* * *
Allahu Akbar, Allah!
The call to prayer sounded from several minarets in the town. Powerful and booming from those closest; deeper, with a more distant echo, from the ones farther away. There was something soothing about the beautiful male voices lifted in praise of Allah: the drawn-out a, then the sustained ll, followed by the second a, an octave higher. The voice quivering for a time before fading into akbar—and then a new Aaaaaallaaaaah.
Following iftar, the evening meal at sundown that concluded the day’s fasting, Sadiq usually went to a local café. The women of the house remained sitting on large carpets in the yard. The evening breeze roused them and they drank tea, ate sweets, and looked at the stars. Sometimes a visitor dropped by, a relative or neighbor. Some came to ask a favor, or to offer something, or simply to chat.
Sadiq went out the gate. The house Sara had found was the last one on the street with a wall around it. The next dwelling was made of corrugated iron, tarpaulins, old carpets, sticks, twigs, and plastic bags. The road was of earth and sand, deep potholes making it impassable for cars, allowing the children to play safely in the streets.
There were tents and shacks lining the street farther on. And goats, always goats, lots of goats, their emaciated forms drinking rainwater and grazing on husks. Any vegetation on the ground was soon forced up by tongues and teeth and clamped between their jaws. The few trees that did grow in the city center were fenced off with chicken wire to keep the goats from them.
Sadiq passed the tarpaulins on his way to the main street.
The heat had subsided. He was looking forward to an espresso and a smoke, maybe there would be someone there to have a chat with. Whether it was due to his age or the years spent in Norway, he could not cope with the heat like before.
As he savored the strong coffee, his mind began to settle after the long day of fasting. His mobile phone beeped: a text from Osman. The screen lit up. The night was dark and starry. No one used unnecessary light in Somaliland.
“I have terrible news, my dear brother,” the message began. “We fled Raqqa. Thank God, the lads and I are safe and sound. We had to get away … the Eritrean found out about us. He has control over your daughters. I am so sorry. I cannot help your daughters now. Pray to God for us.”
Sadiq’s head began to swim. His hands shook. It was as if the girls were dying within him. Here he was, sitting in the dust, a continent away, powerless, staring into space.
He took the long way home.
* * *
Ramadan was nearing an end. The others were looking forward to Eid al-Fitr, the feast marking the end of the month of fasting. Lamb, birds, and fish would be baked with herbs, fried with vegetables, boiled and mixed with rice and pasta. The house was to shine, as were its occupants. The little boys washed one another in a large tub filled with water in the backyard. The largest mirror in the house was brought outside. It was the inside of a cupboard door, the sill of which was broken off. One by one the boys sat in a chair in front of the mirror, getting their hair cut by the family member most skilled in the use of a scissors and razor. The hair at the back of the neck was scraped short with a razor blade. The hair was to end in a defined line, straight across the nape of the neck and curved over the ears toward the forehead and afterward glazed with black Brylcreem. A steady stream of boys flocked to and from the mirror under the banisters. They turned and tilted their heads, looking at themselves from different angles, admiring the shine, studied themselves in profile, and turned to look over their shoulders to check if their newly purchased jeans looked all right from behind.
Sara was in bed. She lay in a daze, hot and hungry. The afternoon was the warmest time of the day. Her mouth was dry. Not a drop of water until the sun went down. A week had passed since Osman had sent word that he and his men had left Raqqa. She could not face going out to see the bustling preparations.
The telephone beside her on the bed rang. She registered a crackle on the other end of the line before she jolted awake.
“Eid Mubarak! Blessed Eid!
“Leila!”
“Happy Eid al-Fitr!”
“My little girl! We’ve been so worried about you!”
Leila continued on, seemingly unaffected by her mother’s expression of concern.
“We’re going to celebrate Eid at some friends’. Imran is on leave. Everything’s fine with Asiyah.”
“And Ayan?”
“She’s not here and doesn’t have internet where she is. Asiyah is one month old tomorrow, we’ll be celebrating her aqeeqah and I promise to send pictures! I have to go. Bye, Mom!”
Hearing her daughter’s voice had been like receiving electric shocks. She and Sadiq had feared both Leila and Ayan could be beheaded on account of Hisham discovering their dad’s rescue plan. But now to hear, We’re going to celebrate Eid at some friends’—as though she were calling from an ordinary life, in an ordinary town, in an ordinary country.
* * *
Toward the end of July, Sadiq received a text from Leila.
“Ali ibn Abi Talib said: if you wish to know where the true believers are, look where the arrows of the kuffar point. Things have been a bit hectic here with Asiyah’s aqeeqah and all the preparations around it. You should know that we are happy and well, we are safe and ALLAH has provided us with
