1. We have not been kidnapped and are not being held against our will.
2. We aka Leila and I planned everything from the itinerary to money. Leila inspired me and encouraged me to go. So stop blaming everyone else. We were planning this for almost a year.
3. We did this 100% for Allah’s sake. Not for any boyfriends or anyone else. So fear Allah and do not listen to the lies of the kuffar aka media.
The tone was familiar—his sister, the know-it-all—had not changed. He replied sarcastically, “Nice! Lovely to hear from you.”
“We really want to stay in touch, unfortunately we cannot tell you anything if it’s all going to end up in the media.”
Ismael did not reply.
“We love you all loads,” the girls added.
* * *
Behind the blue gate in Atmeh, the men paced back and forth waiting for the phone to ring again. Between the yard and the living room, in and out again.
The soft chairs in the backyard gave no rest, the shade was not cool.
Sadiq’s telephone began to vibrate.
“Daddy, we’re on our way to Atmeh.”
Osman leaped up from the mattress.
“The roundabout! Tell them to go to the roundabout!” he shouted and began marshaling the men. He would negotiate the girls’ release, he promised.
Sadiq made ready to leave, but Osman refused to take him along. “You’ll only mess it up,” he said. “You’re the father. Too much emotion involved.” Negotiations were his area of expertise.
“I’ll go and check it out,” he said.
Sadiq insisted on coming along, but then Abu Omar, Osman’s father, butted in. “My son will secure your daughters’ release.”
Osman left. Sadiq immediately regretted letting him go without him. They were his daughters! He sat waiting. He smoked a cigarette. Called Osman. Lit another. Smoked. Called again. Lit one more. He pressed his palms together, drummed the fingers of one hand against the other. He got to his feet, sat back down. He heard shooting and went out into the yard. He listened, attempting to gauge where it was coming from. The crackling sound suggested multiple weapons. He had grown accustomed to the exchange of gunfire here due to the many militias competing for control of the smuggling route. It could flare into skirmishes that moved the front line from house to house, from one street to the next. The roads in and out of town, the highways and bridges were important points of control, but whoever controlled the roundabout controlled Atmeh. The shots were coming from the center of town, he surmised, as he walked in circles around the backyard.
A car skidded to a stop outside. He heard the squeal of tires as it braked and he recognized the sound of the pickup. The door flew open. Osman stormed in, sweaty and red in the face.
“Come on!”
As Sadiq clambered in, Osman jumped behind the wheel and began relating what had happened in snatches.
“More than one car. A black man. Two men in front. The girls in the backseat! They’re with ISIS! ISIS has them!”
The driver of the lead car had entered the al-Nusra area without stopping at the checkpoint, a clear breach of the agreement between the local militias. The car had turned onto the roundabout. The man behind the wheel then made a complete circuit, as a show of power to prove he had the girls before exiting. But he was forced to stop by al-Nusra this time, and the commander, an older, experienced man, had approached the vehicle.
As he drew close, the black man had put the car in reverse and then hit the accelerator, but he’d lost control and driven straight into some roadside vendors selling smuggled fuel in glass jars.
The commander had made out two niqab-clad figures in the backseat. He had guessed who they were.
“The girls’ father is in Atmeh,” he told the man behind the wheel. “He is under our protection. Which means the girls are also under our protection.”
The driver had again put the car in reverse and driven from the roundabout at full speed while the Nusra soldiers fired after it. They had been aiming at the tires but several shots pierced the hood and the side of the vehicle, which eventually made it over to the ISIS-controlled area a few streets away.
“We didn’t follow them,” Osman told him. “Daesh are in control there. But … there is something else … I heard … someone said … that your younger daughter was hit!”
It was as if his heart stopped beating. Leila was shot!
“She’s at the hospital here in Atmeh,” Osman said.
“We need to go there!”
The Orian hospital was under ISIS control, and armed men stood outside. Sadiq and Osman were refused entry. Sadiq attempted to force his way in but was pushed back, eventually being thrown to the ground. He walked around the building, hoping to find another way to get inside.
Osman begged him to be careful.
“We have to tread carefully in our little town. We’re tiptoeing around one another, sounding each other out all the time. Remember that.”
Sadiq, exhausted, slumped by the hospital wall. He wanted a cigarette, but that was not possible in front of the ISIS guards. Hours passed. The sun was beginning to go down. They sat on the ground with their backs to the wall in the wilted garden of the hospital. Flowers are not looked after in wartime.
“The situation is unsettled,” Osman mumbled. “Everything is unsettled.”
The young guards were hungry. Sadiq gave a wad of cash to Osman, who counted off some banknotes and handed them over. The boys soon returned with shawarma, large chunks of spicy lamb in a wrap. Sadiq chewed on one, the fresh chili burning his mouth.
Afterward they sat drowsily, waiting for the hospital guards to change their minds, for Leila to come out. At midnight, the youths asked, “Can we lie down for a while?”
They soon fell asleep on the ground with their weapons beneath their heads. Their features relaxed, loosened, their tense expressions disappearing. Only Sadiq remained sitting stiffly, alert, on watch.
At one in the morning Osman’s wife
