The Girl Who Escaped ISIS

by Farida Khalaf

  Then we all went outside, turned to face the sun, and put our hands together. Dad led our prayer. “Amen, amen, amen,” he said. “Blessed be our faith. God will help our faith survive.”

  “Amen, amen, amen,” we murmured. I felt the energy of the sun surge through me, and at that moment I was absolutely sure that we’d come to the right decision.

  As we waited to hear what would come next, I remembered my conversations with my granddad when I was younger. He used to keep an object on the top of his drawers we called a sanjak. It was a bronze figure of a bird with a fairly plump lower body. “Do you know who that is?” he asked me once.

  “Of course,” I replied indignantly. “That’s Melek Taus.”

  Granddad nodded contentedly. “Correct,” he confirmed, bowing slightly toward the peacock. “As you know, Melek Taus is the most sublime of the Seven Angels of God. He is the most beautiful and perfect of all shining lights. But I’m afraid to say that many Muslims believe him to be the opposite.”

  “What?” I asked, as horrified as I was confused. I’d only ever heard what a wonderful, divine being our Peacock Angel was.

  “The whole thing is a misunderstanding,” my grandfather said. “It all goes back to something that happened long, long ago. Back in the beginning of time, when God created the earth and man, he ordered all the angels to kneel before Adam. And what did the angels do?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “They followed God’s instructions?” I guessed.

  “Correct. They did. All apart from one: Melek Taus. He was the only one who didn’t kneel before Adam.”

  “You mean he refused to obey God?” Now I really was astounded.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Granddad said. “But he had a good reason for doing so. For the instruction was a test from God. He wanted to check the loyalty of his angels. God wanted to find out whether they actually loved only him and would refuse to bow down before any other living being. Do you understand now? Melek Taus didn’t kneel before Adam, because all his love was for God alone!”

  “So he passed the test?”

  “Yes. He was the only one of the angels to remain loyal to his Lord. And so God was very pleased with him.”

  “But, Granddad,” I interrupted impatiently, “what is the problem?”

  “The problem is that the Muslims completely misunderstand this story!” the old man said, now worked up. “They think that God is still raging against Melek Taus. That’s why they call him the ‘fallen angel’ and claim he’s the embodiment of all evil.”

  My eyes were as wide as saucers. “They think he’s the . . . ?”

  “Shh!” my grandfather said, putting a finger to his lips. “You must never utter that name. I’d have to kill you otherwise.” Horrified, I raised my eyes to Granddad to look for the ironic wink in his eyes. But his expression remained harsh; he wasn’t joking. “Promise me you’ll never do that.”

  “Never, Granddad,” I promised, pressing my lips together as if to confirm my pledge.

  My grandfather started singing in his deep bass tones. And I joined in with my young voice: “O my Lord, you are the Angel, the ruler of the world; O my Lord, you are the Angel, the most munificent king; you are the Angel of the Great Throne; O my Lord, you were always the only one from the beginning of all time.”

  Finally he smiled. “Melek Taus is good and merciful, Farida,” he said. “Never forget that. No matter what others may say about him. And never trust them!”

  “Never!” I repeated, clenching my right hand resolutely into a fist. I now understood the extent of our problem: the Muslims regarded us Yazidis as the servants of the Prince of Hell! And because of this tragic misunderstanding, they hated us.

  THREE DAYS LATER, our mayor informed Salam and his men that we refused to become Muslims. “After consultation in the village, we’ve reached the conclusion that we cannot renounce the religion of our forefathers,” he told them. “We beg for your understanding.”

  “Well, then,” the Arabs replied, “we will notify the ISIS leadership of your decision. We only wanted the best for you.”

  “May we hope for mercy?”

  “That will be for the caliph to decide.”

  “There is no compulsion in religion,” our mayor said, quoting from the second surah of their holy book. But they didn’t want to hear this.

  “We know what’s in the Quran,” they said. “We know it far better than you do.”

