Jihadi Bride, page 17
The driver yelled again and moved to stand near the bus’s front door.
Mus’ab Saleh’s lips tightened. “It’s boarding. Let’s go.”
Arielle and Mus’ab approached the bus, him in front as was proper, and they handed their tickets to the driver and then took their seats. Minutes later, the bus driver got on and stood in the aisle. He wiped his forehead, then spoke in Arabic.
Arielle leaned nearer to Mus’ab. “What’s he saying?”
“He’s welcoming us aboard, saying our final destination is Beirut, with stops in Al-Bab, Aleppo, and Homs. God willing, he hopes the trip should take a day and a half. We’ll stop near Aleppo for the night as it’s too dangerous to drive in the dark, then carry on tomorrow.”
The driver advanced up the aisle as he talked and peered into the faces of the passengers.
Mus’ab continued to translate. “He’s talking about checkpoints now. This side of Aleppo, they’ll be Caliphate. We must show our identification when asked. Women fully covered. Men must ensure the bottoms of their pants are rolled up.”
The driver paused to inspect Arielle and Mus’ab, then moved on.
“Near Aleppo, the checkpoints will transition, maybe rebels, maybe Caliphate. And on the far side of Aleppo, they’ll be Syrian regime. But he says that if we make it through the Caliphate checkpoints, we’ll make it all the way, Insha’Allah.”
“Won’t the regime checkpoints be more dangerous?”
Mus’ab shook his head. “We can bribe our way through those ones, maybe even the rebel ones.”
“But not Caliphate?”
Mus’ab smiled but did not reply.
His speech over, the driver returned to the front of the aisle, sat down and put the bus in gear. The bus lurched out of the station with a rumble, and as it picked up speed, a small breeze blew through several open windows. Arielle held Mus’ab Saleh’s hand and stared out the window as the squat, brown and white buildings of Manbij slipped away. At the M4 highway, the driver negotiated the bus past the burned-out wreckage of a delivery truck, then merged. Farther down, a pickup truck lay abandoned by the side of the road and beyond, the horizon faded into haze, the sandy monotony broken by tiny bands of green.
“So far, so good,” Mus’ab Saleh said, and Arielle nodded.
They encountered the first checkpoint thirty minutes later, outside the village of Arima. The checkpoint was a small one, made up of two pickups and four men. Two of the men trained their weapons on the bus until it stopped, then another boarded and said a few words to the driver, who handed over some papers. After the conversation, the man walked down a few rows and checked the IDs of two elderly men seated at the front. Done, the man scowled at the remainder of the passengers, then got off the bus and returned to one of the pickups. The riflemen lowered their weapons and the driver put the bus back in gear and carried on.
After another forty minutes, the bus slowed. They’d entered a built-up area with small apartment buildings, their shapes yellow and orange in the sun-tinted sandy haze that clouded the air. “Where are we?” Arielle asked.
“Al-Bab,” Mus’ab Saleh said. “It’s another checkpoint.”
Like before, the bus driver stopped on the side of the road. A fighter clad in black climbed aboard and spoke to the driver, who again handed over his papers. After a quick look, the gunman handed the papers back, then faced the passengers. He spoke in Arabic, and when nobody moved, he pointed his rifle at the passengers seated in front. He repeated himself, louder.
“He wants us to get off.” Mus’ab Saleh’s face was pale.
The gunman dragged the bus driver from his seat and shoved him through the open door of the bus. He yelled again, and like a frozen herd stunned into movement, the passengers stood, heads bowed as they trudged to the front.
“Why are we getting off?” Arielle tried her best to sound calm.
“It could be nothing,” Mus’ab said in a whisper. “Each commander runs his checkpoint how he sees fit.”
Under the direction of several armed fighters, the passengers formed an extended line with their backs to the bus, their faces into the sun. Near the bus’s rear, where the driver and the first passengers off the bus stood, several more gunmen moved up the line. Arielle struggled to get a glimpse of the fighters as they checked papers, spoke to the passengers.
A nearby gunman yelled, then stalked up to Arielle and jammed his rifle into her face.
Arielle tensed, and her eyes went wide.
The gunman yelled again and spit flecked the veil that covered Arielle’s face. The other passengers and gunmen turned to watch, and Mus’ab Saleh raised his hand in front of Arielle’s chest like a shield.
Without pause, the fighter smashed the butt of his rifle into Mus’ab’s face. He collapsed to the ground, and Arielle dropped to her knees beside him. She grasped Mus’ab’s shoulder and then the fighter grabbed her under the armpit and dragged her to her feet. She closed her eyes, tensed for the strike that was sure to come. Nothing.
When she dared to peek, the gunman who’d struck Mus’ab had backed off several steps to make room for another man, this one older, with deep lines on his face. He walked up with his hands clasped behind his back until he stood in front of her. The man nudged Mus’ab with the toe of his boot and barked a harsh command in Arabic. Mus’ab grunted a reply and struggled to his feet.
