Patrol cars turned up several times over the following days, the police acting on tips from Ubaydullah Hussain. Finally Dilal was called in to the Sandvika police station. Following a lengthy interview, the inspector in charge declared the case closed. “That’s the last time the police will be around to your house,” he said.
But Ubaydullah would not give up. He called, sent texts, and left messages. She never responded. Then his mother rang. “Dilal, take him back, he can’t live without you! He loves you!” Still, she gets it, Dilal thought. She remembered her mother-in-law once saying she could not understand how Dilal could put up with her son.
There were no formalities to be taken care of. They had been married in a Muslim ceremony, a union not recognized by the Norwegian authorities.
He had almost completely brainwashed her and filled up her mind afresh. Dilal had managed to escape from a prison constructed in her own head. The Kurdish girl made up her mind never to allow herself to be manipulated again. She was going to resume her training as a nurse, continue where she left off. Life was here and now.
* * *
June arrived, the sun shone from early morning to late at night and the school year was drawing to an end. The sixteen-year-olds at Gjettum had applied to different upper secondary schools. Which one was actually the best? Would their grades be good enough for the school of their choice? Leila, at least to her classmates, seemed like she could not have cared less, maybe she didn’t want to continue with school at all, they thought. After all, she had made clear her hatred of everything about it. However, right before the deadline, she applied for a place in the health and social curriculum at Rud Upper Secondary, a school not far from Dønski.
The spring before the end of school was warm and sunny, with the girls displaying thighs and cleavage, the boys their arms and chests.
“Isn’t it hot underneath all that?” a classmate asked Leila as the two of them walked out the school gates. Leila was busy putting on her niqab, like she always did upon leaving the grounds of the school.
“It’s hotter in hell,” Leila retorted.
The summer holidays were approaching, and tests and exams were over. During a break, a few girls sat on the grass talking about their plans for the holidays. Sofie asked if Leila was going to visit her family in Somaliland as she usually did. She was not. She was going to teach Islamic history and give Koran lessons to children at the mosque in Sandvika. Leila wore a black jilbab and white trainers. Since they were on school property, she had removed her veil. The others sat around in sandals, shorts, and sleeveless tops.
“Would they give you dirty looks in Somalia if you wore shorts?” a classmate asked.
“They’d kill you,” Leila replied matter-of-factly.
The girls rolled their eyes when she left. “She’s really starting to creep me out…”
Then they turned their attention back to tanning.
Just before school ended, Bintu Sadiq updated her profile picture on Facebook. She changed it to a black flag with the Islamic creed in Arabic. She also changed her background picture to a black-and-white photograph of a fighter in a turban. Only his eyes were visible, his body was in shadow. He held a Kalashnikov, raised and ready to fire.
Graduation was approaching. The only venue large enough to accommodate the entire year was the local church, and the school leadership discussed at length whether this might prove objectionable to Muslim pupils. It was decided that if all the religious symbols—the altarpiece, baptismal font, pulpit, and representations of Jesus—were covered, it should be all right.
By the time the church was ready for the presentation of academic transcripts and the pupils filed in for the ceremony, there was not a crucifix in sight.
Leila was conspicuous by her absence.
“Just mail it,” she had said on the last day of school.
Her friend Amal, on the other hand, had chosen to collect her diploma in person as well as attend the celebration afterward. Following the ceremony, the whole student body was invited to a party at Ulrik’s house. Amal, unlike Leila, had kept Norwegian friends all through school, ensuring she had a foothold in the country she grew up in. As far as her mother was concerned, this was where her daughter’s future lay. “Norway lets you live your life how you want to,” she would say, before repeating her mantra: “If you don’t bother Norway, then Norway won’t bother you!”
Amal had begun to distance herself from Leila. Her interpretation of Islam was too dark, too strict and narrow. In the end, a trivial argument had led to a final parting of the ways. Trivial matters had become existential ones.
Right before summer holiday, Amal was planning to see a romantic comedy. Leila had grimaced in disgust when the word “movie” came up.
“That’s sinful.”
“Why is it sinful?”
“It’s haram.”
“That depends on the film…”
“Why sully yourself and pay for the privilege to boot? Why watch someone kiss or have sex when you could spend the time reading hadith?”
“Leila, you’re one to talk! You sit watching people getting their heads chopped off and being stoned to death on YouTube. Is that not haram?”
“It’s God’s punishment. And fitting.”
Amal had had enough. She couldn’t take any more of Leila’s yearnings for death, her talk of martyrdom.
“Death is at hand,” Leila often said.
It’s waving to you. Death is near. Accept it.
Amal did not wave back.
* * *
Ayan had kept away from upper secondary during the end of the school year. She showed up again for the exams, as usual taking off her niqab as she entered the school gate. After the written tests, she went to see if she had been selected to do an oral exam. She had, in Norwegian.
At nine o’clock in the morning they were informed of the topic. “Explain the concept of modernism. Set modernism in a historic context. Specify the characteristics of
