its alliances.136 Moscow provided advanced weapons and training to the PFLP-­SOG, which also improved the group’s hub position ­because it expanded the knowledge, skills, and resources the group could offer partners. Haddad’s unit gained extensive arms and sophisticated equipment rarely available to terrorist organ­izations. For example, the group received five radio-­activated SNOP mines, fifteen booby-­trapped mines fabricated with untraceable foreign materials, and several types of silencers in a large cache of pistols, ammunition, and machine guns. T ­ hese mines w ­ ere among the most advanced small arms in the Soviet arsenal, and Moscow had not shared them or several of the silencers with other Warsaw Pact countries.137 PFLP-­SOG operatives also received advanced instruction from the Soviets; however, Soviet trainers did not operate at PFLP-­SOG training facilities. As one PFLP-­SOG commander characterized the group’s relationship with Moscow, “We saw ourselves in one trench, but ­there was not field cooperation.”138 As the PFLP-­SOG developed more outside sources of support, foreign trainees streamed into the camps in greater numbers following the 1970 hijackings. Its cooperation with other groups grew so extensive that the CIA assessed that “the only philosophical basis required to establish international connections is a common conviction in terrorism and violent revolution as a means to destroy the established order.”139 The PFLP-­SOG vetted trainees and initiated alliances selectively with ­those groups that demonstrated utility. As one of Haddad’s lieutenants described it, “The camps ­were for training and certifying with each other.”140 The PFLP-­SOG would begin cooperation in areas such as sharing documents, provision of weapons, logistical assistance, and training, and then built ­toward alliance formation.141 With the training infrastructure in Aden and its presence in Lebanon, during this period, the PFLP-­SOG built an alliance hub system centered on its provision of training and safe haven. In addition to the ways that association with the Palestinian cause improved allies’ resource mobilization capability, during this period the PFLP-­ SOG developed a training apparatus that offered its prospective allies the ability to acquire skills and knowledge. The PFLP-­SOG created tailored training regimens; the trainee groups’ needs determined the duration and content of the training. The PFLP-­SOG even conducted training in multiple languages, including En­glish.142 The PFLP-­SOG made an effort to learn



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about the circumstances of its prospective partners so it could tailor its training and assistance to ­those conditions.143 Most programs began with physical fitness and discipline drills and then progressed to military training, including learning topography and working with what a PFLP-­SOG member described as “­every light weapon that men could possibly use in a guerrilla war,” including explosives.144 Haddad and his lieutenants then debriefed trainees to determine the efficacy of dif­fer­ent aspects of the training program, so that it could be refined for the ­f uture.145 Haddad’s trainers—­ generally Arabs with fighting experience—­carefully observed the foreign trainees and recommended ­t hose who demonstrated promise for further cooperation.146 Haddad or one of his lieutenants met with ­t hose considered serious alliance prospects.147 Sometimes, they would propose a specific mission. If the trainee group was receptive, the PFLP-­SOG would train it to conduct the agreed-­upon operation.148 With this constant feedback and adjustment cycle, the PFLP-­SOG created a well-­oiled alliance machine based on its training.149 ­After the 1970 hijackings, as the PFLP-­SOG intended, the world was indeed asking, “Who are the Palestinians and why are they ­doing ­these ­things?” The group realized that, in addition to allies’ value in circumventing security mea­sures, their involvement in operations projected an international aura and thereby caused ­people to ask a related question: why would foreigners, with no direct stake in the Arab-­Israeli conflict, conduct operations on behalf of the Palestinians?150 Foreign participation created a sense that the Palestinian cause transcended the Palestinian ­people or even the ­Middle East and kept the issue in the international spotlight. The PFLP-­SOG’s estimation of the value of allies was increasing when a handful of Japa­nese leftists arrived in Lebanon in 1971 seeking training and “revolutionary experience” from a like-­minded organ­ization.151 By the late 1960s, the protest movement in Japan had grown frustrated by its inability to effect po­liti­cal change. Then, in 1967, a demonstration against the prime minister’s visit to Vietnam, where he planned to discuss Japan’s role in the Vietnam War, spiraled out of control. In the ensuing chaos, demonstrators commandeered a police van and accidently struck and killed a fellow protester. Deaths during protests ­were rare in Japan. This incident, particularly in the immediate aftermath during which it was unclear how the death occurred, sent shock waves through the movement. It injected the specter of lethal vio­lence into demonstrations, which the CIA previously described as

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“accommodated in the existing social and po­liti­cal structure with both the police and demonstrators observing tacitly agreed rules of engagement.”152 ­Those rules no longer applied, and protesters increasingly used Molotov cocktails and other homemade incendiary devices.153 Banished from the mainstream student protest movement in 1969 for advocating greater vio­lence, a group calling itself the Red Army sought weapons, support, and armed action. Like numerous militant leftist groups, the Red Army saw violent revolution as the “fundamental way of liberating ­people from exploitation and class domination domestically, and a means to combat imperialism on the international level.”154 Soon thereafter, police foiled the group’s plot to disrupt the Japa­nese prime minister’s trip to the United States by surrounding his residence and barricading him inside. The government arrested over fifty members. A plot targeting the prime minister alarmed the Japa­nese government, and the operating environment for the Red Army grew prohibitive. The Red Army, which had operated semi-­openly, albeit u ­ nder constant police scrutiny, deci­ded to go underground.155 However, the group—­largely composed of middle-­class students—­lacked the orga­nizational capability to operate underground and execute its proposed violent campaign against the state.156 Moreover, as Japan expert ­Patricia Steinhoff pointed out, the group faced environmental constraints as “the tactics they chose required weapons which ­were difficult to obtain in Japan. Training in how to use ­these weapons was even more remote.”157 Students coming of age in Japan in the post−World War II era did not have access to military training or combat experience; so members lacked the necessary knowledge or skills. Recognizing its inability to undertake the requisite self-­reform, the group devised a plan: send members to acquire training from a successful revolutionary movement. Using the skills acquired, they would return to teach ­others and foment the revolution.158 The Red Army searched for allies from which its members could gain this experience and be “part of the international vanguard of an ongoing global revolution,” that is, an ally that could address its needs and with which it shared ideological affinity.159 The group created a foreign-­relations committee headed by Fusako Shigenobu, charged with exploring options. ­After a failed attempt to hijack a plane to reach Cuba and a rejection by the Weather­ men, the Red Army reached out to the PFLP. As demonstrated by its previous outreach, the Red Army was not motivated by any par­tic­u­lar solidarity with the Palestinians or opposition to Israel. Instead, the ­Middle East stood out as a ­v iable, accessible destination where an ideologically compatible



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movement was actively engaged in re­sis­tance and where the group could acquire experience and training. The PFLP offered what the Red Army was looking for to fulfill its orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs: a venue to train, an ally to provide experience, a way to contribute to the inter­ national revolution, and a place to find haven from Japa­nese authorities, all courtesy of a fellow leftist organ­ization.160 Once it identified the ­Middle East as a desirable venue, the Red Army limited its search to ideologically compatible Palestinian organ­izations, which made the PFLP a more desirable partner than Fatah.161 This requirement reflected the prominence of ideology within the Japa­nese leftist movement and the absence of other shared identity qualities with the Palestinians. ­Absent other commonalities, except an overarching shared narrative, ideology served as the primary basis for affinity, making the PFLP a more desirable ally option than Fatah. For its part, the PFLP-­SOG was in the midst of expanding its alliances and welcomed the Japa­nese interest. In late 1970, PFLP members ­were arrested while in Japan publicizing a film on Palestinian operations designed to garner support for their cause. They also sought to arrange for Red Army members to train in Lebanon. The CIA assessed that plans ­were ­under way for the PFLP to provide “instruction in kidnapping and hijacking techniques and in producing sabotage devices.”162 However, in the midst of the successive orga­nizational crises, including a leadership change, the Red Army strug­g led to gather members to go to Lebanon. Vari­ous delays beset the effort; so a few individuals, including Shigenobu, deci­ded to go ahead.163 However, her relationship with the group’s newly ascended leader, Tsuneo Mori, was strained when she left for Lebanon in 1971.164 Unlike Shigenobu and his pre­de­ces­sor, Mori was unconvinced of the need for an ally. He assumed leadership of the group in the wake of numerous arrests and the failed hijacking to Cuba. His ascension prompted internal debate, and some questioned his leadership capability, including Shigenobu, which prob­ably contributed to his opposition to the alliance. Shigenobu was determined to pursue the opportunity in Lebanon, irrespective of Mori’s objections. The night before she departed, Mori acquiesced and sent a message requesting that she go to Lebanon as the Red Army’s representative.165 Shigenobu and a handful of men hailing from a fellow leftist group called the Kyoto Partisans journeyed to Lebanon. The men entered into the PFLP-­ SOG’s training facilities, while Shigenobu worked with the PFLP media wing on propaganda to promote the Palestinian cause in Japan, including a

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film, the Red Army−PFLP World Revolutionary Manifesto, and a book entitled The Arab Guerrillas and the World Red Army.166 In the interim, ties between the PFLP-­SOG and its parent organ­ization grew more strained. The PFLP leadership issued a directive against hijackings in 1971. However, the PFLP-­SOG saw hijackings as not only a way to capture international attention but also to acquire funds. The PFLP-­SOG discovered that some airlines would pay top dollar to resolve hijackings or even avoid them altogether.167 Hijackings’ revenue-­generating potential became significant as the PFLP strug­gled financially in the wake of the 1970 attacks and Black September. Financial trou­bles exacerbated the group’s internal dissension, particularly resentment of the PFLP-­SOG’s expenditures and the secrecy surrounding the unit.168 Tensions came to a head when, in February 1972, the PFLP-­SOG hijacked a Lufthansa plane and extorted a $5 million ransom.169 The act was in direct contravention to the Central Committee’s edict to cease hijackings. Haddad loyalists maintained that the influx prevented orga­nizational collapse and denied accusations that Haddad conducted the operation to acquire additional power.170 Moreover, the PFLP-­SOG argued that extorting Lufthansa dovetailed with the PFLP’s agenda ­because West Germany paid reparations to Israel and was thereby complicit in the Palestinians’ plight.171 Nonetheless, the PFLP’s Central Committee voted to dissolve the PFLP-­SOG, expel Haddad, and publicly deny responsibility for the operation.172 Undeterred, Haddad sent his operatives on an attack spree in West Germany, killing five Jordanians, attacking an oil pipeline, and blowing up a factory with contracts with Israel, in addition to attacking oil tanks in Holland.173 The PFLP-­SOG was also plotting an attack to penetrate Israel, but it would require allies to execute. The Japa­nese trainees who arrived in Lebanon in 1971 demonstrated the kind of dedication and aptitude the PFLP-­ SOG sought in its allies. Over the course of their training, the Japa­nese trainees earned the re­spect of their Palestinian hosts, who described them as “honest ­until death. When they made a decision, they did not return from it. They valued friendship highly. . . . ​They did business with the commander with a complete seriousness.”174 The main broker and locus of trust was Shigenobu’s husband, Takeshi Okudaira, who learned Arabic and became the de facto leader of the Japa­nese trainees. Their trainers reported that the Japa­nese had distinguished themselves and nominated them for further cooperation.175 Unable to penetrate Israel



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on its own and increasingly struggling to strike Israeli targets abroad as well, the PFLP-­SOG proposed to the Japa­nese trainees that they conduct an attack in Tel Aviv. In a new adaptation, the PFLP-­SOG requested its new ally conduct the operation on its behalf. It promised to train the group to conduct the proposed operation, thus ensuring a fit between what skills the Japa­nese needed and what the PFLP-­SOG would provide. The Japa­nese agreed. They ­were stranded in Lebanon. The Red Army had imploded in March 1972, when the group killed a dozen of its own members, which led to more arrests and the death of the organ­ization in Japan. In exile, the trainees ­were dependent on the PFLP-­SOG and felt beholden to it.176 Haddad’s scheme offered an opportunity for them to acquire skills, adapt to their circumstances, repay their Palestinian comrades, contribute to the broader fight against imperialism, and shift the spotlight away from negative events in Japan, which had adversely affected their fundraising and recruitment.177 They came to Lebanon seeking revolutionary experience, and now they had a chance to undertake such an action. ­A fter some deliberation, two trainees declined, but the rest consented; with this action, a new organ­ization, the Japa­nese Red Army (JRA), came into being, born as an ally of the PFLP-­SOG. In May 1972, three Japa­nese operatives, including Okudaira, landed in Tel Aviv’s Lod Airport from Paris via Air France. They retrieved their bags with weapons inside and then opened fire in the baggage-­claim area. In the ensuing shootout, twenty-­six ­people died, mostly Puerto Rican tourists. Two of the Japa­nese operatives died during the assault, and Israeli security detained the surviving attacker. The Lod Airport assault is often portrayed as a “kamikaze” mission by attackers who sought both to kill as many ­people as they could and to die during the operation. The captured attacker’s plea that he be allowed to kill himself and attempts to ensure he received the death penalty during his trial contributed to this perception.178 However, the now-­imprisoned Shigenobu and one of the trainees who returned to Japan rather than participate in the attack claimed that the operation went awry. According to their accounts, the PFLP-­SOG tasked the attackers with taking over the control tower at Lod Airport. Their attempt to create a diversion at the baggage claim precipitated a firefight with airport security, which was heightened following a recent Fatah attack at the airport. One of Haddad’s lieutenants supported their claims, explaining that while the attackers knew ­dying was pos­si­ble in

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the course of the attack, it was not a suicide mission.179 Furthermore, the planned operation was more consistent with the PFLP-­SOG’s modus operandi of hostage taking rather than mass casualty attacks. This is not to say that the PFLP-­SOG renounced such attacks. From the PFLP-­SOG’s perspective, the operation—­even though it did not go according to plan and resulted in the death of two of the attackers—­was a success.180 The Japa­nese group’s willingness to undertake a difficult mission and penetrate a target in the heart of Israel ­were qualities the PFLP-­SOG coveted in the increasingly restrictive environment. Moreover, the involvement of third-­country nationals who had no direct stake in the conflict generated tremendous media attention and projected a sense of international opposition to Israel.181 While the PFLP had renounced the PFLP-­SOG and the Lufthansa hijacking three months earlier, it embraced the Lod Airport slaughter. It issued a public statement claiming responsibility.182 However, the PFLP’s triumphant claim of responsibility failed to refer to the most puzzling aspect of the operation—­the Japa­nese perpetrators—­a nd, in so ­doing, the PFLP inadvertently revealed how ­little the PFLP-­SOG shared with its parent organ­ization.183 Haddad reportedly informed Habash of the impending attack, though other PFLP leaders did not know of it, to their dismay. To clarify the situation, Haddad persuaded Shigenobu to issue a supporting statement on behalf of the attackers.184 Her letter in the PFLP’s newspaper claimed, “We in the Red Army declare anew our preparedness to fight hand-­ in-­hand with the Palestinians and wage joint onslaughts at any time to defeat the Israeli ­enemy. . . . ​Only revolutionary vio­lence ­will enable us to defeat imperialists throughout the world.”185 ­After the Lod Airport attack, the PFLP-­SOG was convinced of allies’ utility in its attacks, both tactically and for publicity purposes. However, it did not task them with conducting attacks entirely on its behalf ­after the Lod attack, perhaps another indication that it had not gone as planned. Instead, the PFLP-­SOG began to use joint operations teams. The PFLP-­SOG did not just expect its ally to bridge frames to its cause; it reciprocated by expanding its frames—­a nd actions—to incorporate the JRA’s cause. It cooperated with operatives from the JRA to strike Japan over a year ­later. In July 1973, a joint JRA and PFLP-­SOG team hijacked a Japan Airlines flight. However, this operation also went awry when the lead operative was killed when the grenade strapped to her waist accidentally detonated. Moreover, despite their alliance, the PFLP-­SOG operational security



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procedures required that only the lead operative know the attack plan. Thus, the JRA operatives ­were unsure what to do, and the operation did not achieve any benefits, such as prisoner release. Regional developments took center stage that October, when Egyptian and Syrian forces, with reinforcements from Iraq, Algeria, Morocco, Jordan, Kuwait, and a modest contribution of Palestinian fighters, launched a surprise attack against Israeli forces along the Suez Canal and Golan Heights. In order to pressure Israel to relinquish the territories held since the 1967 Six-­ Day War and to punish the United States for supporting Israel, the Arab oil-­producing countries cut their production by 5 ­percent and embargoed sales to the United States. The embargo lasted ­until March 1974 and precipitated an energy crisis.186 Following the 1973 Yom Kippur War, the United Nations granted the PLO observer status. In response, Fatah largely desisted from international terrorism.187 A wing of Fatah called the Black September Organ­ization had conducted international attacks, including against the Munich Olympics in 1972 and the Saudi Embassy in Sudan in March 1973. As Fatah sought greater international legitimacy, it not only reined in the Black September Organ­ ization, it downgraded its relationships with terrorist groups. In contrast, the PFLP-­SOG committed to its international operations and alliances. It struck with the JRA again, this time in Singapore in ­January 1974. In the midst of the oil crisis, a joint team of PFLP-­SOG and JRA operatives attacked a Shell Oil fa­cil­i­t y on Pulau Bukom Island. Haddad was convinced that oil was the lifeblood of the imperial economy, particularly for reactionary Arab regimes, and thus a valuable target, especially in the midst of the embargo.188 The attackers set fire to an oil storage tank and attempted to blow up three more before seizing a ferryboat with five hostages during their escape attempt. Singaporean authorities soon surrounded the hijacked ferryboat, and the Japa­nese ambassador came in to negotiate. The standoff stretched on for a week with ­little pro­gress, while the attackers grew seasick and desperate.189 When negotiations stalled, PFLP-­SOG operatives seized the Japa­nese Embassy in Kuwait, taking the ambassador and seven ­others hostage, and demanded the release of their comrades in Singaporean ­waters.190 The Japa­ nese, Singaporean, and Kuwaiti governments acquiesced; the oil refinery attackers ­were transported to Kuwait, where they met up with the embassy attackers. The re­united group was then taken to South Yemen, where they ­were freed.191

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The allies presented a united front in their claim of responsibility.192 However, b­ ehind the scenes, the PFLP-­SOG and JRA alliance encountered roadblocks. In addition to the unanticipated outcome at Lod Airport, in the two subsequent attacks the JRA operatives lacked insight into the plots ­because they ­were not team leaders. Therefore, when ­things went awry, they did not know how to proceed. The PFLP-­SOG’s refusal to bring JRA operatives into its confidence about such ­matters demonstrated the limitations of its willingness to trust allies. For the JRA’s part, having had its orga­ nizational learning needs fulfilled through training and experience ­under the PFLP-­SOG’s tutelage, the JRA agitated for more autonomy.193 However, the JRA’s initial efforts to act in­de­pen­dently soon ran into trou­ble, and the benefits of its alliance with the PFLP-­SOG again became clear. The JRA planned to kidnap a Japa­nese executive in Paris for ransom— an operation nicknamed the “translation event”—to garner funds. However, in July 1974, French authorities detained a JRA se­nior leader involved in the plot, Yoshiaki Yamada, as he entered Orly Airport. He was carry­ing several false passports, $10,000 in counterfeit currency, and information detailing the JRA’s plans in Eu­rope.194 His detention led to the discovery of the JRA’s network in Paris. French authorities questioned one hundred ­people and expelled eight from France.195 Yamada remained in custody, serving several months for carry­ing false passports and counterfeit currency. The JRA turned to its ally to f­ ree him.196 The PFLP-­SOG reciprocated. Haddad ordered his operatives to give Yamada’s release pre­ce­dence over other operations planned in Eu­rope. The PFLP-­SOG knew Yamada well; he participated in the Singapore operation. Haddad identified the French Embassy in the Netherlands as the best target for the JRA to strike ­because he assessed the Dutch response would be the least robust.197 Haddad tasked his ambitious Venezuelan lieutenant Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, more infamously known as Carlos the Jackal, with assisting the JRA by conducting surveillance and providing weapons. In September, JRA operatives stormed the French Embassy in the Nether­ lands and took nearly a dozen embassy employees hostage, including the ambassador. They demanded the release of their detained compatriot, $1 million in ransom, and a plane to take them to the country of their choosing.198 Two days ­after the JRA seized the embassy, in an effort to terrorize the French government into capitulating to the JRA’s demands, Carlos threw a grenade into a crowded area in Le Drugstore shopping complex in Paris. Authori-



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ties, however, did not link the act to the embassy hostage situation at the time, so it did not have the desired effect.199 Nonetheless, in case the French had any doubts about the seriousness of the embassy attackers’ demands, Haddad’s chief of operations in Eu­rope, Michel Moukharbal, placed a half-­dozen empty grenade cases in the unclaimed luggage office in Orly Airport. He then called in a threat that the rest of the contents would be unleashed in Paris if the French did not release Yamada.200 Two days l­ater, the French and Dutch governments yielded, albeit with a reduced ransom. In a departure from Aden’s previous lenience—­ and an early indication that it was increasingly susceptible to international pressure—­South Yemen refused to accept the attackers. They journeyed to Damascus instead, where the attackers reportedly “surrendered” to the PLO.201 The JRA’s alliance with the PFLP-­SOG was not vis­i­ble in its seizure of the French Embassy at the Hague. However, ­behind the scenes, the PFLP-­ SOG assisted with ­every ele­ment of the attack, including target se­lection, weapons, and surveillance. It not only sought allies to help it execute its mission, it aided its allies. Though their alliance was not nearly as close, the JRA’s f­ uture actions reflected what it learned from its ally and demonstrated the consequences of an alliance with a hub. In 1975, the JRA assaulted the U.S. Consulate and Swedish Embassy in Kuala Lumpur, taking more than fifty ­people hostage. The Japa­nese government succumbed to the JRA’s demands for prisoner releases in exchange for the diplomats. The JRA’s communiqué denounced the Swedish government, the United States, and Japan, but it also paid homage to the Palestinian cause and condemned Zionism.202 The final JRA operation of this period was the hijacking of a Japan Airlines flight out of Bombay (now Mumbai) in September 1977 with over 150 ­people on board. The JRA operatives forced the plane to land in Dhaka, Bangladesh, and demanded the release of nine prisoners in Japa­nese custody. The JRA extracted its largest concession to date: the release of six prisoners and a $6  million ransom.203 The hijackers released the hostages and ­were then taken to Algiers, at their request. The JRA then ceased operations for several years, enjoying sanctuary in Lebanon through its long-­standing ties with Palestinians. It even became a ser­vice provider in its own right, assisting and training other organ­izations, particularly in Asia.204 While the PFLP-­SOG’s alliance with the JRA downgraded around 1975, the PFLP-­SOG had no shortage of other groups with which to cooperate.

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The group’s roster of partners reads like a who’s who of terrorists, militants, and revolutionaries of the time and includes ­f uture groups of consequence as well. It trained members from the French leftist group Action Directe, the Basque ethnonationalist group Euskadi Ta Askatasuna, and small, lesser-­ known leftist groups from Holland, Turkey, and Spain.205 It collaborated with the Tupamaros representatives in Eu­rope. 206 Other Latin American groups, including from Chile and El Salvador, trained at its camps.207 The PFLP-­SOG worked with the Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Turkey, funding its operations and providing weapons and passports in exchange for intelligence. It even fostered ties with the anti-­Shah Ira­nian group, Mujahidin-­ e-­K halq, which had a presence in Eu­rope.208 Haddad’s commitment to alliances faced some internal opposition, but he remained as resolutely committed to them as he did to international attacks.209 In 1975, the PFLP-­SOG helped produce another group that was an ally at the time of its formation: the Armenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia (ASALA). Discouraged by the lack of results from nonviolent po­liti­cal action and inspired by the Palestinians’ ability to get attention for their cause, particularly the PFLP-­SOG’s international campaign, a group of Armenians living in Beirut—­where nearly two hundred thousand displaced Armenians had resided since 1915—­c reated ASALA in 1975. 210 Though the group concentrated its attacks on Turkish targets, it announced its formation that January by bombing the World Council of Churches in Beirut, which it accused of encouraging Armenian emigration to and assimilation in Western countries. 211 The group sought the restoration of an Armenian homeland through a rejoining of eastern Turkey to Soviet Armenia and revenge for Ottoman atrocities against Armenians during the 1915 deportations, during which hundreds of thousands of Armenians died.212 The Armenian Marxist group received extensive training, assistance, and funds from the Palestinians.213 Perhaps most impor­tant, it enjoyed haven in Beirut ­until 1982 in part ­under Palestinian protection and in part through the sizable Armenian diaspora community located ­t here. In the midst of the growing internecine conflict in Lebanon in the 1970s, left-­wing Armenians forged relationships with their Palestinian counter­parts through their neighborhood proximity and at universities.214 ASALA cooperated with numerous Palestinian groups, including the PFLP, Fatah, the DFLP, and the PFLP-­GC.215 Most of all, the PFLP-­SOG was a model and patron for the Armenian group. ASALA’s leader Hagop Hagopian, reportedly of half-­Arab and half-­Armenian descent, joined the



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Palestinian movement in 1967 and formed close personal relationships with Palestinian militants, most notably Wadi’ Haddad.216 The PFLP-­SOG offered the Armenians extensive training.217 According to a former member, Hagopian “found himself within the ranks of Wadi Haddad’s splinter PFLP. It was during his activity with Wadi Haddad that he [Hagopian] gained most of his experience, developed many personal friendships with Palestinian leaders, and began to mimic the orga­nizational and military tactics of Wadi ­Haddad.”218 Hagopian’s experience reportedly included participating in the PFLP-­SOG’s takeover of the Japa­nese Embassy in 1974.219 Hagopian even ­adopted Haddad’s centralized leadership style.220 The PFLP-­SOG shared the deepest level of affinity with ASALA of any of its alliances, in part ­because of the degree of overlap in their frames and ideology. Andrew Corsun pointed out that both “lost their land, had a large diaspora community, and the use of ­legal methods to bring their cause to world attention had failed.”221 The Armenians also lacked a presence in their aspired-­after homeland and operated in exile. Moreover, both sought self-­ determination “against seemingly impossible odds . . . ​w ith the puniest of resources” and revenge against the forces that denied that homeland to them.222 In addition, ASALA’s ideology was a similar combination of Marxism and ethnonationalism with an international ethos.223 Despite its extensive cooperation with other groups, the PFLP-­SOG formed alliances with relatively few fellow Arab allies, suggesting that ethnicity was not a compelling form of affinity for the group. It cooperated with the Lebanese Revolutionary Brigade, the Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Dhofar, the Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Eritrea, and a faction from the Syrian Social Nationalist Party.224 A group of Libyans journeyed to the PFLP-­SOG’s camp in Aden, but this experience was unsuccessful for unspecified reasons.225 The PFLP-­SOG was more apt to recruit Arabs to join the group than ally with fellow Arab organ­izations, perhaps in part ­because Arab groups offered a limited ability to address its orga­nizational need for operations to circumvent security mea­sures and garner international attention. A few other notable groups ­were missing from the PFLP-­SOG’s alliance resume. Despite the centrality of Western Eu­rope as an operational theater, unlike Fatah, the PFLP-­SOG did not forge a relationship with the largest leftist group in Eu­rope at the time, the Italian Red Brigades. The absence of an alliance with a group that seemingly would have been a desirable partner reflects the importance of trust. The PFLP-­SOG trained other Italian

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groups but avoided the Red Brigades ­because it believed security ser­vices had penetrated the organ­ization.226 Also absent from its alliances ­were American groups. Perhaps the most obvious potential partner was the Weathermen. A fellow leftist organ­ization seeking to overthrow the U.S. government and the “imperialist” world order, it shared ideology and enemies with the PFLP-­SOG to a greater degree than many. Moreover, while not its priority, the Weathermen publicly supported the Palestinian cause. As one leader argued, the group had to sympathize with the Palestinians ­because “our anti-­imperialism was nothing if not totally pro-­national liberation.”227 The Weathermen even rhetorically called for “revolutionary” groups to unite. Yet the two groups did not attempt to ally. The PFLP-­SOG generally ­adopted a receptive posture ­toward groups that approached it rather than seeking out allies. For its part, a­ fter an early orga­nizational crisis, the Weathermen self-­reformed and opted to limit itself to small-­scale operations against property. Moreover, the group had an advantage over its counter­parts in Japan ­because explosives and weapons ­were not difficult to acquire in the United States. 228 A small number of members, perhaps as few as two, gained proficiency at bomb making, which was adequate for the group’s purposes.229 In addition, disgruntled Vietnam War veterans ­were reportedly willing to help when assistance was required.230 In other words, the group was self-­sufficient and so lacked a reason to initiate an alliance with the PFLP-­SOG. One leader argued that if the group had needed training, it would not have turned to the PFLP ­because ­there ­were knowledgeable individuals close to home and known to the group and such an action was too risky, given the U.S. government’s efforts to infiltrate the group.231 Moreover, the group was committed to staying in the United States and was able to successfully operate underground and so had no need for haven. Consequently, the Weathermen’s lack of orga­nizational needs prevented it from seeking or initiating an alliance with the PFLP-­SOG, even though it shared enemies and an ideology with the hub.

Outdated Adaptations Fortuitously, as the JRA and ASALA became more in­de­pen­dent, West ­ erman leftists arrived at the PFLP-­SOG’s camps in Aden seeking assistance. G The PFLP-­SOG continued its approach of conducting operations with



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allies in joint teams but soon found that even allies could not help it adapt to the changing environment. One of the groups, the Red Army Faction (RAF), was well known, ­because of its notorious imprisoned leaders Andreas Baader, Ulrike Meinhof, and Gudrun Ensslin. The first generation of RAF trained in Jordan in 1970 with Fatah and had developed a reputation as undisciplined during their short stay.232 This experience was not aty­pi­cal when First World revolutionaries came to train. Leila Khaled derided Western Eu­ro­pe­ans who came to the camps proffering slogans like “let chaos reign.” “I exclaimed that the Palestinian ­people ­were an example of a society in chaos and without leader­ ship, which as a result, was left at the mercy of the Zionist oppressor. I asked them what they could prescribe for us in order to overcome our kind of ‘alienation’—­beards, long hair, and toy guns? They merely paused, they smiled, they reflected, they inhaled and passed their joints on in universal won­der.”233 As Chapter 3 ­will discuss, when the RAF’s second generation needed to acquire the capability to execute hostage-­taking operations to ­f ree the RAF leaders in 1975, the group returned to Fatah. Indicative of Fatah’s shift away from acting as an alliance hub, it declined to assist, citing its efforts to garner international ac­cep­tance. It referred the Germans to the PFLP, which then connected them to the PFLP-­SOG. Haddad agreed to work with them. The second generation’s single-­minded dedication to the prisoners’ release made an impression on PFLP-­SOG trainers. They distinguished themselves with their “seriousness and commitment” as well as their “cohesion,” according to a Haddad lieutenant.234 Given the loss of the JRA and the centrality of Eu­rope as an operational theatre, the PFLP-­SOG coveted its West German allies’ ability to operate ­there. The PFLP-­SOG was poised to launch another terrorist campaign in Eu­rope; thus, it continued to have orga­nizational needs for allies that could help with operations ­there. Its needs mounted since Israel killed the group’s head of Eu­ro­pean operations, Mohamed Boudia, using a car bomb in 1973. Boudia’s death created a hole ­because the network revolved around ­Haddad’s trusted lieutenants. The Algerian operative’s assassination was part of the Israeli response to the onslaught of attacks by Palestinian groups; ­PFLP-­SOG operatives ­were high on Israel’s hit list. Israel also targeted PFLP figures that operated publicly. Two months ­after the Lod Airport attack, the Israelis wired explosives to the car of the PFLP’s spokesman Ghassan Kanafani, killing him and his niece. Next, the Israelis injured Kanafani’s successor by mailing him a hollowed-­out book rigged with explosives.235 One of Israel’s top targets, Haddad was constantly on the move.

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Moukharbal stepped into Boudia’s role and was responsible for the renewed vio­lence in Eu­rope. Fortuitously, beginning around 1974, in addition to RAF, the PFLP-­SOG attracted other West German leftists to its camps in South Yemen. West Germany produced three main terrorist groups during this era: the RAF, the 2nd of June Movement, and the Revolutionary Cells. All three groups approached the PFLP-­SOG to obtain training and safe haven. The PFLP-­SOG became sufficiently close to the 2nd of June Movement and Revolutionary Cells that some Germans became dual members. In an effort to adapt to its difficulties striking Israeli targets, the PFLP-­ SOG continued to work with allies and demonstrated a willingness to escalate the lethality of its operations. In early 1975, PFLP-­SOG operatives tried to shoot down an El Al plane taking off from Orly Airport, with assistance from a Revolutionary Cells leader.236 The attackers fled a­ fter two shots missed a plane carry­ing over 130 passengers. One week ­later, the attackers returned. When this attempt also failed, in large part owing to the enhanced security mea­sures enacted ­after the previous attempt, the attack team seized hostages and holed up in an airport rest­room. Less than twenty-­four hours ­later, the attackers exchanged the hostages for transport to Iraq.237 An episode ­later that year further damaged the PFLP-­SOG’s already weakened Eu­ro­p ean capability and increased its reliance on allies. In June 1975, Moukharbal was killed by one of his subordinates, Carlos the Jackal. French authorities had detained Moukharbal when he returned to Paris from the M ­ iddle East. Moukharbal then led French intelligence officers to Carlos’s apartment in Paris. When Moukharbal arrived with two French officers, Carlos—­believing him to be an informer—­shot him and both officers. This incident precipitated a media firestorm surrounding “the Jackal,” who overnight became the world’s most notorious terrorist but was, at that point, only a PFLP-­SOG member. Back in Aden, Haddad was irate with Carlos. Given his high threshold for trust, Haddad was unpersuaded by Carlos’s claim that Moukharbal had been an in­for­mant. The PFLP-­SOG interrogated Carlos at length about the incident but did not expel him.238 However, for a group as small, secretive, and elite as the PFLP-­SOG, it was difficult to replace experienced and trusted individuals like Boudia and Moukharbal. In addition, with the exposure of its network and the pressure generated by Carlos’s murder of French officers, the PFLP-­SOG lost significant capacity in France, which had been the group’s hub in Eu­rope.



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The PFLP-­SOG’s relationships with West German leftist groups became more impor­tant, particularly when one of its state sponsors requested that the PFLP-­SOG strike the Organ­ization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) headquarters in Vienna. Reports conflict about which government tasked the PFLP-­SOG to execute this attack. Some claim it was Muammar Qadhafi’s regime in Libya, though the PFLP-­SOG did not have close ties with the mercurial dictator. ­Others maintain that Saddam Hussein’s government requested the operation ­after the Saudi and Ira­nian governments blocked Baghdad’s attempt to raise oil prices. The PFLP-­SOG had sufficiently close ties to Hussein’s regime to make this claim plausible. However, years ­later, a PFLP-­SOG member with knowledge of the attack’s origins denied that Iraq or Libya was ­behind the operation but refused to disclose the culprit.239 Irrespective of the tasker, the PFLP-­SOG agreed to take over OPEC headquarters in Vienna during a meeting of the oil ministers. The plan was to assassinate the Ira­nian and Saudi oil ministers and use the remaining ministers as bargaining chips for safe passage to a friendly country. The ministers w ­ ere to be released a­ fter denouncing dialogue with Israel.240 While a state sponsor proposed the operation, striking the oil powers—­reactionary regimes that did the Americans’ bidding rather than assisting the Palestinians—­and conducting high-­profile attacks in Eu­rope was consistent with the PFLP-­ SOG’s strategy. As previous operations demonstrated, the PFLP-­SOG saw oil as a corrupting commodity that imperialists harnessed to acquire wealth.241 Given the location of OPEC headquarters in Vienna, Haddad needed operatives who could operate inconspicuously ­t here. He assembled a multi­ national team of Palestinians, West Germans, and the disgraced Carlos. As always, Haddad was intimately involved in selecting and approving the operatives. In this case, the state sponsor ­behind the attack—­enamored with Carlos’s newfound notoriety—­a llegedly insisted that he be on the team. Despite Haddad’s dis­plea­sure with Carlos, he agreed to allow Carlos to lead the operation, perhaps to provide an opportunity to redeem himself.242 ­Because the operation was in Austria, Haddad needed operatives who could speak German; so he approached his West German allies. The RAF declined, citing its focus on freeing its leaders but privately also questioning the origins of the operation. 243 Operatives from the Revolutionary Cells and the 2nd of June Movement agreed to participate, and the plot moved forward.244

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The team stormed the OPEC meeting in December 1975. They claimed the attack using the alias the “Arm of the Arab Revolution.”245 The operation soon diverged from the plan. Once the attackers and hostages traveled to Algiers as planned, instead of conducting the killings and getting the necessary declarations from the remaining oil ministers, Carlos strug­gled to get a plane to fly to Baghdad. Then he came ­under pressure from the Algerian government not to kill any hostages. The Algerian government persuaded Carlos to accept several million dollars from the Saudi and Ira­nian governments in exchange for their oil ministers’ lives.246 While Carlos justified the decision by saying that the money would pay for ­f uture operations, he tried to arrange for the money to go directly to him. 247 It is unclear how much money made it to Carlos, but a PFLP-­SOG lieutenant insisted that the group did not receive any.248 The post-­attack review—­conducted by Haddad ­a fter all operations—­ was brutal, as Haddad’s fury with Carlos had reached dangerous levels. He rebuked the entire team, but the bulk of the blame fell on Carlos. The PFLP-­SOG even considered executing Carlos. Haddad had no use for operatives who disobeyed ­orders, no ­matter how famous they ­were. He expelled Carlos.249 The PFLP-­SOG’s prob­lems in France and Austria foreshadowed difficult times ahead. While the group valued the publicity that attacks in Eu­rope garnered, weakened, it shifted operations to Africa where security was more lax. In January 1976, a joint West German and Palestinian team once again attempted to shoot down an El Al plane using portable antiaircraft missiles, this time at the Nairobi airport. However, ­Kenyan officials disrupted the plot and secretly rendered the operatives to Israel.250 With the failure of two attacks against El Al planes and facing an environment increasingly intolerant of hostage takings, the PFLP-­SOG strug­ gled to adapt. Instead of undertaking self-­reform or seeking allies to help it adapt, the PFLP-­SOG returned to the modus operandi that had earned it international notoriety: hijackings.251 Perhaps one of the PFLP-­SOG’s existing allies could have assisted, but the PFLP-­SOG did not allow its allies to be involved in its operational planning, which precluded that option. In July 1976, a team of West German and Palestinian operatives hijacked an Air France flight from Tel Aviv to Paris during a stopover in Athens and diverted it to Entebbe, Uganda.252 The two West German operatives ­were dual members of the Revolutionary Cells. The Ugandan dictator Idi Amin welcomed the hijackers, even providing troops to fortify security against a



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rescue operation. The PFLP-­SOG’s relationship with the Ugandan regime had grown recently, and Amin responded favorably to a PFLP-­SOG letter asking him to accept the hijackers and the prisoners.253 The involvement of West German operatives in this attack added another layer of terror. In an act laden with Holocaust connotations, the ­Germans separated the Jewish passengers and then released all the ­others. In exchange for the remaining 106 hostages, the attackers demanded the release of fifty-­three prisoners in five countries: primarily Palestinians imprisoned in Israel, but also RAF and 2nd of June Movement members imprisoned in West Germany, a German imprisoned in Switzerland, the surviving Lod Airport attacker, and the would-be Palestinian and West German attackers caught in Nairobi and secretly handed over to Israel several months earlier.254 However, the PFLP-­SOG miscalculated the Israelis’ resolve. The Israeli ­government launched an operation to ­f ree the hostages. The Israelis’ daring rescue mission killed all the attackers as well as nearly fifty Ugandan troops.255 Still, the PFLP-­SOG would not abandon hijackings. Despite Haddad’s legendary willingness to innovate, he continued to believe in the efficacy of this tactic despite the changed environment in which governments refused to acquiesce to terrorists’ demands. Even the group’s closest sponsors grew reluctant to accept hijacked planes. In 1977, the RAF kidnapped a power­f ul West German industrialist, Hanns ­Martin Schleyer. The kidnapping—­part of the RAF’s campaign to ­f ree its founding leaders—­seized the world stage. Seeing an opening to inject the Palestinian cause into the spotlight, Haddad offered to conduct a hijacking operation to increase the pressure on the reticent West German government.256 Notably, this time, he returned to using only Arab PFLP-­SOG operatives, an indication of the decreasing ability of the group’s allies to assist in the changed environment. Six weeks ­after Schleyer’s kidnapping, a team of operatives calling itself the Organ­ization of the Strug­g le Against World Imperialism hijacked a ­Lufthansa plane full of German vacationers.257 The hijackers ran into prob­ lems finding a country to accept the plane when the PFLP-­SOG’s stalwart sponsor in Aden rebuffed them. This gaffe with Aden, which had been so permissive with the PFLP-­SOG, was a harbinger of the disaster to come. The attackers eventually diverted the plane to Mogadishu, Somalia. However, like the Israelis, the West German government refused to ­capitulate. Using a unit created a­ fter the attack on the 1972 Munich Olympics, it launched a mission to ­f ree the hostages. Unlike Idi Amin’s regime, the PFLP-­SOG’s nascent relationship with Somalia’s strongman Siad Barre

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could not withstand the international opprobrium, and West Germany enticed Barre into permitting West German forces into the country to launch a rescue operation. West German forces rescued all the hostages and killed three of the four hostage takers.258 It was yet another costly debacle for the PFLP-­SOG. Flailing, the PFLP-­SOG did not have another opportunity to recover from ­these setbacks. In April 1978, Wadi’ Haddad—­dubbed the “godfather of international terrorism”—­died in an East German hospital.259 The cause of his death remains something of a mystery. The media and several Palestinian officials attributed his death to cancer,260 but experts in Israel’s counter­ terrorism efforts believe that Israeli intelligence poisoned him.261 Even his son remains unsure. 262 At Haddad’s funeral in Baghdad, Habash gave an emotional tribute to his enigmatic friend, even though the PFLP had publicly renounced him in the wake of the 1977 hijacking.263 Within the PFLP-­SOG, Haddad’s demise created an unfillable void, exacerbated by the deaths of several trusted deputies in recent years. He loomed so large while remaining so secretive that some initially did not believe reports of his death. A West German operative who worked closely with Haddad summed up the situation by saying that “without Haddad, nothing works.”264 With no clear successor, the PFLP-­SOG succumbed to the splintering that plagued other Palestinian groups. It fractured into several offshoots, though none lived up to its pre­de­ces­sor. In his absence, the alliance hub network Haddad so assiduously cultivated became ad hoc, though some personal relationships persisted.

Conclusion While the PFLP often receives blame, it was the group’s semiautonomous international attack apparatus that ­shaped the terrorist alliance environment of the 1970s. Although relatively small, the PFLP-­SOG was among the first terrorist groups to be international in its activities and alliances. The group embedded alliances into its problem-­solving frames from an early point, and Haddad remained committed to them to execute the group’s mission: international terrorist attacks. Its training facilities and haven in South Yemen provided an ideal forum to interact, evaluate prospective allies, and determine which groups merited a partnership. The group’s conviction that transnational terrorist attacks ­were the only way to inflict the requisite pain on



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Israel led to its adoption of the alliance hub position, as it created a perpetual orga­nizational need for partners to assist it in this endeavor, particularly once hostile governments increased their security posture and focused more attention on Arab operatives. Not only did the PFLP-­SOG seek allies to execute its campaign of international terror against Israel and its supporters; it used allies to imbue its actions with an international aura and gain attention for the Palestinian cause.265 Over time, some allies acquired a more central and vis­i­ble place in the PFLP-­SOG’s operations, while other relationships involved more covert cooperation. The group’s high-­profile operations attracted allies, but the resources it offered—­training, safe haven, and logistical assistance—­underpinned its ­alliance hub position. The organ­ization’s groundbreaking attacks projected to ­others that it could impart operational prowess, thus making it a desirable ally. The PFLP-­SOG further advertised its receptivity to alliances by ­running well-­k nown training facilities and visibly including allies in its operations. The PFLP-­SOG was ideally suited for its role at the center of an international terrorist network from an identity perspective, as it was both receptive and acceptable to many potential allies. It adhered to an overarching leftist doctrine, which prescribed international unity and was prevalent in the militant landscape, yet it was by no means ideologically dogmatic. If the PFLP was tinged with red, the PFLP-­SOG was colored in the pink ­family in terms of its ideological commitment. Therefore, it was willing to accept numerous partners that shared some identity features, primarily its leftist ideology and, to a lesser extent, its ethnonationalist leanings. This ideological affinity approach was inextricably linked to its broad ­enemy frames. While Israel remained its primary adversary, the PFLP-­SOG viewed the inter­ national order as supporting Israel at the Palestinians’ expense. In addition to motivating its international operations against a variety of enemies, this posture helped the group to engage in identity convergence with other groups. Other groups viewed the PFLP-­SOG and other Palestinian groups as acceptable, even desirable, partners ­because of their identity features. The PFLP-­SOG was a representative of a venerated liberation strug­gle, which gave it substantial identity affinity appeal. The Palestinian militant groups succeeded in implanting their cause in the narratives of other leftist and ethno­ nationalist organ­izations, which created a sense of narrative affinity even with groups that did not have a direct stake in the conflict. Thus, the PFLP-­SOG was able to establish sufficient identity affinity and was an

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acceptable partner from an identity perspective to many groups in the terrorist environment. Despite its small size and clandestine posture, the PFLP-­SOG was able to fulfill other groups’ needs in part ­because the group had multiple, permissive state sponsors. One way that state sponsors assisted the PFLP-­SOG in becoming a hub was by providing venues where it could interact with other groups and build personal relationships that underpinned orga­nizational relationships. It could readily cultivate trust in its state sponsor−provided safe havens, particularly South Yemen. Over time, it developed a reputation as a reliable alliance partner. However, as the PFLP-­SOG’s alliance with the JRA demonstrated, the hub imposed limits on this trust, especially when it came to operational security. At the helm of this alliance effort was Wadi’ Haddad. While his group was compartmentalized he was a micro-­manager extraordinaire, and no alliance decisions occurred without his input. He commanded unwavering loyalty from his followers as he oversaw the execution of a decade-­long international terrorism campaign against Israel and the forces that denied the Palestinians a homeland. A shadowy character with no public persona, Haddad was convinced of the efficacy of terrorism as a tactic to achieve his goal of liberating Palestine through the elimination of Israel.266 Haddad’s centrality and his propensity to compartmentalize information was the group’s undoing when he died. In his absence, ties remained between vari­ous successor organ­ izations, but cooperation generally became more ad hoc and tactical. The PFLP-­SOG’s alliance legacy continued to shape the environment, as some of the PFLP-­SOG’s allies became hubs in their own right. The JRA ­adopted an active alliance posture and became a ser­vice provider, traveling around to assist and train other revolutionary organ­izations, particularly in Asia. 267 In the 1980s, the RAF ­adopted a Euro-­terrorism platform and cultivated alliances with fellow leftist groups in the region, such as the French Action Directe, the Belgian Communist Combatant Cells, and even the group that the PFLP-­SOG shunned, the Italian Red Brigades. Some Palestinian militant groups emulated the PFLP-­SOG, including an early PFLP offshoot, the PFLP-­GC, by forming alliances and engaging in international attacks. However, none could match the alliance feats that the PFLP-­SOG accomplished from 1969 to 1979.

Chapter 3

The Red Army Faction Pursuing Palestinian Partners

­ here is a close and special cooperation between the two regimes T in Bonn and Tel-­Aviv in the military and economic fields, as well as in the area of shared po­liti­cal positions. The two e­ nemy regimes work together against patriotic and revolutionary liberation movements in the world in general and in Arab, African, and Latin American regions in particular. —­Strug­gle Against World Imperialism Organ­ization, October 13, 1977

During the 1970s, the West German Red Army Faction (RAF) arguably achieved the most notoriety of all the New Left organ­izations. Its iconic leaders ­were a media sensation, with a movie depicting their activities appearing thirty years ­after their deaths. During the founding members’ terrorist spree, they conducted arson attacks and bombings, orchestrated a jail break, engaged in deadly shootouts with police, robbed banks, and stole BMW getaway cars, which ­were nicknamed “Baader-­Meinhof wagons” ­after two of the group’s prominent members. ­After the West German government caught up with them, the campaign to ­f ree the group’s leaders from prison was no less dramatic. RAF members went on high-­profile hunger strikes—­one resulted in the death of a se­nior member—to draw attention to their plight. They succeeded in spawning a following; sympathizers formed “torture committees” to protest their imprisonment conditions. ­These committees provided a pool of recruits ready to go to extreme lengths to secure the prisoners’ freedom.

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Their followers unleashed a reign of vio­lence that rocked West Germany. The saga ended when the imprisoned leaders committed suicide, orchestrating their deaths to sow doubt about w ­ hether they had taken their own lives or ­whether the “fascist” West German government had murdered them. The RAF would have been unable to wreak such havoc ­were it not for its Palestinian allies. As two sympathizers summed it up, the RAF made “extensive use of vari­ous Arab countries as rear base areas throughout their existence, places where one could go not only for training, but also to hide when Eu­rope got too ‘hot.’ ”1 Some have concluded that ­these relationships ­were based “on a sense of ideological solidarity, the RAF’s internationalist worldview, and their conclusion that the cap­i­tal­ist West and Israel ­were common foes.”2 However, a closer examination reveals the centrality of orga­ nizational needs to explain when the RAF initiated alliances and which alliances formed. Without accounting for orga­nizational needs, one cannot explain the timing and outcome of ­these alliances. Moreover, orga­nizational need fit coupled with identity affinity illuminate why one effort of alliance initiation led to alliance formation while another did not. In par­tic­u­lar, at two pivotal points, the RAF turned to its Palestinian counter­parts for assistance. Right ­a fter the RAF formed, its members journeyed to Jordan to undergo training with Fatah, but Fatah was unimpressed with the flamboyant and undisciplined West Germans. Moreover, the RAF was dismayed that many of the desert fighting and survival skills that Fatah imparted ­were not suited to the urban West German environment. The poor orga­nizational need fit between the two groups exacerbated their cultural mismatch and hindered their alliance effort. Nonetheless, the temporary respite was of immea­sur­able value for the RAF at a time when it experienced an acute need to escape mounting counterterrorism pressure in Germany. Five years ­later, the RAF’s second generation once again sought a Palestinian ally in the midst of an orga­nizational crisis and an age reset. This time, the RAF connected with Wadi’ Haddad’s PFLP-­SOG. The RAF’s orga­nizational focus on securing its leaders’ freedom stimulated its alliance with the PFLP-­SOG. In its single-­minded pursuit of its leaders’ freedom, the RAF succumbed to the tendency to substitute the group’s orga­nizational needs for its po­liti­cal aims. The RAF relied on the PFLP-­SOG to help plan and implement its ultimately unsuccessful schemes to ­f ree its leaders. For its part, the PFLP-­SOG saw the publicity value in capitalizing on the RAF



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leaders’ infamy, though it expected compensation for its counsel, especially given the RAF’s refusal to participate in PFLP-­SOG’s operations. Having explored how the PFLP-­SOG functioned as an alliance hub in Chapter 2, this chapter looks at why a group initiates an alliance with a hub and when alliance initiation leads—or does not lead—to alliance formation. With two instances of alliance initiation and at least two Palestinian alliance-­ hub partner options in the PFLP and Fatah, this chapter explores what precipitated alliance initiation and what guided the hub partner se­lection. This chapter ­will trace the RAF’s alliance be­hav­ior, when and why it sought alliance-­hub partners at two dif­fer­ent points in its orga­nizational life span, and why the outcome of ­those efforts varied. It ­will begin with an introduction to the environment in West Germany and the emergence of the RAF. Next, it w ­ ill examine c­ auses and outcome of the RAF’s initial alliance search, which led to Fatah. Then it ­will analyze the orga­nizational crisis that precipitated another search for an ally and the way in which the RAF’s alliance with the PFLP-­SOG functioned. The chapter w ­ ill conclude by evaluating how orga­ nizational needs, identity affinity, and trust explain the RAF’s alliance be­ hav­ior vis-­à-­vis hubs.

Haunted by the Past and Dismayed by the Pres­ent In the 1960s, the New Left youth protesters in West Germany, particularly ­those who turned to vio­lence ­toward the end of the de­cade, fervently believed that West Germany was still in the clutches of fascism, albeit a more cleverly disguised version than the Third Reich. They saw two main sources of this masked fascist threat: the Nazi legacy, a force that protesters believed still controlled the West German apparatuses of power, and the U.S. war in Vietnam, for which the West German government was also responsible, given its “special relationship” with the United States.3 Protesters objected to the formal transatlantic partnership between the two countries, especially the American military presence in West Germany. However, their opposition ran deeper. Jeremy Varon explained, “West Germany saw its alliance with the United States as key to both its survival and its redemption; adopting Ameri­ can values was to enter the modern ­family of nations and achieve the long-­ elusive ‘normality’ so desperately sought ­a fter the catastrophe of National Socialism.” 4

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Instead, protesters saw the Vietnam War as evidence that the U.S. govern­ ment, like the West German government, was a hypocrite of the worst kind: an imperialist power trying to cover up its true nature in order to dupe the masses. Given the United States’ role in rebuilding West Germany, the entire system was now suspect in the protestors’ eyes.5 Varon continued, “Seeing the United States engaged in mass vio­lence against a poor country struggling for self-­determination—as leftists commonly saw the conflict—­ potentially undermined Germans’ already fragile sense of their own society’s legitimacy, which was derived in part from its effort to emulate the Americans.” 6 The Holocaust became the dominant lens through which protesters viewed the Vietnam War. They frequently evoked Nazi meta­phors. West German protesters regularly insisted that they refused to be “good Germans.”7 More crudely, a banner placed on the memorial site at the Dachau concentration camp proclaimed, “Vietnam is the Auschwitz of Amer­i­ca.”8 In addition, the protesters saw former Nazis’ role in the current system as evidence that the government remained fascist.9 They objected to the fact that 60 ­percent of West German military officers serving in 1965 had also fought for the Nazis. Youth questioned other authority figures as well, demanding to know their professors’ past affiliation with the Third Reich.10 In an assessment of the international protest movement, the CIA judged that the “alienation of one generation from another is particularly marked in West Germany where the elder generation is more discredited than perhaps any other country.”11 The protesters characterized their re­sis­tance as analogous to anticolonial strug­gles, arguing that West Germany was, in essence, a U.S. colony. Notably, this fostered frames inextricably linking the re­sis­tance in West Germany to Third World “national liberation” campaigns.12 In par­tic­u­lar, the Palestinian cause garnered sympathy in West Germany following the 1967 Six-­ Day War. The ­Middle East, particularly the Israeli-­Palestinian conflict, was salient for West Germans, given their country’s past and geographic proximity.13 West Germans ­were initially supportive of Israel, a sentiment rooted at least in part by a sense of guilt. However, following Israel’s victory and acquisition of new territory in 1967, the narrative among West German’s left shifted dramatically. They deemed Israel to be an aggressor, an occupier, and an imperialist force subjugating the Palestinians. By 1968, support for the Palestinians was a “revolutionary requirement” for the West German left, on par with solidarity with the Viet Cong.14



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The intensity of their condemnation of Israel raised the specter of enduring anti-­Semitism within the post-­Nazi generation. An attempted bombing of a Jewish community center in West Berlin in 1969 by the first major West German leftist terrorist group, the Tupamaros West Berlin—­which, notably, received training from Fatah—­was timed to coincide with the ­anniversary of Kristallnacht. The perpetrators attempted to justify the action by comparing the Nazis’ treatment of Jewish ­people to the Israelis’ treatment of the Palestinians.15

The Emergence of the Red Army Faction Protesters believed that their concerns about the West German government ­were validated in June 1967, when an unarmed protester, Benno Ohnesorg, was shot and killed by an undercover police officer, Karl-­Heinz Kurras, during a demonstration against the Ira­nian shah’s visit to West Germany.16 Ohnesorg was a compelling victim: it was the first time that the twenty-­ six-­year-­old had participated in a demonstration, and he left ­behind a pregnant wife. The photo­g raph of a young w ­ oman cradling the head of a d­ ying Ohnesorg—­who sustained a gunshot wound in the back of the head—­became a poignant depiction of the “true face” of the West German state.17 Inept efforts to portray Ohnesorg’s death as self-­defense further enraged protesters, as did Kurras’s subsequent acquittal of manslaughter and reinstatement in the police force.18 Ohnesorg’s death, coupled with the near-­fatal shooting of a prominent leftist leader by a right-­wing fanatic in the spring of 1968, solidified a radical minority’s belief that the protest movement was now the target of the brutal, ­ nder way: fascist German state.19 Stefan Aust explained the escalation u “Indignation turned to protest, protest to re­sis­tance, re­sis­tance to vio­lence, and vio­lence to outright terrorism.”20 By the spring of 1968, Gudrun Ensslin and her boyfriend Andreas Baader’s patience with re­sis­tance had expired. The actions of Ensslin, Baader, and two ­others escalated to vio­lence when they set fire to several department stores in Frankfurt.21 The ­actual damage was minimal, and police soon apprehended the perpetrators. In June 1969, the arsonists ­were released on bail during an appeal. ­After a judge denied their appeal, rather than return to jail to serve their three-­ year sentence, three of the four went on the run. In April 1970, Baader was rearrested. Ensslin enlisted the help of prominent leftist journalist Ulrike

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Meinhof to help ­f ree him. Meinhof arranged with the prison authorities to interview Baader at a research fa­cil­i­t y ­under the guise of conducting research. She then helped the lightly guarded Baader escape with the assistance of armed accomplices, injuring a security guard and employee in the pro­cess.22 With this act, Meinhof entered the illicit realm of what the media dubbed the Baader-­Meinhof Gang.23 The RAF underwent numerous transformations over its three-­decade life span. One goal remained constant: the destruction of the “cap­i­tal­ist, imperialist, and fascist” West German state, which would pave the way for a nebulous “proletarian dictatorship.”24 From the outset, the RAF’s frames situated the group’s efforts as central to the international revolutionary movement. 25 The group viewed its cause in West Germany as vital to the international revolution ­because of the country’s position in the international order, its disreputable past, and its alliance with the United States. The RAF adhered to an idiosyncratic mixture of Marxism and New Leftism with an anarchist streak. 26 Unlike many Marxists, the group did not articulate a clear position on class strug­gle or vision for the ­future.27 ­Ensslin argued, “As for the state of the ­f uture, the time ­after victory, that is not our concern. . . . ​We build the revolution, not the socialist model.”28 The group drew on the writings of Che Guevara and Mao Tse Tung, as did most leftist organ­izations during this era, to justify the need for action in the absence of the conditions Marx identified as necessary for revolutionary change.29

Seeking an Alliance in Jordan With Baader freed and his accomplices on the run, the RAF prepared a violent campaign against the West German state. However, with fewer than two dozen inexperienced members, it lacked the basic resources and skills to execute its vision.30 The RAF was largely composed of middle-­class, university-­educated students with no real training or experience engaging in terrorism.31 Moreover, the materiel it needed was not readily available in West Germany. Therefore, it needed assistance, specifically weapons. If ideology drove alliance be­hav­ior, the RAF had numerous ally options. The group’s leaders had existing ties with their Italian counter­parts, though in their previous interactions they had been unable to agree with one another on an “armed movement strategy.” The group’s leaders also expressed



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par­tic­u ­lar interest in the Weathermen and Black Panthers in the United States.32 However, given the nature of its needs, the group opted to approach Fatah through the PLO’s Berlin-­based representative, Said Dudin. Dudin agreed to help the RAF acquire weapons but insisted that they undergo training in Jordan. This worked out perfectly for the West Germans. With attempted murder charges pending and “wanted” posters hanging up everywhere, the Palestinians ­were offering a place to hide, receive training, and acquire weapons. The West Germans journeyed to Jordan in the summer of 1970, traveling in two separate groups.33 Dudin’s reasons for insisting that the RAF train with Fatah soon became clear. Fatah provided the West German group with the standard “revolutionary tourism” cir­cuit that it called training. With visits to refugee camps, hospitals, schools, and orphanages, it amounted to an effort to invoke sympathy and garner funds for the Palestinian cause.34 The Palestinians did not take the Western “revolutionaries” who cycled through their camps seriously, viewing their activities as more theater than substance and, therefore, seeing them as guests they had to entertain rather than fighters in need of combat skills.35 Western trainees’ value to the Palestinians was generating propaganda back home for their cause. However, the RAF had orga­nizational learning needs that it wanted Fatah to fulfill. When the West Germans insisted on more rigorous training, Fatah relented. Despite their doggedness, once the West Germans arrived at Fatah’s desert camp, ­things soon devolved. They complained that the skills Fatah taught ­were not applicable to the urban environment in Germany.36 For its part, Fatah was unimpressed with the RAF, and the West Germans quickly earned a reputation for being prima donnas. The RAF trainees wasted precious ammunition by firing aimlessly during exercises. This type of be­hav­ior caused friction with Palestinian trainees, who received limited ammunition to use in training. When the trainers rationed the West Germans’ ammunition, the RAF went on strike and refused to participate in training. Moreover, the West Germans clashed with their Palestinian hosts’ culture. The privileged Eu­ro­pe­ans complained about the food and the absence of soda at the camp. Baader refused to wear the issued uniform, preferring to don his black velvet pants during training. Their views on gender also diverged. The Palestinians ­were uncomfortable with the West Germans’ insistence on mixed-­gender sleeping accommodations. ­Later the naked sunbathing of the West German ­women unhinged their conservative hosts.37

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A se­nior Fatah representative, Ali Hassan Salameh, came to the camp to mediate the strife. Baader saw himself as equal to the battle-­hardened Palestinian commander who would ­later mastermind Fatah’s 1972 attack at the Munich Olympics. In real­ity, Baader was essentially a “politicized criminal” and prob­ably appeared so to Salameh.38 He was an action junkie intent on defying authority and instruction at ­every turn.39 Salameh and the Palestinians did not share the brash West Germans’ inflated view of themselves. The next time the trainees caused a disruption at the camp, their hosts disarmed them and locked them in their quarters. Training was over, Fatah declared, and the West Germans should go home.40 In spite of the rocky experience, the final parting was not acrimonious. Fatah arranged for their safe passage back to West Germany via East Germany and agreed to consider providing weapons or other assistance in the ­f uture.41 They had not forged an alliance, but the prospect existed for ­f uture cooperation. Upon returning to Berlin, the RAF prepared its terrorist campaign. Living underground, Baader and Ensslin’s hold over the organ­ization grew tighter, and their authority became more absolute.42 Ensslin, who was more intellectual and ideologically motivated, perfectly complemented Baader’s quick-­witted and bullying style. A member of a rival West German leftist group remarked that “it was always obvious they belonged together and no one could drive a wedge between them.” 43 Its small size, dictatorial leaders, and underground existence predisposed the RAF to vacillate between rigid groupthink and vicious infighting.44 They engaged in relentless self-­criticism exercises, during which the group dissected the shortcomings of individual members, with the notable exception of Baader, to make them better revolutionaries. For the next two years, the RAF was preoccupied with preparing attacks, living underground, recruiting new members, and engaging in tasks such as robbing banks, stealing cars, and securing safe ­houses. It conducted its first attack—­three pipe bombs planted in a U.S. Army officers’ mess hall in Frankfurt—in May 1972. The group symbolically executed its opening attack on May 11, “the day on which the U.S. imperialists began a bomb blockade against North Vietnam,” according to the RAF communiqué claiming responsibility.45 Its first attack caused one fatality and thirteen injuries. A series of operations followed in short order, suggesting that the group had indeed learned some valuable skills in Jordan. In fact, the group conducted more attacks in 1972 than in any other year in its twenty-­eight-­year



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existence.46 The day ­after the attack in Frankfurt, two devices exploded at the Augsburg police headquarters, injuring five police officers. Two hours ­later, a vehicle rigged with explosives blew up at the criminal investigations office in Munich. On May 15, the group wired explosives to the car belonging to the wife of a federal judge who had signed arrest warrants for RAF members, which detonated while she was driving, wounding her. Four days ­later, it hid three bombs in the Springer Press headquarters, a conservative West German media outlet, which injured seventeen. A call warning of the impending attack was deemed a prank and not heeded. On May 24, it bombed the U.S. Army Eu­ro­pean headquarters in Heidelberg, killing three American ser­vicemen.47 A manhunt ensued. By the end of June, the police captured the RAF’s leaders, including Ensslin, Baader, and Meinhof, and many of the group’s members. Outside of prison, the group was essentially defunct by the end of 1972.48 However, the members’ circumstances in jail, where the prisoners ­were held in solitary confinement in wings of the prison where ­there was no sound, all white walls, lights on twenty-­four hours a day, and uncomfortably cold cells garnered attention and followers.49 During this period, the RAF was not the only terrorist threat the West German government faced. As discussed in Chapter 2, two other leftist groups, namely, the Revolutionary Cells and the 2nd of June Movement, ­were also attacking the state. In addition, West Germany was a theater for Palestinian vio­lence, including Fatah and the PFLP-­SOG. Attacks in West Germany had propaganda value for Palestinian militants, who blamed Germany for Israel’s existence and bemoaned the reparation payments and other ­assistance it provided Israel.50 The PFLP-­SOG struck in West Germany several times the same year the RAF initiated its campaign, including assassinating five Jordanians, damaging an oil pipeline, and blowing up a factory with contracts with Israel. The PFLP-­SOG also extorted $5 million from the West German government by hijacking a Lufthansa plane. Reports circulated that the West German government paid “protection” money to the PFLP-­SOG to prevent further attacks in West Germany.51 At the same time, Fatah was in the midst of its own operation intended to capture the world stage. Fatah’s Black September Organ­ization horrified the world by taking Israeli athletes hostage during the 1972 Munich Olympics. In so ­doing, it did not forget its troublesome trainees or their propaganda value. Seizing on the hype surrounding their imprisonment, the Palestinian attackers included the release of the RAF’s leaders among their

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demands in exchange for the Israeli athletes.52 In the wake of the disastrous attack, which resulted in the death of all of the hostages during the botched West German rescue attempt, the RAF issued a statement in support of Fatah from prison. Penned by Meinhof, the RAF heralded the Munich attack as bringing the Palestinians’ war from the Arab periphery of imperialism to the center. The comrades of Black September . . . ​went back to the place that is the origin of this massacre: West Germany—­formerly Nazi Germany—­now at the center of imperialism. Back to the site of the power that forced Jews of both West and East Eu­rope to emigrate to Israel. Back to ­those who had hoped to profit from the theft of Palestinian land. Back to where Israel got its reparations and, ­until 1965, officially, its weapons. . . . ​Israel burned their own athletes just as the Nazis burned the Jews—­k indling for the imperialist policy of extermination.53 Some have speculated that the RAF assisted with the Munich attack; however, at that point, ­little if anything remained of the organ­ization outside of prison. However, that would soon change.

The RAF’s Second Generation: Focused on the Orga­nizational Mission The RAF prisoners grew obsessed with the conditions of their imprisonment and used their alleged maltreatment as evidence of the West German government’s fascist nature, even ­going so far as to compare their circumstances to ­those experienced in Nazi concentration camps.54 It reflected what one former member called the group’s “persecution mania.”55 Nonetheless, their protestations garnered a following. So-­called torture committees formed to condemn the prisoners’ “torture by isolation” and “torture by sensory deprivation.” Stefan Aust explained, “The Red Army Faction became its own subject. . . . ​The perpetrators of terrorist acts now took on the role of victims. In a post-­war German society stricken with guilt, that lent them a position which their helpers outside prison exploited to the full. At last they could play the part of martyrs. They put on a virtuoso per­for­mance allow-



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ing them to feature as victims persecuted and tortured by an unconstitutional state.”56 The prisoners went on hunger strikes to protest their treatment. Several members eventually ­were force fed, further fueling protests and sympathy. The death of a founding member, Holger Meins, during a hunger strike in 1974 caused an outpouring of support. A photo­graph of Meins when he died—­the six-­foot-­four-­inch-­tall man weighed less than a hundred pounds—­ circulated, persuading more sympathizers to take action to secure the RAF members’ freedom.57 By 1973, a few sympathetic individuals and low-­level members recently released from prison sought ways to ­f ree the RAF leaders, but they lacked the capability to conduct an attack on their own. Therefore, they followed in their leaders’ footsteps and returned to Fatah to ask for assistance in conducting an operation. Working with the Black September Organ­ization, they plotted a hijacking of an “Israeli” plane, possibly a reference to El Al, in Amsterdam using a joint team of Black September and West German operatives. One of the RAF members involved in the plot explained her view of why the Black September Organ­ization was willing to help: “At this time, it was clear to the radical ele­ments within the Palestinian groups that they needed the support of the radical left in Eu­rope ­because decisive material support that made Israel’s existence pos­si­ble came from Eu­rope and the ­ ere in place, arms acquired, and the plane USA.”58 Though the operatives w arrived, nothing happened. An RAF representative went to Lebanon to find out what went wrong. Salameh told them that given the environment, Black September could not engage in joint operations. The RAF members involved concluded that Yasser Arafat opposed working with the RAF and did not want to conduct joint operations.59 The RAF’s nascent effort floundered. One member explained, “We ­were a disor­ga­nized crowd with the worst pos­si­ble prerequisites for achieving anything. None of us had the po­liti­cal experience or knowledge.” 60 Lacking capability of their own and unable to get assistance from Fatah, they continued to search for allies, including approaching the Irish Republican Army, the Red Brigades, and even its rival, the Revolutionary Cells, to no avail.61 By early 1974, with ­little to show for their efforts, the infighting wracked the fragile group. Soon thereafter, authorities caught up with them. However, the torture committees offered a source of recruits for the RAF’s second generation. Slowly but surely, a small cadre of members

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coalesced around the goal of securing the prisoners’ freedom. The prisoners’ attorneys promoted the prisoners’ grievances and connected them with their supporters. The ­lawyers eventually joined the second generation and went underground, where they served as the leaders of the reconstituted group. The release of a few first-­generation RAF members, particularly Brigitte Mohnhaupt, serving time for lesser charges, provided some much-­needed continuity for the group. Nonetheless, the imprisoned leaders, Baader and Ensslin, remained the ultimate authority in the group for both ­those in prison and t­ hose on the outside seeking their freedom. The prisoners became the only issue, to the exclusion of all ­others. Despite the RAF’s far-­reaching aspirations and professed opposition to imperialism writ large, the plight of its imprisoned founding leaders consumed the second generation. The group directed all of its efforts ­toward securing their freedom.62 The prisoners’ fate equaled the fate of the revolution. This resulted in goal displacement, whereby freeing the prisoners replaced the group’s other objectives.63 This concrete goal—­and the urgency of the effort—­ gave the RAF license to engage in more lethal actions, despite the group’s proclamations that it did not target “the ­people.” The newly rebuilt RAF undertook its first effort to coerce the RAF leaders’ release in April 1975 as the final phases of the leaders’ ­trials ­were ­under way. Six attackers calling themselves the “Holger Meins Commandos” stormed the West German Embassy in Stockholm, took the diplomats hostage, and demanded the release of twenty-­six prisoners, including Baader, Ensslin, and Meinhof. Emboldened by the West German government’s recent acquiescence to the more modest demands made by the 2nd of June Movement a­ fter it kidnapped a mayoral candidate in Berlin, the RAF assessed it could achieve greater concessions by seizing the embassy. However, the West German government realized the dangerous pre­ce­ dent it had set by conceding to the 2nd of June Movement’s extortion and refused to meet the RAF hostage takers’ demands. The attackers demonstrated their seriousness by shooting the military attaché in order to force the Swedish police to pull back. Upon learning that the West German government remained unwilling to negotiate, the attackers then killed the economic attaché. Seeing no way to stop the slaughter of the remaining hostages, the Swedish police prepared to storm the building. However, before the Swedish could execute a rescue mission, the explosives that the attackers had rigged throughout the embassy detonated. The attackers fled the building, only to be arrested by the Swedish police. One attacker perished im-



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mediately from his wounds. A badly burned attacker subsequently died in a West German prison hospital, which was poorly equipped to treat a critically wounded burn victim. The RAF—­believing that the government had killed him—­pointed to his death as further evidence that the West German government would use what­ever means necessary to eradicate the group.64 The botched operation also revealed the deficiencies in the second generation’s operational capabilities. Following in the footsteps of its pre­de­ces­sors, the RAF once again sought out the Palestinians for training and assistance to build up its capability. However, by this time, Fatah was no longer prepared to accept allies and declined to assist the RAF. Fatah told the West Germans that it now eschewed “military operations” and was pursuing negotiations. Arafat suggested that the RAF approach the PFLP instead.65 The PFLP then referred the RAF to Wadi’ Haddad’s unit. ­There are some indications that the groups crossed paths before this introduction, but this was the initiation of the alliance.66 The PFLP-­SOG welcomed a relationship with the RAF, despite the poor reputation that the West Germans had earned during their stay in Jordan in 1970.67 By then, the PFLP-­SOG had forged alliances with the 2nd of June Movement and Revolutionary Cells and saw the utility of another West German partner, especially one as notorious as the RAF. The RAF members voyaged to the PFLP-­SOG’s haven in Aden, where they had a dramatically dif­fer­ent experience than their pre­de­ces­sors. The PFLP-­SOG greeted them like dignitaries and treated them respectfully throughout their stay.68 With considerably less belligerence, the second generation ran long distances, learned combat skills, studied guerrilla theory, and practiced sharpshooting.69 Most impor­tant, learning from the masters of hostage-­taking operations, they planned a terrorist campaign intended to coerce the prisoners’ release. Unlike Fatah, the PFLP-­SOG was impressed with the West Germans. One of Haddad’s lieutenants commented that they ­were “distinguished by their seriousness, accuracy, and commitment.” The PFLP-­SOG reciprocated the RAF’s affinity, with one Palestinian lieutenant characterizing the German strug­gle as “nearest to us.”70 Nonetheless, the RAF remained focused on the prisoners’ fate, even when Haddad asked the group to participate in an attack against OPEC ministers in Vienna in 1975. As discussed in Chapter 2, he needed operatives who could operate inconspicuously in Austria—­like the RAF’s West German members—to conduct the operation, which was a request from one of the PFLP-­SOG’s state sponsors. Unlike the San­di­nis­tas or the Japa­nese Red Army, despite the PFLP-­SOG’s assistance, the RAF declined. The RAF cited

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its pressing orga­nizational objective and privately noted discomfort with the operation’s origin.71 Instead, the PFLP-­SOG recruited West German operatives from the Revolutionary Cells and the 2nd of June Movement to join the attack team.72 The RAF’s anxiety about the prisoners mounted with the death of Ulrike Meinhof in 1976. She committed suicide by hanging herself in her cell. Fellow RAF members in prison, particularly Ensslin, bullied and ostracized Meinhof, prob­ably contributing to her decision to take her own life. However, the prisoners deliberately fostered a perception that Meinhof ’s death had not been a suicide, despite their knowledge to the contrary, so that their followers would fear for their safety. The pressure to secure their release mounted, and groupthink tendencies prevailed. Despite the RAF’s refusal to participate in the PFLP-­SOG’s operation, Haddad added the RAF prisoners’ freedom to his agenda. ­After all, it was the issue du jour—­especially as the controversy about the prisoners’ treatment grew following Meins’s and Meinhof ’s deaths—­and was an opportunity to garner attention. However, it was also consistent with the PFLP-­SOG’s alliance approach to help its partners pursue their agendas, and the RAF was no exception. ­Because the PFLP-­SOG had an expansive narrative, it could readily incorporate partners’ frames into its own. During the ill-­fated 1976 hijacking of an Air France plane to Entebbe, the PFLP-­SOG attackers included the release of RAF members among its demands.73 In addition, Haddad devised plans to secure the Germans’ freedom. He considered a plot to kidnap the pope to exchange him for the RAF prisoners but ultimately advised against it owing to concerns that the international blowback would be too severe. He explored a plan to execute a series of escalating bombings in West Germany to compel the RAF leaders’ release; if the government refused to capitulate, his operatives would conduct progressively larger bombings.74 It is unclear what prevented this plot from ­going forward. The PFLP-­SOG’s commitment to the RAF clearly exceeded symbolic gestures and involved undertaking risks and expending resources on its behalf.

