North of Dawn Page 10

  Himmo says, “That is a brilliant, workable idea.”

  “Wait a minute,” Gacalo interjects. “We must consider the legal ramifications of such a decision and inquire if it is even feasible to turn the apartment into a baby nursery.”

  Waliya looks frustrated. She says, “Why is everything in this country difficult? I keep hearing this is not allowed; this is not legal. Why?”

  Gacalo is surprisingly impressed with Waliya’s quick-fire questioning. “I’ll consult a lawyer I know, see what she says, and come back to you with an answer.”

  Everyone relaxed, Gacalo and Himmo prepare to leave, their hearts less heavy than when they arrived.

  As they wait for the train, Gacalo says, “There are moments in one’s life when everything one considers to be a win is for all practical purposes a loss.”

  “In that case, we must make sure that the win you felt when Waliya and the children were not deported doesn’t turn into a loss,” says Himmo. “This is why it is incumbent on us to be patient when dealing with Waliya, so we stay the course and ultimately succeed.”

  Gacalo says, “How wise of you, dear Himmo.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  A week later, Himmo makes a call at Mugdi and Gacalo’s home. With her is her oldest daughter, Maimouna—Mouna, among her friends.

  Himmo has news. But before she tells it, she wants her daughter out of the way, and suggests that Mouna and Naciim, who has just arrived, go play a game of chess. Mugdi finds the chessboard, leads the teenagers to the living room, plies them with their favorite soft drinks, and then rejoins Himmo and Gacalo in the kitchen.

  Himmo says, “Waliya has confirmed to me that she has mustered the support of Imam Fanax of the mosque in Groenland; he is raising funds to hire her as a nursery teacher.”

  Mugdi asks Himmo, “Do you know Fanax and Zubair, his deputy?”

  “I know Zubair, the deputy, fairly well. He went to the same school as Mouna, though he was a lot older than her and they were in different grades—he was four, five years above her. He arrived back in 1998, with a married Somali-Norwegian couple he claimed to be his parents. At first, he was a model student. His teachers spoke well of him and he had many friends. But when he reached fifteen or sixteen, his character suddenly changed. He was no longer the good boy everyone knew him to be. He became disruptive in class, started to fight with his teachers, and grew notorious for his tantrums. He was even sent to a psychologist for anger issues, but there was nothing they could do. Until one day, after quarreling with his parents, he held a knife to the throat of the man he addressed as ‘Father,’ threatening to kill him. The police were called and he was dispatched to a center for violent juvenile delinquents. Then to everyone’s surprise, the couple insisted he was not their child—that they were not even related by blood. A DNA test proved this to be the case. Child Welfare Services removed him from the couple’s home and put him into foster care. When the foster family couldn’t cope with him, he was dispatched back to the center, where he stayed until his eighteenth birthday. After his release, Zubair sought out his adopted parents once more, but the father refused to accept him back as their son. Rumor had it that after the neighborhood got word of this, a kindly neighbor to whom the couple was indebted called round one evening during the holiest month of Islam and pleaded with them to take the boy back in. After much discussion, they finally acquiesced. In celebration, the neighbor held a prayer meeting at his home to which he invited the couple, the boy, and a few members of the community. Everyone present at the event described it as a moving ceremony well worth attending. From then on, Zubair’s law-abiding behavior became exemplary.”

  “How do you know all this about Zubair?” says Mugdi, who feels overwhelmed with much of what he is learning.

  “I met his elderly foster mother when she was admitted for a hernia surgery at the hospital where I work,” says Himmo. “Her husband visited often and when we got to know each other a little better, they opened up to me and told me a lot.”

  Gacalo says, “You meet all sorts, don’t you, at the hospital where you work?”

  “I do. Sooner or later almost everyone comes, whether as a patient or as a visitor.”

  “Please go on,” says Mugdi.

