Two Sisters

by Åsne Seierstad

  It was calm at the eye of the storm. A few villages over, the jihadists were in control. A couple of hours away Assad was bombing Aleppo. The Kurds were a few miles west, and directly north lay Turkey.

  The shifting alliances formed a perfect backdrop for profit. Wads of cash were counted. Ammunition, rifles, cars, two sisters—everything had a price in this cross between a military camp and a gangsters’ lair.

  Apart from Osman’s mother, Sadiq had never seen any women in the house. He had heard voices; one he assumed belonged to Osman’s wife and others he guessed to be those of his sisters. But he did not know what they were called. Osman never mentioned them by name, and it did not seem appropriate to ask.

  In the evenings, when Sadiq lay in the guesthouse, Osman’s voice dominated. He was no henpecked husband, that was for sure. He yelled and told people off, was quick-tempered and impatient. Osman and his wife had two daughters. Four-year-old Randa had the same auburn hair as her father, the same eyes, fair skin, and energy. She took after him in every way. She was boisterous and brave—to his despair; he didn’t view her behavior as appropriate for a girl. Sadiq never saw Osman play with his daughter. When she approached him, he usually sent her away with, “Go in to your mother!” One time she clambered up on his shoulders while he sat in the shade talking. He pulled her off and told her never to do that again, and another time when she was running around the yard with a neighbor boy and knocked over a glass of tea, her father slapped her hard across the cheek. He shouted to his wife, “Don’t let her out here anymore!”

  “She’s too active, that girl,” he sighed afterward. “I don’t know what I’ll do with her. It will only get her into trouble if she continues on like this.”

  Sadiq, who had always allowed his daughters to climb, swim, and play ball, would cheer for Randa when she saw her chance and snuck out. He would kick the ball her cousin left in the backyard back and forth with her. She would squeal with delight. Osman scowled at them but did not say anything.

  Arabs have some odd ideas when it comes to women, Sadiq thought. How long would it be before Randa’s spirit was broken?

  * * *

  The search went slowly. Osman had undertaken new jobs, some of which were lucrative. He was tasked with smuggling a bunch of jihadists across the border from Turkey and spent a long time planning the operation. There were bribes, middlemen, and drivers to think of. The fighters were to be picked up at the airport in Hatay, driven to a house in one of the villages near the Turkish side of the border, before being transported over when the Turks looked the other way, and delivered to an ISIS base. With Osman’s help, the jihadists would get their reinforcements.

  There was no sign of life from the girls. No one had seen them, no one even thought they might have seen them.

  One day when Sadiq and Osman were waiting for lunch, Sadiq’s mobile phone rang.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  It was Leila.

  Sadiq got to his feet and went to a corner. Don’t scare her off, don’t scare her away, he told himself. He did his best to speak calmly.

  “Leila, darling, where are you?”

  “Dad, stop looking for us. Just return to Norway, go back home to Mom and the others.”

  “I need to see you. Where are you?”

  His daughter failed to answer. He told her where he was.

  “I’m in Atmeh. Right next to the Turkish border. Why don’t you both come here, or tell me where you are, then I can come and get you.”

  The line went dead. He remained standing, waiting for her to call back.

  Grilled chicken with raw onion and bread was placed on the table. He sat down without uttering a word; he had to take this in on his own. The other men were absorbed in their meal. Afterward they smoked and drank tea.

  Then he turned to Osman. “The girls called me!”

  * * *

  While his father was waiting in the afternoon sun in Atmeh, Ismael received a text from Fatima Abdallah. He had just gotten home from school. It was three weeks since his sisters had left.

  “We have spoken to Dad, we’re going to meet him soon, everything is still fine with us.” The message continued point by point.

  1.  We have not been kidnapped and are not being held against our will.

  2.  We aka Leila and I planned everything from the itinerary to money. Leila inspired me and encouraged me to go. So stop blaming everyone else. We were planning this for almost a year.

  3.  We did this 100% for Allah’s sake. Not for any boyfriends or anyone else. So fear Allah and do not listen to the lies of the kuffar aka media.

  The tone was familiar—his sister, the know-it-all—had not changed. He replied sarcastically, “Nice! Lovely to hear from you.”

  “We really want to stay in touch, unfortunately we cannot tell you anything if it’s all going to end up in the media.”

  Ismael did not reply.

  “We love you all loads,” the girls added.

  * * *

  Behind the blue gate in Atmeh, the men paced back and forth waiting for the phone to ring again. Between the yard and the living room, in and out again.

  The soft chairs in the backyard gave no rest, the shade was not cool.

  Sadiq’s telephone began to vibrate.

  “Daddy, we’re on our way to Atmeh.”

  Osman leaped up from the mattress.

