Two Sisters

by Åsne Seierstad

  Emira had repeatedly denounced the West to a member of the organization she was now leaving.

  “You mean you support terrorism against civilian targets?” he had asked.

  At first Emira would not answer.

  “Like a café, for example?” the young man went on.

  Emira had grinned.

  Aisha had departed the organization in disappointment. Ayan had politely taken her leave. Emira had moved on, Dilal too. She had never felt particularly welcome in Islam Net in any case.

  Besides, they all had new heroes.

  * * *

  At the end of September 2012, several hundred people gathered outside the American embassy in Oslo. They had come to demonstrate against the film Innocence of Muslims, which they believed was offensive to Muhammad. On the pavement between the Palace Park and the triangular embassy building, black flags with the Islamic creed inscribed contrasted sharply with the blue sky.

  “Obama, Obama, we are all Osama!” was chanted loudly.

  The police filmed the demonstrators, who included militant Islamists, convicted violent offenders, renegades from Islam Net, and twenty or so well-covered women. There had been an internal discussion about whether or not women could participate in the demonstrations and it was decided they could, as long as there was no “mixing with the opposite sex.” A young man calling himself Abu Muaz had put up the rules for demonstrations on a secret Facebook group page: “Brothers and sisters shall stand separately. Brothers in front and sisters behind, with some brothers forming a guard who will ensure compliance and that sisters/mothers are not exposed to scorn from the enemies of Islam.”

  The group now had a name: the Prophet’s Ummah.

  Ubaydullah Hussain addressed the crowd. “Nothing is more beloved to us Muslims than the Prophet! We thirst for revenge!” The punishment for slighting Islam is death, he said. “The world needs a new Osama bin Laden!”

  Some of the people standing on Henrik Ibsens Gate that autumn day were occupied with thoughts of traveling to Syria to take part in jihad—a duty ordered by God when Muslims were under attack.

  One of them was Hisham Hussain Ahmed, who had come alone from Eritrea to Norway as a minor, had been settled in the Juma family’s neighborhood and had manned the mission stand with Ayan on Oslo’s main street the previous year, too timid and polite to approach passersby.

  Hisham had escaped from war when he was thirteen years old.

  Now he had war on his mind once again.

  His life had been without direction recently. He was working as a deliveryman for a crooked employee in a transport company, a midlevel manager taking on jobs off the books. Some of the money was winding up in Hisham’s pockets.

  The good thing about a cash-in-hand job was that he could also receive unemployment benefits. It allowed him more time to do what he liked best, fishing. He was free to go to Sandvikselva, the premier trout river in the Oslo area, with a friend in the middle of the day and stay until midnight. Or he could get out of bed at three or four in the morning, the summer sun already up, grab his fishing equipment, find a nice spot, cast a line, and lose himself in a reverie.

  He had never been in his element before. Barely literate when he arrived in Norway, he had struggled in many subjects at school. English, which he had not a word of, had proved particularly challenging. Compounding his failure was the fact that he refused to do any homework. He gave up easily when something bored him. The teachers were kind and awarded him a pass, often with the lowest grade. His gym teacher tipped him off about Wild X, a multicultural outdoor activity organization for immigrants and other “asphalt kids,” as the organizer, Tor Bach, called them. Hisham was invited along to canoe and fish. This was a relief from the interminable hours spent cross-country skiing in gym class. On skiing days, he did not complete the course until hours after the first finishers, since he had neither grown up skiing nor learned how. Toward the end of secondary school, his life began going downhill drastically. He started hanging around with the Kosovar bad boy Egzon Avdyli, smoking hash, drinking, and partying. Nonattendance was common.

  In the company of Wild X, he could both relax and challenge himself. He learned how to read a map and use a compass, and how to light a campfire. In the winter they built snow caves and spent the night in them, and the participants who passed the hunting license test were allowed to go on a grouse hunt.

  When school finished for the day, he worked at an institution for people with disabilities. He was popular with both colleagues and those in his care, more for his ability to entertain than his hard work. When the time came to make plans for life after school, a guidance counselor suggested that since he had enjoyed his time working at the institution, he should consider qualifying as a social worker and take a degree in health and social work.

  “Society needs competent social workers who understand how mental and social problems arise and how to offer help in a professional manner,” read the description of the social worker degree. Despite his appalling grades, he was accepted by Volda University College.

  Volda is a beautiful spot, situated by a fjord, with houses spreading up the mountainside. When the summer sun shines, the sea and landscape glitter in blue and green, against a backdrop of sharply outlined snow-covered peaks reaching skyward. Perfect for everything he enjoyed—mountain hikes, fishing trips, and grouse hunts.

  But autumn came and things turned gray, cold, and gradually black. The safe surroundings of secondary school were gone, he was not prepared for further studies, still barely able to write in Norwegian.

  His roommates in the student block noticed that he sequestered himself with a book. But it was not a course book he was absorbed in. It was the Koran.

  Before the first semester came to an end, he had dropped out. On returning to Oslo, he got a job as a parking lot attendant. One of his colleagues was Ubaydullah Hussain.

