“How dare you!” says Naciim.
Cumar shakes his head in disavowal. “I’ve never heard a young boy show such disrespect to a man of the imam’s stature.”
“What does this gathering suggest we do about him? I promise I’ll follow your suggestions to the letter,” Waliya says.
“I can set him on the right path,” the imam says. “Come with me to the living room, young man. In fact, I suggest all of you join me there.”
Naciim says, “Who are you to tell me what to do?”
Waliya advises him to do as the imam says.
It is uncharacteristic of him to agree to what his mother has suggested, but he does not wish to continue quarreling with her. In any case, he is aware that the odds are stacked against him and there is nothing he can do at this moment to turn matters in his favor. So he joins the others.
Once they are all in the living room, the imam organizes the seating, telling the five women and Cumar to sit in the row facing him, as though members of a jury. He sits apart from them, in the largest seat, as though he were the judge.
He says to Naciim, “You stand to the side.”
“Is this theater and are we playacting?” Naciim says.
“This is serious, not theater.”
“But you’ve put together a mock court, haven’t you?”
“You’ll be judged by your Muslim peers.”
“Well, I know I won’t receive a fair hearing, but tell me—how is it that you’ve dispensed altogether with the curtain customarily separating the men from the women?”
The imam is noticeably discomfited by Naciim’s challenge and he can see that the others are ill at ease too. “As a judge, I dismiss the young man’s question as having no bearing on the decision of the court.”
Waliya says, “Let’s get on with it.”
Fanax runs the rules by the jury: how and when they can offer input or ask questions. When they confirm that they comprehend the rules, he says, “We are gathered here as a group of good Muslims representing the faith to ask the erring young man named Naciim, who has lost his way, to explain why he has imbibed drinks that are forbidden to the faithful. Boy, do you have anything to say in exoneration?”
“My lips have not touched a drop of liquor.”
“Any witnesses to that?” Cumar asks.
“Ask Mugdi, Gacalo, Johan, and Birgitta,” he says.
“Do you have any other witnesses besides those mentioned, since the imam has ruled that Mugdi and Gacalo are apostates and Johan and Birgitta are Christians and therefore not credible as witnesses?”
“He’s wasting our time,” says Axado.
Waliya says, “I’d like him punished severely.”
“I second the proposal,” says Axado.
The seriousness of what is unfolding dawns on Naciim with startling suddenness. It is clear this is no mere entertainment at his expense.
Cumar says, “I propose that he receive fifty lashes, half for his unpardonable sin of drinking, and the other half for liaising with apostates.”
“You can’t be serious,” Naciim says.
“We are,” says his mother.
The imam feels even more emboldened when he hears Waliya’s supportive remarks, and he passes his judgment, saying, “This gathering adjudges you to have committed grave sins and you’ve been found guilty. You are to receive fifty lashes.”
“And who dares to administer them? You?”
“Yes, I’ll deal it out to you,” says the imam.
“And where is your whip?”
“Here.” The imam points at his belt, which he now unfastens. “In the absence of a bullwhip, this will do.”
Naciim then brings out his phone—he will call his grandparents he decides, or even the police—but Cumar makes a quick dash and before the boy knows it, he has taken possession of the mobile and thrown it as far as he can. Then, with equal speed, he wrestles Naciim to the floor, pins his hands behind his back, picks him up, and frog marches him to the next room, shutting the door. Then he rejoins the group, telling the imam, “He is all yours.”
Fanax struts toward the room, pleased that he will be allowed to punish the boy. He will strike him with as much force as possible, he thinks. He wants everyone to know that the belt has made its mark, and the longer it takes for Naciim to issue a groaning sound of pain the harder he will hit.
After half an hour, the imam reemerges, breathing unevenly and wiping the sweat from his brow. Naciim stays inside for a long time, without making a sound. When he finally emerges, he cuts a relaxed figure despite the traces of blood on the back of his shirt. Waliya makes as if she wants to comfort him and she moves in his direction, but he waves her away, unwilling to accept her sympathy or pity. He moves about with single-minded focus, searching for his mobile phone, then finding the parts and reassembling it. Then he goes to his room and bolts it from the inside.
As the men and women resume reciting the Koran, Naciim telephones his friend Edvart and tells him what has happened. Edvart immediately suggests that Naciim stay with him, but Naciim thanks him for his concern and says, “I am on my way back to my grandparents’. But please tell Ms. Koht, the school adviser, what I’ve just told you in case I do not come to class tomorrow.” Then he slips out of the apartment.
It is a quarter to eleven by the time he arrives at Mugdi and Gacalo’s. They are both so incensed that they advise immediately reporting what has happened to the police. Mugdi goes with him to the station to file a criminal charge.
Naciim makes a lengthy statement in the presence of a police officer, with Mugdi serving as witness. Then the officer refers them to the hospital emergency unit. The nurse on duty takes photographs of Naciim’s contusions and bruises, noting the discoloration on his back and the cuts that will require care for a month at least. She says, “Someone needs to tear a strip or two off the person who hit you with a belt and caused so much damage.”
Mugdi asks, “How long do you think it will take for the emergency unit to prepare a report and send it to the police station?”
