The Girl Who Escaped ISIS

by Farida Khalaf

  So I got under the sheet, pretending to go to sleep. Lena lay down beside me. She had no idea what I had in mind. I felt for the broken glass next to me. Picking out the sharpest fragment, I brought it to my left wrist. Calmly and purposefully, I pressed the shard into my skin and jerked it across. I immediately felt the blood spurt out. Quickly I transferred the piece of glass to my other hand; before I passed out I wanted to sever my right artery as well. Strangely, I behaved in a perfectly normal manner, like a doctor carrying out an amputation. I still maintain today that I felt no pain at all.

  Soon I was overcome by dizziness, and a pleasant feeling of numbness spread throughout my body. Apparently I was losing a lot of blood. Now Lena realized that something was not right. “You’ve gone all pale. What’s happening?” she asked anxiously.

  Then she saw that the sheet I was beneath was drenched in blood. “Help!” she screamed. “Come quickly! Farida’s trying to kill herself!”

  My last thought was “Hopefully the men won’t hear her.” Then I lost consciousness and don’t recall anything more.

  I WOKE UP somewhere unfamiliar. Again I was lying on a carpet on the floor—but I’d never seen the room before. It was very clean, almost sterile, you could say, with whitewashed walls and a chest of drawers and an armchair for furniture. I was on a clean, white sheet. I was wearing only a pair of underwear and undershirt, which weren’t mine. Sitting beside me on the rug was Evin. Her hand was on my chest and she was looking at me with troubled eyes.

  “Farida,” she said. “Farida, can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Yes, Evin.” She began to cry. Her tears fell onto my face and the bandages that I only now noticed were around my wrists. “Farida, my dearest Farida, I’m so happy you’re awake!” she sobbed. “Never leave me again.”

  “Where are we?” I asked. I was still completely disoriented. “What happened?”

  “You know what happened: you tried to kill yourself,” Evin said, now with a tone of reproach in her voice. She told me how she and the men had heard Lena’s cries for help and rushed down the stairs. The men had unlocked the door and found me in a pool of blood. I was already unconscious by then. “Farida, you were going to leave me on my own! How could you do that to me?”

  “I had to—you know why,” I said weakly. And all of a sudden I was seized by a sense of horror. “Did Abu Haitham . . . ?” I couldn’t utter the words. “I mean, did he do anything to me while I was unconscious?”

  “No,” Evin said, setting my mind at rest. “You are untouched.”

  “What about you?” I asked apprehensively.

  Evin assured me that everything was all right with her too. Abu Haitham was about to rape her, but stopped when he heard Lena screaming below. I didn’t know whether to believe her account or not. I recalled only too well the scuffles and horrific sounds coming from above, which had driven me to despair. “You saved me, Farida,” Evin asserted, and I didn’t probe any further. I was just happy to know she was near me and very willing to believe that the two of us had remained untouched.

  “Thank the Lord for having protected both of us,” I said.

  “All the same, you must never do that again,” she warned. “You’re never to leave me alone. Will you promise me that?”

  I swore faithfully to keep that promise. “I’ll never desert you again.” As I said these words I began to cough. I noticed that not only my throat, but my whole body was dreadfully dehydrated. I saw a carafe of water on the nearby chest of drawers. “Evin, can you please give me some water?”

  “The doctor says you shouldn’t drink anything. It’s better not to because of the bleeding.”

  “Which doctor?” I asked in surprise. Had Abu Haitham taken me to a hospital? Where I was looked more like a guest room in a private apartment. “Where are we, anyway?”

  “We’re in a doctor’s house,” Evin said. “Abu Haitham took us to him. He and his wife are looking after you.”

  “Oh, how kind of them.”

  But Evin didn’t see it quite so positively. “They’re helping him because they belong to his organization.”

  It took me a moment to understand what she was saying. “So they’re ISIS people?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed.

  My heart sank. I realized now that we weren’t free, but still in the hands of people who regarded us as subhumans. They were making me better, but why? Were they going to deliver me back to Abu Haitham when I was well again?

