In an interview with the New York Times, a former ABC News intern reveals that he was responsible for “faking” Osama bin Laden’s accent, which the network used to dub over various bin Laden videos and broadcast to the world.
The 22 year old intern worked on ABC’sprogram “Nightline”, and as soon as the September 11 attacks occurred he was asked by a producer to voice-over an English translation of bin Laden’s alleged “confession”.
In hindsight, this was not something a rational brown male should’ve volunteered for so enthusiastically.
My first time in the recording booth, I was feeling my way through. I sat up straight, careful not to rustle any papers, which the sensitive microphones would pick up. In truth, I was trying my best to not sound like the immature college kid I knew in my heart I still was.
I did a second take, this time offering to do a Middle Eastern accent, because I fancied myself pretty good at accents and assumed I had license as someone of South Asian descent. A producer on a deadline is prone to say, “Yeah, whatever,” more than is advisable, and it all seemed innocuous enough. It even provided some gallows humor. Who’d we get to voice the most feared man in the world? The guy who routinely messes up printing out copies of the scripts.
After another tape came out, I stepped back into the booth. I wanted to go beyond a generic accent this time and impersonate Bin Laden himself, as if Emmys could be awarded for “Best Performance of a Radical Jihadist on a Network News Show.”
Bin Laden’s voice was soft, meek; notexactly the fiery orator his apocalyptic worldview seemed to warrant. I tried loosening up my posture and speaking from the back of my throat, hoping to give his voice-over more of a laconic, nasal sound.
I soon wondered whether the goal shouldn’t be mimicry, but to convey the true threat Bin Laden posed, to add a menacing tone to his banal voice of evil. I joked that my parents could brag to their friends: “Oh, your son is a doctor? Well, our son is busy instilling fear into millions of people.” I was acting every day anyway, trying to convince the world I was an adult able to function in a professional environment. This was just an extension of that.
Then came the day I got the review I had been waiting for. One of the executive producers, an intimidating presence whom I managed to disappoint at seemingly every turn, approached me.
“Are you the one doing the accents on the Bin Laden tapes?” he asked.
“Yeah!” I beamed proudly. Here it was. The pat on the back I was waiting for, the validation I so richly needed and deserved.
“Knock it off,” he said tersely, as if I was merely one of a hundred fires that needed extinguishing that day.
I was certain I’d be fired. More troubling, “knock it off” felt like a succinct critique of who I was at that time. It was as if he was saying, whatever you think you’re doing here, whomever you’re trying to be — knock it off. This is real life. This is war. Grow up. It’s not about you.
Years later, I watched the celebrations after Bin Laden was killed. I can only hope that moment provided some amount of closure to the families of his victims. The deeper he went into hiding, though, the more he lost his terror grip on me. My favorite detail to come out of the compound raid — other than the stash of pornography — was Bin Laden’s attempt to rebrand Al Qaeda with corporate-sounding names like “Restoration of the Caliphate Group.” He had ceased being our villain, and was now apparently working toward a Master of Terror Administration degree.
Five years after his death, Bin Laden seems buried in our collective consciousness, as deep as his body is in the ocean. What remains are those tapes, and our memories of that time. It was a moment in my life when the best advice I could’ve received was simply “knock it off.”