  * * *

  In late winter 2012, Tor Bach of Wild X received a call from Hisham. They had not seen each other in three or four years, and Bach was pleasantly surprised to hear from his former hiking companion.

  “It’s been ages!” he said, and told him to drop by.

  Tor Bach was a sturdy fellow, open and nonjudgmental. He was also behind a left-leaning website called the Wasp, which had as its stated goal to engage in “investigative journalism about violent, racist, totalitarian and anti-democratic groups and milieus.” His eyes widened when the pike fisherman, as they had called Hisham in Wild X, came in with three pals, all bearded, as jihadist fashion required.

  The last time he had seen Hisham, he was a slight teenager. Now he was pumped up from lifting weights.

  “You look like al-Shabaab!” Tor Bach chuckled.

  His comment did not raise even the hint of a smile from Hisham. Wannabe jihadists displayed a total lack of self-irony, Bach thought.

  There was hardness in Hisham’s eyes, or was he just putting on a tough guy act? What had happened? He remembered that Hisham had a penchant at times for some pretty bizarre conspiracy theories, but this…?

  The stern-faced visitors wasted no time on small talk and got right down to business. They wanted places in the hunting course.

  Bach was silent. He looked at them, hesitating before enumerating the practical details. First there were classes in theory, nine in total, three evenings a week for three weeks. The title of the first class was Humane Hunting and Ethics. After that was Practical Shooting and Hunting Techniques. They would learn rules and regulations, animal species, and weapon safety. They would be taught about the different breeds of hunting dog and given an introduction on how to deal with downed game. After the courses, they could take the official hunting license test arranged by the local authorities.

  Passing the exam granted a firearms license.

  “When does the course start?” Hisham asked.

  When the three Islamists had left, Bach called PST.

  “We can’t stop anyone from taking the hunting exam course as long as th
ey haven’t committed any crime,” the police told him. “But we will keep an eye on them.”

  The answer did not put Tor Bach’s mind at ease.

  * * *

  Bach registered their enrollment. The course started. Hisham and his friends were a lot more interested in weapons than in grouse and deer. One of the other participants told Bach he had overheard the bearded guys talking about hunting Yahud—Jews.

  By the time the theoretical element was completed, Easter was over and the spring sun had melted the snow. It was time for shooting practice at a firing range. Tor Bach took everyone by the hand and informed them of the rules. The course participants were then allowed to start shooting.

  “Allahu Akbar!” Hisham and the others called out when they hit the target.

  Tor Bach stood silently and watched. On the other side of the fence was a white car with two men inside. It was the PST observing and taking photographs.

  The date for the exam was approaching. What the hell was he supposed to do?

  He called PST again.

  “We can’t intervene and we can’t stop them from taking the exam,” was the response.

  But Tor Bach could. He broke the adult education laws and neglected to enroll them. When Hisham got in touch to ask when they could take the exam, he told him, “There’s something wrong here. I don’t get it, but I can’t seem to put your names down.”

  Hisham called him up again, angrier this time. “What’s going on?! When is the exam?”

  Tor Bach told him he didn’t have the foggiest clue, but the system refused to let him register their names.

  “Could it possibly be due to a criminal record of some kind?” Bach asked.

  Hisham did not make contact again.

  * * *

  Hisham’s wife was at home, nearing the end of her pregnancy. The child was due in December.

  The couple disagreed about where they should live. Hisham believed it was haram to reside in a non-Muslim country. He wanted to travel to Syria and outlined a life in prayer and battle, in loyalty to God on sacred soil. He wanted them to go together, have the child there, and live in a righteous Islamic way. If they were killed, they’d be guaranteed a place in paradise.

  The mother-to-be did not find the idea appealing. Her life was right here. She worked at a kindergarten and argued that they could live good Muslim lives in Norway, just as they were already doing.

  Her husband was stubborn. Jihad was more important than anything else, than him, than her, than them. It was for God.

  A friend thought Hisham’s plan was rash. “You need to know Islam through and through before you travel. Only then can you make the right decision,” he told him.

  In spite of everything he had read in the holy book, Hisham had only a passing, and highly selective, knowledge of Islam.

  “I’m just not made for studying, for reading,” Hisham responded. “As long as I manage to fulfill my obligation to pray every day, then that’s enough for me.”

  Another friend was also skeptical. “You lack purpose in life. You go to bed and get up when you want, fish at night and sleep in the daytime. Now you want to take your family to Syria, without even knowing why. Read the Koran first, put off traveling.”

  Hisham responded to both pieces of advice with what had become the mantra of the ummah collective: “We are not people of knowledge, we are people of war.”

  He left Norway in November 2012, a few weeks prior to his wife’s due date. She was left on her own to experience the heartbeats and kicks of the child, the worry and anxiety about the birth; she was alone when the contractions began, and when the child came into the world.

  After the birth, she had a tough time. She moved back in with her parents, could hardly face getting out of bed, stayed indoors, and rejected her child. Postpartum depression had set in, interrupted only by intense panic attacks. She might be possessed by the devil, the parents feared, observing her angst-ridden attacks. Her parents tried to calm her by reading the Koran to her.

