Everyone at al-Jafr knew how Zarqawi worshipped his mother, how he became like a little boy whenever she visited. He would prepare for days, scrubbing his clothes in the sink and tidying up his corner of the cell. Some inmates knew about his love letters to her, and to his sisters. Scarcely a word was mentioned about Zarqawi’s wife, Intisar, or their two young children. But to his mother and sisters he wrote gushing notes adorned with poems and hand-drawn flowers in the margins.