The German Autumn: The Apex of the Alliance By 1977, the RAF was primed to execute a full offensive. Its alliance with the PFLP-­SOG heavi­ly influenced its activities during this pivotal period, known as the German Autumn. In April, an RAF unit calling itself the



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Ulrike Meinhof Commando assassinated federal prosecutor Siegfried Buback, blaming him for Meinhof ’s death.75 ­Later that month, the RAF prisoners’ trial concluded with convictions of multiple murders and life sentences.76 With that verdict, the prisoners cautioned their followers: no more failed attempts to ­f ree them.77 With that ominous warning hanging over their heads, the outside RAF leaders journeyed to Baghdad to consult with Haddad. This gesture speaks volumes about their alliance. As the stakes ­rose precipitously for the group’s critical mission, the RAF turned to the PFLP-­SOG for assistance. The RAF sought the PFLP-­SOG’s advice about the details of its impending attacks, including where the RAF prisoners should be taken upon their release. The PFLP-­SOG agreed to assist with arranging a secure location for them. The PFLP-­SOG’s stronghold in South Yemen appeared the most plausible location.78 However, the RAF’s preparations ­were premature. In July, during an attempted kidnapping, the RAF shot and killed Jürgen Ponto, head of the Dresdner Bank. The RAF planned the operation, nicknamed Operation Big Money, during the group’s hiatus in South Yemen.79 A dead hostage provided no leverage for the prisoners’ release; therefore, it was another failed attempt. Increasingly desperate, following Ponto’s murder, the RAF attempted a rocket attack against the federal prosecutor’s office. The members justified the plot as a way to send “a sign to the comrades.” In real­ity, such an attack could have caused significant casualties, yet would do ­little to secure the prisoners’ release. The rocket launcher misfired—­due ­either to an accident or sabotage by a member with misgivings about the operation—­and no one was harmed. For their part, the detained RAF leaders issued thinly veiled ultimatums that they would take m ­ atters into their own hands if their followers could not ­f ree them. The prisoners even questioned the outside members’ capability and threatened to disavow them.80 Their frantic followers still had one more plot to execute. At this critical juncture, the RAF once again sent representatives to discuss the final plot with the PFLP-­SOG. The RAF also devised this operation, another kidnapping, during its sojourn in Aden. In addition to establishing code words and flight routes for the prisoners upon their release, the RAF queried the PFLP-­SOG about the ransom amount. More to the point, since the PFLP-­SOG’s ongoing assistance was not simply a charitable endeavor, the RAF and PFLP-­SOG negotiated how they would

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split the ransom money.81 Though the PFLP-­SOG readily assisted the RAF, the PFLP-­SOG expected something in return. The climax of the RAF’s efforts to ­f ree the prisoners was its kidnapping of Hanns Martin Schleyer in September 1977, codenamed Operation Big Get Out. Schleyer was a carefully selected target. The RAF learned from its previous ­mistakes and executed Schleyer’s kidnapping professionally. RAF members conducted careful reconnaissance of his route to and from work and isolated a choke point—­a one-­way ave­nue adjacent to a park—­where they could launch their assault.82 Both symbolic and power­f ul, Schleyer was an ideal target. He was the head of the Federation of German Industries and the Confederation of German Employers’ Associations as well as a Daimler-­ Benz board member. In addition, he was a friend of Chancellor Helmut Schmidt. Moreover, Schleyer had been an S.S. officer during World War II.83 He was, as Aust stated, “a figure symbolizing the economy, capitalism, the system. A man positively destined for the role.”84 The West German government initiated a massive manhunt. In response, the RAF moved him out of West Germany with a few members to guard him. The remaining RAF members fled to Baghdad, where its ally once again provided haven. In Iraq, the RAF found relief from the relentless pressure they had experienced since abducting Schleyer. To the RAF’s dismay, Haddad recommended that the RAF dramatically increase its ransom demand from one million to ten million Deutsche marks. The RAF grumbled about Haddad’s “cap­i­t al­ist” preoccupation with the ransom money; nonetheless, the RAF heeded his request and demanded ten million marks in addition to the freedom of eleven RAF prisoners in exchange for Schleyer.85 Haddad saw an opportunity for the PFLP-­SOG in the international attention Schleyer’s fate garnered. As the stalemate continued, Haddad sent one of his West German lieutenants—­who doubled as a member of the Revolutionary Cells—to discuss a proposal with the RAF. He broached the idea that the PFLP-­SOG could conduct an operation in support of the RAF’s kidnapping to increase the pressure on the West German government. The RAF balked at discussing this idea with one of Haddad’s underlings, even if he was a fellow countryman. Therefore, at their next meeting with Haddad, the RAF representative raised the possibility and found that Haddad already had two options in mind. Haddad told them that the PFLP-­SOG was prepared to conduct ­either a seizure of the West German Embassy in Kuwait—­ the same place it seized the Japa­nese Embassy for another ally in 1975—or



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a plane hijacking of German vacationers. The RAF only had to choose which operation it preferred.86 ­After some deliberation, the RAF selected the hijacking option, even though the plan unambiguously targeted civilians. The attack was a clear violation of the group’s core ideological tenet that it “served the ­people.” Meinhof explic­itly argued in court that “the actions of the urban guerrilla are never, never directed against the ­people. They are always directed against the imperialist machine.”87 The prisoners had even previously voiced reservations to its followers about using a hijacking mission to ­f ree them. Yet, in the panicked environment that the prisoners created, the outside group ignored ­these objections. An embassy seizure would have been more consistent with the RAF’s previous efforts and targeting par­ameters, but the debacle in Stockholm still loomed large in its calculation.88 The unrelenting pressure, both from the West German government and the prisoners, had taken its toll on the small group, and dissent was suppressed. The PFLP-­SOG began its final preparations for the hijacking. With more hostages came additional ransom money, which necessitated more negotiations about the division of the money, a continuing sore spot in the ­relationship. The two groups coordinated joint statements containing the new demands and reached agreements on how to exchange the hostages for the prisoners. They increased the ransom to fifteen million Deutsche marks. The PFLP-­SOG added the release of two Palestinians in prison in Turkey to the list of demands as well.89 It appeared as though the PFLP-­SOG had worked through all the contingencies. On October 13, four PFLP-­SOG operatives executed the promised hijacking of a plane with over eighty passengers, mostly German vacationers returning from Majorca, Spain. Unlike its operations in previous years, the PFLP-­SOG used only its own Arab operatives to execute the attack. Using the pseudonym Organ­ization of the Strug­gle Against World Imperialism, the PFLP-­SOG issued a statement in support of the RAF’s kidnapping of Schleyer, stating that its operation “emphatically reinforces the aims and demands of the operation of the RAF.”90 The RAF then released its own communiqué supporting the hijacking and reiterating the demands. However, Haddad miscalculated the South Yemen government’s willingness to accommodate his plan. It tried to block the hijacked plane from landing in Aden by deploying tanks on the runway. ­After the plane made an emergency landing, the South Yemen government insisted the plane depart soon thereafter. ­After prob­lems finding a country to accept the hijacked plane,

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it eventually landed in Mogadishu, Somalia, where the PFLP-­SOG also had connections with the regime. Unlike Idi Amin’s maniacal regime in Uganda, which had w ­ holeheartedly welcomed a plane hijacked by the PFLP-­SOG the previous year, President Said Barre’s dictatorial government in Somalia only reluctantly allowed the plane to land. The PFLP-­SOG’s relationship with Barre’s regime was still in the “honeymoon” phase, as a PFLP-­SOG member described it.91 However, the honeymoon was quickly ending, as Barre’s regime was susceptible to international pressure, particularly the prospect of ­f uture enticements that the West German government alluded to in its appeals for cooperation.92 Barre agreed to allow a West German counterterrorism unit to secretly land in Mogadishu. Five days ­a fter the hijacking, a West German special operations unit launched a rescue mission. The West German government had created the unit ­after the bungled rescue attempt during the 1972 Munich Olympics hostage taking, and it sent 23 commandos from a 170-­man unit. In the West German’s first military operation outside its borders since World War II, it succeeded in rescuing all the remaining hostages and killing three of the four hostage takers.93 During the siege, the hostage takers desperately detonated the plastic explosives rigged in the plane, only causing minimal damage. In the early morning hours of the next day, October 18, 1977, in the wake of the hijacking’s resounding failure, the imprisoned RAF leaders acted on their threat to take ­matters into their own hands. Andreas Baader and Jan-­Carl Raspe shot themselves in the head with guns hidden in their cells. Gudrun Ensslin killed herself by hanging, as Ulrike Meinhof had a year earlier. Irmgard Möller survived her self-­inflicted knife wounds to the chest. Their deaths stoked tremendous controversy in West Germany amid accusations that the government had executed the prisoners; at a minimum, the government was grossly negligent to allow the prisoners to smuggle guns and knives in their cells. Möller maintained that the West German government killed her comrades, as did her colleagues outside of prison. But they all knew that their leaders’ deaths ­were a deliberate “suicide action.” 94 The prisoners’ last act intentionally framed the government, an effort to show the government to be the “fascist” threat the group insisted it was. Despite revelations that the government bugged the cell block where the prisoners ­were held, it would not produce the recordings from that fateful night, which fueled conspiracies about what tran­spired.95



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The rest of the group, still in hiding in Iraq, was inconsolable. They failed at their mission, their raison d’être. ­There seemed to be no reason to go on. Previously stifled reservations about the kidnapping and hijacking now came pouring out. Without the leaders’ fate on the line, the outside leaders had no way to muzzle the dissent. They bore the brunt of the criticism, and several members opted to leave the group and go into hiding.96 However, the RAF still had Schleyer, and his fate remained uncertain. Haddad urged the RAF not to kill him, as the hostage still offered the group some leverage.97 However, the RAF would no longer heed Haddad’s counsel. The RAF leaders in Iraq ordered the operatives guarding Schleyer to kill him. The group issued a communiqué on October 19, coldly stating that “­a fter 43 days, we have ended Hanns Martin Schleyer’s miserable and corrupt existence.”98 His body, with three bullet wounds to the head, was found in the trunk of an Audi sedan in Mul­house, a French town located near the West German and Swiss borders. With this final action, the German Autumn drew to a close. Despite the group’s desolate state and refusal to listen to Haddad’s guidance about Schleyer, the PFLP-­SOG continued to provide its ally haven in Iraq. The members drifted aimlessly in the aftermath of the events of 1977.99 While it was evident they would be of ­little use for the foreseeable ­f uture, the PFLP-­SOG continued to support them. The RAF was not able to regroup during Haddad’s lifetime. ­After Haddad’s death in mid-1978, RAF members ­were still able to secure haven in South Yemen and Lebanon for several years with resident Palestinian factions.100 The disenfranchised members found sanctuary in East Germany, where they received new identities courtesy of the East German government.101 Why was the PFLP-­SOG willing to undertake such an action on the RAF’s behalf? The PFLP-­SOG clearly saw the opportunity to garner funds through the RAF’s operation; however, given that it had already pushed the RAF to increase the ransom associated with the kidnapping, the risk could not be justified on monetary grounds alone. The PFLP-­SOG had less risky ways to acquire funds. The PFLP-­SOG had no known connection to the RAF founding leaders, so it did not help the RAF out of a sense of loyalty to the prisoners. More likely, given his penchant for publicity, Haddad saw an opportunity to seize the international attention the RAF prisoners garnered. In d­ oing so, the PFLP-­SOG sought to regain some of the credibility it lost following

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Israel’s rescue of the hostages during the hijacking of the Air France plane to Entebbe the previous year. Haddad prob­ably also saw the possibility of freeing two of his own ­people, who faced death sentences in Turkey. An RAF member during the alliance period argued that “the Palestinians had their own interest in such action. Of course, getting the prisoners out, ­there was also the issue of the two Palestinian prisoners who ­were sitting in Turkish prison, but ­there was something ­else altogether. They said to themselves, ‘When a country like the Federal Republic, the most impor­tant country in the Eu­ro­pean Community, is involved in a confrontation that the entire world is watching, then we have an opportunity to introduce our concerns.’ ”102 Although the PFLP-­SOG did not have any allegiance to the RAF prisoners, personal relationships and trust had developed between members of the two groups. In par­tic­u­lar, Haddad forged trust and a friendship with a se­nior RAF member on the outside, Peter Boock. One former PFLP-­SOG member described Boock as Haddad’s most trusted non-­Arab confidant.103 For example, during the planning for the hijacking, Haddad solicited advice from Boock, who was an explosives expert, on devices that could get through X-­rays undetected. The explosives did not need to be power­ful, Haddad said, just realistic enough to “keep ­things ­under control.” Boock recommended using a certain type of plastic explosives. Haddad heeded his recommendation, and the very real-­looking explosives rigged inside the hijacked plane ­were in fact plastic explosives with limited detonation power.104 While Haddad was surely not motivated to seek the RAF prisoners’ freedom ­because of his personal relationship with Boock, this connection acted as a key locus of trust.

Conclusion Outside of the M ­ iddle East, the Israeli-­Palestinian conflict was perhaps most salient in West Germany. The perception that Israel had shifted from being a victim to an aggressor featured prominently in the RAF’s frames about its opposition to imperialism. The RAF and other West German leftists saw Palestinian groups as legitimate fighters in a shared revolution against imperialism. This was a consequence of both the historical significance of the ­Middle East for West Germany and its relative geographic proximity.105 The RAF’s alliance with the PFLP-­SOG was not the exception; all of the West German leftist militant groups harbored this sentiment and forged alliances with Palestinian militant groups when orga­nizational needs arose for train-



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ing, weapons, or safe haven. A robust network of personal relationships developed between West German leftists and their Palestinian counter­parts, including instances of intermarriage between the West German ­women and Palestinian men.106 The RAF and Fatah Alliance Effort

While the RAF expressed solidarity with the Palestinian cause, it was the RAF’s orga­nizational needs that precipitated the alliance initiation effort with Fatah in 1970. The RAF possessed minimal operational capabilities when it conducted arson attacks in 1968 and broke Baader out of prison in 1970. Its ambitions to overthrow the West German government far outstripped its capabilities, and, on the run, the group recognized its need to acquire materiel and skills quickly. Its orga­nizational needs—­which the young, inexperienced group could not address through self-­reform—­were acute and significant, and ran the gamut from continuous to discrete. The RAF initiated its search for a partner to fulfill its discrete need for weapons, approaching Fatah largely ­because of its accessibility and reputation, and a sense of affinity with it as the leader of the Palestinian movement. Operating as an alliance hub, Fatah had its own continuous needs and ran training camps to increase awareness of the Palestinian cause and bolster its position in the Palestinian movement. It saw fulfilling the RAF’s needs as a low-­cost propaganda opportunity. Given West Germany’s position in Eu­rope and its historical legacy, Fatah viewed the RAF as a source of support in a highly symbolic and strategic theater. Fatah agreed to provide the RAF with weapons if the RAF came to Jordan to train. The RAF recognized the value of receiving training from an experienced organ­ization and the added benefit of providing the RAF with sanctuary when West German authorities w ­ ere pursuing its members. While a seemingly golden opportunity for the RAF, Fatah’s training was actually designed to fulfill its own need—­invoking international sympathy for the Palestinians—­not to impart skills to fellow “revolutionaries,” as the RAF required. The RAF insisted on genuine training, and it did receive some; but Fatah soon found that the West Germans caused more trou­ble than they ­were worth, given their constant disruptions at the camp. The RAF’s insistence that it receive training appropriate to its circumstances and disrespectful be­hav­ior at the camp reflected that its orga­nizational needs ­were more of a priority than solidarity with the Palestinians. Ultimately, Fatah fulfilled some of the RAF’s discrete needs, and Fatah created a sufficient connection with the

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RAF to gain a symbolic propaganda benefit. In the absence of further needs and given their inability to build greater affinity, the alliance effort stalled. The RAF and Fatah had a sufficient identity affinity to attempt an alliance but ­were unable to build upon that foundation or develop a locus of trust. The two groups did not share an ideology, though like most leftist groups, the RAF identified strongly in princi­ple with “national liberation” movements, particularly Fatah. Instead, a shared-­enemy narrative provided their sense of identity affinity. The Israeli-­Palestinian conflict occupied a prominent place in the RAF’s frames, particularly West Germany’s culpability in Israel’s existence. Fatah not only shared this view; it sought to propagate it, especially in Eu­rope. However, over the course of their interactions, the RAF and Fatah discovered that their common frames did not lead to identity convergence in the face of other cultural differences. In other words, narrative-­ based affinity was enough to satisfy the initial identity threshold to attempt an alliance, but in the absence of identity convergence and the inability to fulfill one another’s orga­nizational needs, this affinity was not adequate to form an alliance. Five years ­later, the RAF returned to the partner it knew when it experienced an orga­nizational crisis, despite the shortfalls of the 1970 alliance effort. While the experience did not produce an alliance, Fatah had fulfilled some of the RAF’s needs in 1970. As discussed in Chapter 1, terrorist organ­ izations are apt to turn to partners with which they have previously cooperated to explore reengagement or to get referrals. ­Under duress, the RAF reengaged with a group with which it previously had ties and which it assessed could fulfill its orga­nizational needs. The loss of the first generation reset the RAF’s orga­nizational age, but the group retained an orga­nizational memory of alliances as a way to address orga­nizational needs. It also continued to have an orga­nizational culture receptive to alliances, especially with Palestinian groups. However, Fatah had evolved into an organ­ization that wanted to pres­ent itself as a government, and it sought international legitimacy over revolutionary credentials. Therefore, the RAF was no longer suited to fulfill Fatah’s current orga­nizational needs, even for propaganda. Once again, their relationship was stymied. The PFLP-­SOG and the RAF’s Alliance

­ fter declining the RAF’s request, Fatah referred the RAF to another alliA ance partner, the PFLP. ­Because Fatah no longer sought to be an alliance



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hub, it did not compete with the PFLP in this realm and was willing to act as a broker. This signaled to the RAF and PFLP-­SOG that it was safe to attempt trust. The RAF’s motives in seeking an ally that could build its orga­nizational capacity persisted, and it remained willing to ally with another Palestinian organ­ization. The RAF sought a partner to impart the operational skills necessary to ­f ree its imprisoned leaders, an orga­nizational need that would persist as long as the leaders remained in prison. It also needed assistance with the associated logistical arrangements, such as finding a destination for the leaders upon their release. The PFLP-­SOG was well positioned to assist the RAF with ­these needs. At the time of the RAF’s approach, the PFLP-­SOG was conducting its international terrorist campaign. From the PFLP-­SOG’s perspective, the RAF’s approach was a gift. The PFLP-­SOG’s most vis­i­ble partner, the Japa­ nese Red Army, had grown more in­de­pen­dent and less available for the PFLP-­SOG’s missions; however, the PFLP-­SOG still needed non-­Palestinian allies. Eu­rope was a central battlefield for the PFLP-­SOG, and partners that could readily operate in the region ­were particularly valuable. The PFLP-­SOG welcomed the RAF’s alliance initiation proposal and invited the Germans to its fa­cil­i­t y in Aden, which doubled as an opportunity to evaluate its prospective ally. The PFLP-­SOG’s alliance receptivity stemmed from its ongoing orga­ nizational adaptation needs for allies for both publicity and security reasons. The RAF in par­tic­u ­lar was a press magnet. Given the media sensation surrounding the imprisoned RAF leaders, Haddad surely saw an opportunity to use the RAF to garner publicity. Haddad prob­ably hoped the group would participate in operations, which would provide the PFLP-­SOG access to additional targets, though he found ways to use the RAF’s profile for his group’s purposes when the RAF refused to do so. In other words, orga­ nizational needs prompted the alliance, and a degree of fit in their ability to fulfill one another’s respective needs led to alliance formation. The RAF and PFLP-­SOG enjoyed greater identity affinity than the RAF and Fatah. Like the RAF and Fatah, the RAF and PFLP-­SOG shared an ­enemy narrative that designated Israel as the ­enemy and Palestinians as the victim. The RAF and PFLP-­SOG also benefited from sharing a left-­wing ideology, enhancing their identity affinity, and readily passing each other’s identity affinity threshold for alliance. Their identity affinity developed into a limited shared identity through identity convergence. The RAF chafed at some of the norms that governed the relationship, particularly the

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PFLP-­SOG’s emphasis on money, which the RAF felt bordered on “cap­i­tal­ ist” at times. Nonetheless, the RAF adhered to them. The two groups developed trust in key nodes over the course of their relationship. The positive experience and interactions in Aden—­quite dif­ fer­ent from the previous generation’s experience in Jordan—­created a foundation of trust that supported alliance formation. Haddad requested the RAF’s participation in an operation early in the relationship, demonstrating his trust in the Germans. For its part, the RAF trusted the PFLP-­SOG so extensively that it shared sensitive operational plans and even entrusted the PFLP-­SOG to secure a location for its revered leaders upon their expected release. Subsequent interaction, enabled by the PFLP-­SOG’s havens in Iraq and South Yemen, perpetuated and reinforced this trust. Personal relationships developed between members across the two groups, most notably between PFLP-­SOG leader Wadi’ Haddad and se­nior RAF member Peter Boock. In summary, the PFLP-­SOG provided the RAF with training, safe haven, and operational guidance at several critical junctures from 1975 to 1978. The training and haven in South Yemen offered the PFLP-­SOG an opportunity to vet the RAF, facilitating the creation of an alliance foundation and a degree of trust between the two organ­izations. While this provided a sufficient basis for the formation of an alliance, the RAF’s focus on securing the prisoners’ release imposed limits on the extent of the cooperation. Without the PFLP-­SOG, the RAF would have been unable to execute its most high-­profile operations to ­f ree the prisoners. Even when the RAF seemingly had ­little value in terms of addressing the PFLP-­SOG’s needs, its ally continued to support the desolate group. With the PFLP-­SOG’s collapse and the RAF’s drift, the alliance ceased to function, although some personal relationships and ad hoc cooperation persisted.

Chapter 4

Al-­Qaida Before 9/11 Building Alliances One Dollar at a Time

Fight the pagans all together as they fight you all together. —­International Islamic Front Against Jews and Crusaders, 1998

Roughly ten years before the International Islamic Front’s declaration against the United States, al-­Qaida formed in the same place that the statement was issued: Af­ghan­i­stan. The individuals who subsequently formed al-­Qaida journeyed ­there in the 1980s to wage jihad against the Soviet Union. Even before al-­Qaida vowed to strike the United States, had a clear agenda, or even fully cohered as an organ­ization, Usama bin Laden’s group sought and formed alliances with fellow Sunni jihadist organ­izations. Many Sunni jihadist groups ­were labeled al-­Qaida’s allies ­a fter 9/11. However, al-­Qaida’s pre−9/11 relations ­were more complex than often recognized and cannot be fully explained by a shared ideology, common ­enemy, or a combination thereof. In terms of shared ideologies, all of al-­Qaida’s allies ­were fellow Sunni jihadists, yet not all Sunni jihadist groups allied with al-­ Qaida. While Sunni jihadist groups proliferated in the 1980s and 1990s and many, if not most, cooperated with al-­Qaida, only a subset formed alliances with al-­Qaida before 9/11. Even among Sunni jihadist groups, al-­Qaida’s pre−9/11 allies ­were not the groups that shared its view that the United States was the main foe. Before 9/11, al-­Qaida attempted to attract allies by appealing to fellow Sunni jihadist groups to unite against the “Zionist-­Crusader alliance.” Many Sunni

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jihadist groups agreed that the United States was an adversary, but they did not wish to provoke the United States’ wrath or expend resources on attacks on the United States when their priorities lay elsewhere. In fact, most of its allies adhered to the dominant ideological strain of the pre−9/11 jihadist movement, revolutionary jihadism, which emphasized overthrowing so-­called apostate regimes. Moreover, the fellow Sunni jihadist groups that allied with al-­Qaida before 9/11 did not share al-­Qaida’s view that the United States was their primary adversary or share enemies with al-­Qaida more so than groups that did not ally with it. Al-­Qaida cooperated, but did not ally, with non-­Sunni jihadist groups that opposed the United States. Most notably, it cooperated with Hizballah in the early 1990s but did not form an alliance with it, even though they continued to share common enemies. Al-­Qaida also cooperated temporarily with a Somali warlord to oppose the U.S. presence in Somalia, even though he showed no signs of adhering to a Sunni jihadist ideology. In both instances, common enemies fostered cooperation but ­were not sufficient for alliance formation. Over this period, al-­Qaida gradually built an alliance network with other Sunni jihadists. Perhaps most impor­tant, before 2001, virtually all Sunni jihadist groups interacted and cooperated with al-­Qaida, which built a trust that enabled subsequent alliances.1 Al-­Qaida’s pursuit of alliances ­shaped its be­hav­ior; conversely, al-­Qaida influenced the jihadist landscape through its relationships. Rather than attracting groups out of a sense of ideological ­solidarity or in response to a shared adversary, al-­Qaida built its pre−9/11 alliances based on its willingness and ability to use its abundant resources to fulfill ­others’ needs. Al-­Qaida had an orga­nizational mission to be the vanguard of a united Sunni jihadist movement, which instilled a perpetual orga­ nizational need for alliances. Al-­Qaida’s tenure before 9/11 as an alliance hub can be divided into three periods. Al-­Qaida acted as (1) a facilitator during the anti-­Soviet jihad in Af­ghan­i­stan, (2) a patron in Sudan from 1991 to 1996, and (3) a state within a state in Af­ghan­i­stan from 1996 to 2001. Al-­Qaida’s desire to lead the jihadist movement—­and its pursuit of allies to that end—­remained constant; however, it fulfilled dif­fer­ent orga­nizational needs for its allies over time, especially before 9/11 compared with ­after 9/11. This chapter traces its trajectory as an alliance hub before 9/11 when it relied on its resources to build an alliance network. Chapter 5 ­w ill examine its post−9/11 alliance be­hav­ior,



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when it lost the tangible assets it used to attract allies, but discovered a new commodity in its power­f ul brand. Chapters 4 and 5 analyze how al-­Qaida’s approach to alliances developed and evolved from its formation ­until 2015. They look narrowly at al-­Qaida Central, which was the entity responsible for forming alliances.2 Al-­Qaida Central refers to the orga­nizational structure that was subordinated u ­ nder bin Laden and, ­after his death, Ayman al-­Zawahiri; based primarily in Af­ghan­i­stan and Pakistan since 1996; and had members who usually swore an oath of loyalty, known as bayat,3 to bin Laden. Bin Laden acknowledged the validity of “al-­Qaida Central” in a 2010 letter. He wrote, “This term was coined in the media to distinguish between al-­Qa’ida in Af­ghan­i­stan and Pakistan and al-­Qaida in the other territories. In my opinion, ­there is no prob­lem with using this term.” 4 In Chapters 4 and 5, events are discussed—or not discussed—­based on their relevance to al-­Qaida’s alliances. This focus on alliances does not include al-­Qaida branches or cells that operated in other geographic locations. Al-­Qaida branches and cells that formed as part of al-­ Qaida did not go through an alliance seeking, initiation, and formation pro­cess relevant to this work. Consequently, while the scope of Chapters 4 and 5 are robust, they are also much narrower than other accounts of al-­ Qaida’s history, both by design and by necessity.

Creating the Building Blocks: Al-­Qaida as a Jihadist Facilitator More than any other event, the Soviet Union’s 1979 invasion of Af­ghan­i­stan ignited the Sunni jihadist milieu and laid the groundwork for alliances within it.5 Over the decade-­long war, thousands of foreign Sunni volunteers journeyed to assist the Afghans to oust Soviet forces. The Soviet invasion came in the midst of a broader Islamic awakening. The same year, a Shia revolution in Iran demonstrated the viability of an Islamist takeover, which stoked similar aspirations in Egypt, Algeria, Libya, Syria, and elsewhere. The anti-­Soviet jihad provided an opportunity for individuals and groups that shared at least some overarching ideology to work together against a common ­enemy. A generation of Sunni jihadists enjoyed opportunities to interact, forge cross-­organizational personal relationships, and establish rep-

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utations, thereby building relationships and trust they would call upon ­later. A recurring theme—­t hey cooperated in Af­g han­i­stan against the Soviets—­arose repeatedly in the ­future. Not only did some of ­those who volunteered to fight in Af­ghan­i­stan share a baseline ideology; they developed greater ideological and narrative convergence over the course of the conflict. In addition, an ethnic-­based identity emerged among volunteers from the ­Middle East, dubbed “Arab Afghans.” This shared experience—­particularly the trust and affinity developed—­facilitated ­f uture alliances. This section discusses how al-­Qaida sought allies and engaged in activities that would foster alliances from the time of its inception. Bin Laden and his nascent group engaged in three interrelated activities that fostered cooperation and portended its ­f uture alliance position. First, bin Laden used his access to resources to assist ­others. Second, from the outset, al-­Qaida took a leading role in efforts to unify the Arab Afghans. Al-­Qaida aspired to be the vanguard of an Islamic Army and used training and events like the ­Battle of Jaji to promote its efforts. Fi­nally, al-­Qaida forged its most consequential pre−9/11 alliance during this period. Al-­Qaida’s first alliance with Egyptian Islamic Jihad (also known as Tanzim al-­Jihad and referred to as EIJ in this work) reflected the role of orga­nizational needs in alliances, as al-­Qaida required military capability and EIJ needed resources, complementary needs that led to their early alliance. Despite their common ideology and opposition to the Soviet occupation of Af­ghan­i­stan, al-­Qaida strug­gled to unify the foreign fighters into an Islamic Army. Volunteers’ commitment to liberating Af­ghan­i­stan varied along with their ­f uture priorities, especially in the ­later years of the war.6 For revolutionary jihadists from Egypt, Syria, and elsewhere, Af­ghan­i­stan offered a place to recover from setbacks and plot ways to precipitate change at home.7 Irredentists eyed territories they viewed as rightly Muslim ­under the control of non-­Muslims, particularly the Palestinian territories and Kashmir. In addition, foreign fighters often or­ga­nized based on nationalities, a tendency al-­Qaida strug­gled to transcend. In addition, the foreign fighters also experienced friction with the Afghans. Volunteers gravitated ­toward hard-­line Afghan commanders, particularly Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, Jalaluddin Haqqani, and Abdul Rasul Sayyaf.8 Nonetheless, religious differences and the combat inexperience of the volunteers triggered tensions between the predominantly Salafist foreign volunteers and their Afghan Deobandi hosts. Thus, while the experience in Afghanistan—­particularly the victory over the Soviet Union—­facilitated co-



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operation and nurtured ­f uture relationships, few nonrival groups’ relationships reached the threshold of an alliance during this period, despite their common enemies and shared ideology. Cash Brings Cachet

In the early 1980s, the first volunteers traveled to Peshawar, Pakistan, which was a hub and entry point for anti-­Soviet re­sis­tance. With ­little attention to the conflict, only a small number of foreign fighters trickled into Af­ghan­ i­stan.9 The cause in Af­ghan­i­stan gradually garnered more international coverage, bolstered by a fatwa (religious ruling) issued by a Palestinian cleric, Abdullah Azzam. Azzam declared jihad against the Soviets to be an individual obligation for all able-­bodied Muslims, a dramatic expansion of the mainstream interpretation.10 Supported by the Saudi religious establishment, Azzam became a religious authority among the Arab Afghans. The Palestinian’s charisma, credentials, and connections to the Muslim Brotherhood augmented his position.11 Around 1984, Azzam’s cachet intersected with bin Laden’s coffers—­a power­f ul combination—to form Maktab al-­Khidamat, the Ser­vices Bureau.12 In addition to the personal fortune bin Laden derived from his ­family’s construction business in Saudi Arabia, his connections made him a conduit through which donations flowed. Bin Laden’s substantial resources—­and his willingness to spend them on jihad—­quickly afforded him stature among Arab Afghans.13 With Azzam’s prestige and bin Laden’s trea­sury, the Ser­vices Bureau became a focal point for Arab Afghans, donations, and propaganda as more volunteers arrived ­after 1986. However, the partnership between Azzam and bin Laden grew frayed as they began to compete to lead the Arab Afghans. The mismanagement of the bureau’s funds further spurred bin Laden’s desire to operate autonomously. ­After a trip to Af­ghan­i­stan exposed abysmal conditions for the fighters, bin Laden was dismayed that his money was not reaching the intended recipients. Bin Laden, a “hands-on man­ag­er,”14 wanted to be more involved in distributing funds and deci­ded to pursue more in­de­ pen­dent proj­ects. Bin Laden’s closest confidants, particularly Abu Hafs al-­Masri and Abu Ubaidah al-­Banshiri, stoked the friction between bin Laden and Azzam. Both hailed from EIJ.15 EIJ rejected the compromises the Muslim Brotherhood made to accommodate the po­liti­cal conditions in Egypt. Given Azzam’s

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ties to the Muslim Brotherhood, al-­Masri’s and al-­Banshiri’s animosity extended to him. Moreover, they wanted to coopt bin Laden to finance violent regime change in Egypt.16 Of the vari­ous nationalities, the Egyptians—­divided primarily into two rival groups, EIJ and the Egyptian Islamic Group (known as al-­Gama’a Islamiyah and referred to as EIG in this work)—­a rrived in Af­ghan­i­stan with the most experience and organ­ization, as w ­ ill be discussed in Chapter 6. They also arrived weakened and with enmity between them. Reeling from the Egyptian government’s crackdown following Anwar Sadat’s assassination in 1981, ­those who could fled to South Asia more to recuperate than to defend the Afghans.17 They saw the Saudi’s fortune as a way to help them recover and relaunch their campaign against Cairo. EIJ soon outmaneuvered its rivals ­because it could fulfill bin Laden’s need for military commanders. EIJ saw its opening as bin Laden’s and Azzam’s visions for the Ser­vices Bureau diverged. Azzam wanted the bureau to support the Afghans and encourage Afghan unity. Bin Laden advocated building Arab Afghans’ military proficiency, which dovetailed with the Egyptians’ capabilities.18 Bin Laden was troubled by the Arab Afghans’ poor fighting abilities and the lack of training available to them. He created a training fa­cil­i­t y called al-­Masada, or the Lion’s Den. Located in Jaji, Patkia Province, it was operating by late 1986.19 Given their experience and training, EIJ members ­were the obvious candidates to spearhead this effort. 20 Their role as trainers at al-­Masada gave them a decisive advantage with bin Laden.21 Al-­Qaida began to take shape with Egyptians acting as bin Laden’s inner circle and military advisers.22 Bin Laden erected another training fa­cil­i­t y in Khowst, in an area ­under the sphere of influence of Abdul Rasul Sayyaf and prominent military commander Jalaluddin Haqqani. Haqqani had been more receptive to Arab Afghans than other commanders, advocating for foreign participation early in the conflict and seeing the value of their unconventional tactics on the battlefield.23 His group welcomed Arab Afghans, though tensions sometimes arose ­because of the religious differences and the volunteers’ inexperience. Nonetheless, Haqqani’s group respected the Arab Afghans’ contribution and encouraged them to stay in Af­ghan­i­stan.24 The relationship with the Haqqanis would prove essential when al-­Qaida returned to Af­ghan­i­stan in 1996 and ­after 9/11. Al-­Qaida grew into a primary training provider for foreign volunteers, with the Egyptians taking key positions as trainers and military commanders.



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Through the cooperation in the training facilities and bin Laden’s monetary support for EIJ, the relationship grew into an alliance, as ­will be discussed in detail in Chapter 6.25 In 1989—­the year the Soviets withdrew—­al-­Qaida created a training camp, Jihadwal, in territory controlled by Hekmatyar. One of its largest camps, al-­Faruq, became popu­lar among Arab Afghans.26 In addition, al-­Qaida ran smaller facilities that provided advanced instruction.27 While focused on fellow Arab Afghans, al-­Qaida sometimes shared its facilities with non-­A rabs, such as Central Asians, fighters from the Caucasus who ­were battling the Soviets elsewhere, and Pakistani groups.28 Training brought together al-­Qaida’s strengths—­bin Laden’s resources and the Egyptians’ experience—to become a mainstay of its pre−9/11 alliance activity. Success Attracts

From an early point, bin Laden wanted to unite the Arab Afghans, though his initial vision and organ­ization would differ from what al-­Qaida would eventually become. Al-­Qaida’s training efforts ­were motivated by a desire to consolidate Arab Afghans into an Islamic Army, which could make a more significant contribution to the war than foreign fighters being scattered among vari­ous Afghan commanders.29 Perhaps more impor­tant, it could become a force to deploy outside of Af­ghan­i­stan to protect Muslims in the ­future. Between 1986 and 1989, the number of foreign fighters increased. Volunteers arrived from Libya, Algeria, China, Indonesia, Somalia, and Bangladesh. Some came as members of existing organ­izations. ­Others created groups with varying levels of organ­ization while in Af­ghan­i­stan. Organ­izations tended to form based on nationalities, with some nationalities producing multiple competitor groups. The volunteers grew factionalized by this proliferation of organ­izations.30 Bin Laden sought ways to transcend ­these divisions, and he saw an opportunity ­after the ­Battle of Jaji. Bin Laden had come ­under criticism when he created al-­Masada. In addition to the opposition to foreign fighters forming separate units, opponents argued that the fa­cil­i­t y’s mountaintop location ­ ere borne out when provided an easy target for the Soviets.31 Their concerns w the Soviets attacked the base, leading to the 1987 ­Battle of Jaji. Outnumbered and outgunned, Arab Afghans fended off a Soviet Special Forces−led offensive and won a highly touted victory ­after a week of fierce fighting.32

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Though a minor ­battle in the overall war, the victory caused Arab Afghans to flock to bin Laden’s group.33 With this influx of manpower, al-­Qaida cohered into more of an organ­ization, though it was still developing.34 It propagated a narrative that the ­Battle of Jaji demonstrated the viability of the Islamic Army and its mission.35 ­A fter Jaji, bin Laden gained increased standing among the foreign fighters. His ascension revealed the way in which individuals gained stature within the movement: resources and combat victories.36 As Leah Farrell observed, “Money, supplies and weapons, along with combat opportunities, ‘made’ leaders. . . . ​Often the Arab Afghan jihad is studied in ideological terms and ­people are perceived to have . . . ​joined bin Laden or Abdullah Azzam ­because of ‘their’ ideology, teachings or their ideas. . . . ​Simply put, on the ground, more pragmatic issues often dictated who became leaders.”37 From this position, bin Laden redoubled his efforts to unify Arab Afghans ­u nder his leadership.38 To that end, he formed an Arab Afghan Advisory Council in 1988. In theory, the council provided a coordination forum.39 In a pattern that would repeat itself in the ­f uture, the council failed to improve coordination or bridge the divide between Azzam and bin Laden, in part, ­because of bin Laden’s unwillingness to heed ­others’ input.40 Given his means and following, he could act in­de­pen­dently, as could other prominent members of the council, like Azzam. The influence of resources and combat victories became equally apparent ­after al-­Qaida’s defeat in 1989 at Jalalabad. By then, the Soviets had completed their withdrawal, and some foreign fighters, including bin Laden, had departed. However, the Communist regime in Kabul proved surprisingly resilient. Anticipating its collapse, the Afghan mujahidin formed an interim government to operate from Jalalabad. First, they had to capture Jalalabad from the Afghan Army. The Afghan mujahidin launched an offensive in March, but by May, they w ­ ere on the defensive.41 Bin Laden returned from Saudi Arabia, hoping to produce another miraculous victory. He halted training at al-­Qaida’s facilities, ordered every­one to join the ­battle, and poured al-­Qaida’s resources into the fight.42 This time he was wrong. While the ­battle raged for months, the Afghan mujahidin and their Arab Afghan supporters failed to capture Jalalabad. In July, the Afghan Army routed Arab Afghan forces in a punishing two-­day ­battle. In addition to the fatalities incurred, the defeat tarnished al-­Qaida’s reputation and



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brought bin Laden ­under heavy criticism. Defections followed, and al-­Qaida lost many of the members it had gained ­after Jaji.43 Perhaps most consequentially, al-­Qaida learned from the victory at Jaji and the loss at Jalalabad that strength attracts recruits and allies. Al-­Qaida’s First Ally

During this time, al-­Qaida, with heavy input from bin Laden, developed some orga­nizational pro­cesses that would shape the group in the ­future. From the outset, its orga­nizational pro­cesses not only included, but emphasized, cooperation and alliances with other groups. Embedded in its orga­nizational mission was a desire to be the vanguard of the Sunni jihadist movement, a posture conducive to alliances. Moreover, its aspiration to unite and lead an Islamic Army exceeded its capability, which instilled a perpetual orga­ nizational need for allies to achieve that end. During this period, cooperation occurred mostly through personal relationships and ad hoc orga­nizational collaboration. One exception was al-­Qaida’s alliance with EIJ, which became its most impor­tant pre−9/11 alliance. Al-­Qaida relied on the Egyptians in order to become an organ­ization. The two groups shared dual members, including, most notably, al-­Banshiri.44 He was the widely respected military commander for both groups. Bin Laden’s group initially consisted of a few dozen Arabs with an influential Egyptian core.45 Youths seeking action came ­after Jaji and left ­after Jalalabad, but the Egyptian core served as the mainstay of the group. While al-­Qaida and EIJ shared a Sunni jihadist ideology, their ideological compatibility was comparable to other dyads that did not ally at this juncture. Like all other participants, they opposed the Soviet presence in Af­ghan­i­stan. However, following the Soviet withdrawal, they did not share ­enemy priorities, with the EIJ focused on Cairo and bin Laden looking ­toward opposing Communists in South Yemen. So what caused al-­Qaida to ally with EIJ while other relationships remained ad hoc? While bin Laden had a fortune, the Saudi lacked military prowess. He needed men who could train ­others and lead in combat for his envisioned Islamic Army. The EIJ was among the few groups, perhaps the only one, with such personnel at this juncture. The EIJ had members from the Egyptian military, police, and security ser­vices; moreover, its members knew how to or­ga­nize and had experience executing vio­lence. The weakened EIJ needed

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resources, which bin Laden had in abundance, to recover and renew its efforts in Egypt. Coupled with their shared ideology and the trust built through personal relationships, ­t hese complementary needs produced al-­Qaida’s earliest alliance. ­Toward the end of the Afghan war, EIJ relocated to Sudan to pursue its campaign against Cairo. Though their ideology or enemies had not changed, their alliance grew more distant. EIJ’s relocation reduced the ability of the two groups to fulfill one another’s orga­nizational needs, leading to a temporary downgrade in their alliance. The Jihadist Facilitator Years: Offering a Foundation

Foreign volunteers poured in ­after it became clear the Afghan re­sis­tance had prevailed. By the time the Soviets withdrew in 1989, volunteers from an estimated forty countries resided in Peshawar.46 As al-­Qaida had already learned, victory proved a power­f ul recruitment tool; the number of volunteers doubled between 1989 and 1993. However, the main Arab Afghan leaders ­were absent by this time. Following the loss in Jalalabad, bin Laden returned to Saudi Arabia. His one-­time partner and rival Azzam was killed by a car bomb in Peshawar in 1989. With the Soviet withdrawal, the conflict turned inward with the ­Afghan mujahidin factions turning against one another while also seeking to overthrow Mohammad Najibullah Ahmadzai’s unexpectedly resilient Communist regime in Kabul.47 When Najibullah’s regime fi­nally fell in 1992, the fragile threads holding the Afghan mujahidin together gave way, unleashing a brutal civil war. For some of the remaining foreign fighters, the ensuing civil war was no longer a legitimate jihad. They departed for “the next Af­ghan­i­stan” in Chechnya or Bosnia or pursued missions at home. Compounding the situation, the Pakistani government, now ­under nominal civilian rule, grew wary of the remaining volunteers and moved to expel them.48 A few al-­Qaida members stayed ­behind, but their activities dwindled to a small number of training facilities and a smattering of safe ­houses in areas controlled by Afghan partners or in Peshawar.49 As al-­Qaida’s jihadist facilitator period ended, its prospects to build an alliance network sufficient to fulfill its orga­nizational ambition of becoming an Islamic Army ­were far from certain. With the losses in Jalalabad, fissures among the Arab Afghans, and EIJ’s turn ­toward Cairo, al-­Qaida’s alliance network was vulnerable and in its infancy. Still, it developed personal rela-



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tionships, a reputation as a ser­vice provider, and trust, in addition to demonstrating a willingness and ability to provide resources. It invested in endeavors that encouraged cooperation. The Ser­vices Bureau created connections. Al-­ Qaida’s camps, especially as they grew in size and sophistication, offered skills. The Advisory Council, although it fell short of its mission, offered a forum for consultation. Overall, al-­Qaida established orga­nizational pro­ cesses, identity features, and trust conducive to becoming an alliance hub. It would use many of ­these same tactics to build relationships throughout the remainder of the pre−9/11 period. While some foreign fighters returned to their lives, the experience radicalized, transformed, and emboldened ­others.50 They became a source of unrest. ­Those who agitated for change at home became the target of ruthless security ser­vices. Many found themselves unable to return home51 and flocked to conflicts in Bosnia, Chechnya, or Kashmir with aspirations of re-­creating the Afghan success against the Soviets.52 With this dispersal, the foreign fighters evolved into a loosely connected transnational network of groups and individuals with identity affinity, personal relationships, and a predisposition to trust one another.53

The Transition to Sudan: Al-­Qaida as a Jihadist Patron Upon returning to Saudi Arabia, bin Laden saw opportunities to operationalize his vision for an Islamic Army and found the mission that would animate al-­Qaida. Still motivated by his antipathy for Communists, bin Laden approached Saudi intelligence offering to bolster re­sis­tance against the teetering government in South Yemen.54 Despite the Saudi authorities’ ­orders that he desist, he supported anti-­Communist ele­ments. This transgression led to the confiscation of his passport, a sign of mounting tensions between bin Laden and his government.55 South Yemen was on the brink of collapse without bin Laden’s meddling, and it merged with its northern neighbor in 1990. The disagreement over Yemen foretold further discord. In 1991, bin Laden offered the ser­vices of an Islamic Army, that is, the Arab Afghans, to defend the Saudi Arabian government against the aggression of Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein. Again, the Saudi government rebuffed his proposal and opted to rely on the United States.56 Bin Laden deemed the American military presence in Saudi Arabia to be an occupation of two of Islam’s holiest

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places. Bin Laden already opposed the United States, particularly its support for Israel. His objections to the United States’ presence in Saudi Arabia now consumed him. The following year, a disgruntled bin Laden managed to secure his passport from Saudi officials to travel to Pakistan.57 Though he did not know it at the time, bin Laden would never return to Saudi Arabia. ­After a brief stint back in South Asia, bin Laden landed in Sudan by early 1992.58 Hassan al-­Turabi’s National Islamic Front (NIF), which had taken power in 1989 in a coup, invited bin Laden to resettle in Africa, joining his Egyptian ally.59 Turabi recognized bin Laden’s trea­sury as advantageous for his aspirations to make Sudan an international headquarters for the Muslims. Conversely, Sudan provided bin Laden a venue where he could build his Islamic Army, support Sunni jihadist ­causes, and cultivate allies against the United States.60 Struggling to create the envisioned Islamic Army on its own, al-­Qaida engaged in what the 9/11 Commission called “expansion through building alliances.” 61 Bin Laden was not the only one to relocate to Sudan. The Horn of Africa country emerged as a haven for Sunni jihadists.62 Extremists hailing from newly formed and established organ­izations as well as roaming foreign fighters in need of sanctuary joined him ­there.63 Sunni terrorist organ­ izations with a presence in Sudan included EIJ, EIG, the Algerian Armed Islamic Group (GIA), the Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (LIFG), and groups from East Africa and the ­Middle East.64 Khartoum’s hospitality expanded beyond Sunni militants; even the notorious PFLP-­SOG lieutenant Carlos the Jackal found sanctuary ­there. It was a melting pot of militancy. The NIF not only offered a haven; it encouraged cooperation and created opportunities for interaction, such as convening jihadists and other anti-­ West entities at its Popu­lar Arab and Islamic Conferences.65 This section examines al-­Qaida’s alliance activity while in Sudan, during which time it primarily acted as a patron for fellow Sunni jihadist groups. ­There ­were five interrelated dimensions to its alliance activity in Sudan. First, al-­Qaida continued to use training and consultative councils to initiate and build alliances. Second, bin Laden expanded his patronage. Already a major financier, he became a leading nonstate sponsor of jihadist ­causes all over the world. Third, al-­Qaida sought leadership and unity, now ­under the auspices of combating a common ­enemy: the United States. During the anti-­ Soviet jihad, al-­Qaida sought a leadership role and unity but lacked clear ­enemy frames. Now, it had them: expelling the United States from Saudi



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Arabia and the ­Middle East. Fourth, al-­Qaida invested in creating an Islamic state in Sudan. Investing in Sudan, offering training, and providing resources rather than directly pursuing jihadist ­causes differentiated al-­Qaida from other groups. During this period, al-­Qaida operated primarily as a support apparatus for jihad rather than actually executing it. However, fifth, it also built its orga­nizational capacity to engage in terrorism. It developed this capability through cooperation with a group that shared its antipathy against the United States. Al-­Qaida provided assistance widely, though it did not often ask for or receive reciprocation, nor did many of the recipients have expectations of consultation or coordination in the f­ uture. Thus, only a subset of its relationships developed into alliances. The relationships that became alliances ­were mainly with fellow Arab Sunni jihadist groups. In Sudan, al-­Qaida reinvigorated its alliance with EIJ and built on ties to forge alliances with GIA and LIFG. However, ­these three alliances experienced disruptions by the end of al-­Qaida’s time in Sudan. If It A ­ in’t Broke . . . ​

Upon relocating in Sudan, al-­Qaida set out to rebuild its training capacity in the African nation. A few residual facilities remained in Af­ghan­i­stan, but al-­Qaida’s training capability had diminished. Bin Laden spent millions to erect training camps,66 capitalizing on Khartoum’s willingness to give property in exchange for construction and development proj­ects.67 By 1994, at least four bin Laden−financed camps operated in Sudan with trainers from Egypt, Algeria, Tunisia, and elsewhere.68 In addition to offering training at camps, al-­Qaida deployed advisers to train and assist prospective partners.69 Al-­Qaida also reinitiated its efforts to increase consultation and coordination among Sunni jihadist groups. Still most comfortable with fellow Arab groups, al-­Qaida first solicited groups from the ­Middle East. It then reached out to ­others in Chad, Mali, Niger, Nigeria, and Uganda in addition to Burma, Thailand, Malaysia, and Indonesia.70 Al-­Qaida formed a consultative council with representatives from fellow Sunni jihadist groups in Sudan, particularly the Egyptian groups, the LIFG, and the GIA.71 The 9/11 Commission Report explained, “Bin Laden now had a vision of himself as head of an international jihad confederation. In Sudan, he established an ‘Islamic Army Shura’ [consultative council] that was to serve as the coordinating body

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for the consortium of terrorist groups with which he was forging alliances.”72 Spreading the Wealth

Once again, bin Laden’s trea­sury gave the group stature it would not have other­w ise commanded.73 Groups regularly solicited him to support their proj­ects.74 By holding the purse strings, bin Laden attempted to guide groups in the direction he wished them to go. Al-­Qaida’s generosity did not produce control, but it did create a sense of indebtedness.75 Moreover, it influenced the trajectory of the Sunni jihadist movement by ­either financing or withholding support.76 An abundance of jihadist c­ auses needed cash as conflicts flared throughout the ­Middle East, Southeast Asia, East and North Africa, South Asia, Central Asia, and the Caucasus. Accounts of bin Laden’s munificence vary in credibility, but he was reputed to have given aid to Sunni militants in the Philippines, Algeria, Jordan, Eritrea, Pakistan, Bosnia, Lebanon, Yemen, Libya, Chechnya, Somalia, and Egypt. In addition, al-­ Qaida supported operations by at least eight groups during this period.77 Al-­Qaida used bin Laden’s money to nurture the seeds of jihad wherever fertile ground existed and to foster relationships. Seeking Unity Against a Common E ­ nemy

Al-­Qaida sought—­a nd, for a brief period ­a fter the ­Battle of Jaji, achieved—­­a degree of unity ­under its leadership before identifying the United States as its primary ­enemy. With the U.S. “occupation” of Saudi Arabia, it now had a narrative that explained the need for unity and justified its leading position in the movement. Al-­Qaida propagated expansive ­enemy frames that encouraged Sunni jihadists to work together against their shared adversary, the United States, in defense of the victimized Muslim world. Al-­Qaida wove a narrative that connected other groups’ enemies to the United States’ backing and power. It argued that Sunni jihadists must unite to expel the United States from Muslim lands, beginning with the Saudi kingdom. Pointing to the victory over the Soviet Union, al-­Qaida argued that defeating the United States was pos­si­ble. U.S. withdrawal from the ­Middle East would precipitate the destruction of Israel and the downfall of the individual regimes that occupied ­others’ attentions.78 Together, they could then build the caliphate.



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Its encompassing narrative created sources of affinity with numerous Sunni jihadist organ­izations. During this period, it attempted to persuade groups to ally with it against a common adversary, with ­little success. Revolutionary jihadist and irredentist c­ auses had more adherents and resonance at this time. Within the movement, a small number of jihadists shared al-­Qaida’s conviction that the United States was the primary ­enemy. Most notably, in 1993, Ramzi Yousef masterminded an attack on the World Trade Center in New York City, which killed six ­people. While bin Laden expressed admiration for Yousef, he also conceded that he had never met him. Given the way in which bin Laden’s money flowed, some likely reached Yousef, but he was not acting on al-­Qaida’s behalf. Yousef aside, most jihadists did not share al-­Qaida’s belief about the need to prioritize the threat from the United States. Too many other ­causes competed for attention, and some seemed promising in the early 1990s. Building an Islamic State Rather Than Fighting

In addition, al-­Qaida supported the creation of a “genuine” Islamic state in Sudan. Bin Laden invested in numerous businesses in Sudan, including agriculture, import-­export, banking, construction, and leather tanning, which helped the NIF consolidate power.79 The NIF’s goal of creating a Muslim headquarters in Sudan dovetailed with bin Laden’s and his coterie’s orga­ nizational goal of uniting jihadist groups into an Islamic Army ­u nder al-­Qaida’s leadership.80 Al-­Qaida encouraged fellow jihadists to come to Sudan, thereby bringing them into its sphere of influence. For example, bin Laden paid for over three hundred Arab Afghans still resident in Pakistan to come to Sudan when Islamabad pressured them to leave the country.81 However, al-­Qaida strug­gled to attract members, ­because joining meant mostly working in bin Laden’s businesses or camps in Sudan, while opportunities to engage in combat or conduct operations abounded elsewhere.82 This shortfall heightened al-­Qaida’s need for allies. Unlike al-­Qaida, many groups, including ­those in Sudan, conducted operations or engaged in fighting in other places. The Egyptian groups launched competing terrorist campaigns in Egypt. The GIA engaged in a bloody war to seize control of Algeria, where the military had taken power in 1992 ­after canceling elections that Islamists ­were poised to win. LIFG was building a covert presence in Libya, preparing for operations against Muammar Qadhafi’s regime.

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In addition, some groups operated exclusively in open fronts, which presented an attractive alternative to al-­Qaida’s activities in Sudan. Foreign fighters flocked to Bosnia, where they sought to defend Bosnian Muslims against Serbian and Croat forces. Fellow Saudi and bin Laden rival, Samir Saleh Abdullah, known as Ibn al-­K hattab, gained a substantial following in Chechnya. Sometimes incorrectly labeled as an al-­Qaida ally, Khattab’s efforts in Chechnya siphoned support from al-­Qaida. Recruits and donors ­were more attracted to another jihad against the Rus­sians than to building an Islamic state in Africa.83 In addition, Pakistani groups that emerged from the anti-­Soviet jihad found a raison d’être contesting India’s control over Kashmir. Militants in Central Asia launched campaigns to overthrow regimes in Uzbekistan and Tajikistan.84 Southeast Asian extremists, like the Moro Islamic Liberation Front and the newly formed Abu Sayyaf Group, engaged in insurgency in the Philippines.85 Thus, al-­Qaida sought relationships to compensate for its lack of direct involvement in ­these fronts. The E ­ nemy of My E ­ nemy

Al-­Qaida’s involvement in Somalia was an exception to its absence from open fronts, though this involvement was facilitated in part by an ally. Even then, al-­Qaida primarily offered training and guidance. Al-­Qaida forged connections with Somali jihadists in Af­ghan­i­stan and became involved in Somalia earlier than many accounts reveal. Somali jihadists journeyed to South Asia during the anti-­Soviet war, staying in an al-­Qaida guest­house in Peshawar and training at camps in Abdul Rasul Sayyaf ’s territory. Sayyaf made such an impression on the Somalis that they named their group al-­Ittihad al-­ Islamiyah (AIAI) ­after his organ­ization. The Somalis wanted further training, so al-­Qaida agreed to send instructors.86 In addition, Somalia offered a route for bin Laden to send support for anti-­Communists in South Yemen in 1990, avoiding Saudi supervision.87 With ­these connections already in place, al-­Qaida saw an opportunity to strike its chief adversary when U.S. forces deployed to Somalia on a humanitarian mission. It viewed the United States’ presence as a bid to establish control in the region. Al-­Qaida wanted to deliver a blow against the United States, expel U.S. forces from East Africa, and thereby promote its narrative that the United States was the primary ­enemy.88 A team of advisers, including al-­Masri, joined al-­Qaida’s trainers in Somalia.89



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However, al-­Qaida’s representatives ran into hurdles. First, they quickly became lost in the labyrinth of Somali clans. Clans’ centrality in Somali society increased in the wake of the state’s collapse ­because they became the main source of protection for ­people in the predatory environment of the failed state. Consequently, al-­Qaida’s appeals for religious unity against the “foreign occupier” lacked resonance. Second, Somalis’ suspicion of foreigners not only inhibited the U.S. mission; it extended to al-­Qaida members. Somalis saw foreigners as exploitable, and the well-­funded Arabs ­were no exception. Lastly, al-­Qaida strug­gled with the Somali population’s adherence to Sufism. The religious difference caused tensions and damaged al-­Qaida’s message.90 Al-­Qaida turned to the ally it had cooperated with to date: AIAI. Despite al-­Qaida’s training and assistance, influential factions of the AIAI urged an emphasis on dawa, or preaching, to convert Somalis to Salafism rather than jihad. The group also lacked public support as it too strug­gled to transcend clannism. Therefore, AIAI was not the ally al-­Qaida needed to expel the United States. An al-­Qaida operative deployed to Somalia bemoaned how “Al-­Qa’ida’s Salafist tendencies have led it to search for a po­liti­cal ally in Somalia with an identical intellectual focus. This is the greatest calamity. Nearly everywhere, your situation and ours, has no place for the ideal; just for that which is the least bad. . . . ​You must find men you can deal with, even if they are not from our venerable forefathers. . . . ​I do not mind cooperating with Aideed.”91 Al-­Qaida acquiesced and cooperated with the referenced Somali ­warlord, a former general during the Siad Barre regime, Mohamed Farrah Hassan Aideed. Aideed was decidedly not a fellow jihadist. However, he was the main target of the U.S. mission for his role in the vio­lence and famine in Somalia; thus, Aideed and al-­Qaida shared an adversary. Al-­Qaida provided Aideed’s men with training, including how to use rocket-­propelled grenades.92 Al-­Qaida subsequently boasted of involvement in downing a Black Hawk he­li­cop­ter and killing eigh­teen Army Rangers in 1993, an event that led to U.S. withdrawal. Al-­Qaida’s ­actual participation in the infamous ­battle remains debated, though it prob­ably exaggerated its role. Nonetheless, al-­Qaida pointed to the incident as support for its narrative: the United States was the main ­enemy, and jihadists could expel the superpower with a few well-­placed blows.93 Success was not sufficient to sustain al-­Qaida’s relationship with Aideed. With the loss of a common ­enemy, their cooperation ceased. Moreover,

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bin Laden ordered al-­Qaida to depart Somalia the year ­after the U.S. withdrawal. Al-­Qaida operatives in Somalia protested that they ­were making inroads ­there, despite the difficult conditions. However, bin Laden insisted, and they returned to Sudan.94 Al-­Qaida ­later renounced arrangements like its cooperation with Aideed, putting in its bylaws that “our position with re­spect to the tyrants of the world, secular and national parties and the like is not to associate with them, to discredit them and to be their constant ­enemy till they believe in God alone.”95 Al-­Qaida also sought to build its own capability. With the stability of its situation in Sudan, its internal organ­ization grew more established. Committees and roles within the group became more defined. A shura council led al-­Qaida, though its recommendations to the emir, bin Laden, ­were not binding. The committees that reported to the shura council included a religious committee, a financial and administrative committee, an information committee, and a military committee.96 As its orga­nizational structure and conduct in Somalia demonstrated, al-­Qaida eschewed po­liti­cal or social ser­vice work. While Somalis w ­ ere starving, al-­Qaida only built o­ thers’ capability to strike the United States’ forces in Somalia. As it developed or­gan­i­za­tion­ally, al-­Qaida sought to develop its operational skills. Given its focus on expelling the United States from Saudi Arabia, it cooperated with the group that had demonstrated the ability to inflict such a blow, the Lebanese Shia group Hizballah. In a rare role reversal, al-­ Qaida was a recipient, seeking a partner to fulfill its orga­nizational needs. The NIF government promoted cooperation across the Sunni-­Shia ­divide. As early as 1991, Khartoum and Tehran agreed to coordinate their activities in pursuit of their common “anti-­imperialist objective.” Upon bin Laden’s arrival in Sudan, this agreement expanded to include his Islamic Army. The agreement encouraged cooperation against their common enemies, which included Israel, the United States, and regimes deemed too close to e­ ither nation.97 Al-­Qaida was receptive to alliances, yet it hesitated to expand its identity affinity par­ameters to include Shia. However, no Sunni jihadist groups possessed the capability that al-­Qaida sought. Al-­Qaida’s orga­nizational needs prevailed, and it deci­ded to cooperate with Hizballah. Al-­Qaida hoped Hizballah would teach it how to conduct an attack that would cause U.S. withdrawal from Saudi Arabia. While al-­Qaida had big ambitions, an ample trea­sury, and a charismatic leader, it had not yet conducted its own operations and was inexperienced compared to the Shia veterans.98



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Al-­Qaida sent members to Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley in 1993, where they learned terrorism tactics, most notably how to conduct suicide operations, Hizballah’s specialty.99 However, a­ fter al-­Qaida acquired this skill, the relationship languished. The two groups held several coordination meetings in Sudan to no avail.100 Suicide attack techniques are a relatively discrete skill that does not require extensive follow-up training. In addition, al-­Qaida reciprocated by providing weapons, but it had ­little to offer its Shia counterpart in return.101 Moreover, al-­Qaida’s unease about working with Shia persisted. Its identity affinity par­ameters resisted this expansion. It subsequently established identity affinity criteria that precluded such alliances, pledging only to ally with “truthful Islamic jihadist movements and groups,” a criteria that excluded non-­Sunnis.102 Implosions, Breakups, and Exile

While al-­Qaida built a support apparatus, an ­enemy narrative, and operational capability, by the mid-1990s its allies from Algeria, Libya, and Egypt faced orga­nizational crises. The GIA’s once-­promising campaign in Algeria convulsed out of control. The LIFG’s efforts in Libya ­were prematurely unveiled, leading to extensive losses. The EIJ’s campaign in Egypt succeeded only in provoking a ruthless response from Cairo. Their woes persuaded al-­ Qaida of the futility of efforts to overthrow so-­called apostate regimes while the United States remained at the helm of the international system. Al-­Qaida could not or would not fulfill its allies’ orga­nizational needs at crisis points, leading to disruptions in ­these alliances. The GIA’s Downward Spiral By 1993, the GIA emerged as the dominant force in Algeria and appeared poised to overthrow the government. Of the jihadist conflicts raging all over the world, the insurgency in Algeria appeared to be the most ­viable campaign for jihadists to take over a state. In the early 1990s, it forged alliances with al-­Qaida and its North Africa counter­parts, particularly the LIFG. The GIA enjoyed a positive reputation among fellow jihadists, bolstered by its numerous Arab Afghan members and cross-­organizational personal relationships. Though receptive to relations with the LIFG and al-­Qaida, the GIA did not have a self-­assessed orga­nizational need. It benefited from al-­Qaida’s funding and advice, in addition to manpower from the LIFG; however, it did not

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require this assistance. It had a network of donors and supporters overseas, particularly in London.103 It commanded a sizable force. It was amenable to al-­ Qaida and the LIFG’s overtures due to ideological solidarity and interor­gan­i­za­ tional personal relationships, which would prove an unstable basis for an alliance. Vio­lence in Algeria erupted in 1992 ­after the military canceled and annulled elections that the Islamist National Salvation Front (FIS) was poised to win. The military installed a new government and undertook a sweeping campaign against the FIS. Hard-­line Algerian jihadists who rejected both the Algerian government and the FIS, particularly its willingness to participate in elections, formed the GIA. Unlike the FIS and its armed wing, the Islamic Salvation Army (AIS), the GIA did not seek po­liti­cal compromise, new elections, or negotiations.104 It saw jihad as the only legitimate means by which to gain control of the state. Before 1993, much of the vio­lence occurred between security forces and insurgents. As the GIA consolidated its leading position in the insurgency, it expanded its definition of the ­enemy to include civil servants, intellectuals, journalists, and foreigners. It also attacked French targets in protest of Paris’s support of Algiers. By 1994, the group’s takfiri (accusing another Muslim of apostasy) tendencies led it to declare itself as the only legitimate jihadist force and to target its competition, particularly the FIS-­AIS, with the same, if not more, intensity than it used to target the government.105 As far as can be discerned, al-­Qaida initiated an alliance with the GIA, building on existing personal relationships. Though the GIA shared al-­ Qaida’s antipathy for the United States, calling it the “United States of Terrorism,”106 the United States played a minimal role in the conflict in ­Algeria; thus al-­Qaida’s narrative did not dovetail with the GIA’s. Nonetheless, bin Laden sought to influence the GIA the same way he did numerous groups, namely, by providing money and advisers.107 He deployed a lieutenant to consult with GIA and bequeath an estimated $40,000.108 He also persuaded the GIA to participate in the Islamic Army consultative shura in Sudan.109 Events in Algeria appeared so promising that bin Laden even explored relocating or opening training facilities ­there in 1994. However, as an early indication of the limits of this alliance, Algerian jihadists declined his request.110 The LIFG also forged an alliance with the GIA. They had numerous connections, as members from both groups participated in the anti-­Soviet jihad in Af­ghan­i­stan. One former LIFG member described the close relationship between the two groups as “normal,” in light of the trust and identity affinity they developed. “We had contact with dozens of them in Af­ghan­i­



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stan. . . . ​Most of them had a reputation for their love of jihad and spirit of self-­sacrifice; if they ­were typical of the mujahidin in Algeria, then our impression of the GIA was a good one.”111 Lest it appear as though the LIFG was operating only out of ideological solidarity, the LIFG member went on to explain other motives at work. “Algeria was of vital strategic importance to our own plans. We could have used it as a stepping stone from Af­ghan­i­stan back to Libya. Military strategists talk about ‘leapfrogging’; if you had a military force in Af­ghan­i­stan, you needed it to ‘leapfrog’ to the Algerian border with Libya. The alternative would mean leaving that force to stand idle in Af­ghan­i­stan and rust.”112 In other words, the GIA fulfilled the LIFG’s need to access Libya and keep its fighters active while it established its presence in Libya. It had its own orga­ nizational interests in events in Algeria. The LIFG had previously attempted to access Libya through Egypt. However, Egyptian authorities arrested the group’s emir and extradited him to Libya in 1992.113 Therefore, the group coveted the ability to operate in Libya’s neighbor to the west. Early on, the LIFG detected the GIA’s weaknesses that would be its undoing. The LIFG sent a del­e­ga­tion to Algeria in 1994. It had deployed ­others to fight in Algeria, but it arranged this visit through the GIA’s representatives in Sudan to build its alliance with the GIA.114 One of the LIFG’s leaders—­a member of LIFG’s shura council known for his contribution to the anti-­Soviet jihad—­headed the del­e­ga­tion.115 The LIFG emissaries spent six months learning about the GIA and the situation in Algeria. They met with GIA’s leader, an Arab Afghan named Cherif Gousmi and one of his lieutenants, Djamal Zitouni, who headed the GIA’s “death squad.”116 The Libyans came away with reservations about the GIA. They ­were unimpressed with the GIA’s leaders, who they viewed as disor­ga­nized and unsophisticated. They worried that the group lacked religious grounding. However, they could not help being impressed with the GIA’s manpower. It appeared that the GIA’s sizable force would overthrow the state.117 The latter potential outweighed the former reservations, and the LIFG elected to send another del­e­ga­tion to Algeria to continue cooperation and consultation with the GIA. Rather than attempting to correct its ally’s deficiency, the LIFG deci­ ded to work with the GIA’s strength, its military might. However, the GIA already had personnel with experience in Af­ghan­i­stan and former Algerian military officers in its ranks. It possessed manpower and experienced fighters. Nonetheless, the LIFG sent a del­e­ga­tion of trained and respected fighters

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with combat experience in Af­ghan­i­stan. They deployed into contested areas to bolster the GIA’s combat capability.118 However, ­after an early message that one of them sustained an injury in a ­battle with the Algerian army, the LIFG fighters went conspicuously s­ ilent.119 Orga­nizational crises, particularly leadership losses, exacerbated the GIA’s weaknesses and dysfunction. When Gousmi died in an ambush in 1994, Zitouni ascended to the top spot, marking the group’s fifth leadership change in just two years. Algiers relentlessly—­and successfully—­targeted the GIA’s leaders. The GIA strug­gled to build a stable orga­nizational culture, frames, or routines in the midst of constant turnover, a prob­lem exacerbated by the group’s dispersal and inability to communicate regularly. In addition, the brutality of the war in Algeria encouraged the most ruthless to rise to the top. That was certainly the case with Zitouni. The GIA’s vio­lence increasingly lost its connection to the group’s po­liti­cal aims and became an end unto itself. Some of this vio­lence turned inward, further aggravating the group’s instability. Zitouni was not the unan­i­mous choice for the top spot, and he grew obsessed with identifying and eliminating rivals or detractors. Zitouni, already suspicious by temperament, searched for indications of disloyalty and executed commanders for disagreeing with his increasingly radical orientation.120 Internecine conflict ensued as Zitouni took lethal action at any sign of treachery, which he equated with violating Islam.121 The GIA’s dysfunction reached dangerous levels. The GIA expanded its vio­lence against fellow Islamists and the Algerian populace. It declared jihad as an individual duty for all Algerians and anointed itself the only legitimate jihadist authority. It used this position to justify attacking anyone who was not a part of the group. It targeted the FIS-­AIS for being too accommodating and a group of Takfir wal-­Hijra for under­ taking innovations it deemed “un-­Islamic.”122 What started as an insurgency against the state devolved into a civil war as the GIA targeted its competitors with as much, if not more, ferocity than the government. The GIA’s hard-­line approach soon extended to its allies. It became intransigent with its partners and refused to heed their counsel. In addition, it was still unclear what had befallen the LIFG fighters. The LIFG and ­al-­Qaida sent a del­e­ga­tion to investigate. ­After failing to learn more about the LIFG fighters’ whereabouts, they attempted to depart Algeria. However, the GIA would not return their passports and refused to let them leave.



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They eventually escaped and reported that the LIFG fighters ­were prob­ably dead and that the GIA had deviated from Islam.123 Allies and influential jihadists continued their efforts to intercede to no avail. Zitouni rebuffed any attempts to moderate his be­hav­ior. Instead, he responded to their overtures by issuing a decree that no foreigners could join the GIA.124 The GIA had succumbed to groupthink, where no dissent was permitted. In light of the del­e­ga­tion’s findings, the LIFG was not content to just sever the alliance; it was determined to isolate the GIA, a task made easier by Zitouni’s actions.125 The LIFG became convinced that the Algerian security ser­vices had infiltrated the GIA, which could explain its be­hav­ior. The Libyans appealed to the GIA’s supporters outside of Algeria, particularly in London, arguing that the GIA was no longer a legitimate jihadist force.126 The reputation of the LIFG fighters who dis­appeared in Algeria bolstered its position as did the GIA’s increasingly senseless vio­lence.127 The GIA made no secret of its expectation that its allies and supporters would adhere to its proclamation that it was the only valid opposition to the government. It dispatched envoys to Sudan to warn ­others not to support rival factions.128 Meanwhile, reports of GIA massacres filtered out of Algeria. Supporters ­were initially skeptical of ­these accounts, but the GIA made no effort to deny them. More support for the Algerian group evaporated. Al-­Qaida attempted in vain to use its funds to influence the GIA. Al-­ Qaida had some leverage ­because the GIA periodically sought funding; however, when a GIA del­e­ga­tion requested additional funds from bin Laden, the GIA used the opportunity to criticize him. The GIA representatives demanded that bin Laden stop working with Islamists who did not rely solely on jihad, accusing him of “coddling” illegitimate groups.129 Furthermore, they cautioned him not to support other groups in Algeria, ­going so far as to threaten to kill any outsiders who attempted to circumvent the GIA.130 Bin Laden angrily withdrew his support and refused to provide any additional assistance.131 The GIA and al-­Qaida’s alliance was over. In June 1996, the LIFG’s anti-­GIA co­ali­tion went public. The LIFG announced it was ceasing support ­because GIA had “annihilated the Afghan trend” and committed “breaches and violations of Sharia law.”132 The LIFG went on to say, “We ­will . . . ​[resume] supporting the Armed Islamic Group if it replaces its current leadership and changes its policy, b­ ecause we know that ­there are good and righ­teous ­people among its ranks.”133 The EIJ and

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influential jihadist intellectuals Abu Musab al-­Suri and Abu Qatada likewise condemned the GIA’s “dangerous deviations.”134 In response, the GIA killed remaining foreign volunteers, including al-­Qaida advisers who ­were stuck in Algeria.135 Ultimately, allies could not halt the GIA’s descent ­because the GIA did not recognize its weaknesses and its allies did not address its needs. The GIA developed orga­nizational pathologies and grew more insular, which prevented it from diagnosing its own weaknesses. A series of orga­nizational crises prevented it from creating a stable orga­nizational culture. Its leaders failed to recognize the groups’ dysfunction and increasingly acute needs, which an ally might have been able to address. Moreover, while the GIA benefited from allies’ assistance, it did not need what they offered: training, manpower, or money. The group included experienced personnel, so it did not require training. It had thousands of fighters and thus did not need more manpower. ­Until its implosion, the GIA benefited from robust donor networks in Eu­rope and the ­Middle East, so it did not depend on bin Laden’s coffers. Consequently, the GIA rebuffed al-­Qaida, the LIFG, EIJ, and ­others’ efforts to change its be­hav­ior. The alliance breakdowns ­were permanent, and jihadists ostracized the GIA as well as the conflict in Algeria.136 The most promising jihad became synonymous with catastrophic failure. The LIFG’s Premature Reveal The LIFG’s prob­lems with the GIA coincided with its own orga­ nizational crisis. In October 1995, the LIFG publicly declared its existence. It had been covertly building cells throughout Libya. However, its public unveiling did not occur ­because its preparations ­were complete. Instead, it was in response to the Libyan government’s discovery of its buildup. Four months earlier, Libyan authorities wounded an LIFG operative during a firefight. While he was recovering in a hospital in Benghazi, his colleagues deci­ded to rescue him and then hole up in a nearby farm. The Libyan security ser­vices ­were not far ­behind. Most of the LIFG operatives involved died in the ensuing confrontation. Libyan authorities then recovered information that revealed LIFG’s clandestine network.137 When al-­Qaida and the LIFG formed an alliance, the LIFG was in the midst of building its capability in Libya. Al-­Qaida’s funds, training, and advisers helped address its resource mobilization and operational capability needs. In addition, shortly before allying with al-­Qaida, LIFG lost its emir when



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Egyptian authorities arrested him and extradited him to Libya in 1992. Seeking to recover and build a covert presence in Libya, the LIFG received assistance from al-­Qaida and participated on the Islamic Army shura.138 In addition, the two collaborated to unsuccessfully stem the GIA’s downward spiral. Even more clearly than al-­Qaida’s other allies during this period, the LIFG and al-­Qaida’s alliance was not a product of a common ­enemy. The LIFG had ­little interest in al-­Qaida’s America-­first agenda. Al-­Qaida’s narrative of how apostate regimes would fall without U.S. backing also did not resonate with LIFG, given the long-­standing animosity between Tripoli and Washington. The Libyan government swiftly responded to the LIFG’s infiltration. Against al-­Qaida’s counsel, the LIFG hastily deci­ded to announce itself and begin operations in 1995.139 The LIFG’s public unveiling did nothing to reverse its fortunes as Tripoli’s ferocious response decimated its ranks. In addition, Tripoli sought to deny the LIFG safe haven in Sudan. Qadhafi’s regime exerted pressure on the NIF government to extradite LIFG members, even providing the names of specific individuals. The Sudanese government rebuffed the extradition requests, but in an effort to ease tensions with its neighbor, it deci­ded to expel the Libyans.140 With the pressure and losses in Libya, the LIFG’s haven in Sudan was indispensable. Egypt had proven unsafe. In the face of mounting tensions with the GIA, Algeria was not an option. LIFG had nowhere to go. Yet bin Laden told the Libyans that he could not protect them and encouraged them to leave. He offered money and passports to help them relocate. Some accepted his assistance, but ­others ­were furious at him for acquiescing to Khartoum’s wishes. The LIFG saw his capitulation to Khartoum as an abdication of their jihad against Tripoli during the moment of the group’s greatest need.141 For its part, al-­Qaida viewed the situation as being the result of LIFG’s haste and lamented this failure, even years l­ater. The ­brothers in Libya failed ­because, firstly, they did not listen to any of the advice they ­were offered. Al-­Qa’ida advised them to wait, so did the Jihad Group [EIJ] and the Islamic Group [EIG]. All the b­ rothers advised the Libyan Mujahidin that they did not have the basic resources to topple the Libyan regime. Not to mention, the timing did not add up. . . . ​The excessive enthusiasm among the Libyan b­ rothers about creating a Muslim state in

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Libya made them lose focus. Then, the Libyan ­brothers suffered tremendously as they entered into a conflict with the Libyan regime.142 Once again, al-­Qaida found that its allies ignored its advice, despite its assistance. The LIFG departed Sudan, furious at al-­Qaida’s betrayal. Another alliance was damaged. The EIJ’s Losses Mount In addition to al-­Qaida’s woes with its Libyan and Algerian allies, it experienced a rift with its closest ally, EIJ. By 1995, EIJ was also besieged. Its attacks had accomplished ­little except to provoke a brutal response from Egyptian security ser­vices. Far smaller than its rival EIG, the EIJ strug­gled to absorb the mounting arrests and deaths. Bin Laden increasingly viewed EIJ’s efforts against Cairo as costly and fruitless. Si­mul­ta­neously, EIJ increasingly depended on bin Laden to finance its operations and to support the families of its detained or deceased operatives. By 1995, Cairo had destroyed EIJ’s operational capability within Egypt, and bin Laden refused to continue pouring money into this failed effort. He wanted his closest ally to join his campaign against the United States. Without his support, EIJ was unable to continue operations. In EIJ’s eyes, bin Laden’s decision to withhold funding at this critical juncture meant accepting orga­ nizational defeat in Egypt. To adapt to its inability to strike in Egypt, EIJ suicide operatives drove a truck bomb into the Egyptian Embassy in Islamabad, killing fifteen ­people. This was EIJ’s last gasp. Without bin Laden’s support, it had to cease operations.143 Compounding the pressure from Libya and Algeria, Egypt also demanded that the NIF government cease harboring Egyptian militants. Cairo’s pressure received international backing ­a fter EIG operatives based in Sudan attempted—­with assistance from bin Laden—to assassinate Egyptian president Hosni Mubarak while he was visiting Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.144 Cairo demanded that Sudan extradite EIG members, which Khartoum refused. In the midst of the mounting pressure on Sudan, EIJ learned of Egyptian intelligence’s coercive recruitment of two youths, including an EIJ member’s son. EIJ’s leader, Ayman al-­Zawahiri, ordered their execution despite their young age. The execution of the two youths alienated some of his own followers and crossed the line with Khartoum. It did not permit resident



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groups to act as sovereign authorities. The Sudanese government expelled EIJ, leaving it scrambling to find a new haven. EIJ hastily departed Sudan badly weakened and frustrated with bin Laden for abandoning it at this pivotal moment.145 As evidenced by its treatment of the Libyans and Egyptians, Khartoum’s ideological commitment to serving as a hub for militant Islamists ran headlong into realpolitik considerations. In addition to the censure from its neighbors, international condemnation, spearheaded by the United States and Saudi Arabia, continued to grow. Riyadh was furious about bin Laden’s open letter to a prominent Saudi cleric criticizing the government and decrying the Saudi religious establishment’s complicity in the U.S. “occupation.”146 The United States designated Sudan as a state sponsor of terrorism, imposed sanctions, and withdrew its embassy personnel.147 The United Nations passed resolutions calling on all states to reduce their presence in Khartoum, to restrict entrance of Sudanese diplomats, and to ban the Sudanese airline.148 Khartoum tried to ward off the pressure by making concessions to the international community; it even permitted the French government to render Carlos the Jackal back to Paris.149 By 1996, Khartoum calculated that the benefits of even bin Laden’s presence no longer outweighed the costs. For his part, bin Laden had grown insecure in Sudan, particularly without his Egyptian clique.150 He survived at least one assassination attempt.151 However, few alternatives existed. The Saudi government had revoked his citizenship, and Khartoum’s efforts to strike a backroom deal to return him to the Saudi kingdom repeatedly fell apart.152 Therefore, when it was time to leave Sudan in 1996, the clearest—­ perhaps the only—­option was for al-­Qaida to return to Af­ghan­i­stan. Jihadist Patron Years: Mixed Results

While in Sudan, al-­Qaida reinforced relationships forged in South Asia, pursued new ones, and tried to position itself as the vanguard of the unwieldy jihadist forces unleashed by the victory over the Soviet Union.153 In Sudan, which the CIA likened to a “Terrorist University,” al-­Qaida transformed from “an only partially realized idea to an international organ­ization ready to operate on its own.”154 Si­mul­ta­neously, the CIA concluded that “al-­Qaida developed relations with ­every noteworthy Islamic extremist group.”155 This included dozens of groups in the M ­ iddle East, South Asia, Africa, and East Asia and cooperation in areas ranging from funding and training to operational assistance.156

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Al-­Qaida’s tentacles reached into the jihadist vio­lence that erupted all over the world.157 In addition to the group’s ambiguous role in the ­battle in Somalia, the perpetrators of a bombing of a ­hotel in Aden in 1992 claimed they received financing from bin Laden.158 The culprits of the bombing of the Saudi National Guard office in Riyadh in 1995 cited bin Laden as a source of inspiration during their televised confessions.159 Overall, bin Laden fostered an environment conducive to his vision, even if the responsibility for specific operations did not lead directly back to al-­Qaida.160 However, al-­Qaida departed Sudan weakened. In addition to the ruptures in its alliances with the GIA, LIFG, and EIJ, it lost much of its jihadist support infrastructure, including training facilities and substantial investments, particularly the land acquired, without adequate compensation.161 Bin Laden lost an estimated $160 million when he departed Sudan.162 In addition, Af­ghan­i­stan was not nearly as accessible as Sudan. As the first Arab Afghan group to return, it was not clear that ­others would follow, and thus al-­Qaida risked losing opportunities for cooperation with other jihadist organ­izations.