“I’ll do it before I end my shift,” the nurse says. “And since I have your contact details, someone will telephone you if your presence is required.”
At home, Mugdi is in such a rage that he can’t get his words out. Gacalo has started running a fever, no doubt due to all the stress, and keeps repeating Waliya’s name, saying, “What are we to do with you?”
As for Naciim, unable to sleep, he stays up reading and snacking on salted nuts, a rare treat. His insomnia has done him good, affording him the necessary time to sort out a number of things in his head. He will put up as much resistance as need be to make sure that Fanax and his mother do not have their way when it comes to Saafi.
The following morning, as he showers, his body burns with pain from the lashes he received, and his mind wanders to when he was younger and Dhaqaneh was still alive. How little he could have imagined that the man whom he had loved and called “Dad” was a terrorist. He remembers Mugdi saying that it is only later that a parent can truly comprehend what their child is up to, whether it be leaving their spouse or conspiring to blow up a bridge. And what of his mother? What did she know of his stepfather’s character, and when? And what did she know about his grandparents? She seemed to have no problem accepting the funds Gacalo sent her son for food and clothing. Did she consider them “apostates” then as well?
After his shower, Naciim sends a text to Edvart, asking for an update on Ms. Koht’s reaction to his news. Edvart replies that their teacher has contacted the Child Protection Unit and reported the case. “Ms. Koht wants you to come in tomorrow and talk to the officers in her presence.” Then Naciim emerges from his room, wrapped in a large gown Mugdi has given him, and goes to talk to Saafi, who is back from Himmo’s, to bring her up to speed about what he and Mugdi have set in motion.
“Will the im
am go to jail for whipping you?” Saafi asks.
“You can bet he will be prosecuted. The nurse said we could be looking at several years, minimum.”
“And our mother? What will happen to her?”
“She may face jail time too.”
“But she didn’t strike you, did she?”
“No, but she could’ve put a stop to it. Instead she did nothing.”
Saafi weeps feebly, in a manner he has always found distressing.
“I wish I had been there,” she says.
“What would you’ve done?”
“I would’ve put a stop to the whipping.”
As Naciim knows there is nothing he can do to reassure his sister, he says, “I am going down to have breakfast with Grandpa. Are you coming down?”
“I’ll wait until later, after the men have eaten.”
At four in the afternoon on the following day, Naciim as arranged goes to meet with Ms. Koht. She introduces him to the two women from the Child Protection Unit there to interview him. One is short, large, and with a scatter of freckles on her face; the other is slim, darker and handsomer. The darker one, her voice reedy, asks Naciim to repeat, in detail, what happened. The larger one takes notes, often consulting the police report she has in front of her.
When they’ve finished questioning him, Ms. Koht says to Naciim, “If you don’t mind, please take off your shirt and show us the injuries?”
Naciim removes his shirt to show them. Ms. Koht sucks in her breath, then says she feels bound to remind him that it is part of her job to make sure children his age are safe both at home and at school.
He asks the two women from the Protection Unit what they expect to happen. The larger one says, “Leave it to us and we’ll make certain that the culprits are punished for what they did to you.”
Naciim goes home and tells Gacalo and Mugdi what the women said. He finds that Gacalo is doing a little better, but Mugdi looks just as worried as he did the day before.
Just before dinner, Ms. Koht telephones Naciim to say that Imam Fanax is currently at the police station answering questions.
“What about your mother?” Mugdi asks Naciim, when he’s off the phone.
“I told them this afternoon that I don’t want her punished,” says Naciim.
“Why not?”
“What is the point? Life has already punished my mother in so many ways. I do not wish to impose a further penalty.”
“What are your plans then? Moving back with her or staying here until your situation is sorted? The choice is yours.”
“We’ll talk after the courts have decided,” says Naciim.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A fortnight later, Gacalo takes to her bed once again pleading an upset stomach, after coming home early from the court hearing in which the Child Protection Unit’s case against Fanax resulted in the imam’s being convicted and sentenced to several years in prison.
The judge, on advice from Child Welfare Services, interviews Naciim to decide whether Waliya deserves severe punishment for the role she played that night. The court makes an interim arrangement: Naciim is to spend the majority of his time at Mugdi and Gacalo’s, though he may have as much access to his mother as he wishes. She will avoid jail time.
Saafi is enraged at Fanax, though not at her mother. She says, “Whatever else she may be, our mother is not evil.”
Mugdi is moved to say, “No one has said she is.”
“She loves us and means well,” Saafi insists. “Even her trying to marry me to that terrible man. Every one of her actions is inspired by her total devotion to us.”
Naciim says to Saafi, “Our mother is weak.”
Despite her brother’s protests, Saafi returns to the apartment in the company of Timiro, with Gacalo unable to stomach looking at Waliya and Mugdi unwilling to get involved.
As Timiro glowers at Waliya in the background, Saafi dictates all her conditions: that she’ll divide her time between Himmo’s, her mother’s, and her grandparents’, the latter being where she feels most comfortable. That she wants to train for a profession of her choice that she can pursue and won’t tolerate her mother’s interference; and that her mother must promise never to try to marry her off a second time.