  The village of Hatemiyah rejected conversion too. That same night the inhabitants succeeded in slipping past one of the checkpoints. For the Arabs guarding them this was highly embarrassing; they were livid that the Yazidis in Hatemiyah had escaped their grasp. They’d also got wind of the fact that we in Kocho were planning something similar. As a punishment and a precaution, they tightened the ring around our village even further. Kocho was sealed off on all sides. At every exit from the village stood men from the neighboring Arab villages, preventing us from planting even one step outside Kocho. Escape had become impossible.

  Our only hope was that the tide of the war would turn decisively, now that the United States was supporting the Peshmerga from the air and bombing ISIS positions for the first time. The mighty power from the other side of the world had also succeeded in creating an escape corridor for those poor people who’d taken refuge in Mount Sinjar and who now, after more than a month’s siege, had no physical strength left. Together, the Peshmerga and the PKK, the armed forces (guerrilla) arm of the Kurdistan Workers’ Party, helped them evacuate.

  “You see? There’s always hope. We must never lose heart,” my father said. “I bet they’ll come quickly to help us too.”

  This hope would prove to be misplaced, however. Whereas our relatives were finally saved after a weeklong ordeal, it seemed as if the world had forgotten Kocho. Although our mayor made many desperate appeals to the government in Baghdad and international aid organizations, nobody came to our help. Perhaps our community of 1,700 souls—which, since the start of the conflict had shrunk to 1,300—was simply too small to interest anyone. At any rate, nobody outside took notice of the catastrophe looming here.

  The catastrophe took place on August 15, 2014. I’ll never be able to forget that day for as long as I live. It began like any other August day: with a beautiful sunrise. To honor it in the appropriate way, my family was already up on the roof, performing our morning prayer.

  Shortly afterward it was just me up there. And then I saw them: thirteen vehicles approaching our village. Not the rickety pickups the Arabs had arrived in, but new, white vehicles, mounted with heavy-duty military equipment on their rear beds. In each of them sat ISIS soldiers dressed in black. I had to suppress a scream. In total panic I ran downstairs into the house and informed my father. “They’re coming, they’re coming!” I cried. “They’re coming to kill us!”

  My mother and younger brothers were immediately caught up in my hysteria and started to cry. “Is it true?” my mother asked. “Did you see them?”

  “Yes, they’re coming from the direction of Mosul. They look just like the men we’ve seen on TV, who’ve attacked all the towns and cities. But we’re no more than a village!”

  My father hurried up to the roof to take a look himself. By now the white vehicles had driven to the center of our village and positioned themselves at all the important crossroads and junctions. “Yes, those are ISIS,” my father said, confirming my suspicion. “They’ve come to loot our properties. They’ll take everything we have. It’s exactly what they did to the Christians.”

  We waited tensely to see what would happen. All of us were terrified. Although my father and brothers Serhad and Delan tried not to show it in front of us, they also feared that these could be the last moments we would spend together in our house.

  Late that morning the ISIS leaders informed us that all inhabitants of Kocho were to assemble in the school building at noon on the dot. “Bring all of your valuable possessions,” shouted a group of soldiers roaming the streets and taking the n
ews from house to house. “Everything of value: cash, gold jewelry. Your cell phones. ID papers and credit cards too. Bring it all.”

  My father felt he’d been proved right, or at least he behaved as if he did. “You see?” he said. “They’re thieves. Common thieves. And our Arab neighbors are helping them because they’re envious of our possessions.”

  “We’ll give them everything we have,” my mother said. “Then they’ll leave us in peace, won’t they?”

  “When there’s nothing more for them to steal they’ll soon lose interest in us,” Dad promised. But he didn’t appear to really believe this. I knew that he was especially worried because he was a soldier in the Iraqi army. Although he wasn’t wearing his uniform that day, if ISIS somehow found out, it could have terrible consequences for him. He had to be prepared for anything.

