their schoolwork.
But this was not the case in the home where Taxliil grew up, thanks to Ahl. The three of them lived as a nuclear family: a man, a woman, and a child, with Uncle Malik occasionally visiting, an ideal model, one would have thought, for a boy growing up. There was order and abundant love in the household. Ahl made time to supervise Taxliil’s homework. Twice a week, Taxliil went to the neighborhood mosque toreceive religious instruction from a Somali teacher with rudimentary Arabic, and often Ahl would subtly set Taxliil right without pointing out the teacher’s failings.
On his first day of secondary school, Taxliil met a green-eyed Kurdish boy, Samir. The two became inseparable. They played sports and computer games together; swapped clothes; swam and took long walks on weekends. They spurred each other to achieve their ambitions. Neither admitted to knowing what the word
impossible
meant. Doing well wasn’t good enough; they did better than anyone else.
One summer vacation, Samir flew out to Baghdad with his father to visit Iraq for the first time since the American takeover. He was sitting in the back of the car with his grandparents, his father in the front next to the driver, Samir’s uncle, when an American Marine flagged them down at a checkpoint. Samir alighted speedily and waited by the roadside, away from the vehicle, as instructed. His father helped Grandma in regaining possession of her walker and held his hand out to her as she shakily stepped out of the vehicle. Meanwhile, his uncle bent down to assist Grandpa, who was still in the car, in retrieving his cane, and he took a long time, half his body hidden from view. Panicking that one of the two men would shoot him, the young Marine opened fire, killing everyone except Samir.
Back in the Twin Cities, Samir became morose. The two friends still spent time together, but their life lacked the fun and ambition they had previously shared. Then Samir began to speak of attending to his “religious responsibilities,” and shortly thereafter he vanished from sight. A month or so later, his photo appeared in the
Star Tribune
, the caption reading: “Local boy turns Baghdad suicide bomber.”
The FBI came early the next morning and descended with unnecessary force on Taxliil, Ahl, and Yusur, as if they had detonated the bomb that caused the death of the soldiers. They were taken in separate vehicles and fingerprinted, their histories together and separately goneover again and again. Taxliil was made to endure longer hours of interrogation, with repeated threats. The FBI showed keen interest in Ahl as well, because of his birthplace and because he, Yusur, and Taxliil now lived in a house close to potential escape routes along the Mississippi. An FBI officer accused him of being a talent spotter for radical groups in the Muslim world.
The officers cast Yusur in the role of witness. They handled her with kindness, in light of her history. In their narrative, she had gone from a rapist to a man with a history of subversive tendencies, the older brother of a journalist able to tap into jihadi resources because of his connections. The officer asked Yusur if Ahl was likely to recruit Taxliil as a suicide bomber. They suggested she get it off her chest; they were her friends, and they meant her well. Who were
his
friends? Whom did he contact, and how did he do it?
Eventually, all three were released by the FBI. Even so, they were told to inform the agency of any suspicious activities. If they failed to do so, they would be reclassified.
Ahl sits with his mobile phone close by, yet it does not ring. He thinks that misfortune has followed the Somalis who fled their warring homeland; braved the seas; and put up with rape, daily harassment, corruption, and abuse. Just when they were on safe ground, they turned on themselves, with their young setting up armed gangs, as if they were out to prove that they could be better at cruelty than their elders.
But this was not the case in the home where Taxliil grew up, thanks to Ahl. The three of them lived as a nuclear family: a man, a woman, and a child, with Uncle Malik occasionally visiting, an ideal model, one would have thought, for a boy growing up. There was order and abundant love in the household. Ahl made time to supervise Taxliil’s homework. Twice a week, Taxliil went to the neighborhood mosque toreceive religious instruction from a Somali teacher with rudimentary Arabic, and often Ahl would subtly set Taxliil right without pointing out the teacher’s failings.
On his first day of secondary school, Taxliil met a green-eyed Kurdish boy, Samir. The two became inseparable. They played sports and computer games together; swapped clothes; swam and took long walks on weekends. They spurred each other to achieve their ambitions. Neither admitted to knowing what the word
impossible
meant. Doing well wasn’t good enough; they did better than anyone else.
One summer vacation, Samir flew out to Baghdad with his father to visit Iraq for the first time since the American takeover. He was sitting in the back of the car with his grandparents, his father in the front next to the driver, Samir’s uncle, when an American Marine flagged them down at a checkpoint. Samir alighted speedily and waited by the roadside, away from the vehicle, as instructed. His father helped Grandma in regaining possession of her walker and held his hand out to her as she shakily stepped out of the vehicle. Meanwhile, his uncle bent down to assist Grandpa, who was still in the car, in retrieving his cane, and he took a long time, half his body hidden from view. Panicking that one of the two men would shoot him, the young Marine opened fire, killing everyone except Samir.
Back in the Twin Cities, Samir became morose. The two friends still spent time together, but their life lacked the fun and ambition they had previously shared. Then Samir began to speak of attending to his “religious responsibilities,” and shortly thereafter he vanished from sight. A month or so later, his photo appeared in the
Star Tribune
, the caption reading: “Local boy turns Baghdad suicide bomber.”
The FBI came early the next morning and descended with unnecessary force on Taxliil, Ahl, and Yusur, as if they had detonated the bomb that caused the death of the soldiers. They were taken in separate vehicles and fingerprinted, their histories together and separately goneover again and again. Taxliil was made to endure longer hours of interrogation, with repeated threats. The FBI showed keen interest in Ahl as well, because of his birthplace and because he, Yusur, and Taxliil now lived in a house close to potential escape routes along the Mississippi. An FBI officer accused him of being a talent spotter for radical groups in the Muslim world.
The officers cast Yusur in the role of witness. They handled her with kindness, in light of her history. In their narrative, she had gone from a rapist to a man with a history of subversive tendencies, the older brother of a journalist able to tap into jihadi resources because of his connections. The officer asked Yusur if Ahl was likely to recruit Taxliil as a suicide bomber. They suggested she get it off her chest; they were her friends, and they meant her well. Who were
his
friends? Whom did he contact, and how did he do it?
Eventually, all three were released by the FBI. Even so, they were told to inform the agency of any suspicious activities. If they failed to do so, they would be reclassified.
Ahl sits with his mobile phone close by, yet it does not ring. He thinks that misfortune has followed the Somalis who fled their warring homeland; braved the seas; and put up with rape, daily harassment, corruption, and abuse. Just when they were on safe ground, they turned on themselves, with their young setting up armed gangs, as if they were out to prove that they could be better at cruelty than their elders.
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