Waliya is in no position to raise objections, and so she does not, merely admitting her sense of relief that she and Saafi are back together. She then surprises Timiro by thanking her for accompanying her daughter. Timiro leaves Saafi in the apartment to talk matters over, safe in the knowledge that Waliya is powerless to stop Saafi’s progression toward independence. She says to Saafi, “I am off to see to my mum. Call me, okay?,” then hugs the girl and sees herself out.
Later that day, Timiro, for whom relocating to Oslo has remained only a pipe dream, departs for Geneva, and to everybody’s delight, Saafi presents herself at Mugdi and Gacalo’s, affirming that she would like to be of service to Grandma. She also refuses to speak of what exactly transpired between herself and her mother, contenting herself with a vague statement: that she and her mother are now on steadier ground.
Gacalo’s “stomach upset” persists.
As Saafi sits by her bed, reading one of her textbooks, Gacalo is silent for long periods, sleeping or trying to sleep, a mask covering her eyes. Most worryingly, she refuses to see a doctor. Saafi leaves the room whenever Mugdi enters it, to give the elderly couple privacy.
“Why can’t we consult a physician?” he asks.
She answers huffily, “I don’t like surprises.”
Mugdi now remembers how, many years ago, when he was Somalia’s ambassador to Moscow, he pestered his wife over her failing to make an appointment for an annual physical, something she had previously never neglected to do. He had figured that if she was reluctant to do so in Moscow, it was because she had no faith in what she called “Russian quackery.” Finally she had gone to a clinic, and came home appearing sicker than someone with rabies.
But the clinic refused to release her results until she saw the specialist they had referred her to. After a round of tests, the specialist told her that she had an irregular heartbeat, but that for the moment, there was no problem with her.
When she asked what that meant, he said that while some arrhythmic hearts may cause sudden death, he did not think hers was in that category of seriousness and therefore there was no need to worry. She was also asked if her parents or grandparents had suffered from a weak heart.
Gacalo had no idea, never having known the medical history of either of her parents, who, to the best of her memory, were never ill for a single day all their lives. In fact, both her parents, like all four grandparents, died at the ripe old age of ninety-something. “The family myth on which I’ve been brought up is that we are born with strong genes,” she’d said. When Gacalo and Mugdi were transferred to Oslo several years later, Gacalo had the medical checkup required of every new state employee. The examination showed nothing that worried the clinicians, and so Gacalo put what the doctor in Moscow had said out of her mind.
Mugdi, his voice touched by anxiety, now asks again how she is. The expression on her face makes clear that she doesn’t wish to answer.
“Any idea what kind of pain you have?” he asks.
“As if pains have kinds or categories,” she says.
“Is it physical pain or is it mental pain?”
“It is difficult to say,” says Gacalo, and proceeds to speak instead of a dream she had the night before, in which she was alone in the house as a swarm of beetles chased her from room to room, their appearance like nothing she’d ever seen, metamorphosing into something arachnid-like and eventually into locusts.
Mugdi, wishing to reassure Gacalo, reminds her that he’s just been working on a similar scene from Giants in the Earth, in which a swarm of locusts invade and cause devastating damage to the crops of the Norwegian farmers in South Dakota. �
�No doubt hearing me speak of it caused the nightmare.”
He can’t help but compare Gacalo’s unfounded panic to Beret’s illogical anxiety in Giants to Gacalo’s unreasonableness, the one refusing to listen to reason, the other hiding in the family emigrant chest, as though it were her burial chamber.
Mugdi hedges at Birgitta’s pleas for updates on Gacalo’s health, and so Birgitta telephones Timiro instead. Timiro tells her that her mother hasn’t left her bed since the conclusion of the court case against Fanax. “She hasn’t gone to work, and from what Dad has said, she refuses to consult a doctor, despite his insistence.”
“What can we do?” asks Birgitta.
“Maybe Mum would listen to you if you went round to talk her out of her obduracy. I am in no position to leave Geneva at the moment, with Riyo and the pressure of work.”
Birgitta says, “We’re not in Oslo right now. We’re vacationing in our summer house across the border in Sweden, several hours’ drive away. Let me talk to Johan. I’ll suggest we head back.”
Johan, irritated with Mugdi for dodging his wife’s inquiries, quotes Dame Ivy Compton-Burnett, who once said, “The true index of a man’s character is the health of his wife.”
Birgitta, exasperated, says, “You can’t expect the poor man to act in a normal way at a time when his dear wife is in such ill health.”
And before the day ends, they are knocking on their friends’ door. Saafi lets them in and then retreats into her bedroom, awaiting further instructions.
Mugdi is surprised to find Birgitta and Johan stomping in. It is uncharacteristic of them to show up unannounced. He offers to make them tea or coffee and Johan, his voice gathering a sense of urgency, says, “We’ve come to see Gacalo. Where is she?”
“Upstairs,” he replies.
“Asleep or awake?” Birgitta asks.
“I believe awake.”
Birgitta and Johan proceed up the stairs, Birgitta saying, “I want answers. I won’t go away until I have them.”
Mugdi, following them, says, “I too want answers.”
North of Dawn Page 20