The man stuck out his hand, and Mus’ab handed over his ID.
“Give him your ID,” Mus’ab said.
Arielle’s hand trembled as she rifled through her bag. She felt the man’s impatience, felt him reach for the bag himself, and then she’d found her temporary citizen card and held it out. The man took the card and stared at it, then flipped it over and studied the other side and then handed it to the fighter beside him. Then the man looked at Arielle and spoke in Arabic.
“He’s sorry his man roughed you up,” Mus’ab said. “He will be disciplined later.”
The elder man studied Mus’ab Saleh and then dropped his gaze to pore over Mus’ab’s ID card. With the yellowed nail of his index finger, he traced each word on the card. When he reached the bottom of the first side, he glanced up at Mus’ab’s face and spoke. Mus’ab replied, and the man grunted, then headed for one of the pickup trucks.
Arielle leaned close. “What did he ask you?”
“Where we were going,” Mus’ab said. “I said we were on our honeymoon.”
“So where are we going?”
“Homs.”
She glanced at him noticed the pallor that had come over his face. “Do you think he believed it?”
“No,” he said.
The elder man turned from the pickup truck, barked several commands at the fighters closest to him, then pointed to Mus’ab Saleh.
Mus’ab took Arielle’s hand and looked her full in the face. “I love you,” he said. “Run.”
She froze.
“Run!” Mus’ab yelled. He thrust her from him and then strode out to intercept the approaching gunmen, his fists brandished before him.
Arielle hitched up her abaya, but was unable to look away.
Mus’ab swung at one fighter, missed, and then the other fighter kicked out his legs. Mus’ab’s head struck the ground and then one of the soldier’s butt stroked him and the crack of the rifle hitting Mus’ab’s head shocked Arielle into action.
She spun and ran toward the end of the bus. The other passengers shied from her as if she had the plague, but she ignored them. She made it to the end of the line, past the bus, and headed for a compound on the other side of the road, a mere fifty yards away. Halfway across the road, hands grabbed the fabric of her abaya and drew her up short. She screamed, and then arms wrapped around her body and dragged her back to the checkpoint.
* * *
Kanata, Ontario
11 May 15 – 1357 Local
The sign read ‘Ottawa Valley Muslim Society,’ and it was the lone clue that Erik stood outside a mosque. He hadn’t expected a towering domed building with minarets, but the corner lease of a small strip mall seemed more appropriate for an all-night convenience store than a religious center.
He wasn’t sure Stephanie’s suggestion was a good idea. He had a healthy skepticism of religious figures of any stripe. Too often their polished veneer hid something, a porn habit, gambling, worse. In his experience, this conversation had a good chance of turning into a political lecture, which he didn’t know if he could handle. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He crossed the parking lot and entered the makeshift prayer center.
“Hello?” he said. Inside the tiled foyer were several rubber mats for footwear and a coat rack. A little deeper into the room was a small office and beyond that, an open carpeted space.
A rakish young man wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses poked his head out of the office. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for Imam Vellani,” Erik said.
“You must be Mr. Petersson, how nice to meet you.” The man exited the office and extended a hand. “Welcome. I’m Ziad Vellani, thank you for coming by.”
“Please, it’s Erik.” He shook Ziad’s hand, wondered if he was Imam Vellani’s son. “Is the Imam here?”
Ziad placed his right hand over his heart and bowed. “I am the Imam,” he said. “And Ziad is fine.”
Erik squinted and then realized he was staring at Ziad’s gelled faux-hawk and stylish clothes. “I’m sorry,” he said and his cheeks grew hot. “I think I was expecting someone older.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Ziad smiled. “If it makes you feel better, I’m older than I look.”
“It doesn’t.” Erik forced a chuckle. “Now I feel like I’m aging poorly.”
Ziad chuckled as well and gestured to the office. “Come, sit down. Can I get you something? Coffee?”
Erik nodded and then followed Ziad into the office and sat down in front of a simple desk. While Ziad busied himself with a coffee maker, Erik glanced around. Certificates dotted the office walls, a Master of Arts in Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies from the University of Toronto, along with a Master of Business Administration from the Ivey Business School.
“Here you go.” Ziad set a mug in front of Erik then sat on the other side of the desk. “Now, how can I help?”
Erik sipped his coffee, then cleared his throat. “My daughter converted to Islam, and a month ago she went to Syria. I haven’t heard from her since.”
Ziad’s smile disappeared. “I’m sorry. That –”
“Why would she do that?” He glared at Ziad as if the man knew and wouldn’t share the answer and then he dropped his gaze to his lap. “I’m sorry, I should probably start at the beginning.”
“It’s all right.” Ziad rested his chin on his folded hands. “First, let me say that I don’t condone the philosophy of these groups,” he said. “Their interpretation of Islam is self-serving, cherry-picked to reinforce their agenda and while it may be cold comfort, these groups are outliers.” Ziad shook his head. “I can guess at your questions, but there are many reasons why people self-radicalize.”
