The journalist spoke rapidly to Sozan.
“Can you tell her anything else about him?” Sozan translated.
“Yes,” I said, my voice rising. A confidence was growing inside me. “I listened in on al-Amriki’s conversations with the soldiers who visited him.” Now I wanted justice. If I could help stop Daesh and find our missing girls and women, I would. “They called him the Sheikh of Aleppo,” I continued. “I overheard his plans, Daesh’s plans for Syria. Every day or two, new guns would arrive. Al-Amriki seemed to be in charge of deciding which guns Daesh would buy.”
The journalist asked me to wait while she made a phone call. A sketch artist accompanying the journalists’ delegation soon joined us, and I told him what I remembered about al-Amriki’s appearance. I recalled every terrible detail of his face. When the sketch was completed, I shivered. It was a strong likeness, except the artist made my captor seem larger than he actually was. Something lifted inside me. I felt freer.
With his likeness on paper, it was as if al-Amriki was no longer stuck deep inside me.
I went to visit Navine at the Kabarto refugee camp. I had been missing her, but as soon as I laid eyes on her, a sadness swept through me. I felt my healing come crashing down around me. Seeing her brought back the entire ordeal, from the beatings and the girls being sold in Raqqa to our imprisonment and abuse in Aleppo.
I knew there would always be a thread that tied us together. But I wasn’t ready to be with Navine yet.
When I returned to Rwanga camp, I headed straight for Sozan’s office. I wanted to ask her if what had happened during my visit with Navine was normal. She told me it was. I might have these flashbacks for the rest of my life, she said. But in time, I would learn to recognize them for what they were: reminders of a past that was over.
As it turned out, Sozan had been looking for me while I was gone. A group called the International Organization on Migration was interested in flying me to the United States to speak about the Yazidi genocide, she said. If I went, the TV network CNN also wanted me to come to their New York studio. The US government was hunting through files for al-Amriki, and so far, they could not figure out who he was.
I didn’t need to think about this request. I agreed immediately to go to America. I wanted people there to know what was happening to us Yazidi.
For my trip to the United States, I needed to get new identity papers and a passport.
While I waited for the documents to be processed, the end of Chilé Haviné neared. It was almost one year since the invasion of Kocho.
Majida, Khudher, Samira, and I decided to go to Lalish to pray. We wanted to honor the lives of our family members who were still missing and presumed dead. I also planned to take part in the ritual Baba Sheikh was performing, along with our next highest spiritual leader, Baba Chawish, to help us heal from the psychological effects of abduction.
In the past, our pilgrimages to Lalish had been like parties, with dozens of us squeezing into a few cars. We made food to take with us, and we spent a lot of time getting ready, primping, posing, singing, and dreaming about the dancing we’d do.
This time, though, we were sober. Our transportation was a public bus. Our only treats were chocolates that we bought on the way out of the refugee camp at the sweet shop. Khudher went into the shop for us. I couldn’t bear to look at the candies. They reminded me too much of Nafaa and of our captivity.
As the bus drew close to Lalish, Khudher started to sob.
Majida moved to one side of him. I sat on the other. We rubbed his back and looped our fingers through his, waiting for him to speak.
“I was with the men . . . I was taken with the men,” he said eventually in a strained voice. My lips started to quiver. After all these months of quiet, a part of me didn’t want my brother to talk about what had happened to him.
“Our great-uncle Saleh, Dake’s brother, was with me,” he continued. “Daesh marched us out of town, to the Sur.” The Sur was where we collected earth to make bricks for our houses. No matter how dry our summers were, the Sur was always muddy, the ground a shallow pool of water.
“Then a big man appeared. Bigger than the rest.”
I shivered. “In a brown dishdasha?” I interrupted. Khudher nodded. The man must have been the Saudi Arabian, from the classroom.
“Daesh soldiers ordered us to get down on our knees and duck our heads. There must have been forty of us. The big man ordered his soldiers to shoot. I was shot here.” Khudher lifted his shirt and showed Majida and me the scar: red and chafed, but healing.
