Alias (4 page)

I tweeted every day – pasting links to reports of airstrikes and asking the US and British governments for answers – and replied to any #drones tweets. My followers steadily grew in number (TFTF @voucherworld and @temptingtoys). I wrote blogs trying all sorts of angles, from an open letter to Obama to a description of my trip to Yemen and the aftermath. I shared other bloggers’ posts and they shared mine. I peppered Facebook with drone-related statuses, which got Likes – although not as many as the cat that could play the piano. I started an online petition, which a sympathetic hacker I came across in a chatroom kindly populated with signatures. Letters to the newspapers, comments on other people’s articles – you name it, I did it.

It felt better to have a purpose, but did nothing for my relationship with Mum and Dad. I knew Dad was devastated, but the way he calmly carried on with the same life we’d had before the disaster was hard to fathom.

‘We can’t bring them back, Samiya,’ was his standard line.

I wasn’t asking him to fly to the White House, but
he could have started an action group, gone on a march, put a poster in the flipping window …

Sometimes, I felt like a stranger in my own family. People at school were starting to talk about universities – for me, it couldn’t come soon enough.

When doubt that I could change anything overwhelmed me, I’d take out my most precious photo. Three grins – me, Lamyah and
Jaddah
. It was too cruel.
Jaddah
was old by Yemeni standards, but Lamyah was my age. She could have been a neurosurgeon, or worked for the United Nations … We could have gone to Harvard together …

It was better not to dwell on what could have been.

In between making a noise on social media, I spent more and more time in chatrooms. OK, they’re full of lunatics, but the way I saw things, it was lunacy to ignore murder. My family were the mad ones. I was sane.

I chatted to hackers, psychos, Jedis, Christians, fruitarians … Seriously, I mouthed off to everyone, looking for a way to hold the US to account. It was time-consuming, but I kept up with schoolwork – I had no intention of going to a second-rate university. What went by the wayside was gaming, although I occasionally shot folks on
Call of Duty
for a bit of R&R.

Sayge first appeared on a dull day in January, the day before the new term. I was looking forward to going back to school, because Christmas had been suffocating.
All fake cheeriness. Lucy had been skiing in the Alps with Jake’s family, so I’d been pretty solitary, not that I minded that – it was the stream of jolly visitors that had grated. I’d have preferred to ignore Christmas, out of respect for the two members of our family who would never celebrate anything again.

I was trawling through the usual sites when Reuters broke the news of an airstrike in Pakistan that had killed a family of five. I wrote:

wonder what the coverage would be like if an American family of five had been slaughtered

– because you can say anything you like on the internet.

Sayge typed:

be more careful about what you say or use another name

I don’t care – I haven’t done anything wrong
– I replied.

not yet
– he typed.

I’m the victim – not the aggressor

explain

I did. Pointing out that it was
because
I was the granddaughter and cousin of two dead Yemenis that I was there, so why hide my name?

After that, he started to pop up everywhere.

Sayge had no clear political or religious agenda. But he seemed keen on trouble. And keen on chatting to me. He said change was only brought about by force, quoting someone called Frederick Douglass
a lot
–

you can’t have the ocean without the roar

you can’t have the crops without ploughing

I looked him up online.

He was an escaped slave who became a campaigner, committed to using words not violence, until he reluctantly realised that ‘agitation’, as he called it, was a necessity because people with power never hand it over willingly. Some people call him the father of the civil rights movement, but back then he was a scary black guy upsetting all the white landowners.

The more my pleas on social media went unanswered, the more what Sayge had to say made sense. He had example after example of good people who’d done bad things for good reasons:

Mandela tried the courts but it didn’t work – the ANC bombed their way to power

even the suffragettes – nice ladies in long skirts – became arsonists and bombers because no one would listen

I knew that feeling.

Sayge had a knack of hitting on exactly what was on my mind. The more we chatted, the more I liked him. He was my alter ego.

I went in search of Sayge after school one particularly bad Monday.

It started with some army chap on the radio being all gung-ho about a successful
British
missile strike that was targeting militants but probably killed all sorts of law-abiding bakers, tailors and candlestick-makers. The interviewer didn’t make him define ‘success’. I tweeted to that effect, with a link to the BBC. Then, joy of joy, first period was maths with the twins, neither of whom I’d spoken to since the slap. Our teacher, Mrs Abrahms, asked Hugo and I to stay behind.

‘I need some help with the Junior Mentoring Club and was hoping you two might do it. Tuesday lunchtimes. What do you think?’

‘That’s fine by me,’ said Hugo.

‘It’ll be an excellent thing to write on your personal statement,’ she said, looking at me. ‘University applications come round in no time.’

‘Sorry,’ I said.

She waited for my excuse. Anything would have done, but …

‘I can’t bear to be anywhere near him, I’m afraid.’

I left, cross with myself for letting Hugo see that I was still bruised. Worse still, Mrs Abrahms came to find me later, ‘concerned’, and keen for me to see the school counsellor.

I told Sayge all about it.

I don’t need a shrink – I need to put a missile up America
– I typed.

if GCHQ are any good they’re watching you

He suggested we meet in our own IRC channel where no one could listen in. Sounded good to me, whatever it was.

