Who Killed Daniel Pearl by Bernard-Henri Lévy Page A

else, and even here in this book, “Forced to proclaim his Jewishness, humiliated”? It was the opposite! A gesture of pride! A moment of dignity! Completely in keeping, in fact, with many of the stories I had heard about him: the party in Islamabad at the home of Khalid Khawaja, bin Laden’s former pilot and friend, where everybody started to condemn Israel and the Jews, and he froze the assembly simply by saying “I’m a Jew”; the conversation in Syria with seven militants from Hezbollah discussing the “two religions,” Islam and Christianity, and he chimes in, speaking softly and without emphasis, to add a third, his own, Judaism. But Judea is coming back. And I sense that it’s my turn to speak.
    â€œWhat you’re saying sheds so much light, suddenly. It’s perfectly obvious. Because I saw the video. I watched it dozens of times, frame by frame, image by image. And there were things I couldn’t decipher. Disruptions of tone and rhythm . . . different expressions . . . the beard that wasn’t the same, the state of his clothing . . . Times when Danny is talking to the camera and others when he’s oblivious to it . . . Shots facing the camera, others in profile. When he lowers his eyes . . . He’s sarcastic when he’s saying ‘nowhere where Americans will be safe, nowhere where they will be able to go freely’ . . . convincing when he’s talking about his great-grandfather . . . bizarrely brutal, adamant, the words cracking like a whip, in that crucial part where he says ‘my father is Jewish, my mother Jewish, I am Jewish . . . ’ Sarcastic again, or no, delighted, smiling like a child, when he utters the words that in theory condemn him: ‘On my father’s side I come from a family of Zionists . . . ’ If you’re right, my dear Judea, everything becomes clear. It’s a long interview, isn’t it, almost a conversation, shot over a period of time, maybe hours or even the whole day, or even several days—and then afterwards the cuts, the editing.”
    Judea nods his head. He looks worn out, ten years older in ten minutes, but he’s nodding his head silently.
    â€œThere’s something else I was thinking that goes with what you’re saying. I too was struck by how self-assured he looks in certain shots. I’m not talking about the video any more, no. Although when you think about it even in the video he doesn’t have the look of a man who knows he’s going to die. In the last sequence, for instance, about the relationship between the U.S. and Israel, he really seems to be making fun of them. No. I’m talking about the photos. You know those photos where he’s wearing the top of his track suit and he has chains on his legs, the ones they sent to the media when he was being held. There are two photos that were not published in which—”
    Judea’s face changes once more. He leaps up again.
    â€œWhat do you mean, not published? There were photos of Danny that weren’t published, are you sure?”
    â€œI think so, yes. That’s my impression. At least I didn’t see them anywhere. I read and saw just about everything that was published on your son’s death and those two photos, in which he seems so confident, almost happy, I don’t think I saw published anywhere . . . ”
    The truth is that I don’t know any more. His emotion, his excitement, and the importance he is giving to this detail are starting to perturb me and make me uncertain.
    â€œIs it so important?” I ask him.
    â€œYes, of course. Think about it—there are four photos. Four. Imagine there’s a fifth. Where did it come from? Who gave it to whom? You see—what a difference it makes! Come with us, we’ll check.”
    He gets up. Ruth gets up. They take me into the next room, which functions as the modest headquarters of the Daniel Pearl Foundation they have