  “The roundabout! Tell them to go to the roundabout!” he shouted and began marshaling the men. He would negotiate the girls’ release, he promised.

  Sadiq made ready to leave, but Osman refused to take him along. “You’ll only mess it up,” he said. “You’re the father. Too much emotion involved.” Negotiations were his area of expertise.

  “I’ll go and check it out,” he said.

  Sadiq insisted on coming along, but then Abu Omar, Osman’s father, butted in. “My son will secure your daughters’ release.”

  Osman left. Sadiq immediately regretted letting him go without him. They were his daughters! He sat waiting. He smoked a cigarette. Called Osman. Lit another. Smoked. Called again. Lit one more. He pressed his palms together, drummed the fingers of one hand against the other. He got to his feet, sat back down. He heard shooting and went out into the yard. He listened, attempting to gauge where it was coming from. The crackling sound suggested multiple weapons. He had grown accustomed to the exchange of gunfire here due to the many militias competing for control of the smuggling route. It could flare into skirmishes that moved the front line from house to house, from one street to the next. The roads in and out of town, the highways and bridges were important points of control, but whoever controlled the roundabout controlled Atmeh. The shots were coming from the center of town, he surmised, as he walked in circles around the backyard.

  A car skidded to a stop outside. He heard the squeal of tires as it braked and he recognized the sound of the pickup. The door flew open. Osman stormed in, sweaty and red in the face.

  “Come on!”

  As Sadiq clambered in, Osman jumped behind the wheel and began relating what had happened in snatches.

  “More than one car. A black man. Two men in front. The girls in the backseat! They’re with ISIS! ISIS has them!”

  The driver of the lead car had entered the al-Nusra area without stopping at the checkpoint, a clear breach of the agreement between the local militias. The car had turned onto the roundabout. The man behind the wheel then made a complete circuit, as a show of power to prove he had the girls before exiting. But he was forced to stop by al-Nusra this time, and the commander, an older, experienced man, had approached the vehicle.

  As he drew close, the black man had put the car in reverse and then hit the accelerator, but he’d lost control and driven straight into some roadside vendors selling smuggled fuel in glass jars.

  The commander had made out two niqab-clad figures in the backseat. He had guessed who they were.

  “The girls’ father is in Atmeh,” he told the man behind the wheel. “He is under ou
r protection. Which means the girls are also under our protection.”

  The driver had again put the car in reverse and driven from the roundabout at full speed while the Nusra soldiers fired after it. They had been aiming at the tires but several shots pierced the hood and the side of the vehicle, which eventually made it over to the ISIS-controlled area a few streets away.

  “We didn’t follow them,” Osman told him. “Daesh are in control there. But … there is something else … I heard … someone said … that your younger daughter was hit!”

  It was as if his heart stopped beating. Leila was shot!

  “She’s at the hospital here in Atmeh,” Osman said.

  “We need to go there!”

  The Orian hospital was under ISIS control, and armed men stood outside. Sadiq and Osman were refused entry. Sadiq attempted to force his way in but was pushed back, eventually being thrown to the ground. He walked around the building, hoping to find another way to get inside.

  Osman begged him to be careful.

  “We have to tread carefully in our little town. We’re tiptoeing around one another, sounding each other out all the time. Remember that.”

  Sadiq, exhausted, slumped by the hospital wall. He wanted a cigarette, but that was not possible in front of the ISIS guards. Hours passed. The sun was beginning to go down. They sat on the ground with their backs to the wall in the wilted garden of the hospital. Flowers are not looked after in wartime.

  “The situation is unsettled,” Osman mumbled. “Everything is unsettled.”

  The young guards were hungry. Sadiq gave a wad of cash to Osman, who counted off some banknotes and handed them over. The boys soon returned with shawarma, large chunks of spicy lamb in a wrap. Sadiq chewed on one, the fresh chili burning his mouth.

  Afterward they sat drowsily, waiting for the hospital guards to change their minds, for Leila to come out. At midnight, the youths asked, “Can we lie down for a while?”

  They soon fell asleep on the ground with their weapons beneath their heads. Their features relaxed, loosened, their tense expressions disappearing. Only Sadiq remained sitting stiffly, alert, on watch.

  At one in the morning Osman’s wife called. She ordered her husband to return home.

  “Bring Sadiq with you!”

  “I want to be here when they decide to let us in,” Sadiq said.

  “Come home. We don’t want a head-on clash with ISIS now,” Osman said insistently. “We’ve already been through that once already today. Look how that ended!”

  “You’re a father. My youngest daughter is in there,” Sadiq said, pointing. “I’m staying.”