  I wasn’t able to ask Evin this question, for at that moment the door opened and the doctor’s wife came in. She was wearing a knee-length skirt and a sleeveless T-shirt. Her hair was conspicuously bleached. That was not how I’d imagined an ISIS woman to look. She probably did the same as most Syrian women: in the occupied area they only put on the black full-length cloak when they went out into the street.

  For a moment I had hope. A woman who, in her private life at least, was clearly no extremist would surely sympathize with us if we told her the story of our abduction. Might we be able to convince her to help us? As a woman she must feel that what the men were doing to us was wrong.

  But the woman was extremely unfriendly. She barely spoke to Evin and me, and when she did, it was only to list the dos and don’ts. “You must never leave this room, apart from to go to the toilet,” she said coldly. “And don’t get any silly ideas; there are guards outside the building, and all our neighbors are ISIS members too. Do you understand?”

  Most of the time, however, she limited herself to changing my bandages in silence. I only saw her husband, the doctor, occasionally, usually when he was examining my wounds. He too looked strikingly normal and, apart from a little stubble on his chin, nothing like someone who might belong to ISIS. Were all of these people opportunists? Was the terror the organization exerted over them so ruthless that nobody dared resist? I never heard a single word of regret from these collaborators.

  For the first couple of days of my stay with the doctor I was very, very weak and unsteady on my legs. I’d lost a lot of blood, which is why I felt permanently dizzy. The bandages around my hands were also a hindrance. For even the slightest movement I needed Evin’s help. She held a bottle of water to my lips when I was allowed to drink again, fed me rice and soup, and supported me when I needed to go to the toilet. When the sun rose in the mornings she helped me get up and bow by the window. Together we’d mutter the prayer that our fathers had taught us: “Amen, amen, amen. Blessed be our religion.”

  But my helplessness made me feel very low. I was particularly upset that my frailty prevented me from devising any escape plans. For naturally our current situation offered an excellent opportunity to get away. I urged Evin to explore carefully all the possibilities, so that at least she might be able to escape.

  For example, there was a large window in our room, from which you could look into the street. Unfortunately, it was on the third floor, which meant that you’d probably injure yourself jumping out. But all the same you’d probably survive, and what was a broken leg in return for freedom?

  “Try it,” I encouraged Evin. “At some point in the night jump out and by the time they wake up you’ll be long gone.”

  “What about you?”

  “I can’t at the moment. But I’ll try later on.”

  I also offered to distract the doctor and his wife so that she could escape via the door. Normally it was locked. But when they came to check up on me, they left it unlocked. “I could feign an epileptic attack,” I suggested. “Then they’ll be busy attending to me and you can make a run for it. Please do it, Evin.”

  But she rejected all my suggestions. “I’m not going anywhere without you,” came her categorical reply.

  “You’ll regret it!”

  “I’d regret deserting you much more. I’d never be able to forgive myself, Farida.” Evin had been brought up with the same moral code as I had. For her too the ethical principles dictated by our religion were paramount. According to these a betrayal of frien
dship would be a mortal sin. “We’re staying together,” she said, stroking my wounded hands, “no matter what happens.”

  ON THE FIFTH day after my suicide attempt, our respite at the doctor’s house came to an abrupt end. His wife put new bandages on for the last time. Although my wounds were still far from healed, clearly her husband thought I no longer needed their care. “All right, ladies,” he said, after they’d seen to me. “It’s time for us to take you back now.”

  Before Evin and I could fully understand what he was saying, he ordered us to veil ourselves and go with him. His wife also veiled herself, just as I had thought, with a black niqab that left just a slit for the eyes, so she could come too, but probably to keep an eye on us. She led us down the stairs and sat between Evin and me when we got into the doctor’s white Opel. Once again I was astounded by her; even though she was a woman, she seemed to have no scruples about what happened to us. Was it just because we didn’t pray to the same God?

