The local militias seldom sought direct confrontation with ISIS. They had many more men than Daesh in total, but they did not want to risk opening a new front. The government was still the main enemy. ISIS’s regional leaders were constantly kept up-to-date on weaknesses, splits, and signs of conflict by the spy network. This allowed them to enter into a crisscross of alliances with the different militias, without any of their “allies” having knowledge of the deals they had made with others.
* * *
By winter 2013, the Syrian opposition had defeated the regime in large parts of northern Syria. But they had yet to take a large city. Rebel groups planned a surprise attack on the provincial capital of Raqqa.
The civil war had led to road closures and a lack of basic necessities. For the people in Raqqa, the situation was growing desperate. The city was located in a desert area, with the only fertile ground to the south along the Euphrates. There was a shortage of food and constant power outages. The cutting of supply lines was Assad’s punishment against cities held by the opposition.
Early on the morning of March 3 the FSA, al-Nusra, and Ahrar al-Sham entered the city, first from the north, then from the east, finally from the west and south. By the end of the day they had taken control of most of the city center. There was jubilation as the golden statue of Hafez al-Assad was pulled down.
How could an entire city fall in a matter of hours?
Assad’s forces on the east side of the city had left their positions before daybreak. The forces in the center retreated to the airport just outside the city limits. They were so badly coordinated that many of the rank and file had deserted. Only a few officers barricaded themselves and fought until they ran out of ammunition. When they surrendered, they were taken prisoner and executed. Their corpses were put on display in the central square.
The various rebel groups divided Raqqa among them. People streamed out onto the streets shouting, Freedom! Democracy! Justice!
Youth groups, women’s groups, and theater troupes were formed. Uncensored newspapers were published. The revolution had reached the province before the capital; the people were blazing a trail. Lawyers came together, doctors organized, political parties were formed, and people imbibed the spirit of freedom. A number of dawa offices were opened. A revolutionary city council was set up to manage the expected anarchy. All that had not been allowed under Assad’s rule was now to be tried.
Assad’s vengeance was not long in coming. Scud missiles were launched, destroying residential areas, but the people merely cleared away the ruins, buried the dead, and persevered. The streets were cleaned on a voluntary basis, people organized services the authorities had ceased to offer long ago, power generators were run in alternation, shop shelves were stocked. The border to Turkey was open, and the best goods at the lowest prices in the whole of Syria were now available in Raqqa. The city council declared the city a duty-free zone, commodities people had never seen before began to arrive, a market for American cars was opened. It was a city of joy.
Until people started to disappear.
First some young activists. A newspaper columnist. Some youths who had painted the revolutionary flag on the city wall. An actor in a theater company. A priest. A lawyer. A doctor. A journalist. An author. In the middle of May, the leader of the Raqqa council was forced into a car by masked men and never seen again. A militia leader was killed in an ambush. Then another. Followed by a third. Who was behind it? There was growing unease, tensions rose, everyone blamed everyone else, and conflict broke out among al-Nusra, FSA, Ahrar al-Sham, al-Faruk, and ar-Rassul, which all held different parts of the city.
Nobody took responsibility for the disappearances and the murders. People had their suspicions, but few dared to voice them. Black flags began to fly in parts of the city.
The inhabitants had not foreseen anyone other than Assad’s men suppressing and threatening them.
As soon as the regime’s forces had been defeated, the extremists had begun to infiltrate Raqqa via their newly opened dawa offices. Haji Bakr kept his files well up-to-date. Some of those who spied for him had previously worked as intelligence agents for Assad, others were rebels who had fallen from favor with local militia leaders and desired revenge, and there were those who simply needed to make a living. Most of the men on his books were in their early twenties and some were only teenagers. As before, the older generation was wary.
As soon as the lists were complete, the process of elimination began. First the ones who had raised their voices in support of freedom and democracy, followed by all those who might do so.
Fear had returned.
