Within the rotating pool of young Salafists who were regulars in the circle, there was a small cadre whom the others seemed to defer to as de facto leaders. These men were well-educated and sophisticated in their understanding of religious and worldly affairs. Most had been involved in the movement in some fashion before Tunisia's 2011 revolution. One was a highly cultured student of Islamic history and a talented classical Arabic poet who often shared his verse with the other members of the group; among his most memorable selections was a poem praising the life of Osama Bin Laden. Another, who had spent four years in prison under the former regime on what he insists were fabricated terrorism charges, frequently peppered his speech with references to Rousseau and Hegel. He proudly announced to me when I met him that he spent his free time reading strategic analyses from the RAND Corporation and the Combating Terrorism Center at West Point.

Outside this narrow elite however, the picture was more complex. Though some of the group's rank-and-file had graduated from universities, they were far less sophisticated in their understanding of their own ideology. When the leaders presented elegant, if controversial, explanations of their positions, the rank-and-file members stayed largely silent, or chimed in with simplistic slogans without analysis. They seemed to know what they believed, but they lacked a firm understanding of why they believed it. It was almost as if they had decided to be Salafists first, and only after their commitment to the movement had solidified, did they start to delve into what that commitment meant. As one young member of the group told me "I used to be a guitar player, but once I became more serious about the religion, I had to give it up." Salafist interpretations of Islam forbid most forms of instrumental music.

As my two-week sojourn with "the brothers" wore on, it became increasingly difficult to reconcile the radicalism of the ideological positions that they unapologetically expressed to me -- including the legitimacy of targeting American civilians in attacks against soft targets -- with the unconditional generosity they showed me on a personal level. They even had a sense of humor. They laughed hysterically and uncontrollably when I jokingly introduced myself as "the official representative of the Zionist-Crusader alliance" to a tall, muscular young Salafist who had been absent during my first few nights with them. The man smiled as we exchanged pleasantries. I later learned that he had just returned from the battlefield in Syria, where he had fought with a jihadist militia.

When I discussed the paradox with some knowledgeable Tunisian friends, they explained to me that the young Salafists were giving me the same treatment they often give to potential new recruits to their movement. By default, they embraced me as I was -- their personal warmth towards me was not contingent on my agreement with their opinions, at least not at the beginning. Only after I had become comfortable with them on a personal level did they begin trying to convince me that their ideas were legitimate. More than that, the extreme comfort they had with each other created a powerful impression that they were a compassionate, close-knit community, where members protected each other. They always looked fundamentally happy. In Sidi Bouzid, where youth unemployment is astronomically high, young men often wear wistful, reserved expressions on their faces. By contrast, the young jihadist Salafists were always smiling. When I asked one of them why he thought this was, he paused, looked me in the eye, and said, grinning "it's because we have hope."