Two Sisters

by Åsne Seierstad

  “Then you’re an atheist.”

  “Exactly. I know religion took my sisters from me so I’m turning my back on it.”

  “Don’t you believe in anything? Are you still afraid of jinn?”

  “Nope. I’m not even afraid of hell.”

  “What is an atheist’s solution to existence?”

  “I take things as they come. I like to base my life on facts.”

  “I need to go but write to me and I’ll reply whenever I can! Btw where is our dad?”

  “He went to an anti-IS demonstration.”

  “Is he planning on coming down here again?”

  “No, he says he doesn’t want anything more to do with you. He has erased you from his life or some crap like that.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “What makes you think Dad would ever return to Syria? After all, he did say he was almost killed.”

  “He’s said he’s going to come here to kill me and my husband and a load of other rubbish. Gotta go.”

  “Dad is not himself.”

  “I noticed. Sorry about that.” Ayan put in a sad emoji.

  “You’ve destroyed my life actually. Bye. All my brothers and sisters have left me. Dad is crazy. Mom hates me. That’s my life in a nutshell. I’m moving out ASAP to live my own life. Changing my name, cutting off contact with my family, moving to Jamaica and smoking weed.”

  * * *

  At the start of September 2014, two weeks after the video of the killing of James Foley was released, IS publicized its Second Message to America, a video showing the beheading of the American journalist Steven Sotloff. The murderer was the same, dressed in a black balaclava covering everything but his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He had been given the nickname “Jihadi John.”

  “I am back, Obama, and I am back because of your arrogant foreign policy toward the Islamic State, because of your insistence on continuing your bombings … just as your missiles continue to strike our people, our knife will continue to strike the necks of your people.”

  Women didn’t attend the public beheadings that took place in the square in Raqqa. Women and crowds were haram. But the wives of the fighters sometimes sat together watching videos of the beheadings that occurred at secret locations in the desert. They behaved just as bloodthirsty as their husbands and were happy to write about the killings on Twitter. “So many beheadings at the same time, Allahu Akbar, this video is beautiful #DawlaMediaTeamDoingItRight.” One woman wrote that she would have liked to have been the one who cut off Steven Sotloff’s head.

  Umm Irhab—Mother of Terror—described the pleasure the gruesome details gave her. “I was happy to see the beheading of that kafir, I just rewound to the cutting part. Allahu akbar! I wonder what he was thinking b4 the cut.” Another woman took delight in the eviction of a Syrian family from across the street. “I’m pretty sure the men got beheaded, women chucked out,” she gloated. Umm Irhab requested more beheadings and was quick to dismiss those criticizing the use of violence. Another woman summed up the attitude: “Beheading is halal. Go kill yourself if you say it’s haram.”

  Some of the women admitted not feeling fulfilled by having to sit and wait for the war to be won, and spoke of their desire to be on the actual battlefield. Umm Ubaydah wrote, “My best friend is my grenade, it’s an American one too, lol, May Allah allow me to kill their pig soldiers with their own weapons.” However, those wanting to fight were put in their place by their fellow sisters. “You may gain more ajr—reward—by spending years of sleepless nights by being a mother and raising your children with the right intentions and for the sake of Allah than by doing a martyrdom operation,” wrote Umm Layth—Mother of the Lion. The women’s brigades were a myth, she explained, there were even men who did not make it to the front, no matter how much they wanted, yes, there were men who grew so upset they wept because they were denied the opportunity of becoming martyrs in battle. “For the sisters it’s completely impossible for now. Inshallah in future.”

  Shots and explosions often broke the silence of the night in Raqqa, and after hearing more shots than usual, Umm Khattab feared the state was under attack: “Me and the sisters thought maybe murtads [apostates] were in the city lol I put the belt on and everything.”

  She was referring to an explosive belt, a device anyone could utilize in the event of an attack. In so doing, you also ensured you were not taken as spoils of war, with the awful fate that could befall a female prisoner.

  The rulers’ thoughts became the ruling thoughts. At least online, the wives of the foreign fighters accepted what truth they were served. It was haram to question established truths.

  The circle of friends back home that Ayan sometimes chatted with had diminished. Many had broken off contact with her. They were afraid of PST surveillance, but it was also due to how dogmatic she had become. One Iraqi classmate from Dønski continued to chat with her online, and on one occasion wrote how shocked she was by the rape of Yazidi and Kurdish women by IS. It was against Islam, she said.

  Ayan interrupted her. “They’re not women, they’re spoils of war.”

  “What?”

  “It says so in the Koran. It’s allowed.”

  “They’re being abducted and used as sex slaves!”

  “Spoils of war,” Ayan merely repeated.

  “You’re in favor of this??”

  “The fighters need sexual release. They’re men after all.”

  Her friend had had enough. It was the last time they chatted.

  * * *

  On September 10, 2014, President Barack Obama gave a speech announcing that the fight against the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria was to be intensified. Referring to the organization as ISIL—the Islamic State in the Levant—he said:

  “ISIL is not ‘Islamic.’ No religion condones the killing of innocents, and the vast majority of ISIL’s victims have been Muslim … We will degrade and ultimately destroy ISIL through a comprehensive and sustained counterterrorism strategy.”

