In her next essay, she wrote from the perspective of Torvald Helmer, Nora’s husband in Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. “23.9.1890. Dear diary, today I was promoted to manager of the bank. What glorious news, my dear darling Nora was delighted on my behalf. But no matter what I do, I cannot refrain from worrying, there is something she is not telling me. I can see it in her sad dove’s eyes, such a wonderful little lark ought not look so melancholy.”
In another composition, she imagined she was an American soldier in Vietnam. The year was 1966. “Dear diary. Today is my eighteenth birthday. I feel terrible and cannot even look at myself in the little shard of glass I use as a mirror. We were on night patrol doing a recon. Those sly gooks could be hiding just about anywhere. We were ordered to stay out of sight until the sun rose once again, removing the dark blanket that lay over all the bodies, covering all the blood.” The soldier described massacres he had taken part in, where women and children were tied up and oil was poured over them and set alight. “How can the sky be so beautiful when the world is so sickening? How can the stars twinkle and sparkle when the earth is on fire?” the soldier asked. Six months later, he simply writes: “Dear diary. I wonder if there is a God.”
* * *
From the age of fifteen, romance loomed large.
“I feel like DYING,” Ayan wrote to Ela in the winter. They were in their third year at Gjettum. “I found out he has a girlfriend. (But that’s just the way it is, he can live happily with her:)”
Ela responded, “Awwwwwh poor you … but it’s good you accept it and are happy for him. THERE ARE PLENTY MORE FISH IN THE SEA!!!!!!!! I’ll be there for you, NO MATTER WHAT!!!!!! LOVE YOU LOADS BABE!!!!!!”
The text messages flitting among three housing blocks in Bærum were strewn with hearts and smileys, emojis crying and weeping tears of laughter. During the summer holidays, text messages flew back and forth between Europe and Africa, from the Dalmatian coast to the Chinese congregation’s youth camp all the way to Somaliland.
“Tons of cute boys here, but I can’t even hit on them,” Ayan wrote to Ela in the summer between third and fourth year. “It’s roasting here, but I bought Snapple so now I’m happy. I haven’t seen a single cockroach so far, happy about that, and Granny is coming from Djibouti soon, can’t wait! Have you heard from Ivana?”
“Yo bitch,” Ela wrote back. “The weather here in Norway is amazing (hoping to work a little more on my tan, I’m so pale-.-!) I’ve been hanging around with the people from the church a lot lately and summer camp is in two weeks. I can’t wait.”
“Whoa!” Ayan replied. Ela’s experiences at camp were the highlight of her summer, and this year her camp was in Stockholm. As for what was happening in Somaliland, Ayan could tell her: “I have good news and bad news. I have cut my hair a lot shorter, phew, what a relief!!!! There’s a guy here I’m soooo into but he is such a charmor (think I spelled that wrong) and the bad news is he is the kind of guy all the girls are after but he flirts so much with me (which feels amazing btw) I don’t know what to do. He tried to kiss me four times last night, but we kept getting interrupted, I almost died!!! And today he came over, sat down beside me and kissed me on the cheek. But then some people came into the room so we didn’t get a chance to do anything else . I like him but I don’t want to get hurt, not now or when I leave, I feel so strange when he’s not around and can’t manage to eat or sleep, my aunt is worried about me, Mom too!!!”
Life was one big delightful drama.
* * *
Ayan came across as tough and self-confident. She was indignant at the oppression of women, the focus on body image, and was critical of fashion magazines for reinforcing girls’ insecurities. “Are you unhappy about the way you look? Stressed out? How many boys looked at you tonight? When did you last have sex? All these sly questions that make you feel like an outdoor toilet in India,” she wrote, in an essay called “Women’s Liberation.” “And what’s worse, we have to give birth to little rat males who we look after and hold dear, right up until they turn from boys into men who in turn go on to oppress yet another woman.”
She was prone to digression in her writing, often failing to bring her reasoning to a satisfactory conclusion. “Explain!” the teacher wrote in the margin. “Where does this fit in?” or “Disjointed!” But also “Well put!” or “Good!”
“In the distant past in Saudi Arabia, the brutal oppression of women was such that if you gave birth to a girl, she was buried alive,” Ayan wrote. “Then the Prophet Muhammad came, the man of the Muslims, and ensured that women were treated equally to men. After his death the oppression of women began afresh, and still exists, but in the wake of the Second World War more and more women grew tired of being seen as housewives.”
Ayan concluded “Women’s Liberation” by paying tribute to those who had paved the way: “Even though you were stoned, called witches and often killed. Thank you for telling the truth and setting us free.” She got an average mark along with the comments that she had made several good points but the text was somewhat rambling and the paragraph division questionable.
It was in religion class that Ayan excelled. She was not only knowledgeable about several faiths but also made her own critical evaluations. There was a lot about Islam she disliked, she declared, especially how the religion
