The Beekeeper

by Dunya Mikhail

  At that moment an airplane appeared on the horizon, flying over them. The Daeshis didn’t know what to do. They looked seriously confused. They all fell silent. But the plane disappeared, leaving a trail of smoke and disappointment for those people fleeing who had imagined for a moment that the plane had come for them, that it would descend from the sky like a guardian angel. Once the plane had disappeared, one of the Daeshis came closer and asked, “Where is your wounded person? We’ll take him to the hospital. We’ll give him whatever blood he needs and then we’ll bring him home.” And they truly did take the sick man with them, gave him some blood, and then brought him back.

  The people became even more confused about whether they should keep going or not. They called their friends and families in the neighboring villages and everyone kept repeating, “Don’t trust Daesh.” They decided once again to keep moving. But this time they would split into two groups. There were about a hundred and seventy people: half of them would walk east, and the other half would walk west. Both routes would eventually lead to Mount Sinjar, the same mountain refuge that had protected them from harm every time. They’d done this many times over the course of history: the people of the region, in times of danger, wouldn’t think about going anywhere else, they wouldn’t think twice. The boulders of the mountain continued on for fifty miles; it looked unforgiving from the outside but it was womb-like inside. Its passages, like the wrinkles of grandparents, guided the panicked, bringing them solace; its heart was a cave that sheltered the troubled heartbeats of many families, even if at times it silently bore witness to the death of people from hunger and thirst. There was a paved road on which a car would circle the mountain twenty-eight times before reaching its summit. But most went up on foot. A mountain as old as the world — how old is the world, though? Anyway, the half of the caravan heading west reached the mountain, and survived, but the other half heading east, including Elias’s family, never made it there. The Daeshis were waiting in their path and they were captured. Daesh took them to Mosul after dividing them into buses according to their gender and age. When they were unloaded in Mosul, Daesh distributed them to different adjacent houses. The eldest son, Hasan, was with Elias; the two younger boys, Rafeh and Ragheb, were with Kamy; and the three girls — aged eighteen, twenty, and twenty-two years — were taken with the other young ladies to a different house. Through the window of her house Kamy watched Elias and Hasan get killed. She saw with her own eyes how the Daeshis dumped dozens of men into pits, then opened fire on them. Kamy and the other women who witnessed the massacre were all weeping, beating their cheeks the whole time. But the Daeshis didn’t care about their broken hearts or their eyes that were reddened with tears. They moved the women again, this time taking them to the Badoush prison between Mosul and Talafar. There, fourteen-year-old Ragheb was separated from Kamy, leaving her with only Rafeh. Nine days later they were moved again from the prison to a school in Talafar. In the schoolyard, adolescent children were forced into military training. Kamy and the other female captives would watch the young men through the window, searching for their sons. Kamy’s gaze settled on the face of her son Ragheb — she saw him among dozens of other boys training to fight.

  Ragheb training to become a mujahid

  At her home back in the village, Kamy was accustomed to waking up early, opening the window to look over the valleys laid out before her with their vibrant colors that changed with the seasons. But windows had become truly terrifying: through them she had seen her husband and her eldest son being murdered — and now she saw how another son was being trained for violence. He wore camouflaged clothing, a black Daesh flag wrapped around his head. Kamy mustered up the courage to ask one of the Daeshis to bring her son Ragheb to see her. He refused her request: “They went to study Quran,” he told her. “He has a sacred mission under the leadership of the Islamic State.” Eighteen days later, when Kamy looked through the window, she could no longer pick out her son among the boys training in the courtyard. And she noticed that there were fewer boys in training that morning. Kamy felt nauseous. She wanted to know if her other son was dead as well. Other female captives were also asking about their sons. After the insistent questions, an answer came from one of the Daeshis: “Your sons went to Raqqa to continue their training with expert leaders. Your sons are going to become great mujahideen. Congratulations.” Then they moved Kamy and Rafeh and all the other captives to the village of Kasr al-Mihrab, south of Talafar, a village of mostly Shiites who’d left their homes with the coming of Daesh. Now it seemed almost totally desolate. They stayed there for six months, but the number of female captives was declining because they were being sold off. Nobody came near Kamy because she was fifty years old. One day they moved once again, this time to Mosul. Kamy saw a sign that read: Welcome to Nineveh State. Before Daesh came it had been called Nineveh Province. Kamy remembered how the people of Nineveh had fled to the northern villages during the 1991 war with Kuwait, and how her house had been filled with people fleeing from the city because of the intense bombardment by coalition fighter jets. Just a little while before Daesh arrived, Elias had been grumbling about how all of the villages in the north had once sheltered those fleeing the war in the cities. But now if those villagers were in danger, the people in the cities wouldn’t be able to offer adequate protection. In the end, some of those who came to their homes and ate their food were the same people who’d sold them off to Daesh anyway.

