The Beekeeper

by Dunya Mikhail

  Nidal didn’t reply. To her surprise the man dialed the number and said to me, “Nidal is here. I’m prepared to sell her to you for thirty thousand dollars.”

  “Well, give me a little time to get the money together, and I’ll transfer it to you,” I replied.

  The man kept calling me every day even as I continued giving him excuses to stall for time, saying that I couldn’t transfer the money yet because the banks were closed. A week later, Nidal called me and said in a hushed voice, “Listen to me” — then she raised her voice — “where are you, brother? I’m calling you from the phone of the munasireen group. I need to know when you’re going to return.”

  “I’m in Ba’aj fighting the infidels,” I said.

  “When are you coming back?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow. Just give me the address,” I said.

  “Al-Muhandiseen District in Mosul. There’s a public park close to us, in front of Aladdin’s Celebration Hall,” she said.

  “I’ll meet you there tomorrow at 4 p.m. If I don’t make it tomorrow, then the day after,” I said.

  The next day the smuggler told me that he’d waited for two hours but didn’t find anyone in the park. The day after that, I received the good news that they’d made it to the park. Once they got into the car, the smuggler gave them new clothes and removed the cast from Faraj’s hand so Daesh wouldn’t be able to identify them. Faraj’s body was covered in scars, but they couldn’t be seen under his long-sleeved clothes.

  They’d reached the Mosul Dam by the time her owner called me and said, “Nidal ran off.”

  I pretended to be surprised: “Tell me the truth. Something happened to them, right? An aircraft bombed them or something?”

  “Do you mean to say that you didn’t know? I’m sure you’re behind their escape, you infidel,” he said. He kept insulting me in text messages, so I blocked him . . .

  Abdullah got back to me after we’d been interrupted and had to hang up more than ten times. When he called me back, he continued: You must be wondering what Idrees was doing there at the Mosul hospital? He was undergoing medical treatment as a member of Daesh. But let me start from the beginning . . . Idrees decided to get a ride with Daesh when they announced that they were going to take the Yazidis up to the mountain, into Kurdistan. Daesh had brought their cameras, telling everyone, “We’re going to film you announcing your conversion to Islam so that you’ll be safe. Otherwise you’re going to have to clear this region for us, and then we’d take all of you to northern Kurdistan.”

  All of them chose to leave, without any hesitation. Just then, Idrees remembered that his grandmother was still in the house all by herself, and thought that it might be better for her to go with them. He got out of the giant vehicle that could fit forty people and ran back to his house, which was fifty yards away from the car. He came back with his grandmother. Daesh, who had given him permission to go and was waiting for them, indicated that the grandmother should ride in the car for women, and that Idrees should wait for the second convoy. The men in the first cars had just been thrown into those deep ditches and shot dead — Idrees heard the sound of gunshots and wondered what was happening. “There are clashes underway. That’s why you’re hearing those sounds,” Daesh answered.

  It was time for the second convoy to leave, and Idrees got in. But at that moment he realized the danger they were facing. There were a dozen others with him, including his twenty-year-old son and his older brother. They were all thrown down together. The Daeshi pointed his gun at them as he told them to line up next to each other. Idrees stood in front of his son to protect him, while his older brother crumpled in front to protect Idrees. Someone was groaning but Idrees didn’t think he’d been injured, and the Daeshi fired a second time, then a third, and Idrees was hit in his feet. Another Daeshi shouted from the back: “Did you make sure they’re all dead?” The Daeshi turned back toward them. None of the wounded were moaning. They left, and there was complete silence. Idrees remained frozen in place. He was badly hurt, not only because of the gunshots in his feet but also because he was sandwiched between two dead bodies, one was his son and the other was his brother.