* * *
When the Islamists had enough people to spy and sufficient fighters to defend their spies, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi announced the expansion of ISI—the Islamic State in Iraq—into ISIS—the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria.
The summer of 2013 was a bloody one. The number of disappearances intensified in July, first by the dozens, then by the hundreds. Bodies were found tortured or with bullet holes through the back of their heads; others vanished without a trace. In August, suicide bombers attacked the FSA’s headquarters in Raqqa.
None of the rebel groups helped one another when they were attacked in turn. As long as it did not affect them, they looked the other way. They all believed themselves to be immune from ISIS.
On October 17, 2013, the same day Ayan and Leila took the afternoon flight to Istanbul, ISIS summoned Raqqa’s civilian leaders, clerics, teachers, and lawyers to what was understood to be a reconciliation meeting to discuss how Raqqa was to be governed. Of the three hundred in attendance, only two men dared to criticize the Islamists’ insidious takeover, accusing them of being behind the abductions and the murders.
One of the men was found a few days later with a bullet hole through his head. His acquaintances received an e-mail with an image of the man’s maltreated body and a single sentence: “Do you mourn your friend?”
Then the other man disappeared. ISIS knew who was friends with whom, who had ties with whom, who did not have clean records in the Islamic sense, and who were organized or might offer resistance. Several opposition people fled to Turkey. The high brought about by the revolution in Raqqa had reached an end.
* * *
Control of northern Syria was now divided between ISIS and a multitude of militias. In Atmeh, ISIS was close to taking over completely.
In late November, Sadiq stood at a blue door in the town and knocked. He’d been released from the stinking pit at the waterworks some days earlier. Osman hugged him tightly, squeezing him between his powerful arms.
“Thank God, you’ve returned!”
Osman’s mother also came running to embrace him. Her husband hobbled after her, with Randa behind him, while the other women stayed behind the door.
Sadiq had eventually been put in a vehicle and driven from al-Dana by the judge’s men. These same men were now offered tea, figs, and biscuits. Only when they departed did the Nusra men make an appearance. Hamza, the brigade leader known as the Lion, had tears in his eyes.
“I was the one who left you with ISIS that day…”
Osman’s men wanted to know all the details.
Sadiq told them everything. About the toilet cell. About the knife to his throat. About his acquittal and the night that followed it.
“Before dawn, while it was still dark and the prison was quiet, I was awakened by the sound of hurried steps in the room. I heard low voices. What now? It was the trio of tormenters. Again? They’re going to beat those poor men with the injured balls, I thought. Then I saw they were on their way toward me. They pulled me up and threw me against the wall. They handcuffed me and made to drag me from the room. I tried to resist, to cry out, but I was gagged. It was then I noticed that the Libyan was not only armed with a pistol as usual but also an AK-47. I was marched down the corridor, the muzzle of the rifle pressed between my shoulder blades. Then the Eritrean said something that really scared me. ‘No, this is wrong! I won’
t be a part of it!’ he said, stopping in his tracks. That’s when I realized I was in grave danger. They pulled me down the corridor. I could feel the rifle in my back and I hoped the other guards would hear my cries. I was flung into a vehicle, but not driven far, only to the next building. I feared that this was the place where they carry out beheadings, so the bodies would be easy to move and the yard not soiled with blood. ‘Your life is over,’ the Libyan whispered in my ear. ‘We usually let a condemned man pray before killing him, but not you, because you’re no Muslim … kafir!’ The one in charge, the fat one, said, ‘Look around. This is the last place you’re ever going to see.’ Then he said, ‘I want to be pure when I meet Allah, so I’ll grant you one final request. What do you want, traitor?’ I told them, ‘I do not fear death, but please, treat me with respect. I do not want to die with my hands bound behind my back.’ I continued, ‘These handcuffs are painful. I’m not young like the two of you.’ The stocky one took a small key from his pocket, handed it to the Libyan, and said, ‘Give him his final request.’ The Libyan fumbled with the handcuffs, it was dark and he could not see very well. The handcuff on my right wrist came off but the manacle on my left wrist remained. Three words flashed inside my mind: Save your life!”