  Kamy was craving a cigarette, to inhale some smoke after all her suffering. But smoking was forbidden by Daesh. Nevertheless, Kamy found some cigarette butts in front of the house where she was being held in Mosul. She took them and hid them away. When the Daeshis left, she stood behind the house to smoke those improvised cigarettes. Kamy was startled when a man suddenly jumped out next to her. She saw that it was the water tanker driver, the one who sold water to the Daeshis, and she sighed in relief because she knew him. He spoke kindly to Kamy, in his Mosulli accent, whenever he brought water. He was very nice to her, and he agreed to bring her a new SIM card for the phone that she had hidden under her clothes. Now that he saw her smoking a cigarette butt, he joked with her: “What are you doing? Smoking is forbidden.” She asked him if he could bring her some cigarettes the next time he came. “That’s really tough,” he said, “but I’ll try.” A week later the Mosulli driver brought Kamy three packs of cigarettes, which she kept carefully hidden. As soon as the Daeshis left, Kamy opened a pack, took pleasure in a kind of luxury, and breathed out some of her repressed anger. She found herself smiling at the generosity shown to her by the Mosulli driver. But the next day she saw something she would never forget: a Daeshi holding up two severed hands in front of the captives. He said those were the hands of the tanker driver who’d brought the captives cigarettes. Kamy nearly choked, as if she had inhaled all of the tobacco of the world in a single moment, thinking, I wish I were dead, I wish I hadn’t asked him for anything. She couldn’t put anything in her mouth for days. Her saliva was terribly bitter. She got rid of the cigarettes, tossing them into the trash and covering them up with other garbage. She decided to never touch a cigarette again.

  A few days after this episode they moved again to a camp in Raqqa, where they were put up for sale. Eighteen days passed without anyone volunteering to buy Kamy, despite her cheap price of fifty dollars. She was exhausted from having to clean and cook for a bunch of Daeshis in the camp. Later a wounded fighter named Abu Malik arrived. He’d lost a hand and an eye, so he was compensated with a young female prisoner at half price. And they gave him Kamy for free — she’d heard someone say, “Nobody wants that one. Take her for free.” Abu Malik was from Saudi Arabia and he took her and Rafeh and the young Yazidi prisoner to his house in the Tadmur region in Syria. He had four wives living in his house: two were Turkish and the other two were from Syria, but they’d all enlisted with Daesh. Kamy had to take care of them. She did all of the household chores. When she started to get pains in her back from all of the wo
rk, the young Yazidi captive offered to help, but Abu Malik warned her that he would beat her if she helped. He said, “That’s her job. That’s why she’s here.”

  After two months of service, Kamy told Abu Malik, “I want to ask you for something. I have a son named Ragheb. They told me he was taken to a training camp in Raqqa. I haven’t seen him since, and I need to know that he’s okay.” Abu Malik replied, “That training camp isn’t far from here. I’ll go look for you.” Kamy was thrilled. She kept waiting for Abu Malik to tell her that he’d seen Ragheb, but two days passed without hearing anything from him.

