I need to get on with the new book, but I find it difficult to resume
all the information I've obtained in the last two and a half years of
research. I am literally buried in books, reports, summaries... This
time the goal of my investigation work is very sensitive and complex.
Even more so than with the skins, the white slave trade and
international terrorism. What's more, the recent decision of the
Constitutional Court, prohibiting the use of hidden cameras in
investigative journalism in Spain, has created a new risk in my job. The
powers that be don?t usually like journalists and what they have
proposed is complicating our work. I glimpse at one of the recordings I
have made, a few days ago in the premises of one of the organizations
where I have sneaked in, and I start to transcribe the audio. The good
thing about investigative journalism with a hidden camera is that you
don?t need to invent anything. You only have to transcribe what's been
taped. Although to obtain these recordings you have to go through so
much fear, anxiety and loneliness.
I've only written 300 pages of the new book and the data is drowning
me. I have to find the way to tell all that I am learning without
saturating the reader... Also, on this occasion, I keep pulling together
information, following people, and going to all sorts of meetings while
I am editing the book. Something that I had never done before. The
normal thing is to finish the infiltration and then write. But I want to
take advantage of getting the latest information possible right up to
the last minute. Perhaps that's the reason, or perhaps it's because they
have stamped me too hard with my new personality. I confess that this
investigation has led me to discover a new vibrant world that I knew
nothing about. I realise that the "stamping", the illness of the
infiltrator, is the biggest risk that a journalist or under cover agent
has to face. When the personality that you play ends up taking you over.
But even so, fuck it; I really like my new identity...
This morning I'll substitute the gym with the shooting gallery. One
of the elements of my new identity, inside organized crime, is that I am
supposed to be a good shot. This time I am uncovering much more shit
than I imagined. And neither politicians, nor businessmen nor police are
free of corruption... During my time as a skinhead I shaved my head,
wore Doc Martens and a bomber jacket covered with Nazi emblems. During
my life as Muhammad Abdallah I darkened up my skin, I grew a beard for
six years, and I was never separated from my tasbih and my Arab cap for
salat. Now my new look is so different that at times I don't even
recognize myself...
The heart starts speeding up again each time I put on the hidden
camera. It doesn't matter how many times one has done it before. I walk
slowly, looking behind, concentrating on faces, registration plates,
clothes, in case any of them could be a threat. Always looking out of
the corner of the eye at one's back... Psychologically, it wears one out
living this way, but it's the price that has to be paid for carrying
out this sort of journalism. I suppose that only those threatened by
ETA, the IRA or FARC, or any type of organized crime, know of this
sensation. Every time I get into a lift, that a door opens, that I turn a
corner, I am expecting the worst... But I know that while I maintain
concentration, and a prudent level of fear, I won't make any errors. The
proof is that despite all the insults, the threats and the hate that I
receive each day I am still here.
Tomorrow, like every day, I will get up early again. I have to get
ready. This year the holy month of Ramadan falls right in the middle of
summer, and it's going to be especially hard... Allahu Akbar.
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