  But what they did not know was that Leila was no longer inside. She had arrived with a bullet lodged in her leg, just above the ankle. It was an ugly wound, and several nerves and tendons had been severed. The bullet had been removed by a young doctor named Firas. While he was dressing the wound, a gang of masked men entered.

  Firas asked Leila in English how she felt. Was she feeling nauseous from the sedative, was she…?

  “Don’t speak to my wife!” a man had shouted.

  He was well built and in good shape, not particularly tall, with an African appearance and the biggest, whitest set of teeth Firas had ever seen. The doctor straightened up, and bandaged Leila in silence while the men stood watching.

  “I’ll take her now,” the black man said when Firas had finished.

  “She should…,” Firas began. He looked at the masked gang, then at the white-as-chalk teeth. “She’ll need to have it looked at again. Bring her back in a week so I can check if the wound is healing all right.”

  The man had lifted Leila up without replying and carried her out. He placed her in the backseat of a silver-colored Land Rover and sped off.

  Sadiq, unaware of this, sat well into the night waiting for permission to enter. Eventually Osman left without him. Finally Sadiq also staggered home. He knew the way and walked alone through the streets of Atmeh, a weapon over his shoulder and ammunition around his waist.

  That day he had found his daughters, only to lose them again. They had called. They had come. Now they were gone.

  It was unreal. He did not call Sara.

  In the little guesthouse in Osman’s backyard, he could not settle down to rest. They were here, someplace nearby, but where?

  For what little was left of the night he twisted and turned in nightmares. He heard shots, hails of gunfire rained down upon him. ISIS soldiers took aim and fired, war raged all around him. He defended himself, returned fire, feeling a bullet enter his left shoulder, where the crate of Coca-Cola had injured him. He woke up drenched in sweat. Tried to get back to sleep but his thoughts would not let up. Was Leila badly wounded?

  An hour before sunrise, the muezzin called the faithful to prayer. Allahu Akbar. He got out of bed. There is no other god but Allah and Muhammad is his messenger. Finally he fell into a peaceful sleep.

  “We won’t get them out by force, we can’t start a war over your daughters,” Osman said. The sun had been up awhile and once again they were standing outside the hospital. Still they were denied entry. “Let’s go to the Islamic court, we can ask for a ruling that you have authority over them. We have to get a move on before they take them away with them,” Osman suggested.

  The girls had traveled to Syria without the permission of their father, who was their wali. It should, according to sharia, be a straightforward case, in Osman’s view. If the Koran and the hadith were to be complied with, Sadiq had authority over his daughters. If the Islamic court ruled in their favor, then the Islamists would have to obey the verdict. Nobody was above sharia.

  On arrival at the local Islamic court they were informed the matter would have to be determined by the court in al-Dana, an hour’s drive away.

  There they were met by a man dressed in the traditional tunic and ankle-length trousers. Sadiq told him why they had come and they were told to wait for the judge. Time passed. Maybe the court wanted money? A ransom?

  They were served tea before being shown in to Abu Qadim al-Tunisi. Sadiq put forward his arguments to the Tunisian judge, making reference to whatever he could remember the Prophet had said about children and parents.

  “They left without my permission. I have, therefore, the right to get them back,” he stated as calmly as he could. “According to the Koran, a father has authority over his daughters.”

  The Tunisian gave him a look of slight surprise from beneath his turban.

  “Well, the husband has authority now.”

  “Neither of my daughters are married,” Sadiq objected.

  “Yes…”

  Sadiq stared at the judge, dumbfounded.

  “Your elder daughter pledged her word in this courtroom,” the Tunisian went on. “The marriage is sealed by a sharia contract.”

  She must have been forced into it, Sadiq thought.

  “It has to be annulled,” Sadiq protested. “The Prophet says there can be no nikah without a wali,” he argued. This was the same as eloping, since when had that been allowed?

  The judge pondered the matter, then nodded. “There is no higher authority than the word of God as written in the Koran.”

  Reason had triumphed. When could he fetch his daughters?

  The judge continued in a calm voice. “This is jihad. It is the duty of every Muslim to take part. It is fard al-ayn, meaning she does not need your permission. God has granted her permission.”

  Sadiq shook his head vigorously. Was this supposed to be true Islam?

  A man entered. He too wore a tunic and ankle-length trousers. He sat down across from Sadiq. A group of men with headbands bearing the Islamic creed stood around them.

  ISIS had taken Muhammad’s seal as its own. A white, slightly uneven circle with the Arabic symbols in black: There is no other god than Allah and Muhammad is his messenger.

  “We’re at war,” the man said. “We need all the help we can get. What about becoming one of us? You can live here together with your da
ughters, and the rest of your family can come and join you. We can offer you a good life, a house. Everything you need.”

  “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.