Leila was summoned to the principal’s office. She was informed she was not allowed to leave the classroom to pray. Doing so caused undue disruption and meant she’d miss out on lessons. Could she not just pray at break times instead?
Leila had no respect for the new requirements and continued putting up her hand when her alarm clock vibrated. At other times, she just walked out when it went off.
Arguments with teachers were not uncommon, and she didn’t hesitate to speak her mind when she felt offended or misunderstood. Beyond that, she did not show much concern for school, and her grades sank from quite good to average.
The unfamiliar terms she used in religion class either impressed her classmates or provoked them. In their final year of lower secondary, the pupils were to deliver a talk on a topic of their choice. Sofie had picked “religious headgear in school.” She was well prepared, having gathered material from newspaper articles and books. The talk sparked a heated discussion, as the issue of women’s headwear often does, creating a front line in the debate on Islam.
“I can understand you wanting to wear it,” Sofie said. “But when you do, you are submitting to the man!”
“Allah has created us differently and has ordered women to cover themselves!” Leila retorted.
Sofie continued to argue that it served to make women invisible and represented a desire to hand over hard-earned power. It wasn’t long before Leila had the whole class against her.
“Allah distinguishes between two types of people,” Leila said. “Those who obey and those who don’t. The punishment for those who do not do as he commands is harsh!” she said in conclusion, fighting back tears.
“I think we’ll leave the discussion there,” the religion teacher said.
* * *
“Do you think she’s lonely?” Sofie asked Emilie one time when they were talking about how Leila was on her own so much, even during break times. “God, imagine,” Sofie added, “just standing on my own for a second makes me feel self-conscious.”
They decided to talk to her. But that didn’t happen often. The two friends had so much else to discuss.
On the whole, the rest of the class knew little about Leila. They never saw her outside of school and did not miss her if she was not there. Prior to the first lesson in the morning, she sat alone at her desk while the others hung around in groups talking. On Monday mornings people rarely inquired how her weekend had been because she was never where it was all happening, where the teenagers had begun testing out adult life: Parties. Sex. Alcohol.
Now and again Leila spent break time with a girl from a different classroom in the same year. Amal was also Somali and had known Leila since they were small. Their mothers were acquaintances, although they were quite different. Amal’s mother was quick on her feet, slender, and muscular. She had begun working in Norway as soon as she could, often juggling two jobs. Mostly manual labor, cleaning, heavy lifting. She was now taking long shifts as an auxiliary nurse at a residential care home.
“Amal, you know you live two lives?” Leila said during a break. “This life and the afterlife. This life is a test. You either pass or fail. Every night God takes your soul, an angel comes, then God decides whether or not to give you a new chance. In a sense every time you fall asleep you’re dying. You are blessed to wake up each day, remember that, you have been given a fresh chance, but you have to be prepared to die at any time.”
Amal accompanied Leila and Ayan to meetings at Islam Net and was influenced by Leila’s constant appeals. “Amal, you need to wake up! You need to open your eyes! You have to get closer to Allah,” she urged.
Amal began to immerse herself in the Koran, not just learning it by rote, as she had at Koran school, but reading and understanding it in a new way. It was as though Allah were speaking to her directly. She clicked on links Leila sent to her—about Islam being the right path, the only path, and about how harsh the punishment would be for those who did not follow the message of Allah. She stopped wearing trousers.
At home, Amal had begun criticizing all things Norwegian. “Racism and discrimination is rife in this country, Muslims are constantly being harassed,” she told her mother. She put less effort into schoolwork, opting instead to read the Koran or watch videos on YouTube. Finally she announced she wanted to quit school because she was being bullied.
“What is going on? You’re with the same kids as before, the same teachers, why would they suddenly be bullying you? If someone is bothering you, then tell me or let the teachers know and we can sort it out.”
But all Amal would say was that she hated school.
“Sweetheart, please, this is the final year. You can’t drop out now!”
“I want an exemption from gym at the very least.”
Her mother, whom Amal had outstripped in height and build long ago, lost her temper.
“Here I am, running around for you, killing myself with work, taking care of all of you from primary school to secondary and on so that you can have a future here! And you want to drop out! What is wrong with you? I’m phoning your teacher.”
The telephone conversation gave Amal’s mother more to think about, as the teacher was also concerned. The change in Amal’s behavior had coincided with her spending more time with Leila. The two of them kept to themselves, had become difficult to relate to, and habitually denounced anything Norwegian.
“I hate Norway” became a constant refrain, along with “Norwegians don’t like Muslims.” Amal spoke about feeling trapped in a society where she