  The doctor started the engine and drove the car to one of the suburbs of Raqqa. I noted, with a touch of relief, that it wasn’t the district where our Libyan “owner” and his friend lived. “Where are you taking us?” Evin asked. But she got no reply.

  After about half an hour’s drive we arrived in a quiet, secluded residential area. The houses looked intact; this place must have been spared fighting or bombardments. We pulled up at a one-story house, whose shutters were closed. My heart almost stopped when I saw the four-by-four parked outside. “That’s Abu Haitham’s car!” I whispered to Evin.

  She recognized it too. “Yes, I fear you’re right,” she said.

  “But why’s he having us brought here?”

  “Perhaps he moved.”

  We were at a loss as well, but we didn’t have time to think about it any longer. For the doctor was getting out, and opening the locked door. “We’re here,” he said.

  His wife stayed in the car while he took us to the house. Two men were waiting at the door, one of whom we already knew: Abu Haitham’s friend, Eleas, the fat Iraqi. He handed the doctor a few banknotes, no doubt the remuneration for my treatment. His face was somber. We’d never seen the second man before. He was a short, likewise very fat Syrian with a bald head. He was wearing normal clothes and didn’t have an ISIS beard.

  “In you come, my lovelies,” he said.

  No sooner were we in the house than the Syrian shut the door behind us. “Okay, then,” he said to Eleas. “Now you can do what you like with them. Be as rough as you like. But don’t forget: I bought them as virgins!”

  “Don’t worry. I just want to give them a little lesson,” he replied. He stood in front of us, menacingly. “Abu Haitham is very, very angry with you,” he snarled. “What on earth were you thinking? Do you honestly believe we’d let you spoil our fun?”

  Trembling, we waited for what was coming. Evin shuffled up close to me.

  “I’m going to show you your place, you little Yazidi sluts!”

  I saw him lunge at me with the bottle of water in his hand. I tried in vain to defend myself with my bound arms. The bottle crashed against my head, leaving me reeling. Then he came closer and rammed his fist into my stomach. I sank to the floor. But he wasn’t finished yet; he hit and punched me repeatedly as I lay there.

  Then he turned to Evin and beat her too. This may sound incomprehensible for people who have grown up in a different culture, but I can’t hide the fact that, in a way, this pleased me: his fury at Evin proved to me that she hadn’t been lying. She must have succeeded in preventing the worst, thereby denting Abu Haitham’s pride. Otherwise there was no reason to beat her so brutally. And so I was rejoicing inside; we’d done it! And we’d do it again. We’d take a stand against these men.

  The Iraqi thrashed Evin until she crumpled to the floor in pain. He really wanted to hurt us badly and kept punching us in the stomach. But he didn’t touch us sexually.

  Once he’d finished venting his anger and we lay whimpering on the ground, the Iraqi took his leave of the Syrian with the words “They’re all yours now. Have fun!” Then he vanished, slamming the door behind him.

  The Syrian unlocked a room and ordered us to go in. With great difficulty Evin managed to get on all fours and crawl in that direction. But I was in such a bad state that I couldn’t move on my own, so he took me by both arms and dragged me in.

  It was a tiny room with a shabby brown leather sofa and two even shabbier foam mattresses. The bald man laid me down on one of these. I was vaguely aware that there were other girls in the room. “Farida!” said one of them, who obviously knew me. But I was so disoriented after the beating that I couldn’t place her. “That’s Farida, our math genius!”

  Then I realized that all the girls in the room were school friends of mine: Nuhat, our chemistry expert; Revin, our shy class poet; as well as Lavia and Khamia, who were a little younger and had always been the life and soul of the playground. I’d last seen them at the slave market in Raqqa; like Evin and myself they’d all been sold to various men. I was astonished to see them here again.

  The Syrian turned off the light in the room and locked the door from the outside. All of a sudden it was pitch-black. So this was our new prison, a dark hole, I thought, as dark as my soul.

  Evin felt for me with her hand. “Are you okay, Farida?” she asked when she’d found me.