“You told us you got that wound from falling,” Majida whispered.
“Saleh was badly hurt in the shooting, but he ordered me to play dead. He rolled his body on top of mine to hide me. I heard women and girls screaming as the cars and trucks took you away. Then, when I heard nothing, I pushed Saleh’s body off me. Keche, from our village, was alive, too, as was Elias, the doctor. The three of us made it to Mount Shingal. We hid there until we felt it was safe.” My eyes were closed, taking this all in. My heart ached.
“Before we walked into Kurdistan,” Khudher was saying, “we returned to Kocho. There was no food left in the homes. Daesh had gone through everything, stealing anything they could sell. What they left behind was a mess: couches and pillows ripped open, cupboard doors pulled from their hinges, clothes strewn everywhere. Elias, Keche, and I walked to Piske next. We went to Jasim Abdulah’s house. He answered the door, but he wouldn’t let us in. He cried and said he couldn’t help us. These men weren’t just our friends, they were like our family,” Khudher choked out. “They could have stopped it all.”
Jasim, like Abu Anwar, had been loved by many people in Kocho. He had visited my father, Hassan, prayed in our guest room, eaten our food, and drunk Adlan’s tea. I balled my fists together. I was deeply angry at those men, too.
On our past pilgrimages to Lalish, we’d arrived to a cacophony of sound: music from the flute, framed drums and tamburs, the joyous squeals of friends and family reuniting, men helping each other unload food and supplies, the crackling of fires.
Not this time. Not a year after the massacre of our people.
In what had become a habit, I scanned the faces of those who had arrived in Lalish searching for Nafaa, Fallah, Adil, Hassan, Hadil . . . and for Adlan.
Majida passed me a Chira. I lit it and followed her and Khudher into the main temple, where the tomb of the twelfth-century mystic Sheikh Adi was located. I’d visited this place in my mind many times when I was in captivity. Now, I felt I had come home.
After we’d rested in the sun, Majida joined me for a private meeting with Baba Sheikh and Baba Chawish. I was nervous. What if they told me I had to leave the community? I reached over to grip Majida’s arm. Under her breath, she reminded me, “Khatuna Fakhra.”
Both leaders wore calm expressions. Baba Chawish asked about my family and about who was here with me.
“Badeeah,” he then said, “your soul is advancing. Hatred is only a stone on your path to reach the fourth mind, the most advanced stage, or angel stage. Your love is stronger than hate.”
I started to cry then, sobbing like a baby.
Baba Chawish leaned forward. “Dear girl, you did nothing wrong. You don’t need forgiveness. Stay connected to the good power of the universe. In time, you will heal and feel the power of good running through you again.”
After that, we prayed together.
When our meeting was over, Baba Chawish accompanied me to the White Cave, where some of the Faqras, the girls and women who dedicate their lives to spirituality, Lalish, and advancing their own souls, had already gathered. Baba Chawish had me kneel down. I dipped my hands into the water of the sacred spring and then drew them across my face, dampening my skin. The Faqras splashed water on me as Baba Chawish said another prayer.
The final part of the ceremony involved me changing in
to a white dress made from fabric from the same tree used for Baba Sheikh and the Faqras’ robes and that we used to wrap the Berat. The belt they gave me was red, signifying love.
At first, I felt nothing.
But then out of nowhere, I had a vision. I saw Adlan. She was standing in front of me, wearing white and, this time, a red belt like mine. She held her hands out toward me, and at that moment, I knew Khatuna Fakhra had always been with me. She had guided me in the form of a butterfly when I was little and lost in Lalish. She was my mother, Navine, my sisters, and all the women and girls abducted by Daesh. She was all of us, and she was watching over us at the same time.
Khudher and Majida had set up a place for us to eat and sleep under a large mulberry tree. Samira boiled water for tea. Eivan was playing with his football. As I returned from the White Cave, he came running up to me on stocky legs that were growing fat from Samira’s love and cooking. I sat down on a stone and drew him into my lap.