Away from the eyes and ears of the security services, he asked:

How would you get back at the Americans if you could do anything?

I’d find the guy who did it and vaporise his whole family
– I typed.

I didn’t mean it. Or at least, I didn’t bother to think about whether I did or not.

I asked him the same. His answers were stupid.

Nail Obama on the cross

Nuke Washington

Pump nerve gas into the subway

But it was the start of a game. The sort of game that would get you in front of a judge accused of inciting violence, but a game just the same.

I’d always been good at picking things up – plotting revenge attacks was no different. I researched ways around security procedures at airports and the pros
and cons of petrol, pipe, nail and pressure-cooker bombs. I watched YouTube videos showing how to make a remote detonator and, by accident, a cake in the shape of a grenade. One day I bunked off school and by the time Sayge came online at six I’d become a firearms expert.

We pretended to be snipers with a mission to take down a US senator, working through the stages from recces of targets to choice of ammo and getaway car. We orchestrated a lethal-gas attack on the New York subway, poisoned the President’s food on Air Force One and took a whole army base hostage. It was harmless, but intensely satisfying.

I didn’t see it coming, but wasn’t surprised, when Sayge asked:

would you kill innocent people to get your own back?

I didn’t reply immediately. I knew I was
meant
to say that I wouldn’t … but my grandma was an innocent person, murdered not by a lone maniac, which would be sad but bearable, but by the world’s greatest superpower.

well?
– Sayge typed.

Jaddah
and Lamyah were collateral damage. Only by making collateral damage of my own would anyone take any notice. Like Frederick Douglass said, there had to be a cost or nothing would change.

if by killing some random Americans I could
guarantee the drone wars would stop – YES – I’d do it

good
– he typed.

I don’t know if making a statement to a stranger in a chatroom marked the moment I considered becoming a bona fide activist. After all, they were just words. I do know that Sayge made it his business to encourage me.

the drone wars will carry on unless the Americans are forced to stop

only someone personally affected cares enough to force the change

you are that person

He helped me understand that it only took one person to start a whole movement. Made me realise that the person who feels the injustice most is the one who finds a way to stop it. History had example after example of individuals who fought back against a more powerful enemy, and great things followed – slavery was abolished, women got the vote, the white South African government was overturned.

I’d tried asking for help … I’d tried raising the profile of the drone wars … Direct action was the next logical step.

I drifted off to sleep at night, fantasising about putting together an act of retribution that would make the world stop and stare in shock. Although many people would condemn me, there would be others who would applaud my determination to shame the pilots who
fired the missiles, and the ones who ordered them to be fired. The military’s increasing use of drones had enemies as well as fans. I loved the idea of taking a stand and having a whole load of strangers with weird usernames support my cause.

We stopped saying
if
, and started saying
when
.

The shops in Buckingham were rubbish, and I needed new jeans, so I got the bus to Milton Keynes. Mum offered to drive me but I didn’t want to have to go for lunch and be chummy, so I lied and said I was going with Lucy. It was the Sunday after my seventeenth birthday, 4th February, aka Rosa Parks Day. Rosa Parks was on a bus when she was arrested for refusing to give her seat to a white man – she was ‘coloured’, which in Alabama in 1955 was on a par with being a dog. Her action that day sparked protests led by the one and only Martin Luther King – someone else Sayge liked to quote.

For years now, I have heard the word ‘wait’. This ‘wait’ has almost always meant ‘never’.

I hoped, with all my heart, that for me the wait was nearly over.

I bought two pairs of jeans in New Look, one black, one grey. By one thirty I was done but in no hurry to go home, so I went to a café and bought a hot chocolate and a brownie. Sugar overload.

I chose a table by the window – always interested
in people-watching. The teenage boy in a huff, the kid in the pushchair swaddled in too many layers, the fashion-obsessed shopper strutting in high heels.

‘Is this chair free?’

I looked up and nodded at the much younger version of my dad I’d noticed in the queue.

He dragged the chair to the table next to me, where he was joined by a friend – best guess, Pakistani. As they tucked into their cinnamon swirls, the conversation darted about from football to work to 4G. I kept an ear on them, and an eye on the window.

Someone had left a paper, which the Dad-lookalike started to flick through while his mate described his shift at the hospital – sounded like he was a nurse.

‘Have you seen this?’ said the Dad-lookalike.

He read the headline out loud.

‘Anti-drone activists’ anger at Obama’s “kill” policy.’

I was pleased to see the story had been picked up by the newspapers. The protests had started in New York, and were moving to a different American city every day for the whole month of February. There was loads about the campaign online. But I hadn’t heard anyone mention it until now …

‘It won’t make any difference,’ said the nurse. ‘The drones fly over Waziristan for hours and hours. The locals don’t even look up – they’re used to it. They know they can be shot at any moment. But what can they do?’

‘A missile isn’t like a gun, Amir. It’s like a bomb.’

‘I know. What right do the Americans have to even be there?’

‘They’re the ones that turn people into terrorists. Bullies, harassing people trying to go about their normal lives.’