Building a State Within a State: The Return to Af­ghan­i­stan Bin Laden arrived in eastern Af­ghan­i­stan in 1996 with his followers, alliances, inner circle, and fortune diminished. Al-­Qaida had less than a hundred full members when it resettled ­there.163 Significantly, one of al-­Qaida’s founding leaders, Abu Ubaidah al-­Banshiri, died in a boating accident in East Africa.164 As head of al-­Qaida’s military committee, he was intimately involved in operational and training activities. In addition, respected in jihadist circles, he acted as a broker in al-­Qaida’s relations with other groups. He was instrumental in forging ties, developing trust, and mediating with allies, including managing the rivalry between his compatriots in EIJ and EIG. Al-­Qaida’s ability to build an alliance network, insomuch as it relied on accessibility and key nodes for trust and resources to fulfill other organ­izations’ needs, was in jeopardy. Af­ghan­i­stan, war-­torn and outside of the ­Middle East, did not seem to be a desirable venue for al-­Qaida to cultivate the ties built in Sudan, let alone to pursue its mission against the United States.165 The group went from a situation where it had robust funds, investments, and haven u ­ nder the pro-



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tection of a government to a new location in a war-­torn, failed state. The conditions in Af­ghan­i­stan appeared rife with opportunities for betrayal or hostile government action. For its part, the CIA initially believed that bin Laden’s move would be advantageous for its counterterrorism efforts.166 While al-­Qaida could reestablish relationships with some mujahidin allies, ­others did not want bin Laden, let alone Arab Afghans, to return. Moreover, the additional years of war had decimated any remaining infrastructure, leaving a society that had experienced ­little pro­gress or development in the intervening years. Al-­Qaida had watched with dismay as the Afghan mujahidin squandered their victory over the Soviets and returned to find ­those internecine ­battles still raging. Despite the risks, al-­Qaida’s new residence held promise. Af­ghan­i­stan was still a symbolic venue where Pakistanis, Uighers, Central Asians, and other militant groups continued to train ­after the Arab Afghans departed. The CIA soon found that the country’s mountainous terrain acted as a “natu­ral defense against law enforcement and counterterrorism actions.”167 Moreover, while al-­Qaida lost the protection of a government, in Af­ghan­i­stan, bin Laden could more openly propagate the group’s narrative.168 Bin Laden fired off a “Declaration of War Against the Americans Occupying the Land of the Two Holy Places” shortly a­ fter his arrival in 1996. He heralded his new haven in the Hindu Kush, bemoaned the continuing presence of U.S. troops in Saudi Arabia, condemned the Saudi regime’s failure to protect its sacred territory, and declared his intent to wage war against the United States.169 In addition, he decried the “occupation” of Al-­Aqsa Mosque in Palestine and “massacres in Tajikistan, Burma, Kashmir, Assam, the Philippines, Fatani, Ogaden, Somalia, Eritrea, Chechnya and in Bosnia-­Herzegovina.”170 Notably absent ­were references to the so-­called apostate regimes that had routed al-­ Qaida’s allies, namely, Cairo, Tripoli, and Algiers. While bin Laden had criticized the Saudi establishment from Sudan, this was his first major statement declaring al-­Qaida’s agenda. His Declaration of War belied ­al-­Qaida’s depleted state and projected orga­nizational strength, which it hoped would attract recruits and allies. This section discusses al-­Qaida’s pre−9/11 peak as an alliance hub. Its ability to build an extensive alliance network hinged on its haven in Af­ghan­ i­stan and difficult alliance with the Afghan Taliban. Reeling from losses, its former allies and prospective partners also found sanctuary in Af­ghan­i­stan. Al-­Qaida rebuilt its training capacity and sought allies in earnest. Its enemies

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and ideology did not significantly change, but or­g an­i­z a­t ion­a lly it emerged as the “strongest ­horse,”171 particularly in light of other groups’ weakness and ­a fter its operations in 1998 and 2000, which improved its alliance position. As a state within a state, al-­Qaida developed its alliance network as it planned 9/11. Forging Ties with the Taliban

By the end of 1996, the situation in Af­ghan­i­stan changed dramatically, to al-­Qaida’s advantage. With Pakistani assistance, a Deobandi movement comprised of Pashtuns called the Afghan Taliban emerged from Qandahar to sweep through Af­ghan­i­stan. As the Taliban was poised to advance east, two of al-­Qaida’s mujahidin allies—­Yunis Khalis and Jalaluddin Haqqani, both consummate survivors and fellow Pashtuns—­deci­ded to ally with the Taliban, thereby extending the group’s influence to the area where bin Laden resided.172 Bin Laden issued his Declaration of War just days before the Taliban reached Jalalabad. Soon thereafter, the Taliban captured Kabul, and Mullah Omar declared himself Emir al-­Muminin, the Leader of the Faithful. This turn of events, which al-­Qaida had neither anticipated nor caused, dramatically improved the group’s prospects. As al-­Qaida’s ties with the Haqqanis suggested, the group was willing to extend its identity par­ameters to Deobandi groups. Al-­Qaida and the Taliban ­were able to overcome the Salafist-­Deobandi divide to forge a problematic alliance. Most impor­tant, they fulfilled key orga­nizational needs for one another. Far from seamless, al-­Qaida’s alliance with the Taliban experienced tensions from the outset. As the Taliban consolidated power, it welcomed bin Laden, though it requested that he lower his public profile. Omar told bin Laden that the Taliban wanted to help al-­Qaida, but it needed time to consolidate its position. Bin Laden repeatedly contravened Taliban demands that he stop making media appearances and that he consult with it before conducting external operations.173 Having been burned in Sudan, al-­Qaida did not prioritize preserving the Taliban’s “Islamic state” in Af­ghan­i­stan over its own agenda. While provincial, the Taliban welcomed roaming and exiled Sunni jihadists from all over the world.174 They arrived from the ­Middle East, Africa, Central Asia, and, of course, neighboring Pakistan. Foreign militants, particularly al-­Qaida, provided benefits to the Taliban, including manpower, money, and sorely lacking prestige. Initially, the Taliban had reservations



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about Arab involvement in its war with the Northern Alliance. Then, in 1997, when the Taliban was in danger of losing Kabul, it requested help from al-­ Qaida and other foreign militants. Not all of the foreign militants w ­ ere willing to join the fight. Some did not view the Taliban as legitimate ­because of its adherence to Deobandism, and ­others did not view the conflict as a legitimate jihad ­because it was between Muslims. However, al-­Qaida deployed personnel to assist. While the ­battle was difficult, the Taliban, al-­Qaida, and other foreign militants repelled Northern Alliance forces.175 This assistance solidified al-­Qaida’s alliance with the Taliban. Though bin Laden lost substantial funds when he departed Sudan, he still had some resources and donors willing to provide funds.176 Gradually, he was able to take on his familiar role as benefactor, providing the Taliban an estimated $20 million a year and financial infusions at critical moments.177 In the poverty-­stricken country, bin Laden’s contribution helped enormously. Once again, bin Laden’s antics drew the ire of the international community upon his host; in par­tic­u­lar, Riyadh—­one of only three governments to recognize the Taliban as the Afghan government—­and the United States. Al-­Qaida set into motion a cycle whereby its presence contributed to the Taliban’s isolation, and the more isolated the Taliban became in the international community, the more it depended on bin Laden and foreign jihadists for financial assistance and an alternative form of legitimacy.178 As a Deobandi organ­ization, it did not receive recognition from many Sunni religious authorities. Welcoming jihadists bolstered the Taliban’s claims that it had created a “true” Islamic emirate.179 The new Afghan power broker’s commitment to protecting its guests far surpassed the NIF’s willingness to do so. Al-­Qaida and other groups needing haven benefited from the Taliban’s adherence to Pashtunwali, a Pashtun code that requires hospitality and protection for guests as both a tribal and an Islamic duty.180 Moreover, the Taliban viewed Arab Afghans as having sacrificed for Af­ghan­i­stan in the past, which deepened its commitment to protecting bin Laden and his men.181 It became a ­matter of pride for the Taliban, particularly Mullah Omar, that it would not acquiesce to pressure to surrender bin Laden. Consequently, while Mullah Omar tried to rein in bin Laden, he stood by him in the face of both internal criticism and external pressure.182 In theory, the Taliban was a state sponsor of al-­Qaida. However, the Taliban lacked the institutionalized qualities of a government, particularly

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in its early years. Consequently, al-­Qaida acted as if it was an organ­ization sponsoring a state rather than an organ­ization sponsored by a state.183 Battered Arab Afghans Return

The Taliban’s takeover provided a life raft for drowning Sunni jihadist groups.184 Their once-­promising jihadist campaigns had been decisively defeated. In  their desperation, groups engaged in increasingly counterproductive vio­ lence, which alienated them from their constituents.185 Fawaz Gerges argued that by this juncture, “their insurrection [had] lost momentum and they ­were dealt mortal blows by Muslim government security ser­vices. . . . ​They proved to be no match against the powerfully entrenched security apparatus and could not withstand its counteroffensive.”186 Exile in Af­ghan­i­stan offered an opportune option for ­these groups to recuperate, especially given the expiration of Khartoum’s hospitality and the Dayton Accords in Bosnia where foreign fighters now found themselves unwelcome. While al-­Qaida experienced losses in the move to Af­ghan­i­stan, it nonetheless emerged as one of the strongest groups ­there, more so ­because of other groups’ weaknesses than its strength.187 As more groups relocated to Af­ghan­i­stan, al-­Qaida focused on forming or rebuilding alliances with fellow Arab groups. It sought to repair the strained relations with its former Egyptian and Libyan partners, who arrived in 1997, with varying success. The EIJ, including its leader Ayman al-­Zawahiri, returned to Af­ghan­i­stan with acute orga­nizational needs ­after having failed in self-­reform efforts. Zawahiri and bin Laden repaired the rift in their relationship, though some EIJ members still distrusted bin Laden. Some EIG members outside of Egypt relocated to Af­ghan­i­stan, and bin Laden renewed his efforts to reconcile the two Egyptian groups and ally with both. The LIFG also returned to Af­ghan­i­stan, seeking to recuperate from the losses it sustained in Libya. Al-­Qaida reached out to the LIFG and reinitiated some cooperation. Al-­Qaida forged new relationships as well. When Abu Musab al-­Zarqawi arrived in Af­ghan­i­stan in 1999, al-­Qaida cooperated with his Levantine group, providing assistance and money for it to operate in Herat. Al-­Qaida engaged in outreach to non-­Arab groups, but it emphasized alliances with fellow Arab groups. One reason was their more complementary orga­nizational needs. The non-­Arab groups, including the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, the East Turkestan Islamic Movement, and Pakistani groups, ­were often larger than al-­Qaida and more self-­sufficient. They had not sustained losses to the same degree as the returning Arab organ­izations.



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They also tended to enjoy relations with the Afghan Taliban in­de­pen­dent of al-­Qaida. In contrast, al-­Qaida could more readily address the badly damaged Arab groups’ orga­nizational needs—­training, resources, and haven—­ during a period when self-­reform was difficult. Al-­Qaida thereby fulfilled its own orga­nizational needs, as it saw Arab buy-in as central to its ability to lead the movement. In addition, al-­Qaida enjoyed greater identity affinity with fellow Arab groups. All of the resident groups shared some ideological affinity as Sunni jihadist groups. While al-­Qaida’s narrative was expansive enough to encompass many ­causes, it emphasized the centrality of the ­Middle East. The idea that the United States needed to be expelled from the ­Middle East to stop it from backing Israel and “apostate regimes” had more resonance in Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and other Arab countries than in Central Asia, China, Pakistan, or elsewhere. Moreover, the Arab groups enjoyed ethnic identity affinity, including language, to bolster their ideological affinity. They tended to see themselves as superior to their non-­A rab counter­parts, including the Taliban. Their identity affinity was not seamless, as divisions persisted, but they enjoyed more affinity with one another than with non-­Arab groups. New organ­izations—­and by extension, new prospective allies—­emerged in Af­ghan­i­stan. They benefited from al-­Qaida’s support from the outset, thereby embedding alliances into their orga­nizational routines, pro­cesses, and cultures. Despite bin Laden’s exhortations to transcend nationalist bound­aries, groups typically or­ga­nized along national lines. For example, the Moroccans in Af­ghan­i­stan banded together to form the Moroccan Islamic Combatant Group. The Tunisians created the Tunisian Combatant Group. Groups of Turks and Kurds formed organ­izations as well.188 ­These young groups allied with al-­Qaida at the time of their formation, and they benefited from al-­Qaida’s ability and willingness to help fulfill orga­nizational needs, particularly training and financial support, that groups experience early in their life span. Yet the fact they formed at all, rather than joining al-­Qaida, suggests that al-­Qaida required alliances ­because it was still not able to fully harness the jihadist manpower and overcome nationalist identities and parochial aims. Building Alliances Through Projecting Strength

Al-­Qaida recommenced its strategy to attract supporters and allies. The group rebuilt its training capacity and offered financial support to prospective

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partners. While al-­Qaida had previously attempted to use its narrative to attract partners, it now encouraged ­others to publicly endorse it. Al-­Qaida once again formed consultation bodies, in which it tried to subordinate ­others. Notably, al-­Qaida began operations, which improved its alliance desirability. B ­ ecause of other groups’ weakness, ­these efforts ­were more ­viable than before. Training When al-­Qaida returned to Af­ghan­i­stan, its training infrastructure had largely lapsed. A rival Arab group’s camp, Khaldan, had become the leading fa­cil­i­t y in part ­because it sent men to fight in Algeria and Chechnya, two conflicts where al-­Qaida was not only uninvolved but had tensions with key figures.189 In contrast, al-­Qaida’s facilities initially lacked ties to open fronts. Al-­Qaida invested in rejuvenating its training infrastructure, both reinvigorating existing facilities and creating new ones. As the CIA assessed, training provided a way for al-­Qaida “to build an international network of trained Islamic terrorists to which it could ­later turn for support for its operations.”190 Al-­Qaida rebuilt al-­Faruq, which offered a range of training courses. Al-­Qaida provided more advanced instruction at a camp named ­after al-­Qaida’s deceased military chief. When Khaldan closed in early 2000, al-­ Qaida’s facilities became the favored training destination. Notably, al-­Qaida began operations with an attack on U.S. embassies in East Africa in 1998 and on a U.S. naval vessel in Yemen in 2000. ­These high-­ profile attacks bolstered its desirability as a trainer and an ally by demonstrating operational capability, which it could share with allies. Al-­Qaida also created an ave­nue for trainees to participate in combat in the Taliban’s war against the Northern Alliance.191 Gradually, al-­Qaida regained its status as the premier training provider in Af­ghan­i­stan. The CIA assessed that al-­Qaida used training as the main “currency to increase its influence” and to foster a sense of indebtedness.192 The International Islamic Front Al-­Qaida also attempted to attract allies and promote unity by binding allies to its narrative. Bin Laden issued the 1996 Declaration of War solely ­under his name. By 1998, al-­Qaida sought to portray itself as leading a co­ ali­tion known as the “International Islamic Front Against Jews and Crusad-



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ers.” Former U.S. counterterrorism officials Daniel Benjamin and Steven Simon characterized the February 1998 declaration as “canonical bin Laden: a call to action to all Muslims, a summons to overcome imposed divisions, a demand that injustices be set right.”193 It focused on three main grievances: the presence of U.S. troops in Saudi Arabia, the impact of U.S. sanctions against Iraq, and U.S. support for Israel.194 The statement asserted that the United States had declared war on Islam, which created an obligation for Muslims to wage jihad in defense of their religion, even if it meant targeting civilians.195 However, this position required religious authority to declare. What al-­Qaida lacked in credentials to issue such edicts, it sought through partners. Bin Laden intended the public statement to be an alliance-­building tool against a common ­enemy.196 He solicited partners to publicly align with his agenda and form a co­ali­tion against the “Zionist-­Crusader alliance.” Al-­Qaida envisioned the declaration as a show of unity, a sign of the group’s growing strength.197 Despite its grandiose name, the signatories fell well short of a jihadist quorum. While at least a dozen groups resided in Af­ghan­i­stan, only four signed. The signatories included Zawahiri as the leader of EIJ; Rifa’i Ahmad Taha from EIG; Fazlur Rahman on behalf of the Jihad Movement of Bangladesh, likely a reference to Harakat ul-­Jihad-­i-­Islami-­Bangladesh; and Mir Hamza as a representative of Jamiat-­ul-­Ulema-­e-­Islami Pakistan.198 As well-­k nown, albeit degraded organ­izations, the Egyptian signatories gave the statement a modicum of prestige in jihadist circles. However, Zawahiri and Taha did not coordinate with their respective organ­izations, and both experienced significant backlash. EIG’s leaders in Egypt forced Taha to withdraw his signature as an EIG representative. Imprisoned in Egypt, EIG’s leaders had recently declared a ceasefire.199 They rejected Taha’s signature, denied that he represented EIG, and demoted him from his position as head of EIG’s overseas shura. He then claimed to have signed only for himself and to have been confused about the purpose of the statement.200 Zawahiri also faced internal opposition to his signature, including from EIJ shura members.201 Zawahiri threatened to resign as emir if EIJ refused to support his signature. Rather than being a reflection of EIJ’s shared ­enemy with al-­Qaida, Zawahiri’s signature stemmed from his calculation that allying with al-­Qaida was the only way to ensure EIJ’s orga­nizational survival.202 Steve Coll captured Zawahiri’s situation: he “spent most of his life in determined personal warfare against the government of Egypt, but by early 1998, exiled to Af­g han­i­stan and repudiated by many of his Egyptian

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c­ olleagues, he had no plausible way to carry that ­battle on.”203 Despite the opposition, Zawahiri refused to retreat from his signature.204 One of EIJ’s most acute and continuous orga­nizational needs was for resources, which it depended on bin Laden to provide. Tellingly, ­a fter EIJ signed the 1998 declaration, bin Laden nearly doubled EIJ’s annual allowance.205 The other signatories possessed limited cachet in jihadist circles, suggesting that they signed in part to gain stature. Harakat ul-­Jihad-­i-­Islami-­ Bangladesh was relatively unknown and had no discernible agenda against the United States. Perhaps most puzzling, one of the signatures purported to represent Jamiat-­ul-­Ulema-­e-­Islami Pakistan. Often attributed to Harakat ul-­Mujahidin, it remains unclear who exactly Mir Hamza represented. He represented a Deobandi Pakistani militant group, likely Harakat ul-­Mujahidin, which also did not focus on the United States. Overall, the International Islamic Front Against Jews and Crusaders was not an impressive co­a li­tion to oppose the world’s sole superpower, especially given the plethora of jihadist groups residing in Af­ghan­i­stan. Bin Laden sent envoys to solicit signatures, though exactly which groups he asked remains unclear. The LIFG was among the groups that declined to join.206 While its Egyptian counter­parts garnered more attention, the LIFG was one of the largest groups in Af­ghan­i­stan, so it could have added heft to bin Laden’s effort. One member explained the group’s refusal to sign: “Merging with another group would have meant the LIFG losing its freedom to operate in­de­pen­dently in Libya; it was an idea that we rejected from the outset.”207 Influential Saudi jihadist and bin Laden rival Ibn al-­K hattab also declined to align his efforts in Chechnya with al-­Qaida’s statement.208 Though one Pakistani group signed, bin Laden’s declaration received a lukewarm reception from Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba, which continued to emphasize its agenda against India.209 Notably, while the signatories’ ­actual commitment to al-­ Qaida’s agenda was dubious, al-­Qaida’s rivals in Af­ghan­i­stan that agreed with its global jihadist agenda did not sign. Al-­Qaida’s declaration faced re­sis­tance for three other reasons. First, some disagreed with the International Front’s emphasis on the United States and Israel as the primary enemies ­because this did not correspond with their frames. Second, groups in the midst of rebuilding or ­those loyal to the Afghan Taliban lamented al-­Qaida’s decision to disobey the Taliban, provoke the United States, and thereby jeopardize the haven in Af­ghan­i­stan.210 For its part, the Taliban was furious at bin Laden’s insubordination, and chatter that bin Laden should be expelled grew louder.211 Third, some questioned



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­ hether declaring war on civilians was consistent with Islamic law.212 ­These w concerns contributed to the underwhelming reception to the declaration in jihadist circles. Lawrence Wright aptly characterized al-­Qaida’s posture as akin to a blowfish: an entity deliberately trying to appear larger than it actually was, a reflection of al-­Qaida’s experience that strength attracts followers and partners.213 Seeking Unity Al-­Qaida also rekindled efforts to create consultative shuras that would offer a venue to build unity. Al-­Qaida attempted to coordinate groups’ activities within Af­ghan­i­stan in the hope it would eventually lead to unity beyond the Islamic Emirate. It convened an Arab Council for Unity, inviting groups to or­ga­nize activities in Af­ghan­i­stan, create an Arab fighting unit, and provide for the welfare of Arab families in Af­ghan­i­stan. The council involved the four well-­established Arab groups—­al-­Qaida, EIJ, EIG, and LIFG—­ and offered an opportunity for al-­Qaida to repair ties.214 The initiative quickly ran into familiar roadblocks. Even in the face of their respective defeats in Egypt, the Egyptian groups ­were unable to set aside their rivalry. Neither EIG nor LIFG wanted their involvement in the council to be public. Both ­were wary that al-­Qaida would use them for propaganda purposes. In addition, they did not want bin Laden to use the council to assert leadership over them or Arabs in Af­ghan­i­stan, as he likely intended to do. Moreover, they did not want al-­Qaida to portray their willingness to work together in Af­ghan­i­stan as agreement with its anti-­U.S. agenda. EIJ denounced their unwillingness to make their involvement public, and the effort reached an impasse.215 Undeterred, in 2000, al-­Qaida held a Solidarity Conference in Qandahar, and al-­Qaida’s leading theologian published a book, Islamic Action Between the Motives of Unity and Advocates of Conflict, outlining jihadist groups’ obligation to unify.216 Al-­Qaida’s outreach focused on fellow Arab groups but was not limited to them. ­After 1998, it increased ties to Pakistani Deobandi groups, which would prove critical to al-­Qaida’s survival ­after 2001. Al-­Qaida built its relationships with the vari­ous Pakistani organ­izations, particularly the Deobandi groups, which included sharing training facilities. The Pakistani Deobandi groups experienced a number of internal fissures, which led to a proliferation of rival groups. While the Pakistani Deobandi groups ­were close to the Taliban and heavi­ly involved in Af­ghan­i­stan, many also focused on wresting

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Kashmir from Indian control. In an effort to incorporate their grievances into al-­Qaida’s narrative, bin Laden increasingly included Kashmir in al-­ Qaida’s propaganda.217 He also stepped in to help mediate infighting among rival Pakistani groups, but did not assert leadership over them to the degree he did with fellow Arab groups.218 While bin Laden’s personality and finances ­were central to al-­Qaida’s relationships, his tendency to act without consultation and without heeding ­others’ advice hindered alliance efforts. However, bin Laden remained resolute about the need for unity ­under his leadership. During this period, al-­ Qaida added a fateful new ele­ment to its efforts: operations. While attacks did not unify groups ­under al-­Qaida, the increased support for al-­Qaida in the wake of U.S. retaliation offered glimpses of greater unity, which did not go unnoticed by al-­Qaida. Al-­Qaida Goes Operational

In 1998, al-­Qaida conducted its first attack: an operation to match its rhe­ toric.219 In August—­six months ­after al-­Qaida issued the International Front Against Jews and Crusaders declaration—­suicide operatives drove truck bombs into the U.S. embassies in ­Kenya and Tanzania within five minutes of each other.220 The attacks killed over two hundred, mostly locals, and injured thousands more.221 Combined with the International Front declaration, al-­Qaida not only wanted to inflict a blow to the United States; it also hoped to improve its orga­nizational standing within the jihadist movement, attract new partners and supporters, and strengthen its co­a li­tion against “Jews and Crusaders.”222 Al-­Qaida’s relations ­were on display in the attack. The use of the suicide attackers implemented the skills al-­Qaida learned from Hizballah years earlier. One of the suicide operatives hailed from EIG.223 Most of all, the tactic and target se­lection reflected al-­Qaida’s alliance with EIJ, which had conducted a similar attack on the Egyptian Embassy in Islamabad in 1996 and plotted one against the U.S. Embassy in Tirana, Albania. 224 Dual EIJ−al-­Qaida members assisted in nearly all facets of the plot. 225 Members of al-­Qaida’s Somali ally, AIAI, then provided sanctuary to al-­Qaida’s East African cell members who helped conduct the operation. However, the attack ­violated al-­Qaida’s obligation to consult with the Taliban. Just days before the attack, al-­Qaida met with the Taliban, a rare meeting involving both bin Laden and Mullah Omar. In the contentious



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meeting, Taliban demanded that al-­Qaida lower its profile ­until the Taliban had consolidated its position within Af­ghan­i­stan. Al-­Qaida’s International Front statement had increased the pressure on the Taliban to expel bin Laden. Al-­Qaida’s attacks in East Africa ­were so egregiously disobedient that the Taliban initially did not believe al-­Qaida was responsible.226 At first, the attack provoked backlash from some fellow jihadists. Some disliked al-­Qaida’s defiance of the Taliban. They feared that al-­Qaida’s actions would destroy their haven ­either by draining the Taliban’s hospitality or by provoking a reaction by the United States. With the exception of the Pakistani groups, most groups had no other places to which to flee. They certainly did not have anywhere as secure as Af­ghan­i­stan. The LIFG—­a group dependent on the haven in Afghanistan—­condemned the embassy attacks. However, the U.S. reaction silenced the critics and created a groundswell of support for al-­Qaida. The United States launched cruise missiles against targets in Sudan and Af­ghan­i­stan. The missiles struck four training camps in Af­ghan­i­stan and a suspected chemical-­weapons fa­cil­i­t y in Sudan.227 Other groups then rallied ­behind al-­Qaida. Al-­Qaida experienced the unity it had sought for years.228 The strikes on camps in Af­ghan­i­stan killed mostly Pakistani militants, including some in Harakat ul-­Mujahidin, which vowed revenge against the United States.229 The LIFG shifted its criticism, declaring, “Amer­i­ca is not only the ­enemy of the Mujahid Sheik Usama Bin Laden and the Islamic movements, but rather the ­enemy of the Islamic nation.”230 Ties between the Taliban and al-­Qaida improved, as the Taliban’s pride and cultural obligation to protect its guests outweighed its frustration with al-­Qaida’s failure to heed its instructions.231 Following the attacks, some Taliban leaders pledged to “keep a watch on him [bin Laden],” but Omar’s commitment to protecting bin Laden hardened.232 Omar’s subsequent rhe­ toric suggested that he was even absorbing some of al-­Qaida’s pan-­Islamic jihadist narrative.233 Al-­Qaida’s alliance appeal increased a­ fter the attack. Now it had established its ability to undertake sophisticated operations. Moreover, it exhibited strength at a time when many of the once prolific jihadist groups ­were badly weakened.234 Al-­Qaida’s alliance position further improved ­after its attack on the USS Cole in Yemen in 2000. Suicide operatives steered a fiberglass fishing boat filled with explosives into the docked warship in Aden. The attack killed seventeen American sailors and injured forty-­five more.235 Another major

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attack against a symbolic target of the United States’ power further enhanced al-­Qaida’s desirability as a partner and its reputation among jihadists. Around this time, an influential Saudi cleric endorsed the Taliban and sanctioned fighting alongside it.236 Al-­Qaida’s camps in Af­ghan­i­stan swelled, and its coffers ­were replenished.237 This influx of money helped appease the Taliban, which experienced escalating international pressure.238 Al-­Qaida was at its strongest point since the aftermath of the ­Battle of Jaji.239 Acting Akin to a State Sponsor

­ fter the embassy bombings and even more so following the USS Cole atA tack, al-­Qaida acquired authority in Af­ghan­i­stan.240 As its attacks captured the headlines, al-­Qaida invested heavi­ly in its orga­nizational development and position within the jihadist movement. 241 Al-­Qaida offered assets to its partners typically reserved for state sponsors. 242 This included training, housing, sanctuary, finances, arms, materiel, publishing, media, communication, transit, documentation, counterintelligence, and liaising with other groups.243 As Benjamin and Simon explained, “It controlled territory, maintained an army and waged war, forged alliances, taxed and spent, and enforced a system of law. The de facto sovereignty it enjoyed in Af­ghan­i­stan offered ­g reat advantages: a territorial base, training facilities, and a secure headquarters.”244 The safe haven in Af­ghan­i­stan thrived, and al-­Qaida flourished with 245 it. As the director of the CIA reported to the 9/11 Commission, “Af­ghan­ i­stan became something akin to Terrorism Incorporated, a country with a vast infrastructure of camps and facilities for refuge, training, indoctrination, arming, and financing of tens of thousands of Islamic extremists from all over the world.”246 As the CIA assessed, al-­Qaida now functioned “like a global criminal syndicate or mini-­state, with po­liti­cal, financial, administrative, ­legal, military, security, and intelligence components.”247 Between its personnel and its alliances, al-­Qaida’s network spanned sixty countries and could manage multiple operations si­mul­ta­neously.248 Securing an Ally for the Next Phase

Al-­Qaida sought to solidify its closest alliance as it planned its next major move. Al-­Qaida’s preparations to strike in the United States had been ­under way for years. The operational man­ag­er of 9/11, Khalid Sheikh Mohamed,



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resisted bin Laden’s pressure to expedite the planning, and the plot progressed gradually. While few knew the details, rumor swirled around Af­ghan­i­stan about an impending “big job.”249 As was the case before the 1998 embassy attacks, as 9/11 drew nearer, bin Laden pushed for unity ­under his leadership, this time by finalizing EIJ’s merger with al-­Qaida, as ­will be discussed in more detail in Chapter 6. This was not a mere formality. Zawahiri signed the 1998 declaration but faced significant fallout within his group for ­doing so. Re­sis­tance to the alliance within EIJ endured. Zawahiri even temporarily relinquished his leadership position in EIJ. But back in charge, he aggressively pursued the finalization of a merger between EIJ and al-­Qaida. Al-­Qaida had fulfilled EIJ’s perpetual orga­n izational needs for years, keeping the group afloat financially and helping it to secure haven in Af­ ghan­i­stan. EIJ depended on al-­Qaida to survive.250 Given al-­Qaida’s intentions, it no longer made sense to support EIJ ­unless it merged with al-­Qaida. The timing of this effort suggests that bin Laden wanted to secure EIJ’s commitment to al-­Qaida for the next phase: an escalation in the confrontation with the United States. Moreover, bin Laden faced re­sis­tance from within al-­Qaida about the impending attack, and he sought to bring more supporters into al-­Qaida’s leadership through the merger.251 Some EIJ members resisted the merger. While their galvanizing cause was no longer ­viable, opposition to Cairo animated them, not hostility ­toward the United States. Some maintained that Zawahiri’s proposed orga­nizational adaptation—­adopting a new cause and merging with al-­Qaida—­would not accomplish the objective of securing the group’s survival.252 Nonetheless, Zawahiri prevailed in spite of ­these objections, seeing it as the only solution to the group’s weakness. In June  2001, EIJ and al-­Qaida announced they had joined forces to form “al-­Qaida al-­Jihad,” the Base for Jihad.253 The depth of EIJ’s weakness was not clear to many at the time, nor ­were the internal divisions surrounding the decision. It appeared as though two formidable groups had allied.254 Once again, al-­Qaida’s propaganda hyping this alliance relied on the blowfish effect. The much-­touted merger involved the integration of a handful of EIJ operatives into se­nior positions in al-­Qaida, which had a few hundred members at the time.255 While both names ­were part of the group’s title, al-­Qaida clearly absorbed the once-­dominant EIJ.256 But within al-­Qaida, the EIJ was still a formidable force. They occupied top positions in al-­Qaida and wielded considerable influence. Bin Laden had Egyptian cofound­ers when he created al-­Qaida, but only Zawahiri could

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deliver the EIJ—­a group that could no longer stand on its own but that had a small but valuable reservoir of experienced militants.257 The merger with EIJ provided a model of what al-­Qaida hoped would occur with its other allies. The public merger announcement offered al-­Qaida an opportunity to feature how the pro­cess could work. However, none of al-­ Qaida’s other allies followed suit. EIJ would be the only group to adopt al-­Qaida’s name before 9/11. Af­ghan­i­stan: Terrorism Incorporated

The state-­within-­a-­state period in Af­ghan­i­stan was the apex of al-­Qaida’s tenure as an alliance hub before 9/11. The combination of its resources, training facilities, safe haven, and operational capability created power­f ul appeal. Al-­Qaida fulfilled an array of other groups’ needs at a time when many fellow Arab groups ­were barely surviving. Significantly, al-­Qaida’s near statehood status coincided with other groups’ acute orga­nizational weakness as they grappled with orga­nizational crises. In addition, new groups formed, such as the Moroccan Islamic Combatant Group, the Tunisian Combatant Group, and Jemaah Islamiyah; ­these groups allied with al-­Qaida at their inception, benefiting from its camps, guest­houses, and resources. The 9/11 Commission Report summed up the conditions by saying, “The alliance with the Taliban provided al-­Qaeda a sanctuary in which to train and indoctrinate fighters and terrorists, import weapons, forge ties with other jihad groups and leaders, and plot and staff terrorist schemes. While bin Laden maintained his own al-­Qaeda guest­houses and camps for vetting and training recruits, he also provided support to and benefitted from the broad infrastructure of such facilities in Af­ghan­i­stan made available to the global network of Islamist movements.”258

Conclusion Al-­Qaida’s pre−9/11 development into an alliance hub and its desirability as a partner hinged on several orga­nizational ­factors. First, al-­Qaida’s predisposition ­toward alliances occurred at its formation; its orga­nizational culture, frames, and pro­cesses included alliances from the outset. Second, al-­Qaida’s attractiveness as an alliance partner was derived from its resources, namely, funds and training, and its willingness to liberally share them with fellow



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Sunni jihadist groups. Third, al-­Qaida’s inclination to share its resources stemmed from the perpetual orga­nizational needs created by its orga­nizational mission to unify and lead the movement. Fourth, it cultivated trust through interactions, personal relationships, capable brokers, and a reputation for being trustworthy developed in safe havens. Its reputation as a resource for other groups improved with its high-­profile operations beginning in 1998. In addition, Sunni jihadism dominated the terrorist landscape, particularly following the anti-­Soviet jihad in Af­ghan­i­stan. Therefore, al-­Qaida operated squarely within the ideological currents of the day. The proliferation of Sunni jihadist groups meant that al-­Qaida had numerous potential partners that fit its identity par­ameters. Its identity par­ameters ­were sufficiently broad to include numerous groups but narrow enough that it could establish a cohesive in-­group identity within its alliance cluster. In addition, with an expansive ­enemy narrative, al-­Qaida had a basis for affinity, which in turn allowed the development of identity convergence, though its insistence on the primacy of countering the United States hindered its ability to do so at times. Despite its proclamations to the contrary, ethnic affinity was apparent in al-­Qaida’s alliances, and it focused on its relationships with fellow Arab groups. Though it experienced significant challenges, al-­Qaida blossomed into an alliance hub. It built a hard core of a few hundred well-­trained, elite, and vetted operatives, reinforced by a network of allies and supporters. In return for al-­Qaida’s provision of ser­vices, particularly training, funding, and haven in Af­g han­i­stan, the CIA assessed that al-­Qaida acted as “a nexus for varied forms of cooperation with numerous groups. . . . ​Allied groups share members with al-­Qaida, receive funding from it, and allow al-­Qaida members to use their facilities and contacts. Bin Laden could call upon ­these groups for logistical support and, in some cases, assistance with terrorist operations.”259 ­After al-­Qaida conducted its biggest attack to date, it would need to call in all its ­favors.

Chapter 5

Al-­Qaida ­After 9/11 Calling in Debts and Capitalizing on Cachet

Instigating other groups and cooperating with them in this field [operations in the West] is a good idea, ­because it is better for us that someone ­will share this responsibility with us and also to disperse and scatter the enemies’ efforts, instead of concentrating only on al-­Qaida. —­Excerpt from a document recovered from Usama bin Laden’s compound

On September 11, 2001, nineteen al-­Qaida operatives hijacked four planes originating from Boston, Dulles, and Newark airports: American 11, United 175, American 77, and United 93.1 ­After seizing control of the aircrafts, the hijackers flew two of the planes into the World Trade Center towers and a third into the Pentagon. Upon learning of the fate of ­those three planes, passengers on the fourth plane deci­ded to assault the hijackers. A scuffle ensued, and the fourth plane crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania.2 Nearly three thousand ­people perished during the attack, and an unknown number of ­people died from subsequent complications. Thousands more ­were injured. The economic toll was more than $2 trillion, including $100 billion in property damage and lost productivity.3 It was the most destructive terrorist attack ever,4 conducted by al-­Qaida from Af­ghan­i­stan with nodes spanning from Southeast Asia to Europe.5 Al-­Qaida’s alliance with the Taliban paid dividends. Despite their prob­ lems, Mullah Omar refused to turn bin Laden over, ignoring the urging of



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the Taliban’s patron in Islamabad and even some of his advisers. Al-­Qaida’s intentions remain a source of debate. Some maintain that al-­Qaida wanted to weaken the United States’ power by drawing it into “bleeding wars.” 6 In contrast, Peter Bergen maintained, “­There is not a shred of evidence that in the weeks before 9/11, al-­Qaeda leaders made any plans for an American invasion of Af­ghan­i­stan.”7 Bin Laden fled to Tora Bora to await the American response, which he predicted would come in the form of a Special Forces operation to capture him. He hoped to lure them into the mountainous area and win a Jaji-­like victory.8 Irrespective of al-­Qaida’s intent, less than a month ­later, the United States declared a “Global War on Terrorism” and launched its response, relying primarily on Special Forces working with the Northern Alliance and on American airpower. The Northern Alliance felt the loss of its legendary leader, Ahmed Shah Masood, who was killed by a Tunisian Combatant Group operative sent by al-­Qaida just two days before the 9/11 attacks. Nonetheless, by mid-­November, American and Northern Alliance forces captured Kabul.9 In early December, the Taliban’s stronghold in Qandahar fell. With the invasion, al-­Qaida experienced the loss, or at least a serious degradation, of the main assets—­training, safe haven, and finances—it had used to attract alliance partners to date. With overwhelming international support, the United States and its allies destroyed many of al-­Qaida’s tangible assets and aggressively targeted its funding sources. Perhaps most notably, al-­Qaida lost its training infrastructure, leading the CIA to assess that al-­Qaida would be “increasingly forced to train with other groups—­rather than being in the position to offer other groups training—­and thus ­will lose an impor­tant source of leverage and influence in Islamic extremist circles.”10 The United States pursued al-­Qaida all over the globe, killing and detaining numerous operatives and thereby forcing the organ­ization into hiding and making it more difficult to access its leaders and trusted key nodes. While bin Laden and Zawahiri escaped, al-­Qaida lost key figures who had acted as brokers in its alliances, including Egyptian founding leader Abu Hafs al-­Masri. Si­mul­ta­neously, al-­Qaida created an environment in which fellow Sunni jihadist groups shared an ­enemy and threat to a greater degree than ever before. ­These circumstances provide an opportunity to examine how a shared threat and ­enemy influenced al-­Qaida’s alliance network, that is, its ability to build and maintain its alliance network, and the alliance be­hav­ior of prospective allies. If common enemies and shared threats precipitated alliances, numerous alliances should have formed ­after 9/11. Alternatively, though it

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lost the tangible resources that underpinned its alliances before 9/11, al-­Qaida gained an asset to address a dif­fer­ent orga­nizational need. With the attack, al-­Qaida’s name now projected capability, strength, and cachet, resource mobilization assets that attracted groups in need of ­these attributes. This within case variation creates an opportunity to examine the role of common enemies versus orga­nizational needs in the post−9/11 alliance environment. This chapter traces how al-­Qaida’s alliance-­hub position evolved ­after 9/11 ­until the rise of a rival alliance hub, the so-­called Islamic State. It focuses on three periods: al-­Qaida’s time as an alliance beneficiary in the immediate aftermath of 9/11, its ability to use its name as an alliance asset from 2004 to 2011, and its shift into a legacy from 2012 to 2015. First, it examines al-­Qaida’s vulnerability in the aftermath of 9/11. With the dispersal from Af­ghan­i­stan, groups faced decisions about their relationships with al-­Qaida. Notably, two prospective alliances—­groups that had common enemies and shared ideology—­did not form in the wake of the attack. However, its investment in alliances proved prophetic; existing local allies became critical to al-­ Qaida’s ability to survive the onslaught, while a distant ally helped it to proj­ect threat and viability when it was at its weakest point to date. Then the chapter explores the advent of the affiliates, as al-­Qaida leveraged its stature to attract new allies and expand its alliance network. It is impor­tant to note that this chapter does not examine al-­Qaida in the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP) and al-­Qaida in the Indian Subcontinent ­because they formed as branches of al-­ Qaida with members who ­were already part of the group rather than forming an alliance with al-­Qaida. Fi­nally, the chapter analyzes how al-­Qaida’s alliance network persisted but did not grow following the Islamic State’s rise. Al-­Qaida maintained its allies, but the Islamic State was able to offer more cachet and resources to attract new allies. The chapter concludes with an assessment of al-­Qaida’s alliance hub prospects.

From Provider to Receiver In the wake of 9/11 and the American invasion, al-­Qaida was at an alliance crossroads. It faced a rapidly changing environment, and the consequences for its alliance position ­were initially unclear. If a common ­enemy or threat motivated alliance decisions, the aftermath of 9/11 should have been an alliance boon for al-­Qaida. ­After all, it long sought to convince other jihadist organ­izations that they should unite ­u nder al-­Qaida against the United



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States. It argued that the “head of the snake” must be cut off, which would cause the body, the so-­called apostate regimes, to weaken and die.11 With 9/11 and the U.S. response, al-­Qaida instigated the shared adversary that it long claimed existed and succeeded in situating itself at the center of a war with the United States.12 For a brief moment, al-­Qaida experienced the unity it had long sought. The 9/11 attacks ­were controversial, even within al-­Qaida. However, as the American invasion began, the infighting quieted and the need for unity prevailed.13 Jihadists in Af­ghan­i­stan recognized that they faced a shared threat, especially a­ fter Kabul quickly fell. They gathered in Qandahar in November 2001, and representatives from EIG and LIFG along with other Arab Afghans pres­ent pledged allegiance to al-­Qaida. The scope of their pledge was limited to the defense of Qandahar; nonetheless, for a fleeting moment, al-­Qaida received the support it had long pursued.14 It appeared that the shared threat would produce the alliances and fealty that al-­Qaida sought. However, just weeks ­later, the Afghan Taliban issued the withdrawal order, and al-­Qaida’s moment of unity expired as the foreign militant groups dispersed.15 Al-­Qaida did not form new alliances in the years immediately ­after 9/11. The threat that al-­Qaida hoped would unite Sunni jihadists u ­ nder its leadership instead created an environment that made it difficult to forge new alliances. However, al-­Qaida received reciprocation for its years of providing assistance to o­ thers; it was able to rely on existing allies to weather the storm. The groups that cooperated with al-­Qaida in Af­ghan­i­stan, such as al-­Qaida’s one-­time Libyan ally, the LIFG, faced an alliance decision. As discussed in Chapter  4, the two groups allied during the early to mid1990s—­including working together in an unsuccessful effort to halt the downward spiral in Algeria—­and then engaged in cooperation in Af­ghan­i­ stan. Al-­Qaida had repeatedly sought to reinitiate an alliance with the LIFG, one of the major Arab groups in Af­ghan­i­stan. However, the Libyans still bitterly recalled when bin Laden abandoned them in Sudan, and their relationship had not recovered. Moreover, the LIFG believed that resident groups should adhere to the Taliban’s authority and resented al-­Qaida jeopardizing its haven.16 The LIFG did not depend on al-­Qaida for its haven in Af­ghan­i­stan; it had developed its own relationship with the Taliban. Mullah Omar once even heralded LIFG’s leader as the “Shakyh of the Arabs.”17 As the LIFG feared, al-­Qaida’s actions had destroyed its sanctuary in Af­ghan­i­stan.

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Nonetheless, it appeared as though they might reinitiate their alliance when LIFG joined the meeting in Qandahar and a LIFG religious figure, Abu Yahya al-­Libi, issued a statement in October 2001 justifying re­sis­tance to the U.S. “occupation” of Af­g han­i­stan as a legitimate defensive jihad. He argued that the United States used the 9/11 attack as “an excuse to initiate a war against Muslims and Islam and against the Islamic state of Af­g han­i­stan.”18 However, the leaders’ assessment about the action needed for orga­ nizational survival prevailed. LIFG leaders instructed their followers to flee to Iran.19 A minority of LIFG members—­most notably Abu Layth al-­Libi and the 9/11 statement author Abu Yahya al-­Libi—­deci­ded to stay with al-­ Qaida in Af­ghan­i­stan and Pakistan. Most LIFG members adhered to their leaders’ edict and made the trek to Iran, where the Ira­nian government arrested them.20 The LIFG caught an early break ­because Tehran harbored no affection for Qadhafi’s regime. ­After interrogating the LIFG detainees, Tehran released them.21 However, the international community had made its judgment, and the LIFG was designated as an al-­Qaida and Taliban ally by the U.N. Security Council Committee pursuant to resolution 1267—­a sanctions regime for individuals and entities associated with al-­Qaida, bin Laden and/ or the Taliban—on October  6, 2001.22 Consequently, hiding proved impossible. Over the course of the next three years, authorities in Thailand and China detained the LIFG’s emir and se­nior theologian, respectively. Authorities in Tripoli obtained custody of both, allegedly with the help of the United States.23 The Global War on Terrorism had rehabilitated even Muammar Qadhafi, the man President Ronald Reagan once called a “mad dog.”24 Soon thereafter, with many of al-Qaida’s members detained, in hiding, and separated from one another, the LIFG’s orga­nizational cohesion faltered. Though a shared ­enemy did not produce an alliance with the LIFG, the CIA predicted that a sense of indebtedness for past assistance offered a basis for cooperation and continued alliances.25 The CIA was indeed correct that existing allies would secure al-­Qaida’s survival during what one member described as the group’s “meager years.”26 Another Alliance Attempt Falters, but Other Local Allies Step Up

As the Taliban regime crumbled, many al-­Qaida members, including its leaders, fled across the Durand Line, the contested border between Pakistan



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and Af­ghan­i­stan, seeking sanctuary. They ­were no strangers to Pakistan ­after years of using it to complement their haven in Af­g han­i­stan. However, depending on Pakistan for haven ­after 9/11 required allies, given President Pervez Musharraf ’s decision, u ­ nder im­mense pressure, to cooperate with the United States against al-­Qaida. Fortunately for al-­Qaida, the Pakistani militant landscape included numerous fellow Sunni jihadist groups with which it had long-­standing ties. Of the Pakistani groups, Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba’s religious orientation, Ahl-­e-­Hadithism, was closest to al-­Qaida’s Salafism. Though its roots date back to colonial India, the Ahl-­e-­Hadith tradition is most readily explained as a South Asian variant of Salafism. Saudi Arabia has exerted influence over the small Ahl-­e-­Hadith community in Pakistan, particularly since the 1980s.27 Many Ahl-­e-­Hadiths observe the Saudi religious authorities’ edicts and benefit from Saudi donors’ largess.28 In contrast, the other major Pakistani militant groups and the Afghan Taliban adhere to another sect of Sunni Islam, Deobandism.29 The two sects disagree about interpretations of the Qur­an, particularly which be­hav­iors represent forbidden innovations. Therefore, one might expect that if ideological solidarity motivated alliances, Lashkar would emerge as al-­Qaida’s main Pakistani partner. However, the opposite occurred in the aftermath of 9/11. Throughout the 1990s, the Pakistani army supported the Taliban and its anti-­India proxies in Af­ghan­i­stan, which included a multitude of Pakistani Deobandi groups, such as Harakat ul-­Mujahidin, Harakat ul-­Jihad Islami, and Jaish-­e-­Mohamed, in addition to Lashkar. The Pakistani army has long played an outsized role in Pakistan and Af­ghan­i­stan, a position that rests on its contention that India poses an existential threat to Pakistan. Formed during the anti-­Soviet jihad, the Pakistani Deobandi groups experienced frequent unity prob­lems, resulting in multiple competitor groups. Some maintain that Pakistani intelligence stoked their rivalry. At a minimum, the proliferation of Deobandi militant groups was more about cults of personality, individuals’ ambitions, and ethnic tensions than discernible ideological differences.30 Despite their infighting, the Pakistani Deobandi groups ­were close to their Afghan brethren. Pakistani Deobandi groups offered significant support to the Afghan Taliban’s takeover of Af­ghan­i­stan and its governance efforts ­after it conquered much of the country. The Pakistani army—­seeking a friendly neighbor on its western border to ensure “strategic depth” against India—­a nd its Pakistani Deobandi proxies both invested in the Afghan

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Taliban’s rule, including its campaign against the Northern Alliance. Tellingly, nearly half of the foreign prisoners held by the Northern Alliance between 1999 and 2000 hailed from Pakistan.31 Contacts of the U.S. Embassy in Islamabad estimated that Pakistanis constituted between 20 and 40  ­percent of the Taliban’s fighting force.32 Pakistani Deobandi militants also helped build the Afghan Taliban’s physical and ideological infrastructure in Af­ghan­i­stan. The Taliban allowed Pakistani Deobandi groups to operate facilities in Af­ghan­i­stan, affording them greater privileges than it did other foreign groups.33 For example, when the Taliban created a program to recognize which foreign groups it permitted to operate in Af­ghan­i­stan, the Pakistani organ­izations ­were exempt ­because of their “special” status.34 Though the Taliban sought to restrict al-­Qaida’s external operations, in 1999, it allowed an airplane full of Indian passengers hijacked by Pakistani Deobandi militants to land in Af­ghan­i­stan and deployed guards to protect it from an Indian rescue mission. Harakat ul-­Jihad Islami members even held positions in the Taliban government.35 The Taliban was a product of the same madaris, or religious schools, in Pakistan as the Pakistani Deobandi groups. Consequently, the personal ties between them ran deep and ­were reinforced by ideological, narrative, and sometimes ethnic Pashtun affinity, which developed into shared identities and mutual trust.36 Consequently, the Pakistani Deobandi groups felt Islamabad’s betrayal of the Taliban ­after 9/11 acutely. In contrast, before 2001, Lashkar’s relationships with both the Taliban and al-­Qaida ­were more distant. Lashkar focused much of its efforts against India, particularly in Kashmir. It concentrated its Af­ghan­i­stan presence in Konar and Nuristan, where fellow Salafists, not the Taliban, dominated. Afghan Salafists viewed the Taliban’s rise with suspicion if not hostility. Likewise, Lashkar deemed the Deobandi movement to be religiously erroneous.37 While al-­Qaida ­adopted ideological affinity par­a meters to accept Deobandis, the rivalry between Salafist and Deobandi militants in Af­ghan­i­stan and Pakistan made this religious difference more salient for Lashkar. Ethnic differences also exacerbated the religious differences between the predominantly Punjabi Lashkar and the Pashtun Afghan Taliban. Moreover, unlike its Deobandi counter­parts, Lashkar eschewed involvement in the conflict with the Northern Alliance, seeing it as intra-­Muslim vio­lence and thus not a legitimate jihad. Simply stated, as Christine Fair summarized it, Lashkar did not have the same “organic links” to the Taliban as its Deobandi counter­parts.38



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While both Lashkar and al-­Qaida originated from the same anti-­Soviet, Salafist jihadi sources, their stories read like two trains ­running on parallel tracks, sometimes intersecting but then ultimately resuming their respective paths without making adjustments to accommodate one another. The two groups cooperated in Konar and Nuristan, including in training. Personal relationships developed between some members. However, Lashkar did not have an orga­nizational need for a partnership with an alliance hub. Over the course of the 1990s, it had become the Pakistani army’s favored proxy. It had ample access to resources and knowledge, as its ranks and supporters included experienced operatives, former military officers, and former officials from the Pakistani security ser­vices. It built an extensive infrastructure in Pakistan to support its dawa (preaching), charitable, and militant activities, so its presence in Af­ghan­i­stan was secondary. While the two groups shared more religious commonalities than ­others, they did not engage in identity convergence to build on their ideological affinity. Moreover, ­after the U.S. invasion of Af­ghan­i­stan, their narratives experienced both convergence and conflict, as w ­ ill be discussed below. In the face of the U.S. invasion and the Taliban’s collapse, al-­Qaida required assistance. Pakistan offered places for al-­Qaida to hide, especially when assisted by Pakistani militant groups. Arguably more than any other group, Lashkar’s extensive infrastructure in Pakistan could fulfill al-­Qaida’s needs. Lashkar agreed to facilitate al-­Qaida members and their families’ movement into Pakistan and help hide them.39 The two groups appeared poised to ­elevate their relationship into an alliance. Then, in March  2002, Pakistani security ser­v ices captured Abu Zubaydah—­a well-­connected and experienced jihadist and logistician—in a Lashkar safe ­house in Faisalabad.40 Zubaydah’s capture was consequential for three reasons. He was the first major figure apprehended outside of Af­ghan­ i­stan ­after 9/11; though not a member of the group, given his extensive ties to al-­Qaida, it scrambled to ensure his detention would not lead to further arrests. The Pakistani government’s role in his arrest and rendition to the U.S. signaled that Islamabad was cooperating with the United States even against individuals ­under the protection of its proxies, hastening a shift in al-­Qaida’s ­enemy narrative to include Pakistan. And most impor­tant from an alliance standpoint, Abu Zubaydah was a broker between al-­Qaida and Lashkar. He enjoyed close personal relationships with members of both groups; therefore, Lashkar’s apparent failure to protect him demonstrated that it was not trustworthy.41 Zubaydah himself had worried about this

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possibility and tried to mitigate the dangers through his personal and communication security.42 Given Lashkar’s relationship with Pakistani security ser­vices, al-­Qaida feared that Lashkar had betrayed Zubaydah. Al-­Qaida ­later attributed Abu Zubaydah’s arrest to “opening up so much to Lashkar-­ e-­Tayyiba” and the subsequent arrest of another al-­Qaida member ­under Lashkar’s protection as “due to the treachery of Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba.” 43 In addition to ­these suspicions, Lashkar and al-­Qaida experienced increasing tensions in their narratives. Lashkar did not share al-­Qaida’s tendency to label governments as apostate. It had long rejected al-­Qaida’s view of the Saudi government as such. This narrative difference sharpened ­after 9/11 ­because unlike al-­Qaida and some Pakistani Deobandi militants, Lashkar refused to turn against Islamabad and label the Pakistani government as apostate. Lashkar sought to build a “true” Islamic society in Pakistan through proselytization and conversion, not jihad. Its rejection of the legitimacy of vio­lence in Pakistan and loyalty to Islamabad hindered its narrative affinity with al-­Qaida. In addition to Lashkar’s lack of orga­nizational needs for an alliance with al-­Qaida, ­these differences and the possibility of Lashkar’s betrayal stunted the development of affinity and trust and, by extension, alliance formation. However, al-­Qaida had other Pakistani allies, and many ­were increasingly hostile ­toward Islamabad. Already dismayed by the Musharraf government’s abandonment of the Taliban, many once-­loyal proxies revolted against Islamabad’s capitulation to international pressure to restrict their activity in Indian Kashmir and reduce their profile in Pakistan. They worked with al-­Qaida to target their former patron, sometimes as individuals and other times as organ­izations. Si­mul­ta­neously, their orga­nizational cohesion—­ already tenuous at the best of times—­f urther degraded in the changed environment.44 A vis­i­ble manifestation of the way jihadists’ relationships evolved in Pakistan came in the form of an assassination attempt against Musharraf in late 2003.45 The plot included operatives from Pakistani Deobandi groups and al-­Qaida in addition to disgruntled commanders from the army’s Special Ser­vices Group and police officers.46 As orga­nizational bound­a ries became more fluid, the importance of organizational-­level alliances with the Pakistani Deobandi groups decreased, and decentralized, individual-­level relationships dictated cooperation. Individuals drew upon long-­standing personal ties to cooperate. Al-­Qaida benefited from personal relationships and orga­ nizational alliances with Pakistani Deobandi militants. Al-­Qaida certainly



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experienced subsequent losses in Pakistan but prob­ably would not have survived without its local allies. Maintaining Terror: Ideal Execution of an Alliance

The death or detention of one-­third of al-­Qaida’s leadership and 80 ­percent of its original members in Af­g han­i­stan compounded al-­Qaida’s loss of its training infrastructure, safe haven, and significant financial resources.47 Its operational capability was damaged, but it still sought to conduct a second-­ wave attack against the United States. Besieged, al-­Qaida was unable to execute an attack on its own. In a role reversal, al-­Qaida was in orga­nizational crisis and struggling with the rapidly changed environment; therefore, it requested the assistance of Jemaah Islamiyah (JI), its Southeast Asian ally. While al-­Qaida’s Pakistani allies’ fulfilled its acute need for sanctuary, JI retained operational capability and relative freedom, which allowed al-­Qaida to proj­ect strength when it was at its weakest point. In October 2002, JI struck a pub and a nightclub on the Indonesian island of Bali using suicide operatives. Nearly two hundred p­ eople ­were killed, many of them vacationing Australians. By 2002, JI and al-­Qaida ­were already allies. Connections between the two groups’ members dated back to the anti-­Soviet jihad;48 ­f uture JI members used the aid offered by Abdullah Azzam and bin Laden’s Ser­vices Bureau to join the fight.49 The Southeast Asians trained and fought with Afghan mujahidin commander Abdul Rasul Sayyaf during the 1980s, and some attended bin Laden−financed camps. Eventually, they operated their own training fa­cil­ i­t y in eastern Af­ghan­i­stan.50 Some even participated in the ­Battle of Jaji alongside bin Laden and al-­Qaida’s founding leaders.51 When ­these individuals subsequently formed JI in the early 1990s, the prior cooperation and existing personal relationships facilitated orga­nizational connections with al-­Qaida. During the 1990s, JI used training sites in the Philippines, which al-­ Qaida supported financially and with trainers.52 By the late 1990s, as JI prepared to begin operations, its members journeyed back to Af­ghan­i­stan to partake in training; they also operated a fa­cil­i­t y in Karachi, with al-­Qaida’s support.53 JI members then returned home to train other members and Southeast Asian groups and began to plot operations.54 While JI cooperated extensively with al-­Qaida, few of its operatives ­were pres­ent in Af­ghan­i­stan in 2001; so the group avoided the hardships that befell resident groups.55

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For its part, JI offered al-­Qaida entrée into Southeast Asia, which was a useful transit and facilitation hub. Al-­Qaida established a presence in the region in the early 1990s. Al-­Qaida embedded operatives ­there who acted as conduits for resource and knowledge transfers to local groups, including JI.56 Al-­Qaida mostly used the region as a logistics, meeting, and coordination venue to facilitate and plan operations, including 9/11.57 JI helped al-­Qaida to extend its operational reach into Southeast Asia, though the group required al-­Qaida to inform it of any plots in the region.58 If imitation is the greatest form of flattery, JI paid homage to al-­Qaida by becoming an alliance hub in its own right, using some of the same tactics. It operated a camp within the Moro Islamic Liberation Front’s (MILF) facilities in the Philippines and provided MILF with explosives training.59 As early as 1999, it created a council to consult with other groups in Southeast Asia, such as the Abu Sayyaf Group and the MILF, about issues like training, haven, resources, and operational planning.60 JI played a similar role in Southeast Asia as al-­Qaida did among Arab groups, perhaps even more successfully. The council convened several times in 2000, and participating groups agreed to collaborate against Philippine interests in Indonesia. They then attacked the residence of the Philippines’ ambassador in Jakarta in August 2000.61 Yet their geographic distance and language differences contributed to the concentration of trust and cooperation in key nodes. For example, for linguistic reasons, Southeast Asians usually trained separately from their Arab counter­parts, even in Af­ghan­i­stan.62 On the other hand, their ethnic differences removed any sense of competition, which also sometimes bedev­ iled al-­Qaida’s relationship with fellow Arab groups, especially ­because ­a l-­Qaida sought to lead the Arab groups. JI wanted to create a pan-­Islamic archipelago spanning Southeast Asia, although it prioritized establishing an Islamic state in Indonesia.63 Al-­Qaida’s vision for an Islamic caliphate included Southeast Asia, but it was not a priority to recruit or build support ­there for the Arab-­centric group. Instead, it relied on JI to harness Southeast Asians.64 Their efforts w ­ ere thus wholly complementary. JI’s geographic distance and ethnic difference was an asset for al-­Qaida in the aftermath of 9/11. Al-­Qaida turned to the group for assistance with its most sensitive post−9/11 plot, the so-­called “second-­wave” attack.65 Al-­ Qaida wanted to conduct an attack that would affect the U.S. West Coast. Al-­Qaida’s lead plotter, Khalid Sheikh Mohamed, assessed that al-­Qaida could not conduct the attack on its own. In the heightened security envi-



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ronment, he feared the United States would detect al-­Qaida’s Arab operatives. Mohamed sought non-­Arab operatives to execute the attack and thus turned to JI for assistance.66 Mohamed worked primarily with Riduan Isamuddin, better known as Hambali—­one of the key nodes of trust in JI’s alliance with al-­Qaida—to prepare a JI team to execute the attack. The group’s “Guraba Cell” consisted of seventeen operatives tasked with hijacking a plane and crashing it into the Library Tower (now the U.S. Bank Tower) in Los Angeles.67 Mohamed trained several JI operatives in explosives fabrication so they could detonate a bomb to destroy the cockpit door and gain access to the cockpit. However, the pi­lot backed out of the plot, unwilling to be a suicide operative. Then, in February 2002, the Guraba Cell’s leader was arrested, leading ­others to fear that the plot was compromised.68 Authorities had not yet fully identified JI as a terrorist group, let alone assessed it to be a serious threat.69 Before 2002, the group’s most notable attack had been small-­scale bombings of churches and other Christian f­acilities on Christmas Eve in 2000, which killed five ­people and wounded dozens more. Consequently, unlike many al-­Qaida allies, JI was not immediately ­under overwhelming pressure ­after 9/11. Al-­Qaida and JI had engaged in consultation and cooperation for operational planning in the past as well. JI began plotting against the U.S. military presence in Singapore as early as the mid-1990s, soliciting al-­Qaida’s input on a plot in 1999, which it did not execute for unknown reasons.70 JI surveilled Singapore’s mass-­transit system and shared its reconnaissance videos with al-­Qaida leaders, who supported the plan to attack the system.71 However, none of ­these plots came to fruition, which worked to al-­Qaida’s benefit a­ fter 9/11. While already close to al-­Qaida, JI’s need to maintain relevancy in the changed environment reinforced the alliance. As the International Crisis Group argued, “the U.S.-­led war on terror . . . ​replaced Maluku and Poso [i.e., local sectarian vio­lence against Christians] as the main object of JI’s wrath, especially as ­those conflicts have waned.” 72 The environmental changes provided an opening for ­those losing resonance to realign with the agenda that now defined the terrorist landscape. Though the second-­wave plot fell through, al-­Qaida provided JI with an estimated $30,000 to support an operation.73 Khalid Sheikh Mohamed encouraged JI to execute attacks on the U.S. and Israeli embassies in Jakarta or an oil fa­cil­i­t y in Sumatra.74 Al-­Qaida deployed an operative to Singapore

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in October 2001 to assist JI with attacks. They explored using truck bombs to strike American, Israeli, British, and Australian diplomatic facilities and commercial buildings.75 By the time Singaporean officials disrupted the plot, JI had acquired the explosives. With the anniversary of 9/11 approaching, JI deci­ded to shift ­towards softer targets to ensure success in a shorter timeline. However, it did not identify Bali as the locale ­until August. Consequently, the plot was not ready in time for the 9/11 anniversary.76 When the Bali attacks occurred the following month, they clearly had al-­Qaida’s imprimatur: simultaneous suicide attacks against Westerners. JI intended to target Americans; however, in its haste to conduct the operation as soon as pos­si­ble, it did not conduct adequate reconnaissance and realize that the bulk of the victims would be Australians.77 Nonetheless, bin Laden hailed the attacks and folded them into al-­ Qaida’s narrative, warning Canberra to cease its cooperation with Washington and framing the Australian government’s role in the East Timor conflict as anti-­Muslim.78 Smaller attacks since 9/11 had kept counterterrorism officials on guard, but no major attacks had occurred, in part ­because few could operate as unencumbered as JI. An al-­Qaida operative firebombed a synagogue in Tunisia in April 2002, killing nineteen and injuring dozens more. Al-­Qaida targeted U.S. military personnel in Kuwait in October 2002. Also in October, al-­Qaida struck the MV Limburg off the coast of Yemen, killing one and injuring four. Al-­Qaida’s East African cell bombed a ­hotel in Mombasa, ­Kenya, killing fourteen, and unsuccessfully tried to shoot down a commercial plane using a surface-­to-­air missile in November of that year.79 However, the Bali attack was the highest-­profile attack since 9/11, and it expanded the jihadist threat to a new region. Al-­Qaida was so pleased with the Bali bombings that it provided JI with another influx of funds, including a delivery of $130,000, with no specific conditions attached.80 By this point, their alliance had developed such that al-­Qaida trusted that its ally would use the money to implement their shared vision and did need specific reciprocation. The alliance functioned ideally for both partners at that juncture: JI needed funds to evade authorities and conduct further operations, and al-­Qaida needed a partner capable of executing attacks while its ability to do so was constrained. Al-­Qaida supplemented JI’s capability, and JI’s actions assisted al-­Qaida in maintaining its stature.81 However, JI did not see itself as subordinate to al-­Qaida. One JI member likened their relationship to “that of an NGO with



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a funding agency. The NGO exists as a completely in­de­pen­dent organisation, but submits proposals to the donor and gets a grant when the proposal is accepted. The donor only funds proj­ects that are in line with its own programs. In this case, al-­Qaeda may help fund specific JI programs but it neither directs nor controls it.”82 Another JI member involved in liaising between the two groups invoked a similar comparison, even equating their relationship to the alliance between two of their adversaries: “We can ask them (i.e., al-­Qaida) for an opinion but they have no authority over us. . . . ​ We have our own funds, our own men. We are in­de­pen­dent, like Australia and the U.S. But when it comes to an operation, we can join together.”83 JI came ­under tremendous pressure in the wake of the Bali bombings, as authorities in multiple countries pursued the group. The international environment bolstered regional counterterrorism cooperation in Southeast Asia. Over two hundred JI operatives ­were arrested in the ensuing crackdown. Among ­those detained was Hambali, the group’s operational planner and mastermind of the Bali attacks, in Thailand in August 2003. He admitted to his interrogators that his group was struggling to manage the fallout from the Bali bombings.84 Hambali’s arrest not only damaged JI’s operational capability; it further disrupted a locus of trust between JI and al-­Qaida. Funds, resources, and communication flowed from al-­Qaida to JI primarily through Abu Hafs al-­Masri or Mohamed—­k illed in Af­g han­i­stan in 2001 and arrested in March 2003, respectively—to Hambali.85 Moreover, Hambali was the primary advocate of JI’s shift ­toward al-­Qaida, especially in terms of its operations.86 In the late 1990s, it was Hambali who instructed JI members involved in support or missionary work to become operational cells and get training in Af­ghan­i­stan.87 Hambali also ordered JI operatives to strike soft targets in order to ensure JI could execute the 9/11 anniversary attack for al-­Qaida.88 The loss of the three brokers damaged the alliance. As the JI members explained, it was an alliance of “mutual advantage and reciprocal assistance.”89 ­After receiving training, funding, and support for years, the group assisted al-­Qaida during al-­Qaida’s most difficult years to date. Yet it paid a heavy price for ­doing so. As was the case for al-­Qaida, counterterrorism efforts steadily degraded JI over the subsequent years. Arrests mounted in both quantity and quality as authorities detained more than three hundred members. In addition to Hambali’s capture, Indonesian police killed its most experienced bomb maker in 2005 and arrested its two se­nior leaders in mid-2007. Malaysian authorities arrested two se­nior JI

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operatives in early 2008, and Indonesian police killed a leader of the group in September 2009.90 Al-­Qaida and JI’s alliance languished in the face of their mutual degradation in the heightened counterterrorism environment. Attempts to invigorate their alliance had limited success. For example, in 2011, Pakistani authorities arrested a se­nior JI member involved in the Bali attacks in Abbottabad, where he sought to reconnect with al-­Qaida.91 Their reliance on key nodes damaged their relationship in the absence of ­those individuals, especially in an environment in which such ties could not be readily rebuilt.

New Alliance Asset: A Brand Name As it hoped, al-­Qaida succeeded in defining the terrorist landscape with 9/11 and being viewed as the vanguard of the movement. However, with the dispersal from Af­ghan­i­stan and the counterterrorism response, the jihadist landscape grew more decentralized. From hiding, al-­Qaida strug­gled to influence the movement, especially concerning how its name was being used. In some cases, like JI, it had trusted allies acting on its behalf. However, al-­ Qaida was being associated with numerous acts and actors, some of which it did not condone. Therefore, it sought ways to exert more influence.92 Equally impor­tant, it wanted to secure its position as the leader of the jihadist movement in the wake of its losses, particularly ­after the United States invaded Iraq. Consequently, a new alliance arrangement emerged: allies endorsed by al-­Qaida that publicly a­ dopted al-­Qaida’s name. T ­ hese ­were known as affiliates, existing organ­izations that pledged allegiance to bin Laden and committed to an alliance with al-­Qaida.93 In return, al-­Qaida anointed them with its name. Unlike EIJ’s merger with al-­Qaida, affiliates retained their other orga­nizational characteristics rather than being integrated into al-­Qaida. It is impor­tant to note that they did not agree to be controlled by al-­Qaida, nor did any affiliate agree to relinquish its founding cause, standards sometimes erroneously applied to ­these relationships. They agreed to an alliance: cooperation and consultation with al-­Qaida. Affiliates received reputational benefits, guidance, and sometimes resources. However, resources and assistance did not only flow from al-­Qaida to affiliates, as they often did before 9/11. Al-­Qaida’s resources ­were more constrained ­after 2001, and it sometimes turned to its affiliates for such aid.



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Al-­Qaida accepted affiliates in places where it wanted to proj­ect viability and status, mainly in the Arab world. Unable to conduct another attack in the West, al-­Qaida used affiliates to proj­ect that the group was expanding, ­ ere, in strong, and exerting leadership over the movement.94 Affiliates w ­essence, partners seeking to fulfill an orga­nizational need for prestige associated with al-­Qaida’s name to bolster their resource mobilization capability. Post-9/11 affiliates sought to fulfill a dif­fer­ent orga­nizational need—­a need for jihadist credibility—­t han al-­Qaida’s previous allies, but the alliance cause—­orga­nizational needs—­remained the same. Conversely, al-­Qaida’s motive remained largely unchanged—­a desire to be the organ­ization to lead a unified Sunni jihadist movement—­though its needs grew more acute ­because of constant counterterrorism pressure. The Rise of Al-­Qaida’s First Affiliate

Notably, al-­Qaida did not propose the idea of its first affiliate, despite its identification of the need to better manage its image, portray itself as the leader of the jihadist movement, and influence the jihad in Iraq. Instead, ­after years of keeping al-­Qaida at arm’s length, Abu Musab al-­Z arqawi approached al-­Qaida to initiate an alliance. At the time, his group was known as Jund al-­Sham (Soldiers of the Levant) or by the banner that hung over its camp in Af­ghan­i­stan, Tawhid wal-­Jihad (Mono­the­ism and Jihad). Al-­Qaida’s first affiliate reaped the benefits of adopting al-­Qaida’s name, but it also revealed the pitfalls of this arrangement. In March 2003, when American forces entered Iraq to overthrow Saddam Hussein, Zarqawi’s group was poised for a confrontation. Zarqawi fled Af­ghan­i­stan ­after the U.S. invasion in 2001, made his way to Iran, and then journeyed to northern Iraq in the summer of 2002. ­After U.S. forces arrived, Jund al-­Sham set out to wreak havoc in Iraq, conducting high-­profile bombings, suicide attacks, and gruesome beheadings. It made its bloody debut on August 7, 2003, with the bombing of the Jordanian Embassy in Baghdad, a fitting target for Zarqawi, a Jordanian who had long focused his ire on the Jordanian regime. A ­little more than a week ­later, the group stunned the international community by attacking the U.N. headquarters in Baghdad, killing twenty-­t wo p­ eople, including the U.N. envoy to Iraq. However, a predominantly foreign group, Jund al-­Sham strug­gled to attain a leading position within the Iraqi Sunni insurgency.95 Though Jund al-­ Sham executed a disproportionate number of suicide bombings in Iraq, only

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14 ­percent of Sunni rejectionists belonged to the group.96 Zarqawi saw the potential for an alliance with al-­Qaida to improve his group’s position in the crowded field and thereby attract more personnel and resources. This was a marked change. Zarqawi had resisted al-­Qaida’s previous entreaties to bring Jund al-­Sham ­under its rubric ­after he arrived in Af­ghan­i­ stan from Jordan in 1999. It was a homecoming for the Arab Afghan, who had journeyed to Peshawar in 1989 on the heels of the Soviet withdrawal. Zarqawi fought alongside Gulbuddin Hekmatyar against the Soviet-­backed Afghan regime.97 When he returned to Taliban-­ruled Af­ghan­i­stan ten years ­later, having recently been released early from Jordanian prison through a royal amnesty, Zarqawi opted to maintain his autonomy and his own organ­ ization focused on the Levant, especially Jordan, rather than join al-­Qaida.98 Jund al-­Sham operated out of Herat in western Af­ghan­i­stan, thereby putting geographic distance between his group and al-­Qaida, which was concentrated in the Taliban and Haqqani strongholds in the south and east. In Af­ghan­i­stan, Zarqawi’s organ­ization was sufficiently promising that al-­Qaida provided seed money, roughly $200,000, and occasional additional funding.99 Jund al-­Sham attracted recruits from the Levant, a quality that al-­Qaida coveted given its limited following in ­those Arab countries. Al-­ Qaida sought a presence closer to Palestine to match its rhe­toric about the centrality of Israel as an ­enemy. More parochial considerations played a role as well; al-­Qaida wanted to prevent Zarqawi from working with its rival and critic Abu Musab al-­Suri.100 Nonetheless, al-­Qaida had reservations about Zarqawi. He had a reputation for being difficult to work with, even among jihadists. The tattooed ex-­con was more of a thug, a criminal turned jihadist, than a religious thinker or sophisticated strategist.101 Some feared his group had been infiltrated by Jordanian intelligence, perhaps during Zarqawi’s time in prison.102 The initial meeting between Zarqawi and bin Laden went poorly, as their personalities clashed. Zarqawi’s uneducated, brash, and arrogant style did not meld well with bin Laden’s elite background, soft-­spoken demeanor, and expectation of deference. Consequently, Saif al-­Adel—­who also had a reputation for being abrasive—­became the broker in the relationship.103 Al-­Adl visited Zarqawi’s fa­cil­i­t y in Herat on a monthly basis and reported to bin Laden that the group was progressing.104 Despite its misgivings, al-­Qaida asked Zarqawi to swear bayat to bin Laden repeatedly throughout 2000 and 2001, including immediately before 9/11.105 Each time, Zarqawi declined.106 His reticence was consistent with his



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group’s limited orga­nizational needs and an orga­nizational culture instilled by Zarqawi that emphasized in­de­pen­dence. He was content to receive al-­ Qaida’s assistance but did not wish to bring his group ­under al-­Qaida’s rubric. The U.S. invasion of Iraq in March 2003 and the ensuing Sunni insurgency changed Zarqawi’s alliance calculation in ways that his time in Af­ ghan­i­stan had not. His group shared an ­enemy and a threat with al-­Qaida. Therefore, some argued that their common ­enemy brought them together.107 However, given his preference for in­de­pen­dence, Zarqawi clearly would have pursued this mission on his own, absent the orga­nizational needs. In addition, he shared al-­Qaida’s goal of expelling the United States from Af­ghan­ i­stan just months earlier, and thus he could have stayed and allied with al-­Qaida to fight the same common ­enemy ­there. Thus, a common ­enemy cannot fully explain the change in Jund al-­Sham’s position. More critically, the two groups now possessed complementary orga­ nizational needs. Al-­Qaida’s cachet ­after 9/11 combined with Jund al-­Sham’s desire to improve its resource mobilization capability caused Zarqawi to reevaluate his group’s alliance position. Fawaz Gerges encapsulated Zarqawi’s motive: “A formal association with the parent organ­ization would confer revolutionary legitimacy on Zarqawi and turn him from a mere field commander in Iraq into a global jihadi on par with the masters.”108 Al-­Qaida was a name—­more than that, it was a status and brand—­that commanded widespread recognition among jihadists, donors, and recruits. This stature was precisely what Zarqawi needed as he sought to make his organ­ization the focal point for the resources, money, and recruits in Iraq. In addition, with the distance between Pakistan and Iraq, he could retain his coveted autonomy while benefiting from the recognition an alliance with al-­Qaida would confer. Al-­Qaida foresaw Iraq as a “historic opportunity,” akin to the anti-­Soviet jihad, to mobilize another generation of jihadists, which it had to influence in order to maintain its position as the vanguard of the Sunni jihadist movement.109 In hiding in Pakistan, al-­Qaida lacked a presence or role in the “cause célèbre” for the jihadist movement, the conflict the U.S. intelligence community correctly forecasted would “shape a new generation of terrorist leaders and operatives.”110 Moreover, given al-­Qaida’s security situation in Pakistan, the group strug­gled to absorb new recruits, and it welcomed their participation in Iraq. It also had no way to recruit Iraqis, so it saw Zarqawi’s potential ability to do so as an asset.

