Sadiq was indignant. This was not how a woman was supposed to wed. A suitor should ask for her hand, not just take her. This son-in-law had come on the scene without even introducing himself. Sadiq did not know his name or the first thing about his family, and now this young man wanted him—the father, the wali, the guardian, the head of the family—to go to him!
He forced himself to remain calm. He was on foreign soil and had to do as Osman said, be humble, walk over and say, Do you love my daughter? Does she love you? Let me sit down with her and talk things out properly. If you are truly the one she wants, then I can be a father to you as well. He could say that.
He wavered. Should he? No, it was out of the question! If this man wanted Ayan, he had to ask for her! Or ask his own father to do it on his behalf. There was a protocol to follow, even in a war zone. Ayan had been in Syria only a matter of weeks and now she was suddenly married!
The Somali’s pride triumphed. He would not take Osman’s advice to display deference. He straightened up. “I have no son-in-law,” he told the guard.
“As you wish.” The man went back to the car and exchanged a few words with the driver.
Sadiq remained standing in the courtyard. A pair of masked men kept him under observation.
It was growing dark. A voice said, “Come, you can meet with your daughters. Follow me.”
They entered a building, walked down a corridor, and exited into another yard.
“Move, move!” the guard told him. The masked men followed. Sadiq felt an AK-47 in his back.
He received a blow to the head. Then another. Followed by one more. He felt his head swim. He fell to the ground, where they kicked, spat, and swore at him. Spy! he heard. Traitor! Then they hauled him up, covered his eyes, bound his arms and legs, and threw him into a car. He lay on the floor in the back, between the feet of the men. At times they stamped their boots on him or kicked his head. The car drove quickly. He was nauseous, felt like he was about to pass out. A stinging pain spread across the back of his neck, prompting him to try to turn over. He received a kick on the jaw. “We know your type, we’ve killed a lot like you,” a voice said. His head bounced up and down at their feet. He had no control over his body, he was squeezed into a position he could not adjust. I need to protect my head, he thought.
They drove for a long time. The blows abated, occurring intermittently, to his head, his neck, his sore shoulder. A kick in the thigh, the shins.
The car stopped. This is where they would kill him, he thought. They dragged him out. The ropes around his ankles were loosened and, still blindfolded, he was ordered to walk. He was led into a house and down a flight of stairs. A door was opened and he was thrown forward, a terrible stench hitting his nostrils. The door slammed shut. He pulled the rag from over his eyes. It was just as black without it. He managed to get up from the floor, felt his way along the walls—rough brickwork, peeling paint, some pipes, he made out the frame of a window that was battened shut. The walls were damp, the floor was wet, the stink was coming from below. He stretched out his legs, swept a foot across the floor. Part of the floor was slightly raised and in the middle was a hole. He was in a toilet.
He put his back to the wall, a thumping pain in his body, a searing in his head. He collapsed onto his side. The sewage soaked into the seat of his pants, seeped up his back and down his thighs.
Exhausted, he nodded off, or passed out.
When he woke, he managed to get up, to stand on his feet. After a couple of steps, he reached a wall. He tried to orient himself. His body ached all over.
He needed a strategy, he told himself. In order to survive. Number one: Breathe through your nose, not your mouth. Number two: Save your strength.
He guessed it was morning. Outside, he heard people talking, doors opening and closing. His door remained shut. He dozed off and woke up again. Everything in his mouth seemed enlarged, his tongue was swollen and pressed against his palate, his lips were cracked. He was thirsty but did not dare knock on the door to ask for water. The voices outside were louder. Were they planning to just leave him here? Maybe there had been a changing of the guard and the new ones weren’t aware he was here. He felt woozy, his mind was fuddled. Water! Water! Everything faded again.
He was awakened by shouts and screams and doors slamming. He tried to find his voice but could not. He struggled into a crouching position but lacked the strength to stand up and so lay down on his side. Stretching out was not an option, the cell was not long enough.
The door opened. Light filtered in from the corridor. Three men entered. They kicked him to his feet, a military boot in the shoulder sending him against the wall. They set upon him, giving each other elbow room. He heard the click of a handgun. One man stood pointing it at him.
“We are happy Allah wants us closer to Him by spilling the blood of a traitor,” he said in poor Arabic. “Allahu Akbar.” The other two joined in like a chorus. The echo was frightening. His mind was whirling.
Then they left. He collapsed. Putting his hand to his face, he
