“Bring Sadiq with you!”
“I want to be here when they decide to let us in,” Sadiq said.
“Come home. We don’t want a head-on clash with ISIS now,” Osman said insistently. “We’ve already been through that once already today. Look how that ended!”
“You’re a father. My youngest daughter is in there,” Sadiq said, pointing. “I’m staying.”
But what they did not know was that Leila was no longer inside. She had arrived with a bullet lodged in her leg, just above the ankle. It was an ugly wound, and several nerves and tendons had been severed. The bullet had been removed by a young doctor named Firas. While he was dressing the wound, a gang of masked men entered.
Firas asked Leila in English how she felt. Was she feeling nauseous from the sedative, was she…?
“Don’t speak to my wife!” a man had shouted.
He was well built and in good shape, not particularly tall, with an African appearance and the biggest, whitest set of teeth Firas had ever seen. The doctor straightened up, and bandaged Leila in silence while the men stood watching.
“I’ll take her now,” the black man said when Firas had finished.
“She should…,” Firas began. He looked at the masked gang, then at the white-as-chalk teeth. “She’ll need to have it looked at again. Bring her back in a week so I can check if the wound is healing all right.”
The man had lifted Leila up without replying and carried her out. He placed her in the backseat of a silver-colored Land Rover and sped off.
Sadiq, unaware of this, sat well into the night waiting for permission to enter. Eventually Osman left without him. Finally Sadiq also staggered home. He knew the way and walked alone through the streets of Atmeh, a weapon over his shoulder and ammunition around his waist.
That day he had found his daughters, only to lose them again. They had called. They had come. Now they were gone.
It was unreal. He did not call Sara.
In the little guesthouse in Osman’s backyard, he could not settle down to rest. They were here, someplace nearby, but where?
For what little was left of the night he twisted and turned in nightmares. He heard shots, hails of gunfire rained down upon him. ISIS soldiers took aim and fired, war raged all around him. He defended himself, returned fire, feeling a bullet enter his left shoulder, where the crate of Coca-Cola had injured him. He woke up drenched in sweat. Tried to get back to sleep but his thoughts would not let up. Was Leila badly wounded?
An hour before sunrise, the muezzin called the faithful to prayer. Allahu Akbar. He got out of bed. There is no other god but Allah and Muhammad is his messenger. Finally he fell into a peaceful sleep.
“We won’t get them out by force, we can’t start a war over your daughters,” Osman said. The sun had been up awhile and once again they were standing outside the hospital. Still they were denied entry. “Let’s go to the Islamic court, we can ask for a ruling that you have authority over them. We have to get a move on before they take them away with them,” Osman suggested.
The girls had traveled to Syria without the permission of their father, who was their wali. It should, according to sharia, be a straightforward case, in Osman’s view. If the Koran and the hadith were to be complied with, Sadiq had authority over his daughters. If the Islamic court ruled in their favor, then the Islamists would have to obey the verdict. Nobody was above sharia.
On arrival at the local Islamic court they were informed the matter would have to be determined by the court in al-Dana, an hour’s drive away.
There they were met by a man dressed in the traditional tunic and ankle-length trousers. Sadiq told him why they had come and they were told to wait for the judge. Time passed. Maybe the court wanted money? A ransom?
They were served tea before being shown in to Abu Qadim al-Tunisi. Sadiq put forward his arguments to the Tunisian judge, making reference to whatever he could remember the Prophet had said about children and parents.
“They left without my permission. I have, therefore, the right to get them back,” he stated as calmly as he could. “According to the Koran, a father has authority over his daughters.”
The Tunisian gave him a look of slight surprise from beneath his turban.
“Well, the husband has authority now.”
“Neither of my daughters are married,” Sadiq objected.
“Yes…”
Sadiq stared at the judge, dumbfounded.
“Your elder daughter pledged her word in this courtroom,” the Tunisian went on. “The marriage is sealed by a sharia contract.”
She must have been forced into it, Sadiq thought.
“It has to be annulled,” Sadiq protested. “The Prophet says there can be no nikah without a wali,” he argued. This was the same as eloping, since when had that been allowed?
The judge pondered the matter, then nodded. “There is no higher authority than the word of God as written in the Koran.”
Reason had triumphed. When could he fetch his daughters?
The judge continued in a calm voice. “This is jihad. It is the duty of every Muslim to take part. It is fard al-ayn, meaning she does not need your permission. God has granted her permission.”
Sadiq shook his head vigorously. Was this supposed to be true Islam?
A man entered. He too wore a tunic and ankle-length trousers. He sat down across from Sadiq. A group of men with headbands bearing the Islamic creed stood around them.
ISIS had taken Muhammad’s seal as its own. A white, slightly uneven circle with the Arabic symbols in black: There is no other god than Allah and Muhammad is his messenger.
“We’re at war,” the man said. “We need all the help we can get. What about becoming one of us? You can live here together with your daughters, and the rest of your family can come and join you. We can offer you a good life,