‘Someone should give them a taste of their own medicine. How would they like that?’ said the nurse. ‘If drones hovered over Washington.’

‘Launching a missile at the Oval Office – that would bring it home to them for sure.’ The lookalike laughed. ‘Serve them right for killing people for being Muslims.’

Their words bounced around inside my head.

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A drone attack for a drone attack. It was perfect.

They started talking about their plans for the rest of the day, but I didn’t listen. I had plans of my own.

I arrived home, keen to get in front of my laptop, to find that Mum had chosen exactly that moment to try to rebuild our relationship.

‘Samiya, I know things have been difficult since
Jaddah
and Lamyah were murdered.’

Finally
she was using an appropriate word, rather than trying to make things better by saying ‘lost’ or ‘passed’.

‘Dad and I want you to know that we’re proud of you … really we are. We know how hard you’ve tried to get justice.’ She paused. I could see she was working up to something by the way she kept shifting her
weight from foot to foot. I wondered if she was going to offer to help …

‘But maybe it’s time to let it go. All the blogging and everything. Maybe the best thing you can do for them is work hard and get a good degree.’

It’s a terrible feeling to despise your mum, but I did. She was so feeble, when I needed her to be strong. So keen to jolly me along, when all I wanted was to see that she was upset, like I was. I may only have known
Jaddah
and Lamyah for six weeks of my sixteen years, but we’d formed a bond. I didn’t want to ‘let it go’.

‘I’ll think about it,’ I said, because that was the quickest way to escape. Every truthful answer in my head would have caused a massive row.

‘I’m going to have a bath. It’s freezing out.’

As I tried to walk past, Mum reached out and gave me a hug – it felt as uncomfortable as the one I got from the Father Christmas in Milton Keynes shopping centre when I was seven.

While the water was running I found Sayge, desperate to share.

got a brilliant idea

go on

steal an American drone

is that even possible?

no idea – thought hackers could do pretty much anything

assuming it is – do what with it?
– he asked.

fly it to somewhere it can do the most damage then fire its missiles – Washington?

Drones were the enemy – vehicles for killing without conscience. Drones should be the tool. America should be the target. It fitted.

He was, as expected, enthusiastic.

like it

But full of questions.

how far can they fly?

how much damage can they do?

how big are they?

can a hacker really do that?

About to find out
– I typed, and logged out.

I knew all about drone strikes, but not that much about drones themselves. With my laptop propped up on a towel by the side of the bath, I had a long soak, Googling madly. By the time Mum called me for dinner my knowledge base was much improved.

Drones were hackable. The Iranians claimed to have stolen a US drone by breaking into its control system.

A stolen drone could stay hidden. Air traffic control wasn’t designed to spot UAVs – they’re small and slow compared to planes.

Drones could be piloted or pre-programmed to fly on autopilot.

Pilots were trained using video games. (Made me wonder whether they realised the victims couldn’t respawn.)

Predator drones fly for up to forty-two hours.

I levered myself out of the water, threw on my pyjamas even though it was only six o’clock, and went to play happy families.

The conversation was a bit strained, but the lamb chops with mint sauce and thick salty gravy were delicious, as was the feeling that I had, at last, found a way to put right a wrong.

I went to school on Monday, but came home after lunch knowing Mum would be at work. Sayge didn’t pop up until six o’clock, at which point I swamped him with information. He’d obviously been researching stuff too.

video feed would show if drone going on wrong course

if feed fails drone is meant to return to base
– I typed.

could replace the video feed with fake footage to delay discovery of hijack
– he suggested.

good job – time for drone to get well away
– I
replied.

we could issue a warning with a message about drone wars

I hadn’t thought of that.

yes – need to get the maximum publicity

I was fired up by it all. If we announced we had a drone flying low over Washington, surely we could rely on journalists to do the rest? They’d dig up all the filth about missile strikes, and collateral murder would be the subject of every headline.

Flying Serial Killers

On the day itself, the man on the sidewalk would get to experience the same fear as they had in my grandma’s village, and then, with drones top of the agenda –
bang!
The great U S of A would get the same medicine as Pakistan, Yemen, Afghanistan and Somalia – a flipping huge missile in their backyard.

People think that bombers, arsonists, murderers, bank robbers and the like are a different species, but I don’t think they are. Successful bombers, arsonists, murderers and bank robbers are planners.
I
was a planner.

I took the preparation of my maiden political act more seriously than the organisers of the 2012 Olympics, even downloading an app used for project management. In free periods I worked in the library or went home, and every evening I buried myself in my room. Mum thought I was cramming to get into Cambridge.

I broke the plan down into a series of tasks – most of which we didn’t have the skills for. That didn’t worry me. As long as we kept our ultimate goal a secret, I didn’t imagine it would be too hard to recruit some keen hackers to help out. It was nice to think of our project being crowdsourced.

My only worry was whether, out there in the community of grey and black hats, we’d manage to find
the one
that had the talent to hack a drone. Assuming we did, I was sure I’d find a way to persuade
him … or her. All those years spent watching the kids at school to make sure I fitted in hadn’t been wasted. If anyone could befriend an elite hacker and encourage him to show off, I could.