Fortunately, there was a cure.
“Read the Koran! This is a book that Allah has sent down so that we can know Him! Pray! Pray with your heart! Understand what you are saying. Allahu Akbar! What does that mean? It doesn’t mean God is great, no, God is the greatest, no. It literally means Allah is greater. It’s almost an unfinished thought. Whatever you can think of, Allah is greater.”
He had been speaking continuously for almost an hour. It was time for questions from the floor. A young man asked Green how he knew that Allah was the only proper thing to fill the heart with.
“That’s the nature God gave to the heart … How do we know Islam is true?… The Koran teaches us that this universe has a creator and this creator is unique, the creator is not like the creation and not one thing in the creation is similar to the creator. Nothing in the universe is similar to God.”
There was a system and logic to the universe. Like an iPad. It was created. It did not merely come about through a series of random events, by things being thrown around, shaken and mixed. “Although Christianity has a similar concept of God, Christianity confuses this by saying that Jesus is God. That doesn’t make sense. It is not rational.”
When the boys finished posing their questions, the girls were allowed their turn. One of them stood up. “I’ve seen Muslims fill their hearts with hate, seen them kill one another, Salafists have attacked Sufi mosques while shouting about how they will get to paradise and eat with the Prophet. How can we prevent the hatred spreading between Muslims? How can we prevent the heart being filled with hate instead of love when we get rid of the rubbish?”
Green replied that it was a good question and one his talk on Sunday would answer.
“Any more questions?” he asked.
Another girl spoke up. In the wake of the terror attacks on July 22, songs had played an important part in the grieving process and in bringing people together. Were songs also haram? she wondered.
Green did not know what she meant, so she had to elaborate. Could not songs create unity and harmony as opposed to what he had said about music creating empty hearts? Green still did not understand what she was referring to. Nervously, she repeated the question for the third time, again making reference to the terror attacks in Oslo, of which the speaker declared his utter ignorance.
He still answered the question. “Some may say scientists have proven that a glass of red wine a day actually makes you more healthy, it is full of antioxidants and has health benefits,” but the harm, he said, far outweighed the benefits. It was the same with music. “Music may have some therapeutic benefit,” but that did not make up for all the harm that came with it.
Ayan listened when she had time. There were things to take care of. She was up there now, rubbing shoulders with the leadership. A person of note in Islam Net. She swept graciously around the hall, disappearing into the women’s section. Reemerged, straightened up.
Aisha and Emira also had tasks to carry out during the Peace Conference. Ayan had added Dilal’s name to the list of volunteers, but the Kurdish girl was rejected by Madia when she turned up. “If you want to play any part in our organization, you’ll have to cover up,” she said. Those were the rules. Dilal insisted the hijab was not obligatory in Islam. Queen Madia had no interest in a debate and asked Dilal to find a seat in the hall.
Exquisitely dressed and made up, she sat as an ordinary member of the audience while her friends filled important positions in long tunics and head scarves.
When Dilal went over to them at a break and said that Madia was “pigheaded,” Aisha held up her palm. “You can’t say that! You can’t use the word ‘pig’! And certainly not about a Muslim.”
Dilal shrugged, she was used to Aisha telling her off.
* * *
The lectures were to continue after the break. The hall had finally begun to warm up. Emira was anxious and keeping an eye on the men’s entrance door. She had told Dilal whom she was in love with, a man she was meeting in secret.
“He’s coming later. Or maybe tomorrow. I’ll tell you when I see him, but I can’t talk to him here.”
He was Pakistani, she whispered. “He’s called Arslan.”
Dilal shrugged. “Who is he?”
His name was Arslan Maroof Hussain, but he had recently changed it to Ubaydullah, which meant “Allah’s little slave”—the one who submits to God. The sweet-faced man, a former football referee, worked for the toll road company in Oslo but dreamed of being a full-time Islamist.
The final speaker on Friday evening was one of Ayan’s favorites, Moroccan-born Riad Ouarzazi from Canada. The tone of their communications on Twitter was flirtatious. She hinted that she might be too busy to catch his lectures.
“Why? Are you planning to come in late to some of my events????” the preacher replied.
“So do you have a punishment for being late ready?!” Ayan asked, to which he quickly responded, “not in this type of event.” Ayan answered: “I am one of the leaders for the event, so hopefully no, it would be fun to see live ☺”
She made it, of course, and took pictures of him onstage that she posted along with the text: “The Sheikh in action!”
Ouarzazi lowered and raised his voice as though in a memorized dance; he shouted, whispered, smiled, and hissed. “The angels are here, right here, they come down and surround us.