“Maybe it’s time for a story,” I said. “Maybe I should tell you how the Samaran story ends?”
Eivan nodded eagerly.
“So the king’s men find Samaran, the snake,” I began. “She tells them that if the king eats her tail, he will inherit her immortality and wisdom. If he eats her head, he will die. But it’s a trick. When the men kill Samaran and the king eats her tail, instead of gaining everlasting life, he dies. When Tasmasp stumbles upon her body, heartbroken, thinking he caused her death, he eats some of her head, wanting to die himself. He felt he had betrayed her. But do you know what?”
“What?” Eivan said. His eyes danced in the glow of the surrounding cooking fires.
“He didn’t die. Tasmasp was the one who lived forever and inherited Samaran’s wisdom. In her love for Tasmasp, Samaran lived on. Some believe that Tasmasp is still alive, working as a doctor, healing people.”
Eivan and I fell quiet as we listened to some older women singing. “Eivan,” I whispered after a while. “Samaran isn’t a Yazidi story. Let me tell you something we believe.” He nodded.
“At Lalish, we enter the temple where Sheikh Adi’s tomb is located through Mir Gate,” I began. “Beside the door, if you remember, is a replica of a giant black snake. Way back, humanity faced a big flood. A ship was built and Noah brought two of each animal on board to save them. The ship had a hole. The entire vessel was sinking from one tiny leak, but a black snake slipped its body into the hole, blocking it up. The black snake we never kill because it saved the world.”
Eivan was too young to know that in Aleppo, seeping through a giant hole inside me, was all my hope. I had nearly given up, sinking the both of us. Sometimes my thoughts still became so heavy, they almost drowned me. But I was determined that I would live an enlightened life, letting love guide me out of any darkness and toward the light. That’s how we win. Love is how we defeat our enemies.
Epilogue
A Cave in the Clouds is based on the true story of Badeeah Hassan Ahmed. We have taken some creative license in telling the story, however, including recreating dialogue, combining some characters, and simplifying events for readers.
After Badeeah was captured and then separated from her sisters and her mother in Solakh, a distant relative recognized her in Tal Afar. That relative, who had converted to Islam, told Daesh that Badeeah was his son’s wife and Eivan was his grandson. Badeeah and Eivan lived with the relative for about a month before Daesh militants recaptured them. Badeeah was eighteen when she was abducted.
The location in Raqqa depicted in the story is a composite of several locations where Badeeah was held prisoner. Daesh took over houses, schools, and factories in the places they invaded and used them as prisons for their sabaya. Before being sold to al-Amriki, Badeeah and Eivan were enslaved in a number of places in multiple cities and towns. Some of these were houses hiding only a few women and girls. Other places saw Badeeah and Eivan imprisoned with hundreds of Yazidi.
It was in Solakh, not Raqqa, that Badeeah met the guard who tried to save her.
Navine is a real person, although her name has been changed to protect her identity. She and Badeeah met in one of the Iraqi locations, not in Raqqa. Their experiences together and the bond they made in captivity are all real.
Sadly, Nezar, the human smuggler, died not long after rescuing Badeeah. She was informed he died at the hands of Daesh, who had infiltrated the rescue operations.
Hadil and Majida are composite characters combining the traits of several of Badeeah’s sisters.
Badeeah’s mother, father, all of her older brothers, including Adil and Fallah, are still missing. So is Nafaa. Mass graves have been discovered in Iraq, including one in Kocho that holds the remains of about seventy bodies. Another mass grave has been found in Solakh. The people buried in these graves have yet to be identified.
Today, Badeeah lives in Germany with Eivan and his mother, Samira. She is studying languages and nursing. Her dream is to become a nurse or a doctor to help her people.
Acknowledgments
From Badeeah
I want to thank Sozan Fahmi. Without her, I would not have been able to translate my story. You are my best friend and confidante and I owe so much to you. I also want to thank the Jinda and Wadi foundations that not only helped me but so many Yazidi girls and women. I want to thank Khalsa Aid for giving the opportunity to work and find a purpose in life again after my ordeal with ISIS. Thank you, Germany, for opening your borders to me and all of us Yazidi suffering from genocide. In particular, thank you to Manuela Zendt, Julia, Claudia, Wintus, Zika, Dr. Michael Blume, Dr. Jan Ilhan Kizilhan, and Mirza Ali Dinnayi.
