Sara was prone to thinking the worst. Perhaps somebody had assaulted her daughter? She knew there were Norwegians who did not like those with darker skin, or Muslims, at any rate, and Leila had said she’d been harassed by a gang of boys once.
Finally Ayan answered her telephone.
“Where are you?” her mother burst out. “I’m very anxious about Leila, she hasn’t come home yet!”
“Don’t worry. Leila is with me,” Ayan replied.
“Ahh!” Sara exclaimed, relieved. “That’s good!”
As long as they were together, everything was all right. She took a few cuts of lamb from the refrigerator and filled a saucepan with enough water to boil rice for seven.
* * *
Sadiq was sitting in the library in Sandvika, the center of Bærum municipality, reading Science Illustrated. His shoulder ached; it was going to be a while before he would be able to return to work at Coca-Cola. He wanted another job. Once, he had dreamed of being an engineer and had attended an evening course in Oslo to obtain the qualifications needed for serious study—but he had given up.
He loved this library. He came here nearly every day. The first thing he did was pluck his favorite magazine off the shelf, peruse it, and then go online.
Sadiq went outside to have a cigarette and noticed the missed calls.
“The girls are out doing something,” his wife told him. “Can you call them and say you’ll pick them up? Then you all come home for dinner.”
He pressed Ayan’s number, then Leila’s. They might be at the Rahma Mosque nearby or at Aisha’s. Leila’s telephone was turned off. Ayan did not answer. Could they have gone to the Tawfiiq Mosque in Oslo?
He went back into the library and chatted for a while with a friend. Around five o’clock he left for home. He took off his shoes in the hall before heading straight for the living room and the sofa. He wanted to lie down while he waited for dinner.
The sofa, in black imitation leather, was across from the TV. On the wall behind him hung a picture of Mecca. In the corner, over toward the balcony, were a few carpets and an old exercise machine. Otherwise the living room was empty, sparsely furnished à la Somali.
Sara asked him to try to call the girls again.
“Where are they? I don’t have time for this!” he exclaimed.
A little after six o’clock, Ayan answered her telephone.
“Calm down, Dad,” she said. Then she waited a moment, as though to give him time, before continuing. “Abo, sit down.” Her voice was slightly hoarse. “We’ve sent you an e-mail. Read it.”
She hung up.
Sadiq fetched the laptop from his backpack, found his glasses, and opened his e-mail. There was an unread message at the top, sent at 17:49, October 17, 2013.
“Peace, God’s mercy and blessings upon you, Mom and Dad,” it said in Somali. The text continued in Norwegian.
We love you both sooo much and you have given us everything in life. We are eternally grateful for everything ♥.
Sadiq read on.
We ask your forgiveness for all the pain we have caused you. We love you both sooo much, would do anything for you, and would never do anything to purposely hurt you, and is it not then fair and proper that we do everything for ALLAH swt’s sake and are grateful for what he has given us by following his rules, laws, and commands.
Muslims are under attack from all quarters, and we need to do something. We want so much to help Muslims, and the only way we can really do that is by being with them in both suffering and joy. Sitting home and sending money is no longer enough. With this in mind we have decided to travel to Syria and help out down there as best we can. We know this sounds absurd but it is haqq and we must go. We fear what ALLAH swt will say to us on the day of judgment.
The blood drained from Sadiq’s head. Everything went black. All his energy left him. While he continued to read, the air around him thickened. This had to be a joke. They were messing around with him.
Abo you know this is fard al-ayn not only for men but also for women and whoever is able.
Sadiq quickly scanned the e-mail to find an explanation for all this nonsense. He knew fard al-ayn—the obligations of each individual, like prayer, fasting, charity, and traveling to Mecca.
We have now left and will soon arrive inshallah. Please do not be cross with us, it was sooo hard for us to leave without saying goodbye in the way you both deserve. Forgive us inshallah, when we made this choice we did so with what was best for our ummah in mind, but also what was best for our family, and it might be difficult to understand now, but inshallah this decision will help us all on the day of judgment inshallah.
We love you both sooo much and hope you will not break off ties with us, inshallah we will send a message when we arrive at the hotel and then you can call inshallah.
We want to tell you again that we love you with all of our hearts and are sorry you had to find out this way, we have already asked too much of you but we have to ask a favor: for both our safety and yours no one outside the family can know we have left, this cannot be stressed enough. Please try to understand our actions inshallah.
Praise be to Allah, the lord of the worlds ♥. Ayan & Leila ♥.
Sadiq held his hands in front of his face.
“What does it say?” Sara stood leaning over his shoulder, her gaze switching between the black letters on the screen and her husband.
“Ismael, come here!” Sadiq called out.
In his room, Ismael, hearing his father’s unsteady voice, wondered what he had done wrong now.
“Read it aloud,” Sadiq said when his son entered