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While Af­ghan­i­stan benefited from the legacy of a victorious jihad, al-­ Qaida viewed Iraq as more strategically and religiously significant, adding urgency to its orga­nizational need to have a role. Al-­Qaida’s propaganda had long featured Iraq as a victim of the “Crusader-­Zionist” alliance. In addition, it still harbored an Arab-­centric bias, despite its years in South Asia. Zawahiri admitted as much in a letter to Zarqawi: “It has always been my belief that the victory of Islam w ­ ill never take place u ­ ntil a Muslim state is established in the manner of the Prophet in the heart of the Islamic world, specifically in the Levant, Egypt, and the neighboring states of the Peninsula and Iraq. . . . ​As for the ­battles that are ­going on in the far-­flung regions of the Islamic world, such as Chechnya, Af­ghan­i­stan, Kashmir, and Bosnia, they are just the groundwork and the vanguard for the major b­ attles which have begun in the heart of the Islamic world.”111 Yet al-­Qaida lacked a meaningful presence in the heart of the Islamic world.112 In the absence of such a presence, al-­Qaida was in danger of being eclipsed, as Zarqawi’s appeal in jihadist circles skyrocketed. He even appeared to have the potential to supplant bin Laden as the predominant figure of the jihadist movement.113 However, Zarqawi opted not to compete with al-­Qaida to be the vanguard of the Sunni jihadist movement. Instead he defined his po­liti­cal market more narrowly, to a place where al-­Qaida lacked a po­liti­ cal market. Therefore, they avoided becoming rivals, for the time being. When Zarqawi approached al-­Qaida in January 2004 to propose an alliance, it was a mutually beneficial arrangement that addressed both of their needs. Al-­Qaida could proj­ect a presence in Iraq and shape Zarqawi’s execution of the jihad ­there.114 Zarqawi would garner the resources and stature that came with al-­Qaida affiliation. The convergence of a common ­enemy through the U.S. invasion of Iraq did improve their prospects for alliance formation. Their shared frames on the need for jihad in Iraq to be a priority improved their affinity. Al-­Qaida’s narrative included opposition to apostate governments, like Jund al-­Sham’s mission against Jordan, but it constantly sought to shift groups’ attention to opposing the United States. Now they shared a narrative to a greater degree as the jihad in Iraq against the United States occupied a central place in both groups’ narratives. As a result, they had a stronger basis for identity affinity to support an alliance. The geographic distance and need for communication security slowed the effort, but the alliance formed ­later that year. In October 2004, Zarqawi



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published a statement swearing bayat to bin Laden. Then in December, bin Laden responded and affirmed Zarqawi’s role as al-­Qaida’s representative in Iraq. Jund al-­Sham became “al-­Qaida in the Land of Two Rivers,” commonly referred to as al-­Qaida in Iraq (AQI).115 Al-­Qaida had warnings of the potential for prob­lems in the alliance. Zarqawi sent a letter to bin Laden with his vision for the jihad in Iraq and expressing his willingness to swear fealty to al-­Qaida, if their views ­were compatible.116 Had al-­Qaida’s orga­nizational needs been less acute and significant, the group may have been more wary of the ways their agendas diverged. Barely concealed ­behind Zarqawi’s public subordination to bin Laden was his intent to pursue his own agenda in Iraq, albeit now with the additional cachet of al-­Qaida’s brand.117 Zarqawi’s agenda involved not only expelling the United States but also striking the ascendant Shia, whom Zarqawi viewed as a dangerous ­enemy on par with or perhaps greater than the United States.118 This should not have come as a surprise to al-­Qaida since he wrote to bin Laden in 2004, “If we succeed in dragging the Shia into the arena of sectarian war, it ­will become pos­si­ble to awaken the inattentive Sunnis. . . . ​ The only solution for us is to strike the religious, military, and other cadres among the Shia blow ­after blow.”119 AQI soon pursued an anti-­Shia agenda at the expense of al-­Qaida’s anti-­U.S. mission. Armed with the al-­Qaida name, Jund al-­Sham’s need was filled; AQI’s notoriety soared as did Zarqawi’s, arguably even surpassing his professed leaders in South Asia. Se­nior al-­Qaida leader Abu Faraj al-­Libi acknowledged as much when he remarked, “Had I known of all of Zarqawi’s activities and capabilities when he first came to al Qaida with a desire to pledge bayat to Usama bin Laden, I would have written a letter to bin Laden advising that the Shaykh [bin Laden] pledge bayat to Abu Musab instead.”120 Not surprisingly, the alliance quickly ran into prob­lems. Zarqawi’s meteoric rise was soon on the verge of implosion. His brutal tactics and indiscriminate targeting alienated the Iraqi ­people and broader Muslim world, damaging al-­Qaida’s name in the pro­cess. Despite Abu Faraj’s perception of Zarqawi’s stature, Zarqawi’s be­hav­ior dismayed many al-­Qaida members, who bemoaned how his actions damaged al-­Qaida’s reputation and risked squandering the historic opportunity in Iraq.121 In addition, AQI’s focus on targeting Shia diminished its affinity with al-­Qaida rather than furthering identity convergence.

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Al-­Qaida tried in vain to get Zarqawi to adjust his approach and soon discovered the perils of offering its name to a partner unwilling to adhere to its guidance. As discussed in the Introduction, alliances often lacked enforcement mechanisms, and that was clearly the case in this alliance. In 2005, Zawahiri wrote to Zarqawi to urge strategic and tactical changes, advising him to deemphasize his sectarian agenda and cease acts that alienated Muslims, particularly beheadings and attacks on Shia holy sites. Zawahiri insisted that expelling the Americans was the first step ­toward establishing an Islamic state in Iraq and maintained that AQI’s efforts against the Shia distracted from that primary goal.122 Then, in November 2005, AQI exported its vio­lence to Jordan, the place that had animated Zarqawi’s initial commitment to jihad. Its attack on three ­hotels in Amman killed sixty ­people, many of them guests at a Muslim wedding.123 Al-­Qaida was furious about the operation, in part ­because of the disastrous outcome and in part ­because Zarqawi undertook the operation without consultation. Since Zarqawi did not heed Zawahiri, al-­Qaida tried to influence Zarqawi through its leading religious scholar, Atiyah al-­Rahman. Al-­Rahman implored Zarqawi to “avoid repeating the ­mistake of lack of precision in execution, like what happened in Jordan.”124 Al-­Rahman reiterated some of the same themes, such as AQI’s need to build public support and to forge good relations with Sunnis, but he did not attempt to dissuade Zarqawi from targeting the Shia. Instead, Al-­Rahman focused on improving AQI’s alliance with al-­Qaida, arguing it should be Zarqawi’s priority, even more so than external operations.125 Al-­Qaida behaved as though it was the religious and strategic authority; yet or­gan­i­za­tion­ally it was in the weaker position. For example, al-­Qaida requested Zarqawi send someone to Pakistan for consultations ­because it could not send a representative to Iraq. Al-­Qaida’s attempt to send a liaison, Hassan Ghul, to Iraq ended disastrously in his detention and interrogation, during which some allege he disclosed information that helped lead to bin Laden’s death.126 In addition, al-­Qaida’s financial situation was such that it asked AQI for money rather than using funds to guide AQI’s be­hav­ior.127 Zarqawi’s intention to adopt al-­Qaida’s name to garner greater resources worked all too well; he became the one providing funds to al-­Qaida.128 AQI’s tone remained deferential to al-­Qaida, even if the group was unwilling to make the adjustments al-­Qaida sought. It sent the requested envoy to al-­Qaida to explain AQI’s positions. In a letter prob­ably authored



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by Zarqawi, AQI attempted to reassure al-­Qaida that its actions ­were “for the good of victory of this religion and the rise of our two head ­brothers [bin Laden and Zawahiri].”129 While unwilling to accommodate al-­Qaida’s strategic counsel, AQI was willing to help al-­Qaida and to improve its position, including by offering funds and assisting in acquiring another affiliate.130 Even as AQI created reputational prob­lems for al-­Qaida, it offered assets that al-­Qaida needed and did not seek to usurp its partner. The First Affiliate Leads to the Second

As the recipient of throngs of recruits and foreign fighters, not to mention the accompanying resources activated by the cause in Iraq and its association with al-­Qaida, AQI soon fostered alliances of its own. Its allies included the Algerian Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat (GSPC). Notably, at this juncture, AQI did not attempt to supplant al-­Qaida’s hub position or behave as a rival. Instead, Zarqawi recognized the value of al-­Qaida’s stature, promoted al-­Qaida’s hub position, and served as a referral and broker for the GSPC to become an al-­Qaida affiliate.131 Despite al-­Qaida’s dissatisfaction with AQI’s conduct, al-­Qaida leaders solicited AQI’s views about the advisability of allying with the GSPC. Al-­ Qaida lacked connections with the Algerian group, but its need for affiliates persisted.132 Al-­Qaida’s wariness of the Algerians stemmed from the GSPC’s pre­de­ces­sor, the GIA, or the Algerian Armed Islamic Group. In addition to using al-­Qaida’s assistance opportunistically, the GIA’s downward spiral during the 1990s squandered hopes for a jihadist takeover in North Africa. Moreover, its indiscriminate actions against civilians alienated the Algerian populace and horrified the international community. The Algerian debacle remained fresh in al-­Qaida’s memory since AQI was at risk of following a similar trajectory. In the same letter in which he asked for Zarqawi’s input on the GSPC, Atiyah al-­Rahman invoked Algeria in the 1990s as a course that Zarqawi should avoid at all costs.133 In spite of the prob­lems, al-­Qaida recognized AQI’s value in improving al-­Qaida’s alliance position and trusted its judgment on the GSPC. Zarqawi did not survive to see al-­Qaida’s second affiliate finalized. On June  8, 2006, a U.S. airstrike north of Baghdad killed AQI’s notorious leader.134 Then, on the five-­year anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, al-­Qaida anointed the GSPC as its affiliate in the “Islamic Maghreb.” The difficulties with AQI did not deter al-­Qaida from continuing its affiliate alliances to proj­ect

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strength and leadership. Its name—­and other groups’ desire to adopt it when they needed to improve their resource mobilization capability—­continued to be al-­Qaida’s main post−9/11 alliance asset. Publicly anointing new partners signaled al-­Qaida’s viability and leadership position in the movement. By 2006, the GSPC was not a newcomer on the jihadist scene, but its orga­nizational age had been reset in recent years. A group of fighters led by Hassan Hattab split from GIA in 1998 to form the GSPC. As a former paratrooper in the Algerian army and commander in the GIA, Hattab had respected combat credentials. GIA members defected en masse. The GSPC even retained the GIA’s orga­nizational structure, a nine-­zone command structure that covered Algeria and its environs.135 The GSPC made its public debut on April 1999, characterizing itself as “a continuation of the Armed Islamic Group, following its ideology, before it deviated and went astray.”136 By the time the GSPC formed, Algeria was a cautionary tale for jihadists, a portrait of failure, deviation, and misguided vio­lence. While the GSPC was a welcomed change from the GIA, the insurgency had been so thoroughly discredited that it remained isolated. Though ­there are sporadic reports that bin Laden provided funding to the GSPC early on, prospective allies, including al-­Qaida, kept a distance from Algeria ­after their disastrous experience with the GIA. Al-­Qaida had reason to be suspicious of Hattab, as he had been responsible for keeping several al-­Qaida members detained when they went to Algeria to investigate the GIA.137 For the GSPC’s part, Hattab inherited the GIA’s insular orga­nizational culture and did not pursue partners. Moreover, while the GSPC was a new group, it did not experience the typical orga­nizational needs of a young group ­because it had experienced personnel. Hattab shed the GIA’s excesses and focused the GSPC on overthrowing the Algerian government. However, the rapidly changing post−9/11 environment came as the GSPC was on the brink of an orga­nizational crisis. The group was not making inroads against the Algerian government; in fact, it was losing ground. Already on the decline, the GSPC’s nationalist agenda in Algeria was an anachronism in the post−9/11 environment. The GSPC’s response to 9/11 was tepid. It tried to carve out a ­middle ground of neither condoning nor condemning the attacks, instead declaring that insufficient evidence existed to demonstrate that al-­Qaida was responsible and warning that the United States should not rush to blame Muslims.138 Despite its orga­nizational deficiencies, the changing environment



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did not lead Hattab to self-­reform or revise the group’s orga­nizational frames vis-­à-­vis alliances. Nonetheless, ­after 9/11, the GSPC suffered the consequences of being an al-­Qaida ally, which contributed to its mounting orga­nizational crisis. Governments assumed that the GSPC was an al-­Qaida ally ­because of the number of Algerians involved in global jihadism and the groups’ shared Salafist jihadist ideology. Consequently, the GSPC bore the costs of an alliance with al-­Qaida without the corresponding benefits. The United States designated it as a Foreign Terrorist Organ­ization, and the United Nations 1267 Committee deemed it an “entity associated with al-­Qaida” in October 2001.139 In addition, the GSPC faced a more hostile environment. ­After years of taking a hands-­off approach to the conflict in Algeria, the United States became involved in the region, building regional governments’ capacity and encouraging cooperation among governments. The international community, which had isolated Algiers for subverting democracy and employing a brutal counterinsurgency approach during the 1990s, rehabilitated the Algerian government overnight. In 2002, the U.S. government unveiled the Pan-­Sahel Initiative, citing concerns about the region’s potential to become the “next Af­ghan­i­stan.” The PSI—­a capacity-­building program—­targeted the GSPC’s financial epicenter, the Sahel countries of Mali, Niger, Mauritania, and Chad.140 The U.S. military’s Eu­ro­pean Command, which had responsibility for much of Africa at the time, likened the PSI to a “preventative mea­sure.”141 To the GSPC, prevention looked like an effort to end its existence. By 2004, the U.S. military had “helped train and equip one rapid-­reaction com­pany, about 150 soldiers,” in each of the participating states “to enhance border capabilities against arms smuggling, drug trafficking, and the movement of trans-­national terrorists.”142 Internal debate within the GSPC about how to respond to the changed environment grew more intense. Some objected to the GSPC’s Algeria-­only strategy, pursued since its inception. The group became divided between ­t hose who advocated a continued focus on the Algerian government and ­those who believed the group should align itself with the international jihadist milieu. While ­those in the latter camp emphasized ideological motives, they also sought to gain power and to help the GSPC to adapt and survive. Reeling from the response to 9/11, al-­Qaida explored the possibility of cooperation with the GSPC prior to Zarqawi’s intervention. In 2002, al-­Qaida

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leadership deployed a Yemeni lieutenant, Emad Abdelwahid Ahmed Alwan, to Algeria. If its emissary’s stature was any indication, al-­Qaida was serious about forging ties with the GSPC. Alwan’s resume included involvement in the 2000 USS Cole attack in Yemen and personal connections to both bin Laden and Zawahiri.143 However, before Alwan could meet with Hattab, Algerian forces killed him in a clash in Batna, a city east of Algiers.144 It was another costly loss for al-­Qaida, at a time it could not afford any further losses. The prospects for cooperation died with Alwan, at least for the ­moment. The U.S. war in Iraq decisively shifted the balance in ­favor of the internationalists within the GSPC, and its orga­nizational crisis became acute.145 The group strug­gled to attract recruits to replace the members who surrendered during the 1999 amnesty in addition to ­those lost in clashes with the Algerian security ser­vices. By 2003, the conflict in Algeria had lost resonance with Algerians. In contrast, the insurgency against the United States in Iraq appealed to a new generation with ­little memory of the 1990s, and they flocked ­there. Even veteran GSPC fighters ­were more interested in traveling to Iraq than fighting a lost cause in Algeria.146 To adapt, the GSPC secured a place in the pipeline for fighters leaving Algeria for Iraq. The GSPC advertised its willingness to provide ser­vices using the assets it already possessed: opportunities for combat experience; training in remote areas where it had freedom of movement, like the Sahel; and the ability to move ­people and goods through its facilitation and smuggling routes. Soon, some aspiring Algerian volunteers seeking a way to Iraq availed themselves of the GSPC’s ser­vices.147 The GSPC encouraged trainees to return to the group and ­others to delay their travel to Iraq, siphoning off a few recruits.148 It was a stopgap mea­sure and did not cure the GSPC’s ailments. In late 2003, the internationalists within GSPC made a move to remove their biggest obstruction: deposing the group’s founding leader, who was reportedly engaging in reconciliation talks with the Algerian government, a clear indication of the group’s weakness. With this action, the group’s orga­ nizational age was reset. The leader who overthrew Hattab was killed in early 2004, perpetuating the group’s orga­nizational crises. Another internationally oriented leader, Abdelmalek Droukdal, then became the group’s emir. He revised the orga­nizational frames, routines, and problem-­solving approaches established ­under Hattab. He pushed to instill a culture receptive to alliances and initiated reforms, including a propaganda campaign to ad-



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just the group’s narrative to accord with al-­Qaida’s frames. Another amnesty in Algeria in 2005 further depleted the GSPC’s ranks and exacerbated its orga­nizational crisis and the corresponding need to adapt, paving the way for the alliance with al-­Qaida. Moreover, the timing of the amnesty was such that it offered an exit option for ­those who disagreed with the group’s changes or its new leader. This left the internationalists firmly in control. Meanwhile, the flow of Algerian fighters and the role of the GSPC in facilitating foreign fighters fostered connections between the GSPC and AQI. North Africans, particularly Algerians, became one of the largest contingents of foreign fighters in Iraq.149 Estimates of the number of the Algerians pres­ent in Iraq during this period are problematic, but most agree that they ­were a sizable portion of Zarqawi’s followers.150 Algerians also perpetrated high-­profile AQI attacks, such as a March 2004 attack on the Mount Lebanon ­Hotel in Baghdad.151 The GSPC and AQI gradually initiated an alliance. Therefore, when the GSPC faced a crisis, it turned to AQI. In the fall of 2004, Droukdal sent a message to Zarqawi asking AQI to kidnap French citizens in Iraq. In a somewhat convoluted plan, ­these hostages would be used to coerce the French government to pressure Chadian rebels, who ­were holding a GSPC commander. The GSPC commander ended up in Chadian rebel captivity ­because the U.S. Eu­ro­pean Command had helped the Sahelian militaries, which typically ignored the GSPC, to coordinate a mission to pursue him. The GSPC commander fled into the Chadian rebels’ territory, only to be detained by them. Zarqawi agreed to assist; however, the Chadian rebels handed the GSPC commander over to Algeria before AQI could intervene.152 While unable to help the GSPC ­f ree its commander, in July 2005, AQI kidnapped Algerian diplomats in Baghdad.153 The GSPC put out a statement, which featured a picture of bin Laden superimposed on a map of Algeria, congratulating Zarqawi and condemning the Algerian government for its support for “the apostate Iraq Government and its alliance with crusaders in Iraq.”154 Within days, AQI announced its intent to execute the diplomats for working for an “idolatrous government.”155 The GSPC responded, supporting AQI’s decision and accusing one of the hostages of involvement in a massacre in Algeria.156 AQI then murdered the diplomats, causing an uproar in Algeria and precipitating Algeria’s withdrawal from Iraq. In addition, AQI and the GSPC also publicly signaled their growing relationship. In January 2005, Zarqawi extolled the GSPC in an audio statement.157 The GSPC responded ­later that month, reciprocating the sentiment.

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From that point forward, in its declarations, the GSPC frequently reserved special praise for Zarqawi. Zarqawi then proposed to the GSPC that it ally with al-­Qaida and gain the jihadist cachet associated with that group’s name.158 However, al-­Qaida remained wary of the GSPC. Zawahiri—­who led EIJ when it broke relations with the GIA in 1995—­expressed his ambivalence to Zarqawi, writing “­there are fears from the previous experiences, so if ­you’re able to get in touch with them [the GSPC] and notify us of the details from them, we would be very grateful to you.”159 Alliance negotiations between al-­Qaida and the GSPC began, with Zarqawi acting as a liaison, in the summer of 2005. Further encouraging the alliance, by 2005, the Algerian government was a heralded U.S. counterterrorism partner. The GSPC faced counterterrorism pressure as if it was already an al-­Qaida ally. Cooperation had reached unpre­ce­dented levels. The Algerian government participated in the followon program to the Pan-­Sahel Initiative, the Trans-­Sahara Counterterrorism Initiative.160 The U.S. and Algerian governments initiated a joint military dialogue as a forum for training, exchanges, and exercises.161 Economic ties also grew. Following the liberalization of the hydrocarbon sector in 2005, U.S. companies invested in Algerian industry, and Americans began working in Algeria for the first time since the mass exodus of foreigners in 1993.162 Overall, the Algerian government was not only back in the international fold; the United States treated it as a regional leader on counterterrorism. ­These changes to the environment did not escape the GSPC’s notice. When asked what motivated the GSPC to engage with al-­Qaida, Droukdal responded that “we found ourselves on the blacklist of the U.S. administration, tagged with terrorism. Then we found Amer­i­ca building military bases in the south of our country, and conducting military exercises, and plundering our oil and planning to get our gas.”163 What Droukdal did not say was that the alliance was impor­tant to consolidating his leadership as well. He ascended to the position with the argument that the GSPC needed to embrace a more internationalist orientation, and an alliance with al-­Qaida would deliver that. Being the leader who accomplished the alliance would improve his position in the organ­ization and secure the loyalty of the rank and file.164 Complicated by distance and security precautions, the alliance negotiations between al-­Qaida and the GSPC proceeded slowly. An alliance with the GSPC offered al-­Qaida an opportunity to extend its influence into the Maghreb—­envisioned as part of its aspirational caliphate—­where ­there was



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a ready pool of militants, as evidenced by the flow of North Africans into Iraq. It also provided al-­Qaida with repre­sen­ta­tion in the Maghreb, which none of its other Maghreb partners living in exile could credibly offer. In addition, the GSPC had assets that ­were in short supply. While its remote strongholds in Algeria and the Sahel ­were not ideal for influencing the Algerian public, ­after 9/11 havens ­were exceedingly rare. Moreover, the GSPC was willing to use its sanctuaries, especially in the Sahel, for small-­scale training.165 Al-­Qaida may have also hoped that the GSPC could conduct operations in Eu­rope, at least in France, which would expand its reach into the West, although this did not materialize.166 The GSPC had expressed a willingness to adhere to al-­Qaida’s agenda, though it had not meaningfully demonstrated an ability to do so. Perhaps most impor­tant, it had repeatedly recognized al-­Qaida as the vanguard of the movement. An alliance with al-­Qaida provided the GSPC a way to compensate for its most glaring deficiency, its reputation and the associated resource mobilization shortfalls. A leader of the media wing ­later admitted that the group needed the alliance to justify its continued activity in Algeria.167 The GSPC was saddled with the tainted Algerian legacy. It was irrelevant in its homeland, even among ­those motivated by jihadist ­causes. What al-­Qaida offered was not a cure-­all, but it provided a way for the GSPC to bolster its resource mobilization capabilities and become relevant in the changed environment. The GSPC wanted to break out of isolation and into the global jihadist fold in the hopes that d­ oing so would entice new members and invigorate existing ones. It prob­ably hoped that al-­Qaida would share its traditional resources, particularly money and expertise, though ­these assets ­were in short supply in the current environment. In sum, the GSPC needed al-­Qaida to secure its orga­nizational survival. With the GSPC’s adoption of a more internationalist orientation, it bridged their frames and improved its narrative affinity with al-­Qaida and paved the way for identity convergence. For its part, al-­Qaida shared and was willing to emphasize its opposition to the GSPC’s far ­enemy, France, which had long provided counterterrorism assistance to Algiers. In addition, the two groups already enjoyed ideological affinity and ethnic affinity. Notably, they had a referral from a trusted third party, which was sufficient to build trust. This combination of orga­nizational needs, affinity, and a trusted broker led to alliance formation. On the fifth 9/11 anniversary, Zawahiri announced that the GSPC had joined al-­Qaida, weaving their joint narrative in the statement. “We pray to Allah that this event would be a thorn in the neck of

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the American and French crusaders and their allies, and an arrow in the heart of the French traitors and apostates. We ask Allah to help our ­brothers of the GSPC to hit the foundations of the Crusader alliance, primarily their old leader, the infidel United States.”168 The GSPC responded on September 14, affirming its ­union with al-­Qaida. “We are glad to inform our Islamic nation and our Muslim ­brothers around the world . . . ​of the merging of the Salafist Group for Prayer and Combat in Algeria with Al-­ Qaida, and swearing bayat to the Mujahid Shaykh Abu Abdullah Usama Bin Laden. . . . ​We have deci­ded to swear bayat to Shaykh Usama Bin Laden and to continue our jihad in Algeria as soldiers u ­ nder his command, for him to use us in the cause of Allah when and where he sees fit.”169 Then, in January 2007, the GSPC became al-­Qaida in the Islamic Maghreb (AQIM). For al-­ Qaida, the alliance was particularly timely in maintaining its alliance hub position in the wake of Zarqawi’s death. Unlike al-­Qaida’s difficulties with AQI, AQIM engaged in coordination with al-­Qaida, though the inability to communicate securely was a constant hindrance.170 For example, ­after forming the alliance, AQIM sought bin Laden’s input on plans to attack French targets. Bin Laden endorsed the proposal, telling AQIM that that infidel country [France] has colonized the Muslim countries for a long time, and h ­ ere it is ­today backing with all its might the group of infidels that is ruling the land of Algeria with iron and fire. The Islamic duty obligates us to fight that country even on its own ground, particularly as it is pursuing the mujahidin on its territories and in neighboring countries and subjecting them to harm and hatching conspiracies against them. It is unquestionably an ally for the Americans and Jews. . . . ​From our side, and while taking precautions, we have given o­ rders to contact you in order to agree on the targets most painful to the ­enemy in the east and west of its country.171 Al-­Qaida also provided guidance on how AQIM should ­handle hostages, a major source of revenue for AQIM.172 Al-­Qaida urged AQIM to expand its operations into other African countries, including Sierra Leone and Togo, and to conduct specialized training to build external operations’ capability.173 Notably, al-­Qaida sought AQIM’s support for an operative, “Shaykh Yunis,” who was tasked with planning operations in the West, al-­Qaida’s top—­and



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most sensitive—­priority.174 The days of al-­Qaida providing AQIM with financial assistance ­were short-­lived, if they occurred at all, as al-­Qaida sought €200,000 from the GSPC to support Yunis’s work.175 Though they engaged in consultation, AQIM did not always—or perhaps even usually—­adhere to al-­Qaida’s guidance. Al-­Qaida encountered the same tension with AQIM as it did with other allies: getting them to focus on the United States.176 This reflected that a common ­enemy was not the motive for the alliance. However, al-­Qaida and AQIM engaged in dynamic cooperation and consultations on a range of issues, creating an alliance that would survive the break between al-­Qaida and the group that brought AQIM into the network, AQI. The Faux Affiliates

Back in 2005, as al-­Qaida grappled with how to manage AQI and explored an alliance with the GSPC, it attempted to package the integration of factions of EIG and LIFG into al-­Qaida as new affiliates. Over time, ­these members had grown detached from their parent organ­izations and worked extensively with al-­Qaida. They offered a pool of experienced operatives that al-­Qaida needed to fill vacancies caused by counterterrorism losses. ­These alliances w ­ ere more akin to EIJ’s merger with al-­Qaida in 2001, though al-­ Qaida sought to portray them as affiliates in order to gain the stature it sought through alliances. As discussed in Chapter 4, EIG and LIFG ­were once sizable groups—­ estimated in the thousands at their peak—­that had been badly damaged by counterterrorism efforts. Both had cooperated with al-­Qaida in the past but avoided alliances in recent years. In the wake of their orga­nizational defeats, both undertook dramatic self-­reform mea­sures to adapt and survive. However, the needs of the factions in exile in South Asia increasingly diverged from their imprisoned leaders at home based on their varying environments. Out of touch with their parent organ­izations and home countries, ­those in exile needed the alliance with al-­Qaida to survive. However, an alliance with al-­Qaida would not address the overall groups’ needs; instead, it would harm their self-­reform mea­sures, and so they rejected the alliance. Alliance announcements had become central to al-­Qaida’s ability to proj­ect its viability in the face of unrelenting pressure. While EIG ­will be discussed in detail in Chapter 6, in the case of LIFG, the alliance centered on the LIFG members who had ignored their leaders’ order to evacuate Af­ghan­i­stan, in

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par­tic­u­lar Abu Layth al-­Libi and Abu Yahya al-­Libi. In the intervening years, ­these LIFG members had become integrated into the se­nior ranks of al-­Qaida. When the Libyans expressed their willingness to formalize their alliance with al-­Qaida, al-­Qaida leaders ­were thrilled.177 In addition to the publicity value, t­ hese individuals had combat experience, operational planning capability, and religious credentials, skills al-­Qaida desperately needed given the personnel losses it had incurred. In November 2007, Zawahiri announced the alliance, framing it as an ideologically driven alliance against a common threat, a step t­ oward “one jihadist ­battle by one Islamic nation against one Crusader-­Zionist ­enemy. . . . ​ A group of men who initiated jihad, took the path of strug­gle, hoisted the flags of the call for Islam and jihad, and took the lead in patience and steadfastness of the elite Libyan Islamic Fighting Group, has announced joining al-­Qaida of Jihad in order to continue the march of their ­brothers who sacrificed their souls in battlefields and spent their lives in prison of their own accord to satisfy their God.”178 Zawahiri went on to label Qadhafi’s rapprochement with the United States as evidence that he was an agent of the Crusaders, and thereby folded the LIFG’s frames into al-­Qaida’s narrative. An influential LIFG member, Abu Layth al-­Libi, then publicly pledged allegiance to al-­Qaida. Abu Layth had grown in stature in the jihadist movement, emerging as a charismatic leader and capable operational planner. In so d­ oing, he did not abdicate his lifelong commitment to overthrowing Tripoli. Instead, he pointed to the convergence in their ­causes, in light of the Qadhafi regime and the U.S. ­rapprochement, even though his decision to stay in Af­ghan­i­stan with al-­Qaida pre-­dated this development. “Libya’s tyrant is suddenly discovering a­ fter t­ hese long years that Amer­i­ca, defender of the cross . . . ​is not an ­enemy who should be threatened with fiery speeches and revolutionary chants ­until our voices are lost, but is in fact a close friend and trusted ally. . . . ​It is by the grace of God that we fully understand Libya’s importance to the West.”179 Since most of the LIFG members fled Af­ghan­i­stan in 2001, the gulf between the vari­ous ele­ments of the group widened. The LIFG’s shura council had been unable to convene for years. By 2007, LIFG’s presence in Libyan prisons included two emirs, several shura council members, numerous other regular members, and a covert presence of an unknown size in the restive city of Benghazi.180 The rest of the group operated in exile. Some settled in Eu­rope, primarily the United Kingdom, taking advantage of liberal asylum



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laws and anti-­Qadhafi sentiment, while ­others remained in Af­ghan­i­stan and Pakistan.181 Though it still benefited from the personnel, al-­Qaida’s effort to gain stature through the alliance was undercut in July 2009, when the LIFG’s imprisoned leaders rejected the alliance and declared they ­were engaging in talks with Tripoli. Negotiations with the Libyan regime had been ­under way for nearly three years. Months ­later, LIFG’s imprisoned leaders issued a 417-­page publication with three main themes: a refutation of al-­Qaida’s ideology, a pledge to cease the campaign to overthrow Qadhafi’s regime, and a reevaluation of the group’s posture ­toward vio­lence.182 A faction of the group that identified itself as LIFG−Britain supported this effort and rejected the alliance with al-­Qaida, damaging al-­Qaida’s dismissal of the reconciliation as coerced by the Qadhafi regime.183 The LIFG leaders’ disavowal was unexpected, made more complicated by the fact that Zawahiri heralded some of ­these individuals in the alliance announcement.184 More damaging, members of the group’s shura—­including its first emir and the ­brother of an LIFG member involved in the al-­Qaida alliance—­led the peace initiative.185 In contrast, the alliance with al-­Qaida hinged on a few charismatic, high-­profile LIFG individuals, particularly Abu Layth al-­Libi and Abu Yahya al-­Libi. In spite of al-­Qaida’s proclamations about shared threats and ideological solidarity, the divergence within the LIFG reflects the centrality of orga­ nizational needs in alliance considerations. In the post−9/11 environment, this grew more problematic ­because some groups could no longer speak with one voice ­because counterterrorism pressure had fractured them. The LIFG’s personnel and the alliance announcement helped fulfill al-­Qaida’s need to proj­ect strength and expansion in the post−9/11 environment. The move was subsequently undercut by the rejection by the rest of the group. Moreover, the death of the loci of trust—­Abu Layth in 2008 and Abu Yahya in 2012—­f urther damaged the alliance.

What’s in a Name? A Terrorist Legacy While affiliates fulfilled al-­Qaida’s needs in the de­cade ­after 9/11, bin Laden began to express concern about their conduct a­ fter adopting al-­Qaida’s name. Al-­Qaida was alarmed by its affiliates’ attacks on Muslims and the damage

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t­ hese actions caused to its reputation, which offset the alliance’s value in projecting al-­Qaida’s presence into ­those regions. In response, al-­Qaida issued policy directives to its allies, seeking an increased role in their decisions, particularly regarding external operations and leadership changes.186 It also sought to modify their be­hav­ior, in par­tic­u­lar to reduce their targeting of fellow Muslims and to increase their focus on the United States.187 Bin Laden even grew concerned about al-­Qaida’s primary alliance asset: its name. Rather than being an asset, he feared that al-­Qaida’s name “reduces the feeling of Muslims that we belong to them, and allows the enemies to claim deceptively that they are not at war with Islam and Muslims, but they are at war with the organ­ization of al-­Qaida, which is an outside entity from the teachings of Islam.”188 Given that a major component of affiliation involved the partnering groups’ adoption of the al-­Qaida name, bin Laden’s concerns spelled a change as to how al-­Qaida approached alliances. Affiliation Without the Name

Meanwhile, another group was agitating for an alliance with al-­Qaida: al-­ Shabaab in Somalia. As discussed in Chapter 4, al-­Qaida had a long history with Somali jihadists, including during the U.N. intervention in the famine and civil war in the 1990s. At that time, al-­Qaida was allied with al-­Ittihad al-­Islamiyah (AIAI). ­After suffering defeats, AIAI grew decentralized, and some members shifted to a strategy that emphasized proselytization over jihad.189 ­After 9/11, al-­Qaida’s East Africa cell, which was responsible for the 2002 bombing of a ­hotel in Mombasa, found haven in Somalia and was al-­ Qaida’s main connection to the failed state. The environment in Somalia changed markedly in 2006, when an ­entity known as the Council of Islamic Courts (the Courts) ­rose to fill the governance vacuum, confront the reviled warlords who had long used Mogadishu as their personal fiefdoms, and oppose the Ethiopia-­backed Transitional Federal Government. This was the most recent iteration in countless efforts to establish a government in Somalia and was widely seen as a proxy for Somalia’s perennial rival, Ethiopia. The Courts ­were a broad co­a li­tion of Islamists that included remnants of the largely defunct AIAI and other hard-­liners who had trained or fought in Af­ghan­i­stan.190 The Courts exploited resentment of the ineffectual Transitional Federal Government and hostility ­toward warlords to gain power.191 Sensing a threat, a co­a li­tion of rival Mogadishu warlords, allegedly with foreign backing,



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banded together to combat the Courts, only to be decisively defeated. By mid2006, the Courts controlled most of Mogadishu.192 The Courts’ influence soon spread as it provided a modicum of security, justice, and governance long absent in the collapsed state. Though some courts imposed harsh interpretations of sharia, the Courts enjoyed more public support than the dozens of makeshift governments that had formed and failed since the country’s collapse.193 Addis Ababa watched the Courts’ takeover with alarm. The ardently anti-­Ethiopian Courts harbored irredentist claims on Ethiopia’s Ogaden region, where a long-­standing Islamist separatist insurgency was still ­under way. Moreover, as the Courts ­were establishing their writ, an extremist faction in their midst, known as al-­Shabaab, meaning “the Youth,” engaged in a covert assassination campaign. Al-­Shabaab sought to marginalize moderates and steadily accrued greater power.194 In late 2006, Ethiopia invaded Mogadishu in response to the Courts’ strength and al-­Shabaab’s growing influence within them. Ethiopia quickly defeated the Courts militarily. However, it inadvertently increased hard-­liners’ stature by providing them with a rallying cry to oppose the foreign invader. Ethiopian troops soon faced an insurgent and terrorism campaign, as did the forces subsequently deployed ­under the auspices of the African Union Mission in Somalia, or AMISOM.195 Individuals who became leaders of al-­Shabaab had been protecting the East African al-­Qaida operatives in Mogadishu.196 ­These veteran al-­Qaida operatives ­were the source of regular threats, causing the United States to issue travel warnings discouraging Americans from traveling to ­Kenya. Their involvement in the 1998 embassy attacks and 2002 attacks in Mombasa was a testament to their capability. The United States’ top priority in Somalia was eliminating the al-­Qaida cell, and thus it supported the Ethiopian intervention in the hopes of disrupting their safe haven.197 Despite ­these ties, the al-­Qaida operatives w ­ ere not responsible for al-­Shabaab’s formation or the 198 Courts’ rise. With the Ethiopian invasion, al-­Shabaab came to the forefront of a jihad against Ethiopia, which garnered international attention, including an influx of foreign fighters. The cause received some attention from al-­Qaida as well. Abu Yahya al-­Libi—­the LIFG member turned al-­Qaida religious scholar ­behind the LIFG faction’s alliance with al-­Qaida—­issued a call to conduct jihad against Ethiopia in February 2006.199 Likewise, Zawahiri urged support for the jihad against the Ethiopian presence in Somalia in J­ anuary 2007.200 However, al-­Qaida’s statements did not specifically ­acknowledge or

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endorse al-­Shabaab, suggesting that the two groups had not forged an alliance, despite some ties.201 In December 2007, al-­Shabaab formalized its in­de­pen­dence from the Courts by naming Ahmed Abdi Godane as its emir. By then, Godane had been in militant circles for year, with connections to AIAI, schooling in Pakistan, and training in Af­ghan­i­stan ­under the Taliban.202 From northern Somalia and thus lacking a clan constituency in al-­Shabaab’s stronghold in the south, Godane sought an alliance with al-­Qaida as a way to consolidate his leadership, authority, and credentials. Al-­Shabaab already had close ties to AQAP, as geographic proximity enabled more regular cooperation. ­Under Godane’s leadership, al-­Shabaab was no longer content to limit its ties with al-­Qaida Central to vague public pronouncements.203 Al-­Shabaab signaled its desire for an alliance with al-­Qaida. In September 2009, al-­Shabaab publicly pledged fealty to bin Laden, declaring him “our Sheikh and emir” and professing its desire for “guidance during this advanced stage of jihad.”204 Al-­Shabaab paired its statement with a video in which bin Laden declared support for jihad in Somalia, creating the impression that an alliance already existed.205 Yet al-­Qaida did not respond with its endorsement. Why was al-­Shabaab so intent on forging an alliance with al-­Qaida? Al-­Shabaab was a relatively young organ­ization, albeit with some veteran members. Godane deci­ded that the alliance was critical to securing the organ­ ization as it sought to gain members, attract foreign fighters, expand its territorial control and, equally impor­tant, to securing his control of the group. Matt Bryden assessed that Godane wanted the alliance to strengthen the group’s reputation and to improve its skills through getting training and experience abroad.206 In addition, Godane likely sought an al-­Qaida endorsement to consolidate his leadership and insulate it from dissent, which grew as he became more autocratic. In other words, he saw an alliance with al-­ Qaida as a way to marginalize his critics.207 However, al-­Qaida abstained from endorsing al-­Shabaab as it grappled with how to ­handle alliances ­going forward. They had unresolved concerns about al-­Shabaab. ­After a period in which he had lost communication with al-­Qaida leaders, East Africa al-­Qaida veteran Harun Fazul reestablished a line of communication with bin Laden in early 2009. This did not improve al-­Shabaab’s prospects of becoming an al-­Qaida ally ­because Fazul, who was held in high esteem by bin Laden, had reservations about al-­Shabaab’s conduct and doctrine.208



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While the two groups shared ideological affinity and increasing narrative affinity as al-­Shabaab adjusted its frames, al-­Shabaab’s ethnic identity differed from the existing affiliates in a way that may have diminished affinity. To date, the other affiliates, including the “faux” affiliates, all shared an Arab ethnic identity. Somalis’ ethnic identity is more complex. As a functioning state, Somalia was part of the Arab League, but Arabic is not the Somalis’ native language. The Arabs who deployed to Somalia in the early 1990s found the place hopelessly foreign. Accordingly, an affiliate relationship with al-­Shabaab would extend the bound­a ries of its affiliates to publicly brand a group with a differing ethnic identity. Given al-­Qaida’s Arab-­centric attitudes, this may have played into its hesitations about al-­Shabaab. Moreover, at this point, bin Laden was reevaluating the affiliates more broadly. He sought to initiate a new phase to correct al-­Qaida’s allies’ be­ hav­ior, particularly actions that contributed to “the alienation of most of the [Muslim] nation from the mujahidin.”209 He saw affiliates as damaging al-­Qaida’s reputation, mitigating the benefits of the alliances. He instructed one of his deputies to prepare a covenant in which allies would commit to avoiding the ­mistakes that had tarnished the jihadist movement’s reputation. Al-­Qaida disseminated the directive to its allies, stressing the need to avoid Muslim casualties in their operations and guidance on how to ­handle propaganda.210 Perhaps learning lessons from its past allies, al-­Qaida was reluctant to publicly endorse al-­Shabaab and brand it as al-­Qaida without assurances that al-­Shabaab’s be­hav­ior would be in line with ­these efforts, especially given Fazul’s misgivings. One way to do so was to form an alliance without the public endorsement and renaming of the affiliate. In August 2010, bin Laden responded to Godane’s appeal to al-­Qaida.211 He declined Godane’s request for a public affiliation. This has sometimes been interpreted as al-­Qaida declining to ally with al-­Shabaab. In fact, al-­Qaida did agree to ally with al-­Shabaab; it was just unwilling to make the alliance public as it had with previous affiliates, thereby depriving al-­Shabaab, particularly Godane, of the reputational benefit.212 Bin Laden wrote, I see that this obligation should be carried out legitimately and through unannounced secret messaging, by spreading this ­matter among the p­ eople of Somalia, without any official declaration by any officers on our side or your side, that the unity has taken place. But ­there remains the situation of the ­brothers on your side and their talking about their relationship with al-­Qaida, if asked.

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It would be better for them to say that ­there is a relationship with al-­Qaida which is simply a brotherly Islamic connection and nothing more, which would neither deny nor prove.213 He also voiced concerns that a public alliance would increase counterterrorism pressure on the group and inhibit its ability to raise funds.214 Despite ­these limitations, al-­Shabaab pledged bayat to bin Laden, and the two groups formed an alliance.215 Bin Laden’s decision to keep the alliance private provoked debate within al-­Qaida’s se­nior echelons. Zawahiri argued that al-­Qaida should acknowledge its allies in order to avoid false declarations of association: “I see it to be very essential for al-­Qaida to confirm and declare its linkage with its branches, in order to become a reported fact, ­there is no use in denying it. Therefore, please reconsider your opinion not to declare the accession of the ­brothers of Somalia.”216 Zawahiri dismissed ­those “too concerned about inflating the size and growth of al-­Qaida,” which suggests that other al-­Qaida leaders ­were expressing apprehensions about public affiliations as well. Regardless of Zawahiri’s dissent, bin Laden was the final arbiter of this decision. While they did not make their alliance public, cooperation and collaboration began ­behind the scenes.217 Al-­Qaida was keen to support al-­Shabaab’s governance efforts. It assigned Abu Yahya al-­Libi—­the LIFG member turned al-­Qaida religious authority who was well respected within the movement— to offer guidance to al-­Shabaab. Bin Laden instructed that “we need his [Abu Yayha’s] efforts especially ­after the ­brothers in Somalia took control. This is an emirate on the ground, and it is real and had millions of p­ eople in it. It ­will require strong care and support in terms of religious research. Do not forget the magnitude of our responsibility since they deci­ded to join us.”218 Other than the lack of public endorsement, al-­Qaida treated al-­Shabaab like other affiliates, such as including al-­Shabaab when it sent out policy directives to the affiliates. It also consulted with al-­Shabaab on an array of ­matters, including how to administer the territory it controlled, such as using judges to rule on disputes, and how to improve Somalis’ living conditions. Al-­Qaida implored al-­Shabaab to avoid conducting operations against AMISOM in places where Muslims became collateral damage.219 On the other hand, it deferred to al-­Shabaab on some issues, such as ­whether to educate girls.220 The two groups consulted on an array of m ­ atters without making the alliance overtly public.



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In July 2010, al-­Shabaab attacked two locations in Kampala, Uganda, where ­people had gathered to watch an international soccer match. The attack killed seventy-­four ­people and injured seventy more. This was the first time al-­Shabaab targeted one of the countries involved in the AMISOM peacekeeping mission outside of Somalia. One common interpretation of this attack was that it reflected al-­Shabaab’s shift ­toward al-­Qaida.221 However, this explanation is only partially correct. Al-­Qaida was not pleased with the attack. Al-­Qaida had encouraged al-­Shabaab to strike in Uganda; however, al-­Qaida instructed it to orchestrate the assassination of the Ugandan president. Failing that, al-­Shabaab was supposed to target “vital military and economic targets.” With no praise or encouragement, bin Laden’s private feedback reflected his disapproval of the target se­lection.222 Though al-­Qaida’s propaganda unit put together a paper on ways to frame the attack in a positive light,223 al-­Shabaab’s attack contravened al-­Qaida instructions to avoid mass casualty attacks against soft targets that could kill Muslims and inadvertently affirmed bin Laden’s decision to avoid public affiliation. Despite this, al-­Qaida sought ways to leverage its alliance with al-­Shabaab for its external operations, an indication of trust between the partners. Al-­Qaida considered sending an operative charged with conducting a plot against the West to Somalia.224 In an internal report on external operations, al-­Qaida discussed plans to “send ­brothers to run the business from Somalia,” though it is not clear exactly what business was referred to in this context.225 By 2011, with the private addition of al-­Shabaab, al-­Qaida had created a network of allies anointed to be its representatives in impor­tant regions to bolster its status and reach, in addition to local allies in South Asia to secure its survival.226 With this network, al-­Qaida’s alliances spanned North Africa, the Horn of Africa, the Levant, the Arabian Peninsula, and South Asia. It also had integrated factions of EIG and the LIFG into its orga­ nizational structure. The End of an Era

On May 1, 2011, twenty-­three Navy Seals departed from eastern Af­ghan­i­stan in two Black Hawk he­li­cop­ters. They flew into Pakistan undetected, penetrating deep into the country in a ninety-­minute flight. They landed outside of a compound in Abbottabad.227 One of the Black Hawks crashed during the landing, but the Seal teams proceeded into the compound where bin

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Laden resided. By the end of their mission, they had killed bin Laden along with one of his sons, a courier, and the courier’s ­brother.228 Al-­Qaida’s founder and leader was dead. In June, Zawahiri ascended to become al-­Qaida’s emir. Despite bin Laden’s instructions, al-­Shabaab still did not wish to keep its affiliation private, especially as it suffered growing losses that same year, for which Godane faced mounting criticisms. Al-­Shabaab’s spokesman declared, “We welcome the outstanding choice of Shaykh Ayman al-­Zawahiri, and we ­shall maintain our covenant with him.”229 Al-­Shabaab’s ploy worked, as Zawahiri already wanted to make al-­Shabaab’s affiliation public. Moreover, a public affiliate announcement allowed Zawahiri to proj­ect al-­Qaida’s continued viability in the wake of bin Laden’s death: an acute orga­nizational need. In February 2012, the alliance between al-­Shabaab and al-­Qaida was announced publicly. 230 ­G odane issued an audiotape, once again pledging loyalty to Zawahiri. 231 Zawahiri then released a video in which he accepted the pledge and pointed to the now-­public alliance as evidence that the “jihadist movement is growing with God’s help.”232 Within al-­Shabaab, the announcement exacerbated the group’s unity prob­lems. With al-­Qaida’s public endorsement in hand, Godane’s style grew more dictatorial. His critics si­mul­ta­neously became less tolerant. Soon the dissension went public and even included pleas to al-­Qaida’s new leader. ­Godane set out to purge the naysayers.233 In language reminiscent of the GIA, Godane threatened to target any groups that attempted to form in al-­Shabaab areas. In October 2012, a foreign fighter issued a video complaining about Godane. In March 2013, an American operative issued an open letter voicing dissatisfaction with Godane as well. Even se­nior members vented their frustrations publicly. A few weeks ­later, Ibrahim al-­Afghani—­who, as his name suggests, fought and trained in Af­ghan­i­stan and was known to al-­ Qaida—­published an open letter to Zawahiri, warning him that the Somali jihad was in risk of failing.234 One of al-­Shabaab’s most impressive feats had been its adeptness at maintaining a unified co­ali­tion and managing the fault lines that perpetually divided Somalis. ­Under Godane, this tenuous balance was in danger. Foreshadowing Zawahiri’s subsequent failures to manage strife within al-­Qaida’s allies, he was ­either unable or unwilling to mediate. ­Godane succeeded in purging the dissenters and maintaining control of the group. Despite some claims that Godane was the engine of al-­Shabaab’s alliance with al-­Qaida, the alliance persisted ­after his death in September 2014. His successor, Ahmed Umar, quickly pledged allegiance to Zawahiri.



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Notably, the al-­Shabaab affiliate announcement still did not precipitate the renaming that accompanied al-­Qaida’s other affiliate relationships. This represented a shift in how al-­Qaida handled affiliates. Adopting al-­Qaida’s name had been a fundamental component of the affiliate arrangement, as groups sought ways to increase their appeal through the name’s appropriation. The cachet associated with the name had sustained al-­Qaida’s alliance hub position for the de­cade ­after 9/11. However, al-­Qaida was now relinquishing that alliance asset. Without it or bin Laden, could al-­Qaida entice new allies? Like al-­Shabaab, AQIM and AQAP publicly declared allegiance to Zawahiri.235 AQAP’s pledge in par­tic­u­lar helped al-­Qaida retain its alliance hub status. By the time bin Laden died, AQAP had emerged as al-­Qaida’s most prolific affiliate.236 However, one affiliate did not publicly declare bayat to Zawahiri. AQI, now known as the Islamic State in Iraq (ISI) issued a public statement proclaiming that it remained faithful to Zawahiri and al-­Qaida.237 In August 2011, now deceased ISI spokesman Abu Muhammad al-­Adnani declared al-­Zawahiri “the honorable sheikh, the reputable instructor, the experienced leader, the wise of the ummah” and appealed to God “to bless him and his recent position of leadership” and “to help him with the charge entrusted to him.”238 But ISI’s leader did not publicly declare bayat to Zawahiri. Abu Bakr al-­Baghdadi was an Iraqi hailing from the Quraysh tribe, a member of ISI’s shura council, and a religious scholar who ascended to the top spot in the group in 2010. Zawahiri subsequently contended that al-­Baghdadi asked if the pledge should be made public but that Zawahiri instructed him to do so privately in order to reduce counterterrorism pressure on ISI.239 Zawahiri also sent ISI a reported $2 million dollars, a clear effort to shore up al-­Baghdadi’s loyalty.240 In the years before bin Laden’s death, counterterrorism efforts degraded ISI from all sides. Soon the group was in crisis. The United States conducted targeted strikes against the group and supported Sunni tribes willing to oppose it, developments that inflicted significant damage. In 2010, ISI had lost thirty-­four of its top forty-­t wo leaders over the course of just a few months, including Zarqawi’s successors, Abu Ayyub al-­Masri and Abu Omar al-­Baghdadi.241 Abu Bakr al-­Baghdadi then ­rose to the helm of ISI.242 At the time, ISI lacked support from fellow Sunnis, and its operations ­were mostly relegated to the Iraq−Syria border.243 He set out to rebuild and reshape the organ­ization, eliminate critics, and orchestrate prison breaks to regain members. Notably, former Baathists r­ ose to fill the vacuum in the group.244

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In the interim, al-­Qaida and ISI lost contact and then slowly reestablished communications. 245 Al-­Baghdadi was an unknown quantity to al-­Qaida. Al-­Qaida leaders requested information about him and his deputy to “get a clearer picture.” Bin Laden also instructed that al-­Qaida reach out to an allied Kurdish militant group, Ansar al-­Islam, to get its view on ISI’s new leader.246 Al-­Qaida sought to improve the alliance, expressing hope in its internal communications this would be “an opportunity to renew unity and to find a new structure that combines every­thing.”247 However, while bin Laden was alive, al-­Baghdadi did not alleviate al-­ Qaida’s consternation with its first affiliate. Al-­Qaida’s difficulties with ISI ­were clear up ­until bin Laden’s final days. A week before his death, bin Laden requested an update from ISI and an explanation for its lack of communication.248 ISI experienced a dramatic recovery the same year bin Laden was killed. It executed a series of prison breaks, freeing both former and prospective members. The U.S. drawdown in Iraq coupled with the sectarian policies pursued by Nouri al-­Maliki’s government in Iraq caused Sunni power brokers to see the Shia as a greater threat than ISI. ISI now had common cause with the Sunni tribes that had previously opposed it and with former members of Saddam Hussein’s regime. Moreover, the Shia threat reactivated Sunni donors, helping replenish ISI’s coffers.249 ISI was poised for a resurgence. Then, in August 2011, in part at Zawahiri’s urging, al-­Baghdadi sent a Syrian operative Abu Muhammad al-­Jolani and a dozen operatives to Syria—­ where the revolution against Bashir Assad’s regime had escalated into a full-­ fledged civil war—to wage jihad against the Alawite government. 250 Jolani was a longtime member of the group; he had been close to Zarqawi and recruited members of the deceased leader’s network to join him in Syria.251 Jolani and his men proceeded to conduct a covert bombing campaign in ­Damascus. They did not issue claims of responsibility ­u ntil declaring themselves as Jabhat al-­Nusra in early 2012. Al-­Nusra emerged as a leading force in the Syrian civil war, presenting itself as a homegrown Syrian organ­ization and hiding its connections to ISI and al-­Qaida.252 Al-­Nusra was ­adept at both missionary and governance activities, thereby gaining support from local communities, and at fighting against the Assad regime, which garnered it re­spect from other rebel groups.253 While many of its members hailed from ISI, al-­Nusra grew increasingly autonomous. By trying to win over locals, forging relationships with other groups, and focusing on the Assad regime, al-­Nusra was adher-



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ing to al-­Qaida’s playbook more than following ISI’s approach.254 Zawahiri issued two statements in 2012 endorsing al-­Nusra’s aims and methods, while being careful not to claim association with it, which suggests that al-­ Qaida agreed with al-­Nusra’s deliberate obfuscation of its ties with foreign jihadists.255 Al-­Nusra, working with other groups, made substantial gains against the Assad regime, including capturing the city of Raqqa. Al-­Baghdadi soon wanted to consolidate the two ventures, expand ISI’s “state” into Syria, and stunt the ambitions of his upstart lieutenant, Jolani, before losing grip of his deployed operatives.256 He sent a letter to Jolani, ordering him to announce al-­Nusra as part of ISI. Jolani rebuffed the order, arguing that ­doing so would not help the cause in Syria. His suspicions about Jolani mounting, al-­Baghdadi deployed loyalists to covertly watch him. 257 What ISI’s spies found clearly did not alleviate concerns ­because in March 2013, al-­Baghdadi and his deputy met with Jolani in Syria and reiterated their request that he publicly acknowledge the ties between al-­Nusra and ISI. This time Jolani refused by appealing to a higher authority, arguing that al-­Nusra was in Syria on Zawahiri’s ­orders and that Zawahiri had forbidden any announcement of al-­Qaida’s presence in Syria.258 Al-­Baghdadi began maneuvering ­behind the scenes to undermine Jolani and prepare a public announcement.259 Then, in April 2013, al-­Baghdadi issued an audio message in which he took credit for al-­Nusra’s accomplishments and declared ISI and al-­Nusra as one organ­ization, to be known thereafter as the Islamic State of Iraq and al-­Sham (ISIS). As had long been the organ­ization’s modus operandi, ISIS did not consult al-­Nusra or al-­Qaida before the declaration.260 However, ­Jolani quickly countered the statement with his own, in which he acknowledged ISI’s role in al-­Nusra’s creation and thanked ISI for its support but pledged fealty to Zawahiri.261 Unwilling to be subsumed, Jolani was ready to have his own organ­ization on par with al-­Qaida’s other affiliates. Jolani implied that he had an existing bayat to al-­Qaida’s leader. Though it was unclear, it appeared that Jolani’s ties to Zawahiri existed via ISI. However, some communication reportedly occurred directly between al-­Nusra and al-­Qaida—­perhaps even between Jolani and al-­Qaida leaders—­a nd may have increased in 2013 before ISI’s move. 262 Al-­Qaida had sent funding to al-­Nusra beginning shortly ­a fter Jolani’s arrival.263 Moreover, al-­ Nusra’s leadership included veteran al-­Qaida members and individuals with long-­standing ties to al-­Qaida, such as the now deceased spokesman Abu Firas al-­Suri and a military leader Abu Hammam al-­Suri.264

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ISIS refused to relinquish its claim to al-­Nusra or Syria. A power strug­gle ensued, and, in June, Zawahiri weighed in, criticizing both groups’ conduct. Most impor­tant, he annulled ISIS’s power grab.265 Zawahiri ruled that al-­ Nusra should be in­de­pen­dent from ISIS and act as al-­Qaida’s representative in Syria, thereby fulfilling Jolani’s wishes. He further ordered ISIS to limit its efforts to Iraq and return to the ISI moniker.266 ISIS and al-­Nusra’s divide offered al-­Qaida an opportunity to gain a representative in Syria, one that almost certainly would be more responsive than ISIS. It is no coincidence that Zawahiri’s decision addressed al-­Qaida’s need to once again have an ally in the premier jihadist conflict to maintain its relevancy. Arguably, over a de­cade ­after 9/11 and in bin Laden’s absence, al-­Qaida needed such an ally in Syria even more than it had needed an ally in Iraq in 2003 to demonstrate its continued viability and role in the movement. Like al-­Shabaab, al-­Qaida’s newest ally did not adopt its name, even once the alliance had become public. Zawahiri was aware that his ruling would not silence the infighting; however, security restraints limited his communications. Therefore, he sent an emissary, Abu Khalid al-­Suri, to act as his representative and mediate.267 Al-­Baghdadi refused to accept Zawahiri’s decision, publicly stating that he chose “the command of my Lord over the [Zawahiri’s] command in the letter that contradicts it.”268 This was the most serious accusation he could levy against Zawahiri. Even amid the prob­lems between al-­Qaida and Zarqawi, the two groups had never spoken to one another this way and certainly had not done so publicly. The alliance was at its lowest point to date. However, it could and would get worse. In February 2014, ISIS assassinated Zawahiri’s envoy, Abu Khalid al-­Suri.269 That same month, roughly ten years ­a fter Zarqawi proposed becoming an affiliate, al-­Qaida officially broke ties.270 As ­others had urged bin Laden to do years earlier, al-­Qaida publicly declared that ISIS “is not a branch of the al-­Qaida group . . . ​does not have an orga­nizational relationship with it and [al-­Qaida] is not the group responsible for their actions.”271 The move represented the first and only time to date that al-­Qaida rejected an affiliate and publicly broke an alliance. Despite all of its attempts to salvage ties with its first affiliate, al-­Qaida fi­nally gave up on its most problematic ally.272 ISIS joined the conflict in Syria, becoming al-­Nusra’s main rival and a dominant force in the civil war. It ousted al-­Nusra and other rebel groups from Raqqa and claimed the city as its capital. ISIS proceeded to target rival groups in Syria with as much, if not more, ferocity than it displayed in fighting the Assad regime.



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However, ISIS was not content to compete with al-­Nusra and end the relationship with al-­Qaida. It wanted to challenge al-­Qaida’s leadership of the jihadist movement. In June 2014, al-­Baghdadi proclaimed the creation of the Islamic State from the pulpit of the ­Great Mosque of al-­Nuri in ­Mosul. He was thereby anointed as a caliph and declared the return of the ­caliphate. While al-­Qaida portrayed itself as the force preparing for the ­caliphate in the ­f uture, al-­Baghdadi claimed its existence now. Moreover, he claimed to be its leader. The Islamic State was still not content to challenge al-­Qaida through its audacious declaration. It publicly denigrated al-­Qaida as irrelevant and derided Zawahiri.273 Interestingly, rather than condemn al-­Qaida completely, it had attempted to portray itself as the true heir to bin Laden’s vision.274 It thereby sought to offer al-­Qaida allies a justification to defect. Yet the Islamic State declared that all Muslims and all jihadist organ­ izations had a religious obligation to join it. From an alliance standpoint, this was a call, a demand even, for partners. The Islamic State wanted to become an alliance hub. A slew of pledges of allegiances followed, and the Islamic State built an alliance network, adopting the approach of recognizing allies as “provinces,” in Egypt, Yemen, Algeria, Libya, Af­ghan­i­stan−Pakistan, Nigeria, and elsewhere. For the first time, al-­Qaida had a direct rival to its position in the movement. As Daveed Gartenstein-­Ross and Nathaniel Barr argued, “The Islamic State’s emergence—­with its control of territory, social media proficiency, and unpre­ce­dented ability to mobilize supporters—­threatened al-­Qaida’s position of dominance within the global jihadist movement.”275 This competition has taken many forms, including jockeying for resources, influence, media attention, and recruits. It also included competing for allies. ­Either group’s ability to legitimately claim to lead the movement requires the loyalty of a quorum of jihadist groups. While the Islamic State has attracted new alliances, al-­Qaida has retained all of its partners. The worldwide Sunni jihadist movement subsequently became bipolar, with groups all over the world aligned with e­ ither al-­Qaida or the Islamic State.

Conclusion Allies ­were the linchpin to al-­Qaida’s ability to survive and maintain relevancy ­after 9/11. Allies stepped in to assist al-­Qaida during its most difficult

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times. Al-­Qaida then found that the jihadist prestige that 9/11 bestowed was an enticement it could use to attract allies. Arguably, it worked better than its traditional assets had before 9/11 ­because groups needed this cachet to mobilize resources in the changed environment and ­under intense counterterrorism pressure. It built alliances that transcended the orga­nizational needs motivating their formation, as evidenced by its allies’ willingness to maintain their partnerships with al-­Qaida in the face of its founding leader’s death and the Islamic State’s challenge. However, al-­Qaida now had a limited ability to attract new allies. It attempted to compensate for this by forming a regional branch, al-­Qaida in the Indian Subcontinent. But with the shift away from adopting its name, al-­Qaida has strug­gled to find a way to address other groups’ needs in a way that attracts new allies. In the event of Zawahiri’s death, al-­Qaida may face another crisis. With the death of AQAP’s leader Nasir al-­Wuhayshi in 2015, no clear heir to Zawahiri exists, except perhaps bin Laden’s son. While al-­ Qaida still enjoys numerous alliances, ­unless it can rejuvenate its resources or acquire new assets, it ­will strug­gle to expand its alliance network. Should al-­Qaida be unable to act as a hub, one possibility is that the al-­Qaida alliance network ­will devolve into a network of alliances among al-­ Qaida’s partners. This may involve several smaller hubs rather than al-­Qaida functioning as a central hub. This has already occurred to some degree. For example, AQAP and al-­Shabaab have forged a relationship that does not depend on al-­Qaida Central. The Islamic State emerged as an alliance hub in its own right, often by attracting splinter groups that broke from parent organ­izations allied with al-­Qaida. Their efforts to align with the Islamic State suggest that competition is playing a role in their alliance be­hav­ior, as is the case with the groups examined in Chapter 6. ­After its declaration and territorial gains, the Islamic State enjoyed the advantage over al-­Qaida in terms of name cachet.276 Fittingly, a slew of groups—­many, though not all, largely unknown or previously strong groups suffering from crises—­pledged loyalty to the Islamic State and sought its name to bolster their status. A new hub emerged, but the motives remained the same: orga­nizational need by weaker groups for status to improve their resource mobilization capability. While it uses dif­ fer­ent terminology to describe its partners, the desired impact is much the same: it has allies that can proj­ect its influence across the Muslim world and allow it to portray itself as the leader of the movement.



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For a period, the Islamic State could offer a combination of what al-­Qaida had before and ­after 9/11. It had territory to interact, create personal relationships, and forge trust. It had an ideology and narrative with resonance in the current environment. It had funds, training capability, combat opportunities, and a name with stature to offer partners. The Islamic State has yet to demonstrate that it can build ties as enduring as al-­Qaida; ­under sustained pressure and loss of territory, its appeal may also wane. It may also experience the same pitfalls of endorsing allies. Nonetheless, the Islamic State’s ability to create alliance networks points to the continuing importance of understanding terrorist alliances and alliance hubs in par­tic­u­lar.

Chapter 6

Egyptian Jihadist Groups Divergent Solutions, Similar Prob­lems

Jerusalem w ­ ill not be liberated u ­ nless the ­battle for Egypt and Algeria is won and ­unless Egypt is liberated. —­Egyptian Islamic Jihad leader, Ayman al-­Zawahiri, 1995 ­ here is no higher priority, a­ fter faith, than pushing back the T American-­Israeli alliance. —­Zawahiri, 1998

More than any other nationality, Egyptians exerted a formative influence over the Sunni jihadist milieu. They ­shaped the jihadist movement’s landscape as every­thing from theologians and strategists to tacticians and combat commanders. They have also been called the backbone, the brains, and the nerve center of al-­Qaida; by most accounts, they ­were indispensable.1 Two Egyptian groups in par­tic­u­lar are invoked as key al-­Qaida allies: the Egyptian Islamic Jihad (known as Tanzim al-­Jihad and referred to as EIJ in this work) and the Egyptian Islamic Group (also known as al-­Jama’a al-­Islamiyya and referred to as EIG in this work). But the real­ity was more complex. The rival Egyptian organ­izations ­were seemingly similar in key re­spects. Both shared a Salafist jihadist ideology with al-­Qaida. While focused on creating a “true” Islamic state in Egypt and prioritizing their efforts at home, they shared al-­Qaida’s antipathy ­toward Israel and the United States. Yet despite being lumped together as al-­Qaida allies, the two rival Egyptian groups’ relationships with al-­Qaida varied. Their ideological commonalities and



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shared enemies masked impor­tant variation in their orga­nizational dynamics and needs and, by extension, their alliance be­hav­ior t­ oward al-­Qaida. Perhaps the most infamous Egyptian terrorist, al-­Qaida’s current leader Dr. Ayman al-­Z awahiri, headed EIJ before becoming bin Laden’s deputy. Pursuing a “top-­down” approach, EIJ operated as a small, elite, and conspiratorial group seeking to infiltrate the government and seize control of Egypt through a coup. When bin Laden and Zawahiri met in the 1980s, Zawahiri was older and more experienced, though EIJ was in the throes of crises ­because of the Egyptian government’s crackdown following the 1981 assassination of Anwar Sadat. As al-­Qaida’s first ally, EIJ was instrumental in al-­Qaida’s formation and development, as discussed in Chapter 4. However, Zawahiri was eclipsed by his Saudi colleague, and EIJ was decisively defeated in Egypt. ­After repeated failed attempts at self-­reform, EIJ returned to an alliance with al-­Qaida to fulfill its orga­nizational needs, particularly to improve its resource mobilization capability, which steadily decreased the longer the group operated in exile. EIJ’s downfall coincided with al-­Qaida’s rise, which led to their merger just months before 9/11. In one re­spect, the merger was the culmination of de­cades of collaboration. Yet EIJ’s relationship with al-­Qaida was fraught with tension, and the decision to merge was divisive within EIJ. In contrast, EIJ’s rival, EIG, pursued a “bottom-up” approach as an Upper Egyptian social movement with substantial grassroots support.2 EIG was an outgrowth of the socioeconomic disparities in Upper Egypt that left the traditionally disadvantaged population without pathways to upward mobility. In contrast to EIJ, EIG was committed to reforming Egyptian society through dawa, “promoting virtue and forbidding vice,” and weakening the Egyptian government to the point that an Islamic takeover would be pos­si­ble. As a mass movement, EIG was more embedded in Egypt. The group benefited from bin Laden’s largess during the 1980s and 1990s, but it had fewer complementary orga­nizational needs with al-­Qaida than its rival did. When EIG’s orga­nizational crises deepened, it engaged in self-­reform rather than ally with al-­Qaida. However, some EIG members operating in exile had dif­fer­ent needs and grew closer to al-­Qaida. Eventually, a faction of EIG members in Af­ghan­i­stan was incorporated into al-­Qaida ­a fter 9/11, while their leaders wholly rejected al-­Qaida. Al-­Qaida sought to portray EIG as an affiliate to fulfill its need to proj­ect itself as expanding; however, al-­Qaida’s efforts w ­ ere damaged by EIG leaders’ public repudiation.

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With their similar ideologies and enemies, the differences in EIJ’s and EIG’s alliance be­hav­ior ­toward al-­Qaida cannot be explained without accounting for their differing orga­nizational dynamics and needs. In addition, the Egyptian groups’ rivalry influenced their alliance postures ­toward al-­Qaida. The Egyptian groups competed for personnel, resources, and support from the same sources. Al-­Qaida’s early alliance with EIJ, which had the experienced personnel al-­Qaida needed as a young organ­ization, inhibited its subsequent relations with EIG. Despite al-­Qaida’s efforts to overcome the rivalry between the Egyptian groups, neither Egyptian group was willing to relinquish its relative position to be subordinate to the other. Divided, they ­were defeated, unwilling and unable to set aside their rivalry for their common cause, even at the end. In contrast, al-­Qaida was a nonrival to both Egyptian organ­izations. Its po­liti­cal market included Egypt, but it expanded well beyond Egypt to the broader ­Middle East. While al-­Qaida had a power­f ul core of Egyptians—­ some of whom ­were dual members—­because of per­sis­tent complaints that Egyptians wielded too much influence in al-­Qaida and the group’s emphasis on Saudi Arabia, bin Laden focused on recruiting members from Saudi Arabia and the Levant, which further reduced the competition between al-­ Qaida and the Egyptian groups. Therefore, al-­Qaida did not behave as a rival to ­either Egyptian group, but the Egyptian groups competed fiercely with one another, including for al-­Qaida’s support. Though ­these Egyptian groups may now seem somewhat dated, they remain worth examining for several reasons. Egypt has long been at the center of the Arab-­Muslim world and home to influential Islamist movements.3 In addition to the influence Egyptians have exerted over the Sunni jihadist milieu, al-­Qaida’s alliance with EIJ continues to affect the group. With Zawahiri at the helm of al-­Qaida, it remains impor­tant to understand why al-­ Qaida and EIJ’s alliance formed, while the alliance between al-­Qaida and EIG failed. In addition, EIG’s “corrections” remain one of the most consequential ideological challenges to al-­Qaida. Moreover, the Arab Spring and subsequent po­liti­cal turmoil in Egypt increased attention on ­these groups and the next generation of Egyptian jihadist militants. Most impor­tant, methodologically, the two Egyptian groups offer a most-­similar case to compare the alliance be­hav­ior of groups with the same ideology and enemies. While some of ­these events, activities, and personalities ­were discussed in Chapters 4 and 5 as part of the examination of al-­Qaida’s experience as an alliance hub, Chapter 6 focuses on the motivations of satellite organ­izations



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t­ oward a hub, in this case, the two competitor Egyptian groups. It explores why two groups that adhered to the same ideology and combated the same ­enemy exhibited variation in the outcomes of their relationship with a hub. The first section outlines the two Egyptian groups’ ideologies, objectives, and compositions. The second section discusses their activities during the 1980s, particularly their introductions to al-­Qaida during the anti-­Soviet jihad. Then it traces their disastrous campaigns in Egypt during the 1990s, during which time both groups cooperated with al-­Qaida. Next, the chapter assesses how the Egyptian groups responded to their respective orga­nizational crises by the late 1990s, with EIJ growing more dependent on al-­Qaida and EIG undertaking self-­reforms. The chapter concludes with an examination of ­whether orga­nizational needs, identity, and trust illuminate the differences in the Egyptian groups’ alliance be­hav­ior.