Thank you to Marie Claire UK, who initially told my story; my brother and sisters who survived and who inspire and guide me every day; Dakhil Shammo and Imad and Fawaz Farhan, who provided invaluable information, translation, and understanding of my story and the Yazidi people.
Thank you to Nafiya Naso for writing the book’s foreword.
To the real “Navine,” without whom I would not have survived my time with ISIS. She helped save Eivan and me. I owe you my life.
To my spiritual elders, entire community, and especially the energy of Khatuna Fakhra. To the Yazidi spiritual leader, Baba Sheikh, without your decision, rescued girls like me would not have had the courage to come back and integrate in the community again.
I want to thank the human smugglers who helped me escape ISIS, particularly Nezar, who sacrificed his life to help Yazidi girls and women. He was killed not long after he rescued me.
To all of the people who have helped the Yazidi, thank you.
Finally, thank you, Susan McClelland, for writing my book with me and Annick Press for publishing my story. Thank you to all the readers who took the time to learn a little more about the beauty of the Yazidi people and our enduring courage.
From Susan
This book would not have been possible without the generous support of Sozan Fahmi, who works with Khalsa Aid and the WADI (Association for Crisis Assistance and Development Cooperation) and Jinda foundations in Dohuk, Kurdistan. Since Badeeah’s rescue from Daesh, she and Sozan have become close friends. Together Sozan and I have weathered many storms and setbacks in making the stories of Yazidi women public. Tirelessly, Sozan has inspired me not to give up.
Dakhil Shammo and Nasir Kiret assisted greatly by clarifying the politics leading up to Daesh’s invasion of Iraq and helping me to understand Yazidi life and culture. Thank you!
The insights into Yazidi spirituality in the book were made possible through the contributions of Imad Farhan and his father, the esteemed Yazidi author Fawaz Farhan. The trust they placed in me and the revelations they provided were rare and invaluable. A Cave in the Clouds is one of only a few English-language books that provide a glimpse into one of the oldest religions, faiths, and cultures on the planet. The Yazidi wisdom, its mysticism, its balance of male and female energies, and its faith that love is ever present inside us and
in the universe must be preserved.
All Islamic references were fact-checked and approved by the scholar Khalid Aboulela. I extend many thanks to my lifelong friend and guide.
Thank you to Nafiya Naso for writing an insightful and compassionate foreword for the book. The work done by Operation Ezra is essential in addressing the plight of the Yazidi people.
I acknowledge Brooks Newmark and Nazim Baksh for their help fact-checking details about the war in Syria.
I wish also to thank Rick Wilks and the team at Annick Press. Rick has been a constant supporter of this type of creative non-fiction over the years, recognizing the importance of these narratives and the power of marketing and publicizing accounts like this one that touch and inform young readers around the world. For Barbara Pulling, my thoughtful editor, who also worked with me on The Bite of the Mango, I have nothing but praise and admiration. As I say to my children, praise is wonderful, but critique is better. Honor the person whose path it is to help you see where you are blind. Barbara, you take my words and these stories and make them great. I would also like to thank the Ontario Arts Council for their generous support.
Finally, Badeeah. What can I say? I think of you as a sister, a friend, a soul mentor. You are truly one of the special ones, the enlightened ones on this earth. The expansiveness of your heart and your generosity humble me and remind me of the goodness that can prevail over the darkest evils of humanity. The world needs to dance to the beat of your rhythm, girl!
The spelling of Yazidi words in this book are based on transliterations of the Shingali, Kurdish, and Arabic languages. Badeeah’s own name is a transliteration, and in previous media reports has also been spelled “Badia.” We tried to remain as authentic to the transliteration into English of the Shingali language as possible.
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