Clothes you can wear around your husband as well, maybe things that aren’t so appropriate around sisters, for example short dresses etc. Whatever you prefer.
Aisha had first tried to get in touch with Arfan Bhatti in Pakistan. She wanted to live there with him. She sent him photos of his son. When he rejected her, and didn’t want her to come, she announced she wanted to immigrate to Syria. “Go wherever you like,” she told friends that her ex-husband had answered, “as long as you don’t take Salahuddin along.”
Emira, who had married Bastian, and was now in Raqqa with Ayan and Leila, made a suggestion. She could share her husband with Aisha. Bastian could take her as a second wife.
“You can’t manage without a husband down here,” Emira told her. “And it would be better to marry a Norwegian, wouldn’t it?”
Marry Arfan’s old friend?
Bastian had risen in the ranks. He had learned Arabic and was working on videos and websites for the propaganda department. A couple of years ago he had dreamed about designing the logo for the Prophet’s Ummah, and now here he was, working for the man who was going to take over the world.
Aisha and Bastian were wed on Skype. Once again her parents were not informed their daughter was marrying. The Norwegian Chilean, who had left his daughter in Norway when she was a few months old, now got a stepson instead—Salahuddin.
Aisha also acted as a courier on her trip. She had been instructed to order some small parts on eBay to modify weapons. Some of these were the size of matchsticks and hardly weighed anything, so they were easy to conceal. She had ordered such items online previously but had sent them with others. Now she could take them herself to what she saw as her final destination.
Rumors had begun to circulate and she was afraid of being stopped, so a month after the wedding she posted on Facebook: “I’m aware that some people have been asking about me and at the same time spreading gossip that I have journeyed to Syria. To the people in question: FEAR ALLAH! May Allah silence your tongues and forgive you! Even though it might be out of concern, you should all think before coming out with that type of talk. It cannot be that hard to understand what kind of a difficult situation you are putting me and my family in and how damaging it is to our safety and everyday life to spread those kind of FALSE rumors and gossip … I am not in Syria, just to make that clear! May Allah the Almighty and Righteous strike you gossipmongers dumb!”
She left for Turkey. Then she crossed the border.
Identity. Meaning. Rebellion. Being a part of something greater than oneself. Jihad rendered all personal problems small. For a time.
One day in autumn, Dilal received a message via WhatsApp.
“Hi Dilal, how’s it going?”
“Aisha! Long time no see!”
“I’m on God’s path.”
“Where are you?”
“You know where. I had to do it this way. Matter of urgency. Everything happened so fast.”
“Aisha … where is Salahuddin?”
“He’s with me. He’s here. He’s safe. He likes it here. I’ll send pictures. Dilal, I’ve married Bastian. Both Emira and I are married to him.”
“Aisha, you brought Salahuddin? To a war zone? You deceived me!”
“I had to!”
“And you’ve married not out of love for a second time. What are you thinking?”
“Can you send me the money in the aid account?” Aisha merely responded.
“Aisha, that’s to go to relief work.”
“I’m going to use it to help people down here!”
“You said it yourself, remember, when Bastian and Emira used fund-raising money on themselves! Ubaydullah said it as well, that they couldn’t be trusted? And now the three of you are together!”
“Dilal, just send me the money, and you’re more than welcome to visit! I can find a husband for you!”
There was 30,000 kroner in the account. Dilal refused to send it.
“Can I have it as a loan then?” Aisha asked.
When she gave birth to her son, she had changed her name on Facebook to Umm Salahuddin. In Raqqa she changed her profile picture. The new one showed her son, who had just taken his first steps, in camouflage clothing with a Kalashnikov in his lap.
He was going to be one of the Cubs of the Caliphate, Aisha boasted.
Their arrival in Syria had coincided with a surge of foreign fighters coming into the country. According to American intelligence, approximately a thousand foreign fighters were arriving in the region every month. Quite a few of them brought children.
Boys who distinguished themselves from an early age were recruited into Ashbal al-khilafa—the Cubs of the Caliphate. They were taken from their parents when they were ten to live in camps and toughen up. They received systematic training and were subjected to harsh physical and psychological ordeals. Propaganda videos show the boys standing at attention while being struck with sticks. Others stand in the background, waiting their turn, while observing their friends’ faces. They were trained in close combat and in the use of pistols, rifles, and knives. The ultimate test was to execute a prisoner.
The children were more than mere tools; they were to be building blocks. The goal of the Islamic State was not only to defeat the enemy and conquer the country but also to ensure its survival as a group.
Just before her son’s second birthday, Aisha sent a picture of Salahuddin. The photograph gave Dilal the chills. His eyelid was swollen and purple, the blood vessels in his eyes were burst, and he had bruises on his cheeks.
Dilal tried to call. Aisha did not answer.
PART IV
PEER GYNT: Where was I, as myself, as the whole man, the real?
Where was I, with my forehead stamped with God’s seal?
SOLVEIG: In my faith, in my hope, in my charity.
—Henrik Ibsen, Peer Gynt, 1867
26
NOT WITHOUT MY DAUGHTERS
Sadiq googled Manbij. Ayan and Hisham had moved again. The men went where IS ordered them, the women followed.
It was October 2014. The girls
