“Have you heard from the girls?” she asked.
“Ayan is here!”
He handed the phone to his daughter. “Talk to your mom!”
Two minutes.
“Ayan!” he heard Sara say. She was crying into the receiver. “Come back! Come home with your dad!”
Ayan just stood there.
Her mother continued talking: “Go with your father!”
Ayan took a deep breath. “I can’t, Mom…”
“Yes, you can!”
One minute.
“I can’t, Mom, it’s not possible … I’ve married!”
Sara gasped.
The guards began to move toward them.
Ayan handed her father the phone.
Sadiq looked at her. “You can’t get married without … You listen to me! Do you know what the punishment is for that?”
His daughter stood staring at him.
“We’ve made our choice, Dad. Please respect that. We have the support of the sheikhs here,” she said in a calm voice.
He wanted to pull her close, hold her, but she had already turned to leave.
Time was up.
The guards escorted her out. She disappeared across the floor like a black wave.
She had deceived them, betrayed them, she had given herself to some man he did not even know. Whom had she married? He had not had the chance to ask her.
He took a moment to think things through. Ayan was a prisoner. Leila was wounded. They had to go back to the hospital to get her, then return here tomorrow to sort things out.
Sadiq was given back his weapon and ammunition belt. He left with Osman, who had been waiting outside. The Syrian was relieved to see him again. The court had scared them all.
At dawn the following day, Osman suggested bringing along his friend Hamza, a commander in al-Nusra, to negotiate. Hamza went by the nickname “the Lion.” The young man had a big beard, a mane to rival his namesake, and moved like a youthful predator, vigilant and lissome. He was the one who usually livened up the atmosphere in Osman’s backyard. Now he sat silently in the car. Shrewdness was what was called for at the moment. They had already been to the hospital earlier that morning and failed to gain admission.
“We have to prevent this from becoming a matter of prestige, avoid them losing face,” he said to Sadiq, and impressed upon him the need to come across as humble.
Only then would he get his daughters. ISIS had to feel like the dominant party; they bridled at the first sign of opposition. Although Osman was a big-time smuggler in Atmeh and respected in al-Nusra, he meant nothing to ISIS. These men had come from all around the world and taken over portions of his and Hamza’s country, and now acted as if they owned it.
When they reached the court, his Syrian companions were told to wait outside, Sadiq was the only one invited in. He was ordered to leave his weapon with Hamza and Osman.
“I don’t like this,” Osman mumbled.
“Sadiq, you’re under our protection. It’ll be fine,” Hamza promised. Osman turned in his seat. “Just go in. See this through!” Hamza insisted. “Nothing can happen to you as long as we’re here.”
Inside, Sadiq was offered a chair and a glass of tea.
Once again he was asked to enlist in the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria. Were they so lacking for people?
Sadiq, as on the previous occasion, tried to sidestep the question, responding that it was a possibility, not something he would rule out, but first he wanted to see his girls.
Time dragged on, people came and went, until eventually a man motioned to him to get to his feet. The man, who spoke in a Tunisian dialect and was accompanied by a couple of others, led him outside. They halted in a yard.
A masked man approached them. “Your son-in-law wants to meet you.”
“Who?”
“Your son-in-law.”
“Where?”
The man pointed to a vehicle a little way off. It was a pickup, silver-gray. It was some twenty yards away, parked by the wall surrounding the yard.
“Your son-in-law is in the car. He’s from Norway. He wants to speak to you.”
Sadiq looked in the direction of the pickup, thought about it for a moment, then said, “If he wants to meet me, he should come over here.”
The guard walked over to the vehicle and exchanged a few words with the occupant through the window. He insisted that Sadiq go to him.
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 to
ld 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 noticed it was wet. He sucked on his own blood.
* * *
Something landed on him. It was wet, heavy, warm—a person.
For a moment he just lay there, with a man on top of him. Then he heaved him aside and nodded off again. Two men entered—were they the same ones who had beaten him up, or some others? They grabbed hold of the man, hauled him up, and pounded him with the butts of their weapons. Sadiq tried to get out of the way but could not escape blows to his own head, shoulders, and neck. The other man cried out, “Ya ummi!” Mother! He raised his hands to defend himself, fell, picked himself up, stood, before dropping to the ground and lying there motionless. The last of the kicks provoked no reaction.
A small, thickset guy with broad features and an unkempt beard lifted the man’s arm and let it go. The man’s hand thumped lifelessly onto the floor, and the torturer said, “Our prey is all set.”
They took one foot each and pulled, hauling the man like a sack. His head thudded against the floor as they dragged him over the threshold. Streaks of blood were left behind down the corridor.
“Lock the door on that other piece of shit!” the little stocky one with the beard shouted in broken Arabic.
The guard slammed the door shut. The lock clicked. Sadiq was alone.
He lay dazed, hollowed out, and feeble. How long had he been here, without food or water? One day, two days, three? Faint with thirst, he dozed off, awoke again. He felt like he was sinking, trapped in quicksand. Blindly, he descended ever deeper, went under, his mouth filled up, his nose, his throat. He lost all air. Choked. Sank into the depths.
* * *
His enfeebled body went on high alert as the door jerked open and light was let in. He saw the outline of a man in the doorway. He was tall and well built. Sadiq crouched in the corner, readying himself for the blows. They had come to get him. It was his turn. His time was up.
The man handed him a cup of lentil soup. Sadiq drank slowly. It was the best thing he had ever tasted. When the cup was empty, he licked around the inside, as far as his tongue could reach, before running his fingers over the bottom to get the last drops. Then he licked his fingers until no taste of the soup remained.