  Idrees stayed like that, pinned in place, wanting to cry, but no tears came out of his eyes — he didn’t want to leave behind his two loved ones who had passed away without him. He remained there for many hours, hoping to die so that his pain would come to an end. Idrees was neither dead nor alive; he was completely detached from everything, yet at the same time connected to the two bodies next to him. What would he tell his wife if he saw her again? How would he possibly tell her about the death of their son? She used to check in on him all the time, counting the days until he would come back from studying law at the University of Sulaymaniyah to spend summer vacation with them. But where was his wife now? And where was the rest of his family? Where were they going to be taken? What would happen to them? Idrees finally decided to pull himself out of the ditch. He tore his dishdasha and wrapped the wounds on his feet with it. After several attempts to climb out, Idrees finally made it. It was a very dark night, the worst night of his life. He walked with difficulty toward the village of Serdar, but he didn’t make it very far — he was so exhausted that he lay down beside some okra leaves. He could see fields of wheat and barley in front of him — the farmers must have abandoned them without gathering the harvest. Idrees lowered his head and spotted nine men running after some other men and shooting at them. He saw them fall to the ground one by one. There was a fire, and a plane hovering above the burning field. He wished that the plane would land and carry him high above the fire, but it flew away and disappeared.

  Limping in a hurry to get away from the fire, Idrees noticed a few houses scattered on the edge of a plateau in the village of Biskay. He knocked on the first door he saw, asking the man who opened the door for some water. The man went inside and came back with a large blanket; he wrapped Idrees up in the blanket and threw him down into the valley, saying, “You couldn’t find anyone else’s house?” Idrees had bruises all over his body, but he was awake, in a strange state. As he lay there after falling, he saw two men walking toward him. Idrees was worried they would kill him, so he decided not to ask them for anything. The two men stopped in front of him. After a few moments of silence, one of them extended his hand to Idrees and asked, “Do you need anything?” Idrees replied hesitantly, “Water.” The man said, “Come with us, our home is nearby.” When they arrived, the men didn’t invite Idrees to enter their house, but directed him to the chicken coop behind the house. It was a three-foot by six-foot space. They brought him water and milk, and told him that he would have to leave before sunrise. “That’s fine,” he said, “but may I also use the phone?” He couldn’t remember any of his friends’ numbers except for one that was very easy to remember: the number of a shepherd he used to spend a lot of time herding with — Idrees would wake up early to take his sheep out to the plains, but the day of the Daesh attack he went out with the sheep to accompany his friend, puzzled about why there were so many lights piercing the darkness that night. They were the headlights of the cars carrying people who were fleeing their homes as Daesh attacked like locusts on the fields. Those who didn’t own cars rode on donkeys; others walked. Idrees was among those who’d stayed in their homes.

  It was a good thing that his friend picked up the phone during that critical moment. “I’m bleeding, and I don’t have much time,” Idrees said, “can I stay at your place for a little while?” His friend apologized, saying it was too far; it would take an hour and a half by car. Before he hung up, Idrees heard a voice on the other end: “Is that Idrees? Give me the phone, I want to speak with him.” Idrees knew who it was at once. It was Musab, one of his best friends from the same part of Kocho. “Where are you, Idrees? No, I won’t wait until sunrise. I’m coming to get you right now,” Musab said. Musab arrived a few hours later and helped Idrees into his jeep. On the way back, Musab asked a lot of
questions — the first one was more of a protest: “The chicken coop? Shame on them. They don’t know how spoiled you are. But your feet are swollen, Idrees. You need medical attention.”

  Musab decided to take Idrees to the hospital right away. But on the way he changed his mind because, when he called his brother, he learned that Daesh controlled the area. His brother advised him to go see a medical assistant that he knew instead. The medical assistant successfully stopped the bleeding of Idrees’s feet — applying some hydrogen peroxide and wrapping them tightly in gauze — and then gave him some antibiotics. Idrees was supposed to follow up with him in two weeks when he ran out of pills. During the two weeks he spent at Musab’s house, Idrees noticed the wound on his right foot had become redder. And it was still hurting him. The medical assistant advised him to go see a specialist at the Mosul hospital. “But Mosul is under Daesh’s control,” said Musab. The medical assistant was silent for a few moments, and then said, “If you want to trust in God, and go to Mosul, I know a judge over there. He used to live in Kocho but moved to Mosul to work at the court. He stayed there despite Daesh being in control. I heard he’s one of those judges who stamp the identity cards of the Islamic State. Would you like me to refer you to him so that he’ll help you get into the hospital?” Musab and Idrees exchanged looks and then Musab said, “We’ll trust in God, as you said, and go to Mosul.”

