“You’re one of us now,” he said, handing Sadiq an AK-47 and an ammunition belt. “There are twenty-six rounds in the magazine,” he told him.
Sadiq had not held a weapon for many years. He judged the heft of it in his hand, ran his fingers across it.
“No, it holds twenty-five,” Sadiq said.
“Twenty-six.”
Sadiq pointed the gun in the air and fired off a shot.
“Are you crazy?” Osman hissed.
“Had to check if it worked,” Sadiq replied. “And you were right, there were twenty-six bullets, one was already in the chamber.”
Gunfire crackled between the trees.
“Out of here! Now!” someone said. They clambered into a light-colored Škoda pickup.
“What’s going on?” Sadiq asked.
“It’s not about us,” he was told in reply, as he sat squeezed between fighters in the backseat.
Not us. Who were we?
“Man nahnu?” he asked. Who are we?
“We’re Jabhat al-Nusra.”
Al-Qaida’s men in Syria.
* * *
The truck sped along at a furious pace over the potholed back road, then swerved onto a roundabout and veered off down darkened streets. Shooting could still be heard when the car stopped. Sadiq had switched to soldier mode, an identity he thought was gone. But no, his brain was already programmed, all it needed was to be reactivated. The gunfire took him back to the war that had formed him.
He reverted to the mind-set of the teenager who has joined the struggle against a dictator. He collected himself. A good soldier needed to remain calm amid chaos.
He had enlisted in the National Movement without ever having held a weapon. As a boy, he had known no fear. If government soldiers were in front of him, he ran straight at them. After being wounded in a firefight, he was sent to Saudi Arabia for treatment. During his time there they had discovered how poor his eyesight was and given him glasses. He was delighted. But on his return he found he was no longer as brave—because now he could see. On the other hand, his aim was much improved. In time he was placed alongside the marksmen. It was in their ranks that he had learned how to control a pounding heart.
He was in the zone. He felt at home, among friends, warmed up, fired up almost, and he awaited orders.
“No, no, not now, there are two other groups fighting, and that,” Osman said, pointing to the machine gun, “is only to defend yourself with, just in case. The war is around us. Everywhere. At all times. Anything can happen.”
His blood pumped more slowly. No, he was not going to fire.
Because this is not my war.
I have come to save my daughters. I’m just a father.
* * *
“Ismael, we’re alive Alhamdulillah!”
Twelve days had passed since they had left.
“Everything is fine with us,” the sisters wrote on Messenger and apologized for not having been in touch sooner.
“We have found out that you have reported us missing, which makes it hard to stay in touch. We have so much news to share and would really like to talk more but it is difficult. You don’t need to worry, we are safe and sound Alhamdulillah. We now have a place to stay and everyone makes us feel very welcome. Everything here is like in Somalia hehe, broken toilets, electricity and water on the blink and zero traffic rules, but Alhamdulillah we are content. Dad, if you are still in Turkey, go home. We are far away and it is of no use to any of you not to be together as a family at this difficult time. Tell Mom we’re so very sorry for the pain you are going through, but stay strong and pray to Allah that everything turns out for the best. Tell Jibril and Isaq that we miss them. Btw they can have the iPad.”
The message was a declaration of independence and a vindication.
“We are aware that many people think what we did was wrong but we have spoken to an alim [Islamic legal scholar] down here and he approved of our actions. In order for us to tell you more and stay in touch you need to keep this to yourselves. We never wanted anybody besides our family to know we left, so dearest ones whom we love so much, forgive us and have sabr [patience].”
Ismael responded right away.
“Hi. Happy you keep in touch.”
The girls clarified their message: “Tell Dad to go home! It is not safe for him here!!”
“Dad is not planning to come home,” Ismael replied. “He says he would rather die down there.”
“We are not anywhere he can get to us and no one knows who we are apart from the people we have told. Handing money over to people who claim they can help him is not going to make him find us.”
“Do you want to speak to Mom?” Ismael asked, sitting in his room. “She thinks what you have done is wrong and she wants Leila to come home.”
“We cannot talk on the phone at the moment.”
“Are you planning on coming back?”
There was no answer.
“Mom says both of you promised never to leave her!” Ismael continued.
The sisters logged off.
* * *
Sadiq lay sleeping in Osman’s backyard.
The previous night he had been led through a blue door, across a courtyard, toward a small lean-to by the wall. He had fallen asleep instantly on a narrow bed.
At the crack of dawn he was awoken by a husky voice: “Abu Ismael, Abu Ismael…”
He looked around. An old man was looking in at him.
“Will you join me for tea?”
Abu Ismael was the name Mehmut had given the smugglers. It meant Ismael’s father. In the Arab world, it was common to be known by the name of your firstborn son.
The only thing Abu Ismael wanted at that moment was to continue sleeping. He had finally been in a heavy, dreamless slumber. But he could not refuse, so he got up to drink tea with Osman’s father—Abu Omar, after his eldest son.
The old man rolled two cigarettes, gave one to Sadiq, and lit up both. It was his own