The guard returned. With water and a crust of bread. Why was he being given food all of a sudden, what did that mean? Was it a good sign? A bad sign? A last meal?
When the guard came back to collect the cup, Sadiq asked what had happened to the man who had been taken out.
“You don’t want to know,” the guard replied in a local dialect and slammed the door shut.
That evening, or that night, or whatever it was, the three men returned. The guard had screwed a lightbulb in the ceiling, so now Sadiq was better able to make them out. He recognized one of them: The orchestrator of the beating from the night before was short, compact, with a black beard spreading high up his plump cheeks, almost reaching his eyes. His face was broad, his hair tousled. The other man was tall, maybe close to six feet, with pale skin and dark, sleek hair. By his dialect Sadiq guessed he was Libyan. The last man was slender, with a golden tinge to his black skin, he could have been from the Horn of Africa, Eritrea perhaps.
The broad-faced, well-built one squatted in front of Sadiq. He did not say anything, merely stared right at him, his eyes fixed on Sadiq’s. The two others stood behind him. They all had handguns. No one said a word.
They stared at him in silence.
They’re trying to break me, Sadiq thought. The burly one remained squatting in front of him, the weight of his pistol making a pouch in the tunic. Sadiq decided to meet his gaze, to fight back: I’m not so easy to crush, just try.
He shifted position. His thickset counterpart did not. The man was younger than he had first thought, in his early twenties perhaps. Sadiq continued to eyeball him: I’m an older wolf than you. I would beat you in a fair fight.
He felt his heart beating and tried to breathe evenly. He used the technique he had learned as a sharpshooter to calm his pulse. But his heart would not allow itself to be mastered.
The bearded one got to his feet abruptly without saying anything, kicked Sadiq, and walked out. The other two followed.
* * *
“Why are you here?” the guard asked him the next morning.
“I don’t know,” Sadiq answered.
“You ought to know,” the young men went on. “Because this is death row.”
Sadiq felt a jolt pass through him.
“What have you done?”
“I’m innocent,” Sadiq said. “Let me explain, let me see a judge!”
“Impossible,” the guard replied. “The judge has had his say.”
“I’m here to find my daughters, to take them back home…”
“You’re a traitor!”
“I’m a father!”
The guard spat in his face. “Kazab!” Liar! He spat again. “You’re spying for Western intelligence.”
Sadiq wiped off the clot of spit and looked right at the guard.
“My daughters just up and left and … now … I … am … searching…”
“You’re lying. Kazab, kazab!” The guard left.
A dark feeling spread.
After a time the guard returned with a copy of the Koran.
“Can you swear on the Koran?” he asked, looking Sadiq in the eye.
“No,” Sadiq replied, “I cannot. I’m covered in shit. I can’t touch God’s book like this.”
The guard went out, with the book in hand. When he returned, he led Sadiq into the backyard, turned on a tap, and hosed him down. A rush of life gushed through him and he gulped greedily at the water washing over him. Blood, shit, and sweat ran down his body, it was as though the cold water whipped him back to life. Drink! Drink! went the refrain in his mind.
Once he was back in the cell, the guard returned with the Koran. Sadiq placed his hand on it and repeated the words the guard said aloud.
“Wallahi bi’l Qur’an…” I swear on the Koran …
That he was not a spy. That he was not a traitor. That he was not an infidel.
Then Sadiq said, “I have only one mission in Syria—to find my daughters.”
The ISIS guard studied him for a time. “I believe you,” he said. “Call me Abu Ahmed.”
“My name is Abu Ismael,” Sadiq replied.
Abu Ahmed went out and returned with a dry blanket. “I can’t really help you, but I’ll try. I don’t want to meet Allah after making a big mistake. But if they come for you, there’s nothing I can do.”
What would happen then, if they came? Who were t
hey?
* * *
That night Sadiq was awakened again by a person being thrown into the cell. A heavy man, large and muscly, was dumped on top of him. His body was wet, and it was not from water or sweat; he was coated in blood.
The man tried to get up. He stepped on Sadiq, who pushed him off. There wasn’t room for both of them.
“Wish al-jahim hada?” the man bawled. What kind of hell have I wound up in?
“Calm down!”
“Who are you?” the man asked.
Sadiq gave a dry laugh. “There’s no point asking me who I am.”
They stood, each with his back against a wall, facing each other.
“What sort of hell is this?” the man asked again.
“Zinzanat al-qatl bi qisas,” Sadiq said in Arabic.
The man took hold of Sadiq and pressed him against the cold, damp surface.
“What did you say?”
Qatl bi qisas was the term in sharia for the principle of retribution, an eye for an eye, a death sentence, in other words. Zinzanat meant “cell.”
The man held him tightly. Sadiq managed to get his hand around the other man’s throat and squeezed. He felt the strength in the man’s young body, the sticky blood on his skin.
“Look me in the eyes,” Sadiq said.
The man gave a bitter laugh. “What eyes?”
“Above where my voice is coming from,” Sadiq said.
The man released his grip.
“They can’t kill me. I’m from here. I’m Syrian. But you, who fell from the sky, you they can kill, not me!”
“Pull yourself together and listen to me. You being from Syria or my falling from the sky makes no difference, we’re in the death cell. That’s how it is.”
“No! It can’t be like that!”
He banged at the door with his foot, kicked at it with his heel, hammered with his fists. It opened.
“Antum majanin?” Are you crazy? It was Abu Ahmed. “Khalas!” Stop! Shut up! Keep it down and stay away from the door.
The young man gave one more kick, this time at the clammy wall.
“Where are you from?” Sadiq asked.
“From here. A village on the crest of the hill, a little west of here.”
“My name is Abu Ismael, I’m from Somalia.”
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