  Kamy at work in the Daesh house

  On the third day she reminded Abu Malik of her request. She continued reminding him every day. On the tenth day Abu Malik returned with Ragheb. He looked at his mother without doing or saying anything. But Kamy hurried over to embrace him and then started crying. Abu Malik said, “Ragheb is training at the Farouq Academy in Raqqa. Soon he’ll become a mujahid.” Abu Malik didn’t let Ragheb stay with her for more than an hour before taking him back to the training camp. Kamy couldn’t sleep from then on. The pain in her back had gotten worse — it was unbearable. One day Daeshi fighters came into the house, saying that Abu Malik had been martyred in battle and that the female captives would have to get ready for auction again. This time Kamy’s price was higher. Abu Abdullah bought her and her son Rafeh for a hundred and fifty dollars. Abu Abdullah brought the two of them to his house in Aleppo so they could serve him and his three young sabaya. Kamy knew that Abu Abdullah was a director of security for Daesh. She told him, “My son is training at the Farouq Academy in Raqqa. I need to see him.” Abu Abdullah promised her he would help. One day he said, “I met Ragheb once. I could tell that he was very smart, which is why I moved him to the security headquarters near me, so that I can train him. He will become a representative I can rely on.” Kamy asked if she could visit. Abu Abdullah nodded.

  I learned from one of my friends who was a smuggler embedded with Daesh that Kamy and her son were in that house with the rest of the female captives we’d been trying to rescue. My friend would get cell phones to the captives, and we’d make fake IDs for them and provide them with the niqab. I made an arrangement with one of my contacts to send a girl to that house, under the pretense that she was selling something, so she could tell Kamy to escape with her. But when she got the opportunity to speak with Kamy about running away, Kamy refused at first, saying, “I’ve already lost my husband and my eldest son, and my three girls as well. I don’t know where they are. Only my youngest son is still with me. I’m not going to leave unless my other son, who’s in the training camp, can come with me. He hasn’t returned yet, and I don’t know when they’re going to bring him here so that I can see him. I’ll let you know when he gets here. If you’re able to come back here, I’ll let you know my decision.”

  When Abu Abdullah got back from work, Kamy asked about Ragheb again. She learned that Rafeh would also need to go to the training camp but that he would be able to come back to the house every day after training. He’d bring Ragheb home every Friday, to bathe before going to the mosque with Rafeh to hear the Friday sermon with the other mujahideen. The sermon lasted for two hours, during which time the two of them would talk about everything, even about how to use the toilet — if you went to the bathroom before prayer was over, your prayer would be ruined. And if you farted — please excuse me — your prayer would be ruined.

  On the second Friday, Kamy was finally able to see Ragheb alone. She told him about her idea of running away, her wish for him to join her and his younger brother. But Ragheb refused, saying that he had become a mujahid on the path of God, and that he had a sacred mission ahead of him because God had chosen him among all “the righteous ones.” Kamy wiped away the tears and told him that she wouldn’t leave without him, and that she would wait until he changed his mind. “Don’t forget they’re the ones who killed your father and your older brother. Don’t forget that, son, don’t forget,” Kamy said, fighting back tears. “If my father had been on the correct path they would never have killed him,” Ragheb replied. “Do you remember your sisters, Ragheb? They raped your three sisters, your sisters I haven’t seen since that day. You accept that, Ragheb? Is that the correct path, my son?” Kamy asked. Ragheb lowered his head. It was a perfect opportunity to run away but Ragheb had chosen to go to the mosque with his brother. On Fridays the Daeshis beat any boy over the age of six who didn’t go to pray on time — there was a private police force, and their assignment was to beat little boys on Fridays.

  Kamy was waiting impatiently for the next Friday so that she could see Ragheb once again. During the day she would pray with Abu Abdullah the way Muslims do, but at night she prayed silently, the way Yazidis do. She concluded her prayer with verses from Allah and from Tawus Malak, hoping that Ragheb would come back to her in body and spirit. On Friday morning Abu Abdullah went to the mosque as usual to meet his mujahideen comrades before prayer. Ragheb and Rafeh would join him after spending some time with their mother. She had washed their Afghan-style clothes so they could wear them to the mosque. Once again Kamy took the opportunity to bring up the subject of running away and returning to Iraq, and once again Ragheb refused. Rafeh listened without saying a word.