Forging Dif­fer­ent Paths Despite Commonalities Both EIG and EIJ ­were products of Egypt’s storied and complex Islamic movement, much of which is outside of the scope of this inquiry.4 By way of brief background, six years ­after the British granted Egypt nominal in­de­ pen­dence in 1922, Hassan al-­Banna founded the Muslim Brotherhood with the aim of “­dying the umma [Muslim community] with a comprehensive Islamic dye in ­every aspect of its life through building a new generation of believers in correct Islamic teachings.”5 Since that time, the Egyptian government has vacillated between seeking to coopt the Islamists and brutally repressing them, sometimes even attempting to do both si­mul­ta­neously. ­After a punishing confrontation with Gamal Abdel Nasser’s regime, the Muslim Brotherhood opted to work as opposition within the po­liti­cal system when Anwar Sadat took power. However, ­others deemed Sadat to be an illegitimate leader despite his Islamic trappings and thus rejected the Muslim Brother­ hood’s approach. EIJ and EIG ­were among ­those that emerged from ­these rejectionist ele­ments. Both groups’ Salafist jihadist ideologies drew heavi­ly from the teachings of al-­Banna, Sayyid Qutb’s Manifesto, and Mohamed Abdel Salam Faraj’s Neglected Duty, fellow Egyptians who provided religious justification to oppose the Egyptian regime in order to produce a new social order based on Islam. Saad Eddin Ibrahim captured their diagnosis of the prob­lem: “All the external setbacks and internal socioeconomic ills of Egypt . . . ​a re fairly

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and squarely attributable to a corrupt, inept system that has vastly, and intentionally, deviated from the correct path.” Thus, they sought a new social order with a “true” Islamic government based on their interpretation of sharia law.6 Consequently, both Egyptian groups deemed the Egyptian government to be illegitimate, which created a duty for them to restore God’s sovereignty. Their convictions hardened as Sadat’s promises to implement sharia went unfulfilled and solidified when he made peace with Israel in 1979, leading them to conclude that he too had usurped God’s laws. As EIG explained, “He who prefers man-­made positive laws to the laws of God is a kafir [disbeliever] . . . ​and as it is not allowed for a kafir to rule over Muslims, it is a duty to depose the rulers of our country.”7 Both groups included Israel and the United States among their enemies; however, Zawahiri captured their emphasis on Egypt by saying, “Jerusalem ­w ill not be liberated ­u nless the ­battle for Egypt and Algeria is won and ­unless Egypt is liberated.”8 While EIJ and EIG shared an ideology and a common framing of their enemies, the two groups diverged about the solution, specifically how to achieve their aims. As a small and clandestine entity composed of compartmented cells, EIJ sought to infiltrate the state and execute a coup to seize control.9 In the 1990s, it began attacks against se­nior officials and government buildings. EIJ’s commitment to vio­lence as the sole method to achieve its goals precluded other activities, such as participating in politics—it openly disparaged the Muslim Brotherhood for its willingness to do so—or social-­ service provision. Nor did it seek to mobilize the masses through dawa or reform society through hisba [enjoining good and forbidding wrong]. As it saw the opportunity structure, ­doing so would only expose the group to infiltration and repression by the security ser­vices. As its approach suggests, the group consisted of educated and elite members of Egyptian society, including military, security ser­vice, and police officials, not to mention the physician who would determine EIJ’s alliance choices, Ayman al-­Zawahiri. An emir headed a se­nior consultative and advisory shura council, which included eight other se­nior members.10 The group also had financial, recruitment, and religious committees. However, what defined the group’s organ­ization dynamics ­were Zawahiri’s autocratic leadership style, the group’s tight compartmentalization of information, and its cellular structure.11 As Lawrence Wright described it, “Obsessed with secrecy, Zawahiri imposed a blind-­cell structure on the Jihad organ­ization, so that members in one group would not know the activities or personnel in



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another. Thus, a security breach in one cell should not compromise other units, and certainly not the entire organ­ization.”12 While this orga­nizational structure offered security advantages, it ultimately did not protect the organ­ ization, and, perhaps more impor­tant, it deprived the group of cohesion and contributed to the divisions that bedev­iled it. In contrast, EIG emerged as a sizable mass movement, with an estimated three thousand members and many thousands more grassroots supporters in the chronically underprivileged region of Upper Egypt and parts of urban areas where Upper Egyptians concentrated.13 Upper Egypt has long been a breeding ground of Islamist sentiment, spawning some of the most influential figures in Egyptian Islamism. Unlike other parts of Egypt, the south has historically been immune from outside interference; conversely, Upper Egyptians have also been systematically underserved and discriminated against by whoever held power in Cairo. One of EIG’s sources of appeal was that it sought to fill that void with ser­vice provision, justice dispensation, and morality policing.14 EIG rejected EIJ’s purely clandestine proj­ect, favoring community-­based activism that produced a mass-­based following as its preferred means of bringing about an Islamic state. However, by 1989, it too saw the need for a clandestine wing to execute vio­lence. Though EIG sought to supplant and pressure the government, it saw its decision to directly confront the government as a defensive mea­sure forced upon it by the Egyptian regime.15 As the regime saw it, the group had grown increasingly brazen in its usurpation of the government, particularly in its efforts to purify society, which included enforcing its moral code on the population, sometimes using force, and terrorizing Coptic Christians. Its emphasis on moral policing was such that Roel Meijer characterized the group as “an army geared to the execution of hisba.”16 By the 1990s, EIG coupled dawa, charitable work, and hisba with attacks against the police, security ser­vices, government officials, the tourism sector, and Coptic Christians. In so ­doing, the group employed a combination of low-­level vio­lence with some attacks on high-­profile officials and targets in an effort to strain the state’s capacity to the point that an Islamist revolution and takeover would be pos­si­ble.17 While EIG had a pyramidal orga­nizational structure, it also de facto consisted of three parts: overseas; Egypt-­based, largely in Upper Egypt or in places where Upper Egyptians ­were concentrated; and members incarcerated in Egyptian prisons, especially the first generation leaders. Despite ­these divisions, it functioned as a coherent organ­ization ­u nder a unified se­nior

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consultative and advisory shura that commanded the loyalty of its many followers.18 It had an overseas shura, which provided a voice to its members living in exile. In contrast to EIJ’s tendency ­toward leadership edicts, EIG made decisions consensually, though local leaders managed day-­to-­day operations, which decentralized the organ­ization’s lower operational levels. Responsibilities ­were further divided into three subgroupings. One dealt with financial issues, including providing support to the families of operatives killed or imprisoned. Another oversaw propaganda and recruitment activities. A third was responsible for the intelligence, logistics, and operations.19 This division of ­labor largely mirrored the roles of the group’s members among po­liti­cal, dawa, or military operations. The po­liti­cal wing was composed of two types of members. One was the so-­called fixed cadre. ­These members remained in their village or town from which they disseminated propaganda and identified potential recruits. The second type ­were so-­called go-­betweens, small groups who traveled from town to town to garner support. The proselytization branch crafted and disseminated the group’s religious messages. Largely focused upon proselytization and recruitment, the dawa wing was seemingly less structured than the other divisions or perhaps less was known about how it functioned. The military wing bore responsibility for operations. The decision to form an armed wing in approximately 1989 marked a shift in strategy from earlier periods when the group rejected clandestine work as “both an un-­Islamic innovation and a po­liti­cally unsound strategy for building a mass movement.”20 The military wing had two components: one to protect the group, particularly its dawa and hisba activities, from interference and another to serve as the group’s “army,” which included more offensive actions.21 The military wing included individuals who participated in the anti-­Soviet jihad in Af­ghan­i­stan and undercover personnel in Egypt, who hid their affiliation with the group.22 It is impor­tant to note that much of the group’s first-­generation leadership remained imprisoned ­after 1981. As theologians and religious scholars, the prisoners in Egypt retained influence over the group’s ideology and strategy, though the management of day-­to-­day operations devolved to the mid-­level leaders. In addition, Sheikh Omar Abdul Rehman, known as the Blind Sheikh, acted as a spiritual authority, before and a­ fter being incarcerated in the United States.23 Despite the repressive environment in Egypt and the group’s circumstances, EIG forged a culture of internal consensus in its decision-­making pro­cess and, ­after 1984, became a fairly disciplined organ­ization.24 Undoubt-



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edly, its leaders experienced strong differences on key issues. However, its orga­nizational culture’s emphasis on consensus helped to solve internal arguments over major issues—­such as the use of vio­lence, negotiations with the state, and relations with al-­Qaida—­a nd preserve orga­n izational cohesion.25

Retreat to Af­ghan­i­stan Between 2,000 and 2,500 Egyptians participated in the jihad against the ­Soviet Union in Af­ghan­i­stan during the 1980s.26 Some of ­those who went had been fortunate enough to evade the post-­Sadat assassination crackdown or ­were among ­those released from prison in the mid-1980s on lesser charges. The Egyptians from EIG and EIJ who arrived in Af­ghan­i­stan during the 1980s differed from the other volunteers who flocked to the region. They hailed from a more established jihadist movement than their counter­parts. Some had experience engaging in vio­lence, held strong convictions about the necessity of jihad, or ­were hardened by their time in Egyptian prisons.27 However, the fallout from the assassination of Sadat had thrown the movement into turmoil. Hosni Mubarak responded to Sadat’s assassination in 1981 with sweeping arrests, collective punishment mea­sures, harsh prison conditions, and torture. In addition to their po­liti­cal ambitions, EIJ and EIG members desperately sought retribution but ­were too weakened to exact it. They saw Af­ghan­i­stan as a place to regroup and siphon off resources for the war against Cairo.28 However, they had become deeply divided, and their shared woes did not heal the fissures. Inside prison and in Peshawar, Pakistan, EIG and EIJ jockeyed to lead the movement, framing their differences as disagreements over strategy, tactics, and the proper interpretation of the Koran.29 They also harbored thinly veiled cultural biases against one another. Within Egyptian society, Cairenes had long dominated and treated Upper Egyptians as inferior, and EIJ’s members w ­ ere no exception. As the larger organ­ization, EIG was not interested in subservience, particularly to EIJ personnel, many of whom hailed from Cairo’s elite. Conversely, EIJ’s elite Cairenes chafed at the idea of subordinating themselves to the backward Upper Egyptians. Even in prison, the two groups quarreled fiercely, widening the rifts in their fruitless attempts at unity. For example, EIJ’s leaders rejected the Blind Sheikh’s claims to leadership based on his religious credentials, arguing that

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the movement needed a military commander, that is, an EIJ figure, at the helm. They further argued that the Blind Sheikh could not be the emir, issuing a sixty-­four-­page polemic, “The Case for the Ineligibility of a Blind Man to Govern,” which cited Koran verses to discredit him.30 EIG then fired back at EIJ that sharia law precluded a prisoner from being an emir, which excluded EIJ’s leaders from candidacy. ­These disputes created bitterness and laid the groundwork for repeated failures to bridge their differences.31 For its part, EIG also saw the anti-­Soviet effort in Af­ghan­i­stan as a way to bolster its military capability. Given its composition, it did not have as many militarily sophisticated personnel as EIJ did. When asked why the group sent members to Af­ghan­i­stan, one se­nior leader argued that sending young members to Pakistan and Af­ghan­i­stan offered a way to protect them from the Egyptian regime and, most impor­tant, to fulfill a need for military training.32 ­After receiving some initial training in Peshawar, EIG personnel deployed to Af­ghan­i­stan where they underwent additional military training and experienced combat for several months.33 Si­mul­ta­neously, EIG was recovering outside of prison in Egypt. EIG took advantage of Cairo’s long-­standing neglect of Upper Egypt to carve out space to operate ­there. ­After the massive crackdown, Mubarak ­adopted “permissive repression,” in which the regime sought to “contain militant Islamists in their Upper Egypt strongholds by acquiescing to some of their orga­ nizational activities while repressing more outwardly confrontational be­hav­ ior.”34 Or as one member explained, “Our work was conducted and expanded without any security provocations or intervention from the security apparatuses, which gave us a better opportunity to grow.”35 EIG exploited the opening to its fullest. Using mosques and universities as its bases, the group established “liberated zones” in towns in Upper Egypt and Greater Cairo. In the Upper Egypt city of Dairut, the group controlled approximately 150 mosques and exercised control over some neighborhoods. Its control included providing social ser­v ices in addition to mediation ser­ vices backed by militia forces.36 The group then expanded into the shantytowns and the outskirts of Cairo where Upper Egyptians congregated. In Imbaba, it nearly established a mini-­“Islamic republic.”37 Increasingly emboldened, the group established roaming gangs assigned to “promote virtue and forbid vice.”38 Their mandate included closing liquor shops and video shops, preventing mixed-­gender activities, and breaking up concerts and cinemas.39 For a time, the regime turned a blind eye to ­these activities and even EIG’s harassment of Coptic Christians, as long as they



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did not attract press attention.40 However, by 1987, security ser­vices sought to check the group’s growing power, especially its assertive morality policing.41 During this period, the prison contingent continued to exert influence within EIG through their publications.42 In par­tic­u­lar, the founding leaders wrote the group’s ideological manifesto, “The Covenant of Islamic Action,” which laid out the group’s ideology.43 Their writings provided a comprehensive theological justification for the group’s agenda.44 While the next generation of the group inherited day-­to-­day operating responsibilities, the founding leaders retained substantial intellectual and ideological authority through their publications.45 Likewise, EIJ members fled to Pakistan to escape the dragnet and recover. Zawahiri ­later said of the experience that he saw it “as an opportunity to get to know one of the arenas of jihad that might be a tributary and a base for jihad in Egypt and the Arab region.” 46 Upon his release from prison, Zawahiri joined EIJ’s battered presence ­there, which included his ­brother Mohamed and EIJ’s leader, Sayyid Imam, who acquired the position as EIJ’s emir ­after the imprisonment of the group’s original leaders.47 Zawahiri’s stature within EIJ improved during the prison years ­because of his education and ability to speak En­glish. He became a spokesman for the prisoners, drawing foreign media attention to their plight.48 Before this, Zawahiri’s colleagues, particularly the military officers, tended to overshadow him.49 However, with many of them imprisoned or dead, Zawahiri maneuvered into a more influential position. In contrast to EIG, the influence within EIJ shifted to ­those outside of prison. The Egyptian groups exported their rivalry to South Asia. They set up rival guest­houses in Peshawar, competed for resources, and undertook aggressive media campaigns to discredit one another.50 They operated and trained at separate camps in Jalalabad.51 They competed to recruit the unaffiliated Egyptian volunteers. Upon his release, the Blind Sheikh periodically visited Peshawar and became a religious authority within the Arab Afghan circles, which contributed to EIG’s ability to recruit and its prestige in the broader jihadist movement. In response, Zawahiri renewed EIJ’s attacks against the Blind Sheikh’s credentials.52 They treated resources as zero sum, seeking to acquire as much as they could at the expense of the other. Their competition included jockeying over the wealthy Saudi, Usama bin Laden. As bin Laden’s ambitions to build an Islamic Army expanded, he sought alliances with the two Egyptian groups, the most capable and experienced prospective partners available.53 He unsuccessfully encouraged

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their unity while inadvertently stoking their competition.54 Both recognized that bin Laden’s largess had the potential to accelerate their recoveries. While they ­were already disposed to vie for primacy over the Egyptian movement, Wright remarked that now “the unstated cause of ­these slanderous salvos was the question of who was ­going to control bin Laden, the golden Saudi goose.”55 EIJ scored a victory when bin Laden provided it with an estimated $100,000 to begin “its work,” a likely reference to operations in Egypt.56 With few outside sources of funds, EIJ grew to depend on bin Laden to support its personnel.57 His apparent preference for EIJ was consistent with his group’s needs. Of the two Egyptian groups, EIJ had more of the type of the elite and experienced personnel—­military officers, policemen, engineers, and doctors—­that bin Laden sought for his burgeoning effort to build an Islamic Army. As discussed in Chapter 4, EIJ members proved essential to bin Laden’s early proj­ects, particularly erecting al-­Masada training camp and fighting in the ­Battle in Jaji. Furthermore, Imam’s manuscript “The Essential Guide to Preparation” served as a core text in the training regimen offered at al-­Masada.58 A filmmaker who produced a documentary on the mujahidin captured what EIJ brought to bin Laden’s nascent effort: “Bin Laden had followers, but they ­weren’t or­ga­nized. The ­people with Zawahiri had extraordinary capabilities—­doctors, engineers, soldiers. They had experience in secret work. They knew how to or­ga­nize themselves and create cells. And they became the leaders.”59 A prominent jihadist characterized their calculation far more simply: bin Laden needed men, and EIJ needed money.60 ­Either way, they had complementary needs and soon forged an alliance. EIJ members, such as Abu Ubaidah al-­Banshiri, Abu Hafs al-­Masri, and Saif al-­Adel ensconced themselves in bin Laden’s inner circle, a position they zealously guarded. Some soon complained that EIJ was manipulating bin Laden and deliberately isolating him for its own purposes.61 ­Others grumbled that Egyptians acted and ­were treated as superior, for example, receiving larger salaries than their counter­parts. The Egyptians confirmed some of ­these suspicions as they stoked the tensions between bin Laden and his mentor, Abdullah Azzam, including launching a campaign to discredit ­Azzam. Seeing the liberation of Palestine as the next phase of jihad, Azzam threatened to coopt bin Laden’s resources for his agenda. The Egyptians’ rival was decisively eliminated when Azzam was killed by a car bomb in Peshawar in 1989, the same year the Soviets withdrew from Af­ghan­i­stan. In Azzam’s



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absence, the Egyptian coterie solidified its position with bin Laden. Lines of membership became blurred, and some became dual members of the burgeoning al-­Qaida organ­ization and EIJ, most notably al-­Banshiri, who led military operations for both organ­izations, al-­Masri, and al-­Adel.62 During this time, EIJ was able to recover from its orga­nizational crises, in significant part owing to bin Laden’s assistance.63 The Soviet withdrawal in 1989 emboldened jihadists everywhere and breathed new life into the two Egyptian militant groups. Zawahiri trilled, “It is as if 100 years ­were added to my life.” 64 The Egyptians prepared to return home, where victory once again seemed attainable. With its orga­nizational needs satisfied, EIJ relocated to Sudan, reducing al-­Qaida’s manpower in Af­ghan­i­stan, which was already damaged in the wake of al-­Qaida’s defeat in a major ­battle in Jalalabad in 1989.65 EIJ members pressed bin Laden to turn his resources ­toward overthrowing Mubarak’s regime and began grumbling about bin Laden’s refusal to provide more money.66 Despite the importance of ­these individuals, bin Laden was unwilling to fully commit to this agenda, especially when he saw other ­causes, such as the conflict in Yemen against the Communist government, in need of his help.67 He refused to adopt EIJ’s agenda as his own, though he was integral to its orga­nizational recovery.

A Bloody Homecoming The reinsertion of triumphant Arab Afghans added to the volatility of the situation in Egypt, which was about to enter a violent new phase.68 Many EIG and EIJ members ­either returned to Egypt or settled in neighboring Sudan around 1989, though some also went to Bosnia to participate in the conflict ­there. Sudan offered the Egyptian groups a sanctuary proximate to their homeland through which they could infiltrate personnel, materiel, and resources. In Egypt, tensions had already begun to mount. Around 1987, security ser­vices became less tolerant of EIG’s morality policing activities and some of its more muscular shows of authority. In early 1989, the group issued several demands in an effort to stop the crackdown, which authorities ignored. EIG soon put the experience of its returning members to use and created a military wing. Disagreement continues about who struck first and which act unleashed the ensuing conflict. Some attribute the instigation of vio­lence to EIG’s attempted assassination of former interior minister

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General Zaki Badr in December 1989.69 ­Others point to the killing of EIG’s official spokesman the following August, which the group blamed on the State Security Investigations, a notorious arm of Egypt’s security ser­vices.70 The group retaliated by assassinating the speaker of Parliament.71 The cycle of vendettas was ­under way. With the infusion of Arab Afghans and a­ fter a de­cade of organ­izing social and po­liti­cal networks in Upper Egypt, EIG had the capacity to fight back. Equally impor­tant, the group had much to lose if it did not combat the state’s attempt to diminish its orga­nizational and societal gains. EIG members began frequent small-­scale attacks against government targets, striking mainly low-­level security personnel in the Upper Egyptian governates. However, it also targeted higher-­level government security officials, including four police generals, one of whom served undercover in command of antiterrorist security forces.72 Then, in 1992, the group expanded its targeting to strike one of the country’s economic pillars: the tourism industry.73 With an extensive infrastructure and personnel within Egypt, EIG conducted the majority of attacks during the 1990s.74 By 1992, when bin Laden relocated to Sudan bent on expelling the United States from Saudi Arabia, EIG’s campaign was ­under way. The EIG members based in Sudan sought support from al-­Qaida and managed the group’s relationship with al-­Qaida. As discussed in Chapter 4, EIG participated in al-­Qaida’s consultative shura and benefited from al-­Qaida’s training facilities in Sudan. In addition, bin Laden provided some funds to the group.75 For example, a local leader in Assyut claimed that he received training in use of light weapons at an al-­Qaida training camp in Sudan and that bin Laden provided money for a military camp in Upper Egypt.76 ­There are indications that EIG made a bid to elevate its relationship with al-­Qaida during this period, although the exact date remains unclear. Defendants from the “Returnees from Albania Organ­ization”—­EIJ members rendered back to Egypt in 1998—­claimed that EIG proposed a plan to harbor bin Laden in Upper Egypt.77 ­Doing so would have required bin Laden to undergo plastic surgery to change some of his physical features, enter Egypt with forged documents, and hide in a remote area in Upper Egypt. Bin Laden was reportedly interested and began to study the information the EIG gave him about Upper Egypt. Undoubtedly the group saw how much bin Laden invested in Sudan while he resided ­there and recognized that such an infusion of funds would be a windfall for the group. However, EIJ was determined to quash the idea. Zawahiri warned bin Laden that the Egyp-



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tian security ser­vices ­were too capable for such a plan to be feasible.78 What Zawahiri did not say but surely thought was that he did not want EIJ’s rival to gain this advantage and siphon off bin Laden’s resources. ­A fter this initiative failed, EIG increasingly opted to maintain what Michael Scheuer characterized as an “arm’s-­length relationship” with bin Laden.79 As EIG’s conflict with the state escalated, EIJ prepared to initiate operations in Egypt. In 1992, Zawahiri ascended to the top position in EIJ, replacing Imam. Accounts of Imam’s resignation attribute the change to two issues. First, Imam disagreed with the growing sentiment within EIJ that it should begin operations in Egypt. Some members feared missing opportunities to exploit the unrest in Egypt and being outmaneuvered by EIJ’s rival.80 Imam remained committed to EIJ’s original plan of seizing power through a coup rather than engaging in operations.81 This position put him at odds with his followers. For his part, Zawahiri scorned EIG’s low-­level targeting of policemen, tourists, and Coptic Christians, which he saw as provoking the regime’s ire without tangibly weakening it.82 Instead, he argued for a modified approach that inserted EIJ into the conflict while still focusing on ways to seize power. He proposed that EIJ conduct selective, high-­level attacks against Egyptian government officials.83 Second, Imam resigned in response to the backlash caused by the arrests of hundreds of members and associates in Egypt in 1992. The detention of ­these members was a blow to the group’s infrastructure in Egypt and spurred yet another internal crisis. Some members agitated to retaliate for the arrests and the prisoners’ treatment. EIJ was in danger of splintering, and Imam was unable to heal ­these rifts. EIJ hastily assembled a vote to get the minimum fifty-­t wo members required by the group’s bylaws. Zawahiri was able to get enough of his supporters to attend the meeting to secure the requisite votes.84 With Zawahiri at the helm, the group initiated planning for attacks in Egypt, A year ­later, EIJ conducted its first operation in Egypt, using a suicide operative to target Egypt’s interior minister, Hasan al-­Alfi, in August 1993.85 Al-­Alfi was an attractive target. Eliminating him was consistent with EIJ’s plan to target high-­level government officials, thereby weakening the government. In addition, al-­Alfi played an active role in the regime’s crackdown against jihadists.86 By using a suicide operative to execute the mission, EIJ challenged a Sunni jihadist norm.87 ­Until that point, Sunni groups had eschewed suicide operations. However, Hizballah’s effective utilization of the tactic against the United States in Lebanon had captured EIJ’s attention, and

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EIJ may have participated in al-­Qaida’s training with the Shia in Bekka Valley. Moreover, the tactic fit the capability of the small, clandestine group seeking to execute attacks against high-­level targets. However, the attempt failed. Next, EIJ targeted another se­nior official, Prime Minister Atef Sidqi, this time using a remotely detonated car bomb. The device detonated as Sidqi’s motorcade passed a girls’ school in Cairo. Sidqi survived the attempt, but the attack killed a young girl and wounded dozens of bystanders.88 The child’s death caused an outpouring of public outrage against EIJ. The group’s first two attacks in Egypt not only failed to produce results; they created a quick loss of public support. Bin Laden provided EIJ with resources to assist with ­these operations. Without the support base of its rival and with the costs of personnel living clandestinely in Egypt or in exile, EIJ was constantly cash-­strapped. However, bin Laden was preoccupied with his agenda against the United States and wanted his closest ally to turn its attention to striking the United States rather than continuing with its costly and failing parochial agenda.89 Some in EIJ resented his efforts to shift their attention from their galvanizing cause and chafed at the way bin Laden treated the group.90 Meanwhile, some shared bin Laden’s agenda against the United States, as evidenced by the 1993 attack against the World Trade Center in New York City.91 The attack intersected with developments in Egypt as the Blind Sheikh, then seeking asylum in the United States, once again used his religious credentials to justify the attack and partook in a broader conspiracy to conduct further attacks. The U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation arrested the EIG figure l­ater that year; he was subsequently convicted and sentenced to life in prison.92 EIG denied involvement in the attack but protested the Blind Sheikh’s imprisonment.93 A month ­after the World Trade Center attack, Zawahiri tried in vain to put his group on more secure financial footing. This included traveling to the United States on a fundraising tour, where Zawahiri hoped to benefit from the donor channels activated by the anti-­Soviet jihad. However, he did not have the celebrity of Azzam or credentials like the Blind Sheikh to attract donors, and his efforts yielded a meager $2,000.94 Despite EIJ’s self-­ reform efforts, its lack of resource mobilization capability grew and became a continuous need, increasing its dependence on al-­Qaida. Egyptian authorities delivered EIJ a significant blow in 1993 when they captured its membership director, Ismail Nassir. The group’s compartmentalized structure and secretive orga­nizational culture prevented all but a few



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individuals from having information about the group’s cells and members’ locations. Unfortunately for EIJ, Nassir was one such member. An EIJ member lamented that Nassir “had a computer containing the entire database. Where the member lived, which home he might be hiding in, even what names he uses with false passports.”95 With this information in hand, the Mubarak regime proceeded to decimate EIJ’s underground and support network in Egypt, arresting over a thousand suspects. The ensuing military ­trials ­were light on evidence but ­were sufficient for the regime to imprison ­those it deemed a threat.96 Then security ser­vices killed the group’s head of operations in Egypt in 1994.97 The EIJ was in a nearly constant state of orga­nizational crisis. Within a year of initiating its violent campaign, the organ­ization was in shambles. Nonetheless, Zawahiri seemingly remained unequivocal in his commitment to attacking the Egyptian regime despite pressure from bin Laden to revise his stance. Zawahiri issued a statement in 1995 asserting the primacy of the ­battle against the near ­enemy. “The road to Jerusalem runs through Cairo,” Zawahiri declared in EIJ’s al-­Mujahidin’s newsletter.98 Zawahiri even justified his position by invoking the Koran: “Fight ­those of the disbelievers who are close to you.”99 It seemed that he would resist bin Laden’s pressure to shift attention to the United States. EIG also labored ­under Cairo’s antiterrorism efforts. By 1995, it too was on the defensive.100 In Upper Egypt, displays of Islamist sentiment, including beards and hijabs, became grounds for police harassment. Police routinely detained ­women and ­children in order to compel their male relatives to surrender. Security ser­vices destroyed the homes of suspected militants. While the EIJ experienced significant pressure, authorities ­were even more heavy-­handed with Upper Egyptian militants, given their lower status in society. Procedures as limited as symbolic ­trials ­were reserved for Cairenes, not for their Upper Egyptian counter­parts.101 The security ser­vices’ actions perpetuated the cycle of retaliation as Upper Egyptians had ­little recourse, which provoked further retribution. The conflict devolved into score settling and vendettas that became less connected to EIG’s po­liti­cal agenda. Grappling to respond to the Egyptian government’s crackdown and at bin Laden’s urging, the two Egyptian rival groups explored ways to work together.102 Their efforts at unity ran into familiar roadblocks. In 1995, Zawahiri chaired a meeting in Khartoum attended by EIG members, but they failed to make pro­gress in reconciling the differences that had dogged their relationship to date.103 The prospects for improved relations declined

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further following the death of al-­Banshiri in 1996. Respected by all for his military prowess and charisma, he acted as a broker between the two Egyptian groups. As EIG became more weakened, its relationship with al-­Qaida grew more strained as EIG members resented what they saw as bin Laden’s preferential treatment of their rival, particularly his personal relationship with Zawahiri.104 However, ­behind the scenes, tensions beset al-­Qaida’s alliance with EIJ. By this point, bin Laden balked at continuing to fund EIJ’s disastrous campaign in Egypt, yet his funds had become essential for the impoverished and besieged organ­ization.105 Bin Laden, ever the businessman, argued that operations in Egypt w ­ ere simply too costly. In addition to the costs of the failed attacks, families required support when Cairo invariably responded to attacks with a slew of mass arrests.106 One EIJ operative claimed that bin Laden even expressed “dis­plea­sure whenever al-­Jihad members carried out operations inside Egypt.”107 In an effort to adapt to the oppressive environment in Egypt, EIJ and EIG each executed a major attack outside of Egypt in 1995. In June, EIG operatives based in Sudan—­reportedly with al-­Qaida’s assistance—­attempted to assassinate Mubarak by ambushing his motorcade while he was in Addis Ababa for a meeting of the Organ­ization of African Unity.108 Two assailants and two Ethiopian police officers ­were killed ­after the assassins opened fire on Mubarak’s motorcade. However, the armored vehicle protected Mubarak from the EIG gunmen, and the attempt failed.109 Then EIJ operatives drove a truck bomb into the Egyptian Embassy in Islamabad in November of the same year. The attack killed sixteen ­people and wounded sixty more.110 While more successful than EIG’s effort, not every­one embraced EIJ’s operation.111 Pakistan remained an impor­tant, albeit more limited, sanctuary for jihadists and the main route into Af­ghan­i­ stan; EIJ’s attack endangered ­those assets. Within EIJ, some expressed disquiet about targeting civilians in the embassy, and ­others had discomfort about the use of suicide operations. Consequently, EIJ’s numbers dwindled further.112 Uneasiness within EIJ persisted, causing Zawahiri to issue a statement the following year claiming that the embassy was a spy den where the Egyptian government gathered intelligence, recruited agents, and targeted EIJ. He justified attacking the Egyptian Embassy in Pakistan as a response to the recent extradition agreement between the two countries and Islamabad’s persecution of the mujahidin in recent years.113 That Zawahiri felt it neces-



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sary to defend the attack in this manner was indicative of the turmoil within the group. The attack on the Egyptian Embassy was also the product of Zawahiri’s effort to quell ongoing internal dissension. In par­tic­u­lar, Zawahiri’s ­handling of two boys coerced into becoming assets for Egyptian intelligence earlier that year had tarnished his leadership.114 Upon learning of their betrayal, Zawahiri ordered both boys killed, despite the objections of EIJ and al-­Qaida members and the fact that one of the boys was an EIJ member’s son. More EIJ members left the group in protest.115 Following the attacks in Ethiopia and Pakistan, the Egyptian government shed any remaining reservations about using any means to destroy the militants. Security ser­v ices increasingly ­adopted a shoot-­to-­k ill policy.116 Lawrence Wright reported that the Egyptian regime, which had not been squeamish up to this point, “responded with a furious determination. . . . ​ The security forces used exemplary punishment. . . . ​They torched ­houses in a village ­because a member of al-­Jihad had come from ­there. A ­mother would be stripped naked in front of a guy, who was told, ‘Next time ­we’ll rape her if your younger ­brother is not ­here.’ A recently instituted anti-­ terrorism law had made it a crime even to express sympathy for terrorist movements. Five new prisons ­were built to hold po­liti­cal prisoners.”117 In addition to mass arrests, the regime employed hostage taking, whereby they detained the families and relatives, especially the wives, of suspected militants ­until the militants turned themselves over to the authorities. ­Those detained ­were regularly mistreated and tortured. As suggested previously, torture was not a new phenomenon in Egypt. What distinguished it at this point was its indiscriminate application.118 Though extremely brutal, the Egyptian government’s counterterrorism efforts seemingly bore fruit, and vio­lence in Egypt declined by the mid-1990s. The U.S. Department of State reported that the number of fatalities fell sharply from 1994 to 1995.119 Egypt’s economy, including its tourism sector, began tentatively to recover from the onslaught. For its part, the Sudanese government refused to extradite any of the Egyptians to stand trial for the attacks in Ethiopia and Pakistan, which caused increased international condemnation of Khartoum. Egyptian and Sudanese forces clashed in the disputed Red Sea border area of Halaaib, fueling fears of an escalation into war.120 Nonetheless, the Sudanese government would not tolerate usurpations of its power, like EIJ’s “administration of justice” when it executed the two youths working for Egyptian intelligence.

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The Sudanese government was furious that EIJ conducted its own “trial” and killed the two boys within its sovereign territory, especially on top of the international censure that the Egyptians’ attacks provoked.121 Shortly thereafter, Khartoum told EIJ that it was no longer welcome in Sudan. Zawahiri and his followers ­were forced to leave abruptly.122 The blowback of the external attacks and being ousted from Sudan necessitated further adaptations by EIJ. However, at this critical juncture, bin Laden refused support for EIJ’s efforts in Egypt, a decision that damaged the locus of trust: his friendship with Zawahiri.123 Less than a hundred members remained in EIJ.124 Zawahiri reluctantly suspended attacks in Egypt, conveying the ­orders to the group through a secret memo.125 Zawahiri’s decision remained private ­because the group did not seek a deal with the government. EIJ had not forsaken its intent to forcibly topple the regime, but it needed a reprieve.126 However, this unofficial cease-­fire became a permanent condition; EIJ proved unable to conduct another attack in Egypt. Moreover, it was doubly exiled, from both its home country and from its nearby sanctuary, with nowhere to go. Its orga­nizational survival was in jeopardy. For its part, EIG retained some ability to operate within Egypt, though thousands of its members and supporters ­were in prison. However, laboring ­under the Mubarak regime’s assault, EIG’s operational tempo slowed. It compensated by conducting less frequent but more lethal and sensational attacks and by escalating its rhe­toric against the United States and Israel. In 1996, EIG operatives gunned down eigh­teen tourists at a ­hotel in Cairo.127 At that time, it was the largest death toll in a single attack in Egypt. Claiming responsibility for the attack in a communiqué, “No Place for Jews on the Muslim Land of Egypt,” the group sought to exploit disenchantment with the American-­sponsored peace pro­cess by portraying its attack as against Israelis. Its ploy failed to garner support—­especially in light of the fact that the group mistakenly killed Greek, not Israeli, tourists—­making the group’s isolation and desperation evident.128 The populace was weary of suffering from the regime’s repressive mea­sures and the financial hardship that the militants’ acts caused. While the government initially underestimated the militants’ support in the population, the militants overestimated their popularity with the public. Their miscalculations produced a death toll between 1992 and 1996 that exceeded a thousand lives. At its height, the number of detainees in Egyptian prison reached an estimated 30,000 ­people.129 Between 1992 and 1997, more than 47,000 p­ eople w ­ ere arrested.130 Still, t­ hese numbers fail to capture



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the scope and impact of the vio­lence on Egypt. By the late 1990s, both EIG and EIJ recognized that they ­were on the verge of defeat. However, they adapted to their circumstances quite differently.

Orga­nizational Needs Mount; Solutions Diverge Zawahiri’s travels following his hasty departure from Sudan remain unclear. Egyptian intelligence claimed he went to Switzerland and Sarajevo. EIJ’s newspaper operated out of Copenhagen, so some speculated that he traveled ­there.131 Other posited locations included Malaysia, Taiwan, Singapore, and Hong Kong. Some of this conjecture may have been EIJ’s attempts to disguise his movements in order to elude Egyptian security ser­vices.132 However, they also reflect the real­ity that Zawahiri had no place to retreat. Zawahiri was on the move in another attempt to self-­reform, this time to find a new base for his organ­ization so it could survive. He deci­ded to explore the prospects in Chechnya, the site of a respected jihad against the Rus­sians.133 It appeared promising, he reported to his followers. Then Rus­ sian authorities arrested Zawahiri and two associates in Dagestan, in the North Caucasus, and imprisoned them for six months. Luckily for Zawahiri, they failed to detect his identity.134 However, Zawahiri suddenly vanished; no one knew where he had gone. This prevented Cairo from learning of his arrest and seeking his extradition, but Zawahiri’s abrupt disappearance also left confused EIJ members to fend for themselves at a time when the group was already in crisis.135 When he fi­nally resurfaced, once again he had failed to put EIJ on more secure footing and faced mounting criticism from his beleaguered followers.136 Moreover, bin Laden was ­either unable or unwilling to provide sufficient assistance to EIJ during Zawahiri’s disappearance.137 Back in Sudan, bin Laden felt the loss of his Egyptian companions acutely.138 He had come to depend on them for counsel and security. The latter was in decreasing supply in Sudan. Bin Laden survived at least one assassination attempt, and Khartoum grew less amenable to his presence.139 In 1996, he departed Sudan for Af­ghan­i­stan, leaving a small fortune ­behind. ­Under ­these conditions, he was even more reticent to continue to fund EIJ’s campaign against Cairo. Lacking any ­v iable alternatives, in 1997, Zawahiri re­u nited with bin Laden in Af­ghan­i­stan. Bin Laden and Zawahiri gradually repaired their friendship.140 Once again, EIJ relocated ­there to find a place to recover. As

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one jihadist explained, EIJ was among the “disoriented fragments of destroyed organ­izations that ­were seeking sanctuary and to rebuild themselves in Af­ghan­i­stan.”141 With the Taliban takeover, Af­ghan­i­stan offered the most secure haven, especially for the weakened EIJ.142 More than anything, ­Zawahiri’s relocation reflected EIJ’s inability to self-­reform and the group’s reliance on an alliance with al-­Qaida. In Af­ghan­i­stan, al-­Qaida conducted a review of its operations and appointed Egyptians to se­nior positions, integrating more EIJ members into al-­Qaida.143 While EIJ was floundering, al-­Qaida seized the opportunity to put its personnel to use for its agenda. In Af­ghan­i­stan, EIJ lacked reliable sources of income or support other than al-­Qaida.144 Once again, expectations of bin Laden’s largess outstripped real­ity, leaving some EIJ members frustrated. More members drifted away from the rudderless group. By this point, bin Laden was determined to ­focus his resources on the United States rather than pouring money into losing ­battles against the near enemies.145 Outside of Af­ghan­i­stan, EIJ members had to find employment and send 10 ­percent of their earnings to Af­ghan­i­ stan.146 One detained member told Egyptian authorities that the group scraped by on miscellaneous proj­ects, such as trading sugar, rearing goats in Albania, and renovating an old building in London.147 Clearly, this was not a sustainable strategy for EIJ to survive, let alone to become self-­sufficient. For its part, EIG also faced an orga­nizational crisis. It could no longer carry on its fight in Egypt and needed to adapt. Given that it was a mass organ­ization rooted in Egypt with influential leaders in prison ­there, ­a l-­Qaida’s money, training, and haven in Af­ghan­i­stan could not fulfill EIG’s needs. Instead, the group sought ways to self-­reform. However, it undertook a radically dif­fer­ent strategy than EIJ. In July 1997, during military tribunal proceedings against members of the group, the audience was stunned by a statement signed by eight of EIG’s leaders—­five original leaders and three long-­time members who held se­nior positions in the group’s consultative shura—­calling for a unilateral cease-­fire.148 This was not the first cease-­fire attempt, but it was the first one that enjoyed this level of consensus among EIG leaders, which gave it substantial authority.149 As the brain trust of the group’s founding ideology, their stance held considerable influence and credibility. The declaration received an additional boost when the Blind Sheikh issued a statement of support from prison in the United States.150 However, this self-­reform effort did not address all EIG members’ needs, and an internal strug­gle ensued when six members of the overseas shura



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rejected the initiative.151 EIG members in exile experienced divergent needs from their compatriots at home. Also ousted from Sudan, some joined al-­ Qaida and EIJ in Af­ghan­i­stan. They needed assistance to secure haven and resources, not a cease-­fire. In addition, holdouts in Egypt refused to accept the depth of the group’s orga­nizational crisis and misalignment with the environment in Egypt. In an act of desperation, in November 1997, EIG operatives gunned down sixty-­ two tourists and police officers in Luxor. The head of the EIG’s overseas shura, Rifa’i Ahmad Taha, took responsibility for the operation from Af­ghan­ i­stan. Taha claimed the operation was somehow an effort to take hostages to compel the release of the Blind Sheikh and the leaders.152 The prisoners ­were alarmed by the Luxor attacks, fearing that Egypt was following the Algerian path and descending into senseless vio­lence. As a se­nior EIG leader who had participated in the planning of the Sadat assassination put it, “Luxor was a belated awakening from a fight gone mad.”153 The leadership in prison condemned the Luxor attacks. EIG members in exile ­were not the only ones dismayed by the cease-­ fire. Zawahiri, who had long been an obstacle to improved relations between the two groups, frantically sought reassurance that this edict remained contested within EIG or that Cairo had coerced it.154 Despite their fraught history, with no ability to launch attacks or infrastructure in Egypt, EIJ realized that if EIG abdicated the fight, the jihad in Egypt was lost. A few EIJ members in prison even joined the EIG’s cease-­fire, but it was a self-­reform option Zawahiri would not consider.155 Zawahiri found an ally in Taha. However, ­these exiled Egyptian militants had lost touch with the realities on the ground in Egypt and did not appreciate how the environment in Egypt had changed, particularly how thoroughly discredited their cause was.156 The gruesome murders in Luxor, which included the beheading and desecration of the victims’ bodies and the attackers’ subsequent suicides, horrified the public. Any vestiges of grassroots support that EIG once enjoyed had evaporated.157 Moreover, EIG’s attack in Luxor took a toll on the economy in a way that hurt average Egyptians, including shattering the already fragile tourism industry.158 While low-­level tit-­for-­tat vio­lence continued, the backlash was so overwhelming that the EIG holdouts in Egypt capitulated and agreed to adhere to the cease-­ fire. The Luxor attack was EIG’s last major operation in Egypt.159 While the regime denied that it struck a deal with the group, it released two thousand EIG members the following year.160

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In 1998, in the wake of their respective groups’ resounding defeats, both Zawahiri and Taha signed bin Laden’s 1998 International Front statement.161 They portrayed their decision as a defensive response against a shared threat, as “crimes and sins committed by the Americans are a clear declaration of war on God, his messenger, and Muslims.”162 The statement pointed to the Crusader-­Zionist occupation of Saudi Arabia and Palestine and aggression against Iraq as the primary grievances. Notably, the statement included no references to Egypt, the cause that had animated their efforts for de­cades. The road to Jerusalem no longer went through Cairo, as Zawahiri claimed just a few years earlier. Rhe­toric aside, the need to adapt to the changed environment and their respective orga­nizational needs motivated this move. In exile and unable to act in Egypt, EIJ and to a lesser extent the EIG faction in exile embraced a new cause in order to survive. To do so, they needed al-­Qaida, which was now the “strongest ­horse” among Sunni jihadist groups.163 An alliance with al-­Qaida provided an alternative cause, an explanation for their defeat, and resources to survive. While not actually motivated by a common ­enemy, as they claimed, their signatures created a shared threat as the United States began to target the signatories, especially EIJ, with greater intensity. The 9/11 Commission dated EIJ and al-­Qaida’s merger to the 1998 declaration.164 Indeed, by then, EIJ relied on al-­Qaida for haven and funds, and it had grown highly interdependent with al-­Qaida.165 It was increasingly difficult to separate Zawahiri’s men from bin Laden’s men. Some held dual roles and loyalties to both organ­izations.166 Nonetheless, some EIJ members challenged Zawahiri’s calculation of what was required to ensure survival.167 Zawahiri’s signature stunned much of the organ­ization, particularly ­those outside of Af­ghan­i­stan. Zawahiri did not consult with the group’s shura council or inform his followers before making the move. Several shura members objected, and some criticized the 1998 statement as hastily written and insufficiently sanctioned by religious ­ ere furious b­ ecause they saw the signature as a power authorities.168 ­Others w play by Zawahiri. Steve Coll explained that Zawahiri “spent most of his life in determined personal warfare against the government of Egypt, but by early 1998, exiled to Af­ghan­i­stan and repudiated by many of his Egyptian colleagues, he had no plausible way to carry that ­battle on.”169 Zawahiri refused to retreat from his signature, which was second only to bin Laden’s. The re­sis­tance was sufficiently strong that Zawahiri called an emergency meeting to discuss the situation. The objections to merging



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with al-­Qaida varied. Some ­were unwilling to subordinate EIJ to al-­Qaida. ­ thers objected to relinquishing the fight against the Egyptian regime. Many O believed that confronting the United States was tantamount to suicide, given the group’s weakened state. Several EIJ members complained about bin Laden, whom they did not trust to fulfill EIJ’s needs ­because they felt he had failed to deliver on previous promises, particularly in terms of financial support.170 Bin Laden’s relative stinginess with EIJ stood in contrast to his increasing generosity with the Taliban during this period.171 Detractors criticized bin Laden as a self-­promoter enamored with his own publicity.172 A readout of the meeting faxed to EIJ members could not capture the proceedings ­because, as one member remarked, accurately recounting the meeting would produce “arguments that would take us 10 years to finish since we would disagree on ­every word.” Another member admitted that the meeting nearly devolved into fistfights and lamented that he “always felt that this entity may dissolve in seconds.”173 In the face of this re­sis­tance, Zawahiri offered his resignation. Critics saw this as a ploy to force members to ­either capitulate to his decision or leave the group.174 By this point, few of the remaining members saw leaving EIJ as a feasible option.175 Zawahiri’s former prison mate, Montasser al-­ Zayyat, explained, “No members could refuse to join the Front except for the asylum seekers in Eu­ro­pean countries. Anyone who refused to join the Front would find himself alone with only his own resources and contacts.”176 With no ­viable alternative, Zawahiri’s gambit worked. The group rejected his resignation, and EIJ remained part of the International Front. Several members in Eu­rope resigned or ­were expelled. Zawahiri’s ­brother Mohamed—­ the deputy emir and a longtime, influential member—­left the group, accused of financial mismanagement.177 The secretive EIJ handled this upheaval internally; disgruntled members did not go public with their grievances. However, even among ­t hose who remained, discontent with Zawahiri ­persisted. The other Egyptian signatory to the 1998 declaration also faced a revolt, which became quite public. Taha’s signature, ostensibly as a representative of EIG, was perhaps the most impor­tant. Of the four groups that joined the declaration, EIG was the largest and most widely known, which gave the declaration additional heft. Moreover, Taha’s move suggested that the cease-­fire was contested. Like Zawahiri, Taha failed to consult his organ­ization before signing; however, unlike Zawahiri, Taha was not in a position to coerce his

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organ­ization into submission. With the cease-­fire holding in Egypt, the imprisoned EIG leaders demanded that Taha revoke his signature and publicly announced that EIG did not intend to attack the United States.178 Unlike EIJ, given its circumstances, an alliance with al-­Qaida, particularly insomuch as it broadened the circle of confrontation, did not address EIG’s needs. Taha capitulated to his leaders and alternatively claimed that he had signed for himself, not as a representative of EIG, and that he was misled when asked to join a statement in support of the Iraqi ­people.179 Regardless of the circumstances that led to Taha’s signature, EIG leaders removed him from his position on the overseas shura council.180 They retained influence over the group, and, therefore, their calculation of how to address EIG’s orga­ nizational needs prevailed. Zawahiri wrote the imprisoned EIG leaders and urged them to reconsider.181 He described to them how the next phase of the conflict would be a clash of civilizations with the West that would resonate with Muslims, mobilize the umma, and reverse the Egyptian jihadists’ misfortunes.182 However, ­there was no love lost between Zawahiri and the EIG leaders, and he was unable to persuade them. While not all EIG members genuinely accepted the cease-­fire, by 1999, the majority acquiesced to their leaders’ instructions. If nothing e­ lse, the absence of further attacks demonstrated the EIG leaders’ authority and the group’s weakness. In March 1999, the group’s external shura—­the body Taha once headed—­issued a communiqué endorsing the cease-­fire initiative. The leadership had a quorum in support of its initiative.183 Even EIG members in Af­ghan­i­stan acquiesced to their leaders’ authority on the cease-­fire and on their activities in Af­ghan­i­stan. EIG leaders initially forbade their members from participating in fighting in Af­ghan­i­stan except on an individual basis. However, by 2000, they gave permission for EIG members ­there to fight and engage in limited cooperation with al-­Qaida. They even agreed to allow EIG members to participate in al-­Qaida’s 2000 effort to create the Arab Council for Unity to assist the Afghans and coordinate vari­ous groups’ efforts in Af­ghan­i­stan, as long as any coordination and actions only pertained to activities in Af­ghan­i­stan. Wary from the 1998 International Islamic Front debacle, EIG members refused to allow their involvement to be public. They feared that bin Laden would use the council to represent himself as the leader of the movement and portray EIG as supporting al-­Qaida’s efforts against the United States.184



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Even in the face of the Egyptian groups’ decisive defeat in Egypt, they did not relinquish their rivalry. EIJ sought to exclude EIG from the Arab Council for Unity. It argued that EIG should not be allowed to join if it did not participate in fighting in Af­ghan­i­stan. This objection was silenced when EIG members announced they had gotten approval from the leaders to fight. Then EIJ criticized EIG’s unwillingness to make its involvement in the council public. EIJ proposed numerous conditions, all designed to prevent EIG from being a part of the council. Once again, EIJ sought to protect its relationship with al-­Qaida at EIG’s expense.185

EIJ’s Dependence on al-­Qaida The combination of the Luxor attacks and the International Front declaration provided an opening for the Egyptian regime. Between 1992 and 1997, many governments had rebuffed Mubarak’s repeated calls for the repatriation of militants, in large part owing to concerns about the government’s heavy-­ handedness. However, the Luxor bloodbath and the Egyptian groups’ signatures on the International Front declaration led governments to revise their stance on Egyptian jihadists operating on their soil.186 Eu­ro­pean, Asian, African, and Latin American countries quietly extradited members of both groups to Egypt, offering a major breakthrough in the Mubarak government’s fight against jihadists at a time when both groups ­were already on the ropes. Even the United Kingdom—­dubbed as Londonistan ­because of its tolerance of jihadist activities—­a rrested some Egyptian activists and limited the activities of the rest. ­These extraditions and arrests disrupted both groups’ operations and further weakened them, causing members abroad to increasingly focus on personal security. Moreover, the extradited members provided valuable details about the internal organ­ization of both groups and the remaining support networks inside and outside Egypt.187 For its part, the United States responded to the International Front declaration by increasing cooperation with the Egyptian regime against EIJ, confirming the fears of Zawahiri’s detractors and compounding the group’s orga­nizational woes.188 The United States had infuriated Mubarak by secretly reaching out to the Muslim Brotherhood in an effort to establish a line of communication.189 Now U.S. intelligence and diplomacy tipped the balance dramatically in the Egyptian regime’s ­favor. In July, Azerbaijan’s security

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service—­reportedly working with the CIA—­captured EIJ veteran Ahmad Salama Mabruk in Baku. Mabruk was one of a few remaining members who had extensive knowledge of the whereabouts and activities of EIJ members worldwide, including in Eu­rope.190 Much of that information was on his seized computer, and he confessed the rest during interrogations in Egypt. As Zawahiri’s right-­hand man, he had even accompanied Zawahiri on the ill-­fated trip to Chechnya, though he reportedly objected to Zawahiri’s signature on the 1998 declaration.191 He divulged a trea­sure trove of information about EIJ. In less than a year, hundreds of EIJ’s already dwindling operatives, associates, and supporters ­were taken out of commission based on Mabruk’s information.192 The Albanian security service—­also reportedly working with the CIA—­ then captured five EIJ members in Tirana ­later that summer and rendered them to Egypt, where the government tried and convicted them. Their confessions went on for thousands of pages.193 They claimed that only forty members remained in the organ­ization, all residing outside of Egypt.194 This counterterrorism pressure confirmed the fears of ­those who saw the 1998 declaration as endangering the group—­one member bemoaned it as a source of “continuous catastrophes”—­while si­mul­ta­neously increasing EIJ’s reliance on al-­Qaida.195 ­These arrests also solidified Zawahiri’s conviction that the United States was EIJ’s ­enemy. Shortly thereafter, an EIJ attack on the U.S. Embassy in Tirana was narrowly thwarted.196 Then, on August 6, 1998, Zawahiri sent a statement to Al-­Hayat newspaper in London: “We are interested in briefly telling the Americans that their message had been received and that the response, which we hope they ­w ill read carefully, is being prepared ­because, with God’s help, we ­will write it in a language that they understand.”197 The next day, al-­Qaida bombed the U.S. Embassies in ­Kenya and Tanzania. It was no coincidence that the embassy attacks bore a striking resemblance to EIJ’s attack against the Egyptian Embassy in 1995 and its plot in Tirana against the U.S. Embassy. Indeed, EIJ members assisted in the planning and execution of the 1998 embassy attacks.198 While EIJ depended on al-­Qaida, it also filled al-­Qaida’s need for experienced operatives and operational planners who could help al-­Qaida inflict blows against the United States. Aware of the damaging consequences, EIG tried to distance itself from the U.S. Embassy bombings. However, an EIG operative participated in the attacks, apparently on his own initiative.199 Even Taha made an official state-



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ment in which he denied that EIG was involved, saying, “We are not a party in any front that confronts Americans.”200 While the 1998 embassy bombings helped replenish al-­Qaida’s coffers, what remained of EIJ continued to suffer from chronic money shortages.201 The EIJ contingent in Yemen, the second largest ­after Af­ghan­i­stan, experienced regular turnover in its top position and conflict with its Afghanistan-­ based counter­parts. 202 Members had to account for small expenses, and Zawahiri rebuked subordinates for purchases he deemed unnecessary, causing several to resign in response.203 Compounding the tensions, given events in Baku and Tirana, EIJ members outside of Af­ghan­i­stan constantly feared repatriation to Egypt, even from countries that had previously tolerated their presence.204 As a result, in the summer of 1999, Zawahiri faced another internal rebellion. This time, he relinquished his position. Tharwat Shehata inherited an organ­ization in tatters. He tried to steer EIJ back to its mission against the Egyptian government and reduce its dependence on al-­Qaida.205 However, the members outside Afghanistan—­derided by Zawahiri as having gone soft—­were too dispersed and weakened to unite.206 More members left, now convinced that the group was a sinking ship no ­matter who was leading it.207 Zawahiri and his Afghanistan-­based inner circle resisted Shehata at ­every turn, and Shehata lacked the resources or power base to remold a group that had been dominated by Zawahiri for years.208 Zawahiri regained the reins, determined to persuade what remained of EIJ that a merger with al-­Qaida was the only “way out of the bottleneck.”209 Zawahiri’s dictatorial leadership style exacerbated EIJ’s constant internal prob­lems and re­sis­tance to the merger. While self-­reform options ­were limited, his critics accused him of undertaking the merger with al-­Qaida to fulfill his own ambitions rather than for the benefit of the group.210 He sent a letter to his followers, arguing that the merger was essential to rejuvenating the group, and set about revising the group’s ­enemy narrative to support this change. “Amer­i­ca is now controlled by the Jews, completely, as are its news, its elections, its economy, and its politics,” Zawahiri explained in EIJ’s publication ­later that year. “It uses Israel to attack its neighbors and to slaughter ­those who are living peacefully ­there. . . . ​If we are a nation of martyrs—as we claim—­all that we need is courage of heart and the ­will of killers and the belief in what we claim to be love of death for Allah’s sake. . . . ​If you want to live as ­f ree ­people and to die in honor and be sent as martyrs, the

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road in front of you is clear.”211 Bin Laden was sufficiently pleased to raise the organ­ization’s annual bud­get from $300,000 to $500,000, a clear signal of the benefits to supporting al-­Qaida in its endeavors against the United States.212 Nonetheless, some continued to resist the move, as the reservations raised ­after the 1998 declaration went unresolved. They did not share Zawahiri’s conviction that it was ­either necessary or wise for the crippled organ­ization to confront the superpower. Expanding the ­battle to include Amer­i­ca “is a dangerous ­matter,” warned a se­nior leader.213 One member wrote to Zawahiri, warning him, “­Going on in this is a dead end, as if we ­were fighting ghosts or windmills. Enough of pouring musk on barren land.”214 While Zawahiri did not repeat his ­mistake of charging forward without consulting the group, he remained determined that the merger was the solution. “Stop digging prob­lems from the grave,” he implored in a letter in May 2001.215 With no effort to disguise his desperation, he confided that “joining with bin Laden [was] the only solution to keeping the Jihad organ­ ization [EIJ] alive.”216 Some reluctantly acquiesced, if only to “end the state of inertia we are in now,” or conditionally supported it “as long as it leads to stimulating profitable trade.”217 Zawahiri insisted that the merger move forward immediately ­because bin Laden had an operation in the pipeline that needed EIJ’s support and that held the prospect for improving the situation.218 “Gathering together is a pillar for our success,” Zawahiri argued.219 In June 2001, Zawahiri’s campaign came to fruition, and EIJ publicly announced its merger with al-­Qaida; together they formed al Qaida al-­Jihad, or the Base for Jihad.220 The united group pledged that the “the Zionist and Christian co­a li­tion . . . ​­will soon roast in the same flame they now play with.”221 Despite this rhe­toric, EIJ only had a dozen or so members in Af­ ghan­i­stan and only some of them agreed to the merger.222 Nonetheless, the move solidified the positions of EIJ members already integrated into al-­Qaida; they secured leading positions within the much larger and more influential al-­Qaida.223 While they no longer had their own organ­ization, they occupied top positions in al-­Qaida and ­were a formidable force within the group. Bin Laden had Egyptian cofound­ers when he created al-­Qaida, but only Zawahiri could deliver EIJ—­a group that could no longer stand on its own but that had a small but valuable reservoir of experienced and trained militants.224 The alliance gave al-­Qaida an opportunity to pres­ent itself as a leader in the movement and to encourage o­ thers to unify u ­ nder its leadership. It was in part a propaganda ploy. As one former jihadist explained, “Bin Laden



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desired big names ­under his control.”225 The media coverage portrayed the alliance as two power­f ul groups joining together, exactly the message al-­ Qaida wanted to proj­ect. It belied the strife within EIJ over the move and how badly damaged EIJ was when a dozen of its members joined forces with al-­Qaida.226 The Egyptians’ influence within al-­Qaida had long been evident, but the merger formalized their positon. Most notably, Zawahiri became bin Laden’s deputy. Some within al-­Qaida objected to the EIJ members’ status within al-­Qaida, particularly Zawahiri’s promotion, but their protestations fell on deaf ears.227 Of the nine men who sat on al-­Qaida’s shura council, six ­were Egyptians.228 Not all of EIJ went with Zawahiri. Some tried in vain to maintain a separate group focused on Egypt.229 However, for all intents and purposes, the group’s fate was inextricably linked to al-­Qaida. Conversely, their knowledge, involvement, and thinking ­shaped al-­Qaida. Tying its fate to al-­Qaida, EIJ then experienced the full fallout from 9/11. Many EIJ members ­were subsequently detained or killed. The members who objected to the alliance did not fare any better, as the United States was uninterested in making such distinctions ­after 9/11. However, the merger also filled its intended function, as EIJ members continue to occupy leading positions in al-­Qaida, most notably Zawahiri’s ascension to al-­Qaida’s top spot ­after bin Laden’s death in 2011.

EIG’s Difficult Self-­Reform On EIG’s side, its cease-­fire held. In 2002, its leaders took their self-­reform program further by offering comprehensive ideological and theological justifications for ceasing violent jihad and rejecting al-­Qaida. The original architects of the group’s ideology—­individuals who had suffered tremendously at the hands of the state—­spearheaded ­these revisions, which gave the revisions the requisite religious and orga­nizational authority to persuade their followers.230 In January 2002, EIG issued the first of four tracts, entitled “The Initiative for Ceasing Vio­lence: a Realistic View and a Legitimate Perspective.” The next year, it issued three more.231 Just as the group’s lit­er­a­ture was central to its development, ­these texts ­were critical to the self-­reform initiative’s legitimacy and longevity. They revised EIG’s positions on difficult subjects—­ the cease-­fire and par­ameters for lawful jihad—­and condemned al-­Qaida actions, particularly its attacks in Saudi Arabia and the 9/11 attacks.232

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EIG’s condemnation of al-­Qaida was thorough, complete, and unequivocal. It accused al-­Qaida of illegitimately substituting jihad as an end unto itself rather than a means to protect Islam and Muslims ­under conditions set out in the recognized sources of jurisprudence.233 It criticized al-­Qaida for treating jihad as the sole expression of Islam. EIG’s leaders deemed al-­ Qaida’s conduct illegal, particularly its willingness to target civilians. They admonished al-­Qaida for undertaking jihad in a way that harmed the umma rather than defending it. They even attacked al-­Qaida’s ­enemy narrative, arguing that al-­Qaida mischaracterized its ­enemy by relying on conspiracy theories rather than objectively assessing its adversary. They wrote that adopting “the conspiracy theory truly means taking leave of one’s ­will so that only the ­will of the CIA and the Mossad prevail. Then we blame our ­mistakes and apathy on the United States, Israeli conspiracy and other states, as if we had no role in what happened.”234 EIG’s leaders declared al-­Qaida’s entire enterprise as having disastrous consequences, ­going so far as to accuse al-­Qaida of furthering Israel’s objectives. Moreover, al-­Qaida was simply unrealistic, as the group’s se­nior religious scholar explained: “Bin Laden was aiming for . . . ​an impossible objective since he sought to expel Rus­sians from Chechnya, India from Kashmir, and to attack Algeria, Tunisia, France, and Libya . . . ​as well as evict Amer­i­ca from the Gulf. All this is impossible, even if Bin Laden possessed a superpower. Never in his life did the Prophet fight on two fronts or go to war against two enemies at the same time.”235 In addition to their criticisms of al-­Qaida, the leaders reexamined their own ideas and situation in Egypt. The corrections even included a retraction of EIG’s contention that the Egyptian regime was kafir and described such excommunications of Muslims as dangerous. Perhaps most significantly, they challenged Sayyid Qutb’s texts, which provided the foundation for EIG’s and EIJ’s vio­lence. With the cease-­fire holding, the Egyptian government enabled the prisoners to lead the reform. The prison segment of EIG was the largest, with thousands of members.236 In 2002, the Egyptian government permitted EIG’s leaders to visit prisons to discuss their revisions. Large crowds of ­adherents received them with re­spect and fealty, though some followers remained skeptical of the initiative and needed to be persuaded of the validity of the proposed changes.237 The leaders ­were able to persuade them for at least three reasons. First, EIG members trusted their leaders. Part of members’ indoctrination into the



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group involved revering the group’s leaders as religious authorities and touting their heroic acts and sacrifices. Having imbued members with the belief that obedience to their leaders was a religious duty, the leaders w ­ ere credible, even in making this radical change. Second, EIG saw the turn to vio­ lence as a defensive mea­sure forced upon the group by the regime. Before engaging in vio­lence against the government, it had emphasized dawa and hisba more than jihad. Therefore, the shift away from vio­lence was substantial, but not as fundamental as it would be for organ­izations that argue that vio­lence is the only way to achieve their goals, like EIJ. Third, through meetings, conferences, and lit­er­a­ture, the leaders ­were able to engage in sufficient consultations, debate, and argumentation with their followers that they eventually convinced a critical mass of the membership of the validity of their positions.238 Initially, EIG followers complied with the leaders’ ­orders, but gradually they w ­ ere persuaded by their leaders’ positions. Ultimately, as Omar Ashour argued, “In the eyes of their followers, the historical leadership was the only pos­si­ble source that could bestow ‘Islamic legitimacy’ on a comprehensive ideological de-­legitimization of vio­lence. Other sources ­were not credible enough and ­were usually dismissed as regime sympathizers or agents who have been co-­opted (such as some of al-­Azhar scholars) or have been weakened as a result of repression. . . . ​From the [E]IG members’ perspective, the historical leadership is credible enough and beyond co-­optation and weakening.”239 Nonetheless, the leaders ­were not immune from charges of fallaciousness. The well-­known, deplorable conditions of Egyptian prisons left the effort vulnerable to criticism of coercion. Their revisions ­were so complete that it raised doubts about their authenticity. However, the results cannot be debated. The Egyptian government was sufficiently persuaded that it released many EIG members from prison in 2003. By 2006, fewer than 2,000 of the estimated 12,000 EIG members remained in prison.240 While the Afghanistan-­based EIG faction backed down to the leadership in 1998, it increasingly went in another direction ­after 9/11. In exile for years, they lacked continuing connections to their parent organ­ization while sharing a difficult environment with al-­Qaida. The self-­reform undertaken by the rest of the group did not correspond with the exiled faction’s situation, where it was u ­ nder siege by the United States and lacked the capacity to survive on its own. As a result, what remained of the EIG faction in Af­ ghan­i­stan publicly embraced the alternative, an alliance with al-­Qaida. In 2006, Zawahiri publicly announced the merger of a “fundamental bloc” of

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EIG with al-­Qaida. Zawahiri announced the merger and embedded his criticism of the rest of EIG within his statement: “God willed that a fundamental bloc from among the ­brothers of Gamaa Islamiyya [EIG] . . . ​remain the authorities of jihad. The call in this age is to maintain their pure, clear, ­undiluted origins. . . . ​The Muslim umma is delighted at the merging of a large part of the knights of Gamaa Islamiyya . . . ​for the purpose of concentrating the Muslim umma’s capabilities in a single rank in the face of its enemies in the most insolent Crusader campaign launched against Islam in its history.”241 The alliance announcement had ­little tangible impact. Once again, al-­ Qaida used an alliance announcement to proj­ect ongoing strength and viability, but it simply formalized what had already occurred in practice for a small number of EIG operatives. It certainly did not change the situation in Egypt; the EIG’s leaders rejected the announcement and continued to eschew an alliance with al-­Qaida.242 The EIG members in Egypt continued to adhere to the cease-­fire initiative. Even some EIJ members in Egypt saw the value in EIG’s self-­reform approach and undertook a similar effort. In 2007, several EIJ members wrote privately to Zawahiri about their intentions. They appealed to Zawahiri’s concerns about the prisoners’ plight in Egypt and informed him that EIJ’s former emir, Sayyid Imam, was in the midst of following in EIG’s footsteps. Imam planned to issue “corrections” that voided EIJ’s previous rationale for vio­lence and advocated for a peaceful path forward. They pointed to EIG’s ability to get thousands of prisoners released and hoped their effort would produce similar results. They sought to persuade Zawahiri to support their efforts and defer to their understanding of the situation in Egypt. They intended to pursue this path with or without Zawahiri’s consent but sought his support. Barring that, they asked him to remain ­silent.243 Once one of the most prolific proponents of jihad and even the author of the training manual used in al-­Qaida’s camps, Imam issued the promised revisions. From his prison cell in Egypt, he faxed out numerous copies. In “Rationalizing Jihad,” Imam redefined when jihad is permissible, narrowing the conditions significantly from his earlier works. Hundreds of EIJ members and some of its leaders in prison endorsed Imam’s positions. Zawahiri refused to stay ­silent. Zawahiri portrayed Imam’s position as disingenuous and coerced by the Egyptian government. Al-­Qaida declared Imam’s work a “document of surrender” and bristled at the “curses and insults” it contained against bin Laden and Zawahiri.244 Zawahiri drafted a



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two-­hundred ­page response—­the first time al-­Qaida had gone to such lengths to rebut a critic—­with input from al-­Qaida religious scholars before releasing it publicly.245 While portrayed by some as a revolt within EIJ, it was a continuation of the fault lines that had long bedev­iled the group.

Conclusion ­ fter years of cooperation with al-­Qaida, defeated in Egypt by the mid-1990s, A both groups’ leaders faced questions about how to adapt and survive. Their defeats corresponded with al-­Qaida’s strength. Their orga­nizational needs, particularly their leaders’ assessments of them, produced divergent alliance decisions. EIJ agreed to merge with al-­Qaida ­because al-­Qaida could address its existential needs. Zawahiri’s insistence on the merger was based on his calculation of what was needed to ensure EIJ’s survival.246 In contrast, al-­ Qaida did not have the resources to address EIG’s needs, and EIG opted for self-­reform. While al-­Qaida encouraged their unity, failing that, it preferred EIJ over EIG ­because EIJ had the assets that al-­Qaida needed to fulfill its own orga­nizational needs. EIJ and al-­Qaida initiated their original alliance in the 1980s when both ­were vulnerable and had acute orga­nizational learning and adaptation requirements: al-­Qaida was young and seeking to build an Islamic Army, while EIJ was struggling to rebuild in exile a­ fter major setbacks. In subsequent years, EIJ stumbled from orga­nizational crisis to orga­nizational crisis. It experienced continuous and at times acute orga­nizational adaptation needs, particularly a lack of resource mobilization capability, that guided its alliance decisions. As an elite organ­ization seeking to seize power via a coup, EIJ did not enjoy grassroots support and thus was unable to develop sources to support a clandestine group in exile or to replenish the personnel it lost. Moreover, following its commencement of vio­lence in Egypt, it quickly lost public support. The Egyptian government forced it to operate from exile. In exile, lacking public support, and reeling from losses, EIJ was adrift. It could no longer pursue its animating cause but would not lay down its arms. Al-­Qaida possessed the assets to address ­these needs. Bin Laden’s trea­ sury could address EIJ’s chronic money shortages. Al-­Qaida’s contributions in Sudan helped produce an environment in which EIJ could launch operations at home and prob­ably prolonged the Sudanese government’s

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willingness to allow Egyptian groups to stay, despite pressure from Cairo. ­Later, al-­Qaida extended its sanctuary in Af­ghan­i­stan to its Egyptian ally. In addition, al-­Qaida offered an alternative cause that helped explain EIJ’s defeat at the hands of the Egyptian government and justify its continued existence. Bin Laden began by fulfilling EIJ’s need for financial support, acting as a relatively uncritical supporter of EIJ’s efforts, members, and agenda. However, EIJ subsequently found it had to make adjustments for al-­Qaida to continue to fulfill its needs. Bin Laden became more reluctant to incur costs to support EIJ’s campaign against Cairo. Instead, he sought to direct EIJ ­efforts against the United States. Resistant to ­these compromises, EIJ attempted self-­reform, including fundraising efforts, seeking alternative havens, and exploring ways to continue the fight in Egypt. It failed at all three and eventually fell back on its alliance with al-­Qaida to adapt and survive. Even then, the subordination required for an alliance with al-­Qaida caused internal strife, though dissenters lacked a ­v iable alternative. With sanctuary and access to al-­Qaida’s resources, Zawahiri and the Afghanistan-­based EIJ members ­were in a more power­ful position and ­were thus able to impose their alliance decision onto the group. In EIJ’s cadre, bin Laden saw the building blocks for his Islamic Army. EIJ occupied a privileged position with bin Laden as its members formed his inner circle and lent their expertise to his expanding proj­ect. Bin Laden sought experienced trainers and operatives, which EIJ possessed. Al-­Qaida drew upon EIJ’s expertise in order to act as a jihadist ser­vice provider to other groups, employing them as instructors in camps or deploying them as trainers in conflict zones. Al-­Qaida also needed individuals who could advise other organ­izations in order to establish itself as the vanguard. Al-­Qaida used EIJ to bolster the prestige of its lackluster “International Front” declaration and depended on EIJ’s operational experience to conduct its first attack in 1998. Al-­Qaida needed operatives capable of delivering blows that would expel the United States from Saudi Arabia. Consequently, al-­Qaida sought to shore up EIJ’s allegiance as it prepared for its largest and most impor­tant attack to date. It had the skills to fulfill al-­Qaida’s needs—­intelligent, motivated, and elite operatives with military knowledge and covert experience— as al-­Qaida waged war against the world’s superpower. Each step in the progression of EIJ’s alliance with al-­Qaida corresponded with EIJ’s decline; the merger signaled its orga­nizational failure. The engine of the merger was Zawahiri’s conviction that it was the only



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route for survival. Even if EIJ declined to merge with al-­Qaida and sought to pursue its campaign against the Egyptian government, at a distance and lacking funds—in light of bin Laden’s refusal to support further EIJ’s ventures ­there—it had no real way forward. Nonetheless, merging with bin Laden and confronting the United States was a high-­risk ­g amble for EIJ. It was one, Zawahiri believed, that held the potential to keep his group alive. This alliance trajectory reflected the dynamic between the two groups’ leaders, which ultimately served as the critical locus of trust. When they met, Zawahiri was se­nior to bin Laden, both in age and experience, and prob­ably saw himself as such. He was more worldly, sophisticated, and hardened than his Saudi counterpart.247 While Zawahiri prob­ably hoped to use bin Laden to further the interests of EIJ, the opposite occurred.248 If Zawahiri was the brains or the puppet master ­behind the scenes, as some portrayed him, he would have persuaded bin Laden to support his group’s activities and sign on to his near-­enemy agenda. But Zawahiri was undoubtedly a radicalizing and power­ful influence on bin Laden.249 Coll wrote that bin Laden’s “alliance with al-­Zawahiri and other hard-­core Egyptians had delivered him to a new phase of ambition.”250 However, ultimately, Zawahiri made a “virtue of necessity” and merged with al-­Qaida.251 As Wright explained: Each man filled a need in the other. Zawahiri wanted money and contacts, which bin Laden had in abundance. Bin Laden, an idealist given to c­ auses, sought direction; Zawahiri, a seasoned propagandist supplied it. . . . ​Each believed he could use the other, and each was pulled in a direction he never intended to go. The Egyptian had ­little interest in Af­ghan­i­stan except as a staging area for the revolution in his country. He planned to use the Afghan jihad as an opportunity to rebuild his shattered organ­ization. In bin Laden, he found a wealthy, charismatic, and pliable sponsor. The young Saudi was a devout Salafist but not much of a po­liti­cal thinker.252 Ultimately, EIJ threw in its lot with al-­Qaida and experienced the success of 9/11 and the brunt of the corresponding fallout. Unrepentant, Zawahiri maintained that 9/11 and the wars in Iraq and Af­ghan­i­stan that followed succeeded in reducing the United States’ international influence and weakened it internally, thus validating his decision to merge with bin Laden.253 Moreover, with bin Laden’s death, Zawahiri once again ­rose to the helm of

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an organ­ization that had experienced a prolonged assault and faced critical questions about how to proceed. If history is any guide, the road ahead ­will remain difficult for al-­Qaida ­under Zawahiri’s leadership. In contrast, al-­Qaida lacked the requisite assets to address EIG’s needs. During the rebuilding years of the anti-­Soviet jihad and in Sudan, EIG benefited from al-­Qaida’s largess and assistance with operations. It had less experienced personnel than EIJ and consistently received less support than its rival, which became a source of resentment. As a result, it did not become reliant on al-­Qaida. As a mass organ­ization, it derived most of its members, support, and money from its infrastructure in Egypt. Still, like EIJ, EIG suffered im­mensely from the state’s unrestrained response to its vio­lence and alienated the public with its actions. Fi­nally, it too faced a decision about how to secure its orga­nizational survival: engage in self-­reform or seek an alliance with al-­Qaida. EIG’s self-­reform solution was to announce a cease-­fire. No amount of money could change EIG’s circumstances in Egypt, as thousands of its members ­were in prison and security ser­vices relentlessly hunted ­those on the run. G ­ oing into exile and finding haven with al-­Qaida was not a ­viable option for EIG; EIG’s leaders and the thousands of its members in prison could not relocate. As opposed to EIJ’s elite cadre, EIG drew its members from lower classes and less affluent members who could not as easily flee Egypt. EIG was simply too large and too wedded to the Egyptian context to go into exile as an organ­ization. In its circumstances, an alliance with al-­Qaida would not have served an orga­nizational purpose except to make its conditions in Egypt more difficult. While EIG was a larger organ­ization, it did not suffer from the same degree of disunity as EIJ, which also made its self-­reform approach more ­viable. Even when EIG declared a unilateral cease-­fire—­a controversial move for any organ­ization—it had greater internal cohesion than EIJ. Clearly, it was not ­f ree of tensions. Early on, the cease-­fire was tenuous, and the EIG representative in Af­ghan­i­stan’s decision to sign onto bin Laden’s 1998 statement challenged the cease-­fire and exacerbated internal turmoil. However, the power in the organ­ization still lay with the imprisoned leaders, and leaders played a key role in the alliance decisions. Moreover, EIJ and al-­Qaida shared better orga­nizational need fit than EIG and al-­Qaida. EIG began conducting attacks more than a de­cade before al-­Qaida, thus it did not need al-­Qaida to teach it operational skills. EIG



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ceased using vio­lence by the time al-­Qaida conducted its first attacks in 1998, so it could not provide the assistance al-­Qaida needed to execute its operation as EIJ did. In addition, their tactics differed. EIG tended t­ oward small-­ arms attacks. In comparison, EIJ ­adopted suicide attacks, including the type of attack and targets al-­Qaida employed in its first operation. EIJ thus possessed operational capabilities that complemented al-­Qaida’s needs. This offered an ave­nue for EIJ to reciprocate for al-­Qaida’s assistance and contributed to their alliance. On the other hand, EIG’s limited relationship with al-­Qaida ceased with its abdication of vio­lence. The groups’ loci of trust with al-­Qaida reinforced the decisions made based on their respective orga­nizational needs. EIJ’s locus of trust with al-­Qaida was rooted in the relationship between the two groups’ leaders. Opinions vary about which man was the real locus of power in the relationship, but it is clear they complemented and influenced one another. The result was—no ­matter who was the dominant personality—­a reciprocal one.254 In terms of personality, they ­were quite dif­fer­ent, in ways that ­were complementary within an organ­ization. Zawahiri was combative, dictatorial, and intolerant of dissenting views. Bin Laden listened more often than he spoke at meetings and placed a premium on building unity, though he too made impor­tant decisions that contravened his advisers’ wishes.255 They also shared characteristics that fostered trust. Both men became permanent exiles, a shared predicament bin Laden invoked when ­others expressed resentment about the Egyptians’ dominance in al-­Qaida.256 Wright pointed to other similarities: “Both ­were very much modern men. Bin Laden, who was in his early twenties, was already an international businessman; Zawahiri, six years older, was a surgeon from a notable Egyptian ­family. They ­were both members of the educated classes, intensely pious, quiet-­spoken, and po­liti­cally stifled by the regimes in their own countries.”257 In contrast, EIG’s loci of trust resided in key nodes, specifically individuals colocated in exile with al-­Qaida. This was particularly consequential, as Zawahiri had more influence over EIJ’s alliance decisions than the exiled faction of EIG did within its organ­ization. Last, both Egyptian groups shared ideological and ethnic affinity with al-­Qaida, but their degree of identity convergence differed. Their ability to develop a shared identity depended on their approach to al-­Qaida’s narrative. Over time, EIJ forged a shared identity with al-­Qaida by abdicating its Egypt-­focused ­enemy narrative and adopting al-­Qaida’s United States−first

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e­ nemy narrative. In contrast, most of EIG accepted their leaders’ revisions to the group’s narrative, which explic­itly rejected al-­Qaida’s narrative. However, EIG’s faction in exile ­adopted al-­Qaida’s narrative, thus creating a shared identity with al-­Qaida that supported their eventual merger. Above all, orga­ nizational needs played a critical role in the divergent outcomes.

Conclusion

Following the Islamic State’s declaration in 2014 that it had created a caliphate and that its leader was the caliph, it exhorted other Sunni jihadist groups to ally with it. The Islamic State then acknowledged allies ­later that year in the form of so-­called wilayats, or provinces, in Yemen, Algeria, Saudi Arabia, Libya, and Egypt.1 The following year, the Islamic State recognized allies as wilayats in the Khorasan (a reference to Af­ghan­i­stan and Pakistan), the North Caucasus, and Nigeria. With some exceptions, particularly in Nigeria and Egypt, many of its new allies ­were relatively unknown ­until pledging allegiance and being acknowledged by the Islamic State. They w ­ ere overshadowed by the more established organ­izations operating in ­these places. The satellite groups in the Islamic State’s alliance network primarily sought greater resource mobilization capability, which the Islamic State could provide in both tangible resources and the intangible cachet of its name. In exchange, the Islamic State demanded allies relinquish significant autonomy, including appointing their leadership, contributing to the tendency for groups with substantial needs to seek or accept the arrangement. Yet ­after forging numerous alliances in a relatively short period, ­there was a lull in the Islamic State’s alliance network development. While it sought to proj­ect its leadership of the movement and garner legitimacy for its so-­called caliphate proj­ect through allies, it may have been too hasty in endorsing groups that ­were too weak, not fully established, or could not withstand the counterterrorism pressure that came with association with the Islamic State. Moreover, the Islamic State sustained major territorial losses in 2016 and 2017, which has eroded its desirability as an ally and its ability to provide resources. Nonetheless, groups in Southeast Asia,2 Somalia, Bangladesh, and elsewhere proclaimed their desire to ally with the Islamic State but have not been formally endorsed as wilayats as of this writing. The Islamic State appears to be waiting for ­these groups to prove their viability before

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a­ cknowledging them, though ­these groups’ orga­nizational weaknesses are what make the Islamic State such an attractive partner. The Islamic State also sought to woo al-­Qaida’s allies in an effort to get them to defect to the Islamic State’s alliance network, without success. The Islamic State’s efforts reportedly caused internal tensions within al-­Shabaab and AQAP, but both withstood the pressure and maintained their alliances with al-­Qaida. Al-­Qaida’s alliance network continued to demonstrate exceptional resilience; its partners have maintained their loyalty even when al-­ Qaida was at its weakest. Rivals claiming allegiance to the Islamic State in the same countries as al-­Qaida’s allies seem to only have reinforced groups’ alliances with al-­Qaida rather than weaken them. In some cases, the emergence of an Islamic State ally allowed al-­Qaida’s allies to position themselves as a more “moderate alternative.” To explain how groups like al-­Qaida and the Islamic State develop alliance networks, this book proposed three causal mechanisms: orga­ nizational needs, identity affinity, and trust. It then examined two alliance hubs, with mini−case studies embedded in that analy­sis, and three satellite groups in depth. This concluding chapter begins by analyzing ­whether the empirical findings from Chapters 2 through 6 support the theory proposed in Chapter 1. Next, it discusses the policy recommendations that flow from ­these findings. Fi­nally, it concludes by discussing the limitations of this book and suggesting ave­nues for ­f uture research on terrorist alliances.

The ­Causes of Alliance Hubs and Alliances with Hubs: Evaluating the Empirical Evidence This book set out to answer two sets of interrelated questions. First, what motivates satellite groups to ally with hubs? When does alliance initiation lead to alliance formation? Second, why do a small number of groups opt to build alliance networks? In Chapter 1, I offered a theoretical framework identifying three causal mechanisms that work together to explain why groups ally with alliance hubs and why groups become alliance hubs. In so ­doing, I first proposed orga­nizational needs and dynamics as the primary determinants of alliance be­hav­ior, arguing that the conventional wisdom that shared ideology or common enemies cause alliances is insufficient to understand alliance hubs and their partnerships. However, I posited as an alternative:



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shared ideologies and common adversaries shape alliance be­hav­ior by providing a basis for identity affinity, specifically by guiding partner se­lection, binding partners, and facilitating trust and reciprocation. Third, I hypothesized that trust is essential for alliances and sought to identify the submechanisms that support trust and, by extension, alliance formation. In Chapters 2 through 6, I engaged in pro­cess tracing within cases and across case analy­sis to discern ­whether ­these causal mechanisms functioned and interacted as theorized. Chapters 2, 4, and 5 examined two most-­different alliance hubs, the PFLP-­SOG and al-­Qaida. Chapters 3 and 6 focused on tracing the motives and be­hav­ior of satellite organ­izations. Chapter 3 focused on a most likely prospective ally of the PFLP-­SOG in terms of conventional wisdom. Chapter 6 assessed the alliance be­hav­ior of two most-­similar satellite groups ­toward al-­Qaida. This section ­will discuss the key findings within and across ­these cases to assess how the theory offered in Chapter 1 fared. Alliance Seeking and Formation

In Chapter 1, I theorized that three interrelated mechanisms—­orga­nizational needs, identity affinity, and trust—­f unction in the following pro­cesses: alliance initiation involving hubs; alliance formation involving hubs; alliance hubs’ ability to form alliance networks; and alliance hubs’ willingness to form networks. In this subsection, I ­will examine the first two: alliance initiation involving hubs and alliance formation involving hubs. In terms of alliance initiation involving hubs, I argued that orga­nizational dynamics, specifically orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs, precipitate alliance initiation. When a group lacks the requisite knowledge, skills, or resource mobilization capability to function in their environment and the ability to self-­reform, it seeks partners that can help address ­those deficiencies. U ­ nder t­ hese conditions, groups need a partner that can provide the requisite knowledge, skills, or resource mobilization capability or that can help it adapt its existing knowledge, skills, and resources to better align with its environment. However, one impor­tant caveat is that groups only seek a partner if they, particularly their leaders, identify their deficiencies and have orga­nizational dynamics receptive to alliances. Deficiencies occur when groups are young, experience orga­nizational crises, or face an environment that is rapidly changing or changing in an unexpected way. Hubs emerge as desirable partners ­because they are able and willing to address needs that are in demand in the prevailing conditions.