  “After that latest incident, Zubair was much less boisterous. He became a Norwegian citizen, led a relatively quiet existence, and his grades improved. But he was no longer popular among his peers and cut a lonely figure in the halls, hardly speaking with anyone, much less girls. A year before he finished high school, he showed so much enthusiasm for religion that he dropped out of school and apprenticed himself to Imam Yasiin, who took him under his wing, taught him Arabic, and trained him to sharpen his mind so he could interpret the Koran. I have no evidence to support this, but I suspect it was during his first year as a budding Islamic scholar working with Imam Yasiin that the imam referred to Dhaqaneh as one of his brightest followers. Zubair would become acquainted with Dhaqaneh during one of his brief visits to Oslo. Six years after Zubair dropped out of school, he spent nearly nine months in the south of Somalia, before returning to Imam Yasiin’s mosque. At this point, according to the kindly neighbor who had facilitated the easing of tensions between Zubair and his parents, the Norwegian antiterrorist unit took a great deal of interest in Zubair, especially his internet activities. The unit summoned him for an extended interview and held him for a couple of days before releasing him without charge. Less than a year later, the unit arrested him on suspicion of remitting funds to Shabaab. There wasn’t sufficient proof to indict him. According to his mother, before dismissing the case, the judge warned him that he would be sent to jail for a long time if he was ever brought to court again on similar grounds and found guilty.”

  Himmo pauses to have a sip of water.

  She continues, “A former follower of Imam Yasiin’s, who prays at our mosque, has also confirmed to me that Zubair knew Dhaqaneh and may have worked with him in Shabaab. And when I saw Waliya not long ago at the funeral service of a man I was friendly with who was also her distant clansman, and I asked her if she had ever met Zubair before, she affirmed that she had, but only in passing, when she was residing with Dhaqaneh in a housing complex attached to the mosque in Eastleigh, Nairobi.”

  Gacalo says, “Perhaps there is more to Waliya than I imagined.”

  Despite the alarm that Himmo’s information has raised in him, Mugdi remains silent, biding his time.

  “There is another worrying factor,” Himmo adds. “A photograph taken in front of the Finchley mosque, showing Imam Yasiin, who was Dhaqaneh’s mentor, and Zubair with an extremist, charismatic cleric named Anjem Choudary, has appeared in a London newspaper. When questioned by Norwegian security about his relationship, Imam Fanax—the imam employing Waliya as a nursery teacher—claimed he had no idea that the cleric was praying in the same mosque as him on the day the picture was taken.”

  Gacalo says, “It makes no sense to me how these men and women can justify plotting against and murdering those who have shown them such kindness, providing them with the comfort of home and job security.”

  “They have no conscience,” Mugdi says.

  Himmo shifts in her seat. She says, “I don’t know if Imam Fanax has yet done anything to warrant his comparison with Anjem Choudary. At least the Norwegian antiterrorist unit, according to one of the Somali websites, namely Goobjoog, has not so far come up with sufficient evidence even to question him, save the one time when he was pulled in and interrogated, following the appearance of the photograph in the newspaper.”

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” says Gacalo. “We don’t know the relationship between Waliya, Zubair, and the imam. So far, we are speculating without evidence. Would an imam even have the ability to pay a salary to an appointee as a teacher or community activist?”

  “In Norway, all houses of worship, including mosques, are required by law to register their number of
congregants, and are then allocated grants accordingly. So in a way, yes. Imams have some funds at their disposal, enough to pay for any community-related activity.”

  Himmo continues, “On top of this, extra funds often trickle into these mosques from places like Saudi Arabia, Qatar, and Kuwait. The Gulf countries have built the largest mosques in Africa, Asia, and Europe, and there are rumors linking some of their mosques to nefarious activities undertaken in the name of Islam.”

  Mugdi says, “I think I read somewhere that the government is averse to allowing a country such as Saudi Arabia to make large charitable donations toward the mosques in this country, since Saudi Arabia does not permit reciprocity. You see, Saudi Arabia, despite the presence of a million Christians and so many Hindus and people of other faiths, will not allow a single house of worship for any religion other than Islam.”

  Gacalo then makes reference to a recent incident that has provoked her ire and Mugdi’s. She says to Himmo, “Have you heard about a Canadian woman who has decided to build a chapel for the Christians living in the Somali-speaking peninsula to worship in?”

  Himmo says, “No, I am not familiar with the incident.”

