Sadiq couldn’t get used to it, settling down for the night in a deserted house, a home a family had left behind, taking their children by the hand and fleeing.
He inquired, he despaired. The front line had moved. Carrying on along the road would mean driving into territory under regime control. They had to leave the truck and negotiate the rugged terrain away from the road in order to avoid the regime soldiers. Osman suggested hiring donkeys.
“Abu Ismael, can you ride a donkey?”
A small boy showed him how to get the donkey moving. The gangly Somali mounted the animal, which refused to shift from the spot.
“No, not like that. Look. Slap here. Kick there!”
To think it could be so hard! He had ridden camels and dromedaries and had been a goatherd for his grandfather. He asked the boy how old he was.
“Eight.”
Isaq will soon be eight, Sadiq thought. My son, who cannot walk to school alone or tie his shoelaces.
The Syrian boy had holes in his trousers and no shoes.
“Like so, sit this way,” he continued patiently.
Sadiq slid off.
Eventually he let the donkey carry his rucksack and weapon while he trudged alongside. He lagged behind. The $10-a-day minders followed the ridge of the hill, he kept farther down.
Suddenly there was a crackle of gunfire. They had wandered into a firefight. Bursts of shots from various calibers of weapon sounded. Sadiq stayed flat on the ground among the scrub. He tried to control his breathing. If he managed to slow it down, he could get a good aim. He had two full magazines. This was how he had survived the civil war in Somalia, by being a better shot than the enemy.
His throat was dry. He began crawling away from the sound of firing. His arms and legs on the ground, he felt he was in free fall, a feeling of first hanging poised in the air, then crashing down, as if a parachute did not open. I have no control over my life, over the situation, nothing. Now, all he had to do was keep his head down. He tried to figure out where he was in relation to the landmarks Osman had pointed out. That is where they are, and we are here, the Syrian had explained. But Sadiq had had enough on his plate with the donkey. He was angry with himself for relying blindly on Osman instead of attempting to gain an overview on his own.
Assad’s soldiers would mistake him for an Islamist if they came across him, there were many Somalis among their ranks. He heard low voices.
“Alhamdulillah,” said Osman. “Are you in one piece?”
“Yes, thankfully,” Sadiq answered.
“Keep your head down,” Osman said. “If they see us, they’ll take aim.”
* * *
Syria is big. Sadiq began to lose hope.
They were on the outskirts of Aleppo. The once splendid city stank. The smell in the rebel-controlled areas was overpowering. Corpses lay beneath the ruins. He could not dwell on it, he had to keep going. Find them! was the last thing Sara had said to him.
In some neighborhoods hardly a building was left undamaged. One more round and they would collapse. The structures were built close together, most of them with shared walls, and there were holes in those walls that allowed the rebels to move from house to house, as though through a tunnel, to the front, which was nothing more than a street or corner. A place where schoolchildren had walked, young couples had necked.
Now death visited daily.
When darkness fell, they took refuge in an apartment block.
Sadiq looked around. This would once have been a very nice apartment, he thought. It was only partially destroyed, though the façade was missing, like in a doll’s house. There were plates in the cupboard, saucepans you could use to soak beans in or make foul, and dried onionskins in a basket. There were books on the shelves and clothes hanging in the wardrobes.
A framed wedding photograph hung on the wall. The couple had gleaming eyes and were beautiful in the way happy people are. She was powdered, made up, wore a long white dress, and had flowers in her hair. He was clean-shaven, in a white shirt and dark suit. The style of the clothing suggested the wedding had not been long ago, they seemed so modern, so contemporary. They are still young, he thought. This is happening in our time.
Where could they be now? Among the people they met along the road, dragging themselves onward, trudging over sandy, muddy, stony surfaces?
Standing there, in front of the beautiful couple, in the ashes of their happiness, he could not hold the tears back.
So many shattered dreams.
He grew furious at his daughters. He cried out loud. The Syrians did not need more people coming here to fight! Not girls and boys from the West! They needed peace! He slammed his hand against the wall. A hollow thud sounded in response. He searched his pockets for a cigarette. Found none. Left the living room.
There was a double bed in one of the rooms. He threw himself down on it, then stiffened. Their bed. He had lain down on their marital bed.
He sobbed loudly.
Why did my girls come here?
Ayan! Leila! What is wrong with you?!
PART II
Seven Steps to Radicalization
1. Otherization: I am of one group, they are from another.
2. Collectivization: They are all the same.
3. Oppression narrative: They are oppressing us.
4. Collective guilt: They are all complicit in oppressing us.
5. Supremacism narrative: We are better than them.
6. Self-defense: We have to retaliate against their aggression.
7. The idea of violence: Violence is the only way.
—@iyad_elbaghdadi, Arab Spring activist, 2015
5
EARLY TEENS
Gjettum Lower Secondary School was situated on Bærum’s east–west divide. On the east side, the houses were larger and the fortunes fatter; in the west, row houses and average incomes dominated.
The school claimed the student body was diverse, but
