“Norway is not trapping you!” her mother shouted at her only daughter. “As long as you don’t bother anyone, then Norway won’t bother you!”
Amal was caught between her mother, who watched her every move like a hawk, and Leila, who coaxed her with thoughts of what paradise had to offer.
But Amal could also be embarrassed by Leila’s need to assert herself. One morning on the bus, Leila was more covered up than usual, wearing a black gossamer veil over her niqab. It was sufficiently thick that no one could see through it but thin enough for Leila to discern the world around her. Leila received some oblique looks from Bærum’s blue rinse brigade, who, in addition to schoolchildren, were the ones whose rides kept the county buses running. Leila grew exasperated with them gawking and stood up in the aisle and said, “You think I can’t see you! Well I can, I see you staring. And what’s more, I see a lot clearer than any of you!” Then she sat down in a window seat. Amal wanted the bus floor to open up and swallow her.
Leila had frequently expressed the desire to live in a Muslim country. She and Ayan had begged their parents to allow them to move to their grandmother’s in Somalia, because they could not live how they wanted to in Norway. Their parents had told them they had to finish their education first.
Leila could not care less about her education, it was worthless. She had other dreams, she told her friend.
“I want to get married as soon as possible,” she said when she turned fifteen. “As soon as I am married I’ll have completed half of my deen, half of the righteous way of life, my good deeds,” she explained.
“You’re too young!” Amal protested.
“I’m enough of a grown-up. I want to get married and have children now.”
“With who?” Amal asked.
“Whoever, as long as he’s a practicing Muslim.”
Amal was taken aback.
“I want to have eight children,” Leila said one day.
“I want to move to a desert,” she said the next. “I want to live where nothing grows, where there is only wilderness. I’ll live on sand and water. Get closer to God. Prove that I don’t need anything else.”
“Hmm. Right,” Amal responded.
16
SEPARATION
Dilal rarely went out, but on this evening a bazaar was being held on behalf of Al-Furqan in an apartment near Grønland Square. The women of the ummah could not stand on the street with collection boxes, so they sold clothes and jewelry to one another. They were to meet at the home of a Norwegian convert married to a Moroccan. Dilal had thought about her appearance and had chosen to wear a Pakistani outfit given to her by her new mother-in-law. She had applied makeup, fixed her hair, and put on her favorite perfume. She was going to be out among people.
She was welcomed with reverence. That’s Ubaydullah’s wife, women whispered. Everyone knew about his secret marriage, although few had seen his bride. People turned their heads to look. Now she was there, in the flesh, the scandal.
Was she actually a proper Muslim? How is it possible that the wife of Ubaydullah does not wear a hijab? Muttered questions and comments abounded. Surely a more modest wife would better suit the spokesman for the Prophet’s Ummah.
The women in the apartment were a mix of Islam Net members and wives of men in the Prophet’s Ummah, or had a crush on them, or simply sympathized with the organization. Aisha, heavily pregnant, headed straight toward Dilal, clearing her way through the crowded apartment.
“Still? I figured you must have changed your style by now.”
But Aisha did not belabor the point. She was preoccupied with another scandal: that before leaving, Bastian and Emira had embezzled the collection money for Syria, the cash intended to alleviate the plight of victims of the war.
Ubaydullah had also been incensed about Bastian helping himself to the funds and betraying them, Dilal told her. It was nice to see eye to eye on something.
“So, what’s it like being married to Ubaydullah, then?” Aisha asked. It was a year since she herself had proposed to him, then gotten married to Arfan and divorced from him. Now she was expecting his child. And was back alone.
As soon as the women heard the question, Dilal sensed them drawing closer to her. She was soon facing a barrage of questions.
“How can a Kurd be married to a Pakistani?”
“What does he think about you going outside dressed like that?”
“What’s he like?”
Later on that evening, Ayan arrived with Leila. Ayan rushed over and embraced Dilal. It had been so long since they had seen each other!
“Tell me! Tell me everything that’s going on in your life!”
Dilal obliged, then asked, “What about you?”
Ayan looked perplexed. “Dilal, I’ve met a man I want to marry.”
“That’s great!”
“But my father won’t accept him.”
“Who is he?” Dilal asked.
“His name is Abdi. A relation, from Canada, he’s gorgeous, but my parents won’t allow us to marry. He’s gone now, but I want so much to go after him, get married, live in Somaliland, in a country where I feel at home, a Muslim country. I can’t take much more of Norway.”
After buying some jewelry in aid of Syrian children and widows, they sat down to draw up a plan. Dilal had several ideas about how Ayan could persuade her father. If she just persevered, he would eventually see it was true love and give in.
“Love is greater than anything. Where love is concerned, anything is possible,” Dilal said.
“Maybe you could ask Ubaydullah to talk to my dad? Perhaps he’d listen to him? After all, you chose someone your family was opposed to and have shown it can work…”
They discussed at length what Ubaydullah could say to convince her father.
Being in love. Having things your way. This was what they tossed around the entire evening.
“I don’t have time to sit around and wait. I want to get married now! I want to get away from
