“Lol … I’m not looking for reasoning around it, just give me a plain answer, yes or no?” Ismael persisted.
“Dude, take it one step at a time. Lol.”
“So that’s a yes. Right. I was not sure if the West were just shedding bad light on you guys or if you actually promote suicide bombing. So I would respect a simple answer from you. If that’s not too much to ask.”
“We have just got to know each other, man, this topic needs a hot cup of tea. How about you come and I’ll make us nice Somali tea, discuss things, like the older generation?”
“Haha, would I come back alive/in one piece?”
Imran changed the subject, wanted to engage in small talk.
But Ismael would not let up. “Just answer me first. Since I asked so nicely.”
“Okay, this question is highly debatable. Some of the scholars in the Islamic State allow it and some don’t, calling it suicide. However, the majority agrees with it due to the great damage it causes the enemy. All those who do it do it at their own will and are never forced. Funny enough there is a looooooong list and this is what amazes many. Now my question to you is how is this benefiting you in any way?”
“I am just curious how the ‘true’ religion can even be misinterpreted,” Ismael replied.
* * *
One Norwegian jihadist was sitting contemplating whether or not to carry out a suicide mission.
Eventually some of Bastian’s compatriots in Syria had taken action and reported him to the sharia court in Raqqa. Following summary justice, Abu Safiyya was sentenced to death for the murder of his stepson, Salahuddin.
Bastian was waiting for his life in this world to come to an end. Time dragged on and he remained in the cell. One day he was brought before the judge again and confronted with a choice: Face being beheaded or carry out a suicide attack for the Islamic State.
Receive the punishment for treachery or die like a martyr.
“Oh, Allah destroy them, and let it be painful!” Bastian had urged on his video. “Oh, Allah, take vengeance upon the transgressors,” he’d threatened the crown prince and the prime minister in Norway. “Oh, Greatest One, show them your wrath! Oh, Powerful One, show them hell!”
When the border station that IS had just taken over exploded in a sea of flames, he had laughed.
Now it was his life that could end in a sea of flames. In the cause of Allah. He could get into a truck, with armor plating fitted to prevent the tires being hit. He could sit behind a windshield covered with welded metal with only a peephole cut so no one could shoot him. He could start the car when given the signal. And drive toward the target. The infidels and the apostate. Or seen from another perspective—toward paradise.
He could shout “Allahu Akbar” right before he triggered the device and the vehicle exploded.
But he did not want to.
He wanted to live.
He had been up there. His videos had been viewed across the whole world. IS needed him for propaganda. He thought he would receive a reprieve.
He did not.
Sharia was carried out to the letter. Kill he who has killed. A soul for a soul. He who had sought paradise would instead end up in hell. That was the place for child killers.
* * *
Leila’s due date was June 10, Sara told Sadiq.
“I’ve had an idea,” Osman wrote. “Let’s see if we can turn her visit to the hospital to our advantage. Let me chew on it.”
“15 days left. Just so you know. The clock is ticking,” Sadiq wrote.
“Three of the lads have been arrested!”
“What?”
“They were stopped at a Nusra checkpoint. The car was searched and their weapons were found. They were accused of passing information to the Kurds.”
“14 days left.”
“They’re being held at al-Nusra headquarters, four miles from al-Dana. My nerves are gone, I’m so upset, I’ve sent a sheikh…”
“13 days left.”
“We have managed to infiltrate the hospital. Have made a deal with the obstetrician. When your daughter comes in to give birth, he will make sure he’s the attending, and when the baby is delivered he will tell her the child is sick and needs follow-up. She will come to let him take a look at the baby every day. The more often she comes the better our chances of seizing her. The doctor will convince her that the baby needs to go to a special hospital in Turkey. The road goes through Atmeh. It’s a golden opportunity. The lads are with you until death.”
“What about my elder daughter?”
“We’ll need more money. We’re running low on cash. We need money to buy the three boys back. None of them have earned anything on the operation, and we owe the owner of the tank truck. He also needs money to live. The boys have not complained yet, they are very understanding. Tell your daughter that giving birth in the hospital is safest. But don’t make her suspicious. And find a way to send us more money!”
“I have to be up early in the morning, so I need to get some sleep now,” Sadiq wrote. He tended to bow out of their conversations when the issue of money was raised.
During the night he wrote, “Troubled, very troubled. Demons are toying with me.”
Osman answered, “I know you are going through hell. As am I.”
The Syrian smuggler had increasingly less room for maneuver. Kurdish militias were closing in on Atmeh and were now in control of several roads in the immediate vicinity. IS was on the offensive. Nusra was on the offensive. Assad was bombing.
The area under Islamic State control was larger than ever. In mid-May 2015, IS fighters had seized control of the ancient city of Palmyra. They had executed regime soldiers who had not managed to flee, emptied the dreaded Tadmur prison of inmates whom they then recruited, and planted explosives around the ancient monuments in the city.