  In Syria, Hisham joined Jabhat al-Nusra. Several others from the Prophet’s Ummah followed in his wake. Among them was the Chilean Bastian, who had not traveled empty-handed. He had collected money for the Islamist relief organization Al-Furqan in Grønland. People had put large sums of money into the collection boxes; sometimes the volunteers were handed thick envelopes filled with cash. Zakat—alms—is one of the Five Pillars of Islam, and Al-Furqan’s charity drive had led to substantial donations being made to the organization after Friday prayers.

  A number of criteria had to be met before you could collect money for Al-Furqan. You had to swear baya—loyalty—to the emir of the organization, be a practicing Muslim, train in martial arts, and support Muslims who were on haqq—the true and righteous path—and all the oppressed. Beyond that, Allah was the only one you need answer to. “Allah is our auditor,” was the mantra.

  Bastian did not answer to anyone but himself. When he left for Syria, he took all the money he had collected with him. The head of Al-Furqan was furious. The swindler would answer to Allah on the day of judgment. But Bastian said the money would be put to best use where he found himself, because when Al-Furqan sent aid to refugees, they also risked helping sinners, yes, even “people who smoked.” So his helping himself to the money was legitimate.

  Like Hisham, Bastian also left a child behind. He had married a Somali teenager in a Muslim ceremony about a year earlier. The girl had escaped from the marriage after becoming pregnant and moved home with her parents when he had turned violent and domineering. She reported him to the police, who wrote in their report, “He beat her, kept her confined, refused to allow her to go outside unless she dressed in clothing covering her head/face completely—nikab.” He continued to try to see her, so she obtained a restraining order. This report said: “She was certain that the reason Bastian wanted them to live together was not because he loved her, but in order to have control over the child. He has told her that he wishes the child to be brought up in a Muslim country and furthermore had planned to raise the child to perform a suicide mission.”

  Another woman soon joined Bastian. Emira—the student of computer engineering—left behind college, her parents, and her planned wedding. The former soccer-playing girl threw everything overboard for what she viewed as her freedom—Syria. In Turkey, Emira was met by Bastian, who had taken the name Abu Safiyya. They married before crossing the border together.

  Hisham also wanted another wife. If his first wife changed her mind, took their child, and followed him, that would be no problem; in Syria he could have four wives. He spoke neither Arabic nor English and there were few Eritrean women in Syria, so he figured his best option was to follow Bastian’s example and bring a wife from Norway.

  He asked around.

  Emira sent constant updates to her friends. Things were good, Alhamdulillah. She had been allocated a place to stay together with Bastian, a large house with a garden and a backyard.

  Her parents were devastated—they had lost a daughter. Her cousin in Pakistan was disappointed; he had lost his admission ticket to the West.

  Aisha also wanted to go. She had been the prime mover in the gang, after all. But her pregnancy held her back. She told Dilal, who was studying nursing at Oslo University College, of her frustration.

  “Are you mad?” her friend exclaimed. “That’s no place for a baby! Not for you either.”

  But Dilal was also drifting toward the rugged men in the Prophet’s Ummah. A Norwegian girlfriend who had converted had introduced her to the milieu. She had said that they were a bit wild, but that the leader was handsome and intriguing.

  Dilal asked to join the private Facebook page of the Prophet’s Ummah. Membership was controlled by the handsome and intriguing leader himself—Ubaydullah Hussain, the man Emira had at one time had a crush on and whom Aisha had proposed to before she married Arfan Bhatti. He had to ensure that those seeking admission were strict Muslims and not journalists, researchers, or working for PST.
>
  A short time after Dilal asked to become a member of the group, she received a reply on Messenger. It was from Ubaydullah Hussain.

  “You’re not wearing a hijab on your profile picture. Why?”

  Dilal answered that she was not ready.

  “Why do you want to join?”

  “To learn. I’m curious.”

  “You’re not a Shia, are you?”

  “No.”

  Silence. That was the end of the exchange.

  Was it due to her not being covered up? The fact she was a Kurd? Who did this guy think he was?

  A couple of days later her younger brother received an SMS and exclaimed, “What the…? Ubaydullah Hussain has sent me a text. He’s asking if I’m Shia. What does that terrorist want with me?”

  Dilal pretended not to know but was secretly pleased. Ubaydullah must have looked through her profile and come across her brother. That meant he was taking her seriously. Her brother, who was in the same year as Ayan at Dønski, realized something was going on. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he warned her.

  The next time she logged on to Facebook, she found a notification that she had been accepted into the private group. She began reading the posts and comments.

  Ubaydullah got in touch again before too long. He wanted to act as her personal guide. Dilal was flattered. Although she disagreed with most of what he wrote, there was something about him she found appealing. They chatted online more and more often, in the daytime and evenings. At some point she let go of her own opinions. What he said had to be true. It must be right. He had read the whole Koran. He knew it by heart. How could she contradict him?

  In no time, everything he said was the obvious, unadorned truth.

  “Can we get to know each other?” he asked one day.

  They arranged to go for a walk. Dilal was nervous. He was in a relationship, he told her, but was in the process of breaking up. They strolled for several hours. Along the way he halted abruptly and asked her, “What is it you want?”