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In addition, I hypothesized that hubs and satellite groups only initiate alliances when they also experience identity affinity, such as shared ideologies, ­enemy narratives, and ethnicities. As groups with strong in-­group identities, terrorist organ­izations use identity affinity to establish which groups are acceptable partners. Rather than causing alliances, I posited that shared ideology and common enemies guide partner se­lection, facilitate cooperation, and encourage trust. Third, ­because trust assures ­others that promises and expectations ­will be honored and cooperation ­will be reciprocated, I maintained that groups must be willing to attempt trust to initiate an alliance. Referrals, reputations, and interor­gan­i­za­tional personal relationships can provide the basis for groups to attempt to forge trust. Alliances form when prospective groups have orga­nizational need fit, that is, complementary skills, knowledge, or resource mobilization capability: they can help address one another’s needs. Continuous needs or multiple discrete needs encourage ongoing cooperation conducive to alliance formation. Second, for alliances to form, groups develop a shared identity that binds them together by cultivating solidarity and identity convergence, including extending their frames to incorporate one another’s frames and building bridges to connect their respective frames. Third, they must develop trust. Trust develops through successful interactions and cooperation. Trust can reside between leaders, key nodes, and rank and file, or become embedded in both organ­izations. Chapters 3 and 6 focused on what precipitated alliance initiation and caused alliance formation for hubs and satellite organ­izations. In addition, Chapters  2, 4, and 5 included mini−case studies. Mini-­cases discussed included groups that did and did not initiate and form alliances with hubs. This section discusses the findings of the full case studies and mini-­cases, as listed in ­Table 1. Orga­n izational Needs First, I ­will assess ­whether the cases examined in Chapters 2 through 6 support the contention that orga­nizational dynamics, specifically orga­ nizational learning and adaptation needs, precipitate alliance initiation with hubs. If the mechanism operates, I would expect to see alliance initiation occur when the satellite group experiences orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs. In par­tic­u­lar, as discussed in Chapter 1, I would expect alli-



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­Table 1. Prospective Allies Examined in Chapters 2 Through 6 Full Case Studies

Mini−Case Studies

Red Army Faction (Fatah & PFLP-­SOG) Egyptian Islamic Jihad (al-­Qaida) Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida)

San­di­nis­tas (PFLP-­SOG) Red Army in Japan (PFLP-­SOG) Japanese Red Army (PFLP-­SOG) ASALA (PFLP-­SOG) Weathermen (PFLP-­SOG) Armed Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida) Afghan Taliban (al-­Qaida) Hizballah (al-­Qaida) Aideed (al-­Qaida) Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba (al-­Qaida) Jemaah Islamiyah (al-­Qaida) Jund al-­Sham (al-­Qaida) Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat (al-­Qaida) Faction of Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida) Faction of Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Al-­Shabaab (al-­Qaida) Al-­Nusra (al-­Qaida)

ASALA = A rmenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia; PFLP-­SOG = Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine Special Operations Group.

ance initiation to occur when satellite groups are young, experiencing an orga­nizational crisis, or grappling with an environment that is changing suddenly or in unexpected ways. ­Under ­those conditions, groups experience deficiencies in their knowledge, skills, and resource mobilization capability. A review of the conditions for satellite organ­izations at the point of alliance initiation in ­Table 2 offers substantial support for this contention. In all of the cases examined, the satellite organ­ization experienced one or more of the conditions that produce orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs. More specifically, if orga­nizational needs precipitate alliance initiation with a hub, I would expect to identify needs that the satellite organ­izations

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­ able 2. Conditions Experienced by Satellite Groups at the Point T of Alliance Initiation Orga­nizational Youth

Orga­nizational Crises

Environmental Changes

Red Army Faction (Fatah) Red Army in Japan (PFLP-­SOG) Japanese Red Army (PFLP-­SOG) ASALA (PFLP-­SOG) Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida) AIAI (al-­Qaida)

Red Army Faction (PFLP-­SOG) Al-­Nusra (al-­Qaida)

Jund al-­Sham (al-­Qaida)

San­di­nis­tas (PFLP-­ SOG) Red Army in Japan (PFLP-­SOG) Egyptian Islamic Jihad (al-­Qaida)

Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat (al-­Qaida) Faction of Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Faction of Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida)

Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat (al-­Qaida) Al-­Shabaab (al-­Qaida)

Al-­Nusra (al-­Qaida)

Jemaah Islamiyah (al-­Qaida) Afghan Taliban (al-­Qaida) Armed Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Al-­Shabaab (al-­Qaida)

Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba (al-­Qaida) Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida)

Faction of Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Faction of Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida)

AIAI = a l-­Ittihad al-­Islamiyah; ASALA = A rmenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia; PFLP-­SOG = Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine Special Operations Group.

sought hubs to address. An examination of the specific orga­nizational need(s) identified as precipitating alliance initiation offers a slightly more nuanced picture. In ­Table  3, I break it down into three categories of learning and ­adaptation needs, based on the commonalities across cases: training, experience, and operational capability acquisition; sanctuary or protection; and resource mobilization capability. The first category, providing knowledge or skills, and the third, resource mobilization capability, can be e­ ither an orga­ nizational learning or an orga­nizational adaptation need. Sanctuary or protection tends to be an orga­nizational adaptation need. Orga­nizational learning



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­Table 3. Primary Need(s) Precipitating Alliance Initiation Training/Experience/ Operational Assistance Red Army Faction (Fatah) Japanese Red Army (PFLP-­SOG) Red Army Faction (Fatah and PFLP-­SOG) San­di­nis­tas (PFLP-­SOG) Red Army in Japan (PFLP-­SOG) ASALA (PFLP-­SOG) AIAI (al-­Qaida)

Sanctuary/ Protection Faction of Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Faction of Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida) Red Army Faction (Fatah)

Resource Mobilization Capability

Other

None Identified

Jund al-­Sham (al-­Qaida)

Al-­Nusra (al-­Qaida)

Armed Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Lashkar-­e-­ Tayyiba (al-­Qaida)

Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat (al-­Qaida) Egyptian Islamic Jihad (al-­Qaida) Al-­Shabaab (al-­Qaida) Afghan Taliban (al-­Qaida) Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Al-­Nusra (al-­Qaida)

Jemaah Islamiyah (al-­Qaida) AIAI = al-­Ittihad al-­Islamiyah; ASALA = A rmenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia; PFLP-­SOG = Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine Special Operations Group.

and adaptation needs are not necessarily limited to ­these categories, but this offered one way to categorize them. ­These findings lend support to the argument that a need for orga­ nizational learning and adaptation is a sufficient condition for alliance initiation. In all but two cases, satellite groups not only experienced one of the conditions identified; they also had a need or multiple needs that the hubs could address. Training, experience, operational assistance and resource mobilization capability ­were the most prevalent needs that satellite groups sought to address by allying with a hub. In addition, one group, al-­Nusra, experienced an adaptation need that did not neatly fall ­under ­these categories. In that case, al-­Nusra’s move to ally with al-­Qaida offered al-­Nusra a way to assert in­de­pen­dence from the

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Islamic State (then ISIS) and position itself as an equal to its parent organ­ ization. Al-­Nusra was also motivated to garner resource mobilization capability, a more common need, as it distanced itself from ISIS, which had provided al-­Nusra with resources since the group deployed to Syria. However, the presence of two cases in which a need was not identified suggests that orga­nizational needs may not be a necessary condition for alliance initiation, in other words, that equifinality may operate. Specifically, I did not identify an orga­nizational need that ­either the Armed Islamic Group or Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba sought to correct through alliance initiation with al-­ Qaida. First, in the mini-­case of the Armed Islamic Group (GIA), it did not experience an identified need when al-­Qaida initiated an alliance in the early 1990s. The GIA was a young organ­ization, but it did not experience needs common to a young organ­ization. It had a sizable membership that included former military personnel and Arab Afghans with combat experience, so it did not have an apparent need for training, experience, or operational assistance. At that juncture, the GIA was ­under pressure from the Algerian government and had a presence in Sudan, but it did not seek sanctuary or protection. The group was firmly committed to staying in Algeria, especially given how promising its efforts to seize control of the state appeared to be in its early years. In addition, before its implosion in the mid-1990s, the GIA’s cause in Algeria enjoyed substantial support, both in that country and among jihadist donor networks in Eu­rope; so it did not seek assistance in mobilizing resources. Therefore, it did not have an apparent need for an alliance with a hub. It benefited from the personnel and resources provided by al-­Qaida, but it did not have an orga­nizational need for them. Notably, the GIA did experience orga­nizational weakness and crises by the mid-1990s. However, by then, it had already formed an alliance with al-­Qaida. Moreover, it did not identify its weaknesses and, therefore, did not seek assistance from a hub ally. Therefore, its alliance initiation does not appear to be attributable to the satellite group’s orga­nizational needs. It is worth noting that al-­Qaida, not the GIA, pushed for an alliance in this instance. Thus, the GIA was receptive to an alliance but did not initiate it. Before and at the point of alliance initiation, the GIA had numerous connections to al-­Qaida through their shared experience in Af­ghan­i­stan, a positive reputation, readily available opportunities for cooperation with al-­ Qaida in Sudan, and ideological affinity with al-­Qaida. Therefore, further research is warranted to identify the mechanisms in this causal pathway and



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to determine when and how they function, especially in instances when the hub, not the satellite group, initiates an alliance. The second case that did not have an identified orga­nizational need motivating alliance initiation was al-­Qaida and Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba. At the time of alliance initiation, Lashkar, like all groups in Af­ghan­i­stan and Pakistan, faced a rapidly changing environment in the wake of 9/11 and the U.S. invasion of Af­ghan­i­stan. Like other resident jihadist groups, it was stunned by Islamabad’s decision to cooperate with the United States against al-­Qaida and to abdicate the Taliban. However, with Lashkar’s infrastructure in Pakistan and robust operational capability, it did not experience any orga­ nizational needs that motived alliance initiation. As in the GIA case, it is worth noting that al-­Qaida initiated the alliance with Lashkar rather than the reverse. Moreover, in a role reversal, al-­Qaida was the organ­ization experiencing an acute need for safe haven in Pakistan. Therefore, al-­Qaida needed Lashkar, while Lashkar did not have a need for al-­Qaida. Thus, this is another instance of alliance receptivity rather than alliance seeking by the satellite group, which may warrant further examination. In addition, in both the cases in which the two groups did not have a discernible orga­nizational need for an alliance with a hub, the outcome was negative. In the case of the GIA, its alliance with al-­Qaida ended acrimoniously in 1995. Al-­Qaida’s outreach to Lashkar did not lead to alliance formation ­because of concerns about Lashkar’s pos­si­ble betrayal of Abu Zubaydah, whom it was supposed to be protecting, and the divergence in their narratives. Moving from alliance initiation to alliance formation, based on the mechanism posited in Chapter 1, I would expect to see alliance initiation lead to alliance formation when the allying groups experience orga­nizational need fit, that is, when they can address one another’s needs and when the allying groups experience multiple discrete needs or continuous needs. Conversely, if groups did not have reciprocal orga­nizational need fit and continuous or multiple discrete needs, I would not expect the relationship to pro­gress to alliance formation. ­Table 4 offers substantial support for the argument that orga­nizational need fit and ongoing orga­nizational needs lead to alliance formation. ­There are several instances—­the Red Army Faction and Fatah, the Libyan Islamic Fighting Group and al-­Qaida, and the Egyptian Islamic Group in 1998 and al-­Qaida—in which both groups had ­either continuous or multiple discrete

­Table 4. Alliance Formation and Orga­nizational Needs

Hub

Prospective Ally

Fatah PFLP-­SOG PFLP-­SOG PFLP-­SOG PFLP-­SOG PFLP-­SOG Al-­Qaida

Red Army Faction San­di­nis­tas Red Army in Japan Japanese Red Army ASALA Red Army Faction Egyptian Islamic Jihad (includes 1980s, 1990s, & 2001) Egyptian Islamic Group (1980s) Egyptian Islamic Group (1998) Armed Islamic Group Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (1990s) Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (2001) Afghan Taliban Jemaah Islamiyah Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba Jund al-­Sham (2003) Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat Faction of Libyan Islamic Fighting Group Faction of Egyptian Islamic Group Al-­Shabaab Al-­Nusra

Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida

Reciprocal Orga­nizational Need Fit

Continuous or Multiple Discrete Needs

Alliance Formation

No Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes

Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes

No Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

No

Yes

No

No Yes

No Yes

Yes Yes

No

Yes

No

Yes Yes No Yes Yes

Yes Yes No Yes Yes

Yes Yes No Yes Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes Yes

Yes Yes

Yes Yes

ASALA = A rmenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia; PFLP-­SOG = Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine Special Operations Group.



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265

needs, but they did not have reciprocal need fit. In ­those cases, alliances did not form. This suggests that ongoing needs are not sufficient to support alliance formation if groups cannot also fill each other’s needs. In other words, both reciprocal needs and ongoing needs lead to alliance formation. As noted before, ­there is an exception—­the GIA—in which the satellite group did not have reciprocal needs or self-­diagnosed ongoing needs but did form an alliance with al-­Qaida. It is worth mentioning again that the GIA did experience continuous orga­nizational needs that its allies, such as the LIFG, EIJ, or al-­Qaida, may have been able to assist with had the GIA recognized its own needs. This highlights the central role of an organ­ization’s leaders in recognizing, diagnosing, and seeing an alliance as a solution to orga­nizational deficiencies. In the other case involving alliance initiation without orga­nizational need, alliance initiation did not lead to alliance formation. While orga­ nizational needs cannot explain why Lashkar was receptive to alliance initiation with al-­Qaida, it can explain why an alliance did not form. In the absence of reciprocal orga­nizational needs and ­because Lashkar did not have ongoing needs, the relationship stalled and did not result in an alliance. Overall, the full cases and mini-­cases examined in Chapters 2 through 6 offer substantial support for the role of orga­nizational needs in alliance initiation and alliance formation. With some caveats, orga­nizational needs illuminated the timing of alliance initiation, the motive for an alliance, and ­whether alliance initiation would lead to alliance formation. Identity Affinity If groups only initiate alliances when they experience orga­nizational needs and identity affinity with the prospective ally, as hypothesized in Chapter 1, I would expect that satellite groups and hubs would share at least one of ­these identity characteristics: ideology, ­enemy narrative, and ethnicity. As noted in Chapter  1, I would not expect ethnicity to be the only shared identity characteristic, but ethnicity may operate in conjunction with ideology or ­enemy narratives to support identity affinity. On the other hand, based on the theory offered in Chapter 1, I would not expect an alliance to form ­because of shared identity characteristics in the absence of orga­nizational needs. ­Table 5 lends support to the contention that alliance initiation occurs between groups that experience identity affinity. In all of the alliance initiation cases examined, the satellite group and hub shared at least one identity characteristic.

­Table 5. Shared Identity Characteristics Ideology

­Enemy Narrative

Ethnicity

*Sandinistas (PFLP-­SOG)

*Red Army Faction (Fatah)

*Red Army in Japan (PFLP-­SOG) *Japanese Red Army (PFLP-­SOG) *ASALA (PFLP-­SOG)

San­di­nis­tas (PFLP-­SOG)

Egyptian Islamic Jihad (al-­Qaida) Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Armed Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida) Jund al-­Sham (al-­Qaida) Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat (al-­Qaida) Faction of Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida) Faction of Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Al-­Nusra (al-­Qaida)

Weathermen (PFLP-­SOG) *Armed Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) *Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida) *Afghan Taliban (al-­Qaida) *Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba (al-­Qaida) *Jemaah Islamiyah (al-­Qaida) *Jund al-­Sham (al-­Qaida) *Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat (al-­Qaida) *Faction of Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida) *Faction of Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) *Al-­Shabaab (al-­Qaida) *Al-­Nusra (al-­Qaida) *Red Army Faction (PFLP-­SOG) *Egyptian Islamic Jihad (al-­Qaida) *Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida)

ASALA (PFLP-­SOG) Red Army in Japan (PFLP-­SOG) Weathermen (PFLP-­SOG) Japanese Red Army (PFLP-­SOG) Red Army Faction (PFLP-­ SOG) Egyptian Islamic Jihad (al-­Qaida) Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Armed Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat (al-­Qaida) Faction of Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida)

Hizballah (al-­Qaida)

Faction of Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida) *Hizballah (al-­Qaida) Al-­Shabaab (al-­Qaida) *Aideed (al-­Qaida)

*Denotes primary basis for identity affinity. ASALA = A rmenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia; PFLP-­SOG = Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine Special Operations Group.



Conclusion

267

­Table 5 further reveals that a shared ideology was by far the most common and the strongest basis for identity affinity. In fact, all of the cases in which alliance initiation led to alliance formation involved a shared ideology as the basis for identity affinity, as ­Table 6 illustrates. This finding is consistent with previous research that identified a strong correlation between ideology and alliances but offers an alternate interpretation of how a shared ideology functions in the alliance pro­cess than conventional wisdom has ­assumed. Moreover, in the cases in which a shared ­enemy narrative was identified as the primary basis for identity affinity—­the Red Army Faction with Fatah and Aideed and Hizballah with al-­Qaida—­alliance initiation did not lead to alliance formation. This suggests that further research is warranted to determine ­whether and when a shared ­enemy narrative can provide the basis for a shared identity that leads to alliance formation. ­These findings indicate that a shared ­enemy narrative alone can be sufficient for alliance initiation but not for alliance formation. Shared e­ nemy narratives can bolster ideological affinity, as they did in numerous instances for al-­Qaida and the PFLP-­SOG. Or ­enemy narratives can detract from ideological affinity like it did for al-­Qaida and Lashkar when their narratives diverged regarding ­whether Pakistan and Saudi Arabia ­were enemies. Ethnicity affinity only functioned in the alliances involving al-­Qaida. In ­those instances, it played a supplemental role to complement ideological affinity. As Chapters 4 and 5 discussed, al-­Qaida emphasized alliances with fellow Arab organ­izations. However, ethnic affinity was not necessary for an alliance with al-­Qaida, as demonstrated by its alliances with non-­Arab groups. Al-­Qaida’s emphasis on ethnic affinity and the PFLP-­SOG’s disinterest in ethnic affinity reflects how groups act as the ultimate arbiter of their affinity assessments and how the overall environment can shape their affinity assessments. The findings in ­Tables 5 and 6 also refute conventional wisdom in two impor­tant ways. First, they do not support the argument that alliances form in response to common enemies alone. ­There ­were no instances in which a common ­enemy alone was sufficient for alliance formation. However, it was sufficient for cooperation and alliance initiation in several cases, which points to the importance of distinguishing between alliances and temporary cooperation. Second, ­there ­were instances in which prospective allies shared an ideology but the groups did not ­either initiate an alliance or form an alliance. This suggests that a shared ideology alone is not sufficient for alliance

­Table 6. Basis for Identity Affinity and Alliance Outcomes

Hub

Prospective Ally

Fatah PFLP-­SOG PFLP-­SOG PFLP-­SOG PFLP-­SOG PFLP-­SOG PFLP-­SOG Al-­Qaida

Red Army Faction San­di­nis­tas Red Army in Japan Japanese Red Army ASALA Weathermen Red Army Faction Egyptian Islamic Jihad (1980s, 1990s, & 2001) Egyptian Islamic Group (1980s) Egyptian Islamic Group (1998) Armed Islamic Group Aideed Hizballah Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (1990s) Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (2001) Afghan Taliban Jemaah Islamiyah Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba Jund al-­Sham (2003) Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat Faction of Libyan Islamic Fighting Group Faction of Egyptian Islamic Group Al-­Shabaab Al-­Nusra

Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida

Primary Basis for Identity Affinity

Alliance Initiation

Alliance Formation

Narrative Ideology Ideology Ideology Ideology Ideology Ideology Ideology

Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes No Yes Yes

No Yes Yes Yes Yes No Yes Yes

Ideology

Yes

Yes

Ideology

Yes

No

Ideology Narrative Narrative Ideology

Yes Yes Yes Yes

Yes No No Yes

Ideology

Yes

No

Ideology Ideology Ideology Ideology Ideology

Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes

Yes Yes No Yes Yes

Ideology

Yes

Yes

Ideology

Yes

Yes

Ideology Ideology

Yes Yes

Yes Yes

ASALA = A rmenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia; PFLP-­SOG = Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine Special Operations Group.



Conclusion

269

formation. As noted earlier, in the one instance in which an alliance formed when groups shared an ideology but the satellite group did not have an orga­nizational need, the Armed Islamic Group and al-­Qaida, their shared ideology was coupled with proximity, existing ties, and a hub that pursued allies. Therefore, a pathway may exist in which a shared ideology plays a leading role in alliance initiation and formation, but it does not appear to be as ­simple as the contention that shared ideologies cause alliances. Trust Terrorist groups operate in environments lacking enforcement mechanisms and rife with threats. Alliance initiation requires both groups to expose themselves to risk in an effort to build trust. I hypothesized that the following encourage groups to attempt trust: referrals from trusted third parties, reputations for being trustworthy, opportunities for interaction and cooperation, and interor­gan­i­za­tional personal relationships. I would expect to see at least one of ­these ­factors pres­ent in order for groups to attempt to build trust at the point of alliance initiation. ­These ­factors proved difficult to uncover in some of the research; therefore, the findings, laid out in ­Table 7, should be weighed with caution. As ­will be discussed below, the importance of the hubs’ sanctuaries is evident for attempting trust at the point of alliance initiation. The hubs had ample opportunities to interact with prospective allies ­because they could host other organ­izations at their havens and their training facilities. Al-­Qaida lost much of this capability a­ fter 9/11, which made trust building more difficult and dangerous. It was able to rely on other options, such as referrals or personal relationships, in large part ­because it had invested heavi­ly in building relationships before 9/11. Personal relationships also helped to provide an opening for trust initiation. ­These findings in par­tic­u­lar should be weighed with caution ­because open source material often does not have enough detail to assess personal relationships among individuals in terrorist organ­izations. The main takeaway is that personal relationships did appear to pave the way for efforts to build orga­nizational trust. Reputation was perhaps even more difficult to discern, and ­these findings should also be weighed with caution. Al-­Qaida had an advantage in this re­spect ­because groups that participated in the anti-­Soviet jihad benefited from a reputation that encouraged trust. The Japa­nese Red Army earned a

­Table 7. ­Factors That Encouraged Trust Building at the Point of Alliance Initiation Referrals

Reputations

Opportunities for Interaction

Personal Relationships

Red Army Faction (PFLP-­SOG) San­di­nis­tas (PFLP-­SOG) Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat (al-­Qaida) Al-­Shabaab (al-­Qaida)

Japanese Red Army (PFLP-­SOG) Egyptian Islamic Jihad (al-­Qaida) Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida)

Egyptian Islamic Jihad (al-­Qaida) Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) San­di­nis­tas (PFLP-­ SOG)

Egyptian Islamic Jihad (al-­Qaida) Japanese Red Army (PFLP-­SOG) ASALA (PFLP-­ SOG)

Armed Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida) Jemaah Islamiyah (al-­Qaida) Al-­Nusra (al-­Qaida)

Red Army Faction (PFLP-­SOG) Red Army in Japan (PFLP-­SOG)

Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba (al-­Qaida) Jemaah Islamiyah (al-­Qaida)

Japanese Red Army (PFLP-­SOG) ASALA (PFLP-­SOG)

Jund al-­Sham (al-­Qaida) Faction of Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida) Faction of Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Al-­Shabaab (al-­Qaida) Armed Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Al-­Nusra (al-­ Qaida)

Armed Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida) Afghan Taliban (al-­Qaida) Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba (al-­Qaida) Jemaah Islamiyah (al-­Qaida) Jund al-­Sham (al-­Qaida) Faction of Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (al-­Qaida) Faction of Egyptian Islamic Group (al-­Qaida) Hizballah (al-­Qaida) Aideed (al-­Qaida)

ASALA = A rmenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia; PFLP-­SOG = Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine Special Operations Group.



Conclusion

271

positive reputation while at the PFLP-­SOG’s training facilities. Rather than being able to identify when groups had a positive reputation that supported trust, information did sometimes emerge about groups with negative reputations that w ­ ere considered untrustworthy. The GIA earned a negative reputation that discouraged groups from allying with it ­a fter the mid-1990s. ­There ­were also rumors that Jund al-­Sham was untrustworthy during the late 1990s in Af­ghan­i­stan; however, this did not wholly deter al-­Qaida from seeking ties. The Red Brigades also had a reputation for ­being infiltrated, which discouraged the PFLP-­SOG from cooperating with it. The Red Army Faction acquired a bad reputation for its be­hav­ior at Fatah’s camps in 1970, though this did not discourage the PFLP-­SOG from allying with it. While reputation ­matters, ­these findings point to a need for further research to fully understand the role of reputation in alliances. ­There ­were several instances in which referrals helped pave the way for efforts to build trust. Fatah’s referral of the Red Army Faction to the PFLP-­ SOG facilitated their cooperation. Referrals also linked the San­di­nis­tas with the PFLP-­SOG. Jund al-­Sham, by then al-­Qaida in Iraq, played a referral role in enabling trust building between al-­Qaida and the Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat, which had to overcome its parent organ­ization’s poor reputation. The referrals that East Africa al-­Qaida members provided on al-­Shabaab ­were mixed, with some endorsing it and one influential operative criticizing it. This negative referral may have contributed to al-­Qaida’s reticence to make the alliance public but did not prevent the groups from attempting trust. At the alliance formation stage, I posited that trust is essential. Therefore, I would expect that absent trust, alliances ­will not form, even if orga­ nizational needs and identity affinity are pres­ent. Admittedly, forging trust can be an idiosyncratic pro­cess and can be hindered by unanticipated ­factors. Above all, trust develops through successful interactions and cooperation. When alliances form, I posited that a locus of trust develops, which is responsible for preserving trust and acting as a broker. Potential loci of trust can occur between leaders, key nodes, and rank and file, or become embedded in both organ­izations. I sought to identify if a locus of trust existed and where. Not surprisingly, given the nature of terrorist organ­ izations, it proved challenging to identify exactly when and how groups formed trust. Consequently, ­there are some gaps in this area, and the findings in ­Table 8 are tentative.

­Table 8. Trust and Alliance Formation Indications That Trust Developed

Alliance Formation

No Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes

No Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes

Yes

Yes

X Key Nodes Key Nodes Embedded Embedded Key Nodes Key Nodes and Leaders Key Nodes

Yes

No

Key Nodes

Yes Yes

Yes Yes

Unidentified Key Nodes

Hub

Prospective Ally

Fatah PFLP-­SOG PFLP-­SOG PFLP-­SOG PFLP-­SOG PFLP-­SOG Al-­Qaida

Mixed

No

Key Nodes

Al-­Qaida

Red Army Faction San­di­nis­tas Red Army in Japan Japanese Red Army ASALA Red Army Faction Egyptian Islamic Jihad (1980s, 1990s, & 2001) Egyptian Islamic Group (1980s) Egyptian Islamic Group (1998) Armed Islamic Group Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (1990s) Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (2001) Afghan Taliban

Yes

Yes

Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida

Hizballah Jemaah Islamiyah Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba Jund al-­Sham (2003)

No Yes No Yes

No Yes No Yes

Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida

Aideed Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat Faction of Libyan Islamic Fighting Group Faction of Egyptian Islamic Group Al-­Shabaab Al-­Nusra

No Yes

No Yes

Leaders and Key Nodes X Key Nodes Key Nodes Leaders and Key Node X Leaders

Yes

Yes

Key Nodes

Yes

Yes

Key Nodes

Yes Yes

Yes Yes

Key Nodes Key Nodes

Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida

Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida Al-­Qaida

Locus of Trust

ASALA = A rmenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia; PFLP-­SOG = Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine Special Operations Group.



Conclusion

273

Based on the information available, I find support for the contention that alliances form only when trust exists. ­There ­were no instances when alliance formed without trust. In the case in which ­there was clear evidence that ­there ­were trust prob­lems—­with al-­Qaida and Lashkar—an alliance did not form. Trust existed between key nodes, but fears that Lashkar betrayed Zubaydah thoroughly disrupted trust between the two groups. Interestingly, t­ here ­were instances in which trust existed, but the alliance faltered. In the case of al-­Qaida and the Egyptian Islamic Group in 1998 as well as al-­Qaida and the Libyan Islamic Fighting Group, the groups had previously allied, and al-­Qaida sought to ally again. Trust existed between some members of the satellite group and al-­Qaida. However, critically, trust did not exist between al-­Qaida and the leaders who ­were making alliance decisions. Thus, while trust was necessary for alliances to form, it was not sufficient on its own. In addition, the findings suggest that key nodes and leaders are often responsible for building and preserving trust and acting as brokers. In two PFLP-­SOG cases, trust was embedded. This primarily occurred ­because the PFLP-­SOG allied with ­these groups as they formed. Other than that, trust appeared to be managed by a small number of individuals. How and Why Groups Become Alliance Hubs

I now turn to the mechanisms that allowed alliance hubs to form alliance networks and what motivated them to do so. As the logic of the discussion of alliance initiation and alliance formation suggests, I posited that in order to become an alliance hub, groups must satisfy four conditions. First, they need to be groups willing and capable of assisting with orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs that are in demand in the prevailing environment. Hubs have to be able to impart knowledge or skills to other organ­izations and enjoy robust resource mobilization capability. Second, they have to be acceptable partners from an identity standpoint. They must possess identity characteristics that are acceptable to ­others and identity affinity par­ameters that are sufficiently broad to accept numerous prospective partners. Hubs adhere to an ideology with salience and have an expansive ­enemy narrative that can readily incorporate ­others’ narratives or build bridges to them. Hubs strike a balance of being accepting to partners with shared identity characteristics while forging a cohesive identity community in their alliance network. Third, hubs must be able to build trust. They must be capable of

274

Conclusion

building trust with other organ­izations but sufficiently cautious about who they trust and the ways in which they do so. They have to fulfill their commitments and reciprocate for cooperation and thereby develop a reputation as trustworthy. They may have members who act as brokers to forge interor­ gan­i­za­tional relationships and trust. Through their alliance networks, they are able to get and receive referrals to foster trust. Only a subset of groups capable of becoming an alliance hub chooses to build an alliance network. This leads to the fourth condition. The organ­ izations that opt to become hubs must have orga­nizational needs they seek to fulfill through alliances. Some of their orga­nizational needs may be learning and adaptation needs, as is the case for satellite groups. More impor­tant, they have orga­nizational ambitions that outstrip their capabilities. They may also have ambitious strategic and po­liti­cal objectives, as many, if not most, terrorist groups do. Critically though, they adopt an orga­nizational mission that exceeds their capacity and instills a perpetual need for allies. This deficiency underpins their willingness to assist other groups and build an alliance network. Alliances help them fulfill their orga­n izational ­m ission. This section discusses the findings of Chapters 2, 4, and 5: the PFLP-­ SOG and al-­Qaida’s be­hav­ior as alliance hubs and the ways they built alliance networks. As most-­different cases, the two alliance hubs examined in this book operated during dif­fer­ent periods, acted as hubs for varying durations, adhered to dif­fer­ent ideologies, and constructed their enemies differently. The PFLP-­SOG functioned as an alliance hub from 1969 to 1979. In comparison, al-­Qaida had a longer tenure as a hub, beginning in the late 1980s ­until the pres­ent. The PFLP-­SOG’s ideology was nominally leftist with an ethnonationalist streak. In contrast, al-­Qaida is a religious organ­ization that eschews nationalism. They constructed their enemies differently. Al-­ Qaida frames its ­enemy as the “Zionist-­Crusader” alliance, whereas the PFLP-­SOG opposed the “imperialist world order,” with a focus on Israel. Initially, it appeared as though they had dif­fer­ent orga­nizational structures. However, when it became apparent that the PFLP-­SOG, not the PFLP, was the alliance hub, they became more similar in this re­spect. If the posited mechanisms function, I would expect both groups to have an ability to fulfill ­others’ needs, perpetual orga­nizational needs of their own, orga­nizational dynamics receptive to alliances, salient identity features, and the capacity to build trust. Consistent with the hypotheses, the PFLP-­SOG and al-­Qaida possessed ­these characteristics. In summary, they had the



Conclusion

275

knowledge and resources to address the standard needs of the environment, which ensured that they ­were a good fit for numerous groups seeking an ally. Alliances occupied a prominent place in their orga­nizational pro­cesses. They had ambitious orga­nizational missions they could not achieve without allies. Their identities had salience, and, therefore, both w ­ ere acceptable partners to numerous other organ­izations. Si­mul­ta­neously, they had identity par­ameters that ­were sufficiently broad to accept numerous other groups as allies but narrow enough to maintain cohesion. The hubs built shared identities or persuaded other groups to adopt their identities. Equally impor­tant, they demonstrated trustworthiness. Their members and leaders cultivated personal relationships with members of other organ­izations and had reputations conducive to trust. They ­were accessible and thus able to interact with ­others, providing ample opportunities to build trust. This subsection ­will now discuss each of ­these in turn.

Orga­nizational Needs As hypothesized, the two hubs offered many ser­vices to their partners, which ­were often akin to what a terrorist group would receive from a state sponsor. Therefore, they could fulfill prospective allies’ orga­nizational needs, as reflected in ­Table 9. They both placed a premium on providing training as a way to entice and assist prospective allies. They had highly capable members who could instruct other groups, which doubled as an opportunity to evaluate them as prospective allies. Both found sanctuary ­under state sponsors where they could provide their allies with haven and build trust. Al-­ Qaida lost this capability ­after 2001, but before that, providing training and sanctuary ­were mainstays of its alliance efforts. The PFLP-­SOG and al-­Qaida benefited from healthy trea­suries, which they used to fulfill their partners’ needs both directly and indirectly. Both hubs had well-­documented operational capability—­a l-­Qaida’s alliance appeal discernibly improved ­a fter it began conducting operations—­a nd provided allies with operational assistance. Reflecting the centrality of orga­nizational weakness in alliances with hubs, al-­Qaida’s alliance appeal improved in the late 1990s, not ­because its ideology or enemies changed but ­because prospective allies ­were weakened. Al-­Qaida emerged as the “strongest ­horse” and became a more attractive partner. For alliance hubs, success attracts ­because it proj­ects their ability to address o­ thers’ deficiencies.

276

Conclusion

­Table 9. Orga­nizational Needs Addressed for Allies by Hubs Training PFLP-­SOG Al-­Qaida before 9/11

Battlefield Experience

Safe Haven

Resources

Prestige

Al-­Qaida before 9/11 Al-­Qaida ­a fter 9/11

PFLP-­ SOG Al-­Qaida before 9/11

PFLP-­ SOG Al-­Qaida before 9/11

PFLP-­ SOG Al-­Qaida ­a fter 9/11

Logistical Assistance

Operational Assistance

PFLP-­ SOG Al-­Qaida before 9/11 Al-­Qaida ­a fter 9/11

PFLP-­SOG Al-­Qaida before 9/11 Al-­Qaida ­a fter 9/11

PFLP-­SOG = Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine Special Operations Group.

The two hubs also offered cachet to their partners. The PFLP-­SOG’s association with the Palestinian cause conferred upon it a desirable reputation from the outset. Many militant groups venerated the Palestinian cause during the PFLP-­SOG’s alliance hub tenure. Its reputation improved with each high-­profile attack. The group learned early on that its groundbreaking hijacking operations attracted partners ­because they demonstrated a capability that other groups wanted to acquire. Similarly, particularly ­after 9/11, al-­Qaida acquired a prestige that served as its primary alliance asset. Groups that ­were previously reticent to ally with al-­Qaida then sought an alliance to benefit from it. Al-­Qaida was able to shift from a constant search for alliance partners to a receiving mode in which it evaluated prospective allies seeking to form an alliance with it. Al-­Qaida even formalized its reputation into some alliances by renaming its partners. Both organ­izations embedded alliances into their orga­nizational dynamics. From an early orga­nizational age, alliances occupied a prominent place in the hubs’ orga­nizational pro­cesses. The emphasis on alliances in their orga­nizational frames reflected their leaders’ preferences. Both bin Laden and Wadi’ Haddad ­were heavi­ly involved in their organ­izations’ alliances. The hub leaders instilled in their respective organ­izations that alliances ­were valuable to achieve their orga­nizational and strategic goals despite their markedly dif­fer­ent personas. With no public profile, Haddad built an alliance network from the shadows while bin Laden’s fondness for the spotlight sometimes drew criticism. Yet they shared a commitment to alliances and a tendency to micromanage. In al-­Qaida’s case, it maintained its alliance hub position ­after bin Laden’s death, though it has only acquired one new ally in the subsequent years. Al-­Qaida maintained its alliance posture and network



Conclusion

277

a­ fter the leadership change, though its alliance appeal perceptibly diminished. In contrast, the PFLP-­SOG could not survive the loss of its leader, and the group quickly ceased behaving like an alliance hub in Haddad’s absence. A number of groups have the ability to fulfill other groups’ orga­nizational needs. What distinguishes hubs is that they had orga­nizational ambitions that motivated them to seek allies. Al-­Qaida sought allies even as it was still forming as a group and before it identified the United States as its primary ­enemy ­because its found­ers envisioned an Islamic Army that would deploy in defense of Muslims worldwide. Such a mission produced extensive needs, as it required ample trained personnel and an ability to operate in numerous places, which, as a new organ­ization, al-­Qaida lacked. From an early point, al-­Qaida sought to lead this army and to unify the disparate Sunni jihadist groups ­under it. This orga­nizational mission to lead and unite the Sunni jihadist movement created a perpetual need for allies. In contrast, the PFLP-­ SOG attained a leadership role in the leftist movement through its attacks and its alliances, though that was not its initial goal. Its orga­nizational mission was to execute an international terrorism against Israel and ­those that supported it. Allies ­were part of its constant adaptation needs to circumvent Israel and other states’ countermea­sures. Allies also allowed the PFLP-­SOG to draw international attention to its cause. In addition, both hubs operated in exile, which generated constant needs for partners to help them operate and proj­ect their terror across the globe. Identity Affinity Both al-­Qaida and the PFLP-­SOG possessed identity characteristics that ­were salient in their respective environments, which gave them a basis for identity affinity with numerous other organ­izations. The PFLP-­SOG’s nominally leftist orientation combined with its association with the Palestinian cause made it appealing to many fellow leftist groups. ­Because of its nondogmatic ideological approach, it created expansive ideological affinity par­a­ meters. This, coupled with the predominance of leftism among militant groups during this period, meant that the PFLP-­SOG had numerous groups that it would accept as allies and vice versa. For its part, al-­Qaida formed in the midst of an Islamic revival, at the same time as many fellow Sunni militant groups. Therefore, it also had numerous prospective partners with which it shared an ideology. Al-­Qaida was more ideologically rigid than the PFLP-­SOG, but this did not dampen its alliance prospects ­because it was

278

Conclusion

firmly situated within the ideological landscape of the day. Al-­Qaida limited its allies to fellow Sunni jihadist groups, which still gave it numerous partner options ­because of the abundance of such groups during this period. Similarly, the PFLP-­SOG’s allies ­were predominantly leftist organ­izations. In addition, both alliance hubs propagated the idea that their ideologies prescribed alliances. The hubs’ interpretation of their respective ideologies also emphasized an international diagnosis of the prob­lem, which, they argued, necessitated alliances as part of the solution. The two hubs had expansive ­enemy narratives, which provided them with a basis for narrative affinity to bolster their ideological affinity. While al-­ Qaida relentlessly advocated—­with limited success, much to its frustration—­ that its allies focus on the United States, its ­enemy narrative also included Israel, most Western Eu­ro­pean countries, the United States’ allies, and so-­ called apostate regimes. The PFLP-­SOG’s view of its imperialist enemies included Israel, any country that supported Israel, the United States, and so-­called reactionary Arab regimes. In addition to their expansive narratives, both hubs demonstrated a willingness to incorporate their partners’ foes into their narratives. For example, ­after al-­Qaida allied with the GSPC, it increased its emphasis on France as one of its enemies. When JI accidentally killed primarily Australians in the Bali attacks in 2002, al-­Qaida attributed it to Canberra’s support for the U.S. Global War on Terrorism. Likewise, the PFLP-­SOG had no discernible antipathy ­toward Japan ­until it allied with the Japa­nese Red Army, ­after which it attacked Japa­nese targets on two occasions. It was also willing to target West Germany on behalf of the Red Army Faction. Their approaches to identity convergence differed, especially in terms of their narrative. Al-­Qaida constantly sought to persuade its allies to adopt its narrative, which emphasized the United States as the first priority. It was willing to incorporate its allies’ concerns into its narrative, but it persisted in its efforts to shift its partners’ narratives. In contrast, the PFLP-­SOG encouraged its partners to increase their emphasis on its narrative priority, Israel, but was far more willing to incorporate its allies’ narratives into its agenda. It was a more reciprocal arrangement for the PFLP-­SOG. While al-­Qaida and the PFLP-­SOG ­were both Arab groups, they differed in their approach to ethnic identity affinity. Ethnic affinity did not influence the PFLP-­SOG’s identity affinity or partner se­lection. In contrast, al-­Qaida privileged alliances with fellow Arab groups. It allied with non-­Arab groups but prioritized forging alliances with ­those with which it had ethnic



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affinity. This was part of its effort to create an Arab Sunni jihadist community and position itself at the helm of it. However, both hubs’ identity affinity par­ameters had clear bound­a ries that ­were based on ideological affinity. Their alliance networks consisted only of groups with shared ideologies. This created cohesion within their alliance networks. In so d­ oing, they gained status within their ideological communities. They propagated ideological interpretations that advocated for unity and alliances to solve a broader strategic mission and to fulfill their orga­ nizational ambitions. Trust In terms of the final component of alliances, al-­Qaida and the PFLP-­ SOG both demonstrated an aptitude for building trust with other groups. Their affinity foundation—­combined with their reputation, ability to get and receive referrals, ability to readily interact with other groups, and members’ personal relationships—­was conducive to forging trust or at least a willingness to attempt to do so. They benefited from access to havens where they could interact with other groups. Training provided a primary way for them to build trust with other groups, although only before 9/11 for al-­Qaida. They built reputations as groups that would reliably assist ­others and fulfill their commitments. Both leaders ­were intimately involved in alliances, even as the loci of trust in a number of cases. Trust tended to be concentrated in key nodes designated by the leaders, or ­these nodes ­were the leaders themselves. This created vulnerability, as the loci of trust ­were susceptible to disruption. The theoretical framework offered in Chapter 1 demonstrated explanatory power for ­these two most-­different alliance hubs. They satisfied the four conditions identified and prospered as alliance hubs. In so ­doing, they also demonstrated how to build alliance networks and the advantages of ­doing so. Several of their allies went on to build alliance networks as well, though not on the same scale, which further compounded the terrorist threat and highlighted the need to identify ways to ­counter hubs.

Policy Recommendations To date, counterterrorism efforts have had limited success disrupting alliances, which suggests that governments need to reevaluate their strategies

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for preventing and disrupting ­these partnerships. The policy recommendations that flow from this research do not offer a silver bullet to eliminate the threat from terrorist alliances or prevent all such alliances. In fact, many of the recommendations are already part of U.S. counterterrorism efforts. A greater recognition that certain policies ­will also hinder alliances may encourage a more intense focus and result in increasing the emphasis, funds, or energies dedicated to ­those efforts. Perhaps most impor­tant, this book’s findings offer hope for disrupting alliances, especially when compared to conclusions drawn from conventional wisdom. The conventional wisdom that common ideology or shared enemies cause alliances leaves ­little, if any, room for policy intervention. Instead, this book’s findings point ­toward numerous intervention points to stymie alliances. In addition, ­these findings can help counterterrorism officials anticipate when alliances are apt to occur and attempt to prevent alliances from forming. As discussed, groups tend to experience the requisite orga­nizational needs when they are young, when they are in the midst of orga­nizational crises, and when their environment is changing rapidly or in unanticipated ways. For example, crises that involved leadership changes can lead to alliance seeking, particularly when a new leader seeks to shore up his position. When groups experience ­these conditions, governments should increase intelligence collection to detect outreach and monitor rhe­toric that signals a desire for an ally. ­Because alliances are vulnerable in the early stages of alliance initiation, efforts to disrupt them then can prevent the threat from a successful alliance. Targeting Alliance Hubs’ Appeal

In order to hinder alliances with hubs and damage hubs’ appeal, counterterrorism efforts should focus heavi­ly on degrading hubs’ ability to fulfill other groups’ needs. This requires identifying the main needs that motivate satellite groups to seek out a hub. In the case of the PFLP-­SOG, it fulfilled groups’ needs for training, operational assistance, haven, funds, and materiel. Partners also accrued prestige for supporting the esteemed Palestinian cause. For al-­Qaida, its early ability to act as a hub depended on bin Laden’s coffers and the assets that flowed from it, particularly training facilities and sanctuary. ­After 9/11, al-­Qaida relied on its name’s prestige, which it offered to groups that had lost resonance and sought to enhance their reputation.



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The Islamic State has offered many of the same assets as its alliance hub pre­de­ces­sors. It controlled territory that served as a sanctuary. It ran training facilities. It acquired a robust trea­sury. It enjoyed a reputation among militants for strength and legitimacy for its involvement in a venerated cause. All have been appealing assets for groups facing shortfalls. Admittedly, counterterrorism tactics already include countering terrorists’ finances, combating state sponsorship, denying terrorists haven, and damaging their training capability—­the main assets used by the hubs examined in this book. However, greater emphasis should be placed on any or all of ­these when a hub is using them to attract partners. The idea of degrading hubs’ alliance infrastructure should become an explicit part of the U.S. counterterrorism strategy. While it can seem most pressing to focus on dismantling individual terrorist groups’ operational capability, if efforts are not si­mul­ta­neously undertaken to hinder hubs, groups ­will be able to rebuild their capability more readily. ­Those groups ­will likely become more resilient and lethal if they ally with a hub. The United States has experience to draw from to effectively ­counter terrorist financing, havens, and training, although more can be done to degrade hubs specifically. A far more difficult but essential task is damaging a hub’s reputation among its peers. In the al-­Qaida, Islamic State, and PFLP-­ SOG cases, their reputations bolstered their alliance appeal substantially. Therefore, the United States needs to undertake countermessaging efforts geared ­toward damaging their reputation among jihadist groups. Countermessaging campaigns to date have primarily sought to prevent radicalization and recruitment. Messaging to existing groups to avoid an alliance hub requires dif­fer­ent narratives. It involves discrediting what is appealing about the hub. Obviously, the United States would not be a credible source for delivering this message; therefore, efforts should be covert or conducted by third parties. Rather than starting from scratch, the United States can ­leverage the existing debates within the hubs’ movement. Some of the most damaging challenges to al-­Qaida have come from fellow jihadists, such as Sayyid Imam, the EIG, and the LIFG. Similarly, the Islamic State has been criticized by jihadist heavyweights like Abu Muhammad al-­Maqdisi and Abu Qatada.3 Undeniably, their messages are often not palatable to the United States and thus must be selected and used with care. However, they do have influence in jihadist circles and can help to delegitimize hubs in the eyes of that audience.

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To prevent the dangerous repercussions of hubs’ alliances, counterterrorism policies should prioritize hubs, even if they do not pose a direct threat to the United States. The threat that a group poses to the U.S. homeland has been the primary criteria for prioritizing counterterrorism efforts. However, this work reveals that hubs increase the overall terrorist threat in ways that adversely affect the United States and its allies, even if they are not attacking U.S. interests directly. By damaging hubs’ ability to address other groups’ needs, counterterrorism efforts ­will have a more widespread and long-­ standing impact. When terrorist groups are unable to find a partner to address their needs, they ­will be forced to undertake self-­reform or leave the needs unaddressed, thereby weakening them. While difficult to do, counterterrorism mea­sures should seek to exploit sources of affinity friction through covert messaging and propaganda. Diminishing affinity can stymie alliance formation, an undertaking that can be internally divisive among the partnering groups. Once an alliance is initiated, opportunities exist to damage affinity or hinder the development of shared identities. In al-­Qaida’s case, its internal communications constantly discussed the issues that damaged its affinity with its partners. Its frustration with allies’ attacks against Muslims offered an opportunity to drive a wedge between al-­Qaida and its partners’ affinity. In addition, the tensions over ­whether and how much to engage the near ­enemy caused exploitable strife within al-­Qaida’s relationships. Even if efforts to exacerbate affinity tensions do not produce a clear break in the alliance, they can weaken ties. Trust is another exploitable vulnerability. The United States should highlight when hubs fail to honor commitments or emphasize concerns about infiltrations, as long as ­doing so does not disrupt intelligence collection. In addition, targeting the loci of trust can disrupt alliances or at least weaken them. ­There are clearly other considerations involved when contemplating ­whether to target terrorist leaders. However, alliance key nodes may not be high-­priority targets if their role in managing relationships is not factored into decisions. Yet removing them can be particularly damaging if the groups face obstacles to replacing them. Trust is more difficult to build without safe havens. In addition to being an asset that hubs can provide to partners, ­these are venues where partners can build trust. Both the PFLP-­SOG and al-­Qaida benefited from state-­sponsored sanctuaries where they built trust with partners. This is yet



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another reason to continue policies to discourage and punish state sponsorship. The Islamic State created a sanctuary through territorial acquisition. Once built, trust can be a power­f ul glue that sustains relationships long ­after groups have separated geo­graph­i­cally. This points to the need for additional emphasis on safe-­haven eradication. Exploiting Existing Hurdles

As discussed in the Introduction, creating alliances involves an array of obstacles and risks to partnering groups. Alliances are not the natu­ral outcome for clandestine, illicit, and violent organ­izations. Chapters  2 through Chapter 6 reinforced how difficult alliance formation is, even for hubs. Rather than emphasizing groups’ commonalities or what draws them together, governments should exploit the risks inherent in ­these relationships. In fact, the United States should avoid highlighting terrorist groups’ commonalities and constantly emphasize their differences. The United States may want to delegitimize groups by pointing to their commonalities, but ­doing so reduces one of the hurdles to alliances. Relatedly, the United States should be cautious about labeling groups as allies, particularly publicly. If done before alliance formation, this can inadvertently reduce an obstacle. Fears of additional counterterrorism pressure can cause groups to have reservations about alliances. EIJ members raised this concern when debating ­whether to ally with al-­Qaida. Bin Laden also expressed fears that al-­Qaida’s public approach caused its affiliates to experience counterterrorism pressure, which was one reason he wanted to keep the al-­Shabaab alliance secret. While this did not prevent alliance formation in the al-­Qaida and al-­Shabaab case, it initially deprived al-­Shabaab of the reputational benefits of allying with al-­Qaida. Therefore, governments should carefully use policy tools that label groups as allies, like the United Nations Al-­Qaida Sanctions List. While it is a useful way to name and shame al-­Qaida’s partners, premature designation of a group as an al-­Qaida ally may increase the pressure that group experiences and actually encourage it to ally with al-­Qaida. Once an alliance is verified, governments should immediately increase the pressure on the partnering groups, which can stoke residual concerns and possibly help deter f­ uture alliances. Given terrorist organ­izations’ difficulties forging credible commitments, the United States should seek to capitalize on concerns about prospective

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partners’ reliability. It can highlight instances when groups, especially hubs, failed to honor promises or used cooperation opportunistically without reciprocating. This can damage hubs’ reputations as desirable partners or inject fears into specific alliance attempts. The hubs examined in this book ­were not immune to such accusations. If hubs’ lapses become better known, that knowledge might reduce hubs’ appeal. When alliances occur, the United States should seek to use them to alienate the groups from their constituencies. The United States should highlight actions by the partner organ­ization that constituents would consider undesirable, thereby depriving the group of some of the positive reputational impact of alliances. As mentioned earlier, al-­Qaida expressed fears about the impact of its allies’ actions on its reputation among Muslims. While the Islamic State has not expressed such compunctions, its excessive vio­lence, including against Muslims, offers an opportunity to tarnish the reputation of its allies among their support base. In the PFLP-­SOG’s case, over time, its actions became far less connected to the Palestinian cause, which offered an opening to damage its support among Palestinians. Some hubs seek to make their allies subordinate, which requires partners to relinquish autonomy in exchange for the benefits they receive through an alliance. This has proven internally divisive within partnering organ­izations. One of the reasons that EIJ took so long to merge with al-­ Qaida was ­because it did not want to lose its autonomy. The LIFG balked at allying with al-­Qaida in 1998 ­because it did not want to lose its autonomy. One of al-­Qaida’s closest allies, JI, emphasized that it retained its in­de­pen­dence despite its cooperation with al-­Qaida. The Islamic State’s demands for subordination ­w ill almost certainly produce similar internal deliberations among partnering groups, even if they are not yet apparent to outsiders. This offers an opportunity for the United States to stoke ­those apprehensions. Fi­nally, the United States should make it as costly as pos­si­ble for groups to communicate. Each time partnering groups need to interact, they must incur risks. The United States should capitalize on fears about the risks of communicating and interacting. A good example of such an action includes the U.S. publication of letters from al-­Qaida to al-­Qaida in Iraq. This publicized al-­Qaida’s concerns with AQI in a way that embarrassed the allies. It also compounded their fears about how to communicate securely and prob­ably hindered subsequent communications. A failure to communicate



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increases the likelihood of misunderstandings between allies and inhibits groups’ ability to form an alliance.

Directions for F ­ uture Research Given the danger posed by terrorist groups’ alliances, policymakers and researchers alike need to understand alliance hubs’ appeal and motives as well as why groups gravitate ­toward hubs. This book seeks to contribute to a growing lit­er­a­ture on terrorist alliances. Recent works have provided valuable insights into the consequences of terrorist alliances and helped to discern alliance patterns. However, few works have tackled the fundamental questions: What motivates terrorist groups to ally with alliance hubs in par­tic­u­lar? Why are hubs more desirable partners? This book offers a theoretical framework to speak to ­those questions. By delving into the inner workings of two alliance hubs and their prospective partners, it offers an inside look across time and ideology into the c­ auses of, and the hurdles to, alliances. However, that rich inside look came at the expense of generalizability. More research is needed to determine this theory’s applicability. F ­ uture research could explore its relevancy to alliances that do not involve hubs. In addition, the theory proffered in this book makes no claims to be the only cause of alliances. It reveals an impor­tant pathway to alliances and alliance hubs. Additional pathways may exist, especially for alliances that do not involve hubs. Both of the hubs examined in this book ­were centralized, solely terrorist organ­izations. While the PFLP is often credited with being an alliance hub, a closer look revealed that the PFLP-­SOG was responsible for building an extensive alliance network. The PFLP-­SOG had an opaque relationship with the more multifaceted PFLP ­after 1972. Even if the PFLP-­SOG remained part of the PFLP to some degree, it autonomously managed alliances. Al-­Qaida was also only a terrorist organ­ization. In the ­f uture, it would be useful to examine hubs that have po­liti­cal or social ser­vice wings to see if ­there are differences in their alliance approaches. In addition, both Haddad and bin Laden ­were intimately involved in their groups’ alliances. ­Future work could examine the alliance be­hav­ior of more decentralized groups. This book only focuses on a subset of terrorist cooperation: alliances. Cooperation can and does occur in ways that do not involve an alliance.

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Relationships occur between individuals or cells on an informal, ad hoc basis. Organ­izations frequently cooperate without expectations of ­f uture consultation or coordination. Other ave­nues for cooperation can be equally or even more impor­tant than orga­nizational alliances. The theoretical framework proposed in this book cannot, and does not seek to, explain ­these other forms of terrorist cooperation. This book offers a theoretical framework to better understand terrorist alliance be­hav­ior involving hubs, although its application requires an in-­depth understanding of the hubs and satellite organ­izations. However, understanding the inner workings of a terrorist organ­ization is difficult for academic researchers and sometimes even intelligence analysts. Anticipating an alliance necessitates understanding ­whether a group is experiencing acute or mounting orga­nizational needs, ­whether it has identified ­those needs, and ­whether it can address them on its own or ­will require an ally. In par­tic­u­lar, leaders’ perceptions and intentions become impor­tant, but they can be difficult to access. It further requires gauging groups’ receptivity to affinity and trust with potential allies. By their nature, terrorist groups seek to hide this information. This prob­lem is not unique to this research. Studying terrorism is quite difficult ­because of the clandestine, illicit, and violent nature of the actors that employ it. ­Because activities are often clandestine, it can be virtually impossible to know if all of the relevant information has been obtained or if the information available is truly representative. This can result in an abundance of research focusing on observable outcomes. This research attempted to open the black box and look inside terrorist organ­izations in order to better understand one aspect of their be­hav­ior. The primary goal of this book was to further our understanding of why terrorist groups ally and why they cluster around certain organ­izations. While challenging, it is essential to understand alliances in order to ­counter terrorist organ­izations. Alliances affect many facets of terrorists’ be­hav­ior and the threat they pose. In an increasingly interconnected world, terrorist groups have more ways to access one another than ever before. The United States has had ­little success disrupting terrorist alliances or damaging alliance hubs’ appeal. Academic research illuminated the impact of terrorist alliances, but few works have tackled the question of “why?” This book has endeavored to illuminate the answers to that question for ­those charged with countering terrorist groups and ­those who seek to better understand them.

Notes

Introduction Note to epigraph: “An Interview with Abdelmalek Droukdal,” New York Times, July  1, 2008. 1. Jean-­Pierre Filiu, “The Local and Global Jihad of al-­Qa’ida in the Islamic Maghrib,” M ­ iddle East Journal 63 (2009): 221−22. 2. Souad Mekhennet, Michael Moss, Eric Schmitt, Elaine Sciolino, and Margot Williams, “Ragtag Insurgency Gains a Lifeline from Al Qaeda,” New York Times, July 1, 2008. 3. Ayman Al-­Z awahiri, “Zawahiri’s Letter to Zarqawi (En­g lish translation),” (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, 2006), 12, https://­c tc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/­z awahiris​ -­letter​-­to​-­zarqawi​-­english​-­t ranslation​-­2. 4. Osama bin Laden, “Letter to My Beloved B ­ rother (En­glish translation)” (Washington, DC: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2015), https://­w ww.dni​.­gov​/­fi les​ /­documents​/­ubl​/­english2​/ ­Letter%20to%20my%20beloved%20Brother​.­pdf. 5. Kim Cragin, Peter Chalk, Sara A. Daly, and Brian A. Jackson, Sharing the Dragon’s Teeth: Terrorist Groups and the Exchange of New Technologies (Santa Monica, Calif.: Rand, 2007), 6. 6. Victor Asal and R. Carl Rethemeyer, “The Nature of the Beast: Orga­nizational Structures and the Lethality of Terrorist Attacks,” Journal of Politics 70, no. 2 (2008): 445; Kent Layne Oots, A Po­liti­cal Organ­ization Approach to Transnational Terrorism (New York: Greenwood, 1986), 92; Michael Horo­w itz and Philip B. K. Potter, “Allying to Kill: Terrorist Intergroup Cooperation and the Consequences for Lethality,” Journal of Conflict Resolution 58, no. 2 (2014): 199−225. 7. Kanisha Bond, “Power, Identity, Credibility and Cooperation: Examining the Development of Cooperative Arrangement Among Violent Non-­State Actors” (PhD diss., University of Mary­land, 2010), 2. 8. Victor Asal, Hyun Hee Park, and Karl Rethemeyer, “Terrorist Networks over Time” (paper presented at the annual convention for the International Studies Association, New Orleans, La., February 17−20, 2010): 31; Oots, Po­liti­cal Organ­ization Approach, 114; Horo­w itz and Potter, “Allying to Kill.” 9. United States National Security Council, National Strategy for Combating Terrorism (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 2003), 9. 10. Edward F. Mickolus, “Combatting International Terrorism: A Quantitative Analy­ sis” (PhD diss., Yale University, 1981), 5−10; Horo­w itz and Potter, “Allying to Kill.” 11. Victor Asal et al., “With Friends Like ­These . . . ​W hy Terrorist Organ­izations Ally,” International Public Management Journal 19, no. 1 (2016): 14.

288

Notes to Pages 3–9

12. Oots, Po­liti­cal Organ­ization Approach, 41; Navin  A. Bapat and Kanisha  D. Bond, “Alliances Between Militant Groups,” British Journal of Po­liti­cal Science 42, no. 4 (2012): 820. 13. Asal, Park, and Rethemeyer, “Terrorist Networks over Time,” 33. 14. Max Abrahms, “What Terrorists ­Really Want: Terrorist Motives and Counterterrorism Strategy,” International Security 32, no. 4 (2008): 78–105. 15. Martha Crenshaw, “An Orga­nizational Approach to the Analy­sis of Po­liti­cal Terrorism,” Orbis 29, no. 3 (1985): 465. 16. This definition largely draws from Bruce Hoffman, Inside Terrorism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 3. However, unlike Hoffman, I specify that the targets of terrorism are noncombatants or other victims proscribed by laws of war. 17. Asal et al., “With Friends Like ­These,” 3. 18. Ibid., 4. 19. Bond, “Power, Identity, Credibility and Cooperation,” 3. 20. Ely Karmon, Co­ali­tions Between Terrorist Organ­izations: Revolutionaries, Nationalists, and Islamists (Leiden, Netherlands: Martinus Nijhoff, 2005), 7. 21. Horo­w itz and Potter, “Allying to Kill,” 201. 22. Asal et al., “With Friends Like T ­ hese,” 6. 23. Assaf Moghadam, “Terrorist Affiliations in Context: A Typology of Terrorist Inter-­ Group Cooperation/Combating Terrorism Center at West Point,” CTC Sentinel 8, no. 3 (2015): 22–24. 24. Michael N. Barnett and Jack S. Levy, “Domestic Sources of Alliances and Alignments: The Case of Egypt, 1962−73,” International Organ­ization 45 (1991): 370; Stephen Walt, “Enduring Questions in a Changing Time,” in Realism and the Balancing of Power: A New Debate, ed. John A. Vasquez and Colin Elman (Upper ­Saddle River, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 2003), 12. 25. Robert Keohane, ­After Hegemony: Cooperation and Discord in the World Po­liti­cal Economy (Prince­ton, N.J.: Prince­ton University Press, 1984), 12. 26. Ibid. 27. Abu-­Salih Al Somali, “Terror Franchise: The Unstoppable Assassin—­TECHS Vital Role for Its Success,” (Washington, DC: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2015), 6, https://­w ww.dni​.­gov​/­files​/­documents​/­ubl​/­english​/ ­Terror%20Franchise​.­pdf. 28. Barnett and Levy, “Domestic Sources of Alliances,” 370. 29. Daniel Byman, “Buddies or Burdens: Understanding the Al-­Qaeda Relationships with Its Affiliate Organ­izations,” Security Studies 23 (2014): 438. 30. Fotini Christia, Alliance Formation in Civil Wars (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 19−32. 31. Ibid. 32. Brian  J. Phillips, “Enemies with Benefits? Violent Rivalry and Terrorist Group ­Longevity,” Journal of Peace Research 52, no. 1 (2015): 62–75. 33. William R. Thompson, “Identifying Rivals and Rivalries in World Politics,” International Studies Quarterly 45, no. 4 (2001): 557–86. 34. Justin Conrad and Kevin Greene, “Competition, Differentiation, and the Severity of Terrorist Attacks,” Journal of Politics 77, no. 2 (2015): 546–61. 35. Stephen Nemeth, “The Effect of Competition on Terrorist Group Operations,” ­Journal of Conflict Resolution 58, no. 2 (2014): 336–62.



Notes to Pages 9–16

289

36. Joe Bandy and Jackie Smith, eds., Co­ali­tions Across Borders: Transnational Protest and the Neoliberal Order (Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield, 2005), 9. 37. Mia Bloom, ­Dying to Kill: The Allure of Suicide Terror (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005), 27. 38. Gordon McCormick, “Terrorist Decision-­Making,” Annual Review of Po­liti­cal Science 6 (2003): 488. 39. Mia Bloom, “Palestinian Suicide Bombing: Public Support, Market Share and Outbidding,” Po­liti­cal Science Quarterly 119 (2004): 61–88. 40. Andrew H. Kydd and Barbara F. Walter, “The Strategies of Terrorism,” International Security 31, no. 1 (2006): 49–80; Conrad and Greene, “Competition, Differentiation, and the Severity of Terrorist Attacks,” 546–61. 41. Ethan Bueno de Mesquita, “Terrorist Factions,” Quarterly Journal of Po­liti­cal Science 3 (2008): 399–418. 42. Erica Chenoweth, “Demo­cratic Competition and Terrorist Activity,” Journal of ­Politics 72, no. 1 (2010): 16–30; Michael G. Findley and Joseph K. Young, “More Combatant Groups, More Terror? Empirical Tests of an Outbidding Logic,” Terrorism and Po­liti­cal Vio­ lence 24, no. 5 (2012): 706−21. 43. Christia, Alliance Formation in Civil Wars, 19−32. 44. Thompson, “Identifying Rivals and Rivalries in World Politics,” 562. 45. Christia, Alliance Formation in Civil Wars, 19−32. 46. Bruce Russett, “Components of an Operational Theory of International Alliance Formation,” in Alliances in International Politics, ed. Julian Friedman, Christopher Bladen, and Steven Rosen (Boston: Allyn and Bacon, 1970), 286. 47. Karmon, Co­ali­tions Between Terrorist Organ­izations, 24. 48. Horo­w itz and Potter, “Allying to Kill,” 210. 49. Oots, Po­liti­cal Organ­ization Approach, 41; Bapat and Bond, “Alliances Between Militant Groups,” 820; Horo­w itz and Potter, “Allying to Kill,” 203. 50. Bapat and Bond, “Alliances Between Militant Groups,” 811. 51. David C. Rapoport, “Terrorism,” in Encyclopedia of Government and Politics, ed. Mary Hawkesworth and Maurice Kogan (London: Routledge, 1992), 100. 52. Bapat and Bond, “Alliances Between Militant Groups,” 821. 53. Ibid., 800. 54. Byman, “Buddies or Burdens,” 431−70. 55. Ibid., 439. 56. Bond, “Power, Identity, Credibility and Cooperation,” 17. 57. Bandy and Smith, Co­ali­tions Across Borders, 3−4. 58. Bapat and Bond, “Alliances Between Militant Groups,” 795. 59. Daniel Byman, Deadly Connections: States That Sponsor Terrorism (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 26−32. 60. Skyler J. Cranmer, Bruce A. Desmarais, and Justin H. Kirkland, “­Toward a ­Network Theory of Alliance Formation,” International Interactions 38, no. 3 (2012): 295–324. 61. “Harmony Document SOCOM-2012-0000005” (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, 2010), 2, https://­ctc.usma​.­edu​/­v2​/­w p​-­content​/­uploads​/­2013​/­10​/ ­Letter​-­f rom​ -­Usama​-­Bin​-­Laden​-­to​-­Mukhtar​-­Abu​-­a l​-­Zubayr​-­Original​.­pdf. 62. Yonah Alexander and Dennis A. Pluchinsky, Eu­ro­pean Terrorism ­Today and Tomorrow (Washington, D.C.: Brassey’s Terrorism Library, 1992), 46.

290

Notes to Pages 16–20

63. Ayman Al-­Z awahiri, “Zawahiri’s Letter to Zarqawi (En­glish Translation)” (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, 2006), https://­ctc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/­zawahiris​-­letter​ -­to​-­zarqawi​-­english​-­t ranslation​-­2. 64. Oots, Po­liti­cal Organ­ization Approach, 41. 65. Unspecified author, “Gist of Conversation Oct 11” (Washington, DC: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2015), 3, https://­w ww.dni​.­gov​/­files​/­documents​/­ubl​/­english​ /­Gist%20of%20conversation%20Oct%2011​.­pdf. 66. Cranmer, Desmarais, and Kirkland, “­Toward a Network Theory of Alliance Formation,” 298. 67. Jacob N. Shapiro, The Terrorist’s Dilemma: Managing Violent Covert Organ­izations (Prince­ton, N.J.: Prince­ton University Press, 2013), 4−21. 68. Byman, “Buddies or Burdens,” 431−70. 69. Bandy and Smith, Co­ali­tions Across Borders, 8. 70. Stefan Aust and Anthea Bell, Baader-­Meinhof: The Inside Story of the R.A.F ­(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 65−71. 71. Oots, Po­liti­cal Organ­ization Approach, 41. 72. Byman, “Buddies or Burdens.” 73. Horo­w itz and Potter, “Allying to Kill.” 74. Stefan Aust, interview by author, September 2007. 75. Byman, “Buddies or Burdens.” 76. Cragin et al., Sharing the Dragon’s Teeth, 6. 77. Ibid., 3. 78. Bandy and Smith, Co­ali­tions Across Borders, 3−14. 79. “Harmony Document SOCOM-2012-00000015” (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, 2010), 7. https://­ctc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/­letters​-­f rom​-­abbottabad​-­bin​-­ladin​ -­sidelined. 80. Brian Phillips, “Terrorist Group Cooperation and Longevity,” International Studies Quarterly 58 (2014): 336−47. 81. Unspecified author, “Report on the External Operations” (Washington, DC: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2015), 4−5, https://­w ww.dni​.­gov​/­files​/­documents​/­ubl​ /­english​/ ­Report%20on%20External%20Operations​.­pdf. 82. Horo­w itz and Potter, “Allying to Kill.” 83. Idean Salehyan, Rebels Without Borders: Transnational Insurgencies in World Politics (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2009), 61−97. 84. Hoffman, Inside Terrorism, 63−80. 85. Claire Sterling, The Terror Network (New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1981), 13. 86. Oots, Po­liti­cal Organ­ization Approach, 114. 87. Jason Burke, Al-­Qaeda: The True Story of Radical Islam (London: I. B. Tauris, 2004), 16. 88. Horo­w itz and Potter, “Allying to Kill,” 200. 89. Asal et al., “With Friends Like ­These,” 1. 90. Horo­w itz and Potter, “Allying to Kill,” 200. 91. Cranmer, Desmarais, and Kirkland, “­Toward a Network Theory of Alliance Formation,” 305. 92. Phillips, “Terrorist Group Cooperation.”



Notes to Pages 21–31

291

93. Dan J. Wang and Sarah A. Soule, “Social Movement Orga­nizational Collaboration: Networks of Learning and the Diffusion of Protest Tactics, 1960–1995,” American Journal of Sociology 117, no. 6 (2012): 1674–722. 94. Cranmer, Desmarais, and Kirkland, “­Toward a Network Theory of Alliance Formation,” 306. 95. Horo­w itz and Potter, “Allying to Kill,” 211. 96. Phillips, “Terrorist Group Cooperation.” 97. Asal, Park, and Rethemeyer, “Terrorist Networks over Time,” 33. 98. United States District Court Southern District of New York v. Usama bin Laden et al Defendants, indictment, S(9) 98 Cr. 1023 (New York: 2001), 7, 14 (emphasis added), https://­ assets.documentcloud​.­org​/­documents​/­802160​/­indict​.­pdf. 99. Eben Kaplan, “The Al-­Qaeda-­Hezbollah Relationship,” Council on Foreign Relations Backgrounder (Washington, DC: 2006), https://­w ww.cfr​.­org​/ ­backgrounder​/­a l​-­qaeda​ -­hezbollah​-­relationship. 100. Evan Kohlmann, “Two De­cades of Jihad in Algeria: The GIA, the GSPC, and Al-­ Qaida,” (NEFA Foundation, 2007), 21. 101. Asal, Park, and Rethemeyer, “Terrorist Networks over Time,” 32. 102. “An Interview with Abdelmalek Droukdal,” New York Times, July 1, 2008. 103. Byman, “Buddies or Burdens,” 438. 104. “Interview with Abdelmalek Droukdal.” 105. Cragin et al., Sharing the Dragon’s Teeth, xiii. 106. Hoffman, Inside Terrorism, 71.

Chapter  1 1. Bruce Hoffman, “The Coming ISIS–al Qaeda Merger,” Foreign Affairs, March 29, 2016, https://­w ww.foreignaffairs​.­com​/­a rticles​/­2016​-­03​-­29​/­coming​-­isis​-­a l​-­qaeda​-­merger. 2. Ibid. 3. Daniel Byman, “Buddies or Burdens: Understanding the Al-­Qaeda Relationships with Its Affiliate Organ­izations,” Security Studies 23 (2014): 469. 4. Max Abrahms, “What Terrorists ­Really Want: Terrorist Motives and Counterterrorism Strategy,” International Security 32, no. 4 (2008): 78–105. 5. Ibid., 78. 6. Gordon McCormick, “Terrorist Decision-­Making,” Annual Review of Po­liti­cal Science 6 (2003): 486. 7. Quintan Wiktorowicz, ed., Islamic Activism: A Social Movement Theory Approach, Indiana Series in M ­ iddle East Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004), 40–41. 8. Ibid. 9. Martha Crenshaw, “An Orga­nizational Approach to the Analy­sis of Po­liti­cal Terrorism,” Orbis 29, no. 3 (1985): 465. 10. McCormick, “Terrorist Decision-­Making,” 481. 11. Charles Perrow, Normal Accidents: Living with High-­Risk Technologies (Prince­ton, N.J.: Prince­ton University Press, 1999), 369. 12. McCormick, “Terrorist Decision-­Making,” 489. 13. Abrahms, “What Terrorists ­Really Want,” 96–101.

292

Notes to Pages 32–36

14. Wiktorowicz, Islamic Activism, 41. 15. Ibid., 38. 16. McCormick, “Terrorist Decision-­Making,” 486. 17. Wiktorowicz, Islamic Activism, 41. 18. McCormick, “Terrorist Decision-­Making,” 487; Michael Horo­w itz and Philip B. K. Potter, “Allying to Kill: Terrorist Intergroup Cooperation and the Consequences for Lethality,” Journal of Conflict Resolution 58, no. 2 (2014): 204. 19. Jerrold Post, Ehud Sprinzak, and Laurita Denny, “The Terrorists in Their Own Words: Interviews with 35 Incarcerated ­Middle Eastern Terrorists,” Terrorism and Po­liti­cal Vio­lence 15, no. 1 (2003): 171–84. 20. Scott Sagan, “The Perils of Proliferation: Organ­ization Theory, Deterrence Theory, and the Spread of Nuclear Weapons,” International Security 18 (1994): 72. 21. Martha Crenshaw, “Theories of Terrorism: Instrumental and Orga­nizational ­Approaches,” Journal of Strategic Studies 10 (1987): 18. 22. McCormick, “Terrorist Decision-­Making,” 490; Crenshaw, “Orga­n izational ­Approach,” 480. 23. David C. Rapoport, ed., Inside Terrorist Organ­izations (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), 100. 24. Crenshaw, “Orga­nizational Approach,” 473. 25. Ibid., 480. 26. I. William Zartman and Saadia Touval, eds., International Cooperation: The Extents and Limits of Multilateralism (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 57. 27. William A. Gamson, The Strategy of Social Protest, 2nd ed. (Belmont, Calif.: Wadsworth, 1990), 190–200. 28. Crenshaw, “Orga­nizational Approach,” 474. 29. Ibid., 473. 30. Crenshaw, “Theories of Terrorism,” 19. 31. Abrahms, “What Terrorists R ­ eally Want,” 93–103. 32. Brian Jackson, “Orga­nizational Learning in Terrorist Groups,” Working Paper, (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND, 2004): 3. 33. McCormick, “Terrorist Decision-­Making,” 487. 34. Elizabeth Kier, “Culture and French Military Doctrine Before World War II,” in The Culture of National Security: Norms and Identity in World Politics, ed. Peter Katzenstein (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), 202. 35. Kier, “Culture and French Military Doctrine,” 202. 36. Ibid., 203. 37. Ranjay Gulati, “Social Structure and Alliance Formation Patterns: A Longitudinal Analy­sis,” Administrative Science Quarterly 40, no. 4 (1995): 619–52. 38. Robert M. Grant and Charles Baden-­Fuller, “A Knowledge Accessing Theory of Strategic Alliances,” Journal of Management Studies 41 (2004): 62. 39. Raymond E. Miles, Charles Snow, Alan Meyer, and Henry Coleman Jr., “Orga­ nizational Strategy, Structure, and Pro­cess,” Acad­e my of Management Review 3 (1978): 558. 40. C. Marlene Fiol and Marjorie A. Lyles, “Orga­nizational Theory,” Acad­emy of Management Review 10 (1985): 804. 41. Wiktorowicz, Islamic Activism, 40.



Notes to Pages 36–44

293

42. Daniel A. Levinthal and Alessandro Marino, “Three Facets of Orga­nizational Adaptation: Se­lection, Variety, and Plasticity,” Organ­ization Science 26, no. 3 (2015): 743–55. 43. Fiol and Lyles, “Orga­nizational Theory,” 811. 44. Jackson, “Orga­nizational Learning,” 3. 45. Fiol and Lyles, “Orga­nizational Theory,” 811; Stewart Clegg, “Orga­nizational Adaptation,” in International Encyclopedia of Organ­ization Studies, ed., Stewart R. Clegg and James R. Bailey (Thousand Oaks, Calif.: Sage, 2008), 1011−12. 46. Melody Seah, Ming-­Huei Hsieh, and Hsiu-­Ying Huang, “Leader Driven Orga­ nizational Adaptation,” Management Decision 52, no. 8 (2014): 1410. 47. Gulati, “Social Structure and Alliance Formation Patterns,” 621. 48. Miles et al., “Orga­nizational Strategy,” 549. 49. Crenshaw, “Theories of Terrorism,” 21. 50. Victor Asal, Hyun Hee Park, and Karl Rethemeyer, “Terrorist Networks over Time” (paper presented at the annual convention for the International Studies Association, New Orleans, La., February 17−20, 2010), 33. 51. Rapoport, Inside Terrorist Organ­izations, 100. 52. Michael Horo­w itz, “Nonstate Actors and the Diffusion of Innovations: The Case of Suicide Terrorism,” International Organ­ization 64 (2010), 37. 53. Rapoport, Inside Terrorist Organ­izations, 15. 54. Horo­w itz, “Nonstate Actors,” 39. 55. Miles et al., “Orga­nizational Strategy,” 547. 56. Aldon Morris, “Reflections on Social Movement Theory: Criticisms and Proposals,” Con­temporary Sociology 29, no. 3 (2000): 445–54. 57. To date, quantitative work on terrorist alliances has not sought to capture this age resetting dynamic. Instead, scholars have calculated orga­nizational age based on the number of years since the group’s founding. 58. Grant and Baden-­Fuller, “Knowledge Accessing Theory,” 75. 59. Levinthal and Marino, “Three Facets of Orga­nizational Adaptation,” 743–55. 60. Wiktorowicz, Islamic Activism, 43. 61. Grant and Baden-­Fuller, “Knowledge Accessing Theory,” 66. 62. Dan J. Wang and Sarah A. Soule, “Social Movement Orga­nizational Collaboration: Networks of Learning and the Diffusion of Protest Tactics, 1960–1995,” American Journal of Sociology 117, no. 6 (2012): 1674–722. 63. Kim Cragin et al., Sharing the Dragon’s Teeth: Terrorist Groups and the Exchange of New Technologies (Santa Monica, Calif.: Rand, 2007), 14. 64. Cragin et al., Sharing the Dragon’s Teeth, 14. 65. Seungwha Chung, Harbir Singh, and Kyungmook Lee, “Complementarity, Status Similarity and Social Capital as ­Drivers of Alliance Formation,” Strategic Management Journal 21, no. 1 (2000): 1–22. 66. Grant and Baden-­Fuller, “Knowledge Accessing Theory,” 70. 67. Wang and Soule, “Social Movement Orga­nizational Collaboration,” 1674–722. 68. Mitchell Koza and Arie Lewin, “Managing Partnerships and Strategic Alliances: Raising the Odds of Success,” Eu­ro­pean Management Journal 18 (2000): 148. 69. Victor Asal et al., “With Friends Like ­These . . . ​W hy Terrorist Organ­izations Ally,” International Public Management Journal 19, no. 1 (2016): 16. 70. Ibid.