  “Yes,” I lied, even though I felt wretched. The blows to my stomach had achieved their desired effect: I had to throw up. Evin held up my head as I was sick.

  “I’m really sorry,” I mumbled.

  “It’s all right,” she said, stroking my forehead.

  She put my head in her lap. For a while she just sat there, continuing to stroke me. I gradually calmed down. “Where have we ended up?” I asked feebly.

  “This is Abu Arram’s house,” the other girls said. “He bought you.” We learned that all the girls in the room had been sold on by their “owners.”

  “Does he need so many women?”

  “No, he’s a dealer,” they explained. “He buys and sells women.”

  So we were in the house of a professional women trafficker, or to be more precise, a middleman in the women-trafficking business. Abu Arram didn’t acquire Yazidi slaves for his own use, but to sell them for a profit. At first I didn’t know whether to take this as good or bad news, but then I decided it might be an advantage. The fact that the Syrian hadn’t bought us for himself gave us some breathing space at least. If we could make use of this time to escape we might be able to avoid being violated after all.

  I resolved that as soon as I was able I’d make a detailed study of our new prison in an attempt to identify the weak spot in the system. At Evin’s side I fell into a restless sleep.

  When I woke up it was still dark. My vomit was still on Evin’s skirt and it stank horribly. Nothing had changed. But I felt very hungry and thirsty. How long had we been in Abu Arram’s house, I wondered. Hours? A whole day, perhaps? I didn’t know. I didn’t even know whether it was light out or not.

  Eventually the door opened and the light went on. We screwed up our eyes. The Syrian came over to us. We recoiled, still anticipating the worst. But he was only bringing us cheese sandwiches and water. My body was desperate for food and liquid, which is why I forgot my pride and greedily devoured the two sandwiches that were my ration, and gulped the water from the plastic bottle.

  How should I describe Abu Arram’s behavior toward us? He treated us like animals in a cage; he didn’t care in the slightest what it was like for us in our dark prison. All he did was ensure that we didn’t die of hunger or thirst. We could only go to the toilet under his supervision; he would accompany each girl one by one to the door. Because of the state we were in, however, he allowed Evin and me to go together and help each other.

  The room consisted of just a tap, a boiler, and a concrete latrine hole. It had no window to the outside. My friend washed her skirt under the tap and dabbed the black eye Eleas had given me with a damp corner of her v
eil. As she looked at me sadly, I could almost hear what she was thinking: how had the two of us gotten into this degrading situation? How could it have happened, seeing as only a few weeks ago we were still leading perfectly normal lives? Although we were both grateful to have each other close, there are some things in life you don’t want anyone else to witness. And such was the situation we were in. I think we were both ashamed at the other seeing us look so terrible, so wretched. But there was nothing we could do about it.

  We were swallowed by the darkness surrounding us. Only a weak shimmer that sometimes seeped through the chinks between the window and the permanently closed shutters allowed us to tell whether the sun was shining outside, in the other world. But for us the time of day did not exist, only a vague sense that Abu Arram came twice daily to bring us our cheese sandwiches; nothing else was on the menu. Most of the time, however, the six of us would sleep closely huddled on the mattresses. There wasn’t anything else to do.

  Except dream. Occasionally, when the time dragged, we’d recall the life we’d left behind in Kocho. “Do you think the roses are still flowering in your garden?” Evin said to me. And instantly I saw in my mind my mother’s flower beds and the perfume of the flowers tickled my nostrils. I was overcome by a surge of longing.

  “Normally they don’t come into bloom until August,” I said.

  “And it’s not autumn yet.”

  “No.” I found this thought comforting somehow. Would we get back home before autumn arrived? Would the roses flower then? “But if no one’s watering them they’ll have dried up long ago.”

  “Why do you talk like that?” Evin said. “I bet our families have returned to Kocho by now.”

  “Yes, for sure,” I acquiesced, thinking of my mother. Where was she now? What about my brothers? Were they all right? In silence each of us wallowed in our own thoughts.