“Arielle didn’t self-radicalize,” Erik said. He met Ziad’s gaze for a second and then blinked. “She was recruited.”
Ziad resettled his glasses. “Were you close with her?”
“I thought so,” Erik said. “I raised her myself the past ten years.”
“You and your wife separated?”
“Her mother committed suicide when Arielle was ten.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Erik sighed. “I was in the military at the time. When Audray died, I got out and joined the RCMP so I could focus on raising Arielle. But work has always been how I’ve coped, and so I was still gone a lot, and a few years ago I transferred to a counter-terrorism unit and was gone even more.” He left out that he’d requested the transfer. “I know what you’re thinking, but she was always mature for her age and seemed to be handling it well.” But had she? Looking back, how many school activities had he missed, how many meals had she eaten alone while he’d been saving the world? He clenched his jaw. “She was too smart to self-radicalize.”
Ziad spread his hands. “Childhood tragedy does tend to be a predictor of higher risk individuals. A divorce, the loss –”
“I know that,” he said. “This is what I do for a living. But Arielle is not an extremist.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I don’t know,” he said and looked away. “I guess to learn more about Islam so I can show her how she was mistaken and convince her to come home.”
“I see.” Ziad paused, seemed to consider his words. “What if she won’t change her mind?”
“She will.” He didn’t know how he’d live with himself if she didn’t. “She has to. Her family is here.”
“Of course.” Ziad took a deep breath. “Mr. Petersson, did you know I used to be a banker?”
Erik held up a hand. “Listen, I know this must sound crazy.”
“I was a banker, for several years. I’d finished my time in the trenches, had my own team, even a corner office.” Ziad’s gaze flickered to the MBA certificate on the wall, and he went on. “It was all meaningless. A cycle of working to make more money, then expanding my lifestyle, then working harder to make more money. In the end, I worked so much I had no time to spend my money.”
“Sounds like a nice problem,” Erik said with a half-hearted smile.
“Not as nice as you’d think,” he said. “I had an epiphany one day that I was a slave, worshipping a god without even knowing it. Actually, worse than a slave, because I hadn’t known I wasn’t free.” He paused and picked up a split picture frame from his desk, two different young girls on each side. “I left the bank and returned to school to study theocracy and then Islamic studies. After a few years, I was offered a position here, and accepted, and do you know what I’ve found out in that time?”
Erik shook his head.
“That people want to belong to something bigger than themselves. These days, that’s difficult to attain.” Ziad leaned back in his chair. “Big organizations, the banks, they try to fill that need, but to them, a sense of belonging is a means to an end, that’s all. The profit motive. In religions, on the other hand, community is both the means and the end. That’s why the word ummah has such significance in Islam.”
“Community,” Erik said.
“That’s right.” Ziad nodded. “The ummah transcends relationships based on kinship, to one based on shared beliefs and values. The community supports each other, and so I would ask you, Mr. Petersson, where was your daughter’s community when she turned to this barbaric group for support?” He leaned forward. “More to the point, where were you?”
Erik recoiled. “This isn’t about me.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I’m not the one who ran off.”
“Then why do you think your daughter left?”
“I don’t know,” Erik said and looked down. “I don’t know. Something bad happened to her, and she changed, and I missed all the signs.”
“What was it?”
“She was raped.”
Ziad held his hands together in front of his lips. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Petersson.”
Erik nodded and did not trust himself to speak.
“How did you find out?” Ziad asked. “Did she tell you?”
Erik shook his head.
“Why do you think that was?”
“I was there for her, all she had to do was ask.”
“Did she live with you?”
“No –”
“Did you spend much time together?”
“Not really –”
“Did you talk often?”
“We played Warcraft every couple of weeks –”
“I’m sorry?” Ziad’s eyebrows rose. “Are you saying the extent of your contact was to play an online game?”
“It was our thing,” Erik added in a soft voice.
“Mr. Petersson, do you want to know what I think?” Ziad asked.
Erik glanced up and saw his image reflected in Ziad’s glasses and for a second, wasn’t sure he was so eager to hear what Ziad thought. He hesitated and then nodded.
“I think you cannot learn what you think you already know.” Ziad braced his elbows on the desk. “Mr. Petersson, with all due respect, you came here today to talk and yet it seems that your mind is already made up. You’ve said you were absent, and a workaholic, and since you know so much I wonder if you also know that we must all make time for the things that are important to us. And so I would ask you, how much time did you make for Arielle?”
Erik held up a hand. “Now wait –”
“Mr. Petersson, where were you when your family needed you?”
Erik opened his mouth and nothing came out.
Several months after Audray had killed herself, long after he’d redeployed from Afghanistan for her funeral, long after the nightly drinking sessions had begun, he’d received a letter from her. She’d written it weeks before she’d slit her wrists, but the mail had been slow to get to Afghanistan, and so it had arrived long after he’d already left and even longer to follow him back to Canada. For all that, he had no problems remembering her words.
“I can’t do this on my own anymore,” she’d written. “Where were you?”