Sadiq paused for effect. “I raised my arm. In one swift movement I hit the Libyan right in the face with the handcuffs. Reeling, he lost his balance but kept hold of me and we both fell to the ground. He got his hands to my throat and I fought to pry them free. But he was younger, stronger, I could not move, and I thought, Now I’m finished. He was on top of me. The fat one, standing about ten or fifteen yards away, opened fire. A couple of bullets ricocheted on the gravel right next to us, and the Libyan let out a howl. He had been hit in the thigh. He loosened his grip, wailed, and put his hand to the wound. The bullet had smashed his femur and blood was gushing out. He tried to stop the bleeding, and I snatched the rifle lying on the ground and made off. Once outside, I zigzagged across the ground. I ran, I just ran.”
Osman and his man sat on the mattresses, staring at him.
“And then what?”
Sadiq paused and asked for a cigarette. A soothing sensation coursed through him, the hit of the nicotine paralyzing him for a moment.
“I ran toward the olive grove, but the trees were too spread out, I would be easy to find, so I kept on running, but I was afraid I would run straight into an ISIS troop. I feared what daybreak would bring. The pitch darkness was already being replaced by a gray glow. I heard voices, and a little way off I discerned two figures. An older man and a younger one. They were dressed like farmers, one of them was carrying an old rifle. I had no choice but to trust them and began walking in their direction. When they saw me, they turned. I was still holding the Libyan’s AK-47 and they must have taken me for an ISIS soldier. Then they noticed the handcuffs still hanging from my wrist and understood that I had escaped. Hesitantly, they motioned to me: Come! I followed them across some land, past a farm, and onto a scree at the foot of a hill. There was a small opening between the stones; at first glance it looked like a fox’s den, but it widened almost to a cave a little farther in. ‘Hide here,’ they told me. I crept in feet first. I can stay here, I thought, as I lay on my stomach aiming out at my surroundings. You can trust us, they had said. They had not even asked if they could trust me. Two Syrians, the first people to suffer in this hell, when being asked for help, they helped.”
The men listening to him nodded.
“A little later in the day they returned. ‘Help me get to Abu Hafs,’ I asked them. The judge who had acquitted me was my only hope. A Somali on the run was never going to make it out of ISIS territory. I had to reach Abu Hafs and explain what had happened. The young man removed some of his clothes, typical Syrian farmer’s garb worn in layers. He wrapped a red-and-white shawl around my face. Disguised as a local farmer, I left the scattered woodland, emerged onto the road, and traipsed the few miles toward al-Dana. Abu Hafs’s base lay in the center of town, between the town hall and the market. It was like venturing into the lion’s den, but facing up to those in power was better than being caught at a random roadblock. I could tell by the guards’ dialects that they, like the judge, were Saudi Arabian. They led me into a waiting room of sorts, where a black flag hung on the wall. After a while a guard instructed me to follow him. Abu Hafs did not seem overly surprised to see me. ‘They’re looking for you,’ he said. ‘The Libyan is dead.’ The fat one had shot him in a major artery and they had not been able to stop the bleeding. Afterward the fat ass told them that I had attacked them and escaped. Now I am really in deep trouble, I thought. But Abu Hafs merely shrugged and said everyone was replaceable. ‘You could take the Libyan’s place,’ he suggested. ‘You’ve been a soldier. You know how to defend yourself. You should join us.’ I made no reply. ‘Are you dubious?’ he asked. I suddenly felt Abu Hafs’s hand on my shoulder. He grabbed my waist and ran his hands down my legs, before gauging the width of my shoulders. ‘To check your size. For a uniform,’ he explained. He offered me money, a big house. I implored him to drive me here. Eventually he called in some drivers. We drove straight through all the roadblocks. And now I’m here.”