  “The woman’s well-meaning action has caused such uproar that every Somali has threatened her with immediate expulsion, detention, or death.”

  “We thought that was uncalled-for and unreasonable too,” says Mugdi.

  Himmo asks, “Why unreasonable?”

  “It’s silly and impracticable,” says Gacalo.

  Mugdi says, “Myself, I find it shortsighted, in that there are millions of us Muslims living in Europe and elsewhere and despite the existence of a few problems here and there, Muslims in the main are allowed to worship Allah as they please. Which is why it seems unreasonable to me for Somalis to prohibit the construction of a chapel or a church. Before the civil war, Mogadiscio had a splendid cathedral. It’s a great disservice to our shared humanity to destroy a house of worship because it belongs to another faith.”

  The key phrase, “the unreasonableness of Somalis,” leads them to speak about a number of things that have little or nothing to do with the topic under discussion. Eventually, Mugdi, observing that Himmo has heard enough and is perhaps eager to leave, falls silent.

  Himmo pleads a work commitment and calls out to Mouna, saying, “Come and say goodbye to Uncle Mugdi and Auntie Gacalo.”

  Mouna and Naciim join them.

  Mugdi asks Naciim, “So who won the games?”

  “I did. I won four times, Mouna once.”

  “He didn’t win. He cheated,” says Mouna.

  “I didn’t,” he insists.

  “Boys are cheats,” says Mouna, teasing him. “Cheating is what they are good at.”

  Gacalo says that she has some shopping to do and must also leave. She goes to the bedroom upstairs to fetch her handbag and wallet.

  Himmo, as she, Gacalo, and Mouna depart, says to Naciim, “You must come and visit us. Bring Saafi along. She’ll enjoy meeting the girls.”

  “Thanks. It’ll be a pleasure,” he says.

  When the women leave, Naciim asks Mugdi to play a round of chess with him. The old man agrees, deciding it’s a perfect opportunity to question the boy about his mother’s plans to set up a nursery in the apartment, and her association with Imam Fanax.

  On hearing the imam’s name, Naciim says, “I don’t like him at all. I find his behavior disturbing.”

  “Why does his behavior disturb you?”

  “He seems to have eyes only for Saafi.”

  On hearing this, Mugdi grows disturbed. “What does your mother say about that?”

  “Mum doesn’t appear to notice it, even though I’ve pointed it out to her more than once,” says Naciim.

  Troubled, Mugdi messes up his next move, an error that the boy is quick to point out. “Now your queen is under threat. Just like Mouna, who couldn’t concentrate on her game, and when I took a piece the way I can take yours now, she says I am a cheat.”

  Mugdi asks, “Why do you prefer Zubair to the imam?”

  “Zubair told me he was a friend of my stepdad’s. And he doesn’t act in a suspicious manner the way the imam does. Whenever Imam Fanax visits now, Mum sends me out of the house on some pretext or other, such as getting them soft drinks or a takeaway from the halal shop. She is worried I might put up a fight, in my capacity as a Mahram, and disallow him from visiting the apartment, especially after I warned her about his behavior toward Saafi.”

  “Do you eavesdrop on their conversations?”

  “Sometimes I hear things not meant for me to hear.”

  “How’s that?”

  “And see things not meant for me to see,” he says.

  Mugdi, in his memory, revisits a conversation in which Gacalo and Timiro talked about how Saafi—out of worry that Waliya might accuse her of inventing stories—wouldn’t speak to her about her nightmare. Naciim, on the other hand, hears things not meant for him to hear and sees stuff not meant for him to see. Mugdi wonders if he can infer from these two facts that Waliya unwittingly alienated their affections, and Naciim has resorted to eavesdropping on her, while Saafi does not trust her mother enough to talk to her about her nightmares.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It is freezing cold in Oslo and snow has been falling heavily for hours, clogging the roads and closing schools for the day. Naciim is delighted by the snowfall, his first, and is thrilled that he’ll finally have use for his winter jacket, boots, and scarf, which he has looked forward to wearing from the day Gacalo took him to purchase them. He is as happy with winter’s arrival as his mother and sister are desolate, neither willing to step out of the house.