  On the outskirts of Mosul they were stopped at a checkpoint. Musab showed them his identity card. Idrees didn’t have one so he remained silent. Musab said, “This man is a shepherd, he works for me. I brought him to see his sheep.” The inspector didn’t say anything — he just shrugged them along. Musab drove Idrees straight to see the judge.

  The judge received them without getting up from his chair. “What’s your full name?” he asked Idrees. When Idrees pronounced his name, the judge said, “Get out, all of you. Only Idrees stays.” Musab and the others who’d been waiting to meet with the judge went away. Idrees became afraid that the judge had suddenly become agitated when he heard Idrees’s full name. But to Idrees’s surprise, the judge started sobbing like a baby. Idrees couldn’t see him because of the curtain between them. Finally, the judge asked, “Are you really the son of Bashar Sillo? From Kocho?” Idrees confirmed this. “I know your father very well,” the judge said, “tell me, what do you need?”

  Idrees replied, “I need an entry card to the hospital.” The judge handed him a piece of paper, saying, “Listen, whenever anyone talks to you at the hospital, let this be your response: God willing, on the road to martyrdom.”

  Idrees entered the hospital, and as soon as the receptionist looked at his card, he called for someone to come and accompany Idrees to the waiting room. It was there that Idrees saw Nidal and managed to give her his phone number. The hospital was full of wounded Daeshis. Idrees lay on the bed next to theirs. Idrees wanted to look at them, to try to understand what kind of human beings they were — and why they were doing this to him and to his people. But at the same time he didn’t like looking at them. He didn’t want to know them. The doctor came in minutes later, and before examining him, he said, “God bless you. You have been wounded for the sake of the Islamic State.” Idrees replied, “God willing, you are on the road to martyrdom.” As he was leaving, someone with a long beard entered the room. He seemed well known to all the other Daeshis. Everyone paid attention to that man, perking up at the sight of him. This important man walked around the beds greeting the wounded and giving them each a hundred-dollar bill. But Idrees refused to take money from this man who’d contributed to the death of his son and his brother — and God only knows what had happened to the rest of his family. “I’m going to donate it to my brothers who are fighting now,” Idrees told the bearded man. “God bless you for taking this stand,” the man said. He called in the doctor and said, “This man should be given the finest treatment.” The doctors and nurses in that unit gave Idrees priority, coming down to check on him every hour. In addition, they gave him extra medication and medical supplies, enough to last him two months. In the end, the nurse released him from the hospital by saying, “You’re a crown above our heads.”

  Idrees returned to Musab’s house. The wounds on his feet had started to heal. But the wound in his heart had not. None of his family members came back. He called one of his relatives and asked, “Who from my family has made it back? Has anyone returned?” Idrees threw the phone away, and picked up the pistol near Musab, in order to kill himself. But Musab swiftly jumped on top of him and wrestled the pistol away from him. “What if your family comes back and doesn’t find you here? Who ever said they’re not coming back tomorrow?” Musab said, adding, “I’ll take you to Dohuk, brother. There’s an Office of Kidnapped Affairs there. Maybe they can help.” Idrees collapsed into Musab’s arms, crying, and in a tremulous voice said, “Who’s going to receive me? How can I go on with my life? I have no one, no one.”

  Musab called me, and mentioned that he was bringing Idrees to our city. He asked me to gather together as many acquaintances and friends as I could to greet Idrees so that he wouldn’t feel lonely. When Idrees arrived, there were more than a hundred people waiting for him. When he saw us, he sat down on the floor, weeping.

  Sinjar: The Beautiful Side

  At the edge of a mass grave, Abdullah stood there crying. He had finally found his brother:

  He was sleeping

  on his side

  just as he always does

  except that his bones came into view,

  you can even count them.

  Surrounded by friends

  as usual

  except they’re dead.

  Completely calm

  not worried about his wounds.

  He never did as a child

  except he’ll never grow up.

  Close to one other

  like two conjoined trees

  on which they would rest their backs

  except now they have no words

  Over the mass grave

  the sun slips through the clouds

  like every time

  except today it makes death brighter.

  With a trembling hand, Abdullah pulled his phone out of his pocket to take the call. He was still staring at his brother’s corpse as he spoke with the latest captive who was trying to escape with her children. Later, Abdullah would leave his brother’s funeral to go and receive that family. “I must respond to his death by saving even more people from the hands of the killers,” he said.

