Sadiq, unaware of this, sat well into the night waiting for permission to enter. Eventually, Osman left without him. Finally, Sadiq also staggered home, a weapon over his shoulder and ammunition around his waist. That day he had found his daughters, only to lose them again. He did not call Sara. They were here, someplace nearby, but where? For what little was left of the night he twisted and turned in nightmares. He woke up drenched in sweat.
“We won’t get them out by force, we can’t start a war over your daughters,” Osman said. “Let’s go to the Islamic court, we can ask for a ruling that you have authority over them.” The girls had traveled to Syria without the permission of their father, who was their wali — their guardian. It should, according to sharia, be a straightforward case, in Osman’s view.
“WE WANT TO LIVE HERE”
On arrival at the local Islamic court, they were informed the matter would have to be determined by the court in al-Dana, an hour’s drive away. There, Sadiq put forward his arguments to the Tunisian judge: “According to the Koran, a father has authority over his daughters.” The Tunisian gave him a look of slight surprise from beneath his turban. “Well, the husband has authority now.”
“Neither of my daughters is married,” Sadiq objected.
“Yes . . .”
Sadiq stared at the judge, dumbfounded.
“Your elder daughter pledged her word in this courtroom. The marriage is sealed by a sharia contract.” The judge continued in a calm voice. “This is jihad. It is the duty of every Muslim to take part. It is fard al-ayn, meaning she does not need your permission. God has granted permission.”
Sadiq shook his head vigorously. Was this supposed to be true Islam? A man entered. He too wore a tunic and ankle-length trousers. He sat down across from Sadiq.
A group of men with headbands bearing the Islamic creed stood around them.
“We’re at war,” the man said. “We need all the help we can get. What about becoming one of us? You can live here together with your daughters, and the rest of your family can come and join you. We can offer you a good life, a house.”
Sadiq grew impatient. “I don’t have time for this. I didn’t come here as a mujahid but as a father. My goal is to bring my daughters home to their mother. All I want now is to see them.”
The man across the table looked at him. “Very well, as you wish,” he said, keeping his eyes on him. Sadiq was left to sit and wait. After a while, some soldiers came in to get him. They escorted him across a yard and into a large tent with mattresses, tinned goods and sacks of rice stacked up inside.
Suddenly, his daughter Ayan entered, straight as a ramrod, swathed in a niqab covering everything except her eyes. As Sadiq approached her, one of the guards told him: “You have five minutes.” He embraced his daughter, touched her covered head, feeling the curly hair beneath the veil. When she was little, he used to put his hand on her forehead and run his fingers over her hair, stroking her until she was calmed enough to tell him whatever the matter was. But now she pulled away.
Four minutes. This was not the time to tell her off. Right now he needed to console her. “Everything is going to be all right, relax, you’re coming with me now. They can’t keep you here. Don’t be afraid. I’m here to bring both of you back.”
“But, Dad, this is our home now.”
“Ayan, you’re confused . . . ”
“Listen to me, we want to live here.” Three minutes. “Ayan, you’ve both been fooled. Leila’s been shot. You’re …” The phone in his pocket vibrated. It was Sara.
“Have you heard from the girls?” she asked. “Ayan is here.” He handed the phone to his daughter. Two minutes. “Ayan!” he heard Sara say. She was crying. “Come back, come home with your dad.” Ayan just stood there. Her mother continued talking: “Go with your father.” Ayan took a deep breath. “I can’t, Mum . . . ”
“Yes, you can.” One minute.
“I can’t, Mum, it’s not possible . . . I’ve married.” Sara gasped.
The guards began to move toward them. Ayan handed her father the phone. Sadiq looked at her. “You can’t get married without . . . You listen to me! Do you know what the punishment is for that?”
His daughter stood staring at him. “We’ve made our choice, Dad. Please respect that. We have the support of the sheikhs here,” she said in a calm voice. He wanted to pull her close, hold her, but she had already turned to leave. Time was up.
The guards escorted her out. She disappeared across the floor like a black wave. She had deceived them, betrayed them, she had given herself to some man he did not even know.
He left with Osman, who had been waiting outside. The Syrian was relieved to see him again. The court had scared them all. At dawn the following day, Osman suggested bringing along his friend Hamza, a commander in al-Nusra, to negotiate. But when they reached the court again, his Syrian companions were told to wait outside, Sadiq was the only one invited in.
He was ordered to leave his weapon with Hamza and Osman. “I don’t like this,” Osman mumbled. “Sadiq, you’re under our protection. It’ll be fine,” Hamza promised. “Nothing can happen to you as long as we’re here.” Inside, Sadiq was offered a chair and a glass of tea. Once again he was asked to enlist in Isis. Sadiq tried to sidestep the question, responding that it was not something he would rule out, but first, he wanted to see his girls. Eventually, a man motioned to him to get to his feet and led him outside. They halted in a yard. A masked man approached them.
“Your son-in-law wants to meet you.”
“Who?”
“Your son-in-law.”
“Where?”
The man pointed to a vehicle a little way off. It was a pick-up, silver-grey. “Your son-in-law is in the car. He’s from Norway. He wants to speak to you.”
Sadiq looked in the direction of the pick-up, thought about it for a moment, then said: “If he wants to meet me, he should come over here.”
The guard walked over to the vehicle and exchanged a few words with the occupant. He insisted that Sadiq go to him. Sadiq was indignant. Sadiq did not know his name or the first thing about his family, and now this young man wanted him — the father, the wali, the guardian, the head of the family — to go to him! He forced himself to remain calm. He had to do as Osman said, be humble. But the Somali’s pride got the better of him. He straightened up. “I have no son-in-law,” he told the guard.
“As you wish.” continued on the next page