  Now six months to the week since his arrival in Norway, Naciim has lately experienced a kaleidoscope of mixed fortunes, mostly of the positive variety. His greatest achievement is that two of his teachers at the language school have recommended that he is now proficient enough in Norwegian to attend regular school and so he has been accepted into Vahl Skole, one of the best multicultural schools in Oslo. His teachers told him that it is rare for a beginner to do so well. Everyone is thrilled for Naciim, especially Mugdi, who asks what kind of school satchel Naciim would like as a gift.

  “I don’t need a new one,” says Naciim.

  “Are you sure?” Mugdi asks. “In one of the shops we frequent, there’s a vintage school satchel on display. It’s made of leather, with plenty of space for books and a laptop. We can get you one, as a gift.”

  “I’ll never say no to a gift from you.”

  “Would your mother join the rest of the family here for a meal to celebrate your rare achievement?” asks Mugdi.

  “I’ve no idea, but I can ask.”

  Waliya has always found one excuse or another to avoid setting foot in Gacalo and Mugdi’s house. Naciim has previously hinted that his mother and sister are averse to “eating foods cooked in non-halal kitchens.”

  Mugdi is curious whether the widow included their kitchen among these. Naciim confirms that is the case.

  “Would she come if we offered to take everyone to a restaurant that is decidedly Muslim?” asks Gacalo.

  “I’ll find out,” says Naciim.

  “What do you think will make her happiest?”

  “She would be happiest if you invite Imam Fanax and Zubair to join us, whether we eat at a restaurant or have a catered meal here at your home. I don’t like Fanax. He knows it, and Mum knows it too. But I’ll be grown up about it, if you invite him and he comes, as this will probably make Mum happy.”

  Gacalo pauses, considering the options. Mugdi, however, has nothing good to say about the imam or Zubair after the information Himmo has given them. Now he speaks with a voice so firm it is obvious the decision is final. “No way will I allow the imam or Zubair to darken our door. And if you go to a restaurant, I will not join you. I refuse to liaise with t
error suspects, especially ones so closely aligned with our terrorist son.”

  After a moment, Gacalo says to Naciim, “Here is what I’ll do. I’ll order a lavish meal from the most prominent Somali restaurant in the city and have it delivered to your apartment. Run along home and tell your mother to invite a few guests of her choice, people she is fond of or with whom she wants to curry favor. I’ll have the food delivered after the evening prayer.”

  A few hours later, Gacalo receives a brief text message from Naciim. The message simply reads, “Mum has hurt herself.” But the boy does not explain how, or how badly. When she shares the message with Mugdi, he looks confused and a little aggrieved, as if he has no idea what Gacalo expects him to do about it.

  To his surprise, Gacalo remains silent, just when he assumes she’s about to remind him that as Waliya is their son’s widow, they are forever linked. The answer Mugdi has always given to such statements is this: that he did not mourn his son’s death when he chose to blow himself up and that he cannot think of Waliya as his son’s widow. Gacalo, for her part, views Dhaqaneh only from the perspective of a mother. She cannot and will never forget Mugdi’s strident condemnation of the boy, a memory that shocks her to the core even now. Sometimes Mugdi thinks that the distance between them on this matter is irrecoverable.

  When Gacalo arrives at the widow’s apartment, alone, a sign on the door reads, in Somali, “It is open and so please come in.”

  She bets that Naciim has not told his mother or sister what he promised he would when Gacalo phoned him on her way here. He said he would leave a note on the door so she should just walk in. Still, she knocks out of politeness and waits for a moment before entering.

  Naciim is on his way to his room when he and Gacalo meet. He says, “Welcome,” and instantly apologizes for being in his bathrobe, his hair wet and dripping, as if he has just come out of the shower. As he retreats in embarrassment, Waliya, having heard a woman’s voice, appears, looking the worse for wear. Gacalo observes black-and-blue discolorations on the widow’s face, prominent contusions and ruptured skin. Her lower lip is swollen, as though repeatedly stung by a bee and then scratched. Now her tongue, red and sore-looking, emerges from her mouth to wet her lips, maybe to comfort them.