  If we go back to the village, will we be in the mood to plant?

  What would we plant on the land filled with bones and skulls?

  What would grow?

  How much blood would flow in the veins of the trees?

  November 13, 2015 was a bittersweet day for the people of Sinjar. It was the day Sinjar was liberated from the grip of Daesh, but it was also the day the mass graves were revealed. They contained hundreds of bodies of men, of women who were unfit for sex, and of grandchildren who refused to be separated from them. They were among the hundreds of thousands of Yazidis who’d left their homes and marched in a long caravan, kicking up the dust in the road behind them, because the barbarians came, their black flags on the carts of the caliphate. Those carts that would escort the sabaya to the fortresses of the mujahideen emirs. Along the roadside, new signs read: “God willing, the Islamic State Endures” and “No Entry.”

  Sinjar, or Shengal, which means “the beautiful side” in Kurdish, looked very much like a wasteland. Scattered along its ancient roads were bones and skulls, clothes and shoes, utensils and car parts, amid the ruins of the burned-out houses and farms, looted shops, and gutted temples and churches. An old clay goblet is all that remains of the Virgin Mary Church in Sinjar. My friend Kamil Zomaya pulled it out of the rubble, saying, “This holy cup alone survived all the destruction. Daesh destroyed one part and the air strikes destroy
ed the other.”

  I asked Kamil about his family. He said he had just buried his mother in the village of Teleskuf.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss. Are there people still in Teleskuf?”

  “No, not a single living person. Only the dead. They don’t allow anyone to enter except the dead and those who’ve come to bury the dead. I spent my childhood in that village. I can still hear the sounds of chickens and donkeys. Today you’ll hear nothing but the wind. You would be scared to walk down those dreary alleyways.”

  “I wanted to visit Telkaif, the village of my ancestors’ graves.”

  “Telkaif is also empty. People fled there as well. The whole village is in the hands of Daesh.”

  The grass grew up on the graves until it became taller than the dead . . .

  “The beautiful side” is now “the land of mass graves.” Some journalists named it “the liberated city” — after a Kurdish official stood atop the hill, placing a microphone on a bag of sand, and declared the liberation of Sinjar. At the same time, he warned people that there might still be land mines there. “And beware, some Daesh fighters are still hiding in the city,” he added.

  The people of Sinjar are now dead in those hastily dug trenches, prisoners of Daesh, displaced in the camps, or survivors who are wounded in their souls and in their bodies.

  “Who liberated Sinjar?” I asked Abdullah.

  Abdullah replied: I’m not sure, but one of the people who helped liberate the city is Sulayman, a twelve-year-old boy who was a zealous fighter even though he wasn’t technically allowed to fight because of how young he was. When Daesh attacked Sinjar, Sulayman was at home with his mother and seven siblings — three sisters and four brothers. His father was out of town for work. The Daeshis in those days would come and go, telling people, “Convert to Islam and you’ll be safe.” About three hundred people from the village gathered together to discuss this call to convert to Islam. Sulayman’s mother suggested that they tell Daesh they’d already become Muslims, lying to avoid harm. Sulayman didn’t like the idea that his family would agree to convert to Islam just to avoid the evil of Daesh. Sulayman was a distinguished student at his school. He liked to talk about everything and asked lots of questions. His mother’s response that they were only converting to Islam temporarily didn’t make any sense to him. She didn’t want to speak about the matter anymore because she was busy talking with their father on the phone. His father was concerned and wanted to come back. She told him to stay where he was until things cleared up, and said that she was going to do the same thing as everyone else in the village: hand over all her money, gold, and guns in exchange for peace. And she didn’t notice that Sulayman left the house without telling them. It was nine o’clock at night, and he had to walk twenty miles to reach the mountain. The sun rose and set, and Sulayman kept on walking, with only two liters of water. Finally, amid the beanstalks on a farm, Sulayman lay down behind a harvesting machine and slept. When the sun came up again, he opened his eyes and saw a caravan of people from afar. He got up, ran until he caught up with them, and walked alongside them. He arrived with them that night at the mountain. In the meantime, Sulayman’s mother was beating her breast and crying. She called her husband and said, “Daesh kidnapped Sulayman or killed him. He left the house and hasn’t returned. They must have taken him off the street.”