The bombing led to an alteration in IS strategy, moving their operations to populated areas. The desert bases they abandoned offered little protection against bombs, but women and children did.
IS had grown overconfident. Its fortunes in the war had turned. The battle of Kobane had drained the organization of both men and resources. In spite of massive air strikes, IS had continued its assault on the city. Wave upon wave of jihadists were sent, thousands met their deaths, like lemmings off a cliff.
But new recruits arrived. Many came straight from the streets of European cities, were given a few weeks of indoctrination and military training, and then were posted to Kobane or instructed to carry out suicide missions. Some had second thoughts. They had come to fight against Assad and were disillusioned at being ordered to engage in hostilities against other Muslims. For the majority, their journey came with a one-way ticket. The punishment for desertion was death.
The largest contingent of fighters came from Saudi Arabia, followed by Tunisia, but new fighters also streamed in from Western countries, as did their future wives.
* * *
Aisha’s relationship status on Facebook had changed that summer. In the end of July she had surprised many of her friends by posting a heart alongside the label “married.”
“What?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?,” Umm Amira wrote.
“Chwat? Anyhow, mubarak. Congratulations! May Allah bestow the best of things upon you both in this life and the next!” Sølva wrote.
“For reallll?? Mabrook! Congratulations!” Kani responded.
“Think she needs to either deny or confirm this he he he,” commented Umm Bilal.
“Don’t you have a child?” Hamidah asked.
Yes, Aisha had a child.
Salahuddin was one year old. And now that he was so big, she had begun talking once more about traveling to Syria. Dilal despaired.
“If you mention that one more time I’m calling Child Welfare. No, I’ll call the police.”
She looked at her friend, who lay on the sofa moping.
“Why do you even want to go there?”
“I need to live in a Muslim country where they practice true Islam,” Aisha said. “I don’t want to raise my child here among the unbelievers.”
“Women aren’t even allowed out! They’re married off to random men!”
“I can’t live in a non-Muslim country,” Aisha reiterated. “It’s unclean here.”
“But you can live your life exactly as you want to in Norway. You need to get a grip, pull yourself together, listen to your mother and take care of your son!”
Aisha posted photos on Facebook of women in niqabs with Kalashnikovs over their shoulders. In her everyday life she pushed the pram around Bærum, thinking life was colorless.
She said she wanted to collect money for women and children in Syria and asked Dilal to open a bank account for her.
“I’m on welfare so I can’t do it because if they see money coming in they’ll stop my payments,” she explained.
Dilal did as her friend requested, thought it was good she was getting involved in something.
Aisha and Dilal saw less and less of each other. When Aisha left the apartment, it was usually to go to the mosque or to attend meetings of the women’s group of the Prophet’s Ummah, while Dilal was busy training to be a nurse. Her visits to Aisha only got her down. It was Aisha’s mother who looked after Salahuddin most of the time, feeding him, changing him, playing with him, putting him down for naps, while Aisha was being sucked farther into a life online, particularly by those tweeting from Syria.
* * *
Twitter accounts came and went. Blogs were started up and closed down. If the girls’ accounts were suspended, they soon reappeared under new names. The migrants, as they called themselves, discussed what routes to take, how to conceal travel plans, and how to avoid arousing parental suspicion, and they reminded one another to be careful to erase all Islamic content on telephones and iPads before coming to the security gates at an airport.
Frequently asked questions concerned what items were available for purchase and what you needed to bring along. If you were fussy about particular brands or suffered from allergies, you should bring your favorite hair products or creams; otherwise everything was available, so carrying cosmetics just meant unnecessary extra weight, although it was emphasized that personal hygiene articles were not of the same quality as in the West. There was no point lugging along a load of books either, because everything could be downloaded, including the Koran. One woman offered some advice about what could be bought: “Okay, listen. Say you want to buy a weapon or a car or anything at all, just bring extra cash. Used cars cost less than 10K. You can buy furniture, gold, whatever, even slaves. So if you have money it’s no problem.”
The forums at times resembled schoolgirl chats prior to a camping trip. One know-it-all corrected them: “Hello, you’re going to live in a house, not a tent.” Practical advice was the most read, outstripping the sharing of religious poems, words of wisdom by Paulo Coelho, and news about the West’s attacks on Muslims. The Malaysian Bird of Jannah was generous in sharing the details of her life. She told how she and her allotted Moroccan husband had each downloaded dictionary apps in order to communicate, as they did not share a common language. A qualified doctor, she was regarded as something of a veteran, having already spent a year in the caliphate, where she was now a stay-at-home mother with an infant son. To avoid answering repeated questions, she had compiled a season-based Suitcase Checklist.
Jacket (black or dark blue)
Waterproof warm boots (good for muddy, rainy days)
Fleece pajamas, as the nights can be very cold
Sweatpants (two)
Long-sleeved sweaters
Thick socks (three or four)
Wool underwear
Good-quality yoga pants/leggings (three or four)
Hat and thick scarf (for indoors, trust me, I wore these so much last winter) There are heaters here, Alhamdulillah, but you most likely won’t have them in every room.
Good-quality undergarments, bras and underwear, and if you are married or plan to marry, you might want to bring things
