“So you live in the Middle East? Really?”

The taxi driver studies me in the rearview mirror.

“Really. I live in Baghdad.”

“In Baghdad?”

He adjusts the mirror to get a better look at me.

“I’m a war reporter.”

“And you live in Iraq.”

“In Syria and Iraq.”

“Are you where al-Qaeda is?”

“Al-Qaeda too, that’s right.”

“Really? You live with al-Qaeda?”

“Yes.”

“With al-Qaeda?” He slams on the brakes.

“I mean, not with al-Qaeda. But I live where al-Qaeda is.”

He brightens. He says: “Imagine that! With al-Qaeda! But then you’ve met our guys!”

He says: “Did you see how fearless they are?”

He says: “On the front line!”

Talk to Muslims in Paris, in Brussels, in Tunisia about ISIS jihadists and they all have that mortified air, almost as if wanting to apologize, as if they feel responsible. They tell you: They’re out of their heads. They tell you: They’re not Muslims.

In the Maldives they say: They’re heroes.