The mother-to-be did not find the idea appealing. Her life was right here. She worked at a kindergarten and argued that they could live good Muslim lives in Norway, just as they were already doing.
Her husband was stubborn. Jihad was more important than anything else, than him, than her, than them. It was for God.
A friend thought Hisham’s plan was rash. “You need to know Islam through and through before you travel. Only then can you make the right decision,” he told him.
In spite of everything he had read in the holy book, Hisham had only a passing, and highly selective, knowledge of Islam.
“I’m just not made for studying, for reading,” Hisham responded. “As long as I manage to fulfill my obligation to pray every day, then that’s enough for me.”
Another friend was also skeptical. “You lack purpose in life. You go to bed and get up when you want, fish at night and sleep in the daytime. Now you want to take your family to Syria, without even knowing why. Read the Koran first, put off traveling.”
Hisham responded to both pieces of advice with what had become the mantra of the ummah collective: “We are not people of knowledge, we are people of war.”
He left Norway in November 2012, a few weeks prior to his wife’s due date. She was left on her own to experience the heartbeats and kicks of the child, the worry and anxiety about the birth; she was alone when the contractions began, and when the child came into the world.
After the birth, she had a tough time. She moved back in with her parents, could hardly face getting out of bed, stayed indoors, and rejected her child. Postpartum depression had set in, interrupted only by intense panic attacks. She might be possessed by the devil, the parents feared, observing her angst-ridden attacks. Her parents tried to calm her by reading the Koran to her.
In Syria, Hisham joined Jabhat al-Nusra. Several others from the Prophet’s Ummah followed in his wake. Among them was the Chilean Bastian, who had not traveled empty-handed. He had collected money for the Islamist relief organization Al-Furqan in Grønland. People had put large sums of money into the collection boxes; sometimes the volunteers were handed thick envelopes filled with cash. Zakat—alms—is one of the Five Pillars of Islam, and Al-Furqan’s charity drive had led to substantial donations being made to the organization after Friday prayers.
A number of criteria had to be met before you could collect money for Al-Furqan. You had to swear baya—loyalty—to the emir of the organization, be a practicing Muslim, train in martial arts, and support Muslims who were on haqq—the true and righteous path—and all the oppressed. Beyond that, Allah was the only one you need answer to. “Allah is our auditor,” was the mantra.
Bastian did not answer to anyone but himself. When he left for Syria, he took all the money he had collected with him. The head of Al-Furqan was furious. The swindler would answer to Allah on the day of judgment. But Bastian said the money would be put to best use where he found himself, because when Al-Furqan sent aid to refugees, they also risked helping sinners, yes, even “people who smoked.” So his helping himself to the money was legitimate.
Like Hisham, Bastian also left a child behind. He had married a Somali teenager in a Muslim ceremony about a year earlier. The girl had escaped from the marriage after becoming pregnant and moved home with her parents when he had turned violent and domineering. She reported him to the police, who wrote in their report, “He beat her, kept her confined, refused to allow her to go outside unless she dressed in clothing covering her head/face completely—nikab.” He continued to try to see her, so she obtained a restraining order. This report said: “She was certain that the reason Bastian wanted them to live together was not because he loved her, but in order to have control over the child. He has told her that he wishes the child to be brought up in a Muslim country and furthermore had planned to raise the child to perform a suicide mission.”
Another woman soon joined Bastian. Emira—the student of computer engineering—left behind college, her parents, and her planned wedding. The former soccer-playing girl threw everything overboard for what she viewed as her freedom—Syria. In Turkey, Emira was met by Bastian, who had taken the name Abu Safiyya. They married before crossing the border together.
Hisham also wanted another wife. If his first wife changed her mind, took their child, and followed him, that would be no problem; in Syria he could have four wives. He spoke neither Arabic nor English and there were few Eritrean women in Syria, so he figured his best option was to follow Bastian’s example and bring a wife from Norway.
He asked around.
Emira sent constant updates to her friends. Things were good, Alhamdulillah. She had been allocated a place to stay together with Bastian, a large house with a garden and a backyard.
Her parents were devastated—they had lost a daughter. Her cousin in Pakistan was disappointed; he had lost his admission ticket to the West.
Aisha also wanted to go. She had been the prime mover in the gang, after all. But her pregnancy held her back. She told Dilal, who was studying nursing at Oslo University College, of her frustration.
“Are you mad?” her friend exclaimed. “That’s no place for a baby! Not for you either.”
But Dilal was also drifting toward the rugged men in the Prophet’s Ummah. A Norwegian girlfriend who had converted had introduced her to the milieu. She had said that they were a bit wild, but that the leader was handsome and intriguing.
Dilal asked to join the private Facebook page of the Prophet’s Ummah. Membership was controlled by the handsome and intriguing leader himself—Ubaydullah Hussain, the man Emira had at one time had
