MAKING CONTACT
The days passed at Osman’s house. Wait. Pay. Wait. Sara rang her husband several times a day. Have you found the girls? Heard anything? She had not heard from her daughters since the day they left. But she had already forgiven them. The verdict within the Somali community at home was harsh. The daughters had taken off to Syria because the father was too liberal and the mother was too stupid. Their leaving was a punishment from God. Sara was in the kitchen preparing dinner when the telephone rang. “Mom!”
“Ayan!’
“We’re in Syria.”
“I know, your father’s there too.”
“What? How did he get in? Why has he come?”
“To get the two of you. Ayan, come home with him, bring your little sister, come back. I’ll give you his number. Please, call him and come back home with him.”
“Wallahi, he’s crazy!” her daughter groaned. Sara gave her his number. Then she called Sadiq. “The girls rang me. They will ring you now.”
But they did not call. Not that day, not the next one, nor the day after that. Sara was the only one who rang.
The search went slowly. There was no sign of the girls. No one had seen them. Then, one day, Sadiq’s mobile phone rang. “Hi, Dad.” It was Leila. Sadiq got to his feet and went to a corner. Don’t scare her off. “Leila, darling, where are you?”
“Dad, stop looking for us. Just return to Norway, go back home to Mom.”
“I need to see you. Where are you?”
His daughter failed to answer. He told her where he was. “I’m in Atmeh. Right next to the Turkish border. Why don’t you both come here, or tell me where you are, then I can come and get you.” The line went dead.
While his father was waiting in the afternoon sun in Atmeh, back home Ismael received a text from Ayan. It was three weeks since his sisters had left. “We have spoken to Dad, we’re going to meet him soon, everything is still fine with us.”
The message continued point by point.
1) We have not been kidnapped and are not being held against our will. 2) We, Leila and I, planned everything from the itinerary to money. Leila inspired me and encouraged me to go. So stop blaming everyone else. We were planning this for almost a year. 3) We did this 100% for Allah’s sake. Not for any boyfriends or anyone else. So fear Allah and do not listen to the lies of the kuffar, aka the media.
The tone was familiar — his sister, the know-it-all. He replied sarcastically: “Nice! Lovely to hear from you.”
“DADDY, WE’RE ON OUR WAY”
Behind Osman’s blue gate in Atmeh, the men paced back and forth waiting. Sadiq’s telephone began to vibrate. “Daddy, we’re on our way to Atmeh.” Osman leapt up from the mattress. “The roundabout, tell them to go to the roundabout!” he shouted and began marshaling the men. He would negotiate the girls’ release, he promised.
Sadiq immediately regretted letting Osman go without him. He heard shooting and went out into the yard. The crackling sound suggested multiple weapons. The shots were coming from the center of town.
A car skidded to a stop outside. The door flew open. Osman stormed in, sweaty and red in the face. “Come on!” As Sadiq clambered in, Osman jumped behind the wheel. “More than one car. A black man. Two men in front. The girls in the back seat. They’re with Isis. Isis has them.”
The driver of the lead car had entered the al-Nusra area without stopping at the checkpoint, a clear breach of the agreement between the local militias. The car had turned onto the roundabout. The man behind the wheel then made a complete circuit, as a show of power to prove he had the girls, before exiting. But he was forced to stop by al-Nusra this time and the commander had approached the vehicle.
As he drew close, the black man had put the car in reverse and then hit the accelerator, but he’d lost control. The commander had made out two niqab-clad figures on the back seat. He had guessed who they were. “The girls’ father is in Atmeh,” he told the man behind the wheel. “He is under our protection. Which means the girls are also under our protection.”
The driver had driven from the roundabout at full speed while the Nusra soldiers fired after it. They had been aiming at the tyres, but shots pierced the hood and the side of the vehicle, which eventually made it over to the Isis-controlled area a few streets away. “We didn’t follow them,” Osman told him. “Daesh are in control there. But there is something else . . . your younger daughter was hit.”
It was as if his heart stopped beating. Leila was shot! “She’s at the hospital here in Atmeh,” Osman said. “We need to go there.” The Orian hospital was under Isis control, and armed men stood outside. Sadiq and Osman were refused entry. Sadiq attempted to force his way in, but was pushed back, eventually being thrown to the ground. He walked around the building, hoping to find another way to get inside. Osman begged him to be careful.
Sadiq, exhausted, slumped by the hospital wall. Hours passed. At 1am Osman’s wife called. She ordered her husband home. “Bring Sadiq with you.”
“I want to be here when they decide to let us in,” Sadiq said. “My youngest daughter is in there. I’m staying.”
What they did not know was that Leila was no longer inside. She had arrived with a bullet lodged in her leg, just above the ankle. It was an ugly wound, and several nerves and tendons had been severed. The bullet had been removed by a young doctor named Firas. While he was dressing the wound, a gang of masked men entered. Firas asked Leila in English how she felt. “Don’t speak to my wife!” a man had shouted. The doctor straightened up and bandaged Leila in silence. “I’ll take her now,” the black man said. ……. continued on the next page