  “Look after yourselves,” Dad said seriously. “And don’t forget what I’ve taught you: faith is the most important thing in our lives.”

  “Of course, Dad.”

  “Above all make sure that you finish your schooling,” he urged my younger brothers and me. “And should anything happen to me, then listen to your mom. I will live on in her.”

  My eyes were flooded with tears. “But what are you talking about, Dad?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s going to happen,” he assured me.

  We packed up everything we possessed. Our three cell phones, Mom’s gold jewelry, Dad’s car keys, our cash, and our passports. Then we headed for the school. My father and I out in front, with Delan and Serhad behind us. Mom was holding hands with my two younger brothers at the rear. I can still clearly remember what I was wearing that day: a black blouse and a long, brown skirt. I’d also wrapped a brown scarf around my head. These were clothes of mourning, because so many of our relatives had been killed in Sila and Sinjar. Also, I didn’t want the Muslim men to see my face, and given that their own wives veiled themselves, I thought they’d have more respect for me this way.

  As we walked to the school we met many friends, neighbors, and relatives. All the women were wearing headscarves. Fear was writ large on everyone’s faces. Armed men nudged us forward, ensuring that no one took a different path and tried to escape. From a distance we could see the black ISIS flag flying on top of the school building. In the playground more men were waiting for us with Kalashnikovs and machine guns. These were ISIS terrorists dressed in black, as well as Arabs from neighboring villages assisting them.

  The men demanded that we hand over our valuables. They’d set up a large table to place them on. It was already piled high with all manner of jewelry and cash. “If you don’t give us everything you have, we’ll kill you,” they warned. They even searched people to check whether they were holding anything back. We were so afraid that we immediately gave them everything.

  Then they ordered us to go into the building. It was a strange feeling to enter my school in these circumstances. I thought of the people I’d normally bump into here: my nice math teacher, Mr. Siamand; the boring physics teacher; and of course Nura. Perhaps, it flashed through my mind, my dear cousin had done the right thing after all.

  They shoved us into the stairwell and instructed the women and children to go up to the second floor. The men were to stay downstairs. I had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but knew I didn’t want to be separated from my father and brothers. We didn’t even have time to say goodbye. The last thing I saw of Dad was a terribly sad look he gave me as he held hands with Delan and Serhad. I’ve stored this memory forever in my mind.

  My mother, my two younger brothers, and I were locked in a classroom upstairs. We stood with the other women and children, densely packed between the window and blackboard, which still displayed a math problem from the previous term. Everyone was crying and howling. But the terrorists pointed their guns at us and ordered us to be quiet.

  When all the villagers had assembled inside the building I saw Salam limp across the playground. He was wearing the same black outfit as the ISIS people, so he must have officially been one of them now. The only difference was that his beard was quite short. Together with his entourage he entered the school through the main door. We heard him talking loudly with the men downstairs. Later we found out that Salam was again asking them to convert to Islam. First in Arabic, then in Kurdish. I expect he wanted to make sure that they all understood him. “If you become Muslims, nothing will happen to you,” he promised. “Anybody who is prepared to change his faith will be allowed to remain in the village. But we’ll expel the rest.”

  “We’ve decided no,” our mayor said, replying for everyone. The men muttered their agreement. “But if you will allow me, I will go and ask the women too. They should be able to decide for themselves.”

  His request was granted. Three Arabs escorted the mayor upstairs. His face was as white as a sheet when he stood before us and started to speak. “Anybody who is prepared to become a Muslim may go now,” he said. “You may take your children with you. You are free to make up your own minds.”

  But all the women stayed where they were. Although we were terrified of what would happen now, conversion to Islam was not an option for us. I could clearly hear my father’s words in my head: death is better than betraying your own religion.