294

Notes to Pages 44–48

71. Ely Karmon, Co­ali­tions Between Terrorist Organ­izations: Revolutionaries, Nationalists, and Islamists (Leiden, Netherlands: Martinus Nijhoff, 2005), 287; Kent Layne Oots, A Po­liti­cal Organ­ization Approach to Transnational Terrorism (New York: Greenwood, 1986), 114. 72. Michael Barnett, “Identity and Alliances in the ­Middle East,” in The Culture of National Security: Norms and Identity in World Politics, ed. Peter J. Katzenstein (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), 410. 73. Shibley Telhami and Michael Barnett, eds., Identity and Foreign Policy in the ­Middle East (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2002), 183. 74. David Snow, “Collective Identity and Expressive Forms,” CSD Working Papers (UC Irvine: Center for the Study of Democracy, 2001): 3; Thomas Banchoff, “German Identity and Eu­ro­pean integration,” Eu­ro­pean Journal of International Relations 5 (1999): 268. 75. Jerrold Post, The Mind of the Terrorist: The Psy­chol­ogy of Terrorism from the IRA to al-­Qaeda (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), 8. 76. Telhami and Barnett, Identity and Foreign Policy, 7. 77. Jerry W. Kim and Monica C. Higgins, “Where Do Alliances Come From? The Effects of Upper Echelons on Alliance Formation,” Research Policy 36, no.  4 (2007): ­499–514. 78. Kanisha Bond, “Power, Identity, Credibility and Cooperation: Examining the ­Development of Cooperative Arrangement Among Violent Non-­State Actors” (PhD diss., University of Mary­land, 2010), 15. 79. Barnett, “Identity and Alliances,” 410. 80. Andreas Hasenclever, Peter Mayer, and Volker Rittberger, “Interests, Power, Knowledge: The Study of International Regimes,” Mershon International Studies Review 40 (1996): 177–228. 81. Crenshaw, “Orga­nizational Approach,” 471. 82. C. J. M. Drake, “The Role of Ideology in Terrorists’ Target Se­lections,” Terrorism and Po­liti­cal Vio­lence 10 (1998): 54. 83. Mark Sedgwick, “Inspiration and the Origins of Global Waves of Terrorism,” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 30 (2007): 99. 84. Daniel Byman, Deadly Connections: States That Sponsor Terrorism (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 41. 85. Donatella della Porta, “Left-­Wing Terrorism in Italy,” in Terrorism in Context, ed. Martha Crenshaw (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1995), 122. 86. Ibid., 122. 87. Randy Borum, Psy­chol­ogy of Terrorism (Tampa: University of South Florida, 2004), 41. 88. della Porta, “Left-­Wing Terrorism in Italy,” 149. 89. Drake, “Role of Ideology,” 76. 90. Ibid., 53. 91. Crenshaw, “Orga­nizational Approach,” 471. 92. Ibid. 93. Ibid. 94. Sedgwick, “Inspiration and the Origins,” 99. 95. Jeffrey T. Checkel, ed., Transnational Dynamics of Civil War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 36. 96. Wiktorowicz, Islamic Activism, 16.



Notes to Pages 48–53

295

97. della Porta, “Left-­Wing Terrorism in Italy,” 133. 98. Wiktorowicz, Islamic Activism, 15. 99. Asal, Park, and Rethemeyer, “Terrorist Networks over Time,” 33. 100. Beacham Publishing’s TRAC (Terrorism Research and Analy­sis Consortium), Hez­bollah and Hamas, https://­w ww.trackingterrorism​.­org​/­a rticle​/­hezbollah​-­and​-­hamas; Horo­witz and Potter, “Allying to Kill,” 205; Hanin Ghaddar, The Marriage and Divorce of Hamas and Hez­bollah (Washington, D.C.: Wilson Center, August 26, 2013). 101. Harriet Sherwood, “Hamas and Iran Rebuilt Ties Three Years ­A fter Fallout over Syria,” Guardian, January 9, 2014; Adnan Abu Amer, “Iran, Hez­bollah Break with Assad to Support Hamas,” Al-­Monitor, trans. Rani Geha and Ezgi Akin, July 25, 2014. 102. Daniel Byman, “The Logic of Ethnic Terrorism,” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 21, no. 2 (1998): 166. 103. Ibid., 154. 104. Barnett, “Identity and Alliances,” 411. 105. Checkel, Transnational Dynamics of Civil War, 219. 106. As quoted in Joe Bandy and Jackie Smith, eds., Co­ali­tions Across Borders: Transnational Protest and the Neoliberal Order, P ­ eople, Passions, and Power (Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield, 2005), 3; Byman, “Buddies or Burdens?” 431–70. 107. Barnett, “Identity and Alliances,” 409. 108. Refik Culpan, Multinational Strategic Alliances (New York: International Business Press, 1993), 49. 109. Kim and Higgins, “Where Do Alliances Come From?” 500. 110. Arvind Parkhe, “Current Issues in International Alliances,” Business Horizons 41, no. 6 (1998): 2–3. 111. Parkhe, Arvind. “Executive Briefing Interfirm Diversity in Global Alliances,” Business Horizons 44, no. 6 (2001): 2-4. 112. Asal et al., “With Friends Like ­These,” 10. 113. Gary Ackerman and Jeffrey Bale, “Where the Extremes May Touch: Islamist Networks, Extremism, and Terrorism,” unpublished paper (2010), 22. 114. Lyubov Mincheva and Ted Robert Gurr, “Unholy Alliances? How Trans-­State Terrorism and International Crime Make Common Cause” (paper presented at the International Studies Association Conference, San Diego, Calif., March 22–25, 2006), 2–3. 115. Gulati, “Social Structure and Alliance Formation Patterns,” 643. 116. Ranjay Gulati, “Alliances and Networks,” Strategic Management Journal 19 (1998): 294. 117. Karen Cook and Richard M. Emerson, “Power, Equity and Commitment in Exchange Networks,” American So­cio­log­i­cal Review, 43 (1978): 721–39. 118. Gulati, “Social Structure and Alliance Formation Patterns,” 626. 119. Nella Van Dyke and Holly J. McCammon, eds., Strategic Alliances: Co­ali­tion Building and Social Movements, Social Movements, Protest, and Contention (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010), 203; Bandy and Smith, Co­ali­tions Across Borders, 241. 120. Chung, Singh, and Lee, “Complementarity, Status Similarity and Social Capital as D ­ rivers of Alliance Formation,” 6−7. 121. Gulati, “Social Structure and Alliance Formation Patterns,” 644. 122. Marc J. Dollinger, Peggy A. Golden, and Todd Saxton, “The Effect of Reputation on the Decision to Joint Venture,” Strategic Management Journal 18 (1997): 128.

296

Notes to Pages 53–66 123. Asal et al., “With Friends Like ­These,” 10. 124. Gulati, “Social Structure and Alliance Formation Patterns,” 623. 125. Cragin et al., Sharing the Dragon’s Teeth, 18. 126. Bandy and Smith, Co­ali­tions Across Borders, 241. 127. Kim and Higgins, “Where Do Alliances Come From?” 501. 128. Checkel, Transnational Dynamics of Civil War, 18−23.

Chapter  2 Note to epigraph: As quoted in Bruce Hoffman, Inside Terrorism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 66. 1. John  K. Cooley, Green March, Black September: The Story of the Palestinian Arabs (London: Cass, 1973), 139. 2. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), “Anti-­Israeli Arab Terrorist Organ­izations,” Digital National Security Archive (1968): 8, https://­w ww.cia​.­gov​/ ­library​/­readingroom​ /­document​/­cia​-­rdp79​-­0 0927a006700010003​-­7. 3. Yazīd Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle and the Search for State: The Palestinian National Movement, 1949−1993 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997), 203. 4. Bassam Abu-­Sharif and Uzi Mahnaimi, Best of Enemies: The Memoirs of Bassam ­Abu-­Sharif and Uzi Mahnaimi (Boston: ­Little, Brown, 1995), 59−61. 5. Jillian Becker, Hitler’s ­Children: The Story of the Baader-­Meinhof Terrorist Gang (Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1977), 74; Abu-­Sharif and Mahnaimi, Best of Enemies, 60. 6. Bruce Hoffman, Inside Terrorism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 63. 7. Yoram Schweitzer and Noam Ophir, “The Rise and Fall of the International Terrorism Strategy of George Habash’s Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine,” unpublished paper (2008): 9; Abu-­Sharif and Mahnaimi, Best of Enemies, 59−60. 8. Abu-­Sharif and Mahnaimi, Best of Enemies, 60. 9. George Habash and Mahmoud Soueid, “Taking Stock: An Interview with George Habash,” Journal of Palestinian Studies 28 (1998): 93. 10. U.S. Department of State, Embassy Algiers, “Israeli Plane,” Digital National Security Archive (July 23, 1968): 1. 11. Hoffman, Inside Terrorism, 63. 12. Ibid. 13. U.S. Department of State, Embassy Beirut, “Fedayeen Attack Against El Al Plane,” Digital National Security Archive (December 28, 1968): 1. 14. Cooley, Green March, Black September, 147. 15. For excellent works on this topic, see Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle; Helena Cobban, The Palestinian Liberation Organisation: ­People, Power, and Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984); Barry M. Rubin, Revolution ­Until Victory? The Politics and History of the PLO (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 1994). 16. Hoffman, Inside Terrorism, 63; David C. Rapoport, “The Four Waves of Modern Terrorism,” in Attacking Terrorism: Ele­ments of a ­G rand Strategy, ed. Audrey Kurth Cronin and James M. Ludes (Washington, D.C.: Georgetown University Press, 2004), 56. 17. Rapoport, “Four Waves,” 56. 18. Ibid.



Notes to Pages 66–69

297

19. Hoffman, Inside Terrorism, 80; Martin Klimke, The Other Alliance: Student Protest in West Germany and the United States in the Global Sixties (Prince­ton, N.J.: Prince­ton University Press, 2010), 3. 20. Rapoport, “Four Waves,” 56. 21. Hoffman, Inside Terrorism, 158. 22. Ibid. 23. Brian Jenkins, “International Terrorism: A New Mode of Conflict,” in International Terrorism and World Security, ed. David Carlton and Carlo Schaerf (London: Croom Helm, 1975), 15. 24. Klimke, The Other Alliance, 5. 25. Hoffman, Inside Terrorism, 158. 26. Rapoport, “Four Waves,” 59. 27. Ibid., 56. 28. U.S. Department of State, “­Middle East: The Evolution of Fedayeen Strategy,” ­Digital National Security Archive (1973): 3; Leila Khaled, My ­People ­Shall Live: The Autobiography of a Revolutionary (London: Hoddor & Stoughton, 1973): 97. 29. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Terrorism and the Fedayeen,” Digital National Security Archive (1972): 2. 30. CIA, “Anti-­Israeli Arab Terrorist Organ­izations,” 1−3. 31. Department of State, “­Middle East: The Evolution,” 2; CIA, “Anti-­Israeli Arab Terrorist Organ­izations,” 2. 32. Bommi Baumann and Helen Ellenbogen, How It All Began: The Personal Account of a West German Urban Guerrilla (Vancouver: Arsenal Pulp, 2002), 55; Hoffman, Inside T ­ errorism, 76−78. 33. Department of State, “­Middle East: The Evolution,” 2. 34. CIA, “Anti-­Israeli Arab Terrorist Organ­izations,” 3. 35. As’ad AbuKhalil, “Internal Contradictions in the PFLP: Decision Making and ­Policy Orientation,” ­Middle East Journal 41 (1987): 362. 36. Yonah Alexander, Palestinian Secular Terrorism: Profiles of Fatah, Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine, Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine−General Command and the Demo­cratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine (Ardsley, N.Y.: Transnational, 2003), 33. 37. Harold Cubert, The PFLP’s Changing Role in the ­Middle East (New York: Frank Cass, 1997), 155. 38. Cooley, Green March, Black September, 140. 39. Ibid., 142. 40. PFLP Information Department, Strategy for the Liberation of Palestine (Amman, 1969), 45. 41. Yezid Ṣāyigh, “Review of the PFLP’s Changing Role in the ­Middle East” by ­Harold  M. Cubert, International Affairs (Royal Institute of International Affairs 1944−) 74, no. 1 (1998): 231–32. 42. AbuKhalil, “Internal Contradictions,” 375. 43. CIA, “Terrorism and the Fedayeen,” 4−5. 44. AbuKhalil, “Internal Contradictions,” 365; Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 232. 45. Abu-­Sharif and Mahnaimi, Best of Enemies, 61. 46. Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 232.

298

Notes to Pages 69–74

47. AbuKhalil, “Internal Contradictions,” 362−65; Cobban, Palestinian Liberation Organ­ ization, 145. 48. Byman, Daniel, A High Price: The Triumphs and Failures of Israeli Counterterrorism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 41; Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 287. 49. Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 232. 50. Ibid., 232, 306. 51. AbuKhalil, “Internal Contradictions,” 364; Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 306. 52. Abu-­Sharif and Mahnaimi, Best of Enemies, 60. 53. John M. Lee, “Hijacking Mastermind Is No. 2 in the Popu­lar Front,” New York Times, September 14, 1970. 54. Abu-­Sharif and Mahnaimi, Best of Enemies, 62. 55. David Yallop, To the Ends of the Earth, the Hunt for the Jackal (London: Jonathan Cape, 1993), 45. 56. John Bulloch, “George Habash: Palestinian Terrorist Leader,” In­de­pen­dent (2008), 36. 57. Abu-­Sharif and Mahnaimi, Best of Enemies, 60. 58. Ghassan Charbel, Asrâr al-­sundûq al-­aswad (The Secrets of the Black Box), trans. Nate Wilson (Beirut: Riyad El-­Rayyes, 2008), 70. 59. Schweitzer and Ophir, “Rise and Fall,” 32; Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 44. 60. Former Israeli intelligence officer, interview with author, March 2012. 61. Abu-­Sharif and Mahnaimi, Best of Enemies, 60. 62. Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 80. 63. Ibid., 232. 64. Former Israeli intelligence officer, interview. 65. Abu-­Sharīf and Mahnaimi, Best of Enemies, 60. 66. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 53. 67. Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 215. 68. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 45. 69. Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 204. 70. Ibid., 204−8 71. Khaled, My ­People S ­ hall Live, 108. 72. Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 214. 73. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 61. 74. Ibid. 75. Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 214. 76. Yonah Alexander and Dennis A. Pluchinsky, Eu­ro­pean Terrorism ­Today and Tomorrow (Washington, D.C.: Brassey’s Terrorism Library, 1992), 15. 77. Cobban, Palestinian Liberation Organ­ization, 146; Byman, A High Price, 42. 78. Aaron Mannes, Profiles in Terror: The Guide to ­Middle East Terrorist Organ­izations (Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield, 2004), 317. 79. Department of State, Embassy Beirut, “Fedayeen Attack,” 1−3. 80. Cooley, Green March, Black September, 146. 81. Khaled, My ­People S ­ hall Live, 107. 82. Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 214. 83. “Popu­lar Front Most Militant Commando Group,” New York Times, September 10, 1970.



Notes to Pages 74–80

299

84. Abu Iyad, My Home, My Land: A Narrative of the Palestinian Strug­gle, trans. Eric Rouleau (New York: Times, 1981), 98; Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 214. 85. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 69−75. 86. Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 257. 87. Schweitzer and Ophir, “Rise and Fall,” 12. 88. Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 214. 89. Schweitzer and Ophir, “Rise and Fall,” 24. 90. “Hijacked,” American Experience (Arlington, Va.: Public Broadcasting Ser­vice, ­February 16, 2006). 91. Federico Vélez, Latin American Revolutionaries and the Arab World: From the Suez Canal to the Arab Spring (Burlington, Vt.: Ashgate, 2015), 106. 92. “Hijacked,” American Experience. 93. Cobban, Palestinian Liberation Organ­ization, 147. 94. Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 267 95. “Slain Airliner Hijacker a U.S. Citizen,” New York Times, September 15, 1970. 96. David Nolan, The Ideology of the San­di­nis­tas and the Nicaraguan Revolution (Miami: Institute of Interamerican Studies, 1988), 22. 97. “Hijacked,” American Experience. 98. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Sandinista Guerrillas and Their International Links,” Digital National Security Archive (1978): 1. 99. Vélez, Latin American Revolutionaries and the Arab World, 102. 100. Ibid., 103. 101. CIA, “Sandinista Guerrillas and Their International Links,” 1−2. 102. Vélez, Latin American Revolutionaries and the Arab World, 103. 103. U.S. Department of State, “The San­di­nis­tas and ­Middle Eastern Radicals,” Digital National Security Archive (1985), 1; Bruce Hoffman, “The PLO and Israel in Central Amer­i­ca: The Geopo­liti­cal Dimension” (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND, 1988): 3, https://­w ww.rand​.­org​ /­content​/­dam​/­rand​/­pubs​/­notes​/­2009​/ ­N2685​.­pdf. 104. Vélez, Latin American Revolutionaries and the Arab World, 102−5. 105. Ibid. 106. Department of State, “San­di­nis­tas and ­Middle Eastern Radicals,” 1. Vélez, Latin American Revolutionaries and the Arab World, 104−11. 107. “Hijacked,” American Experience. 108. Ibid. 109. “Hijacked,” American Experience; Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 68. 110. Vélez, Latin American Revolutionaries and the Arab World, 116. 111. Department of State, “San­di­nis­tas and ­Middle Eastern Radicals,” 3. 112. Ibid., 2; Hoffman, “PLO and Israel,” 5. 113. Vélez, Latin American Revolutionaries and the Arab World, 109. 114. Ibid. 115. Ibid., 119. 116. Ibid., 120. 117. CIA, “Terrorism and the Fedayeen,” 4. 118. Vélez, Latin American Revolutionaries and the Arab World, 110. 119. Hoffman, “PLO and Israel,” 5; CIA, “Terrorism and the Fedayeen,” 4; Department of State, “San­di­nis­tas and ­Middle Eastern Radicals,” 6.

300

Notes to Pages 80–84

120. Department of State, “San­di­nis­tas and ­Middle Eastern Radicals,” 2. 121. Ibid., 7. 122. Cooley, Green March, Black September, 113. 123. Department of State, “­Middle East: The Evolution,” 3; Iyad, My Home, My Land, 95. 124. Schweitzer and Ophir, “Rise and Fall,” 22. 125. Cooley, Green March, Black September, 113; Iyad, My Home, My Land, 80. 126. Hoffman, Inside Terrorism, 66. 127. Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 303−4. 128. Ibid., 305. 129. Cubert, The PFLP’s Changing Role, 131−32. 130. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 75. 131. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Soviet Support for International Terrorism and Revolutionary Vio­lence,” Digital National Security Archives (1981): 13. 132. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 53. 133. Yoram Schweitzer, interview with author, March 2012. 134. CIA, “Soviet Support,” 15. 135. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 69. 136. Christopher Andrew and Vasili Mitrokhin, The World Was ­Going Our Way: The KGB and the B ­ attle for the Third World (New York: Basic, 2005), 247. 137. Ibid. 138. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 75. 139. CIA, “Terrorism and the Fedayeen,” 2. 140. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 71. 141. Schweitzer, interview with author; Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 58. 142. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, , 75. 143. Ibid., 74. 144. Ibid., 74. 145. Ibid., 77. 146. Ibid., 34, 77. 147. Ibid., 68. 148. Ibid., 66. 149. Ibid., 70. 150. Ariel Merari, interview with author, March 2012. 151. CIA, “Terrorism and the Fedayeen,” 4; Patricia Steinhoff, interview by David Marx, Neojaponisme (2007): 3, http://­neojaponisme.com​/­2007​/­09​/­09​/­steinhoffpartone​/­. 152. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Restless Youth,” Digital National Security Archives (1968): 1. 153. Patricia Steinhoff, “Student Protest in the 1960s,” Social Science Japan 15 (1999): 3. 154. CIA, “Terrorism and the Fedayeen,” 2. 155. Patricia Steinhoff, “Hijackers, Bombers, and Bank Robbers: Managerial Style in the Japa­nese Red Army,” Journal of Asian Studies 48 (1989): 728; Steinhoff, interview by David Marx, 2. 156. Steinhoff, “Hijackers, Bombers, and Bank Robbers,” 728. 157. Patricia Steinhoff, “Portrait of a Terrorist: An Interview with Kozo Okamoto,” Asian Survey 16 (1976): 832. 158. Patricia Steinhoff, interview with author, September 9, 2011.



Notes to Pages 84–90

301

159. Steinhoff, “Hijackers, Bombers, and Bank Robbers,” 729. 160. Steinhoff, interview by David Marx, 3. 161. Steinhoff, interview with author. 162. CIA, “Terrorism and the Fedayeen,” 3 163. Steinhoff, interview by David Marx, 3. 164. Bruce Hoffman, “Creatures of the Cold War: The JRA,” Jane’s Intelligence Review 9 (1997): 81. 165. William Farrell, Blood and Rage: The Story of the Japa­nese Red Army (Lexington, Mass.: Lexington, 1990), 122. 166. CIA, “Terrorism and the Fedayeen,” 2; U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Emergence of the Japa­nese Red Army,” Digital National Security Archives (1974): 2. 167. David Yallop, Tracking the Jackal: The Search for Carlos, the World’s Most Wanted Man (New York: Random House, 1993), 340. 168. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 54. 169. U.S. Department of State, “NATO Consultations on Terrorism,” Digital National Security Archive (1973): 1−2; CIA, “­Middle East: The Evolution of Fedayeen Strategy,” 3. 170. Department of State, “­Middle East: The Evolution,” 3; Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 304−5; Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 57−58. 171. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 53−55. 172. Department of State, “­Middle East: The Evolution,” 3; Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 304−5; Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 57−58. 173. Yallop, To the Ends of the Earth, 64. 174. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 72−77. 175. Ibid., 65. 176. Steinhoff, interview with author; Hoffman, “Creatures of the Cold War,” 81. 177. Farrell, Blood and Rage, 138. 178. Ibid., 139. 179. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 63. 180. Ibid., 61−63. 181. Schweitzer, interview with author. 182. U.S. Department of State, Embassy Beirut, “Terrorism: Singapore Incident,” Digital National Security Archive (February 1974): 1−2. 183. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 64. 184. Steinhoff, interview with author. 185. Farrell, Blood and Rage, 107. 186. Ṣāyigh, Armed Strug­gle, 319. 187. Mannes, Profiles in Terror, 228. 188. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 82. 189. “Singapore Hits Snags in Deal with Guerrillas on Ferryboat,” New York Times, February 2, 1974. 190. “Guerrillas in Kuwait Seize Tokyo Envoy and Embassy Staff,” New York Times, ­February 7, 1974. 191. CIA, “Emergence of the Japa­nese Red Army,” 3. 192. Department of State, Embassy Beirut, “Lebanese Efforts to Control Fedayeen ­Activity,” Digital National Security Archive (September 1972): 1−3. 193. Steinhoff, interview with author.

302

Notes to Pages 90–93

194. John Follain, Jackal: The Complete Story of the Legendary Terrorist, Carlos the Jackal (New York: Arcade, 1998), 45; Schweitzer and Ophir, “Rise and Fall,” 36; CIA, “Emergence of the Japa­nese Red Army,” 6. 195. Fox Butterfield, “Terrorist Group Shifts Operation,” New York Times, September 15, 1974. 196. Steinhoff, interview with author. 197. Yallop, Tracking the Jackal, 79−80. 198. Farrell, Blood and Rage, 162. 199. Yallop, Tracking the Jackal, 84−85; Follain, Jackal, 49. 200. Jean Marcel Bougereau and Hans-­Joachim Klein, The German Guerrilla: Terror, Reaction, and Re­sis­tance (Sanday: Cienfuegos, 1981), 39. 201. CIA, “Emergence of the Japa­nese Red Army,” 6; U.S. Department of State, Embassy Beirut, “Red Army Terrorists in Damascus,” Digital National Security Archive (September 1974): 1−2; Butterfield, “Terrorist Group Shifts Operation.” 202. U.S. Department of State, Embassy of Kuala Lumpur, “Terrorist Attack in Kuala Lumpur,” Digital National Security Archive (August 1975): 1−4. 203. “Red Army’s Reign of Terror,” BBC News, November 8, 2000, http://­news.bbc​.­co​ .­uk​/­2​/­hi​/­a sia​-­pacific​/­1013172​.­stm. 204. Farrell, Blood and Rage, 229; U.S. Department of State, Terrorist Group Profiles (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1989), 118; Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 61−63. 205. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 71−72. 206. Ibid., 68. 207. Ibid., 72. 208. Ibid., 65. 209. Ibid., 45. 210. Andrew Corsun, “Armenian Terrorism: A Profile,” Department of State Bulletin, (August 1, 1982), 31−35. 211. Laura Dugan et al., “Sudden Desistance from Terrorism: The Armenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia and the Justice Commandos of the Armenian Genocide,” Dynamics of Asymmetric Conflict 1, no. 3 (2008): 231–49. 212. Anat Kurz and Ariel Merari, ASALA: Irrational Terror or Po­liti­cal Tool (Jerusalem: Jerusalem Post, 1985), 16; M. Gunter, Armenian History and the Question of Genocide (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 65. 213. Paul Wilkinson, “Armenian Terrorism,” World ­Today 39, no. 9 (1983): 344–50; Dugan et al., “Sudden Desistance from Terrorism”; Z. Michael Szaz, “Armenian Terrorists and the East-­West Conflict,” Journal of Social, Po­liti­cal, and Economic Studies 8, no. 4 (Winter 1983): 387–94. 214. Corsun, “Armenian Terrorism: A Profile,” 31−35. 215. Hoffman, Inside Terrorism, 72; Corsun, “Armenian Terrorism: A Profile,” 31−35. 216. Francis P. Hyland, Armenian Terrorism: The Past, the Pres­ent, the Prospects (Boulder, Colo.: Westview, 1991), 25; Dugan et al., “Sudden Desistance from Terrorism, 231–49. 217. Ibid. 218. Michael Gunter, “Armenian Terrorism: A Reappraisal,” Journal of Conflict Studies 72 (2007): 111; Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 69. 219. Hyland, Armenian Terrorism, 25.



Notes to Pages 93–98

303

220. Hyland, Armenian Terrorism, 25. 221. Corsun, “Armenian Terrorism: A Profile,” 31−35. 222. Wilkinson, “Armenian Terrorism,” 344–50. 223. Corsun, “Armenian Terrorism: A Profile,” 31−35; Szaz, “Armenian Terrorists and the East-­West Conflict,” 387–94. 224. Gunter, “Armenian Terrorism,” 70−75. 225. Ibid., 77. 226. Ibid., 72. 227. Mark Rudd, correspondence with the author, October 2011. 228. U.S. Senate Committee on the Judiciary Subcommittee to Investigate the Administration of the Internal Security Act and Other Internal Security, The Weather Underground (Washington: U.S. Govt. Print. Off., 1975); Bryan Burrough, Days of Rage: Amer­i­ca’s Radical Underground, the FBI, and the Forgotten Age of Revolutionary Vio­lence (New York: Penguin, 2015), 134; Larry Grathwohl and Frank Reagan, Bringing Down Amer­i­ca: An FBI Informer with the Weathermen (New Rochelle, N.Y: Arlington House, 1976), 156; William Ayers, Fugitive Days: Memoirs of an Antiwar Activist (Boston, Mass: Beacon, 2009), 198. 229. Sam Green and Bill Siegel, The Weather Underground, documentary film (2003). 230. Dan Berger, Outlaws of Amer­i­ca: The Weather Underground and the Politics of Solidarity (Oakland, Calif.: AK, 2006), 155. 231. Rudd, correspondence with author. 232. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 64; Yallop, Tracking the Jackal, 335. 233. Khaled, My ­People S ­ hall Live, 122. 234. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 67. 235. Abu-­Sharif and Mahnaimi, Best of Enemies, 96−98. 236. Yallop, Tracking the Jackal, 98. 237. Yallop, To the Ends of the Earth, 103. 238. Schweitzer and Ophir, “Rise and Fall,” 40. 239. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 82. 240. Schweitzer and Ophir, “Rise and Fall,” 41. 241. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 82. 242. Yallop, To the Ends of the Earth, 375. 243. Ibid., 392. 244. Schweitzer and Ophir, “Rise and Fall,” 41; Yallop, Tracking the Jackal, 392; “A Terrorist’s Story: German Guerrilla Who Turned in His Gun ­A fter Raid Now Fears His Former Comrades as well as Police,” Der Spiegel, September 11, 1978, 1; Claire Sterling, The Terror Network (New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1981), 145. 245. Schweitzer and Ophir, “Rise and Fall,” 42. 246. Yallop, Tracking the Jackal, 420. 247. Ibid., 421. 248. Yallop, Tracking the Jackal, 426; Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 84. 249. Yallop, Tracking the Jackal, 428; Schweitzer and Ophir, “Rise and Fall,” 43. 250. Schweitzer and Ophir, “Rise and Fall,” 45; H. D. S. Greenway, “Israel Admits 5 Held Over a Year as Terrorist; Israel Holds 5 Terror Suspects Seized in ­Kenya; Secret Trial,” Washington Post, March 31, 1977. 251. Schweitzer and Ophir, “Rise and Fall,” 44. 252. “French Identify Hijackers,” New York Times, July 7, 1976.

304

Notes to Pages 99–106

253. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 175. 254. Ely Karmon, Co­ali­tions Between Terrorist Organ­izations: Revolutionaries, Nationalists, and Islamists (Boston: Martinus Nijhoff, 2005), 69; Byman, A High Price, 55; Schweitzer and Ophir, “Rise and Fall,” 45. 255. Byman, A High Price, 55−60. 256. Stefan Aust and Anthea Bell, Baader-­Meinhof: The Inside Story of the R.A.F ­(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009): 351. 257. Ibid., 373. 258. Robert R. Ropelewski, “Commandos Thwart Hijackers: Rescue of 85 Hostages in Mogadishu, Somalia,” Aviation Week and Space Technology 107 (1977): 14−18; Michael Getler, “Hostages Freed in Commando Raid,” Washington Post, October 18, 1977, A16. 259. “Look Both Ways,” Economist, April 15, 1978, 66. 260. “Dr.  Wadi Haddad, Palestinian Mastermind of Hijackings,” Washington Post, April 2, 1978, B4; “Look Both Ways,” 66. 261. Byman, A High Price, 56. 262. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 26. 263. “Yet Another Lot?” Economist, August 26, 1978, 50. 264. “A Terrorist’s Story: German Guerrilla,” 5. 265. Schweitzer, interview with author. 266. Yallop, To the Ends of the Earth, 45. 267. Farrell, Blood and Rage, 229; Department of State, Terrorist Group Profiles, 118; Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 61−63.

Chapter  3 Note to epigraph: Strug­gle Against World Imperialism Organ­ization, “Operation Kofr Kaddum,” October 13, 1977, http://­germanguerilla.com​/­1977​/­10​/­13​/­operation​-­kofr​-­k addum​/­. 1. J. Smith and André Moncourt, Daring to Strug­gle, Failing to Win : The Red Army ­Faction’s 1977 Campaign of Desperation (Oakland, Calif.: PM Press, 2008), 6. 2. Gus Martin, Understanding Terrorism: Challenges, Perspectives, and Issues (Los Angeles: Sage, 2016), 186. 3. Jeremy Varon, Bringing the War Home: The Weather Underground, the Red Army ­Faction, and Revolutionary Vio­lence in the Sixties and Seventies (Oakland: University of California Press, 2004), 33. 4. Ibid., 6. 5. Martin Klimke, The Other Alliance: Student Protest in West Germany and the United States in the Global Sixties (Prince­ton, N.J.: Prince­ton University Press, 2010), 132. 6. Varon, Bringing the War Home, 34. 7. Klimke, Other Alliance, 137. 8. Varon, Bringing the War Home, 35. 9. Andrei Markovits, “The Minister and the Terrorist,” Foreign Affairs 80, no.  6 ­(November/December 2001): 133. 10. Varon, Bringing the War Home, 33. 11. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), “Restless Youth,” Digital National Security Archives (September 1968): 3.



Notes to Pages 106–110

305

12. Martin Klimke, interview with the author, November 13, 2011. 13. Varon, Bringing the War Home, 69−70. 14. Ibid. 15. J. Smith and André Moncourt, The Red Army Faction: A Documentary History—­ Volume 1, Projectiles for the ­People (Oakland, Calif.: PM Press, 2009), 587; Bruce Hoffman, Inside Terrorism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 230. 16. Varon, Bringing the War Home, 39. 17. Nicholas Kulish, “Spy Fired Shot That Changed West Germany,” New York Times, May 26, 2009. 18. Ibid. The Stasi’s files unearthed in 2009 would show that Kurras was an East German spy, although ­there is no evidence he conducted the shooting at the behest of the Stasi. 19. Varon, Bringing the War Home, 40. 20. Stefan Aust, Baader-­Meinhof: The Inside Story of the R.A.F., trans. Anthea Bell (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), xiii. 21. Varon, Bringing the War Home, 41. 22. Ibid., 65. 23. Aust, Baader-­Meinhof, 61. 24. Yonah Alexander and Dennis A. Pluchinsky. Eu­ro­pean Terrorism ­Today and Tomorrow (Washington, D.C.: Brassey’s Terrorism Library, 1992), 54−55. 25. Ibid. 26. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “The Red Army Faction” (graphic, 1985): 4. 27. Varon, Bringing the War Home, 68; CIA, “Red Army Faction,” 4. 28. Hoffman, Inside Terrorism, 172. 29. Gilda Zwerman, Patricia  G. Steinhoff, and Donatella della Porta, “Disappearing Social Movements: Clandestinity in the Cycle of New Left Social Movements in the United States, Japan, Germany, and Italy,” Mobilization 5, no. 1 (2000): 86; Varon, Bringing the War Home, 7. 30. CIA, “Red Army Faction,” 2. 31. Walter Reich, ed., Origins of Terrorism: Psychologies, Ideologies, Theologies, States of Mind (Washington, D.C.: Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 1998), 52−53. 32. Magrit Schiller, Remembering the Armed Strug­gle (London: Zidane, 2009), 43. 33. Aust, Baader-­Meinhof, 65. 34. Jilian Becker, Hitler’s ­Children: The Story of the Baader-­Meinhof Terrorist Gang (Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1977), 75. 35. Leila Khaled, My ­People ­Shall Live: The Autobiography of a Revolutionary (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1973), 121. 36. Aust, Baader-­Meinhof, 67−68. 37. Ibid. 38. CIA, “Red Army Faction,” 1. 39. Becker, Hitler’s ­Children, 75. 40. Aust, Baader-­Meinhof, 72. 41. Ibid., 74; David Vielhaber, “The Stasi-­Meinhof Complex?” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 36, no. 7 (2013): 533−46. 42. Aust, Baader-­Meinhof, 78, 99. 43. Quoted in ibid., 131. 44. Varon, Bringing the War Home, 9.

306

Notes to Pages 110–118

45. Alexander and Pluchinsky, Eu­ro­pean Terrorism, 53−58. 46. Ibid. 47. Ibid. 48. Schiller, Remembering the Armed Strug­gle, 64−97. 49. Alexander and Pluchinsky, Eu­ro­pean Terrorism, 238. 50. Khaled, My ­People S ­ hall Live, 127. 51. David Yallop, Tracking the Jackal: The Search for Carlos, the World’s Most Wanted Man (New York: Random House, 1993), 418. 52. Hoffman, Inside Terrorism, 67. 53. Smith and Moncourt, Red Army Faction, 207. 54. Aust, Baader-­Meinhof, 198. 55. Ibid., 220. 56. Ibid., xvii. 57. Ibid., 209. 58. Quoted in Schiller, Remembering the Armed Strug­gle, 110. 59. Ibid., 112. 60. Ibid., 113. 61. Ibid., 116−22. 62. Ely Karmon, Co­ali­tions Between Terrorist Organ­izations: Revolutionaries, Nationalists, and Islamists (Boston: Martinus Nijhoff, 2005), 62. 63. Smith and Moncourt, Red Army Faction, 337. 64. Aust, Baader-­Meinhof, 227. 65. Ibid., 269. 66. Vielhaber, “The Stasi-­Meinhof Complex?” 35. 67. Ghassan Charbel, Asrâr al-­sundûq al-­aswad (The Secrets of the Black Box), trans. Nate Wilson (Beirut: Riyad El-­Rayyes, 2008), 64; Yallop, Tracking the Jackal, 335. 68. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 68. 69. Aust, Baader-­Meinhof, 271; Vielhaber, “The Stasi-­Meinhof Complex?” 538−39. 70. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 67. 71. Yallop, Tracking the Jackal, 392. 72. Smith and Moncourt, Red Army Faction, 599. 73. Ibid., 440. 74. Yallop, Tracking the Jackal, 366−67. 75. Ulrike Meinhof Commando, “The Assassination of Attorney General Siegfried Buback,” German Guerilla, April  7, 1977, http://­germanguerilla.com​/­1977​/­0 4​/­07​/­t he​ -­a ssassination​-­of​-­attorney​-­general​-­siegfried​-­buback​/­. 76. Aust, Baader-­Meinhof, 289. 77. Ibid., 276. 78. Ibid., 267. 79. Ibid., 271, 273, 299. 80. Ibid., 296−97. 81. Ibid., 294. 82. Alexander and Pluchinsky, Eu­ro­pean Terrorism, 62. 83. Aust, Baader-­Meinhof, 315. 84. Ibid., 300. 85. Ibid., 345.



1977.

Notes to Pages 119–129

307

86. Ibid., 351. 87. Ibid., 321. 88. Ibid., 351. 89. Ibid., 352. 90. Alexander and Pluchinsky, Eu­ro­pean Terrorism, 62. 91. Charbel, Secrets of the Black Box, 53. 92. Aust, Baader-­Meinhof, 395. 93. Michael Getler, “Hostages Freed in Commando Raid,” Washington Post, October 18,

94. Aust, Baader-­Meinhof, 413; Baader-­Meinhof: In Love with Terror, documentary film, British Broadcasting Com­pany (BBC), November 18, 2002. 95. In Love with Terror, BBC. 96. Aust, Baader-­Meinhof, 414. 97. Ibid., 417. 98. In Love with Terror, BBC. 99. Alexander and Pluchinsky, Eu­ro­pean Terrorism, 47. 100. Vielhaber, “The Stasi-­Meinhof Complex?” 539; Smith and Moncourt, Red Army Faction, 612. 101. Vielhaber, “The Stasi-­Meinhof Complex?” 539; Smith and Moncourt, Red Army Faction, 614. 102. Quoted in Smith and Moncourt, Red Army Faction, 482. 103. Yallop, Tracking the Jackal, 233. 104. Aust, Baader-­Meinhof, 351. 105. Varon, Bringing the War Home, 69−70. 106. Hoffman, Inside Terrorism, 77.

Chapter  4 Note to epigraph: Usamah Bin-­Muhammad Bin-­Ladin, Ayman al-­Zawahiri, Abu-­Yasir Rifa’i Ahmad Taha, and Shaykh Mir Hamzah, Fazlur Rahman, “Jihad Against Jews and Crusaders:World Islamic Front Statement,” February 23 1998, https://­fas.org​/­irp​/­world​/­para​ /­docs​/­980223​-­fatwa​.­htm. 1. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), “11 September: The Plot and Plotters,” National Security Archive (June 2003): 3 (emphasis added), http://­nsarchive​.­g wu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​ /­NSAEBB381​/­. 2. Peter Bergen, The Osama bin Laden I Know: An Oral History of al-­Qaeda’s Leader (New York: F ­ ree Press, 2006), 100−1. 3. The Arabic word bayat (also written bay’at, bayah, and bay’ah) describes the pledge of allegiance one makes to a leader—­u sually a spiritual leader or sheikh from whom one receives knowledge—­a nd can be understood as a promise made to God. Bayat is not a one-­sided declaration and requires the oath to be accepted to be rendered legitimate. 4. “Harmony Document SOCOM-2012-00000019,” West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, May 2010, 14, https://­ctc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/­letters​-­f rom​-­abbottabad​-­bin​-­ladin​ -­sidelined.

308

Notes to Pages 129–134

5. Fawaz Gerges, The Far ­Enemy: Why Jihad Went Global (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 85. 6. Some foreign fighters came to help the Afghans with no ­f uture aspirations or plans, but ­these individuals are not the focus of this work. 7. Camille Tawil, ­B rothers in Arms: The Story of al-­Q a’ida and the Arab Jihadists ­(London: Saqi, 2010), 32−36; Steve Coll, Ghost Wars: The Secret History of the CIA, Af­ghan­i­ stan, and bin Laden, from the Soviet Invasion to Sep. 10, 2001 (New York: Penguin, 2004), 163. 8. Lawrence Wright, The Looming Tower: Al-­Qaeda and the Road to 9/11 (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2006), 142−43; Coll, Ghost Wars, 227. 9. Bergen, The Osama bin Laden I Know, 29; Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 16−17. 10. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 16−17; Bergen, The Osama bin Laden I Know, 26−27. 11. Coll, Ghost Wars, 155. 12. Lawrence Wright, “The Master Plan: For the New Theorists of Jihad, Al Qaeda Is Just the Beginning,” New Yorker, September 11, 2006. 13. Mustafa Hamid and Leah Farrall, The Arabs at War in Af­ghan­i­stan (London: C. Hurst, 2015), 61. 14. Peter Bergen and Paul Cruickshank, “Revisiting the Early Al Qaeda: An Updated Account of Its Formative Years,” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 35, no. 1 (2012): 1–36. 15. Ṭawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 18; Marc Sageman, Understanding Terror Networks (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 35; Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 117. 16. Bergen, The Osama bin Laden I Know, 92−97; Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 99. 17. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 33. 18. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 80−81, 125. 19. Coll, Ghost Wars, 157. 20. “Chat from the Top of the World Number 7,” (Washington, DC: Department of Defense Conflict Rec­ords Research Center, July 1997): 45−50. 21. Coll, Ghost Wars, 112−17. 22. “Chat from the Top of the World Number 7,” 45−50; “Chat from the Top of the World Number 1,” (Washington, DC: Department of Defense Conflict Rec­ords Research Center, 1990): 57. 23. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 30. 24. Ibid., 130, 191. 25. Ibid., 135. 26. Ibid., 174. 27. Ibid., 147. 28. Coll, Ghost Wars, 292. 29. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 101. 30. Ibid., 172. 31. Wright, Looming Tower, 112−13. 32. Coll, Ghost Wars, 162; Assaf Moghadam and Brian Fishman, eds., Self-­Inflicted Wounds: Debates and Divisions Within al-­Qa’ida and Its Periphery (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, 2010), 72−73, https://­ctc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/­self​-­inflicted​-­wounds; Kim R. Cragin, “Early History of Al Qai’da,” Historical Journal 51, no. 4 (2008): 1055. 33. Coll, Ghost Wars, 162−64. 34. Bergen and Cruickshank, “Revisiting the Early Al Qaeda,” 11. 35. Cragin, “Early History of Al Qai’da,” 1055; Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 18−19.



Notes to Pages 134–139

309

36. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 296. 37. Ibid. 38. Ibid., 124. 39. Ibid., 109. 40. Ibid., 125. 41. Ibid., 146. 42. Ibid., 148. 43. Ibid., 157. 44. Ibid., 117. 45. Wright, Looming Tower, 134−41; Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 29. 46. Moghadam and Fishman, Self-­Inflicted Wounds, 71. 47. Wright, Looming Tower, 131−37. 48. Bergen and Cruickshank, “Revisiting the Early Al Qaeda,” 17. 49. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Sketch of a South Asia-­Based Terrorist Training and Logistics Network,” National Security Archives (December 1995): 15, http://­nsarchive. gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​/ ­NSAEBB381​/­; Michael Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes: Osama bin Laden, Radical Islam, and the ­Future of Amer­i­ca (Washington, D.C.: Potomac, 2006), 141−42. 50. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 84. 51. Rohan Gunaratna, Inside Al Qaeda: Global Network of Terror (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), 6. 52. Ibid. 53. Thomas Hegghammer, Jihad in Saudi Arabia: Vio­lence and Pan-­Islamism Since 1979 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 99. 54. Bruce Reidel, The Search for Al Qaeda: Its Leadership, Ideology, and ­Future (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution Press, 2008), 47. 55. Ibid. 56. Ibid, 48−49. 57. Wright, Looming Tower, 161; Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 92. 58. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Historical Background of Islamic Army and bin Laden’s Move from Af­ghan­i­stan to Sudan,” National Security Archives (November 1996): 1−2, http://­nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​/ ­NSAEBB381​/­; Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 129−30. 59. CIA, “Historical Background of Islamic Army,” 1; CIA, “11 September,” 1; Wright, Looming Tower, 164. 60. Wright, Looming Tower, 164; CIA, “11 September,” 1. 61. The 9/11 Commission Report: Final Report of the National Commission on Terrorist Attacks upon the United States (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 2004), 58−61. 62. U.S. Congress, Senate, Terrorism, Sudan, and US Counter-­Terrorist Policy (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1997), 13. 63. Wright, Looming Tower, 163. 64. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes,” 155. 65. Congress, Senate, Terrorism, Sudan, and US Counter-­Terrorist Policy, 3; CIA, “11 September,” 1-3. 66. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 137. 67. CIA, “Historical Background of Islamic Army,” 4.

310

Notes to Pages 139–144

68. Wright, Looming Tower, 189; Director of Central Intelligence, “Written Statement for the Rec­ord of the Director Before the Joint Inquiry Committee,” National Security Archives, (October 2002): 3, http://­nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​/ ­NSAEBB381​/­. 69. Nelly Lahoud, Beware of Imitators: Al-­Qa’ida Through the Lens of Its Confidential Secretary (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, 2012), 22, https://­ctc.usma​.­edu​ /­posts​/ ­beware​-­of​-­imitators​-­a l​-­qaida​-­through​-­the​-­lens​-­of​-­its​-­confidential​-­secretary. 70. The 9/11 Commission Report, 58. 71. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Al-­Qaida in Sudan, 1992−1996: Old School Ties Lead Down Dangerous Paths,” National Security Archive (March 2003): 1−2, http://­nsarchive​ .gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​/ ­NSAEBB381​/­. 72. The 9/11 Commission Report, 58. 73. Director of Central Intelligence, “Written Statement for the Rec­ord of the Director Before the National Commission” (March 2004), 2−6, https://­w ww.cia​.­gov​/­news​-­information​ /­speeches​-­testimony​/­2004​/­tenet​_­testimony​_ ­03242004​.­html. 74. Ibid., 5. 75. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 193−94. 76. Bergen and Cruickshank, “Revisiting the Early Al Qaeda,” 18. 77. CIA, “11 September,” 4; Daniel Benjamin and Steven Simon, The Age of Sacred Terror (New York: Random House, 2002), 112; U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Terrorism: Usama bin Laden’s Activities in Somalia and Sudan NIF Support,” National Security Archives (April 1997): 2, http://­nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​/ ­NSAEBB381​/­. 78. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 150; Hegghammer, Jihad in Saudi Arabia, 107; Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 141. 79. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 132; Gunaratna, Inside Al Qaeda, 31; Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 193. 80. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 140−41. 81. Cragin, “Early History of Al Qai’da,” 1059; Director of Central Intelligence, “Written Statement for the Rec­ord of the Director Before the Joint Inquiry Committee,” 3. 82. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 193. 83. Ibid., 169, 184−85. 84. Ibid., 189−99. 85. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 141. 86. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 188. 87. Ibid., 185, 188. 88. Clint Watts, Jacob Shapiro, and Vahid Brown, Al-­Qa’ida’s (Mis)Adventures in the Horn of Africa (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, 2007), 4−5, https://­c tc​ .­u sma​. ­e du​/ ­w p​- ­c ontent​/­u ploads​/ ­2 010​/ ­0 6​/­A l​- ­Q aidas​-­M isAdventures​-­i n​-­t he​-­H orn​- ­o f​ -­A frica​.­p df. 89. Director of Central Intelligence, “Written Statement for the Rec­ord of the Director Before the Joint Inquiry Committee,” 3; CIA, “Al-­Qaida in Sudan, 1992−1996,” 5; Bergen, The Osama bin Laden I Know, 139. 90. Watts, Shapiro, and Brown, Al-­Qa’ida’s (Mis)Adventures, iii, iv, 22 91. Ibid., 42. 92. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 148. 93. Ibid., 149−50. 94. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 190.



Notes to Pages 144–148

311

95. “Al-­Qai’ida Bylaws” (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, n.d.), 2, https://­ ctc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/­a l​-­qaida​-­bylaws​-­english​-­t ranslation​-­2. 96. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Responsibilities and Background of Islamic Army Shura,” National Security Archives (December 1996): 1−4, http://­nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​/­NSAEBB​ /­NSAEBB381​/­; U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “[Title Excised] The Following Was the Structure of Usama bin Ladin’s Islamic Army,” National Security Archives (December 1996): 1−2, http://­nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​/ ­NSAEBB381​/­. 97. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Terrorism: Usama bin Laden’s Financial Support to the Egyptian al-­Gama’at al-­Islamiyah, as well as Algerian and Libyan Extremists,” National Security Archives (June  1997): 2, http://­nsarchive​.­g wu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​/ ­NSAEBB381​/­; U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Terrorism: Usama bin Laden’s Links to a Southern Yemeni Group,” National Security Archives (March 1997): 2−4, http://­nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​ /­NSAEBB381​/­. 98. Wright, Looming Tower, 270. 99. CIA, “Terrorism: Usama bin Laden’s Financial Support,” 2; U.S. District Court: Southern District of New York, New York v. Usama Bin Laden et. al: S(7) 98 Cr. 1023, Department of Justice, New York, February 6, 2001, 15. 100. The 9/11 Commission Report, 61. 101. Wright, Looming Tower, 173. 102. “Al-­Qai’ida Bylaws,” 1−2. 103. Wright, Looming Tower, 191. 104. Mohammed M. Hafez, “Armed Islamist Movements and Po­liti­cal Vio­lence in Algeria,” ­Middle East Journal 54, no. 4 (2000): 584. 105. Hafez, “Armed Islamist Movements,” 577, 584. 106. Quintan Wiktorowicz, ed., Islamic Activism: A Social Movement Theory Approach, Indiana Series in M ­ iddle East Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004), 24. 107. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Cooperation Among Usama bin Laden’s Islamic Army, Iran, and the NIF,” National Security Archives (January 1997): 1−2, http://­nsarchive. gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​/ ­NSAEBB381​/­. 108. Wright, Looming Tower, 189. 109. Evan Kohlmann, “Two De­cades of Jihad in Algeria: The GIA, the GSPC, and Al-­ Qaida” (NEFA Foundation, May 2007), 5. 110. Souad Mekhennet, Michael Moss, Eric Schmitt, Elaine Sciolino, and Margot Williams, “A Ragtag Insurgency Gains a Qaeda Lifeline,” New York Times, June 7, 2013. 111. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 54−55. 112. Ibid. 113. Ibid., 64−65. 114. Ibid., 84−85. 115. Ibid., 85. 116. Ibid., 85. 117. Ibid., 85. 118. Ibid., 86. 119. Ibid., 86. 120. Wiktorowicz, Islamic Activism, 52. 121. Kohlmann, “Two De­cades of Jihad in Algeria,” 8−10. 122. Hafez, “Armed Islamist Movements,” 588.

312

Notes to Pages 149–154

123. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 86−87. 124. Ibid., 96−97. 125. Ibid., 122−23. 126. Ibid., 111. 127. Ibid., 124. 128. Ibid., 96−97. 129. Wright, Looming Tower, 190. 130. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 96−97. 131. Wright, Looming Tower, 190. 132. Lianne Kennedy Boudali, The GSPC: Newest Franchise in al-­Qa’ida’s Global Jihad (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, 2007), 8, https://­c tc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/­t he​ -­gspc​-­newest​-­f ranchise​-­in​-­a l​-­qaidas​-­global​-­jihad; Jean-­Pierre Filiu, “The Local and Global Jihad of al-­Qa’ida in the Islamic Maghrib,” ­Middle East Journal 63, no. 2 (Spring 2009): 219; Kohlmann, “Two De­cades of Jihad in Algeria,” 11. 133. Kohlmann, “Two De­cades of Jihad in Algeria,” 11. 134. Filiu, “The Local and Global Jihad,” 219. 135. Kohlmann, “Two De­cades of Jihad in Algeria,” 9. 136. Filiu, “Local and Global Jihad,” 219; Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 95−96; Wright, Looming Tower, 190. 137. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 65−66. 138. Camille Tawil, “The Changing Face of the Jihadist Movement in Libya,” Jamestown Foundation 7, no. 1 (January 2009), https://­jamestown.org​/­program​/­the​-­changing​-­face​ -­of​-­the​-­jihadist​-­movement​-­in​-­libya​/­. 139. “Harmony Document SOCOM-2012-00000019,” 8. 140. The 9/11 Commission Report, 62. 141. Ibid.; Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 95. 142. “Harmony Document SOCOM-2012-00000019,” 8. 143. Benjamin and Simon, Age of Sacred Terror, 132. 144. Ibid., 131; CIA, “Terrorism: Usama bin Laden’s Financial Support,” 2. 145. Andrew Higgins and Alan Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahri Sheds Light on the Roots of al Qaeda Terror,” Wall Street Journal, July 2, 2002, 2−7; Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 194−95. 146. Reidel, Search for Al Qaeda, 52. 147. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 156; Wright, Looming Tower, 220. 148. Reidel, Search for Al Qaeda, 55. 149. Wright, Looming Tower, 219. 150. Benjamin and Simon, Age of Sacred Terror, 133. 151. The 9/11 Commission Report, 63. 152. Ibid., 64. 153. Jason Burke, Al-­Q aeda: The True Story of Radical Islam (London: I. B. Tauris, 2004), 133. 154. CIA, “11 September,” 1. 155. CIA, “11 September,” 3 (emphasis added). 156. Ibid. 157. Benjamin and Simon, Age of Sacred Terror, 113. 158. CIA, “Cooperation Among Usama bin Laden’s Islamic Army,” 2. 159. Benjamin and Simon, Age of Sacred Terror, 132.



Notes to Pages 154–161

313

160. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 154. 161. The 9/11 Commission Report, 63−65. 162. Wright, Looming Tower, 222. 163. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 215. 164. Bergen, The Osama bin Laden I Know, 431; The 9/11 Commission Report, 63. 165. Bergen and Cruickshank, “Revisiting the Early Al Qaeda,” 17. 166. Eric Lichtblau, “State Department Says It Warned About bin Laden in 1996,” New York Times, August 17, 2005. 167. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Af­ghan­i­stan: An Incubator for International Terrorism,” National Security Archives (March  2001): 2, http://­nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​ /­NSAEBB381​/­. 168. Lichtblau, “State Department Says It Warned.” 169. The 9/11 Commission Report, 65; Reidel, Search for Al Qaeda, 57. 170. “Bin Laden’s Fatwa,” PBS NewsHour, August 23, 1996. 171. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 247. 172. The 9/11 Commission Report, 65; Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 167; Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 149. 173. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “How bin Laden Commands a Global Terrorist Network,” National Security Archives (January 1999): 1, http://­nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​ /­NSAEBB381​/­. 174. U.S. Bureau of Intelligence and Research, U.S. Department of State, “Af­ghan­i­stan: Taliban External Ambitions,” National Security Archives (October 1998): 1, https://­w ww​.­hsdl​ .­org​/­​?­abstract&did​=­236149. 175. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 228−29. 176. Ibid., 212. 177. The 9/11 Commission Report, 65; Benjamin and Simon, Age of Sacred Terror, 139; Angel Rabasa, Peter Chalk, Kim Cragin, Sara  A. Daly, and Heather  S. Gregg, Beyond al Qaeda: The Global Jihadist Movement (Santa Monica, Calif.: RAND, 2006), 61; Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 170. 178. Burke, Al-­Qaeda, 171. 179. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 291. 180. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 185−86. 181. Ibid. 182. The 9/11 Commission Report, 66. 183. Director of CIA, “Written Statement for the Rec­ord of the Director Before the Joint Inquiry Committee,” 5. 184. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 147. 185. Hegghammer, Jihad in Saudi Arabia, 99. 186. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 25, 66. 187. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 301. 188. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 170. 189. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 229−30. 190. CIA, “Al-­Qaida in Sudan, 1992−1996,” 1. 191. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 261−62. 192. CIA, “Al-­Qaida in Sudan, 1992−1996,” 1; CIA, “Af­ghan­i­stan: An Incubator,” 1−4. 193. Benjamin and Simon, Age of Sacred Terror, 150. 194. Reidel, Search for Al Qaeda, 59-60.

314

Notes to Pages 161–165

195. Gunaratna, Inside Al Qaeda, 45. 196. CIA, “How bin Laden Commands,” 5. 197. Ibid. 198. Open Source Center, “Fatwa Urging Jihad Against Americans,” translation of speech by Usama bin Laden (February 1998): 1, https://­fas.org​/­irp​/­world​/­para​/­docs​/­980223​-­fatwa​ .­htm; Wright, Looming Tower, 260. 199. Omar Ashour, “Lions Tamed? An Inquiry into the ­Causes of De-­Radicalization of Armed Islamist Movements: The Case of the Egyptian Islamic Group,” ­Middle East Journal 61, no. 4 (2007): 614−15. 200. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 186; Wright, Looming Tower, 260. 201. Camille Tawil, “Interview with Hani al-­Sibai: Part 4 of 4,” Al Hayat, September 4, 2002, 15. 202. Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 2. 203. Coll, Ghost Wars, 382. 204. Wright, Looming Tower, 260. 205. Lawrence Wright, “The Man ­Behind Bin Laden,” New Yorker, September 16, 2002. 206. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 153. 207. Ibid., 180. 208. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 169. 209. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 187. 210. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 4. 211. Ibid., 235. 212. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 153−54. 213. Wright, Looming Tower, 270. 214. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 263−67. 215. Ibid. 216. Ibid., 268. 217. Ibid., 249. 218. Muhammad Amir Rana, A to Z of Jehadi Organ­izations in Pakistan, trans. Saba Ansari (Lahore: Mashal, 2004), 222. 219. The 9/11 Commission Report, 67. 220. Ibid., 70. 221. Ibid. 222. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 188. 223. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 241. 224. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 266. 225. Rabasa et al., Beyond al Qaeda, 73−74; “Mohammed Atef,” Telegraph, November 19, 2001. 226. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 238−39. 227. Gary  W. Richter, Osama bin Laden: A Case Study (Livermore, Calif.: Sandia National Laboratories, U.S. Department of Energy, 1999), 219. 228. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 244. 229. Richter, Osama bin Laden, 220−21; C. Christine Fair and Seth G. Jones, “Pakistan’s War Within,” Survival: Global Politics and Strategy 51, no. 6 (December 2009−January 2010): 16. 230. Libyan Islamic Fighting Group, “Amer­i­ca Is . . . ​the ­Enemy of the Islamic Nation,” (NEFA Foundation, August 25, 1998).



Notes to Pages 165–170

315

231. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 239−45. 232. U.S. Department of State, Embassy Islamabad, “Af­ghan­i­stan: [name redacted] Describes Pakistan’s Current Thinking,” National Security Archives (March 1998): 1−8, http://­ nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​/ ­NSAEBB97​/­talib6​.­pdf. 233. Bureau of Intelligence and Research, “Af­ghan­i­stan: Taliban External Ambitions,” 1; U.S. Department of State, Embassy Islamabad, “Af­ghan­i­stan: Reported Activities of Extremist Arabs and Pakistanis Since Aug. 20 U.S. Strike on Khost Terrorist Camps,” National Security Archives (September 1998), http://­nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​/­NSAEBB​/­NSAEBB253​/­index​.­htm. 234. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 240−44. 235. Wright, Looming Tower, 320. 236. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 269−70. 237. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 161. 238. Wright, Looming Tower, 331. 239. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 247. 240. CIA, “How bin Laden Commands,” 5. 241. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 247−48. 242. Burke, Al-­Qaeda: The True Story, 16. 243. CIA, “Sketch of a South Asia-­Based Terrorist and Logistics Network,” 5. 244. Benjamin and Simon, Age of Sacred Terror, 169. 245. CIA, “Al-­Qaida in Sudan, 1992−1996,” i. 246. CIA, “Historical Background of Islamic Army,” 11. 247. CIA “How bin Laden Commands,” 1. 248. Ibid. 249. Wright, Looming Tower, 356. 250. Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 2−10; Wright, “Man ­Behind Bin Laden,” 24; U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Incorporation of Ayman Zawahiri’s al-­Jihad Organ­ization into Usama bin Laden’s al-­Qaida; Recent Activities of Egyptian Associations of al-­Qaida,” National Security Archives (September 1998): 2, http://­nsarchive. gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​/ ­NSAEBB381​/­. 251. Cathy Scott-­Clark and Adrian Levy, The Exile: The Stunning Story of Osama bin Laden and Al Qaeda in Flight (New York: Bloomsbury, 2017), 45–46. 252. Tawil, “Interview with Hani al-­Sibai,” 15; Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 2−10. 253. Usama bin Laden, “Statement Number One,” from the files of Alan Cullison (2001), 1. 254. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 278. 255. Ibid., 278−79. 256. Wright, Looming Tower, 336. 257. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 119. 258. The 9/11 Commission Report, 67. 259. CIA, “How bin Laden Commands,” 5.

Chapter  5 Note to epigraph: Unspecified author, “Report on the External Operations” (Washington, D.C.: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2010), 3−4.

316

Notes to Pages 170–174

1. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), “Af­ghan­i­stan Camps Central to 11 September Plot: Can Al-­Qaida Train on the Run?” National Security Archives (June 2003): 9, http://­ nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​/ ­NSAEBB381​/­. 2. National Commission on Terrorist Attacks, The 9/11 Commission Report: Final Report of the National Commission on Terrorist Attacks upon the United States (New York: W.W. Norton, 2004), 1−14. 3. Bruce Reidel, The Search for Al Qaeda: Its Leadership, Ideology, and ­Future (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution Press, 2008), 1. 4. Peter Bergen, The Osama bin Laden I Know: An Oral History of al-­Qaeda’s Leader (New York: F ­ ree Press, 2006), 88. 5. CIA, “Af­ghan­i­stan Camps Central,” 5−9. 6. Reidel, Search for Al Qaeda, 22 7. Bergen, The Osama bin Laden I Know, 90. 8. Mustafa Hamid and Leah Farrall, The Arabs at War in Af­ghan­i­stan (London: Hurst, 2015), 8. 9. Camile Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms: The Story of al-­Qa’ida and the Arab Jihadists (London: Saqi, 2010), 175. 10. CIA, “Af­ghan­i­stan Camps Central,” ii. 11. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Bin Laden’s Terrorist Operations: Meticulous and Adaptable,” National Security Archives (November  2000): 3, http://­nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​ /­NSAEBB​/ ­NSAEBB381​/­. 12. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 173. 13. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 99−100. 14. Ibid., 285−86. 15. Ibid., 287−89. 16. Camile Tawil, “The Changing Face of the Jihadist Movement in Libya,” Terrorism Monitor 7 (January 2009), https://­jamestown.org​/­program​/­the​-­changing​-­face​-­of​-­the​-­jihadist​ -­movement​-­in​-­libya​/­. 17. Paul Cruickshank, “LIFG Revisions Posing Critical Challenge to Al-­Qa’ida,” CTC Sentinel 2 (December 2009): 5−6. 18. Libyan Islamic Fighting Group, “Fatwah of Sheikh Hasan Qaid (Abu Younis Al-­ Sahrawi) in Regard to the American Crusader Attack Against Af­ghan­i­stan” (NEFA Foundation, October 2001). 19. Tawil, “Changing Face.” 20. Abu-’Abdal-­Rahman Anas al-­Subay’i, “Letter dtd 13 October 2010” (Washington, DC: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2010), 1, https://­w ww.dni​.­gov​/­fi les​ /­documents​/­ubl​/­english​/­Letter%20dtd%2013%20Oct%202010​.­pdf; Aaron Y. Zelin and Andrew Lebovich, “Assessing Al-­Qa’ida’s Presence in the New Libya,” CTC Sentinel 5, no. 3 (2012): 14−18. 21. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 180. 22. United Nations, “Narrative Summaries of Reasons for Listing: Libyan Islamic Fighting Group,” Security Council Committee Pursuant to Resolutions 1267 (1999) and 1989 (2011) Concerning Al-­Qaida and Associated Individuals and Entities, https://­w ww.un​.­org​/­sc​ /­s uborg​/­en​/­s anctions​/­1 267​/­a q​_ ­s anctions​_ ­list​/­s ummaries​/­entity​/ ­libyan​-­islamic​-­fi ghting​ -­g roup. 23. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 181.



Notes to Pages 174–179

317

24. Tom Bowman, “For Reagan, Gadhafi Was a Frustrating ‘Mad Dog,’ ” National Public Radio, March 4, 2011, http://­w ww.npr​.­org​/­2011​/­03​/­04​/­134228864​/­for​-­reagan​-­gadhafi​-­was​ -­a​-­f rustrating​-­mad​-­dog. 25. CIA, “Af­ghan­i­stan Camps Central,” 4. 26. Wright, “The Master Plan.” 27. Mariam Abou Zahab, “Deobandi Groups and Ahl-­e Hadith,” Jane’s Islamic Affairs Analyst, July 2009, 2. 28. Stephen P. Cohen, The ­Future of Pakistan (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution, 2011), 181. 29. Ibid. 30. Mariam Abou Zahab and Olivier Roy, Islamist Networks: The Afghan-­Pakistan Connection, (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004), 28. 31. Julie Sirrs, “The Taliban’s International Ambitions,” ­Middle East Quarterly 8, no. 3 (2001): 61−71. 32. U.S. Department of State, Embassy Islamabad, “Af­g han­i­stan: Taliban Said to Loosen Grip on Bin Laden as They Increasingly Turn to Him for Financial Support and Advice,” National Security Archives (June  1998): 5−7, http://­nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​/­NSAEBB​ /­NSAEBB389​/­. 33. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Al-­Qaida in Sudan, 1992−1996: Old School Ties Lead down Dangerous Paths,” National Security Archives (March 2003): 14, http://­nsarchive. gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​/ ­NSAEBB381​/­; Department of State, Embassy Islamabad, “Af­ghan­i­stan: Taliban Said to Loosen Grip,” 1−7. 34. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 169. 35. Muhammad Amir Rana, A to Z of Jehadi Organ­izations in Pakistan, trans. Saba Ansari (Lahore, Pakistan: Mashal, 2004), 272. 36. C. Christine Fair, “Lashkar-­e-­Tayiba and the Pakistani State,” Survival 53 (2011): 167−268. 37. Stephen Tankel, Storming the World Stage: The Story of Lashkar-­e-­Taiba (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011), 50. 38. C. Christine Fair, interview with the author, 2012. 39. U.S. Department of State, 2009 Country Reports on Terrorism (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 2010), chap. 6; Tankel, Storming the World Stage, 150. 40. U.S. Department of State, 2002 Patterns of Global Terrorism (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 2003), 113. 41. Unspecified author, “Lessons Learned Following the Fall of the Islamic Emirate” (Washington, D.C.: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2015), 1, https://­w ww.dni​ .­gov​/­fi les​/­documents​/­ubl​/­english​/ ­Lessons%20Learned%20Following%20the%20Fall%20 of%20the%20Islamic%20Emirate​.­pdf. 42. Cathy Scott-­Clark and Adrian Levy, The Exile: The Stunning Story of Osama bin Laden and Al Qaeda in Flight (New York: Bloomsbury, 2017), 120. 43. Unspecified author, “Lessons Learned Following the Fall of the Islamic Emirate,” 1. 44. Tankel, Storming the World Stage, 123. 45. Ibid., 127. 46. Ibid., 170. 47. Department of State, 2002 Patterns of Global Terrorism, iii; Wright, “Master Plan.”

318

Notes to Pages 179–181

48. Presented to Parliament by Command of the President of the Republic of Singapore, The Jemaah Islamiyah Arrests and the Threat of Terrorism (New Phoenix Park: Ministry Home Affairs Republic of Singapore, January 2003), 4. 49. International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder: How the Jemaah Islamiyah Terrorist Network Operates (Jakarta: International Crisis Group, 2002), 2−3. 50. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 137−38. 51. International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder, 4. 52. Ibid., 16; CIA, “Al-­Qaida in Sudan, 1992−1996,” 1. 53. Arabinda Acharya, Ten Years ­A fter 9/11 Rethinking the Jihadist Threat (New York: Routledge, 2013); “Indonesia: Jihadi Surprise in Aceh,” Asia Report no. 189 (Jakarta: International Crisis Group, April 20, 2010). 54. Presented to Parliament by Command, Jemaah Islamiya Arrests, 4. 55. CIA, “Al-­Qaida in Sudan, 1992−1996,” 1. 56. Presented to Parliament by Command, Jemaah Islamiya Arrests, 4. 57. CIA, “Af­ghan­i­stan Camps Central,” 11; International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder, 29; Presented to Parliament by Command, Jemaah Islamiya Arrests, 5. 58. Romesh Ratnesar, “Al-­Qaeda: Confessions of an Al-­Qaeda Terrorist,” Time, September 23, 2002; Associated Press, “Terrorist Says 9/11 Plot Began in ’96,” USA ­Today, September 21, 2003. 59. Presented to Parliament by Command, Jemaah Islamiya Arrests, 8. 60. International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder, 13; Simon Elegant, “The Terrorist Talks,” Time, October 5, 2003; Presented to Parliament by Command, Jemaah Islamiya Arrests, 5. 61. Presented to Parliament by Command, Jemaah Islamiya Arrests, 7. 62. International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder, 5; CIA, “Al-­Qaida in Sudan, 1992−1996,” 1. 63. International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder, 2; Presented to Parliament by Command, Jemaah Islamiya Arrests, 4. 64. “Al-­Qa’ida Bylaws (En­glish translation)” (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, n.d.), 2, https://­ctc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/­a l​-­qaida​-­bylaws​-­english​-­t ranslation​-­2; International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder, 1. 65. Thomas Joscelyn, “Al Qaeda Cell Targeted by Trea­sury Department Tied to ­Multiple Terror Groups,” Long War Journal, August 23, 2011. 66. Associated Press, “Terrorist Says 9/11 Plot Began in ’96.” 67. Terence P. Jeffery, “CIA Confirms: Waterboarding 9/11 Mastermind Led to Info That Aborted 9/11-­Style Attack on Los Angeles,” CNS News, April 21, 2009. 68. Bruce Hoffman and Fernando Reinares, eds., The Evolution of the Global Terrorist Threat: From 9/11 to Osama Bin Laden’s Death (New York: Columbia University Press, 2014), 10−13. 69. International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder, 2. 70. National Counterterrorism Center, “Jemaah Islamiya,” n.d., https://­w ww.dni​.­gov​ /­nctc​/­g roups​/­ji​.­html; Presented to Parliament by Command, Jemaah Islamiya Arrests, 11−13. 71. Presented to Parliament by Command, Jemaah Islamiya Arrests, 9. 72. International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder, ii. 73. Ibid., 29; Ratnesar, “Al-­Qaeda: Confessions.”



Notes to Pages 181–186

319

74. Ratnesar, “Al-­Qaeda: Confessions”; Matthew Lee, “Mohammad Confesses to Many Terror Plots,” Washington Post, March 15, 2007. 75. Presented to Parliament by Command, Jemaah Islamiya Arrests, 2−13. 76. “The 12 October 2002 Bali Bombing Plot,” BBC News, October 11, 2012. 77. Ibid. 78. “Statement Attributed to bin Laden Praises Recent Attacks,” CNN World, October 14, 2002; David Teather and Julian Borger, “Bin Laden Tape Praises Bali Attack,” Guardian, November 12, 2002. 79. Department of State, 2002 Patterns of Global Terrorism, 118−19. 80. Elegant, “Terrorist Talks”; U.S. Director of Central Intelligence, “DCI: The Worldwide Threat 2004,” (Testimony of Director of Central Intelligence George J. Tenet Before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, February 2004): 3, https://­w ww.cia​.­gov​/­news​ -­information​/­speeches​-­testimony​/­2004​/­dci​_ ­speech​_ ­02142004​.­html. 81. Elegant, “Terrorist Talks.” 82. International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder, 30. 83. Don Rassler and Vahid Brown, The Haqqani Nexus and the Evolution of al-­Qa’ida, (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, July 2011), 10, https://­ctc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​ /­the​-­haqqani​-­nexus​-­a nd​-­the​-­evolution​-­of​-­a l​-­qaida. 84. Elegant, “Terrorist Talks”; International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder, i−1. 85. Presented to Parliament by Command, Jemaah Islamiya Arrests, 5. 86. Elegant, “Terrorist Talks”; “12 October 2002 Bali Bombing Plot.” 87. Presented to Parliament by Command, Jemaah Islamiya Arrests, 7. 88. “12 October 2002 Bali Bombing Plot.” 89. International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder, 30. 90. National Counterterrorism Center, “Counterterrorism 2014 Calendar: Jemaah Islamiya,” https://­archive.org​/­stream​/­pdfy​-­LJSApX​-­eBJ0UDVjh​/­Counterterrorism%20Calendar​ %202014​_­djvu​.­t xt. 91. Andrew Lebovich, “Se­nior Indonesian Terrorist Arrested in Pakistan,” Foreign Policy, March 30, 2011; National Counterterrorism Center, “Counterterrorism 2014 Calendar: Jemaah Islamiya.” 92. Director of Central Intelligence, “DCI: Worldwide Threat 2004,” 3. 93. Daniel Byman, “Buddies or Burdens? Understanding the Al Qaeda Relationship with the Affiliate Organ­izations,” Security Studies 23 (2014): 431−70. 94. Barak Mendelsohn, The Al-­Qaeda Franchise: The Expansion of Al-­Qaeda and Its Consequences (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016), 128. 95. Seth G. Jones, “Hunting in the Shadows: The Pursuit of al Qa’ida Since 9/11” (New York: W.W. Norton, 2012), 156. 96. Michael Weiss and Hassan Hassan, ISIS: Inside the Army of Terror (New York: Reagan Arts, 2015), 28. 97. Mary Anne Weaver, “The Short, Violent Life of Abu Musab al-­Z arqawi,” Atlantic, June 8, 2006; Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 183. 98. Weaver, “Short, Violent Life.” 99. Ibid.; Jones, “Hunting in the Shadows,” 148. 100. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 257. 101. Weaver, “Short, Violent Life.” 102. Weiss and Hassan, ISIS: Inside the Army of Terror, 11−12.

320

Notes to Pages 186–190

103. Ibid.; Weaver, “Short, Violent Life.” 104. Weiss and Hassan, ISIS: Inside the Army of Terror, 13. 105. Jessica Stern and J. M. Berger, ISIS: The State of Terror (New York: HarperCollins, 2015), 17. 106. Weaver, “Short, Violent Life.” 107. Weiss and Hassan, ISIS: Inside the Army of Terror, 18. 108. Fawaz Gerges, The Far ­Enemy: Why Jihad Went Global (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 258. 109. Ibid., 251. 110. U.S. Office of the Director of National Intelligence, “Declassified Key Judgments of the National Intelligence Estimate ‘Trends in Global Terrorism: Implications for the United States’ ” (Washington. D.C., April 2006), 2, https://­w ww.dni​.­gov​/­files​/­documents​/­Special%20 Report​_­Global%20Terrorism%20NIE%20Key%20Judgments​.­pdf. 111. Ayman Al-­Z awahiri, “Zawahiri’s Letter to Zarqawi (En­glish translation)” (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, 2006): 2, https://­c tc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/­z awahiris​ -­letter​-­to​-­zarqawi​-­english​-­t ranslation​-­2. 112. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 251. 113. Weaver, “Short, Violent Life.” 114. Jones, “Hunting in the Shadows,” 157−58. 115. Ibid. 116. Ibid. 117. Ibid. 118. Ibid., 155. 119. U.S. Department of State, 2005 Patterns of Global Terrorism (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 2006), 14. 120. Jones, “Hunting in the Shadows,” 145. 121. Nelly Lahoud, Beware of Imitators (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, June 2012), 76−7, https://­ctc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/ ­beware​-­of​-­imitators​-­a l​-­qaida​-­through​-­the​ -­lens​-­of​-­its​-­confidential​-­secretary; “Harmony Document SOCOM-2012-0000004” (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, January 2011), 5−9, https://­ctc.usma​.­edu​/­v2​/­w p​ -­content​/­uploads​/­2013​/­10​/ ­Letter​-­f rom​-­Adam​-­Gadahn​-­Original​.­pdf. 122. Al​-­Z awahiri, “Zawahiri’s Letter to Zarqawi,” 7−8. 123. Department of State, 2005 Patterns of Global Terrorism, 136. 124. “Letter Exposes New Leader in Al-­Qa’ida High Command” (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, September 2006), 16, https://­ctc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/­letter​-­exposes​ -­new​-­leader​-­in​-­a l​-­qaida​-­high​-­command. 125. Ibid., 3−18. 126. Andrea Mitchell, “Al-­Qaida Captive in Iraq Talking,” NBC, January  29, 2004; “Emerging Face of al-­Qaeda’s Man in Iraq,” Sydney Morning Herald, February 11, 2004; Dexter Filkins, “The Strug­gle for Iraq: Intelligence; U.S. Says Files Seeks Qaeda Aid in Iraq Conflict,” New York Times, February 9, 2004; Director of Central Intelligence, “DCI: Worldwide Threat 2004.” 127. “Letter Exposes New Leader,” 3−18. Al-­Z awahiri, “Zawahiri’s Letter to Zarqawi,” 1−13. 128. Unspecified author, “Letter to My Beloved B ­ rother” (Washington, D.C.: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2015), 2, https://­w ww.dni​.­gov​/­fi les​/­documents​/­ubl​ /­english2​/ ­Letter%20to%20my%20beloved%20Brother​.­pdf.



