Two Sisters

reveal the first picture of what sources say is a Norwegian involved in an execution in Syria. The executioner, said to be a Norwegian national, has resided in Syria for some time fighting for the terror group Islamic State.” The article went on to say that the man was born and raised in Norway and that the journalists were aware of Abu Shahrazaad al-Narwegi’s Norwegian identity and that he was still “listed in the National Registry under his Christian birth name.” Consequently, the man in question had to be a convert, reasoned those who followed the Islamist crowd. That narrowed the list of whom he could be. There was only a handful of Norwegian converts in Syria, none of whom resembled the man in the photograph, apart from Bastian Vasquez, who was in jail, something the journalists were not aware of. The newspaper also presented information about the victim: “He had already got his wife and children safely out of the country and to Qatar. The plan was for the family to start a new life in the wealthy emirate in the Persian Gulf. But the alleged deserter was exposed before managing to make it out of Syria. He was arrested and a short time later executed in front of a large crowd. The sharia judge was condemned to death—because his former friends in the Islamic State believed him to be a traitor.” The two journalists who had bylines on the story added that they had the information from “several sources”—which meant Sadiq and Osman.

If the journalists had done a quick search online, they would have learned that the picture had been released by IS, and that the story of the execution had been picked up by the activist group Raqqa Is Being Slaughtered Silently. The man was no sharia judge but a villager accused of dabbling in black magic. The story of the sorcerer had two months earlier been reported by several media outlets from newspapers in the UK to television stations in the United States.

The accused sorcerer had become a sharia judge. The executioner had become Norwegian. Courtesy of Sadiq gabayaa—Sadiq the poet.

*   *   *

“Are we talking hours, weeks, or months before this happens?” Sadiq wrote to Osman in the wake of the front-page spread.

“Days,” Osman answered. “The problem is your girls are well-guarded. They must be highly prized by their husbands. My lads have been on the cusp of going in four times, but there are always armed men outside the gate.”

One of Osman’s men sent his wife in to check. They agreed beforehand that if she did not come back out within a half hour, they would make their move. The minutes ticked by, the men readied themselves. Just a few minutes before the half hour was up, she emerged.

“The girls were there but there was also seven IS soldiers and nine other women in the house. An attack was out of the question!” Osman wrote.

Ayan and Leila now lived with a group of girls in an old mansion. When Hisham or Imran was sent to the front, the sisters moved in with each other. No women could live alone in the caliphate.

“The girls are behind solid fortifications, a living fortress of IS soldiers,” Osman wrote.

“That’s exactly what bothers me and makes me lose hope,” Sadiq replied.

“Your daughters never go out alone. They are always in a group,” Osman complained. “One of the lads attempted to sneak in between them, but it was no good, there were too many of them, it was impossible. By the way, looks like Assad is on his last legs.”

“What about IS?”

“If Assad falls, IS will fall. That’s for sure. Time will prove me right.”

Their conversation continued into the early hours.

“Have they silencers?” Sadiq asked.

“You can buy them for $2,000. Be patient.”

“I want the guards watching my girls out of the way.”

“I have five men on the job and two women. They have five rifles and two handguns. I’ve bought the ammunition and one of the handguns, the lads have their own weapons.”

“It’s not enough for an operation like this.”

“My dear friend, we cannot open fire in the middle of IS territory … we can only strike on the sly.”

“Do whatever you have to, shoot the girls if you want, get rid of them, just put an end to this!”

“Your daughters are also my sisters!” Osman wrote back.

Around one in the morning Sadiq wrote, “Put an end to this torment, this torture I’m going through. Concentrate, focus!”

“Cool down!” Osman answered.

*   *   *

Bærum was cool enough. The temperature hovered under 40°, did not rise above 50° at a stretch, and they called this spring?

Sadiq wore a winter coat, heavy boots, and a gray-flecked beanie with a black ribbed bottom. He felt the chill constantly but did not want to put on the heat too often, since he was the only one there. Ismael was out a lot. He had gotten a girlfriend during the spring and was at home even less. Sadiq had met her once; she was so pale she was almost translucent, with long blond, almost white, hair.

He could tackle the cold in winter, when he was prepared. But now in May, when the grass was green and the new leaves on the birch trees shimmered, no, that made him shiver. He slept with his hat on, but it did not help because without Sara the bed was cold.

He often got up at night to wander around the neighborhood. He walked a lot during the day as well. Ascending Kolsås ridge was a favorite. Struggling up the steep path. He enjoyed the view from the top, no matter how sad and frustrated he felt otherwise. But mostly he stayed in. Drummed his fingers on the table. Ethiopian rhythms. Eritrean rhythms. Somali rhythms. He found himself composing a few lines. Calling a friend. And then another. He sent texts. To Osman: Has anything happened? To Sara: I miss you. To Ismael: Will you be home for dinner? But not to the girls anymore. He had not