  The mayor was taken back downstairs. Shortly afterward we heard a large truck pull up outside the building. The terrorists herded the men into the playground, barking instructions and keeping them in check with their guns. If anyone tried to run away he was shot at. Out of the window I could see my brother Delan forced to climb into the cargo area with the other men. I had a terrible sense of foreboding. “What’s happening? Where are they taking him?” I asked my mother in desperation. But she couldn’t give me an answer.

  Soon a second and third truck arrived, then even some private cars, into which the remaining men were put. I kept my eyes peeled for Dad and Serhad, but I couldn’t see them. The vehicles drove off in different directions. Panic had broken out among the women in the classroom. “What’s going on? What are you going to do with them?” they kept asking the Arabs.

  “We’re taking them to the mountains,” they said without any emotion.

  But then we heard the shots.

  In the distance, about a kilometer away, a cloud of dust flew up.

  “You’re killing them,” a young woman with an infant on her arm screamed hysterically. “You’re shooting them!”

  The armed men just laughed at her. “Your men are dogs,” one of them said. “That’s why we’ve got to kill them.”

  The women cried in dismay and shock. They threw their heads into their hands. No one could comprehend the utterly pointless cruelty being inflicted on us.

  I was so shocked that I wasn’t even capable of shedding tears. My mother too stood there numb and motionless. “Hazu hu al Maktub—Thus has God willed it,” she said. “It is our destiny. They’re going to kill us too and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  { Four }

  The Slave Market in Raqqa

  In the schoolyard, all the girls around my age stood together in a group. The men had picked us out and separated us from our families. My mother had gotten in a fight with them as she tried to keep me with her and my brothers, but I was torn from her arms and forced to stand with the other unmarried women and girls. They aimed their guns at us so no one would get any ideas about running away. I knew all the girls; they were my friends, cousins, schoolmates. Evin was there too. Through the opening in her scarf, which she’d wrapped around her face, she stared at me with wide eyes. I could see that she was terribly afraid, as we all were. But of course, I could say nothing.

  The men ordered us onto one of the buses. It was a perfectly normal bus, like the ones we used to travel around the area. ISIS must have seized the public transportation system for its own purposes. I was sure that the moment we were on board it would be the end for us. Which is why at the last second I tried to break away from the group and make a run for it. But an ISIS soldier h
eld me firmly by the arm. “Do as you’re told!”

  “I’m not getting in there! Let go of me!” I screamed at him.

  “Oh yes you are,” the Arab said, jamming me sharply with the butt of his rifle toward the bus. I kicked out wildly; he became furious.

  “Little bitch!” he said. “We’ll soon knock that disobedience out of you.”

  He and another man pinned my arms behind my back and dragged me onto the bus, while I screamed bloody murder and tried to resist. “What’s the point of all this?” I shouted. “If you want to kill me, you might as well do it here!”

  “We’re not planning on killing you, not at all,” the men replied, laughing. “What a waste that would be!”

  They slammed the door behind us and the driver started the engine. He was accompanied by two ISIS soldiers, dressed in black, who kept watch over us during the journey. When the bus pulled away we girls were absolutely terrified. Some hammered violently against the windows. Others were so desperate that they hit their heads against the glass. They’d rather die than look our future in the eye. But no one took any notice of our plight. Nobody could hear us calling for help.

  We cried the whole journey. From the road signs I could see that the bus was heading for Mosul. “Where are they taking us? What are they going to do with us?” Evin sobbed. I couldn’t give her an answer. Although I had a pretty good idea of what was in store for us, I didn’t want to say it out loud. In the television reports I’d heard that ISIS was abducting girls from the Sinjar area to give them as wives to their soldiers. Was this really the fate awaiting us? I found the idea so disturbing that I was unable to take this thought to its logical conclusion. No, it was impossible. Those sorts of things only happened on television, not in real life. There was no way that Evin and I could have gotten into this situation.

  “As soon as they open the door we’ll run for it,” I told her.

  “But we’ll be right in the middle of ISIS territory.”