Notes to Pages 191–196

321

129. Ibid., 1. 130. Ibid., 1−2. 131. Department of State, 2005 Patterns of Global Terrorism, 53; Unspecified author, “Letter to My Beloved ­Brother,” 2 132. “Letter Exposes New Leader,” 10; Al-­Zawahiri, “Zawahiri’s Letter to Zarqawi,” 12. 133. “Letter Exposes New Leader,” 10. 134. Ellen Knickmeyer and Jonathan Finer, “Insurgent Leader Al-­Z arqawi Killed in Iraq,” Washington Post, June 8, 2006. 135. Anneli Botha, “Terrorism in the Maghreb: The Transnationalisation of Domestic Terrorism,” ISS Monograph Series 144 (2008): 46. 136. Evan Kohlmann, “Two De­cades of Jihad in Algeria: The GIA, the GSPC, and Al-­ Qaida” (NEFA Foundation, May 2007), 13. 137. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 122–23. 138. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 183. 139. United Nations, “Narrative Summaries of Reasons for Listing.” 140. Craig S. Smith, “U.S. Training African Forces to Uproot Terrorists,” New York Times, May 11, 2004. 141. Ibid. 142. U.S. Africa Command, “Trans Sahara ­Counter Terrorism Partnership,” Africom (May 2010), 1−2, www.africom​.­mil​/ ­Doc​/­7432. 143. Smith, “U.S. Training African Forces.” 144. Botha, “Terrorism in the Maghreb,” 64. 145. Jean-­Pierre Filiu, “The Local and Global Jihad of al-­Qa’ida in the Islamic Maghrib,” M ­ iddle East Journal 63 (2009): 221. 146. Souad Mekhennet, Michael Moss, Eric Schmitt, Elaine Sciolino, and Margot Williams, “A Ragtag Insurgency Gains a Qaeda Lifeline,” New York Times, June 7, 2012. 147. Filiu, “Local and Global Jihad,” 222. 148. Stephen Harmon, “From GSPC to AQIM: The Evolution of an Algerian Islamist Terrorist Group into an Al-­Qa’ida Affiliate and Its Implications for the Sahara-­Sahel Region,” Concerned African Scholars 85 (2010): 15. 149. Carol Migdalovitz, Algeria: Current Issues (Washington, D.C.: Congressional Research Ser­vice, Library of Congress, January 2010), 2. 150. Emily Hunt, “Counter-­terrorism Successes Force Algerian Militants to Evolve,” Jane’s Intelligence Review, May 18, 2006, 14; Kohlmann, “Two De­cades of Jihad in ­Algeria,” 17. 151. John F. Burns, “The Strug­gle for Iraq: Bombings, ­Hotel Attacks Linked to War Anniversary,” New York Times, March 19, 2004. 152. Mekhennet et al., “Ragtag Insurgency.” 153. Ibid., 20; “Algerian Diplomats Seized in Iraq,” BBC News, July 21, 2005. 154. “A Statement Regarding the Deaths of the Algerian Diplomats in Iraq,” trans. Evan Kohlmann (Global Terror Alert, 2005). 155. Ibid. 156. Ibid. 157. Kohlmann, “Two De­cades of Jihad in Algeria,” 19. 158. “An Interview with Abdelmalek Droukdal,” New York Times, July 1, 2008. 159. Al-­Z awahiri, “Zawahiri’s Letter to Zarqawi,” 11. 160. Migdalovitz, Algeria: Current Issues, 8. 161. Ibid.

322

Notes to Pages 196–201

162. Ibid., 13. 163. “Interview with Abdelmalek Droukdal.” 164. Mendelsohn, Al-­Qaeda Franchise, 131. 165. Mekhennet et al., “Ragtag Insurgency”; Hunt, “Counter-­terrorism Successes,” 10. 166. Mendelsohn, Al-­Qaeda Franchise, 130. 167. Ibid. 168. Hunt, “Counter-­terrorism Successes,” 10. 169. Kohlmann, “Two De­cades of Jihad in Algeria,” 21. 170. Mahmud, “Letter dtd 5 April 2011” (Washington, D.C.: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2011), 6, https://­w ww.dni​.­gov​/­fi les​/­documents​/­ubl​/­english​/ ­Letter​ %20dtd%205%20April%202011​.­p df; unspecified author, “Gist of Conversation Oct 11” (Washington, D.C.: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2015), 3, https://­w ww​ .­d ni​.­gov​/­fi les​/­documents​/­ubl​/­english​/­Gist%20of%20conversation%20Oct%2011​.­p df; unspecified author, “Letter Addressed to Atiyah” (Washington, D.C.: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2015), 1−4, https://­w ww.dni​.­g ov​/­fi les​/­documents​/­ubl​/­english​ /­L etter%20Addressed%20to%20Atiyah​.­p df; Azmarai, “Letter dtd 7 August  2010” (Washington, D.C.: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2010), 4, https://­ www​. ­d ni​. ­g ov​/­fi les​/­d ocuments​/­u bl​/­e nglish​/ ­L etter%20dtd%2007%20August%202010​ .­p df; Zamray, “Letter to Shaykh Mahmud 26 September  2010,” (Washington, D.C.: ­O ffice of the Director of National Intelligence, 2010), 6, https://­w ww​.­d ni​.­g ov​/­fi les​ /­d ocuments​/ ­u bl​/­e nglish​/ ­L etter%20to%20Shaykh%20Mahmud%2026%20September%202010​.­p df. 171. Quoted in Botha, “Terrorism in the Maghreb,” 62 172. Unspecified author, “Gist of Conversation Oct 11,” 2; Zamray, “Letter to Shaykh Mahmud 26 September 2010,” 2. 173. Unspecified author, “Letter Addressed to Atiyah,” 2. 174. “Harmony Document SOCOM-2012-00000019” (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, n.d.), 26, https://­ctc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/­letters​-­f rom​-­abbottabad​-­bin​-­ladin​ -­sidelined. 175. Ibid. 176. Unspecified author, “Letter Addressed to Atiyah,” 1. 177. Unspecified author, “Letter to Shaykh Abu al-­Layth, Shaykh Abu Yahya, Shaykh Abdallah Said” (Washington, D.C.: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2015), 1, https://­w ww.dni​.­g ov​/­fi les​/­documents​/­ubl​/­english2​/ ­L etter%20to%20Shaykh%20Abu​-­a l​ -­Layth%20Shaykh%20Abu​-­Yahya%20Shaykh%20Abdallah%20Said​.­pdf. 178. Inal Ersan, “Zawahiri Says Libyan Group Joins al Qaeda,” ­Reuters, November 3, 2007. 179. Abu Al-­Layth al-­Libi, “Al-­Zawahiri, Al-­Libi: Libyan Islamic Fighting Group Joins Al-­Qa’ida,” World News Connection, November 3, 2007, 3. 180. Ersan, “Zawahiri Says Libyan Group.” 181. United Nations, “Narrative Summaries of Reasons for Listing: Libyan Islamic Fighting Group”; Ersan, “Zawahiri Says Libyan Group.” 182. Cruickshank, “LIFG Revisions,” 1. 183. Libyan Islamic Fighting Group-­Britain, “An Open Statement Regarding the ­Details of the Dialogue Between the Libyan Regime and LIFG” (NEFA Foundation, July 2009).



Notes to Pages 201–206

323

184. Cruickshank, “LIFG Revisions,” 6; Al-­Libi, “Al-­Z awahiri, Al-­Libi,” 2. 185. Tawil, “Changing Face.” 186. “Harmony Document SOCOM-2012-0000019,” 30. 187. Ibid., 1−37. 188. “Harmony Document SOCOM-2012-0000009” (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, n.d.), 1−2, https://­c tc.usma​.­edu​/­p osts​/ ­letters​-­f rom​-­a bbottabad​-­bin​-­ladin​ -­sidelined. 189. Clint Watts, Jacob Shapiro, and Vahid Brown, Al-­Qa’ida’s (Mis)Adventures in the Horn of Africa (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, 2007), 40−41, https://­ctc. usma​.­edu​/­w p​-­content​/­uploads​/­2010​/­06​/­A l​-­Qaidas​-­MisAdventures​-­in​-­t he​-­Horn​-­of​-­A frica​ .­pdf. 190. Ibid., 77. 191. Ken Menkhaus, “The Crisis in Somalia: Tragedy in Five Acts,” African Affairs 106 (2007): 365. 192. Ibid., 368. 193. Ibid., 371. 194. Ibi.d, 370−78. 195. Ibid., 384. 196. Lahoud, Beware of Imitators, 80−90. 197. Menkhaus, “Crisis in Somalia,” 377. 198. Nelly Lahoud, “The Merger of Al-­Shabaab and Qa’idat al-­Jihad,” CTC Sentinel 5 (February 2012): 3. 199. Menkhaus, “Crisis in Somalia,” 388. 200. Ibid., 358. 201. Lahoud, “Merger of Al-­Shabaab,” 1. 202. Christopher Anzalone, “The Life and Death of Al-­Shabab Leader Ahmed Godane,”Combating Terrorism Center at West Point Sentinel 7, no. 96 (2014): 19–22, https://­ ctc.usma​.­edu​/­v2​/­w p​-­content​/­uploads​/­2014​/­09​/­CTCSentinel​-­Vol7Iss96​.­pdf. 203. Lahoud, Beware of Imitators, 84. 204. Ibid., 95. 205. Ibid., 95. 206. Matt Bryden, “The Reinvention of Al-­Shabaab: A Strategy of Choice or Necessity?” (Washington. D.C.: Center for Strategic and International Studies, 2014), 11. 207. Mendelsohn, Al-­Qaeda Franchise, 146. 208. Lahoud, Beware of Imitators, 84. 209. “Harmony Document SOCOM-2012-00000019,” 6−18. 210. Ibid. 211. “Harmony Document SOCOM-2012-0000005” (West Point, N.Y.: Combating ­Terrorism Center, August 2010), 1, https://­ctc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/­letters​-­f rom​-­abbottabad​-­bin​ -­ladin​-­sidelined. 212. Don Rassler, Gabriel Koehler-­Derrick, Liam Collins, Muhammad al-­Obaidi, and Nelly Lahoud, Letters from Abbottabad: Bin Ladin Sidelined? (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, 2012): 91, https://­ctc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/ ­letters​-­f rom​-­abbottabad​-­bin​-­ladin​ -­sidelined. 213. “Harmony Document SOCOM-2012-0000005,” 1−2. 214. Ibid.

324

Notes to Pages 206–209

215. Azmarai, “Letter dtd 7 August 2010,” 2. 216. “Harmony Document SOCOM-2012-0000006” (West Point, N.Y.: Combating ­Terrorism Center, December  2010), 1, https://­ctc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/­letters​-­f rom​-­abbottabad​ -­bin​-­ladin​-­sidelined. 217. See, for example, Azmarai, “Letter dtd 7 August 2010,” 1−6; Mahmud, “Letter to Shaykh Abu Abdallah dtd 17 July 2010,” 3−4; Mahmud, “Letter dtd 5 April 2011,” 4. 218. Azmarai, “Letter dtd 7 August 2010,” 6. 219. Ibid., 2 220. Ibid. 221. Sudarsan Raghavan, “Deadly Uganda Bombings Could Indicate New Roles for al-­ Qaeda Affiliates,” Washington Post, July 13, 2010. 222. Azmarai, “Letter dtd 7 August 2010,” 2. 223. Al-­K ata’ib Center for Monitoring and Reconnaissance, “Study Paper About the Kampala Raid in Uganda” (Washington, D.C.: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2010), https://­w ww.dni​.­gov​/­fi les​/­documents​/­ubl​/­english​/­Study%20Paper%20about%20 the%20Kampala%20Raid%20in%20Uganda​.­pdf. 224. Mahmud, “Letter dtd 5 April 2011,” 4. 225. Unspecified author, “Report on the External Operations” (Washington, D.C.: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2010), 3−4, https://­w ww.dni​.­gov​/­files​/­documents​ /­ubl​/­english​/ ­Report%20on%20External%20Operations​.­pdf. 226. Unspecified author, “Letter to Uthman,” 2010 (Washington, D.C.: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2015), 8, https://­w ww.dni​.­gov​/­files​/­documents​/­ubl​/­english​ /­Letter%20to%20Uthman​.­pdf. 227. Nicholas Schmidle, “Getting bin Laden: What Happened That Night in Abbottabad,” New Yorker, August 8, 2011, 1. 228. Ibid., 6−8. 229. Lahoud, “Merger of Al-­Shabaab,” 2 (emphasis added). 230. Ibid., 1. 231. Ibid., 2. 232. Ibid. 233. Bryden, “Reinvention of Al-­Shabaab,” 1. 234. Ibid., 5. 235. Bill Roggio, “Al Qaeda Appoints Ayman al Zawahiri Successor to bin Laden,” Long War Journal, July 16, 2011; “AQAP Leader Pledges Oath of Allegiance to Ayman al Zawahiri,” Long War Journal, July 26, 2011; “Somalia’s Shabaab Vows Allegiance to New al Qaeda Emir Zawahiri,” Long War Journal, June 17, 2011. 236. John Brennan and Margaret Warner, “U.S. Policy ­Toward Yemen,” (New York, N.Y.: Council on Foreign Relations, August 8, 2012), http://­library.intellectualtakeout​.­org​/­library​ /­a rticles​-­commentary​-­blog​/­us​-­policy​-­toward​-­yemen​?­library​_­node​=­25160; Paul Cruickshank, “Brennan on bin Laden Raid, and ‘Dangerous’ Yemen,” CNN, April 20, 2012, http://­security​ .blogs​.­cnn​.­com​/­2012​/­0 4​/­20​/ ­brennan​-­on​-­bin​-­laden​-­raid​-­a nd​-­dangerous​-­yemen​/­. 237. William McCants, The ISIS Apocalypse: The History, Strategy, and Doomsday Vision of the Islamic State (New York: St. Martin’s, 2015), 1336 (Kindle edition). 238. As cited in Aaron Y. Zelin, “The War Between ISIS and al-­Qaeda for Supremacy of the Global Jihadist Movement,” Research Notes 20 (Washington, D.C.: The Washington Institute for Near East Policy June 2014), 4.



Notes to Pages 209–212

325

239. Weiss and Hassan, ISIS: Inside the Army of Terror, 117. 240. Scott-­Clark and Levy, The Exile, 462. 241. Weiss and Hassan, ISIS: Inside the Army of Terror, 77−78, 115. 242. Ibid., 120. 243. Walead Farwana, “The History of the Islamic State,” antiwar.com, August 24, 2014, http://­original​.­a ntiwar​.­com​/­walead​_­farwana​/­2014​/­08​/­23​/­the​-­history​-­of​-­the​-­islamic​-­state​/­. 244. Stern and Berger, ISIS: The State of Terror, 37. 245. Weiss and Hassan, ISIS: Inside the Army of Terror, 77−78. 246. “Harmony Document SOCOM-2012-00000019,” 2. 247. Mahmud, “Letter to Shaykh Abu Abdallah dtd 17 July 2010,” 8. 248. “Harmony Document SOCOM-2012-00000010” (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, April 2011), 4, https://­c tc.usma​.­edu​/­posts​/ ­letters​-­f rom​-­abbottabad​-­bin​ -­ladin​-­sidelined. 249. Farwana, “History of the Islamic State.” 250. Zelin, “War Between ISIS and al-­Qaeda”; McCants, ISIS Apocalypse, 1467. 251. Scott-­Clark and Levy, The Exile, 463. 252. Weiss and Hassan, ISIS: Inside the Army of Terror, 149. 253. Aaron Zelin, “Al-­Qaeda in Syria: A Closer Look at ISIS (Part I),” PolicyWatch 2137 (Washington, D.C.: Washington Institute, September 2013). 254. Weiss and Hassan, ISIS: Inside the Army of Terror, 150−51. 255. Ibid. 256. McCants, ISIS Apocalypse, 1543. 257. Ibid., 1563. 258. Ibid., 1569−70. 259. Ibid., 1570. 260. Brian Michael Jenkins, “The Dynamics of Syria’s Civil War,” (Santa Monica, ­Calif.: RAND, 2014), 10. 261. Mary Habeck, “Assessing the ISIS–­a l-­Qaeda Split: Introduction,” Insite Blog, June  18, 2014, http://­news.siteintelgroup​.­com​/ ­blog​/­index​.­php​/­about​-­u s​/­21​-­jihad​/­4388​ -­a ssessing​-­the​-­isis​-­a l​-­qaeda​-­split​-­introduction; Jenkins, “Dynamics of Syria’s Civil War,” 10. 262. Thomas Joscelyn, “Al Nusrah Front Leader Renews Allegiance to Al Qaeda, Rejects New Name,” Long War Journal, April 10, 2013. 263. Scott-­Clark and Levy, The Exile, 463. 264. Thomas Joscelyn. “Al Qaeda Veteran Reportedly Targeted in Syria.” Long War Journal, March 6, 2015; Thomas Joscelyn, “Pentagon Confirms US Targeted Veteran al Qaeda Leader in Syria.” Long War Journal, April 4, 2016. 265. Jenkins, “Dynamics of Syria’s Civil War,” 10. 266. William McCants, “How Zawahiri Lost al Qaeda,” Foreign Affairs, November 19, 2013. 267. Weiss and Hassan, ISIS: Inside the Army of Terror, 184. 268. McCants, “How Zawahiri Lost al Qaeda.” 269. Aryn Baker, “Al Qaeda’s Top Envoy Killed in Syria by Rival Rebel Group,” Time, February 24, 2014. 270. Liz Sly, “Al-­Qaeda Disavows Any Ties with Radical Islamist ISIS Group in Syria, Iraq,” Washington Post, February 3, 2014. 271. Ibid.

326

Notes to Pages 212–220

272. Ibid. 273. Stern and Berger, ISIS: The State of Terror, 43. 274. “Remaining and Expanding,” Dabiq (publication of the so-­called Islamic State), Issue 5 (October 2014), https://­clarionproject.org​/­docs​/­isis​-­isil​-­islamic​-­state​-­magazine​-­issue​ -­5​-­remaining​-­a nd​-­expanding​.­pdf. 275. Daveed Gartenstein-­Ross and Nathaniel Barr, “How Al-­Qaeda Survived the Islamic State Challenge,” Hudson Institute, Washington, D.C. (March 1, 2017), http://­w ww.hudson​ .­org​/­research​/­12788​-­how​-­a l​-­qaeda​-­survived​-­the​-­islamic​-­state​-­challenge. 276. Martin Chulov, “How an Arrest in Iraq Revealed Isis’s $2bn Jihadist Network,” Guardian, June 15, 2014; Josh Elliot, “How ISIS Became the Richest Terrorist Group in the World,” CTV News, June 17, 2014.

Chapter  6 Note to epigraphs: Fawaz Gerges, The Far ­Enemy: Why Jihad Went Global (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 33; Lawrence Wright, “The Man ­Behind Bin Laden,” New Yorker, September 16, 2002, http://­w ww.newyorker​.­com​/­magazine​/­2002​/­09​/­16​/­the​-­man​-­behind​-­bin​-­laden. 1. Fawaz Gerges, The Far ­Enemy: Why Jihad Went Global (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 140. 2. Upper Egypt consists of the Nile River valley from Cairo south to Lake Nasser. Roel Meijer, ed., Global Salafism: Islam’s New Religious Movement (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009), 190. 3. Saad Eddin Ibrahim, “Anatomy of Egypt’s Militant Islamic Groups: Methodological Note and Preliminary Findings,” International Journal of ­Middle East Studies 12, no. 4 (1980): 423–53. 4. For insightful works on the Egyptian jihadist movement, see Gilles Kepel, The Prophet and Pha­raoh: Muslim Extremism in Egypt (London: Al Saqi, 1985); Mary Anne Weaver, A Portrait of Egypt: A Journey Through the World of Militant Islam, 1st rev. paperback ed. (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2000). 5. As quoted in Omar Ashour, The De-­Radicalization of Jihadists: Transforming Armed Islamist Movements, Con­temporary Terrorism Studies (London: Routledge, 2009), 37. 6. Mark Juergensmeyer, Terror in the Mind of God: The Rise of Religious Vio­lence (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 82. 7. Meijer, Global Salafism, 204. 8. International Crisis Group, Islamism in North Africa II: Egypt’s Opportunity (Cairo: International Crisis Group, 2004), 5. 9. Lawrence Wright, “The Man ­Behind Bin Laden,” New Yorker, September 16, 2002, p. 17; Daniel Benjamin and Steven Simon, The Age of Sacred Terror (New York: Random House, 2002), 123; Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 129. 10. United Nations, “Narrative Summaries of Reasons for Listing: Tharwat Salah Shihata,” Security Council Committee Pursuant to Resolutions 1267 (1999) and 1989 (2011) Concerning Al-­Qaida and Associated Individuals and Entities, October 6, 2001, https://­w ww.un​.­org​ /­s c​/­s uborg​/­e n​/­s anctions​/­1 267​/­a q​_ ­s anctions​_ ­l ist​/­s ummaries​/­i ndividual​/­t harwat​- ­s alah​ -­shihata; Ḍiyā Rashwān, The Spectrum of Islamist Movements, trans. Mandy McClure (Berlin: H. Schiler, 2007), 74. 11. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 88−89, 126; Wright, “Man B ­ ehind Bin Laden,” 25.



Notes to Pages 221–225

327

12. Wright, “Man B ­ ehind Bin Laden,” 25. 13. International Crisis Group, Islamism in North Africa II, 7; Wright, “Man B ­ ehind Bin Laden,” 17; Mamoun Fandy, “Egypt’s Islamic Group: Regional Revenge?” ­Middle East Journal, 48, no. 4 (1994): 610−14. 14. Meijer, Global Salafism, 193−94; International Crisis Group, Islamism in North Africa II, 6. 15. Meijer, Global Salafism, 190. 16. Ibid., 199. 17. Rashwān, Spectrum of Islamist Movements, 62. 18. Ibid., 64. 19. Charles Robert Davidson, “Po­liti­cal Vio­lence in Egypt: A Case Study of the Islamist Insurgency, 1992−1997” (Ph.D. diss., Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy, Tufts University, Medford, Mass., 2006), 285. 20. Hisham Mubarak, Al-­Irhabiyun Qadimun: Dirasa Muqarana bayn Mouqif al-­Ikhwan al-­Muslimin wa Jama’at al-­Jihad min Qadhiet al-­‘Anf (1928–1994) (Cairo: Markaz al-­Mahrousa lil-­Nashr al-­K hidmat al-­Sahafiyya wal-­M’aloumat, 1995), 188. 21. Ashour, De-­Radicalization of Jihadists, 48. 22. Davidson, “Po­liti­cal Vio­lence in Egypt,” 289−90. 23. Ibid., 285. 24. Meijer, Global Salafism, 199. 25. Jérôme Drevon, “The Emergence of Ex-­Jihadi Po­liti­c al Parties in Post-­Mubarak Egypt,” ­Middle East Journal 69, no. 4 (2015): 511–26. 26. Richard Engel, “Inside Al-­Qaeda: A Win­dow into the World of Militant Islam and the Afghani Alumni,” Jane’s Defence Weekly (2001). 27. Lawrence Wright, The Looming Tower: Al-­Qaeda and the Road to 9/11 (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2006), 55−61. 28. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 95. 29. Wright, Looming Tower, 57. 30. Michael Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes: Osama bin Laden, Radical Islam, and the F ­ uture of Amer­i­ca (Washington, D.C.: Potomac, 2006), 186. 31. Wright, Looming Tower, 57. 32. Tal’at Fu’ad Qasim et al., “What Does the Gama’a Islamiyya Want?: An Interview with Tal’at Fu’ad Qasim,” ­Middle East Report no. 198 (1996): 40–46. 33. Ibid., 40–46; Quintan Wiktorowicz, ed., Islamic Activism: A Social Movement Theory Approach, Indiana Series in ­Middle East Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004), 81; Davidson, “Po­liti­cal Vio­lence in Egypt,” 290. 34. Wiktorowicz, Islamic Activism, 72. 35. Quoted in Mubarak, Al-­Irhabiyun Qadimun, 247. 36. Meijer, Global Salafism, 200. 37. Wiktorowicz, Islamic Activism, 76. 38. Ibid., 77. 39. Meijer, Global Salafism, 195. 40. Ibid., 207. 41. Ibid., 207. 42. Omar Ashour, “Lions Tamed? An Inquiry into the ­Causes of De-­Radicalization of Armed Islamist Movements: The Case of the Egyptian Islamic Group,” ­Middle East Journal 61, no. 4 (2007): 609.

328

Notes to Pages 225–228

43. Davidson, “Po­liti­cal Vio­lence in Egypt,” 251. 44. Ashour, “Lions Tamed?” 608−9. 45. Meijer, Global Salafism, 199. 46. Steve Coll, Ghost Wars: The Secret History of the CIA, Af­ghan­i­stan, and Bin Laden, from the Soviet Invasion to September 10, 2001 (New York: Penguin, 2004), 154. 47. Wright, Looming Tower, 122. 48. Ibid., 55. 49. Ibid., 49; Wright, “Man B ­ ehind Bin Laden,” 13. 50. Wright, Looming Tower, 138. 51. Mustafa Hamid and Leah Farrall, The Arabs at War in Af­ghan­i­stan (London: Hurst, 2015), 171. 52. Benjamin and Simon, Age of Sacred Terror, 103. 53. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 182. 54. Ibid. 55. Wright, Looming Tower, 138 56. Ibid. 57. Ibid., 128 58. Camille Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms: The Story of al-­Qa’ida and the Arab Jihadists (London: Saqi, 2010), 38. 59. Wright, “Man ­Behind Bin Laden.” 60. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 99. 61. Wright, Looming Tower, 113. 62. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 117; Cathy Scott-­Clark and Adrian Levy, The Exile: The Stunning Story of Osama bin Laden and Al Qaeda in Flight (New York: Bloomsbury, 2017), 60. ­There is some debate about the point at which ­these individuals became purely al-­Qaida, rather than dual members. 63. Peter Bergen, The Osama bin Laden I Know: An Oral History of al-­Qaeda’s Leader (New York: ­Free Press, 2006), 92−97. 64. Ibid., 3. 65. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 159. 66. Tawil, “Interview with Hani al-­Sibai,” Al Hayat, September 4, 2002, 15. 67. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 118−19. 68. Jason Burke, Al-­Qaeda: The True Story of Radical Islam (London: I. B. Tauris, 2004), 139. 69. Ashour, “Lions Tamed?” 610. 70. Meijer, Global Salafism, 207 71. Benjamin and Simon, Age of Sacred Terror, 207. 72. Davidson, “Po­liti­cal Vio­lence in Egypt,” 300. 73. Meijer, Global Salafism, 207. 74. Montasser Al-­Zayat, The Road to Al-­Qaeda: The Story of Bin Laden’s Right-­Hand Man (London: Pluto, 2004), 60; Burke, Al-­Qaeda: The True Story, 139. 75. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), “Funding of the Gama’at Al Islamiya by Wealthy Saudi Oppositionist Usama Bin Ladin Composition of Sudanese Wing of the Egyptian Gama’at Al Islamiya,” National Security Archives (July  1993): 1−3; U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Terrorism Usama Bin Ladin’s Financial Support to the Egyptian Al Gama’at Al Islamiyya, as Well as Algerian and Libyan Extremists,”



Notes to Pages 228–232

329

­N ational Security Archives (June  1997): 1−2, http://­n sarchive.gwu​.­e du​/ ­NSAEBB​ /­NSAEBB381​/­. 76. Davidson, “Po­liti­cal Vio­lence in Egypt,” 291. 77. Admittedly, given the conditions and treatment the defendant almost certainly endured, the credibility of this information is unclear. 78. Unidentified author, “Part 3 of Islamic Jihad Trial Testimony,” Al-­Sharq Al-­Awsat, March 8, 1999. 79. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 185. 80. Al-­Z ayat, Road to Al-­Qaeda, 60. 81. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 97. 82. Wright, Looming Tower, 184. 83. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 97. 84. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 102−3. 85. Wright, Looming Tower, 185. 86. Ibid., 185. 87. Wright, “Man B ­ ehind Bin Laden,” 24−25. 88. Wright, Looming Tower, 186. 89. Bruce Reidel, The Search for Al Qaeda: Its Leadership, Ideology, and ­Future (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution Press, 2008), 54. 90. Camille Tawil, “Interview with Hani al-­Sibai: Part 4 of 4,” Al Hayat, September 4, 2002, 15. 91. Wright, Looming Tower, 176−77. 92. Joseph P. Fried, “Sheik Sentenced to Life in Prison in Bombing Plot,” New York Times, January 18, 1996, 3. 93. Meijer, Global Salafism, 208. 94. Wright, Looming Tower, 183. 95. Wright, “Man ­Behind Bin Laden,” 25. 96. Ibid. 97. Ashour, De-­Radicalization of Jihadists, 54. 98. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 33. 99. Al-­Z ayat, Road to Al-­Qaeda, 63. 100. Meijer, Global Salafism, 208. 101. James Toth, “Islamism in Southern Egypt: A Case Study of a Radical Religious Movement,” International Journal of M ­ iddle East Studies 35, no. 4 (2003), 547–72. 102. Meijer, Global Salafism, 208. 103. Reidel, Search for Al Qaeda, 55. 104. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 186. 105. Burke, Al-­Qaeda: The True Story, 136. 106. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 184. 107. Ibid. 108. Reidel, Search for Al Qaeda, 55. 109. Ibid. 110. Wright, Looming Tower, 217. 111. Ibid. 112. Ibid., 217−18. 113. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 108.

330

Notes to Pages 233–236

114. Wright, Looming Tower, 216. 115. Ibid., 216: “News About Global Jihad (News of Interest to Muslims),” (Washington, D.C.: Department of Defense Conflict Rec­ords Research Center, 2003), 20. 116. Wiktorowicz, Islamic Activism, 79. 117. Wright, “Man B ­ ehind Bin Laden,” 25. 118. Wiktorowicz, Islamic Activism, 78. 119. U.S. Department of State, 1996 Patterns of Global Terrorism (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1997), 30. 120. Weaver, Portrait of Egypt, 177. 121. Tawil, “Interview with Hani al-­Sibai,” 15. 122. “News About Global Jihad,” 21 123. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 195. 124. Wright, Looming Tower, 216. 125. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 129. 126. Ibid. 127. Department of State, 1996 Patterns, 30. 128. Davidson, “Po­liti­cal Vio­lence in Egypt,” 308–9. 129. Ashour, “Lions Tamed?” 612. 130. Wiktorowicz, Islamic Activism, 78. 131. Reidel, Search for Al Qaeda, 23. 132. Andrew Higgins and Alan Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light on the Roots of al Qaeda Terror,” Wall Street Journal, July 2, 2002, 4; Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 109. 133. Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 5. 134. Ibid., 1; Wright, Looming Tower, 249. 135. Tawil, “Interview with Hani al-­Sibai,” 15. 136. Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 6. 137. Wright, “Man ­Behind Bin Laden,” 27. 138. Wright, Looming Tower, 219. 139. Coll, Ghost Wars, 269. 140. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 213. 141. Ibid., 229. 142. Tawil, “Interview with Hani al-­Sibai,” 15. 143. Kamīl Ṭawīl and Robin Bray, ­Brothers in Arms: The Story of Al-­Qa’ida and the Arab Jihadists (London: Saqi, 2010), 151–52. 144. U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, “Incorporation of Ayman Zawahiri’s al-­Jihad Organ­ization into Usama bin Laden’s al-­Qaida; Recent Activities of Egyptian Associations of al-­Qaida,” National Security Archives (September  1998): 2, http://­nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​ /­NSAEBB​/ ­NSAEBB381​/­. 145. Wright, “Man B ­ ehind Bin Laden,” 27−29. 146. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 122−23; Peter L. Bergen, Holy War, Inc.: Inside the Secret World of Osama bin Laden (New York: ­Free Press, 2001), 199. 147. Bergen, Holy War, Inc., 199. 148. Paul Kamlonick, “The Egyptian Islamic Group’s Critique of al-­Qaeda’s Interpretation of Jihad,” Perspectives on Terrorism 7, no. 5 (2013): 93. 149. Ashour, “Lions Tamed?” 614−15. 150. Meijer, Global Salafism, 210.



Notes to Pages 237–241

331

151. Weaver, Portrait of Egypt, 264. 152. Ibid., 272. 153. Fawaz A. Gerges, “The End of the Islamist Insurgency in Egypt? Costs and Prospects,” ­Middle East Journal 54, no. 4 (2000): 592–612. 154. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 151. 155. Al-­Z ayat, Road to Al-­Qaeda, 76−77. 156. Wright, Looming Tower, 259. 157. Reidel, Search for Al Qaeda, 23. 158. Ibid. 159. Ibid.; Meijer, Global Salafism, 209. 160. Wright, Looming Tower, 256. 161. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 159. 162. Open Source Center, “Fatwa Urging Jihad Against Americans,” National Security Archives (February 1998): 2, http://­nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​/ ­NSAEBB381​/­. 163. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 247. 164. National Commission on Terrorist Attacks upon the United States, The 9/11 Commission Report: Final Report of the National Commission on Terrorist Attacks upon the United States (New York: W.W. Norton, 2004), 67. 165. Al-­Zayat, Road to Al-­Qaeda, 109−10; CIA, “Incorporation of Ayman Zawahiri’s al-­ Jihad,” 2; “News About Global Jihad,” 19−21. 166. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 120. 167. Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 2. 168. Tawil, ­Brothers in Arms, 15; “News About Global Jihad,” 19−21. 169. Coll, Ghost Wars, 382. 170. “News About Global Jihad,” 20. 171. U.S. Department of State, Embassy Islamabad, “Af­g han­i­stan: Taliban Said to Loosen Grip on Bin Laden as They Increasingly Turn to Him for Financial Support and Advice,” National Security Archives (June  1998): 2−4, http://­nsarchive.gwu​.­edu​/ ­NSAEBB​ /­NSAEBB389​/­. 172. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 162−63; Tawil, “Interview with Hani al-­Sibai,” 15; Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 7. 173. Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 7. 174. Al-­Z ayat, Road to Al-­Qaeda, 109−10. 175. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 163. 176. Al-­Z ayat, Road to Al-­Qaeda, 70. 177. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 163; Wright, Looming Tower, 260−61. 178. Wright, Looming Tower, 260; Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 155; Tawil, “Interview with Hani al-­Sibai,” 15. 179. Wright, Looming Tower, 260; Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 186. 180. Ashour, “Lions Tamed?” 613. 181. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 157. 182. Ibid., 158. 183. Meijer, Global Salafism, 210. 184. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 265–66. 185. Ibid., 266–67. 186. Gerges, “End of the Islamist Insurgency in Egypt?” 596–98.

332

Notes to Pages 241–245

187. Ibid., 597–98. 188. Wright, Looming Tower, 268. 189. Weaver, Portrait of Egypt, 165–66. 190. Wright, “Man ­Behind Bin Laden,” 29. 191. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 169; Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr.  Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 7. 192. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 169. 193. Wright, Looming Tower, 269. 194. Ibid., 336. 195. Tawil, “Interview with Hani al-­Sibai,” 15; Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 8. 196. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 266. 197. Quoted in Wright, Looming Tower, 269. 198. Angel Rabasa, Peter Chalk, Kim Cragin, Sara A. Daly, and Heather S. Gregg, Beyond al Qaeda: The Global Jihadist Movement (Santa Monica Calif.: RAND, 2006), 73−74; “Mohammed Atef,” Telegraph, November 19, 2001. 199. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 241. 200. Gerges, “End of the Islamist Insurgency in Egypt?” 598. 201. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 124−25. 202. Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 9. 203. Ibid. 204. Scheuer, Through Our Enemies’ Eyes, 266. 205. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 170. 206. Wright, Looming Tower, 336. 207. Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 10. 208. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 170−71. 209. Ibid., 283. 210. Ibid., 128. 211. Wright, “Man ­Behind Bin Laden,” n.p. 212. Ibid. 213. Tawil, “Interview with Hani al-­Sibai,” 15. 214. Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 10. 215. Ibid., 2. 216. Wright, “Man B ­ ehind Bin Laden,” 24. 217. Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 10. 218. Ibid., 2−3; Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 174. 219. Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 3. 220. Wright, Looming Tower, 336. 221. Usama Bin Laden, “Statement Number One,” from the files of Alan Cullison (2001), 1. 222. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 278−79. 223. Ibid. 224. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 119. 225. Federal Bureau of Investigation, “Sulaiman Abu Ghayth Statement,” Kronos Advisory (March 2013): 4. 226. Hamid and Farrall, Arabs at War, 278−79. 227. Ibid.



Notes to Pages 245–255

333

228. Wright, Looming Tower, 336. 229. Tawil, “Interview with Hani al-­Sibai,” 15. 230. Ashour, “Lions Tamed?” 615. 231. Ibid., 613; Kamlonick, “Egyptian Islamic Group’s Critique,” 94. 232. Meijer, Global Salafism, 211. 233. Kamlonick, “Egyptian Islamic Group’s Critique,” 95. 234. Ibid., 98. 235. Ibid., 100. 236. Ashour, “Lions Tamed?” 616. 237. Meijer, Global Salafism, 210. 238. Ashour, “Lions Tamed?” 616. 239. Ibid., 615. 240. Ibid., 623−24. 241. Ayman Zawahiri, “Gamaa Islamiyya in Egypt and Al-­Qaeda: Announcement of the Merger of al-­Qaeda and Gamaa Islamiyya,” Al Jazeera, August 6, 2006. 242. Leah Farrall, “How Al Qaeda Works,” Foreign Affairs, March/April 2011, 1−4. 243. Abu Hazim Mustafa, Abu ‘Umar Asad, “Letter dtd 21 May 2007,” (Washington, DC: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2015): 1−3, https://­w ww.dni​.­gov​/­fi les​ /­documents​/­ubl​/­english​/ ­Letter%20dtd%2021%20May%202007​.­pdf. 244. Unspecified author, “Letter to Shahyk Azmaray dtd 4 February 2008,” (Washington, DC: Office of the Director of National Intelligence, 2015): 2, https://­w ww.dni​.­gov​/­files​ /­documents​/­ubl​/­english​/ ­Letter%20to%20Shaykh%20Azmaray%20dtd%204%20February​ %202008​.­pdf. 245. Lawrence Wright, “The Rebellion Within,” New Yorker, June 2, 2008, http://­w ww. newyorker​.­com​/­magazine​/­2008​/­06​/­02​/­the​-­rebellion​-­w ithin; unspecified Author, “Letter to Shahyk Azmaray dtd 4 February 2008.” 246. Higgins and Cullison, “Saga of Dr. Zawahiri Sheds Light,” 2. 247. Coll, Ghost Wars, 381. 248. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 128. 249. Rohan Gunaratna, Inside Al Qaeda: Global Network of Terror (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), 26. 250. Coll, Ghost Wars, 402. 251. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 174. 252. Wright, Looming Tower, 127. 253. “Zawahiri Urges Egyptians to Demand Change, Comments on US Influence,” ­Jihadist News, SITE Monitoring Ser­vice Jihadist Threat, February 29, 2012. 254. Reidel, Search for Al Qaeda, 24. 255. Coll, Ghost Wars, 382. 256. Gerges, Far ­Enemy, 42. 257. Wright, “Man B ­ ehind Bin Laden,” 2.

Conclusion 1. “ISIL Baya’a Timeline,” ISIL, Syria, and Iraq Resources (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, March  2015), https://­dpk7oh0ytcd5o.cloudfront​.­net​/­d ata​/ ­Widgets​ /­Widget​_­1369​.­wdgt​/­content​.­html.

334

Notes to Pages 255–281

2. Marielle Ness, “Beyond the Caliphate: Islamic State Activity Outside the Group’s Defined Wilayat” (West Point, N.Y.: Combating Terrorism Center, May 2017), https://­ctc.usma​ .­edu​/­w p​-­content​/­uploads​/­2017​/­06​/­CTC​-­Southeast​-­Asia​.­pdf. 3. Thomas Joscelyn, “Influential Jordanian Ideologue Argues Against Islamic State’s Caliphate,” Long War Journal, July 2, 2014; Shiv Malik et al., “How ISIS Crippled al-­Qaida,” Guardian, June 10, 2015.

Index

Abu Sayyaf Group, 142, 180 Action Directe, 92, 102 al-­Adel, Saif, 186, 226–27 Aden. See South Yemen al-­Adnani, Abu Muhammad, 209 affinities. See ethnic affinity; identity affinity; ideological affinity; narrative affinity Afghan Army, 134 al-­A fghani, Ibrahim, 208 Af­ghan­i­stan: Egyptian jihadist groups in, 223–27; foreign fighters and militants in, 130, 133, 136, 156–59; Pakistani involvements in, 175–76; al-­Qaida in, 127, 129–37, 154–68; Soviet invasion of, 129–37; Taliban in, 15; U.S. invasion of, 171, 173, 177 Afghan mujahidin, 8, 134, 136, 155 African Union Mission in Somalia (AMISOM), 203, 207 Ahl-­e-­Hadithism, 175 Ahmadzai, Mohammad Najibullah, 136 AIAI. See al-­Ittihad al-­Islamiyah Aideed, Mohamed Farrah Hassan, 143 Albania, 242 al-­A lfi, Hasan, 229 Algeria, 65, 98, 129, 145–50, 160, 191–96 Algerian Armed Islamic Group (GIA), 1, 138, 139, 141, 145–50, 191–92, 262, 263, 265, 271 alliance hubs: allies included and encouraged by, 34–35; attractive features of, 4, 5, 20–21, 25–26, 30, 36–37, 41, 273–75, 280–81; benefits accruing to, 20–21; case examples of, 64–102, 127–215, 274–79; case se­lection rationale for, 56–58; counterterror operations aimed at,

280–83; defined, 20; and identity affinity, 50–51, 277–79; identity characteristics of, 5, 25–26, 28–29; impact and effects of, 20–21; motivations of, 43–44, 73, 274, 277; orga­nizational structure based on, 2, 20, 21–22; overview of, 62; significance of, in overall terror threat, 282; trust fostered by, 25–26, 54–55, 279; young groups affiliating with, 38 alliances and alliance formation: alienation of supporters resulting from, 16; attractive features of, 73; autonomy as issue in, 284; benefits resulting from, 2, 18–20; case examples of, 103–26, 216–54; case se­lection rationale for, 58–60; commitment as ­factor in, 15; conflicts spawned by, 15–16; cooperation vs. harmony in, 7; cooperative arrangements related to, 6–7, 8, 285–86; cultural aspects of, 17, 109–10; defining, 6–8; explanations of, 3–5, 21–24, 28, 44, 78–79, 218, 257–73; future-­oriented character of, 7–8; f­ uture research on, 285–86; group cohesion threatened by, 16–17, 34; identity as ­factor in, 44–51, 265–69, 277–79; information required for, 14–15; nonrival, 13–14; obstacles to, 3, 14–17, 283–85; orga­nizational needs affecting, 41–43, 258–65, 275–77; orga­nizational theory applied to, 29–44; overview of pro­cess of, 61–62; of Palestinian militants, 67–68; policy recommendations concerning, 279–85; receptivity to, 33–35; risks resulting from, 16, 17; rivalry as context of, 13; rival vs. nonrival, 8–14; spoke-­a nd-­hub pattern of, 2, 20, 21–22; trust required for, 14, 29, 54, 93–94

336

Index

Alwan, Emad Abdelwahid Ahmed, 193 Amin, Idi, 98–99 AMISOM. See African Union Mission in Somalia Ansar al-­Islam, 210 anti-­Semitism, 107 AQAP. See al-­Qaida in the Arabian Peninsula AQI. See al-­Qaida in Iraq AQIM. See al-­Qaida in the Islamic Maghreb Arab Afghans, 130–34, 137, 141, 156–59, 173, 186, 225, 227, 228 Arab Council for Unity, 163, 240 Arab League, 205 Arab Spring, 218 Arafat, Yasser, 113, 115 Arguello, Patrick, 77–80 Armenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia (ASALA), 92–93 Asal, Victor, 5–6, 20, 44, 51 ASALA. See Armenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia Ashour, Omar, 247 Assad, Bashir, 210–11 Aust, Stefan, 107, 112–13, 118 Australia, 182 Azerbaijan, 241–42 Azzam, Abdullah, 131–32, 134, 136, 179, 226, 230 Baader, Andreas, 95, 103, 107–11, 114, 120 Baader-­Meinhof Gang, 108 Badr, Zaki, 228 al-­Baghdadi, Abu Bakr, 209–13 al-­Baghdadi, Abu Omar, 209 Bali nightclub attacks, 179, 182 al-­Banna, Hassan, 219 al-­Banshiri, Abu Ubaidah, 131–32, 135, 154, 226–27, 232 Barnett, Michael, 44 Barr, Nathaniel, 213 Barre, Siad, 99–100, 120 ­Battle of Jaji, 130, 133–34, 179 bayat (oath of loyalty), 129, 186, 189, 198, 206, 208, 209, 211, 307n3 Benjamin, Daniel, 161, 166 Bergen, Peter, 171

betrayal. See infiltration and betrayal Bin Laden, Usama, 16, 22, 127, 129–46, 149–71, 173–74, 179, 182, 186, 188–91, 194–95, 198, 201–2, 204–8, 210, 217–18, 225–28, 232, 234–36, 238–40, 244–46, 248–53, 276, 283 Black Panthers, 109 Black September, 77 Black September Organ­ization, 89, 111–13 Blind Sheikh. See Rehman, Sheikh Omar Abdul Bond, Kanisha, 6 Boock, Peter, 122, 126 Bosnia, 142, 158, 227 Boudia, Mohamed, 95 Bryden, Matt, 204 Buback, Siegfried, 117 Burke, Jason, 20 Byman, Daniel, 46, 49, 50 Carlos the Jackal. See Ramirez Sanchez, Ilich Central Intelligence Agency (CIA):counterterror operations of, 242; on Japan, 83–84; on LIFG, 174; on Nicaragua, 80; on PFLP, 82, 85; on al-­Qaida, 153, 155, 160, 166, 169, 171; on Sudan, 153; on West German left, 106 Chad, 193, 195 Chechnya, 142, 160 China, 69 Christia, Fotini, 13 CIA. See Central Intelligence Agency Coll, Steve, 161, 238, 251 common enemies. See enemies communication, counterterror operations aimed at, 284–85 Communist Combatant Cells (Belgium), 102 competitors, 9–12 Cook, Karen, 52 Coptic Christians, 221, 224, 229 Corsun, Andrew, 93 Council of Islamic Courts, 202–4 countermessaging, 281 counterterrorism: of Israel, 73–74, 95, 99–100; policy recommendations for, 279–85; pressures brought by, 19; of



Index

United States, 58, 165, 175, 177–78, 193, 196, 241–42, 279–85; of West Germany, 99–100, 120 the Courts. See Council of Islamic Courts Cragin, Kim, 42 Crenshaw, Martha, 32, 47 Cuba, 77 Dayton Accords, 158 Della Porta, Donatella, 46 Demo­cratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine (DFLP), 68, 69, 75, 78, 92 Deobandi groups, 156–57, 163–64, 175–76, 178 DFLP. See Demo­cratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine Drake, C. J. M., 47 Droukdal, Abdelmalek, 1, 194, 196 Dudin, Said, 109 East Germany, 121 Egypt: as common ­enemy, 59; crackdowns on militant groups in, 132, 152, 217, 223, 227, 231, 233–34, 241–42; and EIG self-­reform efforts, 246–47; Islamic movement in, 219, 221, 224; and Israel, 75, 76, 220; revolutionary atmosphere in, 129; U.S. relations with, 241–42 Egyptian Islamic Group (EIG): action strategy of, 220, 228; and Af­g han­i­stan, 158, 223–27, 240–41, 247–48; crises of, 217, 236–37; EIJ as rival of, 60, 132, 218, 223–26, 231–32, 241; EIJ compared to, 59–60, 219–22; ­enemy framing by, 220; ideology of, 59, 216–17, 219–20, 245–47; leadership of, 222, 225, 246–47; methodological rationale for analyzing, 59; morality policing by, 217, 224–25, 227; orga­n izational culture and pro­cesses of, 217, 222–23; orga­ nizational needs of, 236–38, 252–53; orga­n izational structure and characteristics of, 60, 221–22, 252; and al-­Qaida, 12, 132, 161, 163, 164, 173, 199, 216–18, 225–26, 228–29, 232, 238–40, 245–49, 252; self-­reform of, 199, 217, 236–37, 245–49, 252; in Sudan, 138; terrorist operations of, 230, 232, 234, 237,

337

242–43, 252–53; vio­lence in Egypt by, 227–29, 232–35 Egyptian Islamic Jihad (EIJ): action strategy of, 220, 229; and Af­ghan­i­stan, 158, 223–27, 235–36; crises of, 145, 152–53, 217, 229–31, 234–39, 241–45, 249; EIG as rival of, 60, 132, 218, 223–26, 231–32, 241; EIG compared to, 59–60, 219–22; ­enemy framing by, 220; ideology of, 59, 216–17, 219–20; leadership of, 223–24; merger with al-­Qaida, 167–68, 238–39, 241, 243–45, 249, 250–51; methodological rationale for analyzing, 59; orga­nizational culture and pro­cesses of, 217; orga­niza­ tional needs of, 135–36, 235–36, 238, 249–51; orga­nizational structure and characteristics of, 60, 220–21, 230; and al-­Qaida, 12, 130–33, 135–36, 139, 152–53, 161–64, 216–18, 225–27, 229–30, 232–36, 249–51; self-­reform of, 158, 217, 230, 235–36, 243, 248, 250; in Sudan, 138, 233–34; terrorist operations of, 229–30, 232–33, 242, 253; vio­lence in Egypt by, 227, 229–35 EIG. See Egyptian Islamic Group EIJ. See Egyptian Islamic Jihad El Al, 64, 73–74, 76, 96, 98 Emerson, Richard, 52 enemies: as component of identity, 28, 48–49, 267; as ­factor in alliance formation, 3–5, 21–24, 44, 125, 171–72, 267; framing of, 48–49, 68–69, 124, 127–28, 140–41, 155, 160–61, 220, 267, 278; ideology’s role in identification of, 46–48 Ensslin, Gudrun, 95, 107–8, 110–11, 114, 116, 120 Ethiopia, 202–3 ethnic affinity, 49–50, 169, 197, 205, 253, 267, 278–79 ethnicity: of Arab Afghans, 130; as component of identity, 49–50; relative strength/weakness of, 50 ethnonationalist groups, 16, 66 Euskadi Ta Askatasuna, 92 Fair, Christine, 176 Faraj, Mohamed Abdel Salam, 219

338

Index

Farrell, Leah, 134 Fatah: as alliance hub, 2, 25, 68, 123; and ASALA, 92; Hamas as rival of, 8; international terrorism practiced by, 89; Latin American alliances with, 80; PFLP as rival of, 57, 68, 72, 80; PFLP compared to, 63; and RAF, 17, 18, 59, 95, 104, 109–13, 123–24; and Red Brigades, 16; training provided by, 75, 107, 109–10, 123; and trust, 271; in West Germany, 111–12 fatwa (religious ruling), 131 Fazul, Harun, 204, 205 fedayeen, 67–68, 79 Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), 230 Fiol, Marlene, 36 Fonseca, Carlos, 77 Fourth International, 78, 79 France, 197, 198 al-­Gama’a Islamiyah. See Egyptian Islamic Group Gartenstein-­Ross, Daveed, 213 Gerges, Fawaz, 158, 187 German Autumn, 116–21 Ghul, Hassan, 190 GIA. See Algerian Armed Islamic Group Godane, Ahmed Abdi, 204, 205, 208 Gousmi, Cherif, 147–48 groupthink, 41, 116 GSPC. See Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat Guevara, Che, 108 Gulati, Ranjay, 36, 53 Guraba Cell, 181 Habash, George, 63, 64, 68–70, 72, 74, 76, 81, 88, 100 Haddad, Wadi’, 64, 69–71, 73, 75–76, 81–83, 86–88, 90–93, 95–100, 102, 104, 115–18, 121–22, 125–26, 276–77 Hagopian, Hagop, 92 Hamas, 8, 15, 48–49, 52 Hambali. See Isamuddin, Riduan (Hambali) Hamza, Mir, 161–62 Haqqani, Jalaluddin, 130, 132, 156 Harakat ul-­Jihad-­i-­I slami-­Bangladesh, 161–62

Harakat ul-­Jihad Islami, 10, 175, 176 Harakat ul-­Mujahidin, 10, 161, 165, 175 Hattab, Hassan, 192–94 Hawatmeh, Nayef, 68 Hekmatyar, Gulbuddin, 130, 133, 186 hijackings: attention-­getting as purpose of, 64, 81, 83; by JRA, 88–89; money involved in, 86, 91, 111, 119; by PFLP, 64, 68, 72–78, 80–81, 85–86, 88–89, 91, 98–100, 111, 119–20; RAF and, 119–20; terrorist opposition to, 80–81 Hizballah: Hamas’s relations with, 49; Iran and, 15; Palestinian militants and, 52; and al-­Qaida, 22, 24, 144–45, 164; and suicide operations, 145, 164, 229 Hoffman, Bruce, 27, 66 Holocaust, 99, 106 Horo­w itz, Michael, 14, 20, 21, 39 hostage takings: by AQI, 195; by Egyptian security forces, 233; by JRA, 90–91; money involved in, 90–91, 117–18, 121; at Munich Olympics, 111–12; by PFLP, 64, 74, 76, 88–91, 96, 98–100; by RAF, 114, 118–21; by West German leftists, 99 hubs. See alliance hubs Hussein, King, 76 Hussein, Saddam, 97, 137, 185, 210 Ibrahim, Saad Eddin, 219–20 identity: alliance formation influenced by, 44–46, 50; of alliance hubs and their allies, 5, 25–26, 28–29, 44–51, 277–79; collective, 45; e­ nemy framing as component of, 28, 48–49, 267; ethnicity as component of, 49–50; ideology as component of, 28, 46–48, 267 identity affinity, 25, 28, 45–51, 54, 55, 61–62, 66, 78, 80, 101, 124, 125, 144–45, 159, 188, 253–54, 258, 265–69, 277–79, 282 identity convergence, 50, 125, 169, 278 ideological affinity, 46–47, 50, 65, 69, 78–79, 84, 101, 159, 176–77, 197, 205, 253, 267, 278, 279 ideology: as component of identity, 28, 46–48, 267; enemies partially determined by, 46–48; as ­factor in alliance formation, 3–5, 21, 23–24, 44, 85; flexibility/rigidity of, 47; role of, in terrorist groups, 46–48



Index

Imam, Sayyid, 225, 226, 229, 248, 281 infiltration and betrayal, 17 information, required for alliance formation, 14–15 International Islamic Front Against Jews and Crusaders, 127, 160–65, 238–41, 250 International Red Cross, 76 Iran, 15, 129, 174 Iraq: ISI in, 210; Jund al-­Sham/AQI and, 185, 187–90, 195; and PFLP, 71, 97, 126; al-­Qaida’s involvement in, 187–88; and RAF, 118, 121, 126; U.S. invasion of, 1, 185, 187–90, 194–95 Irish Republican Army, 13, 113 Isamuddin, Riduan (Hambali), 181, 183 Islamic Army, 130, 133–38, 141, 225, 250, 277 Islamic Salvation Army (AIS), 146 Islamic State: as alliance hub, 2, 25, 27, 43–44, 213, 214–15, 255–56, 281; alliances involving, 19; enemies of, 24; ideology of, 27; name recognition and reputation of, 214; proclamation of, 213, 255; al-­Qaida as competitor of, 11, 12, 27, 172, 209–13 Islamic State in Iraq (ISI), 209–12 Islamic State of Iraq and al-­Sham (ISIS), 211–13 Islamist National Salvation Front (FIS), 146 Israel: counterterror operations of, 73–74, 95, 99–100; Egypt and, 75, 76, 220; opposition to, 49, 59, 88; PFLP attacks against, 63–64, 73–75; West German left’s opposition to, 106–7 Italian leftists, 48 al-­Ittihad al-­Islamiyah (AIAI), 142, 143, 164, 202 Jabhat al-­Nusra, 210–13, 261–62 Jackson, Brian, 36 Jaish-­e-­Mohamed, 10, 175 Jalalabad, b­ attle of, 134 Jamiat-­ul-­Ulema-­e-­Islami Pakistan, 161–62 Japa­nese Red Army (JRA), 34, 87–91, 102, 125, 269, 271. See also Red Army (Japan) Jemaah Islamiyah (JI), 12, 168, 179–84 Jenkins, Bruce, 66 JI. See Jemaah Islamiyah

339

Jibril, Ahmed, 68 Jihad Movement of Bangladesh, 161 al-­Jolani, Abu Muhammad, 210–11 Jordan: and Palestinian militants, 64–65, 74–77, 79; RAF in, 109–11; al-­Z arqawi and, 185–86, 190 JRA. See Japa­nese Red Army Jund al-­Sham (Soldiers of the Levant), 185–89, 271 Kanafani, Ghassan, 95 Karmon, Ely, 6, 14, 44 Kashmir, 142, 163, 176, 178 ­Kenya, truck bombing in, 164, 242 Khaled, Leila, 72, 74, 76–77, 95 Khalis, Yunis, 156 al-­K hattab, Ibn (Samir Saleh Abdullah), 142, 160–63 Kier, Elizabeth, 33 Kurras, Karl-­Heinz, 107 Kyoto Partisans, 85 Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba, 7, 160–63, 175–78, 262, 263, 265, 273 leaders: charisma of, 17, 33; of EIG, 222, 225, 246–47; of EIJ, 223–24; ­factors in success of, 134; need recognition by, 265; personalities of, 17; of PFLP, 69–71, 100, 102; of RAF, 103–4, 110, 114; role of, 17, 33–34; transitions involving, 39–40; trust between, 54, 251, 253 Lebanese Revolutionary Brigade, 93 Lebanon, 64–65, 71, 74, 79, 81, 85–87, 92, 121 leftist movements, 64–66 al-­Libi, Abu Faraj, 189 al-­Libi, Abu Layth, 174, 200, 201 al-­Libi, Abu Yahya, 174, 200, 201, 203, 206 Libya, 97, 129, 147, 150–52, 200–201 Libyan Islamic Fighting Group (LIFG), 138, 139, 141, 145–52, 158, 162–63, 165, 173–74, 199–201 LIFG. See Libyan Islamic Fighting Group LIFG-­Britain, 201 Lod Airport, Tel Aviv, 87–88 Lord’s Re­sis­tance Army, 47–48 Lufthansa, 86 Lyles, Marjorie, 36

340

Index

Mabruk, Ahmad Salama, 242 Maktab al-­K hidamat (Ser­vices Bureau), 131–32 Mali, 193 al-­Maliki, Nouri, 210 Maoism, 69 Mao Tse Tung, 108 al-­Maqdisi, Abu Muhammad, 281 Marx, Karl, 108 Marxism, 69, 71, 77, 108 Masood, Ahmed Shah, 171 al-­Masri, Abu Ayyub, 209 al-­Masri, Abu Hafs, 131–32, 142, 171, 183, 226–27 Mauritania, 193 McCormick, Gordon, 9, 30 Meijer, Roel, 221 Meinhof, Ulrike, 95, 103, 107–8, 111, 112, 114, 116–17, 119 Meins, Holger, 113 members of terrorist groups, motivations of, 32, 33 Moghadam, Assaf, 6, 7 Mohamed, Khalid Sheikh, 166–67, 180–81, 183 Mohnhaupt, Brigitte, 114 Möller, Irmgard, 120 Monteneros, 47 Mori, Tsuneo, 85 Moro, Aldo, 16 Moroccan Islamic Combatant Group, 159, 168 Moro Islamic Liberation Front, 142, 180 Moukharbal, Michel, 91, 96 Movement of Arab Nationalists, 68 Mubarak, Hosni, 152, 223, 224, 227, 231, 232, 234, 241 Mujahidin-­e-­K halq, 92 Munich Olympics (1972), 89, 110, 111–12, 120 Musharraf, Pervez, 175, 178 Muslim Brotherhood, 131–32, 219–20, 241 narrative affinity, 49, 50, 69, 101, 178, 197, 205, 278 Nasser, Gamal Abdel, 76, 219 Nassir, Ismail, 230–31

National Islamic Front (NIF), 15, 138, 141, 144, 152 National Liberation Front, 81 Nazis, 105–7 New Left, 65, 103, 105, 108 Nicaragua, 77, 79–80 NIF. See National Islamic Front Niger, 193 9/11: consequences of, for militant groups, 245; events of, 170; preparations for, 166–67; al-­Qaida’s benefits from, 172–73 9/11 Commission Report, 166, 168, 238 Northern Alliance (Af­ghan­i­stan), 157, 160, 171, 176 Northern Ireland, 13 al-­Nusra. See Jabhat al-­Nusra Ohnesorg, Benno, 107 oil facilities, terrorist attacks on, 74, 89, 97–98 Okudaira, Takeshi, 86–87 Omar, Mullah, 156, 157, 164–65, 170–71, 173 Oots, Kent Layne, 20, 44 OPEC. See Organ­ization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries orga­nizational age, as influence on alliance formation, 37–39, 104, 124, 194 orga­nizational crises, as influence on alliance formation, 34, 39–40, 85, 94, 104, 124, 148–53, 194–95, 229–31, 234–39, 241–45 orga­nizational culture and pro­cesses, as influence on alliance formation, 33–35, 65, 124 orga­nizational knowledge and memory, as influence on alliance formation, 33, 124 orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs, as influence on alliance formation, 35–37, 42, 64, 72, 85, 90, 109, 249, 257–61 orga­nizational needs, as influence on alliance formation, 4–5, 25–26, 41–43, 62, 73, 79–80, 93, 95, 101, 104, 108–9, 122–25, 128, 158–59, 185, 187, 196–97, 208, 235–38, 249–54, 258–65, 274–77. See also orga­nizational learning and adaptation needs, as influence on alliance formation



Index

orga­nizational theory, concepts of: age of organ­izations, 37–39; crisis recovery, 39–40; culture and pro­cesses, 33–35; deficiency assessment, 40–43; environment, 40; imperatives, 31–33; learning and adaptation, 35–37; survival and thriving of, 29–44; trust, 51–55 Organ­ization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC), 97–98, 115 Pakistan: anti-­Soviet re­sis­tance in, 131; army in, 175; cooperation of, with U.S. counterterror operations, 175, 177–78; as jihadist sanctuary, 174–78, 224–25, 232; and Kashmir, 142; noncompetitive jihadist groups in, 11; al-­Qaida in, 174–78 Palestinian Islamic Jihad, 52 Palestinian Liberation Front, 68 Palestinian Liberation Organ­ization (PLO), 67, 68, 80, 89 Palestinian militants. See fedayeen Palestinians: international attention drawn to, 63–64, 83, 88, 121–22, 125; West German support for, 106–7, 122–23 pan-­A rabism, 68 Pan-­Sahel Initiative, 193, 196 personal relationships, 53, 93, 100, 122, 126, 176, 178, 251, 269 PFLP. See Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine Philippines, 142 Phillips, Brian, 8–9, 21 Pillar, Paul, 22 PLO. See Palestinian Liberation Organ­ ization policy, on terrorist alliances, 279–85 po­liti­cal market: competition linked to, 11–12 Ponto, Jürgen, 117 Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Dhofar, 93 Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Eritrea, 93 Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP), 63–102; as alliance hub, 2, 25, 34, 57–58, 64–65, 68, 71–75, 81–102, 274–79, 280; and ASALA,

341

92–93; characteristics of, 56; cohesion and internal relations of, 72–73, 75–76, 86; criticisms of, 80; demise of, 100; ­enemy framing by, 278; environment of, 67–72; ethnic affinity as alliance ­factor for, 50; Fatah as rival of, 57, 68, 72, 80; Fatah compared to, 63; finances of, 86; formation of, 68; General Command (GC), 68, 73, 92, 102; goals of, 75; groups not allied with, 93–94; identity characteristics of, 101, 277–79; ideology of, 69, 101; international terrorist operations of, 64–67, 72–76, 80–81, 86–89, 95–101, 115–16, 119; and Japa­nese militants, 84–91; Latin American alliances with, 76–80; leadership of, 69–71, 100, 102; legacy of, 102; members of, 69; methodological rationale for analyzing, 56–58; orga­nizational learning and adaptation of, 64, 72; orga­nizational needs of, 73, 125; orga­nizational structure of, 69–70; al-­Qaida compared to, 56–57; and RAF, 95, 97, 104–5, 115–22, 124–26; Special Operations Group (SOG), 65, 70–76, 79–102, 104, 111, 124–25; training provided by, 63, 71, 73, 75, 79–80, 82–83, 85, 92; and trust, 271, 279; and West German leftists, 95–100; in West Germany, 111 Popu­lar Front for the Liberation of Turkey, 92 Post, Jerrold, 32, 45 Potter, Philip, 14, 20, 21 Qadhafi, Muammar, 97, 141, 174, 200–201 al-­Qaida: affiliates of, 184–213; and Af­ghan­i­stan, 127, 129–37, 154–68; as alliance hub, 2, 20, 27, 34–35, 43–44, 57–60, 127–215, 256, 274–79, 280; alliances involving, 7, 15–16, 127, 145–54, 158, 160–64, 172–79, 201–2; anti-­ Communism of, 135–37, 142; benefits accruing to, 172–84; benefits of alliance with, 18–19; cash resources of, 131–33, 139–40, 157, 182–83, 186–87, 226, 228–30, 232, 235, 244, 249–50; characteristics of, 56; criticisms of/tensions involving, 133, 134–35, 149, 156, 162–65,

342

Index

Qadhafi, Muammar (continued) 173, 245–46; death of Bin Laden and, 207–8; and EIG, 12, 132, 161, 163, 164, 173, 199, 216–18, 225–26, 228–29, 232, 238–40, 245–49, 252; and EIJ, 12, 130–33, 135–36, 139, 152–53, 161–64, 216–18, 225–27, 229–30, 232–36, 249–51; EIJ’s merger with, 167–68, 238–39, 241, 243–45, 249, 250–51; enemies of, 24; ­enemy framing by, 127–28, 140–41, 155, 160–61, 278; and ethnic affinity, 267; ethnic affinity as alliance ­factor for, 50; formation of, 127; ­f uture of, 214; and GIA, 145–50, 262, 263; and GSPC, 1–2, 22–24, 191–99; and Hizballah, 22, 24, 144–45, 164; identity characteristics of, 277–79; ideology of, 27, 216–17; Islamic State as competitor of, 11, 12, 27, 172, 209–13; and JI, 179–84; as jihadist facilitator, 129–37; as jihadist patron, 138–45, 153–54; and Lashkar-­e-­Tayyiba, 175–78, 263; and LIFG, 150–52, 199–201; methodological rationale for analyzing, 56–60; name recognition and reputation of, 184–85, 187, 189–90, 192, 196, 201–2, 205, 209; orga­nizational crisis of, 179; orga­nizational culture and pro­cesses of, 135; orga­nizational needs of, 128, 132, 135, 187, 208, 249–51; in Pakistan, 174–77; PFLP compared to, 56–57; po­liti­cal market of, 11–12; post-9/11, 170–215; pre-9/11, 127–69; and al-­ Shabaab, 202–9, 283; and Somalia, 142–44; in Sudan, 138–45, 154; Sunni jihadist groups and, 127–28, 140, 169, 171, 175; and Taliban, 156–57, 162, 164–66, 170–71; terrorist operations of, 160, 164–66, 170–71, 180–82, 242; training provided by, 132–33, 139, 142, 160, 179; and trust, 271, 273, 279 al-­Qaida al-­Jihad (Base for Jihad), 244 al-­Qaida Central, 11, 129 al-­Qaida in Iraq (AQI), 16, 189–91, 195, 209 al-­Qaida in the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP), 172, 204, 209, 214, 256 al-­Qaida in the Indian Subcontinent, 172, 214

al-­Qaida in the Islamic Maghreb (AQIM), 2, 18, 19, 198–99, 209. See also Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat (GSPC) Qatada, Abu, 150, 281 Quezada, Juan Jose, 78–80 Qutb, Sayyid, 59, 219, 246 RAF. See Red Army Faction al-­Rahman, Atiyah, 190, 191 Rahman, Fazlur, 161 Ramirez Sanchez, Ilich (Carlos the Jackal), 90, 96–98, 138, 153 ransom, 86, 90–91, 111, 117–19, 121 Raspe, Jan-­Carl, 120 Reagan, Ronald, 174 Red Army (Japan), 84–87. See also Japa­nese Red Army Red Army Faction (RAF), 103–26; alliance seeking by, 2, 25, 50, 102, 103–5, 108–26; emergence of, 107–8; ­enemy framing by, 124; and Fatah, 17, 18, 59, 95, 104, 109–13, 123–24; goals of, 58–59, 108, 114; ideology of, 108; imprisonment of leaders and members of, 107–8, 111–20, 120; leadership of, 103–4, 110, 114; legacy of, 103; methodological rationale for analyzing, 58–59; orga­nizational needs of, 104, 108–9, 123, 125; Palestinians’ opinions of, 95, 109–10, 115, 271; and PFLP, 95, 97, 104–5, 115–22, 124–26; second generation of, 112–16; terrorist operations of, 99, 110–11, 114, 116–21; and trust, 271 Red Brigades, 16, 93–94, 102, 113, 271 referrals, as trust-­building ­factor, 53, 78–79, 124, 191, 197, 271 Rehman, Sheikh Omar Abdul (Blind Sheikh), 222–25, 230, 236–37 reputation, 53, 269, 271, 281, 283–84. See also al-­Qaida: name recognition and reputation of research methodology, 55–61 Revolutionary Cells, 96–98, 111, 113, 115–16, 118 revolutionary jihadism, 128 rivalry, 8–14; adversarial, 12–13; alliances within, 13; competitive vs. noncompetitive, 9–12; intra-­vs. interfield, 8–9



Index

Sadat, Anwar, 132, 217, 219–20, 223 safe havens. See sanctuaries and safe havens Salafism, 175, 176 Salafist Group for Preaching and Combat (GSPC), 1–3, 18, 22–24, 191–99. See also al-­Qaida in the Islamic Maghreb (AQIM) Salameh, Ali Hassan, 110, 113 sanctuaries and safe havens, 10, 19, 52, 66, 72, 73, 76, 79, 81, 82, 85, 91, 92, 96, 100, 102, 118, 121, 123, 126, 138, 151, 153, 155, 164–69, 173, 175, 197, 203, 232, 236–37, 250, 275, 282–83 San­di­nis­tas, 77–80, 271 Sandino, Augusta Cesar, 77 Saudi Arabia: and Ahl-­e-­Hadithism, 175; al-­Qaida and, 137–38, 153 Ṣāyigh, Yezid, 69, 75 Sayyaf, Abdul Rasul, 130, 132, 142, 179 Scheuer, Michael, 229 Schleyer, Hanns Martin, 99, 118–19, 121 Schmidt, Helmut, 118 2nd of June Movement, 96–97, 111, 114, 115–16 Sedgwick, Mark, 46 self-­reform: EIG and, 199, 217, 236–37, 245–49, 252; EIJ and, 158, 217, 230, 235–36, 243, 248, 250; GSPC and, 193; as influence on alliance formation, 4, 26, 35, 37–39, 41; LIFG and, 199; PFLP and, 64, 98; RAF and, 123; Red Army and, 84; Weathermen and, 94 al-­Shabaab, 15–16, 202–9, 214, 256, 283 sharia, 27, 149, 203, 220 Shehata, Tharwat, 243 Shia: al-­Qaida cooperation with, 144–45; AQI opposition to, 189–90; attacks on, by Muslims, 16; and Ira­nian revolution, 129; Sunni cooperation with, 49; as threat in Iraq, 210 Shigenobu, Fusako, 84–85, 87 Shining Path, 34 Sidqi, Atef, 230 Simon, Steven, 161, 166 Singapore, 89 Six-­Day War (1967), 67, 106 Somalia, 99–100, 120, 128, 142–44, 202 Somoza, Anastasio, 77 Southeast Asia, 180

343

South Yemen: and PFLP, 65, 71, 81, 91, 99, 100, 119, 126; al-­Qaida and, 135, 137; and West German leftists, 96, 117, 121, 126 Soviet Committee for State Security (KGB), 81–82 Soviet Union: and PFLP, 71, 81–82; al-­Qaida’s opposition to, 127, 129–36 the state, terrorist groups influenced/ supported by, 15, 20, 66, 71, 81–82, 97, 102, 166 Steinhoff, Patricia, 84 Stroytransgaz, 2 Sudan, 15, 138–45, 151–54, 227–28, 233–34 suicide operations: by EIJ, 152, 229–30; by JI, 179, 182; by Jund al-­Sham, 185; by al-­Qaida, 164, 165, 182; training in, 145 Sunni jihadist groups: competition among, 12, 27; e­ nemy framing by, 127–28, 140–41; ideology, 128; al-­Qaida’s relations with, 127–28, 140, 169, 171, 175; Soviet invasion of Af­ghan­i­stan as focus of, 129–37; in Sudan, 138; and Taliban, 158–59 al-­Suri, Abu Firas, 211 al-­Suri, Abu Hammam, 211 al-­Suri, Abu Khalid, 212 al-­Suri, Abu Musab, 150, 186 Syria, 49, 129, 210–12 Syrian Social Nationalist Party, 93 Taha, Rifa’i Ahmad, 161, 237–40, 242–43 Tajikistan, 142 Taliban: in Af­ghan­i­stan, 15; downfall of, 171; Pakistani support for, 175–76; and al-­Qaida, 156–57, 162, 164–66, 170–71 Tanzania, truck bombing in, 164, 242 Tanzim al-­Jihad. See Egyptian Islamic Jihad Tawhid wal-­Jihad (Mono­the­ism and Jihad). See Jund al-­Sham terrorism: advent of international, 64–67; defining, 5–6. See also counterterrorism terrorist groups: action as concern of, 32, 72; age of, 37–39; cohesion of, 16–17, 31–32; crisis recovery of, 39–40; defined, 6; e­ nemy framing by, 48–49; environment of, 40; goals of, 4; identity features of, 46–51; learning and adaptation undertaken by, 35–37; needs of, 4–5,

344

Index

terrorist groups (continued) 25–26, 28, 30, 37, 40–43; orga­nizational culture and pro­cesses of, 33–35; orga­nizational theory applied to, 29–44; prob­lems endemic to, 41; receptivity of, to alliances, 34–35; research challenges concerning, 60–61, 286; role of ideology in, 46–48; state influence over/support of, 15, 20, 66, 71, 81–82, 97, 102, 166; strategic model applied to, 29–30; survival as goal of, 4, 28, 30–33; vio­lence as used by, 66. See also leaders; members of terrorist groups Thompson, William R., 9, 13 Transitional Federal Government (Somalia), 202 Trans-­Sahara Counterterrorism Initiative, 196 trust: alliance hubs and, 25–26, 54–55, 279; in bin Laden–­a l-­Z awahiri relationship, 251, 253; as component of alliances, 14, 25–26, 29, 51–55, 93–94, 251, 253, 258, 269–73; development of, 52–54, 269–71; Haddad and, 70, 95, 96, 122; identity as ­factor in, 45; loci of, 54, 271; PFLP and, 65, 70, 78–79, 86, 90, 93–94, 102, 126; RAF and, 126; Sunni jihadist groups and, 128; as target of counterterror operations, 282–83 Tunisian Combatant Group, 159, 168, 171 Tupamaros, 92, 107 al-­Turabi, Hassan, 138 Uganda, 98–99, 207 Ulster Defense Association, 13 Umar, Ahmed, 208 United Nations: PLO granted observer status by, 89; and Sudan, 153; terrorist groups sanctioned by, 174, 193, 283 United States: Af­ghan­i­stan invasion of, 171, 173, 177; Algerian cooperation with, on counterterrorism, 196; counterterror operations of, 58, 165, 193, 241, 279–85; Egypt’s relations with, 241–42; Iraq invasion of, 1, 185, 187–90, 194–95; and

the Islamic State, 209; opposition to, 22, 57, 59, 66, 74, 127–28, 140–41, 146, 165, 172–74, 188, 230, 242; Pakistani cooperation with, on counterterrorism, 175, 177–78; al-­Qaida’s opposition to, 18, 24, 56–57, 128, 137–38, 140–41, 143–44, 155, 160–61, 164–65, 172–73, 188, 230; RAF opposition to, 59, 105–6, 110–11; West German relations with, 105–6 USS Cole, 165, 194 us-­them framework, 46–47, 49 Uzbekistan, 142 Varon, Jeremy, 105–6 Viet Cong, 64, 66 Vietnam War, 105–6, 110 Weathermen, 84, 94, 109 West Germany: counterterror operations of, 99–100, 120; emergence of the left in postwar, 105–7; Palestinians cause championed in, 106–7, 122–23; terrorist threats in, 111–12; U.S. relations with, 105–6 Wiktorowicz, Quintan, 48–49 World Trade Center attack (1993), 141, 230 Wright, Lawrence, 163, 220–21, 226, 251 al-­Wuhayshi, Nasir, 214 Yallop, David, 70 Yamada, Yoshiaki, 90–91 Yom Kippur War (1973), 89 Yousef, Ramzi, 141 al-­Z arqawi, Abu Musab, 1, 16, 158, 185–91, 195–96, 198, 210 al-­Z awahiri, Ayman, 16, 129, 152, 158, 161–62, 167–68, 171, 188, 190–91, 194, 196–98, 200–201, 203, 206, 208–12, 214, 216–18, 220, 225, 227, 229–40, 242–45, 247–53 al-­Z awahiri, Mohamed, 225, 239 al-­Z ayyat, Montasser, 239 Zitouni, Djamal, 147–49 Zubaydah, Abu, 177–78

A c k n o w l ­e d g m e n t s

I am deeply grateful for the support of many colleagues and friends over the course of writing this book. Chief among them during my time at George­ town University and well beyond are Bruce Hoffman and Robert Lieber, who ­shaped my thinking about terrorism and counterterrorism. In par­tic­u­lar, I owe an unpayable debt of gratitude to Daniel Byman, who has been unwav­ ering in his support and mentorship. I am incredibly fortunate to have brilliant and generous friends like E ­ lizabeth Arsenault, Sarah Yerkes, Sarah Cross, Dan Baltrusaitis, and John Sawyer, who offered essential input and encouragement while I wrote this book. I am also lucky to have received invaluable research assistance from Nate Wilson, Vivian Hagerty, and Martha Dyer; many thanks to you for your help and friendship. I would also like to thank my colleagues at American University’s School of Public Affairs and my former colleagues at the Department of State’s ­Bureau of Intelligence and Research. I could not have done this proj­ect without my colleagues, friends, and supervisors in the Office of Analy­sis for Terrorism, Narcotics, and Crime in par­tic­u­lar. I received valuable support for the proj­ ect from the Brookings Institution and University of Mary­land’s START (National Consortium for the Study of Terrorism and Responses to Terror­ ism) program as well. In addition, I appreciate the University of Pennsylva­ nia’s support for the book, particularly my editor Peter Agree’s sage guidance and assistance. Above all, I would like to thank my parents, Patricia and Arthur Bacon, who always offer unlimited encouragement, love, and patience. This book is dedicated to them.