One Down, One to Go

OK, the standard version goes that Tamerlan Tsarnaev ran into a guy named Misha, who filled Tamerlan’s ears with invective and hatred, thus radicalizing him. Then, Tamerlan went off to Russia for six months, where he picked up his bomb-making skills. Then he came back, went up to New Hampshire, bought the fireworks, and came home to make the bombs. Oh, and he recruited his younger brother, as well.

This story may be true, wholly or in part. What it leaves out is the crucial question—why? Or it may be that the version stated above rests on an unstated premise: the Muslim world is inherently antagonistic to the West. Any Muslim at any moment can be radicalized.

Also implicit is the assumption: there’s nothing wrong with us. And for that to work, we then need to invent a simple theory. There is evil in the world, and those who attack us are evil.

So the two brothers have now been explained—right? Mystery all cleared up?

Don’t think so. First question—could I be radicalized? If I met the odious Misha, would I be powerless to resist his insidious, vile indoctrination? How long would it be before I—or even you—would be slinking into the housewares department of J. C. Penny, seeking half a dozen or so pressure cookers?

Well, the New York Times sees it a bit differently. Their theory goes something like this: Tamerlan, a guy who never fit in, saw his dream dissolve when the Golden Gloves of America, the organization that oversees amateur boxing, decided that only American citizens could compete.

Right—so let’s look at that. Why had Tamerlan never fit in?

Probably age—he would have gotten to the United States sometime in his high school years, and, when there, was put into an English as a Second Language program. So who were his classmates? People who, like him, were just starting the process of assimilating into and understanding a new culture.

It’s a long-simmering debate in education: do these programs help kids by giving them the extra support they need, or do they foster dependence, create a sense of inferiority, and block the process of going from outsider to insider? Tamerlan said he had no American friends; that’s not surprising if he had been studying in a program with other new immigrants.

And his dream is to box, and even in that he’s different. First of all, he boxes European style, standing upright instead of crouching. He’s also consistently overdressed, and he’s got a little work to do on the social skills.

That, actually, was what triggered the dispute… but wait—I’m getting ahead of myself.

In 2009, Tamerlan participated in the New England Golden Gloves of America, and faced a young man from Chicago, Lamar Fenner. By all accounts, Tamerlan was the better fighter and won the match; there were boos when the judges decided to give the match to Fenner.

Tamerlan came back again to compete in 2010. And this time, he completely blew it in a preliminary round of the competition by walking into his opponent’s dressing room—which is forbidden—and telling both his opponent and the opponent’s trainer, “you are nothing. I am taking you down.”

The trainer, Héctor Torres, raised a fuss—why is a non-citizen, a resident alien, allowed to compete? The Golden Gloves of America was just then changing its policy: it allowed resident aliens to compete on all years but those years when the Olympics were to be played.

So Tamerlan was out—cut off from the one thing he wanted to do. So were two or three others. And he wasn’t getting younger, and it would be another year before he could apply for citizenship.

Right—and then he got arrested for slapping his girlfriend at the time. She had called 911, he was arrested but not charged.

Apparently, the incident wouldn’t have imperiled his citizenship application, but it was one more thing to worry about.

We now have a guy who has channeled all of his not-inconsiderable aggression into an activity—boxing—which is now barred to him, professionally speaking. He is sitting at home taking care of his infant daughter while his wife is working 12 hours a day, seven days a week, to scrape up the 1300 bucks they need for rent.

Easy for us to say what he should have done—gone out and gotten a job, attended community college at night, put himself together, gotten over the loss of his dream.

I came to Puerto Rico when I was about thirty-five. I spoke no Spanish, I had had little contact with Puerto Rican culture (Mr. Fernández having convinced himself if not me that he is British), and all my friends had jobs and were working all day. And, like Tamerlan, I had a dream that I saw vanish. I failed the auditions because I choked—I know that now—but there is another truth.

A cellist who has gone through the six years of the Conservatorio de Música de Puerto Rico has developed a special and usually very close relationship to all of the members of the jury. They know him, they know his family, they have watched and nurtured him for more than a decade. I would have had to be twice as good to have defeated a prized, cherished student. And I knew—or sensed—that going in to those auditions.

Those years of assimilating, of going from outside to in, were some of the most difficult years of my life. Like a 1950’s housewife, I waited for Raf to come home; he, of course, had been dealing with the world all day, and just wanted to eat in peace. I was starved for human contact.

There the similarity ends between Tamerlan and me. I did not come from a part of the world torn by senseless violence. I did not believe that the West was at war with my religion. And I did not come from one hyper-religious country to another hyper-religious country—if materialism can be considered a religion.

Tamerlan was a box of very dry kindling; Misha was the match.

The real question, I think, is Dzhokhar.