Sadiq asked for another cigarette. One of the youths laid a whole pack down in front of him. He continued, “Do you know why I ended up in that hellhole? My son-in-law wanted me dead. He wanted me gone, so I wouldn’t be able to save my daughters. Anyway, enough about what has been,” Sadiq said. “Now we need to find a way to free my daughters.”
There was silence in the room, everyone waited for someone else to speak up.
“We need a good plan,” Osman said. “In the meantime, you have to leave. This is not the right time to continue searching. These are troubled times and it is not safe for you here. ISIS has taken control of almost all of Atmeh…”
That same night a pickup pulled up outside the house to drive Sadiq to the border via the olive grove where he had crossed over the first time. As he was getting into the vehicle, Osman called out to him.
“You won’t get into Turkey with that.” He smiled, pointing at the assault rifle Sadiq had over his shoulder.
Sadiq slung it off and handed it to Osman. “It’s a gift to you and your family. Take good care of it.”
He turned to the street, where two vehicles were approaching at full speed. They had black flags fixed to the roofs. The cars roared toward where they stood. Finished, Sadiq thought. I’m finished. It’s over. All his strength deserted him.
The cars sped past, skidding to a stop at a gate farther along the street. Masked men jumped out, kicked the door in, and stormed inside.
Survey. Monitor. Abduct. Eliminate. The plan was working.
21
HOME
“Did you send someone to kill Dad?”
Ismael typed in the question to his sister. He was shaken after his father told him about what had happened to him in captivity. Ayan’s husband had been the one responsible for his imprisonment, torture, and attempted murder, according to his father.
There was no reply.
After crossing the border into Turkey, Sadiq had wandered about in Hatay for a couple of days contemplating whether to go back and make another attempt to rescue his daughters or to go home and gather his strength. He chose the latter.
When he landed in Oslo, he felt like being stretchered off the airplane, and as the airport train neared his stop in Sandvika, his emotions welled up. Norwegians think we immigrants have no feelings for this country, he thought, as he got into a taxi and gave the driver his address. But he, he loved Norway.
Sara. Ismael. Jibril. Isaq. They hugged him where he’d been beaten. When he cuddled up to Sara that night in bed, he felt like a small child who had finally found his mother.
Sara had been through the worst time of her life. Worse than during the civil war in Somalia, worse than when Sadiq went on ahead to Norway, worse than her arrival in that ice-cold country. Following her last conversation with Ayan, when she had pleade
d with her daughter to return home with her father and had found out Ayan was married, her existence had become a blur. She had not heard any more from her daughters or from Sadiq. She feared the three of them were dead. Perhaps they had been shot, all of them together? Perhaps their bodies had been left in the desert to rot in the scorching sun? Had her boys become fatherless?
Every day, she was terrified that Child Welfare would turn up and take Jibril and Isaq. She had to make it look as though she was a mother who could handle her situation.
She felt a huge sense of relief when Sadiq finally phoned. You’re alive!
But despair was quick to take hold again. He had made it out alone. The girls were still with that dangerous group.
* * *
“Turn on your TV!” Ela wrote.
It was early December and the evening news had just begun.
“Holy shit!!!!!” Ivana texted back. “Wow, I actually realized it just now!”
“Me too. It’s unbelievable. Should we drop in on her family tomorrow? Just to, you know, show our support?” Ela asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never really spoken to them that much. Not sure I want to pop by. Or if it’s appropriate seeing as they’re trying to keep everything on the down low.”
“Yeah, I get you,” Ela replied. “I wouldn’t know what to say anyway.”
They had been inseparable. Now Ela was singing in a pop band. Ivana was soon off to Australia to study. Ayan had gone to take part in a holy war.
Teenagers in their bedrooms in Bærum pored over the media coverage. On the Facebook page that Leila’s class had retained, a new thread appeared.
Leila has been hurt
Two Sisters: A Father, His Daughters, and Their Journey Into the Syrian Jihad Page 26