RESCUE MISSION
A new day broke. Sadiq received a phone call from the PST, where somebody had finally read the message. “If it had been Norwegian children who had been reported missing, they would have reacted differently,” Sara said. “It’s because we’re Somalis, the police don’t take us seriously.” He was told a car would be sent to bring the family to the station.
They were each shown into an office. First Sadiq, then Sara. Finally, it was Ismael’s turn. The interviewers’ questions annoyed the 18-year-old. It seemed their aim was to determine if he might follow his sisters and if they formed part of a larger network. In the car on the way home, Sadiq was dejected. “They see us as a danger,” he said, “not as a family who’ve reported two daughters missing. We asked them for help and they’re treating us like criminals.”
At around 5pm that day, the doorbell rang. “We have a search warrant,” one officer said. First, they searched the girls’ room, opened wardrobes and drawers, gathered papers, notebooks and everything computer-related, then moved on to the other rooms. They looked through closets, shelves, and boxes. The family was asked to remain in the living room, and when Sadiq got up to see what the police were doing, he was bluntly instructed to keep his distance. “Are we terrorists?” Sara exclaimed in Somali, pacing the living room. “Are you going to terrorize us instead of helping us?”
“Sit down, calm yourself. It’s their job,” Sadiq told her. But he had lost face: the girls had humiliated him, the police had trampled over him; he had not been in control. Now, Sadiq, show what you are made of, a voice in his head said. I am Sadiq, a man in charge of my family. He could not sit around waiting for them to show up, for them to change their minds, or for the police to track them down. He had to stop them before it was too late. Sara made the decision for him. “Go find them,” she commanded from the sofa.
He was suddenly in a hurry. He booked a ticket with Turkish Airlines for the next day, threw some clothes in a bag and borrowed money from a friend. Three days after his daughters left, he was traveling the same route. On the plane, he found himself alone with his thoughts. The first time he had seen the girls dabble in fundamentalism had been about two years earlier. They had returned from a shopping trip to Oslo with several bags and gone to their room. A short time later, they came back out. Or rather, two figures in black tents reappeared in the living room. Sara’s reaction was immediate. “Get those off!” The girls merely laughed. The folds of their clothing shook. “Do as your mother says,” their father ordered. “You both look like devils.” Only their eyes were visible. They stared out in defiance. “It’s Somali men in Oslo, in the city, grown men, who stare at us when we’re on our way to the mosque. They try to flirt with us.”
“Just tell them to mind their own business,” Sadiq had said. “Let them know you’re the daughters of Sadiq gabayaa — Sadiq the poet — that’ll soon shut them up!”
In Somaliland, Sadiq had been a member of a circle of poets. Sadiq often took part in Somali cultural events in Oslo, reciting his own poetry or playing the drums. The more religious types looked down upon the drummer. “Musician” was, for them, a term of abuse. Music, and everything that came with it, was sinful. Somalis in Oslo upheld a strict code of honor. People kept an eye on one another. Especially in the downtown neighborhood of Gronland — known as “Little Somalia” — where most of Norway’s 36,000 Somalis lived. He knew that Norwegian society viewed covered women as oppressed. That was something he was not going to be associated with.
Thoughts drifted through his mind. Was it his fault? Had he not been strict enough? Had he let everything slide? Been too occupied with his poetry and drumming?
As Sadiq landed in Adana, in southern Turkey, a message from the police appeared on his phone. The girls had most likely traveled to Antakya, further south. He caught a bus there, and the stench hit him the moment he stepped off it. The trip had taken half the night. He did not know a word of Turkish, but surely here, on the border with Syria, there must be people who spoke Arabic. He asked a taxi driver to take him to a hotel in the Arab part of town. The taxi pulled up at a narrow doorway. The sign above read seker palas — sugar palace. Outside, the sun was rising, but he had to sleep, just for a little while.
He awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. It was Monday morning, 11am. He called Sara, who was impatient for an update. “Have you found them?’
No, he told her dejectedly.
“You were asleep? You’re not a tourist! Get outside and look!”
Sadiq began approaching passers-by. A photocopy of their passport pictures was the only visual aid he had found at home. Leila had been looking into the camera in a pink hijab. Ayan was wearing a black one. He focused on women in niqabs. There, there, there! His daughters might be in the crowd, but they never were. Finding two girls in a city was . . . impossible.
There were several taxi drivers who hung around outside the hotel, one of whom had given him a card when he had arrived. “I’m Mehmut. If you need a car, call me.” After a humid, oppressive night, Sadiq rang the number on the card. They arranged to meet.
Mehmut had the build of a boxer. He sat silently while Sadiq told him his story. When he had heard everything, he said: “I’m here for you. You’re my friend.” He drove Sadiq around all day, but it seemed as aimless as walking. The following morning, after a cup of strong tea, he asked the hotel receptionist: “Is there a meeting place for people who want to get into Syria?”
“There’s a park,” he said, his voice lowered. “They meet there. Make deals. They can get you in.”
Sundown was when the game began. Money, notes, telephones, and messages changed hands. Conversations were carried out in low voices and alternated between Turkish and Arabic. Sadiq had found an underworld — smugglers who drove people into Syria for money. Or were paid to get them out. The park was merely the gateway. The real black market was on the outskirts of town. Everything could be bought here. Weapons, ammunition, drugs, any kind you like. A woman, for an hour, a night, or as long as you wanted. Here, the price was everything.
Are you looking for a son or a daughter, he was asked. Two daughters. $1,000 first. That will get you an answer. If they’re alive, it costs $3,000 each to get them out. If you want both of them, it’ll be $6,000. There were no guarantees. One day he was driven to an apartment to negotiate. “Let me see my daughters, then I’ll pay you $6,000.”
“No, the money first.”
“I have a large family, I can’t throw away money.”
The middleman said: OK, just give us $1,000 now, then $1,000 afterward. The next day he was told: your daughters arrived here last Friday. They stayed in an apartment, along with several other girls, never stepping outside, until they all traveled over together. They had been here a week. At the same time as him. They crossed the border yesterday….. continued on the next page
