“That’s good to know,” Sadiq replied curtly. “But not now…”
“All you have to do is swear baya to Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, then you’ll be one of us. That’s all you need to do. An oath of allegiance. In time we will build a state, just wait, based on Islamic law, on the Koran and Allah.”
Sadiq grew impatient.
“I don’t have time for this. I didn’t come here as a mujahid but as a father. I’ve come out of paternal love. My goal is to bring my daughters home to their mother. All I want now is to see them.”
The man across the table looked at him.
“Very well, as you wish,” he said, keeping his eyes on him.
Sadiq was left to sit and wait. After a while some soldiers came in to get him. They escorted him out of the building, across a yard, and into a large tent with mattresses, tinned goods, and sacks of rice stacked up inside.
Ayan entered, straight as a ramrod, swathed in a niqab covering everything except her eyes.
As Sadiq approached her, one of the guards told him, “You have five minutes.”
He embraced his daughter, touched her covered head, feeling the curly hair beneath the veil. When she was little, he used to put his hand on her forehead and run his fingers over her hair, stroking her until she was calmed enough to tell him whatever the matter was. Now she pulled away.
Four minutes.
This was not the time to tell her off. Right now he needed to console her.
“Everything is going to be all right, relax, you’re coming with me now. They can’t keep you here. Don’t be afraid. I’m here to bring both of you back.”
“But, Dad, this is our home now.”
“Ayan, you’re confused…”
“Listen to me, we want to live here.”
Three minutes.
“Ayan, you … you’ve both been fooled. Leila’s been shot. You’re—”
The mobile phone in his pocket vibrated. It was Sara.
“Have you heard from the girls?” she asked.
“Ayan is here!”
He handed the phone to his daughter. “Talk to your mom!”
Two minutes.
“Ayan!” he heard Sara say. She was crying into the receiver. “Come back! Come home with your dad!”
Ayan just stood there.
Her mother continued talking: “Go with your father!”
Ayan took a deep breath. “I can’t, Mom…”
“Yes, you can!”
One minute.
“I can’t, Mom, it’s not possible … I’ve married!”
Sara gasped.
The guards began to move toward them.
Ayan handed her father the phone.
Sadiq looked at her. “You can’t get married without … You listen to me! Do you know what the punishment is for that?”
His daughter stood staring at him.
“We’ve made our choice, Dad. Please respect that. We have the support of the sheikhs here,” she said in a calm voice.
He wanted to pull her close, hold her, but she had already turned to leave.
Time was up.
The guards escorted her out. She disappeared across the floor like a black wave.
She had deceived them, betrayed them, she had given herself to some man he did not even know. Whom had she married? He had not had the chance to ask her.
He took a moment to think things through. Ayan was a prisoner. Leila was wounded. They had to go back to the hospital to get her, then return here tomorrow to sort things out.
Sadiq was given back his weapon and ammunition belt. He left with Osman, who had been waiting outside. The Syrian was relieved to see him again. The court had scared them all.
At dawn the following day, Osman suggested bringing along his friend Hamza, a commander in al-Nusra, to negotiate. Hamza went by the nickname “the Lion.” The young man had a big beard, a mane to rival his namesake, and moved like a youthful predator, vigilant and lissome. He was the one who usually livened up the atmosphere in Osman’s backyard. Now he sat silently in the car. Shrewdness was what was called for at the moment. They had already been to the hospital earlier that morning and failed to gain admission.
“We have to prevent this from becoming a matter of prestige, avoid them losing face,” he said to Sadiq, and impressed upon him the need to come across as humble.
Only then would he get his daughters. ISIS had to feel like the dominant party; they bridled at the first sign of opposition. Although Osman was a big-time smuggler in Atmeh and respected in al-Nusra, he meant nothing to ISIS. These men had come from all around the world and taken over portions of his and Hamza’s country, and now acted as if they owned it.
When they reached the court, his Syrian companions were told to wait outside, Sadiq was the only one invited in. He was ordered to leave his weapon with Hamza and Osman.
“I don’t like this,” Osman mumbled.
“Sadiq, you’re under our protection. It’ll be fine,” Hamza promised. Osman turned in his seat. “Just go in. See this through!” Hamza insisted. “Nothing can happen to you as long as we’re here.”
Inside, Sadiq was offered a chair and a glass of tea.
Once again he was asked to enlist in the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria. Were they so lacking for people?
Sadiq, as on the previous occasion, tried to sidestep the question, responding that it was a possibility, not something he would rule out, but first he wanted to see his girls.
Time dragged on, people came and went, until eventually a man motioned to him to get to his feet. The man, who spoke in a Tunisian dialect and was accompanied by a couple of others, led him outside. They halted in a yard.
A masked man approached them. “Your son-in-law wants to meet you.”
“Who?”
“Your son-in-law.”
“Where?”
The man pointed to a vehicle a little way off. It was a pickup, silver-gray. It was some twenty yards away, parked by the wall surrounding the yard.
“Your son-in-law is in the car. He’s from Norway. He wants to speak to you.”
Sadiq looked in the direction of the pickup, thought about it for a moment, then said, “If he wants to meet me, he should come over here.”
The guard walked over to