  Ragheb and Rafeh visiting Kamy, dressed in Afghan clothes

  Ragheb justified his refusal by saying that his true brothers were those of his faith, which meant that his family was the Islamic State that he defended in the name of truth. And so three weeks passed without her running away, despite the opportunity being there. Ragheb seemed to be completely in step with Daesh: he would wake up early in the morning for dawn prayer, performing his ablutions beforehand, and place a mat on the ground in order to prostrate himself.

  When the woman showed up pretending to sell her goods, she threw Kamy an inquisitive look. Kamy whispered that her son hadn’t yet agreed to go along with her plan, but that she still hoped to be able to convince him. She begged her to come back again, not to leave her there. On the fifth Friday the miracle that she had been waiting for took place, or maybe some force had answered her prayers. She hadn’t spoken with Ragheb at all that day; instead, she was reaching out to him with two tearful eyes. “Why are you crying?” he asked her. She didn’t respond at first. Wiping away her tears, she said, “It’s nothing, my son. Nothing. I’m just sad.” She didn’t believe her ears when Ragheb said, “I’m going to come with you.”

  From that day on, Kamy waited for the traveling saleswoman to return. She looked out the window as usual but she never saw anyone coming but Abu Abdullah. One Saturday three weeks later the woman came back. Kamy greeted her with a sigh, and as soon as they were alone Kamy said that the best time to escape was Friday morning, after Abu Abdullah left for the mosque. He would be gone for two hours, busy with the Friday sermon, and he wouldn’t notice if Ragheb and Rafeh were missing. The problem was that the Daesh patrols might notice them because at prayer time they search for the boys who aren’t inside the mosque and beat them. But, on Friday, the woman said she could bring girls’ clothes with her so that Ragheb and Rafeh could disguise themselves. Then she would guide them to the safe house where they would hide until the driver could take them to the border. Sleep hadn’t come easy for Kamy since she’d been taken captive, and it certainly wouldn’t be easy that following Thursday. She stayed awake until Friday morning when the plan was carried out. Everything went exactly as she hoped it would go, even if she suffered a bit when she tried to convince Ragheb to put the girls’ clothes on over his own — he refused at first but she begged him, “You’re going to put us in danger. Just think of them as security clothes. You can take them off as soon as we’re out of harm’s way.” The second obstacle was that they had to spend seven days at the Turkish border without shelter and barely any food. The smuggler came every day and joined them in their attempt to cross the border, but the police would spot them on the road and they would have to go back into t
he wilderness once again. In the few moments when the coast was clear, their car sped toward the Ibrahim Khalil border crossing, then they were able to turn off the road and walk along the ridge, within view of more familiar territory . . .

  When I met Kamy I was moved by how she expressed her feeling of gratitude. She made me laugh when she said, “I could carry you and your car with my gratitude.” I noticed that she was holding a very large cup of tea, and I said, “Seems like you really like tea.” She replied that she can’t get enough tea. During the week that she spent out in the wilderness along the Turkish border she was desperate for tea. “A cup of tea is all I wanted that whole week,” she said.

  The Exodus

  Like the turtle,

  I walk everywhere

  with my home on my back

  I was in an airplane flying from Detroit to Pittsburgh, where I would do a poetry reading at the City of Asylum tent and give a workshop at the Carnegie Museum of Art in conjunction with the She Who Tells a Story photo exhibition. As soon as I landed, I saw that I’d missed a call from Abdullah during the flight. But I learned that he was going to be unreachable for a while because of some complicated rescue operations in Syria.

  In Pittsburgh, Diane and her husband, Henry, who founded the City of Asylum project, took me on a tour of houses that had been turned into works of art by asylum seekers. Artists painted on the walls, writers wrote words on the doors, and musicians greeted visitors with their songs. But what fascinated me the most was the garden, not only because the residents had planted their favorite varieties, but people passing by had written down their dreams on pieces of paper that were clipped to the fence.