  The strategy consisted of four parts: systematic air strikes, increased support to the forces fighting on the ground, counterterrorist operations to prevent attacks, and humanitarian aid to displaced civilians. Secretary of State John Kerry met with Arab leaders in Jeddah in Saudi Arabia the following day, and within hours a coalition of ten states that would fight alongside the Americans had been formed.

  In mid-September, three weeks after her brother had accused her of ruining his life, Ayan responded.

  “Don’t lay the blame on me, I found the truth, moved out ASAP and made a life for myself, as did Leila, and Mom. Dad has been nuts for a while, it just wasn’t so obvious before. The only reason I can think of that Mom might hate you is that you have abandoned Islam. Move where you want and do what you please, but don’t lose yourself. I didn’t want to leave you but I had to go.”

  “You did not have to go.”

  Ayan’s reply came ten days later, at two thirty in the morning. “I did, I had to leave because we’re at war with kuffar aka non-Muslims so continuing to live in a non-Muslim country can mean you go to hell. Btw there’s a lot of bombing going on here, we’re in more danger than before, so make sure to say a big hello to everyone from me and Leila.”

  Ismael had been woken up by the accompanying ping.

  “Wow. Thought you were dead. Do you really believe IS is going to take over the world?”

  “Yes, I do, just look how much we have taken over in such a short time.”

  “Be a little realistic, Ayan. I know you’re smart. You’re going to end up being killed in the bombing. You think it’s a good way to die because then you’ll feel you stood for something and took part in jihad. That’s it.”

  “How are things in your little world so?!”

  “Sad to see my sisters offering their bodies to retards fighting to get killed, otherwise it’s all good.”

  “HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA better to die than to live life like a loser.”

  “You’re not a loser if you don’t
live like one.”

  “Good to hear you’re doing okay. Some people are successful in the next life and some are successful in this life, but I feel sorry for those who are in between.”

  “I feel sorry for people who believe that kind of rubbish.”

  “So what’s happening in Norway? Did you get into college?”

  “I’m taking a year out. Trying to get a job. Hoping to see you before you die.” Ismael typed in a sad emoji.

  “Being a house cleaner is always an option, then again that requires schooling too. Hang in there! What’s happening with Dad? Are you living with him?”

  “Yep. At the moment we’re pretty poooor.”

  “We sure aren’t.”

  “Send me mon-nay pls hahaha.”

  “Come here and work. You would have to follow the norms and rules in this country though.”

  “Wouldn’t dare.”

  “But weren’t you talking about going to Jamaica?”

  “Hahaha then Mom really would commit suicide, her daughters went off to wage jihad and get married, Ismael left to get high with Jamaicans.”

  * * *

  The Syrian army intensified its air strikes on Raqqa in autumn 2014. When IS took control of Tabaqa air base in the first week of September, its revenge was merciless. Pilots and ground crew attempting to flee were shot. Soldiers who had surrendered were forced to strip down to their underwear. They were forced to run through the arid desert until they were ordered to stop and shot one by one at close range. The sand swiftly soaked up the blood.

  IS was hungry to expand the caliphate, and by mid-September an offensive against the Kurdish-dominated city of Kobane in the north of Syria was under way.

  On September 22, the United States and the coalition dropped their first bombs in Syria. Raqqa, targets in Idlib province, and military bases in the desert were struck by Tomahawk missiles.

  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 i
f you are married or plan to marry, you might want to bring things you would like to wear in private.

  Clothes you can wear around your husband as well, maybe things that aren’t so appropriate around sisters, for example short dresses etc. Whatever you prefer.

  Aisha had first tried to get in touch with Arfan Bhatti in Pakistan. She wanted to live there with him. She sent him photos of his son. When he rejected her, and didn’t want her to come, she announced she wanted to immigrate to Syria. “Go wherever you like,” she told friends that her ex-husband had answered, “as long as you don’t take Salahuddin along.”

  Emira, who had married Bastian, and was now in Raqqa with Ayan and Leila, made a suggestion. She could share her husband with Aisha. Bastian could take her as a second wife.

  “You can’t manage without a husband down here,” Emira told her. “And it would be better to marry a Norwegian, wouldn’t it?”

  Marry Arfan’s old friend?

  Bastian had risen in the ranks. He had learned Arabic and was working on videos and websites for the propaganda department. A couple of years ago he had dreamed about designing the logo for the Prophet’s Ummah, and now here he was, working for the man who was going to take over the world.

  Aisha and Bastian were wed on Skype. Once again her parents were not informed their daughter was marrying. The Norwegian Chilean, who had left his daughter in Norway when she was a few months old, now got a stepson instead—Salahuddin.

  Aisha also acted as a courier on her trip. She had been instructed to order some small parts on eBay to modify weapons. Some of these were the size of matchsticks and hardly weighed anything, so they were easy to conceal. She had ordered such items online previously but had sent them with others. Now she could take them herself to what she saw as her final destination.

  Rumors had begun to circulate and she was afraid of being stopped, so a month after the wedding she posted on Facebook: “I’m aware that some people have been asking about me and at the same time spreading gossip that I have journeyed to Syria. To the people in question: FEAR ALLAH! May Allah silence your tongues and forgive you! Even though it might be out of concern, you should all think before coming out with that type of talk. It cannot be that hard to understand what kind of a difficult situation you are putting me and my family in and how damaging it is to our safety and everyday life to spread those kind of FALSE rumors and gossip … I am not in Syria, just to make that clear! May Allah the Almighty and Righteous strike you gossipmongers dumb!”